Whistle's War

Chapter 2

Two

Whistle heard the clang of the last set of the metal doors of Duchess County Jail rattle behind him. Squinting against the glare of the bright morning sun, he lifted his hand to shield his eyes and scanned the parking lot. His gaze halted on Hoodie at the far end of the lot. Leaning against his Harley, legs crossed at the ankles, he was smoking a spliff. It wasn’t even ten in the morning.

Letting out a soft chuckle, Whistle shook his head. That brother was as dismissive of authority as he was. In a government parking lot right outside the jailhouse, and he was exhaling an extra-large puff of smoke to add to the cloud of sweet-smelling ganga already hanging over him. Beside him was Whistle’s bike. Now that they’d been patched in for a couple of years, it was their turn to order prospects around. Knowing Hoodie, he got a prospect to ride Whistle’s bike over, then handed him a couple of dollars and politely instructed him to fuck off and take the bus back to the clubhouse.

Glancing over his shoulder toward the jail, Whistle frowned. He didn’t like leaving Puck in the slammer alone, but the Squad’s sergeant at arms had given him his orders and told him to get out once his bail was paid.

“You did what you could for him,” Hoodie answered Whistle’s unspoken concern as he clasped his hand and moved in for a man hug.

Swinging a leg over his Roadster, Whistle opened his hand and wiggled his fingers for Hoodie to throw him his keys. A second later, the engine of his bike was purring beneath him. Damn, he’d missed that sound. “Doesn’t make it any easier to leave him there. ’Course he told me to get the hell out of there and go the fuck on home. Called me a liability to his ass in jail.”

“You are a pretty boy,” drawled Hoodie as if it was obvious as fuck why he’d be a danger in jail.

“Fuck you, asshole. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Never yours, motherfucker,” he grunted. A lie, of course. But that’s how it was between them, and Whistle wouldn’t have it any other way. If Cutter and Puck were like fathers to him, then Hoodie was the brother he wished he’d always had. Hoodie might be rough around the edges, but he had the soul of an artist, whereas Whistle’s blood brothers imitated all things civilized but were animals to their depraved core.

Yeah, he was used to being called a pretty boy. Hell, he couldn’t help the way he looked. The unusual turquoise tint of his eyes had women and men stumbling in their steps. God knows he’d wanted to ruin his looks and tat up his face like Post Malone, but Hoodie had stopped him every time. Said it wasn’t his place to fuck up the face God had given him. Whistle looked at him askance whenever he said that; it wasn’t like the fucker believed in any type of god. Hoodie always went on to add that if the club was ever hard up for cash, they could send him out on the streets to make a living with his dick. Hardy-har-har. Fucking hilarious. Asshole.

Seriously, though, Hoodie was his other half. They couldn’t have been brought up in more different circumstances. Hoodie had been tortured by his parents, as almost every inch of the skin on his chest and back could attest to. Whistle, on the other hand, had been coddled by a smothering mother, a near prisoner in a mansion in Brighton Beach, the Brooklyn neighborhood bastion of Russian immigrants and, more importantly, the Bratva.

“Any of the men try anything, you being so pretty and all?” Hoodie smirked.

“Ya know, the usual. Ended up in the hole for a week for fighting. It’s good to be out, brother. That was the least enjoyable stint in the pen I’ve had to date, and fuck knows, I’ve been in there too many times to count.”

Nodding, Hoodie clapped him on the shoulder. “Some of the bitches are waitin’ at the clubhouse to celebrate your release.”

“I gotta stop and get Loki’s roll-up futon first. My orders are to move into the Squad Bar. Puck wants me there day and night to watch the place. Keep it above water until he gets out. Could be a while.”

Unlike his father and two older brothers, who were members of the Bratva and saw him as yet another disposable human weapon, the Squad brothers treated him like family. And he was going to start reciprocating. Having grown up in a tight-knit, enclosed community, before he became a violin prodigy and was forced to be homeschooled, he appreciated the Squad for giving him back what he’d had for a few blissful years as a kid.

Hoodie’s eyebrows lifted. “You seriously gonna sleep there?”

“Yup. There’s an office in the back. Seems like there’s a thief to catch.”

“And Puck thinks your dumb ass is the one who’s gonna catch him?” Hoodie sputtered before busting out a loud guffaw.

“You got any better ideas? You gonna go instead of me?”

“Hard pass, brother,” replied Hoodie. “I slept enough nights on the hard pavement. Get ugly flashbacks if I sleep on anything other than a bed nowadays.”

“Spoiled brat,” Whistle teased. Hoodie had been found by Kingdom and a few brothers one night, living rough on the streets. Dressed only in a hoodie. Hence his road name. It was around the same time Whistle had showed up at the clubhouse. Both underage, both running from their own version of hell. They’d hung around, doing whatever the brothers asked of them, until Prez allowed them to officially prospect. Whistle had kinks to work out, which he did with drinkin’ and fightin’. Hoodie reacted in the opposite manner. Kept to himself. When they’d first brought him in, he refused to leave the clubhouse property for months on end.

Now that Whistle had turned twenty-two years old, it was time to put the fucking around behind him. Puck’s one-and-only lecture, while they were in the pen together, hit him square in the solar plexus. It was time to grow the fuck up and take on responsibilities. After a decade of grueling violin practice routines and touring, once he joined the Demon Squad MC, he’d had a lot of living to make up for. Now, Puck was in a difficult situation, and after years of messing around, it was time to man up.

Hoodie extinguished the blunt between his fingers and tucked it into the front pocket of his leather biker jacket. “Sage’s a good egg. Got you out on your birthday. The big double two. Whatcha wanna do tonight?”

“What the fuck do you think?”

It was a rhetorical question. Hoodie knew. Drink and fuck. What else?

“Anyone in particular?” Hoodie asked.

“Yup, the first one. I’m that particular,” Whistle joked. He always took the first woman to hit him up when he walked through the clubhouse door. That was his rule: first one on him had him for the night. Kept things simple and nipped any potential catfights in the bud. He didn’t have problems getting laid, but he liked the club biker bitches the best. There was an understanding; no talking necessary. He liked to give them a little extra attention by letting them sleep in his bed for the night. When he first came around the clubhouse, he’d done it to get them used to him since he was such a goddamn mess. Years later, he was among their favorites.

After their errands, he and Hoodie parked along the row of bikes, sauntered past the fence, and entered the clubhouse property. The club owned the building situated on a residential street corner, with empty lots on either side. The empty lots had been the main selling point for the property, and so far, no one had built on them. Not that the neighborhood was known for new constructions. Eventually, the plan was to buy the two lots and expand. But for that to happen, their current businesses had to be in the black. The Box, their boxing and MMA gym, was doing well. Their online merchandising business was pumping. The Squad Bar, however, was sinking like a pile of concrete thrown over the Walkway in the Hudson River.

“Yo, Whistle. Good to see you, brother,” sounded Brick, the prospect on duty, with an enthusiastic whoop. Unlike the other brothers, who routinely gave the prospects shit, Whistle too easily remembered his prospecting days to give them too hard a time. After sharing a bro hug, he followed Hoodie into the clubhouse.

Immediately upon entering, there was a loud ruckus of shouts as the brothers and bitches spotted him. Cassie and Jazz jumped off their stools and ran for him, wrapping their arms on either side of him. He noted that Jazz got to him first, which meant she’d won him for the night. He extricated himself from being smothered by the bitches. Planting his lips on Cassie’s mouth, he released her and made it clear that Jazz was his partner by hooking an arm around her neck and pulling her close.

“I got to you first, Whistle,” Cassie whined.

“Good try, but you so didn’t, bitch,” Jazz shot back.

“Hey,” Whistle chided with a soft chuckle. As attractive as he was, the women rarely argued over the men. Must be the inmate thing that got them riled up. “Next time, babe. You know I don’t like fighting, and I’m an hour out of jail.”

Cassie dropped a last kiss on his mouth. “Aww, Whistle, we heard how you got arrested to keep Puck company.” She batted her eyelashes. “Sure you don’t wanna share?”

Dark eyes narrowed, Jazz cut in, “I don’t want to share, so back off.”

“Fine,” Cassie conceded and, pivoting on her heel, stomped back to the bar.

Jazz and he were old friends. Old fuck buddies, too, since the day she showed up, young and new. Taking a stool, he patted his knee for her to sit on it and asked Whiskey, who was bartending, for a beer. Flicking her dreads over her shoulder, she settled on his lap. One thing was for sure, that the woman had the finest ass in the clubhouse. She was a shapely little thing with mocha skin and bright brown eyes.

“How was it in there, brah?” asked Cutter, his vice-president.

“It is what it was. We both ended up in the hole for fighting. ’Course, the fucker blamed it on me, but there was gonna be a throw down, what with it being his first time.”

Cutter shifted his old lady, Greta, to his other knee and clapped Whistle on the shoulder. “Fucking finally, I can say with pride that you’re an asset to the club.”

Whistle grunted. Cutter hadn’t always felt that way. Before he’d gotten a lockdown on Greta, Whistle used to flirt with her when he’d stop by the law office where she worked with Sage, the president’s old lady. He had no idea Cutter was into her, and when she rebuffed Cutter’s advances, he took his frustration out on Whistle. It was around the time Whistle had patched in, and he’d expected to be treated like an equal, not like a little bitch. Cutter eventually calmed his shit down once Greta became his old lady, but Whistle had moved his allegiance to Puck.

That’s why he’d purposely got into a bar fight after Puck got arrested for beating up the ex-husband of one of the club bitches. There was a simple and easy way to see Puck safe in the county jail. Unfortunately, it wasn’t by normal means. Only took a few hours to get processed and shoved into a police van transporting him to the Duchess County Jail, where he could be by Puck’s side.

Grabbing the neck of the bottle that landed in front of him, Whistle took a sip and nuzzled his face into Jazz’s neck. Although he was glad to see his brothers, there’d be time enough to catch up later.

Prodding Jazz to stand, he ordered, “Come on.”

They ascended to his room on the second floor. He shoved the door open and swept her inside. Her back slammed against the wall, and he followed her body, not breaking the suction of their mouths. Jazz was one of the few women he actually kissed. Good friends allowed for that without any misunderstandings.

He tossed her on his unmade bed. Landing on her back, she propped herself up on her elbows and tossed her head back with a throaty laugh.

Unbuckling his belt, he commanded her, “Play with your tits.”

Yanking down her tube top, she let her perky breasts pop out. Her top shimmied down her torso, and she jiggled them at him. Whistle palmed his hardening cock beneath his jeans. “You want this? Let me see it.”

She jerked her stretchy mini skirt out of the way, brought her knees up, and dropped them open. Not only was she not wearing panties, but she was showing off her newly shaved pussy, slit wet and dripping for him. Jazz was quick to get fired up, and he liked that about her.

He tsked. “Such a naughty, naughty girl.” He unbuttoned his Levi’s, and his cock sprang out, raring to go. After weeks of no fucking, he was hard as a rock. Dropping to the bed, he played with her pussy as he pumped his cock.

“Whistle, stop teasing me,” she moaned.

“Grab a rubber,” he ordered. She reached over to his nightstand, rattling the drawer in her impatience to get to his stash. Pulling out a string of condoms, she ripped the top one open with her teeth. Swaying it teasingly between her thumb and forefinger in front of him, she bent over and wrapped her lips around his cock.

Whistle groaned.

Fuck, that felt good.

Finally pulling her mouth off him, she rolled the condom down.

He took hold of the backs of her thighs, wrapped her legs around his waist, and thrust inside. Motherfucker, it’d been enough time. Occasionally, he went without sex for a couple of weeks, but it never felt as bad as it did when spent in the slammer. Caging her between his arms, he took the dark bead of her nipple into his mouth as he pounded into her. She grabbed at his hair as he went savage on her. They’d been together enough times that he knew what she needed to tip her over. His thumb pressed down on her clit while his other hand landed a few quick slaps on her ass.

Within minutes, she was screaming his name and her pussy was milking him. He squeezed her tits roughly to trigger aftershocks, and she bore down on him harder. His thrusts lost their steady pace, and the metal bed frame slammed against the wall as he came. Groaning, he rocked in and out haphazardly as he emptied himself into the condom.

A bead of sweat rolled down the midline of his chest, and Jazz leaned forward to lick it off. Sweet gesture on her part but Whistle never felt anything the instant his balls were drained.

As bad as he might want to roll over and crash like the dead, he tried respecting the girls by not tossing them out of bed right after he was done. That was a play out of his brothers’ or father’s playbook, and he swore never to be like them. Pulling out, he disposed of the condom and began to shuck off his clothes.

“You’re so damn beautiful, you know that?” Jazz commented. She hadn’t moved from her position, but her eyes gazed down his long frame.

“Yeah, Jazz,” he scoffed. “You say that every time.”

“Every time I see you naked, it takes my breath away. Seriously, it’s sick.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled. “You stayin’ or what?”

“Nah, it’s barely afternoon and you look wrecked. I’ll go back downstairs and let you rest.” Her eyes clouded over. “Was it that bad in there?”

“It’s never easy, that’s for fucking sure. There’s always noise, but not like here. When there’s noise here, you know people are drinking and having fun. There, you don’t know if someone’s plotting to stick their dick up your ass or a shank down your throat. You never sleep in peace.”

Swiping the back of his hand over his burning eyes, he prodded her over and crawled into bed. She stood up, rearranged her clothes, and gave him a peck on the lips. “I’ll let you sleep.”

“Thank Christ. Tomorrow I start staying overnights at the bar. I’d like to sleep in a fucking bed before I have to share with the rodents on the floor.”

“Eww,” she replied with a small shudder of her shoulders.

He plumped the pillow under his head and turned to face the wall. Sex took the edge off, but he wasn’t left satiated, and despite his fatigue, his thoughts bounced around like balls in a pinball machine. This casual shit wasn’t doing it for him anymore. What the hell that meant, he had no idea ‘cause he sure as hell had no intention of taking an old lady. That was a ball and chain he refused to touch with a ten-foot pole. But there was no denying that changes were a-brewing. First, the urge to step up in the club. Now, a good fuck session didn’t leave him any more relaxed than before.

Jazz pulled the curtains closed and clicked the light off, plunging him in semi-darkness. His eyes dropped closed as the door shut softly behind him, but it took more than the usual amount of time before his mind settled down and he finally nodded off to sleep.