by Skyla Madi
I peer at the club’s insignia that covers the expanse of Creed’s wide back, and funny enough, the angry skull with the demonic horns doesn’t look so scary anymore. Somehow, I’ve found comfort in it.
Judge’s attention finds me first, and he looks at my bare legs. “A dress? I said jeans, and where are your shoes?”
“I don’t have any jeans,” I tell him, tiptoeing over the gravel drive. “Or shoes.”
Creed turns and rakes me with his hungry gaze. My heart races, and the friction of it causes unbearable heat to rise in my throat and settle in my cheeks. No one has ever looked at me the way he looks at me, like I’m an anomaly. His esteeming stare makes me feel valued and beautiful, and for once, I feel a male’s genuine appreciation in my chest. It’s nice knowing Creed’s longing gaze is for me and isn’t a buttery ploy to get closer to my father or to syphon his contacts out of me.
“I thought you went shopping?” Judge asks Creed, scratching at his dark stubble.
“I did.” Creed steps toward me, his stare glued to mine, and smiles as he extends a hand toward me. I smile back and place my hand in his. He pulls me closer to his bike. “I didn’t buy her jeans.”
“Why not?”
I close the distance between Creed and me, and he releases my hand to grab my waist and he lifts me into his arms. My breath hitches, and I grab onto him, my arms around his neck, as he holds me tight to him with a rough hand underneath my dress to grip my thigh. He places me on the warm leather seat of his bike, making me straddle the firm material, and flicks his thumb over my heated skin, caressing me. “I like seeing her legs.”
The metal either side of my legs is warmer than warm, and the seat is thick, keeping my legs open. I hold the material of my dress down with one hand and grab Creed’s large, tattooed forearm with the other, not wanting him to leave me on here by myself.
“She’s not gonna have legs to look at if you tip your bike.”
Creed rolls his beautiful eyes. “Have I ever tipped my bike?”
“First time for everything.”
“Not today.” He bends low and picks something off the ground. I eye it cautiously as he turns it upright and waves it at me, beaming wide. A helmet? Thank God! Judge snorts and throws his leg over his motorcycle then peers over his shoulder as Creed slips the black, dome helmet onto my head. “I’ll go slow.”
He caresses my jaw with his fingers and smiles playfully as he clicks it in and adjusts the straps.
“Do you wear a helmet?” I ask.
“Nah.” He smirks, and my heart does a stupid flip. “It’ll mess my hair.”
I laugh then suddenly tremble at the thought of sitting like this the whole way to Exeter—which is a two-hour ride. He grins, highly amused by my uneasiness. I’m used to town cars and personal drivers, not bikers and their death-rockets. I bet any other girl he’s taken on this thing loved it.
“You didn’t bring a car?” I ask, not letting go of him, even though he’s done adjusting my helmet.
“Can’t access the cabin on four wheels,” Judge answers. I look at him, and he snorts, smiling. “You look stupid.”
I pull a face. Stupid? “There’s nothing stupid about safety.”
Creed hums his agreement and cranes his neck, bending over to bring his face closer to mine. “Safety is looking pretty sexy right now.”
He grabs my face and kisses me between the straps of my helmet, on my jaw and my neck. His hot breath blows over my skin, and goosebumps erupt, making me laugh.
Through squinty slits, I see Judge shake his head, bewildered. “If you’re done playing cute with each other,” he says, “let’s fucking go.”
Creed beams at me then turns his back and swings his leg over the body of his motorcycle. The bike moves with him as he moves it off its stand and kicks it back. I grab onto him, wrapping my arms around his thick torso, and hold on for dear life. I feel his body vibrate with laughter, and he reaches behind him, grabbing my thighs. With a rough tug, he pulls me hard against him and pushes my thighs into the sides of his body. The insides of my knees dig into Creed’s cut, and the feel of the leather turns my hot blood to lava.
“Squeeze me with those thighs, baby.”
I tighten my hold. “Like this?”
“That’s better.” He forces me to squeeze harder. “Hold me as tight as you do when we fuck.”
Judge starts his motorcycle, and the loud rip of the engine startles me. I grip Creed out of reflex, pressing the helmet, and the side of my face, into his back.
“There you go.” Creed starts his motorcycle, and the vibration from its powerful engine ripples up my legs to my core then vibrates through every limb. I squeeze my eyes shut. Christ. Please don’t let me die. I don’t want to die.
Creed lifts his foot off the ground, and the motorcycle rolls forward. He rides at a slow pace as he makes his way through the forest and the skinny, makeshift drive that quickly gives way to a tiny, dirt road. I open my eyes and peer around him at Judge, who also rides at a slower pace. Oh. This isn’t so bad. I loosen my grip and feel Creed relax, too. Soon, the narrow dirt road gives way to asphalt, and Creed picks up speed a little at a time until my stomach feels like it’s floating out of my body. I wish I had breakfast beforehand… I hold him tighter, and tighter, and press my head to his back once more, shielding my face from the harsh whip of wind as he speeds toward the horizon, toward Exeter.
* * *
After an eternity on the road, Creed pulls into a gas station advertising hot food. Judge does, too. When Creed stops the motorcycle, weight returns to my stomach, and I sigh in relief, loosening my hold on Creed once more. The low rumble of Judge’s motorcycle pounds at my left eardrum as he slowly rolls to a stop beside us.
“I’m gonna keep going,” he shouts. “Unless you think you’re gonna run into any trouble?”
“Not anticipating it.”
Judge nods and plants his boots back onto his foot rests and rides off. A heartbeat later, the hum of Creed’s engine shuts off, taking the pressure in my ears away with it. Strangely, the vibration remains between my legs, embedded in my skin.
Creed lifts himself off the bike, forcing me to let go of him. I grab onto his warm seat as he kicks down the stand and swings his leg over without kicking me with his giant boot. He straightens himself then turns toward me. I blow air from my lips and reach for the clasp under my chin, but Creed swats me away to do it himself.
“You hungry?” he asks.
I nod. “Are you?”
“I could eat.”
He takes my hand in his and escorts me toward the big blue doors of the lonesome gas station. As we approach the entrance, a small handful of travelers catches my attention. Their eyes flicker between openly gawking at us and purposely avoiding eye contact. It’s quiet, no one makes more noise than they should, and it’s even worse once we get inside. Across the large space, conversation warbles, a register dings, and a receipt prints, then silence. A family of four turns from the counter and balks when they see Creed. The father, a plump, middle-aged man in a Hawaiian t-shirt, cautiously escorts his children around us. Their youngest, a red-headed little girl in a bright pink tutu, waves at Creed, and he kindly waves back, much to the parents’ dismay. The mother pulls her daughter alongside her, shielding her with her own body as they exit the building. Oh. Creed is so nice to me it’s easy to forget he wears a patch and has a reputation. It’s easy to forget he’s a symbol of anarchy, ruin, and death. I glance at Creed, who keeps his attention on the staff behind a hot-food counter, his expression indifferent. Does he even realize people are treating him like a psycho? As if they’re concerned one slip and he’ll murder them all? More so, what makes them fear him? The dark hair? The tattoos? The leather? Maybe it’s the name sewn into the leather. The Exeter Chapter of the Devil’s Cartel didn’t always have a righteous Damon Judge at the helm, and I’ve heard the stories. I’ve read about the damage inflicted upon the town by the last DCMC president…before he was strung up by his nec
k and hung from the water tower.
I observe Creed’s interaction with the public as he orders our food, and there’s a tone to his voice, a dark tone that tips toward malice. I guess he knows they fear him, and I guess he likes it that way. When he’s ordered our food and has paid the shaky-handed teenage boy, he presses his palm to the small of my back and leads me outside to a square, red table. I sit in silence as he taps around on his phone. I wish I had mine… I haven’t posted to any of my social medias in days. I haven’t sent my daily Snap to Chelsea, either. Is she worried about me? Does she know I’m with Creed?
A small eternity later, Creed’s name is called through quiet and crackly speakers. He retrieves the food and sets our matching breakfast dishes on the table alongside my bottle of orange juice and his strawberry milkshake. I notice, on his return, that the gas station is nearly empty.
“Is it always like this?” I ask, grabbing my small plastic fork.
He arches a brow. “Like what?”
“This.” I gesture around us, at the quiet gas station. “They couldn’t get into their cars fast enough. They’re scared of you.”
“Good.” Creed laughs, delight dancing in his irises. He reaches for his milkshake and pulls out the straw, dripping pink milk on the table. Then he takes off the lid. I watch the way he deconstructs the cup to allow him to sip from the rim. “I’m a scary man.”
He lifts it to his mouth and swallows a big gulp. When he lowers it, my attention falls to the bubbly, pink line of milk along his top lip, and I laugh.
“Absolutely terrifying.” I pull out a small, white napkin from underneath my plate and hand it to him. “For your pink milk moustache.”
He graciously takes it and wipes his mouth, removing the evidence of his penchant for strawberry milkshakes from his skin and beard, and gestures for me to eat my food. The food is nothing to write home about—not-so-crispy bacon, pale eggs, and a slice of unbuttered toast. My father would destroy a food business for less…but who am I to judge? Putting my breakfast prejudices aside, I eat the food, and surprisingly, it tastes good. Real good. I lose myself to it for a moment, humming and ignoring Creed as he watches me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungry.
I’m brought back to reality by a blue sedan as it flies into the gas station, rock music blasting through the cracks in the windows. It rolls to a stop beside Creed’s bike, and young preppy-looking boys howl with laughter. Their laughs and good vibes flow through the parking lot and swirl around our table. It’s infectious, making me smile. The ruckus draws Creed’s attention, too, and when he glances over his shoulder, the guy in the passenger seat looks at the bike beside him. I watch his laugh fizzle out as he scans the station, his eyes widening when he sees Creed. I frown, and Creed turns in his seat to get a better look. The young men panic and shout before the driver puts his car in reverse and peels out the same way he came. I blink. Wow. Blowing annoyed air from his lips, Creed turns back to his food, placing his tattooed elbows on the table. As if it never happened, he continues to eat his breakfast. I keep my questions at bay until my curiosity is too much to bear.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“They owe me money,” he simply says with a shrug. “Frat boys. Guess I’ll just have to catch up with them in town.”
“Money for what? Are you going to hurt them?”
He flicks his whiskey gaze from his plate to me and flashes me a playful smirk. “You expect me to answer those questions? It’s club stuff, Izzy.”
Club stuff. Politics operate with the same mentality. I tilt my head. “Are you carrying a gun?”
I need to know. If something happens, I need to know how things will be handled so I can mentally prepare myself. He contemplates lying to me; I can tell by the way his lids thin. Growing up in the environment I grew up in, reading expressions before words left lips was a must. Pay attention, my father would say. Lips lie, but eyes don’t.
“Two,” Creed finally admits then places the last bite of toast into his mouth.
“Two?” I flick my gaze over him. I held him tight on the ride here and squeezed him between my legs, but I didn’t feel anything. How does he conceal them so well? More importantly, should I be concerned he felt the need to carry two weapons for our drive into Exeter? A town where the Devil’s Cartel reigns supreme. “Do you plan on running into trouble?”
“I always run into trouble.” He pushes his plate away, swallowing. “Hoping to avoid it since I got you with me, but I won’t hold my breath.”
He told Judge he wasn’t anticipating any problems… Dread curls through my stomach, and sprouts of fear and regret grow. Maybe I should’ve stayed at the cabin.
At that moment, a red sedan pulls up, and an elderly couple exits the vehicle. Their gazes are on Creed’s back before they’ve hit the button on their keys to lock the car. The elderly gentleman pauses and turns to his wife for a private discussion, and a small eternity later, she nods her head and they continue their walk toward us.
When they get within proximity of us, I make eye contact with them and smile.
“Good morning,” I say, and they ignore me. In fact, they can’t get out of the building fast enough.
I frown after them then look at Creed, who watches me sympathetically. It’s endearing, an expression I don’t think I’ve seen on him before.
“Am I missing something?” I ask. “Should I be more afraid of you?”
“I like that they’re afraid of me. They should be.” He sits back in his chair and reaches inside his cut. “But I don’t want you to fear me. I don’t want you to see me in that light.”
Creed pulls a wild, orange flower from inside his cut, and I lift my eyebrows. It’s squished and dying, but he’s so proud of himself. I take the flower from his large fingers and survey it closer.
“Looked better when I picked it…” he adds. “Just didn’t want to give it to you in front of Judge because, well, you know how he is.”
Throughout my young life, I’ve received a lot of flowers—small bouquets, large bouquets, flowers wrapped in silk and lace, flowers with petals adorned with tiny diamonds that were put together by someone who didn’t know me. Creed, big bad James Creed, looked at this flower and he thought of me. Then he picked it. Not bought. Picked. With his giant hands. I’ve never liked the color orange…
…but suddenly it’s my favorite.
“Thank you.”
My heart swells in my chest, and his small gesture puts my entire life into perspective. Aside from Chelsea, I’ve never had a genuine relationship in my life. They’re all fake, all built on the back of my father’s campaigns—even my relationship with Pierce. We only dated because our fathers insisted, and we didn’t mind each other. Most of our conversations were shallow and the sex as exciting as a funeral. I was happy to settle since I didn’t know any better, but one meaningful little gesture from the man most fear, the man most want to see dead, and the trajectory of my life has been changed. Who knew such a dark soul could shed so much light?
“You finished?” Creed asks, pulling me from my thoughts, pointing to my empty plate.
Rolling the stem of the beautiful, sad flower between my fingers, I nod, and he takes the plate and walks it over to the trashcan. I watch him, flicking my gaze all over him, feeling incredibly attached to this stranger.
“C’mon, Blondie,” he shouts over his shoulder as he dumps our rubbish inside. “Let’s go home.”
TWELVE
C R E E D
It was the ride that transformed my life. I always rode solo, never giving up my space for anyone, especially not a piece of fender fluff, but it was different with Izzy. It felt right to have her thighs around me, her head against my back. I drove carefully, never breaching the speed limit, slowing at every corner or when she gripped me tighter. I wanted her to enjoy it. I wanted her to want to ride with me again and again. She’d never know it, but it was intimate for me to have her on the back of my bike, as intimate as kissing. She was the first to sit
there, the first to hold me while I rode. I swore I’d never do it and made fun of any member that did, but we all had exceptions, and Blondie was mine. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on her.
And it was totally fucking crazy to think the way I was after such little time together. She could be a complete fucking wackjob for all I knew…
…she could also be the love of my life.
Didn’t know which was scarier. I huffed to myself, embarrassment trickling through my veins at the thought of anyone hearing what was going through my mind. I fucking hated clichés, but I learned a long time ago that life was one cliché after another. I was a cliché, she was a cliché, and together, we made a giant clichéd mess.
As we crossed the town’s limits, hair prickled on the back of my neck. We flew past the welcome sign, and I caught a flash of sun reflecting off metal. I peered into my right mirror and watched as police cars pulled out of the shrubbery and onto the asphalt. Sirens squealed, the high ring making me wince, and Isabelle squeezed me.
“James!” she shouted, her fingers twitching against my stomach. “Are we in trouble?”
I glanced at my mirrors again as the single line of vehicles split in two, a cop car flanking each side. I ran a few scenarios in my head. I couldn’t outrun them, not on this bike, not with Blondie on the back. I was left with no choice. I indicated and left the road, pulling onto the shoulder. The sirens stopped, but the lights remained on. I released my drag bars and sat back, easing myself against Isabelle. Then I turned my head until I could just see her face out of my peripheral. She was wide-eyed and frightened under her helmet, under my favorite black brain bucket.
“It’s all right,” I told her. “Was going a little over the limit and I’m not wearing a helmet. We’re okay.”
Iz relaxed her grip, but I sat taller, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. I lied to her. The cops were waiting for us. We were exactly where they wanted us to be, and that put me on edge. Did they stop Judge, too? Or was Blondie the one they want? I looked into my side mirrors and watched as car doors opened. One officer appeared, then two. In a matter of seconds, six cops were walking toward us, cautiously fingering the black handguns still holstered to their hips. I clenched my jaw. What the fuck am I going to do?