Biker Chicks: Volume 3

by A. J. Downey

  BIKER CHICKS 3

  Editor: AJ Downey

  Second Circle Press

  Contents

  Title Page

  Book Summary

  Dear Reader...

  The Wolf and the Angel - Bibi Rizer

  Stubborn - Emma Lee

  Never Settle - MariaLisa deMora

  Laying Ghosts to Rest - Vera Quinn

  Twisted Pleasures - GM Scherbert

  Never Ride Faster - A.J. Downey

  Neely - Erin Trejo

  The Fallen - Susan Child

  Past Ride - K. Renee

  Publishing Info

  Bikers, the ultimate alpha males. But what of women who ride? These sexy independent road warriors shirk the conventions of lady-like behaviour and live life by their own terms – wild and free.

  BIKER CHICKS 3 is full of sexy stories about women who ride, whether they be lone wolves or part of a gang. Some of the best authors in MC romance along with some new names and faces to the genre tell us how these strong women find the sexual satisfaction and romance we all long for, for one of the best causes.

  Bibi Rizer - Emma Lee - MariaLisa deMora - Vera Quinn - GM Scherbert - A.J. Downey - Erin Trejo - Susan Child - K. Renee

  Biker Chicks 3: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance

  Dear Reader...

  Well, it’s been a wild ride, with a lot of ups and downs – mostly between the sheets. But as you all know, all good things must come to an end. This marks the last installment of Biker Chicks. It’s time to change things up and create something new. I’d always intended for these anthologies to come in sets of three, and here we are. We’ve made it, and thanks to you, loyal readers, we’ve made a difference.

  I hope you’ll join us for our next set of books coming soon. If you want the thrilling conclusion to my story, Never Ride Faster, you’re going to need to look up Jeffrey Cook’s tale in Save Me, volume one of a three anthology set benefiting wounded veterans and their families.

  You can have a look on my author page in the anthology section of my collected works. It can all be found at www.ajdowney.com.

  Thank you for reading, and we’ll see you soon?

  XoXo,

  A.J. Downey

  The Wolf and the Angel

  Bibi Rizer

  The motorcycle appears in my driveway the day after Halloween. I’m hung-over, of course, and still have the remnants of last night’s zombie make-up streaked all over my face. And I’m pissed off, because the cute Han Solo with the man bun did a runner sometime in the middle of the night. He didn’t even leave his phone number. And this after I sucked his cock until my jaw ached.

  There is nothing more annoying than a man who takes ages to come during a blowjob. I mean, I made him return the favor of course, and it was moderately successful. But after a night of sloppy sex, half in and half out of our Halloween costumes, a little breakfast might have been nice. Even coffee. I have three different flavors of creamer.

  Meh. I don’t need another under-employed wastrel in my life. What did he say his job was? Oh yeah, “Alternative transportation engineer”.

  “You mean bicycles?” I said. Poor thing looked like he was going to cry. But eventually I got him to confess that he works at Green City Cycle – yes, repairing bikes, and not the cool kind.

  Fucking Seattle. The vegan man buns are taking over.

  But with this tidy little Harley Davidson Street 500 parked in my driveway, things are looking up. I slip my bare feet into my black buckle Fluevogs and throw a leather jacket over my sweaty pjs. Then I go out to investigate.

  If a fairy godmother somehow transformed me into a motorbike, this is how I would come out. Curvy but compact, with little in the way of fussy adornment, and painted in a matte black so dense and light-bending that nothing can be cheerful next to it. I smile despite myself, hoping that whoever owns this bike is as nihilistic as I am. But looking around my depressingly suburban street, I can’t see anyone. And the bike is parked in my driveway.

  “Weird,” I mutter as I step closer.

  I take back what I said about fussy adornment, because stuck to the fuel tank is the smallest and saddest little black ribbon, and under that is a glossy black envelope. I tear the envelope open with shaking hands.

  Now here’s the deal, I am filthy rich. Yeah, I live in a pretty blah house in a dull suburb, and yeah, I drive a fucking Camry that’s older than my DVD player, and yeah, almost no one knows about the reasons I’m so fucking loaded. I keep it to myself because I don’t want anyone all up in my business. My business which comprises eight factories in China, three in India and two under construction right here in the US of A. And what do we make?

  Black. We make black stuff.

  Not the race, Black (though that would be cool. A company that only focused on African or African American art, products, fashion, foods? I would invest in that); the color black. We make and sell all the usual black things – leggings, shoes, bras, luggage and all that. But we also make everything else in black. Want black oven mitts? We got you. Black shower curtain? Done. Black baby clothes? We have an extensive line. Black Tupperware? Our Shenzhen factory makes it under contract. Black sewing machine? Singer designed one just for us, emblazoned with our logo “Dhark Matter” which when I do business I tell people is my name. Outside of business, people call me Dee. Deanna Mathers. Not the most nihilistic name you’ve ever heard.

  Our online store, and 53 brick-and-mortar stores throughout North America, Europe and Asia sell everything from black toothbrushes to black condoms, black candy to black hardware, black ice skates, black paperclips. We even have a black diary with black pages which you write in with black ink then use, guess what? black light to see what you’ve written. It’s a bestseller. We sold close to a million of them in our first month at a clear profit of US$16.39 each. That’s $164 million dollars for anyone who’s counting.

  I still work in the flagship Dhark store on Ballard a couple of days a week, just to keep up my cover and because I’m weird that way. The rest of the time I hang out in my bland suburban house, kicking it on my laptop with Chinese manufacturing moguls, trying to get the best deals on plastic and steel. I have VPs who go to all the meetings, who schmooze and wine and dine and do all that other billionaire stuff. I stick to the roots of my empire and the little store that I built it from. I live small, trying to be a convincingly insignificant citizen.

  Reasons? Complicated. Dark, like my soul, and my business. And also the cause of my shaking hands. Because I’m pretty sure whatever is in this envelope harkens back to the days before Dhark.

  And those were dark days indeed. I’ve worked hard to disconnect myself from them. I’ve paid dearly too, though now with my billion-dollar emo gift empire, I have a hard time feeling sorry for myself. Only at moments like this, staring down at the folded piece of paper from the envelope, do I ever think how nice it would be to trade places with one of the girls who works full time in the shop. Sure they aren’t rich (though I pay well, plus decent benefits), but they don’t have this cloud hanging over them all the time either.

  I open the paper, and read the words through swimming eyes.

  Beautiful Angel, it starts.

  “Oh thank god,” I sob, hoping my neighbors aren’t watching me lose my shit in zombie make-up and pajamas on my driveway on a Tuesday morning. “Thank god. Thank god.”

  Beautiful Angel

  I know this is taking a terrible risk for you, for everything you left behind all those years ago. But here’s the thing
: I haven’t been able to leave you behind. I think about you all the time. I dream about you.

  And I’ve changed. I finally got away too, about six months ago. And in a similar way. So of course, I’m hiding, just like you are.

  I could stop reading there. It’s enough to know that he’s alive. That he made it out in one piece, and that he’s safe. Despite the hangover, and the mizzly weather and the black clothes, boots, bike and soul, I feel like the sun is shining on me, because I finally know, after years of wondering and worrying and trying to push it all to the unseen recesses of my mind. Of my heart.

  Wolf got out. Alive.

  There is a key in the envelope too. I take it and the note inside before I make even more of a scene. I’m concerned that the bike in the driveway might raise a few eyebrows on my dull street, but if the neighbors assume it was some guy’s then they’ll pretty much assume business as usual around here.

  I’m no saint. Everyone knows that. As far as they know I’m a 29 year old shop girl with a few too many piercings and a couple of edgy tattoos. Standard fare in Seattle, maybe not this far into suburbia, but I’m not a pariah either. I bring squid ink black pasta (we sell it – $8 a pack) to the yearly neighborhood potluck at Mrs. Dubrovski’s. Everybody thinks it’s a big laugh.

  Back inside my house, I shut the door and lock it, pulling the little curtain aside to check the street one last time. I look at my black Apple Watch. It’s only 7:30am. That means Mrs. Q will come out to walk her dachshunds pretty soon, the Bradleys have already gone for their run and are probably drinking kale and tofu shakes, and the Sullivans are just getting their three teenage brats out of bed for school. Day after Halloween? Good luck.

  I sit on my couch (black of course) and read the rest of the letter.

  If you’re reading this and you’re who I think you are then my instincts were right and I’ve found you. I knew when these Dhark stores started opening up that you’d want to work in one. After all those conversations we had about how to turn milk black? Or yogurt? After we had that huge argument when I accidentally wore white socks? How could you not work for Dhark?

  By the way, I like your new name.

  I won’t go into how exactly I tracked you down, only reassure you that I was very discreet. I know how the game works now—been in it myself for months. I’m clean and sober and most importantly, out. All the way out, if you know what I mean. It took four years to get back what my stupid teenage mistakes took from me. You’re the only good thing to come from that. The only good thing I have. Even if it’s just a memory.

  So I’m just going to come out and hope that you’re not just a memory and that you think of me too. Because I have nothing left to lose and everything to gain. The bike is a gift either way. I know you always wanted one of your own and I had some dough stashed away so it seemed the right gift. If you want to see me, you know where to look. We talked about it a million times.

  If not, ride on, angel. You deserve to feel the wind on your face.

  All my love

  Wolf.

  It takes me a good twenty minutes to calm down. Only my phone telling me I have to teleconference with New York breaks me out of it. Then I sit through an interminable financial report (tldr: I’m loaded) and a rundown on the plans for a new Dhark clearance boutique in Loehmann’s before I plead “another meeting” and hang up.

  Who can be a billionaire when the love of your life who you thought might be dead suddenly sends you a motorbike?

  Fuck it. I don’t even have a helmet. Maybe Wolf thought I kept the one from the days of being his old lady. But I didn’t. I left him with nothing but a bag full of hundred dollar bills. Not even a phone.

  I send my assistant, Amy, a quick text.

  Cramps cutting me in half. Cancel everything and pretend you’re me for the rest of the day.

  Not thirty seconds go by before I get her reply.

  On it, boss.

  I bloody love that woman.

  Flicking my phone over to a web search, I find the local Harley Davidson dealership and bookmark their page. It’s too early to call them, but I see they open at ten. That gives me time to shower, get dressed, eat, and try to make sense of this unexpected development in my life.

  With the warm water flowing over me, I think of Wolf. Wolf’s body. His smile, his laugh. His cock. His bright grey eyes, his wavy brown hair. His firm hand on my ass cheeks.

  His cock.

  His lips.

  Tongue.

  Cock.

  Jesus. I need a shower from my shower.

  Wolf was only 19 when we met, and already so entwined with the Fallen Fiends MC that he couldn’t see any way out. I was 24, managing a shoe store, and for fuck’s sake should have known better.

  The Fallen Fiends MC were not your friendly neighborhood bikers. They dealt drugs, pussy and guns like every outlaw gang, sure, but they had another lucrative product—one they specialized in. Death. Contract killings. Wolf was on the outskirts of that when we met. And then he wasn’t.

  One of his club brothers took a contract to kill Someone-You-Don’t-Want-To-Fuck-With and all hell came down on the Fiends. Wolf and I got caught up in it and the only way for me to get out was for Wolf to take the fall for another brother who was facing a third strike on a drug charge. Then suddenly Wolf was in a solitary cell and I was out – new name, new life. A clean identity bought with dirty money. The Fiend who did the killing ended up dead. As did, eventually, the one Wolf took the fall for.

  And that’s why I fuck bicycle repairmen. To look at my success now you wouldn’t think I’m the sort to get mixed up with a gang of killers, but hot kink and great sex have made smarter girls than me do stupider things. Live and learn.

  I’m shaking a bit less as I step out of the shower, wrapped in a black towel. As I dress I catch another peek at the bike in the driveway, from my bedroom window. It was never just about the sex, I remind myself. The bike is a typical Wolf thing to do. Impulsive but sweet. And more than he should, more than he can afford certainly. He was always like that. Rooms full of roses. Weekends on some coke dealer’s yacht with all the Dom Pérignon we could drink. An Yves St Laurent black leather jacket. A Chanel purse, also black. He treated me like he was a billionaire. And I never wanted to know what he did for all that money.

  Now I’m the billionaire. Dhark listed on the ASX last year and netted me 1.2 billion for a 49% share. Now the company, which I still own 51% of, is valued at 6.3 billion. And I still drive my eight-year-old Camry.

  “Not anymore,” I tell myself as I wiggle into my leather pants. I still have the Yves St Laurent jacket, which I zip over a long sleeve t-shirt from my own collection. It’s black, of course, and fitted and made of a bamboo/lycra knit just a little thicker than you usually find. That makes it both warm and durable and deep Dhark black, just like I and ten million other women like it. $49.99 retail with a clear profit of $13.83. That’s 138 million. Ka-ching!

  I pull on some Dhark socks (a black on black argyle pattern – very popular) and my Fluevog boots over that. Now I look like a biker, I think as I consider my reflection. Too bad I don’t have a helmet.

  I pull out my phone as I head back out to the driveway, and dial the Harley dealer. They pick up first ring.

  “Yo, Harley Davidson. Bryan speaking.”

  Bryan sounds a bit breathless, like he ran for the phone.

  “Hey,” I say. “So someone just bought me a Harley and I don’t have a helmet.”

  “Ahhh! Let me guess, the Street 500 I delivered under cover of darkness at 5am?”

  “It came from your store, huh?” So Wolf didn’t deliver it in person. That’s disappointing. But the note did say I would need to find him. I sigh inwardly. Nothing was ever easy with him. That much hasn’t changed. “Well, I know how to ride but I need a helmet.”

  “Sure,” Bryan says. “Listen. I just came in to open and do the books. When I’m done, why don’t I swing by with a helmet? Free of charge.”

  It always cr
acks me up when people offer to comp things for me. Like dude, I can afford it. I could buy your whole store.

  “That would be nice,” I say sweetly. “I’m home all day. You know the address.”

  “I’ll be there in about two hours. How’s that?”

  “Perfect. Oh, and Bryan?”

  “Yep?”

  “Can you make it black? Matte black?”

  “I wouldn’t imagine it any other way.”

  Bryan arrives as promised about two hours later. He turns out to be one of those lovely gay guys who mention a boyfriend in the first five minutes just to put women at ease. He has a few helmets with him and after trying them on, I decide on the black full face. I figure there might still be some people looking for me and the more I travel incognito, the better.

  “Do you have the license? To ride?”

  “I do actually. Though I haven’t ridden in years.” I don’t explain how when I started my new life I was so deeply entrenched in the riding life that I couldn’t imagine living any other way. And I knew I’d lost Wolf. I wasn’t going to replace him with some other old man. So yeah, I had plans to ride myself.

  I just never got around to actually doing it—buying a bike and all that. I didn’t have the heart. But I have the license, which I even renew. Because I’m neurotic like that.

  Bryan offers to ride on the pillion as I get the hang of the bike. We take it for a slow spin around the neighborhood then after I’ve got the feel for it, he hops on his own bike and we go for a ride back to the Harley Store, where he sells me some add-ons—a rack, gear sack and panniers. Plus he hooks me up with a sweet sound system—some nice Bluetooth headphones that fit right into the helmet. They mix the exterior sounds so I can hear sirens or whatever, because safety first.

  As Bryan helps me set up the new accessories, I try to get the story of how the bike was purchased.

  “Did he come into the store?” I ask. “The guy who bought the bike?”