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Nomad Kind of Love

By:Nicole Snow

receded into dream. Ahead, there was a nightmare, and it was the only thing that mattered besides protecting my sister.

“Juuuuune buuuug!” Vulture roared through the bar. “Hey, where is that piece of shit?”

His buddies laughed. They were drunk off their asses, entertaining some mean looking creep in a suit. He had an accent that sounded Eastern European.

I stayed in the backroom. Sometimes, if I pretended not to hear him, he moved onto the next distraction and forgot about me.

A fresh bottle of Jack or a clubhouse whore to bite and fuck made me disappear real fast. Tonight, though, he was pretty damned persistent.

I thought the Polish man's offerings would've kept them busy tonight. He brought several pretty girls with him who looked even younger than Clara and I.

My sister was in the tiny room we shared, high off weed the new Prospect sold us. It took weeks of scavenging the tips we ferreted away in secret to get a couple joints. Yeah, we should've been using our little stash for better food than the slop they fed us, or maybe for an escape plan.

A car, a hotel, something. We'd been prisoners at the Grizzlies Missoula clubhouse long enough for it to feel like home.

The old life Clara and I knew? A distant memory, if it ever existed at all.

Now there were just days and nights serving these beasts and their buddies. The core members, all ten of them, were usually off doing club business. We tended to their guests when they weren't around. Cooking up burgers, serving drinks, and cleaning bathrooms took up half my reserve energy.

The other half was dedicated to surviving another day intact and sane. Or sane as I could be under these shitty circumstances.

By some sweet miracle, the club hadn't raped me or my sister. Not yet.

But it hung over me, a horrible certainty. I marched to their orders, doing anything they said, just as long as it pushed back our grim fate by a few more hours, days, weeks.

At eighteen, I wasn't a virgin. I had a few messy couplings with boys in high school. Of course, the washouts and junkies I gravitated to in my school's social cliques never interested me much beyond a quick fling.

These men were a different. I wanted to retch every time I thought about their leathery skin wrapped around me. Being forced by Vulture and his men would turn me toward the nearest convent if I ever got out of here alive.

“Juuuune! Get your sweet little ass out here! My friends are fucking impatient when they're smelling ribs. Got a guy here all the way from Poland, and he could eat a fucking horse – or whatever the fuck they eat in Europe.”

I cringed. I couldn't wait in the storage room forever, stacking boxes of booze and sweeping. I came out, wiping my brow, and spied Vulture's group across the main counter in the middle.

“Coming right up!” I yelled, running off to the kitchen before they could bark for anything else.

“Peters, the guys are getting after me about their food...is it ready?” I tensed, eyeing the old cook.

He turned, quickly piling meat that smelled like heaven onto a plate already heavy with fries.

“Here you are, lady,” he pushed it into my hands. “I'm working on the next batch. Don't you worry. I know what these guys are like when their bellies are growling and there's nothing but whiskey in 'em.”

We exchanged a brief smile. The man worked somewhere else during the day making the best barbecue this side of Montana. By night, the club brought him in for special events, when they had heavy deals on the table unfit for my greasy, haphazard cooking.


It took both hands to steady the heaping plate of food. I walked it out slowly, carefully moving in the tall black heels they made me wear. The short skirt was riding up my ass, and I twitched in frustration, wishing I could pull it down.

Nothing was worse than showing these dickheads too much. And the 'uniforms' they forced on me and Clara were meant to let everything hang out, to entice them into doing what we feared most.

“Here you go, Mister Vice President. Or is this going to you first, sir?” My eyebrows lifted in surprise.

Ursa, the sixty year old President of this MC was making a rare appearance tonight. It was easy to forget the Missoula charter had a head at all besides Vulture, the VP who ran damned near everything.

President and VP looked at each other. A sly smile appeared on Vulture's face that made me shudder.

Between them sat the Polish guest. He lifted his shot glass, knocked back the amber venom, and smiled right at me.

“Very, very nice, my friends. I think I want to see your show after all,” the stranger said in his thick accent.

“Over here, June-o. We're sharing this one.” Vulture lifted his hand and wagged me toward him with a finger.

It was tough walking through the narrow space to where he sat. Claws, Scoop, and the rest of the little group certainly didn't push in their chairs to clear more space.

“Here you go,” I said, leaning to put the food in front of the VP.

Perfectly positioned. The fist he'd hidden under the table flew out, upending the plate and sending it soaring out of my arms.

I screamed, shocked as ribs and fries rained down around me. Several big meat chunks plopped on my breasts, my shoulders, my calves, smearing me with barbecue.

The men roared with laughter.

I stood in quiet disgust, staring in disbelief as sauce and grease left hot trails on my skin and clothes. The Polish man was laughing so hard he had to blink back tears. The rest of the guys slapped hands, tossing out congratulations on a prank well done.

Now, I understood. I was tonight's entertainment.

No matter how much Clara and I settled here, they'd rudely reminded me the clubhouse would never, ever be home.

“Look at the fucking mess you've created, June bug! Better clean it up.”

Everything in my stomach twisted, winding my intestines in hot rage. I wanted to fling the towel I carried in my wai