Kristen Ashley - Motorcycle Man

Fire and Wind. Riding free. That was their motto.

Free.

Free.

Tack was avoiding all the “laters” because rivers of blood and the Russian mob freaked me out. But also because he knew this wasn’t my world and he wanted me mired in it before he lowered the boom.

Unfortunately, shit happened and he couldn’t control when the boom lowered.

And, damn it all to hell, that boom fucking hurt.

And unfortunately, that boom wasn’t near done with me.

“You got your place with the Club, I got mine.”

I jumped, twisted at the waist, tearing my eyes from their angry contemplation of the forecourt to see the brunette standing two feet outside the door to the Compound. She was dressed, fortunately, though she didn’t wear a lot of clothes. Unfortunately, seeing her and processing all that was her, not only was she gorgeous in her skanky, slutty way, she also had a great body. Making matters worse, she was standing, one hand on her hitched hip which every woman knew meant she was prepared for our upcoming verbal smackdown. And last, she was also wearing her catty, knowing smile.

I didn’t reply and turned back to the forecourt. Weirdly, my mind conjured up the image of us, two exact opposites standing in front of an MC’s compound, me in my tight skirt, cute but smart blouse and sex kitten heels and her in her cutoff, ragged-edged, very short jean skirt, barely-there, skintight top and platform slut sandals.

And it wasn’t lost on me which one of us didn’t fit.

I heard her heels clicking to me and I kept my eyes glued to the tarmac but I felt and heard her stop close.

“Had ‘em all, ‘cept the recruits. Don’t fuck recruits. They get their cut, that’s when I break ‘em in.”

Something for Roscoe, Tug and Shy to look forward to.

I pulled in breath and kept my eyes on the forecourt.

“Tack’s my favorite,” she whispered and that was when I turned to her.

“He’s also mine.”

Her catty, knowing smile got bigger, cattier and more knowing.

“As you can tell, girl, I don’t mind sharing.”

My hand itched to slap her. No, actually, my hand itched to slap someone else. Her, I wanted to know why she did what she did to the sisterhood but worse, what she did to herself. But instead of asking, I again turned my gaze to the tarmac, willing the cab to show the fuck up already.

“You’re up for it, we can share together. Tack likes it like that. Won’t be the first time I gave it to him like that so I know.”

I took that blow and while I did it took everything else not to react visibly to it.

But inside it burned deep.

He wasn’t a choirboy. He was a biker. But I didn’t need some skanky brunette reminding me of that.

What I needed was a man who knew I didn’t need it and shielding me from it. Not setting me up by sending me into a Compound that contained it to get a mysterious envelope.

My eyes went back to her just in time for her to keep talking.

“You’re his old lady so I’ll let you have his dick. I’ll sit on his face,” she offered her take on our plan of attack to pleasure my man together.

“Maybe it would be a good idea for you to quit talking,” I suggested quietly.

“Right, he’s good with his mouth. I get you want that. I’ll take his dick.”

I held her eyes. She kept smiling at me.

This went on a long time.

Finally, her eyes slid to the side and she murmured, “Cab’s here.”

“FYI,” I started, “that party you invited me to. I’ll take a pass.”

She shrugged then delivered her next blow. “That’s okay. He wants it like that, he knows where to find it.”

I had no retort. None at all. It wasn’t my place to tell her to get gone. It wasn’t my place to tell her I better not see her again. She belonged to Chaos in her way and I did in mine. We accepted our places and the boys called the shots.

Damn.

I had that box Tack talked about over me, closing me in, I couldn’t see clear and Tack was the one who put it there.

No, it was me.

I put it there.

God.

I tore my eyes free of hers and walked to the cab.

Then I got in and gave him my address.

The driver had pulled out on Broadway when my phone rang and I saw it was Tack.

Over it, way, way over it, when I put the phone to my ear, I asked as greeting, “Do you not understand the concept of me needing some time?”

To this, my heart stopped beating when he replied on a growl, “You call Mitzi and share, you answer to me. And if you answer to me, when you do, I won’t go gentle.”

Then I heard the disconnect.

Unseeing, unfeeling, not hearing a thing, not thinking a thing, I flipped my phone shut.

I didn’t cry until I closed my front door and I was home.

My cell phone sitting on the nightstand ringing surprised me and it surprised me because it woke me up. After what had happened at the Compound I never thought I’d get to sleep. Apparently, I was wrong.

My eyes slid to my alarm clock to see it was just after one in the morning.

I knew the caller had to be Tack either calling to argue with me, patch things up with me or tell me he was in an Emergency Room because Operation Rivers of Blood didn’t go too good.

I was not ready for any of those options and even though I was still hurt, still pissed and had no intention of answering, this didn’t mean I wasn’t a woman. And women were like cats.

Curious.

Recklessly so.

So I picked up the phone in order to stay my course as a woman, in other words, torture myself and I saw the display said “Tabby Calling”.

I felt my brows draw together and I sat up in bed, flipped open my phone and put it to my ear.

“It’s late, honey. Everything okay?”

I heard a loud, agonized, hitched breath and nothing more and I shot up straight in the bed.

“Tabby?” I called. “Honey, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“My…” another hitched breath that hurt to hear, “my… Ty…” another sob, “Tyra, my boyfriend hit me.”

Her boyfriend?

Tabby had a boyfriend?

Since when?

And he hit her?

I threw the covers back and swung my legs out of the bed.

“Is… is Dad there?” she asked.

“No,” I answered, turning on the light on my bedside table.

“Do… do… don’t tell him but can you come and get me?”

“Are you injured?” I asked.

“Not really,” she whispered brokenly and I didn’t know if that really meant no or it was code for yes.

“Tab, baby, are you injured?” I pressed gently.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, again brokenly.

Right, I had no choice but to accept that.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m outside his place. He… he… kicked me out. It’s an apartment off Lincoln and I don’t have my car because he picked me up at Natalie’s.”

Oh boy. Tab spent a lot of time at Natalie’s including a lot of nights.

This wasn’t good.

“Your boyfriend has an apartment?” I asked softly.

“He’s… yeah, he… he’s,” another sob. “Oh Tyra!” she cried, “don’t tell Dad really, really don’t tell Dad! Promise!”

I was rushing to the closet to grab clothes and I answered, “Promise, baby, now talk to me. Who is this guy?”

“He’s… he’s… twenty-three.”

Twenty-three!

She was sixteen!

“I met him… oh, it doesn’t matter. I just need a ride.”

“I’ll be there as fast as I can, Tabby, honey, promise. But I need a number on Lincoln so I can get there.”

She gave me the street number, shared she was sitting outside his door and I shared again I’d be there as fast as I could, she should stay where she was and if he came out, do not go back in no matter what he says, get away from him and call me.

Then, without thinking, my heart hammering, the pressure in my head increasing, my vision beginning to cover in red, I opened my phone, scrolled down and hit go.

It rang three times before I got a sleepy, “Yo.”

“Roscoe?”

“You got me.”

“It’s Tyra,” I told him, pulling up my jeans.

“What?” he asked, sounding shocked, as he would. I had his number because I had all the guys’ numbers but I wasn’t someone he would expect to get a call from unless I needed a ride or someone to mow my lawn. Mowing my lawn was, Tack had decided and it was one of what I was currently considering the few bonuses of being attached to Chaos, part of the recruits’ new duties. Seeing as a woman usually didn’t need her lawn mowed at one in the morning, a call from me at that time would be a surprise.

“I take it you aren’t on this mission with Tack and the boys?” I asked, now snatching a bra from my drawer.

“No.”

“Who else isn’t?” I asked, struggling with the phone between shoulder and ear to put my bra on.

“Recruits. Tug and Shy,” he answered.

“Right. Call them. Get on your bikes and get to…” I gave him the address and finished with, “Now.”

“Is Tack cool?”

“I don’t know. This isn’t about Tack. This is about something else. I need you and the boys at that address as soon as you can get there.” Then I added, “Come in the mood to be menacing and look badass.”

“What?”

“Just do it!” I shrieked, flipped my phone shut and snatched a tee out of my drawer.

I slid my phone in my pocket, found some flip-flops on the floor, slid my feet into them and tugged my tee on as I ran to the kitchen. Once there, I flipped on the light and went to my junk drawer. I rooted through it until I found what I was looking for. A can of pepper spray I bought last summer when there was a rash of break-ins in my neighborhood. They caught the guy and I forgot about it.