Love, Loyalty & Mayhem: A Motorcycle Club Romance Anthology

by Ryan Michele

  We dismount and walk to the plot. She lays the flowers down, and we both stand quietly for a long time. I look over at her and ask softly, “The pain is still very fresh for you, isn’t it?”

  She nods and admits, “Something happened today that brought it all back.”

  “What was that?”

  “I was driving and without even realizing it, I found myself riding past the spot where he wrecked. The cross is still there. Did you know that?”

  I nod. I do know that because I ride down that road a lot. Not because I need to, I don’t. I guess I do it to torture myself. Penance I feel I owe. And every time I do, my eyes go to that white cross—the one I helped Paige put up before she left town. The rosary wrapped around it still hangs from it, swaying in the breeze.

  I stare down at the grave and ask softly, “How do you comprehend death or make any sense of it? The answer is, you don’t.” I pause, but I know I need to go on; there’s more that I need to say. “When I was holding him in that ditch, waiting for the paramedics … I never felt so helpless.”

  A sob catches in her throat at my words.

  I look over at her, but with the dark glasses she’s wearing, I can’t read her expression. “The question is, Paige, can you find a way to go on?—because you have to—because there’s so much life ahead of you, baby.”

  She sucks in a long, calming breath and finally nods. “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s just hard.”

  It’s so quiet in the cemetery. I glance around and murmur, “The dead never really leave us down here, do they?”

  “The cemeteries in Macon, like where my Paw-Paw is buried, are different than this. They look different, they feel different,” Paige muses, her eyes drifting around.

  I understand what she’s saying as I gaze over at her. “Walk through any cemetery down here in South Louisiana and you can feel it—you’re literally surrounded by the deceased. They’re in the walls,” I nod toward the columbarium in the distance and then the crypts and graves. “They’re housed all around, and I find no comfort coming here. The life I lead, I’ll be on the other side soon enough.”

  “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

  “How can I not?”

  She shakes her head, pushing the dark glasses up, and I see a tear rolling down her cheek. Is it for Ransack or me?

  I nod to the MC plot. “And when I die, I’ll lie here with my eternal brothers.” I put on a fake smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Will you bring me flowers, too, Paige?”

  She breaks down in tears, covering her face, and I pull her into my arms. I’m an asshole again for making her cry. It’s not what I want. I guess I’m just jealous of the love she still feels for Ransack.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper into the hair on the top of her head. Breathing in the floral scent of her shampoo, I close my eyes and clutch her tighter, letting her expend all the tears she’s probably been bottling up for two years.

  Finally, her sobs cease and she pulls back, brushing the wetness from her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break down like that. That wasn’t what coming here today was about.”

  I frown, looking into her eyes and can’t help but ask. “What was it about then?”

  She pulls away and folds her arms, hugging herself, her gaze on the stone. “Letting go.”

  I swallow. I know what I want those two words to mean, but I’m not sure they do, so I ask, “Letting go and moving on?”

  She lifts a shoulder in a small shrug, not ready to commit to that.

  “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Paige. You’re young—”

  “I’m thirty-one.”

  “And I’m forty. So what?” For some reason her answer irks me. It’s all the more reason she should let Ransack go and move on. “Ransack was my brother and I loved him, and I’m sorry he’s dead. I wish that night never happened. I wish I’d never talked him into going out that night. I wish—”

  “It’s not your fault, Wicked.” She cuts me off.

  “Isn’t it?” I turn and ask, knowing the pain I carry in my soul must show in my eyes. And for some reason, I don’t care if she sees it.

  Paige shakes her head and whispers, “No.”

  “Maybe I wanted him dead.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “What?” she whispers.

  I can see my admission shocks her. That doesn’t stop me. Something inside me needs to get these words out because I fear they’re true. “Maybe subconsciously I wished it all along. Maybe I wished it into being.”

  “Stop! Don’t say that! Don’t think it! Why would you say that to me?” She looks devastated, like I’ve just crushed whatever thread of a relationship we had left, and maybe I have. But standing here in this cemetery, ironically, seems like the perfect place for my confession. Ransack needs to hear this, too. And maybe in this place, he can.

  “I’ve wanted you, Paige. I’ve always wanted you. From that very first night when I first laid eyes on you, I’d wished it had been you and me. I wonder all the time what would have happened if I’d met you first.” I spin and shout to the sky. “You hear that, Ransack? I wanted your ol’ lady! And God help me, I still do!”

  She stares at me in shock.

  Can I blame her? I’ve turned into a two-headed monster right before her eyes. “Don’t look at me like you expect me to take it all back. I’m not sorry, Paige. I’m not fucking sorry, and I’m not going to deny it anymore. It’s wrong and I’ll probably go to hell, but there it is, the God’s honest truth.”

  “I don’t want to hear this,” she says, shaking her head in denial.

  “I’ll bet you don’t. Guess what, I don’t give a fuck.”

  She turns away, marching toward the bike, but yells over her shoulder, “Take me home. Now.”

  I blow out a long breath, suddenly tired beyond belief. I look back at the gravestone. “I’m sorry, Ransack. Sorry about all of it. Maybe I’ll see you soon. You’ll probably be waiting for me on the other side with a baseball bat in your hands.” I stare off at the setting sun. “And I won’t blame you one bit.”

  I turn and head back to the bike where the woman I’ve lusted over for the better part of a decade stands waiting.

  4

  I pull up at Paige’s place and cut the engine. She’s off the bike so fast I barely have time to drop the kickstand. She snatches off the helmet, practically throwing it at me, and heads for the house she’s renting, but not before she snaps back over her shoulder, “Don’t bother with my pickup. I’ll call a tow truck and handle it myself.”

  “Paige!” I protest, but she’s already stormed inside and slammed the door. “Goddamn it.”

  I’ve got two options: I bust inside and we get back into it again, or I leave and let her calm down. I stare down the street, trying to decide.

  First things first, I need to take care of her pickup, so I pull my phone out and call the clubhouse. I arrange for a prospect to bring me the tools I’ll need and meet me back where we left her truck.

  Next, I call the auto-parts store and hold while they check if they’ve got stock in what I need. Nothing I hate more than waiting on hold, but I also don’t want to run all over town. Finally, they come back on the line and tell me they’ve got the parts.

  I disconnect and am about to pull off when a car turns in her drive. I’m parked at the curb and the driver gives me a once-over as he pulls in. I rest the bike back on its kickstand. No way in hell I’m leaving now.

  I light a cigarette while I watch him go to the door and knock, then straighten his tie. He’s young and good-looking. Paige comes to the door and smiles at him, then lets the motherfucker in.

  What the hell?

  Tossing my smoke aside, I’m off the bike and just about to bust in there when they come back out the door, Paige with a little white sweater over her arm and carrying her purse. It’s eighty degrees out, so if she thinks she needs a sweater, she must be planning on staying out late. I’m no Sherlock,
but even I can put that much together. This is a goddamn date!

  They’re chuckling over something, and I suddenly want to smash my fist into his pearly white teeth.

  Paige gives me a smug smile as she sashays toward his car. He opens her door like a gentleman, but manners can be deceiving. More than one serial killer has been a charming, good-looking guy. Nope, Ted Bundy here isn’t fooling anyone, least of all, me.

  He helps her in, then goes around to the driver’s side and gets behind the wheel.

  I climb back on my bike and fire it up. The prospect will have to wait, because I’ve suddenly got somewhere else I need to be, namely, tailing this guy and Paige. No way in hell am I letting her out of my sight.

  I pull out right behind him. Paige turns around and looks through the rear window. Even from fifteen feet back, I see her roll her eyes and shake her head. She turns back around and faces the front with a dramatic flounce I’m sure is meant for me. I grin. I love that I’m getting to her. It’s me she’ll be thinking of this whole evening, not her date. And, damn, if that doesn’t make me happy—well, as happy as I can be with Paige out on a date with another man. Oh, she’s going to pay for this little stunt, that I swear to myself. If she’s trying to jerk my chain, she’s succeeding. I don’t give a fuck how wrong it is, Paige Logan is going to be mine.

  I trail behind them for several miles, idling at each stoplight and making sure to rev the throttle so that loud, thundering rumble blasts through my pipes. It gets their attention. Ted’s watching me from his side mirror.

  I grin, contemplating how I’m going to dispose of his body. Who’ll be laughing then, Ted?

  I continue to follow for another two miles when he slows and puts on his blinker. There’s a steak place on the right. Typical. Dude has no clue Paige is a vegetarian. She’ll eat fish occasionally, but that’s about it. Yeah, I know her well.

  But he rolls past the driveway and I frown. He keeps coasting and turns into the next business. I glance at the sign and the car lot.

  Oh, she got me good with this little ruse. They’ve turned into the lot of a car rental place, one famous for their motto “We’ll pick you up!”

  I can see Paige through the window. She’s laughing her ass off at me. I park in a spot away from them and can’t help but smile. Yeah, I’m an idiot. Doesn’t mean she still won’t pay for this, the little minx.

  I sit there and smoke a cigarette while she goes inside and fills out paperwork. She finally comes out and gets in the car she’s rented. I don’t approach her; instead, I wait and watch her pull past me. She lifts her hand and waggles her fingers at me in a cute little wave.

  I just grin and let her go. When she turns out of the lot, back toward her house, I pull out in the opposite direction. I’ve got a pickup to fix, and then, little lady, I’ll be coming back to settle up with you.

  5

  I pull up at Paige’s house at just after 10 p.m. There are very few lights on inside, but I know she hears the bike rumble up; my pipes are loud enough. A moment later, the porch light flicks on, proving me right as I walk toward her door.

  It swings open and she’s standing there in a short, gauzy white nightie with pearl buttons down the front, looking like an angel. I’m so stunned that I pause at the bottom of the porch steps, my boot on the bottom rung, letting my eyes sweep over her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, frowning.

  I trudge up the steps, my boots thudding heavily on the wood, and my eyes lock with hers. She steps back and I walk in, closing the door behind me. I don’t answer her question. I just take her face in my hands and walk her backwards until she’s pressed against the nearest wall. My mouth settles over hers as she sucks in a startled breath. It only takes a second for her lips to soften under mine before my tongue sweeps inside.

  It’s the first kiss we’ve ever shared, but one I’ve thought about for years. Paige’s plump lips are cushiony soft, inviting, and seductive as they move under mine. Her head tilts back to give me more access as I step in closer and bring my body flush against her soft curves. There’s nothing covering her but the thin fabric of her nightshirt, and feeling her bare breasts press against my chest is heaven. I can’t wait to touch them, to suck her nipples, to see what size and color they are.

  She pushes back, breaking the kiss. “We need to talk—”

  “No,” I growl. “Not tonight. For this one night, no words, no talking. Please, can you give me that?”

  She stares up at me, considering my offer. “One night. That’s all this can be.”

  I don’t agree to that. I never will. But I don’t tell her that, I just lower my mouth over hers and pull her flush against me again.

  Her arms go around my neck, and I have her answer.

  I’ve waited so long for this … dreamed about it, fantasized about it, and I don’t want to rush it, but I need to get her to a bed. Now. Because if I don’t, we may end up fucking right here against the wall, and that’s not what I want for her, for us. Yeah, it would be erotic as hell, but Paige deserves more than that. She deserves everything.

  Her kiss is hesitant, timid, but at least she’s letting me in, taking what I’m giving.

  I briefly wonder if she’s had sex since Ransack passed away over two years ago. There may have been someone back in Georgia. I don’t know and I’m not sure I want to know the answer. It’s a question I’m sure as hell not asking. Maybe I will some day, but not now. Still, it reminds me I need to go slow and take care with her.

  I lift her up and her legs go around me. I have no clue where the bedroom is because I’ve never been in this house, but I’ll damn sure find it. I told her no talking, and I meant it.

  We’re in a small living room. There’s a kitchen through an archway to the left and a hallway that leads toward the back of the house. I head that way, kissing her as I move until I find her bedroom in the back. A small light burns next to the bed.

  Paige’s room is not what I expect as I set her on her feet. It’s not as girly as I’d imagined, but more contemporary with neutral tones. The only color comes from the artwork on the walls. They’re really the only girly things in the room—that artwork.

  There’s a framed print of female guitarist Samantha Fish. It’s a sexy shot, one taken from the New Orleans Cigar Box Guitar Festival a couple years before Ransack died. Paige has admired her since she first learned to play guitar, a hobby she took up years ago, so I’m not surprised to find her red Fender Stratocaster resting on a stand in the corner. My eyes continue around the room, revealing so much about her that I never knew.

  There’s a large print of a Vogue magazine cover. I don’t know anything about Vogue other than it’s a chick’s fashion magazine. It’s sexy as hell, though. It’s a shot of a woman from the back, waist down and dressed in a pouf skirt made of netting, like a chick would wear under a wedding dress. It’s super short, exposing the back of the woman’s legs and just barely covers her ass. She’s wearing dark stockings with garters and high heels. It’s all in a muted, out-of-focus pink. Somehow that sexy shot speaks volumes to the power of womanhood. I suddenly realize that’s exactly who Paige is: a woman who knows her power. Yes, she’s grief-stricken and damaged, but underneath, she’s always been a strong woman.

  Another print catches my eye. It’s a graphic abstract in muted pinks, blues, and yellows of Marilyn Monroe—another woman who knew her power.

  I look down at my Paige, and that’s who she is, who she’s about to be here in this room—my Paige. Mine. At last.

  I glance to the dresser and nightstands, thankful that I don’t see any framed photos of Ransack.

  Paige starts to say something but I cover her lips with two fingers and shake my head. “No talking. No questions. No explanations. No doubts. Not tonight.”

  She nods and opens her mouth, closing her lips around the tips of my fingers. It’s erotic as hell and my cock goes rock hard. I’ve fantasized about her lips sucking on more than my fingers—too many nights than I’ll
ever admit.

  I back her up to the bed. When her legs hit the edge, she sits down. Paige’s big eyes stare up at me, and her chest lifts and falls with each quickening breath.

  I lift a hand and thread my fingers through her soft curls. Her eyes slide closed and she turns into the touch, rubbing her cheek against my palm. Her hand reaches up and circles my wrist, then she presses an open-mouthed, wet kiss to my palm.

  The urge to jerk the nightshirt over her head—or, hell, just rip it to shreds then push her back and take her is strong, but I fight it down. I’ve waited way too long for this moment. I’m going to take my time.

  I drop to my knees before her and my hands go to the row of buttons down the front of her nightie. Our eyes lock for a moment before she drops her gaze to watch my fingers undo the tiny pearls.

  Paige’s chest rises and falls, drawing my eyes. The material is so thin I can see her nipples pebble beneath the delicate fabric.

  After undoing a half dozen buttons, the plackets fall open a couple of inches to expose the sides of her breasts. Now that I’m down to her navel, there’s a surprise waiting for me.

  Little Paige has her bellybutton pierced. Sparkling rhinestones dangle over her tan, flat skin.

  My fingers pause, but just for a moment. Then they work those buttons even faster. I’m three from the bottom when her panties come into view: sexy pale blue satin and lace with a bow in the center. They match her eyes, and suddenly it’s my new favorite color.

  Reaching the last button, I pull the nightie open and push it over her shoulders to reveal her naked breasts, ones I’ve waited so fucking long to see. And they do not disappoint. They’re full and round with large pink nipples that stand out and beg for attention.

  I stare and she trembles.

  As I squeeze them, testing their weight and the way they feel so fucking soft, Paige moans, her head dropping back. Blood rushes to my dick and it stands at attention. My big, calloused hands close over her nipples, and when my thumbs brush over them, her mouth drops open. I lean forward and nuzzle her ear, shushing her as I pinch and tug at them.