Bishop: Dead Legion MC #1

by Krane, Kasey

  I turned to the nearest man, ready to ask him how long he’d been a member of the Dead Legion, when I spotted a dried orange pepper hung around his neck. “Oh, you must be Knight!” I exclaimed. His eyebrows shot up and he looked at Bishop over my shoulder.

  “Telling stories out of school again?” he drawled. His Texan accent twanged in my ear.

  I jumped back in, afraid to get Bishop involved in the conversation. Who knew what he’d say or do if given the chance.

  “I just mentioned that the Mexican food we ate last night wasn’t very spicy, and he told me that if I liked spicy stuff, I should talk to you. Actually, he said I should challenge you to a pepper-eating contest, but I told him I didn’t think that was a good idea. If you’ve eaten a ghost pepper and lived to tell the tale, I don’t think I’m likely to beat you. When did you discover you liked spicy foods?”

  He bragged for a few minutes and I even got a smile out of him. I felt like I was on my way to building a rapport with him when I made a mistake.

  “So, how do you like being in a motorcycle gang?” I asked.

  “Motorcycle club,” he spat back, angrily. “Gangs are thugs and thieves. We just like to work on our bikes. We don’t do nothin’ that ain’t 100% legal.”

  The room was deadly silent, which made the sudden burst of rain and thunder just that much more dramatic. The raindrops began beating the tin roof at the same time that thunder rumbled out. I was sure I felt the thunder shake my intestines.

  “What the hell?!” I yelled, leaping out of my seat like my ass had been electrocuted.

  I came back down, hands flat on the table, out of breath, staring across the room at Bishop, then whipped my head towards the windows. The world outside was a bleary picture of water rivulets and swirling colors. I couldn’t even see out to the truck.

  “It’s a monsoon,” Bishop said, next to my elbow. I spun around, caught off guard. I hadn’t heard him move, which wasn’t surprising considering the crashing of rain against the roof. “It’ll be gone in a half hour or so.” The winds blew, causing the timbers in the clubhouse structure to creak with strain.

  “Ain’t you never been in a monsoon before?” one of the bikers asked.

  Fuck faking it until I make it.

  “I’ve heard the word, but no, I’ve never seen one in real life. They don’t happen in New York City, that’s for sure.”

  “Well hell, you should go outside and really feel it then,” Knight said, enthusiastic again. Apparently, he loved peppers and monsoons.

  We moved to the back of the clubhouse where a long porch ran along the side of the building. It allowed us to be outside without being directly in the torrential rain.

  When I stepped outside, I thought for a moment that I never smelled anything so clean in all my life. Far from the smog and pollution of New York, here the air was heaven. I let it fill my lungs. We stared out into the pouring rain but as quickly as it started, it stopped.

  As if someone had turned off a switch or a firehose, the rain disappeared and within seconds, the sun came out. Steam rose from the ground, turning the world into a hazy, steamy, wet world.

  This was New Mexico?!

  I wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years.

  “Wanna go for a bike ride?” Bishop asked, at my elbow again. I jumped again, although not quite as high. For such a large man, he sure was quiet. I bit back a retort in my throat about him deciding to be nice to me again.

  “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before,” I admitted.

  “Well, right after a monsoon is the best time to go,” he promised. “You’ll want your sunglasses for this though.” He brushed past me and I stood there for a second in complete shock. I shook my head quickly and I grabbed my sunglasses from my purse and then stowed my purse in his truck before we walked out to an oversized garage. Confused for a moment, I realized that the extra-tall garage doors accommodated the semis when they needed repairs. Bishop pulled his bike out of the back and wheeled it up next to me. “Put this on,” and tossed me a helmet while strapping his on.

  “When we go around corners, you’ll want to try to move with the bike and me. If you try to stay upright or if you try to lean over too far, you’ll throw off the balance of the bike. If you’re gonna ride bitch, you have to hold on tight and move with me. Got it?” He reached out and pulled on the strap under my chin until the helmet fit snugly in place. I slid my sunglasses into place.

  “Perfect. Now, you’re always going to mount from the left side of the motorcycle. These pipes on the right side of bike get real hot while we’re riding. If you lay a leg on those pipes, you’ll be branded for life. It’s easier to avoid those pipes if you get on from the left side.

  “I’ll get on first, you swing your leg over and snuggle up against me once I’m in place. That is, if you’re ready for that.” He gave me a lascivious wiggle of the eyebrows and I rolled my eyes.

  Inside, my heart felt like it was going to take off into the stratosphere. Here was the perfect chance to plaster my body against his, and I fully intended on enjoying every moment of it. It wasn’t often that I got to enjoy a full-body ride with a guy who could bench press his vehicle.

  He swung his leg into place and settled into the seat. “Okay, your turn.” He waited until I balanced myself and adjusted my arms a little tighter around him, and said, “Hold on tight,” before starting the engine.

  I felt the instant thrum between my legs, sending delicious shocks through my body.

  Fuck! Sitting on a motorcycle is like sitting on a giant vibrator.

  He pulled forward slowly, making sure I had a good grip on him before adding a little speed to our ride. By the time we hit city limits, we had hit the speed limit…and then some. I watched the needle move farther and farther to the right, until I finally couldn’t look anymore. I had to trust Bishop at this point, because…well, he literally held my life in his hands. For a control freak like me, it was thrilling to just let go of it all. I couldn’t do a damn thing to change any of it, so why worry? I let my head fall back and I closed my eyes, letting the wind and the speed and the vibrations of the motor and the smell of the rain-washed air flow over me.

  It was heaven. No wonder Bishop and the others were motorcycle enthusiasts. This was the kind of freedom that you could never get from a car or truck. I wanted to throw my arms wide and yell “Freeeeeeeeeedddddoooooooommmm!” into the wind, but I knew Bishop would kill me, if I managed to live through the stunt.

  And anyway, clinging to him had some very nice benefits. I tucked my head against his back and ran my hands over his chest and stomach. I realized with a gulp that it was hard to reach my arms all the way around him, he was so massive. I felt the ripples of his stomach muscles at play under his taut skin. What did he do - bench press small houses for fun? I was used to effeminate men like Evan and the other journalists at Blush. Men built like Bishop just didn’t wander into Blush headquarters. I felt small around him. Not short - I always felt short - but petite. That was a hell of a trick given my curves, and I’d never been around someone who actually pulled it off.

  As we wound our way up to the top of a mountain, I clung to him, molding my body to his, doing my best to move when he did, lean when he leaned. I knew it was important for our balance, but I wouldn’t lie - it was also as sexy as fuck.

  Suddenly, Bishop slowed down and then pulled off onto the shoulder of the road. He turned off the bike and I felt disoriented for just a moment. The vibrations, the thrumming, had all become a part of my world so quickly. I pulled myself away from his back slowly and opened my eyes.

  “C’mon,” he said, “you’re gonna love this.” I swung my right leg off the bike and stepped onto the ground with wobbly legs. He swung off and stood next to me, bracing my elbow. “You good?” he asked, his eyes crinkling with concern.

  “I’m good,” I said, smiling at him. I stared up at him for a moment. He had to be the most gorgeous guy I’d ever met. My eyes swept over his face, drinking in every f
eature. I noticed a faint scar through his left eyebrow, and it took all I had not to reach up and touch it.

  “We should check out the view,” he said, breaking into my reverie. We turned together to look out over the valley. My breath caught in my throat. The saguaro cacti stood like sentinels, scattered throughout the landscape, guarding the desert. But the saguaro was the only part of the landscape that looked like I had expected.

  The desert was green. Green everywhere. The side of the road gave way to a steep cliff, but down the side of the embankment were yellow and oranges flowers blooming. And on the horizon, I could see the monsoons dancing over the desert. Dark blue, violent, angry, unleashing their power in a torrential rainfall. There were three separate storms on the horizon, but between them, there was sunshine and bright blue sky. The contrast was stunning.

  I looked back at the road we wound our way up. The heat of the sun already caused the water to evaporate off the black asphalt - looking at the road, I couldn’t even tell it had been raining an hour earlier.

  But the desert, it was so green!

  Bishop let me take in the view and then said softly, “We get monsoons every summer. From July to August, we get them every afternoon. It’s because of the heat and the moisture from the Gulf Coast and the something something affects the something else, and we get monsoons as a result.” I laughed up at him and he smiled playfully in return. “Aren’t you glad you have your scientific advisor here to give you all the technical details?”

  “I’m sure that’s how they taught it in meteorology class, too,” I laughed, sticking my tongue out at him. “‘The something something happens up in the sky, and then you get rain. Any questions?’” I joked, mimicking a professor.

  “Yes,” he said, suddenly serious. “Can I kiss you?”

  My breath caught in my throat and I stared up at him, wide-eyed. I had no words, no way to respond. He reached out, hesitantly at first, giving me a chance to say no, and then wrapped his hand behind my head, pulling me up to him, his mouth swooping down to meet mine, open, demanding, needing all, wanting all, unwilling to take no for an answer.

  He crushed me against his chest and I slowly reached my arms up, sliding them around his neck, hands finally able to grasp the chocolate strands that had been enticing me. His tongue slid inside, teasing, begging, encouraging. I gave as good as I got, heart thrumming like the motorcycle engine. I was on fire and loving every moment of the heat.

  Finally, slowly, sweetly, he began to pull away, smaller kisses, pulling his tongue away, letting me slide back down his chest until my sandals touched the ground. I rubbed up against his erection on the way down, and knew he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I finally opened up my eyes and stared up at him.

  I was so fucked.

  10

  Bishop

  “So,” she said awkwardly, “where are your leather chaps?”

  I stared down at her. We had just shared the most fucking wonderful kiss ever known to man, and the first fucking words out of her mouth were, “Where are your leather chaps”? Was she fucking nuts?

  She turned and looked over the valley again, as if intrigued by the desert landscape. Which I wouldn’t fault her for - it was gorgeous, especially after a monsoon - but what the hell was she getting at? What game was she playing? You don’t kiss someone and then discuss their clothing choices in the next breath.

  Finally, I decided that I ought to play along and see what she was up to. Although, if she started asking me about the brand of my t-shirt, all bets were off.

  “These are Kevlar jeans. They look like regular jeans but feel them.” I extended my left leg in an invitation for her to stroke the jeans. She gulped but did touch it lightly and then quickly withdrew. I smiled inside. Two could play this game.

  I took her hand back and stroked it lightly up and down my thigh. “Feel how the fabric is stiffer than regular jeans? Kevlar is this amazing shit that’s woven into the jean fabric and makes these jeans actually worth a damn in an accident.” I dropped her hand and spun a slow circle in front of her. “But they look like regular jeans. It’s one of the many wonders of modern science. These fuckers cost well over $250 a pair though, so they charge quite a bit for their wonders.” I winked at her and she laughed up at me.

  Beautiful thick blonde hair and a smile to knock a man off his feet. I tried to regulate my breath but it didn’t seem to be working too well.

  “All the bikers I know don’t wear chaps.”

  “I totally thought that was a thing,” she said laughing.

  “You assumed I would be all clad in leather didn’t you?”

  “Well, the thought did cross my mind.”

  “Way to stereotype all bikers,” I said with a chuckle. “At least I’m proving the stereotype wrong. You on the other hand…”

  “What do you mean me?” she asked acting as if she was offended.

  “Well you didn’t have a little dog with you but you did have the other shit like bags.”

  “‘Shit like bags?’” she repeated back to me, laughing.

  “Yeah, two bags. I had to carry two bags. And all of ‘em were the property of some dude named Louis who apparently doesn’t like his ‘shit like bags’ to be thrown around. Picky fucker.”

  She laughed out loud, the sound echoing off the desert floor and canyon walls. “You — are…officially…the first guy I know…to call Louis Vuitton ‘some dude,’” she finally gasped out. “In Manhattan, most guys would recognize a Louis bag at a glance.”

  “Well, they don’t teach us about identifying luggage in MC school.”

  “They should. Who knows when you’ll get another journalist from New York out here? You could be schlepping bags for life.”

  Schlepping…who the hell uses a word like that? I suddenly realized just how out of my depth I was. She was so far out of my league, I couldn’t even see the baseball diamond.

  But for the moment, I couldn’t seem to make myself care. Maybe if we kept talking, she wouldn’t have the time to think and realize that I wasn’t smart enough by half to be kissing a girl like her.

  “I wear Kevlar jeans because my dad died in a motorcycle accident,” I said softly. “It happened on a ride years ago. Tire blew, bike spun out, it all happened so fast, two bikers behind him couldn’t swerve in time. They ran him over, threw them off their bikes too, but they landed in the ditch. They recovered. He skittered along the road so far…There wasn’t a damn thing they could do to save him,” I finished, voice tight. “Riding on a motorcycle is taking your life in your hands every time. I know that better than most. So my helmet is top of the line, I wear riding boots, not tennis shoes, I have my Kevlar jeans, I usually wear longer sleeves when I know I am going for long rides. I love to take chances because life isn’t lived until you’ve done a 100 on a desert road, screaming into the wind, but I negate as much of the risk as I can when I do it. I try to be smartly stupid,” I finished, trying to lighten the mood. Trying to make her laugh. Her laugh was intoxicating.

  She smiled and I realized - I loved that just as much.

  “So this ride on Thursday and Friday that you’ll be coming on? It’s a charity ride, and it’s for my dad. The Memorial Hospital in Las Cruces tried to save him that day. They worked all afternoon and into the evening but then he…he never woke up. Those doctors and nurses gave their all, so the Dead Legion decided to do a fundraiser ride every year in his memory and donate the money to the Trauma Center to help them upgrade their equipment. My dad was the president when it happened. It was the worst thing that has ever happened to this club. In some ways, I’m not sure we really ever recovered.”

  We lapsed into silence, Jules allowing me to visit the past in my mind. My father. I had been three bikes ahead and didn’t realize anything happened at first. By time I’d gotten back to him, he was unrecognizable. Blood and asphalt and white bone…

  I looked up at her. I had to go. We had to go. I couldn’t stew on the past anymore. I had to ride. I had to escape my de
mons.

  “Let’s head back,” I said, a statement, not a question, and buckled my helmet, swinging onto the bike. I waited until she settled into place behind me and then I did a U-turn and roared down the ride.

  Running away. Running from the world that took my father from me.

  11

  Bishop

  As we came tearing into Deming, I began re-entering reality. The ride was, as always, a way for me to clear my mind. Leave the past behind. I realized that it’d been hours since Jules had eaten, and I didn’t want a repeat of yesterday’s performance. On a whim, I turned in at a fish taco joint. We pulled into a parking spot and I turned off the engine. In the resulting quiet, I asked, “Have you ever had a fish taco?”

  “Fish taco? No. Sorry.”

  “Well, be prepared to eat heaven. Let’s go in.”

  She hopped off the bike and looked up at the restaurant doubtfully. I swung off and stood beside her, seeing the joint through her eyes. Beige, peeling paint, sign swinging in the wind, the chain broken and small.

  Restaurant might’ve been too kind. This was more of a shack than anything. I grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

  “C’mon, best fish tacos in town, and that’s saying somethin’.”

  We entered into the cool, dim interior and I heard Jules take in a deep breath of the AC air. The heat of New Mexico was a bitch to get used to, but she hadn’t complained about it since I picked her up yesterday morning. Maybe she was made of sterner shit than I’d originally given her credit for.

  Pushing the thought aside for the moment, I went up to the counter and ordered. “Six please, and two cokes.” I grabbed two glasses off the counter and we filled our sodas from the soda fountain before walking back to a booth to sit down.

  “So how does he know what you just ordered?” Jules asked.