First Ride (The Slayers MC Book 1)

by Tara Oakes

  Ooh. Ow. Ah….

  I take another step across the cracked kitchen tiles. I don’t exactly hurt anywhere; there are no words to describe the feeling. It’s kind of like how I would feel the day after I tried to do some advanced, crazy difficult yoga class. Like I had the time or the money to do something trivial like that.

  Some muscles feel tight, some feel loose, and some feel stretched.

  Last night was like nothing I’ve ever felt with the couple of college boyfriends I had before It was like something that should have been in some pay-per-view movie or in a dirty novel. It was intense. It was surreal.

  I slept like a baby in Dawson’s arms for the rest of the night, only to wake up early, shocked that he was still there despite the claims he’d made last night.

  I’ve never met a biker before, but I’ve heard of them. He got what he wanted, why was he still there? It was baffling to me. I could barely look him in the eye after the things we’d done last night, and it was a blessing when he got up to take a shower so that I could finally have a moment to myself, even though he took his body warmth with him.

  Perhaps the best part about him leaving me to get into the cramped little bathroom was getting a perfect view of his perfect, tight and muscled ass as he walked away. I felt my mouth drop open as I studied the tan line demarcating where his pants must hang low, his tan, fully-tattooed back on display.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Dawson in the relatively short time that I’ve known him, it’s that he’s anything but shy about his body. Or mine for that matter.

  I heard the squeaky pipes of the shower turn off a while ago, with him dressing and making a phone call in the bedroom as I’m doing my best to make some coffee.

  My kitchen is small. Maybe small isn’t even the right word. Either way, I’m trying to maneuver around the pots and small appliances.

  “Good. Bring the van and the trailer.” Dawson ends the call as he steps out into what would be called my kitchen. “Morning.”

  I smile tightly, unable to meet his eyes. “I made some coffee.”

  He steps forward, resting one hand on my hip while he reaches past to take one of the two steaming cups. I nearly jump at his touch. He notices. I know he does, yet his hand stays.

  “You should probably make more. The boys will be here soon.”

  My head snaps toward him. “Boys?”

  His eyebrows rise as he sips. “Good coffee.”

  “Boys?” I ask again as he sets his mug down to retrieve the folded leather vest, or cut, as I’ve heard him call it, and slip it over the long-sleeved black shirt he wore here last night.

  “Yup. All the ones who are in town. Gonna pack this place up and clear it out. Put those prospects to work.”

  “Whoa,” my own mug thuds against the countertop so that I can use my hands to express myself. “What are you talking about?”

  The patches sprawled across the worn, broken in leather move away from me while Dawson packs his handgun into the back waistband of his jeans, under his belt.

  What the hell am I doing? A huge beast of a man with terribly scary embroidered patches of the grim reaper with two scythes on his back, not to mention a gun hidden under that vest, is here, in my apartment, making plans for my things.

  “Told you last night, Angel. I’m getting you out of this hellhole.” His short brown hair is still damp, with little droplets here and there.

  “But--” I protest.

  He looks bored, as if I’m about to waste some of his time. “Do we really need to go over this again? Why don’t you take that cute little ass of yours in there and throw some clothes on before they get here? Unless it’s too sore and you need some help?”

  He winks at me mischievously. That little fucker. Actually, that big fucker.

  “What about Sasha?” Fear suddenly takes hold. He’s never met her. Surely an animal like him wouldn’t, shouldn’t, be around kids.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “What about her? Bringing her too.”

  “Bringing her where?” I’m suspicious.

  A loud honking outside draws both our attention.

  “Where are we bringing her, Dawson?” I demand.

  “Where the fuck do you think, woman? My house. Go get some clothes on. Now. That’s Baby out there. She’ll take you to pick Sasha up and take you guys home.”

  I don’t know which one of his words stun me the most.

  I think it was … home.

  ~*~

  “Maw!” Sasha runs into my open arms the moment she sees me open the apartment door to Lana’s place.

  At first, when she learned to talk, she started calling me Maw because she wasn’t able to say Molly- let alone Aunt Molly. Now, though, as I’ve had her nearly a year and I’ve seen her speech improving so much, I can’t help but notice how much her Maw is sounding like Ma.

  I hug her tightly, lifting her high enough for her shoeless feet to dangle wildly in excitement. On one hand, it’s so sad that she doesn’t have her own mom, Tina, to call lispy names, but, on the other hand, it breaks my heart in a good way that I’m the person here instead.

  “Oh, my gosh, Sasha! You’ve gotten bigger since yesterday!” I tease.

  Her shy little laugh is infectious and Baby chuckles behind me.

  “Uh-uh!” The little girl denies it.

  Patting her guidingly on the back once I set her down, I scoot her forward. “Go put your shoes on. We’re gonna take off in a minute. I just need to talk to Aunt Lana.”

  Her wild ponytail bounces with each little exaggerated hop she makes back to the bedroom where her things must be.

  “Lana, this is Baby. Baby, Lana.” The two women extend their hand forth to the other, around me in the middle.

  “Nice to meet’cha, Lana.” I can’t help but notice that Baby is a little different when not barking orders behind a bar. “You’ve got a nice place here.”

  Lana knows I don’t have many friends in town beside her. Actually, no one other than her, but she’s taking this in stride. “Thanks. So, do you two work together?”

  Baby smiles and nods. “Yup. I’m helping get Angel all moved.”

  Lana’s forehead furrows. “Angel?”

  I can feel my cheeks flush. “It’s … kinda what they call me at work.”

  “It’s a thing,” Lana explains. “My Ol’ man started calling me Baby a while’s back. Most girls around the club get a name. Some better than others. Angel’s a pretty tame one compared to a few. Dawson picked a good one. Fits her.”

  “D-Dawson?” Lana eyes me. “As in the Dawson?”

  I had told Lana everything, well, up until what happened last night at least. Everything from Dawson first breaking up the heavy-handed strip club manager’s handling of my abrupt resignation, to the money he’d given me, the job, and the ride home the other night. Not to mention everything in between. Every little smirk, every cocky gesture.

  Lana’s been in town longer than I have, and the Slayers’ reputation had definitely reached her well before my tales of Dawson did.

  “That’s the one. It sort of just … happened.” My voice trails.

  Her chin moves forward, shoulders shrugged back, waiting for more. “What sort of just happened?”

  I swallow. Lana doesn’t judge. That’s one of the things I love most about her. But I can’t tell her what’s going on when I don’t exactly know myself.

  “Ready, Maw!” Sasha skips into the room, coat in hand, tiny backpack trailing behind her. There’s some sort of sticky red purple mess near her lower lip.

  “You should come by later, Lana. Help Angel unpack and get settled in. We’ll grill some burgers or something I’m sure. The guys are always hungry.” Baby bends down to playfully poke Sasha’s nose. “And, you. I know who you are! I’ve heard all about you. Your aunt even showed me your picture yesterday. You sure are a cutie.”

  “Um, Angel,” Lana awkwardly tries out the moniker. “Where exactly will I be going to help you unpack?”

&
nbsp; Baby begins to laugh, knowing ahead of time how I’ll be answering the question.

  I might as well get this over with. “Dawson’s. I’d give you the address, but I don’t know it.”

  My best friend nods her head slowly, digesting the rash information. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s got a whole lot to say, but given our present company, she’s holding back.

  “Eighty-two Cherry Blossom Road. The big white house. Come over whenever you’d like. There’s kind of an open door policy whenever we hang.” Baby takes Sasha’s little hand while inviting Lana over later.

  I’m not sure it’s such a good idea mixing Lana in with Dawson and his boys, but I can tell by the look in my friend’s eyes that she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  ~*~

  “She’s nice. Cute, too.” Baby starts the engine to her truck. “Know her long?”

  I’m half bent over the cushiony leather front seat, struggling to pick up the doll Sasha’s dropped onto the floor from her car seat. “Junior High. Stayed in touch all through college. When I moved back from school, I needed someplace to live, someplace nowhere near my old town in case my sister’s ex caused trouble. Lana suggested coming to live closer to her here in Riverdale.”

  “She good people?” Baby wonders aloud while pulling out into traffic. She looks over to see I’m a bit confused by the question as I situate myself and buckle up. “I mean, trustworthy? Loyal? It’s just that we don’t usually just let random people we don’t know into our business. Dawson’s kind of moving full speed ahead on this one and we’re all trying to catch up.”

  I crack my window for just a bit of fresh air. “I trust her with my life. With Sasha’s life.”

  Baby nods, satisfied. “Then I’m cool with her.”

  Good to know.

  “So, this whole Dawson moving full-speed ahead thing.” Now that I know Baby’s cool with Lana, I’d like to see how she really feels about me. “Happen often?”

  She nearly chokes behind the wheel, some sort of weird laugh, and I reach over in case I need to steer. “You kidding me, Angel? I’ve known him a long time. Since I was practically a kid, him being best friends with my man and all. Never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you. Never seen him give a shit about anyone not wearing our patches.”

  “You know you can call me Molly, right?” It’s still so weird to me to answer to a different name than the one I’ve had my whole life.

  Baby makes a left hand turn, the wheel skimming her growing pregnant belly. “Nah. I like Angel. God knows we can all use an Angel right about now.”

  “Huh?” I ask.

  Baby shakes her head quickly as if putting the thought aside. “Never mind. Best we don’t go talking about things we shouldn’t.”

  It’s like she’s speaking some weird language, confusing the shit out of me.

  “Look, I know you’re new to all this, and I’m gonna help you out as best as I can; because back in the day, some other Ol’ lady helped me. First thing to know, you don’t talk about club business. Not with Dawson, not with anyone, but especially not with anyone who’s not wearing our leather.”

  I can feel my eyes narrow trying to decipher her meaning.

  “Our leather?” I’m lost.

  “Slayers. Us. Leather. Some people call them colors. Those are our patches. The Reaper. Anyone with one on his back is family. Other charters too. The bitch on the back of his bike? She’s family too, as long as she’s got leather. Some you’ll like, some you won’t. Kind of like sisters. You just gotta learn to live with each of them and when rough shit happens, those are the first people who’ll step up and watch your back. Try not to start any shit with any of them ‘cause some of these bitches can get real catty.”

  “You said as long as she’s got leather. What happens if she doesn’t?” I’m trying to piece together the missing holes in her advice.

  Baby rolls her eyes and sits back, trying to adjust her seat. She hasn’t exactly told me but I’d guess by the looks of her, that she’s somewhere around seven months along. No wonder she can’t get comfortable.

  “Those are called Sweetbutts. But, us Ol’ ladies? We’ve got another name for ‘em. Slayersluts. Watch your man, Angel. They crawl around the club, go for your man. They’re second-class citizens. An empty fuck.” Her lip snarls, her words laced with venom.

  “Whoa. I don’t have leather. And I’m not about to be treated like a second class citizen. Not by Dawson. Not by anyone else.” I’m not liking the way this is going. Flashbacks of last night, of Dawson’s cock in my hand, him swearing not to fuck around. Baby’s making it sound as if it happens all the time, as if the Slayersluts are inevitable.

  “You’ll get your leather, Angel. You got the title, so right now, that’s as good as gold.”

  “And what title is that? Bartender?”

  Baby smiles tightly, clearly enjoying playing teacher. “Ol’ lady, sweetheart. You got yourself an Ol’ man now. Not just any Ol’ man, either. The one every single one of those little Slayersluts have been dying to get all to herself. I hope you got some balls, babe. You’re gonna need ‘em.”

  ~*~

  “Holy. Shit.” I gasp.

  “Maw!” Sasha reprimands me from the back seat. I clasp my hands over my mouth, not realizing I’d used curse words in front of her. We have a swear jar in the kitchen that I’m supposed to drop some change into whenever I make the mistake.

  Judging by the swarm of men bussing around on the huge front lawn of the place and the pile of boxes, I’m guessing I’m gonna have a hard time finding the swear jar in there.

  Most of the eyes in the crowd turn and give some sort of a wave or nod as Baby honks the horn lightly to part the sea of leather-vested men so we can pull into the beautiful brick driveway.

  “There are so many of them!” I try to count but quickly lose my place as they become moving targets through the window.

  The gear is shifted and the new model Yukon lurches to come to a full stop. “It’s a quiet weekend. No pick-ups or deliveries that I know of, so most guys are around.”

  “Deliveries? Pick-ups?” I ask, still staring at the window. I settle on a small group of guys on the large wraparound porch, drinking beer, some smoking, most laughing. Dawson’s at the center of the handful of men. They seem to be directing the rest that are down on the lawn.

  Baby makes a clicking sound with her tongue as if I’ve just been naughty. Sasha thinks it’s hysterical and laughs at me being the one reprimanded.

  “Remember. We don’t talk about club business. Look, your man’s the Prez. You’re a direct reflection of him. People will be looking for you to fuck up. Especially since you’re not one of us. The last thing you wanna do is make your Ol’ man look weak, like he can’t control his woman.”

  What the fuck? Is she reading this out of some antique biker Bible from 1950?

  “Dawson doesn’t control me. No one controls me.”

  She breathes deep, sighs. “Of course not, honey. It’s not something I can really explain to you. It’s something you just gotta learn on your own. There’s control, and then there’s control. Kinda like …” I can see her searching for some way to explain this. “Kinda like a pack of wolves. There’s a leader. An alpha. That’s Dawson. All the other little wolves fall in line and things run smooth. Both on the inside and on the outside. But, once the smallest little things goes outta balance, once the wolves think their alpha isn’t strong enough to lead them, to protect them, or if another pack of wolves thinks there’s a weak moment to attack … then everything goes to hell.”

  Other than a few colorful words, her explanation reads out like a bedtime story, and both Sasha and I are intrigued, eyes glued to her to finish the tale.

  “Dawson needs to present himself as the strong leader of the wolf pack at all times. His woman needs to help him do that, for her own safety too.” Baby ends the lesson.

  I swallow hard.

  For my own safety, too?

  Wha
t the hell have I gotten us into?

  As soon as we open the truck doors, the men closest to us take the shopping bags from the back seat, without us even having to ask. At first, when we stopped at the market after leaving Lana’s place, I thought Baby was insane for buying as much food as we did.

  Now, looking at the crowd of people, I’m wondering if we even bought enough.

  Everyone near me smiles, says hi, introduces themselves with some funny name or other that I know I won’t be able to remember. There’s a Bandit, Monty, Esè, Shooter, Hops, and too many more to recall.

  Each of them finds some way to say hello to Sasha, who’s hiding behind my legs, whether by pinching her cheek, pretending to steal her nose, or patting her head.

  Surprisingly, they each know my name. Well, Angel. They all call me Angel, and it’s only going to make this already confusing situation even worse if I try to correct them by asking them to call me Molly.

  Dawson watches from above, leaning against the railing of the porch, sunglasses on, almost as if I’m being tested and he’s proctoring the exam. The only thing is, I don’t know any of the right answers.

  “Here’s the little lady now!” An older man with some grey mixed into his dark hair rises from his seat in one of the wicker seats. “How you doin’, Angel? Name’s Uno.”

  Some of the men’s names seemed a mystery to me, but this one? This one I get right away. He’s got a black patch covering one eye. Without waiting for an invitation, he leans forward and gives me a big hug, kissing me on the cheek.

  “Are you a pirate?” Sasha asks shyly, peeking her little eyes out from behind my thigh.

  The men erupt into loud laughter. Even Dawson grins, while taking a sip of the green glass bottle in his hand.

  “Argh! Matey!” Uno busts. “Shiver me timbers. What would ye be knowin’ about pirates, now?”

  Sasha steps out a little bit more, engaged in her knew friend. “Maw read me the story.”

  “I got me some pirate stories I’ll be tellin’ ya, if ya like.” Uno bends down a bit.

  Sasha nods her head up and down quickly.