Biker Chick Campout (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  She nodded and her movement seemed to be his exit cue. Before she could say anything else he had reached behind her, bringing out and putting on his cut. Then, carefully and obviously not touching her, he closed the van door before wordlessly turning and walking towards the fire. Away from her and her fears, leaving her standing alone.

  Mela took a few minutes to collect herself before trailing him back to the group. Standing beside the bonfire, she accepted another slug of liquor and took a plate of food from Jess, who slipped in sideways for a quick hug. Hands full, Mela leaned into the gesture, both women laughing at the awkward embrace. Mela said, “Wasn’t sure if we’d see you and Brandy. I heard from Slate that her business is booming.”

  Mouth full of food, Jess nodded wildly, then swallowed and grinned. “She’s doing so well, but I always knew she would. A Little piece of genius, my woman. Hooked my wagon to a rising star, ya know.” She paused for a moment and then, eyes darting back and forth between Mela and something behind her, gestured with a fake casualness as she asked, “So…what happened by the van?”

  “Hmmm?” Mela lifted her plate and nibbled at the chips piled on the edge. Working one between her lips without the use of her hands, she grinned around it at Jess, and then, mouth still filled with chip, mumbled, “Wha chu mean?”

  “Hurley came over here in a hurry like he was all manly he-man pissed off. I figured he tried to hit on you, and you swirled him. Boosh, down the drain.” Jess giggled and pretended to press a lever with her middle finger. “Salute…and…boosh, take your swirly, mister Hurley.”

  Shaking her head, Mela opened her mouth but was interrupted by that same shiver-causing male voice. “She barged in and got an eyeful, then ice princessed on me, Jess. Middle of the summer and cold as fuck. I suspect my package didn’t meet inspection.” Turning, Mela saw Hurley had walked up behind them, bun-wrapped brat in one hand, and a beer in the other. “But maybe it was the label instead. Guess the lowly prospect never had a chance, huh, princess?”

  God, she hated that term. Mela actually felt her chin tip towards her neck and knew a scowl had settled on her face. “Don’t talk about what you don’t know, pros,” she said coldly, turning away.

  “Ohh. Ice burn,” Jess joked, sliding her arm back around Mela. Shuffling her feet, she turned them in a circle, laughing when they were again facing Hurley. Staring, he lifted his beer and drank, gaze never leaving her face. Mela’s eyes dipped, and she glowered at the ground between them. A moment later she felt Jess’ arm drop away and was puzzled when she heard Jess murmur, “Well, alrighty, then.”

  “So, enlighten me, princess.” Hurley kept his voice quiet, apparently not intending anyone else to hear him when he asked, “Why’d you freeze up? Surely you’ve seen everything right? I’m not that hard to gawk at, am I?”

  Looking up, she was again struck by how damned good-looking he was, even in the weak light of the fire. “You already know you’re easy on the eyes, pros. I just didn’t mean to burst in on you like that. Everyone deserves some privacy,” she said, trying to match her tone to his. “I couldn’t imagine how anyone could sleep through all the noise this crew was making, so I thought maybe you were sulking in there.” She glanced around the clearing, feeling a half-smile curl her lips as she watched Jess drag Brandy into the space between their tent and the fire, pulling her girlfriend close to dance. That girl.

  “It bothered me when they said you had to stay in the van,” she admitted, glancing up to find him still watching her intently. “I just…I don’t know…” she shrugged. “Wanted to tell you it was okay to come out. That you didn’t have to. Stay in the van, you know? You were free to come and go as you please.”

  “And that really mattered to you.” He sounded surprised, and she nodded. Shaking his head, he said, “As you’ve pointed out, I am only a lowly prospect.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she lied and saw his chin come up.

  “Yes you did, princess. I get it. Trust me, after the past year? I get it, putting me in my place.” He turned and looked away from her, then glanced back. “Prospect is on my back, but the club is in my blood, and my name isn’t prospect, it’s Hurley.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry.” For so much. “For opening the van without making sure you were ready, and for insulting your standing in the club.” For making you feel less than you are. “The Rebels trust you to keep their old ladies safe,” she said, gesturing out at the groups of women sitting, dancing, or reclining on blankets talking. “That tells me you are more than ‘just’ anything to your club.” Tipping her head towards her friend, she indicated Ruby. “Right there is your chapter president’s woman, but more than that, she is his life, stolen from him once before. Something so precious, he guards her night and day. For him to entrust her to you means something.” Turning to look at Mica and Molly, she directed his attention that way with a tilt of her head, then turned to gaze up at him. “I know what those two mean to your national president.” His expression had become severe, the line of his jaw hardening as his gaze remained locked on her face, listening carefully to her words.

  “Each of these women is important to someone in the club. Different chapters, but each of them your brother.” Appetite vanished, she bent to place her plate on the ground, and then turned, looking outwards, towards the edge of the clearing. Into the darkness, out where the woods began. Anything could be hiding in those woods, she thought with a shiver. Anyone. “This is a secluded location. Nothing about us being here was publicized.” She snorted softly before continuing, “Even Jess was warned off social media. But, even your national president clearly holds you in some esteem, because you are here” —she swept a hand out to indicate the women— “with all of them. Their lone protector for the weekend.”

  “I didn’t really think about it like that.” Hurley shook his head. “Should have, the guys laid it out for me. But, Jesus, all the politics that go along with prospecting into a club kinda muddies things.” He scoffed. “Politics. They’ve had me doing double-time, shuffling between Chicago and the Fort. Most days it feels like double the pressure because I’m trying to please two chapters. It’s almost more than I can wrap my head around sometimes.” He fell silent, and she could see his shoulders contract in a protective move; he’d said more than he intended. He shifted his feet, boots shuffling in the grass, voice flat as he muttered, “I’ll head back to the van. Thanks for the insight, Mela. Food for thought.”

  At her name coming from his lips, she drew a breath. “Wait,” she blurted, and then paused, at a loss because she didn’t know what she’d intended to say. She knew what she was feeling and had been for days. Angry and out-of-control, like she was free-falling all alone. Hurley helped quell those feelings, and she wasn’t ready to lose that, even if it were something he didn’t know he offered.

  They stood like that for a moment, and then he tilted his head and held out a hand. Not overtly, so everyone would notice. No, his arm extended only slightly, a discrete angle of his palm towards her. His words wrapped around her, a slow cadence of exploration. “Wanna talk some more?” Without hesitation she reached out, accepting the invitation by slipping suddenly cold fingers into his warm ones, letting his large hand engulf hers, and following as he tugged, pulling her towards the shadows by the van. He opened the door, and they settled side by side in the opening, Mela shifting back far enough to bring her legs up, crossing them Indian-style, all while Hurley doggedly retained possession of her hand.

  “I’ve never seen you around the clubhouses.” He spoke quietly, threading and unthreading his fingers between hers, a constant caress of skin-on-skin. The non-question didn’t surprise her because only a few people knew what her affiliations were. She shook her head. He continued, “If you aren’t club, then why are you here?”

  Lifting her gaze to him, she answered his question with one of her own. “Do you know the story of how Slate came to the Rebels, and how he got his name?” At his headshake, she drew a brea
th, and then told him, “It’s one hell of a story. You should ask him about it sometime. How he came by his name, granted by his president on the day he first wore his own prospect patch.” Lifting up her other hand, she held finger and thumb a hairsbreadth apart. “I factor into it in a small way, muy poco, very small. Tiny.” She drew a breath that audibly shivered from her nerves, every word she spoke dancing along the borders of pain. How far do I let him in? “Everything happened so long ago, it seems nearly a dream sometimes. A nightmare, but so long ago I pray the edges are all worn and can no longer hurt me.”

  He made a noise and tugged at her hand until she turned to look at him, waiting for the questions she knew would come. “You know Slate well?” he asked, and she nodded.

  “He saved me,” she whispered, the simple words saying so much, the weight of gratitude in her heart expressed aloud.

  They sat in silence for a minute, his thumb slowly stroking back and forth across her knuckles, then with words slow and cautious Hurley asked, “From what?”

  Reminding herself she didn’t know him, she shifted sideways and tugged, gently pulling her hand from his grasp, needing some separation. As she spoke, she fell into the formal cadence of one to whom English was a second language, reverting to the lessons of her youth, learned before she knew betrayal. Before fear and pain became constant companions. “From the time I was small, my father and uncle disagreed on many things about me. Over the years, their arguments escalated, raging out of control. Swirling around the family until I wound up in a dangerous place, surrounded by dangerous men.”

  She took a deep breath, dancing around the edges of truth. “Men who were there for business, of which I was a part. Before he met Mason, before he knew of the Rebels, Slate,” —she smiled, watching as Hurley’s gaze grew more intent, eyes dipping to her lips, then back to her eyes— “who I still call Uncle Andy” —Hurley’s eyes widened in surprise— “rode to the rescue of a frightened and impressionable young Mexican girl, one forced too quickly into adulthood.

  “That is how I am connected to these women” —as she spoke she folded her hands in her lap, knowing her words sounded stilted, aloof. Distant, as if the things she endured had happened to another, that distance was something this story always demanded from her— “because while my association with the Rebels may have started with Slate, it continues through my friendship with his woman, Ruby,” —she paused a moment— “and with Mason.” Mela shook her head, so many things left unspoken even with everything she’d said. “Mason and my father have partnered together often in the past few years, and I hold a Rebel challenge coin, giving me free passage into or through any territory your club claims.”

  Digging into the front pocket of her jeans, she pulled out a coin. Just larger than a silver dollar, it was heavy and hot, the metal warm from resting so near her skin. Handing it to him, she watched as Hurley turned it back and forth, examining both sides of the thick disc, then Mela held out her hand to retrieve it. He placed it in her palm, his fingers trailing along hers in a sensual motion.

  “Tell me how you came to be here?” Unnerved by his silence, affected by his touch, she had to firm her voice as she asked the question, pushing the treasured Rebel token back into her pocket. She wasn’t sure if she would receive a real answer because some men came to a club through paths they preferred not to disclose. Hurley is not one of those men, she thought, as he spoke.

  “Mom left Dad and me when I was about five,” he began. “My dad’s best friend was a Rebel. Well, he didn’t start out a Rebel, but the president of their club folded it in years ago, so he got grandfathered in. Dad and Diablo, his friend, and Winger, the president, worked on bikes in Dad’s garage until the Rebels bought it to run their own show. By then, I was working in the shop every day after school. Just wrenching, nothing fancy. Nothing at all like Bear can do. You know him? That man is amazing.”

  She murmured, “I’ve seen some of his work. Very nice.” Bear and Diablo were names with which she was familiar, and Winger, married to DeeDee, was a man she had known well. Lockee, their daughter, had been only a little older than she was, so the two girls were thrown together whenever there was a meeting where families were invited. Winger and Lockee died several years ago in a car wreck, and it still shocked her to think that bright, vibrant Lockee would never grow older. Lockee would never meet and marry a man she loved, never bear his children. All the things any girl hoped to experience, now an impossibility.

  “Yeah, nice is an understatement. Being around the guys made me realize that the club, being a member, was something I wanted. More than anything, I wanted it. Slate forced me to wait until I was legal to officially prospect in, but now I’m nearly at the nine-month mark, still going strong.” In the darkness, she saw his silhouette move and then caught a glint from his teeth as he smiled.

  “So you’re twenty-one?” Mela was surprised at her disappointment at the revelation. She’d thought he was older. He both looked and acted more mature than most of the boys her own age.

  “Twenty-two now,” Hurley told her, that glint of smile shining at her again. “My birthday was yesterday.”

  “Seriously?” She shifted to sit upright and he moved with her, reaching out to place his palm on her back, supporting her confidently. “Your birthday was yesterday? That deserves some cake or something. Some kind of celebration.” Heat spread through her from his touch, and impulsively she placed her hand on his forearm and leaned forward, intending to brush her lips across his cheek.

  “Happy birth—” she began, interrupted when he turned his head and pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes dipped closed of their own volition, and her small gasp of surprise must have seemed an invitation because his mouth opened, velvet tongue boldly trailing across her bottom lip. The kiss ended slowly, Hurley pressing his lips to hers twice, gently working her mouth before sliding his cheek next to hers. Bad idea, she thought. Very bad idea. Terrible idea. Breathlessly she finished, “—day.”

  She felt the supporting arm slide further around her back as his other hand came up, sweeping the hair off her neck so he could dust kisses up the column of her throat. “Mmmm.” The noise he made in the back of his throat was low and sexy, and she couldn’t stop the shiver that rolled through her again. “Thank you,” he murmured, kissing the hinge of her jaw— “for the” —moving back to nip her earlobe— “birthday” —lips back to her jaw, trailing along it as he kissed up to her mouth— “wishes.”

  The heat from his hands traveled up and down her arms, tingles of sensation trailing the path of his palms where they moved over her skin. Wanting more, she arched her neck, and he accepted the silent invitation, pressing hard, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and back up to her mouth. This time, when his tongue teased along her lips, she opened to him, feeling that same shiver work its way up her spine as he swept into her mouth, possessing her in a way that made her wet between her legs. Dios. Desire curling in her belly, inner muscles clenching down on emptiness. Lips working, caressing her mouth, he tangled their tongues together, and she felt his hands shifting her closer as the kiss deepened, the taste of him flooding her senses.

  Her hands were winding helplessly, one twisted in his shirt, trying to pull him closer, and the other twined in his hair, threading through and cupping the back of his head. Want him. Pulling him against her body demandingly, desperate for his touch. Need this. Plucking at the piece of leather tying his hair back, she released it, and his dark blond locks fell around them, creating a silky curtain that swayed with each movement.

  The muscles of her stomach jolted and lurched with surprise as one of his hands slipped underneath her shirt, backs of his knuckles brushing along her ribs in a barely-there touch. He broke the kiss and pressed his lips to the side of her head, his breathing as ragged as hers when he said, “Mela, don’t tell me to stop, please God.” His hand rose along her ribs, thumb stroking the side of her breast and then across her already hard nipple, dragging roughly against the fabric of her bra. “W
ant you,” he murmured, palming her breast and plumping it, slipping his fingers inside to tease her bare skin.

  “Yes,” she breathed, and he made an eager noise in response. Easing her back onto the mattress, he propped himself over her on an arm as he reached down, lifting and bringing her legs into the van. With one hand, he grasped the handle, and she watched the wedge of light from the fire grow smaller, narrowing and then finally winking out of existence as the door closed. Eyes stretched wide, adjusting to the darkness, she found just enough light filtered in through the windows to identify his silhouette where he knelt between her feet. From the tilt of his head, she thought he was looking down at her, so when she felt his hands on her ankles, she didn’t jump.

  Wordlessly he tugged her boots from her feet, chill night air stealing across her skin as he slipped her socks off and tucked them into each boot, setting the paired footwear aside. In the same fashion, he slowly, methodically undressed her. His focus on her was unsettling, but he seemed totally in control. Stretching his hands out, his fingers found and worked the fastening at the waistband of her jeans. Bending her knees, palms sliding in a firm motion down her hips, he removed them, taking her panties at the same time. She watched as he carefully laid her folded clothing next to her boots.

  In silence he reached out to grab one of her hands and tugged, pulling her into a sitting position. Hands sliding around and under her shirt, he worked the fastener on her bra, and then took her shirt and bra off, discarding them next to the growing pile of clothes.

  Totally nude, as she sat in front of him, waiting, she felt spotlighted in the limited light shining through the windows, her eagerness waning while the moments ticked past without him touching her. Nervously, she swallowed hard, then lifted and crossed her arms, hiding her stiffening nipples. Too much, I can’t—