BIKER DADDY_The Chain Gang MC

by Claire St. Rose

  "What if he's pissed off because I hung up on him earlier? Callie, put yourself in my shoes."

  "Frankly, I can't."

  Zoya smacked her lips and pulled out her cellphone, scrolling through the call list for the unknown number. She hit redial and put it to her ear, hoping the phone would go to voicemail and save her the embarrassment of having to explain herself, but he answered on the third ring. She nearly spit out the wine she was holding in her mouth. Zoya swallowed abruptly and looked to Callie with worried eyes.

  Callie grabbed the phone. "Hi, Micah?"

  "Yeah, who is this?"

  "It's Callie, from the other night at the biker bar," she replied. "Remember me?"

  "How could I forget? To what do I owe the pleasure of getting a call from Zoya's friend?"

  "The fact that she's sitting over here right now looking like a deer in the headlights at the prospect of talking to you. I've given her wine. I've set the mood. The lights are low. The only thing missing is some smooth R&B, and if you hang on for a second, I can get that going, too."

  "Callie!" Zoya whined. Micah laughed heartily on the other end of the phone. She could hear him. She colored at the sound.

  Callie grinned and continued. "So, I'm gonna hand this thing back to her, and hopefully she gets up the nerve to at least say hello." She grabbed Zoya's hand and closed it around the smartphone, smiling at her stricken expression. Zoya grumbled but put the phone to her ear, as Callie sprung from the couch and cued up the clock radio. In no time, the room was filled with a seductive beat and a soprano voice singing a silky ballad, more to Callie's tastes than Zoya's, but she knew what her friend was trying to do.

  "Hello," she said with a sigh.

  "I thought I recognized your voice earlier when you told me I had the wrong number." She could hear the grin in his speech. Zoya smiled involuntarily. "I told you I don't bite. Did I call at a bad time?"

  "You could say that."

  "Out with a boyfriend?" he asked lightly.

  She giggled softly, settling back on the couch and putting her feet up. Callie grabbed the book she'd been reading and tiptoed out of the room, throwing two thumbs up before she disappeared into her bedroom. Zoya threw a throw pillow after her. "No, I was at my parents' house," she replied.

  "Ah," he said understandingly. "Well, you've made my night. I'm happy you called back. I was just in the middle of drafting a design for work, but I needed a break. So, what's up? Had a good day? I've been thinking about you."

  "I've been...thinking about you, too."

  "Uh huh? Enough to consider going out with me next weekend?"

  Zoya groaned. "Um, next weekend is a really bad time. I've got something planned with my family."

  "I'm flexible," he supplied.

  "Maybe sometime this week?" she asked. She chewed her bottom lip, wondering if she was making a bad decision. She knew if she went out with him, she would be stringing him along. There wasn't a chance they could be anything more than friends, and it was patently clear he was interested in more than a casual friendship. At the same time, she wanted to see him. She wanted the opportunity to really talk with him and get to know him. She was curious about how a guy with a mechanical engineering degree ended up in a biker bar.

  He paused on the other end of the phone. She held it closer to her ear, and she could hear him breathing. Zoya closed her eyes and pictured his face. The thought of him sent shivers through her. She had a bad case. "You know what? This week isn't so good for me either. I've got a lot of work to do for school. I'm—"

  "Chickening out," he said with a chuckle.

  "No!" she protested.

  "Yeah, you are, but it's fine. There's no rush. Just put me on your mind and get back to me when you're ready to make time for me."

  "Wait!" she found herself saying. She couldn't let him hang up the phone like that, not with the ball in her court. She'd never call him back. She had to capitalize on the instant shot of bravado that buoyed her to say her next words. "Wednesday night," she blurted.

  He sounded surprised when he said, "Okay...I'll pick you up at eight. Want to text me your address or should I wait until later, just to give you time to change your mind?"

  She considered. "I guess it's no problem if I send it to you tonight. Long as you promise you won't turn out to be some sort of weird stalker or something." She giggled nervously. It was a possibility.

  "I promise I'm not a stalker. I'm not dangerous to you at all, actually. I couldn't hurt a woman like you if I tried, and I wouldn't try. I like you, Zoya." The words sounded unrehearsed and sent a flurry of activity in the region of her heart. She took a deep, steadying breath and nodded—though he couldn't see her. He was good...real good.

  "Until Wednesday night then."

  "Until then."

  She hung up the phone. When she looked up, Callie was lounging, arms crossed, against the entrance to the living room with a knowing grin. "Well?" she asked.

  "I have a date!"

  "You have an excuse for us to go shopping! Yay!"

  Zoya burst out laughing and got up from the couch. "I've also got more anatomy homework. Oh, I can't believe I let you talk me into calling him back."

  "That's what friends are for."

  Zoya pushed past her to her room so she could get ready for bed. She tried to ignore her fluttering heart, but she couldn't. She hadn't felt this excited in. Ever.

  CHAPTER 4 She counted homework as a loss Wednesday night, unable to focus on a damned thing. However, the hands on the clock continued to speed closer to eight. Zoya started getting ready hours before her date. She had a deep red sweater dress she paired with black leggings and knee length boots, coupled with a long mauve scarf in conjunction with her black hijab. Her plush lips were lightly touched with color, and her eyes were heavily accented.

  Callie squealed with delight when she saw her. "Knock him dead," she stated.

  Zoya tossed back a gulp of wine before her frayed nerves forced her to bow out. She watched the clock with hawk eyes. "What if he stands me up?"

  "Girlfriend, trust me when I tell you the man will be here ahead of time. He's hot for you. I know these things."

  "Don't say hot."

  "He's hawt for you," Callie reiterated with more emphasis.

  Zoya cellphone rang, and she pounced on it. "I'm downstairs." As usual, she felt dizzy at the sound of his voice.

  "I'll be right there," she responded.

  Callie pushed Zoya's clutch into her hands and ushered her to the door. "Remember to call me if anything happens that makes you uncomfortable. I'll be home all night wrestling with this stupid take-home quiz, but I'm available to fly to the rescue if you need me to. I have a feeling you're not going to need me to."

  "If he farts, barfs, or tries to feel me up, I have you on speed dial."

  Zoya rushed out the door and down the elevator to the front lobby where Micah was waiting for her. She almost didn't recognize him, the transformation was that stark. In place of denim and leather, he wore khaki corduroy pants cinched at the hips with a skinny white leather belt, and a coral-colored buttoned shirt was open at the chest to reveal a hint of his tattoos. His dark brown hair was parted and swooped to the right. The translucent blue shades were the only thing from his alter ego still in place on his proud nose. He stood with one hand in his pocket. The other hand held keys.

  His smile was a ray of sunshine in the night when he saw her coming. With pale blue eyes, he scanned her from hijab to black high heeled boots, whistling low and long at the sight of her. The way she walked drew his attention
to her hips. The red dress hugged her curves and tugged at his libido. He understood there were cultural differences between them that required him to be on his best behavior, and he had nothing but respect for that, but it was going to be harder than pulling teeth to act like he didn't notice she was a bombshell.

  "Heaven, help me," he muttered to himself.

  She sauntered up to him and clasped her hands in front of herself, holding a black clutch. Her brown face was radiant. She was prettier than he remembered.

  "Ready?" she asked. He heard the tremor in her voice and knew she was skittish as could be, but he didn't want to make her nervous. He wanted to prove to Zoya he was capable of showing her a good time without compromising her.

  He broached the subject before they headed outside and she saw his mode of transportation and decided to bolt. "Listen," he said, "I got the feeling when we first met that you're not much into physical contact. Did I read you right?"

  "It's traditionally considered indecent for conservative Muslims to act so familiarly, I guess you would call it, with members of the opposite sex that are not related," she explained. "I hope I didn't offend you."

  "No, no, not at all."

  They walked through the lobby doors, and she was presented with the sight of his motorcycle. The beautiful black bike had a fat tail, a sleek front, and small white-walled tires. She didn't know motorcycles, but it looked impressive, and when she glanced at her date, he looked proud of his ride. She also realized what he had been getting at when he mentioned physical contact.

  "Thing is, if you want to ride with me, you're going to have to hang on tight," he said. He rubbed his hands together like he couldn't wait to rip down the highway on the back of the Victory Cross Roads 8-Ball. "Alternatively, we can take your car, if you want."

  He knew she didn't have a clue, but the pricey bike was top of the line, and the modifications he had made to the engine accommodated the somewhat bulky frame, making it built for speed and control. He was willing to fold his tall frame into a car, but he preferred his chrome steed. He grabbed his leather jacket folded on the leather seat and looked at Zoya expectantly. "Ever rode one of these things?"

  "No," she admitted. She took a cautious step toward the bike, her curiosity getting the best of her. It was eye-catching. She could picture him with a ride like this. His grin spread across his face as he gestured to the back of the bike for her to have a seat. "Are you sure it's safe?"

  "I've never had an accident."

  "There's always a first time," she quipped.

  "I will handle you with care. Unless you want the real motorcycle experience," he taunted. "Then, I'll fly you to the moon and back. I'll show you what it's like to walk on the wild side without even getting your shoes dirty."

  "That sounds like an invitation I should decline," she mused.

  She threw her leg across and tried it out. Zoya nodded. It wasn't too bad.

  "That's the spirit," he encouraged. When he handed her a helmet, she put it on her head and it sat up like a top hat. "I think I'm doing it wrong." She giggled. He chuckled and helped her put it on, buckling the helmet underneath her chin and making sure it was properly adjusted before putting on one, himself.

  Micah excitedly hopped on the bike in front of her, savoring the feel of her slender thighs tightening around his hips. She scooted her pelvis back from the base of his spine, and he suppressed a sigh of regret. Her body heat was magnetizing. He clutched the handlebars and held his elbows away from himself, glancing over his shoulder, and she ever so slowly slid her arms around his waist. Lap dances hadn't felt more enticing than the feel of her light grasp. She captivated him with her inhibitions.

  Micah shook his head and took a deep breath. There was a built-in communicator that allowed him to talk with her during the ride. He started the engine, and the muffler made a soothing growl that drew the attention of passers-by. With a grin, he spoke into the helmet. "Keep your arms around my waist. Don't let go."

  "Where are we going?" she thought to ask.

  "It's a surprise. Do you trust me?"

  "I have to, I think," she replied.

  She heard his laughter, as the engine got louder and he hit the accelerator and pushed away from the curb. The tires gripped the pavement, but her stomach flip-flopped as the bike canted to the right and eased into the flow of traffic. He gunned it. The engine roared louder. She didn't know what she expected, but he delivered far more than she was prepared to receive. The wind tearing at her clothes was a surprise. The speed was jaw dropping. Zoya shrieked as he whipped around a car ahead of them and pushed the motorcycle faster.

  "You're in great hands, Zoya. I won't let anything happen to you," he promised.

  "You're going so fast!"

  "It's the only way to ride. Lean forward, relax, and let me show you what I can do."

  The words sounded oddly erotic. Zoya shoved away the images that came to mind. The bike hummed between her legs like a monster, and she squeezed her knees around him. Her arms tightened, and she drew closer, resting her head on his broad back. The world beyond her vizor became a light show of blurred lines. Streets she had traveled for years took on a whole new life, and she wondered if this was what he had meant when he had said he'd show her how to walk on the wild side.

  At first, panic threatened, as she imagined all the things that could go wrong, but he kept the wheels of the bike between the lines of the road. He maneuvered around cars. He zipped, swerved, and made her want to shout. She was shocked to discover she was having the time of her life. She laughed loudly. "This is amazing!"

  "Look up."

  She eased her head back and gazed up at the blue-black sky and the white moon. He was taking her there. Her body was a taut string thrumming to the vibrations. It was beautiful. The feeling was unbelievable. She felt the bike begin to decelerate, and she held him closer. He leaned forward, the bike taking his lead. He leaned to the side, and the bike hugged the curve, easing into a parking lot in front of an upscale restaurant about thirty minutes away from her house. She had seen the place a thousand times and never paid it any attention. On her grad school budget, the menu was on the pricy side.

  When he killed the engine and dropped his booted feet to the pavement to steady the bike so she could disembark, Zoya lingered behind him, not quite willing to let the feeling of flying pass.

  "We're here, princess," he stated the obvious. Micah was glad his helmet hid his face because he was smiling from ear to ear at the feel of her soft body pressed to his own. He figured he should've planned better. There had to be plenty great restaurants a thousand miles away. But, he was on a mission, and he couldn't get beside himself.

  He pulled off his helmet, and she followed his lead. "You saw me at my roughest," he replied. "I want you to get a taste of my more refined side. Brought your appetite with you?"

  His choice of words sent her imagination in the wrong direction yet again. Zoya ducked her head and eased off the back of the motorcycle, biting her bottom lip.

  He confidently ambled to the door and held it for her, leading her to the front desk. "Reservation for Whitfield."

  They were taken to a table tucked away in a corner in front of a massive tinted window that overlooked a glassy lake reflecting the lights of the city. It was enchanting, and the ambience in the place set the right tone. Satiny violins whispered from hidden speakers. Zoya glanced around the rose-colored room at the fabric covered walls and the glossy tiled floor. Their table was hardwood, and their dining chairs were comfortable. It was the little touches that wowed, like the gilded candelabra in the center of the table with orange flames flickering from red candles.

  The menu offered haute French cuisine. She wasn't familiar
with some of the entrées, but Micah politely guided her on what to try, and when the sommelier brought the wine list, he ordered a vintage that paired well with her foie gras. His French was impeccable. She looked at him with surprise. The man was a walking mystery.

  Once they were alone, she peered at him with questions in her light brown eyes. He leaned forward, eager to answer them because he had some questions of his own. Zoya licked her lips, and his gaze followed her tongue. He felt a clutch of desire tighten in his loins. She asked, "What makes you tick?"

  "Hmm," he answered in consideration. "That's a tough one. How about we start with something easier?"

  "I look at you and see a guy who looked right at home in a biker bar. Yet, here you are in a classy restaurant looking as much at ease, probably more so than me. The dichotomy is mind-boggling."