Page 2 of Demon
“You’re gonna have to pay for that.”
“Who says?”
“I say so.”
“And who are you? Huh?”
He’d stepped closer, his body inches from mine. The back of my legs hit the bonnet of my car. I’d not even realised he’d walked me backwards. I was too busy staring him out, my eyes distracted by his face. By those brutal eyes, and the long thin nose that ended in a point, down to his lips and the two-day-old black stubble covering his jaw.
And suddenly I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tell him my name. Couldn’t even remember where I was, or who I was.
He lowered his head, the stubble of his jaw scratching my cheek, hot tingles of breath brushing my ear.
“Watch who you pull out onto in the future, darlin’. Then you won’t go losing any car parts.”
He straightened. Stepping away. And I grabbed his arm.
“Fuck, no. You’re paying for that, you arsehole.”
The man wheeled round, rage flashing in his dark eyes, his hand whipping up towards me, grabbing the back of my head, pulling me towards him, his lips crashing into mine. They moved across me, the stubble prickling against my flesh, and I inhaled in shock, creating the smallest of gaps. His tongue took the advantage I’d created, plunging into my mouth, his lips plucking at mine. Intimidating me with a kiss. But I wouldn’t be fucking intimidated. No. Fucking. Way.
I pushed back against him, my tongue matching his. Fighting for dominance. Fighting for control, my lips pulling against his, nipping with my teeth until he hissed in pain. But the pain didn’t stop him, only sent him wild. His hand moved across the back of my head; the fingers cupped around the back of my head now scratching across my scalp. He grabbed a hand full of hair, pulling my head back, forcing me back at an angle that might almost break my neck. But his lips and tongue never stopped. Punishing. Fighting. Duelling.
Then, he let go. His mouth stilling, his tongue slipping from mine. And for a moment I stood there staring at him, my lips scratched and irritated from his stubble, but swollen and hungry for more of him. Fuck. What was I doing? And yet he still stood glaring. Like he might just eat me whole. Or tear my clothes off. Or maybe both. I swallowed, dumbstruck.
Turning, I scooped my wing mirror from the ground, jumping back into the safety of my car and turned the key, praying that on this occasion she wouldn’t let me down. I needed to get out of here. The car spluttered to life, as shocked as I was, and I wrenched it into reverse, moving away from the biker and up the street until I could reverse into the back lane and turn around.
From my rear-view mirror, I watched him get smaller. And not once did he turn away. Just stood with his leather arms folded across his leather chest, watching me leave. And fuck. Now I was late.
Chapter Two
Demon
I was furious. Blood pumped around my body, rage creeping to every millimetre of my being. She’d been inches away from knocking me off my bike, a fraction away from denting the metal and damaging the paintwork. I’d wanted to throttle her. If she’d been a bloke, I would have knocked her out. But for all my indiscretions, I didn’t hit women. But God damn it, she’d worked her ticket.
My lips throbbed. The embedded ends of my stubble twitching, irritated from me crushing my face to hers. I don’t know why I kissed her. To stop her talking, maybe? But that Irish purr of her words was every bit as satisfying to my ears as her lips and tongue were to my cock. And now I watched her leave, my heart beating in my groin and anger still flooding my veins.
The shattered glass of her wing mirror lay at my feet and her battered car pulled back onto the road. I’d noted her registration plate. Whether I decided to find her again, I didn’t yet know. But if I did, I could start with the car’s reg and my contact in the police.
My phone vibrated angrily inside my jacket pocket and when I fished it out, the text message was rolling across the screen.
‘Church. Tonight. Dad.’
*****
The car park alongside theDog on the Tynewas filled with bikes. Not just any bikes. Harleys. Every motorbike there was a Harley Davidson. Some shiny, some matt, but they all bore the brand. It was a club directive. I kicked out the stand, letting the heavy bike lean over till its weight propped against it. The bike had been given to me by my cousin. Not that gifting me his dead father’s motorbike was going to forgive his actions, not by me or the rest of the club. He was exiled. His patches removed. And that’s the way he’d stay. But I’d accepted the gift, anyway.
It was a stunning bike. Two exhausts ran down the length of the offside and every bit of metal was polished, catching even in the dimmest of light. The tank was obsidian black, the only embellishment the Harley badge, and the engine was tuned to shit. When I opened the throttle, the whole thing came alive, loud and fierce. A Lion. King of the bikes.
“You just gonna stand there wanking over that bike, little bro?” Indie called from the doorway of his pub.
The building was old, in need of major refurbishment and a shitload of paint. But it didn’t stop the punters who wanted the accolade of drinking in the Northern King’s bar, despite the manky carpet and mismatched furniture. Tonight though, it was closed to the public, the only people drinking in there club members.
“First on the agenda,” my father and club president started, “Magnet wants a club loan. Present your case, Magnet.”
I nipped my nose, glancing round at the members surrounding the big wooden table, only brought out for church meetings. It was old and scarred, just like the majority of us. Well, not so much old, but I was definitely scarred.
“It’ll be another shit idea,” I grumbled, not under my breath as I should have done.