“Shut up, Mela,” Ruby scoffed, pulling her in for another hug. “I’ve missed you, missed talking to you. College agrees with you, it looks like.” The diminutive woman dropped one hand and turned, towing Carmela behind her across the clearing, and so didn’t see the change Carmela knew came over her face. She was glad Ruby didn’t see her expression of anger and frustration because having her friend know everything that had been going on would only cast a pall on their time together, and even before leaving for this trip, she had been determined not to let anything ruin the weekend.
Oblivious to her brooding thoughts, Ruby kept babbling, dragging her along in her wake. “Everyone’s already here and unpacked. Supper first, then we can set up your tent. Food’s ready, and we’re just about to eat, so let’s get you some pre-grub libations.”
Turning around to scan the open space, she saw a van nearby parked nearly underneath the trees, out of the way. “Whose cage?” she asked, following Ruby.
The eye roll was nearly audible when Ruby responded, “Slate had one of our prospects drive it. The pros is under strict orders from me to not leave the interior.” She giggled. “Hurley is a nice guy, but this is girls’ weekend. I’m glad he was able to bring the coolers and chairs, but we don’t need no dicks all up in our business.”
“Says the woman who’s getting regular dick up in her business, as is evidenced by the beautiful babies she keeps producing.” Carmela laughed, throwing herself onto a blanket spread near a grouping of lounge chairs. Looking around at the tents and chairs, she asked, “Seriously? How much shit did you guys bring? Are you truly going to make the poor boy stay in the van all weekend? Does he at least have some titty magazines to keep him busy?” She had winced when Ruby said he wasn’t allowed out of the vehicle because, after the last two months, she hated being the reason for anyone to have less than free rein of their own wishes.
“Ewwww. I don’t want to think about how Hurley would get busy in that van. I have to drive it sometimes.” This came from Kathy, and as she turned to sit in one of the lawn chairs Carmela saw the back of the leather vest she wore over her sweater.
“Ohhh, Kathy. Did you finally get patched? How long did it take you to convince him, all of two minutes?” She accepted a red plastic cup full of wine from Ruby, stretching her legs out on the blanket with a sigh. It had been a long couple of days, and she had ridden hard to make it here in time. “Digger, right?” Kathy had been enamored with a handsome, tall, shy biker from Chicago for a while, but the last Carmela heard they weren’t that serious. Things had apparently changed because her wearing a ‘Property of Digger’ patch on her vest was a declaration of an ownership that went both ways.
“Yeah.” Kathy went quiet for a moment, accepting her own cup from DeeDee. She lifted her head and looked around at the women. “It means a lot that he wants me.” The smile on her face was filled with undiluted pleasure, knowing in this group she would never receive criticism for welcoming a role that people on the outside might look on with disdain, not understanding what the words actually meant.
Carmela looked around, listening as everyone chipped in, confidently explaining to Kathy how lucky Digger was to have her. They were good friends, from varied backgrounds, but having the most important thing in common: all of them had at least one foot in the motorcycle club life. A life that some people romanticized, but here, among these women, she knew every one of them understood what it took to be part of, yet apart from the things that impacted their family and friends.
Except for her, every woman here held an affiliation with the Rebel Wayfarers, from either the Chicago or Fort Wayne chapters. Some of them, like DeeDee, Ruby, and Kathy, were in relationships with men who belonged to the club. Mica, Molly, Jess, and Brandy were friends of the club, attached in less definite ways, but still part of their extended family.
As usual, I’m the odd one out, she thought, taking a deep drink. She was associated with the Rebel club by friendship, one that was long-lasting and profound, but not actually part of this family. Hers lay far to the west, with one part in Mexico where the Machos, her father’s club, was based and the second part in Las Cruces, New Mexico, where she lived with a family associated with yet another club, the Southern Soldiers.
“Hurley can come out to eat now, but that’s it. Afterwards, he will be banished again. Banished to the nether regions of the van.” Ruby got her attention with another giggle and Carmela looked at her, head tilted.
“You already drunk, woman? When did you start sucking wine back? Yesterday?” She took another deep drink. “Pansy-ass shit, shouldn’t be hitting you that hard.” She glanced at Ruby again, then turned and yelled. “Mica, where’s the fucking tequila?”
“Now you’re talking,” Mica shouted from across the fire pit, and before Carmela knew what was happening, all the women were standing, holding smaller plastic cups while the dark-haired woman freely poured liquor in each. Holding the bottle by the neck, she lifted it and tapped it against each cup’s rim. “To us, the baddest women in town.” With a laughter-filled chorus of ‘fuck yeah’ and ‘you know it,’ the women all raised their cups and drank.
“Brats are done,” DeeDee said a minute later, leaning sideways to escape the heat of the fire as she turned the bratwurst sizzling on the campfire grill. “Ruby, get out the slaw. Mica, did you say you packed some chips? Wanna grab those and the plates for me?” She turned to look around, “Brandy, I know you had Hurley drop by to pick up dessert, so you’re off the hook for anything else.”
As the food and other things were brought out and organized, Carmela turned to DeeDee. “I’ll go let the poor boy know he can come make a plate. I still can’t believe you’re making him stay in the van.”
DeeDee leaned close and whispered, her voice shaking with laughter, “I can’t believe he’s letting us.”
Picking up her tequila cup, Carmela let Mica top her off with another inch or so of the clear liquor, thanking her with a grin. God, I love these women, she thought. Carmela had been away from home at college until recently when events around the Southern Soldiers had warranted enough concern for her father to force her withdrawal. Since then she had been locked away in their compound, not permitted to even go grocery shopping in town.
Of course, this trip had been forbidden, but she had ridden off anyway, knowing her father would order men after her. That was why she was late to the gathering today, having barely evaded yet another friendly snare set for her, hearing the dismayed and angry shouts from above as she passed underneath a bridge on a small country road. She knew it would be miles before her father’s men could exit the highway they were on, and by that time, she was long gone, making up for lost time on the final portion of her ride.
She settled, leaning against the side of the van and listening to the playful shouts from her friends. Watching the gathered women in the light from the fire, seeing how their faces glowed against the darkness, Jess running wild through the group; it felt as if she were observing delight and joy in motion. Flickering flames cast a luminous glow across them, contrasting against the dark shadows forming along the edges of the encircling trees. Those shadows larger than life, beaten back by the light’s embracing arms stretching wide to promise support and love.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize for a minute there had been no movement from within the van. Her weight against the side had rocked it in place, which should have announced to the occupant that he had a visitor. With a sigh, she shifted the cup to her other hand, stretching out her arm to quietly knock on the door.
After a couple more minutes with no answering movement or noise from inside the vehicle, she knocked again, slightly louder. Same non-result. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” she sighed, “I’m hungry.” Twisting to open the door, she called, “Hello the van” —the panel moving soundlessly as it glided through the grooves— “it’s time to rise and shine” —smiling in expectation of surprised questions— “sleeping beauty.” The interior lights remained dark, either di
sconnected or burned out, leaving only the light from the fire to illuminate the inside of the vehicle. Her gaze dropped, seeing a man asleep, stretched out on a thin mattress. A threadbare sheet twisted low around his legs his only cover, leaving most of his naked body on display.
“Madre de Dios,” she whispered, her gaze drifting slowly from his face to his body, down to the juncture of his thighs, then back up to his face. He was beautiful. There was no other word for it, the man was beautiful. Even in the uncertain light, she could see his hair was long and blond; it looked sun-bleached, slightly curly where the ends escaped from a rude ponytail, carelessly tied back with a leather thong. His face was handsomely symmetrical, arched eyebrows over almond shaped eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a square chin.
He had attractive black and gray half-sleeve tattoos, and on the shoulder facing her, she saw a Dia de los Muertos sugar skull, inked with impressive detail. His arms and body were sleekly muscled, not bulked outlandishly, but toned in a way that let you know he was strong because he worked for a living, not a gym rat. Trailing her gaze lower, she let her eyes linger there for a moment, studying where his soft, but still impressive cock curled in a bed of dark blond hair.
He didn’t move, didn’t react, but his stillness subtly changed in a way that brought her gaze back to his face, mortified to find his eyes now open and staring at her. With a silent groan, she turned away, giving him her back. “Dios lo siento! I’m so sorry,” she muttered, feeling her cheeks blazing with embarrassment. “I was…I mean I meant…came to…wanted…” Puta mierda, she thought, pull it together, Mela. “Dinner’s ready.” Rattled, she finally got her words out, discomfited even more by hearing him moving around behind her, probably pulling jeans up those long, muscled thighs…Mela, she scolded herself, he’s a prospect, no matter how fine. He would never look at you that way.
Hurley
You gotta be fucking kidding me. Hurley barely kept his mouth shut as the girl ogling him whipped around, turning and giving him her back. Just a girl; not an old lady, surely. She was mature enough to consider a woman, but only just, even if she had curves for days. Jesus. Where she stood framed in the open door, the firelight cast a halo around her, letting him pick out all the enticing places on her body that so fascinated him at first glance.
He’d woken as soon as the van’s door opened, an initial thrill of fear following him up out of his dreams. Had feigned sleep to try and evaluate the situation, and instead of a threat…found her. So Hurley lay still and observed, enjoying watching her look at him, eating him up with her eyes before she realized he was aware. He’d savored the unguarded expression of raw hunger that played across her face, and even now his cock would be willing to stand up and salute her.
Worn jeans cinched tight at her waist, that soft fabric covering every inch of her south of those luscious hips. Bet with an ass like that, she never lacks for attention. She’d have an old man, must have, given the company in the clearing beyond where she stood. Doesn’t matter how much she looked at the merchandise. Never mind what she might have been thinking, ain’t no way a sweet piece like that is for me, not if she’s here with this crew. The stumbling apology she’d given was cute, and he knew if she didn’t have that gorgeous brown skin, there’d be a fiery-red blush racing up her cheeks.
Bitch ain’t for me. Hurley reached down, giving himself one slow, firm stroke before abandoning the grip on his hard cock. Man can dream, though. And he would tonight, would be doing some hard dreaming while lying on the paltry mattress that Ruby threw at him before she basically locked him in the van.
Gotta find a way to get that woman to let up on me, he thought as he dressed, laying his leather vest near the door. That symbol of everything he wanted was heavier now than it had been a week ago, because in giving him this honor—and that was how he’d tried to look at it, at least after his dressing down—Slate had also handed him a center patch, bringing him more officially into the fold. Fucking finally. Missing a bottom rocker yet, but that would come in time.
His eyes trailed across the form of the woman still with her back to him, and he allowed himself a moment to dream right then. Good woman on the back of his bike, a solid chick. The one he chose would get the club and the life in a way that meant he wouldn’t have to explain everything to her.
A woman like the ones going crazy, dancing around the bonfire; real women. An old lady, a partner, someone he could lean on. The honey-skinned beauty in front of him was the perfect example of what he’d be looking for. A woman not afraid of her own appetites—he grunted when his cock began to fatten, his flagging erection rekindling—or his. Strong, not a weak flower that needed protecting. Like DeeDee told him, a woman who understood the life would have her man’s back in every way she could.
He let his gaze trace this woman’s body again, lingering on those hips. Shapely as they were, it was as if those curves were calling for his hands to grip and pull. Hold on tight, riding hard as he wanted. A woman like this one, stacked and full-figured, she could take some rough handling. A dream worth having. She shifted, and he saw the delicate angles of her features, eyes a dark shimmer glimpsed only from the side as she resolutely kept her face averted. Could take anything, but God…he’d give her the world if she were his old lady. My old lady will be my queen.
Hurley shook himself, scooting to the edge of the opening as he dropped his boots out the door. Not ready for that yet, he thought, need to pay attention to business. Get that rocker. Get solid in the club, make it so every brother knew he had their six, no matter what. Only then could he start looking for his queen. Man can dream, though.
Carmela
Two hands settled on her shoulders, and she nearly shrieked at the unexpected touch. They gently moved her sideways a step, fingertips trailing softly down the slopes of her shoulders and upper arms. “Okay,” he said, and as soon as she heard it, she immediately thought his voice was beautiful, too. That single spoken word caused her to shiver, and she felt gooseflesh rise all along her arms in response. He asked, “Need anything from inside the van?” She turned to look at him and became mesmerized, watching him slip socked feet into boots. So beautiful, she thought. He finished and sat on the edge of the doorway looking up at her for a moment. He had put on jeans, but no shirt and she could see the dark swirls of those tattoos on his upper arms. “Well?”
Startled, she must have looked as confused as she felt because he laughed softly, corners of his mouth curling up slightly before asking a second time, “Need anything from inside the van?” That laugh caused the same kind of shiver to flow through her, and this time, she felt a clenching low in her belly. Shaking her head, she answered him wordlessly, not confident she could still speak. Most of her thoughts were jumbled, the only coherent ones to do, again, with his beauty. How could someone so beautiful be called Hurley, she mused, then shook her head, not caring, because the evidence was right in front of her. “Got that in one, doll.” She must have looked confused because he laughed. “You already said ‘no,’ honey.”
“Oh,” she forced out, trying to mask her embarrassment by lifting the cup of tequila and taking a drink. Dios, he must think I’m an idiot, she thought.
“Whatcha got?” he asked and reached out, casually plucking the cup from her grip. Sniffing, he made a face and turned his head sideways, then lifted the cup and sipped. He made a rough noise in the back of his throat as he lowered the cup, then raised it and sipped again. “Mica’s good stuff,” he said with a grin, passing her the cup back. “I have my own stash I don’t tell her about. If she knew what I liked to drink, she’d lecture me about fermenting practices and aging properties.”
“Umm hmm,” she agreed, still watching his face. Beautiful.
“I’m Hurley.” He gave her a chin lift, and then unfolded fluidly and stood next to her, so close she could feel the heat rolling off him. An intimate distance, one that could be eliminated if she swayed only the slightest amount. “I’m with the Rebels out of Fort Wayne, but they use me to slo
g shit here and there” —he swung an arm out, indicating the van behind them— “such as food and amenities for hen’s parties in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
Rolling her lips between her teeth, she clamped down on them and nodded. Say something, she thought. You’ve been around men like him all your life. Why has this hermoso gringo stolen your voice, chica?
“Normally when one person of a group or gathering introduces themselves, it’s courteous for the other parties present to reciprocate,” he said with another grin, this one sly, drawing his lips sideways as he openly teased her. “Let’s try this again, honey. Hi there, I’m Hurley.”
Cheeks blazing hot, she dropped her gaze to the ground. Forcing her mouth open, she took in a breath, and then murmured, “Mela.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Mela. Carmela, actually, but my friends call me Mela. Like mellow, but with an aah sound. Mela.”
She heard him move and saw his feet shift closer, that heat raging hotter all along her body, her awareness of him intensifying. A bold move, he wasn’t making any effort to hide his interest. His voice deepened and grew husky as he let the sounds of her name roll off his tongue, “Mela.” Darting a glance at him, she saw he was looking down at her with a soft smile on his face. “My pleasure, honey.” His hand gripped hers and in an instant, the scene in front of her was gone and in the place of the beautiful young gringo, her mind showed her an older Mexican man. Angry, his hard, sweaty hands reaching out to grasp her wrists. It was only a moment until with a jolt, she jerked free and closed her eyes, opening them just in time to see Hurley take a step back, probably assuming her reaction was to his touch. Which it was, just not in the way he imagined. Not a rejection of him, but of her memories. “So…” —his voice trailed off uncertainly, then picked back up, the look on his face lost in the deepening shadows— “you said dinner was ready?”
Biker Chick Campout (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 2
