MC Fight Club: Iron Banshees: (Complete Series: Parts 1-5) An MC Fighter Menage Romance

by Juniper Leigh

  “There’s just something about you…” His lips remained parted as though he was going to say more, but he couldn’t find the words. Which was fine — I had words enough for the both of us.

  “Save it,” I shot back. “You don’t even know me.”

  I turned on my heel and marched down the aisle, sliding into a seat between my son and my mother.

  Throughout the first few moments of the service, I couldn’t shake the look on Oliver’s face. But then my brother got up to speak, still waking stiffly from his injuries, and I found myself riveted by the look of unadulterated pain on his face.

  He had had a much different relationship with Old Pete than the one I’d had. It was the club that had brought them together. That, and the very special bond a father seems to have with a son who adores him and wants to be just like him. I think that was why Brian and Lucas so often had a tumultuous relationship: Lucas was more the kind of son my father had always wanted, and Brian deeply resented that.

  But Brian loved my father, and he gripped the podium before he began to speak, his eyes ringed red with the tears he hadn’t shed. He cleared his throat, and sucked in a big gulp of air.

  “Most of you know me, but ah… for those of you who don’t, my name is Brian Harrington, and I’m Old Pete’s son. I’m kind of known as the family fuckup — sorry, Ma, but it’s true. My sister, Harper Grace, was always the golden child, always the one who was going places. And my dad loved her for that, knew that no matter what happened to anyone else, she would always be fine, because she was sharp and resourceful. He could step back and watch her fly out of the nest, confident that she’d make it. Me, he had to keep close. Make sure I didn’t get into too much trouble. And that meant I got to have a closeness with him, as part of his club, a club he helped build.

  “I never really thought about what it would be like to lose him. I just kind of always thought he would be around, this titan of a man, exerting his influence over all of us. And if it were him standing up here instead of me, he’d have something reassuring to say, where I can’t think of anything that sounds good, anything that might stem the flow of my mother’s tears, or get that look of panic off my sister’s face. So, I’ll just use my Dad’s words, Old Pete’s words: we’re here for but a moment, he said to me once. Anything worth doing is worth doing to the blood. And I think he lived that way — to the blood. God knows he died that way.”

  Brian cleared his throat again, staring down at the plain wood of the podium. “Anyway, I guess that’s all. Sorry, Ma. Sorry it wasn’t better.” He stepped away from the podium then and resumed his seat. I couldn’t decide, I thought then, whether I loved what he’d said, or hated it.

  “Harper Grace?” came my mother’s birdlike whisper. “Do you want to say anything?”

  But I didn’t. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know the man we were memorializing. But I was on my feet anyway, my black heels clicking down the marble floor all the way up to the podium.

  I stood up there, brushing an errant lock of jet-black hair out of my line of vision, and scanned the crowd. I was impressed to see what a large turnout there was — even if I didn’t know Old Pete that well, he was clearly beloved.

  “Good morning,” I said, leaning into the microphone. “My name is Harper Grace Harrington, and I was… am… Pete’s daughter.” I paused, my mouth going dry with the nerves that always accompanied public speaking. “I didn’t know my father. Not really. Not in the way that most of you knew him. But there is this one moment I’ll never forget… When I was eight, I was on the school soccer team, and we were trying to raise money for new uniforms. Um, my dad never really came to my games or anything. He wasn’t really involved like that; that was more my mom’s territory. But everyone in town knows who Pete Harrington is. Everyone knows the Banshees. So when he heard that we needed to raise money, he came to a game and personally went row by row through the bleachers at the soccer field, holding a hat out to all of those nervous parents, until they emptied their pocketbooks and wallets of all the cash they had on hand. He just showed up, wearing his vest, and he asked them for money, and they just gave it to him. And he raised everything we needed for the uniforms in that single afternoon.

  “I can’t pretend to agree with the life my father chose for himself, and for his family. And I won’t condone his business practices or make up some story about what a saint he was. But I will say this: he loved us, fiercely. And he made sure we never wanted for anything.”

  I paused then, trying to think if that was good enough, if anything would be good enough. “I guess that’s all,” I said. “Thank you.”

  The rest of the service went by in kind of a blur. I wanted to be strong for my mother, who had deflated into tears at my side, but in order to do that, I had to remain detached. I had to cut myself off from it, and not dwell on the fact that I would never have the opportunity to get to know the man, my father, everyone else here seemed to know so well.

  I was holding my son’s hand and my mother’s: Jamie was squirming, uncomfortable in his tie and wanting to get down and play with his toy trucks, not understanding why he had to stay put. And my mother was trembling, trying not to make a racket while everyone was speaking. I looked at her, her lip trembling with the force of her grief, and I wanted her to let out a wail, a cry that would help cleanse her. Instead, she sat there shaking, crying silently.

  I moved Jamie’s car seat into the back of my mom’s car and tucked my keys into my purse. I needed a few minutes of silence, time just in my head, before I had to face the afternoon, an afternoon full of mourners expressing their grief over platters of lunch meats in my mom’s dining room. I pressed a kiss to Jamie’s head and told my mom I’d find my own way back to the house.

  I scanned the parking lot and spied Lucas as he swung his leg over his bike. I began to close the distance between us, spotting Oliver at the far side of the lot as I went. He paused, waiting to see if I would come speak to him, but I simply looked away.

  “Can I get a ride?” I asked Lucas, and he peered up at me curiously. But finally he nodded, took the helmet off of his head and handed it to me. I put it on, clasping it under my chin, and climbed onto the back of the bike.

  The arrangement was awkward in my black dress and heels, but I tucked my dress between my thighs and wrapped my arms around the sturdy center of Lucas’s waist. He kicked the engine to life, and we peeled out of the parking lot.

  I had forgotten how much I loved the sensation of riding on the back of Lucas’s motorcycle, open to the air, my hair whipping around my face. I liked the necessity of our closeness, loved the sensation of our velocity as we cut through the afternoon sunlight. And, I had to admit, the danger appealed to me as well. I suppose that’s ultimately what made me my father’s daughter: I knew the risks involved, but never hesitated to climb on anyway.

  In fact, I’d had my own bike when I was much younger, before Jamie was born. Lucas had built it for me — it was ugly, but sturdy, safe (all things considered), with a reliable engine. My father had helped him, and they had presented it to me one not-so-very-special night in August when I turned eighteen. They’d taught me how to manage it, and we’d gone on mini-joyrides through the neighborhood, my mother left behind looking nervously after us.

  I’d sold it, of course, when I found out I was pregnant. And if I’m honest with myself, I miss it every day.

  I took in a deep breath of air as we rounded a corner at considerable speed and held one arm out, and then the other, to feel the wind over my skin. It felt like freedom, and a little like flying. We pulled into the driveway alongside a number of cars, and I climbed off, handing Lucas his helmet. He grinned up at me and reached forward, smoothing my wind-disheveled hair away from my face.

  “Are you going to come in for a while?” I asked, glancing at my mother’s car as it pulled into the garage.

  “It’s just for family,” Lucas said with a shrug.

  “Lucky, you are family.” Which he knew; I think he
just wanted to hear me say it. He smiled and bobbed his head in a nod. I turned to go into the garage so I could fetch my son from his car seat. But Lucas grabbed my hand and tugged me toward him.

  “Harper,” he began, looking intently down into my face, “I am so sorry about all this.”

  I gave his hand a squeeze and nodded my head. “I know you are, Lucky.”

  He and I spent the remainder of the afternoon setting out trays of food and making sure my mother was never to be found without a drink in her hand. And when, at around six o’clock, she went to lie down, and the guests began to file out, Brian and I began to do our drinking. Lucas sat with Jamie in his lap, and he seemed to be content to be held by his father. And Brian and I sat in silence, sipping whiskey, straight up.

  That must have gone on for a considerable amount of time, because I don’t remember going upstairs, or getting into bed, or falling asleep. But I woke up in the night, still in my black mourning dress, curled up forehead to forehead with Lucas, who was asleep on top of the bedspread. He was holding my hand, and I felt such a swell of affection for him, I nearly burst into tears. Maybe this was what my family was supposed to be, this kind of quiet solidarity in moments of tragedy. I scooted closer to him and pressed my lips to the cool flesh of his forehead. He stirred, and his eyes fluttered open, and I was met with the full weight of those bright green gems. He was suddenly fully alert, and he reached out to me, gathered my face in his hands and pressed a kiss to my lips, full of promises and questions. I knew, in that moment, that regardless of the future choices I made, I would always love this troubled, troubling man. I kissed him with the full force of that love, and he tugged the blankets off of my body.

  His hand slid up the length of my thigh, tugging my skirt up along with it. I was pulling awkwardly at his shirt, but he rolled me over onto my back and yanked off my panties. Climbing atop me, he undid the button of his jeans and freed his already turgid member from the confines of his pants. He plunged himself into me with one hard, forceful thrust, and I cried out, unprepared as I was to welcome him. But he was fucking me with an urgency I had never seen in him before, like he was trying to get back to some other time. He was rough, pounding into me with abandon. I cried out, and he tucked his arms underneath me and hugged me close, burying his face in my hair and pressing a kiss to my neck. I allowed my knees to fall open fully then, and made room for him to press more deeply into me.

  “Lucas,” I whispered, wanting him to slow his pace, but he was lost to me in that moment. So I clung to him, my face pressed to the leather of his vest, breathing in the sweet, familiar scent of him. His cock filled me utterly, and I was reduced to nothing more than the sensation between my legs. He lifted himself up then to put some distance between our torsos, though his rhythm never altered: he was moving at the pace of a racing heart.

  “Touch yourself,” he whispered. “I want to feel you come.” I looked up at him and nodded, sliding my hand down in between us to put pressure on the most sensitive part of myself. I moaned, surprised by how quickly my culmination began to build.

  He was constricted by the clothes that were still collected at his thighs, but he ignored them and fucked me with abandon. He let out a primal grunt and pressed the full length of himself into me, building to his release with a low moan. I felt the width of him pulse and throb as he came, that small, rhythmic sensation sending me over the edge. My orgasm broke like a wave over the rocks of my desire, and I cried out. Lucas bent his head and silenced me with a kiss.

  After a few moments he collapsed on top of me, and I reached up to gently stroke his hair. “Come home,” he murmured into the flesh of my neck.

  “Is that the only pillow talk you know?”

  “Come home, baby.”

  “Shhh. Let’s just go to sleep.” And we did sleep that way, still half in our clothes, clinging to one another as though we were holding on for dear life.

  ***

  It was the full daylight of morning when we woke up, still tangled up in one another. I was bleary for my first few moments of wakefulness, and for an instant, I thought I was back in my former life. When Lucas and I had lived together, we’d always slept with our limbs in a knot, never really pulling away from each other.

  “Lucky,” I murmured, gently shaking his shoulder to rouse him. But he was already awake.

  “Do you remember, right before Jamie was born, when we drove out to that old farm for a picnic?”

  “Mmhm.” I felt him trailing a finger lightly over the exposed flesh of my shoulder.

  “And you were just, like, so huge, so pregnant, but I drove you out there and it’s hot as balls, and I get you on the blanket and I’m trying to feed you grapes or whatever and you’re just so miserable…”

  I chuckled lightly. “Yeah. I remember.”

  He paused, then spoke very quietly: “I don’t know why I made you do that. Why I made you go out there with me.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t want to go. You were tired and hot and uncomfortable. You wanted to eat ice cream in the air conditioning, but I made you go…” He sounded so sad, so very, deeply sad.

  “You just wanted to do something nice for me, Lucas,” I whispered. “You wanted for us to do something special, just the two of us, one last time. You know, before the baby.”

  “But I didn’t listen to you. I never fucking listened to you.” He untangled his body from mine, and I saw that he was wide awake, and I wondered how long he just let me sleep there, cradled in his arms.

  “No,” I agreed, “not often.” He stood up and zipped up his pants, buckled his belt. “But I loved you anyway.”

  He sniffed, canting his head to the side so a few flaxen locks of hair fell into his eyes. “Loved?” he asked.

  “Love.” I said.

  And it was true, no matter what I might have privately told myself. I loved him, in many ways more than I ever had. He was the silent pillar holding my family up, making it possible for us to go on under the worst of circumstances.

  I climbed out of bed and asked Lucky to take me back to the funeral home, where I’d left my truck the day before. I changed into jeans and a tee shirt, peeked in on Jamie, and grabbed my purse.

  In no time, we were back on his bike, and I was back with my arms around his waist again. We sped down the highway, picking up speed, and the bright morning sun beat down on us.

  I didn’t notice the cars following us at first. I was focused on the air on my skin and the sun on my back. I was focused on my arms around Lucas’s waist, and the smell of the warm pavement. But then I noticed that Lucas cut quickly across all four lanes of traffic to take an exit I knew we didn’t need to take, and I turned to look behind us to see that three black SUVs were in tow behind us, and picking up speed.

  Lucas was adept at handling his bike, even with my extra weight on the back, and he was weaving in and out of cars taking up spots on the road after we exited the freeway. The SUVs were bulky and didn’t move with the same quickness and agility as Lucas’s bike.

  “Who are they?” I shouted over the roar of the wind. But he didn’t respond; he focused intently on the road. We sped past the funeral home and I could see that we were headed toward the bar, where I was sure he’d be able to find a number of his fellow Iron Banshees for backup. I gripped the leather of his vest in my hands and held on tight.

  We were a matter of blocks from the bar when a fourth SUV pulled into our way in an intersection. I believe that if Lucas had been by himself on his bike, he would’ve pulled some sort of crazy maneuver to get away. But being that I had him in a death grip, he slowed the bike to a stop and began to slowly back it up. But by the time he turned around, the other SUVs were there, circling around us like giant, shining black vultures.

  “Fuck,” Lucas said, pushing out the kickstand and climbing off. I climbed off after and he put his arm out, wedging me between his body and his motorcycle.

  “Lucas, what is going on?” I asked.

  “I have no
idea,” he said, glancing from one identical SUV to the next. Eventually all of the engines shut off, and men began to climb out, two from each SUV. I glanced around: we were fresh off the freeway, an abandoned gas station to one side of us, and a small field of overgrown weeds on the other. I reached into my purse to pull out my cell phone.

  “Holy shit,” Lucas said, and I could almost hear a smile in his voice. “Tommy motherfucking Flynn.”

  I followed Lucas’s line of vision to a tall man, lithe but sinewy, who shared Oliver’s fine chiseled jaw and strong nose. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and the same eyes as Oliver’s, like a crystal glass full of bourbon. He had his hands in his pockets; he looked almost contrite.

  “Afternoon, Lucky,” he said, with a much stronger brogue than I would have imagined for someone who had spent the last thirty-some years in the United States. “How’ve you been, son?”

  “Don’t call me that,” he shot back. “The only father figure I ever had is dead because of you.”

  “Now, that’s just what I’ve come here to talk to you about.” He approached slowly, and I could feel the rest of his goons closing in on us. All of them had their hands in a pocket or on the inside of their jackets. I felt my heart rate start to climb: they were all prepared to pull out their guns, I was sure of it.

  “If you want to talk about Old Pete’s murder, you should have come to me at the clubhouse, where we could have dealt with you properly,” Lucas said.

  “I thought this would be a little more… personal.”

  “You’re a piece of shit.” Lucas’s entire body was tense, ready to spring into action if he had to. I knew he wanted to provoke Tommy Flynn into a fight, but he didn’t want to leave me without any means of defense. And unfortunately for the both of us, I was not very useful in a fight.

  “I’m a criminal,” Tommy amended, “just like you.”

  “Look. Just let my friend here go, and we can talk, you and me, all right?” He glanced around the circle of goons, then back to Tommy. “Deal?”