Cutter's Claim

Chapter 1

1

Beads of sweat slid off the woman’s flanks and drenched the bedsheets. Cutter rolled off her, floating on the high of a good fuck. It had taken the edge off. Tomorrow was the third Saturday of the month. Tommy’s day. Lying beside her, he cast a glance sideways and blew out a gust of frustration. It had been a mistake to fuck her twice.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted them on the carpet. Christ, his balls were gonna freeze off. Late March in Utica did that to a man. He glanced over his shoulder at Mandy, her chin propped on her hand, her eyes following his movements with greed. Her red-dyed hair matched the smear of lipstick around her lurid grin. Rolling onto her belly, she jiggled her pink ass at him. He gave her what she wanted, a sharp slap to each butt cheek.

“More, Cutter, more,” she pleaded.

Of course, she wants more. His rep preceded him wherever he went in the circuit of motorcycle clubs. He was a magnet for a certain kind of woman with a certain desire. It was common for brothers to deal with women wanting to be their old lady or baby mama, but he got it twice as bad. Women knew about a biker named Cutter, and his knack for satisfying a woman’s kink with singular talent. They vied to be one of his “speed-dial bitches.”

“The more you beg, the less you get.”

The energy roaring through his system crashed like a downed helio. Ever since Prez got sick, sex left him empty. Bracing his arms on the futon, he pushed himself up. Even before Prez, his mind began to wander. He’d switched up his routine, amped up his techniques, but still, he was left worn out. For a man who’d turned thirty a month ago, that was wack.

Buck naked, he disposed of the used condom. He returned from the bathroom, moving around the space and releasing Mandy from the ropes around her wrists. A kiss on the crown of her head and then he gathered his tools. Following a ritual of cleansing, they were returned to their proper places in the drawers. Mandy’s lips drew down into a pout. She crawled toward him as he stood by the plastic drawer storage that doubled as a night table and grabbed his hand. Christ, her antics.

Swiping the underside of her breast, he instructed, “Time to go, babe, I got things to do. Be a good girl and drag your panties over that sweet, blistering ass. Make sure the elastic band scrapes up my marks real good.” He cupped the back of her neck and gave her a bruising kiss before turning his back to her.

In the bathroom, he twisted the lock. Lifting his head to the cracked mirror above the sink, Cutter took a hard look at himself. He scratched the prickly scruff on his jaw. Been a while since he’d shaved. His deep-set eyes made him look rough enough without adding facial hair. He liked to keep things easy. Chill. Relaxed. Mellow. Those were the words people used to describe him. Except in the bedroom, where he exercised absolute control over women. He was the yang to their yin.

Puck poked his head into Cutter’s bedroom and called out, “Yo, Cutter, get out, we got to talk. I’ll be downstairs.”

After a quick shower, he took the stairs to the main floor of the clubhouse. Puck was sipping a beer, spread-eagled on a leather couch cracked and aged with a scattering of cigarette burns like confetti at a ticker-tape parade. The cloudy midafternoon February light peeked in through a row of back windows and illuminated a pool table. Brothers advanced, retreated, and circled the green felt like hunters on the prowl. A clatter of glasses and dishware being arranged in their proper places behind the bar reverberated in the spacious room. Cutter snatched a water bottle and joined Puck.

Sprawled on the couch, the odor of ammonia twitched his nose, reminding him it was Tuesday, the day prospects mopped down the floors. A splintering sound sent both their gazes toward the pool table. Loki held a broken pool stick in both hands, the jagged edges pulsing in the air. There was a shout from the bar, and he threw them down. He whipped on his leather jacket as he stormed past them.

“He’s one moody fucker,” offered Cutter.

Puck grunted in agreement before replying, “Loki was never talkative, but ever since Chopper offed himself, he’s caught up in a world of shadows.”

“At least Kingdom’s gotten over it. If our VP’s head was still in the toilet, Prez’s cancer would have dismantled the Squad. There’d be no surviving that shit.”

“Can’t compare their situations,” debated Puck. “Chopper was Loki’s blood brother, not Kingdom’s. And Loki’s got no woman to pull him through.”

“At least the fucker’s not blaming Kingdom no more,” Cutter noted. Before their truce, there were times the feud got ugly. “Loki pledged his life over to Kingdom. Which was a fucking good thing because a man like Loki doesn’t do shit half-assed. Though, thank fuck I ain’t like him.” Cutter gave out a shudder.

“Would be good if you were like him once in a while,” Puck grumbled, unease pricking at his chest.

Cutter straightened. “Christ, tell me how you really feel.”

Puck’s lips flattened. Puffing out a breath of exasperation, he said, “You’re an asset to the Squad, but you’re wasting your life. With your skills, you could rise in the ranks. It’s a fuckin’ shame.”

Assessing the empty water bottle, Cutter crushed the plastic in his hands. “Brother, that isn’t for me. I’m a chill motherfucker. Stress-free. Responsibilities come with stress, and stress don’t agree with me.”

Puck flexed his bicep and massaged it. “You’re a selfish dumbass is what you are.”

Yeah, he was. Sue him if he wanted to make up for his lost childhood.

“I don’t see you rankin’ up,” he pushed back.

Puck began massaging his left tricep, the one that always cramped after a long workout. “I can barely contain my sister. Can’t expect me to do more. I’m where I’m supposed to be. You aren’t.”

“I’ve been taking care of Tommy my entire life. You don’t see me complainin’.”

Lifting his chin toward Loki, who was returning from the back offices, Puck observed, “He’s the Sergeant of Arms. Kingdom’s the VP. Fuck, even Whistle patched in and he’s the poster boy for ‘Stupid as Fuck.’ Sage bails his ass out of jail on the regular. Even so, he’s found his place. You wanna stay the same. Never grow up like Peter fuckin’ Pan. You”—Puck stuck out his forefinger—“you’ve dug your heels in like a righteous, stubborn bastard.”

“That’s cold, bro.”

“That’s real is what it is.”

“I ain’t shopping for an old lady and a bunch of kids.”

Cutter wasn’t one to get riled up, but his gut burned. His skin crackled, choking his body, like a snake before a molt. Forcing a grin, he joked, “Admit it, you’re jealous because I get the bitches you ain’t never gonna get.”

Puck snorted and shook his head. “Those bitches are gassin’ you up if they’ve convinced you tying them up is somethin’ special.”

“See, that right there proves you don’t know half of what women want. Takes a special man to give it to them right and teach them new tricks.”

Puck released his upper arm and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Eyes hard, he checked their surroundings before speaking low. “Things are changin’ up in here. Your head is stuck in too much pussy to notice.”

Cutter’s gaze snapped toward Puck, on the alert. “Say what now?”

Puck shifted closer and growled, “I said you’re too stupid to realize what’s going on.”

Cutter’s head jerked back. Puck’s dander was up. What the fuck? Puck didn’t do dander. “The fuck you talkin’ about, yo?”

Puck muttered under his breath. Lurching forward, Cutter caught the tail end, something about “another one coming up.”

“Hold up. Repeat that,” Cutter directed. A slew of curses poured out of Puck’s mouth and flew over Cutter’s head, making him dip low.

Tipping his head another inch closer, Puck reiterated, “One man’s going down and another’s gonna rise in his place.”

Fucking Puck, with his opaque philosophical shit. Half the time he didn’t know fuck-all what Puck was going on about, but apprehension crept up the nape of his neck and raised his hackles.

Cutter grabbed the pack of cigarettes he’d dropped on the low coffee table. He tapped it, and a loose cigarette dropped out. In one swift move, he tossed it between his lips. Bending low with Zippo in hand, he lit it. Sucking in nicotine, he took a moment to regain his balance. Then he surreptitiously scanned the area once more. Puck and he were speaking close, but not close enough to catch anyone’s attention.

“Prez is sick.”

Cutter let out an irritated puff. “No shit.”

“Again. He’s sick again and it’s uglier than last time.”

Smoke poured out of Cutter’s partially opened mouth. “Nobody’s said anything.”

“I’m saying it. Seems I’m the only brother who’s got eyes that work. It don’t help that the power couple’s in denial.”

Cutter bit back a smirk. Kingdom and Loki, the power couple. Funny.

“Neither of those bastards can deal with another death, but I know the truth,” said Puck.

“And how in the fuck would you know the truth?” Cutter asked dubiously.

“I eavesdropped on Prez.”

Cutter’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Come again?”

“Get off your damn high horse, you lazy piece of shit.”

Cutter scowled, and snapped, “Don’t get pissy with me.”

Thumping his chest bone, Puck declared, “Everyone’s got their heads up their asses. I’m the only one who bothered to find out. At Prez’s last checkup, I drove him. Stood outside the door when he talked to his doctor. I was checking my phone and shit when the door swung halfway open, and I heard the doc’s diagnosis.” Puck spat out the last word as if it were venom.

A heavy, frigid sensation hit Cutter as if he’d been dunked in freezing water. Scooting to the edge of his seat, he murmured, “Prez did it on purpose. No way you would’ve heard anything unless he wanted you to.”

“Whatever. Doc ordered him to take it easy. From now on. ‘Quit your job,’ he said, and ‘make your health the number one priority. You can’t be of use to anyone if you’re dead. I’ve got you an appointment at Sloan Kettering in New York City for chemo and radiation. A colleague of mine owes me a favor. Radiation begins in six weeks.’ Can you believe that shit?”

Prez was like a father to him. Didn’t matter that his moms hated Prez’s guts. He’d been their neighbor when he started the Demon Squad with two other members. Prez had fallen for his moms, and she’d repaid him with revulsion. Good man that he was, he never held it against Cutter. Closest thing to paternal love he’d ever experienced, because he sure as fuck got no maternal love. That had been used up on Tommy.

After he’d patched in with “those hooligans,” as she called them, she refused to see him for years. Until she got sick. And then, only for Tommy’s sake. He did what she’d asked of him. Shouldered the responsibilities she’d foisted on him. Still, he was kept at bay until her illness took a turn for the worst. One afternoon, he lay down on the hospice bed beside her sleeping form and, caressing her hairless skull, wept like a pussy. His moms. Gone. After the other Squad founders died, Prez was the last one standing.

Cutter hunched over, his gaze cutting to Puck. He cleared his throat, trying to speak, but it took a moment before he got words through the painful swelling of his throat. “Sloan what?”

“Memorial Sloan Kettering, a hospital that has a Cancer Clinic. Place where they take care of people with bad cases of cancer.”

“Six weeks till he leaves. For how long?” Cutter asked.

Puck lifted and dropped his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “It doesn’t fucking matter. Shit has got to be put in place now. Gotta say, I almost bawled like a fucking kid. Him stepping down will rock the Squad to the core.”

After drawing in a deep breath, Puck continued, “It’s up to you, Cutter. Besides me, you’re the closest thing to a son Prez has. After Chopper’s death, you’re the closest brother to Kingdom. Loki will flip his shit when he finds out. Kingdom’s gonna need you to keep him strong, to push him through the transition. And to keep Loki out of the psych ward. That’s gonna be a killjoy, for fuckin’ sure. If not done right, it’ll be a clusterfuck of massive proportions.”

The cigarette dropped from his fingers, burning a new hole into the scruffy rug. Staring down at his open palms, he scrutinized the lines as if he could consult them about the future. The Squad’s future. His future. One deep horizontal groove crossed the others, slashing them in half.

Puck gripped his arm and gave it a shake. “You can do it. You’ll keep the brothers from blowing up—because they’ll be ticking time bombs, for sure. Keep them chill. We’ll need a strong hand, not a hard fist. We’ll need someone easy.”

The cigarette butt died. The rancid odor of burnt rug fibers singed his nostrils. Cutter wiggled his numb fingers to get the blood flowing. Shame and regret double-teamed him. His muscles trembled as if he were lifting weights without a spotter, and a barbell was about to land on his throat. He’d never cast himself as a disloyal brother, but he’d squandered his time on fun and games, on jesting and fucking.

“How much time does he have left?” asked Cutter.

“Dunno, the door shut afterwards. The club is his bitch and his baby. Don’t know what’s gonna happen to him without it.” Puck strained to rise, leaving Cutter to replay the times he’d messed around, this week alone.

Thump.

Two shots materialized on the coffee table. Lifting a shot glass, Puck saluted, “To the best of us.”

Blindly picking up his shot, he raised it to match Puck’s gesture, and downed it. The liquid blistered his throat, coating his tongue with a bitter aftertaste. He wasn’t one of the best. The day he walked away from his mother and Tommy, at age eighteen, he put himself first. Made him a selfish bastard, but it was the only way to make up for a childhood shackled with taking care of his uncle twenty-four seven. Puck included him in the toast, but it was a damn lie. Prez, Kingdom, Loki. Even Puck himself. But not him. Cutter scrubbed his face roughly. He had a debt of honor to pay off; he’d work himself to the bone and earn a place on the throne, alongside the heroes of the Demon Squad.