Ride or Die 2

by Claire C. Riley

  I stared at the strip of paper, now crumpled on the floor. The wall behind it looked smooth enough, but there was no way to pretend that this hadn’t happened. I looked across at the next piece of paper that was now peeling away like a bad face mask and I swallowed, looked around me, and stepped forward before taking it between my fingers and pulling that piece down too.

  I laughed and then covered my mouth with my hands in shock.

  Peeling this paper, it felt cleansing. Like I was pulling away a Band-Aid. But instead of the Band-Aid healing me, it had been holding me hostage, keeping the infection deep inside me and preventing it from getting out.

  With every strip of paper that I pulled from the wall, I felt more and more of my self-loathing being purged away.

  The day had been hot, and since the A/C no longer worked, I had opened as many doors and windows as I could, tied my hair up in a knot on top of my head, and continued to strip the walls of Dom’s house, knowing I wouldn’t be satisfied until they were all bare.

  Now it was nighttime and the walls were naked, stripped back to their bare foundations, and I was breathless and sweaty and revitalized by the time a shadow fell across the doorway and I looked over, giving a small breathy squeal as I took in Casa—or should I say Casa-fucking-nova, as he referred to himself.

  I was panting and hot, and no doubt looked disgusting, covered in sweat and dust. But I didn’t care. I was finally feeling good, though it was inexplicable, really, as to why tearing away this old, musty paper would make me feel so happy. But it did.

  Lord only knew what I was going to do when it was all done.

  I stared at Casa, my chest heaving, as he stared at me, his own chest heaving—and, if I wasn’t completely going blind, a large bulge in his jeans, growing bigger by the second.

  Casa

  She looked stunning.

  Every sweaty, dirty, beautiful inch of her.

  All I could think about in that second was tearing off those little shorts and her sexy white panties and ramming myself inside of her.

  Her eyes grew wide when she saw me standing in the doorway, her tits almost spilling out of the top of her tank and her chest heaving. Fear and lust washed over her in equal abundance as she stared back, both fearing and loving the sight of me. Yeah, I knew that feeling well.

  I had avoided coming here and seeing her since the shopping trip, only driving by to check the lights were on once or twice a day. But after talking with Rider, I hadn’t been able to resist coming to see her. Hadn’t really meant to come inside, neither. Thought I could park down the street and walk up, maybe look through the window to see she was okay and then leave again. But God or whoever had had other plans. Her doors and windows were open and the lights on. She’d called to me without even knowing she was doing it, and now I found myself standing on her doorstep and staring in.

  My cock was straining against my jeans as I watched her laughing while she tore the God-awful wallpaper from Dom’s walls, reaching up on her tiptoes so she could get to the top of the wall, and flashing the bottom of her ass cheeks as she did it.

  Now, she swallowed, her fingers playing with the hem of her tank as she waited for me to say something, but my words had fucking dissolved in my mouth, leaving nothing but a flaccid tongue unable to form words.

  “Lemonade?” she asked me innocently, flashing me a smile. All the mean bitchiness from the other day was gone.

  I nodded and she stalked off to the kitchen, and I came further into the house to look at her handiwork.

  She’d fucking butchered the walls, taking no care when she’d torn down the paper, and no doubt Dom would go fucking insane when he saw the mess she’d made. But I couldn’t help but grin as she came back down the hallway carrying two glasses of lemonade and wearing a shy smile.

  “Think he’ll be pissed at me?” she asked, handing over a glass.

  I took a long drink, and damn it tasted good. “Oh, I know he will be,” I laughed, enjoying her discomfort. “You planning on destroying every room while he’s gone, or just the hallway?”

  Her cheeks heated and she looked away. “I uhh, I stripped the living room too.”

  I stuck my head into the living room, and sure enough, she’d stripped the paper from in there too. At least she’d had the sense to tidy up after herself. All of the furniture was pushed into the center of the room and covered by some dirty sheets she’d found from somewhere.

  “Was there a reason for your vandalism, or was it just good old-fashioned anarchy?” I mocked flashing her the devil’s sign with my hands. “I’m totally down for anarchy, by the way, so I’m not judging. I’m just curious.”

  She shrugged and smirked before drinking some of her lemonade and then putting it down on the hallway dresser. She ran a slender hand over the wall and smiled. “I don’t know. It just sort of happened. I didn’t mean to ruin his house. I was bored, and the paper was peeling anyway.” She bit her lip and glanced sideways at me.

  “So it’s the paper’s fault that you tore it down?” I mocked.

  She laughed and I drank some more of my lemonade to hide my own smile.

  “No, I’m blaming Dom for this.” She jerked a thumb at her mess.

  “Dom?”

  “Yeah, he really needed to redecorate.”

  It was my turn to laugh now and she joined in, the atmosphere both cooling and heating between us. “He sure as shit needs to now, H.”

  She blushed again and looked everywhere but at me.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot, Casa,” she finally said, breaking the silence and surprising me. She reached up and pinned up some of her hair that had come loose. “I mean, I had no right to speak to you like that—whether you were a prospect or not. I guess…” She shook her head and sighed. “I guess I just had a lot of anger inside of me that I needed to unload.”

  “Well, you sure as shit unloaded it on me.”

  She giggled. “You weren’t exactly being nice yourself.” She put a hand on her hip, but she was still smiling. I liked it when she was angry at me, but I decided that playful Harlow was just as sexy.

  “Never said I was a nice guy,” I replied. “Didn’t mean to give that impression.”

  She smiled and picked her lemonade back up, her gaze straying back over the walls. She looked better than she had the other day—if that were possible. Less slutty and more sexy. Never realized that there was a difference between the two things until now. She wasn’t wearing anything particularly sexy, either. Just a look of happiness and her usual clothes, but she looked fucking perfect in that moment.

  I dragged a hand down my face. Fuck me if I wasn’t turning into a fucking schoolboy poet or some shit.

  “You okay, Casa?”

  I looked back over to her and nodded, sipping the stupid fucking lemonade again. Needed whiskey, not lemonade. Needed to get out of there, not stand there gawping at her.

  Needed a lot of things right then, but I wasn’t getting any of them.

  “Guess I should start cleaning up, huh?” she mumbled to herself.

  The club was quiet at the moment and I had free time, so I could help her. But it would mean spending more time with her, which was something that my mind didn’t want, but my dick definitely wanted to do.

  “Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do,” I said, loving it when she finally looked at me. “I know Dom’s got some paint in his shed that we can use. I should know, I put it there. But we’ll need to finish stripping these walls and then smooth them out so we can paint them. Dom’s going to be back tomorrow—that’s what I was coming to tell you. We’ll need to work through the night to get this shit sorted for when he comes home, though, or he’s going to freak the fuck out.”

  She smiled wider and nodded. “Okay, let’s do it,” she breathed out, seeming relieved.

  “You any good at painting?” I asked, shrugging out of my jacket and hanging it at the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’m better at sewing or sketching.” She smirked. Wa
s beginning to fucking love that smirk.

  “And bitching a brother out, of course,” I teased, and she laughed. It was carefree and fucking golden, the way she laughed.

  “Yeah, I’m pretty good at that too.”

  “Pretty good? You’re a gold fucking medalist in that shit, Harlow,” I said with a grin. I rubbed my hands together and watched her, waiting for her smartass response, but all she gave me was silence. And even though she was still smiling, I wondered if I’d pissed her off again somehow. Fucking woman was like a fucking yo-yo with her moods, and it was driving me crazy.

  “What?” I asked with a scowl.

  “I like that,” she replied, her hand reaching up to pluck another loose bit of red hair and twirl it around her fingers, and I felt bad for assuming the worst of her again.

  “What?”

  “You using my name instead of calling me bitch,” she said shyly. She bit down on her bottom lip and held my gaze, though I could tell it was killing her to not look away.

  Weird thing was, though, I liked calling her by her name, too. In fact, I liked talking to her about shit. Normally women were only good for one or two things: fucking and cooking. But Harlow, she was making me reassess my very fucking existence. Was it always like this, I wondered? Was it always this good talking to a woman? I had no fucking clue, but if Harlow was a drug then I needed a fix, because talking to her made me feel fucking high. So high I never wanted to come down, because I could only imagine the crash would be worse than hell.

  Harlow looked away, clearly sensing the awkwardness. “I don’t want to keep you if you’re busy.”

  “That’s okay,” I replied. “I’ve got time on my hands right now. It’s no big deal.”

  It was such a big fucking deal.

  I already knew she wasn’t going to fuck me for helping her; she’d made that clear when I’d cut the lawn. So what was I even doing this for?

  I started down the hallway to the back door and went over to the shed. I swung the door open and looked down at the cans of paint I’d put in there a year ago. I’d bought it to decorate my grandma’s house, but then she’d been taken into a nursing home after a bad fall and it hadn’t seemed so important anymore. My grandma was the only woman I had ever loved, but even with my love for the woman that could cook anything in a crock pot and make any injury feel better with a simple Band-Aid and a hug, I still couldn’t understand why my grandpa had only ever been with one woman in his life.

  Pussy was great. If it wasn’t for my club responsibilities, I’d fucking live, eat, and breathe pussy. One pussy was never enough for one man. Ten, even twenty wouldn’t be enough. Pussy was there to be fucked, and men, we were made to spread our seeds into as many of them as possible to procreate the human fucking race. Helped that it felt so fucking good, too.

  But one pussy…for the rest of your life?

  Fuck. That.

  Harlow slipped past me and into the dark shed, her body grazing against mine. I swallowed and followed her with my eyes, because I’d be damned if I didn’t just get an electric shock from that one touch. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what her magical pussy would feel like.

  “Paint,” she said proudly as she bent over to pick up one of the cans, giving me a flash of the bottom of her ass cheeks again. She stood back up and I rearranged myself quickly before she turned back around. “What color is it?” she said, walking back outside. Only this time I gave her plenty of room to get past, so we wouldn’t touch again.

  I picked up the other can and followed her out. “There’s a magnolia and a duck egg,” I said without looking at the cans.

  Harlow turned to look at me, her smile still in place while her eyes searched my face. “You picked these?”

  I shrugged. “Let’s just get on with it,” I replied.

  We started in the living room, since that was the easiest room to do, what with it basically being one large rectangular space. And it didn’t take long to do, considering. H was right and she was shit at painting, and after half an hour of getting herself covered in paint, with speckles across her face and arms and clumps in her hair, I’d made her back away from the paint and do something useful. So she’d found some old bedsheets that surprisingly matched the duck egg paint and set about making cushion covers.

  Room was looking amazing as we pushed the furniture back into place, making sure not to let it touch the still-damp walls. I could imagine sitting on the sofa, a beer in one hand and Harlow tucked under my other arm while we talked shit, or watched whatever was on tv.

  “One down,” she chirped happily, throwing a cushion onto the sofa and breaking my daydream.

  It was getting late—the moon hanging heavy in the clear night sky. Loved riding my bike on nights like this, yet right then I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else.

  We made our way to the hallway to start painting again and she groaned, knowing that she was about to get covered in paint. I laughed and she punched me in the arm with a giggle.

  “How about I cook us something?” she suggested instead.

  “Sure, H, that would probably be safer,” I laughed, watching her ass sashay down to the kitchen.

  I was pulling the waist-high dresser into the middle of the hallway so I could get to the walls easier when something fell behind it, and I leaned down and picked it up. It was a picture of Dom and Butch, their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders as they looked into the camera. I smiled at the image, remembering how much everyone had loved Butch, and now, how everyone missed him.

  His death had fucked up a lot of brothers in the club—Dom and Shooter being just two of them. Neither man had seemed the same since he’d been killed. The club life was hard and brutal, but it was also simple really—we’d all most likely be leaving this world with a bullet through us. Put to ground by a rival club, no doubt. I didn’t expect, or have anyone, that would shed a tear for me when I went, and I was good with that. Didn’t fear death, never had. Yet being here, with H close by, felt like it would be a damn shame if I were to die and she not cry over me.

  “What is it?” Harlow asked as she came toward me.

  “Just a picture,” I said, putting it down on the dresser.

  She picked it up and examined it. “God they loved each other so much,” she said, her tone soft.

  Her fingers traced over Dom’s face and my stomach tightened, a feeling I didn’t recognize growing inside of me. I frowned as she continued to stare at the photograph and I felt my cheeks growing hotter and hotter in annoyance.

  “Well, us bikers are fucking loveable, right?” I bit out.

  Harlow looked up at me, confusion etched across her face. She didn’t know what to say, and neither did I. Fuck, I didn’t even know why I was so annoyed by her, or the picture. But I was.

  Right then, all I wanted to do was tear that picture up and tear her panties down before showing her what sex with me could be like. Because I was a fucking champion at fucking, and I’d be able to make her see stars for weeks, if she’d let me. She wouldn’t even remember Dom’s name once I was done with her.

  As if reading my mind, her pupils dilated and heat rose to her cheeks, turning them pink. I clenched and unclenched my hands and took a step toward her, her eyes widening as she took in my stance. She was scared, but she was also excited by my anger—by me, by the electricity that had hummed between us all night. Her chest was rising and falling, her gaze never leaving my face. And the photo…long fucking forgotten.

  I moved around the dresser and put my hands on her arms, and she automatically tipped her face up to me. I stared down at her, taking in every freckle and strand of paint-speckled hair, my tongue darting out to wet my lips, readying myself to take her. To press her body to the floor as I covered her with my own, holding her hostage in my arms while I ground into her over and over. She bit her bottom lip and damn I’d never wanted to kiss a woman before, but right then it was all I could think about.

  Felt fucking poisoned by the need to press my mouth to
hers.

  I’d tried to force a kiss on her the other day. But that wasn’t a kiss, that was me trying to show her I owned her. But she’d rejected me—no one owned this woman, not Dom and not me. And the thought only made me want her more.

  Fuck Dom. Brother should have been there to take care of his woman’s needs, if he cared about her so much. In fact, brother should have claimed her if she was so important to him. But he didn’t, and that was his mistake and my gain. Because now I was going to fuck his woman, and I wasn’t going to even feel bad about it. In fact, I had a feeling this would be the best fuck of my life. And hers.

  Harlow and her magic fucking pussy were gonna be mine.

  At least for tonight.

  Chapter fourteen:

  Dom

  It had been a long three days, and I couldn’t wait to get home. We’d come straight back from Savannah and headed to Church to give a rundown to Shooter on what had happened with the Burning Eights. He wasn’t back yet, so after giving a rundown to Rider, I’d set off home.

  I was tired, dirty, and just wanted to get home, take a long, hot shower, eat something good that Harlow had prepared, and cuddle with her on my sofa. That was the dream, anyway.

  Instead I pulled up into my driveway and Casa’s bike outside, and I let out a long sigh. I was not in the mood to deal with him and his thousand fucking questions right then. The man was like a hurricane in any situation—a constant tirade of attitude, jokes and general not giving a shit. It’d take me time to get rid of him, and time with him meant less time with just Harlow. And I needed her tonight.

  The shit with Hardy and the subsequent road trip to see the Burning Eights had made me realize something: I needed to talk to someone. I’d bottled up all the shit about Butch for too long, and I needed it out of me before it devoured me whole. The pain and anger were destroying me, and I had to get them out of me somehow before they killed me.

  I’d done some bad shit out on the road after we’d run into a couple of the Razorbacks, and gotten blood on my hands for my club once again. Not that I regretted it—those fuckers deserved it—but still, I needed Harlow right then. She made everything make sense in a world where nothing seemed to make sense anymore.