by Oakes, Tara
The blue tarp hugging the curves and contours of the machine in the middle of the space grabs my attention. I close my eyes and listen to the sounds in my memory. The first time I heard the engine of this bike start, I remember the thrill it shot through me.
I had practically known since birth that I would be a biker like my pop. The first time I heard the deep grumbling of this bike was the first time I actually felt the need to ride deep in my soul.
Pop upgraded to this bike when I was about six. He brought it home late one night, and I can still remember the look of pride on his face when he’d shown it to me.
He’d worked hard, bought the bike new, and treated it like his sultry mistress. She was bathed, stroked, caressed and whispered to on a regular basis. He even gave it a name. It was Marilyn, after Marilyn Monroe, the second sexiest woman alive according to pop.
The first, he always made sure to add, was Ma.
I pinch the center of the material and pull hard, whipping the cloth tarp away, exposing the old bike. I get an instant hard-on.
I haven’t ridden in days, and the need is strong. My own bike and I are like one, but this bike, my pop’s old bike…. it’s like the epitomy of riding experiences. I grab the choke, press hard and kick start the bike until those familiar grumbles rattle through me, making me feel alive.
The bike has been sitting for a couple of weeks untouched, but it’s as ready as a virgin on prom night. I pay one of the local kids to pop over every few weeks to check on it. This bike is my pop’s legacy. It’s kept like a shrine and one day long after I’m gone, I hope Brendan will care for it just as I do.
I take a deep breath, rev the engine, filling the old cavernous barn with the grumbling and let go, taking off down the drive to clear my head.
The only protection from the whipping wind against my skin are my shades and my black t-shirt. It feels good, though, the stinging scratching against the flesh of my arms, my neck, my forehead.
I feel the strength and the power of the of engine as I open the throttle and let the bike have the freedom it’s been deprived of for too long. Each turn, each swerve, the tires hug the asphalt, making love to it in its own way.
There are some things that are meant for one another, things that are simply not complete alone. Things like the cut I wear and the tat that mirrors it underneath, on my flesh. The power of the bike between my thighs and the open road below, each specifically built for the other. My cock and….
No.
How is it that I can’t even manage to get through this ride without my thoughts finding their way back to her?
I’ve always kept a separation between the man I am on this bike and the man I am off it. They never mix, they never cross. Yet today, right now, she’s seeping in and shattering that.
I’ve gotten as far away as I can, both in body and, I thought, in mind, but it’s not enough. I’m miles and miles away from her, yet in some ways, closer than ever… because I can’t escape her.
The softness of her voice as it soothes me, lies or truth, it doesn’t matter as long as it’s her that speaks them. The light that flickers in her eyes when she watches me fuck her, taking every inch and every ounce like air needed to live. She needed me as much as I needed her to need me.
The first time I brought her to the clubhouse, no matter her underlying reasons, she somehow found her way into my soul. She didn’t know it then, neither did I, because it was the smallest and most subtle of things that did it. It was just something I felt, something I needed more of… like a drug.
I was sitting at the bar, high on a stool. She sauntered out from the back, helping Lil’s recover after we had gotten her back from the Slayers. Her hair was bouncing with each step her gorgeous legs took in my direction. Those same legs that were wrapped around me just hours before in the dark.
Her pink, plump lips were pouted, composing herself as she strutted through the crowd like a pro, aware that they all knew what she and I had done in my bed. Those were the same lips that were wrapped around my cock and that kissed my mouth, talked dirty in my ear, and screamed my name loud enough for the whole clubhouse (sleeping or not) to hear.
Her tits were pointed up, her shoulders back, holding her head high and not giving one shit what any of those other eyes watching her might think. She was only watching me.
It was supposed to be a one-night stand. That’s all I was looking for, all I wanted, but it was just a small exchange of words that somehow sealed our fate. I told her I’d give her a ride and to just sit tight until I was good and ready to leave after having a beer with my boys.
She looked me square in the eyes and told me no. She might have actually been the first woman to ever actually say no to me.
And it was a fucking turn-on.
She didn’t want me in that moment, didn’t need me, yet it triggered something in me. It made me want to make her want me. To make her need me. It never even occurred to me then that it would have the same effect on me. I would need her. I would want her.
I pull over harshly to the side of the road, jump off the bike and storm off into the waist high weeds, kicking at the dirt in anger. My hands fly up to my head, holding the sides, pulling at the hair in fury. My voice screams out into the emptiness around me as I drop to me knees.
I’m never going to be able to get away from this. I don’t even know if I want to. I’m mad at her, angry as hell at what she’s done, but even more pissed off at what’s become of me because of it.
I had my moment, let off some steam, said some shit to hurt her as much as she hurt me. I’m not the type of man to run from his shit. I needed my space, and it did me no good.
It’s time to face this storm head-on and to stop running away like a little pussy.
EPILOGUE
CHARLIE
I leave Dana and T.J. to answer the door.
I thought she was here to help me? Some help she is. I feel like I’m babysitting a pair of horny teenagers, trying to keep them from molesting each other. I notice movement out of my peripheral and hear the confirmation from the creaking leather sounds, that as soon as I get up, they both readjust to fill my empty seat and gain closer proximity to each other.
“I’m coming!” I yell at the knocking door. Give me a minute, already.
I pull the handle hard.
And then I stop breathing.
I’m not ready to see him. Not now, maybe not ever. I look like shit, I feel like shit, and I’m not in the right frame of mind to talk to this man right now.
“Um… we’ll go grab some lunch,” T.J. is on foot, grabbing Dana’s hand and pulling her up to follow.
“I need some more things, so we’ll hit some stores, too,” Dana adds.
I manage to somehow speak. “Dana, you’re going home later today. You don’t need to buy more things to have to pack.”
She smiles. “Actually, I’m not leaving, But, you have more important things to deal with right now.” She glances at the leather-vested man who just walked through the door. “We’ll talk later, sis.”
She quickly leans in to give me a peck on the cheek in passing before I can object to her new change in travel plans.
With the two of them gone, it’s just him and me now.
Holy-fucking-shit.
“How you doing, kid?” he asks. He looks tired, worn, worried.
I don’t answer.
He clears his throat awkwardly. “Let’s have a little father-daughter talk.”
My words spit themselves out harshly at him. “You’re not my father. I had a father. A real dad. He died. You’re just a cheap imitation in a leather vest.”
He flinches, hurt. I don’t care.
It doesn’t matter what some fucking DNA test can prove.
Vince Cauley will never be my father.
He sits at the table regardless of my answer, apparently resigned to have this chat anyway. He folds his hands atop one another and waits patiently.
Fuck.
I’m not getting out
of this short of kicking him out of my place, and even then, I doubt he’ll leave.
“I need a minute,” I call behind me as I grab my handbag and head into the bathroom.
I search quickly and find the recently filled bottle I picked up at the pharmacy on my way home yesterday. The doc was a little hesitant to give me a refill but I’m a nurse. I knew the trigger words to use to convince him.
I work the cap clumsily, nervously, but finally get it open.
I pour two pills into my palm and slam them down my throat quickly, using the tap water from the faucet to swallow them down with. I move to put the bottle away, but think twice about it and grab another pill to make the upcoming conversation a little easier.
I watch myself in the mirror and breathe deep. I know it will be better soon. The pills will work their magic.
TO BE CONTINUED IN
THE 6TH AND FINAL BOOK
OF THE KINGSMEN MC SERIES,
THE FULL LENGTH NOVEL,
BITTER SWEET CRAVINGS
SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
ALSO BY TARA OAKES
MY SOUL TO WAKE
Book one, STAIN available now
** Warning: this novel is intended for those over 18 years of age due to its erotic nature and mature content. ***
Witchcraft.
Reincarnation.
True love.
These are the things of legend. Unexplained, some even say impossible… but nonetheless prevalent in stories and tales from all cultures and in every land from the beginning of time. What if there’s something to it? What if there is an explanation behind the mysteries and bedtime stories? Something beyond words?
SALEM, MASSACHUSETTES 1692
She was taken from him in the cruelest way... condemned, sentenced and punished out of fear of the unknown. How is he supposed to live without her? How can he go on knowing that in this life, they will never be one again? There's only one thing to do... only one option that will bring them together again.
SALEM , MASSACHUSETTES TODAY
Leah is taken on a weekend excursion with her best girlfriends to let loose, relax and have a little fun. What harm is there in a little vacation? It's not like the legends, the haunted history of the place can scare them away. It's all harmless fun.
Or so she thought.
Something seems familiar about the town. The trees, the winds, the feel of everything. Her ever present nightmares have become more intense within the limits of the old historical setting. She's prepared to write off the whole trip as nothing more than a case of her mind running away with the sensationalized magic here. When she meets a handsome stranger who's eager to know her in a way no one else can, she begins to think there just may be something more to this place, something more to him.
Will has been waiting, biding his time, and praying that she'll come back. He's broken the natural order of things to possibly find her again, weaving their way through the years until they can be together again. He knows he may never find her, but he can't risk not trying. This place calls to her, just as it did to him. It will bring her back home. It will bring her back to him.
What's 300 years when it comes to true love? He's prepared to wait an eternity if he has to, just to see her, hold her, make her his and to help her remember what was stolen from them so long ago. He’ll stop at nothing to make her remember who she is, the power she possesses, and the love they swore to each other.
PLEASE ENJOY THIS SAMPLE OF
MY SOUL TO WAKE
Book one, STAIN
PROLOGUE
The crackling of the nearby torches pop and singe. I can smell the burning flame as the wind catches the wafting smoke, swirling and weaving into the night air around me. I can’t see them. I can’t feel their heat… but I know they’re there.
Each of my senses is heightened, on high alert. My lack of sight has seemed to innately trigger my other faculties, kicking them into overdrive to compensate. I can taste the sweet, metallic tinge of blood in my mouth from biting my lower lip. Fear will do that to you.
Biting my lip was the only way to keep my teeth from chattering… or to call out and beg for mercy. I somehow know it would do no good, other than to bolster their frenzy. My fate is sealed.
The roughness of the cloth that scratches against my cheeks is harsh. I try not to move, so as to keep it from abrading my skin. The quivering of my muscles does little to help that.
I swallow hard but feel a tightness around my throat, a constriction that offers no forgiveness. I breathe in deep, savoring each breath, knowing that it may be my last. My lungs are confined, though, unable to expand far enough.
I muffle my sobs. The tears that fall are not for them. I will not give them anything, let alone my tears, though I know they are wanting something else.
They want my words.
Words that would betray the very essence of my being. Those words could spare my life, but they would also condemn others. Others who may still manage to escape this fate.
I will not give them my tears OR my words. Those are for me alone. They have already taken enough from me, are still going to take more from me before they are through.
Although there is naught but darkness around me, I close my eyes. I clear my mind and remember the things that bring peace and calmness.
Delicate fresh flowers in my memories, swaying in the tiniest of breezes. The beautiful petals each rippling in their own direction, dancing with the wind. The dewey aroma they give off after a cooling rain storm. The grand power they harness to cure ailments and maladies.
My fingers twitch, imagining the feeling of running the tips of them over those wild flowers. My heart breaks knowing that I will never run through the fields of beautifully-colored blooms again. It’s one more thing they’ll take from me.
But it’s nothing compared to the greatest of all punishments they are condemning unto me.
Fresh tears sprinkle my warm cheeks as I finally face the worst of their punishment.
I won’t ever see him again.
I’ll never catch his beautiful brown eyes staring at me. I’ll never again feel the heavy weight of those eyes as I pretend not to notice. I’ll never feel the flush of my concealed skin as I bask in his gaze.
The soft touch of his hand on mine was everything and more that I could have ever prayed for. It was unexpected and gentle and exhilarating. I remember the moment I first felt his caress and knew for sure that I had finally found that which I didn’t even know I had longed for.
The only thing more exquisite than his touch were his words. Words that stirred deep in me to awaken something only he could harness.
I feel the charged energy from those gathered round. He and I connect, something powerful, drawing us to each other. I don’t feel him now. It’s some small mercy in all of this that my last moments won’t be of suffering with him near. I couldn’t bear that.
I want him to remember me as I was. The carefree girl he fell in love with. Those are the memories we shall keep of each other.
Those are the memories I will replay during the next few moments. I know then, that I will die happy.
The crowd now draws silent. The time has come. I think of his smile, just as I had planned. My shallowed breathing is fast, the air coming quick and hard.
The time passes both brisk and slow, measured against the thudding heartbeats strumming in my ears.
I think of his tender caress, and of the lost promise of our wedding night never to be fulfilled.
I feel the ledged platform underfoot begin to rattle, the vibration unlocking the hidden despair in my being.
I think of his pooling eyes, searching deep into my own.
Wood begins to scrape against wood, sliding against the grain, offering a terrible screech that sends a chill up my spine. A weightlessness takes hold as I drop, and the once abundant air is no longer available to me. I feel my feet dangle, my hands confined at the wrist unable to relieve the tortuous burning around my throat.
I think of
his smile….
CHAPTER ONE
I awaken startled, gasping deep breaths that have proven through experience to help me regain some sense of composure. The first seconds immediately after I wake are always the worst, full of terror. It’s hard to distinguish dream from reality in those first few seconds.
The details of the nightmare are vivid at first, all encompassing, as I remember the sounds, the smells, the feelings. Almost instantly, they begin to fade, leaving nothing but an evaporating impression behind. Before long, there is nothing left but fear and heartbreak, all elements of the dream having been forgotten… until the next time.
Although the nightly ritual has plagued me since childhood, there are times when I am free from its spell. In some ways, those absences are much more cruel than the nightmares themselves.
Those are the times when I convince myself I am just like everybody else, that some phase of all-too realistic night terrors has been outgrown. That, finally, I can close my eyes at night and not dread the darkness.
But then after some time, whether it be a night, a week, or in the longest stretch five months, the dream returns, serving as evidence that I am not like everyone else. All the “normal” things that most everyone else does in life aren’t possible for me.
The feeling of a good night’s sleep, rejuvenated and well rested… those feelings don’t come for me. In the rare nights when the nightmare is kept at bay, I sleep with unease somehow, waiting for it.
I’m young, twenty-three years old, but the lack of sleep seems to have aged me. I feel it. I don’t have that same carefree, whimsical manner that my contemporaries seem to effortlessly radiate. One more example of how I am different somehow. But it isn’t only in these later years that my affliction is a barrier to what I yearn for most.