Biker romance book bundl.., p.299
Biker Romance Book Bundle: 17 Full Length Novels, page 299
I was the one that rescued her, not the cop. I clenched my jaw at the thought of him winning and me losing. After a moment, I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Chicks dig rough looking fuckers like me,” I said, more to convince myself than to convince him.
He looked up. “If you say so.”
I couldn’t decide if the remark about Kimberly fucking the cop was meant to piss me off, or if it was truly what he thought had happened. Cops annoyed the fuck out of me, and if anyone knew it, he did.
We grew up in Great Falls, Montana, one hundred and twenty miles from the Canadian border. Be it my hatred of cold weather, the desolate countryside, or my desire to live somewhere that simply had more to offer, I decided after I graduated high school that I wanted to get as far away from Montana as possible.
San Diego, California was the clear winner. The city offered everything that Great falls didn’t. Weather suitable for year-round motorcycle riding, beaches, and two million people to hide amongst.
There were five of us that grew up together: Baker, Goose, Ghost, Tito, and me. We made a pact in third grade that we would remain inseparable. The fact that we moved fifteen hundred miles away – as a group – confirmed our loyalty to one another.
Upon settling in San Diego, we started an unconventional motorcycle club, and later added a sixth man – a military vet from Texas. Focusing on each of our individual strengths as small-time thieves, the club stole from those we felt weren’t worthy of their wealth. As we grew older and more experienced, our jobs became more complex. Now with more than ten years of experience robbing Southern Californian’s of their treasures, no one’s money was beyond our grasp.
Ghost was built like a professional body builder. He was the resident chief mechanic, go-fast guru, and the only member of the club that was willing to talk without chastising me for my thoughts. Although I was close friends with all the men, he and I talked about things I wouldn’t eagerly share with the other men.
“Maybe I’ll go by there and check on her,” I said under my breath.
“That cops probably taking a shower right about now,” he said without looking up. “Hell, he might whip your ass for nosing around.”
“No cop’s whipping my ass,” I assured him.
He straightened his posture, looked me over, and shifted his attention to the Mustang’s wiring harness. “Cop’s know all that pressure point stuff. Bet the fucker can touch your wrist with his thumb and bring you to your knees.”
I hadn’t had my ass whipped since I was in kindergarten, and he knew it. I choked on a laugh. “Bullshit.”
“He’d wad you up in a ball if he wanted to,” he taunted.
I twisted the toe of my boot back and forth on the floor between us. “I’d squash him like a fuckin’ bug.”
His eyebrows raised slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
There wasn’t a man on earth I feared, cops included. I tossed my bottle in the trash and turned toward my motorcycle.
He chuckled a low laugh. “Where you going?”
“Heading to Goose’s place.”
“Not going to stop by that gal’s house, are you?”
“I might,” I said over my shoulder.
“Better take a couple of the fellas with you,” he said dryly. “Just in case that little cop wants to protect what’s his. Might take three or four men to whip him.”
I didn’t need help kicking any man’s ass, and I was prepared to prove it. I stomped to my motorcycle and snatched my helmet off the handlebars.
“Pic’s or it didn’t happen,” Ghost shouted.
Baker, the MC’s president, came around the corner as I was lifting my leg over the seat of my bike. He leaned his lanky frame against the concrete column and gave me a look.
“Pretty early for a beer run,” he said. “Where you going?”
I pulled on my helmet. “To take some pics.”
He stroked his beard and looked at me the way he always did. Like I was an idiot. “Of what?”
“Little cops and big tits.” I buckled the helmet’s strap and fired up the bike. “In that order.”
45
Kimberly
Jennifer was once Oceanside High’s head cheerleader and all-around bubbly blonde bimbo. Now fifty and divorced with two adult children, she was reduced to being my ditzy blonde neighbor, sounding board, and best friend.
Short, and golden bronze from baking in the Southern California sun, her athletic size four frame and D-cup boobs attracted the immediate attention of most men. Hair color and Botox treatments masked her age, and she could easily pass for being in her late thirties. When she talked with me about sex, she acted like she was still seventeen.
She leaned against the edge of my kitchen table, holding her coffee at arm’s length. Her hands encompassed the cup like she was presenting me with a peace offering.
She blinked a few times, and then looked at me with dreamy eyes. “Like Dwayne Johnson?”
I peered over the top of my cup and gave her a confused look. “Who?”
The corners of her mouth turned upward. “Dwayne Johnson.”
“I have no idea who that is.”
“Dwayne Johnson,” she cooed. “The Rock.”
“The big bald-headed guy?”
She drew a long breath through her nose, and then exhaled softly. “Uh huh.”
If there was ever a woman who lived vicariously through others, it was Jennifer. Our conversations were often about men, and included detailed explanations of how she’d behave with them if she was given half a chance.
“No,” I said. “Not even close. More like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. Only taller.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s not big.”
“He was big,” I assured her. “He had a presence about him, too.”
She gave me a side-eyed look. “If he was skinny like Brad Pitt, he wasn’t big. I think this big thing was all in your head. You were drooling because he kicked Marvin’s ass.”
“I’m not you. I don’t need a man in my life. He was big, and he was kind. Those are the facts. There was no drooling going on.”
“Your senses were distorted.” She shrugged. “It happens to the best of us.”
“My senses were just fine.”
She pushed her coffee aside and leaned over the edge of the table. A serious look washed over her. “I screwed the quarterback of the football team at a house party when I was in high school. On Monday, when I was bragging about it in gym class, I compared his cock to my wrist. Half the girls I was talking to gasped, and said, ‘You must have fucked a different Jeff Simmons than the one I fucked, because that Jeff Simmons has a dick the size of a grape.’”
My eyes narrowed. “A grape?”
“A big grape.”
I chuckled. “And you thought he had a monster cock?”
“I was sure of it.”
I gave her a look. “Where are you going with this?”
“When I had sex with him, I was drunk. He was handsome, and the quarterback of the football team. So, in my mind, he was hung. In reality, he wasn’t. I think you’re wanting this guy to be some oversized muscle-bound hero. But, if he’s built like Brad Pitt, he’s a skinny twit.”
The biker wasn’t skinny, and he wasn’t a twit. To satisfy her, and to end the lop-sided conversation, I reluctantly agreed.
“Fine,” I huffed. “He was a skinny twit.”
“He sounds like a douchebag, too. What’d you say his name was?” She giggled. “Dolla Bill?”
I sighed dramatically. “Cash.”
She burst out in laughter. “Oh, that’s right. I knew it was something like Dolla Bill or Mista Money. But, Cash. Really? That’s ridiculous. He’s a wannabe. Probably uses the bike to get laid.”
I forced a sigh. “He’s wasn’t a wannabe.”
“He said his name was Cash.” Her eyebrows raised. “He’s a wannabe.”
“Maybe it was his last name.”
“Maybe he wanted you to think he was cool.” She waved her hand toward the front door. “Is he one of those guys that’s always riding up and down the street at midnight?”
“I think so.”
“They’re young.” One of her Botox-injected eyebrows arched a little. “How old was he?”
I’d wondered the same thing. With the scruff on his face, it was hard to tell for sure. By my estimation, he was in his latter twenties, or early thirties. Either way, he was far too young to be interested in me. That much I knew.
“I don’t know. Maybe thirty.”
She smiled. “A youngster.”
I shrugged one shoulder. “Kind of.”
“Young and skinny,” she said. “Not my type. I prefer the bulging biceps, wide chests, and swollen traps of gym rats.”
Her ex-husband was her height and weighed close to three hundred pounds. The only muscles he had were what he’d developed from simultaneously shoveling 7-Eleven’s chicken wings and chimichangas into his mouth.
I scoffed. “Frank wasn’t a body builder by any means.”
“That’s why I had to drink three glasses of wine and take a Xanax before we had sex.” She tapped the tip of her index finger against her temple. “In my mind, he was a gym rat.”
I finished my coffee and stood. “Back to what I was saying. It’s really bothering me that I didn’t get a chance to thank this guy. I think I said, ‘thank you’, but I can’t really remember. Everything happened so fast, and then the cops were here.”
She shrugged. “He might be one of those guys that’s always riding down the street at midnight. Maybe you’ll get a chance.”
I rinsed my cup and put it in the dishwasher. “I doubt it.”
The sound of an approaching motorcycle caused me to shift my attention to the street. I filled with nervous hope as the sound grew louder. The rumble from a Harley’s exhaust was something I’d become accustomed to over the years, as a group of bikers were constantly zooming up and down the block. I wondered, however, if each approaching bike would now bring butterflies to my stomach and a tingling in my nether region.
My eyes went wide as the black Harley came into view, and then pulled into the drive.
“Jesus,” Jennifer said. “It sounds like we’re being invaded.”
“He’s uhhm.” I wagged my finger toward the window. “He just pulled in.”
“Who?”
I swallowed heavily, wondering what caused him to stop by on a Saturday morning at nine thirty.
“The skinny twit,” I responded.
She rushed to my side just in time to see him remove his helmet. Dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a faded black shirt that said Cars Suck across the chest, he looked every bit the part of the biker that he undoubtedly was.
He set the helmet on his seat and sauntered up the driveway.
Jennifer flattened her chest against the counter top and peered over the window ledge. “He’s not skinny.”
“No,” I admired his confident strut. “He’s sure not.”
“He’s uhhm.” She swallowed and then let out a breath. “He’s sexy as fuck.”
He sure is.
As he disappeared from our field of view, she gave me a curious look. Then, the doorbell rang.
She flipped her blonde curls over her shoulder and tugged her shorts out of her twat. “Let him in.”
I gestured toward the door with my eyes. “Go home.”
She coughed. “I don’t think so.”
“Go. Home.”
“Go to hell,” she said.
I brushed past her. “Fine, but you’re going to be quiet.”
“You won’t even know I’m here.”
I pulled the door open and smiled. “Good morning.”
I felt Jennifer’s breath against my left arm. I wanted to swat her like a picnic fly but feared pushing her onto the floor might appear juvenile. As Cash pushed his hand into the pocket of his jeans, I took a step to my left and nudged her from his view.
“I wanted to make sure everything was alright.” He wrung his hands together. “Didn’t get to see you after the cops got here.”
“I’m just fine, thank you. The police were here until four in the morning asking questions and having me sign reports. It was a long night.”
“I filled out a report, too,” he said. “They’ll probably see if our stories jive with one another.”
The sound of Jennifer’s heavy breathing reminded me that she was still present. I stepped to the side and wedged her between my hip and the side of the console table.
I looked at Cash and widened my eyes. “You can come in, if you’d like to.”
He stepped inside, glanced at her, and then looked at me.
“That’s Jennifer. She was leaving.” I shot her a look. “Say ‘hi’ before you go, Jennifer.”
She darted around me and extended her arm. “I like your shirt.”
His shirt?
Really?
He grinned and shook her hand. “Thanks.”
I gestured toward the front door with my left hand. “Goodbye, Jennifer.” I tilted my head toward the living room and offered Cash a smile. “Come on in.”
With the speed of a rabbit on crack, Jennifer slammed the front door, shot into the living room, and came to a screeching halt on the end of the couch.
Cash stepped into the room and gave it a precursory look. Jennifer forced a fake yawn and arched her back, heaving her massive boobs toward the ceiling in the process. Mentally, I rolled my eyes at her theatrics. The only way Cash wouldn’t see her melon-sized mammaries was if he was blind.
For whatever reason, however, he didn’t seem to notice.
Cash – 1, Jennifer – 0.
I gave her a quick laser-sharp glare. She crossed her tanned legs, flashed me a grin, and then looked at Cash.
“Do you live down at the end of the block?” she asked.
He sat in the chair at the corner of the room. “No. One of the fellas I ride with lives down there.”
“When I hear you guys ride by, it reminds me of that show on Netflix,” she said. “I’ve watched every episode. I’ve always been partial to motorcycles and muscles.”
Jennifer was flirtatious and outgoing, but she was acting ridiculous. For the last four years, all she’d done was complain about the late-night window rattling caused by the neighbor’s loud exhaust. I sat at the opposite end of the couch from her and clenched my jaw tight to keep from calling her out on her fictitious claims of biker love.
“Paints a pretty fucked up picture of us if you ask me,” he said dryly. “Bikers aren’t really like that.”
“I think the ones that ride in clubs are,” she said. “The hard-core bikers.”
He glared at her. “Hard core?” He chuckled. “I’ve ridden a motorcycle every day for the last ten years. Our club rode from here to Connecticut last year. We ate gas station burritos and slept beside our bikes in rest stop parking lots, using our jackets for pillows. Six thousand miles in four weeks. We make trips like that a couple of times a year. How’s that for hard-core?”
Cash – 2. Jennifer – 0.
Riding across the country and using an asphalt parking lot for a bed sounded hard-core to me. My eyes shot to Jennifer, curious to see how she would crawl out of the hole she’d managed to dig.
“Hollywood always glamorizes the violence. It doesn’t surprise me that the show’s a farce.” She tossed her hair and gave him a semi-serious look. “If it bleeds, it sells, right?”
“I guess so,” he said dismissively.
“So, you ride in a club?” I asked.
He cupped his left hand over his clenched fist and nodded. “A small one.”
I studied him, wondering what he’d look like without the scruff on his jaw. The entire beard thing looked good while he was whipping my ex-husband’s ass, but the longer I looked at it, the more I wanted it to disappear.
Millennials with untrimmed facial hair that hung down to their chest ruined my desire to see a man use a beard as anything other than proof that he had a long, tiring weekend.
“Maybe the bigger clubs do things differently,” Jennifer said. “You know, like the Hells Angels.”
“If you say so,” he said dryly.
He brushed his hair to the side and looked right at me. “What?”
“Huh?” I muttered.
His eyes narrowed. “You were staring at me. Something wrong?”
“I was just…” I shook my head. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“You can’t start explaining something and then say, ‘it’s nothing’.” He cocked one eyebrow. What?”
“It’s nothing.”
He lowered his chin and raised both eyebrows.
I sighed. “Is the beard a permanent part of who you are?”
He stroked his jaw with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “I don’t have a beard.”
I pointed toward the hall bath. “You might want to go look in the mirror.”
“It’s not a beard.” He rubbed the sides of his face with the palms of his hands. “I just. I haven’t shaved in a while.”
“Is it common for you to go a month or so without shaving?”
“I think it’s sexy,” Jennifer chimed.
I shot her a quick glare.
“Depends on what I’ve got going on,” he said. “I’ll shave when I get time.”
“So, you’ve been too busy to shave? That’s your answer?”
“I’ve been saving barefoot women from being raped, and then checking up on them to make sure they’re doing alright.” He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned a smug smile. “Yeah. Been pretty fuckin’ busy.”
I’d become used to Jennifer’s in-your-face wit. Seeing his dry sense of humor was a nice change. Before I could devise a comeback, he continued.
He nodded toward me feet, which were bare. “You ever find your shoes?”
“They were beside the porch.”
He glanced at Jennifer. “She your little sister?”
“No, She’s my neighbor.” I shifted my eyes from him to her. “She lives across the street but spends most of her time here.” I looked at him. “We’re friends.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” she whispered in a snide tone.
He motioned toward the hallway with his eyes. “You mind if I use your bathroom?”
