The Bent Zealots MC Box Set #4

I knew it was impossible. We were in rival clubs, for one. It had barely been possible with a guy from another Bare Bones charter. For another, Lock belonged to the club we suspected of dealing this knockoff weed. I’d been following him from his Laughlin hotel ever since, trying to catch him in the act of doing something weed-related. I doubted he would bring anything like that around his bail bonds office, and I was impressed by the heft and power of his business. Twinkletoes ran a Dun and Bradstreet on the business, and they were quite well-respected and highly rated.

But I became more suspicious when he left Los Toro Hermanos and sat in a gas station parking lot for ten minutes, waiting for someone. Then I knew I was onto something. He’d taken off his cut before getting into his Mustang, so I knew he was about to do a run for the club—something that involved driving a cage and not his scoot. It became obvious he was following this shady-looking guy in a Lexus, so I knew this was the weed contact.

When I realized he was selling to high schoolers, I just lost it. I might’ve smoked pot when I was twelve. Okay, ten. I probably had done LSD, cocaine, and all the usual suspects by the time I was twelve. But fuck it, you know? My childhood was different. I lost my parents and was being raised by a guy who thought education was the Playboy Channel and protein was a bukkake session. No wonder Ford wore the “Filthy Few” patch by the time he was seventeen.

This didn’t mean I thought it was a good thing, handing drugs to kids. If given an option, if I could go back, I probably would’ve been a lot more circumspect about everything I ingested. For instance, and no one believes me, but I rarely smoke weed now. I only do it on the occasions it’s called for as part of my job, like when I have to taste test a new shipment, or if someone asks me for my opinion. But really, as I get older and more serious about life, as the things I used to think were fun start to look more like one giant hassle, I toke less and less. It’s a demotivator, really. I hate to think of all the years I wasted sucking on a bong, eating Doritos, and waiting for the leaves to turn color.

Well, I guess I was grabbing the gusto by the horns right now. After being slammed into a dumpster and laughed at by a bunch of dipwads who should be off tooting their clarinets, I was a raging mass of inflamed hormones. Still, I hadn’t planned what I did. Honestly. One second I was pinning Havelock Singer to the wall with my pelvis, and the next second I’d clamped my open mouth down over his.

Maybe I wanted to taste what Dayton had tasted. Maybe I wanted to find out firsthand what had attracted Dayton to Lock—what had made him choose Lock out of the presumably hundreds of guys he could’ve banged that night.

At first, he squirmed and resisted. This only served to stiffen my penis, and I luxuriated in rolling my hips against his, massaging my burgeoning glans against the buttons of his crotch. He pressed his free hand against my shoulder, first urgently, then just insistently. Pretty soon he was barely pressing at all.

I sucked on his sweet, luscious lips, nibbling on his lower one the way a dog nibbles on ice. His mouth softened as he surrendered to my assault. Soon he was extending the tip of his tongue to meet mine, shyly tickling me. I let loose an erotic little groan that vibrated our mouths against each other, and I lapped at the underside of his tongue as though it was honey. Which it was, to me.

Over the sound of our panting against each other’s faces, I could hear the high schoolers giggling.

“Fags!”

“Can you believe it? They look too macho to be fags.”

“Why are fags selling weed at our school?”

“Faggots! Fairies! Homos getting their rocks off!”

I had forgotten how homophobic and cruel teens could be. As much as I didn’t want to pull back, I had to. I gave his tongue a few last thorough licks. He reciprocated, nibbling anxiously on my lower lip, as though his teeth shivered with cold.