Captive Ride: A Death Lords MC Romance (The Motorcycle Clubs)

by Ella Goode

“She’s too young for him,” Mrs. Erickson purses her lips in disapproval. “She is young enough to be his daughter.”

  “Speaking of daughters, did you hear that Chelsea and Wrecker are seeing each other? Why, yesterday they were holding hands coming out of the Cut-n-Curl.” This gasped outburst came from Stella Jonas. She is not a missus. In fact, she has never been married. As I stare at her lined, leathery face, I wonder if that’s my future—outraged because two stepsiblings decided their feelings for each other weren’t familial after all. Father’s next sermon will probably be about the three categories of love—eros, filial, agape—and how we sinful creatures have twisted God’s ideals into something dark and unsavory.

  Mrs. Wilkins merely knits quietly, smiling to herself as if the idea of the biker dudes pairing off in these unholy ways is completely normal. Then I remember. One of Mrs. Wilkins’ grandsons is Easy, a member of the Death Lords MC. The coffee shop door swings open at that very moment and in walks the devil himself.

  Chapter Three

  Easy

  The coffee shop isn’t my scene. My scene involves either red meat or alcohol, and the coffee shop in Fortune is as close to a New Age establishment as a small Minnesota town will tolerate. There’s caffeine, crystals and sandwiches with weeds in them.

  But when I see her car outside the Brew Ha Ha, I hit the brake on my bike so fast I almost end up ass over elbows. I haven’t had a bike related accident since I was ten and my front tire hit the curb as I was trying to wave down Kelly Pickleheart, my fifth grade crush.

  Inside I find my grandma knitting with her church club but next to her on the sofa is my target. Because I’m not still ten, I don’t make the mistake of gawking at Annie. I’m fully aware of her sitting like a stone statue turning redder than the cardinal painted on Grandma Wilkins’ teacup.

  “You’re looking as gorgeous as ever.” I lean over and give Grammy’s slightly wrinkled cheek a kiss.

  “What are you doing here, Van?” she asks delightedly.

  “I saw your car sitting outside and wanted to say hello.”

  “Sit down, sit down,” she orders, and scoots over to make room for me between her and Annie.

  “As long as I’m not going to be interrupting anything.” I take my seat and spread my legs out wide, brushing up against Annie’s leg. Her swift intake of breath makes me smile.

  “Of course not—none of us mind, do we, ladies? Have you met Annie Bloom, honey? She’s Pastor Bloom’s daughter.”

  I turn as Annie tries to press herself into the armrest of the sofa. Look out, Annie—the big bad wolf is here. “We met the other day at the library.”

  “Is that right?” Grammy gives me a knowing smile. She didn’t raise five kids and a passel of grandkids without picking up a thing or two. I give her a discreet wink which she shoots right back at me.

  “I stock all the new bestsellers,” Mrs. C cuts in. “You should stop by. I discount them by twenty-five percent, just like the big stores.”

  “My reading appetite is…voracious,” I reply wickedly. Grammy tries to disguise her laugh with a fake cough and Annie looks torn between stabbing me with a needle and ripping my shirt off. “Can’t afford to buy new all the time, Mrs. C.”

  Mrs. C tut-tuts in disappointment while Grammy takes pity on Annie and instructs me to get them all refills of their hot water.

  As I wait for the teenager to fill up a jug of hot water for the ladies, I text Michigan.

  I’m at Brew Ha Ha. LRRH is here.

  Since when we calling annie little red riding hood

  The thing about Michigan and me is we’ve been together so long we read each other’s minds.

  Since I walked into the coffee shop and she looked at me as if I was going to eat her alive.

  Which you want

  But not at the coffee shop. Come over.

  No

  Chicken

  Bawk bawk

  I glance at the time before pocketing the phone. I’ll give him about ten minutes to get here. “What do you guys have to eat?”

  The girl behind the counter licks her lips. “How about me?”

  “Sorry, I’m not into jailbait, honey.”

  Her lower lip pops out. “I’m nineteen.”

  “And I’m old enough to be your daddy.” I quickly peruse the chalkboard menu and order two turkey sandwiches. “No, make that four. Hold the mustard and the weird green things.”

  “You're only ten years older," she mutters and stomps away to make our sandwiches while I wait for Michigan.

  He'll want to do something with his hands and mouth since he won’t be able to put them on Annie—yet. The time on my phone says nine minutes have elapsed when he blows through the door. He grunts a greeting to everyone but can’t get past Grammy without giving her a peck. Anyone watching him would think he didn’t even see Annie whose hungry eyes track him all the way back to the counter where I’m sitting. I grin at her and she flushes again. If she gets any redder she’ll burst.

  “Stop,” he mutters under his breath.

  “Why?” I ask, turning away from Annie as I do.

  “You’re going to scare her off,” he says.

  “I doubt it. She’s interested but doesn’t know how to get over the hump of saying yes. We got to lay out the invitation as obvious as possible.”

  “Why am I here?”

  He knows why but he’s having a hard time getting over the hump too. His obstacle is disappointment but I know in my gut that Annie’s the one for us. I know it like I knew Michigan would be my battle buddy and that we’d both make it out of the desert alive. Sometimes there’s just something inside of you that recognizes your other half. In my case, it’s happened twice. First when I met Michigan way back in boot camp and again a few days ago when I went into the library to keep an eye on Judge’s old lady and wound up being glued to the librarian’s assistant.

  “You’re here because you can’t stay away.”

  “This is never going to work.”

  “Remember when we were in boot and that guy got the box of brownies from his grandma and the kill hat made him eat the entire box?”

  Michigan tilts his head and gives me a what the fuck are you getting at look. “He puked all over the quarter deck and then everyone who laughed at him had to clean it up with their toothbrushes.”

  “Everyone but you and me because neither of us laughed. That’s when I knew that you’d never do anything stupid to get me killed.”

  “Never doubted your instincts, man. Kept us out of trouble more than once.”

  “So why’re you doubting me this time?”

  “Because your dick is talking this time, not your gut.”

  He grabs one of the turkey sandwiches and stomps out, still not looking at Annie. He can’t look at her because if he does, he’s lost. Or that’s the lie he’s telling himself.

  Annie

  Michigan leaves as quickly as he arrives but just being in the same place as the two of them starts a burning inside of me. My body is tingling in spots that I didn’t realize even had nerve endings and I’m clenching muscles I didn’t know existed.

  I pretend I’m utterly fascinated with the knitting when in all reality, I’m trying to hide how red I’ve turned. But I’m not red because they’re staring at me. Oh no. I’m red as blazes because my imagination of the three of us together is making me hotter than a furnace.

  Exactly when the three of us became firmly planted in my mind, I’m not sure. I only know that when I close my eyes or drift off into fantasyland, I’m there with both of them.

  I might be inexperienced but I’m not stupid. Easy’s obviousness is hard for even me to miss.

  His winks and stares tell me that he’s willing to take me to bed and show me a few things. At the counter, he’s waiting for an answer. If I was a different woman, I’d have thrown down my failed attempts at knitting and sauntered over to both of them and demanded that they take me to bed.

  I shake my head over my own fanciful thou
ghts. And while I’ve seen a lot of things on the Internet, the truth is I probably don’t have what it takes to satisfy one man let alone two, particularly these two since the rumors are that every licentious act spoken of in the Bible gets acted out at least three times a night in the old granary west of town that the Death Lords call their clubhouse.

  I’d give my right kidney to visit during one of their infamous mashes. Lord, I’d give my right kidney to just sit by Easy a little while longer. I almost came apart when his knee brushed mine.

  As if she can read my mind, Mrs. Wilkins says my name.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I answer.

  “Honey, will you see what the holdup is on the refills?” She gestures toward the table and I remember that Easy was supposed to get a carafe of hot water to fill the empty cups.

  “Of course.” I stand on shaky legs and wipe my hands down the front of my pants. As I walk toward the counter, Easy stares openly at me, making no attempt to disguise his interest. The water is sitting near his hand along with a plate of sandwiches. As I reach for it, he grabs my wrist. It takes little effort for him to pull me toward him. I end up between his long denim-clad legs, my face so close to his I can see that his teeth are white and even. For some lame reason that’s what comes out of my mouth.

  “You have really nice teeth.”

  His grin broadens so that I can see almost all of them. Easy has a wide, very expressive mouth. It matches the rest of him which is also big. I look at his fingers wrapped around my wrist. He could easily span my waist with his hand. I’d like to pick it up and place it on my body to see if I’m right.

  “I’m glad you like them, Little Red.”

  “Little Red?” Self-consciously I run a hand across my rather dull brown hair. Pippa, my boss at the library, has gorgeous red hair and is shaped like a fifties pinup model—big chest, tiny waist, awesome butt. I’m a board. I could wear a shirt unbuttoned to the waist and have zero hint of cleavage.

  He tugs me closer until my legs hit the side of the barstool and then he straightens to his full height of six feet, four inches. His body rubs against the front of mine and something long and hard presses into my belly. The shock of it widens my eyes and stops my breathing.

  “Little Red,” he confirms. There’s dark intent in his eyes that even a virgin can read. “Because you look good enough for a big bad wolf like me to eat.” His big hand sweeps from my wrist up to my neck and for a wicked, hot second, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me in the middle of the Brew Ha Ha with his grandma’s knitting club watching. To my conflicted dismay, he only squeezes my neck before dropping his hand and moving away. “If you want a visit to the den, strap the cuff around your wrist and come out to the granary. I’ll know that you’re ready for what we have to offer.”

  Then he exits as quickly as he arrived, leaving me dazed, confused and turned on. The waitress, nineteen-year-old Tricia Merriweather, is fanning herself behind the counter.

  “Girl, you are so lucky. I’d kill for one of those.”

  My gaze drops to the counter where a leather cuff with the Death Lords emblem burned into the side rests against the wooden surface.

  I run my finger around the smooth interior. It’s still warm.

  “What it is?”

  Tricia leans forward. “It’s a claiming cuff. If you put it on that means no other Death Lords can approach you.”

  “And if I don’t?” I can’t take my eyes off the leather.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. No one I know has ever got one, but I’ve seen them around. I heard one girl say it means you can go to another club and no one will touch you because they’re afraid of getting beat up by the Death Lords. Basically it’s hellagood. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

  My fingers curl around it as if trying to hide it from Tricia’s acquisitive gleam. “I didn’t realize it was transferable.”

  “Probably not, but it’d give me an in. I’ve been trying to get into a Death Lords mash for a few years now. They’re pretty strict on the no high school rule but I graduated in May. They can’t keep me out for much longer.”

  The look of determination on her face convinces me. She’ll be in the Death Lords club some day. How it turns out for her, though, I’m not sure because I don’t know what she’s looking for there. I don’t know what she’ll find there.

  Those are the questions that swirl in my own head and so I don’t put on the wrist cuff. I tuck it into my pocket and deliver the water to the ladies. They all quiet as I approach and I know they’ve watched the whole scene. Probably everyone in the shop has and my mind flips from Easy and his curious use of “we” as in what “we have to offer” and what kind of story I’m going to have to cook up for Father when he catches wind of this.

  Mrs. Wilkins tugs me down next to her and hands me my poor knitting attempt. We knit for a while—or Mrs. Wilkins knits while I wrestle with the yarn and needles.

  “My grandson Van joined the Marines out of high school. We worried, as all families do, but he came back sunny as ever. He brought Michigan with him. Michigan has no family, you know.”

  “I didn’t know,” I admit.

  She nods. “Raised by foster families. He’s Van’s family now. They’re different but I love them both. They’re good boys. I know some don’t like that club they associate with but it’s not about the women or the liquor. It’s about belonging, no different than what we’re doing here.” She waves a hand toward the other ladies who merely nod. Apparently for all the gossip about the club, they don’t appear to disapprove of it. “People congregating together with common interests has always been a thing. Doesn’t make them wrong for doing it. ‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.’ ”

  “First Corinthians,” I respond automatically.

  “That’s right, dear.” Mrs. Wilkins shifts away and engages Mrs. C in some talk about the newly released Nora Roberts book while the claiming cuff burns a hole in my pocket. There’s an opportunity for something magical to happen and it’s there for me to try if I have even an ounce of courage to reach forward.

  Chapter Four

  Annie

  I don’t have to think up a fake story for Father. He never mentions an encounter between me and a Death Lord at the Brew Ha Ha and I certainly don’t bring it up. On Monday after a successful Sunday service and lunch with the organist’s family, he reminds me he’s going to Minneapolis for the next three days for a planning meeting. He’s helping to put together “Getting Closer with Your Pastor”, an interdenominational conference for Midwest preachers.

  As if I could forget. The cuff hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser calls to me like the heart in Poe’s story and the fact that Father’s going to be gone has made it pulse even louder.

  “Will there be Wednesday night service?”

  “Yes, the Gardeners will handle it. Just print up the bulletin. Have you recorded the tithe money?”

  “Yes, and taken it to the bank.”

  “What about the bills this month?”

  “Already taken care of.” Father keeps his expenses down by hiring me. He pays me a wage, of course, for serving as his secretary and keeping the church books. I admit I haven’t looked at my personal account balance for a while. I haven’t needed to. I don’t pay rent or the home utilities. Those are provided by the church. Clothes are kept to a minimum because we don’t want to appear like we are misusing parishioner funds. And before Easy showed up at the library, I had no occasion to be overly concerned about my wardrobe.

  Tuesday night, however, I’m looking at the sad contents of my closet. I have jeans, flats, blouses and skirts. My skirts are A-line and hide everything from my knees to my butt. None of these items, either individually or in any combination, say hot biker chick. I went for the jeans and my favorite red top that has small puff sleeves and a scoop neck. In my ears, I hooked small silver hoops and from the bottom drawer, I retrieved the leather cuff.

  It’s too large fo
r me and the large silver clasp is surprisingly heavy. My heart beats a hundred miles per minute as I climb into my car and drive to the granary. Some say the granary looks like a milk carton but I think it looks like the Death Lords are raising their middle finger to anyone around who might object to their presence.

  There are only a few bikes in the gravel parking lot in front of the old barn doors of the granary. I’ve never knocked on a barn door. Would anyone even hear me? As I approach, though, I notice a small side door is situated to the right. I knock, nervously, watching the leather band move up and down on my wrist.

  I don’t have to wait long. The door opens and the broad body of Dakota Raleigh fills the door and by fill, I mean, I can’t hardly see beyond him. He was a big guy in high school, but since our graduation five years ago, he’s bulked up. And he has traded his high school leather bomber jacket for a thin leather vest proclaiming him to be part of the Death Lords.

  “Annie Bloom?” He gawks, jaw slightly unhinged. Not quite the response I was hoping for but the one I expected. I hide a sigh.

  “Yep, it’s me.”

  He steps forward and closes the door behind him. I take a big step back so I’m not bowled over. “Yeah, we don’t take to solicitations and shit—I mean, stuff—like that here.”

  “I’m not soliciting.”

  “Yeah?” He quirks an eyebrow skyward.

  “I’m here to see Easy.” I raise my wrist so that the leather band is obvious. He looks at the band, then at my face and does a double take as if the vision of the two together doesn’t fit in his head. Then a broad smirk spreads across his face.

  “Shoulda known. It’s always the quiet ones.” He reaches behind him and opens the door. Standing back he extends his arm and gestures for me for me to enter. “Come on in.”

  I step inside and get an immediate sense of motor oil and exhaust. It smells like a garage. The concrete floor even bears dark stains which I assume are from motorcycle leaks and not, well, blood or other waste. The granary appears cavernous from my viewpoint with the ceiling soaring at least two stories.