by Tia Lewis
Was it a good idea? I wasn’t so sure of myself when I started watching the countless videos from club parties. I’d only typed “motorcycle club party” into the search bar and come up with hundreds of results. I took a deep breath before clicking the first video.
The first thing I noticed was loud, driving music. Then the raucous laughter—the kind of laugh a person expects to hear coming from a rough bar. The girls made the typical duck face kisses whenever the camera pointed their way. It’s universal, I thought, shaking my head.
I paid attention to the way they dressed. Crop tops, t-shirts that had been slashed to bits until they were hardly recognizable as clothing. They were sleeveless, low-cut, off-the-shoulder, and even backless in some cases. Tight camisoles. Mini-skirts, tight jeans. Leather pants. My thighs chafed at the very thought.
Oh, the hair spray. I would have to buy a case of it. Teased hair, curled hair, all of it shellacked into place. Their faces were slathered in heavy makeup, especially the eyeliner and mascara. Dark red lipstick. Lots of cheap jewelry. Boots, usually knee-high but ankle boots sometimes, too.
I made a list of the things I would need, then I focused on the way they carried themselves. They wanted to be sexy. How would I be sexy? I didn’t have the faintest idea. Not that I hadn’t dated, but I wouldn’t have called myself hot on my best day. I was tall, awkward, always picked on as a kid for being taller than the boys. I knew how to look nice, but it was a different world for those girls. They oozed sex. It was their stock and trade, I guessed. Serving the men their cold beer and whiskey, and then servicing them after the party.
I watched videos until I thought my eyes might bleed if I looked at another. I’d started early in the afternoon, but by the time I finished it was dark outside and I was convinced I would never pass for one of those girls. Ever. Would I have to debase myself the way they did? I shuddered to think.
I paid careful attention to the girls in the corners, the ones who weren’t in on the action. Maybe I could be one of those girls. A wallflower. I knew I grasped at straws, trying to rationalize, but it was all I had. If I sought to be the party girl, I would fall on my face. Literally, in fact, judging from the height of the high heels all the girls wore. I would need time to practice.
I have all the time I need. With my father’s pension coming through any day and a house with no mortgage, I could afford to take a leave of absence. The time off would let me sink deep into the world of the Blood Riders.
My desktop wallpaper, I saw it when I closed the browser. Just me and my father, taken only months earlier. I wore my graduation cap and gown. We never looked very much alike except for our big, cheesy smiles. I touched the screen. “I’ll find out who did this to you, Dad,” I whispered. Soon the tears filled my eyes, blurring the picture.
It had taken a week before I felt comfortable enough to go out in public with my new look.
At first, I was sure everybody stared at me. Men, women, and children. I might as well have worn a sign around my neck: “Look at me pretending to be a biker girl!” Then I remembered it was a good thing, especially in the case of men. I wanted them to ogle me. It meant I passed.
Still, I couldn’t help jumping a little when I walked past windows and saw my reflection. That couldn’t be me, already tall enough without three-inch knee-high boots to turn me into an Amazon. That wasn’t me with the wavy hair, teased at the crown and sprayed like crazy to hold its shape. I didn’t wear arms full of leather bracelets and cheap black beads. And I certainly never wore shirts that just barely covered my torso.
It was me, though. I could tell because my feet screamed whenever I walked in those damned knee-high boots.
I knew the Blood Riders operated out of Jamaica, Queens which I wasn’t keen on visiting since I knew all too well what went down there, thanks to my father’s bedtime stories. Most kids got nice stories of princesses and glass slippers. The daughter of Detective Robert Bluth wanted to hear about homicides and shoot-outs. No surprise that I grew up to study criminal justice. It was where the action was, though, and I needed to make my face known to the club members somehow.
I would see them riding around sometimes, cruising down the street in pairs and trios. They owned the neighborhood—it was clear from their body language, from the way people waved at them as they passed, even the old ladies. I wondered if they weren’t the neighborhood’s watchdogs. After all, nobody trusted the police. Were they patrolling? It was something to keep in mind. Wouldn’t it be ironic if they saw themselves as the good guys?
It was a particularly warm and humid day, three days into my surveillance. I had to find a way to connect with a member of the club. I thought about hanging around the front of their clubhouse, but that would be too obvious and a dead giveaway. I wasn’t that stupid. I was afraid I’d be picked up for prostitution if I hung out anywhere else along the streets surrounding it, so that was out. I could imagine Tommy’s face if he saw me at the station, looking like I was celebrating Halloween two months early.
The humidity was killing my hair, not to mention the rest of me, so I stepped into a corner store to cool off. The air conditioner was turned up to full blast, and the wave of cold air that hit me the moment I stepped over the threshold was like heaven. I didn’t even care that my nipples stuck straight out against the thin cotton of my cut-up white tee.
“What’s up?” I looked over the deli counter to find an admirer. I lifted my chin in greeting, thinking it best not to engage him any further. He wasn’t the target; though he might be able to introduce me to the people I wanted to meet. I stuck a pin in the idea.
My stomach rumbled, the feeling of genuine hunger a surprise after so many days of avoiding food. I’d lost another ten pounds off my already thin frame, though my height meant the weight didn’t show up as quickly as it would on a smaller girl. I was still thick enough in all the right places to avoid the heroin chic look—nobody thought that was sexy, and I needed to attract a member of the club.
I walked around the store, wondering how long I could stall before I had to venture back out into the late summer heat. Perspiration stood out on my forehead, and I only hoped my eyeliner and foundation wasn’t running. I kept forgetting about the makeup, and I’d rubbed my eyes once or twice to find my knuckles streaked beige and black. Again, not a good look. Nobody wanted to hook up with a raccoon.
The store was tiny, without much room to roam. I picked up a sports magazine, flipping idly through its pages as I cooled off. I could feel the curious gaze of the guy behind the deli counter. It was more than curiosity. It’s working. Don’t be skeeved out. It’s working. He thinks you’re hot.
“Hey, mami. Whatcha up to?”
I smiled, glancing at him. “Hey. Just cooling off. I’ll buy something. Don’t worry.”
“Nah, nah, it’s all good.” I looked at him again, saw the way he smiled. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen, barely able to grow a decent full mustache, but he thought he was Rico Suave. “You brighten the place up, know what I mean?”
I grinned. “Thanks. I feel like something the cat dragged in. It’s so hot outside.”
“Huh?”
“Uh, never mind.” Not the time to drag out my father’s old-timey catchphrases, Nicole. I wanted to smack myself for forgetting that I wasn’t Nicole anymore. I was Bree. I had a troubled past. I needed a man to cling to. I loved attention.
Lucky for me, the bell above the door sounded, cutting off anything the deli guy was about to say. I turned to find two men walking in. Both of them wore dark sunglasses, both had arms covered in ink. Both wore leather vests and one of them, the older and harder looking of the two, had a big patch on the back of his. Blood Riders. Jack-fucking-pot.
“Calm down. You can do this.” I reassured myself. My heart started racing, and my palms went clammy. What could I do? The moment had arrived, and I was punking out. I had no idea what to do, but I had to do something. I couldn’t spend more endless days walking around, killing time, and waitin
g for something to happen. This was the something I needed.
The older man walked out of the store, lighting a cigarette as he stood by one of the two Harley-Davidson motorcycles. He didn’t look like anyone I wanted to mess with. On the other hand, his friend looked a little more approachable. A bit more human. I chalked that up to his youth. He wasn’t old enough to be so hard-bitten.
I was glad I’d cooled off. It would be twice as hard to look appealing when I had sweat running down the sides of my face.
Think sexy. You want to seduce this asshole. You’re probably the nicest thing he’s seen all day, and you don’t smell like you ate a pack of cigarettes for breakfast.
I pretended to find him sexy, I told myself I wanted him. I actually wanted into the club, but he would be my Sherpa. I made myself like him. I made myself walk over to him, lingering by the deli counter as he placed an order for a dozen cold sandwiches. I waited until he finished, standing very close behind him so he’d bump into me when he turned around.
And just like that, he fell right into my trap, nearly knocking me down when he spun. He had caught me before I fell, and I gave him a genuine smile. It worked out better than I had hoped.
“I’m so sorry, Miss. Did I hurt you?” he asked, and for a second I thought I must have the wrong person. No way that a kid like him, who seemed sweet and courteous, could be a member of the Blood Riders or any outlaw motorcycle club. Then, I caught sight of the patch over his chest. Prospect. So, he was new. A rookie. They hadn’t yet indoctrinated him into the ways of violence and misogyny.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I flirted, touching his arm. Leaving my hand there longer than was necessary. “Thanks for catching me.”
“But … it was my fault you fell.” He looked like he might even be blushing, I noticed. He was too sweet for those creeps. I couldn’t think about that. Eyes on the prize, Nicole/Bree. Go in for the kill.
“No, I’m a klutz.” I gestured down toward my boots, shrugging. “I turned my heel.”
“Yo, man, are you gonna finish your order?” Uh-oh. Rico Suave wasn’t such a playboy once he saw me flirting with another man. Sorry, pal. You never had a chance in the first place.
“Uh, yeah.” My new friend read off the rest of his order from the back of a crumpled receipt. Then, he turned to me. “Can I order something for you? It’s the least I can do.”
“Oh, that is so sweet of you.” I touched his arm again, giving him my biggest smile. “An Italian hoagie. Small. Oil and vinegar, please.”
“Whatever, man.” The kid behind the counter got to work, noticeably grumpier than before.
I turned to the Prospect, looking him up and down. Lean but muscular, and with a little work he could be an imposing presence. He might have just gotten out of high school. They recruited young.
“Thank you so much for the sandwich. I was starving!” I laughed. “I hate eating alone, and I don’t wanna go home until my stepdad leaves for work.” I rolled my eyes.
“Yeah, I hear ya. That sucks. Maybe you can eat with my friends and me. We’re only right around the corner from here.”
Holy shit, it was too easy. At this rate, I would have my father’s murderer in prison in a week. “Sure, that would be cool. Thanks.” He nodded, blushing a little again, and then looked out the window. His creepy friend looked impatient. I couldn’t let him lose focus, so I put my hand on his broad shoulder. When he turned to me with a smile, I decided to cut to the chase.
“Hey,” I murmured, chewing my bottom lip. “Um, are you with the Blood Riders?”
3
Drake
“Fuck, Drake. Yes!” I held the hips of the chick riding me. Violet. Big tits, bouncing up and down. Nice thick ass banging against my thighs every time she slammed down onto my cock. She gripped me tight from the inside. I gritted my teeth and held on until it sounded like she was almost finished.
“Yes…yes…yes! Oh God, Drake!” The sound of her voice made it harder to hold back. I was used to it, women moaning my name. A lot of women.
She finally started shrieking, bouncing harder and holding me tighter as her wet pussy clenched up. She was coming. Finally—it took her forever. I let go, slamming her down, thrusting up into her until I finished. Not bad for a random Tuesday afternoon.
Violet fell on top of me, and I lifted her hips just enough to slide out and pull off the slippery condom. She didn’t want to move. “You can get off me now.” She made a surprised noise, but she moved like I wanted her to.
“Sorry,” Violet muttered, sort of throwing herself down on the bed.
“I had to clean myself up,” I reminded her, not turning around from where I sat on the bed. “I didn’t think you’d want any accidents, you know?”
Her tone of voice changed. “Oh, sorry,” she purred. Funny how the same word could sound completely different depending on how a person said it. “I didn’t think. You just fucked me so good, baby. My brain got foggy, and I kind of got lost in thought.”
Like you had one in the first place. I had to give Violet credit—I had never heard that one before. Where did she get her pillow talk? After throwing out the condom on the floor and wiping off on my black boxers by the side of the bed, I stretched out on my back.
She draped herself over me, even though I didn’t hold an arm out or anything. I didn’t know where she got the idea I wanted to cuddle. I just wanted to fuck. I tensed up, and she noticed. “What’s wrong, baby?”
That got me even tenser. I didn’t know where she got off calling me that. “For one thing,” I said, trying to keep my voice down, “the name’s Drake. You should know. You said it a bunch of times a few minutes ago.”
She pouted—I didn’t know if I hurt her or not. She was acting. Why couldn’t she just be real? I had known her for a while—maybe six months. She was one of the club’s girls, always at our parties. She hung around the clubhouse, too. I didn’t think she had much of a home to go back to. Hey, whatever. I knew how that felt. We had flirted all that time. Finally, I got bored and decided to fuck her while I waited for my lunch to show up. Obviously, a mistake, judging by the way she looked. I would never be caught dead in public with her.
“I don’t get you,” she muttered. The “oh, gee, my brain just got fucked out of me” look was gone. Her eyes narrowed, her mouth turned down in a frown. She was real, at least.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I put an arm over my eyes, wishing she would leave me alone already.
“You’ve been flirting with me for months. Today you pull me into your room. I think, awesome, finally. Now you treat me like shit.”
“I’m hungry and tired,” I muttered.
“And not horny no more,” she reminded me. “And that’s why you think you can talk to me like this.” She got out of bed. I felt the hurt and anger coming off her in waves, like heat.
“Sorry,” I sneered. “I didn’t know fucking meant signing a contract. Stop acting like you’re my girlfriend.”
“I’m not, Drake.” I listened as she put her clothes on, my arm still over my eyes. Even the way she dressed sounded angry. “Maybe just five minutes, you know? You could be a human being for five goddamned minutes.”
“You’re giving me a headache, Violet! You’re a slut! What do you want me to do?”
“Excuse me?”
“What the fuck do you want? Do you want to cuddle? A dozen roses? A bubble bath?”
“Whatever, Drake. Fuck you.”
I didn’t respond, and that only made her angrier. She stormed out of my little bedroom. I heard her cursing her way down the hall, out to the common area. Thank God. I didn’t think she would ever leave.
I sat up, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser as I did. I saw the confusion in my blue eyes, eyes women always seemed to go crazy over. Why didn’t they get it? I only wanted Violet’s body. I was horny—she was right about that—and I wanted to fuck. What was the big deal? She wasn’t my girlfriend just because I stuck my cock in her. If
that were true, she would’ve been the girlfriend of half the guys in the club.
And you fucked her, I reminded myself. I laughed at my reflection. I never said I had good taste, did I?
A knock at my door. I froze, expecting it to be Violet again. What would it be this time?
“Hey, man. Sandwiches are here.” Good timing. I got up, stretched, and pulled on my club’s black t-shirt and black jeans. The pair of shorts I’d been wearing before we had sex was my last clean pair, and I had just wiped my dick with them. I had to ask one of the girls to do the wash for me. Obviously not Violet though, I wasn’t that stupid.
I ran my hands through my shaggy hair as I padded barefoot down the hall. I couldn’t wait to see the look Violet would give me. Maybe she would be too upset to even act like she knew me. I could hope anyway.
There was a big group of my guys standing in the middle of the room, attacking poor Richie as he called out the orders. The guy at the deli had written each sandwich’s description on the white butcher paper he wrapped them with so we could tell them apart. It was evident from the way the guys pushed and shoved that they didn’t have the patience for him to take them one at a time.
“Where’s my Italian?” I called out, joining the group. “Come on, Rich. Get it together.”
“It’s in here somewhere,” he said, going through the bag. “Hold on!”
“I think I actually have it.” I looked up, finally seeing for the first time who Richie had come in with. A total stranger. She held up a hoagie. “Italian, oil and oregano, no onions.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.” I held out my hand, and our eyes locked. If I hadn’t just finished coming, like, four minutes earlier...
