Chapter 5
Although I’d had only a few sips of the margarita, it buzzed through me. Coupled with Slice and the way my arms wrapped around him on the ride to his clubhouse, my body sang. I’d never been to an MC before. The one time Mom went, she took Dad and some writer friends.
Slice pulled into a spot near the end of a block lined with motorcycles. Even in the darkened night sky, the chrome gleamed, and my breath caught. The scent of oil and exhaust fumes hung in the cool air.
Slice killed the engine and dismounted in a smooth motion. He lit a cigarette, shoved it in the corner of his mouth, then laid his big hands on each side of my waist. His touch burned through my clothes, and I shivered. His hands remained in place until I steadied myself, and then he slid his fingers through my hair. The wind had blown it to hell.
He pulled away too soon. Unintelligible music vibrated from the club, but the brick facade absorbed the exact song.
While he finished his cigarette, I tried to repair my hair, wishing I could see him, but we stood just out of range of the streetlights.
He stepped closer to me. He smelled smoky and spicy.
“Ready, babe?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, unsure of what awaited me but anxious to find out and trusting Slice.
He clasped my hand and started moving. My heart banged against my chest. Asking about his club’s name was the extent of my questions regarding his biker life. Long ago, I’d decided he’d tell me whatever he wanted me to know. My nerves got the best of me. After that gaffe, I never expected he’d invite me to his club.
Beams of light now flooded us, him , and I felt as if I was seeing the world around me for the first time. A world filled with Slice. I was five feet six inches and he still towered over me. Muscles rippled from him. He commanded attention and—
We halted a few feet from the door, directly underneath a light shining from the top of the building. He glanced up. Before I followed his line of vision, he turned to me and pulled me closer. He wrapped me in his arms and dipped his head.
I stood on my tiptoes and sank into his arms. He swept his tongue into my mouth, and I groaned. My eyes slid closed and my tongue met his. No kiss I’d experienced compared to Slice’s mastery. He devoured my mouth as if he couldn’t get enough of me. I slid my hands through his hair, wishing he’d remove the leather tie, not protesting when he gripped my butt and backed me against the building. His fingers tangled in my hair while his other hand slid under my shirt, invaded my bra, and cupped my breast. His lips roamed down my neck. I gasped, throwing my head back for easier access.
He worked my nipple to a hard point. I pushed my boob further into his hand, wanting more. Between my legs felt hot and swollen.
“Fuck, but you’re sweet,” he growled, thrusting his erection against me. He licked the shell of my ear. “I can’t wait to get into your pussy.” His breath fanned my skin.
“I can’t wait either,” I said, desperate to feel him inside me. “We don’t have to dance tonight. Tomorrow night, after we’re done at the dinner, we can go somewhere.”
He snickered. “You like dancing, Effie,” he said, brushing his lips along my jawline. “I want to dance with you.”
My heart sang. He was sweet, kind, and honorable.
My body count was low. I didn’t sleep with the boy I liked in middle school. My high school boyfriend was my first, a relationship that fizzled not long after. A frat boy I went on a couple of dates with during my sophomore year of college was the second and last man I’d slept with. I was eager to make Slice the honored third addition.
“Come on, babe, let’s go inside.”
We came together for a last kiss before he took my hand again and led me to the door.
My legs felt like mush and my mouth felt swollen and worshipped . As he opened the door, he tightened his grip on my hand and guided me in. A Kenny Rogers song blasted from a jukebox. A huge emblem of a skull atop flowers and dice was painted on the wall near the pool table. The place was bigger than it seemed from the outside, but still not as big as I imagined thanks to Mom’s books. About a dozen four-seat round tables were scattered around the room, most taken by men in cuts. Most stools at the bar were occupied. For every three men, there was one woman.
We were definitely outnumbered. The song ended and the sudden silence unnerved me, especially as the men turned our way.
“Pretty Boy,” someone greeted. “What are you and your woman standing in the door for?”
That opened a floodgate of acknowledgments.
“Why does he think I’m your woman?” I wasn’t opposed to the idea, but it was still disarming despite Slice’s warning. I’d never met these people.
“Cameras,” Slice whispered and pulled me forward before I could question him.
We reached a back table tucked away from view, where a bald man just an inch taller than me stood and slapped Slice’s back.
“Striker,” Slice murmured with amusement. “Still haven’t gotten rid of that fucking name.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” Striker said with a laugh. “Riker was given that fucking name at birth. He should take a road name and leave me in peace.”
“He’s your brother, so take it up with him.”
“I took it up with Mother when that motherfucker told me to change my road name. She said it was okay, so fuck him. Even if she’s not a part of the club, she still gets him in line.”
Slice turned to me. “See what I have to put up with, babe? Sheer fucking madness.” He nodded to me. “Striker, this is my ol’ lady. Effie.”
Unsure of the protocol, I held out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Striker swept his blue gaze over me, then took my hand and kissed the back of it. “Fuck, I wish he hadn’t claimed you. I’d love a turn in your pussy.”
My mouth formed an ‘O’ in surprise. Snickers floated up. Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure how to feel.
“She’s a civilian, asshole,” Slice snapped, placing his hand on the small of my back and guiding me to a seat at Striker’s table.
“Must be the night for them,” another man called. “Prissy’s showing around some author and four of her fans. She took them around the corner to the trailers. That woman thought we lived on the premises. Our chapter’s not big enough for that.”
“Dorie or Darie. Something,” Striker grunted, swigging from his bottle of alcohol. My heart skipped a beat.
My mother had taken her readers to dinner, then came to a biker club ? Horror washed through me. I couldn’t imagine the danger she’d placed herself in. Bad enough. However, if she found us here, I was so fucking cooked.
Striker seemed unaware of my panic. “Prissy’s a big fan of hers, especially since you’re on several of her covers, Pretty Boy.”
“That’s right!” someone boomed. “You’re lucky Riker only wanted you to intercept that drug shipment instead of icing a few motherfuckers.”
“Better you than any of us,” Striker said. “I’m just here ‘til Riker disbands this chapter. We never got the foothold he promised.”
“There might be reasons for that,” Slice responded. “Nothing wrong with partying and pussy, but a chapter needs a different sort of presence to move to the top.”
In addition to being one of the sexiest and beautiful men I’d ever met, he was a strategist. Sighing, I tilted my head and smiled at him. Thick eyelashes rivaled mine in length, surrounding deep chocolate eyes. I could stare into them for an eternity.
“We try to stay away from murder, Pretty Boy,” Striker continued. “That’s your specialty.”
The words penetrated my dreaminess. My gaze flew to Slice’s. He refused to meet my eyes. My heart went out to him and his mortification over that blatant lie, so I reclaimed his hand and squeezed it.
“He’s called Pretty Boy not only for his looks,” I said. No one else intended to speak up on his behalf. I knew about outlaw bikers. Slice might involve himself in illegal activities, but I couldn’t see him committing murder . “He has a beautiful soul. He could never ice anyone.”
Slice stared at me, then his gaze softened, and he leaned closer to brush his lips over mine, ignoring the titters from his brothers. “Thank you, babe.”
“You really got her fucking hooked, huh, Slice?” Striker chortled, slapping his knee as if my defense were the funniest joke in the world. “Got her good and dickmatized.”
If only.
Instead of responding to his crudity, I focused on the bigger problem: my mother’s presence.
“We have to leave,” I whispered. “My mom can’t find us here. You love working for her. I’ll be in trouble but so will you.” Any time she wanted to introduce him to Cass, she’d fire him if we were caught.
As for me, the emotional beatdown wasn’t worth it.
“You’re right.” Slice looked at Striker. “Can you call Prissy and ask how much longer before they return to the club?”
Striker shrugged.
“How about you, Desmond?” Slice asked the guy who’d first let the cat out of the bag. He sat at the bar with a line of empty beer bottles in front of him.
“They’re on the way back,” Desmond answered.
Slice scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck.”
The novelty of our arrival had worn off. Conversation amongst the bikers and the few women resumed.
“Forget her,” Striker ordered. “We need to talk about the trouble you’re in with Satan’s Sinners.”
“Not in front of her,” Slice snapped, nodding to me. “Effie’s a civilian.”
“Don’t give a fuck. You’re here. If those motherfuckers happened upon you, where the fuck would that leave us? Helping to protect you, fucker. Either we go to my fucking office and leave her here or you talk now .”
Slice shot Striker a putrid look. Neither of them cared about the urgency of the situation with my mom.
“Riker went to Jackson to straighten it out,” Slice answered. He made no move to tell Striker we had to leave. “Hopefully, by this time tomorrow, shit will be cleared up.” He gave me a hesitant glance and added, “And my bounty will be paid.”
Bounty ?
I squinted. What bounty and why?
Striker’s blue eyes narrowed. “Just be careful, Pretty Boy. As chapter president, I have to make sure my brothers are safe. That includes you, but I don’t want you to bring hell to our door then hightail it back to OKC and leave me with the fucking fallout.”
“I won’t,” Slice promised. “It’s handled.”
That was all I needed to hear. Moving on to the more urgent problem: We needed to leave now.
I stood. “We have to go.”
Striker glared at Slice. “Handled, huh? You sure about that? Motherfuckers just don’t forget what the fuck you did, Pretty Boy.”
“Do you know something that I don’t, Striker?” Slice demanded, ignoring me.
“We have it on good authority that Dutch is in the vicinity.”
“Fuck. Are you sure? I heard he wiped out a few years ago.”
“He survived. The Satan’s Sinners only bring him out for special assignments.”
Slice heaved in a breath. “Any recent photos of that slippery motherfucker?”
Striker found a photo on his phone and slid it to Slice. I was close enough to see the picture. Though average-looking, he stood out from the crowd because of his thick, red beard.
“He looks like an artificially swollen scrotum.”
My observation earned a laugh from Slice and Striker.
“Agreed, sweet thing,” Striker said as my mother’s voice traveled to me.
I froze. Slice froze. Striker cocked a brow.
“Oh my god, where’s the music? I leave for an hour and the party dies!” my mother exclaimed, her drunken laughter traveling to me. Thank God I remained in Striker’s secluded corner.
My panic deepened and I turned to Striker.
“Where can we hide?” I whisper-yelled, keeping my voice low so Mom didn’t hear me.
Throngs of people concealed her from view. The clubhouse may have been small, but it was filled to the brim. However, I didn’t want to draw attention in any way, including talking an octave too loud.
Striker snorted. “This ain’t a sitcom, girlie; I’m not doing all that shit.”
“C’mon, Effie. We can go out through the kitchen,” Slice said, grabbing my elbow.
We hadn’t taken two steps when Striker called, “Aw, shit, y’all come take a seat. Dolph and Raider, get your asses over here!”
I looked at Slice, but he offered no explanations, a theme for this evening. Instead, he guided me back to Striker’s table, slinging an arm around my shoulders once we sat down. Seconds later, two burly men walked over. One of the men—I assumed Dolph—was bald and had a dolphin tattoo on his head. When they eyed me and their gazes lingered on my cleavage, I leaned closer to Slice.
He glanced at me and scowled, glaring at the newcomers. “Watch where the fuck you’re looking,” he snapped, picking up on my tension and discomfort.
The men shifted their attention to him.
Neither looked happy with his interference, but before either spoke and drew attention our way, Striker whispered, “Dolph, Raider, this is Effie, Slice’s ol’ lady. Her pussy’s off-limit, so leave her be.”
“Yes, Prez,” the men chorused.
Striker nodded at their obedience, and Slice relaxed. Their leers creeped me out. When they turned away, I felt profound relief. However, my mother and her readers’ safety concerned me. If Slice hadn’t laid claim to me, I’d be in a pickle. A motorcycle club wasn’t the best place for a group of unprotected women.
“Now, I need y’all fuckers to guard my table.” Striker leaned back against his chair. “Don’t let those book ladies see us, got it?”
The men looked at each other, then back at Striker, their confusion obvious.
Their hesitation pissed their president off, and he barked, “Stop fucking dillydallying and do what I told y’all!”
“Yes, Prez,” they repeated, turning their backs to us as they formed human shields.
“Umm, thanks,” I said, twisting one of my curls around my fingers. “I’ll be in major trouble if she catches us.”
Striker shrugged, taking a swig of his beer. “I wanna see how this plays out. That can’t happen if y’all leave.”
Wow. How generous.
I didn’t appreciate being his amusement, but I had the sense not to say anything. Striker ordered one of the club girls to bring drinks to us. Without complaint, I accepted a beer from a half-dressed redhead. Her pierced nipples caught my attention. My face flushed, and I avoided looking at her tits again.
“Thank you,” I muttered, swigging the brew and almost gagging.
While the restaurant’s beer had been so/so, whatever poison lurking in this bottle tasted like cold piss.
Slice chuckled at my reaction, plucking the bottle from me. “Don’t drink it if you don’t like it, sweetheart.”
A loud moan stopped my reply. Striker motorboating the redhead, who now sat on his lap, grinding against him, horrified me. When he came up for air, he looked at Slice and began a conversation as if a woman wasn’t dry humping him. In contrast to my discomfort, Slice looked unfazed by the lewdness. Then again, why would this scene bother him? This was his world, and I’m sure he’d seen worse. Maybe, even participated. The idea twisted my stomach into knots and forced me to confront the reality of his lifestyle.
Needing a distraction, I peered around the men guarding us to locate my mother. I couldn’t find her, and I damned myself for losing track of her. That didn’t bode well.
The music shifted from country to a 2000s Britney Spears song. Toxic , which my mother adored. Even with the noise, her squeal was easy to pick out. Striker was less excited, scowling the moment the iconic song blared through the speakers.
He took a big gulp of his drink and then slid the empty bottle away. “Oh, fuck! Not this shit.”
“I love this song,” the redhead breathed, no longer grinding against him like a bitch in heat.
“Well, I don’t,” he growled, setting her aside and getting to his feet. “Okay, turn this shit off, and all visitors get the fuck out! I have a meeting, and I don’t want any bullshit distracting me. If you’re not affiliated with the club, leave.”
I looked at Slice, concerned we were being kicked out. “Should we sneak out the back?”
He shook his head, still lacking the urgency riding me hard. He was so laid back, a quality I found insanely attractive. Growing up around high-strung, dramatic people, gave me the insight to know I didn’t want that in a partner. I decided to take a cue from Slice. If he wasn’t panicking, why should I? He knew biker protocol better than me and they’d kept my mother away from me thus far.
“Nah, babe, he’s not serious. He’s just getting her away from us,” Slice reassured me. “He doesn’t take meetings past sundown. That’s ‘party time,’ as he puts it.”
Oh.
It was a ploy.
“Got it,” I said, then I processed the second part of his sentence and giggled. “He seriously says that?”
“The man doesn’t play about his downtime,” he confirmed, grinning at me.
Neither did I. I was a party girl myself, though what I considered mischief and unruly behavior couldn’t compare to my current situation.
“Just one more song.” My mother’s voice floated to me. “I’m having so much fun with Desi and I don’t want it to end.”
What ? For a moment, my world spun out of control. I considered my mother many things—tunnel-visioned, flighty, determined, helicopter parent—but never a cheater.
She burst into A –You’re Adorable , a song performed by some old dude who had been dead for decades. She loved to sing it to my dad.
One hand flew to my mouth and the other to my chest in a classically overwhelmed and dramatic signal.
Mom giggled again.
I couldn’t listen anymore and started to stand. Slice put an arm around my shoulder and held me in place. He pulled me closer. I tipped my head back, on the verge of losing it. His head descended toward mine. My lips parted and—
“Are you insane?” Mom screeched. “I’m married. I wasn’t propositioning you!”
“The fuck you weren’t,” Desmond barked. “Ask anybody here and they’d say you wanted in my bed.”
Mom gasped.
Okay, Mom wasn’t a cheater. That relieved me to no end. Her ditziness did not. She’d gotten herself into a dangerous situation.
Slice swore under his breath and slid his chair back.
Once Mom saw him, my date was down the drain. I’m sure he’d keep her from seeing me, but she’d demand his time.
“Desmond, sit the fuck down,” Striker ordered before Slice stood. “Author woman, get the fuck out of my club and don’t come back if you know what’s good for you.”
Mom belched. “Priscilla invited me.”
“Prissy won your stupid contest,” Striker said. “You came. You saw. You researched. It’s time to go.”
“I came. I saw. I conquered,” Mom corrected around another burp. “ Veni, vidi, vici.”
“Come on, Daria,” an unfamiliar female voice said. “Striker wants you and the girls to leave. I’ll call an Uber.”
“We couldn’t get rides on the back of a motorcycle?” Mom pressed.
Groaning, I covered my face. Not only because of her persistence, but my date was a total fucking loss. Other than that earth-shattering kiss, Slice and I hadn’t connected the way I’d hoped.
“You better get them there in one fucking piece,” Striker growled.
Wondering what I missed, I lifted my head and glanced at Slice. He shrugged.
Chairs slid back, a spur or four jingled, and belt chains rattled. The chatter of women—Mom—peppered the air. The door opened and a breeze rushed in. I swallowed, afraid to hope Mom left. In the silence, I heard motorcycles flaring to life and then fading away in the distance.
Striker returned to the table and threw a pack of cigarettes on it. He sat.
“Thanks, brother,” Slice said. “I appreciate your help.”
“You should. Did this shit for you, Pretty Boy.” Striker leered at me. “Don’t let my work go to waste.”
“She wanted to dance,” Slice said evenly.
A half grin curved Striker’s mouth. His eyes were pretty. His contemplation was not. “I’m sure.”
As much as Striker’s words unnerved me, he didn’t stop us when Slice took my hand and guided me to the jukebox, filled with CDs. He handed me a twenty and nodded.
“Ladies first.”
I didn’t hesitate. I inserted the money into the slot and found Tennessee Whiskey by Chris Stapleton. It didn’t matter that we were the only couple in the small dance space or that we were the center of attention. The feel of his arms around me, the sound of his croon as he sang the words to me, righted all the wrongs of the evening. We were meant to be. This was meant to be.
This was the first day of the rest of my life as Slice’s ol’ lady.