Vicious: Steel Jockeys MC

by Claire St. Rose

  “As sure as the day is long. And if you want, I can really get you eloped here in Croatia. So now it won’t be a cover story.”

  Boris straightened, looking down at Claudia with surprise in his eyes. But there was excitement there—the same thing she felt swirling around inside her. The answer was already on her lips but Boris beat her to it.

  “Let’s do it,” he said, never ripping his gaze from hers.

  She nodded, turning to look at Filitov. “Yes, let’s. That would be so perfect.”

  “We can do it over there,” Boris said, pointing to the old chestnut tree on the hill. Exactly the place where they’d first made love under the stars. She swallowed a knot of emotion and looked up at him, tears pricing her eyes.

  “It’s perfect,” she whispered.

  “Well let’s do it. Before it gets too dark.” Filitov pushed himself up, wiping his palms on his pants. “You two wanna get cleaned up anything?”

  “I’m going to change,” she said, hopping to her feet. She’d brought along a wispy sun dress, the only thing remotely appropriate for such an event. And now that she had a phone again, they could document the ceremony—at least with a picture or two. Capture the stunning sweep of the countryside, the husky hues of the setting sun. The exact place on the face of the Earth where her entire life had shifted permanently, without her even realizing it then.

  Claudia rummaged through her backpack, tugging out the white and black sundress. Boris pulled out his own clothing choice—dark khaki shorts, a black button-up—and the two changed behind the small shed that had been untouched by the fire. When they rounded the corner to find Filitov waiting, Boris captured her face in his hands, stealing a fiery kiss.

  “This is amazing,” he breathed. “It’s so unexpected, but it’s just right.”

  “I know.” She gripped at his hands cupping her face, searching his face. “It just feels right. We couldn’t be doing this in a more perfect place.”

  He kissed her again but Filitov’s voice cut through. “Come on now. You’re not supposed to kiss until I say.”

  Claudia giggled and they followed Filitov, hand in hand, through the thick grasses. When they reached the hill and stood under the sweet shade of the chestnut tree, Filitov nodded, as though approving the location. “Does everyone agree?”

  “One hundred percent,” Claudia said, beaming up at Boris.

  “Couldn’t be more perfect.” Boris straightened, taking her hands in his. He grinned from ear to ear, and seeing the joy on his face was a gift she hadn’t expected. It made the evening more fated; made this wild turn of events even more fitting.

  “All right, you lovers.” Filitov cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back. A gentle breeze rippled through, lifting the hem of her dress slightly, carrying scents of flowers and hot air. She sighed happily, tilting her head to look up at Boris, to absorb everything about this moment.

  “Here we go. I’d like to begin this ceremony with a poem, something that I’ve always held close to my heart. It’s been awhile, but I could recite this thing in my sleep.” Filitov’s eyes fluttered shut.

  May the road rise to meet you,

  May the wind be always at your back.

  May the sun shine warm upon your face,

  The rains fall soft upon your fields.

  And until we meet again,

  May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

  May God be with you and bless you;

  May you see your children's children.

  May you be poor in misfortune,

  Rich in blessings,

  May you know nothing but happiness

  From this day forward.

  May the road rise to meet you

  May the wind be always at your back

  May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home

  And may the hand of a friend always be near.

  May green be the grass you walk on,

  May blue be the skies above you,

  May pure be the joys that surround you,

  May true be the hearts that love you.

  Tears welled in Claudia’s eyes. She’d never heard Filitov speak so reverently. Heaviness pooled around them, like the respectful pause after a church reading. Boris’s grip tightened around her hands and she beamed at him.

  “Would either of you like to share vows or promises?” Filitov looked between them.

  Claudia nodded, clearing her throat. Over Boris’s shoulder, the sun sunk bloated and crimson on the hillside. “Boris, things have moved quickly between us. And we’re just beginning a long and interesting adventure. But something has felt right with you since the day I laid eyes on you. I promise to be by your side, as long as we can make it. I promise to be your travel companion, your adventurer, and together, we’ll be hell-raisers. I choose you. And I’ll do everything I can to make you happy and make us happy.”

  Boris smiled, tears shining in his eyes. Filitov turned to him and said, “And you?”

  Boris jerked his head into a nod, clearing his throat. “Claudia, you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to share my life with. There’s never been a comparison. I felt it from the day we met too, even though it made no sense. Even though I had no right to want that with someone like you. I promise to protect you until my last breath on earth, to protect what we have. What we’re building. I’ll fight for our future as long as I live.”

  Claudia swallowed a knot of emotion, wiping away a tear that had spilled.

  “Well then. Claudia, will you repeat after me?” Filitov grinned, turning to her, guiding her to repeat the simple lines of her devotion. Boris did the same, and when they were both done, Filitov stood tall, a mischievous look taking over his face.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride!”

  Boris cupped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. Claudia clutched him against her, emotion washing over her as she tasted him: salty lips, rock-hard biceps, a warmth that felt like coming home.

  They kissed over and over again, his scent rooting her to the earth, the first kisses of the rest of their lives.

  THE END

  Read on for a teaser excerpt from Touch Me Bad Boy

  Excerpt from Touch Me Bad Boy

  Chapter One

  Isa

  “Ack!” I cried, shoving my finger into my mouth. The taste of blood and dish soap made me cringe. I looked at my finger and watched the small cut bloom red again as the blood resumed seeping out. It was small, but it stung.

  I looked into the soapy water, afraid to stick my hand back inside to locate the offending knife. From the other room, vibrating through the walls, was the joyful sound of my husband and his dinner guests enjoying a dinner party.

  I sighed. This was ridiculous.

  My life was like the terrible version of ‘Cinderella’, set in New York City, where instead of an evil stepmother and stepsisters, I was under the tyrannical thumb of my new husband and his laundry list of household duties he demands I fulfill.

  The ways in which this situation was pathetic and painful were nearly too many to count. Not only was I washing dishes in the kitchen, I was handwashing them. This wouldn’t have been so bad if there wasn’t a fully functional dishwasher in the kitchen, directly to my right. I could have put it to use for all the money it cost, but Lorenzo forbade it.

  Forbade it, as if I was a child.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was in the kitchen washing dishes while he was at the dinner table entertaining guests. We both lived here, but for some reason, Lorenzo didn’t want his wife present as a co-host for the guests. He wanted me to take care of the dishes. He wanted me to prepare the table and cook the food, but beyond that, he claimed he needed me in the kitchen. He said he didn’t like it when the kitchen was messy, the dishes could not remain dirty all night. He and his guests laughed over alcohol and food…as my blood dripped red into the soapy water.

  I ran it under the faucet and left to find a Band-Aid. We kept them in the p
antry, and frankly, we were running out. I had been having accidents in the kitchen more often than I was proud to admit.

  I had grown up in the kitchen. I worked in one professionally, but not as the dishwasher.

  I had done my time in the trenches and worked my way up to executive chef in my kitchen. That meant it had been years since I had had to wash dishes by hand. It had been years since that…and it had been two weeks since it had become my new normal. Lorenzo wouldn’t even wash his own coffee cup in the morning when he was on his way out to work, just leaving it by the sink for me to take care of. It had been two weeks of this shit, and somehow I still hadn’t managed to get any better at it. I looked sadly at my hands; they felt dry and tight.

  How did you end up like this, Isa?

  How did you become a depressed housewife with an awful husband?

  My wedding band glinted on my ring finger. A delicate, simple rose gold band that Lorenzo didn’t like me to take off, even when I was doing the dishes.

  Completing the awfulness trifecta was the fact that Carlotta, our housekeeper, would be coming in the next day. Yes. There was a woman, a professional who Lorenzo paid to do this sort of shit, but he still insisted that I do it. He said that I was the woman of the house and I should be able to keep it. Some ridiculous excuse about girls these days being wild and crazy. He wanted a simple, honest girl. That meant humble. That meant handwashing dishes when there were several reasons not to have to do it. Carlotta had been working for Lorenzo for years, and when I showed up, introduced as his wife, she had actually laughed.

  Not a polite laugh either.

  A real, full-bellied laugh, holding her midsection and wiping tears from her eyes. The worst part was Lorenzo had joined her. There needed to be a name for the feeling of the hybrid of embarrassment and mortification you feel when your husband treats your marriage like a joke in front of other people while you are present.

  “Can you believe it?” he had asked her. I had stayed quiet, but the truth was no, I couldn’t believe it either.

  I had thought it was a joke. If not a joke, then something I would be able to get out of if I just talked to him or screamed loud enough. If I was Cinderella, then my loving father, like hers had unwittingly turned my life into a living hell. There were things you just didn’t do to your children, and marrying them off should be one of them.

  I was his only daughter, why would he do this to me? Then again, if you thought about it. I was his only daughter, why wouldn’t he do this to me. Dad had told me to come over to his house because he had something important to tell me. I had sat for twenty minutes in a room with him and two men I had never met while they spoke among themselves. We were in his office, the room where, when I was young, he used to let me spin around in his chair and sit at the massive desk where I could barely see over the top, my feet dangling over the front of the chair, not touching the floor. When I was little, the room and the man who used it had been larger than life. I always had to knock on the door when I wanted to come in, and sometimes there would be people in there with him, guys who he wouldn’t bother introducing and who wouldn’t bother addressing me.

  The situation felt surreal, replaying itself just like when I was little. I had knocked on the door and waited to be let in. I had seen him with two tall, darkly dressed men who he didn’t bother to introduce and who virtually ignored me right back. Finally, my dad pointed at the younger of the two and said the words that should have been a lie: “Isa. This is Lorenzo Montorini. Lorenzo, this is Isa, my daughter. Your new wife.”

  The man who had later been revealed to be Lorenzo Montorini’s father had smiled and said that he had always wanted a daughter, before coming up to me and kissing me on both cheeks. Lorenzo himself had just smiled.

  “She’s beautiful,” he had said. It must have been meant as a compliment, but ice ran up and down my spine, and I balled my hands into fists, trying to figure out something to say. Something to do. The way he looked at me didn’t help the situation either. His eyes were so dark they looked black. His hair was inky black, thick and slightly wavy. His skin had that natural Mediterranean, golden glow that he didn’t need to spray or rub on. His eyes had a look I could only describe as hungry, and not for food. It made me feel small. Small and something else. Hot.

  As simply as my father had asked for me, he had sent me away, just like how he would when I was a kid and had come up to his office when he had work to do. The exchange had been so casual, I halfway wondered why he hadn’t just texted me. He had taken the time to call me to the house and tell me to my face in the presence of the other people who were apparently involved but that didn’t make it better. I still felt as insulted, as I would have if he had actually sent me a text message informing me that I was to be married to a stranger.

  That was the part that got me. He was informing me of plans that had already been set. He was just letting me know that an entire discussion about my life had been had in my absence, and he was just making sure that I had the memo, too—before they proceeded.

  It took a second to catch up to what was happening, but the moment I did, I was seeing red. I had never raised my voice to my father in my life, but in my defense, he had never married me off to a man I didn’t know before.

  “Wife?” I had asked.

  “Mrs. Lorenzo Montorini,” Lorenzo had said to me, answering the question I had directed at my father. He was smiling, a real smile, as if this was the funniest joke he had ever heard. I didn’t know who the guy was, but I was sure of one thing. I didn’t like him. Had he been in on that whole arrangement, too? He obviously was told about it before I was because he wasn’t reacting to the news like this was the first time he had heard it. Was I, apparently the bride, the last person to know about my own wedding?

  “No. I don’t know this man. You can’t make me,” I had said bluntly before leaving the room. It was the petulant move of an angry teenager, but I wasn’t going to just stand there and let my father continue to update me on the plans he had been making with other people about my life. Did he even realize the amount of disrespect that they were showing? Did they care? I didn’t even know the other two guys. My alleged husband and father-in-law. My head spun as I fled the room and left the house.

  I had taken off of work to come listen to what my father had had to tell me because he had given me the impression that it was important. I suppose that was one thing to call it but I had a load of other things I would call it before I used the word ‘important.’

  I had taken the fact that none of the men had tried to follow me out or convince me to stay as a sign that they agreed with me. There was no way I was supposed to marry that guy. Who even was he? Lorenzo who? People didn’t get married to people they didn’t know. Or if they still did, I wouldn’t be.

  They had let me run off, and it wasn’t because my father and the men were respecting my wishes. It was because it wasn’t even worth going after me because the deal had been set in stone. It didn’t matter what I wanted, or what I thought. His answer, though I had left before he said it, was basically, “Yes, it doesn’t matter that you don’t know this man because I do, and yes Isa, I can and will make you marry him.”

  I had had to swallow my defiantly uttered words barely a week later as Mrs. Montorini, my future mother-in-law stood behind me in my hotel room, fastening the corset back of my wedding gown. Barely a week. The shocking shortness of the duration between when I had heard I was getting married and when I had actually gotten married only occurred to me after the fact. How long had this plan been in the works?

  When I was little, I had always sought support and a shoulder—or a lap—to cry into from my mother. She fell in line with what my father and what the Montorini’s had declared. She let me cry and rant as much as I wanted to, but at the end of the day, she broke it down for me like this. We weren’t who I thought we were. I had grown up thinking the D’Agostino family was nothing but my father, my mother and I, a loving Italian-American family who lived in Lower M
anhattan. However, our family—along with the Montorinis and a couple others—had the city cut up like a pizza and ran everything that happened there. Marriage was the oldest and best way to settle disputes between warring communities apparently, and that’s what we were, families at war. I didn’t know what that had to do with me and why that meant I had to marry a total stranger, but I got the picture that there was no getting out of this one.

  The ceremony had been… honestly, and to the credit of our parents for planning it behind our backs, beautiful. It was no slap-up affair, definitely. We got married in a cathedral—Catholic, of course—and had the reception in the Astoria ballroom. I wouldn’t have gone with the pink roses if given the choice, and the centerpieces weren’t the tall, modern style that I favored, but what did it matter? The wedding wasn’t for me. I was just getting married at it.