She leans her head back, testing me.
“Hands against the wall,” I order, and she slaps her palms down loudly against the brick behind her, one at each side of her legs.
Her chest rises and falls dramatically as her breathing increases. She keeps licking and biting her lips, her desperation showing. Why do women think this is a turn on? It’s not.
“You want a ride on the wild side?”
She nods, pushing her tits out at me. I’m a man, any release is better than no release.
“You wet for me?” I ask, and she giggles while nodding. “If you want me to get hard and stay hard, you don’t fucking make a sound. That giggling shit is annoying as fuck.”
Immediately, she snaps her mouth shut.
I yank her shirt up and pull her bra over her titties without unhooking it. Her nipples point out in the cold night air.
“You cold or is that for me?” I ask, flicking her nipple harshly.
“You,” she whispers breathlessly.
I yank the waistband of her stretchy pants down, pulling her panties with them. Her curls glisten with her arousal under the street light.
With her pants at her ankles, I turn her around to face the wall. “Bend over, grab your ankles. You don’t speak, don’t touch me, and you don’t move. If you want a wild ride with a biker, I’m gonna give you one you’ll never forget.”
While she positions herself, I grab a condom from my wallet and unbutton my four button jeans enough to release my cock. While stroking myself a few times to get fully erect, part of me considers just walking away. However, I’m a man with a dick, and pussy is pussy. No matter what my mood, it’s a place to sink into for a time.
Covering myself carefully, I spread her ass cheeks and slide myself inside her slick cunt. The little whore is more than ready.
I close my eyes and picture a dark-haired beauty with ink covering her arms and a tight cunt made just for me. I can almost hear the gravelly voice of my dream woman as she moans my name, pushing back to take me deeper, thrust after thrust.
I roll my hips as the receptionist struggles to keep herself in position.
Raising my hand, I come down on the exposed globe of her ass cheek. “Dirty fucking girl.” I spank her again. “I’m not your fucking daddy, but I’ll give you what he obviously didn’t.” I spank her again and thrust. “Head down between your legs. Watch me fuck your pussy.”
She does as instructed and watches as I continue slamming into her. Stilling, I reach down and twist her nipples as she pushes back on me.
Her moans get louder as I move, gripping her hips and pistoning in and out of her.
I slap her ass again. “I said quiet.” Then I push deep, my hips hitting her ass, and she shakes as her orgasm overtakes her.
“Fuck me!” she wails.
I slam in and out, in and out, faster and faster, until I explode inside the condom.
She isn’t holding her ankles by the time I’m done. She’s still head down, bent over with her back against the wall as her hands hang limply like the rest of her body, trembling in aftershocks.
Pulling out, I toss the condom on the ground and walk away, buttoning my pants back up, no thought beyond washing her off me.
“Collector,” I hear X yell my road name from his doorway. “You ruined that one.” He nods to the bent over woman, smoking a cigarette and making it obvious he watched the show.
The noise has Judge coming to his door and giving me a nod of approval.
I look over my shoulder to see the bitch still hasn’t moved. Her pussy is out in the air, ass up, head down, and she’s still moaning. Desperate, needy, it’s not my thing.
“I need a shower,” I say, giving X a two finger salute before going into my own room where Deacon is already in bed and doesn’t move as I go straight back to the shitty bathroom to clean up.
I wasn’t lying. I smell like a bar, and now I smell the skank stench of easy pussy. I have needs, but I can’t help wondering what it would be like to have to work for my release just once. It’s not in my cards, though. Just like this town, this ride, and that broad, it’s on to the next for me and my bothers of the Devil’s Due MC.
Chapter Two
~Emerson~
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I hear Earl call from the front area of the shop. “Look what the cat drug in.”
I start to make my way up front, pausing in the hallway at the side room that is my station.
“Long damn time, Old Dog,” the sexy, gruff voice of a man replies.
My first thought is I need to get laid. If the mere sound of a man’s voice has become sexy to me, then I have seriously gone too long between lovers. I don’t need Mr. Right; I’m happy with Mr. Right Now.
“Dover Ragnes, what the devil are you doin’ here?” Earl asks with noticeable pride in his voice.
My heart stops. In an instant, everything I thought I left behind in Tennessee has come full-force into the safety of my Alabama life. Out of all the places he could be, out of all the men who could come in that door, it would have to be the one man who ties me to the most helpless moment of my life.
Once upon a time, I could believe in fairytales. The days of dressing up in princess tiaras and plastic shoes left the day she did. Now I know the truth: happily ever after is only what you can make of the shit storm life gives you. Every breath is a treasured moment. In the blink of an eye, innocent lives are lost in the cruelest ways imaginable.
I have spent my entire life wishing on every star I could to turn back the hands of time. However, there is no fairy godmother to wave a wand, pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Just like fairytales never do come true, neither does the one wish I would give everything for.
Raleigh believed in the stars, loved to gaze at them and make up her own names for each and every one. If only she had been right, then maybe my wish to bring her back would have come true.
“Passing through,” Dover answers, and I keep myself hidden from his view. “How goes it, old timer?”
“It goes, young buck. It fucking goes. We doin’ work for you, or you doin’ work in the area?”
I back down the hallway of the tattoo shop that is covered in flash sheets set in frames for customers to choose from unless they want a custom piece. Continuing on, I pass by my station without going back in, as well as Randy’s. I consider stopping in the piercing room and work on sanitizing tools, but then decide against it since the machine can be loud. I keep moving until I land myself in the back room. It’s our supply room, break room, and Old Dog’s office.
There is an old dining room table with four chairs back here in the middle of the room. The cabinets are filled with ink, towels, plastic wrap, and all our other supplies, as well as a few snacks for the days we don’t have time to stop and eat a full meal. A fridge, microwave, and a sink line the wall. Earl has a desk in the back corner with a computer that may be one of the original models from the eighties going back to the old-school blinking black and green screen. Command-prompt garbage can is what he needs for that old clunker, but he uses it. His motto stands true in everything, including the computer: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
I have no reason to be back here, but I can’t be available if Dover needs work. No way, no how will I put my mark on his body, giving that piece of myself to him. Hell, he may not care, but that’s my art on him forever.
My hands begin to tremble. He knows the reason my whole world changed when I was far too young to understand what she endured. He experienced the same loss, the fear that swept through the whole town, the reason my parents never again trusted me to be safe in our own home. He knows it all too well. He’s the reason I spend night after night, even now, wishing I had something good to believe in. No, I cannot and will not ink him. Every time he would touch the tattoo, it would be touching something I created. There is no way I can be tied to Dover Ragnes like that, not with the history between us.
My mind goes back to her.
“Best friends forever
and ever,” Raleigh squeals as we ride our bikes down the quiet street of our neighborhood.
“Of course,” I respond, pedaling faster and faster. Feeling brave, I let go of the handle bars.
Raleigh is the best bike rider I know. She wouldn’t think twice about letting go and riding with her hands held high. Her older brother Dover taught her himself, and he’s fearless. Now that he has his driver’s license, he rides a motorcycle. It’s loud, and he’s always working on it, but he takes Raleigh to school on it if she misses the bus. He hasn’t caught on that she misses the bus more often since he started taking her.
“You’re doing it!” Raleigh encourages from my right side.
I smile from ear to ear. My best friend and I challenge ourselves together.
Boom. The hard ground seems to move up and crash with me instead of me falling to it. Everything happened so fast. One minute, I was free, and the next, I am on the ground.
Raleigh is over me in a flash. “Where does it hurt, Emerson?”
“Everywhere,” I groan.
She lifts my hand and sees my wrist is bleeding. She doesn’t miss a beat before taking the ribbon from her hair and wrapping it around and around.
“Better?” she asks.
I don’t answer; I simply nod my head while the pain still runs through me. I don’t want to tell her the ribbon didn’t work. She never leaves home without a ribbon in her hair, always matching her outfit. She says it’s like a girl’s version of a super hero cape, and one day, she’s going to have super powers to save the people she loves the most.
“I know it’s not like mom’s kisses or the special Band-Aids, but it’ll have to do till we get home.”
“Raleigh, you are the bestest ever. Thank you for sharing your ribbon with me.”
“Dover says, ‘It’s not the fall that gets ya; it’s the sudden stop.’ I don’t know exactly what that means, but stopping sure does hurt sometimes.” She laughs, making me smile. Then she helps me off the ground and back onto my bike.
With the soft touch of my friend, the comfort of her aid, the pain subsides. We pedal as if we don’t have a care in the world.
If only I would have known that would be our last bike ride together … Tracing the yellow bow tattooed in the form of the eternity symbol on the inside of my wrist, I think of her like I do a million times a day.
“Your big brother is all grown up, and he’s here, Raleigh,” I whisper to the space around me. My stomach burns. She should be here. Dammit, she should be here.
“Sonnie!” I hear Earl yell from the front.
I don’t reply.
“Give me a second, fellas. I’ll see if Sonnie has anything open tonight.”
He doesn’t wait for me to come to him; instead, Earl makes his way to where I am in the back as if I couldn’t have heard him. It isn’t long before the man who gave me a chance when I left everything I ever knew behind stands in front of me. Part of me wants to let it all tumble out of my mouth like the girl I am inside.
The woman I have grown into keeps quiet.
“Old Dog” is in his usual overalls with a black tank top under them. The old school markings in green and black ink cover him from his collarbone and shoulders all the way down to his wrists. His long, white beard goes down to his round beer belly. If he were to turn around, the white hair he sports is always in a braid that goes well beyond his shoulders. After his time in the service, he considers this his rebellion.
“For God and country” is tattooed down his right arm while “For love and life” is down his left arm as a tribute to all the things that have mattered most. The man is wise and loyal. From teaching me to sketch to allowing his leg to be my very first canvas, he has given me life through my art.
The man is almost seventy. He’s seen war time and peace. He’s seen mayhem and marked his story on his body as well as many others. Earl “Old Dog” Wilbur is a former Marine who is who he is and makes not one apology for it. He taught me my craft, gave me my start, and has been a father, friend, and the only family I really have left.
“You got time to squeeze in an old friend and his crew tonight?”
My eyes grow wide. I can’t deny him anything when he gave me so much. I also know I can’t go out there and see his eyes—her eyes—without getting lost in their depths.
“I’m not feeling so great, Old Dog,” I try to pacify the situation.
“All right, darlin’, go on home and get some rest.” He comes over and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
Without giving myself away, I put my hand over his before I rise from the chair to leave. I don’t look him in the eye as I grab my helmet and head toward the back door. I pause when I hear Earl start talking to the guys out front again.
“Sonnie ain’t up to it tonight. My hands are bad now, boys. Come back tomorrow night if you’re still in town; we’ll get you fixed up.”
Shit! Why didn’t I think this through? Well, at least I have time to prepare myself for coming face to face with the memories I spent sixteen years fighting back.
Does he realize who Dover Ragnes is to me? Does he know the history between us? What does he know about the man he calls an old friend? In all the years I’ve spent with Earl, I don’t remember a time when I have said Raleigh’s name. He knows my parents sheltered me to the point I had to leave town or suffocate under them. However, never have I allowed myself to dive so deeply into my loss as to explain it to him.
I keep my bike parked right outside the backdoor of the shop. On the rainy days, it makes it easy to get in and out.
Sliding on my helmet, I climb on and start her up. The yellow and black Ninja comes to life under me as I tuck down low to hug the curve as I round it, twisting the throttle.
Six Harleys are parked out front as I look in my mirrors and drive away. If only I could say for sure I was keeping Dover in my rear…
I still my mind from thoughts of my best friend’s older brother as I look up at the starry night sky. Then I twist the throttle and grip the gas tank more firmly with my thighs as I feel the night air whip around me.
Getting home, I pull up to my back door. Earl helped me add a small lean-to off the porch for my bike. The tiny home lies on the end of a back road and is my sanctuary.
I hop off, dropping my helmet on the back stoop, and make my way inside. For the millionth time, I think to myself, I should start locking up the place. That’s what sane, normal people do. Then I look around and realize I have nothing of value except my bike, and it’s with me wherever I go.
My kitchen is directly through the backdoor. The stainless steel trim holds my Formica countertops in place. The white cabinets are what I call a retro feel, but it’s more because the house was built in nineteen sixty-two, and it has not been updated. The yellow linoleum floor pops off the white of the cabinets, which I did take the time to repaint in a satin finish for shine. I only have a new stove and refrigerator because the original ones crapped out. I did go with stainless steel, only because they don’t offer olive green anymore.
From the backdoor in the kitchen, I can see straight through to my front door. They call the style a shotgun house since a bullet could be fired from the front door and go straight through to the back uninterrupted. The label doesn’t matter; it could be a shack for all I care. What’s important is it’s home. Since I left home, the last thing I ever want to feel again is trapped. The straight run through gives me the peace of mind that I can get out if I need to.
The bathroom is off the far corner of the kitchen, set diagonally from the back door. Since it’s original, the bathtub and toilet are olive green against a blush pink tile. To most people, I’m probably crazy to live in the deep south and in this style of house; then add in my desire not to upgrade … Yeah, very few can understand. The colors may not work together, but they are together and have been a part of each person who has occupied this space’s history. It means something.
Yeah, I have a problem with letting go. My innocence was lost when I was nine
years old, and even though I only had her with me for a short time, I have carried her with me every day since. Just like the history in this house, I will hold onto it until I simply can’t anymore.
My bedroom is no different than the style of the rest of the home. From the single bedroom on, the house is done in old, oak flooring that could use a stripping and refinishing. Then again, each scar holds its own story to tell.
My full-sized bed is against the wall long ways, as if it were a day bed without being one. I have my own style, and it’s pretty much the opposite of whatever I feel like everyone else would do.
Passing through, I go to the living room. The walls are done in a sky blue, and the only furniture in the space is a bean bag chair and a lamp. I go to my salt water fish tank and feed my babies. They are all I have here that tie me down, and in the end, they are merely fish.
With my mind too amped up about what may or may not happen tomorrow, I forgo my usual reading and drawing time in the chair and decide to soak in a bath.
If only I could let my past go down the drain as easily as the water…
Chapter Three
~Dover~
Gentry “Deacon” Hawkins is one of those people you want to murder in the morning. He gets up at five sharp and immediately goes for a run. He returns thirty to forty-five minutes later and showers while loudly dropping everything possible on the floor and tub. By the time he gets under the spray, whoever is in the bedroom is wide awake. He does all this, only to get out and smile like it wasn’t on purpose.
For this reason, he usually ends up as my nightly roommate wherever we go. I learned to get up and get my own shower while he’s on his run. The nice thing about the dump we are currently in is that I can make sure there is no hot water for the fucker when he returns. It’s childish of us both, sure, but it’s fucking us.
I’m standing outside, smoking, when Deacon jogs up with Trapper following not far behind, definitely looking like he feels every bit of the aches from their morning workout. If Trapper leaned over and puked right now, I wouldn’t be surprised.
In The Red: Nomad Bikers (Devil's Due MC Book 1) Page 2
