Forgiveness: Nomad Biker Romance

by Chiah Wilder

  “Do you want me to put him permanently outta commission?”

  Maggie glanced at him from the corner of her eyes and saw that Flux was serious. “Uh … thanks for the offer but I’ll pass on it.”

  “Then you need to talk to Charlie about the fucker.”

  “I don’t know if that’ll do me any good,” Maggie muttered and turned to face him. “But I know one thing—he sure as hell isn’t scaring me away from my career.”

  “Fuck no,” Flux said as he looked out the window then back to her. “Other than exterminating the bastard, if you need me to watch over—”

  “Stop right there, big guy. If you’re going to go twenty-four seven bodyguard on me, let me save you the trouble. I stood up to him last night, I’ll do it again. I can handle it. I’m a big girl.”

  Flux put his head back and closed his eyes.

  “Won’t hear me arguing that point, Duchess.”

  “Then trust me.”

  “Trust doesn’t have shit to do with this, but I’m reading you. Hands off. Roger. I’m not an idiot.”

  Maggie kept the smile off her face, but just barely before Flux looked over at her and winked. She averted her gaze and smoothed her hands over her jeans. Her mind churned with possibilities for what she should say to keep her from climbing over to Flux’s side to mount him.

  “You look like you’re thinking too hard, Duchess. You want me to take your mind off it?” Flux said in a low voice, his suggestive tone a dead giveaway that they were both locked onto the same idea.

  When Maggie’s breath hitched and she choked a little, his laughter was warm, rich, and a burst of sound that made him look a little less hardened and like the years of shit that had marred his life were slipping away. It was … nice. Maggie grinned as she scooted over in the seat.

  “You really want to know what you can do for me, big guy?”

  “I’m at your service, Duchess.”

  “If you see Chet again, don’t rearrange his face for my honor.”

  “I can’t make that promise, but I can say I won’t start shit first.”

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble on my account.”

  “Trouble and me have been fuckin’ best friends for as long as I can remember. Don’t worry about it. I won’t mess with him unless he starts shit with you … and me. No way a man could let that pass.”

  Maggie pressed her lips together and kept his gaze. “Is that the best you can promise me?”

  “Yeah, and for me it’s a lot considering how badly I wanna make your problem go away.”

  “Then I’ll take it.” Maggie blew out a breath. “Chet’s not the kind of man to take on a giant when he could pick on someone smaller.”

  “He’s a pussy and a fuckin’ waste of space, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting him pick on you.” Flux rubbed a hand over his mouth. “You call me if the asshole fucks with you again. Hell, if he so much as breathes in your vicinity, I wanna know about it, we clear?”

  He locked eyes with her, and Maggie felt her legs go to jelly again, only this time it wasn’t out of fear. She found it entertaining and very much like him that he didn’t ask her if it was a deal. An assuming, arrogant ruffian. She smiled. In the short time that she’d known Flux, it seemed as if he was only cocky in the things that he could back up with reason.

  “Come to my room later tonight.”

  Maggie weighed the car keys in her hands, acting as if spending time with him again was a decision she had to make instead of his assumption.

  “What? Do I have to win you over again, Duchess?” He ran his fingers up and down her arm.

  Maggie laughed then pulled away, opened the door, and slid out onto the asphalt. Flux remained seated as if he had all the time in the world to wait for her answer.

  “We have ten minutes to get back to work,” she said.

  “I know. So after the show, I’ll see you at my room. We can order in.”

  Maggie tossed her hair over her shoulder. “If you’re going to stay in the truck, don’t forget to lock the doors when you leave.” She winked at him, feeling extra bratty.

  Before he could answer, she strode off to the stables without answering his question that wasn’t a question. Let him stew on the answer for a little bit, at least until she showed up in front of his motel room later that night.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Flux

  Five days later

  Silhouettes of saguaro cacti dotted the landscape as the sun dipped behind distant mountains, painting the sky in orange and purplish hues. Flux hung a left into the parking lot filled with F150 pickups and pulled into a space reserved for rodeo employees. He jumped off his bike and scanned the area, looking for any badges before he took out a blunt and lit it. Inhaling deeply, he tilted his head back and blew out tight rings of smoke, wanting to get a good buzz on before he went inside and faced the bulls … and Maggie.

  The sassy cowgirl, who was supposed to be a brief interlude in his life, had quickly come to be so much more to him. The sound of her voice, the feel of her against him, the way she laughed, and the fucking feel-good sensations he got when he was around her floored the hell out of him. How the fuck did this happened? He rubbed the roach into the ground with the heel of his boots. A stab of guilt assaulted him because for the past few days Maggie had been on his mind, crowding out Alicia. As hard as he tried, Maggie’s blue-gray eyes replaced Alicia’s bright ones, and her blonde mass of waves edged out his dead wife’s frizzy red hair. The nightmares had subsided as well since Duchess had been tucked against him during the night. A part of Flux welcomed the thread of joy that wove through him, but another part wanted the pain. Losing the bitterness and anger seemed liked a betrayal to Alicia and Emily.

  “You going in?” Pete asked as he lit up a cigarette.

  “Yeah. How’s the crowd?” Flux replied.

  “Good. It’s pretty damn well sold out.” A puff of smoke encircled the two men.

  “How’s your knee doing?” Flux asked. Pete had taken a bad spill the night before, and his kneecap looked two times its regular size.

  “Hurts like a motherfucker, but I got my pads and knee guards so I should be good.”

  Flux nodded then glanced at the time on his phone. The bull riding event would start in about fifteen minutes and he needed to put on the plastic vest that protected the bullfighters’ front, back, and sides. “I’ll see you in the arena.”

  “Sure, dude.” Pete exhaled another cloud of smoke as Flux walked to the back area.

  Glancing through the wooden slats, Flux saw a sea of cowboy hats in the stands. The bright rodeo lights made the arena look like daytime, and the colorful Western shirts the “buckle bunnies”—rodeo groupies—wore reminded him of the kaleidoscopic quilt his mother had made for him when he was a child.

  Flux saw Stan staying right in position, bareback on the bucking bronco. Above the music of the arena band and the excited play-by-play of the announcer shouting “Ride ’em, Stan, ride ’em! Show ’em what you got!” Flux heard the back hooves of the horse as they slammed to the ground. Dust circulated everywhere, which made him cough as he turned left toward the locker area.

  Ten minutes later Flux took a quick drink of water, the sign above the fountain warned—No Spitting—and he headed for the chutes. He saw Chet astride the bull, his eyes cast downward on its back. Flux walked out into the arena and lifted his chin to Pete and Hank. Pete grinned but Hank ignored him, which didn’t surprise Flux since the bullfighter and Chet were good friends.

  The spectators in the stands leaned forward and the wave of tension and excited anticipation washed over the rodeo. The bull riding was always the last event of the night, and it was the one most of the crowd came out to see.

  The rush of adrenaline shot through Flux as it always did before an event; the harsh reality was that he risked his life every time he stepped into the arena. It was something he’d been accustomed to with his biker lifestyle, and as a rodeo bullfighter, he’d been laun
ched air born for sure—it came with the job sometimes. There was no fear in Flux. It went away the day he’d buried his wife and daughter. Life had dealt him a cruel blow and he now embraced the rush of facing a 1,700-pound bull in the ring. His focus was laser sharp and the bullshit demons from the past had no place in his head during a show. He respected the danger each and every time; otherwise it would kick him in the ass—maybe for the last time.

  Everything was still, like the calm before the storm, and then the gate opened. The bull bellowed and shot into the air, then paused for an instant and crashed down again, nearly a ton of muscle and bone hitting the ground hard enough to cause major injury to the rider. Chet thrust his chest forward when the bull leaped ahead and the crowd jumped to their feet in a cacophony of whistling, yelling, and clapping.

  “Chet is holding on strong at the five-second mark, but is he going to make it to the prized eight seconds?” The loudspeaker system crackled as Flux watched Chet ride out his time clock, hoping the jerk would be thrown on his pathetic ass.

  Flux watched as the bull snorted and glared, a sure sign that shit was going to go down hard. He looked to Pete and Hank, and noticed Pete was struggling to get his ass closer in the ring. Chet still clung on, but Flux knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

  Then Chet was flying in the air as the crowd roared, and the excitement was so fucking palpable that Flux swore if he reached out, he could touch it. The possibility of carnage always made the spectators go wild. Gore getters. He’d come up with the name after the third bull riding show he’d worked.

  Chet landed inches in front of the bull’s stampeding, pissed-off ass, and without a second thought, Flux rushed toward the bull. Chet was lying on the ground, barely breathing, and Flux figured he’d probably had the wind knocked out of him. But the snorting bull didn’t give a flying fuck and kept moving toward the rider.

  Flux and Chet locked eyes for a split second.

  In a flash of an instant, Flux measured all the ways this could go wrong for him if he let the bull get Chet. Adrenaline mixed with anger pounded through his veins as Chet scrambled in the dirt. Such a damn easy target for a bull, and all nice and wrapped up with a pretty bow.

  Fear laced Chet’s eyes as the bull came straight for him. Flux growled and hurled himself between the animal and the rider, kicking Chet to the side and rolling him over. The heated beast’s eyes locked on Flux like a homing beacon. Flux wiggled his fingers in a “come-hither” gesture, already on the move as the bull’s focus found a new target.

  “Come to Daddy. Let’s tango, baby,” he muttered under his breathed as he saw a dazed Chet stand up on wobbly legs. Three backers hurried over and escorted the rider out of the ring.

  The bull kept coming as Flux dodged the agitated beast. Every second ticked down slower than dripping molasses. He counted in his head, zigging and zagging, keeping the charging bull off his game as Flux surged toward the fence himself. What the fuck’s up with this asshole? He’s not even slowing down. Normally, the bulls would give up the chase by now, but this one seemed bound and determined to skewer Flux on his horns like a goddamn kabob.

  Shit! Where the fuck’s Hank? He darted his eyes toward the fence where he saw the bullfighter watching Flux doing a damn death dance with the enraged bull. Flux glared at him, but the bastard showed no signs of jumping in to help.

  “Dude!” Flux cried out as Hank hooked his fingers through his belt loops and looked away.

  The bullfighter’s code was to help whoever was in the ring—period. Full stop. Flux threw himself in diagonal toward the fence gate again. He was running out of steam; his legs burned and his jaw ached from clenching it so tight.

  From the corner of his eyes, he saw Pete limping toward him from across the way, and he didn’t know he’d been holding his breath until a large whoosh of relief swept out of his lungs. Pete waved his arms and wiggled his body, and the bull turned away from Flux and headed for Pete. Flux watched as the bullfighter took the animal in a number of riveting, long circles across the ring.

  “Fuck,” Flux muttered as he hauled himself over the ring fence and nearly fell to the ground on his ass. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the ring and then the crowd looking for Hank, but he didn’t spot the fucker. What a fuckin’ pussy. Flux rolled his shoulders and did a mental examination of every inch of his body. Once he was convinced everything was in working order, he looked back at the ring where the bull was trotting into the holding pen. It looked like Pete had gotten over the fence without too much trouble.

  Flux cleared his throat, wiped his palms on his jeans, and strode forward toward the area behind the arena where most of the performers hung out before and after each show. That motherfucker’s gonna be sorrier than hell. Flux balled his hands into fists at his sides and ignored everyone who spoke to him. His adrenaline flared across his scalp and his heart pounded in his ears while he charged forward toward a small group of bullfighters who’d gathered together in front of the bathrooms.

  Hank was in the middle, neck arched back in a belly laugh that couldn’t be heard from the other noises in the area. Fucker won’t be laughing much longer. Before he knew what hit him, Flux ambushed Hank, striding into the center of the group and clocking the asshole in the face at the exact time the bastard’s head righted from laughing. The SOB didn’t even have his eyes open, and there was no way he could’ve seen it coming—much like Flux was fucking blindsided by Hank’s betrayal in the ring.

  The asswipe stumbled backward with his hand to his face, then wobbled on his legs as he righted himself and glared through one good eye at Flux.

  “Don’t act offended, you fuckin’ pussy. What the fuck was that about out there? What’s your goddamn problem?”

  Flux didn’t give Hank time to answer any of his questions before he went in for another solid swing—but his arm didn’t connect because Chet grabbed his elbow. Doubly enraged by the situation, Flux growled and lunged with his non-dominant hand and swung it around in a tightly planted half-circle until his other fist connected with Chet’s jaw and knocked him on his ass. The guy mus’ve seen cartoon stars or some shit because he sat in the middle of the floor, blinking and holding his head. Served him fucking right and, man, did it feel good.

  “Feel better now, Chet? Fuck, I just saved your sorry ass. The least you could do is stay outta shit that’s none of your goddamn business.”

  Chet groaned, baring his teeth, as he struggled to rise to his feet.

  “I fucking hate you, you pussy ass biker.”

  “Who the fuck are you calling a pussy, cowboy?”

  Without missing a beat, Flux squared off with the bastard. If Chet wanted it to go down, right here, right now, who was Flux to say no to a prime opportunity? With the excitement and terror from the ring still flowing through his system, Flux steadied his stance as Chet threw himself at his midsection and tried to bring Flux to the ground. Instead of going down, he landed a solid blow to Chet’s kidney, and the bull rider cried out as he doubled up. Flux didn’t let him regain momentum; he hit Chet again in the side of the head and launched a glancing blow toward the back of the rider’s spine to push him off balance. By now, the surrounding crowd had gathered around the fight with enough spectators to choose sides and probably start a betting pool. Flux knew exactly what he would use his winnings for when he handed Chet’s ass to him.

  “Think you got more in you, pretty boy? Or are you all outta steam? Did I tire out the fuckin’ pussy?” Flux taunted, shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  Sure, he could have laid the fucker out flat in a one-two punch combo that would have left Chet dazed and drooling, but Flux didn’t want to make it easy for the cowboy. If they were going to go at it, Flux wanted it to be a proper fight and give the asshole an outside chance to face him like a man for everything he’d put Maggie through over the past few months. If that meant Flux got in a few more painful blows? So much the better.

  He watched like a hawk as Chet righted himself and tried to
make a tight circle around Flux, attempting to box him into place and decrease his hitting range. Fuckin’ rookie move. The bull rider hadn’t even landed a damn punch and he was angling for the offensive. Flux’s upper lip curled in disgust as he made an agitated noise in the back of his throat.

  “Come on, asshole, fight like a man.” Flux surged forward and landed three jabs to Chet’s abdomen, chest, and shoulder. “Fuck, I forgot—you’re a pussy. No wonder you fight like one.” Flux chuckled.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Chet cried out, launching himself at Flux at the same time the biker sidestepped.

  Chet’s blow landed on the side of Flux’s right shoulder before he went for an upper cut, and Flux grabbed his wrist, dragged him down, and switched gears. I’m tired of this shit. Now, it’s time to fight dirty. Flux locked both his hands on the back of Chet’s head, and using his own momentum against him, he drove the cowboy’s face into his knee as he raised it and connected it with Chet’s nose. There was a harsh, gargled scream when Flux made contact as he felt the bones crunch against his leg.

  Flux backed away.

  “You motherfucker!” Chet yelled as he clutched his nose.

  One final blow and this would all be over. “This one’s for Maggie, asshole. Flux took a sharp, deep breath that echoed through everything in him. Shit, it’d been a long-ass time since he’d felt this alive. It wasn’t that often he’d get a good reason to pick a fight these days. A majority of the time it was only his fists and some inanimate objects that may or may not have survived the wrath of his anger and pain.

  Chet would survive, but not without his share of bruises to remember Flux by over the next few days. Flux cracked his busted knuckles, licked his lips, and watched as a winded Chet swayed while trying to regain his concentration through the pain as blood ran down his face from his nose. With a low grunt, Flux took two quick steps forward, swept his leg under Chet, and knocked the fucker onto his back.

  The sound of the cowboy’s head connecting with the ground was a satisfying slap as Flux knelt over Chet and grabbed a fistful of his hair. He made the fucker lock eyes with him. The other man tried to spit in Flux’s face, but only managed a pathetic dribble that wound up sliding down his chin as Flux slapped him on the side of the face and then the head.