Forbidden (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 1) (5 page)

He replied casually, "I was raised by a single mother. I grew up in a trailer. I'm the end result of a raw deal I leveraged to my advantage. We were poor, and that made me determined to not remain that way, so I worked my ass off, but it also made me grow up with a chip on my shoulder. I got in a lot of fights and got kicked out of a couple of schools. I tried drugs and alcohol, the normal shit that teenagers sample, because I wanted an escape. There wasn't any nirvana in that stuff for me."

"I was a model student. I excelled at my studies. I've never been in a fight in my life—although my big brother fought for me more times than I can count. I never even thought about trying drugs, and I don't drink excessively. Moderation in all things."

He smiled. "You sound like you had it easy."

"I've been bullied, poked fun at, and downright abused in this country. People see me now and they think terrorist, an extremist. If you call that easy, you're crazy."

"My apologies, I didn't mean to devalue your experiences," he said lightly.

"You're a white male in a white male dominated world," she pushed a little. "Not that I have anything against you. It's just easy for a man like you to ignore what it's like to not be the majority."

He pushed up his sleeve and flashed his tattoos. "It all depends on which aspect people see first. Few things in life are as simple as they seem. For instance, when you're poor, you're considered inferior. When you're different, you're considered a threat. I've been both. I don't want to compare battle stripes, but—suffice it to say—I'm not oblivious to what it's like to be labeled. But, we aren't our scars, and we aren't defined by what other people call us. I see you, and I see a beautiful girl with eyes like an unfamiliar song I want to learn the words to."

"What if there aren't any words?" she asked. Her hooded eyes were seductive, even though she didn't intend them to be. The waiter appeared with their food, which broke the mood. Afia snatched her gaze away and gave her attention to the meal placed before her. "This looks delicious."

"I was thinking the same thing." She looked up, and his eyes were still on her.

She cleared her throat. "You were telling me about your childhood."

"There isn't much to tell," he replied. "At some point in a courtroom for some random juvenile offense, I realized that I was following a well-traveled path to a hell I wasn't interested in visiting. I was locked away in a group home for six months and had to do community service, but when I got out, I had a whole new perspective on what it meant to have street cred. I looked at the neighborhood guys who seemed to be the hardest, most respected gangsters, and they didn't hold the same kind of weight around town as the doctors and the lawyers."

"Scared straight," she interjected. He nodded, smiling. It was easy to smile with her. Talking to her was easy. He didn't see judgment in her eyes at the mention of being raised by a single mom or his earlier criminal behavior. He had dated some chicks who looked at his past like a mark against him.

"I got my GED. I dedicated myself to getting into college, and once there, I made it my business to get a degree. I've always been kind of great with cars and shit, so mechanical engineering came second nature, but I never really thought I'd get as far as I have. During my junior year of college, I got a scholarship from GM."

"So, what do you for a living?"

"I'm a draftsman. I design products to enhance engine performance."

"That sounds complicated. What I want to do is work as a physician assistant, preferably in a major hospital. I have another year, and my goal will be realized."

"And, your family isn't happy about that? You mentioned something about your brother not liking your ambition."

She shrugged, digging into her food. "Rayan feels a woman's place is in the home. He's old-fashioned. He thinks a man is supposed to take care of me. I know I'm intelligent enough and strong enough to make my own way in this world. When it comes to relationships, I don't want to feel like I have to shrink my dynamism so my partner can feel like the bigger person. I guess I'm more influenced by this culture than my family prefers that I be. It's just that...well, I'm not trying to supersede anybody. But, what's wrong with being equals?"

"I see your strength."

"You see me quivering like a mouse. Stop it," she said softly.

He put his hand over hers across the table, and she didn't pull back. Afia looked up into his eyes. They were sheer blue as the sky. "If it makes you feel better, you make my pulse race, too."

"Why is that?" Afia asked. He chuckled and glanced away, eyes returning with renewed force.

She leaned back in her chair, finally tucking her hands under her arms, knowing distance was her only salvation. The way the light touched his skin washed his face in golden highlights and navy shadows, and the image was branded into her consciousness. She would see him, even if her eyes went blind. His hand upon hers had burned her fingers. She was sure there were blisters where their skin had touched. This was arousal, she surmised. She would've thought she was old enough to recognize it by now, but she had never felt a desire so hot it scalded.

"Because...you're nothing like what I'm used to, and I have no idea what to make of you. A part of me knows I should speed away in the opposite direction, but my mind can't move away."

"The timeless dilemma. The Forbidden Fruit."

"Is it the same for you?"

"My family would never accept you. Why don't I care?"

"Don't say things like that. I almost wish you would steer clear of me. I'm not exactly in a position to give you the right advice about a guy like me. To be blunt...for all you see, there are things you don't."

"Don't worry. I'm wiser than my foolish words," she said with a half-smile. "So, you're telling me I'm better off abiding by the rules."

"I wish you wouldn't though."

"Say what you mean."

"I'm trying," he admitted.

They lapsed into a loaded silence, eyes saying too much. Eating occupied the need for conversation. She saw the warning and the invitation. He saw the need for her to make an honest mistake. She would put faith in him that he maybe didn't deserve, Sam realized. He was equally aware she might be able to make him do what others couldn't. Change.

They ordered a dessert, which they shared. Afia adjusted her hijab around her face. She knew it was late, and she couldn't stay out all night, and she pulled out her phone to check the time. She hadn't even thought to call Bionca. Her roommate would be worried. "Oh, it's almost eleven."

"Is that my cue to get you home?" Sam asked with a grin. He called for the check and paid the bill, grabbing his jacket. He reached for Afia, but he didn't touch her. He guided her out of the restaurant into the chilly night, and Sam dropped his leather jacket around her shoulders for warmth. When she stepped under his arm and let it rest around her shoulders, he didn't say a word, but simply reveled in the feel of her. They walked together to the motorcycle.

"Have I sufficiently scared you off?" he asked impulsively.

"You've given me a lot to consider," she replied.

She settled on the bike behind him, arms easily resting around his waist, and when he took off, she clutched him tighter. He sped the short distance to her apartment. He had to get her home. If he didn't, he couldn't be held accountable for what he might do.

She stood on the steps to her apartment, watching him ride away and struggling to push down the excitement that still lingered long after he disappeared into the night. What was wrong with her? She suppressed a soulful groan. He had all but told her he was bad news, but she couldn't resist continuing the story to see what would happen next.

CHAPTER 5

Bionca had waited up for her, and as soon as Afia walked into the apartment, she was assailed with questions about how the date went and what he was like. She barely had the words to describe everything. Afia sat at the kitchen counter with Bionca going over everything in detail and watching her friend's face carefully to see what Bionca thought about the whole situation.

"The problem is," said Afia, "this weekend I'm going with my parents to meet a man they hope will pique my interest. They're ready for me to settle down. I know what's expected of me, Bionca, but..."

Bionca chipped at the polish on her nails with chewed off nails, contemplating. "What they don't know won't hurt them, right?"

"I can't hide something as big as this. If they find out, they'll never trust me again."

Bionca reached out and grabbed her arm. "Afia, you're an adult!"

"I'm trying to tell you what it's like in my family, Bionca. I know I'm an adult, but I still have responsibilities, duties. I can't just walk around like none of that matters. Why won't you listen to me?"

"I'm doing the best I can, honey, but I'm having a hard time reconciling the girl I know with the person you're trying to turn yourself into. Every challenge you've encountered since I met you, you've conquered. You're not some shrinking violet who can be manipulated, and you're letting yourself be backed into a corner by hardline traditionalists who expect you to conform to their standards with no allowance for what you really want to do with your life! Afia, you have a right to pave your own way."

"I'm scared I'll mess things up." Afia's voice was small, as she admitted the fear that lingered in the back of her mind every time she thought about rebelling against her parents' wishes. She wasn't so arrogant that she imagined she'd never need their help in the future. These were things that had to be considered.

"You will mess up. We all mess up. Your folks have messed up before. Look, I know you think you have them all figured out, but they're humans, too. The bottom line is, you don't know what you'll do if you keep waiting around for someone else to make all your decisions for you."

"He basically told me he couldn't be trusted."

Bionca snorted. "At least he's honest."

Afia giggled. "I gotta get some sleep," she said finally. "Whose idea was it to have a late night date in the middle of a class week?"

"Yours," Bionca reminded her.

Afia got up from the counter and made her way to the bathroom, and she drew a bath so she could contemplate her night in private. She sank into the tub, and the bubbles rose to her chest. She slowly washed her face, sweeping the towel over her glistening skin. She washed away the day, while her mind was lingering on the night. Sam was more than attractive; he was interesting. She wondered if it was the forbidden quality that stamped their relationship with taboo that appealed to her most.

It was intense to know he was just as interested in her as she was in him, and he respected her. That was different. That was important, but what should she do with him? Bionca's suggestion was that Afia keep the relationship a secret from her family. As much as Afia had protested, she knew she could do it. What she did at grad school was her business. They rarely even asked much about it.

On the other hand, the subterfuge would place a wedge between them that hadn't existed before. Afia had always played by the rules, but she had never wanted to break them so badly before.

Afia smoothed the towel down her torso to her delicate mons. As the terry cloth skated over her labia, her eyes drifted shut, and she sank deeper into the water. Her head rested on the back of the ivory tub, her shiny hair floated on the surface of the water. She had never touched herself so intimately, but her hand moved of its own accord between her legs. She thought of the man who inspired her lust. "Sam," she murmured heatedly. His face flashed behind her closed eye. She squeezed them tighter shut.

What was he doing to her?

A gentle moan hummed in her chest, and her naked body trembled in the still water. Her fingertips slipped past the towel to touch herself. The pad of her index finger stroked her clitoris. Her hips shifted forward, legs drifting open wider. Her womanhood clenched, and she bit her bottom lip, hissing in a breath as her finger slipped close to her entrance. She was a virgin. She had never been penetrated. The questing digit was enough to bring her crashing back to reality.

Bath water sloshed to the floor as Afia sat up straight with a gasp like she had been holding her breath, and she quickly washed her hands. She swiftly finished bathing. It was a mistake. It was a mistake to let herself get too involved with Sam. She hurried out of the tub and got dressed. She couldn't look at herself in the mirror, and she didn't want to think about what she had almost done. But, as she climbed into the bed and pulled her comforter up over her shoulders, her mind raced, against conscious effort, back to thoughts of the bad boy biker who inflamed her desires more than any man ever had.

She wanted him so badly, it hurt. It had to be a sin.

***

"Have you met my daughter, Afia?" Rashad beamed with pride.

Fatima, resplendent in a scarlet Iranian folk costume, the red silk painted with gold designs, held out her ringed finger to Afia who was wearing fair rose. The wealthy merchant, Jabar's father, stared openly in approval. Afia knew she looked the picture of the proper Muslim girl. She was appropriately modest and demure. She kept her eyes downcast. She wouldn't speak unless spoken to, and she wouldn't voice her opinions unless asked. She knew what was desired of her. He gestured for his son, and Jabar came reluctantly to his side, probably already having met every single woman at the party—young, old, beautiful, and ugly. Getting paired was tiresome work.

"You must meet my oldest son," Ahmad introduced.

Jabar eyes glittered with interest, as he finally looked at her.  Afia smiled tightly, eyes cautiously lifting to dart around the crowded room. The Muhamad house was filled with family and friends celebrating the momentous occasion of Jabar's graduation from medical school, and she was honored to be a guest, but she was past ready to go home. Dinner had been served; musicians serenaded; and a belly dancer moved around the room. How long could the party last? She had assignments to catch up on.

"So, you're studying to be a physician assistant?" Jabar asked. "Do you find it demanding coursework?"

"It can be," Afia allowed. She nervously glanced at the man her parents were gunning for her to begin a courtship with, and she just couldn't find anything appealing about him. Jabar's ears were larger than she recalled from the last time she had seen him, and to make matters worse, he had a faint odor of garlic and onions from the savory meal they had eaten. She fought not to gag.

Putting a safe distance between him and her nose, she looked back down at the floor. He remarked, "You must have many men begging to see you. Your beauty draws the eye of every man here." There was a possessive catch to his voice. Afia managed not to roll her eyes. She smiled instead.

"You are overly kind," she replied.

Jabar launched into a boring conversation about his residency, which she followed with some difficulty. The way her attention skittered off at every distraction didn't bode well. She tried to appear attentive, but Afia was sure she was failing. Jabar didn't seem to notice. He brought her refreshments, sweet cakes and spicy punch, and he rambled on about wanting to be a neurologist, but she had visions of bikers flying down the highway of her thoughts.

"And, my first choice for a bride didn't suit. I think American culture ruins good women. Their self-importance becomes inflated. Of course, I expect a woman to be possessed of intelligence, but not so vulgarly secular. So..."

Afia's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I understand," she murmured, not hearing a word he was saying.

"A woman like you, for instance, your brilliant mind must be turned to pleasing your respectable parents. I've heard nothing but virtuous things about you, Afia. Wise is the woman whose name is above reproach. You're almost done with graduate school, if I've heard correctly?"

"That must be so," she uttered. Her gaze found Rayan at the open bar yet again. She frowned. It was about the fourth or fifth time she had caught him there. She wondered if her parents were paying any attention to him. Likely, her mother was somewhere watching her, making sure Afia crossed her T's and dotted her I's. She sighed involuntarily. Catching herself, she covered it with a dramatic yawn. "I'm sorry, Jabar," she excused herself.

He chuckled. "Yes, I know education taxes you. If you were my wife, you wouldn't have to worry about your financial well-being. I am on course to be a successful neurologist. Did I tell you that?"

"I'm sure," she muttered. She spied Rayan slink from the main room where the gathering was centered. He looked unsteady on his feet. "I, uh—excuse me a moment. I need to go check on my brother. Will you hold my drink?"

She left Jabar's side without a backwards glance. She discreetly moved across the room and slipped into the corridor where she had seen Rayan disappear. She hissed his name. "Where are you?" she whispered.

"Whaaa?" His slurred speech was all the evidence she needed to hear. He was sloppy drunk.

Afia huffed and moved deeper into the shadowy hallway where she found Rayan sprawled face down on the floor, his nice suit rumpled and stained. He reeked of liquor. She couldn't believe he would act so irresponsibly in a place like this. "Come on." Afia grunted with effort, as she laboriously dragged her brother to a kneeling position, so he could struggle to his feet. He stood up, albeit on wobbly legs. 

She guided him step by step to the front door and out into the night. Why was it she was always on clean-up duty? Afia persisted to his Camaro. She dug into Rayan's pocket for the keys and opened the car, shoving him into the passenger seat. She had traveled to the social event with her parents. She didn't have her hybrid. When she was sure he wouldn't climb back out in a drunken stupor because he was passed out, she rushed quietly back into the house to find her mother.

Fatima was mid-laugh in a conversation with some of her peers when she saw Afia hurrying towards her, and her smile left her face.  She excused herself from the gathering of women talking about their oafish husbands and ungrateful children, and she met Afia halfway. "I thought you were supposed to be talking to Jabar," she admonished.

"I was, Maman, but Rayan grew ill. I think it was the shellfish. Didn't it taste off to you?"

"What? No, of course not. Where is your brother?"

"I have him in the car. I'm just going to drive him to his house and make sure he gets inside and gets something to settle his stomach. You needn't worry, Maman. I left Jabar with a great impression."

Fatima looked like she wanted to say more, but she thought better of it. At least Afia had given the young man a chance, which was more than Fatima could say about others she had tried to persuade her daughter to see. She waved her hands in a shooing motion. Afia's smile lit her face, and she kissed her mother's cheeks, hurrying away so that she could get Rayan home. She rushed to the white Camaro and got in the driver's seat, adjusting it to her height. She put on her seatbelt and pushed the start button. The car purred to life, and she thanked her lucky stars Rayan had gotten drunk, but she also worried about him.

Was it just her imagination or was her normally conservative brother drinking more and more lately? She remembered he had come to the house last week with a flask on his hip. Deep in thought, she drove across the city to the street where his townhome was located. She cast glances in his direction, but he didn't rouse. His soft snore filled the car. Afia grumbled as she killed the engine and tried to figure out how to get his limp body out of the passenger's seat and into the house.

"Rayan," she said his name. She shook his shoulder. He made a sound of dissent. "Rayan, wake up! You're home."

"Unh?" he groaned. 

She sighed in exasperation and shoved him harder.  With annoyance, she said louder, "Rayan, this is irresponsible of you!"

He shifted from a position slumped with his head against the window to his head pressed against the headrest. His shoved his fists to his eyes and knuckled them clear. He yawned, a sour smell erupting. "Home?" he said groggily, scratching his stomach. His tie was loosened and his shirt had come free of being neatly tucked in his pants. He shoved open the door of the car and stumbled out, moving by habit to his front door. He fumbled in his pockets for keys Afia was still holding.