Runaway Ride: Alpha Bad Boy Biker and MC Romance Box Set

by A. L. Summers

  Charlie grunts again. “Yeah, I guess I can see that.” Charlie stares at me with his ice-blue eyes. “I was impressed by how you handled yourself that Friday. You really hung that fiddle player out to dry,” Charlie’s lips twist into a mischievous smile, “and you gave as good as you got Saturday. I’ve never seen Liz speechless before.” Charlie pauses, then chuckles. “It may have been because you were using big words. In any case, you may look and talk like a school teacher, but you have some fire in your gut.” I can feel myself frown, unsure whether his words are a complement or not. “That’s a compliment,” Charlie continues, “I just mean there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

  “Why do I think I could say the same about you?” I ask.

  “Hell, I don’t know anything about anything except drilling,” Charlie says quietly. “Drilling and riding,” he adds after a pause. “One pays for the other.”

  “And drinking. And fighting,” I suggest with a smile. “Not to mention fucking.”

  Charlie’s mouth twists into a crooked grin that dissipates the cloud of danger that seems to hover over him. “Well, drinking and fighting anyway.”

  I stare at him a moment before I bubble over into giggles. Bobbi’s right, there is something about Charlie. “I have to get started to pay for my dinner.”

  Charlie smiles and moves off, sitting down at the bar and chatting with Christine, the bartender. I work though my set and every time I look at Charlie his eyes are on me. I’m used to having people watch me, but his expression suggests more than just a passing interest in a musician. It’s the same intense gaze I noticed that Friday night. As I wrap up my first set, I see Bobbi bring out two plates and sit them at the table where Charlie lounges with his feet kicked up in a chair. As I step off the stage, he waves me over, motioning to one of the plates.

  “Is that for me?” I ask.

  “If you want it,” Charlie says. “Tango is a crotchety old fart, but he can whip up a mean sandwich.”

  “Charlie, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “Why, have you eaten already?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “Then sit down,” Charlie interrupts, kicking the chair back from the table with a foot. “I can’t eat both of these.”

  I dither a moment then sit. I can’t afford to eat out on my limited budget, and the sandwich looks delicious. I take a quick peek at the contents of the sandwich followed by a delicate sniff before taking my first bite. The chicken covered in melted cheese and spiced with peppers is delicious, and I nearly swoon. “Oh my God this is so good!” I exclaim around a mouthful of food. I inhale the sandwich like a ravenous wolf. This is the first meal I’ve had in a restaurant, or bar and grill, in months. Charlie and I talk as we eat, and I can tell there’s a keen intellect hiding under that glowering façade. Charlie may act like a brawling, hard-drinking badass, and maybe he is, but there is definitely more to him than that.

  “So, tell me why you’re here,” Charlie says during a lull in the conversation. “You didn’t say before.”

  “You invited me to sit down,” I say, teasing him. “Seriously? I needed a job and this beats washing dishes.”

  Charlie looks at me for a moment as he chews. “I don’t know sh… anything about music, but I can tell you’re too good for his place. There has to be more to it than that. Why aren’t you playing with some big orchestra in New York or some place?”

  I try to decide if I want to air my dirty laundry in front of this near-stranger. “I did, until a few months ago. In Oklahoma City.”

  “What happened?”

  I tell Charlie an abbreviated version of my story. “I’m still looking, but until I can find another seat, this is where I play,” I finish.

  Charlie has finished his sandwich while I was talking, so he leans back and kicks his feet up onto another chair. “For what’s it’s worth, I think he got off light with just a cut on his head. Sounds to me like he needs his balls cut off.”

  “Good thing all I had was a music stand,” I say, nearly choking on the anger I still feel.

  Charlie grins. “Like I said, there’s more to you than meets the eye. I bet you can be a real hellcat when you get mad.”

  I snort at his comment. “Fraidy-cat’s more like it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Charlie grunts, his grin showing his amusement.

  I glance at the clock on the wall. “Thank you for the sandwich and the company, Charlie,” I say sincerely, “but I need to start my next set.”

  I watch as the strangest emotion plays over Charlie’s face. It’s there only a fleeting moment and then is gone. “Thank you for sitting with me Alicia,” Charlie says quietly, “I enjoyed it.”

  I feel my lips twist into a grin. “You know, so did I.”

  ***

  The next two weeks, Charlie is there every night, either alone or with the Hawks. When he is alone I sit with him during my breaks, sharing a dinner with him during my first one. On Fridays and Saturdays, I usually join the Hawks once or twice each night. I learn a little more about the Neon Hawks and Charlie shows me his bike. His “hog,” he calls it. What I know about motorcycles I can scribble on the back of a nickel, but I can tell by just looking that these are no run-of-the-mill bikes. Slathered in chrome and neon, the bikes have a certain classiness all their own. They remind me more than anything of the art deco movement of the 1930s.

  As I begin to get comfortable with the Hawks, I discover that they aren’t at all what I thought a motorcycle gang would be. Sure, they’re a rowdy bunch with their ribald jokes and coarse language, but I also find out they care about one another and the razzing is all in good fun. And no one is immune. The first time I call them a gang everyone instantly falls silent, staring at me with open malevolence. I nearly shit myself and I could feel my face going pale. Just as I open my mouth to apologize, the entire group bursts into boisterous laughter. As the Hawks poke gentle fun at my panicked expression, Charlie explains that they’re a club, not a gang. I’m not sure of the difference, but the distinction seems important to them, so I take extra care to never call them a gang again.

  From that day forward, I have Bobbi or Christine give me a signal when the Hawks rumble into the parking lot. It takes them a couple of days to notice that I’m playing the opening bars of Born to be Wild as they come through the door, but once they do I can tell by their big grins they’re expecting it. They always give me a salute in acknowledgement and I give them a wink and a smile in return.

  ***

  Friday, as I’m setting up, I try to contain my disappointment that the Hawks will be with Charlie tonight and I won’t be able to sit with him. Well, I could, the Hawks having kind of adopted me, but it isn’t the same when the rest of the Hawks are around. Except for the occasional expletive, Charlie is the perfect gentleman around me, but he seems more relaxed when he’s at the bar alone, and I wonder why.

  I’m well into my second set when I finally accept that Charlie isn’t going to be here tonight, and as loath as I am to admit it, I am disappointed. I can’t explain why, because Charlie and I are as different as oil and water. We might mix when shaken, but we will always separate again. Still, even knowing that, I can taste the bitterness of my disappointment from his absence.

  Saturday I’m sitting at my usual place at the end of the bar, sipping my Sprite, when I hear the rolling thunder of motorcycle engines. For the life of me, I can’t hide my smile. I’m still grinning when the Hawks stride in, but my smile quickly fades. I hop off my stool and hurry over to where the Hawks, what there is of them, are sitting down. “What happened?” I ask Charlie. Dutch, Charlie, Toes and Chains look like they’ve had the shit beat out of them. “Where’s everyone else?” I ask, surprising myself that I actually care.

  “At home,” Charlie says, his voice slightly slurred by a nasty swelling on his lip.

  “What happened?” I ask again, unsure of what to do.

  “We ran into a little problem last night,” Charlie says. “Nothing to worry about.�
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  I look at Charlie and Dutch, the most beat-up of the four. “You two should see a doctor!” I say to Dutch, not wanting to show how upset I am over Charlie’s injuries.

  Charlie splutters out a laugh. “Fuck that. I’ve looked worse than this after a good hard fuck,” Charlie says, but then he softens. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. I’m fine, Alicia. Besides, you should see the other guys.”

  “The other guys, the Hawks, or the other other guys?”

  Charlie snorts. “The other other guys. Siphon took it the worst, the stupid fuck. The rest of us are just a little banged up. I swear, I think Siphon likes to get the shit beat out of him.”

  “What? Why?” I ask, not understanding.

  The four guys start to laugh. “First off, Siphon likes to fight. But mostly, it’s Liz. She’s a real scrapper and the nastier, the dirtier the fight, the better she likes it. I’ve seen her kick more than one guy’s ass and trust me, nothing turns her on like a good fight. She’s probably fucking the shit out of Siphon again right about now. Make him forget all about it,” Dutch explains with a grin.

  “But what happened?” I ask yet again, nearly desperate to know.

  Charlie and Dutch look at one another before Charlie looks back to me. “Let’s just say we had to point out the error in someone’s thinking and leave it at that, okay?”

  “But… why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Because there are some things we can handle better than the police,” Charlie says. “Alicia, it’s okay. The problem is solved and we won’t have to deal with it again. Don’t worry. Shouldn’t you be up there?” Charlie asks with a nod toward the stage.

  I look at the clock on the wall. “Yeah, I guess I should,” I say, not wanting to leave.

  ***

  As I play my first set, I watch Charlie start knocking them back, his lip curling into a sneer with each drink he tosses down. By the time I finish the first set, the four of them are well on their way to being drunk and Charlie is playing grab-ass with Bobbi, much to her delight. That doesn’t sit well with me at all, but I say nothing and take my spot at the end of the bar.

  By the end of the second set, the rest of the Hawks are gone but Charlie is drunk on his ass, pawing at Bobbi and making her squeal and scold, though I can tell she’s enjoying the hell out of it. Once again I take my place, sip my soda, and watch Charlie and Bobbi while trying to hold back the green monster.

  I wrap up my final set and I have had about enough of Mr. Charlie Grieg and his roaming hands. As I sit down at the bar, Christine sets my Sprite in front of me. “Give me something with a little more kick,” I snap. I can see Christine’s eyebrow go up, but she turns and does as I say. She sits the shot glass in front of me and I toss it back, not even caring what it is. The liquid burns all the way down, forming a mushroom cloud in my stomach. “Woof,” I grunt hoarsely. “What was that?” I whisper to Christine, my voice lost to me for a moment.

  “Jack, Black Label,” Christine says. “That one’s on the house. Looks like you need it.”

  I chase the shot with the Sprite to take the edge off. “Fucking men,” I mutter under my breath.

  Christine smiles. “Don’t be too hard on him… Bobbi’s been working on him for months.”

  “She can have him,” I spat.

  Tango steps out of the kitchen and announces last call. I take that as my cue to pack up my shit and get the hell out of there.

  “Christine! Can you count me out tonight?” Bobbi calls, escorting a staggering Charlie to the door as I stow my gear.

  Twenty minutes later, I slam the hatch shut on my Golf. Bobbi’s car is gone, but Charlie’s motorcycle is still there… the prick.

  ***

  Tuesday evening I’m just kicking off my first set when look who wanders in: Mr. Grieg. I refuse to even look at him as I play some Guaraldi, the easy jazz soothing my nerves. When Bobbi brings out two plates and sets them at the table, I grit my teeth. If he thinks I’m going to pretend nothing happened, he has another thing coming.

  During my break I take up my station at the end of the bar. I catch Charlie watching me but I give him the cold shoulder. The funny thing is, I expect Bobbi to be all over Charlie, but she seems rather cool toward him as well. Or at least no more the flirt than she is with most of the male customers. I spend the entire evening ignoring Charlie and, much to my annoyance, he doesn’t seem to care. The sandwich that would have been mine sits at his table all evening even though I saw Bobbi pick it up several times to take away.

  Wednesday and Thursday are near duplicates of Tuesday, and each night that sandwich sits there, Charlie making no move to call me over and me too stubborn to go on my own.

  When Friday rolls around, I’m delighted when Rudy and Stockton show up, dressed in black pants and crisp white shirts. I tease them approvingly. Having them join me onstage helps lift my mood, and by the middle of the first set we’re rocking the house. The Hawks are there, and while they seem to be their normal loud and boisterous selves, Charlie seems withdrawn. Tango has told me that word is starting to spread about Fingers, the new keyboardist playing at The Joint, and the crowd is larger than any I’ve seen here. Tango seemed inordinately pleased with himself, even slipping an extra hundred in my pay envelope. I’m feeling pretty good again… until one of the customers starts hassling me.

  I’m not afraid because I can see Rodney, the huge bouncer, watching, but the guy just won’t take a hint. I’ve been here long enough by now to recognize the type: a roughneck, an oil field worker, a man that works hard and plays harder. When I jerk my arm away, I see Charlie moving in as Stockton and Rudy rise from where they’re eating to come help me.

  “I think you’re bothering the lady,” Charlie says quietly, stepping past Stockton.

  “What’s it to you?” the man challenges.

  Charlie doesn’t back off and I can see the rest of the Hawks starting to rise. “It’s okay, Charlie,” I say, trying to defuse the rapidly escalating situation. When five more guys stand up, squaring off on the Hawks, Rodney begins to move, heading to get between the two groups.

  “I think it’s time for you to leave,” Charlie says, as casually as I would say the sky is blue, but once again the implied threat is there.

  “Or what, asshole?”

  “Or you’re going to get seriously fucked up.”

  Oh hell… I slip off my seat and begin to back up. Rudy and Stockton get between me and the two men since Rodney has his hands full with the crowd and is paying no attention to what’s going on right in front me.

  “Oh yeah? Well take your best shot you pussy,” the man sneers. Charlie doesn’t move, not rising to the bait. There’s a tense ten seconds when I think maybe they’re going to back off, but the man is feeling his oats and takes a swing at Charlie.

  Charlie ducks under the wild roundhouse and comes in under the swing, driving a bone-cracking right uppercut into the man’s jaw. Even I can tell that one punch has put the man out on his feet, but Charlie grabs the man by the back of the head, driving the man’s head down into Charlie’s fast-rising knee with a sickening crunch. The man folds like a sack of potatoes.

  That sets off the two factions, and Rodney’s about to be overwhelmed when the sound of a shotgun being pumped stills the entire bar. Christine is standing there with the shotgun pointed straight at the downed man’s buddies.

  “Which of you assholes wants the first load?” Christine asks, her voice quiet but hard as diamonds, leaving no doubt that somebody’s about to get shot. Bobbi is standing behind the bar, well away from the direction of the impending blast, while Tango is standing in the door to the kitchen with a baseball bat in his hand. And me? I’m about to freak out, if you want to know the truth.

  Charlie smiles, slow and easy. “Like I told your man here,” Charlie says to the downed man’s friends, toeing the lump on the floor, “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  Rodney starts hustling the men out the door, two of them scraping the man
-shaped lump off the floor while muttering promises of retribution.

  Charlie says nothing, casually watching the men drag their friend out. “You okay?” he asks me as the door closes behind the last of the men.

  I step out from behind Rudy. “No, I’m not fucking okay!” I shout, mad and terrified at the same time. “What the fuck is wrong with you people!” Charlie waits until I get my act together. “I’m sorry,” I say, breathing deep, trying to get my wits about me again. “Thank you Charlie. You too,” I say to Rudy and Stockton.

  Charlie smiles. “Come on, let’s get you some air. Bobbi, tell Tango that Alicia is taking a breather.”

  “Yeah,” Bobbi breathes, “I could use one, too.”

  Charlie leads me out into the parking lot and immediately sits astride his motorcycle, standing it upright. “You ever ridden on a bike before?”