by AJ Downey
BIKER CHICKS
Editor: AJ Downey
Second Circle Press
Contents
Title Page
Book Summary
Dear Reader
Biker Chick Campout - MariaLisa deMora
Halfway There - Jennifer Rose
The Spark - AJ Downey
Yes or No - Emma Lee
Riding With Fire - Amo Jones
Her Queendom - Bibi Rizer
The Birthday Present - Davida Lynn
Exhibition - Jeffrey Cook & Katherine Perkins
Fallen Halos - Barbi Barnard
Somebody To Love - Eric Plume
Ride With Death - Ryan Kells
LeLe's Revenge - Colbie Kay
Wild Ride (Part 1) - K. Renee
Publishing Info
Bikers, the ultimate alpha males. But what of women who ride? These sexy independent road warriors shirk the conventions of lady-like behaviour and live life by their own terms – wild and free.
MariaLisa deMora - Jennifer Rose - Barbi Barnard - Ryan Kells - K. Renee - Emma Lee - Bibi Rizer - Davida Lynn - Colbie Kay - Amo Jones - Jeffrey Cook & Katherine Perkins - Eric Plume - A.J. Downey
Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance
This anthology serves two purposes. One, to champion the underrepresented female rider who rarely gets to shine in the MC romance genre. And two, for all of the authors contained herein to join in the fight against child abuse. Several of us don’t have the ability to ride, or to make the serious time commitment needed to become one of the brave men and women of Bikers Against Child Abuse, however, that doesn’t mean we can’t or won’t do anything.
Too often I hear this person or that person being lauded as brave, or generous, and I found myself wondering, what could I be doing? Money makes the world go round and can pay for a multitude of things that these kids need. While I, nor any of these authors may be rich, that didn’t stop us. With Biker Chicks, we have all donated our various talents to make this anthology a reality. From cover art, to the writing on the pages, to the layout and design. Every one of us have carved out at least enough time out of our crazy busy production and publishing schedules to make what difference we can.
And you, the reader, are the most integral part of it all. Because of you buying this book, there is a child one step closer to receiving the psychological help they may need. There are several children that get to board a van rented to bring them to a holiday party where they get to feel safe, and like a normal kid for an afternoon around other children who get it; who are just like them. Because you bought this book, there is a proud member of B.A.C.A. whose sworn mission it is to stand between a child and their abuser who can breathe just a little bit easier too.
All of us, every single one of us, is capable of moving mountains. It just takes an epic amount of determination and one shovel full of dirt and rock at a time.
Thank you everyone, for designing the cover, for writing the words, for designing the layout and for buying this book and being a part of positive change in an abused child’s life.
XoXo,
A.J. Downey
Biker Chick Campout
MariaLisa deMora
Following the cone of her headlight through the deepening dusk, she guided the bike down the country road, steering carefully around the swoops and curves. The bright light of a bonfire shone through the trunks of the trees lining the road and she smiled at the sight. Navigating the final turn, she slowed to a crawl, dropping her feet to balance the bike as she braked to a stop. This was the first of what she hoped would be many annual girls’ weekends, and she had been looking forward to having a chance to talk, really have conversations with the women she saw already gathered around the fire and camping spaces in the clearing ahead.
Heads had popped up at the sound of her engine, and she mentally counted off the women, putting names to faces as they appeared. Standing next to two bikes near a partially erected tent was DeeDee Spencer, a longtime biker babe from Fort Wayne. In a space adjacent to her stood a petite blonde and a striking black woman, Jess Nalan, and her girlfriend, Brandy Still. It looked like those two had ridden down together on Brandy’s cherry red crotch rocket. Opening her throttle a little, she continued rounding the clearing in a wide sweep, pulling up next to three bikes parked in a neat row. These would belong to the other women from Chicago, Mica Rupert, her sister Molly Scott, and their friend Kathy Montcell.
Carmela Estavez shifted into neutral and then carefully pushed her bike backward onto the concrete pad, toeing down the kickstand and killing the engine before she tipped the bike over onto the support. Taking off her jacket, she folded and draped it over her handlebars, rolling her wrists and stretching out her forearms. Looking around, with a broad, welcoming smile she nodded at the women coming her way. “Hola, mi amigas,” she called happily, lifting her leg over the seat just in time to be engulfed in a hug from first one, then another of the women. Passed rapidly from one set of arms to another, she found herself at rest tucked into a lean body and looked up, grinning. “DeeDee,” she said, “so happy to see you, mama.”
One hand smoothing her hair, she heard DeeDee say, “Good to see you, too, honey. We were starting to worry when you weren’t here by sundown.”
“Give her to me.” This shout came from behind her and she turned in DeeDee’s arms, knowing to whom that voice belonged. Headed her direction was a determined looking redhead. Carmela twisted, holding out her arms in welcome, as they wrapped each other up in a hug. When the fond greeting came, it was soft as a wish. “Maria Luisa Carmela Estavez, I’m so glad you were able to come.”
“Ruby Melanie Davidson Jones.” Her own voice was rough with emotion. “I’m so glad I could make it, too.” She stepped back, her hands dropping to Ruby’s wrists, holding on to that connection. “Lookin’ good, little mama. Who knew popping out two babies at a time would make you even more beautiful. Oh yeah, baby. You’ll find out if you look this good with four kids, your old man’s gonna keep you busy-busy, chica.”
“Shut up, Mela,” Ruby scoffed, pulling her in for another hug. “I’ve missed you, missed talking to you. College agrees with you, it looks like.” The diminutive woman dropped one hand and turned, towing Carmela behind her across the clearing, and so didn’t see the change Carmela knew came over her face. She was glad Ruby didn’t see her expression of anger and frustration because having her friend know everything that had been going on would only cast a pall on their time together, and even before leaving for this trip, she had been determined not to let anything ruin the weekend.
Oblivious to her pensive thoughts, Ruby kept blabbing, dragging her along in her wake. “Everyone’s already here and unpacked. Supper first, then we can set up your tent. Food’s ready and we’re just about to eat, so let’s get you some pre-grub libations.”
Turning around to scan the open space, she saw a van nearby parked nearly underneath the trees, out of the way. “Whose cage?” she asked, following Ruby.
The eye roll was audible when Ruby responded, “Slate had one of our prospects drive it. The pros is under strict orders from me to not leave the interior.” She giggled. “Hurley is a nice guy, but this is girls’ weekend. I’m glad he was able to bring the coolers and chairs, but we don’t need no dicks all up in our business.”
“Says the woman who’s getting regular dick up in her business, as is evidenced by the beautiful babies she keeps producing.” Carmela laughed, throwing herself onto a blanket spread near a grouping of lounge chairs. Looking around at the tents and chairs, she asked, “Seriously? How much shit did you guys bring? Are you truly going to make the poor boy stay in
the van all weekend? Does he at least have some titty magazines to keep him busy?” She had winced when Ruby said he wasn’t allowed out of the vehicle because, after the last two months, she hated being the reason for anyone to have less than free rein of their own wishes.
“Ewwww. I don’t want to think about how Hurley would get busy in that van. I have to drive it sometimes.” This came from Kathy, and as she turned to sit in one of the lawn chairs Carmela saw the back of the leather vest she wore over her sweater.
“Ohhh, Kathy. Did you finally get patched? How long did it take you to convince him, all of two minutes?” She accepted a red plastic cup full of wine from Ruby, stretching her legs out on the blanket with a sigh. It had been a long couple of days, and she had ridden hard to make it here in time. “Digger, right?” Kathy had been enamored with a handsome, tall, shy biker from Chicago for a while, but the last Carmela heard they weren’t that serious. Things had obviously changed, because her wearing a ‘Property of Digger’ patch on her vest was a declaration of an ownership that went both ways.
“Yeah.” Kathy went quiet for a moment, accepting her own cup from DeeDee. She lifted her head and looked around at the women. “It means a lot he wants me.” The smile on her face was filled with undiluted pleasure, knowing in this group she would never receive criticism for welcoming a role that people on the outside might look on with disdain, not understanding what the words actually meant.
Carmela looked around, listening as everyone chipped in, confidently explaining to Kathy how lucky Digger was to have her. They were good friends, from varied locations, having the most important thing in common: all of them had at least one foot in the motorcycle club life. A life that some people romanticized, but here, among these women, she knew every one of them understood what it took to be a part of, yet apart from the things that impacted their family and friends.
Except for her, every woman here held an affiliation with the Rebel Wayfarers, from either the Chicago or Fort Wayne chapter. Some of them, like DeeDee, Ruby, and Kathy, were in relationships with men who belonged to the club. Mica, Molly, Jess, and Brandy were friends of the club, attached in less definite ways, but still part of their extended family.
As usual, I’m the odd one out, she thought, taking a deep drink. She was associated with the Rebel club by friendship, one that was long-lasting and deep, but not actually part of this family. Hers lay far to the west, with one part in Mexico where the Machos, her father’s club, was based and the second part in Las Cruces, New Mexico, where she lived with a family associated with yet another club, the Southern Soldiers.
“Hurley can come out to eat now, but that’s it. Afterwards, he will be banished again. Banished to the nether regions of the van.” Ruby got her attention with another giggle and Carmela looked at her, head tilted.
“You already drunk, woman? When did you start sucking wine back? Yesterday?” She took another deep drink. “Pansy ass shit, shouldn’t be hitting you that hard.” She glanced at Ruby again, then turned and yelled. “Mica, where’s the fucking tequila?”
“Now you’re talking,” Mica shouted from across the fire pit, and before Carmela knew what was happening, all the women were standing, holding smaller plastic cups while the dark-haired woman freely poured liquor in each. Holding the bottle by the neck, she lifted it and tapped it against each cup’s rim. “To us, the baddest women in town.” With a laughter-filled chorus of ‘fuck yeah’ and ‘you know it,’ the women all raised their cups and drank.
“Brats are done,” DeeDee said a minute later, leaning sideways to escape the heat of the fire as she turned the bratwurst sizzling on the campfire grill. “Ruby, get out the slaw. Mica, did you say you packed some chips? Wanna grab those and the plates for me?” She turned to look around, “Brandy, I know you had Hurley drop by to pick up dessert, so you’re off the hook for anything else.”
As the food and other things were brought out and organized, Carmela turned to DeeDee. “I’ll go let the poor boy know he can come make a plate. I still can’t believe you’re making him stay in the van.”
DeeDee leaned close and whispered with a laugh, “I can’t believe he’s letting us.”
Picking up her tequila cup, she let Mica pour another inch or two of the clear liquor, thanking her with a grin. God, I love these women, she thought. She had been away from home at college until recently when events around the Southern Soldiers had warranted enough concern for her father to force her withdrawal. Since then she had been locked away in their compound, not permitted to even go grocery shopping in town.
Of course, this trip too had been forbidden, but she had ridden off anyway, knowing her father would order men after her. That was why she was late to the gathering today, having barely evaded yet another friendly snare set for her, hearing the dismayed and angry shouts from the bridge as she passed underneath on a small country road. She knew it had been miles before they could exit the highway they were on, and by that time, she had been long gone, making up for lost time on the final portion of her ride.
She settled, leaning against the side of the van and listening to the playful shouts from her friends. Watching the women gathered in the light from the fire, seeing how their faces glowed against the darkness, Jess running wild through the group; it felt as if she were observing delight and joy in motion. Flickering flames cast a liquid light across them, forming shadows against the encircling trees. Those shadows larger than life, embracing arms stretching wide to promise support and love.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize for a minute there had been no movement from within the van. Her weight against the side had rocked it in place, which should have announced to the occupant that he had a visitor. With a sigh, she shifted the cup to her other hand, stretching out her arm to quietly knock on the door.
After a couple more minutes with no answering movement or noise from inside the vehicle, she knocked again, slightly louder. Same non-result. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” she sighed, “I’m hungry.” Twisting to open the door, she called, “Hello the van” –the panel moving soundlessly as it glided through the grooves– “it’s time to rise and shine” –smiling in expectation of surprised questions– “sleeping beauty.” The interior lights remained dark, disconnected or burned out, leaving only the light from the fire to illuminate the inside of the vehicle. Her gaze dropped, seeing a man asleep, stretched out on a thin mattress. A threadbare sheet twisted low around his legs his only cover, leaving most of his body on display.
“Madre de Dios,” she whispered, her gaze drifting slowly from his face to his body, down to the juncture of his thighs, then back up to his face. He was beautiful. There was no other word for it, the man was beautiful. Even in the uncertain light, she could see his hair was long and blond; it looked sun-bleached, slightly curly where the ends escaped from a rude ponytail, carelessly tied back with a leather thong. His face was handsomely symmetrical, arched eyebrows over almond shaped eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a square chin.
He had attractive black and gray half-sleeve tattoos, and on the shoulder facing her she saw a Dia de los Muertos sugar skull, inked with impressive detail. His arms and body were sleekly muscled, not bulked outlandishly, but toned in a way that let you know he was strong because he worked for a living, not a gym rat. Trailing her gaze lower, she let her gaze linger for a moment, staring where his soft, but still impressive cock curled in a bed of dark blond hair.
He didn’t move, but his stillness changed in a way that brought her gaze back to his face to find his eyes now open and studying her. With a silent groan, she turned away, giving him her back. “Dios lo siento! I’m so sorry,” she muttered, feeling her cheeks blazing with her embarrassment. “I was…I mean I meant…came to…wanted…” Puta mierda, she thought, pull it together Mela. “Dinner’s ready.” She finally got her words out, hearing him moving around behind her, probably pulling jeans up those long, muscled thighs…Mela, she scolded herself, he’s a prospect, no matter how pretty. He would never look at
you that way.
Two hands settled on her shoulders and she nearly shrieked at the unexpected touch. They gently moved her sideways a step, fingertips trailing softly down the curve of her shoulders and upper arms. “Okay,” he said, and she immediately thought his voice was beautiful, too. That single spoken word caused her to shiver and she felt gooseflesh rise all along her arms in response. He asked, “Need anything from inside the van?” She turned to look at him and became mesmerized, watching him slip sock feet into boots. So beautiful, she thought. He finished and sat on the edge of the doorway looking up at her for a moment. He had put on jeans, but no shirt and she could see the dark swirls of those tattoos on his upper arms. “Well?”
Startled, she must have looked as confused as she felt because he laughed softly before asking a second time, “Need anything from inside the van?” That laugh caused the same kind of shiver to flow through her, and this time she felt a clenching low in her belly. Shaking her head, she answered him wordlessly, not even certain she could still speak. Most of her thoughts were jumbled, the only coherent ones to do, again, with his beauty. How could someone so beautiful be called Hurley, she mused, then shook her head. “Got that in one, doll.” She must have looked confused because he laughed. “You already said ‘no,’ honey.”
“Oh,” she forced out, trying to mask her embarrassment by lifting the cup of tequila and taking a drink. Dios, he must think I’m an idiot, she thought.
“Whatcha got?” he asked and reached out, plucking the cup from her grip. Sniffing, he made a face and turned his head sideways, then lifted the cup and sipped. He made a rough noise in the back of his throat as he lowered the cup, then lifted it and sipped again. “Mica’s good stuff,” he said with a grin, passing her the cup back. “I have my own stash I don’t tell her about. If she knew what I liked to drink, then she’d lecture me about fermenting practices and aging properties.”
