True North: A Wordsmith Chronicles MC Standalone

by Harlan, Christopher

  Eighteen—Delilah—Way Back When

  “Hey, come in.”

  He looks good. I try not to gush—it’s a bad look on a woman, but inside I swoon every time he walks in the room. He has that sexy seriousness, like he’s too afraid to smile because it would break down the tough guy exterior he’s going for, but I can always seem to get his cheeks to curl upwards—along with other parts of him. He’s wearing a tight fitting, plain old white tee, v-neck, and a pair of sexy ripped jeans. He looks like a biker. He looks like the badass that he is.

  My pussy starts to tingle uncontrollably. This man can make me wet with just a look, and I’m not used to my body coming so alive when I’m around a man, but his face, body, and tattoos make me want to shut the stove off and fuck him right there in my hallway.

  “It smells amazing in here. Holy shit.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” I joke. “I can cook a thing or two.”

  “I see that. Or, I guess I smell that. Thank God, I came hungry.” He steps forward and kisses me. Not just an ordinary kiss, either. He pulls me in, hard, and our bodies crash together for a second. It’s harder that I thought, and the momentary shock of it turns me on. For a second, I forget we’re on a date, and I’m waiting for him to turn me around and bend me over again. But then the kiss ends. “Fuck, I missed you.”

  “Aww. That’s so sweet, I missed you, too. How was your business thing?” He grunts. Literally. “I take it by the animal noise that it didn’t go well.”

  “Something like that. I’d say, more accurately, that it was a fucking disaster of epic proportions, but your way sounds less dramatic.”

  “You wanna tell me about it?”

  “Will you be offended if I say no?”

  I shake my head. This whole thing is new, so I’m not in a position to demand information from him—I don’t want to come across like a psycho, so I just let it go. “I’m a hard woman to offend, don’t worry. If you don’t want to tell me you don’t have to.” I turn my back for a second, hoping that he’s going to yell no, of course I want to tell you everything that’s going on, but that doesn’t happen.

  He says something, but I don’t even know what the words are. I turn to the sound of his sexy deep voice, and when I do I feel his hand on me.

  His finger is inside me before I even realize it. Deep inside, and I’m already soaking wet.

  I gasp, but he doesn’t let me breathe before his lips are on mine. Soon we’re sharing breath, and it’s impossible to tell whose is whose. His middle finger is plunged so deep in me that I can feel him hitting my g spot while his thumb does work against my clit.

  I’m soaking his hand, and he’s wrecking my pussy with every stoke of his powerful fingers. He knows what he’s doing. The pressure of his thumb is intense, but never too much. He moves it in circles while his middle finger slips in and out. I start moaning uncontrollably as he reaches behind my head with his other hand and grabs my hair.

  Now he’s holding me in place, and I’m completely helpless under his control. My body is heating up fast, and I can feel the juices from my pussy dripping down my leg. He feels so good inside me that I don’t know what to do with myself, and if he keeps going I’m going to come in seconds.

  He keeps going, just like I need him to, his thumb getting me closer and closer, his hand against my pelvis. I come fast and hard, and I leave my body for a few seconds that echo for what seems like eternity. Then it’s over. His finger is out of me, and I feel empty without him.

  I stand there, bewildered by the aching of my body, but confused as to why he looks so upset.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask. He looks frustrated. Disturbed. He turns away from me and I’m totally confused. “North?”

  He sits down on the couch, upset. I follow him over and ask him what’s wrong one more time. This time he tells me. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “Finger me? Cause you did a great job. I haven’t come that hard since. . .”

  “Last night?”

  I smile. He’s right. That’s twice that he’s made me come like that. He’s on a streak. There’s just something about the way he touches me that’s like nothing I’ve experienced before.

  “Yeah,” I say, remembering the incredible fuck. “Like last night.” I stop smiling because he looks more serious than usual. “What’s the matter?”

  “I was frustrated just now.”

  “By me?”

  “No,” he says. “Never. By some shit that went down today. The business thing, like you called it.”

  “The thing you won’t tell me about, you mean?”

  “I can’t, Delilah. It’s for your own good, trust me. I can’t pull you into the world that I’m trying to get out of. But I didn’t mean to use you like that.”

  I’m confused. “Use me?” I ask.

  “I needed a release. I held back some crazy tension before, and I needed to either fight or fuck it out of me. Just one of those emotions that can only be solved by one of those two things.”

  Never apologize for making me come, North. Never.

  “If the worst thing you ever do to me is finger-fuck me like that, then we’re in this for the long haul.” I make him smile. We complement each other. I have a way of reminding him that he has a sense of humor just like he reminds my pussy why it exists. “And look,” I tell him, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I know you want to protect me from whatever world you think I need protecting from, but I’m a big girl. When and if you’re ready to tell me about it, I’m here. I don’t scare easily.”

  “I’m starting to see that.”

  “And hey,” I tell him. “We didn’t fight, so according to you there’s only one other way for you to relieve your tension.”

  “Look, we don’t have to. . .”

  “Hey, I’m just following the rules here.”

  He looks tense. Wound up. He won’t tell me why, and for right now I’m okay with that. He doesn’t have to tell me anything. But I want to make him feel as good as he just made me feel.

  I drop to my knees.

  He opens his legs and I slide in between them, and once I’m there I undo his belt. He lifts his ass up and I pull his pants down, and then it’s staring me in the face.

  His massive cock is waiting for me.

  I grab onto it with both hands and start stroking, and he gets hard instantly. His throbbing head is there at the end of every slow stroke, and when I get to the end I squeeze extra hard, and he makes a noise to let me know that he likes it. But I’m not here for a hand job, I’m here to take that giant snake of a cock in my mouth.

  I raise myself up on my knees and slide it in. It goes down my throat with ease, filling up the width of my mouth. I’ve never opened my jaws so wide, but I have to in order to get this thing all the way inside. But once it’s in I let my tongue roll around his head as he thrusts his hips forward and face fucks me. I let him move in and out a few times before I take control again, holding the base of his cock with one hand and stroking him in my mouth with the other.

  The feeling of him filling me up is making me wet again, but right now it’s about him. I feel the saliva dripping out of the corners of my mouth, spilling on the couch. The wetness bathes his cock, and as it dribbles out I start to gag. He’s too much for me. Too much in the best possible way. He thrusts forward again, and I feel his manhood sliding past my tongue, down my throat, only this time it feels good.

  I grab on to the base of his shaft and straighten my body up so that I’m all the way up on my knees. North’s cock is angled up, and I angle my head down, my hair falling over my face. He leans forward and pulls my hair back, and I look him right in his eyes. His look is intense—the stone-cold hardness of his eyes shifting, showing me his vulnerability as I bring him close to the point of orgasm. I know he’s close, so as I keep my eyes locked on him I bob my head up and down, stroking his shaft in circular motions as I do.

  I know he’s about to come because I can feel his body start to tense, an
d I know what’s about to come. He tells me out of courtesy, but I don’t need him to be polite. All I need is that warm cum dripping down my throat, and that’s what he’s going to give me. I keep going, looking him in the eye until the exact moment he’s coming, and as he explodes in my mouth I moan, wrapping my lips around his throbbing, shooting head. I feel him shoot into me, and I swallow, hard, as North lets out a guttural shout, like everything inside is draining out of him.

  When it’s over I swallow one more time, and guide him out of my mouth as I feel all the tension in his body relax. I pull back. North collapses against the back of the couch, and I know that I made him forget about all his troubles.

  “That was fucking incredible,” he gasps, zipping up his pants. “Now, what’s for dinner?”

  Nineteen—North—Now

  I wrap my shirt around my elbow to break the window.

  I wait until their laughter outside the room is loud enough that they won’t hear me. Knowing the Leviathans, they’re probably drunk. I don’t have long before the kid wakes up and starts yelling. I tied his hands with the restraints I’d cut off my own hands, but if he struggles hard enough he can break them.

  Staying here too long is certain death. And my death means Delilah’s death.

  The window shatters, and I hit it one more time to clear as much glass from the frame as I can. It’s a small opening, but I’ll squeeze my big ass through it. We’re on the ground floor, and once my feet hit the ground I’m on high alert for Leviathans. Travis has this whole compound rigged with cameras at strategic spots to alert members of any rival gangs or law enforcement who might approach. I have to avoid those at all costs.

  The sun is blinding at first, and I squint as it hits my eyes. There doesn’t seem to be any guys out here, but that could change at any moment. Travis built what used to be a small clubhouse into a full-fledged compound, and I have to find a way to navigate this maze without being seen or heard.

  I grab a pipe that’s sitting on the ground.

  If shit goes down, it may save my life.

  Here we go.

  Twenty—North—Way Back When

  There’s something about having Delilah on the back of my bike that makes me happy.

  I’m not used to happy.

  I’m used to satisfied. I’m used to excited. I’m used to stimulated.

  But happy? That’s a new one for me.

  There’s something about this girl that’s just different. She’s tough—edgy, but she also gets me, and seems to actually embrace the parts of me that usually chase women away. Maybe she’s as damaged as I am, who knows? She’s certainly been through her share of shit and come out better for it. Discovering your old man isn’t just cheating on you, but has a second fuckin’ family in another state? That’s some next level shit. How she came out of that sane is something that shows how tough of a woman she is.

  Tonight, I’m taking her out to the bar.

  That doesn’t sound so romantic, but I’m not much for romance. I’m a biker, not some lead in a romantic comedy, and I’m a motherfucker who likes to throw a few back every now and again.

  La Cerveza sounds like the stupidest fucking name for a bar ever, but there’s nothing like a place that tells you exactly what to expect when you walk in. La Cerveza serves cold beers, and not much else. They have bottles behind the bar, but in almost ten years I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen anyone order a drink.

  We pull up to the front, Delilah’s arms still wrapped around my waist as tightly as arms can wrap around a waist. Even after my engine slowly purrs itself off I linger on my seat another five seconds. I want to hold on to the feeling of her holding on to me, and she doesn’t let go, even though she could have.

  “Wait, the bar is called beer? Is that, like, satire?”

  “Darling, if you said the word ‘satire’ to Siggy, he’d look at you like you were speaking Greek.”

  “Siggy?”

  “The owner. He’s old now, but he was a hard man back in his day. He runs the best biker bar around now that his riding days are over.”

  “Only bikers come here?”

  “Only bikers,” I tell her. “In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t think a regular person has ever stepped foot inside the bar.”

  “Until tonight,” she jokes. “I feel honored.”

  I nod. Then I wonder if she’s talking about herself, or about me. When I get a regular job and start a regular life, I won’t be looked at the same way if I try to come to places like this. I’ve seen it happen before. Once guys leave the life, the other guys think of them differently. Those colors become costume, and even though no one would say it to my face, they’ll think of me as a civilian—a guy who used to be one of them. Maybe I’m making a mistake.

  “Then the bar is named beer?”

  “In Spanish,” I answer.

  “Riiight,” she says in a joking manner. “It’s much more clever if you say it in a different language.”

  “There used to be an Italian place a town over called Il Formaggio that was one of the most popular places in town.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “That shit means cheese. It was a fucking restaurant called cheese. But formaggio sounds cooler, and the place had an hour long wait on weekends. It’s all about psychology—making people feel like they’re having a cooler experience than they are.”

  “You’re so smart,” she says.

  “I have my moments.”

  Inside, the place is alive with the sound of classic rock. I’m used to it, but I can see that Delilah’s a little overwhelmed at first. I take her by the hand and she squeezes back hard. I lead her over to a table in the back, and I grab us a couple of the only thing they serve here.

  “Sigs!” I yell, reaching over the bar and shaking the old man’s hand. His grip is like a vice, even at his age. “Two beers, alright?”

  “You got it.”

  I turn around to make sure Delilah’s okay while she waits for me. This isn’t her scene, but she’s doing great. There’s no fear or intimidation in her at all, and she seems to just be embracing all the new things I’m exposing her to. She makes eye contact and waves as if we’re not where we are—in fact, she’s the only person looking cheerful in here. Girl’s tough as nails, but she’s also got a great attitude. I grab our beers and head over to her. “Here you go.”

  “They have beer here?” she jokes. “My favorite.”

  “That’s an amazing coincidence.”

  She takes a drink like a champion, but makes a funny face afterwards. “What is this?”

  “IPA. Sig’s been getting a lot of that craft shit in the last year or so. I hated it at first, but now it’s the only type I drink.”

  “What does IPA stand for? And why is it so bitter?”

  “Stands for India Pale Ale, and it’s bitter because they double hop it when it’s brewing. Hops are the grain that make beer bitter, so this has twice as much as a regular beer. The name is taken from when the British colonized India. They used to bring alcohol with them from Europe to India, but the trip took weeks by ship, so they’d use extra hops to preserve it over the journey, so it’d make it to Asia. That’s why it’s so bitter.”

  I notice that she’s smiling halfway through my little history lesson. I’m not sure what it means. “You’re really smart, you know that? You surprise me.”

  I almost spit my beer on her by accident. “Excuse me?” I ask. “You’re surprised that I’m smart?”

  She looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry, that came out really wrong.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her.

  “No,” she says. She reaches over and puts her hand on my hand. “I didn’t mean it how it sounded. Literally foot-in-mouth. I guess ‘smart’ wasn’t the word I meant. I knew that you were smart the first time that I spoke to you. I meant I’m surprised that you. . .”

  “Know things?” I ask. “That I know things that only people who went to college are supposed to know?” I’
m not trying to make her feel bad—I’d never want to do something like that, but I also want to point out the stupidity in what she’s implying.

  She takes a deep breath and another sip of beer. “I give up. There’s no way to make what I was trying to say not sound shitty. It was shitty. I meant it as a compliment but it ended up sounding like an insult. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s alright,” I repeat. “I don’t offend easily, and you’re not the first person to be surprised by some little piece of knowledge I have. I get it. When you meet smart people in most instances they’re on college campuses, and they aren’t tattooed, and they don’t ride. The stereotype is in thinking that just because it isn’t common, it isn’t possible. In psychology that’s called the availability bias. See, another little nugget.”

  “Okay, smarty pants, point made. And the availability what?”

  “Bias. It’s a cognitive bias that effects how we perceive the probability of something. We usually judge by the information available to us, not all the information that exists. So, if you hear about a lot of people getting mugged when you watch the news, you may think you have a high risk of getting robbed, when it’s actually pretty rare. Understand?”

  She nods. “First history, now psychology. Layers, Mr. North.”

  I smile. She isn’t the first to think I’m some dummy, and I’m sure that she won’t be the last. I’ve been underestimated since day one, but I’ve learned to not let it bother me like it used to. “It’s pretty simple,” I tell her. “I love to read. I read books like most people eat food—as though it were something my body needed for life. History, science, philosophy, I’ll read almost anything. I like to read the kind of things that I never learned about in school.”