Devil Seeker

by Clare Power

  DEVIL SEEKER

  CYCLE DEVILS MC WEST FLORIDA

  by

  Clare Power

  Copyright

  Devil Seeker, Cycle Devils MC #1

  © 2015, Clare Power

  eBook edition

  Cover Designer: Margreet Asselbergs

  Formatting by KBK Publishing

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the memory of

  William E. Twardokus

  July 25, 1940 – August 14, 2014

  The real Backfire

  I am sorry that he never got to see the finished book, but I am proud beyond words that he liked the blurb that was written and enjoyed the parts that were written before his sad passing.

  I am honoured that he allowed his road name to be used for this book.

  I pray that he Rides Free, Always.

  Spelling and Words

  Hi Folks

  I have written this book mainly from two people’s points of view – Kat and Backfire’s. Kat is English and Backfire is American. This being the case you will notice some spelling differences I have deliberately put in to emphasise this…

  Kat will spell words like this, colour and flavour, whilst Backfire will spell them like this, color and flavor.

  Also, some words have different meanings in the two cultures:

  Panties are knickers

  Pants in English are generally old-fashioned full briefs, i.e. granny knickers/pants

  Pants in America are trousers in England

  Jeans are jeans wherever

  Birmingham is the second largest city in England, commonly called Brum. Someone from that area is often known as a Brummie. They may well have a distinct local accent.

  If I use slang terms, either English or American, I will try to explain them in the text of the book.

  I hope this makes sense and adds to your enjoyment of the book.

  Clare

  Kat’s Prologue

  I guess you could say that I’m a bit of a dreamer. On a midweek evening, one of my favourite ways to relax is to read and get lost in different worlds, especially biker fiction. Most of these stories revolve around a woman who get kidnapped and end up being rescued by a sexy biker. These things may not be true, but it sure does make me wish they were. I mean, where is my knight in black leathers, riding up to rescue me on his Harley? I want a hero.

  Most of the women in these books fall into a few basic types: the everyday, ordinary lady who falls for the MC biker, or the MC Princess looking for a bloke in a different club. Last, but not least, are the sweetbutts, or whatever term used to call a club whore who’s looking for anyone who will have her.

  Part of the reason I love to get lost in these books is because I will never be any of these women. I consider myself a biker in my own right, which means I don’t imagine that in my real life I will ever get my very own fantasy lover, but I sure wouldn’t mind finding a real man.

  I’m what you would call fussy when it comes to men. It’s just not my way to accept anything less than what I consider to be perfect. I’m now independent and financially secure. I have a sweet ride and I’m used to taking care of myself. I’m in my early thirties – thirty-two to be exact – but I think I look better now than I did when I was younger. It’s amazing what confidence in yourself can do. My body may be shorter and curvier than the whole stick figure look that’s so popular at the moment, but I’m fit and healthy because I play sports and work hard. I don’t do the gym because really, a running machine just isn’t for me. I’m totally comfortable in my own skin and I have found that a lot of men see this as a challenge to their precious manhood.

  I would like to share my time with someone and I’m certainly up for sex. The crux of the matter is finding the right man for me.

  I want an alpha male who is big, strong, and confident in himself so that he won’t be intimidated by a woman who uses her own brain and has a bit of backbone about her.

  If he’s tall, dark and handsome, that really wouldn’t be a disaster. I want him to be taller than me, even when I’m in the highest boots I can wear. As I’m only five feet five inches tall, it shouldn’t be hard to find a man who can wrap me up in his arms and hold me under his chin, right? He would have to be a hard worker because I don’t think I’d do well with a lazy ass man or someone who thinks they can scrounge off me without doing his part in a relationship. Showering after sweating and working all day is a must for me. I know damn well what I fancy and I expect nothing less.

  I don’t understand why it has been so hard to find one up to this point, but I’m hoping that by moving to America, all that will change for me. Perhaps I should make a list. I’m good at those.

  I really want a true biker who has been in the lifestyle for years and understands what it means because let’s face it, there’s not exactly one around every corner, especially one who is single, interested, and meets all my criteria. I guess time will tell.

  Backfire’s Prologue

  I’m fucked in the head in a big way. Nothing in particular is wrong, I’m just fuckin’ bored.

  Everywhere I turn there’s pussy, but it’s gotten to the point where I find myself not even wanting to be bothered with it.

  I don’t want a fuckin’ relationship. I just want to fuck a girl and get gone. I’ve figured out that whether they are from the clubhouse or just some random woman, they are all looking for something more from me, especially if I go back for seconds. The ones in the club just want a man to latch onto and be his old lady while ones outside the club have this fucked up illusion of what it means to be with a biker because of some fucking TV show. Bitches are straight up losing their minds trying to romanticise this lifestyle.

  I work my ass off every day and I have the body to prove it. I don’t shave or cut my hair until I get annoyed with it. I wear clothes that are comfortable and practical – not based on fashion – and I always wear my colors when I’m out on my bike.

  I’m a member of the Cycle Devils MC―West Florida, and I expect to be treated as such.

  We are 1%ers. That doesn’t mean that we are involved in organized crime, but it separates us from the other boring 99% of motorcyclists. In my world, they don’t get the title of biker. You have to earn that right from us.

  A lot of us make most of our money through fairly legal means. I design custom bikes that most people find fuckin’ unbelievable. I certainly charge enough for them and I pay my dues to the club, just like the rest of the brothers. That’s not saying I’ve never done anything illegal for the club, just that I can prove to the cops that I have a legitimate source of income.

  My life is great, but it would be fuckin’ perfect if I could find a woman who’s just down to fuck. Why is that so much to ask?

  Chapter 1

  Friday Night at The Alligator

  Kat

  I walk into the local biker bar feeling good. Tonight the plan is to have a bit of fun with my new friend Amber and check out part of the local scene.

  Unlike the bars people imagine all bikers frequent, the Alligator is not a dirty, dingy dump. You can walk in as a girl on your own without having to have sex in the back room. It’s clean and modern with a large range of different beers and great food. Rock music plays low enough to talk to someone close, but loud enough to enjoy. Not a bad place for a night out.

  Sitting at the bar, I surv
ey the crowd and find that the place is buzzing. It says something when no matter how packed the place is, you can still manage to snag a seat, but what it says is another matter.

  I look the part tonight. I stuffed my leathers and helmet in the saddlebags, leaving me in my Harley tank that shows off a little cleavage, denim shorts and cowboy boots. The Florida weather still feels too hot to me after sunny old England.

  I remove the plait from my hair that I put in to avoid helmet hair; keeping the tangles down and the bugs out. My hair is long and red, with even a bit of a kink from the plait. My eyes are a sort of mix of green and brown, but they suit me. I’m not a great one for makeup, but I keep my eyebrows waxed and tinted dark, along with my eyelashes tinted black for a bit of pop. A lot of makeup doesn’t work with the wind in your face on a bike. I’m more than happy with the way that I look and I’m not afraid to show it.

  Amber comes up and snags the empty bar stool next to me and we order Diet Cokes. I met Amber in the local craft shop. After the first few times of bumping into each other in the yarn aisle, we started to chat as people with obvious common interests do, and that was that. We’ve even begun setting a night aside once a week where we do nothing but craft. She is American and has lived in Florida for years, so she is the perfect guide for me on how to live in the States.

  “Hey lady. How are things?” I ask.

  “Pretty good. Work was good today and I’m planning to get my house updated. You’re becoming a bad influence on me,” Amber looks around and laughs, “This place is five minutes from my house and I’ve never been here before.”

  I grin at her, “It’s not really your type of place. Thanks for coming and keeping me company.”

  To say Amber’s not a biker in any way, shape, or form is no exaggeration, but she likes me for me so that’s all I need. Like me, she is in her thirties, but she’s slim with medium brown hair that has dramatic natural silver streaks running through it and green eyes. I’m on a a manhunt and Amber is offering me moral support, and for that, I’m grateful. Although this is obviously a biker bar, it isn’t the sort of place where people look funny at her even though she’s obviously a non-biker.

  We look around at the Alligator’s clientele, which is a varied mix of people. Many are clinging to the title of biker by a very thin thread. Not all bikers are made from the same cloth.

  “There sure is quite a mixture of folks here tonight. What do you think? Could any of the men here be what you’re looking for?” she asks.

  A quick look around doesn’t give me any hope.

  “Don’t look so sour, Kat. I’m your wing woman for the night so if you tell me what sort of biker you’re into, I can help you keep a lookout.”

  Now that is a good question, so for the next few hours over dinner we discuss the type of men considered to be bikers. Does the title biker only apply to the outlaw? The member of a proper 1% motorcycle club who is so immersed in that culture that he lives, works, and breathes only the club lifestyle. What of the club member who works a nine to five job? There is also the lone wolf who rides and has no association to a club, but lives to ride nonetheless. Is he not considered a biker just because he has no affiliations with a club?

  We continue to go on with no real answer, but regardless of all the different types of people who ride, in all the different types of lifestyles, it’s still all centred around one item; the motorcycle. The biker scene is quite diverse, so I suppose anyone who wants to call himself, or herself, a biker, is to some degree a biker. The problem that I’m having is what type of biker would really interest me?

  “I have no real idea. Before this conversation, I thought I had some idea of what I was looking for, but breaking it down like this, I see that I really don’t know now. All I do know is that I want a hardworking man who wants me for all of me, and I think I’ll know him when I see him. I won’t settle for anything less than what I feel I deserve, and that’s something that won’t change, no matter what type of biker he turns out to be. Just no mopeds,” I finish with a giggle.

  I have a look around at the single men and see that putting pressure on a situation will only end in failure. It was an unrealistic fantasy of mine, believing that leaving England and coming to America I would find the perfect biker for me; like he would just fall into my lap and that would be that. I have set my bar too high with getting what I want right now so I have to take a step back and just let it happen. I’ve heard the saying that if you’re looking for something, you won’t find it. It’s only when you least expect it that it finds you. The only thing to choose from here tonight are tourists who will be heading out soon, back to their lives somewhere else.

  So Friday night at the bar is a bust on the man front, but I’ve enjoyed hanging out with Amber and that’s good enough for me.

  Backfire

  I pull up to The ‘Gator with some of my brothers. We sit in the parking lot, checking out the scene. The fuckin’ place seems full of tourists, not women looking for a good time. Well shit. No point in even getting off our bikes. Better luck at the clubhouse, I guess.

  Chapter 2

  First Encounter at the DIY Store

  Kat

  I have to admit that I am very lucky. I’ve just moved to Florida, to a little town north of St. Petersburg. The best bit is that because my Parentals are downsizing, they sold the big old family house to buy a much smaller bungalow, and in the process, handed over some of those pennies to my sister Jack and me. Thanks to their generosity and my savings, I bought a house of my very own, making me rent and loan free. I even have money in the bank to start my own business when I’m ready.

  My new house has a master bedroom, or maybe that should be a mistress’s bedroom, with a huge shower big enough for two in the en-suite. There is a lounge diner with a fabulous integral kitchen and doors off to the small garden and the garage. Down a corridor from the lounge is what some might call the guest wing of the house, but I have made that part of my home into a craft room and library. It also has a bathroom with a corner spa bath. These may not have been the room designations the estate agents sold the house as, but I made them to work for me. After all, it’s mine – all mine.

  Some people might think of Florida in terms of hell with the heat, humidity, and hurricanes, but not me. After living in England for the past twenty years or so, with its entertainingly unpredictable weather, I’m ready for all the sun I can get.

  I’m in the process of gradually redecorating my new home also. I love red walls and I want at least one bright wall in every room, so that’s how I find myself in the paint aisle at the DIY store, but the paint isn’t the only thing that has my interest.

  At about six feet four inches tall with dark curly hair, neat beard and moustache, this man is not Hollywood model handsome, but he is handsome in a rough sort of way. His body is tan from the sun and he is built like a man who works hard with well-defined, lean muscles. Yum.

  He is dressed in biker boots, blue jeans and a black sleeveless t-shirt that says, Support Your Local Cycle Devils. His right arm has an amazing sleeve of tribal tattoos while his left arm is covered in coloured tattoos. If ever a man looked like a biker God, it would absolutely be him.

  See? I wasn’t even looking and he found me.

  I don’t know much about the local motorcycle club or MC, the Cycle Devils, but I do know that it shouldn’t be hard to find general information about them on the internet. I would really like to know how well they work together and how they treat their women. I know that this type of information will be harder to come by. The bottom line is that if I meet them, I want to learn about them slowly, not jump in with both feet and repent at leisure.

  What I do know of MC’s is that they live in a tightly controlled world of their own. They have very clear ideas of respect and enforce things within their world, and the women who live with these men are also ruled by their ways. The women don’t know an awful lot – if anything – about the club’s business and have no vote in what the club does
. There are only two choices for women; either live with it or move along. Most women love the lifestyle and have as much loyalty to the club as their men do.

  I will admit that the downside to that is that the women associated with most clubs seem to follow a set rule of no mixing outside the club. They don’t talk to men outside the club, even old friends.

  I’ve seen the ladies of men in one MC sit in a corner of a pub, talking amongst themselves while their men were elsewhere in the bar, not drawing attention to themselves. No dancing, no pool, not even talking to their men and having their drinks delivered by a prospect. All I could think was how sad and boring their lives must be. This is one of the reasons that I don’t want a biker that belongs to an MC. That’s not a lifestyle that I want for myself.

  Until I know more about the Cycle Devils, I’m going to be a bit careful. Anyhow, just because he’s wearing a support tee doesn’t mean he’s actually a member of the MC. I mean, he’s not wearing a leather cut, patches, or colours.

  I’m so lost in thought that I forget that I’m blatantly staring at him when he turns and looks me over. Please let him like what he sees because make no mistake, he’s one fine looking man. Please do not let me be drooling.

  To speak or not to speak, that is the question, but the faint of heart never won a sexy man such as him.

  “Hello. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I was looking at your shirt,” I say, full of originality.

  He looks at me for another minute and gives me a chin lift, beckoning me closer to him. I normally don’t like this type of arrogance from a man. It would send me running in the other direction or getting in his face about it, but my body is doing the thinking for me as I make my way toward him.