TANGLED WITH THE BIKER_Bad Devils MC

by Kathryn Thomas

  “You get them out of here,” Crank said. “We'll take care of Mills and his boys.”

  “What are you going to do with them?” I asked.

  Crank shrugged. “We'll take care of ‘em,” he said enigmatically.

  At that moment, I didn't give a shit what he did with them. I just wanted to get Cara and Austin out of there and to safety – and that's exactly what I did.

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  Cara

  A lot had happened in the year that passed since that night in the warehouse – the night I thought my son and I were going to die. A lot had changed, but a lot had stayed the same, too – and I was glad for it. Damian swept me up into a tight embrace and gave me a quick kiss.

  “How's my girl?” he asked.

  “Doing just fine, Mr. President.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, you can knock that shit off any time.”

  I shrugged. “You're the president of the club. What else am I supposed to call you?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Your man? Your boyfriend? Your screw toy, maybe?”

  I laughed and punched him in the shoulder. “You're such a pig.”

  “Oink, oink, baby.”

  Ever since that night in the warehouse – and our subsequent freedom – Damian had changed. He was lighter. Happier. Freer. When we'd first met, he'd always carried around this veil of darkness over his entire being. But now, that veil was gone. He seemed just so different – for the better.

  And speaking of things that had changed for the better, the Kings of Chaos had undergone a radical transformation. Though still a bit rough around the edges, they had become the peacekeepers in town. They were the ones people turned to when there was a problem – which was something that never failed to irk the sheriff. But the Kings handled their business and kept the town safe.

  We never found out what happened to Mills and his men – and frankly, we never cared enough to ask Crank. I assumed that all five of them had been buried in a ditch somewhere, their bodies riddled with bullet holes, but just like with Mendoza and his guys, I didn't care. They'd threatened my son, and in my opinion, there was no punishment harsh enough to make up for that.

  “How late do you think you'll be working tonight?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Probably not too late. We've got a couple of tune-ups and one transmission replacement. Pretty light day, overall. Which is a really nice and welcome change of pace.”

  I nodded. “Oh, okay good.”

  He looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “You okay?”

  I nodded. “Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?”

  “I dunno,” he said slowly. “You just have this really weird look on your face. It's like you have something to say. Or at least, something on your mind.”

  I shrugged. “Nothing that can't wait. You've got your tune-ups to take care of, after all.”

  He grinned. “Some of the other guys can handle it. Even they can do something as simple as a tune-up.”

  My stomach was in knots, and my heart was beating so hard, I thought it was going to bruise the inside of my chest. I did indeed have something to tell Damian, but I didn't want to do it right there in the parking lot of the Kings' garage.

  Another of the changes Damian had brought about within the Kings was going legit. Like, completely legit. He'd gotten them out of the gun and drug trade, and had worked diligently to clean up the club after that. They had opened a garage and had quickly become one of the more reliable auto service centers in town.

  The Kings were working hard – doing an honest day's work for a change. They were also working hard to rehab their image. And it was an effort that was paying off. Yeah, they still looked like rough around the edges bikers. Many of them still sported thick, bushy beards, had tattoos up and down their torsos – and a few of them even had them on their necks.

  But they were doing an honest day's labor instead of shaking people down for that honest day's pay.

  I had to admit, I never thought it possible, but things were really looking up. The former bad guys were now the town sweethearts. They were running a legitimate business, and they were helping to keep the town safe and clean.

  I was afraid of saying it out loud and jinxing something, but I had to tell somebody. That somebody, being Damian, of course. And better it comes from me than from somebody else.

  “So, are you okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “I'm great. Doing great.”

  “Uh-uh. Spill it. Let's hear it.”

  I looked around nervously – this was not the time or place I wanted to tell him what I wanted to tell him. But he was persistent. He was like a dog with a bone – he'd keep gnawing away at it until he got what he wanted. It was one of the things I admired and loved about him.

  “Did you want to sit down?” I asked.

  “Are you gonna tell me you're dying?” he asked, his eyes wide with concern. “That you only have weeks to live? That you're running off with the pool boy?”

  “You wish,” I responded. “And we don't have a pool. Hence, no pool boy.”

  “Nah, I kinda like having you around.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I replied.

  “So, c'mon. Out with it.”

  I took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. I was nervous as hell about saying what I needed to say. I looked into his eyes and smiled nervously.

  “I'm… I'm pregnant, Damian.”

  He looked at me with something like stunned disbelief in his eyes. He just stared at me, a blank look on his face.

  “Did you hear me?” I asked and grinned. “I'm going to have your child.”

  Without saying a word, Damian swept me up, pressing me close to his body in a tight embrace. He kissed me quickly, and though he tried to hide his face, I saw the tears of happiness in his eyes. Still holding me to him, he swung me around, giggling like a small child – clearly excited by the prospect of being a father.

  I looked at him with tears in my own eyes and a heart ready to burst with happiness. It hadn't been easy getting there, but we were finally in a place where life was good. Very, very good.

  THE END

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  BRIDE FOR A PRICE: The Misery MC

  By Kathryn Thomas

  I SWEAR TO KEEP HER SAFE – EVEN IF IT COSTS ME EVERYTHING.

  I knew from the moment I saw her:

  This one belongs to me now.

  She has a code. The funny thing is, she thinks it will keep her safe.

  But nothing can keep her safe from me.

  Because beneath my muscles, my tattoos, and my money, there’s only one thing:

  A monster.

  A monster who dominates.

  A monster who claims.

  A monster who will make her beg until her voice is just a whimper.

  And this monster won’t rest until I break her code and take her.

  Her past life might as well be a mirage.

  Because she’s mine now.

  And I’ll kill anyone who even dreams of stealing her from me.

  No price is too steep to pay for my bride.

  Chapter One

  Eden

  There’s something wrong with the code.

  When the women enter the city, the screen distorts, and the buildings begin to disappear and reappear, and then the character models crumble, and finally, the game crashes. I close the game and go into the source code, scanning it, my lips moving faintly. The June sunlight shafts through the window and shines on the screen, making it reflective. I watch myself: red-haired, sharp-featured, eyes wide and tired. Then I squint and look past my reflection and scan the code again and again.

  Months and months of work have gone into this. I can’t even count the number of nights I’ve sat up, fueled by coffee and det
ermination, trying to sort out the snags and bend everything into something that works. I rub my eyes and lift my gaze.

  The coffee shop is half-full, midday on a Saturday. In the corner, a hipster-type man sits, his hair tied up in a man-bun, wearing a Star Wars t-shirt (ironically, I’m sure), and typing at his laptop. Businessmen sit to my left, talking in hushed tones. Three women stand behind the counter, swirling milk or stirring coffee or spraying whipped cream into hot chocolates. The coffee shop is all heavy brown couches, plush cushions, and comfortable armchairs.

  Months, I think, scowling. Months of work and now the game decides to stop working. Months of work and now the game wants to ruin all my hard work.

  I force myself to look at the screen again, to scan the code. There has to be something wrong. There has to be something I’m missing. This problem has hounded me for the past few weeks now. It’s the last thing I think about when I go to sleep and the first thing I think about when I wake up.

  My course is in gender theory, and when I approached my professor and asked her if I could submit a video game instead of a long-form essay, she was shocked. Her gray eyebrows shot up like a cartoon character, and her mouth formed a comical O. And then she stroked her chin, and began nodding.

  “Very cutting edge, is it?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I told her, keeping my voice level. I wanted this, badly. I wanted this more than I’ve wanted anything in my twenty-four years. I was desperate for my professor, an old-school feminist, to say yes. But I didn’t want to show her how badly I wanted it. If you show someone how badly you want something, they’ll use it against you. That’s my theory, anyhow.

  Finally, she nodded definitively. “A video game,” she said. “But make sure it has something to do with gender theory. You must understand, this is very strange. I understand you’re a computer programmer by trade. Very well. That gives us some excuse, at least. But please, Miss Chase, make sure it has something to do with the subject matter.”

  “It will, I promise.”

  “Good,” she said. “This will be very impressive, you know, if you can pull it off. I might even get an article in Education Weekly.” She waved her hand in the air, as though spelling out a headline. “Avant-garde Professor Gives Thumbs Up to Daring New Project.”

  The conversation comes back to me clear and stark, as though it is happening now, in the coffee shop. My fingers ache from typing code, my back aches from hunching over at my laptop, my eyes ache from staring at the screen—and now a problem has sprung up out of nowhere which I can’t fix.

  The deadline is approaching fast, lightning-fast, and there’s little I can do to fix it. All that work—artists, voice actors, animators, and all the coding… all of it paid for out of my own pocket…

  I shake my head and take my phone out of my pocket, dial Natalie Smith, my friend and my coding partner.

  The phone rings twice, and Nat’s voice chirps through the phone. She’s LA-certified. Nat talks like someone who just fell out of a movie about tech-head teenagers, all squeaky and high-pitched and giggly.

  “Eden!” she giggles, but the giggle is dark. That’s Nat. She can somehow make a giggle dark. “Any luck?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question,” I say. “What the hell is happening to the environments? Is there some kind of glitch? Have we made a mistake? Because if we have, I can’t find it. Not at all. Not even close.”

  “Bet you wish you stuck to an essay now!” Nat sniggers.

  I don’t return the laugh. Maybe she’s touched a nerve, or maybe it’s too close to the truth. But video games, women in video games… they’ve been portrayed like bimbos for a long, long time. Sure, every now and then you get an exception to the rule, but the rule is still iron-strong. You have a woman with giant breasts and pouty, big lips and fuck-me eyes and that’s the character. You have half-naked women bouncing all over the screen. Side-characters, minor characters, eye candy. I just want to make a game where the women are the main characters.

  “Eden?” Nat chirps, bringing me back to reality. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “Just… Yeah.”

  “We’ll sort it,” Nat says. “We’ll find it. I’m sure there’s just a line of code somewhere we’ve missed. Or maybe there’s a chunk of code that’s missing, and we just have to write it in. It’ll work out.”

  “Sure,” I say, but I’m not convinced.

  The problem popped up when I added in the duel-wielding robe-wearing old woman character, but even when I took her out, the problem persisted. Perhaps adding her disturbed something else? Perhaps I’ll have to go back and rewrite huge chunks of it, just to be sure? But that fills my chest with a heavy terror. The deadline is in two weeks, the thirtieth of June, and if I miss it, I’m screwed. Bye-bye Ph.D. in Gender Theory, bye-bye months of work, bye-bye chance at making a video game that lets women do something.

  “Eden!” Nat exclaims, breathless. “You keep going quiet.”

  “Just thinking, Nat,” I reply. “Sorry. You don’t have to bury yourself in it like I am, you know. It’s my dissertation.”

  “Yes, but it’s our video game. I wouldn’t dream of letting you trudge through all of this on your own.”

  I can’t help but smile. “You’re a good person—”

  “Can it, bitch!”

  I laugh. “You can it!”

  We hang up shortly after. I’m laughing, but the terror in my chest doesn’t get any lighter.

  Maybe she’s right, I think. Maybe an essay would’ve been easier.

  Chapter Two

  There is a bell above the coffee shop door. Every time a customer enters, the bell rings. It reminds me of the door of a small shop in a video game based in Victorian England I used to play as a teenager. A small shop was your hub of operations in the game, and each time you walked through the door, the bell jingled, and an Igor-style character emerged from the back.

  You are so scatterbrained, a voice whispers.

  I can’t deny it; I am.

  The bell rings, and I look up. I do this over and over, no matter how many times it rings. It seems the video game has settled deep in my psyche somewhere. I look up to see hipsters, college students, and businessmen and women walk into the coffee shop. I order more coffee, I sit, I work.

  And then, after around three hours of making zero progress in the code, the bell rings, but it’s not a hipster or a man in a suit. A man in a leather jacket swaggers into the cafe. His hair is short and blond. As the door opens, sunlight touches it, and it looks golden. A light beard covers his jaw. His face is strong. His nose is hooked, his chin dimpled, his jaw square. His eyes are searching and narrow, focused. He wears big brown biker’s boots and faded blue jeans. On the back of his leather jacket, there is a picture of a woman dressed in thin white fabric screaming. Above the image are the letters: THE ANGUISHED.

  My first response is: He is handsome.

  I have been trying to stop myself from doing that: from judging men on first glance based on their appearance. I’m meant to be a modern progressive feminist, a super-feminist, who sees right through your face and into your heart. Barf, yeah right.

  The man swaggers up to the counter, shoulders shifting. People move aside from him as though by instinct. He walks like he owns the room.

  One of the women behind the counter has gone on break. The other two are about my age - at the very least, in their early twenties. One of them wears her hair in a bun with a pink ribbon tied around it, her face fresh and elfin, the other is short and thin, girlish, with freckles covering her cheeks. When the man leans on the counter, the girlish one giggles and looks up at the man under coquettish eyelashes. The one with the ribbon in her hair blushes.

  From where I’m sitting, I can hear their conversation. I tell myself to focus on my work, but the man’s muscles are pressing through his leather jacket. It’s like his muscles are going to burst out of the leather. From the way he’s leaning on the counter, I can see that his arm muscles are hug
e, tight.

  “Hello, pretty ladies,” he smiles, looking over the two women.

  What a jerk.

  But it’s none of my business, and I shouldn’t even be listening. But I can’t help but peep over the top of my laptop. The code is laid out in lines and lines, willing me to go back to it, but my eyes stray up and fix on the man in the leather jacket.

  The pink-ribbon girl giggles.

  What is she, twelve? Get some goddamn self-respect.