Spyder: An Alpha Male MC Biker Romance (Dark Pharaohs Motorcycle Club Romance Book 3)

by Ivy Black

  “I know what you’re thinkin’, whetto,” Tarantula says. “You think we’re lookin’ to you to fight for us.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m thinking.”

  He clucks his tongue, the skepticism on his face more than clear. If he’s offended by it, he doesn’t give any indication of it. Chances are, on some level, he feels the same way. And if that’s true, I know it’s burning his ass. Tarantula and Bala are both proud men and I’m sure if they had the ability to take out Zavala themselves, they’d do it.

  But they’re not in a position to do it. Much to their chagrin. They’re every bit as tough as they are proud and I know having to lean on us to fight Zavala—and in their eyes, having to admit it out loud—is a hit to that pride and sense of toughness. It can’t be easy for them and I need to remind myself of that fact.

  Besides, getting the inside scoop on Zavala is no small thing. When you go to war, you need to know your enemy. You need to scout your enemy. When you go to war, you exploit every single advantage that you can. It’s not just bombs and bullets that win a war. In point of fact, those things are almost incidental. What wins virtually every war is information and preparation.

  And to that end, getting hold of the information Tarantula can provide us will be invaluable. I mean, we’re going to war anyway. Might as well take advantage of all the tools at our disposal. We’re going up against a superior force, so having what the Warriors are offering might just give us the edge we need to win this fight. Or at least, will make us a tougher out.

  “All right then. I know Prophet would appreciate it. We all would. It’d be nice to know what this prick has in store for us so that we don’t go walkin’ into a chainsaw,” Cosmo says.

  There’s a moment of silence between us all. I guess none of us know what to say. Tarantula and Bala both look uncomfortable as they stand there with their hands in their pockets, shuffling their feet.

  “Anyway, you know we’d be there if we could,” Tarantula finally says.

  “Yeah, I know, man. You’ve got to get your own house in order. I get it, man,” Cosmo tells him.

  “Appreciate that,” he replies.

  “We’ll get in touch when we have some info to pass along,” Bala says.

  I nod and shake his hand. “You just keep your head down, man. Don’t take any big, unnecessary risks. Zavala don’t fuck around.”

  His expression is sober. “You don’t do anythin’ stupid either, cabron. You whettos are all right.”

  Tarantula and Bala give us one last look before saying their goodbyes. And as I watch their follow van tailing them out of the lot, a peal of thunder crashes overhead so loud it sounds like the sky is splitting open.

  Because yeah, that’s not ominous or anything.

  Chapter Eight

  Spyder

  By the time we get back from our run and have spoken to Prophet about what the Warriors said, the sun is slipping toward the horizon, making the dark clouds overhead seem even darker and more imposing than earlier in the day. The thunder has started to become more regular, and lightning flashes in the clouds overhead. And as I park my bike at the curb and cut the engine, a cool wind sweeps in off the ocean. It’s going to be a cold, wet one tonight, that’s for sure.

  I figure with the storm rolling in, I’ll just pick up some food, head home, and chill for the rest of the night binge-watching something on Netflix. Yeah, I lead such an exciting life. I stick my helmet and gloves into the saddlebag and lock it up before turning and heading down the sidewalk, trying to figure out what I want to eat tonight. I’m not much of a cook, so most of my meals come in a greasy bag or a box. It’s not the healthiest diet to have, but it certainly tastes better than anything I can make at home. And since we’re going to war and I may not make it out the other side, I feel like I should be allowed to indulge.

  I turn the corner and have to stop short to avoid running into the woman who’s got her face glued to her phone and isn’t paying attention to where she’s going. I’m just about to rip her a new one when I look up and see her. The words die on my lips and all I can do is stand here, gaping at her like an idiot.

  In most ways, Bellamy looks exactly like she did back in high school. She still wears her sandy blonde hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, and her chocolate-colored eyes still sparkle with the same warmth and intelligence I remember. Her skin still looks just as smooth and supple. And her body… She’s still got the same slender but curvy build I used to dream about back in the day.

  If anything’s changed about Bellamy Young, it’s that the years since high school have refined her looks. She was always a beautiful girl back then, but now, she’s simply stunning. And I think even that word is woefully inadequate. But since my brain isn’t working right at the moment, I can’t come up with a better one.

  She’s looking up at me, the expression of shock on my face is mirrored in hers. Bellamy’s eyes are wide, and her lips are parted, forming an “O”. She’s quicker to recover than I am though and puts a shaky smile on her face.

  “Derek Moore,” she says, her voice trembling as much as her smile. “Max told me you were still around town. I figured I was going to run into you at some point.”

  “You did?”

  Her smile steadies itself as she nods. “Blue Rock isn’t that big of a city.”

  “Right. Of course,” I say and clear my throat.

  My throat is dry, my palms are damp, and I can’t quell the maelstrom churning in my gut. I’m sure I look every inch the idiot I feel like right now and want to kick my own ass because of it.

  “So, how have you been?” I ask.

  “Good. I’m doing well,” she stammers. “Thanks for asking. And you?”

  I nod. “I’m good, thanks. Really good.”

  “I heard you joined the military?”

  “Yeah. Marines. I was a Marine,” I tell her.

  She shuffles her feet. “That must have been really tough. I mean, with everything happening overseas and all.”

  I shrug. “I wasn’t in the middle of that, to be honest. I was stationed in Germany pretty much the whole time I was over there.”

  She nods. “Oh. That’s good then. Really good. I’m glad you weren’t in danger.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I say with a nervous chuckle.

  We stand there in silence for a long moment, the awkward strain as thick as the moisture in the air around us. A small smile flickers across my lips and I shake my head. I’m not a high school kid anymore even though she’s got me feeling like one. I’m a man now. So, I do my best to stuff down all those ridiculous insecurities and clumsy unease that’s gripping me tight and try to behave like one.

  “What are you doing back in town?” I ask. “Last I heard, you put Blue Rock in the rearview and weren’t coming back.”

  A shadow passes across her face and a flash of sadness crosses her features. But she quickly composes herself, though her lips are still compressed into a tight line.

  “It’s my mom. She’s… sick,” she says softly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, genuinely meaning it. “I didn’t know. Is it serious?”

  She nods and I can see her eyes starting to glisten with tears, and I want to kick myself again. I realize now what a stupid and insensitive question that was. And how obvious the answer is. I’ve never been good at small talk to begin with. But when it came to Bellamy, I was even worse than normal. Whenever I was around her, I felt tongue-tied, and like anything I said was stupid. It’s not because of anything she ever did or said, but whenever I was around her, I felt like a horribly inadequate moron.

  “Sorry,” I say. “You wouldn’t have uprooted yourself and moved back here if it weren’t. That was a pretty idiotic thing to say.”

  She shakes her head and bites back her tears. “No, it’s all right. It wasn’t stupid.”

  A wry laugh bursts from my mouth. “Yeah, it was pretty stupid.”

  Finally, a genuine smile touches her lips, al
beit a small one. “Okay, it was kind of stupid.”

  We share a quiet laugh and it somehow lessens the tension in the air between us, if only a little bit.

  “She has ovarian cancer. Stage four. It’s… terminal,” she says softly. “I wanted to come back to be with her for whatever time we have left together.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that, Bellamy. Really sorry.”

  “Thanks,” she replies. “It’s just one of those shitty things life sometimes throws at us to keep us on our toes, I guess.”

  I frown and shuffle my feet, feeling uncomfortable, not to mention like a total asshole for bringing up something so emotional and painful. When Domino told me he’d run into her, like her, I figured it was only a matter of time before I did, too. And I’d hoped it would be lighthearted and fun. I certainly hadn’t expected it to be so dark and traumatic.

  “So,” she says, looking pointedly at my kutte. “You’re a biker now, huh?”

  I laugh softly. “Seemed the next logical step after rotating out of the Corps. I don’t think I’m really cut out for the nine-to-five white collar sort of gig.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s never really been your style.”

  “Definitely not.”

  Her laughter is a little less strained and quite a bit warmer. Her eyes are shimmering, though not with tears, thankfully, and the tension between us seems to be quickly evaporating. And for that, I’m thankful as hell.

  “So, do I need to worry about wild shoot-outs in the streets or buildings exploding around here?” she asks.

  The grin on my face stretches from ear to ear. “Probably not. But keep your head on a swivel just to be safe.”

  She laughs, maybe a little too hard, and the expression on her face tells me that she’s not entirely sure that I’m kidding. TV and movies have done a real good job of painting us as out-of-control gunslingers who run around killing wantonly. It makes me want to beat my head against the wall. The current dustup with Zavala notwithstanding, I think life in the club is pretty boring overall. It’s routine and ninety-nine percent of the time, nothing untoward, let alone violent, ever happens. But you wouldn’t think that if you saw how MCs are portrayed in pop culture.

  “I’m joking, Bellamy. Our club is basically just a brotherhood for those of us who’ve served. Most of us are veterans. It gives us a place to be with others who’ve shared the experience.”

  “So, your motorcycle club is like what, a support group?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah. In a way. I guess you could say that.”

  The apprehension in her face eases, though it doesn’t disappear entirely. She’s still a little uneasy, but at least she doesn’t look like she wants to rabbit out of here anymore. She reaches over and taps the patch on my chest.

  “Spyder?” she asks. “As in the car James Dean was driving when he was killed?”

  I raise my eyebrows at her and grin, impressed she knows the reference. But then, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Bellamy might be the smartest person I’ve ever known. She really does seem to know a bit about everything.

  “It’s a bit morbid, don’t you think?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t get to pick my name. And they think I nurture this whole James Dean vibe, so they picked the name thinking they were being ironic, I guess.”

  She purses her lips and nods. “I can see that. I mean, I’ve always thought you had that whole James Dean aesthetic going. I probably would have called you Jett, Dean’s character in Giant.”

  “Yeah, I know who Jett was. I’ve seen Giant more times than I can count.”

  She looks at me, abashed. “Sorry, I didn’t think anybody watched those old movies anymore.”

  “Oh, I love ’em. They don’t make movies like that anymore.”

  “No, they don’t,” she agrees.

  Bellamy looks at me with a strange expression on her face. It’s as if she’s seeing some new side of me that she hadn’t considered before or something. But then, given that this is our first actual conversation since high school, I imagine there’s a lot she hasn’t considered. More than a decade away can change a person enough that it’s hard to recognize them anymore.

  Personally, I like to think that’s the case with me. I like to think I’ve changed a lot since those days that seem so long ago. Just because I didn’t see actual combat doesn’t mean I didn’t experience some things overseas. I went through my own trials. Granted, it didn’t involve having to be on guard twenty-four seven, so I didn’t get shot. I’d never equate my issues with what some of the guys went through. But my time overseas wasn’t entirely spent sitting around doing nothing, either.

  “Domino says you’re teaching?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yeah, my friend Ruby is the principal over at FDR. When I told her I was moving back, she fixed me up with a job,” she says.

  “That was good of her.”

  “It really was.”

  Silence settles down over us again as does that heavy, almost oppressive weight of awkwardness. It’s as if we’ve run out of things to talk about and have no idea what to say next but don’t want to leave. Our eyes meet, and it’s as if the same thought is crossing through our minds at the same time because we both let out a laugh that’s a bit forced.

  “Well, I should probably get going. I need to get these to my mom,” she finally says, holding up her bag.

  “Yeah, I don’t want to keep you,” I reply, even though I want nothing more than to do that right now.

  “Well, it was really nice seeing you, Derek.”

  “You, too. It was really nice seeing you.”

  She looks at me expectantly for a moment, a thick sense of anticipation in the air around us. But then, the moment passes, and she nods as she starts to walk off, and I realize I’m missing my chance. She wanted me to say something more, to prolong that moment, and ensure this isn’t the last time we speak. I’m sure of it. I saw it in that gleam in her eye.

  “Hey, Bellamy,” I call after her.

  She turns around, a faint smile curling the corners of her lips, a mischievous glitter in her eye. It’s as if she’d expected me to stop her before she got away. And as her smile grows, it hits me that she knew I’d stop her all along and forced the issue by walking away. She played me. Clever girl. But hey, it got me to do what I should have done from the start.

  “Listen,” I say. “How about we go get a drink sometime? I’d love to catch up.”

  “I’d like that,” she replies.

  She walks back toward me and holds her hand out to me. And instinctively knowing what she’s asking for, I hand her my phone. She gives me a sly grin.

  “You’re well-trained,” she says.

  I laugh as she plugs in her number then hands the phone back to me. Our eyes connect and it feels like my stomach is spinning like a pinwheel inside of me.

  “So, I guess I’ll hear from you later then,” she says.

  “Count on it.”

  “I will,” she replies, her tone flirtatious.

  Bellamy turns and heads off toward the parking lot, leaving me there gaping after her like a witless buffoon. Which seems to be a recurring theme with me tonight. Still, the fact that I was able to ask her out, something I was never able to do back in the day, feels pretty damn good. I’ll take the win.

  Thunder crashes overhead, louder than before, reminding me that I’m on a clock here. Making my food decision quickly, I head toward the Golden Panda for some take-out Chinese food, ready to call it a night.

  ***

  The rain hit when I was still about ten minutes from home, and it was a deluge of freezing cold water. By the time I got my bike into the carport and out of the rain, I was pretty well-soaked to the bone. Good thing my saddlebags are watertight. I pull my food out, head to the side door, unlock it, and slip inside.

  I set my food on the counter, then hang my kutte on the peg by the door. My house is a small two-room craftsman I bought with a VA loan a few years back. It isn’t much, but it’s a
ll I need. Sometimes, coming home to a dark, empty house is kind of lonely. I’ve been thinking about getting a dog lately and may have to force myself to pull the trigger on that.

  Careful to not drip water everywhere—I like to keep things tidy, but I’m not the neat freak Monk is—I make my way to my bedroom and quickly strip out of my clothes. I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower, then hang my clothes in the bathroom instead of wadding them up and tossing them into the hamper where they’ll mildew. Nothing smells worse than mildewed clothing.

  When the steam starts billowing out of the stall, I jump in and slide the door closed, resting my forehead against the cool tile of the wall as the nearly scalding water rains down over my body, warming my skin. As my body defrosts, so does my mind. And as it does, Bellamy’s face flashes through my mind.

  She was amazing to look at, but more than that, there’s a vibrancy in her spirit that’s intoxicating. She seems a lot freer and more open than she did back in high school. That girl, way back then, never would have flirted with me the way she did. In fact, she didn’t. But the woman Bellamy is today seems imbued with a confidence and self-possession that she didn’t have before. And it’s attractive as hell.

  As I think about Bellamy, the warm water seems to wake up the rest of my body and before I realize it, I’m harder than steel. Reaching down, I grab hold of my cock and start to stroke it slowly. In my mind’s eye, I picture Bellamy naked, standing in front of me. I imagine her reaching out and taking hold of my cock just the way that I’m gripping it now.

  I fantasize about laying her down and running my hands up and down her tight, curvy body, then following that with my tongue. In my mind, I picture myself burying my face between her thighs and sliding my tongue deep inside of her. I close my eyes, trying to imagine the warm, wet slickness of her pussy against my lips. Imagine the scent and taste of her sweet nectar.

  I grip my staff harder, pumping it faster as I visualize taking Bellamy from behind. I have my hands on her shoulders, pulling her backward as I thrust my cock deep into her. In my fantasy, Bellamy is tight, and I groan as I imagine the sound of her bare ass, so round and smooth, slapping against my skin as I pound myself into her. My entire body feels like it’s on fire and it has nothing to do with the heat of the shower raining down on my skin.