Captive Ride (5 page)

Flint drops me onto the sofa. “If your house had been made of gingerbread instead of wood and plaster, it wouldn’t have been much easier to get into.”

“I had locks,” I say affronted. “Not everyone needs biometric hand scans and eye sensors.”

“Sure not everyone does, but not everyone defends criminals and thugs.”

“Alleged, Flint. They are alleged criminals and thugs.”

Flint rubs his hands briskly on the outside of my legs. “Doesn’t matter if they did it. Someone believed they were in the wrong or they wouldn’t be coming to you for help, yes?”

“That’s fair.”

“Which means there are people that are going to be angry with you no matter what the outcome is. No matter if your client is innocent or guilty. If the guy goes away for three years, someone is going to be mad he’s serving time at all. Other folks are going to be pissed off that he only did three years and someone is going to make their anger known to you in a real way. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened yet.”

He cups my face. “After all this time you’ve spent around the Death Lords, you should know that once we decide on something, it’s done. No wavering. No second guessing. No going backward. And once you have our loyalty, it’s yours forever.”

“Are you saying you feel that way about me?” I ask cautiously. Only years of training myself to show no reaction in the courtroom no matter what the outcome allows me to keep my joy at bay.

But somehow he knows. His smile is slow, slightly crooked, and utterly welcoming. “You know it. I’ve wanted you for a long time but I knew you weren’t ready. A few years ago, if I’d tied you up and spanked your pretty ass, you would have turned me out on my ear.”

“So you waited?” This time I cup his face, running my fingers over his closely trimmed beard and then into his scalp. His eyes flutter shut enjoying the caress.

“I waited.”

Those two words are more persuasive than any argument I’ve ever heard in court. He waited. This man who could have all kinds of women with a snap of his fingers had waited for me to be ready for him.

“I didn’t even know you were what I wanted,” I admit breathlessly. My fingers find their way down to the hem of his shirt. He helps me lift the garment over his head and then starts to dispose of my clothes. My nipples tighten behind the thin t-shirt as his hungry gaze takes in every inch of bare skin that is exposed as we hurriedly undress.

“
T
hat’s okay
. I’ve got lots to teach you,” he informs me. Again his light words belie his serious intent.

When we are both naked, he presses me against the cushions, his heavy, rough body scraping deliciously at my soft skin. His one large hand cradles my head while the other parts my legs. He gives a grunt of satisfaction when his fingers discover how wet I already am.

I close my eyes then as his mouth lowers over mine. He enters me with both his tongue and cock simultaneously as if to punctuate the verbal claims he’d made earlier.

I raise my leg and hook it over his hip but he needs no encouragement. I let him take over and slide into that euphoria that he conjures so easily. There’s nothing but pleasure and sensation in his world and under his touch.

“Ah Amy girl,” he hisses against my neck as his shaft plunges in and out of me in an unhurried rhthym. “You know I love you.”

I smile, so happy, so joyful in this moment. “Is that a question counselor?”

“No. It’s a declaration.”

I wrap myself around him, arms and legs, until we are fused together. “I love you too Flint.”

His lips curve against my shoulder as he drives in, harder, faster, pushing me toward the cliff. I stand there on my curled tiptoes and look for him. He runs behind me, grabs me around the waist and throws me off. We tumble into the ether, holding each other, loving each other, claiming each other.

I’m not alone. I belong to Flint and he belongs to me. Forever.

W
ant
to read more about the Death Lords? Included in this book is a bonus! Read on to enter the steamy world of Annie, Michigan and Easy.

“
W
hat do you think
?” I ask Michigan as we watch the slim figure of Annie Bloom disappear inside her small cottage attached to the Methodist church.

“I think you were dropped on your head one too many times if you think Pastor Bloom’s virgin daughter is going to spread her legs for one of us, let alone get into a threesome.” Michigan’s glaring at me but I can’t keep a smile from breaking out because he wouldn’t be angry with me if he didn’t want her.

“I was hard the minute I laid eyes on her too.”

He grunts and climbs into the cage. Michigan broods during the short trip from the church to the clubhouse where we trade the four wheels for our preferred mode of transportation. His hog is a matte black lowrider with no front fairing and the Death Lords emblem custom stitched into the saddle. Mine’s a softail, powder-coated black with orange accents over the front fender and along the tank. My bike’s name is Amber Whiskey. That’s the name the Harley dealer told me the accent color was. It’s a shit name for the color orange but a damn good name for a bike.

“Package is safely delivered,” I report cheerfully to Judge, our club president.

“Take yourselves home then. Mash tomorrow,” he reminds me. “I’ve got other things to take care of. Prospect Handfield will be at the door. Let’s try to keep the jailbait out this time.”

“Got it.” I stick the phone in the front pocket of my jeans and signal Michigan that I’m ready to roll out.

My former Marine battle buddy has never been much of a talker but the entire evening is spent with him not uttering one word. After watching the Twins blow through two pitchers in as many hours, he surges angrily from the sofa during the seventh inning stretch and I hear the growl of his bike a few minutes later as he roars down the street.

I don’t have to follow him to know where he’s going. It’s where I want to be too. No, I correct myself, I don’t want to be sitting in the dark outside the parish house. I want to be inside, sliding Annie’s clothes off, kissing her small tits and moving down the thin belly to those long legs.

Opening my jeans, I take out my heavy erection and begin to stroke myself. I wonder what she smells like between her thighs. Her neck smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. It was pretty damn hard not to lick her right there in the library earlier today even under the watchful gaze of her boss, two toddlers and a bright-eyed teenager.

It was even harder to hide the massive erection that sprouted when she stood close, giving me recommendations of books she thought I might like. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d been sent by Judge to keep an eye on her boss and make sure the chief of police or the skinheads from up north didn’t ruffle a single red hair on Pippa Lang’s head.

But one look at her long legs under that frumpy prairie dress and I turned hard as a rock.

She’s the one
.

I don’t know if it was my dick or my head that called it out but I felt some unfamiliar pull toward her. She felt it too and she buzzed around the small library for the rest of the morning full of sexual anxiety. I’m not certain she knew what she was feeling. Her blush when I winked at her indicated her level of experience with men was pretty low.

That’s perfectly fine with me and it wasn’t a turnoff for Michigan either.

It’s not as if I can’t fuck without Michigan. I didn’t even know I liked sharing until I enlisted and was shipped off to the Philippines. Michigan, a six-foot brick house, was assigned as my battle buddy. He was quiet even then but formidable. I did the talking for both of us but he taught me a few things, like how giving a woman pleasure at the same time another man was taking her was a heady feeling.

We never have trouble finding a woman who’s willing to take a ride with us. The problem is finding someone we both want to spend the rest of our lives with, an old lady we can share. Michigan is convinced it isn’t ever going to happen. The sad sack hasn’t had sex in a year.

Nothing seems to move him these days and given the amount of ready snatch in the club, his disinterest is fucking with my head. Annie is just his type—long legs, a sweet disposition, and doe eyes that you can drown in.

Envisioning her on her knees, taking me into her hot mouth while Michigan is fucking her cunt has my balls tightening up. My guess is that her tits are small but perky and tight. My big hands would swallow them up. I could probably suck the whole breast into my mouth.

My imagination flicks through a couple more images. Michigan in her ass while I’m in her cunt as we both stand, bouncing her up and down on our cocks. The three of us tangled in bed, moving slow, enjoying the intense friction having both of us inside her at the same time would create.

It doesn’t take more than three rough jerks for me to spill into my hands, but even though my dick hangs limply between my legs, I know I’m not going to be satisfied until I’m coming inside of Annie Bloom.

A
Death Lords
mash is made up of two things. Sex and alcohol. Okay, three. We fight a lot. Sometimes we fight over women and sometimes we fight over who took the last beer or ate the last bacon-wrapped weenie. It didn’t take much. All that testosterone and liquor makes for a rowdy evening.

The first floor of the granary is semirespectable. Sure, there are folks groping each other and plenty of nudity but Judge, the Death Lord’s president, likes to keep the raunchy stuff for the second floor playroom. Michigan had volunteered to run security which means he stands around, arms folded, watching everything. The bored, flat look in his eyes shouts “been there, done that, fucked till the T-shirt fell off.”

I drink a few beers and pour two shots down my gullet hoping to take the bite off my lust. I hadn’t seen Annie today. I’d ridden by her place but didn’t see a soul around. Under the guise of checking out a book at the library, I asked Pippa where Annie was. Pippa gave me a long knowing look but admitted Annie only worked two days a week at the library. The rest of the time she’s at the Methodist church. Churches are about as off-limits as teenage sexpots trying to get into a mash. In the last couple of years, this has begun to be a real problem. I blame it on the stupid-ass television show.

Fortunately Judge’s stepdaughter comes by to mark them for us. We don’t need underage flesh getting us in trouble. People get leery just at the sight of our leathers and our bikes. And there are some who are dying to pin shit on the club to make us look bad. Judge’s son, Wrecker, got sent to the state penitentiary for three years.

An underage girl at a mash? Might as well take a bulldozer to the granary. We’d be done.

When my foot lands on the second floor, the sounds of sex in the party room travel all the way down the hall. The high-pitched wails carry over the lower grunts and shouts of encouragement.

I peek in the first room and see a woman on a low, round coffee table. Her hands are tied behind her back, her ass is high in the air and the guy fucking her has a hand on the back of her neck. The rockers on the back of his cut proclaim him to be a Stonehead Bandit. The Bandits are a crew out of Illinois that are known for moving drugs and guns along the Mississippi. He finishes with a hard grunt and steps aside. Without much more downtime, another Bandit is taking his place.

“Nice hospitality you got here,” says Thrasher. He’s the Bandits’ enforcer. Like Michigan, he’s just watching but it’s early yet. He might find a sweet butt he can’t keep away from once all his boys have bedded down.

“Can’t have a mash without a few willing women.”

“You boys care a little too much about a sweet butt’s age. Michigan’s more strict than a Chicago bar.” The toothpick in the corner of his mouth barely moves as he talks.

“We’ve got liquor and a bunch of horny guys running around. Being careful is why we’ve been here for generations.”

“Nothing like the tight hole of a virgin,” Thrasher muses. “Hear there’s a club up north specializing in that kind of treat for visiting clubs.”

“Then you should’ve rode straight up there if that’s your thing because it’s not something the Death Lords will ever have on the menu.”

“Don’t tell me now that Judge has hooked up with permanent pussy that you guys are turning into a choir group.”

The slaps of flesh on flesh are starting to bore me. Giving the room a quick perusal, it appears everyone is here willingly. There’s a Death Lords patch with a woman bouncing on his lap and a prospect the Bandits brought with them taking in the entire scene. He reminds me of Abel, one of our prospects who’s so fresh out of the Marines, he still smells like mortar and sweat. I like the looks of the prospect more than any of the other Bandits here. Pushing away from the wall I was leaning against, I grab Thrasher by the neck. He jerks in surprise but my grip is relentless. “You talk shit about Judge’s old lady like that again and one of us will reach down your throat and pull your colon out through your mouth.”

The three other Bandits in the room stand and the sex acts grind to a halt. Robot, the Death Lords patch, has his trusty ten-inch liner lock knife in his hand, blade flipped out. I give him a tiny shake and he folds the blade inside the handle.

I release Thrasher with a small shove. “You know old ladies are untouchable.”

He strokes his throat. He smiles but his eyes are burning with anger. “Yeah. ’Course. Meant no disrespect.”

Holding back my snort, I give a nod toward the occupants of the room. “This is a party. Go forth and have a fucking good time.”

Robot follows me out, dragging his sweet butt with him. “Give them ten minutes and then clear the girls out.”

“They were having a good time,” Robot says. “Everyone in there was willing.”

“Oh yeah, Tracey’s the girl on the table and the mash is all she’s been talking about all week.” A brown-haired girl with a pixie face looks up earnestly at me and then Robot. “But we’d rather be with a Death Lord, if we had the choice.”

I chuck her under the chin. “It’s early yet. Plenty of Death Lords to be had later tonight. Plus you got Robot here. Never heard of a girl complaining who had the attention of this dude.”

Robot rolls his eyes and pulls the giggly girl back into the room. At the end of the hall, I see Michigan waiting for me.

“There trouble inside?”

“Not yet. Just visitors talking trash. Judge having an old lady is a big surprise.”

Michigan rubs a hand across his chin and then heads downstairs. I follow him to the front of the granary where he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and offers me one. I shake my head. I’m pissed he’s smoking again, but I’m not his keeper. I’m his best friend.

“What do you think Pastor Bloom would do if I sat in a pew on Sunday?” I ask. He blows out a stream of smoke but doesn’t answer. I press on. “She’s a hot little thing. Just our type.”

With a grunt, he sucks the cancer stick down until it’s more ash than tobacco. Finally he throws the piece of shit on the ground and grinds it out with his boot heel. “You’re a fucking fool if you think that Annie Bloom has any interest in roughnecks like us individually or together. She’s not the type.”

“You ask her?”

He grits his teeth. “I don’t have to ask her. I know.”

“You have a thing against pastors’ daughters? They’re the dirtiest girls around,” I joke.

Michigan spins suddenly and pulls up his cut and T-shirt. His back is a mess of scars. Even when we were in, he never explained the source. “I got these because I slept with a preacher’s daughter. She was all over me, rubbing herself against me, telling me she wanted me and my friend to do her. Finally we did. My friend was an asshole and bragged about it. Word got back to her dad and she claimed we raped her. I got dragged down to Lake Superior, had my own special baptism at her daddy’s hands and then he and a few other dads took turns beating me. I was told I could join the Marines or go to prison. I joined up. The day I fuck another preacher’s daughter is the day I will have lost my fucking mind.”

Fuck me. It’s been less than forty-eight hours and I’m already making a fool of myself over Annie Bloom. I’ve kept the story of my beating a secret for over ten years from a man who has become closer than a brother, but one argument over the preacher’s girl and I’m vomiting shit from my mouth.

“Never mind,” I sigh and drop my shirt. I light up another cigarette wishing it was something stronger.

“I had no idea.” Easy rubs a hand across his forehead.

“You like her. You fuck her.” I shrug carelessly as if the idea of Easy and Annie together without me doesn’t bother me.

His hand moves from his forehead, over the full head of hair to the back of his neck. Easy’s always liked to wear his hair long after we got out. “I’m not fucking her without you.”

“Can’t get it up without me staring at it?” I mock. “I’ll give you a picture to hang over your bed.” The muscles in his biceps tense and for a second, I wonder if he’s going to throw a punch. I brace myself because I deserve it. And because I’m a selfish masochist, I keep going. “Or are you worried you can’t satisfy a woman alone? Even a virgin like the Bloom chick might have expectations you can’t live up to.”

He eyes me while the crickets sing an entire song. When he does hit me, it’s not with his fist. “You’re not a seventeen-year-old boy alone anymore, brother.”

The verbal punch takes me by surprise so I don’t even see his hand as it comes up and slaps the cig from my mouth. He walks off and into the clubhouse. The music and lights spill out momentarily as he opens and then closes the side door of the granary.

Then I’m left with the mosquitoes, crickets and other creatures of the night. The red tip of the cig pulses a few times and then dies out.

I step on it with my heel and follow Easy into the club. My role as enforcer is one I take seriously because the club is my family and I’ve already failed to protect them once. The president’s son got sent to jail because I wasn’t fast enough to prevent a fight—a fight that led to a skinhead from up north dying and Wrecker getting sent to prison for three years.

That night I learned it was better to head off things early on. I stopped drinking and my only vice left was the tobacco. Protecting the Death Lords MC is my sole focus. Seducing a pretty daughter of the part of Fortune that hates us would mean painting a target on our backs.