by Paula Cox
Even from the chill of being wet, I still feel the heat rising in both of our bodies. Both of us are on fire with drops of sweat sticking to our tanned skin. The work of holding on to her as she bounces up and down on my cock while balancing in my arms is taking a toll on me, but I can’t let go. Not until I come. I feel her arms grow tired and her legs begin to shake. With each firm thrust into her, she cries out my name.
“Breaker! Hold me! Breaker! Fuck! Yes! Fuck me!”
I slap her ass with the palm of my hand, bringing her back to the present.
“Tell me what you want, Aimee!” I demand with panting breaths.
Aimee gazes into my eyes. “Fuck me like one of your other girls,” she suddenly says. “Fuck me that hard, and then fuck me harder. Make me squeal. Make me even sorer.”
Her nasty mouth plants onto mine, sucking me in for a long, hard kiss. We both slowly float to the ground, but I can’t stop. My cock drives into that velvety cunt without relenting. And that’s when I hear it. She sighs first, so loud that it sounds as if she’s letting go of all the air in her body. Then comes the scream—from deep within her and heavy with wanting. Her orgasm spills out as her nails dig into me, her toes curling around my hips, and her pussy tightening around my cock.
The feeling is too much, and I can’t help but let myself go right alongside her.
“Jesus, Aimee! I’m gonna come!”
Between our two bodies, my cock spills out onto her stomach, leaving lines of my semen on her smooth skin.
We both fully collapse on the cold shower floor. She lies on top of me as we move out of the line of the water. She shivers, and I place my arms around her almost on instinct.
“We should get going,” I say.
“Yeah,” she replies, throwing her hair over her right shoulder. “You’re right. We don’t want to keep a pack of wild motorcyclists waiting for us.”
Aimee pushes off of my chest, leaving an imprint of her body on my cool skin. I watch as she opens the screen door, releasing a waft of steam and fog. She grabs a towel from the rack and steps out.
She is right. Both life and danger are waiting for us out there. It was another day, another ride, and another chance to keep Aimee from killing the both of us.
Chapter Nine
Aimee
Growing up, we didn’t really do road trips. It’s not like Hawaii has long stretches of highway to travel on, and my parents weren’t exactly fans of driving outside our little town. They didn’t see the point when we had everything that we needed within a short walk. Looking back, I think the farthest we ever drove was about an hour to visit a relative on their deathbed.
Now that I’m on my own, I don’t understand why in the hell they insisted on staying in one place their entire lives. It’s as if journeying is in my blood. I love cruising in Greyhound buses from town to town, hitchhiking with strangers in the summer, and walking city streets when the nights were clear. Sure, there was a bit of danger to it all, but I never felt I was at risk. All I cared about was the peace and quiet that came with being alone and independent.
This trip is different, though. Here I am, hooked to the back of a biker I was forced to sleep with, as we pass through no-name town after no-name town in search of God knows what. Colorado disappears into the second day, becoming New Mexico. And the only difference I can see is that the cowboy hats get bigger and the skirts on the girls get shorter.
The only one smiling here is Breaker who looks like he is in Heaven as we ride three bikes wide on open roads. We skirt cities and places where the guys think the Feds and rival gangs will be hanging out. The way the men mark the maps with red open circles around places they call “hotbeds” make me think they are overestimating their reputation. Up until I got to Denver, I had never heard of the Gravediggers MC aside from a few oblique words here and there. But these guys were making it seem like they were the Hells Angels reincarnated.
Whether the danger is legit or just in Breaker and his guy’s inflated heads, they aren’t taking any chances. What should be a one or two-day trip is turning into three, going on four days. Most of the time, it’s because of the size of the group. Having thirty men, and some of their women, keep up with the pack and coordinating stops and errands takes time and skill. It’s certainly something I would suck at.
But Breaker is right at home with this stuff. The few times I’ve been near him during official business breaks, he takes the lead, often talking over Biggs. He tells the men which direction to go, how to line their bikes up, how fast they should be going around certain corners or sections of the rain-soaked roads. He makes notes of upcoming rest stops, or truck stops he knows are MC friendly. And he makes sure each and every guy knows the drill before we head out again.
I can’t help but notice Biggs when this happens. His face turns the color of putrid meat rotting in a fridge. The deep, sunburnt lines on his forehead scrunch up until they are full-on folds, and he runs his hand through the tip of his graying beard. He doesn’t look pleased with either Breaker or myself, though I have barely said a word since we left the hotel on the border between New Mexico and Colorado.
I’ve taken this time as a sabbatical of sorts. As much as the road is freeing and how I know I should be appreciative for another chance of escape, I still feel as if I am a slave to my situation. There’s no way in hell that I would pick a guy like Breaker, and now I was being coupled off with him like one of those forced marriages, shotgun wedding situations you hear about. And this time, a whole group of motorcycle men were holding the guns and the shivs to my head as I pledge myself to Breaker and the Gravediggers.
By the fourth night on the road, I’m done. I’ve been stewing this whole drive, and I can’t take it anymore. As soon as Breaker shuts the hotel door, I unleash on him, my voice still hushed to a frantic whisper as I am careful of the men in the next room over.
Placing my hands upon his chest, I push him back further into the room, “I need to get out of here Breaker. You have to help me out.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks as he strides back towards me, his arms outstretched. His fingers brush up against the sunburnt skin of my shoulders as he fixes the spaghetti strap that has fallen down.
I again push him away, not wanting to be touched like that. I wasn’t about to give in again, as I have all the nights before. I have justified those times to be one-offs, heat-of-the-moment deals where I was just too emotional to understand what I was doing and what I was giving away.
I firm up my chin and grit my teeth as I say as clear as I can, “I’m done with this, Breaker. I am not supposed to be here, and you’re going to help me get the hell out of here. You got me?”
He slumps onto the bouncy motel bed; his large frame shaking the headboard so that it crashes into the wall. “No, I don’t have to help you, Aimee. You’re part of the club now, and I am responsible for you. We’ve talked about this. If you run away, you’re not only signing your own death warrant, you’re guaranteeing I won’t see another sunrise either.”
“But I’m not yours!” I shout back, stomping my foot on the ground like I would do when I was a kid. “I never agreed to this. You decided it for me. I should have let Biggs kill me that night. It would have been better than this hell!”
“Watch it!” Breaker shouts as he stands back up again. He moves so fast towards me that I back straight into the dresser where the old box TV is stored. The corner of the furniture digs into my back, but I still manage to keep my eye contact as he places a finger in my face and scolds me. “You won’t be talking to me about this again. You hear me? I’m doing you a fucking favor, and you’re being an ungrateful brat.”
I don’t know what to say to that. His rage always seems to catch me off-guard. It’s just a departure from the man who drapes his arms around me while we sleep and who is there when I wake with coffee ready to go. Maybe I’m getting too used to him. Maybe I’m hoping he is someone he clearly is not. Whatever I am thinking, it’s clear to me that t
he person deep down is the person I always thought was there—club Breaker.
I slide out from under his arm and grab my bag of toiletries I’ve picked up along the way. At least I can escape him and his dark, disapproving glares in the bathroom.
I sit myself down on the cold seat of the toilet, my head falling into my open hands. I take a few deep breaths to recenter myself, but I just repeat the last few minutes in my head.
I need to get out of this.
“Aimee! Come on! We’ve got to go!”
Suddenly, I’m aware we’re not alone anymore. Men are shouting at one another as the hotel room erupts into chaos. I don’t unlock the door, though. I just grab my bag and pull out the lipstick. I’m not going anywhere until I look somewhat presentable. After a few moments, I hear him bang on the door with his fist.
The whole room rattles with his shouts, “Aimee! Fuck! We have to get the hell out of here!”
“Why?” I ask, not even trying to hide my frustration. “We just got here. I’m not going anywhere until I shower or change my outfit.”
“Fuck it,” he mutters before I hear him call out, “Move out of the way then!”
There’s a pause before a loud pound and crash. I jump out of the way just in time before the door goes flying off the hinges, landing in a distorted heap off to the side of the bathtub. Standing before the pile of wood and splinters, huffing and holding on to his bleeding arm, Breaker grits his teeth at me.
“I told you, we have to go. When I say go, you fucking go.”
He reaches in towards me, managing to yank my arm just enough to pull me up and over the door and into the main living area. I get a few glances of the men gathering around a map laid on the queen size bed. They watch with smirks on their dirty faces as Breaker carries me out past them through the entrance and out to the parking lot.
“What the hell are you doing? You can’t do this to me!” I call out, beating my fists on his back. “I’m not your prisoner! You have no ri—”
“Shut up, Aimee!” Breaker sets me down on the seat of his motorcycle. “Do you have any fucking clue what is going on? Or is that pretty little head of yours stuck so far up your ass you can’t see that something bigger is happening here?”
It dawns on me that we’re not alone out here either. Just like in our hotel room, the rest of the Gravediggers are gearing up their bikes in a panic. Henry, next to us, throws his pack on the back, strapping it in with an old rope. Even Wesley with all his macho man ego looks terrified while whispering to his friend.
“What’s going on?” I ask, backing down from my protests. “Why are we leaving?” I don’t know why, but I reach out my hand towards Breaker. I grab hold of the arm he used to break down the door and, with a gentle firmness, begin to massage around the tender spot.
“It’s the Black Eagles. They got beef with us since we did a job in Raton a few years back. Their president is linked up with Vice, so it’s doubly bad if they manage to find us before we get the fuck out of here.”
“Vice? You mean Vice from the Devil’s Fighters? The guy Biggs had me rob blind?”
Breaker nods with solemnity as he looks towards the main road connected to the parking lot. “Yeah. They’re the same. That’s why your job is to shut your mouth and sit here until we figure out a plan.”
“A plan? What do you mean? Are these Eagle people coming for us? Do they know where we are? How far away are they?” My voice peaks as I begin to panic. Vice is the last person I want to see here, a few rungs higher than Breaker, Biggs, and my ex-boyfriends. If he found me, I would be the perfect offering. Suddenly, I wasn’t just fleeing with the Gravediggers; I was fleeing for my life.
“Yeah. They know. Someone ratted us out when we checked in to the hotel. We got the wrong info and crossed into their territory. Now we need to get the hell out of here before they sh—”
“We’re riding!” Biggs appears behind us, his hands raised in the air. “Let’s go. Anyone left behind can fend for themselves.”
“Where are we going?” Breaker asks as Biggs jumps on the bike parked on the other side of us. “Don’t you think we should sit down and map it out before we—”
“No! We did it your way, Breaker. You failed. Now we do it my way. We ride out until we are out of their area.”
Breaker jumps in again, anger building as he shouts back, “But we don’t even know where the fuck that is. We could be riding all night in the dark on roads we haven’t scoped out. You don’t think that’s what they want?”
Biggs straddles his bike as he looks out again. The whole crowd of men look away but lean in at the same time. No one moves, probably in fear of either of the men striking out at them.
Finally, Biggs clears his throat. “We do it my way. The last I heard, I’m the president of the Gravediggers, and we live and die by that. Anyone have a problem with that can sit here and wait to be executed with their patches on.”
Breaker shakes his head but still jumps on the front of the bike. I barely have enough time to throw my arms around his waist before the Harley revs forward with a jolt.
We drive slower than usual, watching the rest of the crew pass us by. Breaker’s motorcycle slides back and forth between the other drivers, directing them as we take the backup spot next to the few cars and vans that follow with the cargo and supplies.
Every headlight that doesn’t belong to us shocks me like a spark of electricity. The sound of cars speeding up or a tire shaking and bumping on the highway causes me to jump. I hold on to Breaker tighter, pressing my face into his shoulder so I can’t see what is going on around us. But even holding onto him like this doesn’t feel enough.
We continue on for what seems like a few miles, as my eyes remain closed. Breaker says nothing, as he usually does when he drives, but then I hear him yell back at me. His face goes white as he words something like, “Shit! Fuck! That’s not… I can’t make out the patch color…?”
I spin my head around just in time to see a man with a shotgun pointed straight at us. The long barrel reaches over his handlebars as he leans low to position it.
“Breaker!” I shout, but he is one step ahead of me. The bike swerves to the side, flying like a rocket out of control towards the crowds of other riders.
He screams over the roar of their machines, “Go! Go! Go! Get the fuck out of here! Don’t look back!”
Another shot is fired seconds later, causing me to duck down even further into the seat. He again swerves, this time towards the shoulder of the street where many of the riders have backed away from. We shoot to the front of the group, somehow finding Biggs in the sea of black and red jackets and bikes.
Up here in the front of the pack, no one seems to notice the danger creeping up behind them. The bikes behind stay in formation like well-trained soldiers, but the shots are flying fast from the few in the know. A few bikes stray to the side as they try to get out of the way.
Breaker pulls his bike so close to Biggs I can reach out and touch him. Biggs barely registers him, or if he does, he’s doing a great show of ignoring Breaker.
Breaker again shouts over the noise and chaos building behind us. “Biggs! It’s the Eagles! They are on our tail. We need to split the group up!”
Biggs looks over his shoulder without much urgency. He shrugs as he calls back, “I don’t see a damn thing.”
Another gun fires three fast pops. But instead of just disappearing into the air with a crack, this one hits a target. Someone shouts, screaming out for help. I force myself to look behind me and see a motorcycle dip towards the road before tumbling over. The driver, with his head sunk towards his chest, does nothing to stop it from careening towards the ground until it skids in a flurry of rocks and sparks towards another biker doing his best to get out of the way. He too crashes.
Everything goes silent. I’m half-aware that I am screaming and clutching onto Breaker’s jacket, but everything feels like it’s going in slow motion. Breaker raises his hands in the air and pulls past Biggs. A line of
bikers follows us while the other half sticks with Biggs. We take off towards the next exit turn while the rest of the club stays behind.
I should care about what happens to those we are leaving behind, but all I can do is close my eyes and force my mind to drift off to a place where there are beaches and oceans instead of blood-soaked roads. There, no one is screaming. No one is shooting. And no one has to lie to tell me that everything will be okay.
Chapter Ten
Breaker
“Did you see who it was?” I ask Henry as we park our bikes outside the rest stop. “I thought I saw Pete in my line, but I’m not so good with faces when they’re wearing helmets.”
I try to get off my bike, but Aimee is still latched onto my hips. Her head is buried in the leather of my jacket, but I can feel the vibrations of her chest as she cries to herself. I’m not sure what the hell I should do here, so I go with my gut and stay put.