Hard Rider

by Lydia Pax

  Three men approached, each scarier than the last. Big beards, chains wrapped around their wrists, forearms like tree trunks. All of them had tattoos of guns, knives, skulls, the kinds of things that she had thought looked exciting on a body like Ram’s—but shady on bodies like theirs. They weren’t in as good of shape, and while Ram certainly wasn’t what she would call clean-cut, these guys looked like they hadn’t showered in a month.

  They sat down and June’s heart started to race. She saw the flash of a gun behind one’s vest—a heavy hunting knife in the belt loop of another. One lit up a joint, smiling at her, and the drowsy scent of weed filled the air. She shook her head when he offered her a puff.

  June had a business idea. It involved young women hiring a sort of private detective who would follow them around. When she entered a place that was unequivocally bad news, the PI would rush out of his car with a megaphone and yell out, “Do not do that!” Sometimes, an extra voice was needed. The business could be called the “Personal Conscience Assistants.”

  “Where you been all my life, girl?” said the one with the joint, a pair of dominoes inked on his shoulder. “You looking to make in good with the Crew?”

  “‘Course she is,” said another, the one with the knife. “Ain’t no regular girl just walks in here without an agenda in mind. ‘Specially not one as fine as her. Damn, girl. You wanna hit the back right now? I’ll claim your ass where you stand.”

  “Actually,” said June, resolving to clear the confusion right away. “I’m with—”

  “I get it,” said the one with the gun. He grabbed her chin, grip tight. “Don’t talk. You don’t have to say nothing, precious.”

  June’s eyes were wide with horror. Was this really happening? Why wasn’t anyone stopping them?

  A pair of hands, large and powerful, landed on the head of the man grabbing her. He was thrown into the nearby wall, his nose bursting open. The other two bikers got up in a flash, ready to brawl—and then immediately stepped down when they saw who it was.

  “That’s my old lady,” said Ram. “Anything you motherfuckers want to do about that?”

  The two standing up backed away.

  “Jeez, Ram—”

  “—we didn’t know—”

  “—your old lady, christ, I mean—”

  They scrambled away without saying more, retreating back to their table. Ram knelt down over the man he slammed into the wall.

  “Fuck, Ram,” he moaned, holding the bloody mess of his face, “you broke my fucking nosh.”

  Ram picked him up by the collar, their faces inches apart.

  “That’s my old lady, Billy. You got that?”

  “Sure, Ram. ‘Course. Didn’t know.”

  He dropped Billy down to the floor and signaled the bartender. “Get him a bottle of some brown. Him and his friends. Call a doctor.”

  The bartender nodded, pulling a tall bottle of whiskey from the shelf.

  Billy walked away, nodding thanks at Ram, who sat down across from June.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. That was…I could have handled that.”

  “You could have handled Buckeye Billy? How’s that?”

  “I’m the daughter of a cop,” she said, as if it that explained everything. When he looked at her blankly, she continued. “Self-defense classes for three years. I know how to hit a man where it hurts.”

  “Well, you didn’t stop him,” said Ram. “So you’re welcome.”

  That stung. June attempted to swallow her pride. “Thank you,” she said quietly, not quite meeting his gaze.

  It was a brutal, primal act of possession. She should have been offended by it. When she saw in Austin at college, frat boys staking claims on what girl was theirs, it struck her as snobbish. Childish. Reprehensible, really.

  But here, in this bar, watching Ram fight off foes who dared to lay claim on her…she felt weirdly flattered.

  And definitely turned on. Her breaths were coming quick, blood still pounding long after the adrenaline had ceased to flow. Her sweater was tight and each breath made her breasts heave inside the thin cloth.

  Ram shifted around the table until he was right up against her. He took her face in his hand, kissing her suddenly, fiercely. She knew what was happening—he was staking his claim even further, showing just how much he owned her.

  June, unable to stop herself, felt her body sliding up on his lap. The thrill-seeker in her was becoming more excited by the second, showing off in front of all these bad, bad men. Killers, thieves, and worse, who wouldn’t dare lay a hand on her for the rest of her life now that they knew she belonged to the baddest man among them. Her thighs squeezed his muscular, titanic quad muscles, crushing her ample chest against the density of his pecs.

  This wasn’t feeling like pretend at all, not anymore. This felt very real…and very dangerous.

  And June was feeling herself steadily more and more addicted to that feeling.

  Trouble man.

  Slowly, Ram pushed her off, holding her chin between his forefinger and thumb. Checking her for marks.

  “I thought you bikers killed the guys who touched your women?” she teased.

  “He didn’t know what he was doing,” Ram explained. “And Buckeye’s my brother. He would never have done that if he’d known you were mine.”

  His. The thought made her feel dirty, tainted…but undeniably warm. She could feel wetness blossoming unconsciously from between her thighs, aching to feel him inside her, to feel him claim her for real.

  “What if he wasn’t a brother? Someone who didn’t know and touched me?”

  “I might give him one warning.” His eyes flashed dangerously. “In a good mood.”

  “And then? If he didn’t back off?”

  She already knew the answer. The thought of it frightened her almost as much as it turned her on.

  “I’d kill him. What’s mine is mine. Can’t have anyone think otherwise.”

  Chapter 20

  Shovelhead’s was one of the few legitimate fronts the Wrecking Crew had for themselves, including the mechanic shop and a few laundry mats around town. Each was operated in name by a different LLC, but behind that was usually a single member who could be rotated out if he was found to be doing a bad job (i.e. not bringing in a profit). The bar as it was was run now by Erickson, a big viking-looking patch holder of seven years with a thick red beard he kept in long warrior braids down his chest. He tended bar tonight.

  It wasn’t a proper bar, not really. Not open to the public. Technically speaking, it was a privately owned club. That meant that the Crew could serve whoever they wanted, however they wanted. It also meant that if there were brawls with undesirables, they had an edge when it came to the law—any time someone got their ass kicked, a member of the Crew could just cite it as self-defense.

  In the back, there was a sort of junkyard shop area full of spare community tools and bike parts. Lots of times when a brother bought a new bike, he would just donate the old one to Shovelhead’s and people could break it down how they needed. Harley-Davidson made quality parts, most of which would run on a bike forever so long as you treated them right and put in the time for maintenance.

  Ram had grown up almost exclusively in this club. He knew the junk yard in and out—the heavy bus shell that was in the back, rusting away to nothing and full of spare bolts and screws in strangely colored tackle containers. He knew the inside of the bar intimately from the long months he’d spent as a prospect, sweeping and mopping and tidying.

  Over the head of the front door was a mural of patches from other gangs that had tried to set up shop in Marlowe—patches that the Wrecking Crew had stripped them of after busting them to pieces. If a biker outfit couldn’t defend the patches on their backs, they were pretty much done for. Surviving as an outlaw was all about respect, and for the Crew and any other MC, that respect all came down to the patches on their vests

  He looked forward to the day when he could populate the mural with
the Black Flags’ patches in earnest.

  After a few drinks, June was still on Ram’s lap, trading kisses with him in between rounds of small talk.

  “Come with me,” said Ram. “We didn’t come here just to make out. I want you to meet my friends.”

  June looked uneasy. “I don’t know. Are you sure? It could be bad. I’m not…you know, not the normal girl who comes around here, am I?”

  “Do you think it’ll be worse than meeting all of your people at once?” asked Ram.

  June huffed. “I suppose not. We’ve got to make this look as real as possible.”

  It had felt plenty real when she had climbed onto his lap. And he knew it was real when he had made her cum the other night. His cock felt alive when she was near. All of him did, in fact. More alive than he’d felt in months, maybe years.

  More alive than he had since Beretta ripped his heart out and stomped on it with all his junkie bullshit, taking his sister down with him.

  That acidic memory spilled against his heart, but he pushed it down—now wasn’t the time.

  The way June held him, touched him, was both strange and familiar to him. Familiar, because women had been this way with him before—affectionate, flirty, always wanting to feel more of him. But strange too, because of the caring behind her touch, and because of the kind of girl that June was.

  Ram was used to bad girls—girls who wanted to walk on the wild side. Sometimes, they wanted to stay, they became regular mamas for the club and got passed around from member to member. Or more often, they became old ladies.

  But that wasn’t June’s life—she was straight-laced and clean.

  Was that why he found her so irresistible? Was that why it was so intolerably hot to him whenever he made her facade of resistance crumble? Was it because her life was so obviously only visiting his for a little while?

  Here at the bar was the first time he’d touched her since making her come in the clearing at the Sheriff’s house. The memory of her moans, her touch, her electric twitches stuck with him still, and promoted his cock to half-hardness as he guided her into the smoky interior.

  As they walked farther into the interior, he pointed out people, names for her to know. Nate the Prospect. Erickson, behind the bar and polishing a glass. Rowdy, who she knew, standing over a quickly-emptying plate of wings while he tossed darts at a board on the wall. She asked about the picture of the woman on the wall above the bar, and he explained that it was his mother—quickly changing the subject by bringing her over to where his boys were sitting.

  Ram didn’t like to talk about his mother. It always led to a discussion of the lack of her, especially with women. Ram, truly, didn’t like to talk about any of the women in his family. They’d been born unlucky being so close to he and his father’s life of choice. June already knew about it, but that didn’t make him want to talk about it anymore than he already had.

  “June,” he said, pointing around the table. “This is Ace. You already know Mikhail. Boys, this is June.”

  She waved her hand, smiling quietly. They all nodded, a glimmer of mirth on their lips. There was a beer already ready for Ram and for June—probably Mikhail’s doing.

  Mikhail’s natural instinct was to take care of his brothers. He didn’t like his rich family, but that didn’t stop him from being raised nicer than the rest of his gang members and with a better understanding of hospitality.

  It was Mikhail who saved Ram’s life after the whole mess with Beretta and Madeline exploded into such a pile of shit. It was Mikhail who found Ram, drunk for days in his small house, and dragged him to his own home and sobered him up. It was Mikhail who had been the one to see Ram at his most vulnerable—lost without his sister; terrified of the anger that gripped him at Beretta, who had been like a brother.

  Mikhail bringing him back to sanity was a debt Ram would never forget.

  Ace dominated the table space, taking up wide swaths of elbow room and was the reason, indeed, that they shoved two tables together. Long twisting spirals of inks climbed up his dark skin from his hands up to his neck. Everything about his attitude said “fuck you” to the world—including June.

  For several minutes, the four sat around drinking beer. Ram could tell June was nervous, but wasn’t really schooled in any way to keep a girl calm in the club. Most of the time, women just knew their place and shut up while the men had fun.

  “I see you and Ace both have a badge on your vest that says “Enforced,’” June said to Ram. “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s ‘Enforcer,’” Ace corrected, showing her the badge. “It translates loosely into ‘don’t fuck with us.’”

  Ace’s own “Enforcer” tag was right below his Sergeant-at-Arms patch. Ram could still feel where his used to be on his own vest. It made him feel a little empty without it there; the role had defined him for years.

  Ram watched with admiration as June purposefully stepped out of the way of Ace’s hostility. “You specifically or the whole club?”

  “Both, I guess,” said Ace, thinking about it. “It means if you fuck with the club, you’ve got to fuck with me. Or Ram. A couple other guys, too. There’s five of us in all.”

  “Four,” said Mikhail. “Piston got put away, remember?”

  Ace nodded. “Yeah, shit. Four of us now.”

  “But four or five or three, fucking with you is bad,” said June.

  They all chuckled. “Very bad,” said Mikhail.

  “Your vest says Sergeant-At-Arms, too. What’s that?”

  “You got a lot of questions, lady,” said Ace. “You want to report back to your cop dad?”

  Ram shot him a look—back off. But Ace remained firm.

  “What? I got a right to know who the fuck she’s gonna talk to.”

  “I don’t know,” said June. “Do you think there’s anything about your affiliation with the club that he doesn’t already know?”

  Ace didn’t have anything to say to that.

  “She’s right,” said Mikhail. “We don’t gotta talk club business, but she should know what’s what around here. It means he’s sort of like our own police. If there’s disputes, people fighting within the club, they call Ace to break it up.”

  “You’re the law and order,” June offered.

  Ace blanched. “So to speak.”

  “Speaking of law and order,” said Mikhail, waving his fingers at June. “Gimme your phone.”

  “What for?” she asked, but was already handing it over.

  “You need our numbers,” said Mikhail, punching into the screen. “In case something goes down and Ram’s not available.”

  “That won’t happen,” said Ram.

  “You don’t fucking know,” said Ace. “Give her my number too.”

  After a moment, Mikhail was done, and gave June her phone back. It didn’t take much for the wagons to circle around their own; didn’t take much for the boys to fall in line with Ram. That they respected him so much out of hand meant a lot to him.

  “Do you all have old ladies like me?” June asked, still curious.

  “No,” said Ace. “No way. Pretty surprised Ram picked you up, to be honest. Bold move.”

  “Single and loving it,” Mikhail said, stretching out. “What’s the point of riding seven hundred pounds of pussy-melting aphrodisiac if you’re just going to waste it all on one woman?”

  “Suppose it was the right woman?” asked June.

  “She’d have to get in line with all the others,” said Mikhail. “The right woman for me is one with her legs spread…wiiiide.” He pulled his hands apart, miming.

  The boys all laughed, and even June looked appreciative of his brutal honesty.

  “Amanda here? Callie?” Ram asked. “I thought one of them and June could talk.”

  “Callie’s feeling sick. Couldn’t make it. I don’t know where Amanda is.” Ace glanced at June. “Callie’s Erickson’s old lady, and Amanda’s the girl for Gorgeous Gill. Lots of times…most of the time, really, women just keep
to themselves when they’re in the club. Men with men, women with women. You know, until we really start to party.”

  “What if I have something I want to say to the men?” June asked.

  All three shot meaningful looks at Ram.

  In response, he put a hand on her leg, possessive, protective. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, and he could feel her thighs spreading just slightly at his nearness to her pelvis.

  He cleared his throat. “Then you’d tell it to me. Unless you want to start trouble.”

  “That’s sexist.”

  They all shrugged. That was the way it was.

  Mikhail was most aggressive. “You want to ride a bike? You want to protect this house? You want to go toe-to-toe with some angry methhead who don’t feel pain, who wants to rape you and burn your house down?”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “Then you do things our way.” He sipped at his whiskey. “It doesn’t matter for you anyway. You’re just pretending.”

  Ram watched with some pleasure as this registered with June. She looked up at him and then back at the three brothers.

  “You know I’m not his real old lady?”

  “’Course,” said Ace.

  Mikhail nodded. “We’d be a bit insulted if you were, matter of fact.”

  “How’s that?”

  Mikhail glanced at Ram, who nodded.

  “It’s simple,” said Mikhail. “All of us here? We’re all brothers. Everyone with a patch. Hell, even the prospect over there is like a…I don’t know. A baby cousin?”

  Their laughter filled the corner of the bar.

  “I resent that!” said Nate, sweeping the floor nearby.

  Ace turned. “Shut up and sweep, prospect.”

  Nate did, and immediately.

  “But,” Mikhail continued, turning back to June, “some of us are real close. Some of us have a tight bond even with the brotherhood, you dig? There’s secrets and rivalries, even in a club. But not between the three of us. We’re a bloc, if you want to think of it like that.”