White Wolves MC: A BWWM Interracial Romance (8 page)

“Good,” I whispered, holding her around the waist. I leaned forward and I could smell her—the scent of her hair, of her perfume. God, it would be so easy to run my hand down in between her legs, to bend her over and take her, gripping those perfect little tits as I rode the bitch hard…

“So, what do I do now?”

As we ran through the steps of bringing the chopper to life, how to accelerate, how to brake, how to turn and move with the bike as if you were an extension of it and the bike an extension of you, I found myself savoring her scent and feeling of her pressing against me, her ass practically on my crotch like a stripper, enjoying the way she adjusted her weight and struggled with the bike.

A flush was coming to her cheeks as she worked, as she fought with the beast.

“Don’t fight it,” I whispered in her ear, my lips mere inches from her skin. “Let the bike talk to you. Let it tell you what it wants.”

“I don’t care what it wants,” Mercedes scowled. “I care about what I want it to do.”

“Well, that’s not the way the bike’s going to respond,” I cautioned, teasing her, running my hands over her arms as I covered her hands with mine on the handles.

“It’s hard,” Mercedes whispered. And then, after a moment, she added. “Riding, I mean.”

“I know. But it’ll get easier,” I whispered back, my chin resting on her shoulder, almost in the cradle of her neck.

“Will it?”

“If you practice.”

“Will you let me?”

“If you’re good to me.”

“How can I be good to you?” she asked, her voice slow and soft as she shifted her butt against my crotch. My cock was practically ready to explode.

“You can ride the bike to the bodega three blocks away and pick up something for lunch,” I declared, climbing off the back.

“Wait, what? I can barely get around the parking lot here.”

“Well, go slow. Practice.”

I watched her ride unsteadily, swaying from side to side, as she crept out of the parking lot and onto the street. As I turned, I heard a cascade of honks and yelling. But no crash, no sound of bodies hitting the pavement or car hoods, so I didn’t turn around.

Instead, I went upstairs, went straight to the bathroom, dropped my jeans, and jerked off furiously into my hand, imagining her tight little ass wrapped around my cock.

When I had finished, I washed my hands and found myself staring a picture on my bookshelf. It was me and Fred, back in Afghanistan.

“You sure found yourself a firecracker,” I muttered to Fred’s picture. “Good god, man. How’d you ever handle her?”

I stalked back downstairs just in time to meet Mercedes, returning from the store with bags hanging off of either forearm.

“That was scarier than a shootout,” she said, shaking her head, her legs trembling as she climbed off the bike. “I practically caused about fourteen car accidents on my way over there.”

“But you didn’t successfully cause any accidents, so you’re still doing better than I did my first time out on a bike,” I announced.

We went upstairs and without my having to say anything, she started on lunch, whipping up a quick, corner-bodega meal of refried beans, cheese, tortillas, scrambled eggs, and chorizo sausage. I picked out a few hot sauces from the fridge and we settled down to eat.

“You like those hot sauces,” she noted as I doused my eggs, my sausage, and my beans in a smoky dark crimson liquid that could burn rust off of iron if given the chance.

“It helps me feel,” I replied, simply. “It’s one of the only things that gets the endorphins pumping anymore.”

She selected a hot sauce to try, doused her beans with it, and took a bite.

“Jesus Christ!” Mercedes gasped. “How do you eat that stuff?”

She began shoveling grated cheese and tortillas into her mouth, gagging as I cackled.

“You get used to the burn. And the pain elicits an endorphin response. So you feel good and relaxed afterwards.”

“I just feel like I’ve been poisoned. There’s no way humans were meant to eat stuff like that.”

“Humans are actually the only animal that will eat a chili pepper a second time,” I noted. “All other animals will steer clear of peppers once they eat them… But not humans. We love that shit.”

“That’s… Almost beautiful, in a way.”

“What?” I asked, going back for a second helping of the sauce that had lit Mercedes’s mouth on fire.

“Humans will go back and try a painful thing a second time if they think there’s something worthwhile to it.”

Our eyes met, her baby-blues searching mine.

“Yeah… Yeah, I guess that’s true,” I said with a shrug, making a taco for myself. “Or maybe it’s just that we don’t learn the first time.”

Mercedes smiled.

“I’m pretty bad at learning my lesson the first time through. I know that, at least,” she admitted.

We finished lunch and then went downstairs to the parking lot. Mercedes road my bike around the lot for the rest of the afternoon, working up a good sweat out there in the sun. I brought a six pack of beers down and sat, watching her ride, swilling back beer after beer as the sun went down, bathing the Florida coast in a sickening orange glow.

By now, she was able to ride reliably around the parking lot without crashing into anything, without having to stop, without gasping and freaking out. It was a success, I had to say. Not that I would admit that to her.

“Yeah, you don’t look too bad out there, kiddo,” I said with a shrug. “Not great, but not terrible either.”

“Oh, shut up,” Mercedes scowled as she pulled the helmet off her head, sweaty hair tumbling out. “What’s next on the agenda?”

“Dinner. So, get upstairs and make me something,” I ordered. She rolled her eyes, but more playfully than in frustration. I slapped her ass as she went by me and she giggled, running a few steps into the building.

This was all fun and good but I was in dangerous territory here. I couldn’t be letting myself fall in love with this woman. I just couldn’t.

Not only because we were supposed to be doing a job together, a job that would mean my death if it failed—fuck my life. I didn’t care that much about it. Not in the long run.

No, I couldn’t fall in love with her because she was Fred’s and I hated the idea of taking her from him, even in death.

I could see why he had loved her. Why he always carried snap shots of her. Why he bragged about her, bragged about how smart and successful she was, graduating top of her class at FSU and getting all sorts of offers from the big Miami law firms. She was going to be paying all the bills when he got home, he declared. He was going to sit on the couch, drink beer, and watch football while she was at work every day, making bank for them.

But he never got home. He never got the chance.

Dinner was more of the same. Mercedes tried some more of the hot sauce and it lit up her face again like a firecracker, shades of red and pink I swear I’ve never seen on a black girl before blazing across her cheeks.

“I really, really can’t understand how you eat this stuff…” she gagged, setting her plate down and shaking her head.

“I do and it’s great,” I retorted with a chuckle.

“What’s the next step in my White Wolves training anyway?” Mercedes asked once she was able to talk without stopping every few moments for a drink of water. “I mean, I can ride fine, but I’m not allowed to talk about that…”

I hesitated and then went for it.

“You need tattoos. Lots of them.”

“Oh. Right. That.”

“I’ll take you to my artist. He’s one of the nicest, most trustworthy guys I know. He goes the name of Gentleman Joel. He’ll take good care of you, but you’re trying to look the part of a girl who hangs out with bikers, so you’re going to need to get a lot of work done in a very, very short period of time. It… Could get rough. That’s why I wanted you to learn to ride first—you’re going to be healing for a few weeks and it would have hurt something awful to fall off the bike onto freshly tatted skin.”

“The things I do for work,” Mercedes sighed, shaking her head.

“So, start thinking about what kinds of shit you want.”

“He did all your tattoos?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I get a sleeve like yours?”

“Sure. Hell, that’d be a great idea—it’s gonna’ take a long time, but that’s what we’re looking for.”

“I don’t have any tattoos. Does it hurt?”

I shrugged.

“Depends on where you get it. But in general, not too bad. It just feels like you’re being scratched. Like you’re getting a shot at the doctor’s office.”

“I hate getting shots.”

“Well, they’re going to feel real easy after this,” I said with a grim smile.

“What did I sign up for…” Mercedes murmured, sitting back in her chair and staring up at the ceiling.

After dinner, I left Mercedes at the apartment and headed to the clubhouse. Spending too much time with those jokers made me feel sick, but I had to be putting in appearances.

When I got there, there was a Haitian kid tied up outside. His face was bloated and bloody, completely distorted. He smelled like piss—I didn’t know if it was his or someone else’s.

“What’s with the kid out there?” I demanded as soon as I entered.

“That was one of Bolo’s guys. He was trying to pass off some coke that he said the sting missed. Turned out to be ninety-percent sugar,” Fatman roared from his place on the couch, a sawed-off shotgun laid out over his lap. He was cleaning and oiling it and it looked deadly, even in pieces on the obese fuck’s legs.

“So you decided to piss on him?”

“That wasn’t me,” Fatman laughed. “I don’t know who did that, but I didn’t have to go.”

He was going to execute the kid the second he finished cleaning his gun. I knew how he worked.

“Well, give me a chance to work him over before you finish him off…” I mumbled. “I’ve got a pretty full bladder myself.”

“It can always get fuller, esse,” Manuel announced from behind the bar. He laid out two shot glasses and filled them till their overflowed with cheap Jamaican rum. We both knocked our shots back, the sweet burning liquid streaming down my throat like bleach.

“It always can,” I murmured. I chatted with Manuel for a few minutes until I saw that Fatman was just about finished cleaning his shotgun.

“Hey, brother, let me fuck that kid up a little bit more before you stick your dick up his ass,” I called out to my ostensible boss. Outside the club, it was deserted and the kid was passed out. I drew my Python and pistol whipped him hard to wake him up.

“Listen, you son of a bitch,” I growled. The kids eyes were wide with terror, an admirable feat considering how bruised and swollen they were.

“They’re planning on executing you in about two minutes. I’m going to cut you free and make like you got away. You best start running now.”

And with that, I drew my switchblade and sliced the ropes binding his hands.

“What’s your name, asshole?” I murmured as he stood up.

“Henri,” the kid replied. “Thank you so much, man, I ain’t gonna’ forget this, I—“