A compromise, and a good one at that. The direction of my woman’s thoughts doesn’t surprise me one bit. Gently turning her around to face me, I place my lips to her forehead. “Agreed, Mo. We’ll see how the land lies before throwing them together.”
We stand like that for a minute, then she pushes me away. “You going to be coming home tonight?”
Moving my head side to side I think. “We’ve got church, then I’ll have to be sociable and have a drink with the boys. I might need to stay at the club if the roads get iced up.”
Her face tightens. “Do what you’ve got to do, Hell. I won’t bother to wait up.” She turns fast, but not before I see her eyes glistening.
I say a goodbye to her back, then go grab my jacket, thick winter gloves, and a warm beanie, then back my bike out of the garage. A steady rain is falling, and by the look of the sky, it could turn to snow later. If it does, the sun rising tomorrow should quickly melt any that settles, good thing is, this time of year, snow doesn’t tend to hang around long. But the overnight temperatures will likely freeze it. Hate leaving my old lady alone, especially as our talk is bound to have dredged up thoughts of the past. But I can’t neglect my duties, and that means putting in an appearance at church. Only been a couple of times I’ve missed it in the twenty years I’ve sat in that chair.
I put on the goggles I wear in cold weather and start the engine of my Harley Dyna Glide. Its rumble echoing from the garage whose motion sensor fitted doors are automatically closing behind me, then, facing it in the right direction, shift up through the gears and I’m off.
It only takes twenty minutes for me to ride to the small steel mill that closed when the market collapsed in the early eighties. An appropriate setting for our compound, seeing as it was the resulting unemployment that led to the start of the motorcycle club which, eventually, threw in their lot with the Satan’s Devils. We had to knock the chimney down as it had become structurally dangerous, but the furnace remains. It’s a huge pit, large enough to melt down a train. We kept it, in part as a memorial to the mill’s origins, and by having placed our grills within it, as a talking point when weather permits and we hold club barbeques. In the factory alongside, brothers have rooms and the lower floor has been stripped out to become our clubhouse.
Over the almost four decades that we’ve been in existence, we’ve had the opportunity to mould it just how we like.
Mid-afternoon and the road’s relatively clear, I let my mind wander back, the plight of young Jayden bringing the past back to me, just as much as I suspect it had done to my wife.
In the beginning the clubhouse had been a makeshift affair. Crooked shelving housing drinks behind a couple of planks suspended on brick blocks which had been our bar top. Mismatched tables and chairs, a pool table which had seen better times. But the members, who in time would become Devils, were even then bonding together as a brotherhood, and while the MC was just the bare bones, it was slowly shaping up.
Black Plate, more commonly known as Blackie, had started the club, and had assumed the position of Prez. His friend, another steelworker kicked loose when the steel market plummeted, Furnace, joined him as his VP. Members have come and gone, usually via coffins, over the years. The only two remaining original members, other than myself, are Bomber and Rusty.
Blackie also happened to be my father. Showing me, his son, no favours, I’d joined at the bottom as a prospect. Absolutely no preference given for, or acknowledgement of, our relationship. I’d probably have been treated better if I hadn’t carried his genes. Maybe things might have been different had my mother lived. She’d died with complications from blood loss after having her only child, me. Something I’d felt he’d always blamed me for.
Drug running and moving guns had taken the place of earning an honest wage. Money in your pocket rather than eking a living from whatever you could. I didn’t like it, but had no alternative, with the crash of the steel industry, there were too many people unemployed and chasing after the few available jobs.
It was on one of the days I’d just finished making a delivery to a local dealer, when I first saw her. A sweet girl, walking arm and arm with a giggling friend. As they approached, I saw I was the target of their mirth, or, rather, interested, slightly nervous laughter.
Seeing them eyeing my bike, and the cut that I’m wearing, I pull out a pack of cigarettes, light one, and watch them draw closer.
My greeting, of, “Ladies,” accompanied by a grin and a chin lift has them giggling all over again.
They seem to be in awe as they approach. The one who’d first caught my attention, hangs back a little behind the other who’s got a more hardened seen-it-all look in her eyes.
It’s the bold one who’s assessing me. “You’re one of those bikers, aren’t you? In the new gang?”
“Not a gang, sweetheart. We’re a motorcycle club. We’re just men who love riding motorcycles.” It’s a practiced statement, one I find myself saying often.
The bold one inches nearer. “My name’s Jeannie. This is Moira.”
Moira peers out from behind her, waggling her fingers. She’s fucking adorable, and my cock hardens just watching her. Jeannie’s okay in the looks department, but while I can’t put my finger on it, Moira’s got an aura of innocence about her which, strangely, I find appealing.
“Jeannie, Moira,” I raise my chin and shake out my thick, dark and curly shoulder-length hair.
“You have parties up at your clubhouse, don’t you?” Jeannie brazenly asks.
I grin, answering, “Sometimes.” At least once a week and often more than that.
Jeannie looks at Moira, whose eyes have gone large in her face. Although she tugs at Jeannie’s arm, it has no effect, nor does it stop Jeannie from almost making a demand, “Can we come?”
I’m more interested in Moira, who resembles a rabbit caught in the headlights. A thought hits me. “How old are you babes?”
“I’m eighteen, she’s seventeen.” Again, it’s Jeannie who answers.
I nod, pleased. At least they’re both of the age of consent. Jeannie, I could take or leave, my cock doesn’t seem bothered at all. But Moira? Don’t know what it is, but there’s just something about her. My cigarette’s burned down to the stub, I put it out against the heel of my boot. “Tell you what, you give me your numbers and maybe I’ll call you sometime.”
I’m not promising anything, but Jeannie’s grin looks like she’s scooped the jackpot. Quickly she delves into her purse, takes out some paper and writes on it, handing me just one number. Uh uh, not yours I want honey. I stare at Moira. “What about you, sweetheart?”
Jeannie glances at her friend, and her grin widens. Then as Moira’s mouth forms a shocked O; Jeannie takes back her note and jots down a second number.
I pocket the paper, and start the engine, it roars loudly making both of them jump. “Later, ladies,” I call out, as I kick down into first, let out the clutch and twist the throttle, and disappear down the street.
Chapter 3
Moira
Of course Hellfire’s going to stay at the club tonight. Oh, if I’m honest, I wouldn’t want him riding in this weather. Already the rain has turned to sleet, and I expect there will be a covering of snow by late evening. The probable condition of the roads is a perfectly rational explanation, and one I would readily accept were it not that it seems he’s staying overnight at the club more and more lately, hardly ever coming home. Or is that just my imagination?
I close the window, the sensation that I was going to explode from overheating having dissipated for now. God, how I hate the changes happening to my body. No wonder Hell doesn’t want to sleep with me, most nights I wake up dripping with sweat and throwing off all the bedcovers. He’ll be in luxury lying by himself in the king-size bed in his room in the compound, no one tossing and turning beside him.
Or will he be alone?
I’m not blind. I know the breasts he used to admire are sagging, my tummy’s no longer flat, and my waist has
started disappearing. It’s no wonder he’s not approached me for sex in ages. I couldn’t match up to the sweet butts and hangarounds that throw themselves at my man, all wanting to be the one to bed the president.
It’s unfair. The years haven’t changed him at all. He might have gone grey, but his figure’s the same as it always was, his muscles still firm, his stomach like a washboard. It looks like I’ve let myself go, but I haven’t. It’s just these useless female hormones causing changes I didn’t sign up for.
I’m scared I’m going to lose my man. And that there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I go to the bathroom, take out the hair dye I bought earlier, and start to apply it on the roots. Why does grey on a man make them look distinguished, while on a woman it shows their age? Life’s so unfair. I check the instructions as it’s a new brand, and see I’ve got to wait half an hour.
When was the last time he took me on the back of his bike? Christ, I can’t remember. Will he leave me?
Why the hell did I let myself think that? I’ve been with him for thirty-six years, I’d had his children. Now they’ve grown and left home, is my job done? Have I out served my purpose?
For Christ’s sake, Moira. Stop over-thinking things. Tonight may be the first time I’ve allowed such thoughts to surface, but they’ve been bubbling around for a while.
Nowadays I don’t put in many appearances at the clubhouse where once I used to be a fixture. Hell no longer has an old lady he’d like to show off. He’d much rather be seen with one of the attractive hangarounds on his arm, proof of his virility. Well, it seems he can no longer get it up for me. It’s been so long, I barely remember what his cock feels like.
In an action more violent than it needs to be, I grab a magazine, and go sit on the couch, checking the time. Fifteen more minutes. I turn the pages. Christ. Story after story of cheating men. Seems it’s not just me that’s in this situation. Ah, here’s an article about how to keep your man interested. I give up reading halfway. How can you be sexy and alluring in a body that’s determined to be the opposite? It’s okay to suggest sexy underwear, but when the clothes come off, it’s to reveal stretch marks and sagging skin.
If there was a way to turn back the clock, I’d do it.
I shower, wash the dye out, then dry my hair, not bothering to style it. I pull on my comfy pyjamas and settle in front of the TV. Flicking through the channels, there’s nothing that catches my attention. Maybe I’ll read. Having left my reading glasses in the bathroom when I’d checked instructions about washing out the dye, I get up to go and retrieve them. Reaching the bathroom, I do a quick pee, then return to the sofa, only then realising that I’d forgotten what I’d gone to fetch.
Rolling my eyes, I suspect if I go to fetch my glasses again, I’ll probably only return with something different. I put away my book, and rest my head back on the chair.
What was it Hell had been talking about earlier? Oh, yeah. That poor kid from Tucson. If she ends up coming here, I’ll do everything I can to help her. I know only too well what it’s like to be forced to do something against your will. I, too, had my virginity stolen. Her situation brings it all back. I let my mind drift, dredging up memories.
“Look!”
“What?”
“Oh, my. He’s a real hunk.”
“Who you looking at? Oh.” My eyes alight on a man who’s just come out of a club and is getting on his bike. Wow. If I was going to give him a score he’d easily be a ten, if not an eleven or twelve. He’s got darkish, curly, thick hair that reaches his shoulders, he’s moving so smoothly he seems to glide, strong, long steps. He’s tall, slim but muscular.
“He’s one of those bikers. From that new gang. The one everyone’s talking about,” Jeannie hisses. “Let’s go and say hi.”
“Let’s not,” I toss back. But it’s like Jeannie’s on a mission. To my horror, the biker’s looking straight at us. He’s lighting a cigarette and seems to be waiting.
“Ladies,” he calls out, as we approach. Nerves make me giggle. Up close I can see he might be young, but he’s all man. He’s got a swagger and confidence about him. I slip myself behind Jeannie and let her do the talking. Jeannie’s asking about parties at their clubhouse, it sounds terrifying to me. She can go if she wants. Just leave me out of it. Hey. What’s she doing?
As the biker pulls away, I tug the arm of the person I thought was my friend in horror. “You gave him my number?”
Unrepentant she replies, “I gave him both of ours. That way one of us might be home when he calls.”
“He won’t call,” I tell her optimistically. “And if he does, you’re going to any party they hold alone.” I’ve been her wingman before, but not at a gathering of leather-clad bikers…
Jeannie. As I emerge from my memory, I realise it’s been a while since I’ve spoken to her. I ought to make more of an effort to stay in touch, though, to be honest, she still spends most of her time at the clubhouse, while I hide away at home. Yes, hide. Not wanting to be confronted with the temptation placed in front of my man there. Not wanting to face it head-on. Though lately, secreting myself away, pretending nothing’s changed, isn’t working as well as it used to.
Though years have passed since we first met the handsome biker on his bike, I still put some of the blame on Jeannie. If she hadn’t given my number away, my life would have been very different, and things wouldn’t have happened the way that they did. Of course, it’s impossible to imagine how it would have turned out instead. But she had.
Using the information Jeannie had so helpfully supplied, Hell had indeed called me. Of course he wasn’t named Hellfire then, hadn’t yet got his road name. He’d been a plain and simple Carter. Yeah. He’d called me, not Jeannie, turns out it wasn’t her he was interested in. Something I could never understand. And it wasn’t a party he’d invited me to, instead he asked me to go for a ride on the back of his bike. In my naivety then, I had no idea what that meant to a biker like him.
Carter had turned up at my door, helmet in hand, while he wasn’t wearing one himself. It was the one time I was grateful I had parents who didn’t give a damn, Dad normally lost in an alcoholic fugue, with Mom not far behind. They didn’t seem to find anything odd in a biker ringing the doorbell.
I’d been nervous. Of going somewhere with a man I didn’t know, and on transport I’d never been on. But Hell, well, from the start he was dominant, knew what he wanted. He swept me away, and before I could have second thoughts, I was climbing on behind him, obeying his instructions, putting my hands around his waist. It wasn’t long before I knew I could become addicted to this, the most exciting thing I’d ever done. It was the feeling of freedom, seeing the scenery as if I was part of it, smelling the air. So much better than being trapped in a car.
Hell rode confidently, even then. Not for one moment did I have concerns about him losing control and crashing. His warm leather-clad body encircled in my arms, the power seemed to emanate from him, installing a confidence in me.
I’d felt alive. For the first time in my life. I felt me. As if in covering those miles took me on an internal journey. I hadn’t wanted it to end.
After a while he pulled into a little-used picnic spot. When he took my hand and led me away from the bike, I suddenly became nervous. I’d been on dates with boys, of course I had. But Hell wasn’t a boy, he was all man. He might want to go further than I’d been before.
Jeannie wasn’t a virgin, but unlike her, I’d never seen my virginity as a burden or something I felt in a rush to lose. It was partly down to the casualness of her relationships with the opposite sex, that had made me vow, I wanted my first time to mean something. And I didn’t want it to be over a picnic bench with a virtual stranger.
Out of sight of the road, Hell stopped, pulled me around to face him. As I looked up, I saw his eyes flaring, and when he pulled me against his body as he lowered his lips to mine, I felt a hardness against me.
I’d jumped back.
“Carter. I�
��”
He turns away sharply. I’ve made him angry, I know I have. But when he swings back, he’s wearing a lopsided grin. He takes a step toward me, I stand my ground as he shakes his head. “Moira, I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly. “But you’re to blame. Felt too fucking good with you on the back of my bike. Ain’t gonna treat you like a whore, babe. You deserve better than that. We’ll take this slow. Slow as you want. You’ll let me know when you’re ready.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologising.
“Babe. You’re young. You’ve not done this before, have you?”
Feeling more confident, I ask. “What gave it away?”
“Babe.” He grows serious, his brow creased as though thinking. “Bitch feels a hard cock against her, if she wants it, she doesn’t pull away.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him again.
“Hey, don’t fucking apologise. To anyone, okay? You choose me when you’re ready? I’ll be over the fucking moon. When it’s time, you’ll know.”
Now it’s me who closes the distance between us. Raising my hand, I place it against his cheek. He’s made me confident, made me trust he won’t be taking what I’m not offering. “You could kiss me.”
“Fuckin’ right I could,” he chuckles. “And I will. Just ignore… him… if it seems he wants to play. I’ve got him under control, okay?”
I smirk, finding it funny he’s talking about his dick as though it’s a separate entity. Then I stop thinking about anything at all and just start feeling as he lowers his head and his mouth touches mine.
He might have said we weren’t going to be having sex, but this kiss is almost criminal. His tongue probes, his teeth nip, my mouth opens. Every part of me starts to tingle as he explores and ravishes. That he knows what he’s doing is certain. I’d heard Jeannie talking about boys who’d made her wet, but had never understood she’d meant it literally until my own panties feel sticky in my jeans. I’d be embarrassed were it not that I was fighting to prevent myself from rubbing against him.
Paladin's Hell Page 3
