Biker romance book bundl.., p.320
Biker Romance Book Bundle: 17 Full Length Novels, page 320
He’d whisper into my ear that a tourniquet would need to be applied, to prevent the venom from rushing to my heart. The tourniquet would be torn from the most delicate piece of fabric available, which was my dress.
Then, he’d need to tie the tourniquet between the bite mark and my heart. My upper thigh would be the most logical spot. Being the observant soul that he was, while securing said tourniquet, Porter would undoubtedly make note of two things:
One, that I was wearing a pair of red lace boy short panties. And two, that they – and my pussy – were dripping wet messes.
So, in summary, Porter would look me in the eyes, whisper in my ear, rip my dress to shreds, and then see soaked pussy. All while he was saving my life.
It sounded like a fool proof plan. With my eyes locked on the snake, I took the first step in starting the process.
“Where’d you say to grab him?” I asked.
“Right behind the head,” he said. “It’s the only safe place to hold them.”
I took a step in the snake’s direction. “Have you done this before?”
“I spent my childhood hunting snakes in Montana. Why?”
With my eyes glued to the snake, I gave a crisp nod. “Just wondering.”
“Slide your hand along the stick until you get to the snake,” he explained. “Grab it right where I’ve got it pinned down. Hold it firmly, but not like you’re trying to strangle it.”
The snake’s head was pressed hard against the densely-packed sand beneath it. Furious for being torn away from a day of basking in the sun, its body was coiled tightly around the stick, attempting to constrict it to death.
My heart pounded against my ribs. What little moisture was in my mouth evaporated, leaving a big ball of unswallowable cotton-like yack in its place. Fearful of what the immediate future might hold, I took a step toward the snake, reached under the tree, and paused.
I looked at Porter. Not for direction or reassurance – I simply wanted to see him one last time before things went awry.
He was strangely calm. The half-assed smirk he wore told me he was at least mildly entertained. I snapped a mental picture of his strikingly masculine jawline, turned to face the snake, and did just as he’d instructed.
I expected slimy and slippery. Instead, I got rough and warm to the touch. I gripped the two-inch diameter piece of muscle between my thumb and forefinger and then gave Porter a blind nod.
“I think I’ve got him,” I exclaimed.
“You better know,” he said with a laugh.
I increased pressure on the deadly reptile’s neck. “I’ve got him.”
He lifted the stick. In turn, I lifted the snake.
Its body began coiling upward toward my hand.
“Shake it up and down,” he said.
Fearing that it was going to wrap around my arm and constrict me into submission before it sank its fangs into my sunscreen slathered flesh, I promptly filled with regret for having picked it up in the first place.
“Shake it up and down?” I asked, frantic that his only instruction made zero sense. “What does that even mean?”
“Like you’re jacking off your boyfriend,” he said, moving his fist up and down like he was stroking a two-foot-long dick.
Just before the snake wrapped around my wrist, I did what he said. Miraculously, the snake’s body straightened. A second or two later, he began to coil upward. I shook him again, and down he went. The third time he coiled, he seemed less interested in completing the task. I shook him lightly, and he straightened.
Now dangling loosely from my grasp, the snake simply hung there.
“Holy Moses!” I shouted. “I tamed a live rattlesnake.”
“How’s it feel?” he asked.
“Empowering,” I responded.
My eyes scanned the ground for my purse. Upon seeing it, I nodded my head toward the ground where it laid.
“Will you grab my phone? Please?” I asked. “I want to take a picture of this.”
He did as I asked. Standing ten feet in front of me with my phone in one hand and the stick in the other, he looked at me. The pain in his eyes was gone. “Do you want me to take a picture?” he asked, pointing the phone at me.
“Yes, silly,” I responded, alternating glances between my outstretched arm and the badass biker who took me rattlesnake hunting. “But I want you to be in it. Come over here.”
He stepped to my side and swept his thumb across the screen of my phone. “It’s locked.”
“Zero-nine-two-seven,” I said.
He pressed the buttons with his thumb, fumbled to find the icon, and eventually got the camera rotated to take a selfie.
“Take off that jacket,” I said. “Who wears a leather jacket in this heat, anyway?”
He chuckled a dry laugh as he peeled off the coat. “Someone who doesn’t want to be bitten by a snake.”
After tossing the coat on the ground beside my purse, he pressed the side of his chest against my shoulder and extended his arm. With the snake dangling from my shaking hand, I tilted my head toward his, looked at the screen, and grinned.
“Take several,” I said.
A puff of dry desert air wafted his scent into my nose.
The excitement of holding the lethal reptile, the heat from the mid-day sun, and the soul-stirring scent of his manliness proved to be too much. My head spun and my knees went weak. In response, I rested my head against his chest.
At that same instance, he snapped what would be the first picture of many.
“What do I do with this guy?” I asked, nodding toward the snake.
He took the snake from my grasp and handed me the phone. After releasing it fifty feet away from where I stood, he returned just in time to find me posting the photo of my head on his shoulder to my Instagram account.
“Let me see that one,” he said.
I held the phone between us, trying not to smile a cheesy grin at the disgustingly cute picture of me, him, and an exhausted three-foot long rattlesnake.
“I like it,” he said. “Can you send it to me?”
“You can go to my Instagram and get it,” I said.
He choked on his laugh. “I don’t know anything about that shit.”
“Instagram?” I asked, quite relieved by his apparent disgust.
“Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Bumbler, Fumbler, Yourspace, Myspace, any of it,” he said.
My eyebrows raised much higher than I wanted them to. “You’re not social media savvy?”
“I’m not social media interested,” he said. “I’m computer savvy. I don’t think my business is anyone else’s business. I don’t subscribe to any of that shit.”
He had no idea who I was or what I did for a living, that much I was sure of. Thrilled that he was blind to me and my social media following, I contemplated telling him the truth.
“I don’t see why people feel the need to blast their personal business all over the internet,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “It’s fucking ridiculous.”
Okay. Maybe telling him wasn’t such a good idea. At least not yet. There’d be plenty of time to tell him if I felt the need. Hopefully I’d be seeing much more of him at the meetings. If nothing else, I could get his phone number.
“Do you text?” I asked.
“If I have to,” he said.
“But you know how it works?”
He laughed a genuine laugh. “Yeah. I’m not a complete idiot.”
After getting his number, I texted him a copy of the picture. Proof of our successes in accomplishing number fifty-six on my to-do list. I drew a line through two tasks we’d completed and tossed the pad into my purse.
There were four to go, three of which I could tackle with little effort. I doubted the man strapping on his helmet could help me with the fourth, which was number two on my list.
He secured the latch of his saddlebag. Now wearing nothing more than a tee shirt, jeans, and boots, his muscles bulged as he was straddled the motorcycle seat.
Number two.
An unconscious sigh escaped me.
It never hurt to dream.
86
Ghost
I was slumped against the arm of the sofa in the MC’s clubhouse. Lost somewhere between my childhood and my funeral, I was mentally vacant as the men discussed the club’s fall cross-country trip.
“Brother Ghost,” I heard someone say.
It sounded like a distant whisper. Not something I needed to respond to. I wondered for a moment if it was imagined or real.
“Brother Ghost!” Baker howled.
I stumbled through my mind’s fog and blinked until my vision was clear. Baker’s head was cocked to the side and he was looking at me with wide, waiting eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“What’s your vote?” he asked.
“On what?”
He glanced at the rest of the men and then shifted his eyes to meet mine. “Are you okay, Brother?”
“I think I faded off for a minute,” I said.
“Hard day at the gym?” he asked.
I shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t go.”
“That’s a first.” He straightened his posture, stroking his beard as he sat up in his seat. “Connecticut or Rhode Island?”
“Connecticut,” I said, not really giving half a fuck what he was talking about or where we’d be going.
I knew the discussion was about our fall motorcycle trip, or at least it was when I slipped into a semiconscious slumber. Hell, I didn’t know if I’d even be around when fall arrived. If I was, I doubted I’d be in any shape to ride.
“Great,” he said sarcastically. “Now we’ve got a three to three tie.”
“Rhode Island,” I said, my tone indifferent.
“Seriously?” Cash whined. “Rhode fucking Island?”
“I’m guessing you were team Connecticut?” I grinned and clapped my hands. “Decision’s made. We’re going to Rhode Island.”
Cash flipped me his middle finger. “You weren’t even paying attention.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I shrugged. “Vote was whether we wanted to go to Rhode Island or Connecticut. Club voted. Rhode Island it is.”
Cash’s face distorted. “Asshole. If you don’t give a fuck, you should side with me, not Reno, Bake and Tito the turd.”
“If I sided with you, it’d be a tie. Then, we’d be voting on two new places. We did that three years ago and ended up in fucking Florida. Not interested in going to that shit-hole again.”
“Ghost needs to take a fucking nap,” Cash complained, turning to face Baker. “We can re-vote this next week.”
“Vote’s complete,” Baker said. “We’re going to Rhode Island.”
“Fuck that shit,” Cash snapped. “I want to see the leaves turning color in Connecticut. Rhode Island’s nothing but rocks and water.”
Seeing the fall leaves sounded like a great idea. I’d never been through Connecticut in the fall. If I were to make a list like Abby’s, going to Connecticut in the fall would certainly be on it.
“Connecticut.” I raised my index finger. “I’m changing my vote.”
“If I allow the vote change, we’re in a tie,” Baker said. “If we’re in a tie, you know the rules.”
“I don’t give a shit,” I said, turning to face Cash. “You want to ride to Connecticut this fall?”
“Hell yeah,” Cash said.
“Fuck it,” I said openly. “Cash and I are going to Connecticut.”
“You’re all over the place,” Baker said. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Ghost?”
Normally, I was decisive. Even if I happened to thrust myself into a situation that I later regretted, I never changed my mind. I was the poster boy for stubborn behavior, and the men knew it.
“I’m exhausted,” I said, which was partially true. “Went to Borrego Springs earlier today. Caught a fucking rattlesnake. It was hotter than ten kinds of fuck, too.”
“Borrego Springs?” Goose asked. “Why the fuck did you go to Borrego Springs?”
“Rattlesnake?” Tito asked. “Was it a Western, Diamondback, Panamint, Sidewinder, Mojave, or Red Diamond?”
Tito was a walking information vault, and often expected others to be as intelligent as he was. It was never the case. “How the fuck would I know?” I spouted. “It had a rattle on one end, and a pissed off head on the other.”
“Was just wondering,” Tito said. “California has six species.”
I pulled out my phone, opened the picture Abby had sent me, and handed the phone to Tito. “You tell me what that angry fucker is.”
He looked at the photo. After his eyes shot wide, I decided whatever it was must have been what he was hoping for. He glanced at me, back at the phone, and then looked at Baker. His jaw was all but in his lap.
“What?” Baker asked.
Tito turned the phone to face Baker. Baker squinted in response. “Big snake. Don’t know what it is. Chick’s cute, though. Who is it?”
“Uptown Abby,” Tito said.
My eyes narrowed. “You know her?”
Goose coughed out a wad of surprise and then snatched the phone from Tito’s hand. “You went to Borrego Springs with Uptown Abby?”
“No shit?” Reno asked. “She’s hot as fuck.”
I looked at each of them as if they were on fire. “Who the fuck’s Uptown Abby?”
Tito grabbed the phone from Goose, fumbled with it for a moment, and then handed it to me. “This one’s funny. Just press play.”
A YouTube video was loaded on the screen of my phone. I pressed play. After a five second video about the new BMW SUV, a woman appeared. Her hair was in a bun, and she was wearing glasses, but it was undoubtedly Abby. A much younger Abby, but it was her.
Finding a man in San Diego that’s suitable for dating isn’t an easy task. Personally, I prefer a big man. A tall man. A man who makes me feel small and protected. So, I ventured to the gym in search of my perfect mate. What did I find?
Well, I’m still single.
I did come up with an idea, though.
The personality gym.
I think it’s a great concept. Instead of going in, lifting weights, and leaving with shredded abs, bulging biceps, and a missing neck, you would go in, get an awesome cup of Italian roast coffee and a bran muffin.
While munching the muffin and sipping the coffee, you’d talk to a personality counselor. After six weeks, you’d graduate with manners, the ability to communicate with others, and a reasonable sense of self-worth.
Why is it that most men who spend their idle time in the gym are referred to as meatheads?
Because their heads are nothing more than a slab of meat, that’s why.
The screen flashed to a sidewalk scene, where Abby was interviewing a man in front of a gym. He was wearing remnants of a tee shirt, spandex shorts, and carried a half-full protein shaker in one hand.
Who was president when you were a senior in high school? Abby asked.
The man took a drink from his plastic bottle and then gave her a confused look. Of what?
The United States, she replied.
After giving the question some serious thought, the man responded. Donald Trump.
How many ounces are in two pounds of coffee? she asked.
I don’t drink coffee how would I know? Next question.
Who shot John F. Kennedy? she asked.
I’m twenty-two. He took another gulp from his shaker, making sure to flex his bicep as he took the drink. That was before my time.
Is it the Pacific or Atlantic Ocean that touches the coastline here?
I’m not big into American history, he responded. Ask me something about proteins or carb loading--
Does a man’s sperm have protein in it? she asked.
He grinned. It’s got tons of it.
How much? she asked. Per serving?
He shrugged. Couple of grams.
Gone with the Wind or Gone in Sixty Seconds? she asked.
He drank the remained of his protein shake. Gone in Sixty Seconds.
She motioned toward his protein shaker. How much of that stuff do you drink in a day?
He raised the plastic cup. Three of these.
How long does it take you to finish one set of curls? she asked.
Twenty-two minutes, he responded proudly.
That’s all I’ve got, she said with a smile.
The screen switched to a split screen. On the left, the man’s body was visible, but his head had been swapped with a large wad of hamburger. On the right, Abby held the microphone.
Does a man’s sperm have protein in it? she asked
A makeshift mouth opened in the hamburger-shaped head. It’s got tons of it.
How much of that stuff do you drink in a day?
The hamburger-headed gym rat lifted the plastic cup. Three of these.
How long does it take you to finish one? she asked.
He raised the cup to his hamburger head half a dozen times, and then lowered it. Gone in sixty seconds, gone in sixty seconds, gone in sixty seconds…
The screen switched back to the original one, with Abby sitting in front of the camera. Her eyebrows raised slowly, until they were at maximum height. After blinking repeatedly, she smiled.
No male sperm was consumed in the making of this video, no douchebags were harmed, and, with the exception of mine, no ‘thank you’s’ were spoken. I’ll see you next week, when we’ll discuss rush hour traffic on the five, the rising price of cauliflower rice, and the migration of the Monarchs.
She brushed her hair behind her ear, and then scratched the bottom of her nose with her index finger. She pointed at the screen. I’m uptown, I’m Abby, and I’m unfiltered.
The screen faded to black.
I turned off the phone, uncertain if I liked what I’d seen. I wondered why most of the men seemed overjoyed with the fact that I’d met the girl in the ridiculous video. I further wondered why all of them knew who she was.
“That’s her,” I said, searching each of the men’s faces as I spoke. “What’s the big deal?”
