Hard Rider (A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance)

by Wild, Nikki

  “What's wrong with him?” Dutch demanded.

  “Well, for starters, he's been bitching about working bar back,” Blade said, holding up a finger. For each infraction, another finger went up. When he was on two hands, Dutch stopped him.

  “Cut him,” he growled. “Don't need his slacker ass. How many prospects we got these days, anyway?”

  Now, Blade glanced at me, and I knew he wished he had a more elegant way of saying what he had to say.

  “Three,” he admitted. A low number, even for a city as small as Cutter – a city which, by the by, hosted two clubs. Which was one too many. Or two too many, if you ask the local PD. For us, though, we knew we had to live with it. The Black Hawks weren't going anywhere fast. Neither were we, for that matter. We'd lived alongside them in relative peace for almost forty years now, and no one wanted to upset that balance.

  “Three? Three? Did I hear you right, Blade? Did I hear you say we have three fucking prospects?”

  “Well, not counting Marty, of course, since we've already agreed that he...”

  “Fuck that,” Dutch said, slamming his fist on the desk. “We ain't cutting shit with numbers like that. Who's gonna run our dope and keep our bitches in line when most of us are in walkers or six feet under? Fuck me, boys, 'cause that won't be my problem, it'll be yours. So you find a way to get this Marty kid to play by our rules, 'cause you're the ones who'll be missing him ten years down the line. Three fuckin' prospects, Jesus H. Christ...”

  I hadn't seen Dutch that animated in a long time. It was almost kind of nice, seeing some life back in the old man's eyes. And he had a point; the Dead Crusaders were currently running a little top-heavy. Meaning, most of our guys were getting too long in the tooth to play a young man's game.

  We needed more fresh bodies to keep up the constant patrols, intimidate intruders, withstand long runs, drive truck cross-country, and generally do the shit that forty-year-olds didn't want to do anymore. At 28, I was one of the youngest members. And I sure as hell wasn't getting my hands dirty in that low-level shit. I had more important things to do, right there in Cutter. I couldn't be running off to Iowa with a truckload of stolen stereos, not when there might be something going down right in our territory.

  I was the muscle. The enforcer. I'd been practically raised for it, taking my father's place when his own body no longer suited the role. I'd been fighting since I was 13, and had the muscles and scars to prove it. Usually, the muscles and scars were enough that I didn't have to prove it.

  “Alright, boss,” Blade said, nodding. “I'll get some of the boys to show him the error of his ways.”

  I almost felt bad for the prospect. They wouldn't go easy on him. It didn't pay to go easy on guys who weren't playing the game the way you needed them to play it. In my life, I'd learned that there were only two ways to get your point across: you either threatened to beat it into someone, or you did beat it into someone.

  “Anything else? Got more shit news from the shit heap for me?” Yeah, Dutch was in no sort of mood that I wanted to mess with. Better to leave it on that note, rather than say anything to piss him off more.

  He definitely didn't need to know about the skinheads who'd been spotted trying to deal on our turf, or the guy who'd shorted us on our last batch of hardcore porn. We had our fingers in a lot of pots, and that meant there was always something going wrong. But Blade and I, and the rest of the Crusaders, could handle it. Didn't need to bring every little mess and mishap to Dutch's attention. Especially these days. Maybe five years ago, when he still had that twinkle in his eyes and that venom under his nails.

  Not anymore.

  Blade and I left Dutch grumbling over some mysterious figures in the club's books. Another fuckin' problem: one of our fronts, a laundromat of all things, wasn't jiving when it came to numbers. Too much going in and not enough coming out. Or something.

  I never got close enough to see the nitty gritty, though I thought I could probably be of some help. I'd always been good at math. Even with my shoddy attendance record, fuck-homework mentality, and general disregard for all things school, I'd managed to do pretty well on the state math tests. English, too, for that matter. I didn't graduate, but I could have come close. A lot closer than most of the kids from our side of town.

  Shit, damn near the only girl from the Northside who could keep up with me was Bex. And she was long gone. Ten years gone, to be precise. I didn't miss her like I used to, but I wondered about her all the time. If she was doing alright for herself. I shouldn't have cared, but I couldn't help it. Girls have a way of doing that shit to a boy. Especially those girls. You know the ones. The first ones. The sweetest ones. The ones you touched before anyone else got to them. Yeah, that was Bex.

  She had a good head on her shoulders – better than mine, for damn sure. She was probably living that nice, suburban life. Hubby. Kids. Lawn for the dog, with grass that stayed green all year round. Work in an office. Those thoughts made me smile, for her. Because I'd never have anything like that, and I didn't want anything like that, but I figured she probably deserved it. After putting up with her mama, after what happened to her pop, she deserved it.

  Me? I deserved a cold beer down at the bar, and whatever fresh young pussy happened my way first. With Dutch gone for a couple of days, I'd have to keep myself in check when it came to partying, more than usual. But that didn't mean I had to be sober, or celibate. Blade and I had some things to discuss, and we might as well discuss them over a beer, after getting our dicks sucked in one of the back rooms.

  Yeah, it was the fuckin' life. The one I was born into, sure, but I would have chosen it, too.

  Brotherhood, booze, broads, and bills: what more could anyone want?

  Bex

  Corralling a crew of wasted, drugged-up, drama-loving strippers was hard on an easy day. With Dutch's looming specter haunting me every night, it was damn near impossible. I had to keep one eye on the stage, one eye on the floor, one eye on the girls, and one eye on the door. And no, I'm not a freak of nature, I've only got the two eyes to use.

  I told Dirk that if a big man in a leather cut tried to get in, to give him some extra attention. And if he bore a patch that said Dead Crusaders, he wasn't coming in. Under no circumstances. It'd be Dirk's job, and maybe even his head, if Dutch got past him.

  Of course, thinking that I could stop Dutch from doing something he wanted to do was my first mistake. Because sure enough, three days after Johnny told me he was gonna come, he was there, standing beside the door, Dirk looking at me all frantic. I'd heard the altercation in the lull between Crystal's songs, and walked to the door with a sinking heart.

  “Bex, he's got a fuckin' gun, alright? I ain't paid enough to risk another hole in my ass. Twice was enough. You want me to get the precinct on the phone? I don't mind lettin' the boys in blue take care of this, just as long as I can call 'em from down the fuckin' block, 'cause I ain't stickin' around for the shoot-out...”

  Dutch looked old. And he was unaccompanied. Both were surprising, the latter more than the former. After all, it'd been ten years. He should have looked old. He was getting old when I left. But he wasn't dumb when I left, and for the President to go anywhere without some muscle backing him up was a dumb move. I guess he didn't think Bex Carter was a threat.

  He was kind of right about that, much as I hated to say it.

  “I don't know what you're thinkin' about me, Bex,” Dutch said. “But I ain't here to hurt ya. I'd never hurt ya. One of our own? Vicious' own flesh an' blood? Hell naw.”

  “Then give Dirk the gun,” I said. Fuck this. I wanted to believe Dutch. My father had died for him. He better have enough honor in him not to cause me any grief. “I'll talk to you, but not with a gun between us.”

  He smiled. I felt a little sick. I'd worked hard to bury him with all the other memories of the club. He was always good to me. He was good to everyone, a good leader. But I wasn't one of them anymore. That wasn't my life, and I didn't want it to be. And him being
here...it wasn't good. I couldn't tell you how I knew it, but it just wasn't.

  “O'course, sweetheart,” he said, and turned to Dirk with that smile plastered on. “Take good care of her, huh, bud?”

  He held his handgun out to Dirk. No doubt, he had another in his boot, and a knife in his pants. But the gesture mattered enough to soothe my soul a bit. Dirk stared at the gun for a long moment, looking every bit the stupid mound of muscle, then took it. He looked at me, and I nodded towards one of the tables in the back.

  “I'm gonna get us a drink, and I'm gonna get Slick to cover the door while I meet with my....old friend...here. Dirk, would you mind sitting in the next booth?”

  “Now, I don't see what we need all that for, princess,” Dutch said, looking hurt. His crocodile tears were nothing to me.

  “I'd prefer it that way, Dutch,” I said. “You're in my club now, no offense, and I'd thank you to do things my way.”

  His jaw worked in a slow circle under his grey beard. His eyes were shot with red, and they flared in anger. But then he smiled again, cheeks thin. He opened his hands, palms up.

  “Right you are, sweetheart,” he said, and started walking towards a vacant table in the back. “Guess I should be a little proud, huh? Taught you good, taught you how to cover your own hide. Wish you'd trust me, but I think you'll see, I'm here for your benefit as much as I'm here for mine.”

  A few minutes later, Dutch and I were sitting face-to-face, each equipped with a shot of whiskey and a beer. Dirk was nearby, but not close enough to hear anything. Dutch sipped his whiskey slow, and I downed mine in a shot. I needed it to get through whatever this shit was. Him drinking slow was new to me, too; like his thin cheeks, the grey of his beard, his red eyes, his wrinkles. He never used to balk at a stiff drink. He never used to take anything slow.

  “So,” he said. “This your place?”

  “Well, not my place,” I said. “I'm kind of the manager. Mostly serve cocktails, but also look after the girls. Make sure things run smooth.”

  “So you're a cocktail waitress,” he said.

  “Only in title,” I shot back, going on the defensive. “Make more money than being on salary, otherwise I'd have a fancy nametag sayin' manager and everything.”

  Shit; being with Dutch was making my old accent roar to life. I'd tried to lose it. It wasn't a pretty southern accent, nothing you'd hear at a fancy dress ball. It was raw, harsh, almost violent.

  “I ain't judging,” Dutch said over another sip of whiskey. “Just tryin' to get a feel for where you're at.”

  “Why?” I didn't want to dance around the issue. If he wanted to play catch up and talk about the old times, he could do it over lunch, when I wasn't working.

  “'Cause I got a proposition for you,” he said. “I think it would be mutually beneficial.”

  I'd already said no in my head. I was done with the Crusaders. There was no going back. But I let him keep talking, and that was my second mistake.

  “I expect you remember Cross DuFrane?”

  Oh shit. Dutch had dug way down into his asshole and pulled out the one name that could make me choke on my beer. Of course I remembered Cross. You don't forget your first; love, fuck, whatever. And Cross was my first everything. It took me years to get over that boy.

  But I was over him. Ten years after leaving him at that bus stop, I was over him. Hell, I'd gotten married in between then and now. Granted, that marriage was a mess and more trouble than it was worth, but still. I didn't think of Cross that often. And when I did, I didn't feel a thing. Except, hearing his name from Dutch's lips...

  Well, maybe the shot and the beer weren't such good ideas after all.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I remember.”

  “I know you were sweet on him. Real sweet. But ten years, you know, that's a long time. People change. You've moved on, ain't you?”

  I nodded. Yes, I'd moved on. So? I suddenly felt fear creeping down my spine. Was Dutch here to tell me Cross was dead? Had he travelled ten hours and tracked me down just to tell me my one-time boyfriend had bought it, just like my father?

  “Cross has changed, too,” Dutch said, and now he leaned in closer, his eyes darkening. “But not in any ways I'd call good. I made a mistake. Made him my Sergeant-at-Arms. I think it's been gettin' to his head, him being so young. Always had a bit of the rebel in him, anyhow.”

  “What's this all got to do with me, Dutch?”

  “I need someone to get close to him. Don't gotta do nothin' untoward, you understand. But close enough to know what's goin' on in his head. Because I think it's no good. I think he's plannin' something very stupid. It won't end well for him. I need someone who can stop him before he gets started. Someone who can let me in on his secrets. You understand where I'm goin', Bex?”

  “You want a spy. You want me to go back to Cutter, get back with Cross, and be your spy. I'm not dumb, Dutch. I understand perfectly well. But it ain't gonna happen. For three good reasons. One, I'm never going back to Cutter. Two, I don't want nothing to do with Cross. Three, I don't play secret agent. Sorry you wasted a trip. Could have called and...”

  “Bex, Bex, Bex,” Dutch said, smiling as he leaned back, shaking his head, almost like he pitied me. “Princess, you're right on some accounts, dead wrong on others. I'm willin' to make it worth your while. In money...and in services.”

  “Services?” I asked, intrigued despite myself. But then I shook my head; no. I couldn't let this ridiculous conversation go any further. “Sorry, Dutch. Really, truly. Listen, stick around, enjoy the girls, drinks on the house, alright?”

  I tried to stand up. His hand shot out, grabbed my wrist, pulled me back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dirk stiffen, almost rise.

  “Fifty grand,” Dutch said. “Fifty grand, cash. Half now, half later.”

  Shit. I sat down on my own. Fifty grand? That could buy me a plot of land and a nice trailer. It could buy me a car that had four working windows and an air conditioner. It could pay off my credit cards. In Helena, fifty grand could get you a whole fucking lot. Fifty grand...well, all I could think was, hot damn.

  “And,” Dutch went on, smiling like he was about to hit the bullseye. “I'll get rid of your ex-husband.”

  He didn't need to hold my wrist to keep me at that table anymore. He had me, hook, line, and sinker.

  “He's still my husband, technically,” I said, staring into his old, cold, black eyes. It was crazy; one minute, I was the Bex Carter I'd always been. In the next, I couldn't even recognize myself. The change was instantaneous. And I knew I wouldn't like this new Bex Carter. I knew I wouldn't be proud of her, of anything she did. I knew I'd regret it. I knew I could never go back.

  But that didn't stop me from staying at that table and hashing out the details. It didn't stop me from shaking hands with the devil. And that was my third mistake. I wish I could tell you it was my last, but that would be a lie. There were more mistakes to come, but none as bad as that one. No, it's true what they say; third time's the charm.

  Bex

  It had been ten years since I rode a Greyhound bus. My mother took me to Helena, and I never left. Not even when she died, leaving me with nothing but ashes and a house full of dirty needles. What had been a problem before my father died became a full-on addiction after. She didn't live to see me turn twenty. We didn't even own the house. I still paid rent there.

  With fifty grand, I could probably buy it.

  Or something better.

  I had to keep thinking that way, because if I thought of anything else, I'd get sick to my stomach again. It had nothing to do with motion sickness, even though the bus smelled like piss and my seatmate smelled even worse. Being over Cross didn't mean I could live easily with betraying him. Even if he was different. Even if he was planning some mutiny on the club. Love demands loyalty, even when it's ten years gone.

  But I couldn't turn Dutch down. The money meant too much. I'd been treated like trash my whole life. Growing up in the club, we did more than alright
, had the club's dirty businesses to support us. But it wasn't our money. It was never our money. I grew up with the rest of the club kids, running haywire through our side of the city. Never crossing those invisible lines that separated the have's and the have not's. In school, everyone knew the club kids from the normies. Club kids were trash. Even fitted out in new clothes and the season's hot sneakers, we were trash.

  And then, of course, I lost all that when my old man bit it, taking a bullet to the heart when a deal went south. We could have stayed, Mama and I, and they would have taken care of us. Mama would probably even have found a new husband. But she didn't want that. She wanted out. Heartbroken, she refused it all, and took me from the rolling Ozarks to the swamps of Arkansas. The club sent money, I believe, but I never saw it. It all went straight into her veins. From the time I was 16 on, I was dirt poor and trash. Double whammy.

  The revolving door of debt, the EBT cards, the forms and waiting in line at the welfare office, the stink of poverty all around me. The roof leaking. The basement caving in. The water turned off. The things people thought: if you worked harder, if you got a better job, if you weren't so lazy. America's the land of opportunity, right? But not to me. I had to drop out of school in my senior year. I never learned to use Powerpoint. My resume was a joke. I couldn't afford a nice outfit to interview in, and I didn't have the time or energy to interview anywhere, anyway.

  Excuses, excuses, I know, I know. But almost as soon as I was no longer responsible for taking care of Mama, I became responsible for taking care of a husband. Jase had a good job when I met him, working construction. He was a forklift operator. Bonafide. Bringing home enough money to cover his rent and some of mine. And he was sweet, ready to spoil me – what passed for spoiling, anyway. Taking me to dinner at Chili's, bringing me groceries from the nice grocery store instead of the Wal-Mart, leaving a pretty dress in the closet for me to find before a date. Why wouldn't I marry him?