RIGID (Biker MC Romance Book 4)

by Scott Hildreth

  She looked me over. “That outfit is on point. Can’t go wrong with a school girl get up, that’s for sure.”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I was dressed like Britney Spears in the Hit Me Baby One More Time Video. I cleared my head of thoughts of Smokey. Then, I prayed to see right through whoever happened to be on sniffers row.

  The music stopped, and then I heard the DJ dismiss Rose.

  I took a deep breath and waited.

  “Here’s what you’ve been waiting all night for. Gentlemen, the one and only. Standing five foot seven, and only 114 pounds, she’s got a set of natural double D’s that are the envy of the industry. Give it up, motherfuckers. This. Is. Texxxas!”

  As Buckcherry’s Crazy Bitch began to blare over the sound system, Texxxas walked out onto the stage no differently than a Victoria’s Secret model walks up the runway.

  When she did, she left Sandy in the dressing room.

  Where she was safe from everyone and everything that Texxxas didn’t have the common sense to fear.

  The men shouted and cheered. Money rained onto the stage. And, she danced like it was the last time she’d ever have the chance.

  EIGHT

  Smokey

  I rolled past the gate, across the narrow strip of asphalt, and through the open doors of the shop. As my bike came to a stop beside Pee Bee’s bagger, I whacked the throttle twice. After making sure Crip was pissed off, I shut down the engine, pulled off my helmet, and stepped over the seat.

  “How many fucking times have I told you not to rev that piece of shit up in the shop? Motherfuckers in Los Angeles can hear that loud son-of-a-bitch,” Crip complained.

  Crip was the president of the club, a former Navy SEAL, and a pain in my respective ass. He wasn’t arrogant, but he was damned fucking close. His don’t rev your engine in the shop rule was one of the many rules he had that I didn’t like, or respect.

  Bikers revved their engines.

  Especially in confined spaces.

  I pulled my vape from my pocket, took a long pull, and exhaled it in his direction. “My bad, Brother. Shit, I forgot.”

  “You always fucking forget.”

  I shrugged. “I can’t remember shit.”

  He glared at me, and then folded his arms across his chest.

  I considered folding my arms in a similar fashion just to piss him off, but realized if I did, I wouldn’t be able to blow smoke in his face. So, I decided not to.

  The club’s Sergeant-at-Arms, Pee Bee, was leaning against the workbench with a bottle of beer dangling from his fingertips. Standing 6’-8” and solid muscle from head to toe, he was an intimidating motherfucker, but his heart was made of gold.

  I glared at Crip until he broke my gaze, and then gave Pee Bee a nod.

  “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?” he asked.

  “Just trying to make enough money to buy a new set of cams,” I said. “Cholo whipped my ass the other night, and I’m sick of it. How’s things?”

  He shrugged. “Things are good.”

  I looked at Crip. “So, what’s the emergency, Crip?”

  “No emergency. Just need to figure something out.” He glanced at my vape and then shook his head. “Ought to make a rule against those motherfuckers in the shop.”

  I raised my vape. “Against this?”

  He nodded.

  I pressed the fire button, inhaled for as long as I could, and exhaled a flume of vapor so large that it encompassed them both. “Let me know when you do, I’ll turn in my kutte.”

  He waved his hands, frantically trying to clear the air in front of him. “That shit’s going to end up killing us.”

  I folded my arms over my chest and shot him a glare. “And you pricks getting drunk and riding in the front of formation will end up killing the entire club.”

  “That’s different,” he said. “I’m serious.”

  “I’m serious. Make a one-beer limit. Then, add something against farting and fucking to the bylaws. And loud noises. Oh, and leaving oil spots on your precious fucking concrete floor. Make a rule against scratching our nuts, too. Outsiders might see it as pretentious. They’d see us as the big cocked biker club. Hell, that’d be the end of us.”

  He crossed his arms, looked me up and down, and then met my gaze. “I’m about sick and fucking tired of that attitude, Smoke.”

  Shielded from Crip’s view, Pee Bee cocked and eyebrow and grinned. He knew the remark would irritate me, and was obviously waiting eagerly for my response.

  “I’m about sick and fucking tired of you being an arrogant prick,” I said.

  He flexed his biceps. “Come again?”

  “You heard me.” I lifted my chin slightly and waited for his blood to boil.

  His face went flush. He inhaled a shallow breath and jutted his chest out. I coughed out a laugh and nodded toward the SEAL tattoo on his upper arm. “What am I supposed to do now? Lower my head and tell you I’m sorry?”

  He took another short breath, and I was sure a response was coming, but I didn’t give him a chance to speak. I waved my hand toward Pee Bee. “Peeb here can’t do wrong in your eyes, and Cholo’s pretty close to the same. Rowdy could come burn this shop down, and you’d help him clean up the fucking mess. Me? I smoke my vape and rev my motor, and you’re ready to crucify me. You treat P-Nut the same fucking way. Always on his ass. Consistency, motherfucker. I want consistency. Equality--”

  His hands shot to his hips. “You fucking done?”

  I shook my head. “Did I sound like I was done? You fucking interrupted me. That’s what I’m talking about. Give and get, asshole. Give respect. You’ll get it back.”

  “Jesus, Smokey. I treat you with respect. I treat all the fellas with respect. You’re a prick most of the time, and I act accordingly.”

  I shrugged. “And you’re a prick all the time, and I act accordingly.”

  He exhaled heavily, and then shook his head. “You’re tough to take, Smoke. You pissed?”

  I took a pull on my vape, and then grinned. “Nope.”

  “Irritated?”

  I tilted my head back, blew the smoke toward the ceiling, and then looked him in the eyes. “Nope.”

  “You think I’m a prick?”

  “Nope.” I grinned. “I know you’re a prick.”

  “God damn it,” he snapped back.

  “But I can live with it,” I said. “I signed on for this shit, and you were a prick on that day, so I knew what I was getting into. What’s up? Why the meeting?”

  “Peeb’s here because Peeb’s always here. I wanted to talk to you about Tank.”

  “The prospect? The Marine?”

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t know the kid. What about him?”

  “Meathead got locked up over the weekend for a firearms charge. He was in LA over the weekend, got in a fight in a bar, and pulled a pistol on some prick in the parking lot. Someone called the cops, and must have given a pretty good description, because the feds picked him up this morning on a firearms violation. There’s no bond set, and it sounds like they’re going to railroad his ass. He’ll do a dime if he does a day.”

  I wasn’t sure how Meat being in jail affected me, and as much as I didn’t want to hear Crip’s explanation, I felt compelled to ask anyway. “Sucks about Meat, he was good people. How do I fit into this, though?”

  “Wantin’ you to take his prospect.”

  I spit out a laugh. “Shit there for a second I thought you said you wanted me to take that prospect to raise.”

  He didn’t so much as crack a smile. He simply raised his eyebrows and waited.

  “I’ve got one kid, Crip.” I shook my head and chuckled another laugh. “Don’t need another.”

  “I’m serious, Smoke. I need you to take this kid. Show him the ropes. He’s a good kid. He’ll make a good patch.”

  “I ain’t even been here two years. And, I didn’t vouch for that prick, Meat did. Peeb’s been h
ere for what? Ten years? Give him to Peeb.”

  “You’ll make a better mentor,” he said. “You never ride drunk, you don’t take any shit, and you’re not afraid to stand your ground. You’ve got a sixth sense when it comes to threats, and that’s not something anyone else in this club has. Short of me, that is. You’re rigid in your beliefs, Smokey. And, as much as you might disagree, I respect you for it.”

  “As a biker, in his beliefs, or in bed, there’s only one way for a man to be,” I said dryly. “Rigid.”

  Crip gave a nod.

  I looked at Pee Bee.

  He raised his bottle of beer and gave me his signature smirk. “It’s only eight months.”

  “Eight fucking months.” My eyes fell to the floor. “Jesus.”

  “It’ll pass quick.”

  I shifted my eyes to Crip. “What if I say no?”

  “I’ll be disappointed. Kid might not make it. Then again, he might make it, and end up being a turd because Fat Larry or Buck takes him.”

  “Give him to P-Nut.”

  He shook his head. “P-Nut’s inconsistent, and he’s nuttier than a fuckin’ fruitcake.”

  He was right about the Nut, but the last thing I wanted to do was mentor a war-torn Marine who was seeking a place to expel his aggression. “God damn it, Crip. I’d rather not. Kid’s probably got PTSD. If he flips out on me, I’ll put hands on his ass.”

  “I’m sure he does have PTSD. Get to know him.” He shrugged. “Part of being a mentor. Talk to him. Find out who he is. Show him the ropes.”

  “I’ve got plenty of other shit to--”

  He nodded toward my bike. “Have him put cams in your bike. Have him help you with tile work. Use him up.”

  I was an asshole, there was no denying it. I’d been one my entire adult life, and for good reason. If people’s perception of me was that I was a complete prick, they didn’t attach themselves to me emotionally. And, if we left feelings at the door, I didn’t have to worry about being hurt by another rotten cold-hearted bitch.

  Truth be known, deep down inside, I wasn’t a prick. It was a façade. A mask. Something I wore to protect me from the throngs of people I was sure were destined to cause me harm.

  I looked at my bike, and then at Crip. Ultimately, I wanted what was best for the club. I was sure there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that this kid was going to do anything to hurt me. He might be a pain in the ass for eight months, but I could stand anything for eight months.

  “Fine, I’ll mentor the little prick.”

  Crip slapped his hand against my bicep and then made a fist. “Appreciate ya, Smoke.”

  I pounded my fist into his. “Just want what’s best for the club.”

  The next eight months were going to be hell for at least one of us, that was for sure.

  NINE

  Sandy

  I sat up, looked around the bedroom, and then glanced at the clock. I normally didn’t wake up at 6:30 in the morning, especially after closing at the club. My growling stomach gave a hint as to why I woke up early, and although I considered going back to sleep, the continued protest from my digestive system won the argument.

  I rolled out of bed, walked to the kitchen, and made some toast. I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten, and realized the Thai food I’d eaten thirty-six hours earlier was my last meal. I devoured the first piece, making a cup of espresso as I ate. After drinking half the coffee, I bit into the second piece of toast and paused.

  Oh shit.

  I ran to the bathroom and slid to a stop with my arms wrapped around the toilet. Five minutes later, my toast and the morning’s caffeine were in the toilet, and I was back at square one.

  What in the Thai-co fuck?

  I washed my face, looked in the mirror, and wondered just what happened when I took the Mex-Asian buffet adventure. Certain I was battling a bad case of food poisoning, I walked to the bedroom, got my phone, and asked my all-knowing friend, Google.

  I typed in my question, how long does food poisoning last, pressed the search button and waited for the page to load. In a few seconds, I was astounded at the results. I could expect to be sick for between 2 and 10 days.

  Jesus.

  Aggravated at Google’s response, and hoping it might be something else, I typed in, what causes nausea after eating breakfast, and pressed search.

  I opened the first page, and then read the potential causes in order.

  Food allergies.

  I knew I wasn’t allergic to toast or coffee, so I scrolled to the next one.

  Food poisoning

  I already knew the possibilities of food poisoning, the symptoms, and the recovery time, so I scrolled past it and to the next.

  Stomach virus

  I decided it was quite possible that I had the flu, but the symptoms were more erratic, and inconsistent than any flu I’d previously experienced. Certain it wasn’t the flu, I thumbed the page up.

  Pregnancy

  I laughed. Then, I stared at the phone. In a moment, my stomach sank. My mind raced, arguing with itself about the possibility. I was on the pill, and Smokey had a vasectomy, so it wasn’t even possible, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t convince myself otherwise.

  I Googled morning sickness symptoms, then stared blankly at the results.

  Persistent excessive vomiting (more than 3 or 4 times a day)

  Unrelenting, severe nausea.

  Dehydration.

  A decrease in urination due to dehydration.

  Maternal weight loss or failure to gain weight.

  Rapid heartbeat.

  Headaches and confusion.

  Short of the rapid heartbeat, I was experiencing them all. Frantic, I searched early symptoms of pregnancy. The results weren’t what I was hoping for.

  Food aversions. Mood swings. Frequent urination Fatigue. Sore breasts. Light bleeding. Spotting. Nausea.

  I swallowed heavily, then re-read them.

  It was impossible, and it wasn’t what I wanted. Not at all. The situation, if it was in fact the situation, couldn’t be worse.

  Furthermore, being pregnant with Smokey’s baby would ruin my life’s dreams, completely. I wanted to fall in love, get engaged, marry, buy a home, and then have a baby. I’d saved almost every cent I’d made over the last three years, but it was nowhere near enough to raise a child.

  Especially alone.

  I tossed my phone on the couch, flopped my head in my hands, and began to cry. When the crying stopped, I came to my senses and realized although my little fairy tale didn’t work out, my life still could.

  All I needed to do was allow whatever was supposed to happen, happen.

  God’s will, not mine.

  The first thing I needed to do was to take a pregnancy test.

  Regardless of the outcome, I’d have to find a way to live with the results.

  My uncle Ramon always used to say, there’s only one way to keep from getting pregnant. Abstinence.

  If I was willing to take the risk, I had to be willing to live with the results. I wiped my tears, stared at my phone, and prayed for God’s will, not mine.

  Then, I drove to the CVS.

  ***

  Until I met Lex, I really didn’t have any friends that were girls. I’d always found girls to be catty and spiteful, so my friends were limited to the bouncers at the bar, or the man I was dating. The men I dated was an ever-changing list, but there was one person I remained close to, regardless.

  Craig gave me a hug, and then looked me over. He raised his hands to my face, swept his thumbs beneath my eyes, and did his best to clear the mascara from my cheeks. “There.”

  “Was it bad?”

  The corner of his mouth curled up. “You looked like you were trying out for an M. Night Shyamalan movie.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “It doesn’t…never mind. You look great now, and that’s all that matters.” He stepped to the side and waved his arm toward the living room. “Come in.”

  I
slipped past him, and upon seeing his living room, stopped and stared. It looked totally different than the last time I had visited.

  “Oh my God, this looks fantastic. Everything’s new.”

  “I got bored.”

  An awesome display of retro contemporary furniture was neatly fitted into his small condo. I found the various shapes and colors exciting, and wished my apartment looked the same. I considered sitting on the white leather sectional, and then opted for an orange fabric chair that had a wide seat cushion, high arms, and a very shallow back.

  “That’s great to look at, but it’s terrible to sit in,” he said.

  I sat down, and immediately agreed. I pointed toward a turquoise leather chair across from the sectional. “What about that?”

  He nodded. “It’s fun.”

  I tossed my purse on the coffee table, sank into the turquoise chair, and looked around the room. “This is awesome.”

  “Thank you. Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water?”

  “You’re so easy.”

  If you only knew.

  He returned in a moment, and handed me a bottle of water and a glass. “What’s going on? I know you didn’t come over for a glass of water.”

  “I need an opinion.”

  He smiled and sat down on the sectional. “You came to the right place.”

  Dressed in black and gray spandex exercise pants and a dark gray Under Armour shirt, he reminded me of Dwayne Johnson. He even cocked his eyebrow the same manner, and I often wondered if he practiced in front of the mirror.

  I took a drink from the bottle, and then poured the glass full. As I watched the bubbles come to the surface, I considered how I wanted to start the conversation.

  I’d spent the last hour and a half feeling a wide range of emotions. Initially angry, my anger soon changed to fear. Then, I felt content. Happy. Somehow, I became satisfied that I could handle the situation. Throughout it all, though, there was one constant.

  I was alone.

  I picked up the glass and gazed into it. “I’ve got myself into a situation.”

  “I’m sure we can figure it out. Want to enlighten me a little more?”

  I nodded, but didn’t immediately respond. I didn’t know if I could. There was a big difference between silently accepting my pregnancy and speaking about it.