Midnight Desire: A Midnight Riders Motorcycle Club Romance Part 1

by Olivia Thorne

  “You don’t remember the name?”

  Now it was my turn to be suspicious. “Something crappy like Nowhere To Hide,” I said, pulling a name out of my ass and hoping it wasn’t an actual movie title. “Why?”

  “I didn’t see it on your IMDB page.”

  IMDB is short for IMDB.com, or ‘Internet Movie Database.’ It’s the site for finding an actor’s bio.

  “You looked me up,” I said in partial shock.

  “I didn’t have any gossiping waitresses to rely on,” he said mischievously.

  Panic surged through me, but I quickly tamped it down. I had never gotten a Private Investigator’s license because it requires 3000 hours, and I didn’t need one to work for Sid. And Sid had never put anything about me on the website. Wanted to keep me as anonymous as possible.

  I knew there wasn’t anything online about me working as a private investigator.

  Still, though, it was scary. It was the first time I’d come face-to-face with the possibility of being busted – and I couldn’t afford it.

  Not now.

  Not while investigating my cousin’s murder.

  And not while dealing with a motorcycle gang.

  Then I got angry. Why is he checking up on me?

  I had to remind myself that plenty of people Googled potential first dates.

  Is that what this is?

  A first date?

  So I cooled it.

  “Did you find anything interesting?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I like your bikini shots,” he grinned.

  “Oh God,” I groaned. I’d forgotten that. Before Sid, I’d briefly tried my hand at modeling – until I ran into one too many sleazy photographers who advertised for non-nude fashion sessions and then tried to talk me into taking my clothes off. Because it was ‘art.’

  “Sounds like there’s some happy memories there,” Jack laughed.

  “Yeah, right. So – what am I going to find if I Google you?”

  “No Speedo shots, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Aww, and here I was looking forward to you in a banana hammock.”

  “Gonna have to disappoint you on that one.”

  “So what would I find?”

  “Owner of Pollari’s Body Shop.”

  “Already got that from the waitresses.”

  He gave me a thin smile. “Divorced, no kids.”

  “Ah. Amicable?”

  “Hell no,” he chuckled. “When is it ever?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “In fairytales, maybe. What about you?”

  “No kids, never married.”

  “Now, a beautiful woman like you, why’s that?”

  “We’ll get to me soon enough. What about the rest?”

  “The rest of what?”

  “What else would I find on Google? For instance, President of the Midnight Riders.”

  “We don’t put the club roster on the internet.”

  “Well, you know, everything eventually winds up on the internet anyway.”

  He nodded and sipped his scotch. “Like criminal records.”

  I watched him warily. “I guess.”

  “Couple of stints in county. Three years in Chino for aggravated assault.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Aren’t you gonna ask why?” he said.

  “I figure you’ll tell me if you want to.”

  “Let’s just say that the Midnight Riders weren’t always aboveboard. When I patched in at 21, it was… a different organization.”

  “What changed?”

  “I did.” He stared off into the darkness. “Saw a lot of bad shit over the years. A lot of men closer to me than my own brothers… saw ‘em wind up in jail for life. Or worse, saw ‘em die. Liquor store parking lots, deserted stretches of road… always a bullet or knife in their back.”

  I just kept quiet and watched him.

  “Shit like that changes you. Makes you question whether it’s all worth it. I decided it wasn’t.”

  “So you got out?”

  “No. I changed things from within.” He drained the rest of his scotch. “I won the election for president with the promise that we were going to get out of the life. No more brothers in jail, no more brothers dead at the hands of rival gangs, no more of their wives grieving and trying to raise kids as single moms. That was three years ago, and today we are 100% legal. We stay on the right side of the law. We’re a motorcycle club again… not a gang.”

  He sounded sincere.

  I wanted to believe him.

  But I knew he was probably a professional bullshitter.

  Plus, other things were clouding my judgment.

  Like how much I wanted to feel those arms around me again.

  He looked over at me. “That scare you?”

  “What, the prison time?”

  “You said you didn’t want to get involved with a guy with a history.”

  He was staring deep into my eyes now.

  “…we’ve all got histories,” I said quietly.

  There was a second’s pause, and then he leaned in and kissed me.

  I closed my eyes and took him in. The taste of good scotch. The feeling of his body, hard and muscular, pressing against me. His arms, strong and powerful, circling around me. The intoxicating scent that was purely him, musk and spice and the smell of desert sage on his clothes.

  He was forceful but gentle. His lips pressed hard against mine in a possessive way I’d never felt before. His arms gripped me to him, and I felt completely safe and surrounded as I opened my mouth to him.

  His tongue found mine, and scotch and wine mixed as we kissed long and slow.

  Long and slow gradually turned into feverish and intense.

  His hands clutched at my lower back… then lower, cupping my ass.

  On this particular occasion, I didn’t mind. At all.

  I luxuriated in the feel of him. The warmth of his skin on mine… those big, strong arms… that massive chest…

  …and a firm, thick pressure in his pants, pressed against my belly.

  I could feel his cock beneath his jeans.

  It was… big. I couldn’t tell how big, exactly, but it seemed a good bit more than I’d ever encountered before.

  And it was getting larger by the second.

  I ground my body against him, wanting to feel the size of it, the hardness of it.

  I was rewarded.

  I could feel it move with each pulse of his heartbeat, going from off to the side to fully erect, hard and thick against my body.

  Jesus I wanted to feel it.

  Wanted to feel it in my hand… in my mouth…

  …inside me.

  But a tiny, soft voice – what little logical thought still remained in my brain – called out from the depths of my consciousness.

  No.

  You’re not here for this.

  You’re here for Ali.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the wine, or the moonlight, or just his overwhelming sexual presence… probably all three. But I felt like I had been sinking into desire like some opium trance. My head wasn’t clear, and I needed it to be.

  I pushed away from him – gently at first, but when that didn’t stop him, I pressed more forcefully until he let go.

  He stared at me with a questioning frown.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I can’t. Not… not yet.”

  “I think you can,” he said, and moved back in, his arms encircling me. “I think you want to.”

  He was right; I could, and I wanted to.

  I almost gave in. I even raised my mouth to his.

  But the image of Ali, seven years old and full of life, swam up in front of my eyes – and I turned away at the last minute.

  “No, I can’t,” I whispered.

  He didn’t listen. He pressed harder, kissing my neck, biting my ear, wrapping me hard in his arms.

  I wanted him – I wanted him so bad – I wanted him to fuck me, to make me forget the pain –


  But the pain was why I was here.

  I struggled and pushed away. “No!”

  He stood there in the moonlight, frustrated, bewildered. “Is it something I said? The prison shit?”

  I shook my head ‘no.’ And it wasn’t that specifically – although it was a reminder that if the supposed ‘good guy’ in this scenario had been in prison, what the hell had the bad guy done? Besides murdering my cousin?

  “Well…” he said, exhaling, “we could have another drink. We don’t have to… do anything.”

  But I knew that if I stayed, I would absolutely be doing something.

  And if I had another drink, it was going to happen sooner rather than later.

  “I need to get back,” I whispered.

  He stared at me, then nodded. “Okay… okay. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  He led the way back into the house and then out front. He kept looking at me for some sign as he we got on his bike, but I couldn’t meet his eyes…

  …because I was afraid he might see how much I wanted him, and that I might not be able to say ‘no’ a third time.

  17

  Jack

  I was horny and frustrated as hell, but I was a gentleman nonetheless.

  She claimed she was too buzzed to drive her car, which was back at the Seven Veils, so I dropped her off in front of the Ridgeway Motor Inn – a terrible little hot-sheet motel out on Highway 19. The Midnight Riders used to run prostitution and drugs out of it for years, back when we were outlaws. I never participated in that end of the business, though, and it had been one of the first places I axed when I became president.

  Lou still owned it, though. And was mighty pissed that we’d cut off two of his prime sources of revenue.

  But we weren’t pimps, and we weren’t drug dealers.

  At least not as far as I knew. I wondered sometimes, though, if Lou was keeping his hands dirty on the side.

  “You gotta get a better place than this,” I said as I cut the engine.

  “Why’s that?” she asked as she got off the bike.

  I didn’t think it was wise to bring up the prostitution and drug business, so I just joked, “‘Cause you’re liable to find a dead body under the mattress.”

  “I already checked. It’s clean… relatively speaking.”

  “Could’ve stayed somewhere a lot nicer tonight,” I hinted. “Still could.”

  “I think the zoo closes at 6PM,” she deadpanned.

  I laughed and watched her breasts move and sway as she reached up and unclipped the helmet.

  Damn – that body. That hair. That face.

  I’d been so close to having her naked in my bed. Where I’d gone wrong, I just didn’t know.

  It wasn’t like she didn’t want to – I could feel it coming off her in waves.

  Maybe it was the part about me doing time in Chino.

  If that was it, I would have been pissed. I’d opened up, and she’d slammed the door in my face… metaphorically speaking.

  But I didn’t think that was it, actually.

  I don’t know why, but it felt like something else was going on.

  Looking at her, I wondered what it was.

  And got intrigued all over again, despite myself.

  She folded her arms across her chest, which was a defensive posture – but also had the added benefit of making her already great tits even fuller and tighter against her top.

  DAMN.

  She kept on making this even harder for me.

  No pun intended.

  She looked at me a long time before speaking.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Though her voice wasn’t exactly soft, she seemed to mean what she said.

  “Don’t be. I’m planning on Round Two very, very soon.”

  There was a look of relief in her eyes – and a bit of annoyance. “What if Round Two doesn’t go your way, either?”

  “There’s 12 rounds to a boxing match, babe.”

  “Is that what this is?” she asked, coolly amused.

  “It’s a metaphor.”

  “A metaphor,” she said, all smart-ass.

  “If you don’t know what a metaphor is, that’s okay, but… you really should read more.”

  “Fuck you,” she grinned, and I knew it was still on.

  “That’s what I was hoping for.”

  “Yeah – I know,” she said, though she was still smiling.

  I nodded toward the motel. “I’d say we go for Round Two right now, but… I have a policy against sleeping in places like this. Apparently you don’t, but some of us have standards.”

  “Fuck you!” she laughed, and slugged me in the arm.

  Damn.

  I liked that.

  Made me wonder what she’d be like in the sack.

  “Bell hasn’t rung yet, babe. But I’ll see you again real soon for Round Two.”

  “I doubt Round Two’s going to be any different,” she said, but her tone of voice wasn’t bitchy; in fact, she almost sounded sad. Like she wanted to, but knew it wasn’t going to happen, and was warning me I might be wasting my time.

  So I kept it light.

  And sexual.

  “I’m a champion prize-fighter. Undefeated,” I said. “So trust me when I tell you, you’re goin’ down in the third.”

  Her eyes narrowed again and she stopped smiling, like she was pissed off at the innuendo.

  After a beat, I continued: “‘Going down’ is a boxing term. But I like how you think.”

  She laughed in spite of herself and shook her head. “You know, there’s no panel of judges to help you out with the scoring.”

  “I don’t need any help scoring,” I said as I started the bike. “Just remember what happens in the third round.”

  “No way you’re knocking me out, Mr. Motorcycle Club,” she said, mocking me with the last word.

  “Don’t have to. TKO, baby. TKO.”

  I left her standing there with a grin on her face as I drove out of the lot.

  18

  Fiona

  Jack’s deep, rumbling voice stayed with me the rest of the night, whispering to me in my dreams.

  I imagined him naked on top of me, those strong arms gripping my body, that incredible ass angling that big, thick cock between my open legs, and slowly easing it inside me, inch by rock-hard inch –

  I woke up at least twice, an irritated, sexually frustrated mess.

  TKO, baby. TKO.

  Technical knock-out.

  He was well on his way to making good on his claim.

  The second time I woke up, I got out my photo album and flipped through to the last photograph in the bunch. It was of Ali shortly before her death. She’d sent me a shot from her cell phone; I’d had it printed specifically for the album. She was in some dive bar somewhere with a neon jukebox in the background; the red lights gave her light blonde hair a pink hue. She was wearing a white tube top and low-slung jeans, and I could see the butterfly tattoo she’d gotten above her right hipbone for her 18th birthday. Despite the dark circles under her eyes, she looked happy and alive as she smiled and flashed me a ‘V’ with her fingers.

  I don’t know exactly what she meant by the gesture, but I interpreted it as ‘V’ for victory.

  That’s what I was aiming for, come hell or high water: victory.

  For me, that meant her killer in prison for the rest of his life.

  And no man was going to come between me and that victory, ever.

  No matter how goddamn sexy he was.

  I was finally able to go to sleep shortly before dawn, with the photo album laid out next to me on the threadbare sheets.

  I didn’t dream of Jack Pollari again.

  I only dreamt of my cousin, still alive and sweet and happy…

  …and of a shadowy man whose face I couldn’t see, in a prison jumpsuit, behind bars.

  19

  The next morning, I did some internet research on Jack Pollari and Lou Shaw. Specifically, I got their criminal records off one
of those background check sites.

  It’s amazing what you can buy on the internet for 29 bucks.

  Jack’s story held up completely. Two short stays in county jail, and a much longer one at the California Institution for Men in Chino, California for aggravated assault.

  The victim had been one Rodrigo Alvarez. Just for kicks, I Googled him, too.

  Jesus.

  The mug shot alone was fucking scary. A bald Mexican dude with a killer’s eyes and three teardrops tattooed on his cheek, not to mention an entwined S and M in gothic font on his neck. He looked like he was about to go postal on the police photographer.

  There’s some competing theories about teardrop tattoos. According to Sid, they were originally forced on someone who’d been raped in prison to mark them as a ‘prison bitch.’ But the victims lied to their friends and family when they got out, claiming the tattoos meant they’d killed people on the inside. Now that had become the popular meaning over the last thirty years, especially as popularized by rappers who did time.

  I was pretty sure the guy in the photo hadn’t been raped. I guess it was possible, but judging from that psycho face… probably not.

  Which made me wonder whether those three tattoos were there for the other reason.

  The SM tattoo was easy enough to figure out with a Google search – and no, it wasn’t sado-masochism. It was the symbol for the Santa Muertes, a Hispanic biker gang named after the unofficial patron saint of murderers and drug dealers. Their official emblem looked like a hellish inversion of the Virgin Mary: a graceful skeleton in a hooded robe, with a garland of grey roses on her brow.

  The gang reputedly had ties to drug cartels back in Mexico. They were insanely dangerous, with not just drug-running but half a dozen murder charges headlining the top search results online.

  Jack had beat up this guy, and not only survived, but gone to prison for it?

  Whoa.

  I knew Jack was badass, but I didn’t know he was that badass.

  Louis Shaw was a different class of dangerous, though.

  He’d done five years in San Quentin for voluntary manslaughter.

  To quote Wikipedia, “Voluntary manslaughter is the killing of a human being in which the offender had no prior intent to kill and acted during ‘the heat of passion,’ under circumstances that would cause a reasonable person to become emotionally or mentally disturbed.”