Biker Chicks: Volume 2

by MariaLisa deMora

  BIKER CHICKS 2

  Editor: AJ Downey

  Second Circle Press

  Contents

  Title Page

  Book Summary

  Sign of the Gypsy Queen - Eric Plume

  Sweet Surrender - Sapphire Knight

  Bad Boy - Emma Lee

  A New Night - Rachel Barnard

  Reinventing Holly - Geri Glenn

  A Road to Nowhere - Bink Cummings

  Gun Totin’ Annie - MariaLisa deMora

  The Wild Hunt - A.J. Downey

  Wanting More - Winter Travers

  Taken by Vegas - Liberty Parker

  The Innocent Truth - K. Renee

  Boy Blue - Bibi Rizer

  Publishing Info

  Bikers, the ultimate alpha males. But what of women who ride? These sexy independent road warriors shirk the conventions of lady-like behaviour and live life by their own terms – wild and free.

  BIKER CHICKS 2 is full of sexy stories about women who ride, whether they be lone wolves or part of a gang. Some of the best authors in MC romance along with some new names and faces to the genre tell us how these strong women find the sexual satisfaction and romance we all long for, for one of the best causes.

  Eric Plume - Sapphire Knight - Emma Lee - Rachel Barnard - Geri Glenn - Bink Cummings - MariaLisa deMora - A.J. Downey - Winter Travers - Liberty Parker - K. Renee - Bibi Rizer

  Biker Chicks 2: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance

  Sign of the Gypsy Queen

  Eric Plume

  Other people call me a rebel, but I really just feel that I’m living my life and doing what I want to do. Sometimes people call that rebellion, especially if you’re a woman.

  Joan Jett

  Sympathy is only meted out if you conform to all of society’s rules about how a victim is supposed to behave.

  Nenia Campbell, “Cease and Desist”

  I: Midnight Rider

  The dealer slid the turn card from the shoe; the two of diamonds. He put it next to the ace-queen-queen already on the table.

  “Bet’s to you,” he told me.

  I shoved a stack of chips at the pot; almost three hundred in ones and fives were already in it. For a cash game with a low limit and cagey bettors, that was huge. I tapped a finger on my two hole cards, covered by my silver dollar; ace of hearts, ace of clubs. When paired with the flop that meant a hand worth chasing after. Trouble was, everyone at the table had decided to follow along.

  I leaned back, fringed leathers creaking. It was hot in the poker room, so I’d draped my jacket over the back of my chair. It was the same brown as my pants, “FTW” embroidered across the shoulders between black-and-gold wings above a V of beaded fringe.

  The Gridiron Tavern was cheap and tiny, but thanks to a long ride it was the only place I could afford to play. I’d stopped here hoping to build a stake for the bigger casinos in Washington’s reservations; out there were high limit and no-limit cash games, places where real money could be made. To get in there I needed a stake. To earn that stake, I had to work hard for small prizes. It was one of the many inelegant realities of life as a full-time poker player.

  “I’m out,” said the man to my left.

  “Me too,” said another.

  All but three echoed the sentiment.

  “Raise,” said one of the players, a beefy boy in his early twenties wearing a tight black t-shirt and a chain necklace. Tribal tattoos crawled across his booth-tanned forearms like an infection.

  I raised likewise, hoping to push him off. He glared at me and raised back. Over several hours I’d taken a fair bit of his money, and he didn’t like losing to a woman. I smiled into his glare. That only made it worse. I raised again, tossing half of what was left of my stack into the pot.

  “Hell with this,” said one of the stay-ins.

  “Dammit,” said the other, tossing his cards and leaning back.

  The beefy one stayed in with a cold challenging glare, his attempt at a poker face. When the dealer reached for the shoe, his eyes were locked on the card. I waited, watching my opponent more than the cards.

  The river was the ten of spades. The beefy kid winced, a brief flicker of eyes and mouth. I knew what I needed to.

  “All in.” I shoved the rest of my stack into the pot. A drop of sweat ran down my spine.

  He matched me. “Okay,” he growled, “what do you got that’s so fucking important?”

  I moved my silver dollar and turned over my cards.

  “Full house,” said the dealer. “Aces over queens.”

  “Fuck!” my opponent slammed his hand down on the table and stood up, running his fingers over his gelled crew-cut.

  “I take it the pot’s mine,” I said.

  “Looks like it,” said the dealer.

  “God bless pocket rockets,” I said.

  Before raking the pot into my corner I passed the dealer two five-dollar chips. He smiled at me, just like he’d been doing all night. He was lean and tanned, late twenties to my thirty-six, with a long mobile face and shaggy chestnut hair.

  “Thanks,” he said, face heavy with mischief.

  I knew what he saw; a wiry woman with crow’s feet and freckles framing hazel eyes, dark hair tied back in a gray-threaded braid, wearing tight brown leathers and a tank top, scarred arms decorated with years of biker ink. Apparently he liked what I brought, because he’d tossed appreciative glances at me for the four hours I’d played at his table.

  I didn’t have a problem with his rope-muscled surfer guy charm either. It was a look that left me hot in the panties...or would have, if I ever wore any.

  My former opponent glared at the dealer. “You dealing for her now?”

  “I pull what the shoe gives me,” he replied.

  “Bullshit,” snarled the kid.

  “Settle down, Bobby,” said the bouncer, a wiry specimen that had all but appeared from nowhere. His cagey stance and scarred fists told me he was way overqualified to keep order in a middle-class sports bar. Bobby glowered at the bouncer, but backed off all the same.

  “I need a drink,” he said, stalking off in the direction of the bar.

  What he needed was a reality check. If it was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was a sore loser. Making a bunch of money off him didn’t change how I hated his attitude.

  “I’m done,” said one of the players.

  “Me too,” another echoed.

  I recognized a table breaking up. I scraped my chips into a pile, sorting them by denomination. I’d started with twenty dollars and ended with over three hundred. A good night, especially considering how I didn’t have to stay and play after winning a big pot. It was bad form to cash out after a hand that took everyone to the cleaners; their giving up meant I could do just that. I scooped up my chips and headed for the cash cage. There was a time to walk away, and I’d gotten there.

  As soon as I was clear of the door I dug out a Djarum Black and lit up; long inhale, long exhale. It’d been four hours since my last cigarette and I savored that first drag. I savored the weight of two hundred and sixty-five bucks in my wallet as well. When I’d shoved all-in, it was for real.

  Several dozen steps through the rain-slick parking lot brought me to my Harley, a hulking beast in red and black and chrome, seat and saddlebags the same brown as my riding leathers; the whole set had been done by a custom shop in San Fran, paid for at a time when I’d been flush. I threw a leg over the seat, wondering whether I should find a chea
p motel or a patch of dirt.

  “Hey.”

  I turned; beefy Bobby stood about ten feet from me, two more boys his age and build behind him.

  “Help you?” I stuck my half-smoked clove cig between my lips and unsnapped the carryall pouch I had slung over my gas tank.

  “Yeah,” said Bobby. “You can hand over my fucking money.”

  “Isn’t yours,” I said, sliding my hand into the carryall. “You played, you lost.”

  “You think shit’s that simple?”

  “I do,” I said.

  He dropped a hand to his right jeans pocket. I spotted the clip of a folding knife. “Bitch, I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  Apparently this was amateur night.

  “Okay.” I pulled out my Colt Python. “How about fuck off or get ventilated?”

  Bobby’s posse were silent as they backed off. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his backup vanishing.

  “You’re lucky I don’t have my Glock,” he said.

  I leveled my Colt at his face. “That means zero percentage in me letting you go fetch it.” I thumbed back the hammer.

  “Shit.”

  Yeah,” I said. “Now shoo.”

  He backed off, hands spread wide. I wasn’t surprised. Nothing said ‘go away’ like the business end of a .357 Magnum. I sucked a last drag off my smoke, spat the butt into the pavement. It sizzled when it struck a puddle.

  “Asshole.”

  I de-cocked my Colt and stuffed it into my carryall, closing the flap. I was anxious to leave, because it was possible the guy might come back with his gun and armed friends. It was officially my last night playing cards at the Gridiron.

  “A moment?”

  It was a familiar voice. I resisted the urge to reach for my Colt again. “Yeah?”

  When I turned I saw the cute dealer. He’d thrown a black leather jacket over his tux shirt; the jacket was covered in patches and showed serious wear. “Sorry about Bobby,” he said, shrugging with hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “After you left I had him 86’ed.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t like the stunt he pulled,” said the dealer. His nametag read JAKE. “That was bad poker etiquette.”

  I kept my hand near my carryall. “And that was enough of a reason?”

  Jake shrugged. “You think that was the only time he’s broken the rules?”

  “Fair point.”

  “I just got off-shift,” he said. “Mind if I buy you a beer?”

  “Let me answer your question with a question, maybe save us both some time.” I rested my arms on the handlebars of my Harley. “Are you hitting on me?”

  “Oh yeah, totally.” The skin around his eyes crinkled with mirth. “It working?”

  I threw my head back and laughed. I liked it when a guy had balls enough to own his shit. “Jury’s still out.”

  “That’s a sweet ride,” he said.

  I toyed with the end of my braid. “Oh really?”

  “Yeah.” He stroked his chin a moment before continuing. “1999 Harley Fat Boy,” he said. “Custom shocks, seat and exhaust, one-off decals on the tank...yeah, I’d be proud to own it.” He grinned. “Also, I’m loving the drag bars.”

  He knew bikes. My interest shifted gears. “I’ve spent all day in a bar,” I said. “You got beer at your place?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Let’s drink there,” I said.

  “So it is working,” he said.

  I winked at him. “We’ll see.”

  “Sounds fun,” he said.

  I had no problem deciding whether or not sex was on my plate, if and when a hot guy got dealt to me. I gave Jake a long cool look and did the math. Cute, relaxed, interested in the same things I liked, and he wanted into my leathers. I made the call.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes it does.”

  He stuck out a hand. “Jacob Fletcher,” he said.

  “Kestrel Callahan,” I said, grasping his. He had soft palms, long clever fingers.

  “Kestrel’s a neat name,” he said.

  “Mama was a hippie.” I dug out my keys. “So, do I follow you or what?”

  He gave me a rueful smirk. “Well that’s the thing,” he said. “I’m between vehicles at the moment.”

  “Climb on,” I said. When he did, I noticed something else; Jake Fletcher had an ass I wanted to grab.

  II: All Right Now

  I sat with a bottle of beer in my hand. We’d gone back to Jake’s place and set up camp on his porch, me with a bottle of beer and a clove between my fingers, Jake with his booted feet braced on a plastic crate that served as a table. I’d hung my jacket up on his coat-rack and taken my hair out of its braid. Summer rain fell just beyond the eaves of his apartment’s postage-stamp porch, making quicksilver patches on the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. My Fat Boy was parked in his spot, next to a covered bike which clearly hadn’t moved in a while; an ’08 Super Glide, spots of rust on the front forks. It was a sad sight. A bike which couldn’t run always was.

  There’d been an hour and a half of get-to-know-you chatter; I might’ve wanted to go to bed with Jake, but learning more about him was still important. Spending eight years as a poker player gave me an edge in reading people, and in that hour and a half I’d determined that unless he was better at hiding intentions than I was at reading them, Jake Fletcher was every inch the easygoing surfer dude-type he’d come off as at first blush. It was in the little things; he didn’t trot out stupid pickup lines, he didn’t leer at me and he wasn’t pushing to take the action into his bedroom.

  I hooked a thumb at the parking lot. “What’s wrong with the bike?”

  Jake shrugged. “The girl I was with didn’t like me riding it,” he said. “I let it sit too long. Now I don’t have the money to fix it.”

  “And the girl?”

  “We’re not together anymore,” he said, taking a swig from his beer.

  I followed suit with a sympathetic wince. “Bad deal,” I said.

  “So what do you do? For a living, I mean.” He also asked about me as much as he talked about him. Meant he wanted to get to know me, at least to the point of making sure I was safe; another good sign.

  “You saw me do it.” My beer was empty, so I snagged another Blue Moon longneck from the six pack on the upturned crate and cracked it open. One of the things I’d come to enjoy about the Northwest was the widespread availability of good beer.

  “So you’re a professional gambler,” he said.

  I laughed. “Not so much,” I said, putting my bottle to my lips. “I don’t gamble, I play poker. Big difference.”

  He swigged from his bottle. “There’s still an element of risk.”

  “Name a job where you can’t fuck up.” I set my beer down after another sip, pleasant warmth buzzing between my ears. I was on my third and that meant I stayed where I was, come what may; I had a solid ‘one drink per wheel’ rule, and I’d just exceeded it.

  “That’s true.” He played with his bottle, rolling it between his hands. He had nimble fingers; I thought about what they’d do when they were on my skin. “So you don’t see poker as gambling?”

  I drew on my cigarette, sending the smoke out my nose. “Yep. If you play it right, it’s no more gambling than any other job.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “And you can make a living that way?”

  “Has its ups and downs,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “Let me put it this way,” I said. “When I shoved all-in, the silver dollar on my cards was my last dollar.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  He shook his head. “Wow.”

  I stubbed out my smoke. “Like I said, ups and downs. Right now I’m down. Looking to get back up.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I live here,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said, “I thought that was my thing.”

  I shook my head. “Guess I wasn’t clear.” I took a sip from m
y beer. “I live here and now. That make more sense?”

  “Sort of,” he said.

  There was one of those pauses in conversation; we both used it to finish our drinks. After both of us had put the dead soldiers back in the six-pack he looked at me. “Looks like we’re out of beer,” he said.

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “So what now?”

  I stood up and strode over to him; my leathers creaked as I hooked one leg over his lap and mounted him like he was my bike, if his lap was the seat and his shoulders were the handlebars.

  “That depends,” I said. “Are you going to kiss me, or do I have to do it?”

  Rain pattered on the world around us as he grinned, his hands wandering up my back. “I got this,” he said, fingers sliding into my hair as he leaned forward, pulling me close.

  I’d learned that how a guy kissed was a good indicator of how he screwed, and the way Jake’s lips worked with mine told me I’d chosen wisely. Kissing was like fighting or riding, all about rhythm. Jake had it down...match moves and go with the flow. My thighs clenched as his mouth danced with mine, want flickering along my spine like the flames on a torch.

  “Yeah you do,” I whispered when we broke apart to breathe. His hands tightened in my hair and I gasped.

  “Glad it’s still working,” he said, eyes hot with lust.

  I got a grip on his shaggy mop and squeezed. “Shut up and keep doing the thing.”

  Jake’s hands slid around my ribcage as we kissed, seeking my breasts and finding my pecs-with-delusions-of-grandeur. As a card-carrying member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee I ignored bras, and that meant my skin was separated from his touch only by the thin cotton of my tank top; my nipples stiffened when his clever fingers found them. I ground my hips against Jake’s lap, wanting less leather and fabric between my flesh and his. A forgotten object in my pants prodded me in an uncomfortable place and I winced.

  His eyebrows quirked together. “What’s that about?”

  I stuck my hand down the front of my leathers and came out with the punch-dagger I carried there, an antique riverboat model with an intricate silver handle.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Forgot about this.”