BIKER DADDY: The Chain Gang MC Page 16

  Sometimes it made her nervous, living in a place where her name was on a leash and where her mail didn’t arrive having been forwarded twice. She was just… home. Sometimes it made her want to fly away, but then she looked at Jack and at Michael, and even though the urge to wander was there, she didn’t have the least idea where she’d want to go. Not unless she could bring them too.

  Jack was in the process of grooming Bodhi to take over his role as President of the Chain Gang. Lauren didn’t want the job; she liked being the boss of the Wardens, and she had worked hard to make sure they respected her. She’d started making changes, too, pushing them towards a more inclusive method of determining if someone was worthy of being patched. That was, she busted up the rule that only white men could be patched into the Wardens. It was slow progress; people just flat-out didn’t look at a club that didn’t have many women or many people who were not white, but changes were happening, and Joanna was looking to “stick the course.”

  Mindy and Jack had talked a lot about his role in the Chain Gang. He was clear, and she supported this, that he didn’t want to walk away from the club entirely. He wasn’t even sure he really could. But he also didn’t want to continue to be the boss of things. He said that, with a baby at home, and her on his arm, he didn’t need that external family in quite the same way. He wanted them, but they weren’t his focus.

  She understood, and she told him so.

  After Michael had been thoroughly bounced and kissed, Jack turned back to her.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said.

  “Hey, handsome,” she replied, squinting up at the sun.

  “I only have a minute, I’m actually on my way to a meeting, but I wanted to stop by and tell you both I love you. I’ll see you at home? I might be late.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Mindy said and watched her handsome husband ride away.

  ***

  At home, Mindy had just gotten Michael into bed when she heard the front door open and close. She glanced at the time; this was very different from the late Jack had suggested. It was barely nap time.

  She walked towards the front door to find out what was going on, but before she got a single word out, he grabbed her wrist, spinning her gently, and planting her up against the wall.

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he whispered in her ear, his words a caress that tightened her nipples and twisted her clit. She heard him unzipping, and then felt her skirt pool up around her hips. He spread her feet out with his foot, and she groaned, wet and eager without any further request. They’d become absolute masters of hot and heavy quickies over the past year, eager and excited and delicious. He was already hard, and when he pressed up into her, he met no real resistance. She groaned, using her forearm to stifle the sound, as he thrust up into her. He was moving quick, fast and wanting, and she did her best to meet his strokes with her own hips. He must have been close already; his hand came around to find her clit and finger her, hard, driving her towards an explosive orgasm even as she ground down onto him.

  But before she could, he pulled away, leaving her empty and aching. He took her by the hand and led her to the couch, their second favorite location. He sat down on the couch, pushing his jeans down out of the way so neither one of them would get pinched, and then tugged her back onto his lap. She slid down onto him easily, piercing her cunt with his cock, and rocked into him gently. The ruined orgasm was on the horizon, so ready to leap back into her cunt and drive her over the edge, but as she started to move, he put a finger over her lips to catch her attention.

  “Wait for me?” His voice was so soft, so eager, so gentle, and she couldn’t do anything other than nod. She drove down onto him, hard and harder, pushing away the surging pleasure while he arched underneath her, his hands full of her breasts and his breathing growing hard and rapid. Just when she was thought she’d lose control entirely, his eyes flashed open.

  “Come with me,” he whispered, and she did, shattered by his command in a way she always thought only happened in movies, right up until they started playing this chastity game. The pleasure rammed through her, coming in roiling waves that moved with her thrusts. She could feel her cunt spasming around him, feel the surge of his pleasure filling her, again and again, until they collapsed together, sweaty and panting.

  After a little while, she rolled off of him but stayed cuddled into his arm, her legs draped over his lap. He held her closer, leaning down and kissing the top of her head.

  “We do pretty well together,” he said after a minute.

  She threaded her fingers through his. “I think we’re doing just fine.”

  “I’m glad you married me.”

  “I’m glad, too.”

  THE END

  Read on for your FREE bonus book – RECKLESS

  RECKLESS: The Hangman’s Crows MC By Claire St. Rose

  I LIVED MY LIFE INSIDE THE LINES… UNTIL HE CAME ALONG AND WRECKED IT.

  Strict. Careful. Safe.

  That’s how I lived my life.

  But then Micah came crashing in…

  And showed me how to be a bad girl for him.

  I was raised to obey authority, not to question it.

  So when Micah said he wanted to make me his…

  I didn’t know how to say no.

  Not that I wanted to.

  He was six and a half feet of muscle, tats, and a bad attitude.

  And God, he drove me crazy.

  I’d never met anyone quite like him before.

  Never encountered a man who could make me feel so many different things.

  Passion, anger, panty-melting desire…

  He knew how to press every button.

  But everything in this world has consequences.

  And if I want to be with the bad boy, I’ll have to pay the price:

  With everything I’ve ever loved.

  CHAPTER 1 "Lose the headscarf!" Callie ordered.

  Zoya rolled her eyes and examined herself in the mirror hanging over her dresser. "Not happening," she said in a lilting mezzo-alto voice, her Iranian accent noticeable. Eyes the color of a Persian sunset, golden and smoky, stared out from a flawless, dusky-brown face, and her lush pink lips curved in a half-smile. Dark eyebrows winged over heavy-lidded, almond-shaped eyes with thick, black lashes, and her cobalt hijab fell in folds around her oval-shaped face, hiding her rippling, glossy, chestnut hair.

  Her roommate, Callie Audrey, tossed platinum blond dreadlocks that were streaked with purple and blue over her tattooed shoulder and struck a vogue pose in the mirror behind Zoya. Hands on her narrow hips, Callie thrust her meager bust forward, backing away with giggles at the sight of herself. She playfully canted her head from the left to the right, her studded nose wrinkling in speculation, as she stared at her striking Middle Eastern friend. At length, she pointed a finger coated in black nail polish at Zoya and said, "Eh, I guess you're right. It adds character. Makes a statement, you know? Like, fuck yeah! I'm Muslim. Deal with it!"

  "Well, something like that. Minus the f-word, of course," Zoya replied with a grin.

  "Right, right. So, come on, already, girlfriend! I'm ready to hit the club, dance with a few hot guys. That thesis is kicking my ass, and a few Jägerbombs are just what the doctor ordered. Hey, I heard Velvet Bombay is playing at The Punchline. Wanna go? Ohmigod, I've had a crush on their front man for, like, half a decade."

  "Ugh! Don't even mention the thesis right now. You know I lost three pages the other night. Forgot to save as I typed, stupid technology. Give me your keys."

  Zoya held out her hand, and Callie dropped the keys to her Porsche convertible into her palm, both girls chuckling in amusement. The last time they had gone out together, Callie had gotten plastered and misplaced them, and they had to take a cab back to their apartment, only to discover Callie had dropped them in her bra. New rule was that Zoya would drive them to and from the fun.

  Callie got ready to leave but paused
at the door with a stricken look. "Wait—did you call your mom so she doesn't freak out like last time if you don't answer your phone?"

  "Relax. I've got it covered," said Zoya. "I told her I'd be at the library for a few hours and my phone will be on silent. Take it from me—I complained so much about term papers that she wants me to be in the library."

  "You're so bad! I mean, you're really so good that it's cute when you try to be bad!"

  "Oh, shut up! I’ll have you know there's more to me than meets the eye." Zoya showed off chic black designer balloon pants that ruched at her thighs and draped to her ankles over stylish sandals. She wore a daring, form-fitting cami beneath an oversized, gray cashmere cardigan. The clothes suited her slender frame.

  "Very sexy! I'm noticing," said Callie in a sing-song voice.

  They strutted out of Apartment 212 and hit the elevator bay to take the short ride down to the ground floor. Then, they were out the front doors of the lobby and into the early spring night where the sidewalks in their downtown neighborhood were alive with pedestrians seeking a good time just like them. Zoya and Callie stayed within a block of the university where they attended graduate school. Their apartment complex was conveniently located in the heart of all the action, but tonight Callie was planning on showing Zoya a new hotspot. The purple Porsche chirped as Zoya disarmed the alarm and unlocked the doors.

  They climbed in and Callie pulled down her visor to use the mirror to check her makeup, pleased with the cherry cola lipstick. She blotted her lips and looked to Zoya with a dimpled smile. "Normally we hang out at college clubs, right?"

  In the back of her mind, Zoya was thinking her conservative Muslim parents would be horrified to know that's where she usually hung out, but she nodded in answer to Callie's question, wondering what her best friend was about to spring on her now. "So, what type of club is The Punchline?"

  "Take the interstate. We're headed a little further out tonight. It's easy to find, I promise."

  "Don't ignore me," Zoya said with a grin. "What kind of club is it?"

  Callie sighed and groaned, giggling. "If I tell you, you're not gonna want to go. Let's let it be a surprise."

  "Callie!"

  "Listen, just give me a chance to show you a change of scenery. Let's make a deal. If you hang out at the club for a half hour and you find you don't like it, we can leave."

  "You say that, but in reality that's not going to happen."

  "Have I ever let you down before?"

  Zoya snorted and kept her eyes on the road, shaking her head with a smile. Wherever they were going, anytime Callie got an idea, it was hard to steer her away from it. Zoya decided to tag along for the ride, if for no other reason than to make sure her rebellious, party-loving roommate didn't get into too much trouble. By the time the sleek purple car pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of The Punchline, Zoya was definitely having second thoughts about following Callie inside, but it was too late to turn back.

  "Ta-dah! It's a biker bar!" Callie hooted. She punched open her door and hopped out with a gleeful shout that begged for attention. All eyes in the parking lot slid in their direction. Zoya scrunched down lower in the driver's seat.

  "I've watched TV shows about clubs like this. They always involve fist fights and gunslingers. Are you sure you want to go in there?" she asked nervously.

  "Just half an hour! But, you'll love it, Zoya. I know you will. I mean, look at this place! It's got all the gritty spunk missing from the watered down college clubs. You have to simply"—Callie took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, extending her colorfully inked arms out at her sides—"expand your mind."

  Zoya reluctantly opened her car door and got out, closing and locking the car behind them. She glanced around the lot, surveying their surroundings. They had taken a fairly straightforward route to get there, but the club was tucked away on a lonely lane that looked miles away from anywhere civil.

  The building looked dilapidated, but it was clearly an affectation. There was no way it could be as old as it looked. The whole place was lit up with bright neon lights. Unpainted siding, faded and gray, fronted the medium sized bar. There were few windows, and those present were tinted opaque black. In bold red letters, painted onto the aluminum roof that slanted over the front of the building, were the words The Punchline .

  In front of the bar, there were rows upon rows of motorcycles that took up most of the parking lot—plus, souped up cars, the sort of vehicles that graced magazines. For Zoya, the entire tableau was reminiscent of something from a movie set.

  "Wait for me," Zoya called after Callie. She pulled her cardigan closer and hurried up. They strolled past a banana yellow 442 Oldsmobile, gleaming beneath the street lamp, shiny enough to see their reflections in the paint. "Have you ever been here before?" Zoya hissed.

  "Once or twice a while back," Callie replied. There were lurkers and folks hanging around by the entrance to the bar the girls had to push through. Callie fit right in. With her black leather pants and white t-shirt showing off her skinny arms covered with colorful tattoos, not to mention her colorful dreadlocks, she looked like she belonged in a place like this. Zoya, on the other hand, couldn't have stood out more.

  She would've preferred to leave, but the pounding music loud enough to be heard outside lured her. She was a first generation American, born to Iranian parents who had tried to foster a love of their native culture within their progeny, but Zoya had really grown up on American grunge rock, and the band that was rocking out inside was calling her name. The squeal of electric guitars and pounding drums, screamed lyrics, and excitement had her peering over Callie's shoulder for a peek inside.

  "I told you they were performing." Callie threw up rock star hands and swayed her hips, strutting on inside with Zoya close on her heels. The inside of the club wasn't what Zoya had expected. Beneath her sandals were hardwood floors. The ceiling was plastered with eye-popping posters, and blue smoke hovered like a gauzy cloud. The club was packed and the noise was thunderous.

  A makeshift stage was at the back of the establishment where the long-haired members of Velvet Bombay jumped around with flashy guitars and microphones. A mosh pit had congregated near the stage, but from where the girls were standing, they could see tables where those unwilling to stand around could sit, and Zoya made a beeline for an empty chair. It was Callie who rushed right into the mass of dancers to get closer to the show.

  "Callie?" Zoya looked around in alarm when her friend vanished. She couldn't fathom how a girl could disappear as quickly as Callie seemed to do every time they went out together. "Crud!" she muttered. She felt like the odd-man out, being one of the only people sitting down. Her amber eyes darted left and right, taking in the sights and excitement. A mohawked bartender was manning a long, crowded bar. She pondered ordering a soda but changed her mind when she saw how many people she would have to wade through to get over there.

  Crossing her arms on the table, Zoya watched her cellphone count down the half hour so she could find Callie and tell her she was ready to go. Things in the bar were looking a tad bit too wild for her. Unfortunately, the digital numbers on her smartphone seemed to transition slower than ever. Zoya closed her eyes, suppressing a groan. When she opened them, she noticed him.

  He walked into the crowded club flanked by five or six people. She couldn't count his entourage because her eyes were riveted to his face. The shadow of a beard covered his cheeks and his cleft chin, and his mouth arrested her attention. His lips were set in a firm line, bottom lip fuller than the top. Gold rimmed, phthalocyanine blue hued shades rested on the bridge of his nose. Thick, dark brows knit together above the sunglasses as he turned his head and surveyed the interior of the smoky bar. Zoya felt the moisture on her tongue dry up, as her mouth
fell open and her eyes widened at his sheer sexiness.

  "Wow," she whispered to herself.

  She watched him slowly lick his lips and flip back the tail of his leather jacket. Her burning eyes drifted down to his body, the wide shoulders, and the abs rippling beneath his ribbed white tank. Denim jeans hung from his hips. He wore a dark leather belt with a massive belt buckle that proclaimed KING in scripted letters. When he moved, it was the slow, methodical prowl of a predator on the hunt. Something in his stance commanded attention. It was obvious why the women nearest him stopped whatever they were doing to stare.

  Zoya absently adjusted her hijab over her hair, finally tearing away her gaze. She cleared her throat and contemplated braving the throng for that soda after all. She was feeling parched. She had never seen a man that dripped such sex appeal, and she was a graduate student; she had seen plenty of good looking men on campus. Her light brown orbs skated back in the direction where the man had been standing, but apparently he had moved deeper into the bar and she could no longer find him. She whistled and rolled her eyes at her silly moment of weakness. She didn't need to be staring at a guy like that anyway.