DESERT KING: RB MC

by Jax Hart

  I’m a twenty-two-year old virgin. No guy can get to me. It’s frustrating as hell to be a healthy woman with a healthy sex drive and no one to play out your fantasies with. I snort, as the Prospect ogles my huge breasts straining against my tank top. I’m desperate, but not that desperate. It would be utterly stupid to get mixed up with an MC man. He’d lock me down worse than what happened during the Corona Virus pandemic. These mc men are brutally archaic. Misogynistic. Women are bred and kept hidden from the world. I’ll never be some man’s “old lady.” My life would be over. Maybe that’s why my mother left. The last memory I have of her was singing me to bed some song about a blackbird flying away. She promised to make me pancakes in the morning. Instead she was just gone.

  I begged Pops to find her. Bring her back. But his ego wouldn’t let him. He said if she left us then we were better off. The Creed men are so pig-headed. Women are cherished for sure—in the bedroom and kitchen. None are allowed to work because “The Club” has enemies. It’s no wonder my mother was fed up. I just wish she had taken me with her.

  Heck, I’m only allowed off my leash to commute to the small college where I’m enrolled. But even then, I’m tailed. Always protected by at least three Club guys watching that I get from class to class safely then straight back home. I’m not allowed to live on campus because it’s “not safe.” I’ll die an old, wrinkled up virgin if I don’t escape soon.

  Ariel starts singing about the world up above. She’s trapped under the ocean while I’ve been trapped under the MC. We both yearn to explore new things…thirst for the unknown. When I was younger, I dreamed I was Ariel. Now, I can understand the symbolism of why I felt that way.

  The ride ends and I blink as we exit into the bright California sun. “Where to next, baby girl?”

  “I’m not a baby girl.”

  “You’ll always be my baby girl,” Rog, remarks in his low baritone voice. I sigh. I really need to find Rog a woman maybe then he’ll get off my ass and I’ll be able to breathe. He’s handsome as hell and has that whole sexy silver fox thing going on. Despite being in his prime somewhere past fifty he’s more built than any of the younger MC guys. And he exudes confidence. Actually, it’s more like arrogance. Because Rog has done and seen it all. But he keeps his thoughts to himself and never, ever talks about the past.

  “Come on, I want a pic of us with Mickey and Minnie.”

  Rog sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is the worst payback yet and girl, I’ve done some shit. Someday, you’re gonna be the death of whatever man crosses you.”

  “Like that’ll ever happen. You won’t even let me breathe the same air as any man my age group.”

  He smirks. “I sure don’t.”

  “Ugh, you’re such an annoying…beast!” I smack a hand on his chest, feeling the thick muscles under his shirt. Damn, my “uncle” is a hot hunk. But he’s also an overbearing ass. I can’t wait to get our picture with the famous mouse and post that shit all over Insta; hash-tagging the shit out of every club, even our rival ones.

  Smiling, a little devilishly, I saunter up to a vendor buying two pairs of mouse ears. “Who are those for…?” Rog starts backing up. “No. Hell, no.”

  I slip my sunglasses off, giving him my best pleading eyes. The ones that always cut his heart up since I was a kid.

  “No,” he holds up a palm, warding me off. I add a small pout.

  “Fuuuuuuccccckkkk!” He rips the mouse ears from my hands and puts them on. His chest puffs out further as he gets side eyed and open mouth stared at.

  “Whatcha looking at?” he snarls to a guy trying to hold a straight face. The man pales, but Rog is hot on his heels.

  “Relax!’ I grab him by his bicep, forcing him to turn around. “You’re gonna get us kicked out of the happiest place on Earth!”

  “Fucking right, I am.”

  “Rog!”

  “Fine. Crud, let’s get this over with.”

  Grinning from ear-to-ear, I hook my arm through his and get in line to meet the Mouse’s.

  I hand the employee my cell to snap a few pics of me, Rog, and Mickey. He scowls and growls, wearing his mouse ears. Minnie giggles, fawning over him and his tatted-up biceps. I roll my eyes. Even Minnie Mouse has the hots for him.

  “Can we go now?” Rog grumbles as we wave Mickey and Minnie goodbye. The prospect shakes his head and Rog flips him the bird.

  “Go? We just got here.”

  “Damn, baby girl. Someday karma is gonna get you back for this…”

  “Maybe. But it’ll be worth it,” I reply, while opening up my apps and posting the pics of us with the mouse’s everywhere. By the time I check on my posts a few minutes later, it had already been liked and shared by almost every chapter of Creed. Rog is gonna flip his shit. Grinning, I look up at the baby blue sky and wonder what’s ahead for me. I love Rog and my dad, but I just need to break free. I need to be like Ariel and find a way to get out from “under the MC.”

  “Oh, hell no.” Rog is getting angry now. Mouse ears are off and in the trash. The line for the spinning teacups is long but…

  I take pity on him. He’s right. The man is just too damn big to fit.

  “Fine. Rollercoaster’s it is.”

  “Now you’re talkin’.” Grinning, we walk to the other side of the park.

  “Rog?”

  “Yeah. You know I love you, right?”

  His stare is unnerving as he stops. “What are you about, girl?”

  I bite my lip. “Nothing. It’s just… I crave so much more.”

  “You always did. Just don’t fly too far baby, girl.”

  “I couldn’t fly far enough…”

  “We’re not that bad?”

  “Do you see anyone else walking around Disney with an escort of villains?”

  “Please. We’re the good guys.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Rog’s cell rings and he fishes it out. He holds it up to his ear. His body turning tense and rigid.

  “Oh shit,” I breathe. I’ve done it now. His glare turns deadly as he hisses my name low…

  “Shanna….”

  “…ummm.. Sorry?” I squeak.

  He curses and hangs up his phone. “I gotta go kick some ass at the clubhouse after this.”

  I groan. “Not on my birthday. That’s the last place I wanna be,”

  “Too bad. You should’ve thought of that before damaging my street cred.

  “Fine.” I roll my eyes. “But I want a friggin’ cake and balloons.”

  “O.M.G.” Rog and Zach, the Prez of Creed LA, come out of the clubhouse kitchen carrying a cake with sparkler candles. Fifty men sing “Happy Birthday” to me in deep baritone voices.

  I’m an ungrateful bitch. A thousand girls would trade places with me in an instant. I smile brightly, holding back tears. I love them. But I hate them. I’d defend any of them with my last breath, but I don’t want to live this life anymore. I want freedom. A nine to five job. And to just be anonymous… to blend in a crowd—not be the center of one.

  Rog sets the cake down on the bar next to me. “Make a wish!”

  To a new future. I pray, then blow out the twenty-three candles.

  I cut the cake, handing pieces out before finally taking a bite. “It’s good.”

  “I baked it myself.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I did. Had it in the back of my truck in a freezer bag.”

  I close my eyes, moaning at the moist cake and just right frosting. Not too sweet just right. “Damn, Rog… I knew you were a good chef but baking?”

  “I’m careful about what goes in this body. If I don’t cook it, I ain’t eating it.”

  “So that’s the secret to staying fit, eh old man?”

  “Who you callin’ old man?” Rog turns around, red-faced.

  “Here we go…” I lower my fork and pick up my beer. Rog already has a fist clenched.

  “Whatever Mouseketeer. You ain’t even active in the Club aren’t ya’ retired or
some shit?”

  I shake my head.

  “Who is this punk?” Rog’s voice booms throughout the room.

  “Sorry, I brought ‘em. He’s my cousin.”

  Rog’s icy stare pins down the pledge. “Get out,” Rog growls. He takes the pool stick from the pledge’s hands and snaps it in half with his bare hands. He holds the splintered wood to the dude’s throat. “Don’t fuck with me boy. You think you’re cute, acting all tough. Who’s tough now, eh?” Rog’s free hand fists in the dude’s shirt and uses it to lift him inches off the floor. Then he growls and hurls him at a table. The man crashes and rolls to the floor.

  Rog turns back to the bar to take a sip of his drink. He’s not even breathing hard, never mind breaking a sweat.

  And that is why Rog is a badass motherfucker who is the most respected man in the Creed. Although, technically Rog is not an active member. But the thing about Club life is—you never truly get out. Especially when you’re born into it like I was.

  Helping myself to another beer, I hop off my stool and wind through the crowd until I reach the backdoor.

  “Finally,” I mutter, feeling the cool night air. I just needed a breath of it.

  “Walking out of your own party?”

  I turn, not seeing the man in the shadows. The tip of his cigarette is lit. I shrug, feeling annoyed. I don’t have to explain shit to anybody.

  He moves forward and I play it cool. It’s Zach. The Prez. He whistles, eyeing me up and down. “Now ain’t you a pretty thing…” He swaggers closer. I inch back.

  “Come. Have a drink with me.”

  “I’m all good, thanks.”

  His mouth curls. “You think you’re too good for me? You ain’t nothing but an old man’s brat. You ain’t royalty no more. I’m the new king,” He points to his Prez patch.

  I snort. “Who did you bribe to get the vote?”

  His eyes narrow and he inches closer. I stand my ground even when his whiskey breath lands on my lips. “Fuck off.”

  “Shanna?”

  Rog calls out seconds after bursting through the backdoor. I smile and pat the Prez on the chest like you’d reward a dog then spin on my heel.

  “We need to go. I got an urgent call from Springdale.”

  “Pops?” My heart hammers.

  “He’s fine. But we need to leave now.”

  “It’s a long drive and we’ve both been drinking…”

  “We’re flying.”

  A hundred questions are on the tip of my tongue, but I hold them in check. Rog is all business and by the way he moves I know something is definitely up. Club business. It always comes down to that. The MC is an infection. Always spreading—always growing. I guess my birthday’s over. But all in all, it was a good one.

  Duke

  “DAMMIT! YOU BITCH,” I grunt, raising my wrench and giving the stupid washer everything I got.

  “What are you cryin’ about, Duke? You bench press more than all of us and you can’t get the damn thing off?”

  “Fuck, off Smith.”

  Sweat breaks across my brow, my arms are strained. “Grrrrrrr,” finally the damn thing gives. My arm shakes as I drop the metal tool from my hands. It hits the garage floor with a loud clatter. I bend my head, using the ends of my shirt to wipe the grease and sweat from my brow.

  “Yo! Boss! There’s a call for ya’!” I step out from under the lift, eyeing my garage, my crew. Some days bust your balls, like this one. But the pride I feel looking at what I built with my bare hands from the ground up is something no one can ever take from me.

  I bought this garbage heap, run-down old building for dirt. I clawed and scratched together every loan payment until I was square. Sure, my hands are rough and covered with calluses, but my money is clean. At least for now it is. I won’t lie when I first got home from Iraq shit was tight. My damn ex cleaned out my heart and my bank account. I did favors for “people”. Chopped up stolen cars and stripped VINS. But that’s in the past. Running cars made me rich but that’s not the kind of man I wanna be. Being in the military taught me more about codes and ethics than anyone in my family. Shit the military was my family.

  “You coming?!”

  “Hold on!” I grumble, irritated. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I cross the rough concrete floor of the garage practically yanking the phone from Smith’s hands.

  “What?” I bark.

  “Duke… son…”

  “Roger?”

  I rear back. I haven’t heard from him in almost a decade. Rog is Creed. He was my father’s chief enforcer and although he tried to stay in touch with me after I left Springdale…I couldn’t. It was too raw. I needed space and distance from my father… from Creed. It was nothing personal… hearing his gruff voice in my ear could only mean one thing: something was wrong. Very wrong.

  “Your father… he had a massive heart attack. He’s gone. I’m sorry.”

  His words hit me like a punch in the gut. I lost my breath. I thought we had time. That there would still be time to make amends. Joke’s on me. Because my stubborn ass had to be right. I had to be the one to walk away and never look back. Not even when he sobered up and tried to make amends. The bitterness I held onto was too strong. The scars my fucked-up childhood left was a constant reminder. I couldn’t forgive or forget. Now I’m gonna have to live with the repercussions of my choices. There’d be no second chances.

  “…uh… where is he now?”

  “I’ve handled all the arrangements. He didn’t want a wake or a funeral… nothing fancy. He just wanted to go out on his own. I honored that at least. By the time I got to the hospital he was already gone.”

  “Was he sick?” You didn’t think to call me?”

  “He was unresponsive when they found him. There was no goodbye for anyone. I’m sorry. Look… when life was hot back in the day—we’d talk about this shit. We’ve had some close calls when the MC was just getting its legs. Hell, neither of us thought we’d see forty. Never mind the years past fifty.”

  “Is he buried then?”

  “No. Three days. They need that much time to get everything sorted.”

  “I’ll pay…”

  “Everything’s been handled, Duke.”

  “Well shit, I guess he gets what he wants in the end, eh?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Me coming home.”

  “I’ll be here. Take my cell and text me when you get in. There are things you’re gonna have to do. He left you a shit-ton of cash, the house—”

  I shake my head, pressing a filthy hand to my head. I’m still reeling from shock never mind processing the details.

  “Ok. Fine.”

  “Duke? You okay, brotha?”

  I shake my head, move over to the sink and wash my hands. Grabbing a helmet, I put on my shades. “I’m heading out. I need a ride.”

  No one says shit. They get it. They heard my call.

  I rev up the engine of my Ducati. After all these years, it still runs smooth. I tear out, burning rubber and leaving a wake of dust. I race through the California streets. Up hills, past cougar mom’s driving Range Rover’s while balancing their overpriced coffee drinks. They beep and curse at me cutting their asses off. I could give two fucks.

  Finally, I pull off the road onto a dirt shoulder overlooking the Pacific below. What am I even running from when everything that’s happened is behind me?

  I left my hometown on my eighteenth birthday after finding my father balls deep in my Aunt Dee Dee. They were going at it like rabbits on the kitchen counter. Both were drunk and high as usual. Neither remembered or gave two fucks it was my birthday. It was the last straw for me. I could legally leave, and my MC father king couldn’t do jack to stop me.

  I don’t even know when he realized I had split. I packed a duffel bag, went into his garage and took one of his stashes of dirty money. All in all, about 10k.

  It was a weird ass night. Because a woman showed up looking for him. She was petite, hauntingly beautiful. Her eyes
… showed the truth, her soul was about to break. I heard her yelling in the house for my father to stop breaking her heart.

  But he was married to my mom, was doin’ my aunt, while apparently having this mystery woman’s heart too. I guess that’s how it was in Creed when you’re the Prez. All the power, money and pussy went to his head. He had it all in spades. But he sacrificed me for it. It was always the MC over me every damn time.

  When I left Springdale, Oregon I never looked back. I rode out under the stars down the coast to California and settled in a hotel. I had no high school degree, no hope of anything else but turning to the streets I wouldn’t do. I wouldn’t pledge to Creed or any MC that was for damn sure. So, I did the only thing I could do, I became a Marine. I was damn proud to serve. Even if the nightmares of the shit I saw never leaves even decades later.

  My eyes stare out into the blue hoping to find answers. But nothing comes. What in the hell have I done with my life? My father’s death is forcing me to look at my own mortality. I’ve got no one to go home to. Not even a pet fish. I’m a lonely mother fucker. I’ve put up too many walls. Choosing to spend too much time with chrome and grease. Stubborn engines and my ornery asshole friends. I know I’ve got a certain dark look that women favor, but I rarely cash in on any of that bullshit. Sex means intimacy. Even if for a night. And no one gets close to me. Ever. The only thing that I ride is my bike.

  I’ve become a hermit. A damn monk and I didn’t even have this self-realization until now.

  Finally, I kick off and ride through the sunset back to my garage. Everything is cleaned up. The place is empty, like a tomb. I strip and use the bathroom I installed in the shop. Hanging my head, I watch the water filled with grime swirl at the drain until it runs clear.

  After I dress in the extra clean clothes I store in the locker, I find Smith waiting for me with a cold long neck.