by Naomi West
“You, on the other hand,” he’d said to me with a wink, “can just call me King Travis.”
I chuckled, but also realized that this was the first time he’d told me his real name.
Things with Tank, er, Travis, only grew more intense. He took me back to his home the night of the attack and said nothing about any rules of my staying there. I was in tears over losing the home, but after Dakin and his thugs had turned it into a drug den, part of me was happy to see it go. I wasn’t sure that I’d even be able to set foot in there again without being reminded of what Dakin had put me through. And I’d gone into town to check out the security deposit boxes at the bank. Sure enough, they contained insurance documents for the house, as well as some of Grandma’s jewelry and mementos. I confirmed the will and insurance with the bank, and they made it clear that I was the legal owner of the home. They said it’d be a little bit of a process, but once it got sorted out I’d have quite the substantial insurance payout.
And since then, my relationship with Tank had changed. Things were less like “master and slave” and more like, well, a normal relationship. We talked, we ate dinner together, we shared wine, and we made love. But I still wasn’t sure of what to expect from here on out, and I figured Tank had enough on his plate without having to deal with the “what are we” conversation.
Tank and I lay in bed for a time, and I eventually got up to stretch my legs.
“Been meaning to ask you,” he said, sitting up. “The night of the attack … you grabbed something out of the house. What was it?”
I left the room, returning moments later with the book that I’d saved. Tank looked at it from across the room, trying to see just what it was.
“Let’s go out on the balcony,” he said. “Supposed to be a nice day.”
We went out onto the bedroom balcony, the air warm and the sun shining down from a cloudless sky. The backyard stretched out before us as we sat down.
“It’s a book my Grandma left me,” I said, running my hand over the cover.
I opened it up and flipped through the pages. And as I did, I came across a small compartment in the back inside cover that I hadn’t noticed before. Slipping my fingers into it, I pulled out a small paper pouch.
“What is it?” asked Tank.
“I don’t know.”
I opened the pouch and out fell a small note followed by what had to have been the most beautiful wedding ring I’d ever seen in my life. The gem set was a stunning star sapphire. I opened the note and read it out loud.
“Dearest Star. If you’ve found this book, it means that I’ve passed. The ring enclosed is my old wedding ring. The gem is what you were named for—only fitting that the most beautiful child I’d ever seen would be named for the most beautiful stone that I ever found. Wear it well.
Love always,
Grandma Dove
I couldn’t help but weep as I read the note over and over. Tank slipped his arm around me and pulled me close. Once I was all cried out, he spoke.
“You know, that ring looks worth just enough to cover what I paid for you,” he said with a smirk.
I let out a laugh through my tears as I placed it into his hand, closing his fingers around it.
“I can think of a better place for it,” he said.
With that, he took the ring and slipped it on my finger. I realized what this meant, and more tears flowed.
“I never thought I’d say this to a woman, but damned if I don’t love you, Star,” he said, his eyes warmer than I’d ever seen them.
“I love you, too,” I said, barely able to say the words.
And just like that, it was decided. It’d been a hard journey to get here, but here I sat—a ring on my finger and a man I loved at my side. I had no idea what the future might hold, but I knew that together, Tank and I could do anything.
THE END
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AXEL’S LITTLE ANGEL: The Rippers MC
By Naomi West
I WANT HER TO BEAR MY LITTLE ANGEL.
I knew it from the moment she hit me with her car:
This girl would be the one to bear my child.
The problem is, she doesn’t know that yet herself.
Time to take her in my arms and show her how things are gonna be.
Millie is a good girl.
An innocent girl.
But not for long.
She hit me with her car and now she’s going to pay the price.
I don’t want money – not that she has the necessary funds, anyways.
No, Little Miss Millie has something I want far, far more.
A body to bear my baby.
She can try to resist me all she wants.
But when I come to collect what I’m owed, there will be nothing in the world that can stop me.
I won’t rest until I have my little angel.
Chapter 1
Axel
I roll up on the red light, cursing under my breath. This light takes forever, and I’ve got shit to do.
I gun the engine of my sweet baby and look over at the city park to my right. This one is always filled with kids and families and I look every time I’m stuck here, always equal parts irritated and fascinated by the dads who are out bonding and playing with their kids.
My old man was not the play-at-the-park type. Nope, he was more of a “get your ass out on the football field type.” He was all about discipline and hard work and overt displays of masculinity. He worked in a factory from the time he graduated high school, drank beer, and expected women to do women’s roles and men to do men’s roles.
I can probably count on one hand the number of times he ever showed an ounce of emotion about any damn thing. The most notable was when I was six or seven and Art Modell announced he was moving the Cleveland Browns to the East Coast. My dad cried like a little bitch; said he’d never watch another NFL game again.
’Course, he’s the Patriots’ biggest fan these days, but whatever.
Me, I find myself cutting by this park more and more these days. I used to park my bike and sit on the benches, pretend I was reading the paper or some shit, but people tend to get weirded out by me, especially when I linger in any one place too long. I’m too big, too tattooed, too mean to look like I’m up to anything other than trouble.
Thing is, I really like kids. I’d love to be a dad, and not a hard-ass one like my pop. No, I’d totally be that dad in the park, too big to go down the slide but doing it anyway for a laugh. I’d love to have a woman knocked up, big belly, looking gorgeous and ready to pop with my kid inside her.
Too bad Hard Rod is so focused on his own old lady and unborn kid that he’s left me to do most of the management of the club. Man, I love that guy like a brother, but the president of the Rippers is not a multi-tasker. That dude is laser-focused on whatever has his attention in a given moment, and nada else. Since his attention is on Lipstick, his old lady, and getting ready for Hard Rod Jr. to make an appearance, I haven’t got shit for time to even get my cock sucked, let alone establish a relationship that might lead to family.
As the third line of traffic moves, I look over one more time, watching the little ones squeal and play. Of course, there’s got to be one helicopter mom who’s noticed me staring. She shoots me the evil eye and lays a protective hand over her little girl’s chest as if I might hop off my bike and abscond with her daughter. I try giving a smile to reassure her I’m actually kind of a nice guy, but she scowls and turns away.
Ho hum. I’m—
Bam!
That’s me narrating the “bam” feeling of getting rear-ended. I was in la-la land, all thinking about making babies and being a daddy, and I missed my green l
ight. Thing is, the car behind me did not miss it. However, she did miss me, and my bike, and the fact that me and my bike were not yet with the program and still stationary in front of her vehicle.
Now I’m upon the ground, my heavy bike pinning the bottom half of my leg to the ground, my back twisted at a strange angle.
Well, fuck. Now that hurts.
***
Millie
Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. I just hit a guy. A big guy who looks like he’s made of bricks. With my car.
I shouldn’t have picked up the phone. Shouldn’t have looked at the text. That’s not me. I’m not that girl. I do not text and drive. But it was red for so long, and Phillip kept texting. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Three texts in a row, and I refused to look at it because I knew it would be him, persistent in his efforts to get me back.
Some might say that persistence is more akin to stalking, but hey, I care for the guy. I mean, I was ready to marry him until I found him in my bed with a naked blonde. Seeing your boyfriend buried in some other women kind of puts a damper on the old wedding planning, if you know what I mean.
I booted him out of our house and he spent three months sowing his oats before he came crawling back, telling me I was the best thing that ever happened to him and he’d changed and blah, blah, blah. The calling and texting are incessant. If I didn’t know him, hadn’t loved him for so long, I’d probably call the cops for a restraining order.
But just because I don’t threaten him with stalking charges doesn’t mean I’m soft on him. My momma didn’t raise no fool, so I have not let him back in my life. But it’s hard. He was my boyfriend in high school and we moved to Cleveland together from Sandusky. It wasn’t that far, really, but it felt like a world away from home and he was the only person I really knew.
And I loved him. So there’s that.
When the phone rang, I picked it up only to tell him to stop calling and texting incessantly. And I saw the green, so I hit the gas, but the very large biker had not moved yet. As such, said very large biker is now holding his head, assessing his bike, and looking very, very pissed.
I drop my phone on the passenger seat and hop out of the car, doing that weird, hoppy little run that women do when they’re in uncomfortably high heels.
“Oh my goodness!” I squeak. “I am so, so sorry! Are you okay?”
He turns, his piercing blue eyes on me, his lips turned down in a scowl. “I’m fine,” he growls. ”But my custom motorcycle is another story. Hope you’ve got good insurance, girlie.”
I cringe, feeling my shoulders push up around my ears. “I … don’t …” I say quietly, my eyes on the badly mangled back end of a very pretty bike.
He pushes his lips out, his brows meeting in a V on his forehead. “You don’t what?”
“Have ... insurance?” I peep, a question rather than a statement.
He works his jaw. Crap.
He takes a big breath in and then lets it out slowly. “Well isn’t that my shitty luck,” he says.
“Please don’t call the cops,” I beg. “I’m going through a shitty time right now. I’m trying to pay my mortgage on my own for the first time. My insurance lapsed because I’m still figuring out my budget. I can’t … I need my license so I can get to work. I can work this out with you. I’ll pay for the damages. Please.”
He steps toward me. Once. Twice. I don’t even realize I’m moving backward until he’s in my space and I’m pinned against the hood of my car. My car, which shows no sign of damage, by some small miracle.
This big outlaw-looking biker is kind of hot. Not my normal type, not by a long shot, but he’s sexy for sure. Huge biceps nearly bust through his long-sleeve black T-shirt. Tattoos crawl up his neck and down onto his hands. His hair is short on the sides and long on the top, very in-style and modern considering he’s in typical biker wear of jeans, boots, and some kind of club colors. He’s got a cigarette behind one ear and a pair of sunglasses on his head.
By the way he’s licking his teeth, I can tell he’s assessing me, too. His eyes roam my face and neck, down to my barely-visible cleavage. I’ve got a white blouse on with a black pencil skirt. Nothing too fancy or sexy, just professional. I have a quick thought that he might be thinking I’ll pay back the damage in some way not involving money. I should be creeped out, right? Except … I’m not. Not one bit. This guy is making my lady parts tingle.
I open my mouth, not knowing what, exactly, I plan to say, just as a cop rolls up. His siren goes off once, the blue and red lights bright in the waning evening light.
He rolls down his passenger-side window. “Everything okay here, folks?”
The big guy steps back a foot and I meet his gaze, pleading silently that he doesn’t file a report on me.
“Everything is A-okay,” he says, giving the cop a thumbs-up.
“Looks like your ride is pretty smashed,” the cop says, eyeing the mangled metal laying in front of my car. “Need an accident report?”
“Nah,” the guys says. “Hit-and-run. I didn’t get a good look at the guy who hit me. This nice young lady pulled up to give me a hand.”
“Ah,” the cop says. “Okay, then. Do you need help?”
“Nope,” the guy says. “I’ve got a buddy coming down to get me. I’ll move this beast off the road to open up traffic.”
“Thanks,” the cop says, rolling up the window and rolling away.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much …”
“Axel,” he says.
“I’m Millie,” I say. “Let me write down my number for you and help you get this off the road.”
Ten minutes later, I’m getting into my car.
“I’ll be in touch,” Axel says as I put on my seatbelt. You will pay for the damage, one way or another. Got that?”
I nod, gulping. “Got it. Thanks again for not filing a report.”
“Stop looking at your phone while you’re driving,” he says, noticing my phone on the passenger seat.
I push my lips together and nod as he shuts the door and steps aside.
I drive the rest of the way home like some old lady with poor eyesight. Both hands white-knuckled on the wheel, eyes straight ahead, no music playing. I think I go five miles per hour under the speed limit. I’m a nervous wreck by the time I get into my house.
My cats accost me as I make my way inside, turning on lights as I go. They meow and try to trip me by going in and out between my legs as I struggle to make my way through to the kitchen.
“Okay, okay,” I say, “I’ll feed you. I’m sorry I was late.”
Thank goodness for these two fluffballs. I don’t really like living on my own and they keep me sane. They make me feel safer.
I make myself some Ramen noodles for dinner. I’m on a tight budget now that I don’t have Phillip paying half of the bills. It’s really kind of pathetic, I guess, but I am a glass-is-half-full kind of woman, and I believe that things will all work out for the best. Even though I just nearly killed a man on a motorcycle and now probably added thousands of dollars to my debt load.
Rainbows! Puppies! Laughing children! Positive thoughts!
I thought about giving that guy, Axel, my address, but then thought better of it. A guy like that? He seemed volatile, dangerous. Sexy as all get-out, but dangerous. I don’t need that guy anywhere other than on the other end of a phone line. And even that I’m not so sure about.
Still, that was totally my fault, and I really do need to find a way to pay him back for the repairs. I just hope he doesn’t end up being some kind of psychotic weirdo. And I hope he doesn’t sue me.
Chapter 2
Axel
Goddamn, my back hurts.
I do try not to be a whiny little bitch. Everyone who rides has aches and pains from time to time, and I have club members who cry and complain about literally every little boo-boo and scratch like they need their mamas to come and kiss and make them better. Not me. No, I am stone cold about pain management, a master poker player, even when
I’m in pain.
Except, I got hit by a car, and now my back feels like the too-tight strings of an over-tuned guitar. I am not singin’ a pretty tune today.
My buddy Eddie came to get me and my busted baby off the side of the road and we hauled her all the way back to the club garage. Tommy, our bodywork guy, said he can get her back in tip-top shape, but it’s going to cost a few grand to do it.
Everyone was all hyped up, ranting about how people never see bikes on the road and how bullshit it all is. I just shook my head. I kind of feel like it was own fault since I was the one gawking at the little kids, gooey over wanting to be a dad. I won’t share that with my buddies, though. They’d tell me to stop suckling my mama’s tit and grow a pair already.
