BIKER DADDY: The Chain Gang MC

by St. Rose, Claire

  She very subtly rolled her stomach, hips shifting right to left. Micah's eyes followed every movement. There was an understated sexiness to the dance that teased at his masculine awareness. He had seen his share of skilled strippers and rump shakers, but what Zoya was doing with her body elevated seduction to an art form. His eyes begged for her to get less inhibited; yet, she held to the playfulness that had other men ogling her as closely as he was. He cleared his throat and shifted positions against the wall.

  "Who is she?" Quinn asked. Micah looked to his burly black biker friend who had sidled up next to him while he was watching Zoya. "She keeps lookin' over here at you."

  "I noticed," Micah said with a half-smile.

  Quinn drew his fingers over his short and kinky, auburn-tipped afro and let out a whistle of appreciation at the hot chick working the dance floor. "She know you the leader of the roughest, toughest motorcycle club this side of the desert?"

  "The Hangman’s Crows," Micah said with a sigh.

  "Wholesome girl like that might wanna leave a wolf like you alone."

  "You know me, Q. When I get a hankering, it ain't easy to call it quits."

  "Yeah, I know. But, you're a good man, regardless of your bad boy act. You'll do the right thing. Leave her alone, bro. Come on. I got a bottle of somethin’ strong with your name on it."

  Quinn's chuckle rumbled deep in his wide chest. He stretched, showing off dark black skin etched with pictures, muscles bulging in the black t-shirt that clung to his monstrous body like second nature. The loose fitting black jeans and Timberland boots gave him an edgy look, especially combined with his height and size. He looked like he could rip a man from limb to limb, and he could. All of The Hangman’s Crows were forces to be reckoned with.

  Besides Quinn, there was Pinwheel, the crimson-haired French national with an eye for beautiful bikes. She rode a modified vintage Indian Chief the same shade as her hair. Chop was a genius college kid who knew Japanese bikes better than he knew anything, and his brother Anime was antsy to join the gang, too. But, at eighteen, Micah still considered Anime too young. Then, there was Dante, the Southern Boy Wonder. He was a cornbread-fed redneck as big as the state of Texas who could end a fight by just stepping up, weighing in at close to three-hundred pounds of pure muscle and bad mood.

  The crew had enemies, rival biker clubs, but for the most part they stuck to themselves. Micah had found the quickest way to make a name was to not make noise. He stared after Quinn who ambled back to their booth. He looked over to Zoya who seemed like a misplaced light in the dimly lit biker bar. He was aware it was in her best interest for him to fade out of her life before he ever took a foothold. Chances were, he wouldn't fit into her world any more than she fit into his.

  He sighed and forced one foot in front of the other as the song ended and she clung to Callie, the both of them laughing like they were having a blast. He walked to them, thinking he'd just say it was nice meeting them, drive safe, some shit like that. But, when he stepped in front of Zoya and she turned her glittering golden eyes on him, the words wouldn't leave his lips.

  He found himself screwing up, saying, "I'd love to see you again."

  "You, sir, have perfect timing," Callie slurred. She had gotten another few drinks into her. "Zoya was telling me we gotta go before I—before I—" Callie doubled over and threw up on the floor next to them. Zoya's face twisted in horror. She reached over and held back Callie's hair, gagging as her friend loudly retched.

  Micah wrinkled his nose and got to a nearby table for napkins. "Try these."

  "Thank you," Zoya murmured. "We have to go. She's had way too much to drink." She used the napkins to mop Callie's sweaty brow. Callie gratefully took the paper and cleaned her mouth. Zoya dragged Callie away from the vomit, and Micah followed. He couldn't fight a smile.

  "Zoya," he said. "I have to see you again."

  "Now isn't the best of times," she retorted. Her eyes scanned the crowd for a quick escape. She spotted a break and dashed toward it, but she couldn't shake her persistent suitor. Zoya shook her head and rolled her eyes skyward. "Look, my number is four-oh-five, six-thousand. If you can remember that, you can call. Now, help me carry her to the car before she pukes everywhere again!"

  He easily hoisted the limp Callie up, effortlessly shouldering his way through the crowd to the door. Zoya followed in his wake. He got them outside into the fresh air, and she pointed to the Porsche. They both got Callie comfortably settled in the car, and her seatbelt buckled. Zoya dug the keys out of her pocket and climbed into the driver's seat. She was trying to make it clear that she had nothing left to say to him. He wasn't her type. Her mother would have a fit. Her father would disown her. She threw the car in reverse and started to back up.

  He stepped away with a wave. "Four-oh-five, six-thousand," he called out to her.

  She frowned but nodded. Then, she straightened up the car and maneuvered her way onto the road. The quicker they got back to their apartment, the better.

  CHAPTER 3 "That stuff will rot your brain," Musa Rao harped.

  Zoya guiltily minimized the YouTube window on her notebook and switched back to the assignment she was working on for class, earbuds tucked in her ears. She could still hear the comedian quipping about life as an Iranian-American in the background. "It's funny, Baba. It helps me work."

  "How can it help you work? It's a distraction," said Musa. His thinning hair was salt-and-pepper colored, a thick mustache settled over his fleshy mouth, and a beard covered his double chin. He was stocky and portly, evidence of his comfortable life as a successful chemist. He spent more time in his lab at work than even considering a gym. Musa rattled the newspaper he was reading and scowled at the small print, muttering in frustration about his ever-missing glasses.

  "In the armrest, Baba."

  "Ah, thank you!"

  Taba bustled into the living room wearing an apron over her floral print dress. Speaking offhandedly, she mentioned, "I just got off the phone. Javid and his family are celebrating his doctoral next weekend, Musa."

  "Oh?" he said with interest.

  Despite her middle age, Taba's face was unlined, thanks to her careful attention to her looks. She was slender and shapely, even after giving birth to two fine, healthy children, but she was modest about her beauty, the sort of virtuous woman she wished Zoya would emulate. Taba hummed to herself as she dusted and made herself busy, eyes darting to her problem child. She didn't miss the lip gloss on Zoya's lips, the faint hint of blush. She tisked to herself. There was "progressive"—and then there was pushing things. At some point, she decided, she would have to have a stern talk with her daughter about what was becoming of a woman of her standing.

  As if reading her mother's thoughts, Zoya slumped lower in the cushy armchair, turning up the volume on her iPad and getting engrossed in the questions from her anatomy class. She had heard them talking about Javid. She wanted to disappear, but where to? Her Saturdays were customarily spent at her family home. It was the least she could do to spend time with her folks, and it wasn't like she didn't enjoy them. They just...didn't understand her.

  She knew what her parents were trying to do. Javid was only the latest in a long queue of potential suitors they paraded before for her. And, while Taba and Musa chose not to force the issue, Zoya could tell her mother was growing weary of her resistance. Unbidden, her thoughts flew to the man she had met at the biker bar, the man with the hidden tattoos and enough muscles to make a girl feel weak in the knees, just to get him to catch her when she fell. Maybe she was a hopeless romantic. A man like him wouldn't even be allowed to step foot past the threshold. He was too-too.

  Javid was a nice enough guy with coke bottle glasses, a headful of wavy black hair, and a bulbous nose above wh
at Zoya considered effeminate lips; he wasn't exactly unattractive. He was conservative and responsible. His family was established. There wasn't anything wrong with him, aside from the fact he was her mother's pick.

  "Did you hear that, Zoya?" her father spoke louder.

  Zoya swallowed a sound of frustration, plastering a smile on her face. "Is that so? I take it we have an invitation. I'll have to check my schedule." It was the closest she could bring herself to say—besides outright disrespecting her parents.

  "Don't sass," Musa growled gruffly.

  "I'm not," she said innocently, eyebrows raised. She exhaled heavily. "I'm sure I'll be available. If I have any projects due for classes, I'll just...get them done earlier in the week. Does that work?"

  "You worry too much about making a living." Miad breezed into their parent's living room wearing a carefree smile, and Zoya instantly brightened at the sight of her handsome big brother. He was six years her senior, and his early years had been in their native country. He was more like his Iranian parents than his Iranian-American sister. Still, Miad was the one who had helped her fight her battles in the past. When assimilating into American public schools had proved difficult, Miad was there to keep the bullies from making her feel like too much of an outsider, even if he did take the brunt of the bullying.

  His skin was faintly olive tinted, and his accent was heavier than hers. His hair was thick and full, cut to accentuate the hard planes of his face and falling around his high forehead in loose waves. Like a Persian sheikh, Miad carried an air of capability she had seen women swoon over, but he was a bit of a play boy. He was a sharp dresser. It was hard to tell by looking at him that he was no more than a cashier in a fashion boutique run by their cousin, Asada. Judging by the charcoal shirt and black tie, he looked more like a successful businessman.

  Unfortunately, that was his problem, in her opinion. He looked like something he wasn't. He was intelligent, but wily; he was handsome, but vain. Sometimes she wished he'd work a little harder at reaching his full potential.

  Miad settled on the couch and tossed his foot across his knee, leaning back to survey Zoya with insightful brown eyes. He pointed an elegant hand in her direction and said, "You have this distinctly American way of thinking about yourself, as if, as a woman, you have something to prove. But, the truth is, your virtue should speak for itself. A good woman doesn't need to broadcast her finest attributes. She doesn't need a thousand degrees to be valued. Your job is to be a dutiful wife and a mother. What man wants a woman who aspires to take his position, eh?"

  "I know my place," Zoya murmured, bristling at being called out like that.

  Zoya's mother's facial expression didn't change. She simply padded to the hall closet and yanked out the vacuum cleaner. She marched back into the living room and plugged it in, running the whirring, clamorous vacuum back and forth in front of her husband's feet. She went over the spot twice until he harrumphed and put down the newspaper. "Yes, Taba?" he asked expectantly.

  "Oh, was I bothering you? I'm sorry, my husband. I just thought perhaps you could reinforce what our son is trying to tell our daughter." She knew he wasn't paying any attention to the conversation. Musa could tune out a train crash, much less a small squabble between his kids. She put her hand on her narrow hip and glanced pointedly from Zoya to Musa.

  "Your brother's right," he deigned to contribute.

  Taba sighed. "Listen, Zoya, we're merely trying to look after your best interests. You don't want to end up like your maiden aunt, do you? Having goals and successes are admirable, but what good is a successful career if you have no one to come home to? I want grandchildren! And, while I have you here, Miad, that goes for you, too!"

  Miad rose to his feet with a charming smile, kissing his mother on the cheek with a resounding smack. "Maman, what woman can take your place in my heart? You wound me. I only have eyes for you."

  She swatted at his chest and shooed him away, grinning and blushing at his nice words. It was at this unfortunate moment that Zoya's phone decided to ring, and Zoya absently glanced at the device resting on the coffee table, not recognizing the number. Then, her eyes widened in alarm as she realized it could only be one person. Very few people had her number, and all of those who did were saved to her phone’s contacts. Her gaze darted to her family members. There wasn't any way she could pretend it wasn't ringing.

  Zoya reluctantly picked up the phone and answered. "Hello?"

  "Zoya?" Her heart raced at the sound of Micah's voice. Her face flushed. Sweat sprang from nowhere to bead above her upper lip.

  "I'm sorry. You have the wrong number." She quickly hung up the phone and prayed he didn't call right back. Miad stared at her suspiciously, and she flashed him a shaky smile. "Well!" she said with too much cheer. "I didn't realize it was so late in the evening. I better get home."

  "What's the rush? You missed going to the mosque with us yesterday. I thought you were going to stay for dinner," Miad complained. "I worry about you, Zoya. I worry you're growing too secular."

  Zoya grimaced. She had missed worship. She had been stuck grading papers as a T.A., despite the fact that the professor usually let her off work when she had to go to mosque. She just hadn't pushed the issue, but she felt guilty with Miad bringing it up. She shrugged, not knowing what to say to defend herself. There was no excuse. She was growing lax. Blame it on too much American television. She wanted to crow, "So, sue me!" but she was positive that would get her kicked out of the house. Instead, she meekly mumbled she could stay a little longer.

  However, she put her phone on vibrate and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. Following her maman into the dining room, she helped set the table so they could eat. She could hear Miad and her father in the kitchen talking stocks. The older Rao child was the apple of their parents' eyes. She wished, not for the first time, that she had it within herself to be more like the person they wanted her to be, but it was difficult to conform to their expectations when Zoya felt there was a vibrant, brilliant woman locked inside herself waiting to be free.

  Again, her thoughts turned to Micah. In a perfect world, she wouldn't be scared to get to know him. She wondered what she would say if he called again...whether she would have the courage to finally shake her wings a little, even if she had to stay tucked inside her cocoon a little longer. She wondered if a man like Micah would have the patience to wait until she was ready to look skyward.

  ***

  At close to six in the evening, Zoya drove her hybrid to her apartment complex, exhausted by the effort it took to hang around her folks for hours. She pushed her purse up her shoulder and hopped out of the lime green car and ran up the stairs into her building. She stopped at the mailbox to check their mail and ambled to the elevator perusing the stack. Singling out the bills from the junk, she tucked the whole bundle into her purse and sighed, looking up at the ceiling of the elevator. It dinged on the second floor, and she strolled out.

  She opened the maroon door that led into her living room where the cozy space felt like a sanctuary. Callie was curled up on the buttercream micro suede couch reading a book with the television playing quietly in the background, and she looked up at Zoya with a smile. Zoya closed the front door and locked it, ambling over to the couch to sit next to her best friend. She dropped the mail on the coffee table and took a deep breath.

  "So...he called," she announced.

  Callie's ears instantly perked up. "What did you say to him?"

  "That he had the wrong number."

  "You didn't!"

  "Hey, when a guy like that calls in the middle of a conversation about piety and modesty with your very conservative parents, you tell him he has the wrong number." Zoya shrugged, face set in a frown. She put her elbow on the back of the couch an
d ran her hand through her hair, pulling off her hijab. She sighed and dropped her head back on the couch.

  Callie hummed in interest. "Somebody's jonesing."

  "Cut it out," Zoya giggled. "I just want to get to know him, that's all. I mean, is that a crime?"

  "Apparently in some cultures."

  Zoya stuck out her tongue. "Don't make fun of me."

  Callie rose from the couch and poured up two glasses of red wine, bringing one to her roommate. When Zoya tried to decline, she shook her head and shoved the wineglass into her hand anyway. Some things called for wine. Zoya took a satisfying sip and closed her eyes as the full-flavored red lingered on her palate. She slowly swallowed and opened her eyes to see Callie staring at her intently. The silver stud in Callie's nose glinted in the light, and her violet colored eyes held mischief.

  She encouragingly squeezed Zoya's hand that was resting on the cushion of the couch. "What you're going to do," she said, "is call him back and let him know you couldn't talk earlier, but you can now."