Frost (EEMC)

by Hunter, Bijou

  So far, we’ve only shared a few moments alone at the bar. Usually, one of us is headed to the restroom or leaving while the other is going in the opposite direction. I’d say her name, and she’d say mine. Those two words held the promise of a future together.

  Very aware I want her, Monroe waits for me to make my move. But I can’t stop hesitating. This need for Monroe feels too good. The anticipation, the what-ifs, and the fantasies of her naked will go away once I get to know the real person. Reality rarely lives up to my dreams.

  Mostly, I’m afraid her secrets might be a dealbreaker. Much like Aja walked away from a relationship that wouldn’t work, I choose to pace myself with one that’ll likely flop.

  Yet, I’ve figured out one of Monroe’s secrets. For weeks, my club brothers, their wives, and the bunnies gossiped about how Monroe is hot for the Executioners’ VP, Lowell Sinema. They’ve tormented me plenty about how my crush has a thing for older men. I always smile at their ribbing, knowing they’ve got it all wrong.

  Monroe doesn’t watch Lowell like a woman in lust. I’m unsure how no one considers what seems obvious to me. Denial, probably. Decades of fucking bunnies have led to several “surprise” kids. The club girls come and go, with an average of six around at a time. Over my lifetime, there’s been maybe thirty. Any of them could have gotten knocked up and left town without mentioning the pregnancy to her biker baby daddy. Especially if the father was married to a ballbuster like most of the club’s old ladies.

  This is one more reason not to force things with Monroe. If she and I don’t work, I’ll be in a weird position. If I bail on Elko, how many people will think Monroe sent me running? Does that mean I have to stick around for a while to protect her reputation? How long is enough? I don’t need more problems to solve.

  So, I wait and wonder. Until one night, late after most people have left, I corner her in the bar. Monroe’s eyes widen and warm when she realizes I’m blocking her path. I say her name. She says mine. Unable to wait any longer, I have to enjoy a taste.

  I lean down and plant a quick, deep kiss on her naturally swollen lips. Monroe leans closer, allowing me to take us to the next level. Why don’t I have her jump on the back of my Harley and go for a ride? We could finally get down to the core of what’s happening between us. I know she wants me. While she stares at Lowell in an overly obvious way—just begging for him to notice—her glances at me are sneakier. I’ve caught her checking out my ass more than once.

  Yet, I end the kiss and back off after nearby people laugh and break the spell. I don’t want an audience. I also become very aware of how Monroe is living a lie. Her truth could ruin everything. Best to wait until she admits why she really moved to Elko.

  I’m probably too passive. I could have taken charge weeks ago. When I do finally start pushing things, my moves go sideways. Never did I think Topanga would slap Monroe. Lowell’s wife isn’t normally violent, and she seems to understand how he might cheat on her with the bunnies.

  However, I’m the one who set this in motion. For weeks, everyone whispered about Monroe and Lowell. Yet, he never reacted to her staring. Not even to tell her to fuck off. I suspect he’s embarrassed by her behavior and ignoring it feels easier. Except Monroe’s too chickenshit to say anything, either. Nothing would ever happen at this rate.

  That’s why I filled my mother’s head with worries about Monroe going “Fatal Attraction” on Lowell. I knew Barbie Jessup wasn’t capable of keeping shit to herself. First, she gossiped to her sister. Since Bambi was even less able to keep her mouth shut, she soon told Bronco’s wife, Lana, and my mother’s best buddy, Fairuza. While the latter didn’t care who’s fucking who, the former was tight with Topanga. Soon, Lowell’s wife showed up at Rooster’s in the evening and refused to leave. Old ladies never hang out at the clubhouse at night, but Topanga plopped her ass down tonight and just stuck around.

  I expected her to make a scene with Lowell, not Monroe. But I misjudged how insecure Topanga was about her man and the new, hot thing at the Overlook.

  That’s why Topanga lost control of her insecurities and slapped an unprepared Monroe across the face.

  Sure, I feel like a dick for setting in motion this moment. But it does the trick. Monroe spits out what I’ve suspected for weeks. She doesn’t want to fuck the club’s VP. He’s just her long-lost daddy.

  Well, now what?

  MONROE HOBBS

  I’m not a stupid person. Though I’m not winning any genius awards, I do enjoy my Hawking-moments. Like choosing to run away from home to meet a stranger. Yeah, that was a real brainiac move.

  Why am I hiding in the most obvious place? Is there a reason why I don’t out myself with Lowell? Will I ever learn to walk well in heels?

  Elko doesn’t look like much to the outside world, but the Ohio town is run by the Executioners Motorcycle Club. According to my mom, this is where she once lived. She worked at a bar dubbed Rooster’s, lived in an apartment with other club girls, and got knocked up by a sexy biker named Lowell Sinema. Then, one of the club wives—referred to as honeys or the even more charming “old ladies”—threatened to bury her somewhere if she didn’t get rid of her baby. Mom didn’t think to tell Lowell. Maybe because she feared he’d actually do what the old lady only threatened. Or possibly Needy Hobbs isn’t all that bright, either.

  Now, I’m here, working at Rooster’s Tavern and living at an apartment complex called the Overlook. All while trying to build up the courage to tell Lowell who I am.

  My plan—half-assed as it might be—was to walk into the Executioners’ clubhouse and out myself as his daughter.

  Except I took one look at the overly masculine bar and the frowning face of head club bunny Jena, and I lost my nerve. I’m not a wuss about life. I know suffering comes with joy. Blah, blah, blah. But that doesn’t mean I was ready to be rejected. Or to find out that Lowell Sinema wasn’t the man built up in my head over a lifetime of my mom’s stories.

  So I chickened out.

  But my fake blonde hair and big natural boobs won me a spot as a club bunny. I get to live rent-free at the Overlook. A few days a week, I waitress at Rooster’s or the club-owned restaurant called Bambi’s Bar & Grill. I have a roommate and new friends, and life is just fucking great.

  Did I mention fucking? Yeah, as a bunny, I’m expected to fuck and suck and, I don’t know, squirt maybe, for all these men. Almost twenty guys! Not all at once, I’m sure. When I take the job, I don’t know my plan. I clearly won’t fuck my dad. Will I fuck his friends? What if Lowell asks me to suck him off? If he does, can I explain the situation while simultaneously vomiting in horror?

  Chickening out wasn’t just weak. It was dumb. Now, I’m on borrowed time.

  But then my hero steps in and calls dibs on me. Yeah, nothing more romantic than one man insisting his friends can’t pound a strange woman he’s looking to monogamously pork.

  While Conor Jessup calling dibs isn’t particularly classy, his declaration offers me the opportunity to get closer to Lowell without worrying about dodging dicks. I mean, I’d just fuck Conor, right?

  And that would never be a problem.

  Conor’s a dark-haired James Dean, but without all the sullen, woe is me, “Rebel Without a Cause” bullshit. Absolutely yummy, he literally struts through life. Well, possibly if someone were chasing him, he’d run. Otherwise, he’s a strutting master. I bet he could channel those hip movements into a very vigorous fuck.

  Yet, rather than tipping me over and porking me something stupid, Conor pretends to be shy. He flashes me smiles and offers me a single pussy-clenching kiss. That’s it! Why call dibs if he wasn’t planning to take advantage of my available snatch?

  I assume I should be patient. Arriving in Elko, I had my big plan. Then, I stumbled into the club bunny life, but I still expected to take charge. Except I’m not that kind of person. My uncle Clive calls me a rutter. I get comfortable and just settle in.

  “You lack hunger,” he would randomly announce during
dinners at his house where I lived for years. “Long ago, your get-up-and-go just got up and went. You best see if you can track it down.”

  I only nodded when he said shit like that. What else was I supposed to do? I considered yelling, “Life should be comfortable! Fuck hunger! My get-up-and-go can stick it up its ass!”

  Uncle Clive isn’t the type of man who responds well to “sass.” Fortunately, years ago, I got used to his pushy personality. That’s how I work. I find a groove and settle in.

  And that’s what I did in Elko. I moved into my apartment, started my job, made a good friend, and lost the urge to face my father.

  Except I can’t hide forever. My interest in Lowell is too obvious. Yet, somehow, I hide my lust for Conor just fine. Most people never seem to notice me checking out his fine ass. But I can’t so much as glance at Lowell without everyone eyeballing me for being a stalker.

  I blame my mom for building up my father’s image in my head. Back when I was a kid, she would tell me how Lowell was the most handsome man in the club—tall and muscular with dark hair and eyes. She always had stories about the Executioners fighting and fucking. Mostly, she shared how being close to them made her feel important in a way nothing else ever had.

  “Then, why did you leave?” I asked, especially when I got older and started to push back against her fairy tales of a bygone era.

  “Because I wanted you more than I wanted to feel powerful,” she would answer.

  Sigh. My mom has always been my favorite person. We’re a lot alike. She said she wanted a best friend, so she made a mini-Needy Hobbs to hang out with. I was her gift to herself.

  No matter where we lived or whose thumb we were stuck under, I never worried as long as Needy was at my side. But then, after she visited Branson with her sister, my life went to crap. Returning to Minton alone, Immee claimed Mom fell for a guy. My aunt is a terrible liar. So much so that Uncle Clive had to tell me the same crap in his naturally smooth bullshit way.

  Even without Needy around, I didn’t ditch Minton. I’m a rutter, after all. Time ran out when Uncle Clive promised me to some dork from Bismarck. That’s when my get-up-and-go returned long enough for me to decide to search for my dad.

  Now, I’m rutting in my new life, waiting for the right time to tell Lowell my truth.

  The change-inducing trigger comes in the form of Topanga Sinema’s manicured hand. The loudmouthed blonde has been Lowell’s “honey” going on eighteen years. I’ve seen her twice when the bunnies were invited to club events. The honeys are fully aware of the bunnies’ dick-related duties. Rather than secret mistresses, we attend the Woodlands’ less family-oriented functions.

  Most nights, the honeys don’t hang around Rooster’s Tavern. After eight is party time for the bunnies. Not me, of course. However, the other bunnies fondle the Executioners, listen to their stories, and go to side rooms for sticky activities. Through it all, I bring drinks to the club guys while sending subliminal messages to Lowell that he’s my daddy.

  Even though the honeys don’t normally hang around, Topanga pees all over the guys’ routines by refusing to leave.

  Days ago, Jena warned me to keep away from Lowell. Topanga thinks I’m a stalker. Makes sense. I do keep hoping by staring at him that he’ll mentally sense our connection. Instead of him picking up on my signals, his wife arrives to eyeball me all night.

  I ought to be nervous with Topanga around, but I’m mostly thinking about Conor. This evening, he’s wearing a dark gray CBGB T-shirt that fits snugly over his broad chest. I don’t know what my problem is—maybe my body thinks it’s ovulating despite the pills I take—but I’m obsessed with the idea of peeling that shirt off him and giving his skin a lick. What’s that sexy sonovabitch hiding under his vintage tee?

  My mind is so solidly on Conor that I don’t notice Topanga stand up when I approach the table to drop off drinks for her, Lowell, the Executioners’ president, Bronco, and the club’s giant blond Sergeant at Arms, Anders.

  I never see her hand coming. The slap echoes in my head. The people around us stop moving. I feel the sting of her palm against my cheek. I stare into Topanga’s outraged blue eyes and restrain my urge to punch her angry face. I don’t know how they roll in Elko, but I was raised to believe turning the other cheek was a loser move.

  “You scheming little whore,” Topanga growls, snarling like a wild animal. “How dare you flirt with my man right in front of me? Do you want to get fucked up? Because I’ll have him kill you if you disrespect me again.”

  I don’t dare look around. What is Conor thinking? Are my fellow bunnies ready to cut me loose? Do I look as embarrassed as I feel? Is it obvious how much my hands want to form fists and start swinging?

  Topanga feels vindicated, I guess. She hit me. I look stupid. Her husband’s honor remains intact. Life is great for all of them. But, sometimes, I can’t control my temper. I try so hard to eat the shit fed to me by stronger people. Years living in Uncle Clive’s house taught me to gobble down the crap and smile as if I’ve never tasted anything better.

  But my temper assumes I won’t live to twenty-five. Why go down polite when I can rip apart the world on my way out?

  That’s why I don’t let Topanga sit back down, feeling superior. Instead, I blurt out, “I don’t want to fuck Lowell.”

  Outraged for me to even speak her man’s name, she leans forward and asks, “Then why, ya basic bitch, are you always slobbering over him, huh?”

  “I think he might be my dad.”

  Topanga gasps super dramatically as her big moment shatters to pieces. She came here tonight to reclaim the pecking order in Elko. Honeys first, bunnies last. I needed to learn my place. Except now, I’ve complicated her big plan. Rather than slap me again, she turns to Lowell.

  “You sloppy fucker,” Topanga hisses, and I wonder if she’ll slap him next.

  I notice the club’s president snickering behind his hand. A few years ago, the sexy, dark-haired Bronco had a surprise baby turn up. Now, his VP is balls-deep in the same situation, except I’m long past the cute phase of childhood.

  Topanga swings around to look at me again and asks, “Wait, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  Topanga goes from crazy Stepford wife to easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy in a flash. “Oh, then, that’s fine. You were conceived during the pre-Topanga era,” she says and strokes Lowell’s back.

  Bronco suddenly stands up, looking as if he’s having a fantastic time. “Let’s take this discussion into the side room for a little privacy.”

  With no choice, I follow him to the area of the tavern where the men normally talk business or bang bunnies. I feel Topanga and Lowell behind me. Before I walk past Conor, I notice him standing. After weeks of hiding from reality, I’m finally face-to-face with my dad.

  Based on Lowell’s expression, I’m about to receive a rude awakening on those childhood fantasies.

  CONOR

  Do I get a reward for being right and does it involve Monroe riding my dick?

  With Monroe’s secret out, my uncle takes the conversation to a private side room. Skipping an invitation, I follow Lowell, Topanga, Monroe, Bronco, and Anders inside. There is zero reason for the last two to join the party. Bronco just wants gossip, and Anders follows his president everywhere. At least, I have some stake in what happens next.

  Wearing her Rooster’s work uniform—a tight, black T-shirt, too-short shorts, and black heels she can’t quite get the hang of—Monroe stands full of awkward energy in the corner. Topanga sizes up the younger woman while Lowell looks unconvinced.

  “Who was your mother?” Bronco asks after everyone stands silently as if waiting for a bus.

  “She was a bunny,” Monroe says, shifting from foot to foot. “That’s what she said. I’m not sure.”

  “What was her name?” Bronco asks, suspicious now.

  Monroe looks to me as if I might help her, but I don’t know the answers to these questions.

  “You’re scaring he
r,” Topanga says, suddenly Monroe’s best friend despite the still-blazing red mark on the younger woman’s face.

  Bronco crosses his arms and frowns. “I’m asking a simple question.”

  After a long pause, Monroe looks at me for reassurance before saying, “Needy Hobbs.”

  “That’s a terrible name,” Topanga immediately declares, despite her name being Topanga. “Did her parents not want her?”

  Monroe’s dark eyes flash with anger she normally hides better. “They were chronic drunks with possible brain damage, so I think maybe her name was a joke. Her sister is Immee. As in ‘I’m Me.’ So, no, they probably didn’t want them.”

  “Poor thing. And she was impregnated by a biker who dismissed her into the world.”

  Lowell gives his wife an annoyed frown. “Wait, how am I the bad guy?”

  “Do you remember someone named Needy?” I ask, wanting to offer Monroe her answers rather than amp up the drama.

  “Yeah, we all knew Needy,” Bronco says, giving his vice president a taunting smirk. “She did that thing with the lime.”

  “Did what now?” Topanga asks, losing her plastic smile. “Is this a trick that Lana and I can learn?”

  Hearing his wife’s name, Bronco loses his smile. “Behave.”

  “You say that word all the time,” Topanga says, batting her eyes, “but I don’t think it means what you think it does, Bronco Parrish.”

  “Can we focus?” Lowell asks, exhaling roughly. He focuses his dark eyes on Monroe and asks, “Why me? Needy was a bunny. She did what bunnies do. Well, you know. You’re a bunny, too.”

  Topanga, Lowell, and Bronco frown in sync. I think they just caught up with how Monroe could have been plowed by most of the guys in this club if I hadn’t called dibs.