Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
R arity…
I caught a glimpse of the way Striker looked at me and I felt a flight of butterflies take off in my stomach the likes should lift me off the ground.
Since our little date in St. Augustine, we’d practically been texting nonstop, and those texts had quickly turned… well… uh… sexually feral is a good way to put it.
He excited me like no other man had ever gotten me going, and part of that was his patience and precision in asking me. Like literally, he checked in with me constantly about if this was okay, or that was okay, or if this or that was too much and he wouldn’t take one- or two-word answers from me. He sometimes pried until I had to practically author a whole dissertation about how I felt about some of his suggestions, or until I was pretty much spilling my guts about what I wanted or found hot…
Some of it left me flaming with embarrassment at how I wanted to be riled and defiled – but he never, not once ever made me feel ashamed for wanting the things I did. Most of the time he confessed he wanted them too, or even went a few steps further.
Some of the things were uncomfortable to think about… at first… but again with him wanting and needing to talk about things until some of my initial squick either calmed down or in some cases became insurmountable. I didn’t know how to feel about some of the things he liked or wanted – but at the same time, he swore that some of them weren’t deal breakers, like at all.
Some, he asked if we went slow, if I’d make up my final mind after we tried things out.
That sounded reasonable – and so I’d agreed; but then wondered if I was crazy and if things were moving too fast and how bad my mother might freak out and the anxiety would get up there – and still, he would sit with me, across the miles, and comfort me and calm me, and tell me that nothing had to happen, that if it just needed to stay deeply flirtatious and in text, that it could. That it was all up to me…
There was a certain safety and anonymity when texting back and for through that tiny screen, one that I didn’t have now with the way Striker’s hazel eyes bored into mine as he walked me out of the Iron Horse and out to my Jeep.
“You want I should come to your place and we go for a ride?” he asked.
I laughed then and asked, “On your bike, or..?”
He grinned and said, “Yes, on my bike.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Let me just get changed and we can go.”
“Sounds good, baby,” he said and we were both so very awkward standing beside my Jeep.
“I want to kiss you, would, that be okay?” he asked, low and careful.
I tipped my face up to him and nodded shortly and he dipped his lips to meet mine.
God, he had soft lips, and the thrill that slid along my nervous system at the light contact he made sent a shiver down my spine – holy crap.
I felt myself lean into him, and his hands slide along my hips, and pull me closer by my lower back as my lips parted for him.
He tentatively flicked his tongue against my bottom lip, as he closed his gently on my top lip and I felt scalded by the rush of heat that went through me.
I pulled back, breath stolen, and heart racing and felt myself blush furiously .
“I’ll be right behind you,” he murmured. I just have to go back and untangle my bike from the rest of ‘em.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
“See you soon,” he said, and his hands reluctantly slid from around my body and dropped to his sides.
I opened my Jeep’s door and he stepped in, caging me as I pulled myself up into the driver’s seat, hands up to make sure I got in okay and there to catch me if I slipped. It was silly, I’d never had anything close to it happen getting into my dad’s old rig, but at the same time, it was sweet.
“See you soon,” I called as he closed the door for me, and he flashed a grin at me.
“Drive careful,” he ordered, and I barked a laugh.
“It’s like a mile, if that!” I protested and he gave me a gently chiding look without saying anything and I felt myself color.
Hell, Dad hadn’t been more than a quarter mile from the house, at the mouth of the development when he’d gone to make his right turn and the guy on the crotch rocket had slammed into him going in excess of a hundred miles per hour.
Dad’s little commuter sedan hadn’t stood a chance. I’d sold my car to help with some expenses – I hadn’t been able to bear the thought of parting with his Jeep. Mom hadn’t even argued. She’d just signed the Jeep over to me when we got the chance; after the estate was settled.
I started up the Jeep and he stood back and watched me go, walking back to the Iron Horse only after I’d turned on my signal to go right, to head up the boulevard to the entrance to my housing development.
I pulled into my driveway to find Mom’s car and my grandparents’ car gone, so they were likely at the beach, playing with the boys and letting my mom indulge in her favorite pastime: sun worshipping.
I sometimes worried about her and skin cancer, but knock on wood – nothing had happened yet.
I went into my room and contemplated what to freaking wear.
I was a girly girl at heart, and loved my skin, so I tended toward whites and bright colors, sometimes pastels. With my blonde hair and blue eyes, I was a real Barbie about it sometimes, but it was fun.
I found a ladies’ cut white tee that was your regular round neck and cap sleeves, but hugged my curves and really showed off the girls. I’d adjusted it at work at the craft store, cropping it using one of the sewing machines on display to create a new bottom hem.
Actually, one of the women had helped me with that bottom hem, and bless her for it, because I sucked at sewing at the time and was a rudimentary beginner at best. With what I wanted and was asking for, my grandmother wouldn’t have helped, even though she was at sewing level expert – I mean, I’d asked, and she’d said the look was way too trashy for me; so I’d found another way.
The tee fit like a dream and showed my stomach above the waistband of my short/skirt combo.
I had several pairs of the short/skirt thing in just about every color they offered them in. They were super stretchy, soft material, that looked like a skirt from the back but in the front, on one side, there was a slit cut into the skirt material to show the front of the shorts on one leg. That side the shorts had a decorative slit across the thigh, and a buckle that showed and flashed as you walked. The look was edgy behind a veil of demure and I freaking loved it .
I went with the dusty pastel pink pair and heard the grumble of Striker’s bike out front just as I let down my hair to brush it out and put it back up.
I opened up my bathroom door and opened up the front door leaving it shut to keep the cats in for now and went back to working on my hair in my bathroom mirror.
“Rarity, you okay?” I heard him call out at the front door as he pushed it open.
“Yeah!” I called around the hair tie I held between my lips and teeth in a subtle pink a bit paler than my skirt as I used both hands to brush and smoothed my hair up into a high ponytail.
He shut the front door behind him and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb of my bathroom, his eyes wandering up and down me as a slow smile started on his lips amid his deep five o’clock shadow.
“What?” I muttered around the hair tie in my mouth.
“Nothing,” he said. “I like the fit.”
I felt myself blush faintly as I held my hair up with one hand and retrieved the tie with the other, pulling the long shining tail of my hair through the loop and winding it, pulling it through again. I did that three times and pulled things secure and added the pink bow barrette one of my brothers had found somewhere for me and had gifted me.
I clipped it to cover the hair tie and picked up a clear lip gloss and swiped it over my bottom lip, pursing them and rubbing them together, before swiping one more time and stood back to look.
One of the things I loved about these short/skirt things is they had pockets. I put my lip gloss in my right one and fluffed the skirt back down over the top of it, and voilà. All I needed was shoes and I was good to go.
“You look good,” he said as I turned to go into my room.
I turned and shot him a smile over my shoulder and said, “Be right out, just grabbing shoes and switching purses.”
He nodded and said, “I’ll be out front.”
“K,” I said and I went into my room from the opposite door to my bathroom and dropped onto the edge of my bed. I pulled the shoe organizer out from underneath it and picked my pale pink Chuck’s out. I wore the same white low socks that I’d been wearing at work with my bar Sketchers for comfort, and they were just fine. I slid into the flat, cooler, and more lightweight shoe, and tied the laces.
After my shoes were on and secure, I kicked the shoe organizer back under my bed and stood up, grabbing my wallet and keys off my vanity and taking down my Hello Kitty mini-backpack purse from the hook inside the closet. It was white, and had pink accents and a pink bow by one of her ears, but it also had my name embroidered in pink on the front pocket. It’d been my Christmas gift from the boys and my mom last Christmas and I didn’t have it out much. It matched my outfit, though and was super cute, and I needed something secure for the ride up to St. Augustine.
I dumped my wallet and keys into the main compartment, put my lip gloss in the front pocket where my name was stitched, and swung it onto my back.
It was comfortable and lightweight and would totally do for today.
I went out and met Striker at his bike and did a little twirl for him.
He gave a low whistle and declared, “Very nice!”
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Perfectly fuckin’ adorable,” he agreed, and I laughed.
“Thanks for not calling me ridiculous,” I said and he shook his head.
“Never, baby girl.”
The words weren’t what sent a thrill through me, nor what raised gooseflesh in a tingling wash down my arms and the rest of my body even though the Florida sun shone bright and the heat hung thick in the humid air – it was the look in his eyes.
I’d never seen anyone look so damn serious about something before in my life.
I smiled and nodded and he got onto his bike, settling a little closer to the handlebars than I thought he normally would to make room for me.
I settled behind him, wrapping my arms around him and cozying up to his back, and even though this wasn’t the first time I’d ridden with him, after all the raw and honest and deeply flirtatious texting… it felt different. Like it was something brand new.
“Taking the scenic route!” he called over the roar of the bike starting up, and I called back to him, “What?” right as what he’d said fully registered in my brain.
“I said, I’m taking the scenic route!” he called again, and I grinned and hollered back, “Fine by me!”
I wasn’t sure what the ‘scenic’ route was supposed to be, but wasn’t surprised that it took us deeper into Ormond Beach rather than back past the Iron Horse and to the I-95.
We took the coastal byway on up, and it was nice, the breeze coming in off the water cooling the sweat that tried to collect under my mini-backpack.
I had no idea where we were going, but I didn’t care.
I felt safe with Striker. Calm in a way that I couldn’t describe. He’d been open with me about his likes and dislikes, and while I wasn’t sure about the whole daddy/little girl thing – I continued to mull it over.
I mean, I’d always thought it was weird and meant in an incestuous way, which I think everyone thought of it that way… but Striker and I had talked a lot about it recently, and it wasn’t that the more we discussed it.
I went from laughing at the notion, to curious about it, to wanting to understand it, to wondering if I did play with the notion with him… how far or how normal could it become.
That was the part that honestly worried me the most.
It was going to be hard enough coming out to my mom that I was dating someone so significantly older than me, let alone if I got too comfortable and let Daddy slip out of my mouth in front of her. That would be an epic fucking horror show.
Still… with as much as we had been talking about it, I was getting comfortable with the idea… turning it over and over in my mind but still so very hesitant to break the ice with Striker in person about it.
It was a big step, but it was one that I wanted so badly to make. I worried that made me some kind of selfish, but I didn’t know how to go about things, either. I was sure it would come up at some point – for now, I just wanted to be close to him and let the wind carry the rest away.
I felt better the further we got from Ormond Beach and the closer we got to St. Augustine. It was like the layers were peeled off and blown back to flutter to the asphalt we left behind and the closer we got to his stomping grounds? The closer we got to me simply being allowed to be my authentic self. No judgments, just a sort of shiftless freedom.
Like wearing your daddy’s tee shirt like a dress that fell to the floor the night you were small and sick, all of your own pajamas soiled with things coming out of both ends. All that was missing was the being cuddled and hugging your favorite stuffy as the blue glow of the television and the sounds of your favorite cartoons comforted you.
I wanted badly to connect with that feeling again, and the more time I spent talking with Striker, the closer I felt I edged toward it.
He’d explained that was the heart of the dynamic. That he was there to support, nurture, and comfort me. That it left me free to regress into a more childlike state without actually being a child and that it had nothing at all to do with being a pedo. He had no interest in minors whatsoever. He liked women . I was a woman , and at no point did he ever forget that fact.
That was comforting in its own way, and made perfect sense to me.
I didn’t think the rest of the world understood it or wanted to.
I think if they put the thought into it that it honestly required, that it would make people face a part of themselves that they wouldn’t want to face.
As Striker had explained it to me, for some people the dynamic was therapeutic. Allowing them to regress into a childlike state that allowed them to feel safe and repair some broken aspect of their own childhood. For others, who didn’t have a broken childhood, like me – it was something different. Allowing them to guiltlessly tap into and enjoy things that were nostalgic to them.
For instance, the outfit I’d chosen today… it was on the cusp of being socially unacceptable for a girl my age to dress the way I was dressed. I maybe only had a year or two left for it to be considered acceptable before it became considered low rent or trashy. Hell, if my grandmother had seen me leave the house like this, I would have had a hell of a fight and argument on my hands.
I knew I’d better enjoy it while I could… but also, this dynamic, no matter what age I was, I could dress this way for Striker in privacy and we could both enjoy it as much as we wanted and fuck what anyone else thought or had to say.
There was a certain appeal to that, I must say…
We worked our way up the A1A and I just enjoyed the ride. The thrum of the bike and the air washing over me as we ate over the miles of asphalt and pavement rushing beneath the tires; it was like being reborn in a way.
We pulled up outside the customization shop, inside a gated side lot, and he parked the bike. I got off first after he tapped my knee twice, and he walked the bike back into place in an angle parking job against the wall. It looked like there were already some people here, judging by the other bikes parked along the wall on this side of the lot, and a few parked against the fence across from us.
He gently took my fingertips into his hand and led me by them toward the gate we’d ridden through.
We walked around the front of the building, past the locked door to the front office, and to the other side of the building that faced the water, climbing a set of steps to the second floor, where we stopped at the locked door there, as Striker fished through his keys. A loud burst of laughter from above us had him looking at me and shrugging.
“Sounds like the clubhouse door is open, I was just stopping at this one by default. C’mon, up we get,” he took my hand again and led the way up the next flight of steps to the next landing. He dragged open the glass door that was blacked out with paint on the other side of the glass, making the logo for the Royal Bastard’s MC pop, which had been painted on first, in loving detail.
We went inside, and the inside was a world away from what I thought it would be! I expected something like the Iron Horse. The wood worn and carved into roughly. License plates and bullet riddled street signs tacked to the ceiling and walls… but no, this place was… fancy .
The whole floor up here was open, and the spaces divided by flooring. While the majority of it was a glossy worn hardwood reminiscent of an old warehouse, there were other sections finished with pride and a loving care.
There were two red velvet topped pool tables over in one corner, with black-and-white chess board patterned tile underneath them.
Between the pool tables and the bar was a stretch of what looked almost like a bowling alley floor, with three lanes that led to three dart boards.
The bar on the left had a wide expanse of standing space between it, and the cluster of couches and recliners on a black, red, and white large geometric patterned throw rug, that sat in front of a wall with a painted rectangle of white. A projector mounted to the ceiling pointed that way.
There were wires running from it, to a cabinet by the door we’d come in through, and on the other side of the cabinet that rested against a short expanse of wall was another doorway leading to an open-air, but covered deck where we could hear laughter and voices.
There was a man in a black leather vest with no patches at all on it, front nor back, stocking the bar and doing the general bartending duties.
I asked Striker curiously, “How come his vest has no patches?”
“Aw, that’s Adrien, he’s just a hang-around. If he ever does move up to Prospect, he’ll get a bottom rocker that says ‘St. Augustine’ and a top rocker that says ‘Prospect’ until he earns his colors.”
“Oh, so a hang around is like a pre-prospecting period?” I asked.
“Exactly right,” he said.
“I’d always wondered about that,” I said. “I’ve seen guys riding around that had vests like his – but didn’t know the difference between it and a prospect.”
“Well, today you learned,” Striker said with a grin and he tweaked the end of my nose making me wrinkle it and grin back.
“Let me give you the ten-cent tour,” he said, and led me further into the room.
Ceiling fans spun above our heads, moving the air, and it was surprisingly cool inside despite the open big windows out to the deck. The open areas didn’t have any glass in them. In fact, the only thing that separated them from the open deck was a stone slab counter and these built-in metal stools on either side.
There were rolls of what looked like clear vinyl that zipped or snapped down securely in case of colder temperatures, but it looked like they didn’t come down too often.
Striker led me opposite that direction, to our left and stopped short of the big area of sectional, couches, and recliners.
“This here is where we watch sports, fights, and occasionally do movie nights,” he said. “That door leads down the stairs to the offices where you found me the first time you came around.”
“Oh! Okay,” I said, nodding.
“Over here is the bar.” He threw some chin to the Hispanic guy behind the bar. I couldn’t guess if he was Spanish, Cuban, Puerto Rican, Mexican – or any other Latin American or other country, and here in Florida, some could be touchy when it came to their origins. Like, don’t you dare accuse a Cubano of being Puerto Rican or vice versa. Them could be fighting words. It was much safer to just ask or keep your mouth shut until they outright said where they were from. Guessing was just rude.
“Adrian, I’d like you to meet my lady, Rarity,” Striker said and the man behind the bar gave a charming smile and nodded his head in my direction.
“Nice to meet you, Rarity,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said.
“Get you guys a drink?” he asked and I smiled and said, “I’ll take a hard seltzer if you’ve got one.”
“Got plenty, what’s your poison? We’ve got Black Cherry, Mango, Watermelon, Peach, Blackberry, or it looks like Green Apple.”
“Oo, I’ll try the green apple if you don’t mind,” I replied and he brought a can up out of a cooler and set it on the bar, popping the top for me.
“What about you, Boss?” he asked Striker.
“Gimme an IPA,” he said and Adrien nodded his glossy head of slicked back hair, and pulled up a pint glass and drew a beer for Striker from the tap.
“Thanks, man,” Striker said and took it, dropping a few bucks into a tip jar for Adrien who grinned and said, “Thank you !”
Striker put a hand to the small of my back and I shivered with the delicious sensation of his rough fingertips against my skin.
“You’re not cold, are you?” he asked, dipping low to murmur in my ear and I shivered again.
“No,” I said on a laugh, blushing deeply.
“Good to know I have that effect,” he said straightening back up and saying, “Darts, pool, obviously – ladies’ room in the back corner here behind the pool table, and men’s room here,” he indicated each. “Don’t go in this room without me – ever, okay?” he indicated the door halfway between the bathrooms and the open windows leading to the deck.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“Kinky fun times,” he said – “I just don’t want anybody getting any ideas that you’re up for fun with anyone but me.”
“Gotcha,” I said sipping out of the cold can of seltzer in my hand. “Thanks for the warning.”
“The door on the other side of the bar that we skipped? That’s the Chapel – don’t go in there, either.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
He led me to the stools up by the windows leading outside and I slid up onto the one he pulled out for me.
“Striker, who’ve we got here?” a man called and I put on a polite sort of half smile, and looked to Striker.
“Shadow, this is Rarity. Rarity, this is our Vice President of the St. Augustine chapter, Shadow.”
“Hello, nice to meet you,” I said and extended my hand. Shadow took it across the cement countertop and rather than shaking it, leaned over it and kissed the back of my hand, his light brown eyes sparkling with a bit of mischief as I blushed to the roots of my hair. His was swept back, barely long enough to pull half up, but he managed it enough to keep it out of his eyes. He was windswept and while decent looking enough, was easily lost in a crowd. He crooked a grin at me and straightened and said, “Welcome in, Rarity. Is that your name or a nickname?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s my actual name,” I said laughing. “I was my parent’s miracle baby until the boys came – now I’m still the only girl.”
“Very cool,” he said. “Everybody c’mere and meet Rarity if you haven’t. She’s here with Striker,” Shadow called over his shoulder.
That’s how I met Skull, and Bones, who were a pair of Cajun brothers and who I recognized as the ones who helped Striker lead me and Gemma down the stairs and out of the fray at the big bar fight.
Skull and Bones were an interesting pair, and funny. Not as in funny ‘ha ha’ but funny as in weird. Definitely a pair of guys that if they were out on their own, I may have crossed the street to avoid them. They were mostly silent or spoke in their native Cajun-French, but they liked to stare and it was a fixed look that felt predatory and not in the thrilling sort of way that may have come from Striker, but in a way that creeped me out. Thoroughly creeped me out.
There was one girl back here, seated on the other side of the cement counter and all the way down toward what looked like a barbecue grill and smoker combo on the other end of the deck.
She was on her phone, raven haired and not paying anyone any mind and she looked to be my age, if a little younger.
“Dusty, come meet Rarity,” Striker called.
“Hi,” she called flatly, raising a hand in greeting but she never even looked up from her phone.
I raised my eyebrows and Striker laughed.
“Don’t mind Dusty, she’s Renegade’s daughter. Renegade is our President and still isn’t here, yet.”
“Gotcha,” I said.
“Sorry not sorry, I’m trying to book an appointment and this damn website is giving me the run-around,” Dusty said frowning down at her phone.
“It’s no worries, sorry we interrupted,” I said and she looked up at me then, and gave me a sort of half grin before going back to whatever she was trying to accomplish on her phone.
Aside from Shadow, Skull, and Bones, there was Scrubs, a member of the Jacksonville chapter who was just hanging out with Skull and Bones by all appearances.
“So, what’re your big plans for the rest of the day?” Shadow asked, sliding up onto one of the stools opposite ours.
“No real plans, figured we’d take the ride up this way and chill out for a bit. See where the night took us,” Striker said and he was grinning from ear to ear and threw me a wink when Shadow wasn’t looking.
“You give her the ten-cent tour?” Shadow asked.
“Yeah, for the most part,” Striker responded. “Haven’t shown her the chapel or the dungeon.”
I blinked and said, “Those are two very different things, and I don’t think I have ever heard them used in the same sentence.”
Both Striker and Shadow laughed at that.
“Come on, I’ll show you the Chapel, and let Striker explain,” Shadow got up and came around the counter through the archway leading out onto the deck.
We followed him across the big room and past the bar, to the door Striker had neglected on his initial tour.
Inside was a sort of board room, with a long table, but it was anything but corporate.
The one wall was painted black, making it seem like the room was smaller, or tighter somehow, but with windows on three sides, it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t claustrophobic feeling at all. How could it be with all that glass?
Set under some track lighting in the center of the ceiling was the table and it was impressive. It was long, burnished steel, with the club logo cut out in the center, the steel heat treated and rainbowed out around the cuts with enough room at each place around the table for paperwork or whatever else a man needed in front of him.
“Wow, that’s really nice ,” I said running fingertips over the cool steel.
“Custom job, took forever for ‘em to make and get it here. Renegade paid a mint from the club coffers to get it, but it’s the pride of the clubhouse,” Shadow said.
“Why hide it back here?” I asked, curiously and genuinely at a loss for why. It was a piece that deserved to be seen.
“This is the chapel,” Striker explained, parking himself on the corner of the table and drawing me into the circle of his arm.
“This is the room that all club business goes down in. Every major or minor decision is made here according to our bylaws,” Shadow said, arms crossed over his chest.
“It’s as sacred of a place as you can get for us, and we don’t invite people outside the club in to just look at it very often.”
“To what do I owe the distinct honor then?” I asked them softly.
“You saved his life,” Shadow said succinctly.
I scoffed.
“You did,” Striker said jostling me a little bit. “Kept me from catching a bullet.”
“Consider this a small token of our appreciation,” Shadow said, grinning.
I smiled at that, and said, “Hey, we kept each other alive. You and yours got me and Gemma out unscathed. I can’t tell you how much we and our families appreciate that,” I countered.
Striker leaned in, and kissed me, then, and I felt my insides go loose. The stress and the just whatever that rode me melting away under the soft touch of his lips against my own.
Shadow’s light chuckle broke us apart, and he asked, “Shall we continue?”
I swallowed hard and nodded, high spots of color in my cheeks that Striker had a good laugh at, even as he smoothed some of it away with a gently swipe of his thumb against my skin that turned up the heat in a whole different sort of way.