Meant for Sin: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Thunder Riders MC) (Beards and Leather Book 4)

by Nicole Fox

  “Oh, trust me, dear. I get that. But even this is a little extreme for you. You look like a cat burglar.”

  “I don’t like cats much.”

  Her eyes roll. “We can do this dance all night if you want. I know that you’re working tomorrow, but I happen to have one of my rare days off. So if you want to play this game, I’ll get nice and comfy here.” She wriggles in the seat. “Shall we put on The Lord of the Rings or The Green Mile?”

  “I’m actually quite tired …”

  “Me too!” she suddenly snaps, placing her mug on the table. So all of this was really the tightening of a spring before it comes loose. She scowls, smiles away the scowl, and then scowls away the smile. “Let me tell you what’s keeping me up at night, Allison. A few years ago I met a girl at work. She was seventeen years old and looked terrified all the time, and she was terrified all the time, from what I could tell. She would skulk around the office and mumble if somebody spoke to her, or she’d go the other way and shout somebody down when they asked her if she wanted anything from the store around the corner. I made it my mission to talk to this girl, to make her feel welcome. I didn’t expect anything else to come of it, but I was wonderfully surprised when we developed a friendship. She quickly became my best friend. And now I see this same girl going down a road that can only lead to bad places. And you expect me to just let it happen!”

  I lean back, close my eyes, let the coffee mug rest against my chest even if it is hot. I stare at the blackness of my eyelids. “Brandon was always a good big brother. I don’t remember Dad very well but he does. He was eight or nine when he left. But even after that, he didn’t go bad, like some kids would have. He got even better. He helped Mom with the groceries and the housework, never bothered with drugs or alcohol or so much as a cigarette. He was a little doofy, sure, but he was a good person and he hated to see anything bad or mean.

  “I remember one time there was this spider with its leg trapped in a matchbox on the side of the road. I hated spiders and I told him to leave it, but he wouldn’t. He knelt down right there and opened the box and tried to smooth the spider’s leg out. That didn’t go well, but you should’ve seen him after. I can still hear him, Emma: ‘I killed him! I killed him!’ He was a wreck.” I trap my tears behind my closed eyes. I shouldn’t be crying right now. I need to be strong, focused.

  “And then Mom got cancer, a big generous dollop of it right in the pancreas.” I laugh bitterly, the same way I laughed when she told me: not because it’s funny, but just because. “You have to understand, Brandon spent his whole life trying to make sure she was okay after Dad left. He didn’t do all of that for me. Some of it, maybe. But most of it was for her. He wanted to make sure that she was okay. He had to. He saw it as his mission. So when something came along that he couldn’t make okay …”

  “He went off the rails,” Emma mutters.

  “Exactly.” I open my eyes, rub the tears from them, and take a sip of my coffee. “Screw this. I’m getting a real coffee.”

  I go into the kitchen and start making it. Emma follows me. “But you can’t fix this in the way you’re going about it,” she says softly. She’s looking at me like she wants to hug me but knows that’s not what I want. As though I’m an injured bird and she’ll cause more damage to me by trying. Just like Brandon with the spider. “You have to go to the police—”

  “And get him thrown in jail for ten years for possession of cocaine or weed or whatever he’ll have in his pocket when the police show up?”

  “Okay, fine. Not the police. But something else. A charity. A rehab center. The community center. I’m sure there are places out there where you can get help. You don’t have to go this alone. And you certainly don’t have to run around like Rambo.”

  I take a sip of my real coffee, letting the caffeine work its way through me. “Fine. Sure. That sounds good on paper, but what happens when Brandon gets himself killed while I’m filing paperwork with some charity?”

  She shakes her head. “You haven’t even tried yet. What about this? What if we come up with a plan together on how to make him see sense? We’ll have a step-by-step list and do it in a logical way. Right now you’re not thinking clearly. You’re letting your feelings for him get in the way of that.”

  “Of course I am!” I bark, spilling coffee onto the kitchen floor. “What else would you expect me to do? He’s my brother, isn’t he? If my feelings for him aren’t going to be a factor, when will they be? But I’m not going by feeling and nothing else. If that was true I’d go to his place right now with my gun and start shooting. I’m thinking. I have a plan.”

  “And what’s your plan?”

  I can tell her, I suppose. But then what? What tricky word traps will she devise to stop me from going through with it? What clever word mines will she lay to blow it up before it can get started? What logical weaves will make up the net with which she’ll trip me?

  “Not a specific plan,” I lie. “Not yet.”

  “There you go then!” She clutches my hands, staring me firmly in the eyes. “I’ve literally been alive twice as long as you have, Allison. I don’t want to be that patronizing woman who says she knows better, but right now I think a bit of life experience can do a whole lot of good. So why not listen to me? Why not let me help you? We don’t have to come up with the plan tonight if you don’t want to. What about tomorrow evening? Just don’t do anything until we talk about it, all right?”

  “Are you going?” I ask, fairly certain I hide the excitement from my voice.

  “I have to. I skipped out on date night to be here.”

  “Go, then.” I usher her toward the door. “Don’t let me keep you. Really.”

  We stand at the threshold, Emma half reaching for me before folding her hands on her belly. “We’ll make a plan,” she says.

  “We have a plan to make a plan,” I agree. “It’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll wait?”

  “I’ll wait.” I don’t like lying to her, but it’s better than the alternative.

  She leaves me, glancing back once before getting into her car.

  I go to the laptop and research the Thunder Riders. All I find is a forum website where one of the moderators explains that they only allow men into the club, which was what I guessed to begin with. If I’m going to do any good, I need to be in, not one of those girls I saw at the bar earlier tonight who seem to exist for the sole purpose of giggling at the bikers’ jokes—and other things, I’m sure, which I don’t want to think about right now. And that’s not even because it makes me squeamish; it’s only because then I might start thinking about the Thunder Rider I saw at the gun store, and I might be tempted to go into the bedroom and lose myself in a fantasy with my hand between my legs, instead of focusing on the task at hand.

  It’s been several months since I’ve had a man, and several forevers since I had a man like the hunk in the gun store.

  I push the thought away and go into the bathroom. I bring the scissors to my hair: my long pretty hair that took years to grow down my back like this. Then I hack away, leaving only the pixie cut, which I can stuff under a beanie or a cap anyway. I sweep the hair under the rug with my foot and then arch my back, standing up straight, but there’s a problem: my breasts. I would never claim to have giant bazookas or anything of model-size, but I have breasts and they’re quite obvious just by glancing at me. I take off my shirt and my bra and go into the bedroom, under the bed and get the first-aid kit. I take out a bandage and wrap it around my breasts, tying them down, flattening them. Then I pull my shirt on and walk up and down in front of the mirror.

  “How goes it, pal?” I say, deepening my voice. If I just deepen it, it sounds artificial, but if I put a growl in it, like there’s something stuck back there, it sounds more natural. “Wanna catch the game later? Call me Al, Al Marshall-Brown.”

  The motorcycle is old and dusty, a relic leftover from one of Mom’s boyfriends. I dust it off and push it out onto the road, siphon some gas from m
y car and then start it up. I’ve ridden three times before, so I suppose I have an advantage over a complete newbie.

  I sail around the block, if you can call a cautious twenty miles-per-hour sailing.

  Chapter Six

  Allison

  I practice everywhere I go: in the bathroom at work, pacing around the house when I get home, in the rearview mirror when I’m driving. I deepen my voice, strut like a man—swagger; men don’t strut—and try and imagine what it’d be like to have a big piece of junk between my legs. How would it make me act? I bring to mind those bikers at Brandon’s place, trying to behave as close to them as possible. And then I’m ready, or as close to ready as I’ll ever be.

  Then it’s time. I ride to the clubhouse. I’ve gotten better at riding but not by much. I can just about keep up with traffic without making any foolish mistakes, but if they want me to weave between traffic like a professional, all my hard work will be wasted. I stop outside the clubhouse in the middle of a Saturday, the sun only getting hotter. I step from the bike, wipe sweat from my forehead, store my helmet, and then pull on my beanie. It’s way too hot for a beanie and already I can feel a layer of sweat coating my skin, but it’s manlier than my hair.

  I walk up to the clubhouse, heart pounding, approaching the men at the door. There’s two of them, both smoking. One is Gray-Ear, the man from outside the bar, and the other is a young-looking biker I don’t recognize. Gray-Ear turns to me.

  “You a pledge? A courier? What, lad?”

  Lad. That’s a start, then.

  “I’m neither,” I mutter, voice so growly the words are barely audible to me. Let’s just hope these men are so used to motorcycle engines it makes no difference.

  “Want do you want from me, then?” Gray-Ear chuckles. “Standing in the sun having a smoke and some teenager-looking motherfucker strolls up and starts growling at me, and I’m supposed to—what? Speak. Goddamn.”

  I take a deep breath, let it out shakily. This is a planned speech. “I’ve been hearing lots about your club, the Thunder Riders, been hearing it’s the hardest-riding club this side of the Devil’s Horn crossroads. And I think I’m a pretty tough guy, too, so I want a meeting with your boss. I wanna join the club.”

  Gray-Ear watches me for a moment and then lets out a barking laugh. “I’ve seen lots of things in my life, a damn lot. I’ve seen men fall off their bikes wearing nothing but shorts and getting up without a cut on them, and men in leathers falling off and never getting up again. I saw a lady fuck a horse once. But this … some teenager coming up to the club and asking to see the boss? This is new to me, let me tell you.” He takes a drag from his cigarette and exhales, shrouding his face. He waves a hand, dissipating it. “I’m not about to go and disturb the boss with this shit, goddamn. Turn around, kid. Wait until your balls drop. That’ll be a start, at least.”

  I turn around, walk a few steps, and then think of Brandon and those guns. I need this. I can’t just leave after almost a week of getting ready. I turn back, my heartbeat going crazy. But I ignore it. I have to. “I didn’t come by here to be lectured, old man, and I didn’t come by here to be laughed at either. I happen to know you’ve got shit with this new MC, the Brass Skulls. I hear they’ve been recruiting more men. What about the Thunder Riders? Can you afford to just turn folks away?”

  “He has a point,” the other man mutters. Under his jacket he’s wearing a comic-book T-shirt.

  “Does he?” Gray-Ear shakes his head. “A pledge telling me that a fuckin’ civilian has a point. What other gems of wisdom you got in that head of yours, kid? Listen to me. I ain’t goin’ to the boss with this shit. That’s final. Mr. Ivarsson don’t take kindly to folks who waste his time.”

  “But this won’t be a waste of time,” I counter. “This’ll be adding troops to your army. What’d’you think the government does when we go to war, turn troops away?”

  “Yes,” Gray-Ear says, looking at me like I’m crazy. “They do. They always have. ’Cause listen, kid, it don’t take much to screw shit up when bullets start flying. You want a man at your side who knows how to fight, not some kid who sounds like they ain’t hit puberty yet. Like I said, come back when your balls are an inch lower. And stop hanging around here. You’re starting to piss me off.”

  “All right there, Michaels.” A man steps from the shadows of the doorway, bald with blue eyes, covered in red patches of sunburn. “We should give the boy a chance. If he thinks he can waltz up to my house and get a job, let’s see if he can dance.”

  He walks into the clubhouse.

  I stand there for a moment before Gray-Ear—Michaels—nods at me. “That means follow him.”

  I walk into the clubhouse, the smell of whisky and cigarettes hitting me immediately. The walls are covered in framed photographs of men in biker leathers, some of them in black and white, and the bar section is dotted with bottles of whisky and cards strewn across tables. A cigarette burns from the corner, its smoke distorted in the light. I think it would take several lifetimes to count the motes of dust which hover in the air. The bald man leads me to his office, which is right next to the bar. It’s a large office but asymmetrical, his chair massive and mine a glorified stool.

  “Take a seat.”

  I sit down. I’m about to fold my legs under the stool when I remember that’s not how a man sits. So instead I spread my legs and lean forward on my elbows.

  “My name is Mr. Ivarsson,” he says. “I am the president of this club and I decide if civilians get made into pledges. I was listening to you and Michaels. You seem to think you have something to offer the club. You seem to think that we’d be lost without your unique abilities.” His accent is Texan but every so often a Scandinavian twang comes into it. He steeples his fingers. “I am not a superstitious man, but I am a man who believes that sometimes the order of things has some importance. Here I was thinking about what to do with the Brass Skulls, and then I overhear you outside, talking about the Brass Skulls. Perhaps it was fate. Are you our savior? Tell me your name, lad.”

  “Al Marshall-Brown, sir,” I say at once, because I doubt any man hesitates when asked his name in here.

  “Al. So, Al, are you the one who’s going to turn this all around?” He leans forward, his expression difficult to read. The corner of his lip twitches as though he could smile, but maybe he’s like Emma and it could just as easily be a scowl.

  He might be mocking me. I lean back, let out air through my teeth. “I don’t think any man can say that, sir. All I can say is that I’ll work my hardest for the club. I’m not claiming to have any magic powers or anything like that, sir. But maybe if you recruit ten men like me, you’ll have a better chance against the Brass Skulls. But if you get defensive, maybe they’ll wipe you out.”

  I clench my teeth so hard it aches in my skull. That might have been a step too far. That might have been the nail that will seal the coffin in which I will be shipped far, far away.

  Mr. Ivarsson stares at me for what feels like hours, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Have you ever killed a man?” he asks.

  “Killed a …” I resist the urge to lick my lips. I try to read his eyes: what does he want me to say? This is a meeting with a purpose, so lying and telling the truth are both viable, depending on what he wants to hear. But his face gives nothing away. “No,” I say, guessing he’ll see through it if I lie. “I have never killed a man.”

  “It’s a strange thing, especially if you do it with your hands.” He stands up, hands behind his back like a general, and paces up and down the room. “My father was a hard man. He modeled himself after the Viking raiders who died thousands of years ago. He was tough, and mean, but he was also efficient. He wanted a son who knew how to kill before he became a man, so one afternoon he took me on the back of his bike and rode me miles and miles to this giant lake. I don’t even remember now where that lake is, only that there was nothing there, just the water, just the wind. He told me we were going fishing, but I knew we weren’t as soon as
we got there. There was a man tied to a post at the edge of the lake, with a machete just out of his reach. The man was struggling and dribbling as men’ll do in those situations, but my father just walked me up to that machete, nodded at it, and stood back. It took me twenty-one hours to get up the courage to do it, and all the time my father just stood there, staring. We went for ice cream afterward and we never talked about it, except on his deathbed when he told me he was proud of me.”

  He slams his hands on the table, moving with speed I wouldn’t have guessed. I start; can’t help it; all the playacting in the world can’t stop me from leaning away from his jackal’s smile. “How do you feel, hearing a thing like that? Because we need men who aren’t going to make excuses. We need men like my father. We need men who aren’t going to get squeamish when the time comes. What if I took you out and told you to hack a Brass Skull apart with a machete? What would you do?”

  I wouldn’t do it, because it might be Brandon.

  “I’d do it,” I lie, my voice more growling than ever in an effort to hide my fear. “Your father did the right thing. He was trying to make you strong. He clearly succeeded.”