Christmas Wish

by Wilder, Chiah

  The grandfather clock against the maroon-painted wall across from the picture window chimed loudly as it counted eight strokes. Restless as hell now, Bret swiped through his electronic black book. He wanted a young blonde with big tits, a fake tan, and a nice rounded ass. His gaze fell on Kim’s number with a notation “Loves raunchy sex.” Just what I need. He’d planned to stay in and have a quiet night catching up on some of the television shows he’d recorded, but Harry’s call ruined all that, and now he planned to fuck Savannah right out of his head.

  Bret tapped in the number and smiled when Kim’s enthused voice cried, “Daddy! It’s been too long.”

  “I’ll send a car to pick you up. Wear the filthiest lingerie you got, babygirl.”

  “I can’t wait to play with you,” she gushed.

  “Make yourself pretty for me. See you in an hour.”

  Once he secured the driver and the hotel suite, a rush of adrenaline surged through him. Kim was the perfect woman to help him forget about his old wife and her biker lover. As he ran the electric shaver over his face, the image of Savannah when he’d first seen her years before waiting tables at Luna’s floated through his mind, and then Timmy’s face with his spattering of freckles and dark eyes replaced it, and Bret’s muscles tensed. You changed the game plan, Savannah, and now I find out you’ve been cheating on me? Fuck that. He pounded the porcelain sink with his fist. No one makes a fool out of Bret Philip Carlton. No fucking one.

  Impeccably dressed, he walked out of their penthouse and rode the elevator down to the parking garage. As he drove to the hotel, loneliness gnawed at his gut, and he cursed his renegade wife. Bret’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel hard.

  “You want a fight, bitch? You got it,” he said out loud.

  Then he sped up and merged into traffic on Tremont Street.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cold slivers of light flecked through the kitchen window casting watery stripes across the hardwood floor. The coffeemaker buzzed on the counter and the air carried the rich aroma of roasted dark beans. A bar of light from the walk-in pantry formed a rectangle on the floor in front of the half-opened door, and a rendition of “Jingle Bells” filtered into the room. Ryder smiled as he stood listening to Savannah sing as she rummaged through the pantry shelves. He walked over to the island and waited for her, not wanting to intrude on her private moment.

  Savannah closed the door with her foot, her arms loaded with boxes and cans.

  “Let me help you,” he said, and her head snapped up as if startled to hear his voice, and then she beamed. Ryder took the bag of flour from her hands and the cans of pumpkin and evaporated milk and turned around to place them on the counter.

  “You planning to stay in and cook all day?” he asked.

  Setting the other items down, she nodded. “I’m going to make Christmas cookies, pumpkin pies, and waffles. The waffles are for breakfast, but I wanted to bake a pumpkin pie and make up a tin of cookies for Cara and Hawk. They’ve been so nice to me and Timmy.” Her sparkling eyes hit him right in the groin.

  Ryder drew her to him, his lips capturing hers. They were warm and soft and a small moan slipped past them. His tongue invaded the recesses of her mouth, plunging and swirling, until he felt her body lean into his embrace.

  “You’re something special, woman,” he said, his hands gliding down her jeans and landing on her ass. Cupping her cheeks, he pressed her closer to him.

  “You’re not too shabby, either.” Savannah swept her tongue across his lips and he caught it, sucking it inside his mouth, tasting it.

  “Spearmint—I like it,” he muttered as he broke away a bit. He ground his hard dick against her, lust shooting through him. Grabbing her hand, he pushed it against his rigid bulge, and she moved it up and down. “That feels real good, darlin’”—he dug his fingers into the denim fabric—“but it’ll feel a lot better inside your sweet pussy,” he growled, nipping at the base of her throat.

  “Mmm … I know it will, but Hawk already dropped Timmy off”—she threw her head back, and he ran his tongue up her throat—“and we already had a hot turn in the sheets before Timmy came home.”

  “That doesn’t mean shit, baby. Now that I’ve tasted you, I want more. I’ve always been a greedy sonofabitch.” And it was true. There was something about Savannah that made him want to lose himself over and over in all those luscious curves, to lick, suck, and fuck to oblivion. And he wanted them to belong only to him.

  Savannah cocked her head to the side, and Ryder lavished kisses all over the side of her neck, loving the way she kept stroking his encased dick and becoming more aroused by the millisecond. The sounds of her whimpers and hushed moans was enough to make him mess up his pants right there and then.

  Ryder heard Brutus’s familiar footsteps, and he stiffened then pulled away. “Timmy,” he whispered at a confused Savannah. He followed her gaze toward the doorway and saw Timmy shuffle in.

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “I think Brutus is too.”

  Ryder laughed, pinched Savannah’s ass and walked over to the bottom cupboard and pulled out a bag of dried dog food. A flurry of barks and yelps ensued as the dog jumped up on his hind legs, his tailing wagging furiously. Ryder filled the stainless steel dog bowl, and Brutus nudged against his leg to get at the food.

  “See—he was hungry,” Timmy said, standing next to the island.

  Ryder ruffled the boy’s head then put the large bag back into the cupboard. “Did you have a good time with your friends last night?”

  “It was the bestest,” the boy said, his head bobbing.

  “It was the best, honey, not the bestest,” Savannah said.

  Ryder winked at Timmy. “Your mom said you got in early this morning.”

  “Yeah. Mr. Benally said he had stuff to do. Everyone went home early.”

  Hawk’s at church ironing out the details for tonight. He glanced at Timmy and Savannah talking.

  “… waffles. They’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Did you buy out the grocery store?” Ryder asked picking up the box of waffle mix.

  She lightly punched his arm and snatched the box from his hands. “Smart aleck.”

  He swatted her ass as she passed in front of him, the island hiding his action from Timmy, who was now seated at the table.

  “Do you want to help me decorate some cookies for Isa and Braxton?” Savannah asked her son.

  “Okay.” Timmy yawned.

  “Maybe after we eat, you want to lie down for a nap.”

  Timmy shrugged, his gaze fixed on Brutus chomping away on the bully stick Ryder had just given him.

  The mixing bowl slid on the counter, and Savannah put a dishrag under it then resumed stirring the batter. Ryder watched her every move—along with the way her tits swayed with each turn of the spoon. His dick twitched. I can’t believe I’m getting a hard-on watching her make waffles. Shit. This woman has me turned so fucking inside out. He turned away and pulled out two cups from the cupboard.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  She glanced at him and smiled. “That’d be great.”

  A gulp of the strong java hit the spot. He stood staring out the window, looking at the snow dusting the pine trees, the snowmen he and Timmy had built over the last week, and the deer as they cautiously walked over the snow-covered terrain then disappeared into the forest of trees. The ping of his phone drew his attention, and he glanced down.

  Hawk: We’ll meet at 9 at clubhouse.

  Ryder: Cool. Who’s going?

  Hawk: Besides us – Throttle, Wheelie, Axe, Rock, Jax, Animal, Smokey, Helm.

  Ryder: See you then.

  “Waffles are ready,” Savannah said.

  “Yippee!” Timmy giggled.

  Ryder picked up the pitcher of orange juice and brought it over to the table. Then he sat down and rubbed his hand up and down Savannah’s thigh as she put three waffles on his plate. The scent of—clean, floral, and a touch
of vanilla—wrapped around him, and he wondered how he’d managed without her for so long.

  * * *

  Ice crunched under the Insurgents’ boots as they made their way to the clubhouse parking lot, their breaths vapor in the frigid air. They slid into SUVs, cursing the ice and snow that stopped them from taking their bikes to their destination. Ryder cupped his hands in front of his face and blew into them, his breath warming his cold face.

  “It’s like the fuckin’ North Pole out here,” Wheelie said as he opened the back door of Hawk’s SUV.

  “I’m freezing my balls off ’cause some damn punks don’t know shit about respect,” grumbled Smokey as he scooted across the seat.

  “Kimber was curled up on the couch in front of the fire when I left,” Throttle said, closing the car door. “I’m gonna kick those bikers’ asses real good for taking me away from my woman.”

  Hawk chuckled and Ryder nodded, knowing too well how Throttle was feeling. He’d rather be back at the cabin getting cozy with Savannah than out in the dark, but if he was being real honest with himself, it felt good as hell to be back on a mission with his brothers. He’d missed the action, and for the past few years, he’d let himself disengage from the brotherhood too much. Hawk had pushed him to start hanging out more at the club the year before, and Ryder had seriously considered giving up his inactive status and getting back into the thick of things.

  “We ready to roll?” Hawk asked, looking behind him. The men lifted their chins, and he put the SUV in gear and followed the caravan of cars in front of them.

  The parking lot was practically full when the bikers arrived at the bar. With heads down and hands jammed in leather jackets, the men walked across the lot then opened the scratched-up wooden door and went inside.

  Brown Barrel was a classic dive bar: no karaoke, no bar trivia, only drinking as the main activity. An unruly mess of a bar in the seedier part of town, the place boasted five-dollar mugs of beer, a free jukebox with an eclectic musical selection—which included Elvis Presley, The Bee Gees, and Lamb of God—and a place where the patrons could smoke inside without any hassles.

  The men pushed through the crowd and walked up to the bar, their eyes scanning the room for anyone wearing a three-piece rocker with Colorado on it. Ryder smiled when he saw the scuffed formica bar, which brought back memories of the hours he’d logged in there the summer he’d graduated from high school. He’d been bearded and had enough of a sturdy, muscular physique back then that he could get into the bar, no questions asked. The first time he’d legally ordered a beer and engaged in a philosophical conversation with an old biker, he knew he was hooked, and thus began his love affair with bars, motorcycles, and the Insurgents.

  An old, unremarkable television tuned to the local news sat on a corner shelf next to the bar, but no one was watching. A steady stream of men going to the restroom confirmed that key bumps were still worth a visit to one of the filthiest bathrooms Ryder could remember. A few men decked out in faded denim vests, gripping the hands of worn-out women with gaunt faces and stringy hair, sauntered down a hallway, and Ryder remembered the time he’d fucked an older woman on top of one of three washing machines in the back room of the bar. The owner had let customers both wash clothes and have sex in the room. Ryder would bet his leather cut that the washing machines were still there.

  “Here you go, bro,” Helm said, handing Ryder a mug of frothy beer.

  “See any chicks you want to hit on after we kick some ass?” he asked.

  “Nah. What about you?” Ryder replied, lifting the mug to his lips.

  “That redhead by the jukebox swaying to the Tina Turner tune looks hot.” Helm pushed his shoulder length hair over his shoulders. “What do you think?”

  Ryder glanced at her and gave a half shrug. “She doesn’t look like she fits in here. As a matter of fact, there’re quite a few people in here who look like they belong in West Pinewood Springs.”

  “But do you think she’s hot?” Helm said.

  “I guess.” The only color hair that was on Ryder’s mind was blonde, and the only woman on his mind was Savannah. No other woman compared to her, and he couldn’t wait to get home and fuck her hard and fast. Just thinking about it made him squirm, and he had to concentrate on the ceiling stain that was in the exact same location as it was seventeen years before.

  “Why are there so many shits in here who should be in the bars downtown? They’re giving dives a bad name,” Animal said as he sidled up to Ryder.

  “I was just noticing that. I think they’re just fucking bored living in their safe and controlled neighborhoods. That shit can be soul-killing, so they come here for some danger,” Ryder replied.

  “They’re gonna get it real quick,” Jax said jerking his head toward the door.

  Ryder looked over his shoulder and saw four men wearing leather jackets with a Twisted Kings’ patch. Two of the men looked to be in their mid-twenties, while the other two appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties. Two were very muscular, one was short and scrawny, the other, medium height and stocky.

  “We can easily take these fuckers down,” Jax said.

  “Hell, I could take them down by myself,” Rock said.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Ryder replied, turning back around.

  Hawk came over to the brothers, his gaze fixed on the four men making their way over to the bar. “We need to see their rockers before we approach them,” he said.

  The men agreed, and Ryder watched as the bikers leaned against the bar and talked to the bartender. It’d been a while since Ryder had been in a fight. Once he’d returned to Pinewood Springs and built his house, he turned the basement into a gym and worked out six out of seven days for years. He wanted to keep his strength up, so when Joey—one of the vets in the counseling sessions—told Ryder that he trained at a mixed martial arts studio, Ryder had to check it out. All he wanted was to be able to defend himself and hold his own, which he proved on a few occasions that he could do just that. It was a long, grueling process to get where he was now, but standing among his brothers as an equal, all the hard work had been worth it.

  “The one asshole just took off his jacket, and he’s got the Colorado bottom rocker on the back of his cut,” Animal said.

  “Let’s go,” Hawk replied.

  As the group of Insurgents made their way over to the members of the Twisted Kings, people moved out of their way; some of the more seasoned dive patrons made a beeline for the back of the bar or down the hallway. The yuppies continued drinking, playing pool, and ordering more beer, seemingly oblivious to the impending conflict.

  A young woman bumped into Ryder, spilling her beer all over him.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her perfectly manicured fingers wiping at his jacket. “I tripped.” Ryder followed her gaze down to her open-toed heels. “Not the best choice in footwear, right?” She smiled sweetly.

  Ryder jerked back and grabbed the napkin she offered him. “Shit’s about to get real, so you better haul your privileged ass outta here. Go out back or something,” he said, mopping up the liquid.

  “You want to go out back with me?” Her eyes ran over his body then landed on his face. “Okay … cool.”

  “You’re in the wrong fucking bar, lady. I’m telling you to get out because you might get hurt.” Ryder whirled around and stalked over to the bikers.

  “You fuckers enjoying yourselves?” Throttle asked as he reclined against the bar, pinning one of the guys in.

  The stocky man turned around, his eyes widening at the outlaws surrounding him and his buddies.

  “We got a real problem here,” Hawk said as he jerked his head at the bartender.

  Ryder saw the man raise his hands to a group of clueless patrons as if saying that he was done serving drinks for a while. He walked to the end of the bar and stood there, his eyes fixed on the Insurgents. Ryder, not worried that the dude would call the badges, focused his attention back to Hawk.

  “What is it?
” the taller Twisted King asked.

  “Your bottom rocker’s laying claim to an occupied area. You’re in Insurgents’ territory.”

  “So?” the other member said.

  “Fuck, Tag, this is serious,” the scrawny member said.

  “Better listen to the dude, Tag, this is fuckin’ serious.” Hawk leaned in real close so that his chest laid against the back of one of the members.

  “We’re just dudes who like to ride,” the scrawny one said, his eyes darting to each of the Insurgents and back like a ping-pong game.

  “We know that’s fuckin’ bullshit,” Rock said.

  “Take the fuckin’ rocker off now, or we’ll do it for you,” Smokey gritted.

  “You sonsofbitches don’t know shit about respect,” Ryder said, putting his foot up on the bar rail.

  The stocky guy cleared his throat. “We should’ve asked your club for permission to wear it. We made a mistake. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Duke is right,” the scrawny man said.

  Tag glared at them, and from the way his brothers scowled at him, Ryder knew Tag was going to regret the day he ever affixed the Colorado bottom rocker to his cut.

  “Shut the fuck up, Pencil,” the other tall man said.

  “Let’s just take the damn thing off, Gear,” Pencil replied.

  “Enough of this pussy bullshit!” Hawk grabbed Tag by the back of his neck. “We’re gonna teach you how to show some respect.

  “Then if you wanna keep wearing the patch, there’ll be an outright war. It’s pretty fuckin’ simple,” Axe said.

  “It’s not just us. We got a lot of members,” Tag said, a slight tremor lacing his voice.

  “We know, and we’re gonna deal with them after we’re done teaching you a lesson,” Wheelie replied while the other Insurgents grunted their agreement.

  “Let’s go,” Hawk said.

  Wheelie, Axe, and Jax took hold of Gear and dragged him toward the door while Ryder, Smokey, and Animal escorted a squirming Tag out of the bar. Hawk, Rock, Helm and Throttle joined them in the alley with Pencil and Duke in tow.