by Juli Valenti
“Down, down, Fallen,” the other woman sighed, clearly realizing she should’ve kept that piece of information to herself. “I was fine. As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted - again - the pansy crumbled before I ever said a single word. And, well, after I did, I swear on my fucking patch he looked like someone killed his cat at the same time as he was trying not to piss his pants.”
“You didn’t have to go talk to him, but I appreciate it,” Sarah told her politely, at a loss for words. A large part of her was disappointed she’d missed the entire encounter, and had to make do with the mental image of Vinny being out-manned by the tiny, five-foot-five blonde girl. The damage that had to have done to his psyche wasn’t going to be pretty, and would have repercussions none of them would see coming, but it was still a pretty thought.
“I know I didn’t. But I sure as hell feel better. Fallen and Sarah,” Poet said, clearly talking to someone else. “Titan says hi. Anyway, judging by the ‘someone better fucking be dead’ comment, I’m going to assume I interrupted some hot and heavy - surprise surprise. Wanted to let y’all know we’d be at the bar tonight to watch you play, Fall, and that that fucktard isn’t going to come near you again, Sarah.”
Fallen’s eyes met Sarah’s, a small smile playing across his lips. “Well thanks, from both of us. If you don’t mind, we’re gonna get back to it. See you tonight.”
“You’re playing tonight?” she asked him as the dropped his phone carelessly back on the bedside table.
“Yep ... do you want to come?”
Dirty thoughts filled her, and while she knew he’d been asking if she wanted to go see him, she couldn’t help the words that escaped her. “Well, the plan had been for you to come before your phone interrupted us.”
“Well, well ... dirty, naughty Sarah. Who would’ve thought my innocent girl was really such a nasty woman in the bedroom. I feel like I’ve been missing out.”
“It’s your own fault. Now lay back so I can blow you like I wanted to in the first damn place,” she told him seriously, secretly dancing as the larger man did as he was told.
“Yes, Ms. O’Fallen. Whatever you —“
Luke’s words were cut short as she wrapped her lips around the head of his dick once more, sucking hard. She watched as his eyes rolled back into his skull, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. This time she wasn’t going to let him off so easily - she had a perfect round of punishment and pleasure planned for him ... payback for making her wait so long. And man, it was going to be good.
Chapter Eight
Three hours later, Sarah found herself standing in Fallen’s room, dozens of items of clothing strewn across the bed. Apparently when she’d agreed to watch him play, Luke had taken it upon himself to ask every lady in the clubhouse for clothes donations. At first, a part of her had been seriously offended by the gesture - until she’d realized the only items of clothing she had in his room were her stained, offending scrubs, and the couple T-shirts he’d given her for relaxing in.
The problem she was facing now, though, was she had no idea what to wear. Fallen was playing at a place called The Haze, which gave no indication what type of place it was, even after she’d looked it up online. From the photos she could tell it was a bar, but that was about it.
Laying on the bed was everything from leather and lace to corsets, tanks, and tees. A plethora of jeans, skirts, shorts, and leggings also lay amongst the other garments, and, on the floor, were heels, boots, and a pair of converse. One of the sweeties, Teagan, according to Lukas, had also brought in a large, pink-and-white striped makeup case filled to the brim with every item of face paint a girl could want.
“So many choices,” she said aloud, fighting the urge to put her head in her hands. “How the hell did I get here?”
“Well, more than likely, you rode on the back of a motorcycle,” a female voice sounded from the doorway, startling Sarah. Looking up, she found Artist leaning against the wood frame, a small smirk on her face.
“Oh hey, Artist. Sorry, talking to myself ... seems to be a common thing coming from me these days.”
“No worries, I do it all the time, just ask Shakespeare next time you see him. He has some pretty fun stories, or so he thinks.” The other woman grinned. “Anyway, Luke talked to ‘Speare before he left to set up for his gig - mentioned you may need a ride since y’all left your car at the hospital.”
Sarah nodded, having almost completely forgotten she wouldn’t have any way to even get to the bar to see him play. She was so used to him picking her up or just driving it hadn’t even dawned on her.
“Well, it just so happens we ... er ... acquired a couple bikes a few weeks ago, that don’t currently have owners. Since your pop used to ride, I figured you knew how. Am I wrong?”
“I can ride as long as it’s not a giant like Fallen’s. His beast is entirely too heavy. Anything I can’t park, I can’t ride - I refuse to be one of those women who needs a man to park it.”
Artist inclined her head, something along the lines of respect flashing across the beautiful woman’s face, her curled, chestnut hair moving elegantly with the gesture. It was then that Sarah took in what the other female wore - a black, leather and lace corset paired with skin-tight, leather leggings and knee-high riding boots adorned with dozens of silver buckles and chains. She looked the epitome of biker and rocker chic, all at once. Not for the first time, she found herself envious of the lady biker.
“I get that. Good. Here.” Artist extended a silver key with an HR keychain attached. “You should be good on this one, then. I’ll leave you to get ready. Luke said he already hooked up a straight and curling iron up in his bathroom for you, and if you needed anything, there’s money in the top drawer. I’ll see you there.” The other woman turned to leave, her hand grasping the knob to the door before she glanced back. “Oh, and this is how I’m going, if you needed a point of reference. Figured it might help you rustle through that pile.”
With a wink, she was gone, and for the millionth time in the past week, Sarah felt overwhelmed with gratefulness. It would’ve been so easy to fall down the rabbit hole of depression, or, worse, been treated like one of the many women who frequented the club beds. Instead, she was relatively happy, her anxiety and rollercoaster emotions aside, and being treated well by everyone around. It wasn’t something she was used to - people being so good to her - but it was something she resolved to enjoy and cherish.
Glancing at the clock, Sarah set out with a new determination, her hands roving over the clothing choices and picking each garment with care. She chose a pair of acid-washed blue jeans, rips and holes strategically down the legs, which, after checking the size, she knew would fit like a second skin. Next was a black mesh and lace one-shoulder top — something she never would’ve worn, knowing she couldn’t wear a bra with it, though one of the girls had helpfully supplied petals to tape her nipples down.
With the knowledge that she would be riding by herself, rather than on the back of Fallen’s bike, she chose a simple pair of calf-high black boots, which sported a moderate heel. They, like Artist’s, had several bright silver buckles and would be perfect.
In a rush, she curled the ends of her dull brown hair, wishing she had time to get it cut and styled, or highlighted or something. Sarah left the top un-styled, with the exception of teasing it; the helmet she was going to wear would completely destroy anything cute she tried to do anyway.
Donning her borrowed clothes, she refrained from looking in the mirror. Instead, she painted her eyes in dark kohl, with dark shadow and the blackest mascara she’d ever used. A dab of pink on her cheeks followed, along with a deep-red lip stain. One of the girls had been kind enough to include a bulky silver chain with a dainty razorblade pendant, and, while it wasn’t something she’d generally wear, the jewelry felt right around her neck. Only then did she take in her reflection.
“How the hell did I get here?” she asked the girl staring back at her. This time, the question wasn’t asked
with despair, but in disbelief. She looked nothing like the Sarah who’d always peered from the reflective glass. No. She looked like a girl completely at home in a motorcycle club’s main clubhouse. She looked like a girl about to go to a rock gig, belonging there. And, even better, she looked like a girl who could totally kick ass and go to jail without crying.
It had been a very long time since Sarah had ridden solo; she’d forgotten just how much she loved the feeling. The wind on her face, the rumble of the large machine under her, the control it took to ride. As she climbed off the smaller bike, she caressed the tank before placing her helmet on the seat. The 2009 Harley FXD Dyna Super Glide was a beautiful ride, the cranberry paint polished to a sparkling shine. Maybe she’d ask Lukas if they were selling it; she didn’t have the cash to buy it outright, but there was a good possibility they’d let her make payments. After all, they knew where she was staying — the B&B or Fallen’s room.
Shaking her head to clear it, she glanced at her reflection from the bar’s window glass, grateful her curls were still in tact. Of course, it wasn’t like she’d been speeding or riding crazy. No, she’d maintained speed limits and safety laws, allowing herself time to get used to the feel of the bike. It was sheer dumb luck she still had the endorsement on her license, only keeping it because she knew her father would’ve been upset if she’d lost it.
Especially after it took him so long to teach you how. A small smile pulled at her lips, remembering the multiple times he’d tried taking her out on his, trying to get her to balance on his beast of a bike. So many times she’d fail, get mad, and yell at him, informing him she wasn’t a son, but a daughter. “And my daughter will ride just as good as anyone with a dangle between their legs, damn it. Now try it again, Leaf.”
A small pang of yearning shot through her at the long-since-dead nickname. Her dad had been the only one to ever call her “Leaf,” always saying she reminded him of one - always changing or moving with the wind. He rarely ever called her by her given name, preferring the pet name instead, and she’d give just about anything to hear his hoarse voice say it again.
Steeling herself to remain in the present, Sarah made her way into the bar, loud rock music assaulting her as soon as she opened the door and stepped inside. The Haze was a small hole-in-the-wall type bar, with dark walls, neon signs, and a seemingly permanent haze of cigarette smoke, ironically. A deep wooden bar made a U-shape in the middle of the room where a short, stocky blonde bartender tended to the patrons gathered around on bar stools.
She found Artist and Shakespeare, along with Poet and Titan, at one of the hightop tables away from the bar, near the front door and close to the stage. They’d kept a chair empty, with a perfect view of the band, and she made her way to it, grateful she wouldn’t have to sit alone.
They all nodded to her, then back to the stage, where Lukas was tuning his guitar, carefully strumming a string before moving to another and making adjustments on the silver knobs. His bass player, an older man with kind eyes who looked like he either was, or had been, a biker, was doing the same. The other man said something she couldn’t hear and Luke’s eyes met hers, a huge smile lighting his face before he returned to his work. Another man sat at the drum set, occasionally tapping on the instrument and smoking a cigarette. A thin, pale, dark-haired foreign woman hopped up to the stage, and, as a waitress brought Sarah a beer without her asking, the music started.
She watched him play. And, in doing so, she was mesmerized.
Sarah watched as his fingers glided easily over the guitar strings, creating both melody and harmony in easy strokes. His music filled the room, encompassing the air around her, around everyone who watched. It didn’t matter how large the stage he stood on, nor how many people sat and listened. His audience could have been a thousand people or just her - the number insignificant and incomparable to the notes flowing from him.
She watched his body move in perfect sync with his hands, his instrument no longer an object hanging in front of him. It became an extension of him, a part so integral to his being, she was astonished no one else noticed. It was as if, without it, a piece of the man she knew would cease to exist. How she hadn’t realized this important part of him was missing before, she wasn’t sure.
He was in his element up there, completely overtaken by the beauty he was creating. All the while, he was completely overtaking her. With his music he was wrapping her heart with steel strings and pulling them tight, squeezing, until the weight of his talent made it almost difficult to breathe.
Looking around, she found the others in the bar watching with rapt faces, some dancing in their seats, others clapping or pointing and whispering to their friends. It was easy to see that she wasn’t the only one completely taken with the man. Girls made their way onto the dance floor, drunkenly stumbling and swaying to the beat, their eyes sharp like hawks on the hunt. All of them were zeroed in on Luke.
Something along the lines of insecurity shot through her - were those other women prettier than her? What if he saw something or someone he liked better, someone more down his alley and not as innocent as she was? What if he liked that the girls were dancing rather than the way she was just sitting to watch?
As if he could hear her thoughts, Lukas’ gaze met hers and he grinned, continuing to play but never breaking eye contact. Eventually his fingers had to take over into a solo and he glanced down, his singer continuing on.
Far too soon the music ended for a break in the set. She expected Lukas to go straight to his fans, to the dancing girls and talk with them; Sarah wasn’t a fool. She knew it would be part of the gig, the schmoozing and mingling. But, as per his usual, he surprised her.
Sarah watched as he set his guitar down on a stand with his others, his small wireless electronic following on top of his amp. He then jumped off the front of the stage, making his way to her, his expression unreadable and his vision focused. His arms wrapped around her, his face burying in her hair before his hands moved to cradle her face; he tilted her chin and kissed her, soft and deep.
“What’d you think?”
“You’re amazing. Really, Luke, how did I not know you could do that?” she told him honestly, admiringly. “Shouldn’t you be talking to your fans, though? Aren’t I going to cramp your style?”
“Thanks, baby. And you are my style, Sarah. You aren’t some dirty secret that needs to be kept hidden behind a curtain. I’m damn proud to have you here, watching me. I feel like you make me play better; I want to impress you.”
She leaned forward and kissed him again. “You do impress me. Now go talk to your fans.”
Luke’s answering grin was priceless and he ran his hand over her hair before disappearing into the crowd of waiting people. Sarah watched as he shook hands, hugged, and posed for photos. With each person he spoke with, he was polite, humble, attentive, though she never felt as if she were forgotten or abandoned. It was awe inspiring, seeing him in his complete element.
“Who would’ve known?” she said to no one in particular.
“I know, right?” Poet answered, leaning forward. “It’s easy to forget sometimes; so often he’s my Sergeant, scary and intimidating with a reputation like Jezebel’s herself. Man of many talents, for sure.”
The president hit it on the head - talent for certain. Sergeant in Arms, skilled rider and security expert, and rockstar.
How the hell did I get here?
Chapter Nine
“All right, pretty girl, we’re going to head out,” Poet said, her voice seeming to echo in the bar, the remnants of loud rock music still ringing throughout the must quieter room. “Do you need anyone to escort you home? I know you took one of the loaner bikes.”
“No, but thank you,” she answered, shaking her head, her gaze darting from Fallen’s lithe form back to the dainty president. “I think I’ll wait on him.”
“‘Kay. Ride safe, ride true, yeah?”
Nodding, Sarah hugged the smaller woman as she said goodbye. Titan inclined his head, S
hakespeare following suit and doing the same.
“Our boy’s got a run tomorrow ... Try not to keep him up all night,” Artist said as a farewell, winking.
Sarah stayed as the men broke down the stage, a small smile playing across her face. It entertained her that, this time a year ago, the female’s remark and sexual innuendo would have embarrassed her, forced color to rise in her cheeks and her eyes drop to hide her expression. Today, it didn’t bother her. Rather, it made her proud to know it would be her who went home with Fallen; it would be her who kept him up all night if she chose.
The tear-down process seemed to be methodical and, though her personality wanted her to help, she remained sitting, nursing the beer in front of her and staying out of the way. She figured it was better to do that than mess up what she could only guess was thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment - not having any idea what most of it was or how to unplug it.
When Luke finally made his way to her it was after three in the morning. His words were slightly sheepish, guilty sounding, as he asked if she was ready to go; if she hadn’t known better she would assume he felt bad for making her wait. Sarah didn’t mind, though, and while she’d normally be tired, she wasn’t. Quite the opposite - she was wired for sound, a unique mix of beer and Redbull in her system, excited to get home, and, if she were being honest, she was horny as hell.
Fallen walked her to her bike, winking at her as he took off for his own. It’s going to be like that, is it? she thought wickedly, turning the key and enjoying the rumble of the Harley beneath her. Luke zipped past her as she finished buckling her helmet, the roar of his bike significantly louder than her own, and she revved the engine before chasing after him. Sarah had expected him to head straight to the clubhouse, but he didn’t. He weaved them in and out of side roads, waiting for her to catch up, only to pull the throttle and speed up again. It was a game of cat and mouse, though who was chasing who, she wasn’t certain.