Nothing.
A few blocks away from the building, I am mid-stride when my head smacks into the broad back of a man struggling with loading boxes into the open trunk of his car. Surprised by the contact, I stagger backwards.
A scent I recognize filters into my nostrils. I raise my head and see blond hair, white teeth, and green eyes.
Garret.
He looks bemused at my clumsiness. Dropping the cardboard box in the back of the car parked next to us, he turns back around to face me.
“Well, fancy running into you,” he quips.
I don’t know what to say. My lips open and close fruitlessly.
“You… you, too, Garret,” I finally manage. I should keep walking, but I can’t make my feet work.
I feel a manic energy rolling off Garret in waves. It slices through the fog, sends sparks rippling down my spine. I stand up a little straighter.
“It’s good to see you,” I say. “We haven’t talked in a while.”
Garret arches a curious eyebrow. “No,” he says, “You’re right. We haven’t.” My heartbeat starts to pick up in a way that it hasn’t in weeks – not fear, not disgust, but an up-tempo staccato that pushes blood to my extremities.
Cars honk on either side of us as taxi drivers lean out of their windows to scream obscenities. A silence passes between us. We stand still, looking in each others’ eyes.
A sudden urge to speak overwhelms me. “I’ve been to a few of your shows,” I confess. The boldness and crispness of my words is shocking. “They were great.”
He considers my expression before replying soberly. “Thanks very much. I appreciate that,” he says. Another awkward silence swells, but neither of us budges.
I am at a loss. A wordless yearning is building up inside me, a warmth, an impulse, a longing for motion and music and sex. Like a drug through my veins, it suffuses every nerve, bathing me in a sensation I haven’t experienced since the night on the tour bus. I look up at him.
“Look, Jodie…” he says hesitantly. “We’re going on tour. Out west. We landed a huge gig. We’re leaving right now, actually.”
Inside, my stomach is contorting with alien emotions and my head is roaring with empty sound. Outwardly, I hear myself say, “Congratulations, Garret. That’s incredible. You guys deserve it.” My feet still won’t move.
Garret’s bandmate in the car honks the horn and hollers out the window. “Let’s go, dude!” he yells. Garret turns and tells him to wait just a moment. He spins back to me.
“Listen,” he says. “I have to go; we’ve got a long drive ahead of us. But…” He runs a hand through his hair, then swoops forward and kisses me. The taste is exactly what I remember. His lips have the same pressure, the same texture. I raise a hand to touch my mouth as if locking it in.
“I’ll see you, okay, Jodie?”
A rare tinge of concern floats along the undercurrent of his voice. He squeezes my hand once, then steps away and off the sidewalk to the other side of the car. He opens the door, but just before he gets in, he looks at me one more time and smiles. The smile is exactly the same.
Then, he jumps in, slams the door shut behind him, and the vehicle peels off down the block. I stay there, watching it retreat into the distance, until it makes a turn and vanishes from sight.
My head is spinning. Maybe I shouldn’t have left. Maybe I need him. Maybe I need what he is to me – heat, flight, freedom. Maybe I need his “So what?” and his smile and the cigarette clasped between his soft lips.
Maybe I am dying here. Maybe I can’t keep “surviving.” Maybe I need to say fuck my priorities and leave.
I am not a bird.
Fuck that. Fuck Sarah. Fuck Mother. Fuck Bellamy. Fuck the scars on my neck and the marks on my wrist. Fuck that desk, that building. Fuck my apartment. Fuck caution. Fuck safety.
I can’t stay here, chained by my obligations and my fear of the fall. I can’t shiver to death in this uncaring city, not when Garret is out there, not when I have already found something that keeps me warm and makes the blood rush through my veins.
How can I let that go? How can I possibly confine myself to the bleak, to the fog?
No.
No.
No.
I spin away from Bellamy’s building and back towards my apartment. At first I walk, but soon I am sprinting, legs rubbing together, sweating and panting and savoring the sensation of the air on my face. I push through crowds, knocking people out of my way or weaving between them, anything to get away from here and away from now.
I am going to follow him. I am going to get him back.
I am going to fly.
RETURN TO TABLE OF CONTENTS
HER BAD BOY BIKER
EMILY STONE
The Texan summer heat was dry, temperate and soothing. ATF officer Abbey Channing leaned on her car with her head back while her gas tank filled up. Her eyes were closed and her hair fluttered to the wind's touch. She was off-duty today, free to enjoy the sun's kiss and get out of the cramped and noisy office.
The roar of motorcycles interrupted her peace and she lowered her head in irritation. Oh, you people again, she thought. Five bikers had pulled into the gas station's parking lot. Dressed in black, the emblazoned highway logo on their jackets with two golden bars running down the middle told her all she needed to know. Black Asphalt Motorcycle Club.
One of the bikers threw off his helmet with a flourish and revealed a gleaming bald head with a thick black beard. A younger rider with fiery red hair called out to him. “Hey Rick, get me some Coke man! And some Doritos too!”
The bald one looked over his shoulder and growled. “Get it yourself, shit head.” The man walked into the station and slammed the door. Members of the Black Asphalt MC were known to be troublemakers. They seemed to make it a personal mission to get tossed out of bars, get banned from stripclubs and cut off other drivers on the highway.
While it wasn't a crime to be an asshole, it was a crime to cook crystal meth with intent to sell. The MPD had always suspected that Black Asphalt was a major distribution powerhouse, on par with the Mexican cartels. Being so far from the border, they were in a unique position to have the region to themselves.
But investigations never led anywhere. They were as clean as a pair of Sunday whites. Abbey didn't care what the evidence said. She had instincts. Her eyes fell on another biker who was slow to kick his bike sidestand out and take off his helmet.
The man was not slow out of dullness. It was the kind of deliberate pause that spoke of confidence, a man not in any hurry because he knew everyone would wait for him--the king of his pride. When the helmet came off, Abbey's eyes widened and she gasped.
Micah Thomas.
He never looked that good in the mug shots. His strong jawline was accentuated with a bit of stubble and his skin glowed in the afternoon sun. Photos did not do him justice. Abbey had taken her shades off without realizing it, her eyes desperate to reconcile the man she'd only seen in police briefings and the radiant lion before her now.
She thought her heart might stop when his head turned and his eyes, light as fire and clear as diamonds, stared into her own. It was like the sun itself burst in her chest and when he looked away, she felt a hunger. She thought of her duties to the department, of all the things Micah's club was suspected of doing and then the tingles just one glance gave her.
She would just say 'hello'. That wasn't illegal. Before she could muster up her courage however, Micah already had.
Her ears picked up on the heavy sound of his boots landing on the hot pavement. The man loomed like a black shadow in the corner of her vision, an ever expanding blotch of darkness against the glare of the sun. When he stopped, she tried not to acknowledge him. No glance, no awkward cough. Maybe he's not looking at me, maybe he's getting a better look at the gas prices.
“Nice day to be drivin' with the top down.” he said and she looked at him at last. His gloved hand was pointing at her car and she pretended her breath hadn't froz
en in her throat. He was tall with broad heavy shoulders and dirty blond hair that glowed like gold in the sun. Her eyes drifted down and took in glimpses of his muscled chest through the tears of his white t-shirt.
“Oh--” she said, gathering her words, “yeah--I mean yes--it is. You know how it is, not too hot, not too cold, just right.”
“Goldilocks weather.” he said through an electric smile and then stepped forward, filling up Abbey's personal space and forcing her to shrink back. “But you know what's even better than a car like that on a day like this? A woman like you on one of those.” he pointed behind his back to his parked motorcycle. “You haven't tasted freedom 'till you've roared down the highway, feeling the wind scream past your ears...” he reached for her hand, “the rumble in between your legs. The feeling of wild power in your hands.”
Abbey blushed. “I... really don't do motorcycles.”
“No one does. It's a passion that chooses you, the longing to be free and untamed. Hogs are just how we reach that nirvana.” His hand swept up to her shoulder, sending excitement all along her arm. “I'm Micah.”
“I know.” she said without thought, regretting her instincts.
“Do you?” His eyebrows arched and he lowered his eyes to take a better look at her.
“I mean I've seen you on TV a few times.” she recovered and offered her hand. “I'm Abbey.” Her hand hung there for a moment and she felt the urge to look away from the laser focus in Micah's eyes. He was studying her, for what, she didn't know. An electric tension built up between the two in their silence and she knew that in any second she was going to break and run off.
But he broke the icy silence first with a powerful, hearty laugh. “Yep! I'm proud that our food drives and 'Race for Children' events keep us exposed.” Yes that's why you're on TV, you little devil. He paused and scanned her body as if he had seen it for the first time. “And also... for our more... adult events, a pretty lady always helps bring in more coin. All for charity, of course.”
Abbey was dressed in simple weathered jeans and a soft dark burgundy t-shirt that snapped in the wind. While not form fitting clothes, they did nothing to conceal her bountiful curves. She tried not to notice out of politeness his eyes taking in the rise of her backside, squeezed against her car window, but the man simply did not care.
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it in one fluid movement. “Heh, been a while since I've seen an ass like that. You should come with us, have some drinks, have a good time.”
Wow... he's forward. “I'm sorry, I'm busy.”
“Horseshit. You're dressed like it's your day off. I'm gonna guess you do the same boring crap every time you get a break from the cubicle and soul sucking fluorescent lights.” He stepped closer and placed both his hands around her hips, drawing her in. “You've played out this day a hundred times in the past. Destined to play it a hundred times more. But today... today you break the grind. The sameness.”
His hands grabbed her by the bottom and forced her forward against his groin. Abbey wasn't sure if the hardness she felt came from the fold in his jeans or something else. Is he for real? She'd never been with a man so forward and honest with his intentions. “I... I can't leave my car here.”
He rocked her forward a little more, to the point where the very edge of her round breasts grazed against his hard chest. “Sure you can. I own this place. I own everything.” His blazing blue eyes poured dangerous intent into hers. She didn't miss his unspoken meaning. He owns me too.
From the corner of her eyes she saw an innocuous white van peel out from the shade across the street and motor down the road. Surveillance. “Well then, I guess I could go for a bit of fun...” If the MPD team had seen the way Micah had held her, they might come to the wrong conclusions. But, if she stayed with him, gained his trust... she could do what the MPD had failed to do in seven years of investigation.
Get Micah Thomas behind bars. Remember, this is for the career. The fact that he's hot is just a bonus.
“Alright then.” he said and led her by the hand. “Let me introduce you to the boys and we'll be on our way!”
Twenty minutes later, Amber clung to Micah's back in a death grip as the bikes roared down the highway out of Mesquite. The sun was still high yet waning and threw a golden cast through the clouds against the cobalt sky. Though Micah had given Abbey his helmet, the wind still swiped across her face all the same, chilling her cheeks.
Her hands were clasped around his waist and she got a direct feel of Micah's rock hard abs shifting and straining as he took the bike on turns and loops. The faster they went, the more she clung to him. Pressing her heavy breasts into his back, she admitted silently that the ride was doing wonders between her legs.
The heavy rumble of the engine thrummed through her body, seducing her as much as the rider himself. He's still a criminal. When the gang all turned on an unpaved desert road, the journey got bumpy. Instead of one smooth gulp of vibration, she got a barrage of them. Micah barely reduced his speed on the rocky road. The jolts and the bestial power of the engine rocked her helpless body and started a fire in between her legs.
Holding onto a man that controlled this elemental force that hummed below her like a volcanic current sent primal attraction and longing straight to her womanhood. At this moment, all social barriers and pretensions of modernity had evaporated. She was not a cop, he was not a renegade. They were man and woman and her body sparkled with adrenaline, being so close to the essence of masculinity.
He was the commander, she the follower. With each bump on the road her body sought to inflame her instincts even more, and grinded against him and the contours of the seat. Unconsciously, she pressed herself completely against his back and rested her chin on his shoulder. Her hands moved up to his chest and she pulled against him, relishing the sculpted feel of his chest.
Her lips parted and loosed the most erotic breaths and sighs, all drowned out by the hog's mechanical thunder. As they sped down a dusty incline her nails dug into Micah's chest and she grinded even harder against him, making no effort to disguise her movements as anything else.
Love juices flowed through soaked panties and her thighs grew stickier by the second. She was close. The smell of Micah's musk, the sun baked dirt and the pungent sting of exhaust all hit her like a wave, throwing oil on her carnal fire. She climbed the rungs of pleasure higher and higher, closer to satiating her hunger with each squeeze of his muscles, each rub against the inside of her jeans and each sudden drag against the vibrating seat.
And then it ended. Micah kicked out the sidestand and shot his arms out into the air. “Wooh! Love that shit!” he looked over his shoulder and sported a devilish grin. “Well well, looks like someone had a good time.”
Her ears still rung in the silence and chased after the ghostly echo of a Harley's rumble. “Oh...” she sighed, her eyes wide and dilated, her lips engorged with desire. “Yeah that was... that was a ride.” She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek but he caught her head and went for her lips.
She didn't fight it. She couldn't. Her lips melted into his and she let his arms wrap around her, drawing her in close. His oak solid body was rigid against her voluptuous curves, enveloping him like a tide of feminine warmth. She made sounds of excitement and darted her tongue into his mouth. The two tangled with each other, Micah drinking in her plush and submissive lips while Abbey moaned and tingled when his weathered manly hands skimmed down her back and slipped under her pants.
His palms grazed over the texture of her silken panties and his fingers sank into the soft flesh of her ample backside. Abbey moaned and grinded herself against his waist, pushing her voluptuous chest into his. Micah broke off the kiss with a loud, satisfied gasp, leaving her wanting more.
“We'll have more later.” he hopped off the bike and took her helmet off. “Not bad for a first time rider either.”
Abbey got up from the seat, leaving a bit of moisture on the leather. For a split second, night couldn't come faster.
/> ***
Around Micah's campfire was his main crew she had seen at the gas station. To his right was Rick, the burly mustachioed rider, and Luke, the redhead kid. Abbey sat to Micah's left and across from them were the other three. There was Old Joe, chomping on a roasted sausage while bits of meat fell into his waist length beard, Pedro, reclining on his folded up jacket while an impressive set of knives around his belt gleamed in the fire light. Closest to the darkness was the one called Spider, a name Abbey had to hold back laughing at upon hearing at the time.
That was kind of name one heard in the same breath as Red Scorpions and Fire Lions, and any other number of garage band names. Though from what she'd seen, Spider was far more serious a man than his fanciful name suggested. During the ride to the campsite, he rode the fastest and arrived first, setting up camp materials before anyone else had arrived. A quiet and dutiful man.
Devil's Angels Boxed Set: Bikers and Alpha Bad Boy Erotic Romance Page 48