by Krane, Kasey
“I need to talk to knight?” I repeated, confused and just a second too late. He’d been talking but I’d only half heard him. Damn sour cream.
“Knight is our road captain for the club. I honestly don’t remember what his real name is. He got the nickname from his favorite local hot sauce brand. He loves practically chugs the stuff. I think it’s made with ghost peppers.” He scooped up the last of the fajita filling into a tortilla. I settled back, happily full and feeling much better about the world in general.
“What is a ghost pepper?” I asked.
“One of the hottest peppers on the planet. I can barely stand a small bite, but Knight will eat a whole one no problem. If he knew you liked heat, you'd find yourself in a pepper eating contest in 30 seconds flat.”
“Oh hell no!” I laughed. “When I say I like heat, I mean the spicy dish at a restaurant, not a pepper hot enough to burn my tongue off. I’ve never understood the fun in that.”
“Me either,” he said and grinned at me. Oh God, my stomach seemed to be suddenly full of butterflies. Spastic butterflies.
What would he do when he found out that I’ve sold an expose article on the Dead Legion to the Huffington Post?
And just like that, the dancing butterflies were gone, replaced with a dread that filled me, pushing everything else out. All of the excitement, all of the joy, all of the fun - gone.
Bishop would never forgive me for betraying the MC like that, I knew that already. I’d only known him for a few hours, but I could already tell that the Dead Legion were his whole world. Anyone who betrayed that trust would be written off without a backwards glance.
When I had been brainstorming and researching in my studio apartment in New York, everything had seemed so straightforward, so simple. Get the story, expose the group for what it really was, get a real journalism job.
Suddenly, my black-and-white world had so many shades of gray in it, and Bishop was a part of every shade. I could ruin his life, but in doing so, would I ruin mine?
7
Bishop
Jules suddenly went white on me. I reached across the table, alarmed.
“Are you okay?” I asked, holding her arm. Since I’d gotten the lemonade down her, she’d come back from the dead - the color returning to her cheeks, normality returning to her speech. Everything was fine.
But now, she’d gone back to sheet white again, and weirdly silent. I could tell already that Jules wasn’t someone to hold back. If she thought something, she said it. She probably talked in her sleep.
Out of nowhere, she turned and smiled at me, a 1000-watt smile directed right at me. My stomach flipped - dammit she was sexy - but I knew she’d intended just that response.
“No, everything is great,” she said, over-enthusiastically. I stared at her. What kind of bullshit was she pulling on me?
“Let’s head out - I’d like to go take a shower at my hotel and clean up, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Sure. Fuck. Whatever.” I stood up and strode towards to the front cash register, ignoring her. After I paid the bill, I walked out the front door, not bothering to hold it open for her as I went. She was fucking lying, and it bothered me a little more than it should have to realize that. And that bothered me even more. I shouldn’t care if Bitch Journalist from New York City was lying to me. In fact, just that morning, I’d expected exactly that from her. So why was I suddenly allowing it to affect me? I should only be caring that she got the fluff piece she needed and got the hell out of New Mexico.
I brought the Lobos to life and let it idle for a moment to give the AC a chance to catch up. We’d scored a parking spot in the shade, making it a little easier on my truck to cool down.
“I’m sor—”
“I’m dropping you off,” I cut her off. “Then you can shower or whatever the fuck you want to do. I’ll pick you up at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“Ten? Isn’t that a little late?”
“Honey,” I said sarcastically, “we’re motorcyclists, not bankers. We don’t keep regular business hours. If you want to go to the clubhouse at eight in the morning, you’re going to find yourself staring at a bunch of empty bar stools.”
“Oh.” We rode in silence to her roach motel. I was surprised when Ghost told me that Jules would be staying at The Hideaway Motel. Blush certainly didn’t waste money on accommodations for their journalists. I pulled up in front of the office and got out of the truck without saying a word, following her into the building. She got checked in - A13 - and got the key for the room.
I walked back out to the truck and chucked her bags on the ground. “Be ready at 10 tomorrow,” I tossed over my shoulder before climbing into my truck and driving away. I knew I was being a complete asshole but couldn’t bring myself to care. She wanted to lie to me, she could deal with the consequences.
Before I even realized it, I pulled up into my spot at the clubhouse. I couldn’t even remember the drive over. That was scary shit, driving on auto-pilot.
What was scarier shit was, enjoying a journalist’s smile.
I cut that thought off right there. Ghost would want a report out of me, and I would have to give him that before anything else.
I found him wrapped around the cute blonde sheep who’d been hitting on me the other night. She was moving up in the world, from VP to Pres. What-fucking-ever.
“Ghost, I’m back,” I announced loudly over their tongue slurping duel. Fucking get a room already.
Ghost looked up and slowly brought his eyes into focus through a haze of lust. “Oh,” then seconds later, a more coherent, “Sorry darlin’, I have to go talk to Bishop for a moment. Don’t you move a muscle,” and smacked her on the ass. She grinned flirtatiously up at him, and then turned that wattage on me. I had the sneaking feeling she’d be all over a threesome.
I turned and walked away, back to the chapel. Ghost and I sat down at the table that dominated the room - stainless steel and oversized, it was the home of countless club decisions.
“So, what happened?” Ghost quizzed me. “Is she going to cause us problems?”
I hesitated for a moment. The unequivocal answer to that question was a hell yes, Jules was nothing but a bundle of problems with a little dash of fuckery thrown in for fun. She’d lied to me over lunch - dinner - linner - fuck why did I allow myself to go there?? - and she was no more naive and stupid than a copperhead was friendly and cuddly. She was nothing but one fuckable delicious bundle of fucking problems.
“Nah, she’ll be fine. She spent a lot of time asking about the trucking business end of things. She never even hinted at any of the other shit we do.” It was amazing how the truth and the lie flowed together so well, and so easily. I shifted uncomfortably. Lying to my Pres wasn’t something I ever expected to do, and the worst part was, I didn’t even know why I did it.
Fucking fucking fuckety fuck fuck!
“Good,” Ghost said, letting out a sigh of relief. “I knew I could trust you. Now, I’ve got a hot ass to hit,” he said, standing up. “God bless Sons of Anarchy - every girl wants to fuck a biker now. What’re your plans tonight?”
“I better head back home. I’ve got a lot to do tonight.”
“Oh!” Ghost said, surprised. “There’s another new girl tonight - my blondie brought her in with her. She seems open to experiments,” he said with a wink.
I knew what Ghost meant by that and wanted no part of it. Ghost liked it a little rougher than the women usually did, and they didn’t tend to stick around after he’d spent a night roughing ‘em up. I wasn’t into whipping and crying bitches begging for mercy, something Ghost never seemed to wrap his mind around.
“Nah. I’m good. Thanks for offering. Maybe make it a two-fer?”
Ghost grinned. “Two bitches to play with. Now there’s an evening I can get excited about. I think I even have a little extra blow in the back. They’ll do just about anything for a hit of the shit I have.”
I shuddered inwardly. Why the fuck you’d want to fuck someone
who was strung out on drugs was beyond me. Ghost hadn’t crossed over from dealer and distributor to user - yet - but he liked to offer it to the women he fucked. Countless of times he tried to get our club to start distributing his shit. Saying that it would make the club more money. I had been one of the stronger opposers to it, and deep down I knew he fucking hated me for it.
“I’m out. Catch ya tomorrow,” I said before I’d say something I’d regret. I passed by the table with the blonde and her red-headed friend, and they both smiled coyly at me as I walked by. I gave them an abrupt nod of the head and left.
I was losing my touch, no question about it.
8
Bishop
The next morning, I knocked on A13 and checked the time on my iPhone. Perfect - right on time. One of my biggest pet peeves was being late to anything.
Jules opened the door and shot me a smile. “Hey Bishop! Let me grab my key and purse.” She disappeared for a moment and then reappeared. “Ready?”
I automatically moved to the side to follow her back to my truck but inside, I was reeling in shock. She was ready. On time. She didn’t make me wait for 15 minutes while she fucked around in the bathroom. She didn’t play any games. She was just…ready to go.
I watched her walk around to the passenger side of the truck and swallowed hard, then shifted myself in my jeans, trying to get comfortable. Her legs were a goddamn mile long, I’d swear it. She had on these short jean shorts that just barely covered the curve of her ass cheek and this top that was sheer and flowy and shit but clung to all the right curves. I had stupidly followed her to her side of the truck, entranced by her ass, and realized too late what I’d done. I closed the door behind her with a fake smile pasted on my face, and then jogged to my side.
I had to keep my head in the game. She was not an option. Us together, in bed, with those legs wrapped around me and my fingers wrapped up in her thick gorgeous blonde hair…
Fuck it!
I shifted myself one more time before opening up my door and climbing in.
None of this was an option. Just focus and keep your head on and stay away. Far away.
“Have you eaten breakfast yet?” My voice came out with a croak and I cleared it.
Far, far away.
“No, they…ummm…don’t offer a continental breakfast at The Hideaway.”
I finished her unspoken thought, Or much else. I was still in shock that her editor had booked her at such a shithole. Were all New Yorkers such dumbasses?
I pulled into the Drive or Dive parking lot. “Well, based on yesterday’s fiasco, I think we oughta start with some food.” She looked up at the restaurant through the windshield and I knew exactly what she was thinking.
“It doesn’t look like much, I know, but the food is better than it looks. And I’d rather that they spent money on the food than on the paint job. Let’s go.”
As I opened the door to the DoD, the smell hit my nose and I breathed in appreciatively. It flashed into my mind, unbidden - Jules, laying on a table, legs spread, her generous tits begging for me to play with them. I pour maple syrup over them and lick them off, suck them off…
I snapped back to the present to find Jules was staring up at me, and the waitress too. Oh God, I’m losing it, standing here daydreaming about Jules and maple syrup for fuck’s sake.
I knew they were waiting for a response and so I made my best guess at an appropriate answer.
“I’m good wherever,” I shrugged nonchalantly. The waitress cocked her head at me for a moment but shrugged and walked towards one of the back tables. “Here okay?” she asked, snapping her gum.
“Yeah, fine,” I said and slid into the booth across from Jules. The snapping of gum threw me back to what I’d originally thought Jules was going to be like - a gum chewing, obnoxious New Yorker with an awful New York accent. And a chihuahua.
Well, one out of four ain’t bad. Yeah, her accent was awful, but otherwise…
“So, how did you sleep last night?” I asked, trying to keep my eyes locked on hers. Absolutely no looking down at her magnificent tits. She smiled painfully.
“I think the term ‘roach motel’ originated at The Hideaway. I may not have seen any roaches last night, but I did find a scorpion. I screamed at the top of my lungs.” She grinned at me. “The motel owner came running. I don’t think he appreciated me yelling my TripAdvisor review at him at two in the morning. If I live through this trip, I’m so going to kill my boss. I know the bastard chose The Hideaway because it was the cheapest on the list. He grew up here in Deming. He should’ve known better.”
I figured he probably did know better, but didn’t care. Evan had also placed his trust in Ghost to protect Jules. I suddenly had an urge to kill Evan before Jules could get to him, so I could do it nice and slow. The bastard didn’t seem to give two flying fucks about his own journalist.
We enjoyed a delicious breakfast together, and I found myself slowing down. My anger that I was holding the night before was gone. I was enjoying myself. Jules made me laugh. And relax. I breathed a little easier around her. Which I so shouldn’t do, and I knew that, but somehow couldn’t make myself care. I shouldn’t relax around a journalist a week before a huge gun deal. I shouldn’t relax around a journalist who was smart and funny and easy to be around, because she could get under my skin and ruin everything.
But I couldn’t seem make myself stop.
Finally, we dawdled enough, so we headed to the clubhouse. I could tell Jules was nervous but I also knew the guys would love her as much as I did.
Love her?!
I almost slammed on the brakes.
Where the ever loving fucking hell had that come from?
I didn’t love her. I barely tolerated her. She was the enemy. She was going to ruin my MC. I couldn’t forget that for one moment.
By time we got to the clubhouse, I finally managed to get my head back into the game. Here was Enemy #1 and I needed to treat her like it.
“Come on, let’s go,” I said, heading into the clubhouse. She hurried to catch up with me - I could hear her footsteps behind me - but I didn’t slow down for her. This was exactly how I should be treating her - how I should’ve treated her all along. We entered the dark, smoky, cool interior of the clubhouse and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could finally dump her off onto someone else’s lap. I checked my phone - 11:15? Longest damn breakfast of my life.
I walked towards the guys clustered towards the back. “Hey everyone. This is Jules. She’s here from Blush Magazine to do a news article on real motorcycle clubs. Ghost invited her here, so be nice.”
Ghost, who must’ve heard the talking, came walking out right then. He flashed his most seductive smile at Jules and then gave me a look that clearly said, You’ve been holding out on me. He held out his hand to Jules. “Welcome to the Dead Legion, Jules. You’ll really enjoy it here.”
She shook his hand and they chatted for a moment, and then Ghost looked at me. “I’ve gotta get some shit done. I’ll catch up with you later.” He walked over to one of the bikers and started talking to him in a low voice and then walked out of the room. I turned towards Jules.
“Well, there are your guys,” I said, gesturing towards my fellow MCers. “Fire away.”
I went to the bar and ordered a Jack and Coke. I could watch her from there; I could make sure she was okay without hovering too much. Or smelling her perfume too much. Breathing in her light, clean scent made me want to bury my nose in her hair.
Yeah, it was better if I stayed over here.
9
Jules
I’d never met a more aggravating man in my life. People make jokes about women going through mood swings, but that was nothing compared to Bishop. Last night at the Mexican restaurant, he’d been caring and sweet when I accidentally waited too long to eat, and then right at the end, he got all…assholely and stormed out of the restaurant ahead of me. Barely talked to me. Dropped me off at the motel like an unwanted piece of baggage. And dropped my
Louis Vuitton luggage right onto the ground. I wanted to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze for pulling that stunt.
Then this morning, he was giving me such hot looks, I wasn’t sure if he wanted to eat his pancakes or me for breakfast, but on the way to the clubhouse, he’d gone completely cold on me again. Freezer cold. Antarctica cold. We were laughing about scorpions and TripAdvisor reviews, and then…a blizzard seemed to roll in. He dropped me off with this mangy group of men while he went off and drank at the bar.
And then Ghost - I shuddered inwardly. I didn’t know what the hell Evan saw in the man, but I was terrified of him. Based on Evan’s description, I was ready to like him, or at least be turned on by him. Instead, I couldn’t get past his ice blue eyes. They were terrifying. He was terrifying. He looked like he was capable of eating babies for breakfast. Okay, maybe not babies, but his enemies for sure. Bishop may go hot-cold on me, but Ghost was just…cold.
Mean.
Terrifying.
I turned towards the other bikers and smiled. An old journalism teacher had told me once that confidence was my number one asset - if I pretended like I belonged, if I pretended like I knew what I was doing, then my interview subjects would believe it and follow my lead. Here was the perfect chance for me to test that theory, because I was anything but confident.
“So,” I said, walking towards the group, “who watches Sons of Anarchy?” My intentionally cheerful tone fell flat. They just stared at me. Shit. I panicked for a moment, and then decided to go with another sage piece of advice, this one from my mother: All men like to talk about themselves. Listen, and they’ll love you for it.
I wasn’t sure I wanted these men to love me, but I did know I wanted them to stop staring at me like I sprouted a horn from my forehead.
