Baby For The Biker Bad Boy (Bad Boy MC Romance)

by Ward, Kira

  “Of course.” Nola glanced at herself in the mirror one more time. “I don’t mean to disrespect you. But I’m twenty years old. If I want to go out, I think I’ll go out.”

  She dropped a kiss on her mother’s cheek before brushing past her just as the roar of Scribe’s motorcycle vibrated against the windows.

  Nola ran down the front steps and took the helmet Scribe was offering, glancing back at the house as his eyebrows lifted under his safety glasses. Her mother was standing in the doorway, her arms still crossed, a shadow covering her once attractive features. Nola felt bad. She should have gone back and apologized. But then Scribe was helping her onto the back of his bike, and her regrets melted into a desire to just disappear anywhere and everywhere with him.

  “What was that all about?” Scribe asked a while later as they took a booth at the back of a fast-food restaurant.

  “What?”

  “Your mom.”

  Nola shrugged, lifting her soda straw to her lips to take a sip.

  “She looked pissed.”

  “My mom thinks I should be home in bed like a good little school girl.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  Nola pushed at his hand where it rest on the table inches from hers. “Are you my daddy now?”

  A soft smile touched his lips as he tilted his head, his eyes moving over her tight tee and low rider jeans. “There could be some benefits to that, I suppose.”

  “Dirty minded.”

  “How can a man spend any amount of time with you and not have dirty thoughts?”

  Nola took another sip of her drink, trying to hide the hot blush that burned her cheeks. Scribe reached across the table and took her hand, pressing it between both of his.

  “She doesn’t like you spending time with me.”

  “She doesn’t know anything about you. She never bothered to ask.”

  “And that pisses you off.”

  “I don’t know what that does.” She pulled her hand from his. “Can I ask you something?”

  Scribe shrugged. “You can ask anything. I just can’t promise I’ll answer.”

  Nola ran her fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her face. She was nervous, but when she looked at him, the funny ache in her chest lessened a little.

  “Why haven’t you introduced me to any of your friends?”

  Scribe was saved from answering when their food arrived. It took the girl delivering it an inordinate amount of time to set everything down, and she seemed to need to bend low in front of Scribe a few more times than seemed necessary. Then she ignored Nola’s request for ketchup, but the moment Scribe asked for some, she instantly found a handful in the pit of one of the deep pockets of her greasy apron.

  “She likes you,” Nola observed.

  “She likes the jacket.”

  Nola’s eyebrows rose. “Then you don’t think it has anything to do with the muscles the jacket covers up? Or those amazing blue eyes?”

  Scribe cocked his head. “You think my eyes are amazing?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  She tossed a fry that he tried, unsuccessfully, to catch in his mouth. She laughed, even as this absurd thought crossed her mind. Jake—her ex—would never step foot in a place like that, let alone goof off with her the way Scribe did. None of the boys Nola had ever dated would do the things Scribe did with her. Most of them wouldn’t be caught dead in a restaurant that had less than a single Michelin star, would not eat French fries if caviar was available, and would never touch leather unless it was on their car seats. They were snobs, members of an elite society that Nola had once thought was preferable to the world she read about in novels, but never had—or wanted—to experience herself.

  Except, of course, those occasional fantasies.

  She’d been in love with Patrick Swayze when she was a preteen. She saw Dirty Dancing at a friend’s house—they were having a slumber party, and it was the only thing showing on cable that wasn’t locked by the system’s parental locks system—and knew that Johnny Castle was the man she wanted to marry someday. That was, of course, until her mother explained that women like them didn’t marry boys like that. It only happened in the movies.

  But there was still something about the way Johnny broke his own car window that filled her erotic fantasies from that point forward.

  Was that what Scribe was? Her real life Johnny Castle? Would he break her heart? Or would he pull her out of a corner like Johnny did for Baby?

  “You don’t want to know my friends, Nola.”

  She’d almost forgotten she’d asked. She looked up at Scribe and watched as he shoved a couple of fries in his mouth, quickly washing them down with his soda.

  “Why not?”

  “This isn’t high school. We’re not just a bunch of guys who dress tough and act tough, but go home to our middle class homes and take out the trash for our old ladies like good little boys.”

  “I know that.”

  “The Bandidos are the law on the street. We have a certain reputation and we live up to that reputation.”

  “I know that, too. I read the newspapers.”

  Scribe shook his head. “The newspapers only tell half the story.”

  “But you can only compartmentalize your life so much. Eventually one is going to spill into the other.”

  “Not any time soon.”

  Nola picked up her burger, but she only picked at the soggy bun. The worker who’d brought their food was standing behind the counter—actually, it was more like she was laying on the counter, her chest was so far over the edge, her cleavage hanging so far out, that Nola was a little concerned she might fall over the other side. Nola took in her greasy hair and her over-the-top makeup and suspected that girl would fit in with Scribe’s club friends better than she ever would.

  “Why do you keep coming around if you have to hide me from the people you spend ninety percent of your time with?”

  “I’m not hiding you. My brothers know about you.”

  “Your brothers?”

  “The other members of the club.”

  “You told them about me?”

  He shrugged. “It’s like a family, Nola. I know everything about them. They know everything about me.”

  “Then introduce me to them.”

  He grunted. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”

  Nola shrugged. “I don’t know. I like you. I thought you liked me.”

  Hurt flashed in Scribe’s eyes, but he hid it by taking a huge bite of his burger before settling against the high back of the booth bench. He studied her, reached over and grabbed a handful of her fries. Then he stood in that willowy lumber he had, grabbing her wrist as he straightened.

  “Let’s go.”

  They rode to the east side of town, stopping outside a ramshackle, two-story house with half a dozen motorcycles parked out front. They could hear voices the moment Scribe cut the engine on his bike, laughter raised on the cool night air. Nola removed her helmet and handed it to Scribe, who hung it over the handlebars next to his. She’d never seen him do that before. She wondered if that meant they wouldn’t be here long.

  He held her hand close against his side as he walked in long strides around the side of the house, forcing her to walk fast to keep up. Just before he pushed through the wooden gate that would take them into the back yard, he pushed her up against the side of the house.

  “Only speak if you’re spoken to. Don’t comment on anything you see, especially if you know it’s not legal. And stay by my side no matter who might invite you into the house. Got it?”

  Nola nodded, a knot of fear twisting her insides.

  Scribe pulled her against him again and dragged her through the gate.

  There were a dozen or so people gathered around a fire pit that was currently burning a low, yellow fire that was licking hungrily at a nearly depleted log of wood. The men were all dressed basically like Scribe: jeans, t-shirts of varying colors and designs, and leather jackets. Th
e women, the ones who were dressed, had on jeans and tees, too, some of them sporting some smaller version of the leather jackets their men wore. There were bottles of hard liquor scattered over the ground, some empty, some with several swallows left. Smoke drifted up from places other than the fire pit, not all of it the acrid smoke of tobacco. And there was a low table that sported more alcohol as well as several different platters of fruit, meat, and cheese. Beside that was a glass platter that held some sort of powder that Nola quickly decided was one of those things Scribe had asked her not to comment on.

  “Brother!”

  A large man with lots of dark hair and a lumbering gait that suggested he was one of those who had imbibed with some of those empty liquor bottles, stumbled toward them. He wrapped his arms around Scribe and patted him on the back hard enough to break a few ribs. Then he pulled back, laughing, as he studied Scribe’s pale features.

  “You haven’t been around here in weeks.”

  “Been busy.”

  “That’s what I heard.” The man turned his gaze on Nola. “And I’m guessing this is why.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  The man studied Nola with a dark, unreadable gaze, his eyes falling to her proffered hand. He pushed it away and then she was suddenly in his whiskey soaked embrace, his chest vibrating as he laughed, his body swaying like a grandmother greeting a long-lost child.

  “We’re all family here,” he said as he stepped back, his dark beard twisted by his huge smile. “If Scribe calls you his girl, then you’re as much family here as he is.”

  “Thank you,” Nola said, sneaking a glance at Scribe. His expression was also unreadable, but he made a gesture suggesting she was acting just as he wanted her to.

  “I’m Bear, by the way,” the man said as he turned. “That’s my lady, Falcon, over there,” he said, gesturing to an attractive blond who was lounging a little too relaxed in a lawn chair beside the one Bear had just vacated. “And we’ve got Gangrene, Skidrow, Butch, and Germ over there. And the ladies…I don’t know all of them, some of them just showed up today, you know?” Bear offered Nola a wink, as though she understood exactly what he was talking about. She didn’t. “There’s food on the table, booze, and anything else you might want. Go help yourselves.”

  “Thanks, Bear,” Scribe said, doing some elaborate handshake with him.

  “Glad to see you, kid.”

  Bear walked off, taking his seat again and lifting a fresh bottle of whiskey to his lips. Some of it spilled over his beard, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “That’s our president,” Scribe said in her ear.

  “Really?”

  He kissed her temple lightly. “Don’t let the behavior mislead you. He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch who worked hard to make our charter what it is.”

  Nola just nodded as she let Scribe push her deeper into the yard. He grabbed a bottle that was lying on the ground and took a few swallows before he sat in an empty chair and pulled her down onto his lap.

  “How’d it go in Amarillo?”

  The guy next to them—Nola couldn’t see his name patch—shrugged. “Had to push ‘em a little, but they finally paid.”

  “Good.”

  The guy slapped Scribe’s arm. “You should have been there. You always get a kick out of those idiots.”

  “Next time.”

  “Hey, Scribe,” someone called from the other side of the fire pit, “that your girl?”

  “Yeah,” Scribe said. “Everyone, this is Nola.”

  “Hey, Nola,” half a dozen voices said in a slurred chorus.

  “Aww, baby, don’t tell me you’ve decided to go straight,” a woman’s voice said from behind Nola. She twisted and found some half naked woman bending low over Scribe. “You were always so much fun…the girls fought over which one got to entertain you.”

  “Thanks, Cheri,” Scribe said, planting a kiss on the woman’s cheek even as his hand slid tight around Nola’s waist. “But you and your girls are too much for me to handle. Always have been.”

  “Well, I’m here if you change your mind.” The woman straightened and her eyes fell on Nola. She slapped Nola’s cheek a little too roughly for it to have been an act of affection. “Take good care of our boy.”

  “I will.”

  Nola’s eyes moved to Scribe’s. He tilted his head slightly, making a motion with his eyebrows that would have made her laugh under other circumstances. She kissed him because it seemed like what was expected.

  A few whistles underscored the fact that they were not alone as Scribe buried his fingers in her hair and gave her a kiss that made it clear to everyone he had no intention of needing Cheri’s services again any time soon.

  She could taste the whiskey on his lips. It was cheap, bitter, and it was nothing like the bourbon Jake used to drink at the country club. She thought she probably preferred the whiskey.

  “So, you’re the student at Tech,” a woman sitting to their right said to Nola.

  “I am.”

  “Smart girl. Impressive.”

  Nola didn’t know what to say, but an answer didn’t seem to be required.

  Someone turned on a radio and a couple of girls moved into the center of the haphazard circle and began to dance. It was more of an undulation, but they were clearly having fun. One of the girls grabbed Nola’s hand and pulled her out of Scribe’s lap. She looked back at him, but he waved at her, telling her it was fine even though his eyes were dark, wary.

  One of the girls grabbed Nola’s hips from behind and encouraged her to move, pushing her hips forward and back in a wave that felt intensely erotic. Another girl moved up in front of her and encouraged her to move her arms, to touch herself. It wasn’t her high school prom. She turned so that she could see Scribe and moved with the music and the other girls, biting her lip as she thought of how delicious it would feel if it was his body rubbing against her back, her hips, his hands touching her arms and throat.

  And then someone grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the girls, away from Scribe, and tugged her into sweaty arms that smelled like burning sweat socks.

  “Hey, gorgeous.”

  His name patch said Skidrow.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m good…now.”

  He slid his hand over her ass.

  “Skiddy,” Scribe said, coming up behind Nola, “why don’t you keep your hands to yourself.”

  “Just having a little fun.”

  “Yeah, well, this is my fun.” Scribe grabbed Nola’s arm and pulled her back into his arms, spinning her at the last second so that she landed against his chest.

  “What ever happened to the whole share and share-alike thing?”

  “Give me your share of the Amarillo gig, and I’ll share anything you want.”

  Laughter burst around them. Nola just buried her face against Scribe’s chest, wondering for the first time if she’d gotten herself in a little too deep.

  They danced for a while, quiet conversations broken by the occasional bark of laughter going on all around them. Scribe slid his hand under the bottom edge of her shirt, running his palm up along her spine. Her nipples hardened when his fingers paused at the clasp of her bra. She pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat and he groaned, dipping his head down to capture her lips with his own.

  She was immediately lost in him, lost in everything about him. He’d taken off his jacket, giving her free reign of his impressive body. She slid her hands up and down his back, loving the feel of his muscles as they flexed with each of his movements, then down over his ass, understanding for the first time what a man saw in a woman’s curves. There was something so sexy about the natural contours of a person’s body, like all of the world’s mysteries could be resolved if you could just figure out what God was thinking when he made the human form.

  “We should get out of here,” Scribe whispered in her ear.

  Nola smiled, though stepping away from his arms was the last thing she wanted to do.<
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  They were headed for the gate, her hand tucked securely in his, when Bear called out to him.

  “I need to talk to you for a minute.”

  Bear ambled up to them, the drunken stumble of earlier completely gone. His eyes were no longer clouded over either, making Nola wonder if the whole thing had been an act.

  Scribe squeezed Nola’s hand as he leaned close and whispered, “Wait for me here.” Then he was off with Bear, headed up to the back door of the house, never once looking back to make sure she’d followed his instructions.

  “It’s just business.” Butch—another of the club members—had sidled up beside Nola without her realizing it. She stepped back, leaning against the side of the house so that she knew what was behind her. Butch moved closer, trapping her there.

  “Scribe’s never brought anyone home to meet mommy and daddy before. You must be something special.” He kind of sniffed at her, as though he was a dog checking out the competition. “In fact, Scribe’s never been the kind to stick with one girl for more than a few days. And then he goes and finds some chickadee from outside the family.”

  “I don’t think he meant anything by it.”

  “Scribe’s a good boy. Been part of this club since he was big enough to sit a hog between his thighs.” Butch flicked a fingernail against Nola’s cheek, making her flinch. “Make sure you don’t get any ideas about him leaving the club. Cuz, once a member, always a member. You get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  He nodded. “Don’t forget it.”

  He walked away, calling out to someone else as though he hadn’t just threatened Nola- as though handing out threats was a daily thing with him. Routine. Meaningless.

  And it probably was. To him. But Nola’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Chapter 5

  Scribe was tense when he came out of the house, and that tension didn’t subside as they rode his bike back across town. He drove so fast that Nola was holding on as much for her life as for the chance to touch the man she was quickly falling head over heels for. She was almost relieved when he stopped the bike at their usual spot by the lake.

  “What’s going on?”