Hard Rider (A Bad Boy Motorcycle Club Romance)

by Wild, Nikki

  God damn but I was pissed. Especially when the boys started up their whooping again, like a bunch of Stanley Kubrick-style apes. No one was gonna be “defiling” Bex. Unless it was me, and she was begging for it.

  “At any rate, she's in a spot of trouble, and since Vicious lay his life down in the line of duty, I agreed to offer our protection. Seems a not-so-ex-husband of hers has got her number. Eyes and ears open, boys, eyes and ears. She's in the clubhouse for now, and since she has experience workin' in titty bars, I set her up over at Peach's to work the bar. She'll pull her weight, doesn't expect any free ride. Just some muscle watchin' out for her, keepin' the bastard at bay. Any objections?”

  There were none, and the matter was closed.

  Church started winding down not long after that, and it wasn't a minute too soon for a lot of the guys, who needed to either get breakfast, or start drinking to hold off their hangovers. Dutch called the end of the meeting, and a collective sigh of relief nearly blew out the windows.

  Before I could follow the rest of the boys out, Dutch barked my name. He didn't sound pissed, but he did look tired. Like he always looked these days. That trip to Memphis didn't do him any favors, it seemed. Then again, with a harpy like Sylvia at his side, a vacation could turn ugly right quick.

  Sylvia. Now, there was a woman who made you believe in the devil. She was so thin she’d fall through a crack in the floorboards, but she had this crazy beauty about her that made it clear why Dutch took a shine to her. Her bein’ half his age probably helped, too. But unlike a lot of the other old ladies in our club, Sylvia wasn’t the sociable type. She stayed in the shadows, it seemed, always whispering in Dutch’s ear while he gripped her knee like she was ‘bout to float away.

  No one knew where he’d found her, she wasn’t a local girl. She just seemed to show up on his arm one day, and was wearin’ his Property Of patch the next. Over time, it was well-known that while she was reserved and whispery in public, she was a regular banshee behind closed doors. Well, you know they say the crazy ones make up for it in bed, and I guessed that was what kept Dutch from kickin’ her to the curb.

  At any rate, no one had the balls to say shit about her to Dutch. We all enjoyed our balls far too much to risk ‘em doin’ something so foolish.

  “Yeah, boss,” I said, approaching him.

  “You wanna take the Carter girl to Peach's? I don't want her riding alone, since we promised her protection and all.”

  Well, I sure as hell did want to be the one to take Bex over to her new gig. But Dutch could've gotten anyone to do it. Didn't need his main muscle to protect her from a lily-livered wannabe stalker. I guess he was trying to set us up. And that made “why?” the question of the day.

  “Sure thing, boss,” I said. The question of the day could wait. Getting Bex on the back of my bike? That was an immediate issue.

  Cross

  Peach's Gentleman's Club was nothing to write home about, but it served its purpose for us. Aside from the stage with its greased poles, the floor was a maze of tables and chairs, the bar cutting a clear line from the door to the back rooms. It wasn't meant to attract many customers.

  It was, rather, a place to launder our money, and make a little more on the side. A place for the boys to come blow off some steam – or hide from their old ladies – when needed. A place to take prospective business associates, show them they could have a grand ol' time doing business with us. And a job for the dirty video girls, something to keep them busy between shoots, or someplace for them to go after they'd passed their prime.

  The proprietor, Bessie “Peach” O'Doughan, was as crusty, foul-mouthed, ill-tempered, and beloved as any patched member of the Crusaders. She ran a tight ship, looked after “her girls”, and, most importantly, had lips tighter than a bank vault. No one would ever drag anything out of Peach that she didn't want dragged out of her. And considering just how much she knew about the Crusader's dirty business, that made her an invaluable asset.

  She was also a great judge of character, as proven by the way she took to Bex. As soon as she laid eyes on her, Peach was all smiles and jokes. I stayed in the back, smoking and talking to some of the old timers who killed their days at the bar, watching the titties swing. For the first time in a long time, it was easy to keep my eyes off the stage. None of those girls had a thing on Bex. Her body was the only one I wanted to look at.

  Once Peach was done with the grand tour, and Bex had met some of the girls and employees, it was just a matter of scheduling. Tuesday through Friday nights seemed to work for everyone, and Bex looked downright giddy as she shook Peach's hand and came to my side.

  “You like the place, I'm guessin'?”

  “Well, it's not the place, per say,” Bex said through her smile. “But I want to get back to work. I haven't had more than three days off in a row in five years, and I'm getting antsy.”

  “Well, you'll be in good hands,” I said, saluting Peach from my side of the bar. “Peach always lives up to her name.”

  “Aw, get out of here, Cross,” Peach said, snapping a rag in the air. “Save the sweet talk for someone your own age.”

  “I think she means you,” I said, throwing my arm around Bex's shoulders, loving the way she rolled her eyes even as her smile widened.

  “Don't you have somewhere else to be today?” Bex said, but she didn't try to escape from under my arm.

  “I sure don't,” I said. “I'm all yours. What do you say we go on a little stroll down memory lane? See what you've been missin' while you were away.”

  Bex seemed to be considering this for a moment, but the brightness in her green eyes gave her away, and she was nodding her head soon enough. Perfect.

  Havin' her on the back of my Vincent was like slippin' on a pair of my favorite boots. She just fit there. But as we drove through Cutter, I was torn. Being her hometown, so she did belong here. But when you really looked at it, you knew she was too damn good for it at the same time.

  All the foreclosed houses, all the cracks in the sidewalk and holes in the chain-link fences, all the trap houses and the bulletproof glass on the corner stores…it was an ugly city. No skyline to speak of. All carved into the ass-end of what was once deep Ozark forest, turned unsightly and barren by the old zinc mine. The river was the only sight worth seeing, aside from those sights that held sentimental value.

  We rode out to the bowling alley where we used to tag the shit out of the balls; past the schools we both attended; along the railroad tracks to Prince's Bar, where we snuck in to see Iggy Pop and the Stooges when she was just 14. We didn't even bother going through the rich part of town, keeping to the places we knew best. The bridge we partied under with the rest of the Crusader kids. The Lipstick Lounge, another place we had to flash our fake IDs, this time to see Jay Reatard before he joined that big rock band in the sky; that was the first time we kissed.

  Eventually, our tour took us along the river, towards Alson Park, where we'd shared a lot more kisses after that first one. A lot more other things, too, including some firsts for the both of us. I slowed down and parked, helping her off.

  “It looks just the same, Cross,” she said with a sigh. She was right; it did. It was like Cutter hadn't changed a bit. Like she'd left, and God had pressed pause on our city, just until she came back.

  “Thanks for this,” she said, turning to face me, her hair windswept and her cheeks bright, her freckles like a star map across her nose and cheeks. “It was nice, seein' everything again.”

  The longer she was here, the more her accent seemed to come back. She sounded more and more like Bex, to me.

  “Of course, babe,” I said. “Hasn't been the same without ya.”

  She blushed, lowered her eyes. Her smile seemed to falter. In fact, that had been happenin' all day. And even before this day. I assumed she was thinking about her shithouse rat of an ex-husband. But it seemed to weight her down mightily. And whatever it was, she wasn't offering the answer up to me. I could see it in her eyes, clear a
s day, but the truth itself was foggy. She'd come to me in time, I was sure. I could wait her out.

  “Listen, I gotta stop by my place, and then we'll head back to the clubhouse,” I said. I wanted that smile back on her face, I wanted her back on my bike, and then I wanted her on her back in my apartment. There'd be time for finding out what was wrong, soon enough. Once I knew for sure she'd tell me, and not just try to brush it off like nothin', the way women do. In the meantime, I was on a mission. It wasn't a holy mission, but it felt like one to me.

  See, the night before, feeling her come just from my fingers, talkin' to her for hours, gettin' lost in her eyes again...it was like waking up from a coma. I had her back now. And I was never lettin’ her go. Fucking never. She was mine, always had been and always would be. Screw her husband; if he showed his face in Cutter, I'd rip it straight off.

  She was going to be wearing my Property Of patch. If she didn't know it yet, she was going to know it soon. I just needed to get between her legs again, 'cause I was already in her head, and I knew for damn sure I was still in her heart.

  Bex

  Well, of course he'd bring me to his apartment. Outside of Alson Park, it was the site of all our high school experiments. It was where we'd twined and curled our bodies together, countless sleepless nights, sweating through the sheets...

  “I can't believe you still live here,” I said as Cross walked into the kitchen and started making noises. The décor was mostly unchanged. Boy-sparse, if you know what I mean. Milk crate for a coffee table, rips in the couch cushions, an ashtray overflowing. The TV didn't look like it could possibly work, but it probably did.

  The only thing that looked cared for was the liquor cabinet; that was fully stocked. And the bookshelves; those were fully stocked, too. I’d never met anyone who read as much as Cross did, though he tried to hide it from everyone. Like he was embarrassed that he had brains and brawn. I could understand that. Growing up the way we did, it wasn’t good to show off.

  “Rent's cheap, and all my stuff's already here,” Cross yelled from the kitchen. I walked through the living room to the hallway. The kitchen was on the left. The bathroom was right in front of me. I did not want to explore the bathroom – there were probably specimens on his shower curtain that would interest NASA. If I turned right, I'd end up in his bedroom.

  It had been such a nice day. I could almost forget what I was doing to him. What a dirty, awful rat I was. How little I deserved him. How I should just walk out, right then, and run away and never come back. Guilt curdled in my stomach as I looked down the hall to the kitchen. It sounded like Cross was just banging pots together to make noise. I looked to the right, to the bedroom. The door was open.

  The whole apartment smelled like him.

  My legs still tingled from the roar of his engine between them, the feel of his bike and the smell of his leathers in the wind just like coming home all over again. It was the smells, I think, that did me in. They say that smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. And boy, was I remembering some shit, standing in that hallway, staring at that bedroom, knowing everything I learned there on that bed, every time I cried his name. I turned my body to the right and took a few steps.

  “Bex?”

  I jumped at his voice behind me, looked over my shoulder. He was empty-handed, but his eyes were full. My heart thudded dully in my chest, my blood in my ears, making them ring.

  “Bex,” he said again, not a question this time. He came to me, stood right behind me, and I turned again to face the bedroom, the open door of the bedroom, the side of the bed visible through the open door of the bedroom...

  He brought his hands to my neck, and his fingers rolled across the knot at the top of my spine. Spreading his hands wide, his fingers traced my skin, moving back and forth along the sides of my neck. He knew that was where I was most vulnerable, my body responding immediately.

  “Cross,” I moaned, feeling my body shift backwards against his. His fingers kept grazing my neck, wrapping around it just to pull away, over and over and over...“What are you doing?”

  As if I didn't know. His fingers stilled, then dropped, and then suddenly he was in front of me, his blue eyes blazing, his body casting a shadow over mine.

  “I'm taking you to bed,” he growled, closing the distance between us, grabbing my cheek in his hand. When his thumb ran over my flesh, I melted, closed my eyes, purring for him like a kitten. “And you're going to come.”

  He said it like he knew it, and I believed him. No one – ever – had made me come like Cross. Wild, delicious release...I could feel it at my fingertips, so close.

  “Cross,” I moaned, “I only been back two days...I can't...”

  “Can't what, darlin'? If you tell me to stop, I'll stop. Maybe you been gone ten years, but the way a man like me feels for a woman like you...”

  I sighed, eyelids fluttering closed, letting my heart believe him for as long as I could. Letting my body pretend this was real. Wanting it like my lungs wanted air to breathe. It had been so long, and my skin was tight from desire. There was an itch in me, to feel that stubble against my cheek, to dig my nails into his wall of muscle, to scratch and bite and love him up until it was gone.

  “And how's that, Cross?” I asked. “How is it that a man like you feels for a woman like me?”

  I opened my eyes, found his eyes waiting for me. Like I thought, maybe, we'd just been waiting for each other, not even knowing it. I didn't know how hollow I'd felt until I was in his arms again, feeling so full.

  “Like startin' over, baby,” he said. “Like lovin' you right, all over again.”

  “Oh,” I moaned, and it was my way of saying yes.

  Cross reached down, tugged at my belt loops, pulled me along as he walked backward down the hallway. And he still hadn't kissed me, had barely touched me, but I was on fire for him. He slammed the door shut behind us, his bedroom sparse – but I wasn't really looking at anything but him, those blue eyes holding me as tight as his arms.

  “Get this off you,” he growled, yanking at my jeans. My fingers flew to my jeans, undoing the button in the space of a heartbeat, letting them slide down my hips into a puddle on the floor. My shoes were a little harder to get rid of, but Cross took the chance to walk away from me, studying me from across the room, on the other side of his bed. My heart was thudding heavy in my chest, my body exposed for the first time in a long time.

  “The shirt, too, Bex,” he said, arms crossed, blue eyes blazing. “Everything. Give me everything.”

  Oh, fuck. I was going to; I had to. My body was already his. I stripped down to nothing but my bra and panties, skin puckering and rising in gooseflesh. He ran a hand through his hair, his reaction to my body as hot as a touch. My breasts were shaking slightly as they spilled out of the top of my bra, and his hands fisted.

  “Come here,” he said. “Now.”

  I loved it. I loved how he took control. In this room, the two of us, alone, there was nothing but pleasure. No fear, no guilt, nothing. Just flesh on flesh. I stepped forward, kneeled on the bed, crawled forward on all fours, eyes never leaving his.

  “Fuck, Bex,” he grunted, watching me crawl towards him with my lips open and my body bared for him. His. He grabbed me, pulling me up in those impossibly strong arms, and finally our lips met. It was quick, and dirty, and I moaned against his tongue as it pressed against my own. He kissed me like he was starving, and I was the only food for miles.

  His hands moved to my ribcage, then to my breasts; frustrated by the fabric keeping him from my skin, he ripped my bra away, tearing the clasp. My nipples hardened as he brushed them with his thumbs, tightening with each passing second. Pinching them between his thumb and forefinger, he drew a muffled cry from my throat.

  “Cross...” I could barely say his name as he pulled away; it was so sudden that I swayed slightly, and he grabbed my thighs, pulling my legs out from under me. This time, I cried out in surprise, as I found myself on my back, ass bouncing against the mattre
ss, my panties being ripped away from my slit. I was wet already, I knew; soaked, actually. My body had been preparing for him since he picked me up that morning. My body knew what it wanted, what it needed. Him, his tongue, his fingers on my flesh...

  “Fuck, yeah, baby,” he crooned, taking in the sight of me, spread-eagle and naked on his bed. His hands grabbed at my thighs, kneading and stroking the flesh until I was writhing, grabbing the bedsheets for traction, moaning in desperation. My pussy ached, my clit throbbed for him. I felt like the slightest touch would send me over the edge; and Cross knew it, too. He knew it, and he was going to use it against me. Sweet, sweet torture.

  He moved one hand from my thigh to my breast, cupping it from below while his fingers found my nipple and tweaked it, hard. I cried out, thrashing my head to the side, my hips bucking, reaching for the lips and tongue he was denying me.

  “You want to tell me what you want, baby?” He teased from between my legs, moving his other hand across my torso, clutching and teasing my breast, pinching and twisting each nipple. I remembered this, all too well; the way he always wanted me to say it, say the dirty words, tell him exactly what I wanted. He wanted to hear me beg.

  “Please,” I whispered, grabbing at his hair, so long now compared to before. I loved it, the feel of each strand flowing through my fingers. “Please, Cross...”

  But no matter how I tugged, he was stronger, always stronger, and he was going to wait until I was pleading with my last breath.

  “You gotta be more specific than that,” he said, and now his mouth was so close that I could feel the air propelled by his words against my lips, driving a stake of need through my stomach. His hands left my breasts, grabbing at my thighs and swinging them over his shoulders, my lower back lifting from the sheets.

  “Fuck me, or lick me, oh God, Cross, do something, let me come, Cross, please, please, please,” I cried, giving in to him. And I was rewarded. Cross leaned in and rolled his tongue around my throbbing clit; at the same time, he thrust two fingers into my slit, curling them upwards and finding my g-spot in seconds. My spine went stiff and I fairly levitated off the bed as every nerve sparked at once.