Devil on Your Back

by Max Henry

  Vince slides his fingers across my cheek, and then rises from beside me. He walks over to the end of my bed, and picks up his backpack. “Let’s get you packed.”

  • • • • •

  A FEW hours later, I’m on the back of Vince’s Triumph, tearing down the highway for the first time in five years.

  I’ve missed this: the wind whipping around me, the thrill of dancing with death, the intimacy of tucking myself into my riding partner.

  Luckily I kept my spare helmet after Mike died, and miraculously I even fit my old leather jacket still. I wrap my hands tight around Vince’s waist and tuck my helmet behind his to reduce the windburn on my face. Peering out beside us as we speed along, I take in the cars we pass, filled with all assortments of people, from business professionals to families.

  There are so many individual lives and experiences on this planet, and no two the same. Although, we’re all still united in that we just want to get to the end of our life happy. No matter what happens between the starting line and where we finish, we just want to be content doing it. Riding with Vince, I think I can say I’m truly happy again—even if we are heading into danger.

  Vince taps my leg a while later, and points across to a sign for a service stop. I hold my thumb in front for him to see, and we coast across the gaps in the traffic until we reach the exit ramp. The Triumph idles into a park out front, and I climb off, ready to stretch my legs out. Placing my helmet on the seat, I reach for my jacket as Vince does the same.

  Our hands tangle at my zipper, and he lets out a shy chuckle. “Ladies first.”

  “How long have we got to go?” I ask.

  “About five hours.”

  “I’m hardly going to be able to walk when we get there; I’m so out of practice.” Triumph seats are nowhere near as wide as a Harley’s, and my ass is sure reminding me of that.

  He pats me on the butt and walks ahead into the diner. “You better get used to it.”

  We find a booth near the corner and order lunch. Vince opts for the very stereotypical man’s choice of a T-bone steak, and I select a lighter grilled chicken salad, not wanting to test the limits of my jacket. I down a large glass of water within a minute while we wait and soon start to regret it.

  “I’m going to use the bathroom before lunch is brought out,” I say.

  Vince smiles, and nods his head toward the sign. “I’m not going to stop you.”

  I walk away with a true smile on my face, content at how comfortable travelling with him is so far. It’s nice to get out of the clubhouse, out of the town, and heading back to where I came from. I’m sure he knows by now which chapter I transferred from with Mike, but we’ve never spoken directly about it. It makes me wonder, with all that’s going down with Sawyer, why he hasn’t.

  I do my thing, and check out my reflection while I wash my hands. My blonde hair is slightly matted across my forehead from the helmet, and my cheeks are flushed with the windburn I’ll have tomorrow. Overall though, I look alive, and in all honest truth, I feel the best I have in a long time.

  Again, I wonder if my association with the southern Fallen Saints will be brought into play during our stay. If I see any of them, would they recognize me? Would I still know them? How many of the same club members remain? When I left their compound, I departed as Mike’s old lady. Returning without that honor might not be accepted so favorably—especially if I end up involved in club business.

  I guess only time will tell.

  When I return to our booth, I find the food has arrived.

  “You okay?” Vince asks as I sit.

  “Fine.”

  “You look like something upset you. Didn’t know using the bathroom was so distressing.”

  I smile, and pick up my fork. “I’d be worried if it was. No, I was just reflecting on things.”

  “Yeah?” he states around a mouthful of steak.

  “I’m happy, Vince. And truth be told, I haven’t thought about Mike at all this past week.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “I think so.” All the time we’ve spent together since the day at the storage unit, I could count on one hand the occasions I felt any concern that I was cheating on Mike’s memory by partnering up with Vince. In a strange way, it brings me relief. I guess I’m really moving on, and it’s nowhere near as painful as I thought it would be.

  “Eat up,” Vince instructs, “’cause I’m planning on riding right through after this.”

  I nod, and tuck into my salad, watching Vince as he eats. Watching the man who’s shown me it’s okay to feel again. All I can hope is that I’m having the same sort of effect on him.

  “Do you only need me on this trip as a familiar face for the southern members?” I ask between mouthfuls.

  He looks up from his steak, and frowns. “What makes you say that?”

  I shrug. “Just wasn’t sure why else you’d bring me along, that’s all.”

  He sighs and takes a bite of meat, chewing as he thinks on what to say. I watch him silently, pushing a piece of lettuce around my plate, waiting on him to decide how to respond.

  Vince swallows and wipes his mouth with the napkin, pushing back into the booth seat. He places the paper on the table, and crosses his arms. “It was why King sent you.” He nods. “But I would have asked you anyway.”

  I let my eyes drop to the remainder of my lunch and push it away. “That’s okay. You don’t have to justify anything. I understand.” I’m not keen to rehash our last fight, and bicker about my misplaced insecurity.

  “Sonya . . .”

  I shake my head, urging him not to tell me what I want to hear. All I need is the truth, raw and pure. “I’m enjoying the break with you. I don’t want to ruin that because of something King’s done.”

  “Baby, I want you here.” He reaches across the table, and takes one of my hands. “That’s what matters, okay?”

  Unable to hold his gaze, I stare out the diner window at the cars and trucks as they fly past on the highway. He squeezes my hand, but I refuse to look at him. I believe what he’s saying, but knowing King sent me for his own gain burns. Everyone needs me, but no one really needs me. King said I hold the clubhouse together, but it’s a hollow compliment when I know he really means I keep them in clean sheets and with full bellies. What sort of gratitude is that? And now . . . now I’m needed for the people I know, not for anything else.

  “Sonya,” Vince urges. “Look at me.”

  I let my gaze slide toward him and curl my lips in a weak smile.

  “Are you not happy to be here with me?”

  My chest hurts when I look into his pained eyes. “Of course I am. It’s not you at all, Vince.”

  “Why are you still upset, then?”

  “Because it’s tiring,” I admit, “knowing you’re only as good as the favors you do for everyone else.”

  “That’s not the case, and you know it,” he growls, dropping my hand.

  “It is, Vince. All I’m ever needed for is the cleaning I do, the meals I cook, and the errands I run. Apart from you, nobody has ever hunted through that clubhouse and searched me out because they simply wanted to see me—everybody needs something and I get a little sick of it.”

  “Being needed isn’t a bad thing.” His tone sours and I wonder if he’s referring to himself.

  “But I’m needed as a housekeeper, nothing else. I want to be needed for me.”

  He ducks his chin, unusually shy. “I need you for you.”

  “And I know it, really I do.” My hands swipe at my eyes, fending off unwanted tears. “But it’s different from wanting that from your friends.”

  Vince frowns, and rubs his chin with the side of his forefinger. “Surely Ramona needs you for who you are?”

  I shrug, battling with the last drops before they break free from the rims of my eyes. “I don’t really know anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I spend every day at that place. I never get invited out for ‘girl’s
nights’. I’m truly nothing more than a biker club’s cook and cleaner. What sort of fucking achievement is that?”

  “Someone has to do it,” he says. “What makes you think that’s meaningless?”

  “Because anyone could do it.” I frown, maddened at my own pointlessness. “Any chum off the street could whip a brush around a toilet. There’s nothing special about being a housekeeper.”

  Vince heaves a breath and leans back in the booth seat. He pulls his phone from the pocket of his jeans.

  “What are you doing?”

  A single finger is held high. He taps on the screen and brings it to his ear. “Hey . . . yeah, we’re good . . . Can you do us a favor? . . . No, not for that . . . So we’re having a discussion over lunch.” His eyes lift to meet mine. “Sonya thinks what she does isn’t important, that anyone could do her job . . . I know . . . Can you tell her that?”

  He holds the phone toward me and wiggles it with his eyebrows raised.

  I take it from him, and hold it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Why on earth would you think you’re not special to this place?” King.

  “Come on,” I urge. “You know as well as I do that you could get anyone to do the jobs I do every day.”

  “Would ‘anyone’ make sure that Jumbo eats only what the dietician has prescribed for him?”

  “Maybe.” I chase a stray grain of salt across the Formica tabletop with my fingernail.

  “Or that Callum’s niece always has a girly story-book or two to read when she visits?”

  “If you asked them to, they might.”

  “So you’re saying that any old person, Joe Bloggs off the street, would pander to my OCD and make sure all the toiletries in my bathroom are lined up according to size?”

  I chuckle. “You are pretty weird about that.”

  “Do you get my point?” he asks softly.

  Vince catches my eye and smiles. I take a steadying breath, and answer, “I think so.”

  “You’re more than a housekeeper,” King assures me. “You mean a lot to this place, Sonya, and I know there are a lot of people who’d say the same. Now, hand me back over.”

  I pass the phone back to Vince, and finish off my salad as he ties up the call. I know what King was trying to say—that I have my personal touch, the little things I do over and above my requirements—but I still can’t shake the feeling it’s not enough.

  That I’m meant to be more.

  • • • • •

  WE’RE BARELY on the road another half hour before Vince is pulling off into a tree-lined rest area. He brings the bike to a stop and nudges me to get off. I do as I’m told, and stand back while I pull my helmet off and loosen my jacket.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask as he gets off with a frustrated frown in place.

  He sets his helmet down and advances toward me. “This.”

  His hands capture my face, his lips capture my mouth, and his need captures my heart.

  I soften into his hold as he kisses me fervently, his palms firm against my cheeks. Breaking free, he holds me tight whilst looking into my eyes.

  “I’ve been trying to ignore it, but seeing you waiting on my bike for me after lunch . . .”

  I smile; I knew that the sight of me perched on the back of the Triumph as he returned from using the bathroom himself would have driven him crazy. I may have purposefully lengthened my leg just so, and I may have let my hair hang loose over my shoulder for a reason.

  He resumes kissing me, walking us backwards until my legs find the seat part of a picnic table. Still kissing, I feel out the table with my foot and clamber up so I’m sitting on the top of it with him standing in front of me. I shrug out of my jacket and toss it aside. My hands then fumble over his belt, making quick work of the buckle, and pulling his jeans out of the way.

  The rest area is wide, and open, but at this moment in time we could be in the middle of a football field and I’d still do the same. My desire and focus are squarely with him—nothing else matters, least of all the chance of getting caught.

  Vince steps back to tug my denim off and I let my eyes rest on his ready erection, which sits proud against his belly, the tip swollen and needing. My tongue sweeps across my lips, and his eyes darken.

  “Sonya . . .”

  “Just one taste,” I plead.

  He nods quickly, and I slip roughly down so my ass is now on the seat of the table. Vince reaches out, tugging my shirt off before he moves forward. I bring a hand to the base of his shaft, guiding his length from his boxers and into my waiting mouth.

  He groans, and fists his hands in my hair as I work him, pulling, licking, sucking until he’s harder than rock, and ready to explode. I take the quiver in his thigh as my cue and slip between us to reseat myself on top of the table.

  Vince takes my mouth with his, obviously unperturbed by the taste of himself on me—I like it. Hooking a heel behind his leg, I urge him closer, and groan as he pushes inside my needy pussy. We move together, Vince laying me down, and I reach above my head to find stability by holding onto the far side of the table.

  The mid-afternoon sun beats down over us as he rocks into me, pushing hard and brutal, exactly how I’ve come to expect it with him. Certain I’ll end up with splinters if we carry on like this much longer, I nudge him off and reposition myself.

  He grumbles as I kneel on the seat, and lean over the table, holding the far side again. Rough fingers unclasp my bra, and he cups my breasts in his hands, flicking the nipples as I shrug the straps off my arms. His knee knocks my legs wider, and he moves between my thighs to thrust deep once more. I cry out as my body rolls over the table and settle into the sharp rhythm that is Vince fucking. His fingers dig deep into my hips, and I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning at the pain.

  We fuck hard, ignoring the sounds of traffic on the highway behind us, consumed in the world we create between us in that moment. Any moment another car could come in here, any moment we could be busted, and thinking about it only makes my core clench further, ready to explode.

  “Jesus, baby,” Vince grinds out. “You’re getting tight.”

  I come hard, pushing back on the heels of my hands, trying to take more of him.

  “So fuckin’ tight,” he growls again and pulls out, coming in warm lashes over my back.

  I lie there, relishing being claimed again, but wondering just exactly what he plans to do now.

  “Don’t move,” he instructs, and I can’t help but laugh.

  “What did you think I was going to do? Get up and dance a jig?”

  He chuckles behind me, and I strain my neck to see what he’s doing. Vince shirks his cut, laying it carefully beside me, and then strips his T-shirt off. I unashamedly stare at the sheer size of him, feeling somewhat turned on again already knowing that that is the machine that I had hammering me mere seconds before.

  He gently cleans me off, and then ditches his shirt in the bin near the table as I sit up and rearrange myself. I tug my T-shirt on again, and find him standing before me when my head pops through the neck-hole, a lazy smile on his face.

  “What?”

  “You’re fuckin’ dangerous, you know that?”

  “Says the man who pulled me over to fuck in a public rest area.”

  He slips the cut back on, and by God does he look twice as sexy with that and that only on his torso.

  Vince leans forward, his lips brushing my ear. “Remind me to show you what it’s like when I fuck. That way you won’t call me making love to you ‘fucking’ ever again.”

  Mother of God, I’m ready for him to show me now.

  WE ARRIVE at Alice’s in a torrent of rain, soaked to the bone and miserable as two cats dragged through the bathtub. So much for the weather.

  Sonya slips off the bike—quite literally slips off—and lands on her ass beside the kick-stand. I swing my leg over and get off to help her up while she giggles like a maniac.

  “How’s that for a first impression?” She chuc
kles.

  I swipe some leaf litter off her backside, and give it a pat. “Probably the best one I’ve seen yet.”

  The front door of the traditionally-styled house opens, and Jane rushes out with an umbrella.

  “I think we’re a bit past that.” I laugh. “Do you have a mudroom?”

  “Yep, through the yard,” Jane replies, dashing ahead. She stops at the side gate, and turns back to us as we wait behind her. “I’m so rude, I’m sorry. I’m Jane.” She thrusts a hand at Sonya, who graciously accepts the greeting.

  “Sonya.”

  I smile watching Sonya introduce herself, polite as ever, while we’re standing in the middle of a rainstorm looking like two drowned rats. Even in less than ideal conditions, she’s so naturally courteous. It’s just one more little trait that makes her uniquely who she is—perfect.

  “Come,” Jane ushers, holding her dog back from the gate as we head through.

  I give the Lab a pat as he runs around us, sniffing our wet clothes. Sonya squats down, her wet boots squelching, and gives the dog a ruffle under the chin.

  We round the house and come up on a wide porch that encircles the entire dwelling. Finally out of the downpour, I shake off my wet cut and kick my boots to the side of the door.

  “Steady on, old man.”

  I lift my gaze to find Alice standing in the now-open doorway, watching me with amusement.

  “You haven’t introduced us and you’re already getting down to business.”

  Sonya freezes midway through taking her jacket off, the blush on her cheeks evident even through the rain-damp hair stuck to her face.

  I shoot Alice a less-than-impressed glare. “Mind out of the gutter, boy.”

  He holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry.”

  Jane takes Sonya’s jacket from her and arranges it over the back of a chair on the porch, soon doing the same with my wet cut. I help Sonya get her soaked boots off, the rain that had seeped down the sides creating a vacuum against her socked foot.

  “Can I make you guys a hot drink? Or would you like to shower first?” Jane takes Sonya’s wet socks from her.

  “I think a hot drink would be great. What about you?” I ask Sonya.