Possessive_A Bad Boy Second Chance Motorcycle Club Romance

by Kathryn Thomas

  I wipe away the beads of sweat that had gathered on my forehead. I’m just about as lit up as I was earlier when I sneaked out for my morning meeting. That’s where I was earlier, with my president, Nico. I’ve been riding with him for a long time now, enough to know I can trust him. Still, I didn’t mention waking up with some new chick beside me or taking her hard and fast on the top of the desk he was working at. I doubt he even noticed how his papers were slightly crinkled and a few of the pens were missing from their storage cube.

  He was too focused on shoptalk. Since we got here, we’ve been doing inventory, reading through the books, and appointing boys to do the heavy lifting while we settled in. Everything has been looking good. The numbers were adding up, and the Bad Devils had a solid business cooking with the bar, sales on the streets, and some ladies working under us. There were some expenses I’d rather not have (like the insane amount we were paying off to the cops to keep the deals sealed), but all in all, not bad.

  But at this morning’s meeting, Nico seemed to have other opinions on the matter. He was uncharacteristically squirrelly and fidgety. He stood up several times to check whether the bar was still locked from the inside. His eyes darted to and from the several security cameras we planted in every part of the hallway. Something was up.

  “There’s talk, man,” he said with a grumble when I pressed him. “These California clubs don’t play when it comes to territory. And from what I’m looking into, some of our boys have been poaching. They’ve been playing chicken with a few of the other MCs in the region.”

  “Chicken?” I asked. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “It means they’ve been doing runs to dealers outside our area and getting caught. A few of them were run out of town, but I’m starting to think there’s more to come than a few guys chasing ours to the next city over.”

  “Fuck. Have you got any threats?” I stumbled back down into one of the leather rolling desk chairs. It squeaks under my weight.

  “Nothing concrete. Just the normal rumblings when new leadership comes in – bunch of fucking bullshit noise – but my haunches are up, and yours should be too. When new guys like us are brought in to run a club, people get real angry. Even Bad Bastard boys might be taking it hard. I want you to keep your ears open and your eyes on the ground. You see anything suspicious, you’ve got my orders to chase after it.”

  “I will.” I swallowed, though the weight didn’t seem like much. I had run my last club’s enforcers and security, so the threat of danger wasn’t much for me to really care about. However, the fact that this feeling and talk was coming from within my new MC was something to be leery of.

  I left that meeting with Nico with my head held down. I reviewed the events of last night – the riding with security to the bar, the drinks with Del, the sneaking off with her… That was a mistake. A filthy fucking good one at the time, but a mistake nonetheless.

  I’m not a guy who does one-night stands. Unlike the other MC boys, I know the risk of giving into what my dick wants. Flying off with the first chick that offers to get on her knees for you makes you vulnerable. Bringing her back home is practically asking for trouble. You’re willing some stranger into your life. You’re giving away info and intel on where you live, what your weaknesses are, and how you perform in heat. Anyone can use that, friends or foes, when you’re in a position of power.

  The women I choose to lay down with are the ones I know I can trust. I vet them properly, and I make sure they’re not working for someone I’d rather not be associated with. Girls with baggage have gotten me in trouble in my past, and I am not about to have another repeat of my ex, Miranda, who basically sold me down the river for a few hits of whatever was being sold on the streets. It’s the reason why I’m exiled to the white trash of L.A. County, to a club that needs all the damn help it can get to keep operations going.

  I grind my head back further into the wall as I think of all the countless ways I’ve gone wrong over the past twelve hours. Nico’s vague warning runs through my brain with the thought that, at any moment, everything could go back to how it was in Colorado before I was transferred out. And I don’t want to go back to that. Ever. I push away those thoughts, and the world goes silent. My head clears. And then, I hear the voices.

  I don’t recognize them at first. Men. Three of them. Maybe four. They’re quietly chatting with one another right outside my motel room’s window, probably oblivious to me being here. How could they know? I parked my bike at the next-door motel’s lot so that it was out of sight. Only my unmarked beater truck is any remains of me from the outside.

  Inside, I keep the lights off and everything silent. I don’t even turn on the TV or radio unless I’ve got security guarding me. Even then, I sit near the door with a gun only an arm’s reach away. The night time is the worst. It would shake a lesser man like me to live like this – always afraid of the dark.

  “Where’d she go? Did you catch her direction?”

  “No, sir. She looked dressed up like she was heading to work.”

  “Those were her clothes from yesterday, you fucking fool,” the first voice, obviously the leader, chides. “The place she works at doesn’t even reopen until happy hour.”

  “So she fucked him?” The group splinters off into a few chuckles, but something must happen because as soon as they start, the few laughs come to a complete halt.

  “I don’t give a damn what she did last night. We need to find out where the fuck she went.”

  It dawns on me who she is. Del. It has to be. She was wearing the same outfit as yesterday – the uniform from the restaurant. And ‘fucking?’ That had to be me. Shit! Nico was right this morning. Someone is watching – if not me, her. But why is she so important? What makes her special? Did she not tell me the whole story last night when we were playing our drinking game?

  I stand up as quietly as I can and grab my boots on my way to the door. As I get myself ready to head out, I listen to them make their plans for the next moves.

  “Home. She’s gotta be going home, sir. Her mom will be there though.”

  “No. Her hair. It was still wet. She was going out or why couldn’t she have showered at home before her shift? I bet we can catch her if we can track down that friend of hers.”

  “Ariel Gordon.” The first voice comes back in. “She lives on Spruce and Main. Get some intel on her house and track where her car goes. If Delilah is going out this early in the morning, she’s going out with her.”

  “Right, sir. We’ve got the tracker over there. I bet he saw some movement if she’s already left.”

  There’s a long pause as the men stand around, waiting for their next instruction. I practically crawl to the window, my gun out and ready just in case I am spotted. Through the thick, striped drapes, I peek out of a small crack in the corner. I was right. Three men, all dressed in leather jackets not dissimilar to what I wear.

  Their club logos are just out of view, covered up by a pole and the rest of their bodies. A small movement from one of them reveals the lines of a tiger or some kind of wildcat. One of the men, the leader, from the way the others crowd around him, wears a black and white bandana around his forehead. His graying beard is the only thing that stands him apart from the rest.

  He motions with his arm to the rest of the boys, and they spring to their feet beside him. He reads off what looks like to be his phone. “They’ve got eyes on her. Moving to the downtown area. Probably meeting her for a meal.”

  “Should we head that way? Try to find her, boss?”

  “Yeah. You two head out in that direction. She’ll probably take the 710. Try to cut her off. Leave no mark unless I say so. I want you back reporting to me by noon.”

  The men nod and watch as their boss heads to an old Chevy on the far side of the lot. When his car’s out of view, they speed off to their bikes. No one’s even bothered to take notice of me. It seems almost impossible that with a mark like me sitting alone in a near-empty motel, Delilah would be more
of an important target for them. There has to be more to this story, and I am not about to let it go down without knowing the truth.

  I continue to watch the two men get on the back of their bikes. They plot out their destinations on their phones – one uses his hands to describe their turns. While I can’t read their damn lips, I get the gist of their order of turns. I repeat it back and forth to myself until it’s memorized. Good thing for me that, while I’m new to this area, I’ve been spending the last few weeks studying every shortcut, side street, back alley, and off-road route I can find. But most importantly, I know the restaurant Del’s heading to.

  Her leaving her cell out let me catch a couple glimpses of the texts she sent to her friend, Ariel. While the men have to guess, I know they’re going to meet at the Pipeline first. Based on the time between when she left and these goons appearing, she’s probably just walking up to her car. I still have time.

  Carefully, I slip out the door, leaving a piece of clear tape on the crack between the door and the frame and a Do Not Disturb sign on the knob. No one should be coming or going, and if they have, I’ll know when I get back. I debate between my bike and my truck. While the bike is much harder to conceal, the truck is harder to navigate. If I’m hunting, I’m going with stealth.

  Bike it is.

  My Harley roars to life as I peel it out of the motel’s lot and towards the Pipeline.

  I ride past the bar’s parking lot slowly and as quietly as I can. Three cars are facing the road, but only one has Ariel in the driver’s seat. She turns her head in my direction as I ride on past her, but she doesn’t seem to register it’s me – just another club guy on his bike out for a morning ride. I circle the block several times until her car is gone and, just like that, I’m a man on a mission.

  My senses tingle as something sparks in me. This is the kind of thing I live for – the chase. Though, at this time, I’m not hundred percent sure who I am chasing after. She has to be about five minutes ahead of me based on the time it took me to round the block. Given that beater she’s riding in, it wouldn’t take long to catch up to her if it wasn’t for L.A.’s insane traffic.

  I end up riding through a cemetery, the bleached white headstones whizzing past me in neat little rows, to avoid several stop signs and a garbage truck on its route. But my detour’s turned me around.

  I pull to a stop near the exit, searching the roads for some signs of which turn I need to take next. Everything looks the same. Same old liquor store. Same old taqueria. Even the civilians – the woman with the baby and the drunk in ripped jeans – look like I’ve passed them a million times before.

  It’s not until I hear the roar of a herd of cycles that I know which direction to take – towards the sound of danger. I follow the echoes of their engines through red lights and stop signs. I take a back alley, narrowly avoiding a parked bus and a cop writing tickets, and just as soon as I lost her, Delilah’s car reappears… and so does the two bikers from before.

  They’re without their leather jackets or colors – they wouldn’t be so stupid to identify themselves outside their territory – but I know it’s them. I can tell by how they slow with her stops, and hang back just out of view of her mirrors, that they are tailing her on purpose.

  Me, I’m not so subtle. Before I peel off, I grab the switchblade from my back pocket. I flip it open as I command the bike to go faster. The rest of the traffic disappears as the four of us, Delilah’s car and the three motorcycles, hit the highway towards the city.

  Past morning rush, there aren’t many other vehicles separating us. I watch their moves and study the way they handle their bikes on some of the turns. As I see one of them struggle to maintain speed on a round route, a plan pops into my mind.

  Up ahead, there’s a bend coming. Delilah’s car slows, and her stalkers follow. But the one on the left hangs back slightly so that he’s out of view of his friend. That’s my target. Instead of slowing down, I take off towards him. He doesn’t even see me coming, but when he does, it’s too late. His head only turns in time to watch me reach across his own bike towards his chest. The silver tip of my knife stabs him till I hit something hard – his leg. Over the noise of the bikes and the road, I barely hear him scream in agony and shock.

  The man ahead of him must see something’s wrong in his mirrors. I skid towards the side, using the slick morning road as a way to duck back into traffic. But ahead of me, the second rider makes another error. The turn is too tight, and his attention fails to follow the winding path.

  Within seconds, he careens into the other driver’s bike. A tangle of machines and men flip into the air and land hard on the roadway as I pass them. I only glance back to see the carnage of the accident. Both men down, neither moving. That’s how I like it.

  Delilah doesn’t seem to register the chaos behind her. Her car keeps on the path towards the restaurant. Two heads bob up and down, glancing at one another as they talk about who knows what. A few times Delilah’s red hair flies out the side of the open window. Her small, pale hand rests on the side of her car. She’s so close, but I’m not about to let her know that I am here, watching her.

  Part of me wants to know what the hell I just risked my life for. Part of me doesn’t want to care as much as I do. The only thing running through my mind as I watch from across the street as she and her friend enter the restaurant is what it would be like to sit in a booth with her, to have breakfast with her, to know what kind of life she led outside the mayhem she’s unknowingly left behind.

  Chapter Five

  Delilah

  “Dammit! This table didn’t tip me! That’s the third one tonight. What the hell is going on?” My voice barely resonates over the loud, stuffy kitchen. No one even bothers to look up from their work. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  The back of a black billfold slaps me in the head – I spin to see Elinor stride past me with a knowing look. “Full moon, Del. Even rich assholes go nuts on full moon nights. You should know that by now.”

  “Shouldn’t that mean they let their inhibitions down? You know, drink more. Tip more. Go nuts. Be one of those people who mysteriously leave a thousand dollars for their poor waitress?”

  “You gotta be kidding me, sweetheart.” She tosses back her long, jet-black hair and adjusts her tight top. She looks me up and down before reaching over to suddenly undo the top buttons of my shirt so that the lining of my lacey bra slips through the opening. “We both know,” she adds with a smile, “that the only way to guarantee the tips we deserve is to give them what they think they deserve. Show a little more of that dewy white skin. Guys like these don’t see natural redheads with their natural bodies every day. You have to make them think you’re offering it.”

  I fidget with the buttons she’s undone as I protest, “I’m not offering it. I would never sleep with one of those jerks out there. They couldn’t pay me to.”

  Elinor leans up against the window of the kitchen door, sneaking a peek at the restaurant’s dining room. For ten o’clock on a Friday, it’s a relatively slow night. Only three servers remain which is usually a good thing – less competition for tables and tips. But on nights that drag, waitressing is more of a curse than a blessing. I rarely make enough to equal out the time spent with the few customers remaining.

  Still, Elinor doesn’t seem phased by this at all. In fact, she looks positively giddy when she turns back to me. “Yeah. Sure, Del. That’s great. But you need to be open to at least giving a show.” She takes my hand and pulls me up towards the window. With a stubby finger pointed to the glass she adds, “You see that table over there? The one with the man in the navy suit? That’s Price Olsen.”

  “Price Olsen? Am I supposed to know that name?” I hate admitting how out of it I am. I rarely see a movie, and I never read those trashy celebrity gossip magazines unless I am with my mom. I work so much and so late that the only TV I catch is the late-night news or early morning infomercials. By L.A. standards, I’m practically a recluse shut-in.

  E
linor knows this about me. We’ve worked together for over a year now, but that still doesn’t stop her from rolling her huge brown eyes at me with a deep, long sigh. “Come on, Del. Price Olsen is a huge movie producer. He’s worked on just about everything, which means he has money for anything.” She thinks for a second and then says excitedly, “You know, I don’t need this table. You take him. Flirt with him. See what happens. I bet you’ll get enough cash from him to make up for the shitty tables you had earlier.”

  I glance back at the table. Two men, both dressed in those heavy business suits that look so uncomfortable on most guys, lean back casually in the booth. The man in blue stretches out his arm to take up even more space. Something about him skeeves me out. Even without seeing his face or hearing his voice, a little bit of me is none too eager to attend to him – especially in the way Elinor is suggesting.