Thrash (Rebel Riders MC Book 1)

by Zahra Girard

  “What about your friends? What about the other people close to you?”

  “Like Riot’s family?”

  “Yes. You’ve got to have people around you that you can depend on.”

  “Riot’s family has done enough for me. And his parent’s will pass on long before I hit retiring age. There’s no way I’m going to allow myself to be a burden to anyone. I work my ass off now – I fight for every fucking cent – so that when I’m an old man, I can live without wishing I were dead. There’s no retirement plan in this life, there’s no benefits, no insurance, you get what you fight for, and I’ve got ambition. I’m going to fight harder than anyone.”

  I listen to him, I hear the fear that’s plain in his voice – though he’d never call it that. The fear of growing old, alone, and falling into impoverished obscurity.

  I squeeze his hand.

  I feel that same fear – of losing it all and never getting it back – every day. That same worry echoes inside me, drives me, haunts me.

  He’s suddenly so much less a mystery. And so much more a person I feel like I can trust. He wants what I want, there’s something reassuring in that.

  Thrash tosses his head back and down goes the whiskey. “Your turn. Why are you working at the Smiling Skull?”

  “You know why,” I answer.

  “I know part of it. Drink some more whiskey and give me the full truth.”

  “Excuse me?”

  That teasing grin is on his face again, the solemnity of earlier gone in a flashing smile and humorous light in his brilliant green eyes. “If we’re going to be in bed together, Ms. Alice, we’ve got to be able to bare it all to one another.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

  “Take another drink. Think about it.”

  “No amount of drinking is going to make that happen,” I say.

  “But if the drinking doesn’t open your legs, it’ll open your lips and maybe I can get some of the truth out of you. I show you mine, you show me yours, remember?”

  I do it. I down the whole glass. Not because I need the help to tell the truth — thank you very much — but I need all the help I can get to deal with his maddening taunts.

  “Why am I working for the Reaper’s Sons?” I say, musing out loud. “Here goes. I used to be on the track to making something of myself. I was managing at a tech company that I was positive was going to be making a real impact in a couple years. It was hell. Long hours, I was wearing multiple hats — recruiting, HR manager, office manager — but I had respect from the people I worked with and I was dead-certain that it was all going to pay off. When my mom got sick, I was responsible for training the person, Jackie, who was going to cover for me while I was on leave. A few months ago, Jackie did what I knew she was going to do: she sent me a dismissal letter.”

  “Fucking hell, they got rid of you just like that?” He says, incredulous. He drains his glass and pours himself some more, shaking his head as he does. “After you helped build that place? “

  It feels good to have someone new to vent to. Someone that understands my frustrations and fears at being forgotten.

  “I felt so disrespected. All I got was a fucking form letter — a form letter that I fucking wrote in the first place for the company — and that’s it. No phone calls, no nothing. Just a letter in the mail and a packet detailing when my benefits and pay would be shut off. Working at the Smiling Skull is the first opportunity I’ve had to not only make money, but also feel even the slightest bit of respect,” I say. “I need that. I need to feel valuable outside of being someone’s caretaker. I need to feel like I matter.”

  I didn’t know how hungry I was for that until they hired me and I got my first taste of that after a long time.

  Thrash raises his glass in a toast.

  “Ms. Alice, I’m going to be asking a lot of you in the near future. It’s not going to be easy, and it won’t be safe, either. But I’m going to make you this promise: you’re going to get an equal cut of what we make, and you’re going to get all the fucking respect and appreciation you deserve. We’re partners.”

  I raise mine, too. And I smile.

  “To respect.”

  There’s a light in his eyes as we tap glasses, something that tells me for all the scheming and planning and all the danger he’s involved in, he really does mean what he says. It’s an irresistible feeling of respect and equality and desire that draws me in to him.

  Almost by compulsion, I set my empty glass down on the sand and lean forward.

  We kiss.

  I don’t know who makes the final move, him or me, it’s an answer that’s lost in the electricity that lights my body when our lips first touch.

  It’s been too long since I’ve kissed someone.

  Too long since I’ve given myself over to temptation.

  Too long since I’ve felt my heart come alive with excitement.

  Too long since I’ve let out a moan as a man nibbles at my neck and whispers with hot breath into my ear about what he wants to do to me.

  On that beach, I kiss him until I’m lost in the swirl of emotions that consume our shared moment. Until worry and frustration are just words on the wind and the only thing I give a damn about is how fucking good it feels to have his fingers exploring my bare skin.

  And how hard he gets when I grasp his cock through his jeans.

  It thrills me in ways I haven’t felt in a long time just touching this man.

  Thrash is muscle, through and through. Hard and strong and indomitable. Inked and scarred. He’s real. And he’s temptation in human form. Charming and irresistible. A man who knows what he wants and will move every mountain in his way to get to it.

  “We shouldn’t do this,” I whisper.

  “We can stop any time you want, Ms. Alice,” he answers.

  “I didn’t say I wanted to stop.”

  He chuckles and I kiss his bare chest, my lips working their way down his chiseled abs until I get to the buttoned clasp of his jeans.

  They don’t stay buttoned long.

  A throaty moan comes from him as I wrap my lips around him. It’s encouragement, a pull to further temptation, an urging to release my inhibitions and let go of my frustrations, to give myself fully to every drive and desire in my body.

  And I do.

  Teasing, toying, tempting, taking my time with my lips against his cock, I savor every moment. Every groan and every shudder I draw from him is validation.

  I work him until he can’t take it anymore.

  Until he has to sit up and forcibly pull my hungry mouth away from his cock, with his eyes burning and a warning on his lips.

  “My turn.”

  I shiver as he strips away the last of my clothes. My castaway shirt and pants becomes a blanket on which I lie as he positions himself between my legs.

  He starts at my thighs. A kiss here, a lick there, just enough of a prelude that my body blooms in readiness — hot and wet.

  I’m aching for him.

  “Are you ready?” he whispers.

  “Please.”

  His tongue finds its place and my cries and moans drown amongst the roar of the crashing waves. My body pulses in time to the tides and I clench my thighs against his face. He knows exactly what to do, listening to every ecstatic sound I make, adjusting his tongue, the pressure, the speed, to push me as far as I can go.

  My thighs clench harder against his face and my hands clutch at his head, drawing him into me as I crash into climax.

  My mind shatters into a thousand prismatic pieces.

  It takes ages for me to come down and even longer for me to open my eyes.

  I look down at him, bleary-eyed. Happy.

  He grins back at me from his place between my legs.

  “Ready?”

  I’d answer, I’d scream ‘yes’ if I could, but he doesn’t wait, and all I can do is gasp and moan as sensation surges through me and I have to clutch at him just to have something steady to hang on to.

>   My body is overwhelmed, every sense and synapse firing haywire, and Thrash is taking me like he owns me — and like he knows exactly what my body wants and just how to push me even higher into ecstasy.

  No hesitation.

  He takes what he wants.

  And right now, what he wants is me.

  It’s all I can do to breathe and hold on while I twitch and shake beneath him, my legs twittering and my hands clawing and clutching at whatever purchase they can find.

  “Let me-” ride you, I want to say, but the two words barely escape my mouth before he flips me over.

  He’s in control.

  Face down, my moans are muffled by the sand.

  I come again, thrashing and clawing at the sand. My body sucked into a maelstrom of pleasure and I drown in ecstasy.

  I hear him gasp and feel him firm within me.

  He is close.

  “Should I?” He asks with an urgent gasp.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I know what I want, too.

  “Yes. I want it.”

  And I take it.

  That’s all he needs to hear.

  I shut my eyes and throw my head back as I feel him let go. It’s satisfying on such a deep level to hear him let go and to hear how primal his ecstasy is. There’s no hesitation, no doubt, just him turning himself over to the utter pleasure I’m giving him.

  He pulls free reluctantly, and we entwine together on the beach, in each one another's arms and listening to the vast sound of the ocean around us.

  We’re in this together, now. Wherever it takes us, whatever the consequences, this is real. He needs me. I need him.

  But just as much, I want him.

  There’s no turning back now.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thrash

  An hour after dropping her off after spending the day with her on that beach, after wishing her ‘good night’ and kissing her like a fucking lovesick puppy, Alice is still on my mind. She’s a woman that burns with an ambition and motivation that resonates with me down deep to my core. She might be struggling to survive and take care of her mother, but she’s still got her eyes on the bigger picture. If she makes it through this mess, I know she’ll claw her way up to the top — it’s inevitable, she’s got the drive and the fire to be something better.

  I pause in the parking lot of the Steel Horse Tavern, my helmet in my hand and thoughts of her dwelling in my head. Her ambitious attitude is an aphrodisiac and she’s taking hold of me as strong as any drug.

  This is fast going from ‘just business’ to something far more personal. I’ve shown her sides of myself that I’ve shown anyone. And, though I just left her, I’m already thinking about the next time I’ll see her.

  Shaking my thoughts clear, I step into the Steel Horse. The bar is full of life, practically every member of the MC is in attendance, except for those few running security and setup on the grow operation.

  I shout out for a beer above the din of the crowd — Van Halen blaring from the jukebox, rolling laughter, and conversations carried out at a volume just below yelling.

  Beer in hand, I sit down at a table across from Riot and Creole.

  “It looks like someone got some action,” Creole says. “Good job, man.”

  “I haven’t seen your mother in days, Creole,” I answer. “What makes you think I got lucky?”

  “You’ve got that smile on your face, like a kid on Christmas morning right after he’s opened his presents,” Riot says. “Who was it? Did you go back to Chastity again?”

  “You better not have, Thrash. You know that Hawk will take your scalp if you go back to fucking the sheriff’s daughter.”

  I shake my head. “No, I ended things with Chastity a long time ago. She’d gladly take me back, she’s told me that plenty of times after I’d let her suck my cock, but there’s no way I can take that level of crazy full time. I’ve been Chastity-free for weeks, now.”

  “So, who was it?” Riot says.

  “Alice.”

  Creole lets out a low whistle. “Hawk will kill you for that, too. She belongs to the Reaper’s Sons, man.”

  “We’re being circumspect. Speaking of which, have you two been keeping an eye on the auto yard like I asked?”

  Riot nods. “We have. Aside from Alice, they’ve got one other driver that they use for their Mexico shipments. We haven’t followed them much beyond that — we can’t get closer without being seen, and if we get seen, Hawk sure as hell will hear about it.”

  As if on cue, Frank ‘Hawk’ Deacon bellows above the thunder of the crowd. “Thrash, get your fucking ass over here.”

  “Rest in peace, man,” Riot says to me as I stand up, beer in hand, and head towards the table.

  “I’ll light a candle for you, Thrash,” Creole calls after me.

  “You rang?” I say as I sit down at Hawk’s table.

  Across from me, Frank ‘Hawk’ Deacon sits, thick arms spread on the table in front of him, beard bristling on his face and his eyes flaring with angry intent. He might be a relic in my mind, but he’s a terrifying man in his own right, like some kind of forgotten idol to an old god of vengeance. Outdated, outmoded, but there’s still lightning in his fist.

  Our club VP, Hunter ‘Bull’ Bennett — every bit a mountain of a man himself — sits to his right. Bennett’s not much older than me, and his brain's a lot quicker than his bulging biceps would imply. He’s a powerhouse, smart as hell, and not a man that I want to be on the bad side of, either.

  To my right sits Emilio ‘Wrench’ Rogers, our club treasurer. He’s not nearly the same size as the other men, but he’s a crafty son of a bitch and has earned his nickname time and again through his talent at modifying and repairing our bikes.

  The top three men in our club sit here, staring at me like I’m an inch away from an ass-whooping.

  I wipe my cocky grin off my face as I look at all of them in turn. I know why they’ve called me over, and this is no time for attitude. Not unless I want to eat a bullet at the end of the night.

  “Why do you think I called you over?” Hawk says.

  “Why don’t you just tell me and cut the guessing game,” I say.

  Though I have to be respectful to the man, I’m sure as hell not going to let him push me around. I have my limits.

  “We’ve heard you’ve been spending time with one of the Reaper’s girls,” Bull says.

  “What I don’t understand is, are you deliberately trying to be this fucking stupid? Or do you just not have the vascular capacity to keep blood in both your cock and your brain at the same time?” Hawk says.

  “My cock is pretty damn big, Hawk,” I say. “It takes a lot of blood.”

  He slams his fist on the table.

  “This isn’t a fucking game, Thrash.”

  “Look, Thrash, I get your desire to fuck with the Reaper’s Sons. None of us like those bitches. But things are in a delicate stage right now,” Bull says.

  “Our grow operation is nearly up and running. It’ll bring in steady income once it’s online. It’s not legal, though. Pot is legal in California for possession in small amounts, and local law enforcement won’t normally care, but if we start shit up with the Reaper’s Sons and draw attention…” Wrench lets his voice trail off a bit.

  I feel attacked on all sides, sitting here, but I drown my rising frustration with a long drink of beer.

  “It’s against Federal Fucking Law and if you go pissing off the Reaper’s Sons, and get their president to lean on his friend, Mayor Tom Gardner, we’ll have the sheriff’s department and probably even the DEA breathing down our necks. Does that sound fun to you, Thrash?” Hawk says pointedly.

  “No, sir,” I say. “It does not.”

  “You need to take a step back from the Reaper’s Sons, and from that woman. Don’t go provoking them,” Bull says. “It’s a sensitive time right now. Did you know the Mayor decided to have a fundraiser party at The Smiling Skull next week? Most of the Reaper’s Sons will be there
, along with at least half the fucking city council. Things will not look good for us if we’re upsetting the balance right now. Got it?”

  “Understood,” I say. “Crystal clear.”

  “And one other thing, Thrash,” Hawk says, giving me a level and threatening look. “Pack your things. I’m sick of you toeing the fucking line. For the time being — until I fucking say otherwise — you’re going to be living on-site at the grow op. You’ll oversee security. Watch the fucking plants grow. And if anything fucking happens, if a plant even so much as fucking wilts, it’s on your head. Am I clear?”

  Great. Just great.

  I nod, trying to not look like I’m absolutely furious. I get up from the table, expending every effort to bite my damn tongue and keep from lashing out at Hawk. “Is that all?”

  “Go drink your beer, Thrash. You can move there tomorrow morning. Micro’s out at the site, we’ll let him know you’re coming,” Bull says, with a note of sympathy in his voice. “Maybe after a while, we can re-evaluate things.”

  I know on some level he gets what I’m trying to do and respects the fact that I’m trying to keep the club — and myself — from being left behind. But this is Hawk’s show, he’s the president, and neither of us is in a position to challenge him at this time.

  Finding a place by myself, I sit down to figure things out.

  This is a huge blow, no matter how I look at it.

  I’m confined to the damn grow op — a fucking farm set up in the decrepit remnants of a lumber yard an hour’s drive from town.

  No fucking with the Reapers.

  And worst of all, no Alice.

  Fat fucking chance I’m following that.

  I’m going to hit their operation. I’m going to do whatever it takes to rip that drug money out of their hands.

  I finish my beer and slam the cup down on the table. I pass by Creole and Riot on the way out and stop at their table. I choose my words carefully — I can’t risk anyone else overhearing and passing on word to Hawk.

  “Wait a few days. Then make the move. Take that driver out.”

  They both nod.

  I’m sick of waiting.

  My plan’s in motion.