by Zahra Girard
“I just need a second,” she says, her voice pained and tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. “I went through a lot. Every day felt like I was walking on a razor’s edge and I was filled with so much uncertainty and fear that something, anything, I would do would set him off and then he’d do something to hurt me and make me feel less than human. This went on for a long time, Riot, and that’s one of the worst things for me in thinking about it, knowing that I let myself be treated like that for so long. I feel shame for what happened to me, but also shame in that I wasn’t stronger.”
I squeeze her hand while she pauses to look skyward and think.
I don’t know if I could even speak if I wanted to. Inside I’m in turmoil, filled with rage at the pain she’s been through — wishing I had the son of a bitch who hurt her in front of me right now — and roiling with concern and empathy for her. More than anything else, I just want to take her pain away, to chase away the fears that have followed her for so long.
“There was one day that it was bad. And when he was done with me and he’d gone to sleep, I got up in the middle of the night and took a picture of myself in the bathroom mirror,” she says, and she stops for a second to pull her phone out of her purse. She pulls up a picture and hands it to me. It’s enough to make my blood burn and my heart sink in my chest. My hands shake in rage as I hold the phone. Bruises, blood, a black eye, she looks almost unrecognizable. “I took that picture to remind myself why I was never going back. And then I grabbed what I could and I left. I walked to the Greyhound terminal in the middle of the night and I took the first bus I could — I didn’t care where it was going — and when I got off, I found a hotel room for the night. In the morning, I bought a shitty van and I kept running and doing what I could to scrape by. Every day, I was afraid he was going to find me. Every day, I looked at that picture to remind myself that I was never going back.”
I have no words that feel adequate to her pain. I put my arm around her and I hold her close. She rests her cheek against my chest and lets out a sigh that deflates her.
Minutes stretch by and we sit there, comforting one another in silence.
She is so fucking brave. The pain that she’s been through, the strength she showed in overcoming all of the obstacles and fear in her way, is fucking extraordinary.
No wonder she’s so damn cautious.
“I care about you, Riot. When I look at you, I don’t see a monster hiding behind the mask of a good man. I just see a good man,” she says softly. “But even the other day, when I was with you in the clubhouse, I couldn’t shake the fear that I was falling back into my old life.”
“You know I’d never hurt you. That I’d never allow anyone to hurt you.”
“I know. But I can’t tell you that I wasn’t terrified just being in your clubhouse. I tried to forget that fear, and for a while I thought I had, but as soon as I had a quiet moment to actually think when we were in bed together after we had sex… That fear came right back,” she says. “I care for you, Riot, and you are the first man I’ve ever told about what happened to me. But being around the MC life terrifies me deep down in my soul and it’s going to be a long time before that feels different.”
Every one of her words is like a stab in the gut, because I know she’s sincere and there’s not a thing I can — or should — do to change her mind; I want her in a way that I’ve never wanted any woman before, but there’s no way I could force her to face the kind of pain she’s been running from.
I want what’s best for her. And the best thing for her is to walk away when this is all over. I need to honor that.
“I get it,” I say. “I can’t ask you to face that kind of pain. All I can promise is that I will do everything I can to keep you safe and, when this is all over, whether you choose to stay together or you decide to come back here, I’m still going to feel the same about you. Any time you need me, I’m going to be here for you.”
Emma shifts, tossing her leg over mine and straddling me while she kisses me on the lips. Deep, slow, in a way that makes me moan deep in my throat. Her lips taste like berries and the scent of spices — cinnamon, vanilla — teases my nose.
Her eyes stare deep into mine. “Thank you. No matter what, I’m always going to remember you, Riot.”
In my ears, her words sound like ‘goodbye’.
But I can hardly think about that now, I have her so close she makes me shake with lust I can’t control. I can’t fight the need inside me, lust that’s filling my cock with heat and blood and pumping need through my veins. I want her like I’ve never wanted anyone else.
I kiss her again, crushing my lips to hers. She moans against me and clutches my face tighter, pulling me to her. Her breathing becomes short and fast. My tongue slides into her mouth, tasting her.
Emma’s hips begin to move, grinding forward and back, rubbing herself against my tightening cock until my dick is straining painfully against the confines of my jeans.
“I never thought I’d feel these feelings again,” she whispers, sliding to the floor and fumbling with the zipper and buttons to my jeans. Her hands look so small and delicate as she takes my cock out. She eyes it carefully, tentatively, and her tongue slowly emerges from her lips to lick me from base to tip. “Whatever happens between us, Riot, I hope you know that you are always going to be the man I hold in my heart.”
I shiver with unconstrained desire as her gentle lick reaches the head of my cock and she does a slow swirl around the tip. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter.
“I want to make you feel good tonight,” she says. Then, carefully, she opens wide and swallows my cock deep in her throat, until her luscious red lips are kissing the spot where the base of my cock meets my lower abs. She pulls back with a loud exhale and, working her hands in a slow stroke of my dick, she stares at me with glistening eyes. “You’re unlike any man I’ve ever met. You make me feel safe. And, when I’m alone and think of you, I feel the kind of heat and desire and need that I never thought I’d feel again.”
The air between us is electric with emotion while she sucks my cock. My whole body is tingling while she thrills my aching dick with her lips and spills her emotions out in front of me.
My head is swimming and my heart is overflowing.
“Emma, you’re always going to be the one. Whether you go, or you stay,” I say. My voice is a hushed, ragged whisper while she kneels before me, taking me in her mouth.
Her eyes are so wide as she looks up at me with expectation.
“Don’t stop me, Riot,” she whispers, and I know she’s not talking about me holding her back from sucking my cock. “Let me give this to you. Let me make you happy.”
What a fucking angel. As if I can fucking turn her down when she says that.
“Shit,” I gasp, as she deepthroats me the second I let her go. My eyes roll back in their sockets and I relax my head back for a moment, savoring every second of being balls deep in her pretty mouth.
She strokes my cock better than any woman has a right to, better than my own right hand, and soon I feel the familiar boil in my balls as I close on my climax. I open my eyes and I look down at her while I teeter on the edge. She’s staring right back at me, her tongue and lips and hands coaxing me to come, while a satisfied smile subtly tugs on the edges of her mouth.
“Red, I’m gonna—” I manage to gasp before my world goes black and I lose myself in her mouth.
She takes it all. Every drop. Moaning as she does.
I’m shaking in her hands as my senses return, my whole body feels on fire at her touch. She smiles up at me, her face covered with a gentle dew of sweat and her eyes are lit with satisfaction.
She thinks we’re done.
Not a chance.
I stand up and pick her up, and I’m back to kissing her in a heartbeat. She looks startled at first — she probably expected me to be finished after giving me such fucking great head — but we’re just getting started.
My hands grip the edges of her t-s
hirt and she raises her arms so I can lift it up and off of her. Her bra follows in a second, freeing her breasts and my cock throbs at the sight of her bare chest.
“Hard already? God damn,” she murmurs, her hand still holding my cock.
“Can’t help the effect you have on me,” I say. “Now, let’s get you to the bedroom.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Emma
We spend hours together that night. Never tiring, Riot is by turns demanding and considerate, rough and gentle, and as the night goes on we develop a deep connection unlike any I’ve ever had with any man. It’s physical, spiritual, emotional, mental. He knows in the moment just the kind of man I need him to be and he delivers.
And I can’t count the number of times he makes me come.
It’s only an hour before sunrise when we get to sleep. Riot looks — and feels — like he could keep going all night long, but my body is spent and I nearly collapse into his arms. I’m drained beyond belief.
The last thoughts I have before sleep takes me is how much I like the smell of him and how a man like him — someone ripped through and corded with muscles and power — is able to be so gentle when I need him to be.
I’m going to miss that.
But I need for us to say goodbye.
I wake up to the distant chirp of my phone alarm from the living room, just as the noise is cut off and I hear Riot’s voice mutter “Fuck”.
The smell of coffee fills my sense and pulls me even further into the realm of the awake and alert.
Seconds later, Riot’s in the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee and wearing not a damn stitch of clothing. There’s a grin on his face that’s contagious, and I sit up on the edge of the bed as he brings over a mug of coffee for me.
“I meant to get this to you before the alarm went off.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He kisses me on the lips. It’s gentle, but there’s still so much heat in it that for a moment I entertain the fantasy of falling backwards into bed and pulling him with me and seeing just how much further my tired, aching, glowing body can go.
I think I have at least another round or two in me.
“Morning,” he says, still smiling. “You look good.”
I take a sip of the coffee and relish the feel of this morning. I feel good. Last night was cathartic and I feel more whole and human having shared with him.
“Thank you, Riot,” I say.
His smile goes a bit crooked, cocky. “It’s just coffee.”
“You know what I mean. For listening. For being there,” I say, then, as my eyes drift over his chiseled, tattooed body. “And the sex. My God. I’m not going to lie, even though it was only for, like, an hour, I slept pretty great.”
“Maybe I missed my calling in therapy,” he chuckles. “Don’t get too comfortable, though. We have to get back on the road soon.”
“Soon? Why?”
“We have to go back to Crescent Falls. Stuff’s going to be happening and it’s my job to keep you safe. Redwood City isn’t going to be safe.”
“Is it that serious? That I have to leave town again?” I say. I know it is, but it feels so good being in my own bed, feeling like I have my home back. “Are you sure I can’t stay here?”
“I know it’s hard to leave again. But it’s only for a little while. Then you can come back here and get back to your life,” he says, turning to look away from me. “Now, come on, let’s start moving.”
I take my time getting ready, dwelling on the events of last night. As good as it was for my soul to be back in my home without fear, the best part of it was having Riot with me and enjoying the security of his embrace. For a while, I was able to forget everything that wasn’t us. For a while, life felt normal and I enjoyed a kind of happiness I thought was lost long ago.
And now it’s over.
I know it’s for the best.
He knows it’s for the best.
I can’t go back to the MC life.
But will I ever feel that kind of happiness again?
* * * * *
The drive back to Crescent Falls feels so much longer than it felt last night coming the other way. Time seems to move in slow motion and aching grows in my heart the further from last night’s memories we get.
My feelings reflect in Riot’s body. The further we go, the tenser he seems to become, as if each of us is leaving behind a quiet sanctuary where, for a moment, there exists nothing outside of the two of us.
By the time we reach Crescent Falls, there’s a funereal feeling in the air. Though he won’t speak about it, I know the club is going to be taking action soon and we could be near the end of our relationship.
I have a life in Redwood City. A job, a place to call my own, things that I’ve fought and struggled for and that wouldn’t fit with life in an MC.
And Riot has a place here. Crescent Falls is where his family is, and the club and his community are so interwoven into the fabric of who he is that I couldn’t even conceive of him parting with them.
Our lives do not fit together.
I wish I had the strength to fight my fears.
To dive into the dark of the MC life in pursuit of happiness.
But I don’t.
I don’t even have the strength to speak when he drops me in his parent’s driveway. He says only three words to me after giving me a kiss goodbye. “Take care, Red.”
I’m frozen as the roar of his bike’s engine carries him down the road and his words echo in my heart.
They feel so final.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Riot
The day passes in a blur, the way it always does when the club is gearing up for something big. After I drop Red off, I feel like I lose track of time — everything passes the rhythm of preparation, of checking over our bikes and weapons and ammo and making sure that each and every member of the club is on the same page.
It’s deliberate, methodical, and comforting in how mechanical it is.
I hardly have time to think about Emma. She has every reason to leave Crescent Falls in her rear view mirror once all of this is over. Because I care about her, I have every reason to want her to leave, to go somewhere where she’ll feel comfortable, where she can heal. Every reason except for one: I care for her.
Things don’t slow down until night falls and we commence our ride.
Our club in full force, a train of bikes riding through town and north towards our destination, the thunder of our engines heralding the arrival of the storm.
On the outskirts of 45th Street Kings territory, we roar to a stop in the parking lot of an abandoned convenience store. All of us armed and expectant, ready to kill to defend our club and our reputation.
Hawk gets off his bike and steps into the center of our circle. His fists are clenched as he surveys each and every one of us. His voice shakes with rage.
“A few nights ago, some nameless group of cocksuckers thought they could hit our operation and get away with it. They killed two of our men, and it doesn’t matter that those men didn’t wear the Rebel Rider cut, they worked for the club. They belonged to the club. And tonight is the night we teach these motherfuckers what the consequences are,” he says. His eyes move from club member to club member. “Thanks to that cowardly bitch Trey and some research from Micro, we know where each of these bitches lives. You all know the plan: we split up into our assigned groups and you hit the houses you’ve been told to hit.” He pauses and, in the silence of the moment, his phone rings. Frowning, he silences his ringer, mumbles something, then returns his focus to the group. “I don’t want a single gangbanger left alive. I don’t want even a single person who looks like they could be one of these 45th Street Kings left alive.”
His phone rings again, and again he silences it.
“That bitch knows we’re busy,” he murmurs. Then, turning to us, he growls, “Go. Kill them all.”
We split up. Rooster and Thrash, Duke and Hawk, Bull and Wrench, Micro and Piston, Creole
and myself. Creole and I ride to our target: a house a few blocks away. It’s a single-story dump that’s in bad need of a full-knockdown and a rebuild. But our targets are home — the windows are lit and, even from the street, I can hear the music they’re blasting inside.
“You ready for this?” Creole says. “It’s going to be a bloody night tonight, my friend.”
I’m ready. And eager.
Tonight, I kill the men who threaten the woman I care for.
Tonight, I make life safe for her.
Even though it means I may never see her again.
“Let’s do this.”
Creole motions that he’ll take the front door and for me to go around back.
I walk quietly through the night, keeping to the shadows and out of sight of the windows. My destination is the back door and I’m just in place when I hear banging from the front door and Creole’s voice roar above the music.
“This is the police. We’ve had a noise complaint.”
The stereo goes quiet.
A second of silence ticks by.
The sound of an opening door.
Then, screams and gunfire, the sound of Creole at work.
That’s my cue.
I batter the back door down, gun raised and ready, and step inside. The door leads into a kitchen, and the young man inside — hat turned backward, pistol in his hands and an expression of utter terror and confusion on his face — turns towards me. He gets halfway through the rotation before I blast him right between the eyes. Red mist paints the wall behind him.