BIKER DADDY_The Chain Gang MC

by Claire St. Rose

  "Oh my freakin' god!" Callie shouted in amazement. "Jesus H. Corpus Christi, what did he do to you? He gave you wings. He's some type of kickass sorcerer dude wielding his magic wand!"

  "Okay, stop it," Zoya said with a laugh.

  Callie walked around her best friend, trying to spot the changes. She could see them now that she was looking, little differences. Zoya had a glow about herself that hadn't quite been there before her weekend away with the biker, like she had gotten a good schooling on what it meant to be a woman, and Callie was blown away. She waved her hands in front of her face and shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. "So, what about your mom and dad?"

  Zoya turned away, twisting her fingers nervously. "I have no idea. I have to tell them. I have to get up the nerve some kind of way and let them know I can't be with a man like Javid. I mean, I care about Micah, Callie. I really, really care about him."

  "Yeah, no shit." Callie giggled. "Sounds like the perfect speech to start rehearsing. It's Monday. Think you can have it all together by Saturday when you go over to their house for dinner?"

  "Please, don't rush me, friend. I'm a walking bundle of nerves right now. I can't even focus. I can barely believe it happened. But, it did. More than once. Kind of all weekend."

  "TMI," Callie pumped the brakes.

  Zoya blushed and continued, "The hardest hurdle to cross is probably going to be my brother, but I think if I can make him understand that my heart tells me this is right, then he might be able to accept it."

  Callie scrunched up her nose doubtfully. From everything she knew about Zoya's family, she was sure the love-struck girl was probably underestimating the repercussions of her actions, but she was proud of Zoya for taking initiative. What could they do? Ex-communicate her? "Take it one person at a time. You tell your mom while you're helping her get dinner together. If she doesn't pull out a steak knife and chop you into pieces, it might be safe to move on to your dad. I don't know. You got any Kevlar?" she joked.

  Zoya went into her bedroom to relive every second of her weekend alone with Micah, feeling like a new creature, like someone ethereal and barely there. Her body was present, but her mind was wherever he was. Was this love? She scoffed at the notion. At best, it was an infatuation fueled by mutual attraction.

  Micah had dropped her off at her apartment Monday morning on his way to work, their weekend having extended by one more night as they explored the pleasures of physical intimacy. She was too old for fairytales and wise enough to know it took more than sharing a bed to make a life together. But, Zoya was also aware that although the commitments made during their fateful weekend together might be temporal, they were sincere. She cared about him, and he cared about her. She didn't regret what had happened. She told herself she was ready to face the consequences.

  For the rest of the week, she did as Callie had instructed. She practiced the speech she would give her Maman about why she felt it was important that she pursue a relationship with Micah instead of settle with a man she had no affections for, like Javid. By Wednesday night when her boyfriend picked her up for their customary midweek date, she was bubbling with excitement to tell him her plans.

  "You're really going to do it?" he asked. The biker had made one of his rare transformations from rough and rugged to polished and professional. They strolled around in an art gallery where a friend of his had a showing. She gazed up at the massive graffiti art that covered the wall from ceiling to floor.

  "Yeah," she said finally. "I'm really going to do it. I want you to meet my family. Be prepared for them to be cold as ice until they get it through their heads that I'm serious about you, but eventually I think you'll come to understand them."

  He nodded in pleasure. She slipped her warm fingers into his, and Micah pulled her closer for the first time without her permission. The things that had happened between them made him comfortable enough. She fit in the crook of his arm like she belonged there. "I'm willing to try," he said.

  They enjoyed a wine tasting after the art show, and it was past ten o'clock when they walked out the doors of the gallery. They continued to hold hands as they ambled at a leisurely pace around the corner to where his motorcycle was parked. It was such a warm and romantic night, Zoya wasn't ready to leave. Micah moved to climb aboard the bike, and she tugged on his hand to pull him back. She smiled at him coyly, receiving his smile in return.

  She stepped under the streetlight into his open arms. They were so engrossed in one another neither of them noticed the group of men walking past. Micah's lips met hers in a heated kiss that said he couldn't wait to get her alone. She moaned in instant arousal. His hands slipped to the base of her spine. She wasn't one for public displays of affection, but he was so tempting. It was just a kiss.

  "Shameless." The word was flung at her in Iranian. Zoya stilled. She recognized the voice. She didn't dare turn around.

  "Zoya?" Micah said her name quizzically, wondering what was wrong, why she had stopped.

  At the sound of her name, the group of men was halted by the man walking in the center. "Zoya?" Miad said, his voice trembling with fury.

  She took off running. She didn't stop until the voices shouting after her were drowned out by the squeal of the tires of the taxi she dashed out in front of, barely missing her. She clambered inside and shouted directions in both Iranian and English, flustered by what had happened. Her brother had seen her! Her brother!

  She bit her nails in a panic. Her thoughts raced, wondering what she could say or do to get herself out of trouble. She had left Micah! Had they fought? What had happened? Why hadn't she stayed to stick up for herself? A keening sound erupted from her lips. Hot tears flowed over her cheeks, and she was shaking so hard her teeth started to chatter.

  When her cellphone rang, Zoya jumped at the sound. She quickly pulled it out of her purse and stared at the number. It was Micah. She answered the phone weakly, "Micah?"

  "What happened? Darling, where are you? Who was that? Are you okay? I'm headed to your apartment."

  "No!" she shouted. "No, don't go to my apartment, whatever you do. That was my brother, Micah. He'll kill you if he sees you again."

  "You can't ask me not to come to you, Zoya. Don't ask me not to do that. I have to see you and make sure everything is okay."

  "I'm in a taxi, and I'm headed home. I know my brother will make his way there, and he'll probably be drunk, and I know he'll be livid. Believe me, I can handle him better than anyone when he's like that, but I can't allow the situation to become inflamed by your presence. Please, Micah!" Her voice cracked.

  He could tell she was crying. She didn't want him going to her apartment. His bristled with rage. He knew Miad was her brother, but he couldn't fathom leaving Zoya to face him alone. If she said it was the best thing, however, he had no choice but to listen to her. Micah cursed loudly and angrily, gripping the handlebars of his bike as he whipped the sleek projectile around in an illegal U-turn.

  "Fine," he caved. "Zoya, call me. Call me as soon as he leaves. Don't let the night end without me hearing your voice."

  "I will. I'm home. Ride safely."

  She hung up the phone and shoved the money for her fare into the taxi driver's hands, climbing out of the car. Her hijab had fallen off in her flight. She ducked her head and hurried into the building. She knew he was coming. She had to prepare.

  The maroon door creaked open, and Zoya entered the living room. She took several steadying breaths, and she sat on the edge of the couch. She waited for the pounding knocks that thundered at her door within the half hour. Even though she was ready for it, the sound gave her a start anyway. Callie groggily padded out of her room as Zoya was opening the door.

  "Who is that—"

  "You slut!&qu
ot; Miad's hand connected with the side of Zoya's face in a blow so hard it whipped her head to the side. She screamed in pain and horror, flung to the floor by the force. Zoya looked up at her brother in alarm. Callie was on his back clawing at his face like a madwoman.

  "Callie! Callie!" she shouted.

  Zoya had to take control of the situation. She couldn't have this happening. Not here. Not like this. She threw herself to her feet and quickly shut the door so their neighbors wouldn't witness the scene. Then, she pried Callie off of her older brother. "I'm okay," she sobbed. She pulled her friend into a tight hug. "I'm okay. Please, go to your room. I'll take care of this."

  "He hurt you." Callie growled, trying to tear out of Zoya's grip to attack him again.

  "She deserved it," Miad stated defiantly. "Out with him? A man like him? Acting like a common harlot? Not my little sister, Zoya."

  Zoya pushed Callie out of the living room. It took all her strength. Callie only gave up when she was sure Miad wouldn't put his hands on Zoya in anger again. He looked like a broken man, staring at Zoya with accusatory eyes that glistened. His face was set in a scowl that showed all his disappointment. Zoya felt like she could die. She couldn't believe he had seen her. She knew it was breaking her brother's heart.

  "Miad," she pleaded. She went to him, throwing her arms around him. He stood stiff as a board and wouldn't accept her affection. "My brother, I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "Who is he?" he asked her hoarsely.

  "His name is Micah. He's my...he was my boyfriend."

  "No, Zoya," he said sternly. He took her by the shoulders in a firm grip and shook her once, trying to shake some sense into her. "He is a temptation sent to lead you into wickedness, and I will not stand by and let such a thing happen to you. I won't let you end up like me! You're the good seed. You be the good daughter! Now, you tell me. Tell me has he..."

  She shook her head fiercely, lying for Micah's sake, for her sake. "No," she forced her lips to say.

  Miad clutched her to his chest with a vocal cry of relief. "Praise," he murmured. "You're a good girl. You're a wise and virtuous girl. I knew you couldn't have forsaken your upbringing, Zoya."

  "No, Brother." The second lie was easier to tell.

  "Promise me you will never see him again. I won't tell Maman. Baba never has to know. It would crush them, you understand? Let them know you are wise and virtuous and hear nothing of your near corruption. Do you promise me?"

  His hands cupped her face, and he stared her fiercely in the eyes, compelling her to give him the right answer. Though the tears flew over her cheeks, Zoya found the strength to nod. It was the last of her strength. She slumped weakly in Miad's arms and burst out crying in hard, gut wrenching sobs that brought Callie back into the living room to pull her away.

  "What did you say to her?" Callie asked in a threatening voice.

  "You," he pointed a sharp finger in the blonde woman's face. "If you are truly her friend, you will help her to live an exemplary life instead of being a negative influence. What do you want to see, huh? You want to see her cast to the side after she's been used up by the wrong sort of man?"

  "I want to see her make her own decisions!" Zoya pushed away from them both and ran to her room, trying to escape what was happening.

  She didn't hear Miad's answer in response. She threw herself in her bed where she remained until her brother was finally out of her home, and when she was sure he was long gone, she called Micah. "I need to see you. Tonight."

  They had sex in the bed where she had given him her virginity, a fitting goodbye—though Micah was unaware she was bidding him adieu. By the morning, she slipped out of the house before he awakened and walked the mile up the lane to the main road where she called a taxi to take her home. It was over. She couldn't have him. It wasn't allowed.

  CHAPTER 9 Orange dust kicked up by the breeze hung in a haze over the desert landscape. A ribbon of asphalt disappeared on the mountainous horizon, a saturated blue sky above. There were forty or fifty people milling around tents in a makeshift city beside the lonely stretch of highway known as Lucy’s Long Shot. Lucy was short for Lucifer on account of how hot the area tended to get—no matter the time of year. It was the middle of summer. It was hell. And, it was fitting that the Hangman’s Crows Motorcycle Club was present for one of the biggest bike racing events of the year. There was a lot at stake.

  The heat sucked the oxygen out of the air and leeched the breath out of the lungs. Sweat trickled down his grizzled face and disappeared in the collar of his black leather jacket. Micah “Blade” Whitfield paid the discomfort no mind. He kicked at a clod of dirt and watched the dry chunk explode in a shower of dust, landing on his black boots like talcum powder. He popped his thick knuckles and surveyed the grounds.

  “You got what you need?” Pinwheel asked him, her French accent thick with intent. She made a show of checking his helmet and securing it.

  Micah chuckled and brushed her off. “Kiddin’ me, doll? I was born for this shit.”

  She whipped her fire red hair out of her face and smiled flirtatiously at the leader of the gang. Her blue eyes danced mischievously, and she kissed him on the cheek for luck, leaving a crimson smudge of lipstick that stood out like the vivid tattoos on her pale skin. Micah grinned wryly, as he watched her twitch off to the tent in her itty bitty jean shorts, providing a distraction to the competition.

  His team was assembled. Quinn and Chop were going over the bike, making sure the mechanics were sound, while Dante kept an eye on the rowdy crowd of bikers roaming the hilly terrain that was dotted with scrub and cacti. Aside from the wild onlookers and riders, the sable desert looked lifeless.

  The city had sprung up overnight—for one day only—with the shifty swiftness of roamers and gypsies, and it would disappear before the sun rose again. The summer Saturday promised to be a good time. There was excitement and anxiety in the air, as thick as the sweltering heat. Music vied with the roar of engines, talking voices, laughter, arguments, and fights. Liquor was plenty, as were all the other less than legal vices.

  To those inexperienced with the population, the tattooed and pierced men and women walking around probably looked like common criminals or circus freak—with the careless exuberance of the young and the jaded eyes of the timeless. Some were there for a show. Others were there to get in on the action. The experienced, like Dante, actually knew how to spot the real threats. Buxom broads in various degrees of undress sauntered alongside burly bikers in leather. Lifelong connections were probably being made, alongside lifelong rivalries.

  “Watch out for Scarface McGill. I’ve heard about him. He races dirty,” he muttered to Micah, pulling him aside. “We’ve got fifty-thousand on the line. If you can pull this off, we’ll be rich, baby.” The race was about passing time, and time was money. The Hangman’s Crows primary method of padding their bank accounts was by winning races like these. The head-to-head matches were out of the way, but now it was time for the big one.

  “He’s already rich. Y’all need to let a hungrier mother fucker ride this one.” Chop swiped his arm across his youthful, honey-hued face and left a smudge of oil in its wake. He stood up next to the bike and wiped his hands with a black bandana. At five feet four inches tall, he was wiry and small, but he was fast, especially on a bike. He wanted to take on the main event, but Blade wouldn’t let him. The crew felt it was too dangerous. At twenty-two, Chop didn’t have as much experience. He squinted his diamond-shaped eyes and smirked. “You sure you don’t want me to take your place, Blade?”

  Micah nodded, his focus on winning. The competition was stiff, and, besides Scarface McGill, he knew Dorin Bourne from Asphalt Angels would definitely give him a run for his money. Not to mention, at any given point, the law might come down on them, but
at least they’d be prepared. There wasn’t a cherry top in the county that could keep up with their bikes. It wasn’t a race for a kid still cutting teeth. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure he, himself, was ready for it. With the odds of shit getting dirty for the grand prize, Micah preferred to put himself at risk, rather than his men.

  “I’m ready,” he muttered. The only thing clouding his thoughts was the situation with Zoya, and even that had to be put on the backburner. He hopped on the back of his Victory Cross Roads 8-Ball. Looking like a squat black wasp, the body of the bike was rounded, fat at the back and skinny at the front. The sleek, black paint looked wet, and the shiny black leather seat contoured to his body. It wasn’t a racer by origin, but the bike had been modified.

  Being a mechanical engineer had its perks. With an engine tweaked for speed and the framework rebuilt with the lightest material available, the bike could eat up miles easily. Micah was aware his relatively new motorcycle club had a reputation—as some of the best on the road—to protect. Chop had taken a few head-to-heads, and Dante had pulled second in his own bout. Pinwheel had blazed flames in the all-women’s heat. Q was out with a busted knee. If Micah won the grand, they were golden.