Hard Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 1) (21 page)

Her legs wrapped around his tight, sculpted ass, urging him even deeper inside if that was possible. Her moans pushed against the walls of the house, calling out his name, screaming affirmations again and again. Ecstasy rushed through her, every inch of skin feeling like it was on fire.

Above her, thrusting into her, he was beautiful. Her hands ran over his face to feel him, worship him.

It was a strange thing, to think a man beautiful—and certainly she didn’t think of him beautiful like a woman. His features were all man, from the broad line of his nose to the harsh, healthy, ripped features of his torso. There was nothing about him that could be possibly mistaken for anything but a red-blooded stud.

But still, he was beautiful to her. Looking at him was like staring into some vast canyon, or, perhaps more appropriately, up at a mountain peak. Strong. Impermeable. Eternal.

“You're so right,” he groaned. “So good. So perfect...”

His strokes began to reach a feverish pitch, pistoning in and out with gusto. He was lost in abandon, she could see it in his eyes. All he wanted was to fuck her. There was no tomorrow, no yesterday, no
earlier
or
later
. There was only this beautiful now in which they both lost themselves to her tightening of her body around his cock, his thrusts into her again and again.

The head of his cock hit inside of her perfectly. His largeness was so complete that every stroke pushed firmly up against her g-spot, encouraging more and more pleasure, making her words and moans an unintelligible mush of adoration.

Her orgasm approached rapidly, the perfect ending to this coupling. She could feel it building inside of her, her body contorting with so much bliss that she hadn’t even the time to warn him.

“Ram,” she moaned. “Oh, oh Ram. Oh god, oh
Ram
...”

Her torso twisted, slipped, hands pulling across his neck and tugging him deeper inside of her as the tidal wave of pleasure powered through her form. And just as her orgasm peaked—he had to pull out, his heavy cock riding hard on her clit. A wave of warm, sticky seed exploded from his cock, spraying against his wife’s body and covering her belly with the gift she craved. With his cock's denseness pushing so perfectly on her clit, her orgasm felt like it had doubled on itself, carrying her mind away to a far away place.

A far away place where all was warm, where her man clutched her body as tightly as she clutched his. Where she could feel his hardness building again across her thigh and belly after only a few minutes of rest...where he whispered that he wanted to do it all again.

That was fine by her.

––––––––

T
he conversation with Howitzer had taken just under five minutes and Ram was happy as it drew to a close.

“All right,” said Ram. “Tonight, then.”

He hung up the phone, feeling rather satisfied with himself. His father seemed to take the news of his marriage well, and of course he would spread it around to everyone who had half-an-ear to listen. The club would vote tonight on whether to keep Ram in.

The unstable, unreliable, always waiting for the club to bail-him-out Ram had a wife and he had just organized an operation to get his brother a new bike—and rubbed shit in the face of the Black Flags while he did it, and all without any lives lost.

If that didn’t keep him in the Wrecking Crew, then nothing would.

And if it didn't maybe he’d go Lone Wolf for a little while. It wasn’t a comforting thought—the club was everything to him—but he had to plan for every contingency. He was like his father in that way. When stress hit Howitzer, he’d be lost in his office for hours, drawing up schedules and budgets, planning out the club’s business months in advance. He’d come out of his office and demand a club meeting, showing his brothers his work and asking for their input on what he’d drawn up.

Howitzer was a man who liked a plan, liked structure despite his outlaw ways. He didn’t want the hypocritical structure of
society
, which promised freedom and then spent all its time guaranteeing new ways to restrict that freedom, but he did want a structure. And as the club president, he could set whatever structure he liked.

Again Ram considered the note stuffed down his shirt. The piece of paper he had tucked away last night shortly before finally fucking June.

He hadn't been able to concentrate on it at the time—there were far more important things going on—but the note was from Beretta:

Rats on my ship. Let's talk. I'm at the cabin for the next few days.

What did Beretta want from him? Why try to meet? Why plant a note on him in the middle of a brawl?

And what fucking right did that asshole think he had, trying to parlay with him when he was the reason Madeline was in the ground?

He didn't have much time to consider it.

A car—a cop car—swaggered lazily across the street coming toward his house. Ram lived on the end of a wide intersection and so he could see the car as it passed by Buddy's Mechanic Shop and then the grocery store and then the small island of trees and benches in the middle of the intersection. It pulled up slow in front of Ram’s house. He eyed the squad car with suspicion—and even more when he saw the driver step out.

It was Theo Kirkpatrick. He looked drunk. Though he wore his police uniform, it was covered with dirt at the knees and unbuttoned across his chest. Like he’d been crawling through the muck, tripping and stumbling all morning before pulling himself up into his car.

“Hey there, deputy.” A rare feeling of charity struck Ram. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ll make you some coffee.”

Theo spat on the ground. His stance was wide and staggered. “I’d sooner drink piss than anything you offered me.”

Ram nodded. “I understand that. How can I help you then?”

“You can come out here,” he pointed at all of the street, “and get your ass arrested.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come out here and be here like a man and then
fight
me, like a man does. How about that?”

His heavy slurring, running over of words, only confirmed Ram’s suspicion that he was drunk. He was also armed. Ram could see his standard-issue revolver at his hip.

Ram had a few guns at his house. The closest—a .308 Browning hunting rifle—was just beyond his door. He was afraid that if he went back inside before Theo said his piece that the cop would start shooting.

“I’m just gonna stay right here, thanks,” said Ram. “I’m sorry you’re upset. But maybe you ought to get the hell out of here before someone sees a cop in your state.”

“In
my
state?
My
state? You want to talk about
my
state? My state is
Texas
, and you
killed
my friend in
my
state, you son-of-a-bitch, and you did it on purpose.”

Ram sighed, leaning heavily on the beam of his porch. “I didn’t kill anybody, man.”

At least, he didn’t kill the cop Theo was talking about, or any cop for that matter.

“Yes, you
did
. He stopped you from...from
running drugs
, or whatever it is you do, and you couldn’t have that, so you killed him.”

“Listen, friend,” said Ram. “I don’t want to fight you, okay? We’re practically related now. In fact—”

“Don’t fucking
talk
to me about that lie between you and June, all right? I don’t need to hear that.”

“Okay,” said Ram. “All right. Listen, she’s inside, so let’s not make a big deal out of this. How’s that?”

Theo took a moment to process this, his face shifting as if being filled with water. “She’s inside? In there?”

“Yeah. It’s the sort of thing couples do, sleeping together.”

Theo wavered. “Her dad ain’t gonna be happy about that.”

“You can add it to my rap sheet then, I expect.”

“Doesn’t quite belong when I know you
killed
my best friend.”

Ram sighed. This was not going to be easy.

“Look, you said I killed him because he saw me there, right? That’s your story.”

“It sure as shit is.”

“Weren’t there other cops there? What did they have to say?”

“They...it was too dark. They couldn’t make everybody out in the chaos.”

“So your friend was such a good cop that he could see in the dark? And more than that, he could see better than any of the other cops there? And there ain’t no way that cops, too blind to see, didn’t maybe shoot one of their own in the back? Or that anybody else could have shot him, anybody at all who wasn’t me? You sure you ain’t mad at me just because you know my name, Theo?”

A sullen, low look shed across his face. Doubt, for the first time, had entered him. Ram was surprised at how well logic had worked. He must have been learning something from June.

“It ain’t...it’s not like that,” said Theo. “You don’t understand.
You
did it. It’s just...”

His compulsion was leaving him, slowly, draining out like syrup through a sieve. For a moment, it seemed like the tide was beginning to turn.

Thunder sounded down the road, the unmistakable growl of a Harley-Davidson filling the small street. Ram swore under his breath. That was all he needed.

“Oh. Oh!” Theo spread his arms out. “I get it. Pull me in so you can surround me, huh? Well
fuck. You
.”

He pulled out his gun, holding it high, spreading his legs a little wider. Ram immediately shot down to the patio, putting the bulk of himself behind the boards of the porch. Gunshots fired off into the air, Theo yelling at the approaching biker.

“What the hell are you doing, pig?”

This was Mikhail. He leapt off his bike and shoved Theo to the ground, his gun clattering across the concrete and firing off a shot into Ram’s house. It hit the base of the porch, but gunfire was gunfire, and Ram's heart was pumping. Theo pulled Mikhail down to the ground and they wrestled on top of one another.

A mistake on the cop’s part. Mikhail's training in mixed martial arts meant he knew exactly how to fight a man on the ground. In seconds he had Theo tied up in a knot, arms twisting behind his back.

He looked up at Ram. “What the hell’s going on?”

But he was showing off, too lax in the hold. Theo was not as skilled as Mikhail, but he was bigger and stronger. Theo lifted up and threw Mikhail from his body, lunging for his gun. Mikhail rushed him again and they scrambled around on the ground, Ram shouting at them the whole time. June rushed out from the house, finally hearing what was going on, and started screaming herself.

The gun went off. Theo slowly rolled off Mikhail, eyes wide.

Between them there was a long sigh, both looking shocked. It took a moment for Ram to register that the movement on Mikhail’s chest—that bubbling and pulsing—was his blood filling up the space between his skin and his shirt.

He was shot.

––––––––

J
une called 911 on the first shot. She had been half-awake, daydreaming about ordering breakfast in from somewhere. Did Marlowe use any of the apps she had from Austin—Grubhub, Food Pedaler?

She wanted to eat donuts and build up enough dirty sugar energy to fuck Ram again and stay in bed with him all day. She was a wife, now, after all, a newlywed, and she wanted at least a few
hours
of a honeymoon, even if it was all for show.

But the gunfire broke her from her gentle reverie. Alarms sounded in her head, adrenaline pumping like mad. She dressed as quickly as she could and ran outside once she couldn't find Ram.

Terror hit her at the thought of her husband being shot, of her so suddenly and so sickly becoming a widow.

Outside, the scene was a nightmare. Theo, a smoking gun in his hands. Mikhail covered in blood, in his
own
blood. It didn’t make sense. She had just seen him last night, gave him a hug goodbye when he gave her and Ram long knowing looks—knowing the two better than they knew themselves.

It was hard to believe just minutes before she had been soaking in the afterglow of amazing sex, the consummation of her marriage, and ruminating over the quickly fertilizing feelings she could feel growing for Ram.

He was more than just a fuck to her—more than just a pretend relationship, a fake marriage. No one could be inside of her like he was, no one could make her
come
like he did, and be just a fling.

She didn’t know
what
that made him exactly. She didn’t know if she wanted to be with him long-term, or forever, if she wanted to let her emotions get the best of her and moan in his ear how she loved him when he made her come again—but god help her if she wasn’t tempted.

And now, mere moments after that, she was witness to a bloody horror show outside Ram’s front door.

“Grab me something to staunch the bleeding,” he ordered.

She froze. “Like what?”

“Anything—anything!”

June ran back into the house. Panic assailed her every thought. She grabbed a towel and a spare shirt and an arm-cover from the couch. She brought them all out to Ram and he held it to Mikhail’s body.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked Mikhail.

“Oh no,” said Mikhail, voice weak. “Just a scratch.” He lifted his head up to look up at all the blood, pooling around him on the concrete. “Just a scratch, but it’ll do it.”

“It’s not so bad,” Ram insisted lamely. “You’ll be fine.”

“No need to be a brave man. I’m going to be a grave man...”

His voice had taken on an odd, old sing-song as the strength visibly left him.

Theo picked himself up off the ground finally, shaking, tossing his gun away and then picking it up again. Finally he threw it in the car. “You all saw me,” he said, staggering and covered in blood. “He
attacked
me. I didn’t have a choice. I had to defend myself. I had to...”

He shook his head, barely buying the story himself. “It just went off. It was in both our hands. I thought he had it...”

Without saying anything else he stumbled into his car. June started to yell at him: