Road Tripped: Satan's Devils MC Utah #1

by Manda Mellett

  “Pizzas are on their way. Didn’t know if you had any particular preference as you were asleep.”

  “Yeah, you looked so peaceful, mouth open, snoring…” Rascal’s laughing, the jerk.

  “Could hardly hear myself ordering,” Preacher joins in.

  In an adult manner, I show them my finger, but you know what it means when people yank your chain? It means you’re accepted. I enter the house wearing a grin.

  We’d left in such a rush, I hadn’t packed fresh clothes, but that’s okay, I don’t need any to sleep and what I’m wearing will be fine until I get back tomorrow. But my mouth feels like it could do with freshening up. I’m half wondering whether I should ask if anyone knows if there’s somewhere nearby where I can buy a toothbrush, when Rascal starts chucking packages at each of us. Automatically catching it, I realise it’s exactly what I was thinking of—a small kit containing a toothbrush, toothpaste and a disposable razor. Well, the latter I really don’t need. How prepared they are again makes me realise that nothing about this is new to any of them.

  “Hey, Snatcher. I think I’ll go freshen up.”

  “Sure, Road. Your bed’s upstairs, first on the right. Bathroom’s adjacent.” I give him a nod then go up to check on my lodgings for the night. Bed looks comfy enough, but hell, I just fell asleep in the back of an SUV, doubt if much will keep me awake tonight. After a quick peek in, I brush the fur off my teeth, then go back downstairs to find I’m just in time for the pizza delivery, which coincides with the return of Piston and Swift.

  “Girl get home okay?” I ask, concern still remaining about the kid.

  “Nah, I left her at Disneyland instead.” Piston rightfully rolls his eyes at the suggestion she wouldn’t. “We watched until she was inside, then drove away.”

  “You speak to her parents?”

  He shakes his head. “Not our way, Road. The fewer people who have eyes on us the better.”

  “Kid saw you,” I point out.

  “That kid was a mess,” Swift tells me. “She probably won’t remember any details at all. If she were older, we’d have worn masks, but those would only have frightened her more.”

  They seem to have all the bases covered. I suppose they’re right, kids her age do not make particularly reliable witnesses.

  It appears it’s not just me who’s suffering the aftereffects of an adrenaline rush. After stuffing our faces with food—I’m easy and there’s not much I dislike so I’m happy with the selection they got—someone flicks on the television and breaks out the beers, but it’s a fairly quiet night.

  My leg’s really aching again now, maybe running earlier wasn’t the best idea in the world, so I pat my pockets to make sure the bottle of Tramadol I always carry with me is still there, then make my excuses and go to turn in for the night.

  I piss, splash my face, use the toothbrush again, then strip off my clothes with the exception of my boxers and slide into the bed.

  The day’s activities, the rescue, the overuse of my leg and the tablet I’ve taken mean I don’t toss and turn, just go out like a light.

  It feels I’ve only been asleep seconds when movement causes me to wake. At first I’m groggy, then I realise there’s someone in my room.

  “Who’s there?” I call out.

  I do so at the same time as someone knocks into something. “Shit. Sorry, Road. Didn’t mean to wake you. Thought I’d do okay without putting on a light. Shit, that hurt.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Stubbed my fuckin’ toe.”

  I flick on the bedside light. “What are you doing in here, Swift?”

  Her brow creases. “Coming to bed.”

  “But this is my room.”

  “Sorry, princess, but there are only four bedrooms so we’ve all got to double up.” She starts undoing her blouse and throwing it down on a chair. Then her hands move to the button on her fly.

  “Jeez.” I start to throw off the sheet, then remember I’ve stripped down to my underwear. I lean over the bed, reaching for my t-shirt. “I’ll go sleep on the couch.”

  “What the fuck, Road? You worried I won’t be able to keep my hands to myself?”

  No, I’m more worried about me keeping mine where they should be. I shouldn’t have the hots for Swift. Not only is she my partner, but she’s also not the type of woman I normally go for. I like mine soft, feminine, with curves. Long hair which I can wrap my hand around when she’s sucking my cock is a definite plus. Swift is lean, muscular, and I have no doubt every inch of her is firm, and her hair is cut into a short bob, not much to hang onto there. Her breasts are small, not the bouncy pillows I normally prefer. Her hips, well, they’re slender more like a man’s.

  Nothing to get my cock showing interest, except, for some reason it does. I should do the gentlemanly thing and avert my eyes as business-like she undoes her functional sports bra—her breasts, so firm I notice, barely drop—and then she reaches for a t-shirt and covers herself back up.

  The brief glimpse of her white cotton panties, hell, that had been as hot as any pair of lacy underwear. It was what was hidden from view that made my mouth water.

  I’m a man who works with women constantly in a near or completely naked state. I should be immune to the female figure. When it comes to Swift though, I find I’m not. So yeah, I’m worried where my hands might roam while I’m asleep.

  I shift further over to my side of the bed as she lifts the sheet.

  “Switch the light off, will you?”

  I do. Then roll onto my back, throwing my arm up over my head. Christ. My cock is rock hard and throbbing. Normally after taking Tramadol it puts my whole body to sleep, but Swift seems to have an effect on me even medication can’t prevent. This is as awkward as fuck. Why didn’t Pip partner me with Rascal? There’d be no attraction there.

  Maybe it’s not her that’s causing my dick to swell. Perhaps it’s just the adrenaline rush not quite worn off.

  “I apologise if I snore,” I warn her, knowing that I often do.

  “Road, I won’t hear you. And I’ve slept in a room full of men often enough before. There’s nothing you can do which I won’t have already experienced.”

  You’ve never known the feel of my cock in your pussy… And, she never will. Fuck, one move toward her and she’d probably slice my dick off.

  She fidgets. The bed moves as she turns over, then with a quiet fuck, she sits back up, then lies back down.

  This mattress is obviously cheap and well-used. There’s a dip in the middle and I work hard to prevent myself rolling over. I lie still, willing my cock to settle down, turning my thoughts to maintenance on my bike, anything to take my mind off the nearly naked woman lying by my side.

  Every movement she makes, I feel. It’s when the bed starts to gently vibrate, that my eyes snap open again.

  Oh hell. She can’t be rubbing one out, can she?

  Fuck. If she is, maybe I can. Maybe that would allow me to sleep.

  Fuck it. I may not have been a gentleman when I ogled her while she was undressing, but there’s no way on this earth I can put my hands on my dick while she’s lying next to me in the bed. Not when she’s doing that.

  The vibration continues.

  Fuck this. That couch downstairs sounds pretty inviting right now. At least it would give me some privacy to take care of my own needs while she can carry on taking care of hers.

  Not wanting to disturb her, I curl my abs and start to sit up. It’s when I swing my legs off the bed, I hear her voice.

  “Road?”

  Assuming she’s asking where I’m going, I explain, a little tersely. “I can’t sleep.” It’s an honest reply, but I don’t want her to be embarrassed by pointing out the reason why.

  “Road?” She reaches out her hand. When her fingers curl around my arm, strongly enough to hold me back, I feel her shaking.

  Her hand is shaking?

  I flick the switch in the bedside light. It’s pale glow illuminates something I didn’t antic
ipate. I’d expected to see her face flushed with pleasure, instead, her eyes are open wide, and her skin is pale. “What’s the matter?” I ask. Conscious of others sleeping around us, I’ve kept my voice low.

  Her eyes are staring intently at the lower part of my face, then her eyes raise to meet mine. “My hearing aids, I can’t use them when I sleep. I can’t hear you, Road.” She bites her lip, looking for her, surprisingly helpless. “Unless you speak very clearly into my left ear.”

  She can’t hear what I say unless she puts her hearing aids back in, and I can’t sign. There is one quick solution.

  I lean right over her. “Change places.” I’m lying on the right-hand side of the bed. My words had been falling literally on her totally deaf ear.

  A small smile appears, then a nod. I get out of bed, pulling my t-shirt down over my boner, and getting back in the other side once she’s shifted across.

  “Is this better?” I ask, enunciating each word clearly and directly into her ear. She raises and dips her head. “When you’re wearing your hearing aids, I don’t think of you as deaf.”

  “With them, I’m not. Oh, it’s not perfect. If someone mumbles, if there’s too much background noise, I sometimes can’t catch things. But the team knows and makes allowances.”

  “You compensate,” I tell her. “Adjust. You’ve overcome your disability, Swift. You haven’t let it hold you back. I’m fuckin’ impressed.” I can’t be sure she’s hearing every word, but she’s heard enough.

  “Before this happened, I was never scared. Cautious, wary, of course. But a soldier turns fear into adrenaline, otherwise they’d run from danger, not into it. I trained, I can handle situations that most others can’t. I’m not bragging, it’s fact.”

  I lie back down, listening to her speak, wanting to pull her into my arms, but I value my balls too much. At least talking is relaxing her, the shivering that had disturbed me so much is receding, her trembles becoming weaker.

  “You need to know my weakness, Road. I can’t sleep with hearing aids in. For a start, they cause feedback if I lie on my side, and guess what? That’s the position I navigate to once I close my eyes. Also, if I kept them in all the time, that leads to a problem with wax. But when I take them out, I’m helpless.” She pauses, but there’s no point in me saying anything. Instead, I reach for her hand, to offer tactile reassurance, but realise my mistake before I make contact.

  “Unless I’m lying on my right-hand side, if a fire alarm goes off, I probably wouldn’t hear it, and depending on the frequency, I might not even hear that. Low sounds I can’t pick up at all, so if an intruder entered, I wouldn’t wake. I feel so darn helpless. Back at the compound I’ve got technical aids—the bed shakes, or lights flash if the door opens or an alarm goes off. But away from home?”

  She’s helpless.

  It would be frightening for anybody, but she’s highly trained. She can handle herself in every situation. I might not have served myself, but I’ve gotten close to men who have. Someone like Peg, for example, always wants to be in control. He’ll always sit with his back to the wall and face any point of entry. Always vigilant, always on the lookout. Swift’s training is more advanced than anyone I’ve ever met, so this will have hit her badly.

  If I’m going to be her partner, she’s right to open up to me. If we’re going to work together, we need to know each other’s strengths, and where we’re not so strong. She’s seen my weakness, a fuckin’ leg which will hopefully improve in time, though never come right completely. Now she’s admitted hers, and I fucking hate it on her behalf.

  “At home,” she expands, “I feel safe. Here, I’m exposed.” She takes a breath. “I’ve got PTSD, Road. And I shouldn’t fuckin’ have that. I wasn’t injured in action.”

  I pull myself up and lean on my elbow to speak into her not-so-deaf ear again. “Swift, you were fuckin’ injured saving a man’s life. Your training and quick thinking meant he’s alive today. What was that if not action?”

  She goes so quiet I wonder whether I’ve spoken too fast, whether she’s picked up on anything that I’ve said.

  “I hate it, Road. Hate that I can be strong during the day. Hate that it’s only those aids which make me that way. Hate that I rely on them so completely that when I take them out I feel so fuckin’ vulnerable that I uncontrollably shake. And I hate that for some fucking reason, I’m talking to you this way.” She glances up at me and shakes her head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

  I don’t know why she is either. I hadn’t expected her to open up with such honesty. “I’m glad you are,” I swallow back the ‘babe’ that comes to my lips automatically, “because I didn’t think it was PTSD, I thought you were taking a personal moment.”

  Her brow creases, then her eyes widen. After a couple more seconds a startled snort comes from her. Then she starts to chuckle, followed by an outright laugh. When Swift bumps her fist to your arm, I find you know all about it. Immediately after, I’m massaging where she hit.

  “I can’t believe you thought I was having a frig.” She snorts again.

  I lay back against the pillow, feeling a bit proud that despite the seriousness of our conversation and her admission of weakness, I’ve managed to put a smile on her face.

  15

  Swift…

  I hate admitting I’m weak.

  I hate that my vulnerability affects me in ways I can’t control. That being in an unfamiliar environment with none of the technology that I normally depend can cause a panic attack to come up as if from nowhere and make me physically shake. I can’t help myself, can’t control the fear that comes over me. I can sleep on a plane, in a chair, but put me in a bed, when my PTSD hits, the ability to drop off evades me.

  It’s the silence, so acute. I can hear things like a voice very close to me, or noises like a gunshot, loud enough to penetrate my deafness, but I always know if I close my eyes an enemy might sneak up, unheard and unseen.

  Talking with Road, I’d picked up enough to satisfy his questions, but when he was speaking fast, I could only make out the odd word.

  Snatcher knows I get PTSD, and his solution is ensuring I don’t sleep alone and that without my technical aids, I have working ears in the room with me. I should have expected he’d team me up with Road, but I didn’t think. I suspected it would be Rascal or Piston.

  I’m a soldier. I’ve never asked for, or expected, to be treated differently from a man. Of course, when I served, separate bedrooms and bathrooms were available for the different sexes on base. But out in the field it was a case of make do where and when. Here, with the Devils, it’s more important than ever to pretend I’m the same as them.

  When we walk into a situation such as how we rescued Mona today, we receive information in bits and pieces. So we tend to set out en masse, even if only a few of us end up taking part in a mission. It’s better to be overmanned than under, and better still to get to where we need to be fast, even before we know what we’ll be walking into.

  Duty is good at finding us places to stay but were we to insist on the right number of bedrooms, it would cause him a headache. It’s not unknown for eight of us to be faced with just two rooms.

  Unless I was going to act like a prima donna and insist on my own room, I would have to suck it up and sleep with however many brothers needed to share. I was never worried about anyone making a pass at me, but I knew from the start I risked exposing my PTSD.

  My hope that I could keep it hidden was defeated early on, and it soon became clear that something happens to me when the lights are turned out.

  Luckily, I was with men who knew how debilitating PSTD can be. My Satan’s Devils’ brothers’ reaction had, to a man, been supportive. We’re a family first, and they went out of their way not to make me feel excluded or different, my deafness just an obstacle to be overcome. The solution was obvious. When I didn’t have my technology around me, I’d have human ears sleeping near me. That was why I’d been scared when I’d felt the bed
move and thought Road was going to leave.

  Usually a human presence is enough to reassure me, but sometimes I’ll still get panic attacks at night, in whatever form they might take. Sometimes, I freeze, lie awake, and just wait in hope that the attack will pass and I’ll either sleep or day will break. Sometimes I whimper in my sleep. Sometimes, apparently, I call out.

  Other times I uncontrollably shake. I should be embarrassed for the explanation that Road had jumped to, but it’s so ludicrous it had made me laugh. Never, ever, before had I been accused of rubbing one out.

  There was no reason not to explain to Road, and there’s some comfort in him knowing now. Now he knows, he won’t leave me alone. With that assurance, I should be able to go to sleep now.

  But I still can’t. And now it’s not my PTSD plaguing me, talking to Road had pushed that back into its box. It’s Road himself. It’s knowing how close he is. It’s the effect he’s having on me. Once we’re back in Utah, maybe I should try him out, get him out of my system once and for all.

  What message would that send though? I’ve deliberately avoided going anywhere near my brothers, knowing that if I gave it up to any of them, I could end up being treated like a sweet butt. That wouldn’t be bad in itself, I’d often welcome the chance for a release, and most of them probably wouldn’t disappoint. But some of them wouldn’t turn me on at all, and feelings would be hurt if I turned anyone down. I’d always thought it much easier to say no to everyone and retain the strict boundaries between us.

  If Road’s going to transfer, my exclusions have to include Road.

  Damn it.

  I roll over and beat the pillow into submission, then rest my head back down.

  You’re safe, I remind myself.

  But Road’s closeness, the sweet smell of his breath, the warmth extruding from his skin which I can feel even though our bodies don’t touch, taunts me. Why do I find him so darn sexy? To my dismay, I’m having to concentrate to stop my hand moving down and taking care of myself. For real this time.