Riot (Rebel Riders MC Book 2)

by Zahra Girard

  I frown.

  “Yeah, I told her,” I say, turning to Red. “I used to do security and crowd control for some bands when I was first patching into the club and needed some side money. There was a riot, once. I was caught up in it. That’s how I got the name.”

  Thrash laughs and shakes his head. “That’s not it,” he says.

  “Sure as shit is,” I insist.

  “Oh, Red, you’re in for a treat,” Thrash says. “Grab your drink and settle in.”

  “This should be fun,” Red says, giving me a shit-eating grin.

  “Wait, wait. If you’re getting into story time, I’m going to need more than this wine,” Alice says, standing up and waving to Banshee. “Banshee, can you send a Manhattan over here? We’re about to embarrass Riot.”

  “I love when he blushes,” Banshee yells back, then she quickly whips up the drink and brings it over. “It’s on the house, dear. And Riot, don’t be embarrassed, your dimples are fucking cute.”

  “Yeah, you’re fucking adorable, Riot. I just want to pinch your cheeks,” Duke yells.

  “Go to hell, Duke,” I yell.

  “Now, everyone, gather round and hear the story of how my brother earned the name ‘Riot’,” Thrash says, clearing a throat and then theatrically taking a sip of his beer. “Our story begins a little over a decade ago. Our hero, known then by the name ‘Mark’, was nothing more than a prospect of the Rebel Riders MC. Mark needed money because being a prospect doesn’t pay for shit, so he took up working security at concerts. Now, Mark had a bit of a temper back then, the way young men do when they feel like they have something to prove. He also wasn’t the best at reading comprehension, because he preferred to spend his time in high school stealing cars and starting fights instead of attending English class. One night, he was working a gig for a famous underground punk band called ‘The Spits’. I was there, too, but I was busy bouncing at the back entrance and keeping the groupies in line. Mark, however, he was right in the mix of it.”

  “Uh-oh,” Red whispers and, grinning, she takes a sip of her whiskey. “I think I see where this is going.”

  “You’ve heard of ‘The Spits’?” Thrash says.

  “A bit, yeah,” Red says. “They’re kind of famous. For spitting.”

  “Well, Mark hadn’t heard of them. He thought it was just a fucking name. Young Mark didn’t know that a band called ‘The Spits’ would live up to that name during their concerts. My brother, standing there right next to the stage and doing his best to keep the rowdy crowd from getting out of control, took a faceful of PBR straight from the lead singer’s mouth.”

  “Oh… oh no…” Red says, and she’s trying to look shocked, but she’s not really pulling it off as she’s giggling into her whiskey.

  “Mark didn’t like that. Not one bit. His face got redder than your hair, there was this big old vein that was throbbing on his forehead, and he let out a yell that I heard even from where I was way back in the club. He charged up on stage and knocked the lead singer right out,” Thrash says. “His scream of ‘You beer-spitting son of a bitch’ could be heard for miles.”

  “Oh, shit, Riot, did you really?” Alice says, giggling.

  I nod. “That son of a bitch deserved it. He singled me out.”

  “What happened next?” Red says. “This hardly sounds like a riot.”

  Thrash clears his throat and I just keep quiet and wave for Banshee to bring me a new whiskey. Mine seems to have emptied itself and I think I’ll need at least a few more glasses before this story’s over.

  “Settle down and let me finish. There was a riot,” Thrash says. He has a colossal shit-eating grin on his face. “The crowd went out of control, and it was Mark against the band…”

  “Oh my God, Riot… The whole band?” Red’s eyes are twinkling as she looks at me. She is loving every second of this story.

  “I gave as good as I got,” I say.

  But my attempts to defend myself fade as Thrash lets out a giant guffaw.

  “Riot got picked up by the drummer and the bassist and thrown right into the middle of the world’s angriest mosh pit. It took a few minutes before I could get to him and, by the time I did, they’d worked him over pretty bad. They broke some of his ribs and ripped his shirt and his jeans to shreds. I drove him to the ER with his bare ass hanging out. When we checked him in, under cause of injury we just wrote ‘Riot’. And it’s stuck ever since.”

  “You know, now that I think about it, maybe the nickname ‘Red’ isn’t so bad,” Emma says. She’s smiling in a way I haven’t seen before and it looks downright beautiful. She even looks more relaxed, like she’s finally settling into her surroundings and getting over her apprehension at meeting the MC.

  “Yeah, count yourself lucky,” I say. “I’m still banned from that club.”

  “I can’t believe I haven’t heard that story before,” Alice says.

  “That’s because we only tell it to family,” Thrash says.

  My eyes look across the table and find Red’s looking right back at me. They’re shining brighter than I’ve ever seen. Her hand reaches out and takes mine. She gives it a tight squeeze.

  Maybe we are getting somewhere.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emma

  “Sorry to say, I got you beat, Red,” Creole says, setting down his poker hand in front of me with utter, indomitable confidence.

  It’s a straight. King high.

  Our onlookers let out an ‘ooh’ and Creole looks about ready to sweep the pot into his pockets.

  I stare back at him, unfazed.

  Then I lay down my cards.

  “Son of a bitch, Creole, Red’s got you fucking whipped,” Rooster exclaims. “Last time I saw a woman lay a beatdown on a man like that was Duke and his ex.”

  I’ve got a flush.

  Creole just nods, and I bring the pot towards me. There’s got to be at least six hundred dollars in cash here. This is all going straight into my bank account as soon as I get out of here; I’ve got bills to pay.

  Once I get out of here, that is.

  But I’m not ready to leave, yet.

  Despite what I thought initially, I’m having a good time. The whiskey is flowing freely, every part of me is tingly-drunk numb, and all the guys around me are incredibly welcoming. It truly feels like a family.

  Even though some of them have a bit of an asshole streak, like Rooster. Or a ‘drunk and angry’ streak like Duke, who is still shouting at the television.

  But even those two guys have their good qualities. And when they step even a bit out of line, Banshee’s usually there to knock some sense back into them.

  “I haven’t lost that bad in years,” Creole says, still staring at the hand in front of him.

  “Bullshit, Creole, I don’t think you’ve ever lost that bad in your life,” Rooster says.

  He shakes his head. “One time. That time was worse, too. Bout ten years ago, I was on a riverboat on the Mississippi, playing cards with this old Triad guy. Beat me bad enough I was down to wagering’ my thumbs. Lost those, too.”

  “You still have your thumbs, Creole,” I say.

  He nods. “I talked him out of taking my thumbs. Said I’d owe him a favor. ‘Course, when he came to claim it, I wound up wishing he’d taken my thumbs instead.”

  “What’d he want?” I say.

  “That’s a story for another time, love,” he says. “Another time and a whole lot more whiskey.”

  I shake my head and take a drink. There’s something dark about Creole, like he’s been to those dark places on earth and seen the kind of things that are only whispered about in shadowy corners where no one’s listening. Which is probably why he’s the club’s enforcer.

  “Looks like you’re buying drinks,” Riot says, as he watches me shove the massively thick wad of bills into my purse.

  “No way, Mark,” I say, relishing his flinch. “You dragged me here, you’re paying for the drinks.”

  “Fine, as long as you keep t
hat name off your lips for the rest of the night. I’m Riot. Even my mother calls me that.”

  Night? It was daylight when we got here. Have I really been here that long?

  Time has been flying so fast.

  This is the most fun, the most free, I’ve felt in forever.

  I’m seeing this whole new side to him and the rest of the men in his MC. They’re tight-knit and even when they’re cursing each other, or threatening to kick each other’s asses over a hand of poker, there’s still real, familial love to everything they do.

  I’m starting to realize I’ve missed having this in my life. The closeness, the feeling of having a giant, semi-dysfunctional, but fiercely loyal and loving family.

  I’m starting to realize I was wrong about Riot.

  And I’m starting to open myself up to the idea that maybe getting closer to him isn’t something I should be afraid of. He’s done so much for me already, and now, all these guys around me are going to be risking their lives to help me out.

  I blink my eyes back to focus and realize Riot’s been looking at me, smiling, this whole time while I’ve been drunkenly trying to figure out what time it is.

  I smile back at him.

  Something takes hold of me as I look at him. Maybe it’s the whiskey, maybe it’s the thought of how hot he looked earlier in the day, shirtless and sweating, or maybe it’s the way he’s been looking at me ever since we met. Hell, maybe I’m drunk and in the mood to tease him… but I get closer to him and hop up on my tiptoes to bring my lips right up to his ear.

  “You want me to keep your real name off my lips? Then maybe you better give me something else to do with them,” I whisper.

  I mostly meant it to be a joke.

  He doesn’t take it that way.

  His chest literally rumbles with pleasure as seizes me, pulls me close, and devours my lips with his own.

  My heart leaps in my chest as our kiss jumps from a silly joke to incredibly real in the space of a blink. His kiss is strong, assertive, powerful and I know that I can’t fight the way he’s stirring me up inside — I’m going to give in.

  I can’t fight what my body’s screaming for.

  He kisses me, I kiss him back, my hands grip his powerful shoulders while I hold on for dear life and all around us the men and women in the clubhouse start hooting and hollering.

  A rush floods my body; excitement and heat surge through me and I lean into the kiss. His tongue parts my lips and his hands slide down my back to grip my ass.

  Then he dips. Just a small amount, just enough to get his hands all the way under me and pick me up.

  He lifts me like I’m weightless.

  I keep my lips on his, my legs wrapped around his waist, my eyes shut, as he carries me through the clubhouse.

  “We’ve got apartments in the back,” he rumbles into my ear.

  “I figured,” I answer. “Take me?”

  “About fucking time,” he rumbles.

  I can’t help but agree.

  I’ve fought it, I’ve tried to deny this, but I want it.

  I want to see him towering over me; I want to feel him take me; I want to hear him moan as we explore each other’s bodies; I want to taste him; I want to be tasted.

  Our lips don’t break for a second as he carries me up a flight of stairs set back behind the bar. They’re rickety wooden things, and they creak with every step, like a wooden cheer for what we’re about to do.

  My heart is thudding with excitement and I am already soaking wet.

  I’ve held myself back from this too long.

  I’ve kept myself from enjoying something that I’ve known I’ve wanted, all because of some stupid fear.

  Taking one hand from my ass, Riot throws open a door to one of the club’s apartments and carries me inside.

  I fall backwards onto a soft bed, the mattress squealing in protest under our weight.

  Riot’s lips leave mine and nibble around my neck.

  My body sizzles at his attention; the sensation of his stubble against my skin, the force of his lips, the wanderings of his fingers down my body.

  “I need to see you,” he murmurs.

  I sit up and he takes hold of my t-shirt, pulling it up and off my head, his face diving to my chest the second my bare skin meets the air. He barely pauses to unclasp my bra before lavishing attention on my breasts. I gasp as his tongue finds my nipple, as his lips embrace my tits.

  I clutch at his head, pulling him to me.

  “You are so fucking sexy,” he says as he kisses my breasts. “The second I saw you, I was fucking entranced. All I could think about was that moment where I’d finally get you in my bed.”

  “You don’t need to flatter me. You’ve already got my tits in your mouth,” I laugh.

  “It’s the fucking truth. I saw you and I thought ‘how the fuck can a woman that beautiful be fucking real?’”

  I look down at him, and though there’s a glint in his eyes as he kisses lower down my torso,

  I don’t hear a hint of humor in his voice.

  He honestly believes I’m that beautiful.

  It’s almost enough to make me feel uncomfortable; a brutal, powerful man like this, gushing over how sexy he thinks I am.

  His fingers unhook the buttons to my jeans and crook around the waistband.

  “I need to see the rest of you,” he says.

  In one swift pull, panties and all, I’m bare in front of him.

  “God damn, you’re fucking sexy,” he whispers. His hands brush me between the legs, sending a tingle up my body. Those same fingers go to his mouth. “And you taste good.”

  I blush. Then clear my throat and look pointedly at him. “Your turn.”

  He grins, and off goes his shirt. Abs, pecs, biceps, and triceps, all perfectly sculpted from his hard life, from his time in the ring, from kicking ass for the club. He’s a marvel of muscles and he’s staring right at me, naked lust in his eyes.

  “Keep going,” I whisper. I can feel myself salivating at the sight of him. He’s just so fucking ripped.

  His pants come off.

  And my breath catches in my throat.

  His cock strains against his boxers; thick, long, mouthwatering.

  My eyes glance up at his.

  I’m eager. Excited. Anticipating the feel of him inside me. In my mouth. Between my legs.

  “Can I?”

  “Suck it.”

  Just the words I want to hear.

  I slither forward on the bed, pull his boxers down, and tentatively take hold of it.

  I think I need both hands.

  I pause for a moment, holding it gently in my fingers, feeling the throb and pulse of his heat. My eyes venture up his body, crossing his chiseled eight-pack, his powerful pecs that sit like slabs of granite muscle on his chest, up to his face.

  We lock eyes.

  I open my mouth.

  And I wrap my lips around his cock, starting with a gentle kiss head. I caress the base with my tongue and I shiver at the moan that erupts from him. It’s deep, a surging pleasure that he can’t contain.

  I keep going. Sucking. Kissing. Worshiping his thick cock.

  I’m doing that to him.

  I’m making this man feel so good.

  I take him deeper, letting him thrust a little to fill my throat.

  I don’t take my eyes off him; I take my time, licking, sucking, stroking, pleasing.

  “God damn, Red.”

  His voice, run-through deep with pleasure and desire, makes me take him deeper, makes my skin tingle with lust, makes my pussy wet with anticipation.

  I want all of him.

  I relax my throat, I swallow, I take him all the way and I shiver as I watch him toss his head back and groan. He can’t hold it back, he can’t contain how good I’m making him feel; his hips start rocking, thrusting more into my throat while I suck and swallow him.

  He takes me by the hair and pulls me away from his cock.

  I look up at him and arch an e
yebrow.

  He grins, dimples prominent in his cheeks. “Can’t let you make me shoot so soon, Red. You’re even better than I imagined.”

  “That so?” I smile at him.

  “Sure as fuck is,” he says. “Nothing comes close to you, Red.”

  He pushes me back on the bed and lies down between my legs, kissing up my thighs and running his tongue around my pussy, leaving me aching for him to go just a little further, just a little closer, to give me one slow caress of his tongue.

  But he’s going to tease me.

  Draw it out.

  Touch and kiss me everywhere except where I want it most.

  And then it happens.

  Just a touch of his tongue, a swift caress that sends shivers and ecstatic sensations surging in my synapses, that overwhelms and electrifies.

  My thighs clamp on his face and a moan claws its way up my throat.

  One hand, then another, grabs hold of my thighs and parts them.

  “Lie back. Let me taste you,” he growls.

  I’d answer, but his tongue touches me again, and words become far too difficult to form.

  He’s gentle when he needs to be, and he listens to my moans, to the eager rhythm of my hips, to the urgent rise and fall of my chest, to my plaintive whispers and to the silent prayers to his skilled tongue.

  All this to please me.

  All this to make the world around me fall away.

  Until it’s just me and him.

  And his tongue.

  Until electricity lights my body, until fire burns inside me, until I’m wrapping my fingers in his dark blonde hair uttering a gasp for him to keep going just like that, until I’m gazing into his intense blue eyes, seeing the ecstasy playing across my face in my reflection.

  Then the world falls away.

  Searing and sudden.

  I cling to him as pleasure overtakes me. A white-hot sensation that subsumes my everything and, when it fades, it leaves me shivering at its absence.

  My breath comes haltingly back to me.

  My limbs protest at every movement.

  I could lay underneath him forever.

  “That was…” I pause, trying to combine letters into syllables into words in my head. It’s hard. “Wow.”