by Freya Barker
A man the size of a Mack truck, a nose that looks to have been on the wrong side of a fist one too many times, with massive amounts of hair everywhere steps in my path, his big shovel-sized hand rounding me to latch onto my ass. My move is instinctive as I twist around and aim my heel for his kneecap, wishing I’d chanced wearing high heels just for the added damage I could’ve done. Despite the flimsy tennis shoes on my feet, I manage to cause enough pain for the behemoth to stumble back a step. I’m in a half-crouch, my focus on him as I anticipate retaliation, when suddenly the guy is felled like a massive tree, going down on his knees in front of me.
Ouray. His nostrils flaring and his jaw twitching, he looms over the guy, bending down to get in his face.
“That’s your one and only pardon, you son of a bitch. That ass you tried pawing belongs to me. You hear me?”
“I didn’t know, Chief,” is the guy’s grudging response.
“Actually,” I pipe up. “Last time I checked that ass belongs to me.”
I realize quickly I probably would’ve been better off shutting my trap, when that nostril-flaring, jaw-twitching glare now is directed at me. Oops. An uncomfortable silence follows, during which way too many eyes flit back and forth between Ouray and me, waiting for things to escalate.
Unexpectedly, Ouray rolls his eyes heavenward. “Fine,” he concedes, reaching out and pulling me to him, putting his own big paw on my rear. “The ass may belong to you, but I fuckin’ claim exclusive rights.” I don’t get a chance to respond before I’m bent backward over his arm, my mouth bruised in a ravaging kiss that makes the earlier ones seem like chaste pecks in comparison. I swear the man is probing for my tonsils, his tongue is so far down my throat, and all I can do is go along for the ride. With my arms wrapped tight around his neck, I let myself be carried away, no longer aware of my surroundings. Overwhelmed with his taste in my mouth, his scent in my nose, and the feel of his strong arms holding me up, I lose all control of my body.
I don’t become aware of the hooting and hollering until Ouray slowly lets me up, both of us breathing harder than is decent in public. When he pulls me flush against his front, I momentarily freeze at the hard press of his erection in my stomach, but I hold my ground.
“Jesus, Sprite,” he whispers in my ear. “You’re a quick study.”
I’m still trying to figure out what that means exactly, when we sit down at a bunch of end to end picnic tables for dinner. While Ouray is arranging the ribs and burgers in large aluminum trays, I hurry inside to finish off the Brussels sprouts. A splash of soy sauce, a little ginger, and a quick stir through over high heat and they’re done.
“What’s this?” Ouray asks, when Momma shoves the serving dish under his nose.
“Done my sprouts a different way. Come hell or high water, I’ll make you eat them yet.”
“You’ve tried for the past thirty odd years, woman, what makes you think I—”
“Oh shut it and give it a go,” she snaps impatiently. She instructed me not to mention anything so his response would be ‘honest’ so I’m keeping my mouth shut.
Ouray carefully scoops up three or four halves and deposits them on his plate, a fair distance from the rest of his food. I almost laugh out loud at the look of disgust on his face.
“Don’t laugh,” he growls, spearing one on his fork and reluctantly bringing it up to his mouth.
“Please, Momma. Save us all from this torture, will you?” a man who was introduced to me earlier as Kaga, his second-in-command, pleads with the old woman, but from the stubborn look on her face, it’s clear she’s unmoved. “I don’t get why we can’t just stick to corn on the cob.”
“Don’t be going too far with that.” Ouray points at the dish Momma’s holding. “Goddamn, why didn’t you ever make ‘em like this before?”
Momma’s eyes narrow on me as she holds out the bowl to him. “Gonna need that recipe,” she mumbles, leaning in, but Ouray hears and raises an eyebrow at me.
“No shit?” He spears another sprout and pops it in his mouth, watching me. I just shrug.
At dinner I make note of names, clubs, roles, and any other tidbit of information that I can pick up. I’d almost forgotten the reason I’m here in the first place.
Most of the guys are Arrow’s Edge, but there are a few from visiting clubs. There are quite some women too, but I can’t get a grip on who’s with who. The only ones I know are Momma and Lea, Kaga’s wife, who I met earlier. Nobody bothered introducing me to the others and I plan to ask Ouray about that later.
The party gets rowdier the later it gets, alcohol flowing and occasional tempers flaring. More than once I watch as Ouray steps between two guys and quietly seems to diffuse the tension. I notice he’s only had a beer or two before dinner, but has been chugging back bottles of water since. I’m on my second beer myself, making it last. Not drinking would stand out, but as long as I have a half full bottle in my hand, I’m left alone.
I watch as one woman accompanies yet another biker into the clubhouse. I think it’s her third. Not hard to imagine what goes on in there. “Who’s she?” I ask Ouray softly, pretending to snuggle up to him. It’s a little disturbing how easy it is pretending to be his date.
“Britney. Club groupie.”
“She get paid or something?” I ask. “This is the third guy.”
“Fuck. That’s gonna be trouble,” he mumbles, looking after them before he turns to me. “And no, she’s not a hooker.”
“She does it for fun?” I know I sound naïve, but it flies out before I can clamp down on it. The concept is alien to me, so I’m trying to understand.
“Britney? She mostly does it to stir up trouble. It’s not new. Guess I’ll have to have another talk with her before someone fucking starts shooting.” He indicates one of the guys, who is staring at the clubhouse with barely suppressed anger. “That’s Paco. Good man, bad judgement when it comes to that bitch.”
I flinch at his use of that word, but when she walks into the bathroom ten minutes later, it doesn’t take me long to agree with him wholeheartedly.
“You got money?”
I’m washing my hands at the surprisingly clean sink when I hear the slightly nasal voice behind me. I look up to see her leaning against the wall, a smug little grin on her pouty lips.
“Money?”
“Yeah. Like are you rich or something?”
“Hardly.” I grab a handful of paper towels and dry my hands.
“Hmm. Into kinky shit?”
I swing around, tossing the wad of paper in the trash can. “What can I do for you?”
She looks me up and down with distaste on her face.
“There’s gotta be something that puts you on the back of his bike. The man likes his pussy hot and his tits ample. You ain’t got none, and you look like a cold-ass choirboy instead of a hot-blooded woman.”
Ah. A case of jealousy. I recognize it, even if I’ve never actually been the subject before. It’s an interesting experience. Best way to deal with it is not to respond. She’s clearly baiting me, and I won’t bite. I try walking past her, but she moves faster, blocking the door. She doesn’t know how big of a mistake she’s making.
“You don’t want to do that,” I warn her in a calm, gentle voice.
“Do what? I asked you a question and you’re bein’ a bitch, all rude, ignoring me.”
“I’m gonna give you to the count of three, and I suggest you get out of my way, or I’ll move you myself.”
I can tell she’s weighing the odds, until she finally steps aside.
“Go ahead. You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to tussle with little girls tonight.”
I already have the door open, hanging onto my temper by a thread, when she voices those last words. I’m about to give her a taste of my little girl fists when an arm snakes around me, pulling me against an already familiar body.
“You’re not just a bitch, you’re stupid too,” Ouray says over my head. “Luna could take you apart limb by limb wit
h one hand tied behind her back. I warned you, Britney, one more drama with your name on it, and it’ll be the last time those gates open for ya.”
“I can’t remember much,” the woman says with a calculating smirk. “On account of your cock being down my throat at the time.”
CHAPTER 6
OURAY
Fucking Britney.
Even now, three days later, Luna is stiff as a board when she climbs behind me on the bike.
I don’t get women. First off, I really don’t see what she thought she had to gain by targeting Luna with some wild story. Sure, I had my dick in her mouth. I was in the middle of telling her off when she dropped to her knees, ripped my jeans open, and stuffed my limp cock between her lips. I’m damn lucky she didn’t use her teeth to hang on when I shoved her off. Like that was going to help her get on the back of a bike. That’s what she’s after, we all know it. Poor Paco has a hard-on for the woman, but isn’t ready to claim her as his old lady—thank fuck for that. As a result she’s been spreading for whoever wants a piece, in hopes jealousy will get him to give in.
As for Luna, I don’t get her at all. First she hates my guts, then she lights up like the fucking Fourth of July with my tongue in her mouth, before finally freezing me out altogether. This is all supposed to be fucking make-believe, and still I end up feeling like my dick is in a vise. This is why I don’t do goddamn relationships.
Instead of driving off to meet my guys at the clubhouse before we ride out, I climb off the damn bike and swing around on Luna.
“Wanna tell me what bug crawled up your ass? This little setup of yours is not gonna fly if you’re sitting behind me like a goddamn plank, giving off frigid ice maiden vibes to anyone watching.” I notice a little too late that in my frustration I’ve said something that has her face go blank, and I mean totally impassive. No trace of any kind of emotion, not even anger. She’s shut down on me, and that pisses me off even more. “I see I’m gonna have to kiss some blood flow back into your ass,” I snap, grabbing the sides of her helmet and closing the distance between us.
“Don’t you dare...” Her voice is low, almost a growl, as her eyes suddenly light up with fire. Good. Fucking better than that dead stare I got earlier. “...kiss me to prove a point.”
I hold up just shy of her lips, my nose almost touching hers, as I take stock of all I see swirling in her eyes: challenge, anger, frustration, longing, hurt and...fucking hell. She tries to hide it, but there is definite fear there. I instantly let go of her head.
“Shit. I’m sorry.” The words feel alien on my lips. Guess I don’t use them a whole lot.
“No, don’t. Let’s...” Her eyes flit away before they come back to mine. “You’re right. I’m...I’ll be fine. Let’s just go.” I’m surprised to hear her stumble over her words, and I’m itching to dig in and find out what the fuck is going on in that head of hers, but she’s right, we should make tracks. We’ve got guys waiting to get going on this three-day party.
With a simple nod, I slide back on my bike and wait for her arms to circle me.
IT’S NEAR THE NOON hour when we pull onto the large parking lot of the Harley-Davidson store. This is where clubs congregate. There’s stuff going on in other places, but we always start out here.
I help Luna with her helmet and with an arm slung around her shoulder, I walk her in the direction of the beer tent. Halfway there, I feel her arm snake around me and her small hand tuck into my back pocket. Perfect.
“Pint?” I ask her when we sidle up to the bar.
“A bottle of something if they have it.”
“Ale okay? They should have some Brewer’s Blond.”
“Sure. Isn’t that a local micro-brewery? I think I’ve had it before. Pretty good.”
“It better be.” I grin at her. “Belongs to the club.”
“The brewery?” She seems surprised.
“The brewery and the restaurant.” Of all our local investments, that one provides the best return.
I guess my pride shows because she smiles back at me. “A gym, a yoga studio, and a restaurant. That’s pretty impressive.”
“We also own an apartment building along the river, but Brewer’s Pub is our main source of income. Every year since the club started sponsoring this event, as well as the annual blues festival, our market has almost doubled.”
“Clever.”
“I wouldn’t believe a word out of this sonofabitch’s mouth.” The voice belongs to the president of the Amontinados MC who walks up behind me, throwing an arm over my shoulder, his eyes sharp on Luna. I’m tempted to ignore the bastard, but a slight lift of her eyebrow reminds me she’s here for a reason.
“Luna, this asshole is Mico—”
“Manny,” he interrupts.
“Right, Manuel Salinas.”
“Manny to beautiful women,” he says, leaning in to offer her a hand, but instead of shaking it, he pulls her closer, pressing a kiss on her fingers. I know what he’s doing—it’s nothing new—but for some reason now, with Luna, it makes my blood boil. I would’ve jumped in if Luna hadn’t jerked back from his hold, immediately stepping close to my side.
“I’d say I was pleased to meet you, but I’d be lying,” she says with a saccharine sweet smile for him. “Not a fan of strangers putting their lips on me. Asshole move, especially with my man standing right here.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, beautiful. Him and me don’t mind sharing, do we, brother? Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“That’s enough, you cocksucker.” I shrug his arm from my shoulder. Every fucking chance he has the bastard brings that incident up. That was two decades ago and both of us were drunk out of our brains. I can’t even remember the chick.
“I may be, but I don’t remember you complaining.” I don’t miss Luna’s sharp intake of breath, as Manny throws me a wink.
Just fucking great. The little bit of headway I made since picking her up is gone as I look into her stone-cold eyes. She quickly hides them with a little smile, and I’m relieved when a group of the Amontinados calls Manny over.
“Catch you later, hermano,” he says, punching my shoulder and wiggling his eyebrows at Luna. “Later, beautiful.”
The moment his back is turned, Luna steps away from me, but before she can get too far away, I take her hand, walking with her in the opposite direction to where a bunch of vendors have stalls set up. Some sell clothes, some leather goods, memorabilia, and of course food. We kill some time checking the wares and I end up buying her a Harley T-shirt, ignoring her when she argues.
“You hungry? We should probably eat something since alcohol will be flowing all damn weekend.”
“I could eat.”
I lean in to whisper in her ear. “See those picnic tables over there? Those are the Shiprock guys. I’ll introduce you and you can do your thing while I grab us a bite.”
Wheels, the big burly president, observes us closely as we approach. “Have a seat,” he rumbles in his deep voice after I shake his hand.
“I’m just gonna grab some food. Be right back,” I tell him, but motion Luna to sit down. “Keep an eye on her for me.”
“Not gonna be a hardship.”
LUNA
This guy is as wide as he is tall, and probably in his sixties maybe even seventies.
I’m surprised to find he’s still riding. The Shiprock MC President just finished telling me about the annual Rocky Mountain ride. He’s a chatty guy once he gets going, which is probably why Ouray put me at his table. That, and the fact Wheels is apparently a family man. Devoted to his wife of more than forty years. His daughter married a stockbroker and lives in Denver, and his son is Road Captain for the club. He even has two grandsons who are part of the MC. A real family affair.
“So is the plan for you to eventually retire and hand off to your son?”
He regards me from under his bushy eyebrows. “You always this nosy?”
I guess I hit a touchy subject. “I’m just curious. I don’t really und
erstand the life. I mean, I haven’t known Ouray that long, and I’m still learning. Besides, from what I gather, most clubs are not like Arrow’s Edge.”
“That’s for damn sure. Gotta hand it to the kid, he vowed to take the club clean, and fuck if he didn’t do just that. Wasn’t a popular move either.” By the kid I assume he means Ouray, who seems to be taking an awful long time to get some food.
“How so?”
He leans back, folding his hands over his belly. “It wasn’t just some of the members who didn’t much like it. The move impacted more than just the Arrow’s Edge. Fucked up some longstanding business arrangements made back in the seventies and eighties between clubs. Loyalties broken. Wasn’t pretty then and some of that still festers, but Ouray, he stayed his course. I admire him for that.”
“Alcohol makes you loose-lipped, old man.” A gray-haired man, wearing a clear family resemblance, clamps a hand on Wheels’s shoulder, who doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge the newcomer. “Who’s the fresh pussy?”
I try hard not to flinch at the crude descriptive as father and son both seem to scrutinize me.
“She’s on Ouray’s bike, which means hands off, kid.”
The younger one has a calculating glint in his eyes. “Ouray don’t put bitches on the back of his bike. Not fucking ever.” His voice is raised and he’s drawing attention from a couple of other tables around us. I can feel the curious glances on me like tentacles.
“First time for everything,” I offer with a shrug.
“You’re not his type,” he fires back.
“How do you figure?”
“I’ve got eyes,” he says, pointing over my shoulder.
When I turn around to see what he’s talking about, I see a familiar tall blonde draped all over Ouray against the side of a food trailer. I have a fraction of a second to decide what an appropriate reaction would be: storm off and jeopardize the assignment, or make a stand and maybe gain credibility.
I pick the latter, as I get up and stalk over to where Ouray seems to be in the process of untangling himself from the woman’s hold. He sees me coming, and with a bemused twitch of his lips watches, as I grab onto one of the girl’s arms and pull her back, sliding myself between the two of them.
