I tried to stretch but the crate constrained my motion. An ache that had been building at the base of my spine didn’t let up, and I shifted uncomfortably on the wooden surface. Rolling my eyes, I thought about how Jimmy and Mason had pitched the escape to me: “It’ll only be for a few minutes,” they’d said. “Come on, Mick. Do it for us.”
I’d had to do it; I didn’t have any other choice. After months in Ireland, I was dying for home. Home. Dos Palmos, California. A small, sleepy little town on the northern coast. It was about as different from Ireland as anything else could be, and I’d never been more fuckin’ relieved to get home than I was right now. Ireland. Rain, bland food, dark beer, pale, scrawny, religious women. Sure, there had been some good times. I closed my eyes and remembered little Kiley MacNamara, who I’d fondled and kissed until she ripped my pants open and sucked my cock for hours. I shivered just thinking about it. Kiley had been exceptional; she was the only Irish lass I’d ever met who claimed to like sex. But aside from her, the months spent in Ireland had been wholly unimpressive and dry. I couldn’t wait to get home, I couldn’t wait to bury my cock deep in the willing, supple, pink pussy of an American girl. There are no women on earth as sexy as American women. I knew a lot of guys went nuts for an accent, but there’s just something so fresh, so coy about American pussy. And I was aiming to get as much American pussy as possible. I’d had a major dry spell, but Mickey Jameson was back and ready to get his fuck on.
I couldn’t wait to get out in the sun, to stretch my limbs and really take in the fact that I was home. At last, I was home. After months of running and hiding, everything was finally going to be okay. I knew that it wasn’t going to be easy to return, but I had my hopes up. After all, Mason and Jimmy had done a good job convincing me that now was my time. They wanted me to head the MC again, and soon, I’d be back on top of the world, where I belonged. I’d been a member of The Irish MC for years. The club was the most important thing in my life. It was the only thing that I’d risk my life or my safety for. Mason, Jimmy, and the others weren’t just like friends. We were a family, a brotherhood. It was comforting to know that I was riding with other outlaws in this insane world. Even Dos Palmos, which was basically heaven, could be rough as hell sometimes.
I was a pretty simple man. I likes what men likes: drinking, good women, sometimes more than one good woman at a time. The only thing that mattered was The Irish. I didn’t care what I had to do to keep the club afloat, but I’d always done it. I would have taken a bullet for any of those guys in a second. But the club had been going in a different direction. I had a feeling that, in my absence, they’d gotten into illegal activity. I hadn’t been involved with the MC’s chapter in Ireland, but I’d been keeping in sporadic touch with Jimmy and Mason in my absence. I knew that they’d do whatever it took to keep the club afloat. Even if we got into some bad shit, we’d be able to pull ourselves out of the wreckage and make things right. I didn’t like the idea of my club getting involved in illegal shit, but sometimes it was necessary to make ends meet. Leaders who weren’t as strong would depend on illegal shit, but people like me, well, we were stronger. We could pull our weight without having to delve into anything unpalatable. I knew that the transition might suck, that we’d lose some overhead, but we’d be okay. We were the fucking Irish. No matter what had happened while I was gone, we’d be fine.
I’d “inherited” the club from my old man. He’d been the president, and one of the original members of The Irish. He’d died in a crash, and while it had been an accident, sometimes I had my suspicions otherwise. I knew that the MC hadn’t had anything to do with it, but sometimes I wondered. The MC had been involved with the Dos Palmos cops for years and years, and sometimes the cops were even more corrupt than the MC had been. It was shocking to discover the perversity of law enforcement. Sometimes, it made me feel like anyone who felt safe with cops around was a moron. Other times, it just reinforced how dog-eat-dog the world really was.
I want a woman, I thought, licking my lips. The carton was dark and hot and I could feel myself sweating uncontrollably. The truck bounced over a rock and I went flying and bumped my head on the roof of the crate. Yelping, I rubbed my head with my hand. It came away sticky and I knew that I must be bleeding a little bit. I grinned to myself. That would just make everything easier when the time came. Women loved tough guys, and if you had a bruise or a cut, all the better. I saw myself at a bar with a few women stroking my arm and giving me sympathetic looks. Maybe I could get one of them to play nurse. I’d let her treat me and lay still until her guard was down. Then, when she didn’t expect it, I’d slip my hands up her dress and squeeze her ass. God, just the thought was enough to make me hard. I closed my eyes and imagined some faceless, gorgeous brunette leaning over me and taking my erection into her waiting, willing mouth. I wanted to slip my hand between my legs and jerk myself off, but I knew that I had to wait. I hadn’t had a good fuck in a long time, and I more than intended to make up for it tonight.
After I got home, I was going to take a long, hot shower. Then maybe I’d head out to the clubhouse or the bar and party. I knew that the MC would throw me a party, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to start there. After all, I’d been gone so long that I knew some business would creep into the fun. And I’d missed the club more than anything, but I wanted some time to relax. Even if they wanted to talk about me voting me in as president again, I didn’t want to deal with that tonight. All I wanted was a woman.
“And a woman I’ll find,” I said aloud. Over the rumble of the rig driving, I barely heard my voice. I knew how I’d sound though: rough, ready to rumble, hulking. I grinned. I was definitely all of those things. I wasn’t really a vain guy, but when women climbed all over me all the time, I knew that I had to look good. Or maybe they just want to fuck a patched member of The Irish, I thought. Who knows? Who cares? I definitely didn’t care. When I wanted a woman, I wanted her for the night. With few exception, it was always that way. I never wanted to stay with anyone long enough to get bored with them, and I knew that getting bored was always a possibility. I’d been around the MC long enough to see how it worked. Even my old man had stayed as loyal to my mom as possible—but it wasn’t loyal enough. They had a kind of arrangement going on. It basically boiled down to: “Not in Dos Palmos.” When Dad was on the road, he could go where he pleased and do what he wanted. But my mom, who had been a formidable old lady, wasn’t ready to be cheated on under her nose. I had a feeling that it had taken her years to be able to look the other way.
I missed Mom, too, but I knew that I couldn’t see her just yet. For one thing, I was going to scratch this little itch of mine and then take care of some club business. As soon as I was feeling back to normal, back to regular Mickey, I’d go see her. I owed her a long visit. She still didn’t know why I’d had to run off in the first place.
Shaking my head, I thought back to six months ago. One of my guys had been working against the MC, with the cops. We’d found out, but it had been almost too late. He’d revealed a lot of damaging information, and I wasn’t sure what our state was. Then he tried to attack me in the auto repair shop where I was having my bike repaired. He didn’t attack me personally, but he rigged an explosion to happen when I was supposed to be there. Mason found out and told me at the last second, and I was able to escape. But the traitor, Cain, had been there. And he’d died in the explosion. Afterwards, I’d fled the country. I had to lay low for a while if I was ever going to think about heading the club again. It had been painful, but it was over now.
I was so close to freedom that I could taste it. I wish I could taste some pussy, I thought, working my tongue around in my mouth. Irish girls didn’t like to have their clits sucked; for some reason, they thought it was a sin. Even gorgeous, racy little Kiley wouldn’t let me go down on her. It was something that I’d missed for months, and I wanted to find a willing girl and eat her until she was screaming with pleasure. I missed the musky juices of arousal flowing into my mouth, missed the little rock-har
d pebble of the clit as I sucked on it. Most of all, I missed the shrieks and moans of the woman I was pleasuring. There was no sexier sound on earth than getting a woman off, and I intended to get my fill of it as soon as I could.
Well, not my fill, I thought with a smirk. There was no way that I, Mickey Jameson, could ever be satisfied with one night. The woman would have to be a goddess, she’d have to be unreal. She’d have to be everything I ever wanted, she’d have to be perfect. And as much as I loved women, I didn’t think such a thing existed. Except for my mom, and she was a different story altogether.
I knew that Mom wouldn’t be happy about my return to the MC. She’d always wanted me away from the business, even when I wanted to get the club involved in legitimate activities. She was too worried that the same thing would happen to me that happened to my old man. And not that I blamed her; The Irish buried a lot of club members. But I was honestly hoping my return would lead to some change. After all, I was getting older. At thirty-two, I wasn’t an old man, but I would be soon, and I didn’t want to spend my middle-aged years keeping the club out of prison on a weekly basis. It was exhausting to think about that. I wanted normalcy, peace. I wanted to settle all of our debts and start a new venture that would really change Dos Palmos. The Irish had a bad reputation, and I wanted to fix that. I knew people would never love us the same way they loved, say, the old guys from the Moose Lodge. But at least we could do something. We could try to legitimize the business again. Or at least look like we were trying.
The rig hit another pothole and the crate jerked and tipped precariously to one side. I groaned as I thumped back down. I regretted not asking Jimmy and Mason to make sure I was tied down in the back of the truck—a few more bumps like this and I wouldn’t be conscious enough to meet them. Come on, drive faster. I know this isn’t that fucking long of a ride.
As if reading my mind, the rig sped up. I felt the crate sliding back on the truck bed towards the door and I shuddered. There was a fresh cut on my forehead that was bleeding and the blood was dripping in my eyes, making it uncomfortable to keep them open. Plus the inside of the truck was hotter than hell, with no air flow. I felt my lungs burning every time I released a breath: a sure sign that I was running out of oxygen. Jimmy and Mason must be laughing their asses off by now. I sure hoped they had a plan to compensate me for all of this shit. After all, I was their leader. If they were going to put me through hell, I at least deserved to come out grinning on the other side.
Finally, the rig downshifted and started descending. I knew the freight yard was at the bottom of a steep hill and I crossed my fingers than it would be a mostly uneventful trip downwards. Come on, hold steady, I prayed. I had no idea who the driver was, but he was a wily son of a bitch. I’d never had the thought that a rig could move with such ease or speed. Besides, the back of the truck was almost empty except for me. This driver, whoever he was, clearly was at the end of a long run. I wondered if he wanted to be home as much as I did. I wondered if he’d missed pussy as much as I had, if he’d had his own grandiose plans for homecoming. Maybe we could get a beer together, I thought with a wry grin. Maybe this poor son of a bitch wanted to come home even more than I did.
“And yet here we are,” I said aloud. The rig wasn’t grinding as fast as before and I could actually hear myself. We slowed to a stop and I heard the cab door slamming. This was it. In a matter of seconds, I’d be out and free and in the fresh air once again. Jimmy and Mason would grab me, we’d go bury ourselves face-deep in pussy, and everything would be fuckin’ grand. Soon. Just another couple of minutes. I heard the truck gate slide open. Sunlight filled the back of the truck and fresh oxygen wafted into my crate. Greedily, I sucked in mouthfuls and mouthfuls. The fresh oxygen hit my body like a drug and I could feel my blood absorbing all of the nutrients. Strength and relaxation flowed back into my body as if through an IV.
There were some muffled voices and I felt my body tense, excited. Jimmy! Mason! I’m back here! I wanted to yell. But I frowned when I realized that neither of the voices were recognizable. It sounded like an old man…and a woman?
What the fuck was going on here?
Chapter Three
Ella
Sighing, I climbed back into the cab and revved the engine. All that I had left to do was drop the cargo off at the docks, and then I could be on my way. A shower, I thought blissfully. Or a bath. Or a glass of wine in the bath. Yeah, that’s definitely what I want. I closed my eyes blissfully and imagined being stretched out in a warm tub of water, all of the heat soaking into the creases of my body. There was nothing more relaxing than a long bath after a long run, and I was going to make the most out of today. After all, I deserved it. I’d been so good this time, and I’d even made it home a few days early. I hadn’t ever done this well before. Part of me was proud; I felt like trucking was something that I really excelled at. It sounded stupid, especially considering that I wanted to be a doctor, but it was something I took pride in all the same.
“Just go to the end of the yard,” the old man instructed. “Someone will come out and help you with that load.” He winked at me and again I felt that same kind of disarming flash. Why were all these guys trying to flirt with me today? I knew that I wasn’t pretty. At least, not pretty enough to warrant the attention of three random guys. Even if two of them were bikers and one of them was old, it didn’t seem right.
“Thanks,” I said mildly. “And then I’ll loop around for the exit?”
The man shook his head. “There’s a by-way if you keep going straight north,” he said. “Dumps you out on the highway. Might be easier for you to build up speed and keep going that a’way. Make sense?”
I frowned. The old man was grinning and winking at me again, and I couldn’t help but feel like there was some kind of innuendo that I was missing out on.
“Sure,” I said after a beat. “Thanks for all your help.”
The old man saluted and I drove on. The path down to the yard was a sharp decline and I had to shift quickly to keep control of the rig. As it always did when I was in a dangerous situation, my adrenaline spiked and I felt a hot burst of anxiety as I steered my rig down the path. Thankfully, the path was clear and dry—no sliding wheels, only lots of dust. By the time I got to the bottom, the clouds of dirt and dust had filled the cab and I was coughing and choking. All the same, it felt good. It smelled good, like nature. Not the smells of the road: oil, grease, sweat. Maybe I’ll lay outside for a little bit, I thought as I looked up at the cloudless sky. I imagined myself stretching out on a chaise lounge on the grass and sunning myself. I was so pale; I almost never took the time to get a tan. But somehow, the idea of sunbathing and letting my pale skin crisp to a warm brown was incredibly appealing. The past winter had been so cold—I’d been in the interior western states for most of it—and parts of me had felt like they were never going to be warm again. In the sunshine of Dos Palmos, I felt much better. But laying out and baking was an incredibly tempting idea.
As I pulled my rig to a stop, I gazed around. The old man had said there would be a couple of guys to help me with the load, but there was no one in sight. The clouds of dust settled down and I closed my eyes and stuck my bare arm out of the open window, luxuriating in the feel of the sun. I didn’t even have a backyard at home—I lived in an apartment complex—but I could see myself in a cute bikini, dragging a lounge chair out and parking myself for a few hours. I could practically feel how cold the gloppy, bright-white sunscreen would be as I massaged it onto my limbs. For some reason, when I thought about rubbing the sun lotion on my body, the grins of those biker guys popped back into my mind. I shivered. A strange feeling coursed through my body. Was it lust? Was I feeling desire? It was an alien feeling, something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Not in years.
Not years, my mind thought wickedly. More like days. I shivered. I didn’t want to think about it for too long, but the other night, sleeping in my cab at a truck stop, I’d had one of the most wicked dreams I’d ever had.
In my dream, I was naked and pressed up against a wall. The wall was made of rough, cold, scratchy stone, but it felt good against my hot skin. There was a big, hulking, muscular guy behind me, making sure that my legs were spread as he trailed his fingers all over my body until I was shuddering with desire. I never saw his face; my eyes were closed the whole time. But the dream had been incredibly visceral. When I’d woken up, I’d been tempted to slip my fingers into my panties and finish myself off. But something about making myself come just seemed so squalid, and like such a poor substitute for the man in my dream.
Blushing madly, I opened my eyes and peered outside of the truck again. There was still no one in sight. I watched as the old man, now a speck on the horizon, walked back into his booth and shut the big gate. The sun was starting to go down and I shivered. I’d already been waiting for ten minutes, where the hell was this guy? I wanted to go home! Sunbathing as a possibility was out. Now that I’d remembered my dream from the other night, the idea of being so close to naked in public was horrifying to me. I circled back to the idea of settling in for a long bath with a glass of wine. Bathtubs were innocent, right? Nothing weird or creepy or sleazy would happen to me if I was safe in my bathtub, drinking a glass of wine and decompressing from a long journey.
At least I hoped nothing would. In irritation, I opened the cab door and hopped down onto the ground. My boots landed with a satisfying crunch in the gravel and I wiped perspiration off my forehead. Where the fuck were these guys? Putting a hand up to my forehead and shielding my eyes like a visor, I scanned the area. There was nobody in sight. A slight breeze blew and I shivered; it was still warm, but I could tell that after dark, I’d start to freeze. The only clean jacket I had left was light, and I knew it wouldn’t keep me warm.
Lucky: The Irish MC Page 2
