Chapter 4
Nova
It’s been five days since I met Mica and agreed to an arranged marriage with him.
We met at his attorney’s office two days ago and had breakfast afterwards.
I foolishly agreed to have breakfast with Mica’s family this morning.
It seemed like such a small thing when he first asked.
But now I’m nervous about a bunch of things.
What if his parents think this arranged marriage is going to be our happily ever after?
Or if they hate me? I should never have agreed to this.
However, I’m dressed and ready to go when he knocks because I’m a woman of my word.
When I open the door, Mica is standing on the porch, looking every inch the badass biker.
His hair is tied back so it doesn’t blow into his face.
And his beard is neatly trimmed. He’s wearing old, faded jeans and a dark t-shirt under his cut.
I never had much of an interest in corporate men, so when I saw him in his suit and tie I hadn’t taken in quite how handsome he is.
But seeing him without the business attire…
Damn. I can’t let my feelings get in the way of this arrangement, so I file it under things to ignore.
“Are you ready? We need to get on the road now or we’re gonna miss breakfast,” he tells me bluntly.
“Yes, I’m ready. I just don’t think this is a very good idea.”
“Jesus, it’s just breakfast. My family is very come-as-you-are,” he says, glancing up at my messy updo.
I resist the urge to reach up and smooth it down. “I’m just having second thoughts.”
“You agreed to meet them when you signed the agreement.”
That’s about the time I notice he’s holding something in his right hand.
“What’s that?” I ask with dread already pooling in my gut.
His hand comes up and he holds it up for me to see. The way he’s folded it, I can see the words ‘Property of Mica’ in beautifully scripted letters.
“It’s my property cut. You’re contractually obligated to wear it.”
I frown at him. “Are you sure you’re an accountant? I only ask because you’re sounding more and more like an attorney.”
“Hilarious,” he says. “Put it on so we can hit the road.”
I hold it up with one hand and give it a shake. “Are you sure this is necessary?”
“Yes, whether by choice or circumstance, you’re my old lady. That means you wear my cut. There really is no gray line here, Nova.”
“Why does this feel like you’re staking a claim?” I ask, growing frustrated with his insistence.
“This isn’t about claiming you,” he explains.
His voice finally gentling. “I know this must feel weird, but wearing my cut is more about protecting you than claiming you. My property cut communicates to everyone exactly who’s gonna drive a fuckin’ fist through their face for messing with you.
It’s an unfortunate fact of life that some men need to be told obvious shit like not to piss in their drinking water or covet their neighbor’s wife. ”
I put it on. As I zip it up, I realize that it fits like a glove. The leather smells new, and it feels high quality. It’s a lot more comfortable than I thought it would be.
He reaches into his other pocket and pulls out a small box. “I hate to press my luck, but you’re gonna need this as well.”
I glance down in time to see him opening the box. As I stare down at what’s inside, my guard drops for a moment because the ring is genuinely stunning. It’s a large diamond solitaire. Only it’s not round. It’s marquise cut. And it must have cost him a small fortune.
“God, Mica. It’s too much,” I say, because it totally is, especially for an arranged marriage that’s probably destined to end in a trail of tears.
“It’s fine. You deserve nice things,” he says. “Plus, it makes the engagement look real.”
“Your dad told me, this is an arranged marriage, not a fake one.”
Mica chuckles wryly. “Yeah, he told me that too. The ring is yours, Nova. No matter how this ends, I want you to have something to remember me by.”
“That’s really nice of you, Mica. I don’t know what to say.”
He teases me, as he slides the ring onto my finger. “Say thank you, so I can get to my third gift of the morning.”
When he turns to walk away, I grab his hand and pull one of my many prized possessions out of my jean pocket. Slipping it into his palm, I tell him, “I want you to have something to remember me by as well.”
When he opens his hand, my grandfather’s Zippo lighter is lying in his palm. It’s black with a vulture engraved into it.
“It belonged to my grandfather.”
“I can’t accept this, Nova. It’s too special.” The sincerity in his voice gets to me.
“It’s fine,” I tell him, my hand coming up to touch the watch wrapped around my wrist. “This is my special remembrance of him. No matter how this ends, let’s be civil with one another and remember we did it for the right reasons.”
I can’t hoard every single thing that belonged to my grandfather, I remind myself. I’ve got a houseful of mementos to remember him by. What’s one lighter?
His hand closes around the lighter and he tells me, “I’ll treasure it. If I ever take up smoking, I’ll remember you every time I light one up.”
I know he’s making light of the situation to cheer me up, and I don’t like admitting it worked.
I reluctantly follow him to the curb. His Harley is sparkling clean and I suspect it’s meticulously maintained as well. My grandfather always said, you can tell a lot about a man by how he keeps his bike. While I’m caught up in admiring his all chromed out bike, Mica holds something out.
It’s a shiny black helmet with a dark visor and my name emblazed across the back in gold lettering. Taking it from him, I stammer, “I thought I was following you in my car.”
“No, we agreed that you would ride on the back of the bike.”
I remember agreeing to that. “I already have a helmet,” I tell him.
“Now you have two,” he responds with a lopsided smile.
I put the helmet on without saying anything because he’s right, I agreed to all this, in writing no less.
I climb onto the back of his bike and relax into the ride as he pulls away.
I’ve been on the back of a lot of bikes over the years.
Riding the open road is my happy place. I probably would have gotten a motorcycle, but my grandfather didn’t want to risk it.
He said there were too many crazy drivers on the road.
When we hit the interstate the morning sun shines down on my face through the visor.
I increase my grip and let my thoughts wander, thinking about my grandfather with his hand on my shoulder saying there ain’t no kinda love like biker love.
Staring at the back of Mica’s vest with the Sons of Rage patch, I feel almost sorry to be marrying him.
Maybe under different circumstances we might have had a chance, but this is going to be a loveless marriage for however long it lasts, I just know it.
Despite his reassurances, I don’t trust Mica, his club, or even my uncle anymore.
My entire life has taken a brutal turn since my grandfather died.
I’m even conflicted about my grandfather because of what Mica said about him trafficking women.
I’d seen a few younger, broken looking women on the back of his bike over the years.
Were they being trafficked? I honestly can’t fathom it.
***
I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I don’t know how much time passes between leaving my place and arriving at the Sons of Rage compound.
All I know is that it doesn’t look like what I expect.
I expected it to be a small to medium sized building and fairly unimpressive like Vulture’s Pride MC.
It turns out to be anything but unimpressive.
The first thing I see is a tall cinderblock wall with a gate that looks to be ten or twelve feet high.
It’s surrounding a huge two-story stucco building.
I realize their club has built a fortress in the middle of California.
It’s nothing like the Vulture’s Pride clubhouse with a modest chain link fence.
There are prospects at the gate, and they open it as we approach. One nods respectfully at Mica and says, “Morning. Rock’s expecting you and your old lady.”
“Thanks for the heads up, TJ,” Mica says as we zoom through the opening.
I sit on the back of Mica’s bike, and I watch the gate close behind us and realize this is what MC wealth and power looks like. Mica and I are from completely different worlds. I keep my face neutral as we head towards the clubhouse.
The front door leads into a large foyer with club memorabilia on the walls and vintage cuts in glass cases.
It looks more like a sports bar or trendy pub than a rough and ready biker bar.
It’s another way our worlds are different.
Then we move into the main room. It’s a showstopper.
There are wraparound sofas and recliners arranged around a large stone fireplace that looks a little out of place, like it was added later or something.
There are a couple dozen tables with chairs, a bar running down one side of the room, and a buffet set up along the opposite side of the room from the bar. Tables have been pushed together near the back to make one long surface, already set with plates and glasses.
Strangest of all are the club girls. Instead of hanging around at the bar barely dressed and looking for their next conquest, they’re bringing food out of the back and putting it on the buffet.
I suddenly remember hearing the Sons of Rage make their club girls earn their keep.
I remember my grandfather joking about that.
One walks by with a tray of biscuits and another follows with a coffee pot in one hand and a glass pitcher of juice in the other.