Love, Loyalty & Mayhem: A Motorcycle Club Romance Anthology

by Ryan Michele

  “I’m going to need you to elaborate more on that. Don’t think that’s how therapy works, and I don’t have Jedi mind trick powers or truth serum. You’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.” He mimes the turning of a sign with his hands. “Dr. Martin is now in,” he mutters in a fake accent. “Tell me all of your problems.”

  I chuckle to myself only to get a look of sheer seriousness in return.

  “Well, I have this really weird boyfriend who has dolls in his room.” The surprise on Beau’s face is absolutely priceless. What did he think I would say? I’m not about to reveal all my deepest and darkest secrets right here on a plane full of strangers.

  “Not what I meant,” he chastises me with a stern voice. “And they aren’t dolls. They’re action figures, and our nest egg for the future.”

  “So, we’ll be living at the clubhouse for the rest of our lives then?” I tease back.

  He growls and mumbles under his breath inaudibly. How does it feel now to be the frustrating one in the relationship? I reach over and grasp his hand, “I was just kidding, you know.” He peers back skeptically.

  “You can apologize to them, when we get home.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Fine, then the only way to get out of this is by telling me the truth. What scares you so much about my sister? And be honest this time. She’s my family, but you’re my girl. One doesn’t work without the other.”

  Should I tell him? Would this help relieve the pressure I’ve been feeling being back home? I take a deep breath, and just put it all out there on the table. “Your sister intimidates me.” The relief of my revelation doesn’t do a damn thing to ease my nerves. So much for the truth setting you free.

  “Go on,” he mutters, pretending to write down notes. Watching him mimic what he thinks really goes on in a therapist’s office, makes me laugh and cringe all at the same time. For Beau, television is like reading Wikipedia. If he sees it in a show, it has to be real.

  “Remy grew up in her father’s MC just like me. She broke out on her own.”

  “Not exactly at her own choosing, Presley. Remember that.”

  “I know, but she lived a life outside of the club for a few years. Again, just like me. I think my brain looks at all the information that I have about Remy, and it sees an alternative path for myself. I didn’t want the MC life. Not in the slightest, but here I am. Dating a man in my father’s old club, and back to square one.”

  The admittance of what’s really bothering me stings once it’s out. He loves his club. Just like my brother. It’s their home, and for me, it’s a constant reminder of how different my life could have been had my dad not been killed. I could have just as easily been in Remy’s shoes. Riding on the back of my ol’ man’s bike or leading a women’s auxiliary club of my own. Dad made no bones that he had plans for me, when it came to my future. I would live the MC life whether I wanted to or not. As a woman in an MC, I held no power. Not in the way my father ran his club, when I was growing up, but then he died, and an entire world of possibilities opened for me.

  The fact that I had found myself back inside the walls of the Heaven's Rejects’ clubhouse was purely by chance and circumstance. I came to them at a hour of desperate need and fell in love with Beau. The club would and always will be a source of painful memories for me no matter how much Mikey has changed it for the better.

  “It isn’t back to square one. You and my sister are completely different people with a similar past. The club life suits her. Just like your brother was suited for his role as president. It doesn’t have to mean that it’s what suits you. I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again. If giving up the club is what you want, then I’ll do it. Nothing is more important to me than you.”

  “I would never ask you do to that. The club is a part of you.” And I mean it. Him leaving the club would be just like me leaving my patients behind. It’s inside of us, and imbedded in our very soul. Ripping it away would take a piece of it with us.

  “Just like it is for my sister.”

  I slump back into my seat, realizing that Beau is right. My association of his sister and my life isn’t fair. We’re different people, and I’m mentally short-changing building a relationship with her based on my own issues, when it comes to the MC life. All this anxiety that I’ve been feeling, since he asked me to go, isn’t about her. It isn’t about us a couple. It’s not about the duality and ironic nature of our life together. It’s about me. My fears and my hesitations.

  Owning my truth and dealing with the pain behind my past, comes hurtling forward, and hot tears begin to stream down my face. Beau reaches over, threading his fingers through mine, and squeezes my hand gently.

  “Your life is yours to mold it to whatever you want it to be.”

  His words hit fast and hard inside my belly, and they're like a sucker punch to the gut. He's right. I know he is. Beau has been nothing but up front with me about his allegiance to the Heaven's Rejects and where I stand with it, since we decided to try this thing again. While our relationship had been based on a series of unfortunately necessary, at the time, lies and illusions, what we have now isn’t. We are honest and upfront with each other. Sometimes, very brutally so, but it has made us stronger than ever. Now, here I am doubting this all over again. His club and my birthright rescued me, when they could have left me there to rot as a prisoner, but they didn’t. They brought me home to him and to my brother. The family I never wanted, but yet truly needed. A pang of shameful regret hits harder than the realization gut punch.

  “What movie is that from?” I question, trying to lighten the mood, as a dark cloud of guilt swirls inside of me.

  “None. That one is a Beau special.” He pretends to brush off his shoulders, but it’s more like brushing his obsessive pop culture ego. “All-original, babe. Just like me.”

  “And there’s the man that I know.”

  “And love,” he adds with a smile. “Feel better now?”

  “Much. I needed that.”

  “Good,” he says. “As payment for services rendered, meet me in the bathroom in five minutes. I’ve got a box on my bucket list that needs checking.”

  "In your dreams, flyboy."

  “I don’t need to dream, babe. My dream is sitting right here next to me, and she’s about to make another one come true.”

  He starts to unbuckle his seatbelt, but I reach over and stop him. I point up and direct his attention to the fasten seatbelt sign illuminated above us. He cocks a sly smile, “Do you think that will stop me?”

  “I know it won’t,” I chuckle. “By all means, try it and see what happens, when you have to explain to the flight attendant why the rules don’t apply to you.”

  “I make the rules, babe.”

  “I think TSA might trump you on this one, Beau, but I’ll make you a deal. You do it, and I’ll send the video back to my brother, when they haul you off the plane for not complying.”

  He is the one who rolls his eyes this time, while I laugh. “You know, I like it much better, when that snark isn’t directed at me.”

  “Whose fault is that again?" I ponder with exaggerated fake curiosity. He knows precisely who is to blame. Him. I might be a Sanders, but this new side of me is all of his doings. You can only live so long with the most sarcastic person on the planet and not pick up a few new tricks.

  “Keep reminding me,” he teases. “You may have gotten away this time, Presley, but remember, there’s another flight home to go. We’re checking that box. One way or another.”

  3

  Voodoo

  The damp and thick southern summer air smacks both of us in the face, like a wet blanket, the second we step off the plane. Presley scrunches up her face, when she looks back at me. Living in the south is an acquired taste. As much as I love my life in southern California now, this place will always be my home. Weather flaws and all. It’s the price you have to pay for such good damn cooking and nightlife.

  We walk a little fart
her and finally find our carousal to collect our luggage, as Presley and I both check our phones instinctually. I see only one message from Ratchet. A meme reminder of Raze's threat of Presley's safety on our trip. I fire back a middle finger emoji, satisfied that the reply is suitable enough for him, and that the message will be relayed back to the Prez. Like anything will happen to my girl here. I mean, this is Louisiana. Family protects family, and my sister's club has the protection game in spades with a bounty hunter in its ranks. I stow away my phone and continue to wait for our bags to appear. I begin to hum the Jeopardy theme song, but Presley elbows me hard to make me quit. Fun murderer.

  “Kentucky was bad, but this,” she says with a lift of her hand in the air. “This is one thousand times worse. How does anyone live down here?” Presley asks, as she stows her phone away, when the carousel begins to buzz, and bags start to appear.

  “Why do you think drinkin’ is one of our favorite pastimes, sugar? Got to do something to forget about the fact we’re meltin' the second we step outside?" A strange voice answers back. A voice that I haven’t heard in person for way too damn long. I spin, only to be hit head-on with a blur of dark hair, belonging to my sister. I lift her up in my arms, while she squeezes my neck tightly.

  “Welcome home, BoBo,” she greets me in a teasing tone, as Presley shoots me a smile. She mouths back my nickname, and I raise my middle finger against my sister’s back. There’s not a lot of things in this world that make me cringe. I mean, hello, I’ve watched an exhaustive amount of D-rated movies and surfed the darkest portions of the web underground, but Remy’s nickname for me is still one of my least favorite things to be called. But I’ll never tell her that. You don’t do that to family, despite how much I really hate it.

  I sit her back down, but her grip doesn’t release from my neck. “Good to be home, Remy, but you’re kind of choking the life out of me, Cher. Where’s Beaux?” She finally relents, taking me in, as she steps back, and I do the same. Seeing Remy in person, is nothing like seeing her on the other side of my laptop. A lingering pang of guilt sucker punches me in the gut. I’ve missed this. She's grown a few inches taller, and her face is far more hardened than I had expected to see. Life hasn’t been easy for her, after her old man died, and it hurt being so far away from her and my former step-mom, especially since they didn't have to take me in, when I found myself homeless after my biological parents died. The guilt of not being able to pay either of them back will always be one of my biggest regrets in life.

  “He’s with mama." She says, releasing me, but then takes notice of Presley. My girl reaches out her hand politely to greet her, but Remy pulls her into a hug. Presley's beautiful eyes grow wide with surprise. I shrug back, watching the two most important women in my life embracing, like this isn’t the first time they're meeting each other. This is a Kodak Moment kind of special. "You're family, sugar. We don't shake hands," Remy's full southern voice drawls. "We hug."

  The hug lingers longer than Presley is comfortable with, and like the man in shining armor that I am, I swoop in to help her. "Remy," I mutter, while breaking her free of her grasp on my girl. She finally takes notice of the obvious discomfort on Presley's face and backs away. "I'm a hugger. What can I say?" She shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

  Remy idly chats away, filling me in about what my step-mom has in store for us on our short trip, as we continue waiting on our luggage. When I called Remy to tell her I was really coming home, she had insisted that she was going to meet us here. It took a lot of convincing and promises to go to a family dinner first thing to even get her to relent on the fact that we would be staying in the Quarter at a hotel. I love my family, but this is our vacation. Being cooped up with Remy, my nephew, and her club sister roommate didn't really scream holiday to me.

  Presley looks as if she’s a deer in headlights with the long list of activities and family functions that Remy rattles off. While my step-sister has definitely grown up, the bossiness I remember from my brief stay with them sure hasn’t changed a bit. No wonder her club is doing so well under her presidency.

  Our bags finally rotate around on the carousel, and I snatch them, before having to play chase the bag. One suitcase for me and two for her, I might add. I lost the great luggage battle of two thousand nineteen, when I suggested only one bag. A rare defeat on my nearly spotless record.

  “Ready to go to family dinner?” Remy asks with a smile. “Mama and Aunt Kitty have been cooking for days. I hope y'all are hungry."

  "Family dinner?" Presley asks, and I cringe. I probably should have mentioned that to her, before we landed. “We aren’t going straight to the hotel first?”

  “It’ll be fine,” I reassure her with a kiss to her temple. “Just my step-mom, aunt, and nephew. Nothing big.”

  Remy pauses and slowly pivots on her heels with guilt clear across her face. "About that…" she trails off. "Mom may have invited the club over, and a couple of the neighbors.”

  “Remy,” I warn her.

  “Sorry, but you know Mom. When you come home, it’s a production. Be happy I talked her out of the parade. She had a Krewe on call. She has to show off her city slicker big shot step-son, when he brings home a girl for the first time.” Presley takes an instant interest in the only part of her revelation. She knew that I wasn’t really that big into dating. Not until her. Why would that be a surprise to know that she’s the first woman I’ve brought home to meet the family?

  “Ex-stepson,” I correct her.

  “Knock that shit off. Ex nothing. You’re family, BoBo, and it’s our southern duty to parade you and your girl around for all of the family to see.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Try and tell Mama differently.”

  Remy had a very valid point. My former step-mom was a force to be reckoned with. When my parents died, I had no one to call family. Ameline Laveau wouldn’t have it. No sooner had my father’s funeral ended, did I find her packing up my things and moving me straight into their house. Remy’s dad, Rene, was upfront with his disapproval about the son of his woman’s ex-husband living under their roof, but Ameline fought him tooth and nail every single time he tried to kick me out. She was all I had, and she protected me like my real mother never did. I’ll always be grateful for her opening her home up to me.

  “Fine,” I relent. “But after dinner, we’re going to the hotel. Do we have a deal?”

  "Deal," Remy says, as she leads us to a black SUV parked in the short-term terminal parking. I grab Presley's bags and load them into the back along with mine. Presley tries to slide into the back seat, but I stop her, insisting she ride shotgun. Seeing New Orleans for the first time, will be far better in the front seat. Remy starts up the car and drives us towards her Aunt Kitty's, where Ameline lives with her. I watch Presley closely from the backseat. Her eyes are wide, as we pass the Superdome. Sports are definitely not her forte, but even she was admiring the dome for all its splendor. After Hurricane Katrina, the Superdome housed so many displaced families. Remy's family and her father's business were spared from the worst of it, but so many others weren't. Even now, years later, the scars from Katrina are still clear as day in the lower ninth ward and also near the Quarter, where the closest thing we have to a world trade center now stands boarded up and abandoned.

  "What's that?" Presley asks, pointing out of the window to the sugar refinery on the north side of the Mississippi River. Remy tells her, providing way too much information for such a simple question.

  “I see how you two are related,” Presley remarks.

  “It’s a southern thing, sugar. You can’t live here without knowing the history. It’s a requirement.”

  A short while later, Remy pulls up to Kitty’s house, parking on the street in front of it. I hop out of the car and open Presley’s door, and she steps out with a smile and pauses, taking in the sights around her. Rows of shotgun and creole cottage style houses line the narrow street along with half a dozen bikes, flanking either side of Remy’s
car. Her club no doubt did indeed come for dinner. Presley’s fingers interlace through mine, when she grabs my hand.

  “Ready?”

  “No turning back now,” she nervously remarks.

  A heavenly breeze of creole spices fills the air, making my stomach groan. Damn, I missed this place, and apparently, so did my stomach. Remy leads us up to the steps to Kitty's modest cottage through a large, black iron fence into the courtyard filled with newspaper covered tables and chairs lined up in three sections. A large stockpot steams under the heat of the fire below it in the left corner near a table, overflowing with colorful pots and plates. Hot damn. If what I think is in that pot, then this is definitely the way to be welcomed back home. Please, please, please let it be a crawfish boil.

  Remy disappears into the house, leaving Presley and I alone outside. Taking the opportunity to check my suspicions, I drag Presley over with me to the simmering pot. Steam wafts off of it, bringing one of the best damn smells to a guy from the south. I take a peek over my shoulder, before grabbing a pot holder and going for the handle. The second the lid moves away I smile. Bingo. Crawfish Boil.

  Presley peeks over my shoulder and down at the meal. “What is that?” Grabbing a spoon from the table beside the pot, I dip it inside, scooping up two crawfish. No harm in sampling the meal. Quality control tests and all that. But before I can whisk away my pilfered bounty, a wood spoon smacks the ladle from right out of my hand and onto the ground with the crawfish in tow.

  “Ain’t nobody taste testin’ this food, until we say grace. You know the rules.” Presley starts to open her mouth, likely to start apologizing for my behavior, but I jump in, before my former step-mom starts in on me again.