A Wild Wicked Weekend

A Wild Wicked Weekend

Book 4 of The Bent Zealots MC

By

Layla Wolfe

Copyright © 2016 Layla Wolfe

Smashwords Edition

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cover art by Jewel Graphics

Edited by Claudia Heikhaus

Bruno photographed by Yuri Arcurs

Regarding E-book Piracy

This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Dedicated To Vickie Noe

I’m so glad we had our midlife crisis trip together,

Returning to Jerome and Sedona

Licked by giraffes, trampled by javelina.

ARIZONA TO THE BONE!

When they do right, no one remembers.

When they do wrong, no one forgets.

HAVEN: At forty-five, I was a washed-up racecar driver, a Daddy Dom who had searched the world over for his power bottom, his submissive. Fuck, I was still a Prospect for the Bent Zealots MC. That’s how I came to be in the clubhouse while most of them were raising hell at a Vegas rally. Word came there was a stiff down on the Rez, and the Zealots were getting blamed for it. My mission included a clownish reject from a rival club name of Mike Drop, and a mysterious half-breed who would change my life forever.

OGDEN: I met Haven there in the desert, standing over the disemboweled corpse of a tourist. After I made a sleazy deal that would help solve the mystery and clear the Zealots’ name, that muscle daddy gave me a tongue-lashing of a lifetime. Have more self-respect, Haven said. As the bastard half-Navajo basketballer who had frittered away a scholarship, I was a bad penny. Haven, with his powerful mastery at training and molding me, gave shape to my form.

HAVEN: Ogden is my forever toy, a morsel for me to savor. He says you can’t see the future with tears in your eyes. If we make it through this hell together, we’ll see clearly. The club will know I’ve made my bones when I bring them the killer’s head on a platter.

Publisher’s Note: This book is not for the faint of heart. It contains scenes of graphic gay sex, May/December romance, age play, illegal doings, consensual bondage and discipline, daddy Dom, sadomasochism, and violence in general. It’s a full-length novel of 53,000 words rated 18+ due to possible triggers. There are no cheating or cliffhangers, and HEAs all around for all.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

About the Book

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

About The Author

More Books from Layla Wolfe

Hope is a waking dream.

~ Aristotle

CHAPTER ONE

HAVEN

Those fucking Hellfire Nuts were hitting us again.

I didn’t realize it was them running up on us in our own neighborhood—in our own fucking clubhouse, The Happy Hour—because they’d stripped off their colors.

I was so taken by surprise, I was holding my beer mug, turning around on my stool, my mouth in the shape of a foamy sip, when a Hellfire grabbed my cut collar and slammed my face onto the bar.

Instant. Blood. Everywhere.

My own blood everywhere.

Rearing up, roaring, I slammed that beer mug onto the side of that fucker’s smirk. It was almost slo-mo, the satisfying feel of the crack, glass meeting bonehead. Bent Zealots were not above using any weapon at their disposal. The mug shattered in several large pieces, one of them coming close to slicing my eyeball. The look on his face was priceless as a volcano of blood spewed from his temple, his eyebrow.

Then I recognized him as Dagwood, the cockbite who’d taken over as Prez when we’d wasted Basil Asimov. This elevated my rage, so I countered my mug smash with a violent uppercut to the jaw. Dagwood probably bit his own tongue off on that one. He crashed to the floor like a totem pole.

Fast on my feet now, I looked around. The Hellfires had probably calculated that most of us Zealots were off at a rally in Vegas. What yellow twatwaffles. It was like ten of them against four of us. Three, if you didn’t count Fredericka, who was trying to become a girl. She was currently cowering behind the bar looking at her phone screen. Her phone screen. Is that what girls did during a surprise rumble?

Like in a Clint Eastwood movie, I grabbed a fifth of vodka and slammed it over a Hellfire Nut’s head. The bottle didn’t break into a zillion pieces, but it stopped him from swinging that piece of chain above his head like a lariat. He, too, went melting to the floor, his eyes crossed as if he had stars and birds swimming around his head.

Thanks, bro, panted Brick Mantooth. All of the Prospects, or recently fully-patched Prospects, left behind were little kids compared to me. At forty-five, I was the old man of the club. Even Dr. Thymus Moog was younger than me. Brick and the third guy, Merwin Bigwater, were straight vanilla Navajo from the Rez down south. They were supposed to be at the Vegas rally but had stayed behind to finish some shatter operation, cooking ganja for the club’s medicinal pot dispensary.

I was also the only one in the room who was gay.

We leaped to assist Merwin, pounded on by two bruisers. I whaled on one guy with the chain I’d whipped from the unconscious Hellfire’s hand. Brick chose a pool cue to bash the Aryan with. Yeah, all Hellfires were extreme hate white powers which meant our club posed a double whammy threat to them. Not all of us were pure white, and almost all of us in the MC were gay.

When the Hellfires let up on Merwin and turned their enraged, glassy eyes to us, they gave us a brief window of vulnerable opportunity. Brick and I released the hounds, beating them silly with our weapons, like we were flagellants at some weird revival meeting.

Hey, hey, hey! they cried, holding their hands out around their crotches and jumping as though on hot coals.

I bashed one in the head with the chain just as Brick nearly ran the other through with the stick, and they’d had enough.

This isn’t over yet! yelled one, heading to the door.

Yeah! yelled another, trying to drag Dagwood out the door. You can’t just ice Basil and expect us to do nothing, you fags!

Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Cut it out!

Fredericka had emerged from behind the bar and was pummeling the last Hellfire with a coffee mug. A coffee mug. I guessed it was the weapon of choice for the transgendered crowd. And it sure seemed to be effective against this last holdout. A rotund, gingery guy with outrageous walrus chops, he was swatting away her blows like a guy in a cloud of mosquitoes.

No! Stop it! What did I ever to do you?

Brick, Merwin and I shared amused glances.

The point is, bellowed Brick, "what are we gonna do to you?"

Yeah, goofed Merwin. Your whole club just left you to the dogs.

What? said the guy. He ran to the window and clutched the sill like a puppy left behind. No, guys, no! Wait for me! And he waddled more than walked out the front door. On the back of his anonymous cut, there was a patch of a weed leaf that said Don’t Drink and Drive. Smoke and Fly and some other Asian stuff. Although he looked about as Asian as Prince Harry. Wait for meeee…

We all had a good laugh at that one.

How’d that guy get to be a Hellfire Nut? laughed Brick.

Yeah, I said. "Usually they’re more of the skinhead variety."

Fredericka said, Maybe he’s someone’s poor cousin. Didn’t have anywhere else to go. She was back looking at her phone screen, as a girl should.

I had just placed in the local Lake Havasu Sports Car Series, which would bring me one step closer to the vaunted WeatherTech race. I’d been partying like a winner should, at least a straight winner with most of his club out of town. I had a club whore on each arm, but they’d vanished at the first glimmer of a Hellfire Nut. They were probably all hiding out in the back rooms, but the faithful Merwin went back to check.

We were sobering up now. That could’ve ended in disaster, I said, wiping my forehead with a napkin.

Yeah, said Brick. Talk about being overpowered. And taken by surprise.

Fredericka frowned. Maybe because the only Prospect wasn’t outside doing guard duty, but celebrating inside with sweetbutts.

Can you blame me? I cried. I just won the fucking Sports Car Series with my Maserati!

Yeah! yelled Brick. And Mayo wasn’t even here to celebrate it with him!

Uh, yeah. About that. Mayo Snodgrass of the flowing locks, the squinty assessing eyes, the achingly kissable mouth—he’d broken up with me two weeks before. I guess Brick didn’t know yet. I certainly hadn’t gone around blaring the news to anyone. Mayo was my lover and my best friend, the reason I’d moved out to Lake Havasu a year ago from LA after divorcing Sandy. Leaving the two kids with her with promises I’d see them every summer and holiday. Mayo and I had met at the Rolex Sports Car Series in LA and had fucked our way through the circuit. Until one day, Sandy saw Mayo grab my ass on TV in the background of some rote pit stop interview. The interviewee was probably droning on about making the world a better place and how he couldn’t wait to get back to his wife and kids, and I guess Mayo had slapped me on the ass, like men do in sports. Only, I guess his hand lingered a bit too long.

Other guys saw it too. They gave us a raft of shit. We were highly closeted as most were in the racing world. But Mayo’s fingers had definitely strayed up my ass crack as he gave my globe a squeeze. I saw it all later on fucking YouTube where most of the comments were about my ass, not about the driver. So Sandy sort of forced my hand, and when Mayo said come live with me in Lake Havasu, I was ready.

We had just had a glorious year, me prospecting for the club. I’d opened up a foreign car repair place in the industrial part of town. Mayo and I were flying high, or so I thought, until two weeks ago. I was still trying to wrap my head around the whole thing. How callous he’d been suddenly, like I’d never met him before. He just wanted to break up, to date around. He’d been feeling stale with me. Stale? We had a fucking St. Andrew’s cross in our guest room, for fuck’s sake. I was transferring all the Dominant skills I’d honed with Sandy over to a homosexual atmosphere, ten times hornier and more talented now that I was finally able to bind a man’s cock, to tease it.

Torture it.

I’d thought about men off and on over the years, and by the time I met Mayo, thoughts of cocks had pretty much consumed all of my sexual thoughts. I’d even become proficient in fantasizing that Sandy was a guy when I spanked her ass, and it was lucky for me she let me bugger her dogstyle. Didn’t hurt that she was built like a board, too. I became more dominant as she became more submissive. I never heard a peep from her until the day I took it a step too far, I guess. I demanded she strap on a dildo and give me a thorough ream job.

I’ll never forget how her face had fallen. Absolutely crushed. I knew then our marriage was over. And this was way before the ass-grabbing incident.

Mayo had completed an utter sexual imprinting job on me. He reprogrammed my sexual responses that had resulted from my past experiences going way back to childhood. He altered my sexual behavior, turning me into a voracious sexual sadist by reimprinting me with new associations. I’d been severely beaten by my dad. When re-enacting it, I’d reared up, resisted, and a virile degenerate with an endless appetite for domination was born.

Then we’d butted heads, each vying to literally be the one on top. Mayo would never submit to me forcing his ass. I’d never submit to him, either. When he cut me loose, our brother and club secretary Turk Blackburn had told me that now was my chance to find at least a Force Me Queen, maybe a switch, someone like him who’d submit, but would top from the bottom. That sounded ideal to me, while I sobbed into my beer. I knew a few guys on the circuit who might fit that bill. But would they be too effeminate for me? I liked rough play, sadomasochism at its purest, cock clamping, even some bloodsport.

I wanted to be in control. Even if I truly, at heart, wasn’t.

I sliced the air with my hand. I’m all for declaring this club on lockdown. You and Merwin are heading to Vegas tonight, aren’t you? You finished making that shatter? That leaves me and Fredericka. No offense, lady, but you and your coffee cup couldn’t scare a puzzle to pieces.

None taken, said Fredericka, who had perfected her girlish tone. I agree. Let’s close down this place—with the club’s approval, of course—until everyone returns from Vegas. We’ve got the alarm system, the video surveillance cams. I’ll go back to Herbal Legends. God knows they need the help with Turk gone. I’m tired of being run up on like this. Herbal Legends was the club’s pot dispensary.

Agreed. We all put our right hands in a pile, and when Merwin came back with the sweetbutts, they added theirs.

Ain’t nobody got time for this bullshit, said Kenna. Those Hellfire Nuts are nothing but common criminals.

I grinned. And we are…

Kenna snorted. Well. You may be criminals, but you’re not common.

Listen, said Fredericka, we’ve got something more urgent than an ambush by some skinheads. My friend on the Rez was just texting me they’ve got a body.

Merwin snorted, arms crossed. What else is new?

Yeah. Brick agreed. "Some adláanii passes out dead drunk in the middle of the road after too much Garden Deluxe and Aqua Net and bam!"

Yeah! Merwin said heatedly. Hello, darkness my old friend.

No, it’s not like that, said Fredericka, waving her phone for emphasis. "This is a real body."

I said, Like a murder body?

Fredericka waited until she had all our attention. She sure as hell had mine. We all stood in a circle with eyes wide like TV screens.

Fredericka nodded. Like a murder body.

Well, hello again, my fine upstanding Zealots. A rotund silhouette clogged our front door. Everyone’s hands went to their small of their backs for their pieces. I was the only one who actually drew mine and pointed it at the annoying Hellfire Nut. I don’t suppose I could bother any of you for a jump? My battery seems to have died.

Kenna called out, Sure didn’t seem like the rest of your club wanted you around, anyway.

Chortling, the guy sauntered in, twirling his bike keys on a forefinger. My fine woman, it isn’t that. No, that’s not it at all. It’s just that I seem to have a different management style from the rest of the group.

I snorted. Such as?

His features began to fill in as he stepped away from the open door. He had button eyes, a pointed nose, an all-around impudent look. Well, I beg to differ with them on that entire Aryan Nation business. I’m just a square peg in a round hole over there.

Brick giggled. More like a round peg in a square hole.

The guy heard Brick, but just frowned imperiously at him. You’ll notice I never shaved this fine, luxuriant mane of hair.

Yeah. Merwin’s giggle threatened to burst through his lips.  ’cause you want to look like Carrot Top.

My fine fellow, boomed the guy, "never associate me with that putrid, pusillanimous piece of human offal. I have my own style, honed after decades living the hard life of the street."

More like the hard life of the circus, Brick said behind his hand. And this time,