Love, Loyalty & Mayhem: A Motorcycle Club Romance Anthology

by Ryan Michele

  I still remember that grin he gave me just before he twisted the throttle and roared away.

  Now I’m watching Ransack’s widow on stage, who’s totally uneasy with the proceedings and probably regretting the day she decided to return to New Orleans.

  Undertaker’s going on about how the club would always be here for her, for whatever she needs. It was something I’d seen him do in the past. He’d done it years ago when Skeeter, our previous president, had died. And as I recall that instance, I suddenly know what’s coming. It would have happened long ago if Paige hadn’t left town to return to Macon where her family lives.

  He’s about to assign a man to watch over her, and most likely it’ll be a prospect. I know she has no clue, but I do. I see his eyes shift to the left, where the prospect stands behind the bar with his arms folded, totally clueless.

  I feel my stomach drop; no way in hell am I letting that little Lothario within ten feet of her.

  “Paige, I’m going to make sure you’re looked after by one of the club. Your vehicle breaks down? You call him. Need help moving something? You call him. Your lawn needs mowing? You call him. Get the idea?”

  She stares in shock at him. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary, I—”

  But Undertaker ignores her protests; he’s already glancing toward the prospect. Before he can name a name, my arm shoots in the air to volunteer my services and condemn us both to a living hell. “I’ll do it, Prez.”

  His eyes connect with mine. Every brother in the club knows how close Ransack and I had been and how much his death had crushed me as well as Paige. Perhaps—as I watch his eyes narrow on me while he considers my offer and finally receive his nod of approval—my president knows too.

  But it’s Paige’s reaction that I focus on. Her mouth opens a barely perceptible sliver and her eyes widen. We haven’t seen each other since the month after the funeral when I helped her load her stuff into Ransack’s old truck and head off for Macon. I’d given her a hug and she’d climbed behind the wheel, looking so out of place and small in Ransack’s seat. She hadn’t driven the pickup since the accident, and I’d watched painfully as she’d closed her eyes to steel her features and hold back yet another crying jag before she’d adjusted the seat and mirrors, almost hesitant to move them from the position he’d left them in. My chest had tightened in anguish when her hand had paused over the rearview mirror, then slowly tilted it down. As she’d pulled out onto the street, I’d just stood there and stared until long after the taillights had disappeared around the bend.

  Ransack’s death had been a huge loss for me, but watching Paige drive out of my life as well had ripped my heart out.

  I’ve carried unspoken feelings for her since the night we all met at a downtown nightclub.

  And now I’ve just condemned us both to the torture of being around each other for the foreseeable future. But then again, maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I’m the only one with these feelings, feelings that have me standing here lusting after my dead brother’s old lady. Fuck! This feels so wrong and disloyal. I’m sure if he knew, he’d come back from the dead and beat the shit outta me.

  Perhaps Paige doesn’t have those feelings for me. Even still, will being around me—one of her husband’s closest brothers—be nothing but a painful reminder of the man she’d lost? Is it fair of me to put her through this? Maybe I should tell Undertaker to give the job to the prospect instead.

  I’m a selfish bastard because that’s the last thing I’m going to do. I’m an asshole, who will probably rot in hell for the licentious, wicked, and immoral thoughts I have for this woman. And I don’t give a damn.

  My brothers call me Wicked—and I’m about to live up to the name.

  2

  “Why the hell did you do that?” Paige stands in my room at the clubhouse with her hands on her hips. She’s just slammed the door behind her after following me up the stairs and down the hall.

  I turn back toward her and dip my head to drill my eyes into hers. “You know why.”

  Paige’s hands drop from her hips, and she raises her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I take a step forward and she backs up. “Yeah, you do.”

  Her eyes skitter to the bed behind me before flashing back. She turns her head, unable to hold my gaze and says nothing.

  I nod. She knows; she damn well knows why I did what I did. And there’s no fucking way I’m going to stand here and let her hide from me. Taking Paige’s chin in my hand, I bring her face back to mine. Her eyelids flutter down, so I demand, “Look at me, Paige.”

  She sucks in a breath, drawing my eyes to her cleavage. Not much is revealed in the scoop-neck tank she wears. Her style is much more conservative these days it seems. But I still imagine what it would be like to take those beautiful tits in my big hands and squeeze them. She could dress like a nun and I’d still fantasize about her sexy little body.

  Paige looks up and I lift my gaze, but not before she notices where I was ogling. I stare into her beautiful blue eyes surrounded by the dark liner that gives her those trademark cat eyes. It’s a look I find sexy as hell. I only get a split second before she knocks my hand away and moves back, her spine stiffening ramrod straight. I grin because that’s how hard my cock has just gotten.

  “Quit! I don’t need you looking out for me. Tell Undertaker this is nonsense.”

  “Tell him yourself,” I challenge her. She’s a spitfire with me, but I seriously doubt she’s got the courage to take on our president.

  She looks away, and I know she doubts it too. But still, she murmurs, “Maybe I will.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  I huff out a breath, feeling like a ten-year-old child, and run a hand down my face and beard. “Look, would it really be so bad? I mean, Christ, Paige, it’s what any friend would do for you. Aren’t we at least that?”

  “Of course we’re friends. That’s not the point.”

  “Then, what is?” I prod her, knowing she won’t have the guts to go there. Neither of us, it seems, is brave enough right now.

  “Never mind. Do what you want. I don’t care.” She spins for the door, and I let her go, knowing it won’t be the last encounter we have. That much I’m certain of. And right now, having her in my room at the clubhouse is just too goddamn tempting, especially with that bed behind me.

  The door slams shut, and I back up until my legs hit the mattress and I’m sitting down. Leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, I rub both palms down my face and blow out a slow breath. Extending my hands out, I’m shocked to see the slight tremble in them. Fuck, I need a smoke. I huff out a short laugh. I’m kidding myself if I think for one minute it’s just nicotine withdrawal that has my hands shaking. That woman knocks me on my ass without even realizing she does it.

  What the hell have I done? What was I thinking committing myself to this task?

  I wait a few minutes, making sure to give Paige plenty of time to get out of the clubhouse and off the property before heading back downstairs. I don’t stop until I’m out the front door myself, where a few of my brothers are standing around, smoking.

  I reach my hand inside the front of my cut and dig out a pack of smokes from the inside chest pocket. I shake one out and dip my head to light up. Tilting my head up, I blow out the smoke.

  Blood and Sandman are standing not ten feet away from me. Sandman says something low to Blood that I don’t catch, then he chuckles and shakes his head. I try to ignore them. I just want to stand here and mainline the nicotine until it floods my veins and calms my shit down.

  Blood cuts his eyes to mine as he exhales a long stream of smoke toward the sky. Then he growls, “What the hell was that in there?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask like a dumbass. I know damn well what he’s talking about. In case I don’t, Sandman doesn’t miss the opportunity to clarify.

  “You and cutie pie, that’s what.”

  “Don’t call her that, bro.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can think, and they’re so damn revealing. The corner of Blood’s mouth pulls up, and the look in his eyes says he’s onto me and he wants me to know it. Shit.

  All these years I thought I’d been discreet. I thought none of my brothers knew of the way I felt about Paige. Christ, was I kidding myself? Have they known all along? Did Ransack know? Not possible. The guys might have stayed the fuck out of it, but there’s no way Ransack would have let it slide. He would have confronted me. Hell, he would have beaten the fuck outta me.

  “You know, we’ve got prospects for that kind of shit,” Sandman informs me helpfully. I just glare at him.

  He lets out a roar of laughter, and I can feel my blood boiling.

  “You got something to say to me, Sandman?” I bark. If he wants to volunteer to be my punching bag, I’m not gonna stop him. I even take a step toward him, disregarding the fact that he outweighs me by a good fifty pounds. I may stand six-two, but he’s got me by an inch or so in that department as well. I don’t give a fuck. I’ll give it my best shot. I may be lean, but it’s all muscle.

  Sandman’s smile disappears, and he looks like he’s gonna take me up on it before Blood puts his arm out and stops him. “Quit!”

  “I’ll quit when his arm’s broken,” Sandman snaps, but makes no move toward me.

  Blood ignores him since I’ve got his full attention now. Lucky me. “I’ve only got one question. You know what the fuck you’re doin’?”

  “About to bust Sandman’s teeth out,” I say sarcastically. Blood doesn’t appreciate my joke.

  “Don’t be a fucking smartass, Wicked.”

  “It’s what I do.” I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut, and fuck if I care. “You don’t like it, go back to smoking your Marlboro and leave me the fuck alone.”

  Not many people speak to Blood this way, not if they want to live to tell about it. I’m one of the few.

  Sandman lets out a huff. “What’s the bug up your ass? Oh, wait. I already know. Cutie Pie.”

  He taunts me with the nickname he’s given her—the one I hate, the one I told him not to use. I lunge at him. “You fucker!”

  Before I get to him, Blood slams my chest with both fists, knocking me back on my ass. It’s like I’ve been hit with two sledgehammers. Fuck, it hurts. I roll to my back and try to draw in a breath but can’t. I think he’s knocked the wind out of me.

  I deserve it for acting like an idiot and fighting with my brothers over this shit. When I finally get my breath back, I let out a huff of laughter.

  Sandman moves over me and peers down, but his words are for Blood. “He’s loosin’ it, man. You think he’s on drugs?”

  The only drug I’m on wears a flirty little skirt and dark eyeliner and, fuck, am I addicted.

  3

  Eight of us roll up to the clubhouse and through the stockade gates. Tires crunch on the gravel as one after another we back into spots by the door. I hit my kickstand with my boot, resting the weight of my Super Glide down on it, and climb off.

  It’s been a long, tiring two days making the run up to Shreveport and back, and I, like the rest of the crew, could use a cold beer. I pause to stretch and crack my spine, trying to relieve the tightness that has formed in my lower back, when I feel my cell phone vibrate in my hip pocket. Pulling it out, I glance at the screen.

  Paige.

  She’s had my number for years, and it hasn’t changed. But this is the first time she’s used it since she hit town two weeks ago. I swipe my thumb across the screen and put it to my ear. “Yeah?”

  “Wicked, um, I hate to bother you …”

  I hate the timid tone in her voice, and that she thinks she’s bothering me. That’s not the old Paige I used to know. “What do you need, babe?”

  “I broke down on the side of the road.”

  My eyes focus on the sun sliding down the western sky. It’ll be dark in a couple hours. “Where are you?”

  “US 190 … across from Fontainebleau State Park. I just passed that Nature Center. Do you know the one?”

  “On Bayou Castine?” Hell, she was almost to Mandeville.

  “Yes, I just crossed the stone bridge, actually.”

  “All right. Stay in the truck. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” It’s a good twenty-minute ride, but I plan to make it in half that time.

  “Wicked?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  I disconnect and shove the phone in my pocket, wishing she’d go back to calling me by my given name like she used to in the old days. It sounds so much sweeter on her lips than Wicked. If I ever get her in bed, I swear that’s the only name I’ll let her use. I swing my leg back over the bike and lift it off the kickstand.

  Blood pauses with one hand on the door that Sandman, Joker, So-Cal, and the rest of the crew just went through. “You comin’?”

  I shake my head. “Paige broke down on the side of the road.”

  He lifts his chin. “You need help, let me know.”

  I nod, already firing up the bike and popping it in gear. With a twist of the throttle, I roar off.

  Ten minutes later, I roll up next to Ransack’s old pickup. Paige is standing beside it, and my eyes sweep over her as I drop my kickstand. She’s wearing a pretty little yellow sundress that matches the color of her hair and reveals her tanned legs to mid thigh. That has me taking a second to think about them wrapped around my body. I swing my leg over the seat and stand, unbuckling my skullcap helmet to drop it on the seat.

  “It just quit running,” she explains as I walk toward her.

  Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. I long to pull them off and see her eyes, but I resist, moving past her to the driver’s door. I open it and reach down to release the hood latch. Straightening, I see a cellophane-wrapped bouquet laying on the old-style bench seat that Ford stopped making years ago. It was why Ransack bought the used F150. He’d wanted that bench seat so Paige could sit right next to him.

  The flowers throw me, and I stare at them a moment. They’re already wilting in the steamy New Orleans heat. I move around and lift the hood, knowing what I’m looking for; occasionally, Ransack used to have problems with the wiring harness and the engine control module.

  As I’m bent over the engine, checking the wiring and connections, I ask the question that I suddenly can’t get out of my fucking head, and I know I won’t be able to let it go until I have the answer. “Who gave you the flowers?” I turn, my gaze hitting her shades. I wish she’d pull them off so I could see her eyes; they always give her away.

  “No one.”

  I stare at her until she elaborates.

  “I was on my way to Mandeville Cemetery.”

  Trying not to let my reaction show, I turn back to the engine. Mandeville. Now it all makes sense why she’s way out here. I should have put it together earlier. That’s where the MC has its plot, and where Ransack is buried. She’s bringing the flowers to put on his grave. Here I am, jealousy flaring inside me thinking some dude gave her the flowers. I feel like such an asshole. But as I think about her paying tribute to her husband, my club brother, I’m jealous all over again. Jealous of a dead man. Ain’t that a fucking joke? And ain’t I a fucking douchebag for feeling this way?

  I pull my head out from under the hood and slam it shut. “Wires are corroded. I’ll have to get them replaced.”

  She stares at the truck. “Oh.”

  I pull a black bandana from my back pocket and wipe the grease off my hands. “I’ll need to go to the parts store and come back and fix it.”

  She nods, digging into her purse and pulling out her wallet.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Giving you money.” She pulls out a credit card and attempts to hand it to me.

  “Put that back,” I snap. “I don’t want your money.”

  “It’s my truck. I’m grateful enough you’re helping me. Of course I’m paying for the parts.”

  I stride toward P
aige and stare down at her. “You want my help, you don’t ever flash money at me again. We clear?”

  When she stands there uncertainly, I lift my brows, challenging her to argue with me.

  Travis,” she says my given name softly. She’s the only one I’ll allow to call me by that name.

  “Put the card away, Paige. Now.”

  “Okay, fine.” She shoves it back in her purse and turns to reach for the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to wait for you, I guess.”

  “I’m not leaving you in this heat, and I sure as hell wouldn’t leave you on the side of the road. You’re coming with me. Grab the flowers.”

  She frowns. “You’re taking me to the cemetery?”

  “It’s on the way.” I move to the bike while she grabs the bouquet and follows me. I sit on the seat and fire it up. Paige doesn’t even hesitate to climb on the back in her dress. She slides the strap of her purse over her head and tucks the flowers in between us. I pass her my helmet and wait while she straps it on. Glancing down, I see her wedge sandal take its place on the foot peg and feel her thighs press against my hips. God, I’m in heaven and I can’t resist reaching back and laying my palm on her bare leg just above her knee and giving it a squeeze. “You ready?”

  She leans forward to reply in my ear over the rumble of the bike, and I feel her breasts press against my back. I like them there. It’s where they belong, so I grab her wrist and pull it around my waist. “Hang on.”

  I want her to hold me tight, and I don’t give a damn if that bouquet is crushed when we get to the cemetery. I pull off the dirt shoulder onto the black pavement and roar off. The cemetery is less than two miles away, but I go slow and drag out a two-minute ride to five. Finally, I coast up Montgomery Street and turn under the ornate iron archway.

  There’s a mix of above-ground tombs, walled vaults, and in-ground sites. There’s also a rich side and a poor side, the elegant plots and the ones that look forgotten. The section of the cemetery where all my MC brothers are buried is in the back. I roll to a stop on the drive. The club’s black granite stone marker reflects the setting sun.