Captive Ride (The Motorcycle Clubs)

by Ella Goode

  Captive Ride

  Ella Goode

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Want more MC books?

  The Motorcycle Club Series

  Chapter 1

  Flint

  “I’m going to take her,” I tell Judge, the Death Lords President. Hell, he’s my president, but in this, I’m going to make the call because I’ve been the one watching her—not Judge or any other of my MC brothers.

  Judge chews on this. He doesn’t want to give me the go ahead because he feels like he owes Amelia Harris.

  “She in danger right now?”

  I glance at the door that she just walked through with the stick-up-his-ass lawyer. It’s the fourth time she’s been out with him.

  “Yeah.” In danger of getting blood splattered on her shirt if she doesn’t stop seeing the asshole.

  “And if I tell you to sit tight a while longer?”

  I don’t answer immediately because I won’t lie to my President, but I’m not going to sit on my thumb while someone else takes what’s mine. “I’ve played the patient soldier for a long time,” I finally say. I’ve been watching Amelia for four years now. I’m pretty much done with standing on the sidelines.

  Judge heaves a sigh. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Don’t plan on it.” Unless she wants the pain. I don’t have any problem spanking that pert ass of hers until it is rosy red.

  “I don’t want you coming back a wreck either,” he cautions.

  “I’m thinking that it’s my call whether to take that chance. Not getting any younger,” I remind him.

  “It is your call,” he agrees. “It’s nice you pretend that I had a say in the matter, but we both know you are just giving me a heads up instead of asking for permission.”

  I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “I never did like asking for permission. Guess that’s why I’m part of the Death Lords.”

  Judge chuckles. “I’ll see you in a year or so then?”

  “Why so long?” I ask with surprise.

  “’Cause it’s going to take that long for you to convince her that whatever you plan to do is for her own good.” With that, he hangs up.

  I run a hand across my jaw, feeling the closely trimmed facial hair. Is Judge suggesting that I’m not her type? I know I’m not her type. Her type wears suits. I wear jeans and boots. Her type has skin smoother than an icicle in winter. Mine is rough and scarred. She battles in a courtroom, and most of the men she’s dated fight it out in stale-smelling offices and boardrooms. I fight in back alleys, secret wooded areas, and in bar parking lots.

  But her type isn’t working for her. When it comes to men, she hasn’t discovered what she wants. Or at least she hasn’t found what is going to fulfill her, which is why she flits from one guy to another, or goes long patches with just a rotation from her pretty healthy toy chest.

  The sound of the restaurant door opening jerks my head up. A couple leaves. They look like a fucking ad for some ritzy store at the mall. Suit coats, ties, shiny shoes. There’s no question I don’t look like any of the men inside that restaurant with my leather cut, unshaved jaw, and jeans. But if Amelia had wanted something like the tight-assed prick who just walked out and didn’t even help his woman to her car, she wouldn’t still be looking. She’d be shacked up with the boring suit, popping two-and-a-half kids, and working at some law firm downtown, fighting for corporations.

  Instead, she lives alone in her small, two-bedroom bungalow on the south side of town, has an office in a strip mall, and represents what most people would classify as undesirables. No one’s stayed the night at her place since I started watching her, and she’s not playing house with anyone else. She’s a loner, but given the recent uptick in dates, I’m guessing she’s feeling the sting of that lifestyle.

  Amelia’s too much work and not enough play.

  I swing my leg off the seat of my low rider and amble up to the door. A rush of cool air conditioning hits my body about the same time as the eyes of the hostess. Those eyes get big and bigger as they take in my six foot two inch body, covered with tattoos and ending in a pair of size thirteen shitkickers.

  We both know I don’t look like anything else in this restaurant. That doesn’t stop her lips from parting and her tits from swelling underneath the white cotton shirt that she has left unbuttoned so that all the customers can appreciate the cleavage she’s pushed together.

  “Just one today?” Her years of cigarette smoking have thinned her skin and deepened the tone of her voice to throaty and sultry.

  Another time, I would’ve taken this little piece out back behind the restaurant and fucked her silly during one of her smoke breaks. But since I’ve started watching Amelia, my sexual appetite knows only one thing. Her. And it’s time I fed myself.

  I’m hungry.

  “No, ma’am. I’m meeting someone.” I point my index finger toward the raised booth where Amy is sitting with her date. He’s some lawyer from a firm in a high-rise downtown. I don’t bother to get to know him because he isn’t any different than the last six or seven suits she’s sat down and broken bread with.

  This guy she met at some shindig a month ago where people sat for a long time in little dots around a big room, clapping politely and looking like they’d rather take a hot poker up the ass than listen to one more speech.

  Amy’s companion made her smile a couple of times, and she agreed to meet him for coffee. Whatever urge I had to beat in his grinning face faded after I followed them to the coffee shop. The two spent more time on their phones than talking with one another. Day that some woman finds her phone more interesting than me is the day I should cut my dick off.

  But this is their fourth meeting, and I know it’s not for business. My guess is Amy’s getting restless. She wants some companionship that isn’t powered by batteries. She’s feeling him out, seeing whether he’s worth her time. He’s not, and I’m here to help her come to that conclusion.

  “Oh,” the hostess murmurs with real disappointment, but she’s a pro. She grabs one of the black leather-bound menus and leads me to the table.

  “Your third guest has arrived.” The hostess lays the menu on the table. Both Amy and the suit look up.

  He’s wearing a gray tie, and the way he looks at Amy—like she’s his next course—makes me want to choke him with it.

  “You have the wrong table,” the suit says.

  “Flint?” Amy greets me at the same time. I give her a nod. “Is someone in trouble?” she asks.

  “You know this man?” the suit asks.

  “Yes, Ron, this is my…an acquaintance of mine, Flint. Flint, this is Ron Lemmons.” She leaves off the last name. In a one percent club, we don’t have last names—only our road names. One of the reasons that Judge has a soft spot for Amy is because she respects our customs.

  When I first started watching Amy, it was because Judge and I were worried we’d picked the wrong lawyer for Wrecker. Amy was young—just a couple years out of law school—but a friend of Judge’s had recommended her. Duncan Vermier owned a chop shop on the west side of the Twin Cities, and he’d gotten into some hot water for moving stolen goods. He swore that he didn’t know jack about it, and Amy was the only lawyer he’d gone to that actually believed him. She pled him down to some stupid fine. He paid a couple hundred dollars, and that was the end of it.

  Smart as a whip and tireless as a bulldog, Vermier said. And he was right. She worked her ass off defending Judge’s son, Wrecker, when Wrecker was involved in a fight that left a skinhead dead not too far from the club headquarters.

&
nbsp; Wrecker ended up serving only three years of a ten-year manslaughter sentence. Amy had taken care of Wrecker, which is why Judge wanted to take care of Amy. She’s in my hands now. I’m planning to take real good care of her.

  “Nice to meet you, Lemmons.” I hold out my hand. Lemmons glances at my hand and then at Amy. He picks up a napkin and wipes his mouth with it. Dabs, really. Like he’s wearing some lipstick or shit and doesn’t want it to smear on the white cotton.

  “We’re having lunch, Mr. Flint,” Lemmons says as he places the napkin next to his knife. My hand hangs out there, untouched. It’s a dick move, not shaking my hand, and I can tell by the narrowing of Amy’s eyes that she doesn’t like it.

  “We’re actually almost done.” She reaches out and takes my hand in hers. I’m not at all surprised by the electric jolt that shoots through me at the contact—it'swhy I’m here—but Amy’s wide eyes reveal her shock. She recovers quickly and drops my hand. I let it rest on the white tablecloth not too far from her plate. “Can you come by my office in about a half an hour?”

  “I’d rather talk to you now.” I reach for the menu and at the same time slide into the booth. “Besides, I’m hungry. What’d you have?”

  “Salad.”

  “Mr. Flint, I really have to tell you that you are interrupting something.” Fruitman drums fingers that are softer than a baby’s bottom against the tablecloth.

  “I’m not.” I turn to Amy. “Salad? I think I’m going to need something more substantial. Why don’t you order for me?” I hand her the menu. Fruitman coughs into his hand, trying to gain Amy’s attention, but she’s busy trying to figure me out.

  Her head tilts, and her pretty eyes narrow. “If you’re hungry, Flint, why don’t you have the steak medallions and pomme frites?”

  “And what the hell is that?”

  She opens her mouth to explain, but Lemonhead leans forward. “It’s steak and fries. Pedestrian food, really.”

  “So food for people who walk? Fits me.”

  Lemonhead snorts. “Pedestrian. It means ‘simple,’ not food that walks.”

  “Should’ve used ‘simple’ then.” I reach for Amy’s water and drain it. She’s too serious to have alcohol at lunch, but if this is the kind of conversation she has to suffer through with the blowhard, then she should start ordering it by the fistful.

  Lemonhead sputters. “It’s a perfectly acceptable word. I’ll have you know—”

  Amy cuts him off. “Flint knows what ‘pedestrian’ means. I’ve worked with him before, and he’s not dumb.” Amy casts me a scolding look. Stop playing with this guy, she says silently.

  I raise an eyebrow. Tell him to get lost before I do.

  Amy turns to Lemonhead. “Thanks for meeting me for lunch, Ron. It was good, as always.”

  Good? If he has any pride, his dick is shriveling up into his body about now. A meal with a hot babe like Amy shouldn’t result in her telling you it was good.

  He slides out of the booth as if ‘good’ is just fine with him. “Amelia, can I please talk to you for a moment?”

  She nods. “Of course.”

  He jerks his chin toward the doorway. “Maybe you can walk me out?”

  “What are you, five?” I’ve had enough. The man walks the woman out. Not the other way around.

  “I need a moment of privacy. Do you mind?” Lemonhead straightens his tie, and I think it might be cutting off the airway into his brain because anyone with half a clue could tell that, yes, I do mind a hell of a lot.

  “Up to Amy here.” I stretch my arm along the back of the booth, my ringed fingers hanging only inches from her shoulder. This action gets me another curious look before she scoots out of the booth. Her hand goes to her ass as she straightens her tight skirt.

  I can’t help a growl that rumbles out of my throat as every male head in the restaurant turns toward her.

  “Did he just growl at you?” I hear Lemonhead gasp.

  “No. Of course not,” Amy replies. Behind her back, where Lemonhead can’t see, Amy flips me off.

  God, she really does it for me.

  The waitress pops over. “Is the party leaving?” She looks confused.

  “No, just give me a minute. I think my friend is ready to order,” Amy instructs.

  “I’d like the steak and fries.”

  She takes the menus. “Anything to drink?”

  I peer around her at the bar that runs nearly the length of the restaurant. “Whatever you got on tap that isn’t light is good for me.”

  “Tap It IPA sound good?”

  I nod, because while I did know what pedestrian meant, IPA doesn’t ring a bell. One beer is as good as the next, so long as it isn’t the watered-down shit.

  “No. Get him a Stone IPA.” Amy grabs the waitress as she’s about to leave. Amy turns to me. “The other is too flowery for you. Stone is piney and dry.”

  “I’m drinking a forest?”

  “Right before the fire starts,” she replies saucily.

  Lemonhead doesn’t like this exchange. He clears his throat, and Amy allows herself to be drawn a little further away.

  “I know you said you did defense work, but this surprises me, Amelia.” If Lemonhead is trying to keep it down, he’s failing.

  “It shouldn’t.” The tone of her voice is abrupt, but Lemonhead doesn’t take the hint.

  “Can he even afford to eat here?”

  Amy laughs. “If he can’t then I guess I’m paying. Ron, it was nice to have lunch with you, but I have a potential client waiting. Do you mind if I call you later?”

  Lemonhead looks at his watch. “I’ll be available after six. I have a late meeting myself.”

  “Sounds good.” Amy pats him on the shoulder like he’s a good dog. Lemonhead nods his head and then looks at her ass longingly as she turns back to the table. I growl again, and he raises his eyes to mine.

  Don’t look at her, I tell him clearly, and whether it’s my stone face, my leathers, or the fact I will jump out of the booth in a heartbeat if he doesn’t get gone, Lemonhead spins on his heel and disappears.

  Chapter 2

  Flint

  “Nice place. Why are the plates so small?” I ask her when she slides into the booth once again. The booth nearest to us has about five tiny white plates tossed around the table. The four ladies sharing lunch are staring at me. I give them a wave, and the four commence giggling. They have to be sixty if they are a day.

  “It’s a tapas restaurant. They serve small portions designed to share. And stop flirting with the ladies next to us.”

  “Are you jealous?” I ask, plucking a piece of bread from her plate and shoving it into my mouth. Her salad is gone, and I wonder if she’s still hungry, particularly if the plate was this small.

  “Did you share?”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

  “Did you share?” I repeat.

  “Not that it’s any of your business but no, I didn’t.” She looks down her nose at me, trying to shove me into whatever safe space she’s carved out in her mind for me.

  I sit back, satisfied. “This is a dark booth.”

  The whole place is dark, and the u-shaped booths give a lot of privacy. I would’ve come in a lot earlier had I known how dimly lit this joint was. I could sit Amy on my lap and fuck her, and maybe only the bartender would know. Right now he’s on the other end of the restaurant.

  “All of the booths are dark here. It’s designed to be intimate.” She fiddles with her knife and then her fork. Amy’s nervous, and I’ve got an inkling why. Even in the dim lighting, her cheeks have a rosy flush to them.

  “It’s a lunch place. Why do you want to be intimate?” I drop my hand into her dark-brown hair and tug.

  “I was on a date.” She tilts her head back, exposing a nice long column. Amy’s like a piece of fine china, all nice skin and delicate bones, but she’s tough. Life dropped her, but she picked herself up and forged forward.

  She’d make a hell of an old
lady.

  “At lunchtime?” I feign disbelief. I knew exactly what this was.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you take the afternoon off and go home for sex?” I needle her. I want to see that flush spread.

  “Not every date ends in sex, Flint.” Her yellow button-down shirt is fastened so high, all I can see is the start of the gold chain of her necklace. This is a good look for Lemonhead, but not for me. I want to see more of her—all of her.

  “Then maybe you’re doing it wrong.”

  “Dating is not a precursor to sex. That implies that I can be bought with a meal. Besides,” she gives me a hard once-over, “when is the last time you had a date? I thought you just availed yourself of the women who hang out at your club.”

  “Sweet butts?” I grin at her.

  “That’s a revolting name, Flint.” She shakes her head and gives me a scolding look.

  She might come off as prissy now and again, but she’s not. Not with the books she reads and the toys she has stashed in her bedside table. I can see how she wouldn’t want to take the chance on one of these suits, though. They’d probably run screaming if they had a peek inside her fantasies.

  “Maybe, but it’s accurate. They have sweet asses.” There’s no shortage of prime pussy around the Death Lords’ clubhouse in Fortune, a small town about fifty minutes away from the western border of Minneapolis, but the sweet butts started losing their appeal about the time I stopped watching Amy for the club and started watching her for me.

  “Is that what you like?”

  “I like sweet and tart.” I lean close to her ear. “And tangy.”

  Just like how I think your pussy will taste.

  “Why are you flirting with me?” She looks me straight in the eye. “You’ve been watching me for years, but this is the first time you’ve said more than a few words to me. At first I understood why. I’ve never liked it, but I understood. Judge wanted to make sure I was the right choice to help his son out of a mess, but you’ve kept tabs on me all these years, and for what?” She raises her hands, palms up. “And now that I’ve started dating again after a long dry patch, you’re cock-blocking me. What gives?”