by Anne Malcom
I relaxed slightly at his words, even more at his firm kiss and arm around my shoulders.
We walked into the clubhouse and were greeted with a round of cheers and men raising their bottles. I ignored the glare coming from Kim and was slightly surprised at the small smile from Scar, who was sitting on Charley’s knee.
I went slightly red at the attention and was glad when it all died down and we made it to the bar.
Levi came up and slapped Hansen on the shoulder. “Finally got your head outta your ass I see.” He nodded his head to me. “Good thing, I was getting tempted to convince her the perks of being on the back of my bike, if you didn’t get your shit together,” he said lightly.
I gaped at Levi, and Hansen went slightly stiff. Something seemed to register because he squeezed me tighter and grinned at Levi. “Fuck off,” he said lightly.
Levi winked at me then sat down next to us, sipping his beer and shooting the shit, like normal. Only this time, Hansen’s arm was firmly wrapped around my chest, pulling me flush to his back.
It felt kind of weird being in this position when various men came to exchange the odd teasing greeting but otherwise treated us as if we’d been together for longer than say, a day. It also felt nice. Right. Like I’d slipped into a sweater I didn’t think would fit, but hugged every inch of me like it had been made for me.
I settled into Hansen’s back, thinking maybe, the other shoe might not drop at all.
A couple of hours and a nice beer buzz later, I made my way to the bathroom, trailing my fingers along the pictures in the hallway. When I was out of view of the common room, I was slammed painfully against those very pictures I’d been tenderly looking at.
Hammer’s body pressed against mine, and his alcohol-laden breath permeated my senses.
“Think now your snatch has captured Hansen’s attention you can cut off everyone else?” he hissed in my face.
“Step back,” I told him firmly, striving to keep the shaking out of my voice. Hammer might be a misogynistic asshole, but he was also a Son. Therefore, he would respect the rules that came with the fact. Hopefully.
He ignored me, his hand gripping my hip painfully.
“Once a club whore, always a club whore,” he shot cruelly.
“Step back, Hammer,” I repeated.
Again, he ignored me. “I don’t think Hansen’s gonna want tainted goods, once he realizes every man in this club’s had a taste of that pussy,” he continued, his words hitting their mark.
That’s it. I was done. I may be small, but I didn’t lie to Hansen. Living the life I’d lived, in the neighborhood I’d lived it, I knew how to take care of myself. Which was why I brought my knee up to his crotch. Hard.
He cried out and stumbled back, gripping between his legs.
“Bitch,” he shouted his eyes slits.
“What’s going on here?” a deep and pissed off voice asked.
I moved my eyes to land on Grim, the club president and all around scary mofo. He was old, his hair more salt than pepper, his tanned face showing more than a few lines as evidence of his age. He wore it well and was still in pretty good shape, his tattoo-covered arms were also defined with muscle. He had an Old Lady, who he was faithful to, which meant I’d never really been in his immediate presence. He also scared the shit out of me. He hardly ever cracked a smile and always looked ready to knife someone, hence the road name.
“Bitch fuckin’ kneed me in the balls,” Hammer told him, glaring at me.
“Snitch,” I hissed.
I could be in serious shit here. A woman, a relative second class citizen in this world could not lay their hands on a patched member. As I well knew.
Grim’s eyes settled on me. “Macy, with me,” he ordered briskly, walking past me and in the direction of the door titled ‘Church.’
Hammer grinned at me evilly and I followed on wooden legs.
Church was a place no woman was allowed and somewhere where I guessed I would be getting banished from my family. My heart sank. Not even a week of living my dream and it’d already shot it to shit.
Classic Macy.
I was mentally thinking about how I’d bury myself in my fantasy world of Middle Earth to try and escape the pain of being exiled from the only family I’d had for twelve years.
“Shut the door behind you and sit down,” Grim commanded.
I silently complied, sitting slightly down in front of him. I met his eyes. I didn’t offer an explanation, or excuses. Hammer was in the wrong, but I wasn’t going to even bother telling Grim that. His loyalty would be with his brother, not some club whore turned Old Lady. Hammer’s treatment of me showed I was unlikely to be considered a true Old Lady.
He regarded me levelly. “Been with Linda almost fifteen years,” he declared, taking me totally off guard. He didn’t address my no doubt wide eyes. “Longer than most of the boys in this chapter have been around,” he continued, clasping his hands together. “Which means, save a couple of lifers, no one knows Linda used to hold a position in the club very different than the President’s Old Lady,” he told me.
I got what he was alluding to. And it knocked my preverbal socks right off. Linda was the quintessential biker queen. Even pushing fifty, she was a beauty, albeit slightly hard. Every single one of the men treated her like the matriarch she was. Though she could be equally as scary as Grim, she’d always treated most of the club girls with respect. Well, apart from Kim, but she was a total bitch, who tried her best to flirt with Grim when no one was looking. She was kind of my hero. The woman I had always wanted to be.
“Found it difficult, she did, transitioning from who she was to Old Lady,” he continued. “Thought I’d have a problem with it. I didn’t,” he told me firmly. “Didn’t give a shit who came before me, long as no one came after me. Brothers accepted it readily. Bitch was born to be an Old Lady. She had to find that out for herself, though. Decide if the club, the way we lived, was for her. That was her way of finding out.” Grim’s clear gray eyes didn’t leave mine. “No one thought any less of her. I sure as shit didn’t. Long as she was loyal to me, loved me, loved the club, other shit meant nothing. You’d do well to remember that,” Grim finished.
I sat back, digesting the story. “So you’re not sending me away?” I whispered.
Grim frowned. “No, I’m not,” he said firmly.
My entire body relaxed. “Thank you,” I told him quietly.
Grim stood, making his way over to me. “Don’t need to thank me. We got rules here. Hammer spat in the face of those rules, he’ll be dealt with,” he told me tightly. “Gonna ask you to keep this chat between us. Same as that incident.” He nodded his head to the hallway. “Don’t think Hammer’s gonna be too eager to share a tiny bitch almost sterilized him.” He looked like he might almost smile and I think his voice might have held respect. I was shocked.
“Also, I think Hansen might finish the job if he finds out. Don’t want shit going down in my club over pussy, even an Old Lady. Which is what you are now,” he continued.
I nodded by answer.
“Go back to the party, enjoy the time with your old man. Don’t let a drunken idiot’s words get into your head,” he ordered.
I got up and surprised the shit out of myself by kissing Grim on his tanned cheek and then darting from the room before he forgot that he was meant to be a big bad motorcycle club President and not a caring, wise man giving relationship advice.
Luckily, I didn’t see Hammer on the way back to the party and happily went back to Hansen’s arms, letting him kiss me soundly in front of the crowd.
What I didn’t do, was let go of those words. Instead, I let them settle deep down in my gut, tainting the feeling of warmth that had originally been pure and happy.
Two Weeks Later
“You get dressed in the dark today girl? You seem to have forgotten your pants,” my grandmother commented as I met her in the common room of her facility. It was as cheerful as a place like that could be, with dated old
sofas and an ancient television playing some random game show. Various older people were scattered around, some looking well dressed and relatively stable, others wearing tattered robes and muttering to themselves. The saddest, I thought, was an old woman in fuzzy slippers staring vacantly out the window. Every time I came here, she was sitting in that same spot, staring into the distance.
“What can I say, Grandma, not all of us can have the timeless sense of style you have,” I replied.
My empire line printed dress stopped above my knees and had bell sleeves. My tan over the knee boots meant only a smallish square of skin was showing. I thought I looked awesome, as did Hansen, who showed me his complete appreciation for my boots only hours before. My grandmother did not obviously agree with a self-confessed style savant and a smokin’ hot biker, who seemed to have taken permanent residence in my mind. And maybe my heart.
She shook her head in disapproval. “You’d think I’d taught you nothing,” she snapped.
Not true. She taught me a life of bitterness and negativity may not wither the looks, but it did land you in an old folks’ home with a dementia diagnosis. Not that I’d say anyone deserved that, but I thought maybe karma might have played a part in this one.
“You still wasting time playing on computers instead of having a real job?” She moved from my outfit to my occupation in a not so smooth segway.
“I’m a graphic designer Grandma, it doesn’t exactly consist of playing on computers,” I explained like I had countless times. It didn’t matter I was actually good at my job and earned a decent amount of money. Money that helped pay for what the insurance didn’t cover for this place.
She waved her hand. “Don’t want to hear excuses as to why you won’t get a real job. I’m assuming this has to do with the company you keep. Bikers,” she spat the word in distaste.
You’d think, with her haughty attitude, my grandmother was an upper-middle-class lady who had never encountered people like the ‘thugs’ I spent my time with. Therefore, giving some reason as why she brought into the stereotype.
That was not the case.
She raised me, after my parents died, in what could loosely be described as the ghetto. Or at least on the edge of the ghetto. Our house was tiny and well-kept with an immaculate garden and a sofa which still had the plastic on, but I regularly walked past drug deals and gangbangers on my way to and from school. My grandmother, who’d been living on a pension and the benefit from the state when she got me, had some sort of selective vision. That stuff did not exist for her. She lived on a high horse, where she had a prime view of all of my shortcomings, of which there were many. She still put a roof over my head, and food in my belly—when she decided I wasn’t ‘pudgy’—and she was my mother’s mother, so she deserved some degree of respect. Despite the fact, she was a raving shrew.
My silence didn’t mean she’d stopped her tirade about how she was going to die early because her granddaughter caused her heart to break from disappointment. I smoothly changed the subject and moved her onto complaining about the staff and the food instead of my life, which she found lacking.
My whole body relaxed when I stepped out of the doors once more.
“Survived another visit I see?” a familiar voice asked.
I looked to my side to see Robert, this time wearing a cable knit jumper that looked seriously expensive, and jeans that looked like he’d bought them faded. Instead of wearing them like that, like bikers I knew.
“Do I have scratch marks on my face? Or are they invisible to the human eye?” I asked seriously.
He laughed and stepped forward. “Looks beautiful to me. Although, I know whatever you endure in there is not outwardly apparent,” he stated lightly, though his eyes held something that told me humor was the only way to deal with the reality of that terrible place.
I ignored the ‘beautiful’ comment, it made my slightly uncomfortable.
“Who have you got in there?” I nodded my head. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I added quickly, not knowing the etiquette for this particular social situation. Even in situations I did theoretically know the etiquette, I always managed to put a foot in my mouth.
“My mom, and I don’t mind you asking. It’s nice to talk to someone who knows, although I know my mom wouldn’t metaphorically rip me to shreds if she knew who I was. She was more likely to worry that I wasn’t getting enough sleep,” he said quietly.
“Your mom?” I asked softly. This man couldn’t have been much older than me, definitely not old enough to have a senile mother.
He looked at me with pain in his eyes. “Early onset Alzheimers,” he explained.
Out of reflex, I touched his arm lightly. “I’m sorry,” I told him genuinely. “I don’t have a mom, so I can’t imagine how hard it would be having her right here but losing her nonetheless.”
He smiled sadly at me. “That’s exactly what it feels like. It’s why I stand here a few minutes before I go in. To mentally prepare myself to visit my mom’s body. Her mind’s long gone, and to catch a glimpse of a pretty girl,” he added with a small smile.
I smiled back. Again, I thought about what a genuinely nice guy he was. Too bad I was currently infatuated with a biker. Even if I wasn’t, I wasn’t the kind of girl a man like that would end up with.
“But, you’re spoken for,” he continued. “That still the case?”
I nodded. Yes, this time I was spoken for, in the traditional sense, by one man instead of an entire motorcycle club.
“Thought so,” he said. He fished into his pocket to retrieve a card out of his wallet. He handed it to me. “That ever changes, or you just need to talk… use that.” He nodded at the card.
“Robert Frank, Attorney,” I read and raised a brow. “Very grown up and serious,” I commented.
I thought about what Hansen’s business card would say, ‘Carl Hansen—Biker, Hot Guy and all around Bad Ass.’ I furrowed my brows slightly when I thought about the fact I didn’t strictly know what he did to afford his small but impressive house, or to feed his muscled body with the protein it needed.
Robert took my frown as being at him. “Don’t hold the lawyer thing against me, I do my best to hide my scales beneath suits,” he joked.
I laughed, despite myself. My face turned serious. “I’m sorry about your mom,” I said sadly, squeezing his arm again.
He gave me a long look. “I’m sorry about your grandmother,” he said sincerely before moving to walk through the doors.
I watched him walk away for a second, feeling profoundly sad for Robert the lawyer and nice guy, and his mother.
The past two weeks had been nothing short of amazing. Hansen and I had spent almost every night together. Mostly at his place, because of his attitude toward my neighborhood, and the fact his house was way better than mine. I liked the quiet. The lack of sirens and gunshots was calming. And the fact it was Hansen’s. And I was there. And he treated me like it was going to be a permanent thing. He even told me to put my ‘girly shit’ in a drawer in the bathroom. Then I had commenced a freak-out, called Arianne who had almost begun a freak-out, then went and bought ‘girly shit’ to put in my newly acquired drawer.
We spent little time at the club, and I was glad of the fact. The transition from what I was to Old Lady was proving more difficult than I thought. Most of the other girls joked with me apart from a couple that gave me the stink eye, which I ignored. Still, being an Old Lady meant I wasn’t required to run after the other members, that I should theoretically, treat the other girls like I was somehow superior. Which I would never do. They weren’t better or worse than me. That would never change. Linda had even seemed to accept me into the fold, sharing a beer with me and chatting like we were old friends. I tried not to put my foot in my mouth the entire time. The fact I didn’t have a spike heeled boot embedded in said foot told me I’d succeeded.
Hansen treated me as if he hadn’t almost ignored me for the past year like he’d been with me longer than two weeks. Like I w
as where I was meant to be. The sex—sweet mother, the sex—was better than I’d ever imagined. It was something more than his talents in the bedroom, which were substantial, it was the connection we had, the intangible, unspoken something between us that brought so much more depth to it.
It was after one of these amazing love making sessions that I decided it was time to burst the bubble. Start living in the real world. I rested my elbow on his chest and put my head in my hands.
“Why no girls?” I asked him abruptly.
Hansen was used to me blurting things out without much warning or forethought, but his raised eyebrow showed he needed more information.
“Since you arrived from the Nevada chapter, there’s been no girls,” I clarified. “None from the club anyway, why?” I expanded.
Hansen looked at me for a long while. “I wasn’t celibate if that’s what you’re alluding,” he said carefully.
I nodded. “Didn’t think so. A man who had been battling blue balls for the better part of a year wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did with me the first time,” I said firmly.
Hansen chuckled slightly.
I forged on. “So why not girls from the club?” I asked, not really knowing if I wanted the answer.
Hansen regarded me. “‘Cause, if I were going to fuck any bitch who was a regular at the club, it would’ve been a pixie-haired half pint with beautiful eyes and a smart mouth, no one else,” he said finally. “Subconsciously, part of me seemed to know I was gonna claim you at some point. When I did that, I didn’t want you to have to deal with those vipers.”