by Wild, Nikki
HARD RIDER
A Bad Boy Biker Romance
Meg Jackson
Nikki Wild
Prologue
“You know you don't have to do this. Don't get on that bus just 'cause your Mama says to, Bex. You belong here. This is your home. Always has been.”
“And in my heart, it always will be. But I can't stay, Cross. She's got it in her mind to go, and no one's gonna look out for her. No one but me. She's all I got, and vice versa.”
“She's not all you got. You got me, Bex. You know that.”
She was gonna cry again. And Bex hated crying. Her daddy raised her to be tough, and tough girls didn't cry. Not even when they were standing in front of the boy they were damn sure they loved, saying goodbye.
“Come back, then, Bex,” Cross kept at it. He was as stubborn as she was. “Promise me, you'll get her head fastened on straight and get your sweet ass back here.”
He was smiling now, reaching around to grab her in both hands, squeezing 'til she squealed. Her hands landed on his chest, fingers spread across his t-shirt, under his cut. Underneath the shirt, she knew, he wore a brand, the same brand her father had born. Like cattle, she thought, trying her damndest not to be bitter. Straight to the slaughter. There was no time for bitterness now. Precious minutes. That was all they had. She could be bitter on the bus.
“Fine,” she sighed. “I promise, just stop torturing me!”
Because that's what it was, in his arms: torture. Sweet, perfect torture. His rippling muscles hard against her curves. His shaved head, fuzzy to the touch. Blue eyes like daggers. The shadow of a beard, scratchy as it brushed her cheek. Good lord, no one had the right to look like that, to feel like that. Never mind an 18-year-old thug from the bad side of town.
It was Bex's side of town, too.
There'd be no Cross in Arkansas, Bex was sure. No, there'd never be another Cross. Couldn't possibly be. He leaned in, covered her mouth with his. He tasted of licorice, and smoke. Smelled like leather. Felt like heaven and hell rolled up together.
She pushed at his chest, broke away; too much. This goodbye was too damn much. She'd known him all her life, all 16 years, growing up beside him in the tattooed arms of the Dead Crusaders Motorcycle Club. Her boon companion turned big, bad, boyfriend.
She'd given him every first. That summer, they'd marked off the last one, the big one. She'd let him in, held him through the ripping pain, felt him move inside her, opening her up like the rarest orchid in the world.
And now they said goodbye. Another first. An awful first.
Since there wasn't enough time in the world to ease the pain, Bex wanted it to be over.
Shit. The tears were coming. She couldn't stop them. And he couldn't see them; that, at least, she wouldn't allow. She'd let him do everything else, let him force her to make promises she couldn't keep, let him run her heart ragged, but she wouldn't let him see her cry. She turned around, fighting his tugging arms, pulling until all he had was her hand twined in his, their arms spanning the distance between them.
Cathy smoked a cigarette, looking bored, staring with dead eyes at her daughter. She ground the cigarette out and made a let's go gesture with her arms, stomping up onto the Greyhound. Bex closed her eyes and felt two fat, wet tears slide down her cheeks.
“Bex,” his voice sounded like it came from another world. A better world.
“I gotta go, Cross,” she moaned, voice thick. He squeezed her hand once, then let it go, their fingers uncurling, the line between them finally broken.
Broken for now, she told herself as she followed her mother onto the bus, glad for the aisle seat. She didn't want to look out that window and see him standing there, and she knew she wouldn't be able to resist if she sat beside the window. Only broken for now. You'll come back to him, you have to, love like this doesn't die that easy...
“He's just a fuckin' boy,” Cathy grumbled. “Soon enough he'll be a fuckin' man. And Bex, no man is no fuckin' good. Ain't no man is worth nothin' but a heap of laundry and a pile of heartbreak. You trust me on this, baby girl. Your father was the best of 'em, and even he done and fucked me over seven ways from Sunday.”
Bex felt numb. Cathy sighed and dug through her purse, coming out with a rattling orange bottle. She uncapped it, shook out four white pills. She popped three of them into her mouth, and held the last one out to Bex. Cathy didn't even need water to chase her pills anymore.
“Special treat, bein' that the ride is gonna be a long'un, and seein' as how you look like you got a heartache the size of this here Greyhound. But don't you let me catch you sneakin' it any other time, you hear me? This shit ain't fit for kids. Lord knows I was your age when...”
Cathy's voice trailed off and she coughed to cover the story she couldn't finish. Bex stared at the little white pill, then watched as her fingers drifted up and plucked it from mother's palm. She didn't think or feel anything as she slipped it between her lips, taking a swig from her water bottle to help it down her throat.
Just this once, she said, because the ache in her heart was so great she felt like it was chewing her up, getting her ready to be swallowed and digested. I won't end up like Mama. I promise, I won't end up like Mama. Cross isn't like Daddy. Cross will wait for me, and I'll wait for him. We just gotta be patient...we just gotta be good...we'll find each other again, sooner than I think.
The bus rumbled, the engine coughed, and a squeal of tires announced the beginning of their journey. Bex said goodbye to Cutter, Missouri, slouched down in her seat, waited for the drug to kick in, if it ever would. Then, soon after, when it did kick in, she could still feel her heartache, as fresh as ever.
She closed her eyes and wondered if it would ever go away.
She closed her eyes and kind of hoped it wouldn't.
Bex
“Tessa!”
She wasn't listening. Of course she wasn't listening. And even if she was, she probably couldn't hear me. Close as I was to the stage, her song was playing loud.
“Tessa! Tessa!”
Finally. She opened her eyes halfway, her pupils wide as dinner plates. She looked down, all around, finally found me. She offered a lazy smile as she dropped down to her haunches, spreading her thighs wide, knees nearly parallel. Green bills fluttered onto the stage.
“Honey bunny,” she slurred, whipping her brown hair over one shoulder and dropping to her hands and knees. She spun around so she was facing me and giving the men a good view of her ass in its stringy thong. “You bringin' me a gift?”
She reached out for one of the shots on my tray and I nearly spilled all of them ripping it away. She pouted and drew back like a little girl whose hand got slapped reaching for a cookie.
“Johnny's on the warpath,” I said. “And you need to get off the stage, right now, or he's gonna know you got high before work.”
“Bullshit,” Tessa said, but her voice was flat. She wiggled her ass, lifting it so she was in a sort of perverted downward dog position. The man on my right stared with dead eyes into her cleavage and dropped a fiver on the stage.
“Tessa, you're about as sober as Janis Joplin on a bad day,” I hissed. “Get your money, get off the stage. I got Sandy waiting to cover for you, and I'll tell Johnny you just received the red badge of courage.”
“Janis Joplin? Baby, I'm not into girls,” Tessa slurred through a smile, now more or less humping the stage.
What?
I didn't have time to think about what Janis Joplin and lesbianism could possibly have to do with each other. Johnny was gonna come in any second, and he could smell a junkie on the rope from across the room. He didn't give a shit about what his girls did
on their off time, but coming into work high was a big no-no.
Tessa's only chance of making it out of the night with her job intact was begging off immediately. She could blame it on her period, easy. No one wants a stripper bleeding all over the stage. If a girl started her period before her shift, she was expected to take care of it – but mid-dance? Totally excusable.
“Tessa, I'm begging you, lady, listen to me. You trust me, right, girl?”
“Of course, baby,” Tessa crooned, rolling over onto her back and spreading her legs. The men stared, looking not unlike zombies at an all-you-can-eat brain buffet. Enticed, but not enough to actually bring any life into their eyes.
“Then get off the stage,” I hissed. And that was it for me; I'd done all I could do. If Tessa didn't heed my advice, or appreciate that I was trying to save her skin, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. But she seemed to finally get it through her Percocet-addled skull and hobbled to her feet while hurriedly sweeping the money into her bra and off-stage into the wings.
I caught Danny the DJ's eye and nodded, and he made a quick transition into Sandy's song of choice. The timing was just about perfect; a minute later, Johnny was stalking his way through the club, hunched over like a vulture, sneering and smoking. I hoped Tessa was on her way out the door, or at least hiding out in the bathroom when Johnny tore through the dressing room.
Satisfied that I had, yet again, saved a girl who probably didn't deserve saving (and possibly enabled her addiction), I took my tray and my well-covered ass around the room, doling out shots and fighting off grabby hands. I was the only woman in the room not wearing 7-inch heels and pasties, but that didn't stop the clientele from acting like I was part of the show.
I'd worked at Ziggy's for eight years, ever since I turned 18 and could legally work there. That gave me certain privileges, but it also came with certain responsibilities. Like, any guy who actually went too far with me was treated to a quick and dirty escort out to the parking lot, courtesy of Dirk, our bouncer. But I was also, indirectly, responsible for the girls on stage. Saving Tessa from Johnny's wrath wasn't entirely altruistic; it also saved my ass from getting chewed out for letting her go on stage in the first place.
Why didn't Johnny just hire a goddamn manager to watch after the girls? Because I was good at it, and I'd turned down his offer for a salaried position. I made a lot more serving cocktails than I would have made managing the often-unmanageable revolving-door of strippers. But for an extra four bucks on my hourly wage, and tips, I was willing to take on the responsibility without the title.
Now, with my tray empty and Johnny lurking at the bar, I had no choice but to acknowledge him. The minute I was within shouting distance, he was on me.
“Where the fuck is Tessa? I saw the schedule. Did she no show?”
“No,” I said, dropping off my tray and waiting for Candy or Slick to refill it with the night's special: Jägermeister, at seven bucks a shot. My mini-apron was already bulging with tips. One good thing, even though I was fully dressed, the customers who bought shots were usually loaded enough to be loose with their singles. I'd never make as much as the girls on stage, but at least I got to keep my clothes on.
“Then where is she?”
“She got her period in the middle of her dance,” I said. “I cut her. She was a mess. You know how she gets...”
He grunted, a sign that he was losing interest. His eyes scanned the room. He didn't find anything to complain about. Thank god for that – though I doubt God had much to do with anything going on in Ziggy's that night. Especially in the “private room”, where some of the girls were performing unspeakable acts for their bread and butter.
Yeah, I didn't envy those girls the cash they made.
“Got a weird call today,” Johnny eventually said, right as I was lifting my tray to get back out on the floor. I put it down again, looking over my shoulder. No one looked very thirsty, so whatever. Let Johnny wax poetic about his social life. “About you.”
Oh. Well, okay. Now I was interested. And, immediately, on edge. Was it Jase? It had to be Jase. Who else would be crazy enough to call Johnny, of all people, looking for me?
“You know a man named Dutch?”
Well, stick a flag in my ass and call me the S.S. Surprised.
I did know a man named Dutch. In another life, about a million and a half years ago.
“Yeah,” I blurted. One of Johnny's eyebrows lifted slightly. Clearly, my face betrayed my surprise. It took me a breath before I felt composed again. “What the hell did he want?”
“To know when you were working,” Johnny said.
“And you told him...?”
“That I don't give out my employee's schedules.” Johnny snapped as though I'd insulted him by implying otherwise. “What do I look like, a fuckin' yearling?”
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. I didn't know what the hell Dutch could possibly want from me, but I was sure I didn't want anything to do with it. Dutch – and everything he stood for – had taken enough away from me in this life. I was getting by on my own, all on my own, no thanks to him and his “brothers”. I wanted it to stay that way.
“But he's probably going to come by, at some point, I guess” Johnny said, suddenly looking away like he was bored. I could have kicked him right in his johnnies.
“Well, I don't want to see him,” I spat. He looked back at me and shrugged.
“You got his picture? Show it to Dirk.”
I did not have Dutch's picture. And after ten years, I couldn't very well give Dirk a good description. But I could tell him what to look out for, the one thing Dutch would never go anywhere without: his cut, proudly announcing his position as President of the Dead Crusaders.
It was ten hours – with perfect traffic – from Cutter, Missouri to Helena, Arkansas. If Dutch was willing to come that far for me, I didn't want to know why. He sure as hell wasn't coming to say they'd found my father's buried treasure and decided to bequeath it to me. No, it wasn't going to be anything good. With those boys, it never fucking was.
Cross
“I'm goin' outta town.”
Dutch didn't need to explain himself, and he didn't. Except, sometimes, I really wish he would. Especially now that he had that fuckin' skank-witch whispering in his ear all the time.
“I expect you need some company? A bit of muscle?” I offered, only half-believing he'd take me up on it.
“Nah, boy, nah,” he said, voice rolling like gravel in a tin can. Boy, he said. He was always calling me boy, like I was a punk-ass prospect and not his Sergeant-at-Arms. I used to be pretty keen on that, thought it was nice, having a guy like Dutch wantin' to be father-figurely. These days, it was just plain grating. I already had an old man. I didn't need another.
“Y'sure?” At least Blade shared my sentiment, one boot propped up on the boss' desk, leaning so far back in his chair that it teetered on two legs. Chair looked like it was tired of holdin' his 6'2 frame anyway, and I worried for his ass if it decided to give out.
“I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't,” Dutch barked, looking more tired than angry. He was looking tired a lot these days.
“Well, you're gonna tell us where you're headed at least, boss,” Blade said, letting his chair fall forward, the front two legs slamming into the ground. How he didn't feel the impact all the way up his spine, I don't know. Maybe he did, but was just too much man to show it. Blade could be like that. Quiet. Hidden. Secrets behind his eyes and all that. And I liked him for it. I also liked the way he said shit to Dutch, instead of always asking shit. He was pretty much the only one who could tell Dutch to do anything, and while he didn't abuse the privilege, he also didn't waste it.
“Memphis,” Dutch barked, looking at us through his red eyes. Dutch looked older every year, which made sense since he was only human and he did get older every year. But he looked older in ways that didn't make sense to me. “Ol' lady got it fixed in her head she wants to see Graceland.”
“Fun,”
I said with a smile, meaning it. Maybe a little trip would do Dutch some good. I wish he was keeping the harpy at home, though. Maybe it was Sylvia and her close personal relationship with the Crypt Keeper that was making him age so fast. “Go to that Rockabilly place, get one of those grilled peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Fat Elvis was the best Elvis.”
“Ayup,” Dutch said with a nod. “You two keep it clean up here. It's just two days. I trust ya.”
“You got every right to,” Blade agreed with one of his trademark grins. “Now, I gotta say, we need to do some talking about that boy from Adinsborough.”
“What about him?” Dutch grumbled. His jowls were looking less flappy than I remembered growing up, his face seemed thinner. He was pushing fifty-five, but he looked sixty. Hard living will do that to a man, I supposed. And twenty years of running this ragtag bunch of hellions is about as hard as living gets.
“He's a fuck up,” Blade said, flat as could be. “I wanna cut him.”
“You mean literally, or figuratively?” I chimed in with a smile.
“Fuckin' figure-it-avely,” Blade shot back. I knew Blade hated when I showed off. I also knew it made him kind of proud at the same time. But if he read a book once in his life, he might realize I wasn't showing off at all, and didn't have much to be proud of. That was how normal folk know how to speak. It was only because all our brothers were denser than cement that I sounded smart.
I know I sound haughty sayin' that, and it's not entirely true. Every one of the Crusaders, to a man, had something to offer, something good. Shit, a lot of them were too smart; but being poor and undereducated, they had nothing to do with all that intelligence, so they drank until they could pass for stupid. That wasn't me, though. I drank, of course, but I wasn't trying to kill my brain cells in the process. No, I felt like I was on the right track to do something good for myself, and for all of us.