Sketch: The Devil's Highwaymen Nomads #2

by Claire C. Riley

  For the first time all day, she smiled. “You have a way with words, you know that?” she laughed.

  I laughed back, and it felt good. Real fucking good. “So I’ve been told.”

  Nancy unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned in. I met her half way and our mouths met. I kissed her hard and fast, lust and love mingling into one.

  “Need an answer, babe. Need an answer and then I need to get you inside.” I rubbed a hand down her side, reaching around to her ass and cupping it. Being pregnant hadn’t turned me off her, if anything she was even hotter now.

  “Yes, Sketch,” she murmured between kisses.

  “Want a ring on your finger too, babe,” I said, and she froze, pulling out of the kiss to look at me. “What? It makes sense,” I said with a frown.

  “Are you serious?” she asked hesitantly.

  I squeezed her ass and ran my tongue across her lips. “Never been more serious in my life, babe.”

  She looked away from me and I frowned harder.

  “Babe?” I asked. “What’s the problem? You just agreed to wearing my cut, you’re carrying my kid, so why not take my ring too?”

  “Because that’s more…” She stumbled for the right word. “Serious.”

  “Babe, nothing’s more serious than wearing my cut,” I chuckled. “You really don’t get this life yet, but you will. Wearing my cut is just as, if not more, important than wearing my ring.” I leaned back in my chair, wondering how it had all gone so wrong. I thought she was going to be pleased. I swear, I’d never understand women. “What’s the real problem?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Thought that’s what we were already doing,” I drolled.

  She rolled her eyes. “I mean really talk.”

  “Again, I thought that’s what we were doing.”

  She sighed. “Sketch, I’m serious. Stop making this harder than it needs to be.”

  “Babe, I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re going on about. I thought things were good with us. So can you please just spit out whatever the fuck is up your ass so I can get you inside and fuck you while you wear my property patch? Had the image in my head for days, and I’m thinking it’s gonna be even hotter than I imagined.”

  Her eyes went wide and I thought she was going to either punch me or cry. Instead she started to laugh again.

  “Babe?” I asked, more confused than ever. “Gotta let me in on what’s in that beautiful head of yours.”

  “I want us to settle down somewhere,” she said. “I’m carrying your kid and I don’t want you having to pull in at some roadside diner while I give birth in the restroom. Or end up moving from club to club, with no familiar faces around me. I want a family, a real family. You and this club have shown me what family is really like—how good it can be. And I want that. I want that for me, and you and our son. So—”

  “Okay,” I said, interrupting her.

  She stopped talking and looked at me openmouthed. She knew what that would mean.

  “I don’t want to hold you back or chain you down or anything, Sketch, and I’ll understand if you can’t, so don’t say yes unless you mean it,” she pleaded.

  “Babe. I want to be with you, no matter what it takes. No matter where we are. Now can we go inside?” I squeezed her ass again and she laughed, relief flooding her features. I pulled out the small ring box from my pocket and handed it to her. “So is that a yes?”

  She opened it, staring down at the white gold and diamond ring, and nodded. I helped slide it onto her finger and she laughed as I struggled to get it over her knuckle. She was putting on weight and taking on water or some shit, apparently. She hated it, but I loved it. It meant I had more of her to grab. And where Nancy was concerned, there could never be enough of her.

  “I can’t stay here though,” she added solemnly. “I want to start a fresh somewhere else.”

  “Done,” I said immediately, and she kissed me again.

  The rain still hadn’t let up, but we both got out of the truck and I picked her up and ran with her across the clubhouse grounds toward the doors, my heavy boots splashing through the rain as it soaked us through, washing away the bad shit and breathing life into the good stuff.

  Her mascara had leaked down her face, but her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright, and that smile…fuck me, that smile got me every time.

  “Love you, Nance,” I said, leaning down to kiss her. “Knew you’d be mine from the second I saw you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Fuck yeah, babe.”

  I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mouth, her body melting to mine as she clung to me. She smiled and pushed her wet hair away from her face as another crack of thunder shook the sky and the rain began to fall heavier.

  “I love you too, Sketch,” she replied, kissing me back.

  I smiled, feeling that swell in my chest that I always got whenever she said my name. That woman was everything. Everything and more. And in that moment, everything was motherfucking perfect.

  The End

  BATTLE IS COMING…

  DECEMBER 2018

  READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEAK AND GET READY FOR THE THIRD NOMAD!

  Coming soon

  ‘Battle’

  The Devil’s Highwaymen Nomads #3

  I was born into this world.

  Unwanted.

  Unloved.

  Underestimated.

  Battle

  I lived hard. I rode fast. And I chased my demons away with whisky, women and fighting.

  Then I met the Quinn Bailey, and everything changed. I wanted her like I’d never wanted anything else before. The heat between us was blistering, but she belonged to another brother.

  I tried to stay away from her for as long as I could, but the fight was lost.

  I had to have her or die trying.

  Quinn

  Battle scared me. But for all the right reasons.

  There was no denying what we had, and staying away from him was an impossibility. But I was Ripped’s old lady. I was loyal to another MC. I belonged to another world. Another man.

  But Battle was a soldier ready for war, and my love, the battle he was fighting for, and be damned the destruction we left in our wake.

  One way or another, we had to be together.

  In life, or in death.

  ~ 1 ~

  Battle.

  I pulled up to the gates of the Highwaymen clubhouse, my Fat Boy rumbling between my thighs. Fighter waved at me as he strode out of the door and headed my way.

  I’d been a Highwaymen for going on ten years. Loved this life. Loved this club. And loved these men. My grandfather had told me on his deathbed to go out and seek my fortune, and I’d found mine in this club. I had everything I could want; respect, loyalty, money and women. Nothing else had ever mattered.

  I pulled my bike to a stop and dragged off my helmet, wiping a hand through my sweaty hair. It was hot as balls in Georgia, but it was the last couple of weeks of summer before things started to cool down. Thank fuck.

  I climbed off my bike and rolled my shoulders. I’d been riding all day, the sun hot on my back and I was more than ready for a cold beer and a woman on my lap. I pulled out my smokes and lit one, pulling the nicotine deep into my lungs and exhaling in one long blow.

  “Got visitors,” Fighter said, pulling out a joint and lighting it.

  Man didn’t drink or smoke cigarettes, but he smoked enough weed to keep most grow farms in business. He took a couple of hits and handed it to me, and I threw my cigarette to the side and took the joint instead. His weed smoking was one of the many reasons we got on so well. I took a long hit as we started to walk inside, and Fighter filled me in on our guests.

  “Ripped from the Burning Eights stopped by with a couple of brothers. Wanted to speak to Hardy about business, says shits slowed right down and they’ve had shipments going wide.”

  I handed the joint back to him and frowned. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard this. In fact, I’d just
gotten back from a two-day trip into Atlanta to help the Backstreet Bangers out on a drop. They’d had a couple of shipments go missing in transit, brothers and bikes vanishing on route like they’d never been there. It was bad business all round, but more so was that the only way those drugs and our brothers could go missing was by dying. Because there wasn’t a man in any of these clubs that wouldn’t give every last breath of theirs for their clubs.

  “Not likin’ the sound of this, brother,” I said.

  “Neither is Butch,” he replied as we pushed inside the clubhouse. “He’s been in a meeting with Hardy and Ripped for a couple of hours. Think they’re taking it to church soon, once they nail out some details.” He shrugged. “Hardy doesn’t seem to think much of it. Thinks brothers are turning yellow and hightailing it with our shipments but Ripped’s inclined to believe something else is happening.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a new crew is in town on the down low. Shit makes more sense than a bunch of bikers fuckin’ running.”

  “I hear that,” I replied.

  To be a biker you committed body and soul. Ain’t no way brothers were running from this life. And I hated the thought of Hardy or anyone else thinking that. No man signed up to a club lightly. When you signed in, you signed in for life, giving everything to it. It wasn’t the life for everyone, but there was more than enough time to get out before you patched in.

  The clubhouse was busy with both men and women from both clubs. Everyone had a place to be and a job to do, but it looked like they’d all taken the afternoon off to hear what Ripped had to say. Man like that didn’t make a trip like this, reaching out to another club, if he didn’t feel it was important, and I guess everyone else had gotten that same vibe.

  Hardy was our president and he, Butch and Ripped were still in his office talking. The blinds were open and no one was yelling, so I guessed the real talking was going to be done when we all went to church. I made my way to the bar and Rose placed a cold beer on the counter before I’d even had chance to order it.

  “Thought you’d need this,” she soothed, placing a soft hand on mine and smiling.

  “Thanks, darlin’,” I winked and leaned forwards. “You ever need anything, you know my door is open, right?” I winked.

  She laughed and patted my hand, her gaze straying to Pops at the other end of the bar and then back to me before moving off to clean some glasses. Her and Pops had been a thing for as far back as I could remember. His unofficial old lady given that he already had an old lady by the name of Angela, or Angel. That bitch was fierce as hell and beautiful to match, even if her and Pops were getting on a bit now. She still had it. Still, Rose was something else and if the man had any sense he’d cut and run from Angel and get himself a younger model while he still could. Sooner or later another man was going to take her for their own if Pops didn’t claim her.

  The door to Hardy’s office opened and the three men piled out. Hardy looked angry. Like a man on the brink of losing his barely contained rage. A look we were beginning to see more and more recently. He grabbed Butch’s arm as he started to walk away, and Butch looked back, leaning in so Hardy could say something in his ear.

  “Would love to be a fly on that wall,” Fighter said from his place next to me.

  “You and me both,” I replied, before taking a long drink of my beer. Fuck it tasted good and I looked over at nodded at Rose in thanks.

  “Fighter, Clipper, Drake, get your asses over here,” Butch called and stepped back inside the office. I patted Fighter on the shoulder as he put down his beer and headed over.

  “Stay alive, brother,” I joked and he gave me the finger as he walked away.

  Fighter and I had been friends since we were kids. Brother had saved my life more than once. We were kids from the wrong side of the tracks, and were always up to no good. Neither of us had what you could call happy families—though mine was better than his, we’d both drawn short straws in the family department. That was until we’d been nine years old and watching a group of fearsome bikers ride through our small town. It was all we had thought about afterwards, and we’d both known where our futures lay.

  We’d prospected together and then we’d joined the Highwaymen together. He was the closest to a blood relative as I’d ever get now my grandfather has passed. I had brothers but none of us were close since we’d been split up as kids. Barely knew the men that shared the same blood as me, but that was alright by me. As for Fighter, I was all he’d ever had.

  Ripped came over to the bar and shook a couple of hands, said some hellos and ordered a beer for himself. I put my beer down and shook his hand too. We were similar men in height and build, and we stood eye to eye giving each other curt nods.

  “Ripped,” I said as he pulled me in a patted my back.

  “Battle,” he replied letting me go. “Hot as balls in that office.”

  “Yeah, well that’s Georgia for you. Don’t help that the AC’s on the blink.” I’d noticed it as soon as we’d walked in and I was intending to go up on the roof of the clubhouse to take a look once I finished this beer and gave my report to Hardy.

  “Heard you just got back from Atlanta? Any news?” Ripped asked.

  “Same as what I’m hearing about the Burning Eights—brothers vanishing, missing shipments and shit going misplaced from busts. Should probably speak to Hardy about that first though,” I replied. “No offence.”

  Ripped was a big bastard. With shoulders bigger than boulders and fists the size of sledgehammers. He used to compete in competitions until a couple of years ago when he blew out his back and couldn’t compete anymore. Man still trained like a machine though from what I could see. I’d met him quite a few times over the years and I liked him, though he had a messed-up temper that got out of hand all too often, he was a relatively good man.

  He smiled. “No offence taken. You’re loyal, I like that. Can’t buy loyalty like that.” His gaze went over to his own men and he gave a soft shake of his head. “Not many men like you left.”

  “A lot of people get into this life not realising how serious the vows you take are,” I agreed.

  It was why there was such a long wait to join a club. You started as a hangaround for a couple of years, proved how useful you could be to the club, then you turned prospect and paid your dues doing grunt work and taking orders before you patched into the club. Because once you were in, you were in for life. The club became your family. Your blood. And your life. Nothing and no one beyond the club mattered. And if they did, then this wasn’t the life for you.

  “Vows to the club are like marriage vows,” he replied gruffly as if reading my thoughts, “not to be taken, or given, lightly.”

  His big hand was still on my shoulder, his jaw twitching as he looked over the club in quiet contemplation. Clearly the man had something on his mind other than just club business.

  “You thinkin’ of claiming a woman?” I joked, picking up my beer and taking a drink.

  Ripped laughed. “Between you and I?” I nodded, and he continued. “Claimed me a good woman already, beautiful little thing named Quinn but I don’t think she’s ready for this life yet, not fully.”

  “Civilian?” I asked, and he shook his head.

  “Not totally. She’s actually from around here though she moved away a while back after some family shit went down. Got a friend of hers that introduced her to club life. We started seeing each other a month or so back and things are getting serious, but I think she’s holding back on me.” He got that pissed off look in his eye again. “She’s in my bed and no one else’s, but I want more.”

  “Damn, brother” I said in surprise. “You really want to marry her?”

  “Woman’s got somethin’ special about her. Can’t explain it.” He grinned widely, looking like a fox in a hen house as he rubbed his hands together and ran his tongue over his lips. “Gotta keep the good ones close, right? Like I said, she’s the hottest thing on two legs and I want her by my side, always.
If I don’t make a claim to her, someone else sure as hell will.”

  Didn’t think I’d ever see Ripped like this; pining after a woman. Women normally flocked to him, spreading their legs or dropping to their knees before he’d even asked and I had no doubt they’d be signing on the dotted line before the ink was dry on the papers if he asked. Ripped was the feared president of the Burning Eights, a powerful club that ran coke and weed out of Savannah. To be his old lady was to be the Queen of Savannah.

  And this Quinn was turning him down?

  Woman must be crazy.

  No wonder he was so fucked up about it.

  He laughed again. “Don’t go getting your dick in a knot over it, I’m not. She’ll submit sooner or later. They always do, right.” He winked and patted my shoulder again before heading over to his own crew.

  I thought about that, wondering what woman could be so hot that the president of the Burning Eights was willing to marry her? And more so, what woman could be so dumb that she thought she had any say in the matter.

  2.

  I stripped out of my shirt and cut and lay them both over the back of a sun-bleached deck chair before opening my toolbox. I scratched at the hairs on my chin and cracked open the AC unit on the roof.

  The thing hadn’t been replaced since it had been put in over thirty years ago, and after carefully puling it apart I came to the conclusion that the whole thing would need replacing. I stood back up and slammed the door to the unit shut before making my way over to the stairs that led back inside the clubhouse and hunting down Butch.

  He was sat with Dom on one of the sofas in the main room of the clubhouse, his head thrown back in laughter at something the other man had said. Not seen him laugh like that in a long assed time. In fact, seeing him like that made me stop in my tracks because I couldn’t think of a time he’d ever looked like that; free and happy. Butch took his role within the club seriously, but his role as older brother and successor to his father, Hardy, our president, even more so. Rider was our VP but it was a given that Butch would one day take over the gavel and run this club, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he’d do a damn good job of it too. But just like his father, he took life too seriously, and, in my opinion, both men needed to remember what this life was really all about.