Biker Daddy (A Rogue Tide Motorcycle Club Romance)

by Nikki Wild

  "You'll see," I said. "When he gets around to you. His bark is worse than his bite."

  "Not gonna happen," Alyona laughed. "Pimp out his precious little Aly? He'd rather keep me in a jar like one of those bonsai kittens."

  "Those aren't real, you know," I said, now studying my shoe collection.

  "White pumps," Aly said.

  "He's just waiting until I'm married," I went on. "Then you'll be swimming in stand-up guys like Dmitri. Did I tell you how he bragged about tying his younger brother's shoelaces together and making him fall face-first into dog shit?"

  "Heartwarming little bit of childhood nostalgia," Aly observed.

  "No, this happened last month," I said. She cackled, rolling on the bed - and nearly over my dress. I snatched it away and slipped it over my head before she could wrinkle it.

  "So, you gonna tell this one?"

  Ah, the question of the lifetime. The one thing about dating Bratva men is not having to explain the Bratva. I'd learned early on that guys outside the mob have a hard time with a girl whose last name is synonymous with curb stomping. The kinds of guys I dated tended to know who my family was, even if they weren't involved. After all, you couldn't take two steps into the black market without running into one of our goons.

  "No," I said, sighing myself into those white pumps. "Not this one. Not now, at least."

  Aly had abandoned her phone and was watching me begin my make-up routine.

  "So does Alexei even know you're going on this date?" I could hear a low-level anxiety creeping into her voice and it broke my heart. Alyona had always needed protecting. As a kid, she was constantly the one who let the older kids pick on her without even trying to stand up for herself. I loved her beyond the moon and stars, but she was meek. She was like a little rabbit, and Uncle Alexei, with his penchant for vodka, temper tantrums, and violence, was a butcher. Sure, he doted on his youngest niece, but only when he was in a good mood.

  "Aly," I said, spinning around with one eye finished. "I didn't tell Alexei because it's none of his business. He runs the family, but he doesn't run me. I wish you could understand that. We don't need to be afraid of him."

  "How could you say that when..."

  Aly's voice trailed off, the way my own would have if I were the one to mention it. Between my brother, my sister, and I, we had a hard time saying the words we feared. Saying them was dangerous in a way thinking them was not. But we were siblings, so we had our own kind of language to talk about the thing we couldn't talk about.

  "Daniil is older now," I said. "He wouldn't let anything happen."

  "Daniil doesn't have a horde of ruthless gangsters at his beck and call," Aly muttered.

  "So what's the solution then, Aly?" I snapped, frustrated not by her but by the truth of what she was saying. The fact that I couldn't protect her. Neither could Daniil. We couldn't really protect each other, or ourselves. "Just do whatever Alexei says, whenever he says it? Give him our lives to live for us? Aly, he's not going to...because I go on a date with a guy he doesn't like. I'm not going to try and Rasputin the guy, but he can't stop me from living a normal life."

  "I just don't think he'll like it," Aly said, not looking very convinced. I managed a smile and leaned onto the bed beside her. I grabbed her face and smushed it, the way I used to when she was much, much younger. She grunted and squirmed, annoyed, but I held tight.

  "Then let's not tell him," I said, and gave her a peck on the lips before releasing her.

  "What if he asks?" Alyona rubbed her cheek, pouting.

  "Why would he ask?"

  "He could see you, or someone could..."

  "Okay, that's enough," I said, getting to my feet. "You can sit here and worry all you want. There's plenty of chips and dip in the kitchen for you to worry-eat your way into Type 2 Diabetes."

  I started for the door, ready to wait on the stoop for my date just to avoid my sister's nervous energy.

  "You only did one eye," she said when my hand was on the door handle. I groaned and stomped back to the vanity. Aly hopped up from the bed and ruffled my hair, smirking at me in the mirror; she was getting ballsier with age, it was true. I swatted her hand away. "And I much prefer to binge on ice cream. It's Daniil who inhales Lay's. You're losing your touch, little mother."

  She waved her hand at me as she left the room, and soon I heard the ambient noise of reality TV streaming in from our living room. I studied my half-finished make-up job, sighed, got back to work. Pushing away thoughts of car crashes and uncles and scared little sisters. Focusing on looking good for a good-looking man; his image came through my mind as a vision and I smiled.

  Watch out, Mr. Big Bad in leather, I thought, sliding my eyeliner across my skin to make a wing. You don't know what you've gotten yourself into. I stand up to Alexei Maximovich on the regular; I'm gonna chew you up and spit you out.

  Chapter 6

  Sinner

  "You gonna tell her?"

  I was having a beer before my date with Lucy. Tusk was playing bartender while Boots raised hell in the backroom with Train. Boots was our official bartender, and Train's official old lady. They fought as hard as they fucked, much to our group frustration. Whether you were listening to her high-pitched screeching or his low-pitched grunting, you were sure to get a headache and a nasty picture in your head.

  "Probably not," I said. We were talking about if I'd wear my cut on the date, if I'd tell the girl that I was a Tide. It wasn't anything that embarrassed me, but if you wanted to make it with an outside girl, you had to play your cards right. Choose what to tell her, and when.

  A lot of girls thought the tattoos, the leather jackets, and the bikes were sexy - but once they realize you were in a club, that you lived the life, they got scared and ran. And whether this chick was going to be a one-night stand or a couple-of-weeks thing, I didn't want to blow my chance by scaring her off immediately.

  Frankly, as long as I got between those creamy thighs of hers, I didn't give a damn if she never knew.

  "What kind of name is Lucya?" Tusk said, glancing at the door like he was counting down the seconds until Boots came back and he could go back to the side of the bar he was comfortable on.

  "Fuck if I know," I said. "Sounds Italian or something. She told me to call her Lucy."

  "That's a good one," Tusk said. "You can do a lot with Lucy. Like the TV show. 'Lucy I'm home' and all that shit."

  "I think she's probably had enough of that in her life," I observed, wondering how Tusk ever managed to get laid at all. "I'll stick to dropping hints about my equipment."

  "Hints, or warnings?"

  I chuckled. At the other end of the bar, Hoff was engaged in behavior his old lady would find very inappropriate, with a girl that was too young for him. In fact, she looked too young, period. Some of the girls who hung around us looked like they were 14. I didn't like that. Another way being a dad had ruined me, I guess. Now I couldn't see some young piece of flesh without wondering if her Daddy knew where she was.

  I looked back at Tusk.

  "She was good with my kid," I said. "I liked that."

  "You liked Danielle, too," Tusk observed.

  "I liked Danielle because she was good at dancing on a pole," I countered. "That's a little different."

  "All I'm saying is, I'd think one run-in with the full force of female insanity was enough," Tusk said. "I don't want to see you trying to make shit serious with another woman. They're not worth it."

  Danielle had taught me plenty about how far you could trust a woman: less than they could throw you. And the quicker they get you liking them, the worse off you were. I already had a good feeling about Lucy. I would make sure that good feeling ended once I got her into bed.

  And I was definitely going to wrap up this time.

  "And keep your dirty hands off my receipts! If you can't account for where you were two nights ago, how am I supposed to trust you to account for my goddamn bar?!"

  "It ain't your bar!"

  "Like hel
l it ain't!"

  Boots came swinging around the corner like a pissed-off Malibu Barbie. She was about as tall as Barbie, too.

  "Tell him, who's bar is this?" She demanded, voice loud enough to get Hoff's attention away from the mouth working between his legs. We all stared at Boots, not one of us knowing how to answer. Sure, she was our only bartender and our only accountant, and she was in charge of everything from buying the booze to keeping our books clean, but she was also fighting with Train, who was our President. Siding with her would get him pissed at us. Siding with him would get us forced sobriety for at least a week.

  "Don't answer that!" Train let us off the hook, roaring his way around the corner. "Woman, you're getting on my last nerve. Talking to me that way...I'm the fucking President of the fucking club, and when I say I want to see the bar book, I want to see the bar book!"

  "You'll see the bar book when you tell me where you got that rug burn!"

  "Shit, it ain't rug burn. It's fuckin'..."

  Train realized he had an audience and growled.

  "You know what it is. Same shit it was last winter, and the winter before that."

  "I know what your eczema looks like," Boots harped, pushing Tusk out from behind the bar and grabbing my empty glass at the same time.

  "No more for me, Bootsy," I said, getting to my feet. "I got a date to be late for."

  "You got a date?" Boots grinned, flipping from pissed to prying as quick as a fresh engine turns. "Finally. She a club girl, or...?"

  "No," I said firmly.

  "Good," Boots said. "Club girls are no good. Give you too much drama, and probably the herp. You need to get yourself a nice little sugar baby. Or sugar babysitter. Get that little girl away from Danielle and back where she belongs..."

  Boots had it bad for my daughter, and she was probably Danielle's current arch nemesis.

  "It's just a date," I said. "All I want out of it is a reason to use the Trojan in my wallet."

  Boots pouted. Train had his arms crossed and was leaning against the doorjamb.

  "Hear fuckin' hear," he said. "Women give you nothing but a handful of grief and a forkful of shit."

  "What?" Boots turned. "What'd you say, big man?"

  My cue to leave. I rapped on the bar in lieu of saying goodbye, and stopped off in my room to grab a long-sleeve shirt. A nice one. I was taking her to a nice place, because she did seem like a nice girl. Or maybe all girls in pink scrubs look nice.

  Anyway, she could be as nice as she wanted, but if I had my way she'd be turned naughty by the end of the night. And then we'd see how long I let her stay, nice or naughty or any other way she could turn out to be. The only thing I knew for sure is she wouldn't turn out to be permanent. I couldn't afford the risk of another Danielle. One was more than enough.

  Chapter 7

  Lucya

  "I, uh...I still don't get it," I said, looking around the dining room and listening to the distracting sizzle of meat. "Why are we paying to cook our own food?"

  "Because it's impressive when a man can afford to pay to grill his own steak," Sinner grinned. "And because it shows off his cooking skills, which I understand are highly valuable to the female of the species."

  "Ha," I laughed. "Well, maybe that's true...but you know, I really do just prefer a man who likes to eat out."

  I was studying the menu, and barely registered my own double entendre. When it hit me, I almost got whiplash looking up at Sinner to try and do some damage control.

  "I mean, literally," I said. "I just...there's less dishes. A guy cooks for you, you end up doing dishes..."

  His grin wasn't letting me off easy.

  "Either way," he said. "You're in good hands, baby."

  Since there was no covering it, I went with it. Leaning back, I let my eyes narrow and licked my lips.

  "Alright," I said. "One check in the good column."

  "What's that bring my score up to?"

  "Oh, I can't tell you that," I said. "Then you'd just start strategizing, and where's the fun in that?"

  "Who says I haven't already started strategizing?" He gave me a cocky grin.

  "On a date with a girl like me? Yeah, you'd better have a strategy in place. Wouldn't want me getting away, now would you?"

  He studied me, gray eyes a flash in the candlelight. His grin was losing steam, but I kind of liked where it was ending up. He looked good when he was being serious. My stomach did an uncharacteristic leap as he leaned in.

  "No," he said. "I certainly wouldn't. Not before I..."

  "Have we had enough time to study the menu?"

  Nice timing, I thought, looking up at our waiter. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what Sinner wanted to do to me before I got away, but it would have been nice to hear it in that sexy, rough voice of his. Like a rough ride over a bumpy road, with an engine between your legs, teasing out pleasure you were unable to stop.

  "I believe we have," Sinner said. "I'd like the bone-in ribeye. With macaroni and cheese."

  "Bacon-wrapped filet," I said when the waiter turned to me. "Also macaroni and cheese."

  "Oh," Sinner said. "In that case, I'll have the cole slaw."

  I cocked an eyebrow. He shrugged.

  "No sense in both of us ordering the same side," he said. "When we can both have a little of each other's."

  "You're assuming I'd give up any of my precious macaroni and cheese? For a man I just met? I don't see a ring on this finger, so you have no side dish rights."

  He laughed.

  "I'll have the cole slaw and the macaroni and cheese," he said, handing the waiter his menu. "And Texas toast for an appetizer?"

  I nodded. Garlicky, but good. If he wasn't afraid of what might happen when - if - we kissed later, I wasn't going to be, either. Bobby bowed slightly before disappearing to put our order in, leaving me to study Sinner over the candles once more.

  "Sorry about that," I said, grinning a bit to show that I wasn't sorry at all. "I'm very defensive when it comes to my cheeses."

  "Fair enough," he said. "I shouldn't have been so presumptuous."

  "Ooh, now there's an SAT word," I teased. "I love a man with a big...vocabulary."

  He laughed. "Then you'll love me. I've got a dictionary."

  I was liking this. The wine we'd ordered when the server sat us down and took our beverage orders finally arrived, but we barely needed it to lubricate the conversation. We were already talking tattoos and childhood pets when the appetizer hit the table.

  "Yup, that's the only one," I laughed. "I was 18, and...well, she was a very good dog."

  "And where is this paw print?" Sinner asked.

  "Hmm," I mused. "To tell or not to tell?"

  "Why? Are you going to let me find it for myself?"

  "Maybe," I said. "But come on. Your turn. Least favorite ink."

  "Ah," he said, eyes glancing upward as he thought it over. "Probably this one."

  He brought his massive forearm to the table; he rolled up his sleeve to reveal a rather elaborate illustration. A man on a horse stood facing away from the viewer; windmills towered on a hillside in the distance.

  "Oh," I said. "Don Quixote. That's a great book. What's there to be ashamed of?"

  "My friends aren't particularly literate," he said, sliding his sleeve back down. "The words they use to describe book-readers aren't politically correct. I catch a lot of flak for it."

  "That's stupid," I said. "Having a hobby that requires a brain is, what, ‘gay’? Sounds like you need better friends."

  His eyes flashed, and for a second I felt his energy change. Like a huge stone wall ripped up through the earth between us. It was gone a second later, but I'd learned a valuable lesson. Don't mess with Sinner's friends. Got it.

  "It's not the reading," he said. "It's enjoying the reading so much you'd get a tattoo from a book. Tattoos are for pin-ups, panthers, and devils. Maybe Mom, if yours was alright. An old lady's name if you think she'll stick around. Not scenes from Spanish literature."


  "So...why Don Quixote? Why the windmills?"

  "I don't know," he shrugged. "It's gutsy. Fuck what anyone else says, if you see giants, you go ahead and fight them. Real screw-the-world kinda thing. He was an alright dude, just a little touched. You gotta love that, right?"

  I nodded. It was my turn to study him.

  "Interesting," I said to truncate the silence.

  "Good column, or bad column?"

  "Good column," I said with a laugh. "Very good column."

  He grinned at me over his wine.

  "To being a little crazy, and not caring," I said, offering him my glass to clink. He took the bait, head cocked to the side.

  "Fuck the world," he said as our glasses chimed in contact. This was going well. Very, very well. Well enough that I thought I might have to think about what I'd tell Uncle Alexei, after all. This guy made me want to play hard - and play for keeps.

  Chapter 8

  Sinner

  "Can't cook for shit," I said. "I think that's a check in the bad column."

  She faked a gasp of intense pain, and shoved my shoulder. She couldn't move me an inch, but I swayed a little bit just to play along.

  "You cad! I can cook just fine. It's your fault for telling that story. How was I supposed to concentrate while trying to imagine you in a rainbow clown wig?"

  "Okay," I laughed. "Fair enough. But I won't believe you can cook until I see it for myself."

  Her eyebrows rose but she was smiling. Shit. That dress she wore was bright red against her pale skin, her black hair falling over the tight little sleeves, drawing the eye down to her cleavage. Now that she was standing, I could admire the way that dress fell above her knees, a hint of shadow under its flowing pleats. She looked like fucking Snow White.