THE DEVIL’S BRIDE

by April Lust

  “I know the law we laid down years ago, son. But it’s off now. I need you to get there, Lan-man. Quick. You’re the only one I trust with this.”

  He hangs up the phone. I realize even though I hate it, there’s no way I can refuse him.

  I turn back towards Kristi, who is lying languidly across the bed like a cat, legs spread open in offering. Her wet pussy is bright red and shiny from our mixed juices. For once, I feel a small ripple of disgust.

  “Come back, baby.” Kristi raises her eyebrows and stretches her arms over her head. Her enormous tits are flopped on either side, capped with brown nipples.

  I know Vivian wouldn’t look like that.

  “Can’t. Got a job to do.”

  “The damn club? At this hour?”

  I look at her. I know how I must look. Like a man capable of hurting a woman. Even murdering her.

  Because I am.

  But Blacktop Chaos is everything. The club is my identity and my life. My entire world.

  “The damn club?” I mock her. “The damn club is everything. Don’t ever suggest otherwise. Get the fuck out, sheep, and take your clothes with you.”

  Trembling in fear, Kristi does what she’s told, picking up her scattered clothes and skittering away like a mouse.

  Feeling a vague sense of satisfaction that I scared her off, I dress myself quickly, ignoring my still-raging hard-on. Sorry, boy, I think. You’ll just have to wait.

  I grab my keys off the scratched dresser and lock the door, then disappear into the chilly winter night on my bike. It’s a shiny black 2012 Cross Roads Classic Victory, chopped to my tastes. Ape bars, extended sissy, everything. Simply put, a fucking masterpiece that rages and breathes fire between my legs.

  Soon I’m like a hawk flying low and smooth over shiny black oceans of asphalt.

  It takes me about twenty minutes to get to the library, and it seems I arrive there just in time. In the parking lot, some masked guy in black is struggling with Vivian.

  A strange panic overtakes me. I’m usually so calm and sure of myself.

  But I’m also taken by surprise. I thought a girl like Vivian Grayson would cower and simper in fear. But instead, she is putting up one hell of a fight. I’m dimly aware of my body’s involuntary and visceral reactions to her presence. During the ride, my erection had naturally eased away. Now my cock seems to have grown even harder than before and my balls feel dull and achy.

  I materialize out of nowhere and manage to get the asshole off of Vivian and punch him in the face. I’m asking her questions when the guy suddenly gets on his feet, gets into his shitty little Honda, and takes off before I can catch him.

  After a little verbal tiff, I’ve got Vivian on the back of my bike and we’re whizzing down the street. I’m in some kind of suspended state of shock and disbelief. I can’t believe I have Vivian fucking Grayson on my ride. I can feel her sweet, curvaceous little body pressed against mine. I can feel the heat between her legs. It’s fucking intoxicating. She smells of something vaguely familiar, some exotic yet subtle perfume like wild orchid.

  Fuck, I think. A job, I had told Kristi. This isn’t a job— it’s fucking torture.

  Blacktop Chaos headquarters is in a building which used to house a coast guard auxiliary.

  Moonlight glints over dark water. The windows look like giant anchors.

  Inside the clubhouse, there’s a huge round table made of dark mahogany where club members meet. Basically, it’s where all business goes down. That room is legendary. As they say, if only walls could talk.

  I take Vivian’s arm and walk her into the softly lit, empty lobby.

  In normal circumstances, it’s off limits to bring a woman to the clubhouse. But the night’s events have called for a slight change in protocol.

  “Stay put for a while,” I tell Vivian. In our club, women aren’t allowed into the meetings. Ever. Not even the president’s daughter.

  She sinks down into one of the old red velvet chairs and looks up at me with those wide, doll-like eyes. My cock stirs again.

  I walk into the meeting room. I’m relieved to see Steel’s already there, plus Blade and Blondie. Slit sits at the end of the table opposite Steel.

  I take my seat beside my boss.

  Steel lights a cigar. The plumes rise up around his deeply lined face. His eyes study me for a while; I don’t know what he’s thinking.

  “So what happened?” he asks after a long pause.

  Being second-in-command, it’s my job to report on the situation first. “Supposedly it just happened right when Blade was at the bar.”

  “Alright, Blade. Give me your account,” Steel presses on.

  “Well boss, I was literally sitting next to this guy who was blitzed and talking about it right in the open. ‘They’re gonna take Vivian,’ he kept saying over and over and laughing about it like it was a done deal. Stupid motherfucker. I wanted to tear his head off right there.”

  “Calm down, Blade,” Steel interjects. “You did the right thing by keeping your head.”

  “Thanks, boss.” Blade tosses his long curly dark hair from his shoulders and tries not to beam like a kid given a reward.

  Sometimes it feels like we’re all a bonafide family. Sometimes I think both Blade and I are more like sons to Steel than brothers.

  “And you have no idea who it is?” Steel asks as he looks from Blade to me.

  “None.”

  Slit turns and looks straight at me. He’s a big guy and tends not to say much, but he’s basically the brains of the club.

  “Midnight Devils. Or Helldogs. Has to be.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” I reply.

  Steel looks around the table and inhales deeply. He puts his cigar in the ashtray and folds his hands into a steeple in front of him.

  “This can’t happen again. God knows what might have happened. I should have done this long ago. My daughter needs a protector. And we need some time to figure out who these assholes are.” He turns to me. “Landon. From now on until this thing is settled, I want you to be Vivian’s official bodyguard. I want you next to her every minute of every day.”

  “Boss, I don’t think…”

  “Whoa there, it’s not your place to think, Lan-man,” he snaps at me, hammering his clenched fist upon the table, effectively shutting me up. I know it’s not my place to be insolent, but me as Vivian’s protector? It’s fucking crazy.

  “Stop thinking about it,” he continues to chide me. “You’re going to do this for me, Landon, and you have no say in the matter. My mind’s made up.”

  I can feel the unspoken sentences hanging in the air.

  And you owe it to me, son, for all I’ve done for you in the past.

  For the life I gave you when you had none.

  I keep my mouth shut tight. I know he’s right, even though I’m not happy about it at all. But I don’t want anything to do with little Miss Priss, Vivian Grayson. She’s off limits, and I don’t need to be around her. I can’t even imagine it—someone like me being with some goody two-shoes like her twenty-four hours a day. I’d probably go fucking crazy.

  Maybe even take her out.

  “What about her classes?” I ask, wondering if I’ll have to visit a goddamn college campus every day. Everyone knows Vivian’s studying to be a teacher.

  “I’ll have her take a leave of absence from her classes,” Steel breathes. “For now, just take her to the hideout until further notice. Make her feel comfortable, and make sure she keeps on top of her classes. These motherfuckers are not going to get in the way of my baby’s graduation. We’ll get this thing settled in no time. Then everyone and everything can get back to normal. I now declare this meeting adjourned.”

  The gavel slams down upon the table, and splinters of finality fly through the air.

  Chapter 3

  Vivian

  The following morning, I walk into my apartment with Landon Lockhart following right behind me. My roommate, Lindsay, comes walking out of her bedroo
m and runs towards me.

  “Oh my God, where have you been, Viv? I’ve been freaking out here.” She embraces me firmly in her arms.

  She’s such a good friend. If truth be told, she’s my only friend.

  She also happens to be absolutely stunning. Long blond hair and light blue eyes and a lean, willowy body to die for.

  She’s a character, though. While I’m studying English, she’s studying Mortuary Science and is intent on being a funeral director someday. To each her own, I suppose.

  But she wants to help people, I know. Just like me, but in a different way.

  Weirdly enough, Lindsay rides a motorcycle herself. A crotch rocket, she calls it. And of all things, she earns her money for school by working as an exotic dancer.

  “I’m alright,” I tell her when she pulls back from my arms. “Just had a run-in with some dude in a mask last night, that’s all. I need to pack some clothes and things. This is Landon Lockhart, second-in-command of my dad’s motorcycle club. He’s going to be my bodyguard and stay with me in the club’s hideout for a while until they figure out what’s going on.”

  Lindsay looks over at Landon. A subtle, knowing smile spreads over her face.

  “Nice to meet you, Landon,” she says, extending a hand.

  Landon reaches out to firmly shake it. He stares down at her with interest.

  And a strange wave of jealousy rages in my heart.

  I guess Lindsay’s his type. She’d be any guy’s type. If we weren’t such good friends, I know I’d be jealous.

  Just maybe he’s going to ask her out, I think.

  But he doesn’t.

  When we leave, Landon turns to me.

  “Follow me in your car,” he says gruffly.

  I still can’t believe what’s happened this morning. My father called me into the clubhouse meeting room earlier that night to tell me that Landon Lockhart, the Landon Lockhart is going to be my bodyguard and protector until the club figures out what’s up and who the rival MC is who tried to kidnap me.

  Landon Lockhart. With me. For days and nights on end.

  All fantasies aside, I’m freaking out. The man terrifies me. But I shake my head, trying to stay rational.

  The drive up to the “hideout” takes a while because it is so far out of town. It’s a tiny, vacant looking house near the woods. The house looks like it was abandoned by ranchers years ago. Landon dismounts and walks to the driver’s side of my car.

  “C’mon,” he says through the open window.

  I shut down the engine and step out of the car, trying to ignore the fact he towers over me.

  “And here we are,” he says in that intense, deep voice.

  I walk through the foyer to what must be the main living room, and I can’t believe my eyes. It’s a giant man cave. My eyes meet items of comfort—black leather couches, soft carpeting, a pool table, and arcade games. There’s a jukebox and a big screen TV.

  There’s even a beautiful mahogany writing desk with a leather chair and a crystal lamp set up in a corner of the living room. I gaze at it, thinking how perfect it would be for me to do the assignments my professors gave me to stay caught up during my leave of absence.

  “I had that brought up for you,” Landon says gruffly again. “I thought you needed a place to work.”

  I can’t believe the infamous Landon Lockhart is being kind to me and looking out for my comfort and needs. There must be a catch. Even though I’ve been shut out of most of the motorcycle club happenings all my life, I know this man’s legendry. He’s a renowned womanizer, a brute, and an outlaw.

  A heartless, cold-blooded criminal.

  I don’t know quite what to say. “Th-thank you,” I utter.

  It’s at that moment my eyes settle on an incongruous object in the living room I haven’t noticed before. It’s a long, shiny pole mounted into the ceiling. It takes me a moment to realize what its purpose is.

  It’s a stripper pole. For exotic dancing.

  My mind flies to Lindsay. She could dance for Landon on that pole. I bet he’d enjoy that.

  An odd jealousy rises in my throat again. I wander to the small bedroom where there’s a king-sized bed with white satin covers and a ton of pillows. There’s also bathroom with a glass-paned, walk-in shower.

  I find Landon in the kitchen.

  “Cold drink?” Landon smirks. “Beer? Wine? Juice box?” His eyes flick over my body and I cringe. I like the attention, but in a pink sweater and loose boyfriend jeans, I know I’m not exactly showing off.

  I am finding it so difficult to talk to him. Even though I’ve known him for years, it’s like I don’t know him at all. He’s so big and scary and hulking. And all that metal and leather doesn’t exactly make him look warm.

  “Um, how about a soda?”

  “Sure thing.”

  He grabs a can and hands it to me. It’s a cherry soda. I happen to love cherry soda. For himself, he takes a beer. I watch as he brings the cap to the lip of the counter, then neatly smacks his fist down on top. The cap pops off the bottle and flies to the floor. I blush. Something about the little masculine trick is both exciting and endearing.

  “Um, I guess I’ll start working right away,” I say.

  Landon merely nods.

  I’m very aware that there’s only one bedroom, and suddenly wonder if I’m going to be raped for the first time in my life.

  Landon Lockhart looks more than capable of it.

  But I try to keep calm as we walk back to the living room, and take my backpack and place it on top of the desk. I’ve got a paper due in four days for my poetry class. An essay on one of T.S. Eliot’s poems.

  I’ve got to keep up and I’ve got to graduate. It means everything to me.

  For a while I try to read and work, but it’s so difficult with Landon in the room.

  He settles onto the couch, letting his legs slack open. His black shirt has come slightly undone. A few golden curling hairs glisten against the dark tan of his skin. My body continues its fascinated response like a moth to a flame.

  He just sits there, nursing his beer. He looks like a giant cradled in a black cloud. I try to concentrate but I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep stealing peeks at the sleek outlines of his thick arm muscles rippling out from his shirt. The tattoos that cover his arms are terrifying yet so sexy, even though I have no idea what they mean or symbolize. I’ve never been attracted to tattoos before, but on Landon I find them alluring.

  I wonder if they make up some kind of a puzzle or maze. My mouth goes dry and I take a sip of my soda, trying to quench my thirst. It doesn’t work, though—I’m not thirsty because I haven’t had anything to drink. I’m thirsty because of Landon.

  Suddenly an image flashes through my mind. I’m straddling Landon on the couch with my small body, my head bent to trace my tongue along those thick, curving lines…

  “So what are you studying?” he asks suddenly, breaking me out of my trance.

  I feel embarrassed, guiltily believing he can read my thoughts. I feel the heat of a blush rising into my cheeks. And I do not want to talk to this man about my academics. I would assume he couldn’t care less.

  “Um, it’s a poem. By T.S. Eliot. It actually is my favorite poem of all time.”

  Why am I telling him this?

  “Really. What’s it called?”

  I know he’s feigning interest. Why would he need to do that? What would a biker care about Eliot? But I go along with it. I’m too afraid not to.

  “It’s called ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’ Um, I usually cry when I read it.” Oh my God, I think. Why did I just tell him that?

  He looks at me. His beautiful face is hard and stern and impassive. I get that melting feeling inside me again.

  “Why do you like something that makes you sad?” he questions me.

  Despite my fear of him, something in me cannot resist literary justification.

  “It’s not that the poem makes me sad, per se. It’s hard to explain�
��.It deals with this guy coming towards the end of his life, and he’s just kind of thinking about where he is and what he’s done. He feels like he hasn’t led a life of much importance, you know. And he wonders was it all worth it. The trouble. The fight. It just…makes me cry. It’s so universal, you know. The struggle we all face in finding meaning and truth in our own transitory existences.”

  I can’t believe it, but Landon almost seems at a loss for words.

  “Makes sense,” he finally speaks rather anticlimactically.