CAOS MC: The Series

by KB Winters

  So much for my high tech pipe dream. As I limped closer I could see it was a garden variety road sign, two weathered slats nailed together pointing to a place called Milling. Ten freakin’ miles away.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. Ten miles in this heat might as well be a hundred. I pulled my hairband off and gathered my dripping, red hair into a ponytail, just to get them off my neck. I stood there, sweating, trying to muster some optimism about my situation as I calculated how long it’d take to walk ten miles when, in the distance, I heard a sound.

  The rumble of a motorcycle.

  And it was heading my way.

  Relief washed over me, but it didn't last long as paranoia and fear set in. I had no idea who might be coming my way, and a current of outright terror made an express run to my stomach. I wasn't the type of woman who took rides from strangers or hitchhiked—that was just asking for trouble. And I could find enough of that on my own without some hotshot on a Harley offering me a bag of crap on a platter, thank you very much. Even though that might be my only hope right now.

  Far off in the distance, I saw the dirt and gravel kicked up by a motorcycle barreling down the dusty road. I watched as he slowed and then did a wheelie before pulling to a stop right beside my car, stirring up a plume of dirt that coated the roof and hood of my sorry assed Beemer.

  I was standing about fifty feet from my car, and he had to have seen me as he threw a leg over the gas tank and slid off his seat like some stud in a beer commercial. He yanked his helmet off, the hot desert wind picking up his dark hair and blowing them around a nicely chiseled jaw. He adjusted his sleeveless leather vest, giving me a long view of rows of solid muscle and heavily tatted arms, gang signals I was sure. I didn’t hang with motorcycle clubs at home. Prep school girls were groomed to snag nice boys, meaning boys with pedigrees. Spelled M-O-N-E-Y. I’d spent my summers lounging around the pool at the country club. They wouldn’t have let this guy in to park their cars. I have to admit, though, from the way some of the girls in my college sorority used to talk about biker dudes, I wouldn’t have minded a taste. I heard they were pretty good in bed. If they ever made it to the bed.

  But not today.

  I walked toward him cautiously, and tried to look menacing just in case he might have the wrong idea about me being an easy target.

  As I got closer his gaze fell on me, and a smile crossed his lips. Yes, it was a predatory grin, but I could see he liked what he saw as he gawked at me up and down—like I was a piece of meat. But it was not the look of some guy who was going to skin me and hang me up in his refrigerator. For some odd reason, I didn't think he was a real threat. I was basing that on nothing but instinct and maybe a solid dose of hope. If he did turn out to be a chainsaw-wielding murderer, there wasn't much I could do about it now.

  “Car trouble?” he shouted as I was still a good twenty feet away, keeping my distance in case I had to take off running. As if. Where would I go?

  I had no fucking clue.

  “Yeah, I think it overheated.”

  “Looks like it.” The guy opened my car door and fumbled for the latch. He walked to the front of the car and lifted the hood, then he leaned back as the car unleashed a huge cloud of smoke. “Looks like you blew your engine.”

  Crap. Just what I needed. He looked over his shoulders at me and for some stupid reason, I noticed he had gorgeous eyes. A light blue that contrasted with his otherwise dark features. “You gonna stand back there all day? I'm not going to bite, I swear.”

  I wasn’t ready to believe him even though a grin curled around the corners of his mouth. I glimpsed gleaming white teeth through his tentative smile. Good genes, I guessed. From his scuffed up boots and oily jeans, he certainly didn’t look like he could bankroll prime dental work.

  I hesitated, unsure of my options at the moment. Honestly, even if I stayed back where I was, if he wanted to kill me, he wouldn't have too much trouble doing just that. He looked to be in great shape—strong and fit. The type of guy who worked out. No way I could outrun him, even if I'd wanted—or needed—to. The car keys were in my hand, so I anchored them between my fingers, my only weapon, but I was ready to strike if necessary. I wasn't going to be a victim again. Not twice in one day. If he was going to kill me, he was going to get a fight.

  I walked toward him as he continued tinkering with stuff under my hood, not even bothering to look at me again as I approached. My gaze fell on his nice, tight ass as he bent over the hood of my car. His jeans hugged it perfectly, really accentuating his positives. What could I say? I was a warm-blooded woman and I couldn't help but look. Although, I was a bit horrified with myself for doing it—given the current situation and all.

  “So uhm . . . what's your name?” I asked, sauntering up beside him. “I'm Isabelle.”

  He turned around and wiped his hands on the front of his dark jeans before pushing his long, scraggly hair from his face. I looked him over—not too bad on the eyes. Not bad at all.

  “Jameson. Jameson O’Leary,” he said, extending a hand.

  I gave it a hard look. Jameson hadn’t shaved recently and no telling when he’d bathed last. Was it safe to touch him? What the hell. I screwed up my nerve and gave him a quick handshake and immediately wished I had some hand purifier.

  Then he placed his hands in his back pockets and just stood there looking at me with a cocky expression on his face that said he was waiting for me to ask him for help—which I desperately needed in that moment.

  “Well, Jameson O’Leary, do you happen to have a phone I could use? Maybe to call a tow truck or something?”

  “A pretty girl like you, all by yourself, and you don't have a phone?” he asked, shaking his head. “Sorry. Phone died awhile back, haven't been able to replace it.”

  “Mine sort of died, too,” I said, biting my lip. “On the side of the highway, that is. Just like my car.”

  Jameson let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Sure sounds like someone's having a shitty day.”

  “You can say that again,” I muttered.

  “I'm guessing you need a ride, sunshine?”

  I looked at the bike then back at him. He gave me a smirk that told me he was the kind of guy who got what he wanted. I’d just had a double helping of that with a side of ass-kicking. “Uhm . . . I don't think so. But thanks. I just need to call an Uber or something”

  Jameson shrugged, scratching the stubble on his chin, laughing softly. “Uber?” he said, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a grin.

  “You know the car service?”

  “Oh, I know what Uber is. We’re in the sticks out here, but the Pony Express comes through every once in a while and gives us word from the outside world. Last time we got a news flash about Uber.”

  I rolled my eyes and if there was any door I could have slammed in his face, I’d have been all over it. He wasn’t finished, but now his voice dropped to a serious note.

  “It doesn’t look like you have too many options, considering Milling is a good ten miles down the road. And trust me, they don't have Uber.”

  He had a point. Dammit.

  I stared back at the bike, continuing to shake my head, which made my hastily assembled ponytail fall apart. I pulled the band out and felt my damp hair fall around my shoulders. I pulled it up over my neck and closed my eyes for a moment feeling a hint of a breeze flowing across my skin. Granted 115-degree breeze, but at least it was moving air. And then, because at that moment I had no shame, I gave him my best, full eyelash batting, kittenish begging, pretty please, don’t leave me stranded in the desert baby face. “Could you maybe just run into town and get me a tow truck?” I said, all but drooling over him.

  “And let you wait out here? By yourself—in the middle of the desert?”

  “Sure, why not? It wouldn't take you long—”

  “Have you ever been to Milling, Isabelle?”

  “Nope, can't say that I have.”

  “Didn't think so,” he said.


  He leaned up against the hood of my car and pulled something from his front pocket. Lighting up a cigarette, he took a long, deep drag before exhaling a thick plume of smoke at me. I stepped away, grimacing. If he noticed my disgust, he ignored it.

  “Milling is a town of about oh . . . five hundred people,” he said. “At most.”

  “So?” I said.

  “So? There's not a whole lot there. And there definitely are no tow trucks in Milling, sweetheart—”

  “Don't call me, sweetheart.”

  He snorted, obviously amused by me. He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled again before continuing.

  “So, there's no trucks in Milling. The nearest town with a tow truck is probably an hour away. I mean, you're welcome to wait out here all by your lonesome. But just know, it's Sunday and most businesses don't operate on Sundays around these parts. So your wait out here all alone might be a hell of a lot longer than you were banking on.”

  “Dammit,” I said, kicking the rocks at my feet. “What a great day to—”

  “A great day to do what?” he asked me.

  “To go for a drive,” I muttered.

  I looked over at Jameson's bike and realized my options were very, very limited. He was starting to look like my only option.

  “Is there even a place to stay in Milling?” I asked. “Like a bed and breakfast? A hotel? Because there's no way I'm staying—”

  Jameson shrugged. “There's a motel. A shitty one, but it should have rooms available.” He took one last long drag before stomping out his smoke under his boot. “But my place is cozier—”

  “You wish!” I replied, hands on my hips, my chin raised defiantly. “I'm not that type of girl.”

  “Suit yourself, Isabelle.” He walked toward his motorcycle. When he got to his bike and mounted up, he turned to me and asked, “Are you comin' or not? I'd hate to see you stranded out here for a few more hours until some trucker happens by. Hell, they probably won't be as nice as I am either. Some guys will expect a little somethin' for the effort, if you know what I mean.”

  Reluctantly, I had to admit that I needed something cold to drink, and sitting out there for several more hours—or possibly even overnight—didn't sound like much of an option.

  “Fine,” I grumbled. “Let me just lock up my car really quick.”

  Jameson put on his helmet and waited for me. When I reached his bike, he helped me climb on and instructed me to wrap my hands around his body—to which I strongly objected.

  “You wanna fall off?”

  “Of course not,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Then hold onto me,” he demanded. “Because once I take off, you'll go flying right off the back if you don’t.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled.

  I placed my arms around him awkwardly and held on for dear life. My pencil skirt rode up so my panties were pressing against him, which only made things more awkward and embarrassing for me. But before I could stress about it too much, the bike roared to life, thrumming with vibrations beneath me.

  I screeched as the bike took off down the road, feeling like my heart jumped into my throat. Squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, I prayed I wouldn't die out here. My parents would be so ashamed if they heard their daughter was killed while riding on the back of a motorcycle with a tatted-up thug. I’d rather die in the car with the buzzards circling.

  Hell, I'd be ashamed of myself. I wasn't that type of girl, but desperate times call for desperate measures. My chances on his bike were better than a night on the side of the road, so I held on for dear life as we drove the ten hot miles into town.

  Chapter Two

  Jameson

  When I saw her on the side of the road, I knew there was no way I could keep riding. Not if I didn't want some big stain of guilt on my conscience. And I already had enough of those. I was raised better than that. Besides, she was hot as hell in that tight little skirt and blouse that showed off her nice tits. I would’ve been a fool to drive past that. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and I knew that milky white skin of hers might burn in the hot sun.

  As I pulled to a stop, my eyes were practically rolling out of my head. What could I say? I'm a sucker for redheads. Sure, she seemed a little prissy for my taste, but I’d seen her type before. Sometimes her kind came slumming into Milling from Palm Springs looking for a little bad boy action, but she didn’t look like she was in that kind of mood today.

  But I’d managed to get her on the back of my bike, right? I was sure I could make her loosen up a lot more—once I had her alone. I saw the way she'd looked at me. She was as good as in my bed.

  We pulled into Milling and I drove her over to the motel, as she'd asked. We'd get her all checked in, and she could see firsthand just how crappy the rooms were. And maybe—just maybe—if she got a good look at just how gross and shitty they were, I could convince her to come back to my place. And after that . . .

  “Thanks, Jameson,” she said, hopping off the bike, her skirt sticking to her tight, little ass, giving me a view better than anything in that cheap ass motel. “I appreciate the ride.”

  I shut down the engine and climbed off. “Anytime,” I said, surprising the hell out of little miss Isabelle.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What kind of man would I be if I just left you here? I want to make sure you get checked in to your room safe and sound. Believe it or not, I am a gentleman.”

  She looked away from me, biting her lip, as if she wanted to tell me to get lost, but at the same time, I could see something had unnerved her. And I had a feeling it had to do with the black eye she'd tried so hard to cover up. Being familiar with the effects of domestic violence, I immediately felt for her. But I wasn't going to bring it up unless she did—and she didn't.

  “I'm fine,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “I know the look of woman who's fine, and that's not you,” I said. “Come on, I'll introduce you to Jerry, maybe get you a good deal.”

  “Jerry?”

  “The guy who runs this joint,” I said.

  “You know the owner on a first name basis?”

  Sure, I could tell her that's how small the town of Milling was, but there was more to it than that. “Let's just say, I've stayed a few nights here myself.”

  “Don't you live nearby?” she asked me, following me inside the motel lobby.

  The air conditioner was cranking out the air, but it wasn't cool and it wasn't cutting through the miserable damn heat. Not even the slightest bit.

  “I do,” I said. “Down the street, actually.”

  “Then why would you stay—” She looked confused but let it go. Probably didn't want to know the answer to the question, which made me grin.

  Jerry was sitting behind the counter, the little hair he had left clinging to the sides of his bald head. Large beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip. He looked up from a newspaper, cigarette dangling from his lips, and smiled.

  “Welcome back, Jameson,” he said, looking over at me with a wink.

  He turned to Isabelle and let out a low whistle as he checked her out. Subtle, Jerry. Very subtle. Isabelle looked uncomfortable, crossing her arms in front of her chest as if she wanted to hide. Not that I blamed her, Jerry was a creepy looking dude.

  “A room for one night, then?” he asked. “For you and your lady friend?”

  “I'm not his lady friend. And it's just for me, thank you,” Isabelle said, holding her head up as she spoke. Her arms were still crossed in front of her, though. Jerry's unwanted, pervy scrutiny had made her feel self-conscious, but she tried to hide it behind her tough girl act.

  Jerry looked over at me and shrugged. “Whatever you say, miss,” he said.

  He took the cigarette from his lips and snuffed it out in an ashtray nearby. Isabelle looked disgusted.

  For the first time since we entered the motel, I saw her examining the lobby, and she didn't look happy. As Jerry stepped into the back
to run her debit card, she whispered to me, “Please tell me the rooms are in better shape?”

  “Not really, but I'll tell Jerry to make sure you get a room with good air conditioning.”

  “Thank you,” she muttered.

  Jerry came back out and handed her a room key. I made sure to ask about the air conditioner, keeping my promise.

  “Just replaced the unit in that room last month. It'll feel like the North Pole in there if ya want it to, no matter what you're doing,” he said, a skanky smile on his lips.

  Isabelle shuddered as if the lobby was cold, but it wasn't. Had to be the way Jerry looked at her. As we stepped outside in the desert heat, I turned to her and offered her an apologetic smile.

  “He's harmless, I promise,” I said.

  She nodded, not meeting my gaze as we walked toward her room. Her heels clicked on the cement walkway, and the heartless rays of the sun picked up highlights in her red hair.

  Isabelle stopped before entering her room, turning to me. “Thanks. I can take it from here,” she said. “I really do appreciate all of your help.”

  I stared into her emerald green eyes, wincing at the black and blue bruising. Someone had busted her up good. “Sure. Are you sure you're okay? Do you need me to call someone?”

  Isabelle looked shocked, her mouth open in a perfect O and her eyes seemed wet with tears, but she nodded again. “I’m okay and no, you don’t need to call anybody.” She ran a shaky hand through her loose tendrils of hair. Without thinking, I took her hand, more to make her feel safe than anything, but as she turned her giant eyes up at me, I saw nothing but fear.

  “Stop.” She jerked her hand away. “I've been through enough already.”

  “What happened to you?” I asked, my voice taking on an unintentionally demanding turn. “Are you safe?”

  “I'm safe,” she said. “He won't find me here.”

  “Who won't?” I asked.

  She didn't answer.

  “What are you running from? Who are you running from?”