by Anne Marsh
She rests her cheek against my chest, breathing hard. I probably qualify for bastard of the year, if we’re being honest. She cried, and I fucked her. Cowgirl style. The only feelings allowed here are of the orgasmic, blissful kind. I know I’m an idiot for passing on the possibility of something more but that’s me. An idiot. No way anything else could work out between us anyhow. It’s not like I’m a white-picket-fence kind of guy—or the kind of man she can dress up in a suit and take to her company cocktail parties. I do dirty sex and I do it well. Really, really fucking well. Feelings, however, are not part of our deal.
The sounds of Bon Jovi’s “Ride Cowboy Ride” fill the air.
“That’s your dad,” Harper says. I both hate and love how she knows that I’ve given my dad that Bon Jovi ringtone. It makes it harder to pretend that we’re just sex and nothing else.
I grab my phone from the pile of clothes on the floor and answer. Apparently, it’s my night for crying women.
It’s Lora on the other end. At least, I think it’s Lora. The number’s right, but she’s crying so hard I’m not certain. Could be some random stranger sobbing into my ear.
“Calm the fuck down.” Harper stiffens by my side. Think she’s about to rip me a new one for my lack of manners, but then Lora spits out the words she’s choking on.
“Your dad’s dead.”
* * *
I turn my phone off when I reach the hospital, and I don’t fire it back up for two days. There’s no club business that needs me; Prez knows where I am and that I have personal biz. By the time my old man’s been gone two days, however, I decide it’s time to stop being such a pussy. I turn my phone back on, and watch the screen blow up with messages.
Stupid.
I delete the voice mails straight off. Nothing I need to hear there. The texts are harder. Got plenty from my brothers, reaching out and asking me if I need anything. As if. The practical stuff is harder. I deal with the doctors, the hospital, the funeral home and Lora. Shitload of other people come out of the woodwork, too, needing decisions about this, that and the other thing. And then there’s Harper. She must spend every free moment she has texting me because my phone’s at 317 messages and counting. The 317th is a fucking doozy—she’s been threatening since 246 to track me down and verify for herself that I’m okay. Not that she thinks I am—that’s clear. But that’s what losing your old man does to you. I get through the first night by shacking up with Jack Daniels, mostly because I’m dumb as shit. Each swallow dulls the memories a little more, but it all comes crashing back in the morning with a souvenir killer headache.
I know Harper and I have unresolved shit, but I’m in no mood to talk. Whenever I think about her, something twists inside of me. That call could have been about her. The closer someone gets, the more it fucking burns when they go away. By the time my phone lights up with message 318, I’m feeling really fucking sorry for myself.
HARPER: When’s the funeral? I want to be there for you.
ME: Not necessary.
HARPER: I want to.
Life’s funny—we don’t always get what we want. Santa Claus isn’t real, and he doesn’t give a boo-fucking-hoo about hitting the highlights on Harper’s wish list. I don’t know what’s happening between us right now—other than me avoiding the shit out of her—but I’m telling myself that the only wants I’ve got are sexual. Got a whole list of preferred positions and dirty fantasies she and I haven’t worked out yet. The dirty dangle, doing it accordion style, the electric slide...plenty of shit we haven’t tried. Or we could just redo a few favorites. She fucking mewls like a kitten when I do her hard from behind—I love that, too.
So what the fuck does she think I need from her right now? I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. Yeah, come hold my hand because I need...what? We’re just a hookup. Can’t afford to be more. My fingers fly across my phone with a life of their own.
ME: I don’t need a girlfriend.
My stupid, stupid fingers.
Harper doesn’t text me anymore after that.
I don’t bury my old man alone.
My brothers have my back. My dad might not have patched into our club, but he rode and he was mine, and by extension that means he’s theirs. Too many fucking pronouns in that mix, but you feel me. Don’t need their interference in my life, but it feels good to know that they care.
“You ready to do this?” Prez straddles his bike, hands on his thighs. Could be out for just any ride, but for the black bandanna around his upper arm.
“Yeah,” I say, throwing a leg over my own bike. “Time to let him fly.”
He nods slowly. “Okay to hold on, though, if that’s what you want.”
Doesn’t matter what I want so goddamned bad because my old man’s dead. I won’t turn around and find him riding my ass, a grin lighting up his face because he knows he’s got me. Old man loved to get a rise out of me. Might have fought over it, but I loved him.
“Let’s ride.”
“No one else we’re waiting for?”
I make a show of looking around the parking lot. “Entire fucking club’s here. You think I shoulda hired a brass band, too?”
Prez shakes his head. “Your girl not coming?”
“We covered this before. I don’t have a girl.”
Prez grunts. “You ask her to come?”
“None of her business,” I say slowly. “She’s not a biker, doesn’t ride with our club. Got no place for her here.”
Prez looks over at Romeo. “Jesus, he’s stupid.”
Romeo’s nodding hard enough to fall off his bike. “You fuck it up with her?”
“You ever know me to have a long-term relationship?”
“The kind where you fuck the same woman more than twice and wake up in her bed?” Romeo asks me.
“Sure.”
Prez looks me over. “He did.”
“Some shit’s off-limits,” I say. No big surprise that they fucking keep right on talking. My brothers are worse than a bunch of girls when it comes to this feelings business. Must have some of that attitude written on my face because Prez hooks a finger in my vest and pulls me close, dropping a heavy arm around my shoulder. Fucking feels like the man’s made out of iron.
“You think there’s no place for a woman in this club?” he asks. “Because you take a good look around you. Some of our brothers, they’ve found themselves an old lady and they’ve been smart enough to hang on. Put themselves the fuck out there and get down on their knees if that’s what it takes to make her stay. And if you think that’s a weakness, you’re dumber than I think. Those old ladies are the heart of this club, so that makes them the best fucking part of us. Sometimes it’s easier to do your thinking with your dick, but they make us more. Make us better.”
“Didn’t know it was national poetry day. Don’t see you wearing any old lady arm candy.”
Prez cuffs my head hard. “Just because shit’s sweet doesn’t make it candy. You find an old lady, you do whatever you need to do to keep her. If fate drops someone into my lap, I’m gonna throw an arm around her and hold her tight. Not ashamed to admit that there can be more than a quick fuck. Sometimes, you meet someone who belongs by your side and at your back, not just under you.”
“She’s not my old lady,” I say.
Not about to share my sex life with my club president. It’s none of the club’s business, and I’m not a porn channel he can surf. Sex with Harper was amazing. It’s just that...Harper’s looking for that shit, too. She wants forever and family and a goddamned dozen qualities I can never be for her, and not just because I don’t own a suit. Some brothers settle down, while the rest of us ride on.
“Hear you,” Prez says slowly. “Not a question of what she is now—because the answer to that would be not fucking here. More interested in what she could be if you were man enough to let her.”
�
�Yeah, well, what if I don’t want an old lady?”
“Jesus,” Romeo mutters. “You don’t want to win the lottery, either?”
Harper would not only know the odds on winning the lottery, but she’d know what came next, too. She never could wrap her head around my old man’s love of scratch-off tickets. Said it would be just as effective to burn your dollar or use it as toilet paper. Plus, she’d trotted out all sorts of sad sack stories about winners who went bust or ended up worse off than before because a lottery win’s a onetime thing and not an evergreen money tree you plant in your backyard.
“Harper and me are over,” I tell them.
Prez mimes shooting himself in the head. “Stupid as fuck.”
On that we’re agreed.
It’s time to ride, though, and so Prez stands up on the seat of his bike, hand balanced on Romeo’s head. The rest of the club immediately shuts the fuck up.
“We’re gonna say goodbye to a good brother today,” he says. He adds a few sentences about who my old man had been, his service to his country and how he and Prez had met. They’re good words, but I’m itching to ride.
My brothers listen, heads bowed in respect. Planting my old man in the ground had seemed too much like tying him down, so I’d had the body cremated. We’d let him ride, fly free over the highway he’d raced down so many times. I wait for the familiar stab of pain, and sure enough it comes. We’d had our differences, but we’d had our good moments, too.
We hit the highway at sunset, going balls-out as the desert stretches away from us on either side. It’s a good night for a ride, and when we crest a little rise in the highway, I know it’s time. I pop the lid on my old man’s urn and hold it overhead, letting what’s left of him fly free. Might be some people who think this is disrespectful, but he loved the road and the desert. He was happiest here, so this is the right spot to send him on ahead of us on his next ride. Someday sooner or later I’ll catch up with him, and he’ll give me shit for screwing things up with Harper.
I can’t wait to see him again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Harper
I’M SITTING OUTSIDE Vik’s place having a painful moment of personal reflection that Cosmo promises will bring 100 percent personal growth, but which makes me think the universe is one sadistic bitch. Yes, I’ve come looking for Vik. No, he didn’t ask me to be here. I’m torn between labeling this a gutsy all-in move on my part and recognizing that it smacks of desperation. I know he laid his father to rest today, or tried to. Not one but four bikers texted me. I want to be here for him in case he needs anything, but I’ve also been sitting outside long enough to realize a few things. The most important revelation is that I don’t have a key to his place. I have free access to his dick but not to his front door.
And if I need any confirmation that today’s been rough, he arrives in a truck. In the passenger-side seat. Vik hates letting anyone else drive, so he must be half-wasted. The biker doing the driving helps him out, shoving a broad shoulder underneath Vik’s arm so he can steer him toward the front door.
“I’m unavailable tonight,” Vik announces, bracing his forearm against the door. His voice is a liquid, drunken slur.
“You’re unavailable every night,” I point out.
Biker buddy just kind of shakes his head. He’s built like a mountain, which appears to be a requirement for joining the Hard Riders, and his long blond hair has been pulled back in a thick tail and braided. He’s got ink on his forearms, more on his throat, and I’m pretty sure that if I patted him down for weapons, I’d uncover a small arsenal. And yet despite the aura of danger he projects, he gives me a polite tip of his head.
“I’m taking over.” I squint (no glasses tonight) to read the patch on his vest. Romeo. I hope the story behind his road name is happier than the original.
Romeo doesn’t let go until he’s wrestled Vik inside and Vik’s not only heavy as a bear, but he’s also distinctly uncooperative. He bitches and mutters profanities while Romeo sort of accidentally elbows him in the stomach and then transfers him into my custody when we’re by the side of the couch. I score a head tip and then Romeo hightails it out the door. Smart man.
This is the point at which I run out of plan. My dress is a black-and-white-striped A-line number with a scoop neck. It stops an inch above my knee. I look cute—and all wrong. Black’s the color for funerals, and he doesn’t need cute. Not now.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“Holding you up.” To prove my point, I let go, and Vik promptly face-plants onto the sofa. “Or letting you go. Take your pick.”
He rolls over onto his back, glaring at me. “Did you come here for this?”
This is the monster dick he cups through his jeans.
“I came here for you. You’re more than just—we’re more than just—sex.” I drag my eyes back up to his face, needing him to understand. He looks so sad, and I want so badly to fix that.
“No. We’re not.” He yanks open his jeans and fists himself. He’s hard. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or concerned.
And it’s totally wrong, but I’m turned on. The adrenaline pumping through me from our almost-fight is heating me up in more ways than one. Or maybe it’s because the more I watch him treat his dick like it’s the world’s greatest plaything, the angrier I get. We may have started as a booty call, but we’ve moved on. We’re definitely something more, even if he doesn’t want to hear anything I’ve got to say. On a scale of one to ten, our emotions are running at twenty, but even if he won’t talk to me, maybe I can reach out to him this way. I know it sounds stupid, but that’s my plan. I step closer and lean toward him.
“You’re in my space,” he growls, his hand moving faster. He’s going to come without me, and I refuse to be left behind.
“Goddamned straight I am.”
I slide my hand up his arm and cup the back of his neck. He doesn’t pull away, so that’s a green light, right? Plus, his dick is all but stabbing me in the stomach as he continues to work himself with his palm. New plan. I’ll kiss that angry look right off his face. I yank his face to mine.
He tastes like the whiskey he’s poured down his throat tonight. He tastes like Vik. I kiss him with everything I have until he yanks his head back from mine.
“Leave.” The word comes out hoarse and rasping, like he’s fighting for air. My own breathing sounds like a freight train, a heavy, panting whine. I need him so badly.
“Bedroom,” I snap. “Now.”
He gives me a look I can’t interpret. Anger, need, rage, possibly homicidal intentions. And then he moves so fast I don’t see him coming. He jerks me off my feet, and I’m flying through the air, a completely undignified shriek leaving my mouth. I land hard on Vik’s shoulder with a loud whoosh.
“You don’t get to give me orders,” he snarls. “Not today, not ever. We clear on that?”
“Crystal,” I snap in my best Colonel Jessup imitation, jamming the heels of my hands into the small of his back. Don’t think Vik likes it because he smacks my butt with his palm. We’ve done dirty things together, but spanking isn’t one of them and I don’t think he’s playing tonight. How can this be the same man I’ve held and loved? The laughing man is gone, replaced by a surly-tempered giant with a raging hard-on.
At least the hard-on is familiar. He storms down the hallway to his bedroom, ignoring my attempts to spank his ass and see how he likes it. What happens next is equally familiar. He tosses me onto the bed and shoves his jeans down. Naked, pissed-off Vik is definitely worth looking at. This has to be why I’m not scrambling off the bed and sprinting for the door. The wide-open, not-locked, I-could-totally-leave-through-it door.
“Clothes off,” he says, voice hard. “Or get the hell out. Your choice.”
“Why?” I must have lost my ever-loving mind because now I’m just taunting him.
“Because I
want to have sex with you.”
Definitely crystal clear.
“Never mind,” he says, and reaches for me. Arousal mixes with a sudden dose of adrenaline. He’s my Vik, and yet he’s not. He spins me around before I can figure it out and flips up my dress. Hooking a finger in my panties, he tugs them down.
I twist, trying to see his face, but his weight pressing against me on the bed like he’s done so many times before. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, but the wave of heat that tears through me drowns out everything else. I may moan. I’m entirely certain I moan. This isn’t what I planned but if it’s the only way he’ll let me get close, I’ll take it.
He rolls forward, his weight pushing me deeper into the bed. His dick slides between my butt cheeks and I tense. He’s huge, and while so far angry sex is checking all my boxes, other things remain firmly in my no-fly zone. Like butt sex. I make an embarrassing squeaking sound and he laughs.
“I could make you like it.”
He makes the dirtiest, most beautiful promises, but kink isn’t what I want right now.
“Not tonight.”
If I have my way, we’ll have plenty of tomorrows to explore what each of us likes or dislikes. Vik brushes a finger over my tight pucker. And he’s right. It does feel good, all that heat and need prickling through me as I grind my hips into his mattress.
I twist my head, pressing my lips against his. If he doesn’t want to talk, we won’t. His beautiful, sulky mouth has a fresh bruise at the corner. He’s been fighting, and he’s been hurt enough. I nip, harder than I should. He grunts, deepening both our kiss and his caress as his hand rubs my butt again, sliding back up between my cheeks and pressing against my pucker. Barely touching me, but I know what it feels like when the big, bad wolf comes knocking at my door.
Good.
It feels good.