Wrench: MC Biker Romance (Blazing Rebels Motorcycle Club Romance) Book 1

Chapter Three

The sound of clanging from the metal bell acted as a doorbell, waking me up the next morning, along with the smell of a fresh pile of vomit Buddy left on the floor around four AM. Tank hung up the bell after I slept in for a rally when I was in the peak of my dipshit phase about five years back, and did he ever make use of it.

“Wrench! Wrench!” I heard him yell from below me and I clamped my eyes shut, wishing I could sleep a little more. Over in the corner, curled up in a pile of motor-oil-covered jeans, Buddy gave a sad whine. I already felt overwhelmed by the day, especially considering I didn’t get off the night before like I planned.

I lifted my head from my pillow and looked down at my pajamas and as I expected, they stood like a tent. Normally I slept naked. I loved waking up to the feeling of my soft sheets against my cock in the morning. Last night, though, after cleaning up Buddy’s vomit for hours, it didn’t feel sanitary to be naked anywhere in my house.

I wondered if I would have time to quickly jack off in the shower… I had to deal with my morning wood before the day started or I knew I’d be riled up all day.

“Wrench!”

Turning over on my pillow, I reached for my cell phone to see the time. It wasn’t even seven yet, and already, Tank had business to discuss. But it would only take five minutes, tops, thanks to the internet being on cell phones.

“Wrench!”

Buddy whimpered in the corner.

The metal bell started to jingle.

“Ye-ap!” I called back, the extension of the word telling Tank I was awake and to shut the hell up. I swung my legs over the ledge of my bed and rubbed the crust from my eyes. There was no way anyone, no matter how horny, could get off in that environment. Why didn’t I plug in the swamp box before going back to sleep? That would have helped with the stench.

“Get yer ass down here, son!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” I said, even though he wouldn’t hear it. “I’m gonna bang on your and Eve’s bedroom door right when you’re about to fuck sometime… see how you like that…”

 Standing up, I walked over to Buddy to give him a quick scratch behind the ears before pulling on a pair of jeans and a white ribbed tank top, taking a second to admire my newest addition of ink. The same flame—part of our club’s emblem—that was patched on the back of my leather jacket, was now in the middle of my black sleeve. The flame was my first colored piece on my body. I didn’t plan it that way; I guessed I just liked black ink. But the colored addition turned out better than I thought. I liked it.

“Shit,” I muttered, realizing I had wasted thirty seconds to stare at my arm. Tank was going to be pissed. He was already so fired up the night before over the Freeway Morons wearing our colors, now something else must have set him off last night to make him barge over this early in the morning. On top of that, I had to tell him that I, his Vice President, would be no help that day because I had to take my dog to the vet. I could already see him ramming his finger into my chest, saying I wasn’t taking the position seriously enough.

When the bell rang again, I knew I couldn’t waste any more time and unlatched the attic door. The staircase tumbled downward, stopping not even an inch away from Tank’s feet. After years of the same old routine, he must have mastered standing in the perfect spot every time.

The light from the sunrise beaming through the windows on the main floor was much brighter than in the attic, making me wince and cover my eyes with my forearm as I walked down the staircase. Tank was smoking even with his arms crossed, a red flag that something had him even more pissed off than usual.

“I’m going to ask you a question and you’re going to answer honestly,” he said once I reached the bottom of the stairs. “Are you dealing again?”

I stopped in my tracks, my face dropping to a frown before quickly turning to a strange mixture of anger, disgust, and shame. That was what had him so mad?

“What the fuck, Tank? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Answer the question.”

“You wake me up at seven in the morning and accuse me of dealing drugs? Fuck off.”

“I said, answer the question, Wrench.”