Hard Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 1) (13 page)

Sitting up on her elbows, she wanted a better view of him down there. This might very well be the last time this ever happened, after all, and she wanted to crystallize his image for years of fantasies to come. There was no doubt in her mind that this tryst with Ram would be the highlight of her sexual life. He was too handsome, too beautifully built to ever be outdone.

What she saw accelerated her own need to come by a thousandfold. He was stroking himself as he licked her. His big hand holding that big, massive cock, beads of his pleasure running down and quickly being stroked into the hard flesh. A long moan left her mouth at this hot sight and she couldn’t stop what started.

Stroking himself
, she thought, amazed,
while he licks me
.

Her hips bucked again, that whirlwind of pleasure in her center unfolding and flattening throughout her entire body, carried from tip to toe by lightning bolts of bliss. Thighs squeezed against his head, dragging him closer in, forcing him down.

The orgasm hit her hard, erasing all her worries, all her cares. She was just a woman with her legs wrapped around the head of a very willing man—and the two of them didn't have to be anything more than that.

A minute passed, and then another. The hot, sudden, urgent thrills of the orgasm were replaced with low, easy waves of contentment. She breathed hard, riding this wave of crazy bliss as far as it would go.

After the pleasure passed, she finally let him go, breathing hard still. He got up to his knees, grinning. The hard meat of his cock stood out in front of him like a lamp post hanging from the brick house of his body.

“Did you...did you get to do it too?” she asked, feeling silly with her reservation about the words.

Did you come? Did you spill it all? Do you have it enough to empty it out in me? Down my throat, on my belly? Please say you have enough
.

“No,” he said. “That wasn’t what that was about. I wanted to save some for you.” Looking down at her, breathing hard and disheveled, he could not help returning his hand to his cock. Her thighs spread open a little wider. “How about it?”

June was, obviously, going to say yes.

But, it was not to be.

“June!”

The voice was her mother, steadily making her way towards them through the brush.

She flashed a look at Ram—
hide!

––––––––

J
une’s mother eventually broke through the brush, finding June looking a bit out of sorts, but otherwise dressed. June had just managed to clean herself up in time, standing up and trying to look casual by leaning against a tree.

She was an adult, and could have sex with whoever she wanted, but that didn’t mean by any stretch that she wanted to have her mother see a biker outlaw hunk with a huge cock straddling over her, ready to give her the fuck of her life.

“Hi Mom.”

“Is he gone?”

June’s heart fluttered a bit. “Is who gone?”

He was, in fact, completely gone, smart enough to know that just sitting around nearby would be too obvious of a hiding space. She had no idea where he ran off to, but it wasn't close.

“Don’t act dumb with me. I know what goes on back here with boys. Or did you think I forgot about high school?”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Mother.”

Sheila rolled her eyes. “Have it your way. I just wanted to come out here to apologize for your father. I’d hoped your friend—”

“—
fiancé
—” June said it with a fierceness that surprised herself. But then, he
had
just given her the best orgasm of her life.

“Fiancé, of course.” Her mother smiled, clearly coming in peace. “I’d hoped he was here too.”

“You don’t have to apologize for anything. It’s Dad who was being the asshole.”

Sheila picked at her fingers. “Yes, well. You find a way for him to apologize, you let me know. I haven’t sourced it after forty years.”

June nodded. “I don’t know why you put up with him like that.”

“Because your father is a good man, with many flaws. Like all men. Even
your
man, I expect you know.”

“Everyone has problems.”

“Some more than others.” Her mother sometimes was erratic, eccentric, going off on strange tangents in the middle of sentences. A discussion on the prices of oranges could turn into the moving of Pisces through Saturn, or the like. But right now she was in one of her grooves—her thoughts smooth and unimpeded. “It won’t last, honey. Between you and him.”

“Mom!”

“It
won’t
. I don’t know what it is you think you’re feeling? What you’re trying to achieve? Hoping to piss off your father, I expect, and it’s working. So, good job there. And I’ll try and keep him civil. But it won’t last. You know that, don’t you?”

June crossed her arms. “I don’t know anything. Least of all the future.”

Her mother sighed and nodded. “Well, there’s still pie and cake for you to eat up. The guests are leaving. You might want to say goodbye.” She turned and began to exit the crossing, and then stopped. “Paxton may not be the man you were hoping for? He may not be some stud on a bike? But he’s a good man. Reliable. He’s the sort of man you want. The kind every woman really wants.”

––––––––

T
he center stopped holding that night, and everything began to fall apart.

Big Frank Mitzen, a five year member of the Black Flags, walked into a bar at the edge of Marlowe by himself.

Three Wrecking Crew followed him inside, and after five minutes, they dragged him back out again. Big Frank sported a bloody face and a broken ankle that would keep him off the road for six months. They ripped off his patch from his vest and told him to stay the hell out of Marlowe.

That same night, two Black Flag members arrived at Buddy's Auto Mechanic with crowbars and knocked out the windows of every car left in the parking lot outside the shop. Buddy's took the cost on themselves to repair the windows, but it was expensive—which was the point.

The following evening, a car blew up in front of a bar downtown when the gas tank exploded. No one would claim who did it, but inside the bar were enough Black Flags and Wrecking Crew to start a long brawl. The parade of broken teeth, smashed faces, and splintered tables only ended when the cops showed, scattering the bikers to the wind.

The war was in Marlowe, and it showed no signs of slowing.

––––––––

T
he day after the day of the homecoming party, June pulled up to
Shovelhead's
, the unofficial-official bar of the Wrecking Crew MC. It was five in the afternoon and the sun had another good three hours before it would set.

Ram had made good on his end of the deal. Yesterday, June picked up her car from the auto shop where he worked, and it was good as new.

“Should be good to go for at least three months,” he said. “Old cars need a lot of maintenance, okay? So bring it back in here and I'll change the oil.”

She wanted to ask him more—to make some heavy sexualized pun about oils, body oils, lubricants, and more—but his boss called him away.

They texted throughout the day—she couldn't stop herself from asking about him, wondering if he was available that night. She kicked herself for asking as soon as she had, knowing how transparent she was being. She wanted to have him between her legs again; she wanted to have him licking her again.

She wanted to return the favor.

He seemed to know the score, from the texts he sent in:

Ram:

Looking for another tongue lashing?

Sorry babe. Busy tonight with work. Gotta rest.

Come by Shovelhead's tomorrow? We'll hang and you'll meet my people.

June:

Meet YOUR people?

Ram:

Only fair, isn't it? We gotta make this as real as possible.

We can have a few drinks beforehand. Loosen our tongues a bit.

And so now here she was.

Her day had been decent thus far, making progress on the job search front. So far, none had interested her as much as the
Pet Luck
place, but every guide she had read on the internet said that getting a job in the short-term was a numbers game. You had to apply to as many as were available.

The bar squatted low to the ground, heavy brick building up its walls. It was located on the outskirts of town, the last stop on the road it was on for more than five miles. Beyond it was hot Texas sand and dirt, pads and patches of cacti populating the ground where there were not heavy bushes of creosote.

The entrance to the bar was open to the road, and there was a long patch of gravel where cars and bikes—mostly bikes—could park.

To the side, wrapping around the back of the bar, was a long concrete lot behind a heavy wire fence. This was where most if not all of the Wrecking Crew parked their bikes.

June parked in the front. As she did, her phone rang.

It was Kyle. Not sure that she wanted to have that conversation yet, she waited for the phone to ring out. A few moments later, a voice mail arrived.

“Hey June, it's Kyle. I hope you'll give me a call later. I want to apologize for blowing up on you at the party the other night. That was out of line. I had...I had more going on in my head than I thought I did, or else I wouldn't have even tried to get into it with you.

“Bottom line, I fucked up and said a whole lot I shouldn't have. I'd really like to reconnect with you. I'm still worried about you, but you're an adult and you got this far without my help. If you need anything, please give me a call. I want to be there for you.”

Wow
, thought June.
That was...very mature.

She hadn't expected that from her brother, not at all. Her family held built up resentments like savings accounts, most of the time. For Kyle to come forward with an apology, unprompted, filled her with an unexpected updraft of hope for the rest of the day.

At the entrance of the bar there was a heavyset man with a thick mustache, arms crossed, apparently on lookout. He looked at her with open elevator eyes. She liked it when Ram did it—but she did not like it when this one did.

Inside the bar, soft country music played and men in Wrecking Crew colors gathered themselves in small groups at different portions. Most of them were in the very back, far from the bar, trading stories and drinking down pitchers of beer. A red-haired bartender who looked like a viking nursed a tall shot glass full of whiskey.

She found a table near the front of the bar, a little concerned about catching a disease. Her mother's influence pushing in on her mind and decisions again.

In all honesty, the bar was perfectly clean—the floors were well-swept, the counter clear of any stickiness, the chairs and tables all in good condition. Some of the tables
were
nicked and carved into, but it added to the charm of the place more than anything else.

But that didn't stop her feeling of unease. How many of these bikers even knew who she was—why she was there?

Knowing that she was going to meet Ram's people—and more importantly, knowing that she was going to be meeting Ram again—June took it upon herself to look good. Not just good, but
good
. She wore her newest tight pair of jeans, tight suede boots that wrapped up around her knees, and a thin sweater that showed a substantial portion of her cleavage.

The way Ram had made her come, she wanted to give him as much incentive as possible to try again...and she still wanted to try her own hand at pleasing him, besides. But she had arrived before him, apparently...and through the glass reflections of the framed pictures on the wall she started to see a lot of eyes on her.

Three men approached, each scarier than the last. Big beards, chains wrapped around their wrists, forearms like tree trunks. All of them had tattoos of guns, knives, skulls, the kinds of things that she had thought looked exciting on a body like Ram's—but shady on bodies like theirs. They weren't in as good of shape, and while Ram certainly wasn't what she would call clean-cut, these guys looked like they hadn't showered in a month.

They sat down and June's heart started to race. She saw the flash of a gun behind one's vest—a heavy hunting knife in the belt loop of another. One lit up a joint, smiling at her, and the drowsy scent of weed filled the air. She shook her head when he offered her a puff.

June had a business idea. It involved young women hiring a sort of private detective who would follow them around. When she entered a place that was unequivocally bad news, the PI would rush out of his car with a megaphone and yell out, “
Do not do that!”
Sometimes, an extra voice was needed. The business could be called the “Personal Conscience Assistants.”

“Where you been all my life, girl?” said the one with the joint, a pair of dominoes inked on his shoulder. “You looking to make in good with the Crew?”

“'Course she is,” said another, the one with the knife. “Ain't no regular girl just walks in here without an agenda in mind. 'Specially not one as fine as her. Damn, girl. You wanna hit the back right now? I'll claim your ass where you stand.”

“Actually,” said June, resolving to clear the confusion right away. “I'm with—”

“I get it,” said the one with the gun. He grabbed her chin, grip tight. “Don't talk. You don't have to say nothing, precious.”

June's eyes were wide with horror. Was this really happening? Why wasn't anyone stopping them?

A pair of hands, large and powerful, landed on the head of the man grabbing her. He was thrown into the nearby wall, his nose bursting open. The other two bikers got up in a flash, ready to brawl—and then immediately stepped down when they saw who it was.

“That's
my
old lady,” said Ram. “Anything you motherfuckers want to do about that?”

The two standing up backed away.

“Jeez, Ram—”

“—we didn't know—”

“—
your
old lady, christ, I mean—”

They scrambled away without saying more, retreating back to their table. Ram knelt down over the man he slammed into the wall.