AFRICAN AMERICAN URBAN FICTION: BWWM ROMANCE: Billionaire Baby Daddy (Billionaire Secret Baby Pregnancy Romance) (Multicultural & Interracial Romance Short Stories)

by Carmella Jones

  Chapter 8: Razor

  The fact that the call was for an out-of-town op was no surprise to me. Nearly all of my jobs were out of town, in fact. The last one had been pretty rare. The enforcer that I worked for evidently had sort of a region or area to work, most of it in the West Coast. I’d memorized all of the intel that had been provided and then burned the order, but I’d learned long ago that someone else’s intel was never as good as your own. To date, I’d had no reason to doubt what was passed onto me, but I believed in the “trust, but verify” philosophy.

  It hadn’t been a bad ride. I’d even made sort of a loop around so that I could come in along the coast. The combination of reds, oranges, yellows and violets against the backdrop of the changing sky and the slow movement of the sun as it sank below the horizon was always a little more impressive when viewed over the ocean. The sun’s setting over the Pacific even worked its magic on my typically cold heart. I pulled off the side of the road to take it in.

  My heart hadn’t always been so cold. When I was younger and eager, it had been warmer. I’d been a gung-ho, God-and-country type when I’d joined the Navy. I’d become even more so after I’d made it into the teams. Kicking ass and taking names in the advancement of freedom had been what drove Burn and me to be so eager to lead the pack. Afghanistan changed that for me. I was beginning to question what the hell we were doing over there even before Burn died. After he died, it began to really hit home.

  The Russians hadn’t been able to do anything over there in the 80s, so why the hell did we think we could? What I was starting to realize was that it was all about the money. All of that political bullshit that leaders spewed from the podium about pushing back Al Qaeda and terrorist cells and whatnot was just so they could keep lining their silk pockets. The fact that Burn had his brain splattered against the wall because some stupid bastard wanted some imam in Gitmo soured my whole attitude. The only salvation for me was the fact that I had been a short-timer and was due to rotate out of the teams or re-up within 30 days. I rotated out.

  With Burn gone, there wasn’t much appeal left to the teams, and I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth. I was assigned a new swim partner, but thankfully we didn’t actually have any serious ops to tend to before my time was up. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, he just wasn’t Burn. With my parents dead, no siblings to fight with over the inheritance and no Burn, I was alone. I’d told myself a thousand times that it was better that way. I was hanging out with the one guy I could trust: me.

  My target, a middle-aged accountant who lived alone in a pretty nice suburban neighborhood outside of Burbank didn’t seem like he posed any threat to the biker world at all. Unless it was all a cover. Dressed in a suit and tie, he got into a four-door Toyota sedan and backed it out of a garage with an automatic opener. He commuted through the rat race that was L.A. traffic and parked in the covered parking garage of a Big Eight accounting firm, spent his day presumably doing what accountants do, and then started back through the rat race. Before going home, he stopped off at a nice, middle-class bar at the edge of the suburbs, tossed a few back with some friends and then headed home. There didn’t seem to be a wife, kids or even a girlfriend anywhere in his daily routine. In short, it was the exact opposite of having any kind of life at all.

  Since wearing leather with colors astride a Road King wouldn’t have been blending in, in that neighborhood, I had rented a four-door sedan similar to my target’s, but a Ford. I wasn’t going to drive some foreign-made piece of crap.I sported khakis and an Izod with loafers. I felt like Biff from the country club and decided that, if for no other reason, the guy needed taken out for dressing like a prick. Three days of surveillance, which started on a Monday morning, had established a pattern that I could use to make my move.

  At 7:45 on Wednesday night, I was waiting around the corner of the garage when his rice-burner sedan pulled into the driveway and the garage door went up. He parked the car, turned off the engine and got out, pushing the button on the wall by the door that led into the house. Then he went inside. Before the garage door was all of the way down, I had rolled underneath it and was crouching beside his car on the opposite side of the door into the house.

  I stayed in that position for three and a half hours, which was actually a pretty short span of time in your typical SEAL op. I’d stayed in one position in a mud hole freezing my ass off for two days during BUD/S and that had been easy compared to some of the shit I did in the snow in Afghanistan. The schedule I had observed had him lights out by 11:00 p.m. and with no signs that he watched Sports Center after he hit the hay. There wasn’t any point in waiting any longer. Besides, I was starting to think I was allergic to the khakis or the Izod.

  I slipped on my gloves and moved around the car to the door leading into the house. Crouching by the door, I reached up, turned the knob and peered into the kitchen. I traced my path through the kitchen with my eyes, creating a plan so that I didn’t bump into anything on the way. I rose up, stepped through the door and closed it softly behind me. I paused a moment to listen, heard nothing and moved to the position that I had decided on from the door. I studied the path through the living room from that point to the hallway and then followed the same technique. Thankfully, the guy wasn’t one to clutter up his house. In fact, in a lot of ways, he reminded me of me, except he was a prick.

  I moved down the hall, into the bedroom and carried out the op in a similar manner to the one that I’d carried out after the LD party, except there was no nude girl lying beside the guy and the look in his eyes as I sliced into his neck was much more terrifying, rather than having a little bit of defiance in it. I was never given a reason why someone was to be taken out, and I didn’t really need to know. He’d probably embezzled some money or some other white collar shit that had pissed somebody off. It wasn’t any of my concern.

  After walking out the front door, getting into the sedan and driving away, I went straight back to my hotel room, went through my cleansing ritual, put on some decent clothes and drove past the shop where I’d parked my bike. I left the car a couple of blocks down the street, tossing the khakis, Izod and loafers into a dumpster on the way back. The shop belonged to a brother SB and he’d asked no questions. I put my key in the ignition of the Road King and kicked it over. The rumble of the pipes was pleasant music after what I’d had to endure for the past several days.

  As I drove past the rental car and headed back home, I gave it the finger. “Piece of shit,” I muttered, flexing my wrist and letting my tuned exhaust roar.

  Chapter 9: Kelly

  Yes, I know it was stupid. I should have never even wandered in the direction of the Panhead Bar. I was already well on my way to leaving the world of outlaw bike clubs behind me. I had gone through my first two weeks at work, having picked that up pretty quickly, and was I making very good money. I had received some pretty decent tips, but nothing like the hundred that Anthony had slipped me a couple of weeks before. In spite of the fact that he had scared the shit out of me, I’d remembered his name and remembered that he hung out at the Panhead. I also remembered his broad shoulders with leather stretched across them, his chiseled features, the scar on his chin and, of course, his dark, penetrating eyes.

  I had the night off, Destiny was working and I was bored. Destiny and I had found a piece of junk for me to drive at one of those pay-by-the-week lots. It wasn’t much, but it got me from point A to point B, though I had to hide it at work, or any other place for that matter, because I didn’t really want anyone knowing that I drove it. I saw the Panhead Bar and a half dozen Harleys sitting out in front. As I pulled past them and found a parking spot well away from the front door and the bikes, I wondered which one was Anthony’s.

  With the car parked and the engine shut off, I closed my eyes and tried to decide whether I was doing the right thing or not. It wasn’t the right thing, of course, but I simply couldn’t shake Anthony out of my mind. Other than the leather, the colors, the scar and that overall cocky,
devil-may-care, bad-boy attitude, he seemed like a decent guy, or he was just trying to get into my pants. To tell you the truth, since I had stayed hidden for almost two months, I was okay with either.

  Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for living a “regular” life, because I really ought to have hesitated a great deal longer in the parking lot, or even started the car and drove out of it, but I didn’t. I got out of the car and strolled toward the front door. I admired the bikes parked out front, knowing their model years and names, except for one, which was quite a bit older than the others. I was already feeling that familiar tingle that I’d always had whenever I felt the rumble of chrome pipes and the power of a hog between my legs. I did hesitate before raising my hand to pull on the handle of the door. I knew that once I stepped through those doors, I would be right back in the world that I had tried to leave. I told myself a little lie, promising that it would be different, and pulled the door open.

  Like all bars, the Panhead had subdued lighting, and I paused inside so that my eyes could adjust. It was your typical biker bar, and yet it wasn’t. It had all the trappings, but it leaned toward being better organized and much cleaner, sort of like a neighborhood pub. Viktor would have called it a pussy bar, but I sort of liked it. It was contradictory to the wild, free-wheeling and independent attitude that went along with your typical biker. Maybe these guys were more like the suburban clubs. As soon as I thought it, I reminded myself that the Silent Brotherhood were a badass rival to the Lost Disciples. Their bar might look like a pussy bar, but those who hung out there were anything but.

  When my eyes adjusted to the light, I could make out a few guys sitting at a table. They’d been laughing about something when I’d walked in, but all eyes had turned toward me and nobody said anything for several seconds before a softer conversation continued. A big guy at the far end of the bar turned his head and looked toward me, but continued to nurse his beer. In the shadows of a table in the far corner, I could see what looked like a couple making out. I smiled, remembering that I’d been there before.

  I strolled casually toward the bar, aware that I was still being watched by the guys at the table, and slipped up onto a stool in front of the wide oak bar. I didn’t get the greeting, “welcome to the Panhead,” nor did I expect it. I got a nod from the bartender and a pair of raised eyebrows.

  “Crown and Coke.”

  Leaning on the bar, I looked into the mirror behind the glasses and bottles and scanned the room. The guys at the table continued their conversation, but I could tell by the way that they looked up at me, grinned and laughed that I had probably become the new topic of conversation. That was okay. I was used to it.

  I noticed that every guy in the room was buff and clean cut, which was in direct contrast to what a typical Lost Disciple looked like. It was rumored that nearly all, if not all, of the members of the Silent Brotherhood had been former military, special ops types. From the sample that I had already seen, I believed it. What I also noticed while looking in the mirror was that Anthony was not present, but I certainly wasn’t going to ask for him by name.

  “You do realize that you’ve wandered into a place where the horniest fucks in the world hang out, right?” The question came from the big guy who had been at the far end of the bar, but had moved up next to me when my drink arrived. “I got this one,” he waved to the bartender.

  “Really? I thought I’d walked into Applebee’s,” I responded with a chuckle.

  “Not bad,” he laughed. “You damned sure livened the place up.”

  “They don’t call me Sunshine for nothing.”

  “Well, Sunshine, they call me Shovelhead.”

  “They don’t like you, then?”

  “They don’t, actually,” he laughed, “but that isn’t the reason they call me Shovelhead. They call me that because I ride the ’78 model outside and it has a Shovelhead engine on it.”

  That answered the mystery concerning why I didn’t recognize the year and model of that one bike; it was almost 40 years old. “Nice,” I responded.

  Shovelhead was about to say something else when the front door opened abd everybody looked in that direction. Then his eyes turned cold.

  “Razor!” the guys sitting at the table all called out, almost in unison.

  Shovelhead didn’t follow suit. In fact, he seemed to be extremely displeased by the newcomer, whom I recognized right away to be Anthony. I felt a tingle zip up my spine at the sight of him.

  Razor, Anthony, greeted the guys at the table, waved a salute in the direction of the couple who had been making out but had called out to him, and then sauntered toward the bar, locking eyes with Shovelhead, who straightened up and returned the cold look. I could tell that there was some bad blood between the two.

  “Move along, Tommy,” he said in a low, threatening tone. “Kelly is with me.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  There was a long, tense moment as the two squared off and everyone in the room looked on in deadly silence. I was beginning to regret having gone in there when the bartender spoke up. “Guys.”

  It was all that it took for Shovelhead to back down and go back to his place at the far end of the bar. With him gone, Anthony pulled up the stool beside me and sat down. “So, you couldn’t resist after all,” he grinned.

  Chapter 10: Kelly

  So, maybe it was a bad idea to have gone to the Panhead in search of Anthony and maybe it was a bad idea to have gotten on the back of his black Road King and ride with him back to his home in the suburbs, but what he was doing with his tongue between my thighs had already made me forget most of what had led to finding myself in such a delightful state. There was no doubt in my mind concerning his expertise, and I wasn’t thinking about much of anything but the sensations his precision work was causing.

  That tingling pressure that was building behind my nearly smooth mound, which had one thin strip to prove that I was a natural redhead, had so much intensity packed behind it that I was moaning loudly, almost in pain. It had been a long time since anyone had performed such magic down there and even longer since anyone had known what they were doing. My release was glorious. The moans in my throat became screams as wave after wave radiated throughout my body. I had to push his head away for several seconds in order to be able to start breathing again.

  Anthony was truly a gem, because once my gasping slowed and I was breathing deeply, he was right back in there. I’m pretty sure that I had at least three climaxes before he stopped working me with his tongue and then lifted my behind off the bed, spread my legs and buried a hard, thick erection into my soaking, wet snatch.

  He worked it slowly, holding my legs in his massive arms and looking down at me with those dark eyes. He knew what he was doing there too. He kept me at exactly the right angle so that when he drew back, the head of his cock hit my g-spot perfectly. He had me over the top again within a few minutes. Surprisingly enough, I only wanted more.

  Wild with desire, I pushed him off of me with my feet and growled, “I want to ride you like a hog.”

  That crooked grin and the fact that he fell onto his back on the bed told me that he wasn’t opposed to the idea, so I straddled him, still on my feet, and put my hands on his firm, perfect chest for balance as I lowered myself down onto him. I knew a thing or two about riding hogs, but I knew a lot about riding “the one eyed snake,” as a lot of bikers called it. I knew how to get my own maximum pleasure out of it and keep him from spilling too early.

  Since it had been a while, I discovered that my legs were a little bit out of shape for that position, so I lowered myself to my knees and continued to roll my hips and work it back and forth until I had another explosive orgasm. After that, things turned really wild. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my stomach and taking a beating from behind. He had wrapped a handful of my hair around his palm and was pulling up on it as he thrust inside of me.

  “Oh god, yes!” I screamed in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

/>   “You like it rough, you little bitch?”

  “I love it rough! Come on, you big pussy, give it to me!”

  Calling him a pussy maybe wasn’t the smartest thing I’d ever done. With one hand in my hair and his other hand on my hips, he lifted me up onto my knees and started slamming into me, slapping my ass and pulling my hair to the point that the back of my head was nearly touching my shoulder blades. My orgasm after that was a dizzying whirl of confusion that made me wonder if I was ever coming back from it.

  I might not have recovered from it if he hadn’t exploded inside of me at the very same moment, driving his dick so deep that I was sure that I’d see milk coming out of my nose. I’d been thoroughly taken care of in that first round, but that was only the beginning of our night. There was plenty more where that came from, and it was just as intense. I couldn’t believe that he had that sort of stamina, but I damned sure wasn’t going to bitch about it.

  When we finally wore ourselves out, I was pretty sure that I would never be able to walk again, but then I got another pleasant surprise. Instead of rolling over and going to sleep, he continued to caress my back and smile at me as he turned on his side with his head resting on his elbow.

  “So, Kelly, what in the hell possessed you to come to the Panhead?”

  “Beats the fuck out of me,” I laughed and then added. “Literally.”

  “Regretting it already?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “You ain’t too bad.”

  “You’re no slouch yourself.”

  “I’m guessing this wasn’t your first time.”

  “You mean first time ever or first time with a bad boy?”