He’s staring down at me, his lips turned down, a question on his face. He strokes my hair, molding his hand to my cheek, as he rocks into me in that slow, deep rhythm.
“You don’t know, do you baby?”
I shake my head, my chin firm in his rough palm. I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but I don’t know hardly anything. I was a kid, and then I was a mom, and I never learned shit about sex or men or what to do when your vagina malfunctions in the middle of doing it. My eyes well up, and his lips turn down sharper.
“It’s okay, baby. I hit a sweet spot. That’s all. You’re squirting on my dick. Totally normal.” He thinks a second. “Not totally common, but normal. Hot. Do you know how good it feels for you to soak my cock, baby?”
I don’t.
“I’m going to show you, baby. I’m going to cum all up inside you. Hard. And you’ll feel how good it is. Okay, baby?”
I nod.
“And you’re going to come with me. So get out of that pretty little head of yours. Look up in the mirror. Watch me fuck this perfect pussy.”
He reaches down again, circling my clit, and then he pinches it, light and quick, and a surge plumps the lips stretched around his cock even more, a gnawing need returning to the small spot where he’s playing, strumming. I buck my hips into him, wanting more, and his cock finds that place again, and I clench him without even meaning to.
Warm, wetness floods down, and Charge shouts, pistoning into me now, harder and faster. I couldn’t be in my head if I wanted. The world has narrowed to what I want that Charge can give me, and I buck up to meet him every thrust, and he pinches my clit again and orders, “Cum for me, Peaches. Right now.”
And I do. My belly and my pussy clenches and a wave of pure delight crashes through me, cresting hard, wringing me out, sending little after-shocks racing down my arms and legs, into my fingers and toes. I’m hot and limp and all the skin pressed against Charge feels raw. But good.
I’m drowsy and freakin’ amazed. I had no idea my body could do that. Charge strokes my cheek, my side, runs his hands everywhere, like he’s checking to make sure I didn’t break anything. I didn’t. Just my brain.
Then he kisses my nose and rolls, striding to the bathroom as if his world didn’t just rock on its axis. I couldn’t sit up if you paid me.
“You wanna go see the comedian tonight, Peaches?” he calls from the bathroom.
“There’s a comedian?”
“Yeah. And then a live band.”
He comes back, grinning like a dope, and he kneels beside me to wipe between my legs with a towel he’s snagged. Then he lays on his side, cradles me to him, and strokes my back.
I yawn. “No. I wanna take a nap. And then I want to do that again.”
Charge laughs. He presses a kiss to my shoulder. Then another.
I open one eye. Just a slit. “I just have to ask. A couples resort? With a champagne glass tub?”
Charge shrugs, and keeps stroking my arms, my hips, my belly. It’s like he wants to pet all of me smooth. I’m too exhausted to suck anything in or move to my back so my chub is less obvious. So I let him. And after a little while, it works.
“Didn’t know where to take you. I asked some brothers where they take their old ladies for a good time. Big George said the El-Car Motel off the interstate. Eighty said his dick. Pig Iron said this place.”
I giggle. I’ve driven past the El-Car Motel. They’ve got free cable, but I’ve got to say, this place is better.
And then it occurs to me. “Old lady?”
Charge twirls a piece of my hair around his finger, passes it over his lips. “Uh huh.”
“I’m your old lady?”
I’ve watched TV. I know this is something more than a girlfriend. Definitely more than a casual lay.
“Don’t you have to ask me?” I tease. I don’t know much about it, but it’s Charge. I want to be his old lady.
“Nope,” he answers. “You’re my old lady.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
We’re quiet a few minutes, breathing together, drowsing. And then a thought comes to me, and it’s out of my mouth before I can think better of it.
“I wish you were my first.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then he rolls me gently onto my back, hitching one of my legs over his hip. He pierces me with those blue, blue eyes and brushes a kiss across my lips.
“I am, baby.” He kisses me again, harder, demanding that I open, and twines his tongue with mine. “Say it baby. I’m your first.”
“You’re my first,” I breathe on an exhale.
“Now I want you to squirt all over my dick again. All right, Peaches?”
“All right,” I agree. And I feel lighter than air. As if anything can be true because Charge says so. Because I am young. And happy. Like the reflection in the mirror says.
Too bad I forgot. Young and happy is the recipe for dumb as dirt.
✽✽✽
It’s been a month, and I’m Charge’s old lady for sure. He got me a vest and a T-shirt that says “Property of Charge.” I don’t have to wear it all the time like those biker babes on TV. Steel Bones isn’t one percent, though from what I gather, they used to be. As Charge tells it, their businesses are more-or-less legitimate, his brothers are more-or-less law-abiding, and the women who hang around the club can do what they want. More or less.
Sue thinks the whole “old lady” thing is male supremacist bullshit, but for some reason, it gets my motor going. I made sure to wear the vest when Charge took me for a quick ride while Shirlene watched Jimmy. We rode up to the El-Car motel and did it like crazy bunnies for an hour before we had to come back to put Jimmy to bed.
It’s kind of hard balancing work, a kid, and doing it like bunnies. Math plays hell with time just like it does with money. There’s never enough.
I love the evenings Charge spends with Jimmy and me though—mostly hanging with Pops on the pier or going to town for ice cream. And I only feel a little guilty that I’m crazy for alone time with Charge. I know he feels the same. He’s been wanting me to come by the clubhouse, meet his brothers. Check out his bunk.
I feel bad taking advantage of Shirlene, though. She has her hands full with Pops and the other guys she checks up on. She’s a real cool lady. She was an emergency room nurse. She met her old man on the job. He’d laid down his bike, and she patched him up. She said after that, she’d had to go out with him so he stopped coming by the hospital and giving the squares a coronary.
Anyway, Shirlene loves Jimmy, and she won’t take any money for watching him, so I feel bad asking her to babysit. Which is why I’m stoked when Charge tells me about the cookout at the clubhouse. It’s a family thing; kids are included. Charge says it won’t get crazy till dusk, and we’ll be out of there well before.
Even though they cuss a blue streak, all the guys I’ve met from the MC have been very respectful, really nice. Except this angry dude named Nickel who rolled up one day when Charge and I were rocking on the swing. He’d sneered at me. Seriously sneered. Charge says he’s an asshole, but harmless. And then he’d snorted. So I’m not sure what that means.
I’m feeling pretty okay when Jimmy, Charge, and I roll up at the clubhouse. Jimmy is excited he finally gets to see Pops’ leg. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the place looks like a huge garage from back in the fifties, the kind with an arched roof. There’s an addition on the back with a spiral stair that goes up to what looks like apartments. There’s a chain link fence surrounding the yard which stretches a few acres back from the road, dotted with outbuildings and a bonfire pit. There’s a wooden stage at the way back and metal barbeque grills under a huge maple tree, and a smoker going a few feet from the addition.
You can tell these guys like meat.
A few older ladies are grilling burgers under the maple, fussing over a picnic table full of salads and chips and bowls heaping full of watermelon. Jimmy’s eyes get
wide.
“Go on,” I tell him, following close behind. It smells amazing.
As we walk, guys are calling out to Charge, bumping fists. A few come in for a half hug and a back slap. I recognize some, and Charge introduces me to the others. They all have crazy names. Fat Gus. Hobs. Boomhauer.
They are scary looking dudes, some more so than others, but I’m not intimidated. Shy, yes. But I feel safe with Charge. And Jimmy…he’s totally unfazed. As soon as he gets to the picnic table, he’s filling up a paper plate.
“Can I have two slices?” he asks, and all the older ladies smile.
“Of course, sugar,” one of them answers. “And try this brownie here. Has protein in it, Mama. It’ll put hair on his chest.”
The lady has silver, feathered hair like Shirlene. She’s wearing dangling Native American-style earrings and a dream catcher necklace. Her vest reads “Property of Trip.” She has a serenity to her, the kind that underlines her pretty, making her beautiful.
Charge kisses her, and even her giggle is warm and earthy.
I thank her and fill a plate of my own, and I’m so distracted that I don’t see them coming.
Descending.
Like sashaying locusts on high heels.
It starts with a blonde, tall and leggy, a little older than Charge. She’s way confident in a way I’ve never been. Her belly shirt shows off the bottom of her boobs, and she’s not wearing a bra. Her cut-offs are so short I can attest she’s not wearing panties either. She can carry the look off though. Easy.
She gives Charge an enormous, full body hug, and then she turns to me. Smiles.
“I’m Danielle,” she says. She offers me her hand, and I take it, but her fingers are weirdly limp. Like maybe she didn’t really mean to shake.
I feel stupid. Off balance. She ignores me soon enough, though. She’s talking to Charge about some run, whatever that is. I’m lost.
Charge keeps his hand on the small of my back, and Jimmy sticks to my side, but he’s elbow deep in watermelon. I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb.
From that moment on, they just keep coming. Kissing Charge hello. On the lips. Dangling off him. Giggling. Tilting their beers into his mouth.
Tousling Jimmy’s hair and making over him while making eyes at Charge.
Talking about poker runs and shows and biker nights and all kinds of things I don’t know about.
My face is burning. Charge keeps glancing down, checking on me, and that makes it worse.
I don’t know what Jimmy’s thinking. A quick inspection, and he’s still focused on his plate. He’s not paying attention to this at all.
And…is it really so weird?
Charge has a lot of friends. He’s a friendly guy.
And he’s gorgeous. I’ve noticed waitresses and check-out girls and ladies at the gas station eyeing him up. Slipping him their number. He smiles and walks away. Back to me. And the couple times he was slipped a number, he handed it to me. I have to admit—two of the times, I hadn’t even noticed he’d gotten a number so he could’ve kept it if he’d had a mind to.
I was a little thrown, a little amused. But not hard-core jealous.
Maybe sometimes I’d have a long moment wondering what he sees in me, the butter-faced single mom, but I’d shake it off. At the end of the day, Charge walks me to my door. Bumps fists with my boy. Texts me if he’s working late.
This never-ending stream of hot biker chicks, though…I’m feeling queasy.
Cause they obviously know Charge. Well. They feel totally comfortable copping a feel. And they’re all more than me. Taller, prettier, thinner, firmer, blonder, bigger-boobed, bolder. They look like a lot more fun.
This is starting to suck.
Charge is frowning, trying to discourage the ladies, not in a harsh way, but in his mellow, man-of-few-words way. They think it’s funny.
“Danielle. Stop.”
“Stop what? What am I doin’?”
She’s plastering herself to his side, tickling his middle.
“Makin’ yourself look stupid.” Charge steps away, but she’s on him like a wet towel. He must be miserable. He’s really ticklish on his sides.
Maybe I should say something?
But I’m not getting into some catfight in front of Jimmy. Hell no.
“Danielle.” Charge’s voice is low. A warning.
“That’s my name. You gonna wear it out.” She giggles, and it ends on a hiccup. Oh. She must be a little tipsy.
“But you can wear me out all you want.” She whispers it to Charge, but it’s a tipsy whisper. I think all the ladies at the picnic table could hear her. They’re definitely shooting her dirty looks.
Thanks for the solidarity, older biker ladies.
I need to get Jimmy away from this. He’s not curious yet, the food and all the cool stuff like the bonfire and all the bikes parked in a row is holding his attention. But he’s not dumb. He’s going to realize this isn’t the usual boring adult conversation sooner or later.
I can’t think of a thing to say to get out of this massively awkward suck-fest, though. So I stand there, blushing like crazy and tugging at my shirt. I didn’t wear my vest. I was too shy, and Charge didn’t push it. He’d raised his eyebrows though and asked if I was sure.
I had been, but I wasn’t now. Would the ladies have backed off a little if I were wearing the vest?
I’m starting to cycle through some really dumb ideas—maybe I should stick my hand in his back pocket like the girls used to do in high school to mark their territory?—but before I can make a move, Danielle is peeled off, and there’s Fay-Lee and her boys.
Jimmy pops up, plate forgotten, and almost before I can say okay, he and Dizzy’s boys are running off to some enormous, half-buried tires, climbing and swinging, and in the case of Dizzy’s boys, shouting and hooting like wild things at the top of their lungs.
“I need to borrow your old lady,” Fay-Lee tells Charge, and she grabs my hand and tugs me toward the clubhouse. I don’t say a word. I’m so grateful I could kiss her on the lips. I don’t want to mark my territory. I’d so much rather hide.
I really don’t want to see Charge’s face when he gets a good look at me standing next to Danielle or Jo-Beth or any of the others and realizes he brought the female equivalent of the napkins to the picnic. No one gets excited when the person bringing the napkins shows up.
I’d rather hang out with Fay-Lee. She’s my age, and she doesn’t see the need to hang all over my man.
“Looked like you needed a rescue.” Fay-Lee waggles her eyebrows and tugs me down onto a couch. “Beer us!” she yells at a woman—our age, maybe younger—who’s working behind the bar running the length of the building. It’s a wood bar, old and weathered, and there’s elaborate brands burned in every few feet. The Petty’s Ironworks logo. The wood must be from the mill when they tore it down.
The woman teeters over on high, high heels, passes us the beers, then sinks to the arm of the couch. She snaps her gum and shakes out her long, white-blonde hair. Those must be extensions. No one has hair that big outside the pageant circuit.
“You Charge’s old lady?” she asks.
I nod.
“You’re pretty,” she says. She seems sincere. Also a little more wide-eyed than the other ladies.
“Thanks. I’m Kayla.”
“Story,” she says, wiggling her fingers at me.
“That’s a cool name.” It is. Unique. Like her look. She reminds me of a super-sexy fairy. Her boobs and hips are huge, her waist is teeny tiny, and her blue eyes are so big and round, they almost seem unreal.
“Thanks.” She nudges Fay-Lee for a sip of her beer, then hands it back. “You see She Who Must Not Be Named is here?”
“Shh-iii-t.” Fay-Lee draws the word out so it has at least three syllables.
“Who’s She Who Must Not Be Named?”
“Oh, she don’t know?” Story wrinkles her perfect up-turned nose like she smells something bad. “Charge’s ex.”
<
br /> His ex.
This party keeps getting better and better.
I don’t know a lot about her, but what I know makes me want to never, ever meet her. Her name’s Harper. She’s the daughter of the old club president and the sister of the present one, so she’s been around the club—and Charge—her whole life. She’s a lawyer. She lives in their old house in Gracy’s Corner. And apparently, she loved anal.
I’m inferring that last part. Charge put his finger there when we did it at the motel, talked about how good he’d make me feel, how he’d go slow until I got used to it, and then I’d want it all the time. It sounded like he spoke from experience.
Sue loves anal, so I know some women do, and that’s cool and all. But anal kind of feels like going straight for the top of the mountain when I’ve only gone down the bunny slope twice.
Anyway, what I know about the ex: she has more money, more education, and more butt sex than I do. I don’t want to meet this lady. Especially when my self-esteem is very, very not-healthy from watching a good half-dozen women hit on my out-of-my-league hot biker boyfriend.
“Is there, like, a getaway car around here?”
Fay-Lee snorts, and I realize I said that out loud.
“No. There’s noooo escape. You must face your fears to defeat them,” Fay-Lee moans in a cheesy ghost voice. “Find the whore. The whore crutches?”
“Horcruxes,” Story supplies.
“And you can vaaaanquish her!” Fay-Lee finishes with flair, sinking back into the couch and slapping my knee.
“She really that bad?” I ask.
Both Fay-Lee and Story nod, totally fake-serious.
“I’ll put it this way,” Fay-Lee says. “You know how there are sweetbutts and old ladies?”
I nod. Charge explained it. The sweetbutts are women who hang around the club. Party with different guys. Come and go a lot. The old ladies are like the girlfriends and wives.
“Yeah, well, at Steel Bones, we got a third type of female.” Fay-Lee sticks up her thumb, then her index finger, then the middle. “Sweetbutt. Old lady. Bitch lawyer.”
Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance Page 14
