Mad Sea by K Webster

 
    F or the most part, members of an outlaw motorcycle club are badass motherfuckers. Leather wearing, tattoo sportin’, weapon toting, hell raising kind of guys. They push drugs and fuck as much as they drink. And they fight nearly as much as they eat. Bikers have a reputation for being rough around the edges and crude. Illegal activities are their game of choice and rebellion is their middle name. They rule the streets with their hogs between their thighs and murderous glares on their rugged faces. They are outlaws.
    And I lead the gang.
    The ring fucking leader.
    Mr. Badass himself.
    Every day we ride. On Tuesdays, I head to the shipyards so I can oversee our weapons import. Thursdays, I taste from the newest strain of cocaine that will get cut for distribution. Saturdays, I collect on my debts.
    But Sundays…
    Sundays are my day.
    My fucking day off.
    “The usual, sir?”
    I snap my head up from staring at the tips of my worn leather boots and meet the pale green eyes of Hali Morgan. Her strawberry-blonde hair has been pulled back into a sleek ponytail today, like always, and her lips are glossy pink. I’d rather taste her instead of what I’m here for, but she doesn’t even know my fucking name.
    “Yes,” I say with a grunt. “Thank you, Hali.”
    She beams at me, flashing her perfect white teeth, and punches in some numbers on the register. “That’ll be five-oh-nine, sir.”
    Here’s the deal. I’ve been coming to see her every Sunday for three months. Three fucking months. I’m pussy whipped by a register girl who doesn’t even know my name.
    But her?
    I know everything the internet yields regarding Hali Elaine Morgan. She’s not big on Facebook but is always posting shit on Instagram. Not self-absorbed selfies. Not my Hali. Naw, she’s more into scenery and sunsets. Shells and palm trees. Muscle cars and puffy clouds. I know this because my stupid ass created a fake profile just to inconspicuously follow her. I try not to go full-on creeper and like every single picture she posts. Currently, I’ve kept my liking to every other post.
    I’m a stalker and a pussy.
    Jesus fucking Christ.
    If only the guys back at the clubhouse knew this, they’d be slitting my throat and electing a new president before sundown. My best friend, Jagger, and that fucktard Cassius, wouldn’t even wait until my body was cold before one of them was sitting in my place at the head of the table.
    “Sir?”
    I snap out of my daze and shove my hand into my black jeans. Pulling out a ten dollar bill, I slap it on the counter. “Keep the change, sweetheart.”
    Her pale, freckled cheeks tinge pink as she slides the bill from me. “Thank you.”
    When she bounces off to make my order, I run my fingers through my jet black hair in frustration. At the clubhouse, all I have to do is look at one of the broads sitting on one of the worn sofas and they’ll be sucking my cock in three seconds flat.
    But Hali?
    I can’t even talk to her without feeling like I’m a fourteen-year-old nerdy little shit. It’s emasculating and embarrassing, yet I keep coming back here. Every goddamned Sunday for more punishment.
    My gaze travels over to her. Her head is bopping to the music on the speakers—some Justin Timberlake crap—and her supple lips mouth the words as she pulls a cup from the dispenser. Then, she bounces over to the frozen yogurt machine and pulls the lever. Bubblegum flavored frozen yogurt fills the cup, but I’m too focused on how delicious her ass looks in her tiny white shorts to notice her actions. It’s the best damn part of my week. What I wouldn’t give to pull out my flaying knife and slice them right from her ripe, tight body.
    She casts a shy glance my way over her shoulder and smiles before mounting on the toppings. Pink sprinkles. Pink gummy worms. Pink dyed coconut flakes.
    Yes, I am the loser who orders this shit.
    When she shoves a lime green spoon into the frozen yogurt, she turns, scoops up a matching