Midnight Desire: A Midnight Riders Motorcycle Club Romance Part 1

by Olivia Thorne

  “Okay,” I said, finally realizing just how far the MC’s reach extended. “Um, what do they owe?”

  “Nothin’. Lou’s the Riders’ VP, so it’s all on the house. Well, alcohol, anyway. Dances are still full price.”

  I stared at her.

  Now it made sense how Jack had gotten me this job.

  Shelley mistook my look of shock. “Now you know why Arlene hates servin’ ‘em,” she said cheerily before she went to take another order.

  14

  Things only got crazier the longer the night wore on. Fifteen minutes after the Midnight Riders came in, the club opened up two more stages and a DJ came on. Now there were naked women gyrating in every direction, and bikini-clad ones walking the floor asking men if they wanted a lap dance. All the while some guy droned over the speakers, “It’s a two-for-one dance special… next two songs only… now welcome Chantal up to the stage gentlemen, and remember to tip…”

  Mix that with hard liquor, and things got a little ugly.

  We were nearing closing time when one of the blue collar workers mistook me for one of the strippers. He was a big, dumb-looking guy with an unruly mop of hair.

  I swatted his hand off my ass. “Not on the menu, bub.”

  He just hee-hawed like a donkey and watched me go.

  Five minutes later Mop-head copped a feel as I leaned over to set his drink on the table in front of him.

  “You do that again and you’re walking out of here without all your teeth,” I shouted in his face.

  “It was an accident!” he protested, but laughed again.

  I turned around, fuming – and then my entire mood changed when Jack Pollari walked in.

  He was dressed in old jeans and a weathered leather jacket decked out with motorcycle club patches. Under the jacket, a wifebeater t-shirt showed off the tats across his chest – and God, what a chest. Muscular and powerful. I couldn’t see much under the wifebeater, but his stomach was firm and flat, and I was guessing there was a six-pack under there.

  Damn he was hot.

  Unfortunately, every stripper in the place thought so, too. The six who weren’t onstage or giving lap dances immediately rushed over to him, giggling and running their hands all over his body.

  Jealousy surged hot and bitter in my gut before I caught myself.

  It was ridiculous. I didn’t get jealous. I had never been that kind of a girlfriend. If a guy made me the least bit suspicious of what he was doing in his downtime, I dropped his ass and got an upgrade on the replacement model.

  Yet here I was getting all green-eyed and envious.

  And I hadn’t even gone out for a drink with him yet.

  Remember, you don’t even CARE about this guy. All he is to you is a way to find out who killed Ali.

  But no matter how many times I told myself that, the pit of my stomach still felt sour.

  That is, until I saw him brush them off. Politely, but it was obvious he was disentangling himself. As he walked away, he looked around the club – and then his eyes lit on me. He broke out into a grin as he walked over.

  I have to admit, my heart soared the tiniest bit.

  As he passed by, every guy in a Midnight Riders jacket cheered and put their hands up for a fist-bump. He hit a few, grabbed one of the older guys in a bro-hug, and then gave the others a nod as he made his way over to me.

  “Regretting quitting the diner yet?” he asked.

  “Haven’t officially tendered my resignation.”

  “Well, you can phone it in tomorrow morning from my bed.”

  My heart skipped a beat – though I was a little annoyed, too.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Well aren’t we confident.”

  He grinned. “Yes we are. You ready for that drink?”

  “I still have twenty minutes left on my shift.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just let Shelley know you’re taking off with me.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What about Lou?”

  “Yes, what about Lou?” a familiar, devilish voice said behind me.

  I whirled around to see my new boss standing there smoking a cigar. I thought about mentioning California state law against smoking in business establishments, but seeing as he owned the establishment – not to mention his decidedly illegal take on alcohol sales – I figured now wasn’t the time.

  “Uh – hi,” I said.

  “You don’t mind if I take Fiona off your hands a bit early, do you, Lou,” Jack smirked.

  “Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice,” Lou said.

  Suddenly I realized there was more here than met the eye. Jack wasn’t asking; Lou wasn’t pleased, and wasn’t shy about showing it. There was some sort of underlying tension between the two that was on a low simmer.

  Jack Pollari was the President of the Midnight Riders.

  Lou Shaw was the VP – but he wasn’t a particularly happy subordinate. And Jack wasn’t going out of his way to soothe any ruffled feathers.

  I made a mental note to find out more, but right now, I really didn’t want to get caught in the middle.

  “I could just close out my tabs, if you want,” I said to Lou.

  “Why don’t you go do that,” Lou suggested. “Me and Jack, we need to talk for a minute.”

  “Do we,” Jack said, his jaw setting like he was irritated.

  “Just a minute of your time,” Lou smiled, then turned to me. “Go on, darlin’, get your tips.”

  I gave Jack an apologetic wince, which he returned with a wink – but no smile.

  I got the tab totals from Shelley and walked over to my customers – the paying ones, the guys without motorcycle jackets. “I’m closing out,” I announced.

  They coughed up their cash and credit cards, which I dropped off with Shelley at the bar.

  Mop-head was last. I made a mistake when I gave him his bill: I turned around to look back at Jack and Lou. They were deep in conversation, about what I had no idea –

  And then I felt a hand cupping my ass again, with the fingers very inappropriately close to another part of my anatomy.

  I wheeled around and slapped him across the face.

  SMACK!

  “Asshole!” I yelled.

  Mop-head bellowed and stood up, now angry as a pissed-off bull.

  Which made him about half as pissed-off as me.

  “You stupid bitch!” the big dirtbag shouted, putting his hand on his cheek.

  “You need anything?” a voice asked behind me.

  I turned around to see Jack. “No, I got this one.”

  He went from staring daggers at the dumbass to watching me in amusement. “Okay, then.”

  “Hey – you! This your club?!” Mop-head yelled.

  “No,” Jack said coldly.

  “It’s mine. What’s the problem?” Lou asked as he walked up beside Jack.

  “Your fuckin’ bitch hit me!” Mop-head roared.

  “She ain’t my fuckin’ bitch,” Lou said mildly. “She’s just my employee.”

  “Well, your employee hit me!”

  “I’m sure she was well within club policy. Weren’t you, Fiona?” he asked as he puffed on his cigar.

  “You said no permanent damage,” I reminded him.

  “That I did.”

  “I’m gonna sue your fuckin’ ass!” Mop-head yelled at Lou.

  Lou regarded him distastefully, though he spoke to me. “I also recall something about making an example.”

  “Did you mean it?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely.”

  I glared at Mop-head, who despite his enraged expression, hadn’t made another move. I didn’t really feel like slugging a guy who was just standing there, no matter how big a douchebag he was.

  “Next time,” I said.

  Lou sighed. “You’ll generally find, darlin’, if you don’t make an example the first time out, ‘next time’ comes reeaaal quick.”

  “I’m beginning to see the wisdom of that,” I said as I turned a
way.

  That was when Mop-head struck.

  Well, pushed was more like it. One hand on my back, one hand on the side of my left boob.

  How convenient. And completely ‘accidental.’

  It was a hard push. It probably would have sent me sprawling, except that he just had to cop that last feel, which dampened the force and only made me stumble.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jack’s face turn into molten rage.

  He took too long, though.

  I wheeled around and did a Krav Maga move: I seized Mop-head’s right arm with my left hand, grabbed his shirt with my right forearm braced against his chest, and brought him down as I swung my knee up into him.

  Repeatedly.

  I’d practiced that move thousands of times in class.

  It had been fun doing it to a rubber dummy.

  It was a lot more fun doing it to a real live asshole.

  “UNH! UNH! UNH! UNH!” I screamed as I rammed my knee into his chest and gut over and over.

  I was five inches shorter than him and a good hundred pounds lighter, but that doesn’t matter much when a hard, blunt object gets slammed repeatedly into your ribcage.

  Mop-head’s eyes bugged out of his head. By the seventh blow, he was a sack of jello, and I let him drop face-down onto the floor.

  Every member of the rank-and-file Midnight Riders burst into hoots and hollers and spontaneous applause.

  Jack looked at me with a grin – and respect. “Nice.”

  “Now that is what I call an example,” Lou said, and ashed his cigar over Mop-head’s ass. “Did he pay?”

  I grabbed the twenty Mop-head had left on the table.

  “Good,” Lou said, then yelled towards the front, “PEANUT! Get this sack of shit out of here!”

  “I’m taking her with me now,” Jack said, and put one arm around my waist.

  Half of me was annoyed at the possessive, paternalistic gesture…

  …and the other half went gooey at the feel of his strong, muscular arm against my body.

  Lou gave him a sideways glance, then winked at me. “Go on, darlin’… I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side.”

  15

  Jack took me out front to his ride – a massive Harley, heavy and powerful, black leather and chrome.

  “I gotta say, that was impressive,” he said as he handed me the spare helmet, one of those metal ones that look very German army circa 1917.

  “Thanks,” I said as I strapped it on.

  “Where’d you learn moves like that?”

  “Around.”

  He grinned at me. “Fine – be mysterious.”

  He got on the bike and fired it up. I settled in behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist.

  Ohhhh… I was right about that six-pack…

  He took off fast through the dark city streets, the hot wind whipping around us.

  I was expecting him to take us to the Roadhouse – the only place I knew of that dared stay open after 2AM – but he surprised me by turning down a road that led up into the hills.

  We passed by a few houses, then finally reached an old ranch-style place at the end of a deserted cul-de-sac. He pulled up into the driveway by a Ford truck and cut the engine.

  “I thought we were going out for a drink,” I said.

  “We are,” he said as he got off the bike. “As promised, marginally classier than the Seven Veils.”

  Again, I had mixed feelings. I liked the idea of being alone with him… but I didn’t like how he was assuming where things were going. Especially after having spoken to me for maybe a sum total of 30 minutes.

  On the other hand, he was definitely a take-charge kind of guy who knew what he wanted.

  That was kind of a turn-on.

  But again… I’d known him for all of 30 minutes.

  “I’d prefer a bar,” I said.

  “Aren’t any bars open at 2AM,” he said as he started towards the door.

  I was about to say The Roadhouse is, but I didn’t want to tip my hand.

  And, truthfully, I was kind of distracted by his ass.

  It was pretty goddamn spectacular.

  He turned around when he saw I wasn’t following him. And I think he caught me looking at his posterior.

  “We’ll have a drink, and if you want anything else, we’ll see,” he smirked. “Otherwise I’ll take you home.”

  “If I want anything else?” I sassed him back.

  He grinned. “Get your ass off the damn bike.”

  Then he turned and walked up to the front door, opened it, and walked inside.

  Despite knowing him for such a short time, and despite being out in the middle of nowhere, I didn’t feel unsafe.

  Instead, I felt turned on. Probably more than was wise, given that I was here for one purpose only: to gather information.

  But I got off the bike, stowed the helmet, and followed him inside.

  16

  His house was nice – Spanish influence to the architecture, with exposed wood roof beams high overhead. There were sliding glass doors and a huge wooden deck out back.

  As soon as we walked in, he punched out a code on a beeping alarm keypad on the wall. I thought that was ironic: heading up a motorcycle gang yet having an alarm for your place.

  Then again, depending on who your enemies were, it might be really smart.

  “What’s your poison?” he asked as he sloughed off his Midnight Riders jacket and walked over to a well-stocked bar set in one corner of the room.

  I watched him appraisingly as he walked away from me. Broad, muscular shoulders. Massive biceps. And dozens of tattoos barely hidden by the wifebeater.

  Damn, I thought as my mouth watered – and then brought myself back to the present. “What’ve you got?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Got any wine?”

  He grinned. “For the ladies, yeah. Red or white?”

  “Red.”

  “One red wine, coming up.”

  I walked through the open living room, traced my fingers across the leather couch, looked at the 60 inch flat screen on the wall. For a single guy’s home, it was nicely decorated. He had taste.

  He walked over and handed me a crystal glass full of crimson. I sniffed it, tasted it. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  He poured himself a double of 20 year-old scotch and clinked his tumbler against my wine glass.

  “To badass bitches,” he grinned.

  “How about just to badasses,” I said coolly.

  He laughed. “To badasses, then.” He took a gulp, then gestured around. “Here’s my humble abode. You want the nickel tour?”

  I was a little concerned the nickel tour might wind up in the bedroom.

  “Later. Can we go out on the deck?”

  “Of course.”

  He unlocked the sliding glass door, and we stepped outside.

  The stars were gorgeous. Despite the nearby city lights, hundreds of them twinkled over the rocky hills that stretched from his property into the dark distance.

  We stood at the railing and listened to the wind rustling out in the underbrush. The faint smell of sagebrush and creosote hung in the air.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “It’s remote. That’s what I like about it. Wild and free.”

  “Is that why you’re in a motorcycle gang?”

  He gave me a sideways glance. “Motorcycle club.”

  According to my research, that was only nominally true. A pretty fiction for the outside world.

  “Is there a difference?” I asked, knowing full well what the difference was. But I decided playing dumb might get me a little further.

  “Yeah – a gang is into illegal shit. We’re not.”

  Nothing? I wanted to ask. No drug busts from ten years ago? No convictions of members for arson five years ago?

  No murders of 26-year-old women in dark alleys?

  But I kept my mouth shut.

  “What’d the waitresses at Char
lie’s tell you?” Jack asked.

  “What makes you think the waitresses told me anything?”

  “It’s a boring-ass job. When they’re not slinging hash, they don’t have anything more entertaining to do than gossip.”

  I wanted to contradict him, but it was kind of accurate.

  “They said you were the head of the Midnight Riders.”

  “That much is true.”

  I weighed the next comment. It could go badly, but I wanted to see if I could draw him out.

  “They also said you were the most powerful man in Richards.”

  He laughed. “I think the mayor, the chief of police, and a couple dozen bankers, lawyers, and real estate developers might have something to say about that.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what they said.”

  “Well, I suppose it might seem that way to a waitress. They don’t exactly see the mayor too much down there at Charlie’s.”

  “Why do they think you’re the most powerful man in Richards, then?”

  He looked over at me, his eyes narrowing. “You sure are full of questions.”

  I could backtrack, but I was afraid that might make me even more suspicious.

  “I just don’t want to get involved with a… guy with a history,” I said.

  Right answer.

  He grinned ear to ear. “We’ve all got histories.”

  “Some sketchier than others.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so. Speaking of sketchy histories, you still haven’t told me how you learned to go all Jean Claude Van Damme back at the club.”

  “I got a part in an action movie, and they told me to train in Krav Maga.” A lie, but somewhat close to the truth. After all, I had trained for a job. “It’s this martial art where – ”

  “I know what it is.”

  Huh.

  “Well, I started taking lessons and I liked it. Good workout, so I kept doing it.”

  “What was the movie?”

  “What?”

  “What action movie were you in?”

  I thought about lying, but the number one rule Sid always taught me was never tell a lie you can’t cover up. And I had a track record online of the few things I’d acted in.

  So I told a smaller lie I could cover up.

  “It was a little independent movie. It fell through before we started filming.”