Riding Dirty

by Abriella Blake

  The whole Derian clan was present and accounted for, down to the newest grandchild. Axle relaxed at a picnic table holding the three-month old bundle of joy with surprising ease and tenderness while its mother, his daughter Taline, fussed and cooed from the seat next to him. Axle’s other grandchildren revolved in shifts munching on French fries, chasing each other, and running to greet friends while his son Rex and daughter-in-law Mara danced nearby.

  Most of the guys were clumped and cheering around an impromptu wrestling match in the middle of the parking lot while the formidable club matriarch, Voski Miriam Derian, wife of Axle and mother to all, oversaw the barbecue pit. Voski was the daughter of an Armenian genocide survivor. She had grown up fast and smart; her unrelenting backbone had been Axle’s inspiration and bedrock. By extension, she was the foundation of the entire Ruiners clan. Tonight, she had insisted on throwing this celebration for what she saw as two significant victories for the club; their few months of peace, and Axle’s vague news that a new angle to steal from the Auditore’s had been presented by none other than golden-boy Bronson Ramsey.

  Voski knew more than most about the inner workings of the One Percenters, and she possessed both an impeccable sense of timing and an arsenal of tactics for keeping the boys motivated. Now, between gun battles and busts, a barbecue was just what the doctor ordered. God knew there was plenty of steam to blow off; all those months of impoverishing ‘peace’ had been easy on no one. Voski saw tension between Rex and his father, worry on the faces of the brothers. She hadn’t seen Ramsey yet and needed to talk to him to collect the last piece of the puzzle.

  In spite of the sticky situation at the club, Bronson was the closest to happy he could be as he navigated his signature Harley through the Las Vegas streets, Rowan’s body pressed close behind him, as they dodged and accelerated closer to the clubhouse. He had gotten used to her weight, her feel on the p-pad, and could effortlessly ride her anywhere, any way.

  Family night was the perfect setting to truly initiate Rowan in Ruiners’ life—or at least to a more PG, easy-to-stomach iteration of it. He had noticed that, in spite of the vulnerability and tears he had witnessed on his first night with her, Rowan had a thick skin and quick mind. Bronson was beginning to think she could adjust to him, and him to her, maybe for keeps. With the buffer of wives and kids, Rowan could ease in to the club and the club could acclimatize themselves to his new old lady…she was his old lady. Bronson hadn’t really said anything about it yet. Tonight he would tell her. Bronson had made the decision, and it was time for everyone else to get used to it. Including Rowan.

  When Bronson’s Dyna Wide Glide skidded to a stop and Rowan started to unwind herself from his waist, Rex’s ten year old son Daniel scampered up to meet them.

  “Ramsey!” Daniel shouted, hugging the fighter with innocent enthusiasm. “No one at school believes me that I know you. Will you sign my shirt for proof? Especially to show Jessica Williamson, she sits next to me and has red hair and thinks she’s smarter than me but I still like her. You’re gonna grind Silverman to dust next week, right? You gonna Avalanche him?”

  Bronson and Rowan laughed at the first full stop in the breathless greeting. “Double D!” Bronson chuckled, and leapt up from his bike, grabbing the giggling boy and swinging him upside-down in an easy ankle-hold. “Here’s the scoop on the next fight, you’re the first one to know: I’m gonna erase Silverman’s birth certificate. The guy’s an addict and he’s weak. Don’t do drugs, kid; it makes you a loser. Tell you what, find a sharpie and ask your mom, and if she says it’s ok I’ll sign your shirt for you.”

  With a final tickle and swing, Bronson released his prisoner. Rowan watched Daniel dart away into the crowd snorting with laughter, no doubt in single-minded pursuit of parental consent and a permanent marker. Shaking her hair out of her helmet, Rowan set it carefully on the seat and trudged over wrapping her fingers through Bronson’s, smiling up at his relaxed face.

  “Gee mister, are you always such an upstanding citizen?” she teased. “They should send you into classrooms.”

  “I could teach you a thing or two.” Without warning, Bronson had scooped Rowan up and flung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, gratified by her whoops and squeals of delight. “Positive role model by day, but just wait til you get me in bed tonight, honey.” He turned his head and sank his teeth into her ass.

  “Ah!” She squealed. “Did you just bite me? You!” She flailed, laughing and smacking at his back. “Put me down, there are children here! Oh my God, you weirdo.”

  He obliged, capturing her in a fierce hug. “Hey,” he said, when their playful stumbling stilled. “I’m glad you’re here with me. Think you’d like to stay a while?”

  Rowan pulled back, eyeing him quizzically, that old sphinx mystery fortifying her expression. Bronson’s pulse jumped, suddenly afraid to let her answer or think about the question himself. They hadn’t talked about their involvement yet; they had just sort of let the momentum sweep them between the sheets. Bronson had assumed she’d go along with his decision to be exclusive, but all of a sudden he wondered how she’d react. What were her plans, once she got the money she needed? Would she just take what she wanted and disappear?

  Bronson understood that impulse. He’d done it himself countless times with women, with jobs. Shit, he’d done it with everything, actually—except for the Ruiners. And he was secretly working on ditching that life too, as soon as he could. For fuck’s sake, what were his plans? Did he want Rowan with him when he flew the coop? His personal bank account was still distressingly low for Mexico; the Auditores were siphoning all his prize money and Axle had generously decided to put the first fruits of their con toward Lacy’s liver. He’d need at least a couple hundred grand to set himself up south of the border. Even if he had the money now, and even if he did ask her, would Rowan come with him? And if she did, would he be able to stay faithful? It had never exactly been his forte.

  god damn, those were a lot of ifs.

  To divert from the uncomfortable line of thought he had accidentally kick started, Bronson smacked Rowans butt playfully and planted a light kiss on her mouth. “Come on,” he grunted. “I want you to meet people. I’m showing you off tonight.”

  Smiley, Dolce and Luther roared up behind them not long after in a neat line of chrome. A tidal wave of kids surged up to meet them, and Smiley laughed obligingly when they begged for a stunt display.

  “Donut! Donut! Donut!” They chanted.

  “Alright babysitter, do your stuff,” Dolce muttered, wandering toward the clubhouse. His mind was elsewhere. So, apparently, was Lola.

  Predictably, Luther joined in chanting with the kids, pumping his fist excitedly. “Donut!”

  Left with no other option or ally, Smiley succumbed to the whims of the mob. He duck-walked his bike back out and away from the festivities, revving the engine and burning in a steady circle, the front wheel never moving an inch as the rest of the machine revolved in a 360. Bronson and Rowan laughed at the spectacle, but were soon brought back to socializing by a low, piercing feminine voice.

  “Bronson Ramsey,” it purred, cutting under the din of the motorcycle engine and crowd. “Come give me a kiss.”

  Rowan turned and found herself face to face with a tiny, glamorous woman with a cleft chin, high cheekbones, and an impressively constructed leather dress. She was part golden era Hollywood star, part desert warrior, and her flashing black eyes assessed before they smiled. She kissed Bronson twice on each cheek and then said, “Who is this? She's definitely a new face, I would remember if someone who looked this clean was here before.”

  Bronson grinned. “Voski Derian, Rowan Thomas. My old lady.”

  Voski kissed Rowan’s cheek, her inspection continuing. “Ah, so this is the famous Rowan who is helping you at the casino. I hear things are going well. You don’t look like a biker or a UFC fan. Where are you from, Rowan Thomas?”

  “Well, Ms. Derian,” Rowan slipped effortlessly into her polit
e Southern social mask, eyes flashing to Bronson for support. “You’re right, I’m not a biker chick. I’d never been on a motorcycle before this month, and frankly I’m not used to it yet. To answer your question, I’m from Alabama and I’ve never seen a UFC fight, but Bronson made me swear I’d cheer for him ringside on Saturday. So I'll be there with my roommate.”

  Voski nodded, a new twinkle appearing in her eye. “Well I’ve seen everything now. Ramsey and Miss Alabama: Ramsey bringing an old lady to family night. Axle will shit himself. Miss Alabama, maybe you can teach this wild beast some of your good manners; it would be a relief to us all if you could get him to chew with his mouth closed. Ramsey, has she met Axle? No? She can’t be your old lady until she's met Axle, lazy ass. She must. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  Rowan was a little dazed by how quickly Voski and the Derians shifted from defensive indifference to familial warmth simply at Bronson’s declaration that she was his “old lady.” She had never heard the phrase before and kept trying to search his eyes for some sort of clue, explanation, or help. But Bronson was enjoying the spectacle too much, chuckling at the sight of the shy and angelic blonde being absorbed in the rowdy, gregarious Derian clan.

  Far from rescuing Rowan from the crush of demonstrative welcome, Bronson tapped shoulders and brought in new faces as Rowan was hugged in circles and passed cups of beer and asked silly questions about Alabama that no one was even remotely interested in. Daniel appeared with a marker and received his signature, then offered to give Rowan a tattoo. She sweetly agreed and received a bold flower design on her forearm. After the pork was served and the beer ran dry, a somewhat dazed and overwhelmed Rowan excused herself to go find the restroom.

  “She’s different,” murmured Voski, as the golden hair disappeared in a mob of black leather and exposed skin. “Opposite of you, gentle. It’s better this way, better than with the hang-arounds and tramps like Lola. That was a shit-show. You’ve always been so hard, you need something soft to come home to.”

  Bronson was oddly content and comfortable hearing Rowan discussed this way, and felt the satisfaction of ownership. “I know. She’s…special.”

  Voski exhaled. It had been a long road for her unofficially adopted son, and she had always harbored a secret wish to see him settled, with a family. Axle had always sworn it would never happen with Ramsey, and so far his womanizing had seemed to support that prediction. “He’s a wolf,” Axle always said. “He’ll roam the woods and steal sheep til he gets shot.” Voski had always pointed out that wolves mate for life, that Bronson needed a worthy copilot to keep him sane. Strange sex and partying wouldn’t satisfy him for long. She plainly saw the lonely opening in his life, the space for an anchor. The club was something for him, she knew, but it was not a partner.

  “Special,” Voski agreed. She had only just met Rowan but trusted her instincts about the young woman. “But, can she handle all this? She’s not one of us Ramsey, she’s a cager civilian anyone can see that. Is she strong enough?”

  “You have no idea, Ma.”

  Rowan wove her way with some difficulty through the festival in the parking lot and stumbled into the dimly lit clubhouse, groping along the walls and over the revelers until she found a restroom. She did her business, flushed, and exited the stall to wash her hands. Splashing the cool water on her overheated face, she caught the mirror’s reflection peripherally and gasped, spinning.

  “Dolce! Oh God, you scared me.” He was leaning against the bathroom door, arms crossed, watching her. “I’m sorry, I thought this was the ladies’.”

  “It is,” he rasped, a cat with its mouse.

  Deliberately, his hand turned the lock on the door. Dolce had had enough of Bronson’s uncontested dominance in the club. He’d had enough of the tight leash Axle kept him on, enough of being outvoted. He was absolutely fed up with trying to please or control Lola, painfully aware that he had never come close to replacing that cock-sucking prima donna Ramsey in her twisted little heart. What the hell was the obsession, the fascination? Women, men, everybody practically tripped over themselves fawning over that son of a bitch. Dolce didn’t get it. He was done being everybody’s second choice.

  So, Rowan wasn’t going to get a choice.

  Bronson had had his woman, now Dolce would settle the score. Rowan was wearing nondescript shorts and a t-shirt now, but Dolce remembered the way the contours of her body had assaulted his senses in tonight’s party dress at the casino. He could still see the definition of her hamstrings on her lower thighs and the perfect curve of her calves. Her hair was loose…the better to grab her by.

  A cold wash of goose bumps whispered over Rowan’s skin as if a glacial draft had howled through the room. “Oh.” She took a step toward the door, but Dolce didn’t budge. Ignoring the dread in her stomach, she raised watery blue eyes to his and said in a firm, steady voice, “Is there a problem Dolce?”

  “No problem, honey.” Dolce’s artificial eye moved almost in tandem with his natural one, the scar across his brow making him look like a Somali pirate. His gaze boldly fell down Rowan’s body and rested around her breasts. He felt his package stiffen. “In fact things are looking up.”

  “Then let me pass, please.”

  “Well, see,” Dolce licked his lips, smiling faintly, “The thing is I was just a little surprised to see you and Bronson so chummy today. I didn’t realize you were giving out free samples, you know?”

  Rowan smacked his searching hand away from her face. “It’s not like that. Bronson and I are…” What? What was the word she wanted? “Dating.”

  Dolce laughed brutally. “Sure, sweetie. Dating. Bronson. Let me translate that—you’re no virgin no more, are you?” When her cheeks flushed, Dolce took a step toward her, relishing the confusion he saw on her face. “Come on, I’ll date you too. I’ll date you right here, right now. Come on.”

  “No, Dolce. I’m with Bronson.”

  “You and every other ho in this town, peaches. I’m gonna liberate you.”

  Dolce reached down and loosened his belt, causing a chain reaction in Rowan’s fight or flight instincts. No way. No way was this about to happen. This couldn’t be real.

  “Help!”

  She rammed her elbow into his side, quickly unlocked the door and reached for the handle, but his fingers closed around her hand and yanked her in to his body. She kicked and thrashed viciously, but he pulled her hair and forced her neck to bend back into a hard kiss. Rowan yelped and tried to writhe away, managing a swift kick to his shin, but Dolce was too strong for her. She managed to scratch his face with her fingernails, drawing blood, but soon her arm was twisted behind her back with blinding pressure and she cried out in pain.

  “Stop, please! Help!”

  She could hear people maddeningly close on the other side of the door, the din of the party. It was so jarring to think that kids were playing a few feet away from this scene of horror. She realized with a sinking feeling that probably no one could hear her over the music and din of the party.

  “You like it rough, huh?” Dolce shoved her over toward the sink and she flailed, bouncing off the hard surface and sliding to the floor. He was hovering over her before she could stand. She whipped her legs around and kicked up at Dolce, keeping him at bay, and screamed as loud as she could. Where was her gun? Damn! It was in her bag, on Bronson’s bike.

  “Get away from me,” she shouted, and screamed, “Help!” But already her voice was failing her, and she felt it was pointless anyway. Dolce had her pinned under him and his face and hands were everywhere. “Help! Please!” She couldn’t fight him off much longer.

  Dolce heard rather than felt the crack of knuckles on the back of his skull, his skeleton vibrating with the impact as if in slow motion. Everything in his perception slowed to a grind as powerful, tattooed forearms gripped under his armpits and lifted him. He rose up as if through water, floating toward the ceiling, and capsized. Inexplicably he found himself bottom-up on the green tiled floor, his vision
dim and his stomach lurching.

  “What the fuck you motherfucker!” Boots were kicking him, heavy boots and heavy blows. Dolce curled in on himself, a reverse butterfly retreating into the cocoon. A kick came with each word, a punctuation mark. “That is my old lady you son of a bitch. You touch her again, you’re dead.”

  “Ramsey! That’s—that’s enough bro,” the Prospect’s brown curly hair bobbed as he flitted in, trying to secure a hold on his violently angry superior. True to Axle’s orders, he had been tailing Dolce all day and had immediately gone to find Bronson when he saw him follow Rowan into the bathroom. “You made your point. Don’t kill him, man. Let’s go outside.”

  Bronson saw nothing but red for another sixty seconds but when the rage finally subsided, he gulped in calming air and turned to his woman. Rowan was huddled in a corner like a frightened child, watching him with those maddeningly mysterious eyes. In an instant he was crouching beside her, rubbing tears off her cheek with his calloused hands and swearing under his breath. What if no one had heard anything? What if the Prospect had grabbed him five minutes later? It had been a close call. Too close, and in a place that should be safe: his home territory.

  “You ok blondie?” When she didn’t answer, Bronson searched for something to lighten the mood. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

  Rowan’s laugh turned to a sob halfway through and she collapsed into Bronson’s chest. He held her, swelling with a strange sense of relief. She had needed him, and he had come through. The door opened and a few curious faces peeked in, snapping Bronson back to action.