by Ward, Kira
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
About This Book
Baby For The Biker Bad Boy
End
Baby For The Biker Bad Boy
By Kira Ward
Copyright © 2015 Kira Ward
All rights reserved.
[email protected]
http://www.amazon.com/author/kiraward
Warning: This book contains mature themes and detailed depictions of sexual encounters.
All characters involved in sexual encounters are at least 18 years of age and not blood related. All persons and events are fictional, and any similarities to real places and events are purely coincidental.
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Chapter 1
“This is going to be good.”
Nola Grant dropped a box on the kitchen counter and turned to survey the rest of the room. It wasn’t a bad little house. There was lots of natural light shining through the picture window in the living room. The old couch there looked nice, set off perfectly by the white walls and tan carpet. The kitchen was clean, the counters a nice veined-marble look despite the obviously cheap material. They could make this work.
“And we’re within walking distance of almost everything except the university. That’s good, right?”
Her mother didn’t respond. She stood in the center of the room staring at the wall as though she could see something there that Nola couldn’t.
Nola moved to her and slid her arm around her waist. “It’s going to be okay, Mom. It’s a new start. An adventure.”
Her mother nodded. “I know. I just…I lived in Dallas all my life. I never imagined I would be making a new start this late in my life.”
Nola pulled her closer and lay her head on her should for a moment. “I don’t think any of us did. But sometimes you can’t predict what might happen.”
Her mother patted her cheek and then moved away. “Might as well attack these boxes.”
Nola followed her lead, going into the kitchen to unpack the many plates, utensils, and pots they had chosen to bring with them. It had been quite a process, picking through forty years of accumulated stuff and choosing what they wanted to sell, what to give away, and what to bring with them. Even after that, it seemed they had too much…there wasn’t room in the sparse cupboards for most of the things that Nola unpacked. She ended up leaving her mother’s good china and some of her copper pots in their boxes until she could figure out where else to put them.
It had been a difficult six months. Their lives had changed in an instant. Nola was two semesters short of getting her Bachelors of Art in Medicine at Boston University when a Texas State trooper called to inform her that her father had had a heart attack while driving home from work. He was in surgery and her mother was in shock. They needed someone to come take control of the situation.
What began as a few weeks visit home turned into months of wading through the financial disaster that her father’s death had left behind. A financial wizard he was not. Her loving, funny, handsome father had taken a generous income as a pediatrician and a small inheritance from his in-laws and turned it into a pile of credit card debt, three mortgages, and numerous loans taken from several different institutions. From what Nola was finally able to ascertain from the random marks her father made in his computerized budget keeper was that he had made a series of bad investments.
She assumed his life insurance policy would cover most of his debts and leave her and her mother comfortable for a time, but that turned out not to be the case. The life insurance barely covered the most immediate needs—the cost of his funeral and burial, the hospital bills for the emergency surgery that failed to save his life, and the most pressing of his debts. The rest…selling the house and her mother’s car had covered most of it and left the two of them with enough to get by for a short while.
Boston University was a dream of the past. And her mother’s days as a housewife and go-to chairlady of all the local charities were also long gone.
It only seemed logical to leave the city. Her mother had gone through enough without having to face the knowing looks of her former friends. And tuition at a state school was much lower than a private institution. If they wanted to get themselves back on track, Lubbock had seemed like the most logical step. Nola could attend Texas Tech University to finish her undergraduate degree, and her mother had already gotten a position with a small bakery just a few blocks from their rental house.
It was a start.
But, in the darkness of the night, Nola couldn’t help but grieve for all she had lost. She’d had a plan. She was on the short track to getting her degree—she would have graduated with a medical degree in only 3-4 more years if she hadn’t been forced to withdraw from BU—and she had a boyfriend she had believed would one day be her husband. But it only took a month before he moved on, moving in with a teaching assistant from his economics class just weeks after attending her father’s funeral with Nola.
Maybe it was for the best. Now she knew what kind of man he really was.
She was glad now that she hadn’t given in to his pressure to share a bed before she had an engagement ring on her finger. Not that being a virgin was all that comforting late at night, either. But at least she hadn’t given it to someone who wasn’t worthy.
Exhaustion overcame Nola as she lay in bed that night, her thoughts moving over the hundreds of things that still needed to be done, and the thousands of things she had done over the past few months. It was a burden she had never dreamed of carrying. She would give almost anything to let it go, to hand it over to someone more capable than herself.
If only Daddy…
But she couldn’t let her thoughts go there.
Chapter 2
Nola crossed the campus, a backpack slung over her shoulder that held the books she’d just purchased from the school bookstore. It turned out that most of her credits from BU would transfer—she just had to retake a couple of math classes she’d aced her freshman year—so, with those, she had a total of twenty-seven hours standing between her and a degree. Half now, half over the spring semester, and she could conceivably start medical school just a year behind her original plan.
Assuming, of course, that when it was all said and done Nola still wanted to be a doctor.
She tossed her bag into the backseat of the old Ford she’d paid cash for a few weeks ago. It made it with only a modicum of trouble to Lubbock from Dallas, but now she was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of her choice in buying a fifteen year old car. Over the last few days, it had begun to make a weird noise when she started it. She wasn’t sure what it was—mechanics had never been her strong point—but she was afraid it was something serious. Either way, it was going to have to go into the shop eventually and that would mean expense and days without transportation.
Really not what she needed right now.
Her heart soared when the engine started to turn over. But then came that click that was growing so familiar. Click, click, click. And then…nothing.
“Damn!”
She popped the hood and climbed out, struggling to find the release under the lip of the hood. When it opened, she smelled the distinct odor of ozone. Something electrical had burned up.
“Damn!” she cried a little louder, kicking the low bumper.
She didn’t need this right now.
“Need some help?” someone asked.
Nola shook her head, more from frustration than in response to the question. “I need a million dollars and a new car,” she said with a sigh
, pushing back from the car and searching for the friendly voice. When she saw the man astride his motorcycle, she thought that there must be someone else. She stepped further back, trying not to be too obvious as she glanced around.
The man stood and approached the car, leaning close for a minute before he flicked his nail against some round piece of metal that she couldn’t have identified if she had a mechanic’s manual in front of her.
“It’s the alternator,” he said. “It’s not charging your battery.”
Nola crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah?”
“And it smells like your starter’s probably going, too.”
“Great.”
He straightened and faced her, leaning casually back against the frame of the car as though he did this sort of thing every day. And from the way he was dressed, Nola wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he did.
He was wearing jeans that looked as though they’d never met a washing machine, and a startlingly white t-shirt that showed the distinct mark of tattoos along his neck stretched under a heavy leather jacket with dingy patches on almost every available surface. He was clean shaven, but his brown hair was a little long, a greasy collection of strings around his face. There was a pack of cigarettes sticking out of his jeans pocket and she was pretty sure there was a knife sticking out of the top of one of his heavy work boots.
He scared the crap out of her.
“I know a guy who could fix it for fairly cheap. He has a shop over on Quaker.”
“Well, thanks,” Nola said, “but I think I should probably call triple A.”
“Okay.”
He stood and rubbed his hands on the seat of his jeans. He walked over to his bike and straddled it again, his movements almost graceful. He picked up a small helmet—one of those that was designed to look like something out of World War I—and set it over those brown strings. He started the bike and the sound seemed to vibrate through Nola’s body. She tightened her hold on her own arms as she discovered she couldn’t tear her eyes from him.
He was scary, there was no denying that. There was something about him, a sense of danger that made her heart race in a way she’d never experienced before. But there was also something sexy about the way he looked on that bike, the way his muscles flexed in perfect synchronicity with the roar of the bike’s engine. And the way he looked at her with a barely concealed hunger…no one had ever looked at her that way before.
“Want a ride?” he suddenly asked.
Thoughts raced through Nola’s mind—rape, murder, dismemberment—but they were overshadowed by a sense of excitement. She’d never been on a motorcycle before. To feel such power between her legs…and then there was the practicality of the whole thing. She needed to get home before her mother so that she wouldn’t worry.
But still…
She shook her head. “Thanks, but no,” she called, her voice raised over the sound of the bike.
He shrugged, but he didn’t move. He looked around, watching a group of students wander from their cars to the student union.
“You know,” he finally said, “taxi drivers charge a flat fee of twenty bucks, plus ten cents a mile. And the city bus only takes change. Do you have enough change to get home?”
Nola shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He cut the engine of the bike and pulled another helmet out of a hidden compartment on the back and side of the bike. “I won’t bite,” he promised.
Nola glanced at the car, frustration bursting through her chest again as an unbalance ledger played through her mind. This was going to take a huge chunk out of their meager savings. To add to that the cost of a taxi…was it really that much?
What choice did she really have?
Nola slammed the hood of her car down and went around to grab her bag and keys.
The man took her bag from her and helped her strap it properly onto her shoulders. Then he carefully set the helmet on her head, his fingers gentle as he attached the straps to the underside of her chin. She began to have thoughts, wondering if he was always this gentle with the women in his life. Again, thoughts raced through her mind, but these were more along the sensual side, her imagination taking her places she had never been before but suddenly wanted to go. She blushed, her eyes dropping to the ground as he finished his task.
He took her hand and guided her onto the bike behind him, tucking her arms around his waist. “Hold on tight. And move with my movements, that way I can control the balance of the bike.”
She nodded, but he was pretty sure she didn’t hear him. He started the bike, guided it out of the parking spot, and then they were flying.
He took them out to the main thoroughfare and began weaving in and out of traffic, the bike’s speed increasing with every inch of asphalt the tires ate. Wind blew over Nola’s bare legs like a lover’s caress, blowing her thin tee up below her bag, wind’s fingers dancing along her lower spine. She could feel his body move with every subtle motion he made, his foot jerking against the clutch as he moved the bike up along its gears, his arms moving with the dance of the handlebars. It was impossible to maintain any space between them. Before they’d gone a mile, Nola pressed her chin to his shoulder so that she could watch the world rushing toward them.
There was something intimate about sitting so close to another person. Nola liked the feel of his ribs under her hands, liked the steady pulse of his breaths. She moved her hands over his abdomen, almost unconsciously, the sharp zipper of his jacket biting into her skin as her hold tightened and her hands discovered things she never should have known about this stranger.
It was a long time before she realized that she had never told him where she lived. They were headed in the complete opposite direction of her house. The thing was: she didn’t really care. She had not felt this carefree in a very long time. Suddenly, the pressures of school, the burden of fixing her father’s mistakes, the need to be perfect…it was all gone. Nothing mattered but this moment, this feeling of flight, this sense of freedom.
She hadn’t realized how much she craved something like this until she had it.
They rode for a long time, transecting the city several times before he pointed the bike toward the city limits. He took her to Buffalo Springs Lake east of Lubbock. There was a state parks, recreation areas, and lovely neighborhoods all along the lake, but he managed to find a quiet shoreline that was unoccupied by anything more than a few discarded beer cans and the distant rumble of the highway.
The world seemed overwhelmingly silent without the noise of the bike’s engine. Nola reluctantly released her hold on his waist and reached up to remove the helmet. He offered his help, deftly releasing the complicated straps in half the time she’d already applied to the effort.
She stepped off the bike and shed her backpack, strolling to the water’s edge as he stowed his gear. And then he was behind her, his shadow mingling with hers over the water.
“Should I be worried that you never asked me where I wanted to go?”
She saw his shadow shrug. “Depends if you’re the kind of girl who finds it difficult to trust other people.”
“Do you often pick up innocent college girls and take them off to secluded spots?”
“Only ones who look like they’re having a really bad day.”
Touché.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“I’m Scribe.”
Nola glanced back at him. “Scribe?”
He touched a patch on his jacket. “It’s a nickname.”
“Did they know what it meant when they gave it to you?”
His eyes—which she could see now were a clear, almost pure blue—narrowed a little. “Yeah, I think they did.”
Touchy.
“I’m Nola.” She crouched and ran her fingers through the water, the coolness of it a wonderful contrast to her burning cheeks. “Nola Grant.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Grant.”
She smiled, struck by the impression that he was rarely this po
lite. It sounded a little unnatural as it fell from his lips. She pressed both hands into the water and then lifted them and ran her fingers through her hair, pushing the moisture into a few clumps here and there. Then she stood and found he had moved even closer to her, his chest like a solid wall inches from her face.
She couldn’t resist the desire to touch the patch he had touched himself a moment before. And then her fingers fell to the next patch—“Sergeant at Arms” it read—and the next and the next.
“You’re part of a gang.”
“A club,” he corrected.
She looked up, those blue eyes turning her bones to melted butter. “What’s the difference?”
“The Bandidos were founded in 1966. We’re an organization with multiple charters all over the state.”
“Oh. So you have a president and all that?”
“Yeah. Just like Sons of Anarchy.”
Nola smiled, she couldn’t help herself. It seemed that he saw exactly where her thoughts were going. He’d probably heard it before.
As though to confirm her thoughts, he touched her chin and asked, “Does that turn you on? The idea of being alone with someone like Jax Teller?”
“No,” she shook her head slowly, “I always kind of preferred Bobby Elvis.”
His eyes widened slightly and then he began to laugh. “You are a firecracker, aren’t you?”
Nola shrugged. “I used to be.”
She pulled away and walked along the shore, kicking the toe of her tennis shoe into the soft soil. Her father used to call her a firecracker, back when she was a precocious middle school student who liked to argue Jane Austen and Emily Dickinson over his love for Jack Kerouac and Ernest Hemingway. What had happened to those long, drawn out discussions? What happened to the easiness that once existed between them? Did her father know how much she loved him? Did she call him often enough in those weeks and months before his death?