Sweet Sin: A Wild Hawks MC Romance

by K. S. Ellis

  'You'll need to get dressed,' he speaks at last, addressing my chest. Then he frowns. 'Don't wear one of your prissy dresses.' Before I can respond, or even blink, he's gone and I step out of the bathtub, snagging a towel and drying myself off. He didn't go far though, because he's lounging on my bed when I get out of the bathroom. His dark eyes seem almost black as he watches me rifle through the drawer I appropriated and then they follow me as I dart back into the bathroom to get dressed.

  Soon I'm clad decently in jeans, white sneakers, and a print tee shirt, hiding a matching black lace underwear set. What? I didn't manage to sneak any ordinary underwear into my bag, and to be honest, I kind of like feeling sexy all the time. It's a rather powerful feeling.

  We make our way downstairs to the bar area together. I notice that he keeps sneaking sideways glances at me, but I can't read his face. He's either intrigued, or disappointed. And to be honest, neither expression makes much sense to me, so I'm probably way off the mark. The bar area is pretty much empty of people this morning. There are a couple of younger guys in leather jackets tidying up from the party last night, but their jackets don't have the Wild Hawks MC insignia on them, so I have no idea who they are or why they're acting like a cleaning crew. Maybe they ask that their employees dress like them? To keep the atmosphere going at all times? God, I really need to sit down with my phone and do some serious Googling about motorcycle clubs.

  He doesn't speak, to me, or to the cleanup crew, just nudges me in the direction of the door labeled "Kitchen". I can feel my stomach screaming for food, so this is a step in the right direction. The kitchen isn't empty, I notice as we stride through the door and let it swing shut behind us. There is a middle-aged woman there, dressed in tight denim jeans and a black halter neck satin top, which shows off her toned arms. Toned arms that are decorated with eye catching tattoos, as a series of vines climb from her wrists to her shoulders, purple flowers bursting open here and there. It's the bartender from last night, I realize when I look more closely at her face. She's probably in her mid-fifties. The look on her face is one of complete shock as her eyes travel between Aric and myself, lingering on his hand, which is lightly gripping my upper arm.

  'Tammy-Lynn,' he growls, 'Lena.' Then he drops my arm and moves and sits at one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Oh, that was an introduction, I realize with a start when I hear my name. She doesn't acknowledge the introduction, just watches me for a beat longer before sliding a plate in front of Aric and I blink, biting back a snicker. Pancakes? A big, burly biker is sitting in a fancy, industrial looking kitchen, eating pancakes served to him by a tattooed, middle aged woman. What the hell kind of place have I landed in? He starts eating, ignoring both of us, until Tammy-Lynn starts to speak, and his eyes flicker over to her.

  'I've just finished stocktake out at the bar,' she tells him and he nods, his mouth full of pancake. 'I was going to do a grocery run, and pick up the banking from the businesses.' Then she licks her thumb and rubs at his forehead. What. The. Actual. Fuck? He jerks his face away from her, like he's four years old, before forking more pancakes into his mouth.

  'Take Lena with you,' he tells her between bites, and she looks over at me again, her eyes still narrowed. Okay, this is getting just a bit too weird for me. And I spent yesterday becoming a sex slave dressed as a Southern belle and having more orgasms in one day than I've had in the last year.

  'Your father wouldn't tell me who she was, so who is she Aric?' Holy. Crap. Am I meeting his darn momma? And he didn't think to warn me? I know my mouth has dropped open, but I'm not really in control of my facial muscles at this present moment.

  'Lena,' she purses her lips as she addresses me with a curt nod.

  'Ma'am,' I reply, and Aric twists to look at me, his eyebrows raised, intrigued. Well, I don't know what he thought I would call her. But I'm having sex with and kind of living in her son's bedroom, so I can't call her by her given name. My momma would skin me alive and make me into a nice pair of shoes and a good handbag for church. He pushes away from the breakfast bar, farewelling his momma and tugging me out of the room with him. We stop just outside the kitchen door and he looks down at me, his eyes dropping to my mouth before flicking back up, like he's contemplating kissing me. When he doesn't, I sigh, and speak.

  'What do I say when she asks me what I'm doing with you? Because she will.' I tell him, hoping that no one is eavesdropping. Aric ignores the leather clad cleaning crew like he doesn't even notice that they are there, and he grins down at me.

  'I'm sure you'll come up with something, you seem like a clever girl.' His fingers brush under the hem of my shirt and trace the skin just above my jeans. I feel my breath hitch before he actually winks at me and strides off, still grinning. I watch him go, trying to get my breathing back under control. He seems awfully confident that I won't tell his momma I'm his sex slave, I think as I watch him stride away. Then I almost laugh at myself as I make my way back into the kitchen. Of course I'm not going to tell his momma that I'm his sex slave!

  She's cleaning away his plate when I walk back into the room, and her eyes rake me over frankly.

  'I suppose you haven't eaten today?' she finally speaks, when she's examined every last inch of me.

  'No, ma'am,' I reply and she just blinks at me, before a small smile quirks at the corners of her lips.

  'You don't have to call me "ma'am",' she laughs at last.

  'I'm afraid I do, ma'am,' I tell her, standing there awkwardly. But she just shakes her head and waves at the fruit on the breakfast bar, laughing again. At least that seems to have broken the ice somewhat.

  'You're going to have to make do with some fruit, I'm afraid. We really need to get going, it's almost midday.'

  I had no idea it was so late, so I grab a banana and peel it, eating it quickly. She just stands there watching me, before shrugging and moving towards the door.

  'Do you need to grab your purse?' she asks, not unkindly, but definitely still intrigued. 'I'll meet you beside the front door in five minutes.' Looks like I've struck lucky, and avoided an interrogation for the moment. I blow out a sigh of relief as she strides out of the kitchen, and I turn to follow her. I haven't had any inspiration yet as to what my story is going to be.

  Chapter 8

  LENA

  I only take three minutes to run back upstairs, pin my hair off my face, and grab my pocketbook, but she's already waiting for me, her black bag over her shoulder, holding a set of car keys. I follow her down the stairs, feeling the curious gazes of the guys working in the auto garage that is attached to the clubhouse on me, as I climb into the shiny black Jeep that belongs to their President's wife with her. She drives in silence until we turn a corner and are out of the line of sight of the clubhouse, and then she pulls over and turns to me, her curiosity written all over her face.

  'So, Lena,' she rests her forearm along the steering wheel as she appraises me. 'What exactly are you to my son?' I fiddle with my pocketbook, unable to meet her eyes. Crap, I still haven't really thought of a story yet.

  'We met through my brother,' I settle on at last. That's not a lie at least. 'He plays poker with Aric.' She watches me for a beat, and then purses her lips.

  'Got a gambling problem?' she asks, somewhat matter-of-factly.

  'Who?' I ask in surprise. 'Me? Or my brother?' She just watches me in silence and I shrug my shoulders. 'I don't know how to play poker,' I tell her, hearing the sincerity in my tone. 'And to be honest, I'm not sure my brother does either.' I roll my eyes in her direction and she laughs.

  'He seems to like you,' she says, and I know that the statement is more of a fishing expedition than an observation, because she's seen us interact for mere minutes, and she's only seen us together in the same room for barely longer.

  'I think he's mainly just having fun,' I tell her, my teeth worrying at my lower lip. 'I don't think it's anything serious. I'm sure he will be finished with me in no time.' I shrug, and she studies my face in silence again, before sighing.
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  'You may be right,' she concedes, turning around and getting ready to pull onto the road again. 'But I hope you're wrong. Aric is thirty-one years old and he's never been serious about anything other than the club before. I want me some grandbabies, and I like you, you've got some spunk, girl.' I blink at her words. But, weirdly, I kind of like that I have his momma's stamp of approval, even if this is one crazy, messed up situation, and not a real relationship.

  Our first stop is a nightclub, which is in the process of getting ready to open. The times on the doors say that six o'clock is when they start the music. Tammy-Lynn pulls up in the parking lot and we head on in. A cleaner is mopping the floors, though this one isn't dressed in leather. Two bouncers, who are dressed in leather, are drinking coffee and chatting in the corner, and a very pretty platinum blonde woman in a short, tight bandage dress and sky high heels is standing at the bar. Her electric blue dress has one long sleeve, and leaves her left arm bare. The arm is covered with tattoos, and I surmise that she has chosen this dress purposefully, in order to show them off. She flashes a grin at Tammy-Lynn, handing over a banking bag that seems to be rather full of cash.

  'Who's your new friend?' she asks, running her heavily made up eyes up and down my body before smirking. 'She looks very vanilla.' Tammy-Lynn laughs and throws a glance my way.

  'She's Aric's flavor of the month,' Tammy-Lynn replies, and I see the blonde's eyes tighten, and she looks shocked.

  'Surely not,' she drawls, making a show of looking me over again, earning another laugh from Tammy-Lynn. 'She's way too fucking innocent for him.'

  'Well,' Tammy-Lynn smiles, but I hear a hint of a warning in her tone, 'if last night at the clubhouse is anything to go by, very vanilla is all he wants right now. Kayley barely wiggled her tits at him before he turned away from her, but he was hot and heavy all over this one. Even punched out Curly for looking at her wrong.' I suppress a shudder as I remember smelly Santa Curly, and Kayley must have been the stripper with scraps of fabric covering her tits and vagina, nothing at all covering her ass, platform heels and too much brunette hair that had rubbed herself all over Aric when I got to the bottom of the stairs before he spun his barstool away, almost knocking her over. I thought he just wasn't into the stripper, but maybe he usually is? Gross, I fight the urge to wrinkle my nose in disgust. Agreement or no agreement, he's not having sex with me if he's having sex with a stripper on the side. That's just plain unsanitary.

  Platinum Blonde makes a sound of disbelief in her throat and Tammy-Lynn picks up the bank bag and a manila folder from the bar, with a sweet smile on her lips that she somehow makes look absolutely lethal.

  'I know, I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes,' Tammy-Lynn nods earnestly, leaning over the bar with a gossipy air. 'And then he marches her down to breakfast, introduces her to me, and tells me to bring her with me everywhere today. I feel like I'm meant to be grooming my replacement,' she tinkles out a laugh and walks out, throwing a careless wave to Platinum Blonde over her shoulder. I follow in her wake, feeling rather like I'm walking away from a bomb site where there were no survivors.

  'I-I don't think I'm going to be your replacement,' I stutter as she pulls out of the nightclub parking lot, but Tammy-Lynn just laughs and waves her hand at me.

  'Don't worry about all that, girl,' she says dismissively. 'That was for her benefit, not yours.' I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate. She sighs.

  'Julianna has had designs on Aric for years, but she needs to realize that it's never going to happen. Hell, he made her manager of the nightclub specifically so that she couldn't come to parties at the clubhouse anymore, because she'd be working. That's how much he wants to not see her and not have her drooling over him.' She sighs again, shaking her head, but she sounds fond when she continues. 'I don't think that boy did anything to lead her on, but he probably shouldn't have slept with her more than once, because that's probably what got her hopes up.'

  I blink, and swallow the sour tasting bile in my mouth. Am I about to meet a bunch of women that Aric has slept with? Is it because he's a man-whore and has slept with everybody? Or is this supposed to be some kind of warning for me not to get attached or something?

  Our next stop is a tattoo parlor, and Tammy-Lynn has a similar conversation with the pretty redhead sitting at the counter, who also hands her a bank bag and a manila folder. This girl just laughs though, and I get the feeling that while she has almost definitely slept with Aric too, she's not still into him. The tattoo artist, a good-looking man in his late twenties who introduces himself as Cockerel, offers me a free tattoo, and everyone laughs at me as I stutter out my thanks and a polite refusal.

  'Offer is open anytime,' he winks at me, before returning his attention to the jacked gym junkie he's working on.

  Our last stop before the grocery store is a strip club, and even though it's only three o'clock in the afternoon, the neon sign is flashing GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS and XXX. Also, there are a disturbing number of cars in the parking lot for a time of day when kids are still in school. When we enter the darkened building the first thing that catches my eye is the stage, since it's almost the only thing in here that is lit up. It has a pole in the centre, which has a scantily clad girl swinging around it, shaking her tits at a middle aged, balding man, who is holding out a twenty for her to crawl over to him so that he can tuck it between her breasts.

  The other lit up area is the bar, and the bartender is dressed in tight black jeans, heeled black boots, and a black singlet with the strip club's logo on it. Unlike the other two women to have handed us bank bags and manila folders, she doesn't have ink up and down her arms. Instead, she just has a single tattoo, of two hawks in flight, on the inside of her wrist. Her eyes flick over me, but she seems uninterested, and she barely says anything to Tammy-Lynn as she hands over the items. Tammy-Lynn nods tightly to her, and we take our leave. Compared to our last two stops, the whole thing seems very rushed, and rather strange.

  'That was Hannah,' Tammy-Lynn tells me as we climb back into the car to head to the grocery store. 'She's my daughter.'

  Chapter 9

  ARIC

  I get back from checking in on our latest shipment of guns just as my Dad is leaving the clubhouse. Mom's Jeep isn't here, so I'm pretty sure she's already taken off. Dad just nods at me, and I know that he'll want a full debrief of the shipment in the Chapel tomorrow. I wander through the bar, where Bruiser and Killer are playing pool and trading insults. They tolerate each other, mainly for the sake of the club, since they're both officers, but they really don't like each other. I get the feeling that it stems back to a misunderstanding about a girl. Killer had a thing for her, and Bruiser fucked her. Neither of them probably remember her name, I sure as shit don't, but they still snark at each other every chance that they get. Dad's solution, which they both snorted at and quickly dismissed, was that they find a girl to bring them together. He wanted them to pick a club groupie and double team her. Not a bad fucking idea, but they'd never go for it.

  Conrad, Killer's younger brother and the newest club member, is lounging on a sofa near them, drinking a beer and watching the game, occasionally getting his own digs in. To both of them, I notice with interest. Killer's clearly not bothered to share his dislike of Bruiser with his brother. Or he has, but Conrad just doesn't fucking care. Probably the second one. You won't get far in this club if you take sides in squabbles between brothers. Best to just let them at it and watch from the sidelines. There's a hang-around behind the bar, and he hands me a beer as I head past, on my way to the kitchen to scrounge up some food. Mom usually leaves pasta or something in the refrigerator to be reheated by those of us who live here in the clubhouse.

  There are rooms upstairs that usually sit empty, where those passing through San Remo can stay; usually members of the other chapters in Phoenix AZ, Portland OR, and Las Vegas NV stopping in to visit the mother chapter, San Remo CA. Sometimes our boys stay here as well, if they can't be bothered to
head home, or if they find themselves with no home to go to. But myself, Bruiser, Killer, Conrad, and now Strafe, our newest prospect, have permanent rooms here. Strafe is bunking in one of our dorm rooms at the moment, but he's got all his shit in there. Doesn't get a proper room until he's fucking patched in, which could take years.

  It's probably going to be fucking spaghetti bolognese again. Strafe's favorite. Mom's got a bit of a soft spot for Strafe. He's a young guy, only twenty-four, but he's had a fucking shitty life, which is probably why he gravitated towards the club. That's how most of them fucking ended up here. There's a delicious smell in the air which hits me full in the face when I push open the kitchen door. It's definitely not spaghetti fucking bolognese.

  Lena is standing in the middle of the kitchen, still dressed in her jeans, tee, and white sneakers. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun on the top of her head, and she's kneading dough, flour dusted all over her shirt, and a swipe of it on her left cheek, just under her eye. I told her not to wear her prissy clothes this morning, because if she went about with Mom doing the errands, her fucking tea look would raise eyebrows. Eyebrows we don't need raised and looking in the direction of the club. So when she came out of the bathroom in her tight jeans, tee, and her pristine white sneakers, I couldn't complain. She did what I asked, but fuck me, she looked like a college kid. Her fucking white sneakers looked like they'd been fucking spit shined for fuck's sake. She still looked sexy as fuck, but weirdly, I missed the Southern belle look. Don't know what's wrong with my cock, but it gets amped up when it sees her looking prim and proper. Probably because it knows she runs fucking hot under those prissy clothes, and fuck it, I like the idea that I'm the only one that gets to see that fucking side of her.

  It's fucking shrimp gumbo I can smell, I realize as I walk further into the room. And she's making cornbread. And holy fucking shit. There's a fresh made pecan pie sitting on the counter, I fucking shit you not.