Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance

by AJ Downey

  If a Hollywood director had called up Central Casting and asked them for a scary biker extra, the guy behind me would have fit the bill. He stood a foot taller than me and was at least that much broader, shoulders bulked up further by a leather jacket and vest. Shaggy black hair spilled down his back from underneath a bandanna, his bone-heavy features roughened by stubble. I didn’t cower, but it was a near thing. I did move aside so he could take his turn at the counter.

  “Just here to return some books,” he said, deep voice laden with a Southern accent. Blue eyes so dark they were almost black studied first Ms. Peterson and then me, his stare distant and chilly.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the books from his hands. The right one had numbers tattooed on it in faded ink, but I couldn’t read them. I did recognize the books, all four of them pop-psychology titles.

  “Much obliged,” he said, touching two fingers to the hem of his bandanna and smiling. Then his eyes met mine, and he repeated the gesture. Before either of us could reply, he walked away. I waited until he was out of hearing range to speak.

  “Who’s he?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s been coming around here a couple of times a week.”

  I kept my eyes on him. Frightening as he was, the tight denim he wore made watching him walk away...pleasant. I blushed and looked at the floor when I realized what I was about. I didn’t like being leered at; catching myself doing it to someone else was uncomfortable to say the least.

  “He ever cause a problem?”

  “Not a bit,” she said. “In fact, he’s always really polite. Still scares me, though.”

  “Yeah, I can see why.” I shouldered my backpack. “I should get to studying.”

  “Good luck,” she said as I walked away.

  I hadn’t meant what I’d said about being scared by him, not all the way. Growing up in Baltimore there had been a biker clubhouse between school and home, and the bus route had taken me right by it. At sixteen I’d pressed my nose to the glass and watched the men lounging outside their clubhouse; big, fierce-looking and bearded, arms covered in tattoos, vests with LONGSTRIDERS MC sewn into the back above a spread-winged stork in gold, purple and black. I’d spent my after-school hours watching Sons of Anarchy and had taped a Charlie Hunnam poster to my closet door, tucked away where my mom couldn’t see it. She hadn’t approved of my interest.

  “I wish Hollywood wouldn’t glamorize bikers like that,” she’d told me every time she got a chance. “They’re no better than street thugs.” Of course, my mom had also been one to cross the street to avoid black men; as I’d grown older I’d stopped trusting her views on people. After all, it wasn’t like the nice guys she thought were so perfect had done me any favors.

  When I got to my table I was brought up short; the big biker sat two tables away.

  I sat down and pulled out my Psych 302 textbook, trying not to stare at him. It wasn’t easy; I’d watched bikers on TV, seen them in passing from my school bus window but this was the first time I’d ever been so close to one.

  He’d draped his vest and jacket over the back of the chair; I found myself trying to read the patches on the vest. I didn’t know what all they stood for, but I’d seen one before; a black diamond with “1%” stitched in gray. The Longstriders clubhouse back in Baltimore had a similar logo painted on the wall next to the front door, only in gold and black. He also didn’t have a logo on the back. I’d assumed all outlaw bikers belonged to a gang.

  I shook my head. You’re staring. Quit it. I yanked my eyes back to the book I was supposed to be reading. I made it about five paragraphs before I found myself looking up again...

  This time his hard blue eyes met mine. He smiled at me and nodded.

  My insecurities ganged up on me and I looked away, letting my hair fall across my face to hide a deep blush. I was acutely conscious of how frumpy I looked, what with my wrinkled hippie skirt and sweater and my hair messy because I’d forgotten to brush it before leaving my apartment. Even my unshaven legs bothered me. Like that even mattered.

  I sighed and went back to my studies, still aware of both his presence and my slovenliness. Part of me wished he’d go away. Part of me wished he’d act more like the heroes in my romance novels and walk up to me, devouring my figure with his cold indigo stare...

  Oh stop it.

  An hour later I found myself in the bathroom, fussing in the mirror, brushing lint off my clothes and combing my hair with my fingers. My hair was the one thing I liked about myself; chestnut brown and glossy even though I didn’t do much to take care of it. I’d let it grow to waist-length, both because I liked it and because it made a handy wall between my face and the world every time I blushed, which was way too often.

  I sighed. “Now you’re just being silly. Go back to your table and study.”

  When I got back, the biker was gone. I sat down at my table, my mind churning through the same argument that had gone on while he’d been around, only in reverse. Part of me was glad he’d left. Part of me was disappointed. At least I could get some studying done, which I did.

  On my way out I paused at the front desk. “The biker...you said he comes in a couple of times a week.”

  “Yes that’s right,” she said.

  I made myself sound as nonchalant as I knew how to. “What days?”

  “Tuesdays and Thursdays usually.” She paused and eyed me over her glasses. “Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, just curious.”

  “You trying to avoid him?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  When I got home I took a shower and shaved my legs. And I made sure to brush my hair.

  I sat at my library table, doing what had become my habit over the past three weeks; pretending to study psychology 302 while directing most of my attention to studying the big biker whose name I still didn’t know. He’d caught me at it a few more times, and each time all I’d gotten had been a smile and a nod.

  On the last time I’d found the courage to smile back.

  Re-arranging my study time for Tuesdays and Thursdays had been easy enough, but doing something about my appearance had been trickier. When I’d gone through my paltry makeup collection I’d found most of it was expired. I couldn’t afford to replace much, and even what I could buy I was clumsy with.

  I had the same problem with my closet; it was full of stuff designed to cover up as much of me as was possible. My mom had always told me to read fashion magazines for tips because that’s what they were for, but I hated reading them because the models all made me feel like a whale.

  I did my best with what I had and what I knew, ignoring the part of me which considered it all a waste of effort. That day I had on my nicest skirt and blouse and had put my hair up into a half-bun with some bobby pins and the hardwood chopsticks my grandmother had given me.

  As I watched he turned another page in his book, stare intent on the words. With him it was always either pop-psych or true crime, never fiction. Thanks to my major, I’d have something to talk about...if I could ever find the guts to start a conversation, of course. Just go up and talk to him, I told myself for the hundredth time; my butt stayed planted firmly in my chair.

  According to what my mom had said about the dating game, I was supposed to make myself as pretty as possible and be obvious, so that the guy I liked would notice me. I’d done that and he had noticed me, but that’s as far as it had gone. I sighed and went back to my studies.

  This is why you don’t have a boyfriend.

  Another hour ticked by, and I went to find a book one of my assignments referenced. When I turned the corner, there he stood, thick arms folded, staring at the shelf in front of him. “Come on,” he muttered, scanning the shelves. “The hell is it...”

  “You look a little lost,” I said before I could stop myself.

  He turned. “I surely am,” he said with a rueful grin. “Can’t seem to find what I’m looking for.”

  You and me both. “I
know the library,” I said. “What’s the title?”

  He told me what he wanted. “That’s at the other end of the aisle,” I said. “I’ll show you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked toward where what I knew he wanted was, and he fell into step next to me. A drop of sweat ran down my spine.

  “I see you in here a lot,” he said.

  “I’m a student. Up at the UW.” I forced more words out of my mouth. “Psychology major.”

  He perked up. “That so,” he said, eyeing me again but keeping his gaze on my face. “That’s what I’m here about.”

  “Are you a student?”

  He shook his head. “Just interested. Helps me with my job.”

  I found the shelf in question and pulled the book he wanted off. “Here you go,” I said. After a pause I kept talking. “I’m Alyssa.”

  “Gabriel.” He stuck out his hand. “Gabriel Stark.”

  “Alyssa Smith.” I shook it; his swallowed mine, his palms as rough as un-sanded lumber. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” he said, letting go of my hand.

  “You said psychology helps you with your job,” I said as we walked back to our tables. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a bouncer at Honeys, over in Sea-Tac.”

  “A bar?”

  “Strip joint.”

  “Oh. That...must be a fun job.” He spent his nights around naked women who were way better-looking than me. Great.

  He laughed and shook his head. “Everybody thinks that, but it’s not. It’s really not.”

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “Seriously? Most guys I know would think your job’s a dream come true.”

  “Most guys do, right up until they try their hand at it.”

  “I’m curious how psychology applies to being a bouncer,” I said.

  “Rare that it don’t apply.” He gestured at the chair across from where he’d been sitting. “If you want to sit down I can explain.”

  I fought a bad case of stomach butterflies and won. “Sure.”

  My conversation with Gabriel morphed into a long, loose spiral of mutual exchanges; I lost track of time as he told me of the ins and outs of the security trade, interspersed with my questions about biker life and his about college. I had to rein myself in more than once as I didn’t want to put him on the spot, but I was too curious to avoid asking more questions than was polite. If my prodding bothered him he didn’t show it; indeed most of his answers came with either a self-effacing smile or a warm chuckle. His easy laugh was as infectious as a pop song, and somewhere in our talk I forgot to be nervous, forgot how the man who sat across from me was an outlaw.

  All the while he kept his eyes on my face, and I got the distinct impression he was actually listening to what came out of my mouth. That wasn’t what I was used to, as one of the side effects of being a bigger girl was D cup breasts and despite all I normally did to cover them up, guys always stared. Gabriel didn’t even look once. I didn’t know if I was happy about that or not. I’d worn something with a low neckline for a reason.

  “What does that mean, exactly?” I pointed at his “1%” patch.

  “It’s an old biker thing,” he said. “Ninety-nine percent of guys who ride are law-abiding citizens. One percent ain’t.”

  “And those are outlaws?”

  “Yep.”

  I leaned forward. “How does someone...you know, join up?”

  “Simple.” He tapped the patch with his finger. “They put this on and they don’t let nobody take it off ‘em.”

  “And if someone tried to take yours...”

  “They wouldn’t get it.”

  Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down my spine, the spidery chill that made kids want to tell ghost stories around the campfire, only different. “So there would be a fight.”

  “No officer,” he said, a wolfish grin playing about his lips.

  His answer silenced me. I glanced down at his hands; they were nicked and scarred, knuckles swollen, black crosses tattooed on his middle fingers, “1:13:11” scrawled across the back of his right hand and “6:4” on his left. I didn’t know what the tattoos meant. I wanted to ask.

  Ms. Peterson walked up to our table, a small frown on her face.

  I winced. “Are we being too noisy?”

  “No, but the library is closing in five minutes,” she said. “You two had best pack up.”

  I blinked and glanced at the clock; sure enough, almost three hours had gone by. I winced; not only had I failed to get much studying in, I’d also managed to miss my bus. Crap. Ms. Peterson walked back to her counter, but not before feeding Gabriel an I-disapprove glare. He ignored her and looked at me instead, brows coming together in concern.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I missed my bus.”

  “Want a lift home?”

  Yes. “Oh no, I can get a cab or...or something.” I stared at the tabletop.

  “Ain’t what I asked,” he said.

  The butterflies in my stomach mutated into an angry Mothra, beating against my ribs. “Yes,” I said. I made myself meet his eyes. “I’d like a ride home.”

  After three blocks on the back of Gabriel’s Harley I regretted my decision to dress up. The wind kept trying to sneak up my skirt and down my blouse like a pushy date; I found myself sidling up against his broad back despite how he’d told me I didn’t have to, just so I could stay warm. He’d given me a brief speech on how to be a passenger; where to put my feet, how to sit, how he’d signal when turns were coming up and what to do when they happened. I did my best to remember it all. I didn’t want to make him crash.

  Twenty five miles an hour in a car was boring, but the same speed on the back of a bike felt like twice that, more so with the slipstream howling in my ears and freezing my cheeks. Between that and the stuttering rumble of the engine talking was impossible; no wonder signals were given by taps on the knee. At least my ears stayed warm, the helmet he’d given me covered them. After another few blocks went by I relaxed...

  ...and then we hit I-5.

  Gabriel took the bike through the sharp curve of the on-ramp, leaning way over to handle the turn, pavement a foot from my knee-

  -OhmygodohmygodohmyGOD-

  -Then the road straightened, and he twisted the throttle.

  Twenty-five had been exciting. Sixty plus put my heart in my mouth and took the bottom out of my stomach; I bit back a scream as we barreled up the interstate like a bullet from a gun. It wasn’t a scream of terror, but rather the visceral brand of joy a roller-coaster rider expressed on the last plunging incline. I forgot about the cold, forgot about the fear, about the weird path which had led me to be on the back of a strange man’s motorcycle; the hot rush of the moment was all I cared about. That, and one clear thought:

  I’ve got to get one of these.

  All I’d done was play passenger, and yet when he pulled up at my apartment complex I was the one who was breathing hard, blood pounding in my veins.

  Gabriel glanced over his shoulder. “This where we need to be?”

  “Yeah,” I managed to get out. “Look, thanks for the ride.”

  “No worries,” he said.

  There was a long absence of talking. Cars blared by in the distance.

  “You have to get off my bike before I can.”

  I flinched. “Sorry.” I dismounted, and he did likewise, denim-clad legs flexing with the effort. My heart still pounded from the ride. And for a few other reasons.

  “Would you like to come inside?”

  He blinked at me. “How’s that?”

  “You know, warm up a bit.” I paused, fidgeting. “It’s cold out here.” Girl, what the hell are you doing?

  “Sure,” he said.

  We walked up the stairs in silence. Once at my door I dug through my purse; apparently my keys had chosen to hide at the bottom of my purse at the time I most wanted them to be at the top. After much fumbling I got my apartment door open
. Wow, I’m so lame.

  I hung up my sweater and set my purse on the kitchen table. Gabriel stood in the entryway, hands in his jacket pockets. I realized he didn’t know where to go because the lights were still off. I winced and flipped some switches. “You...ah, want something to drink?”

  “Alyssa?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you making a pass at me?”

  I froze. “Um...what?”

  “You heard me.”

  Oh crap. The Mothra in my stomach morphed into Godzilla, breathing fire into my chest and scorching my heart.

  “Um...well, that is to say, I...“ I ran my fingers through my hair, forgetting I still had it up. Somehow rings, bobby pins and chopsticks all got tangled together. “I sort of...well, you know...” I tugged at my stuck fingers, but I couldn’t get them out. “I...” One chopstick fell out of my bun and clattered as it hit the floor.

  You suck, my issues hissed. The other chopstick followed the path of the first, my carefully crafted hairstyle collapsing like a half-baked cake. You’re pathetic. I knew I looked ridiculous; it was work not to cry.

  Gabriel took two steps forward and slid his hands into the tangle I’d made. “Easy there,” he said in a warm tone, indigo eyes black in the dim light. “You snagged a bobby pin on your ring.”

  “How does that even happen?”

  “God’s got a sick sense of humor.”

  Slowly he sorted out the mess, his fingers gentle. My hair fell loose around my shoulders once he was done. As close as he was I could smell him, the scents of sweat and leather and smoke mingling in my nose. My heart hammered against my ribs.

  “I...I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “I...look, I’ve been watching you and there’s stuff and I...“ My hands fluttered, useless.

  “Just say what you feel, honey.”

  “I don’t want you to leave,” I said.

  Worst. Line. Ever.

  “Okay,” he said, tracing one rough finger across my cheek. “I won’t.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering when we’d ended up in each other’s arms. You don’t know him, my mind insisted. That’s the point, a voice from deep inside me shouted, faint but louder than it had ever been.