Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance

by AJ Downey

  I rolled to a stop behind his car, thinking about jumping him. He probably had tight abs under that button-down shirt, and I wanted to find out. On top of that, I really wanted to discover if those muscles could do anything besides lift weights or whatever other crap he did at the gym. My last boyfriend did rock climbing, and he had the most amazing fingers.

  The guy sagged with relief and straightened as I shut off the engine. When I took my helmet off and let my red hair loose, he stopped in mid-step and blinked. His smile slipped. “Oh. You’re a girl.” His surprise and disappointment took away about half of his cute factor.

  “Thanks for noticing.” Uncertain why he’d popped his hazard lights, I stayed on the bike. “You need some help?”

  He waved irritably at the little sports car. “It’s broken down and there’s no cell signal out here. Can you, ah, hm. Maybe you could just ride to town and ask a tow truck to come out here?”

  “Do I look like an errand girl?” I dropped the kickstand with a sigh. Nothing better than a condescending asshole on a Wednesday afternoon. Still, I couldn’t just leave him out here. Someone had to be the better human being, and I liked that someone to be me whenever possible. “How did it break down?”

  His uncertain shrug failed to surprise me. “It stopped going.”

  “Does it turn over?”

  “Does it what now?”

  No one could be that dumb. I stared at him for a second then decided that yes, someone could be that dumb. Leaving my helmet with my bike, I strode past him. “Get in the car and pop the hood,” I ordered. Stepping in front of his little Beamer, I found him still rooted to his spot, staring at me like an idiot. “Anytime, Ken.”

  “What?” His brow furrowed.

  “Are you going to pop the hood so I can take a look or not?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  I rolled my eyes and thought about leaving this moron to fend for himself. “I’m a mechanic. It’s what I do for a living.”

  This seemed to confuse him more. “Oh.”

  While he attempted to accept that women can be grease monkeys, I stepped around the car, opened the door, and found the hood release. About ten seconds later, I had the hood propped open. His sports car had a big, fat computer brain that I couldn’t touch outside of the garage, but it still had plenty of little things I could check for the easy fix. Unless he’d utterly failed to have someone take care of it, he probably just hit a bump and jarred something loose.

  Ignoring the Ken doll, I walked back to my bike and pulled out my tool kit. Partly to mess with him and partly to get what I needed, I walked up to him and grabbed his thigh to check for his car keys. His eyes popped wide and I wondered if he’d go home and tell Muffy about the crude biker bitch who’d groped him without asking.

  His mouth opened and shut, reminding me of a pretty fish.

  I pressed close and stuck my hand into his pocket. His musky scent made me want to rip those slacks right off and ride him on the trunk. If only he hadn’t said anything stupid. “It’s okay, Ken, I’m used to doing things for myself.” Pulling his keys out, I shoved them between our faces and shook them.

  The man’s cheeks went pink and he covered them with his hands as I walked away. “Um,” he managed to gasp. “Uh, my name, it’s— It’s not Ken.”

  “Coulda fooled me.” I slid into the leather driver’s seat of his coupe and tried the key. The starter sounded fine, but nothing caught. His suit jacket lay on the passenger seat, along with a black leather briefcase.

  Finally, he moved to stand beside the car door, maybe worried I’d steal something. At my current eye level, I noticed he’d grown happy to see me. “Do I look like someone you know named Ken or something?”

  As I stepped out of the car, I laughed. “No. When I tell you to, turn the key.”

  He put one hand on the roof and the other on the door, blocking me in. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  I wanted to pinch his cheek. “Gotta call you something, baby.” Ducking under his arm, I smacked his butt and found it pleasantly hard.

  He jumped and whirled, catching my arm with fingers that turned out to be strong enough to give me all kinds of ideas. His bicep flexed as he yanked me close to his chest, and he seemed flustered by his own actions. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to work on your car.” I smirked. “What’re you doing? Besides not what I told you to, I mean.”

  “Oh.” He stared at my mouth and gulped. “Uh. I, uh.” Maybe he could smell my mint lip balm or my strawberry-scented shampoo. His grip on my arm loosened.

  I grinned and grabbed his tie, then snugged it against his collar. “It’s okay, Ken. Sit down and turn the key when I tell you to. If you do a good job, I might reward you.”

  “Prescott,” he squeaked, his cheeks turning pink again. He coughed and cleared his throat. “My name is Prescott.”

  Of course he had a pretentious, preppy name. “Nice to meet you, Prescott. Everyone calls me Angelfish.” I patted his tie and shoved him at the car. “You have a girlfriend?”

  “Uh.” He stumbled and dropped into the driver’s seat.

  With a snort, I returned to the engine. “If you have to think that hard about it, I’m guessing the answer is yes, but you’d like it to be no.” Though it made things harder to reach, I leaned across the engine from the side so he could have a view of my ass. I pulled a fuel pressure gauge out of my tool kit and searched for the port to stick it onto.

  “Oh. Um. Yes, I do.”

  “Turn the key.” To my surprise, he did it.

  “We’re engaged.” He huffed a heavy sigh.

  The gauge told me what I expected. I tucked it into my tool kit and shut the hood while Prescott slumped in his seat. “You need a new fuel pump. It’s not a big deal, and I could have you up and running in about an hour if we have one in stock at the garage. Unfortunately, I don’t have one on me. You can ride back to town with me or you can wait here for a tow truck.”

  “I don’t even know how it happened.” Prescott stared straight ahead, and I couldn’t tell if he’d heard me or not.

  I doubted I’d get anything useful out of him until he worked this out, so I leaned against the car and waited. When he said nothing for a long time, I prompted him. “So far as I’ve heard, that usually happens when one person asks the other to marry them.”

  “But I didn’t. And she didn’t. Bridget and her mom came home with my mom from shopping one day with a ring. They talked about planning a wedding. When I asked whose, they all laughed and said I was cute.”

  The sudden desire to punch this Bridget bitch in the face took me by surprise. Sure, Prescott was hot, but I had no investment in him. I guess it just pissed me off that a woman would treat a man like that, even a dumbass who didn’t have the sense to get away from her. “Have you tried telling them you don’t want to get married?”

  Prescott burst into manic, hysterical laughter. He doubled over and bonked the horn with his forehead, then leaned back against his head rest and covered his face. After a while, his giggles subsided and he returned to staring out the front windshield.

  “C’mon, Scotty.” I grabbed his arm and tugged. “Let’s get you someplace where you can have a drink while I take care of your car.” When he obediently stood, I grabbed the keys and locked the car for him. “You ever ride a motorcycle before?”

  He sighed and sounded too despondent to be left by himself. “No. Never.”

  “Alright. I don’t have another helmet, so we won’t go fast. You sit here.” I patted the cushy pillion I’d installed for my own butt. “Put your feet on these little bars and your hands around my waist. Lean with me. You resist, we crash. Understand?”

  Another of those ugly sighs heaved his broad shoulders and he nodded. I thought about slapping him. Maybe I’d do it after he paid for the work on his car.

  I pulled my bike into the Grease Dragon Garage lot with a lead weight draped over my back. For the whole ride, Prescott clung to me, hunched o
ver and with his forehead resting between my shoulder blades. He straightened when I kicked the stand out and pulled my helmet off. I heard a muted AC/DC guitar riff and he heaved yet another sigh.

  The ringtone came from his pocket. He stood and reached to pull it out. In a fit of I don’t know what, inspired by the knowledge he liked one of my favorite bands, I grabbed his wrist and stopped him. Reaching into his pocket for him, I took his phone and checked it. The phone offered an ID of “Bridget,” so I tapped the red icon to reject the call.

  “Uh.” He blinked and his mouth opened and shut.

  “You’re not allowed to talk to her on Grease Dragon turf. You can have your phone back when you leave.” Tucking his phone into my jacket pocket, I walked away from him. “Combo! Car on Route 47 needs a tow!”

  Through the open window into the office, I heard a metal chair scrape on wood. Boots hit the floor and the scratched metal door flew open. Combo hurried out, smoothing his shaggy black hair down and settling his grease-stained ball cap over it. “What we got?” He scratched the stubble on his cheek and eyed Prescott.

  “Late model Beamer Z4, about ten miles out of town.” Dropping Prescott’s keys into Combo’s palm, I smiled.

  Combo whistled his appreciation. “It didn’t get smashed, did it?”

  “Nah. Engine trouble. Bring it around the side and I’ll fix it up.”

  “Good deal.” He patted my shoulder as he passed me and stuck a hand out to shake Prescott’s. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring her in safe and sound.”

  Prescott shook Combo’s hand and flashed him a weak smile. “Thanks.”

  Raising a foot, I planted my combat boot on Combo’s butt and shoved. “Get going already.”

  Combo grinned and rubbed the back of his jeans. “Watch out for that Angelfish. She’s feisty.” He hurried past a line of motorcycles to the tow truck parked on the far side of the small lot. To get out, he had to maneuver around a clump of customer cars waiting on parts for their repairs and a handful of pristine used cars for sale.

  I’d seen him do that a thousand times before and headed into the cramped office instead of watching. Every square foot of wall space had one of two things covering it: pictures or product. We sold bottles of oil and spare parts for do-it-yourselfers, and snacks for folks who insisted upon occupying one of two crappy vinyl chairs to wait for their oil change or repair.

  After a few seconds of standing in the waning afternoon sun, Prescott shambled after me. “Give me my phone back, please.”

  “No.” Honestly, I don’t know why I refused. “Have a seat. Do you want something to drink? We’ve got most anything, though I wouldn’t drink the lemonade unless you want to get falling-down drunk.” As I spoke, I pulled my jacket off.

  He shrugged and dropped into a chair. It creaked under his weight. “I just want my phone back.”

  “Why? So you can call Bridget and have her pick you up in her Mercedes and leave a servant behind to drive your car home?”

  His mouth opened and shut and he leaned forward to cradle his head in his hands. “Yeah.”

  Rolling my eyes, I thumped the door to the back room, startling Dad and Boomer. “Customer,” I told them. “Got it covered.” I tossed my jacket over the back of a chair and grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge. Breezing back out, I found Prescott hadn’t moved, and leaned against the cashier counter to regard him. “What do you do for a living?”

  “Software engineer.”

  “Computer stuff, huh? I guess that pays pretty good.” I twisted the cap off a water bottle and chugged to wash away road dust.

  “Yeah.”

  “Bridget sounds like she’s already a rich bitch. What’s she want you for?”

  He looked up at me, his brow furrowed. “What?”

  I handed him the other water bottle. “You don’t think she loves you, do you? I mean, if she actually cared about you for yourself, she wouldn’t have skipped the part where she either asks you or waits to be asked. Your opinion is supposed to matter for something important like getting married.”

  “Oh. I...hadn’t really thought about it.” Staring at the bottle in his hand, he frowned. “I’ve known her since middle school, when our moms met in a book club. They set us up together on a date during my freshman year in high school, and everything just kind of...happened, I guess. I never asked her to anything, she’d just show up and make decisions and drag me along to everything. I didn’t even want to go to prom with her, but I did.”

  The poor guy. Three women had pushed him around and he’d never pushed back. I almost felt bad for telling him not to resist me on the bike. “Why?”

  He rubbed his thumb on the bottle’s label. “I don’t know. Everyone expected it, I guess. Mom scooped me up one day and had me fitted for a tux and bought a corsage, and set up a limo and everything else.”

  “Have you ever done anything on your own?” The idea of having someone else make all the decisions for me grated so hard I had to rub the goosebumps that formed on my arm.

  After a long minute or two, he shrugged. “I can’t think of anything. Dad bought the car for me. Mom picked my major and my college. They even chose my essay topics and community involvement projects. I did all the work and got good grades without them, so there’s that.”

  “Aren’t you a good little trooper.”

  If he sighed too many more times, I’d have to hit him. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  I realized something that made me raise my brow. “Wait a minute. If you’ve been dating Miss Bitchy-Pants since high school, you’ve never dated anyone else.”

  “No, I haven’t.” He didn’t bat an eye at the nickname, which I found interesting.

  “Jeez, that’s criminal. You can’t marry the only girl you’ve ever banged. That’s like only ever eating baby food for your whole life.”

  He huffed a hollow laugh. “Like I have any choice.”

  I slapped him. Despite his status as a customer, I had no intention of standing there and letting this hot guy who had everything but a backbone whine about his lot in life.

  The blow rocked him to the side and he surged out of the chair to grab my arm and scowl at me. To my surprise, a fierce spark of defiance flared in his eyes, in the corners of his mouth, in the sudden tension across his shoulders, and in his grip on my forearm. The women in his life hadn’t ripped his spine out—they’d only smacked him on the nose every time he tried to use it.

  Everything that attracted me to him in the first place came flooding back. I grabbed his tie and kissed him. For a long moment, he stood there, tense and still. When I didn’t let up, he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me back. His hands stayed on my upper back, holding me tenderly, but I didn’t want tenderness. Fridget the Wonder Bitch probably taught him to act like that.

  A scene flashed through my head, where he only got to watch her strip down to her expensive lace panties and bra, then she’d turn off the lights and climb into bed with him in the dark. No matter what he wanted, she’d smack him if he strayed too far from vanilla, missionary sex, and lie there while he exhausted himself trying to get off. Later, she’d complain to her friends about the lack of foreplay even though she wouldn’t let him do more.

  I grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and pulled away enough to look him in the eyes. He panted and seemed confused and scared. Maybe he felt like a little boy stealing cookies, expecting to get caught any moment. Somehow, knowing he probably needed this more than I did made me want him more.

  “What does she call it?” My voice came out in a hoarse whisper, almost a growl. “Making love?”

  His hands slid down my back, his touch becoming tentative and light. He looked down and shook his head a tiny bit. “Going to bed.”

  The absurdity of using that phrase made me laugh. I grabbed his hand and stuck it on my ass. Leaning in, I purred into his ear. “I don’t want to go to bed, Scotty. I want to fuck.” When his eyes popped wide, I kissed him again and pressed my body close enough to tell he’d gotten
hard in those slacks. After a second or two of hesitation, he squeezed my butt and darted his tongue into my mouth.

  Something else clattered to the floor as I yanked his shirt up out of his slacks and ran my fingertips over his tight abs. He held my head in place while I found his belt buckle and yanked on it.

  “What in blazes is going...on...oh.” I hadn’t noticed the back door flying open until my dad filled the doorway, staring at us.

  Prescott jumped and let go, stepping away and turning his back on Dad to stuff his shirt into his pants. I didn’t stop him.

  Dad raised an eyebrow. “Angelfish, if you want to grab a piece of ass, you can do it in your bunk. Customers come here sometimes, remember?”

  “Sorry, Dad.” I grinned and hung my head, not sorry at all. “This is Prescott. Combo is grabbing his car. Needs a new fuel pump.”

  “Dad?” Prescott’s voice pitched high, then he coughed to clear his throat without turning to face Dad. “Um, excuse me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— Uh. Er.” He gulped.

  Dad looked at me, his brow dancing to ask for an explanation. Figuring Prescott didn’t want to admit he sported wood in front of my father, I shrugged and patted my crotch. Dad nodded his understanding. “Well, go on. The mess isn’t too bad. Boomer can take care of it. Call it payback for all the times he ‘forgot’ to fill the gas tank before letting you borrow his bike.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” I stepped to his side and pecked him on the cheek, then returned to my new toy. Taking Prescott by the arm, I led him out through the front door. He shuffled and half-limped, radiating awkward discomfort.

  “Maybe this is for the best.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m engaged and all.”

  I rolled my eyes and led him to the stairs around the back that would take us to the apartment on the second floor. “Nope.”