Page 14 of Calypso’s Shield (Royal Harlots MC, Los Angeles Chapter #1)
CALYPSO
A few weeks later, I’m sitting on the pier.
The ocean air is thick with the scent of salt and motor oil, a mix that settles into my bones like home.
I straddle my Harley, fingers curling around the grips as the deep rumble of engines surrounds me, setting my blood on fire.
The Royal Harlots are lined up beside me, a wall of leather, chrome, and fierce determination.
Allura, our president, sits at the front like a damn queen, her stance commanding respect without needing to say a word. Our road captain, Iris, checks the formation, ensuring we’re ready to roll out without a hitch.
This ride, The Freedom Ride, is more than just a show of horsepower and dominance on the road. It’s for the ones who never made it home, for the ones who did but lost themselves along the way. POWs, MIAs, and homeless vets, this ride is for them. And for me, it’s personal.
I adjust my cut, the weight of my Enforcer patch grounding me.
My eyes drift across the crowd of bikers gathered at Santa Monica Pier, scanning faces and patches.
The Royal Bastards MC is here in full force, their presence impossible to ignore.
Capone and Danyella are at the front, standing beside Blayze and Monica.
I spot Torch with Daisy, Derange, Jezebelle, and a handful of others, all geared up for the ride.
Even the prospects, Seth, Knight, and Jax with his Ol’ Lady, Rose, look fired up, eager to prove their worth.
And then, there’s him.
Farris. Law Dog.
He leans against his bike, arms crossed over his cut, watching me like he can read every damn thought in my head.
The bastard probably can. His sharp blue eyes, hidden behind dark aviators, track my every move.
My stomach tightens. Heat licks low in my belly before I shove that shit down where it belongs.
I don’t do distractions, especially not ones that wore a badge at one point, and know how to piss me off just right.
I throw my leg over my bike and kick the stand up. Iris signals the lineup, and the roar of engines drowns out the world as we prepare to roll. The streets are ours today. No cages, no bullshit, just open road and a two-hour ride straight down to Oceanside City Beach.
Law Dog falls in beside me as we start to move.
“Try to keep up, cop,” I smirk, revving my engine.
He just grins, that damn cocky smirk that gets under my skin, and rolls his throttle. “You’re adorable when you think you’re faster than me, baby.”
I flip him off before twisting the throttle and shooting forward.
The procession stretches for miles, a thunderous display of power and purpose as we ride down the Pacific Coast Highway.
Flags wave from the backs of bikes, black, red, and blue patches blending together for something bigger than just clubs.
It’s about respect. Brotherhood. Sisterhood. The ones who gave everything.
We own the road today, and for once, the world watches us with reverence instead of fear.
By the time we pull into Oceanside City Beach, the party’s already in full swing. Live music, food stands, and beer flow freely. The air buzzes with the high of the ride, the kind that sticks to your skin long after the engines are cut.
I slide off my bike, stretching out the stiffness in my shoulders, and Law Dog is right there, close enough that his heat seeps into my space.
“You know,” he drawls, pulling off his aviators, “I like watching you ride.”
I cock a brow. “That so?”
He steps in, close enough that his breath brushes my cheek. “Yeah. But I think I’d like watching you ride something else even more.”
Cocky bastard.
I smirk, shoving him back just enough to remind him I don’t fall easily. “Keep dreaming, Law Dog.”
His grin widens. “Oh, I will.”
I roll my eyes and turn away, but the bastard’s laughter follows me. This ride may have been for the fallen, but right now, I feel more alive than ever.
The sun dips low, bleeding into the ocean, casting the beach in gold and fire.
The ocean breeze carries the scent of salt, sweat, and grilled meat, mixing with the lingering aroma of motor oil and exhaust from the ride.
The thunder of engines is replaced by the pulse of music, deep bass rattling through the sand, rolling over the voices of hundreds of bikers, veterans, and partygoers celebrating under the fading sunset.
The bonfires burn high, licking at the darkening sky, their glow casting long shadows over the beach. Someone cranked up the speakers near the main fire, and the gritty rasp of a classic rock song pours out, blending with the crackle of flames and the distant crash of waves.
The Royal Harlots and Royal Bastards move through the crowd like we own it because, in a way, we do. This is our night. Our ride. Our cause.
Allura and Capone are deep in conversation near the bonfire, their presidents' minds likely already scheming the next move. Laughter spills from a group near the drink coolers where Tiny and Blayze are arm-wrestling over a makeshift barrel table, muscles straining, veins bulging, sweat dripping from their foreheads as the crowd cheers them on. Nearby, Iris and French are doing tequila shots with Dagger and Trigger, laughing like they don’t have a single worry in the world.
Sloane and Rebel are talking shit with Derange and Aftermath, their voices rising over the music, something about who could handle themselves better in a bar brawl.
Bones and Pretty Boy are surrounded by a group of girls, flashing their charming, cocky grins while Daisy and Jezebelle roll their eyes.
Closer to the fire, someone’s strumming a guitar, singing along to the music playing through the speakers.
A few people are dancing in the sand, moving to the rhythm, their bodies pressed close, sweat slick and shameless.
Beer bottles clink, voices murmur, and the night hums with the kind of energy that only comes after a ride that meant something.
I take a pull from my beer, the cold bite of it washing down the heat still lingering in my veins. That ride? It meant something.
For the ones who didn’t make it home. For the ones who did but never really came back.
For the ones still fighting battles no one sees. I let the music, the laughter, and the fire seep into me. Tonight isn’t about clubs, rivalries, or grudges. Tonight, it’s about respect. It’s about remembering and living at the same damn time.
I just lean against my bike, beer in hand, taking it all in.
And then, there he is. Law Dog. Farris.
He moves through the crowd like he belongs, but at the same time, like he’s watching everything.
Taking it all in, reading between the lines.
The fire casts sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the cut of his jaw, the smirk that never quite leaves his lips.
He’s wearing his prospect cut. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms tense, fingers wrapped around a half-empty beer bottle, and his aviators hang from the neckline of his shirt.
I hate that I look. Hate that I noticed him first. Hate that it does something to me.
Farris walks toward me, slow and steady, like he’s got all the time in the world. “Enjoying yourself, baby?” he drawls, sipping from his beer.
I scoff. “You keep calling me ‘baby’ like you think it’s gonna make me weak in the knees.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Nah. I call you ‘baby’ ‘cause I like how mad it makes you.”
I roll my eyes and scoff, but I can’t stop my mouth from twitching just a little. The bastard sees it, too, because his smirk deepens. Before I can bite back, a hand brushes my lower back, too familiar, too uninvited.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” a voice slurs in my ear.
I turn, already knowing what I’ll see. Some drunk, too confident, too close, thinking he’s got a shot. He reeks of cologne and tequila, his shirt missing, board shorts hanging too low, and the kind of cocky grin that makes my fists twitch.
“Not interested,” I say flatly, shifting my stance..
But he doesn’t move.
“Come on now,” he presses, leaning closer, his fingers trailing lower, bold as hell. “You look like you could use a real man tonight.”
The guy’s fingers drift lower, his touch skimming the edge of my jeans. I tense, already gearing up to break his fingers. My muscles coil, my patience thinning to a razor’s edge. Before I can knock his ass out myself, Farris is there . He stands between me and the asshole.
The next second happens fast. Crack. The guy stumbles back, clutching his nose as blood pours between his fingers. Farris doesn’t stop.
He grabs the guy by his neck, yanking him forward before landing a hard, punishing right hook straight to his jaw. The asshole drops like a fucking sack of bricks, groaning in the sand.
The entire party slows, heads turning toward the commotion, but no one steps in because if you fuck around, you find out.
Farris is standing above the asshole, his chest rising and falling, hands flexing, eyes a storm of something dark and deadly. He looks down at the guy. “Did she say she was interested?”
The man coughs. Shakes his head. “N…no.”
Farris crouches down, voice low and lethal. “Then you touch her again, and I break more than your face. Got me?” The guy nods so fast I’m surprised his neck doesn’t snap.
Farris shoves him backward, then turns to me. His gaze is different now. Darker. Heavier. “You good?” he asks.
I should be mad. Should tell him I could’ve handled it myself. But the way he’s looking at me like I’m something worth fighting for? Yeah, it does something to me.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it. “I’m good.”
What I don’t say is how much I fucking want him right now and he sees it. Oh, he fucking sees it and I see it in him too.
A few hours later, the night ends with Farris and I stumbling into the hotel room. We’re on each other in a flash.
Mouths. Hands. Desperation.