Page 2

Tank

I head past the empty reception desk piled high with papers and throw myself down on the leather couch in the break room of Devil’s Big Tow.

“You all good, man?” Judge asks, leaning against the door jamb, light bouncing off his bald head.

“Fucking exhausted. When did we get so busy?”

Judge nods sagely, which doesn’t answer my question either way. We’re a two-man business, one goes out on a job, the other mans the desk until they get back and we swap. Well, that’s what’s meant to happen. The past few months we’ve both been out on jobs nonstop and the reception is now a filing desk. At least the papers are in neat piles. All they’re waiting for is one of us to catch a break so we can actually file them where they’re meant to go.

“On the upside, you’ve been too busy to be arrested again,” Judge mumbles.

“Ain’t that the truth,” I sigh, resting my head back on the couch.

Rose Grove PD had nothing on me, but they had to go through all the formalities bullshit. They couldn’t tell us who laid the complaint, but whoever it was wanted to mess with me. Or us. It’s hard to tell, the past year we’ve had people lining up with hard ons to take us down. It’s a total fucking mystery why. We aren’t one percenters. Shit, we don’t even move anything worth their while, unless they want to get into delivering moonshine to vets.

“The Computa’s will figure it out, dude.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just messing with me. Like who the hell did I piss off that would want me in prison?” I shake my head. Maybe if I bounce my pea brain around enough it’ll give me something, anything that could help me figure it out.

A massive shadow blocks out what little light we have back here in the breakroom. “Come on brother, let’s clock out and take a ride.”

Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I let it out and give my brother a nod. Nothing is better than feeling the wind in your face and now that the weather is getting a little warmer and the days a little longer, it sounds like the perfect form of therapy.

We quickly go about shutting down the office computer, turning off lights and setting the security alarm before mounting our bikes. My matte black softail with chrome detailing has been with me since I got out of the marines; the one constant in my life until I found the DRMC brotherhood. I didn’t have it as bad as some of my brothers - Wire, Sniper and Judge lost good men when they were posted overseas, but that doesn’t mean I don’t struggle sometimes. My bike, Winnie, as I named her, is my solace on a bad day.

The wind flows around me, blowing away all the shit that fills up my head. By the time we reach the clubhouse my mood is seriously lifted, and continues to lift as soon as I walk in and smell the scent of fresh cookies wafting through the air.

“Don’t even think about it.” Rider says, stepping in front of me, stopping me getting closer to the heavenly scent.

“Rider, move.”

He shakes his head sadly, as if he would love to move, but he can’t. “No can do big man. You go in there and those cookies are destroyed. Never to be seen or worshipped again. Mama Debs has only made four dozen. There’s not enough.”

I raise my brow. There are a dozen members. The Ol Ladies never eat the cookies, or so they say, and the kids often have their own batch that Mama Debs makes.

“That’s enough for four each.”

“Nope. Sorry.”

I try to sidestep him but the lanky bastard is light on his feet, easily gliding from side to side getting in my way.

“How the hell are you so light on your feet?” I grumble, hands on him now, trying to move him aside.

“Years of ballroom dancing. Elderly widows pay well when you’re a handsome boy and good on your feet.” He grunts, trying to hold me back.

“Tank, think fast!” Judge calls, lobbing three cookies in my direction.

My hand goes up and they land gently in the palm of my hand, still hot.

“You cheating shit!” Rider yells, rushing at Judge before deciding his better move would be to get himself into the kitchen for cookies seeing as all the brothers are making their way in there. “ONE EACH YOU GREEDY FUCKS!”

Chuckling to myself I drop down onto the leather couch that’s seen better days, lean my head back and chew on my mouth-watering cookies.

“Yo Tank! Jimmy says there’s a woman at the gate for you.” Rhodie yells, phone pressed to his chest.

“A woman? I don’t know any woman,” I answer, staring at him in confusion.

He says something to Jimmy then pulls the phone back, “Her name is Mira,” I shake my head at him. It’s not ringing any bells. “Tall, blonde. Said she’s a friend of the ‘wrongly accused big blonde sex machine biker man,” His lips twitch and the nosey bastards in the kitchen make their way into the common room, acting as if they weren’t listening to Rhodie and my conversation. “She said you were holding cell neighbors.”

“A criminal woman! Criminal women are hot,” Rider says around a mouthful of cookie.

Letting out a sigh, I explain the situation. “She’s not technically a criminal. She wanted help with research but it went wrong and she got taken in for harassment and indecent exposure.”

Everyone looks confused, and I don’t blame them. She was very confusing. And memorable. Whenever my thoughts aren’t filled with work, DRMC and whoever snitched on me, they’re filled with a slightly nuts bouncy blonde. Which would explain why the hell I invited her to Christmas.

“Is she going to be a danger?” Marx asks, standing at the mouth of the hall and snapping me out of my runaway thoughts.

“She doesn’t have anyone in her life that I could tell, and she’s kinda unusual, but not dangerous.” I answer my Pres.

He stares at me for a moment then tips his chin up. “Tell Jimmy to let her in, Rhodie. Let’s see what she wants with wrongly accused big blonde sex machine biker man,” Marx says with a smirk.

I brace myself for what’s coming. I know that whatever it is will be a hell of a trip, that’s for sure. In mere moments, she walks in, looking every bit as stunning as I remember. Dressed in purple skin-tight pants that highlight her thick thighs and rounded hips, black and white striped oversized shirt thing hanging off one shoulder, pink high heels and blonde curls pulled into a high ponytail with a sequined yellow bow, it’s like a rainbow threw up in the clubhouse.

“There you are, prison buddy! How’s life been treating ya? I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I was almost arrested, but I got away with a warning at the scene. Phew! Vegas was a total trip! Oh, hi biker people! Oh look! There are ladies and babies here too!”

She makes a beeline for Nat, Ana and Lovely who have just walked in with their babies.

“Well hello there,” Nat says, greeting the new woman. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Mira, a friend of the criminal over there. Practically shared a cell, Shawshank style,” she says, waving in my direction.

Mira. I had forgotten that’s what Davies called her. I’ve only really called her as Writer Lady, just like she’s only ever called me Biker Man. Or some form of that.

“Tank?” Ana says, drawing Mira’s attention again.

She turns to look at me, “Oh, I can see how that works. Yeah, Tank. Me and him go way back,” she says, throwing me a wink, those green eyes dancing. She stops looking at me long enough to look around the room. “Whoa, this place is magical. I gotta take some notes.” She pulls her notebook out of her cleavage along with her little pencil and starts taking notes, to the amusement of my brothers.

“Good luck brother,” Judge murmurs, slapping a hand on my shoulder.

“Mira? Writer Lady?” She holds her long, slender finger in the air for a moment before looking at me.

“Yeah?”

“Mind if we talk?”

“Oh yeah, totally. I bet you’re wondering why I’m here, huh? Well, after meeting you I had an idea for a new book, an MC book. First, I had to finish my shifter book. Anyway, then I talked about the MC book with my ladies when I was in Vegas and we all agreed it’s a great idea, people will love it. So anyway, you said to call if I needed anything but I figured why waste the phone call when I could just come here? And now that I’m here in this wonderful place,” there’s a snort that’s covered by a cough, “Well, now I think I’m in the exact place I’m meant to be. Hey, do you think I could commandeer this table? I’ll set up my laptop here, it’s perfect!” she beams up at me and my mouth opens and closes, nothing coming out.

Did she just say she was going to work here? In the clubhouse? Shaking it off I look toward my Pres, who has a weird as hell look on his face. “Um, an MC book sounds cool and all, but you can’t work here. I’m sorry but it’s for club members. Pres would never allow it.”

Her brows pull together over her bright green eyes and her shoulders slump. Fuck, it’s like kicking a puppy. She looks around the room for a moment, her gaze zeroing in on Marx. Not only does he have the word “Pres” under his name patch on his cut, but he exudes leadership. Even someone new to MC’s like Mira would recognize he’s the boss.

Her eyes narrow slightly before her lips twitch. Marx’s eyes widen slightly as they stare at each other for a moment.

“Mr. President, I would like a moment of your time,” she says, formally.

“Right this way,” Marx gestures toward his office and she follows after him, but not before spinning to look at me, and giving me two thumbs up and a wink.

“Well, don’t know about you all, but I like her. Nice work, Tank,” Nat smirks.

Mira

OK, so maybe it’s not the best idea to turn up to a biker compound out of the blue and demand entry, but I’m sure jail biker guy will remember me. I mean, he did stop by my house to invite me to Christmas dinner. If I wasn’t booked in to see my writer lady crew, I would have taken him up on the offer. Not just because he is panty meltingly hot, but since Gran died Christmas dinner for one has been decidedly lame.

“So, who are you looking for?” The kid in charge of the gates asks me.

“The Sexy Wrongly Accused Big Blonde Biker. Tell him I’m here. My name is Mira.” I tell him. I’m sure Biker Man will remember me. I mean I felt like we really bonded when we were in those holding cells. He was perhaps the most exciting cell neighbor I’ve ever had. Most of them are drunks.

“He said you could go on through.” The guy whose vest has “Prospect” on it says, opening the gates. “Just follow the drive and you can park your, um, bike just by the door.”

“Thanks buddy.” I give him a friendly wave and start pedaling my way to what I’m guessing is the clubhouse.

It’s some type of brick monstrosity, like in the olden days it could have been a warehouse or a school or something. The Devil’s Rose logo is on the side facing the road and as I get closer I see a long row of motorcycles all parked up, glistening in the sunlight. I stare at them in awe as I glide past them on “Freda.” My bike also isn’t something to be sniffed at. She’s baby blue with a large leather seat with springs for my comfort and she has a basket in the front. She also has a carrier at the back for my groceries and the like and just recently I got new flower shaped spoke decals that glint in the sunshine. She’s a real beauty.

I park up next to the front door, flicking down Freda’s stand. Should I knock? Or should I just walk in? I mean, they know to expect me so I shrug to myself and push in through the front door. Looking around the room I try to find my biker. Well, not mine per se, but the one I know the best. The one I used to get my foot in the door, and there he is. Our eyes meet across the room and if this was one of my books I’m sure we would both be feeling a jolt at that eye connection. I know I did. His bright blue eyes find mine and he looks momentarily shocked.

“There you are, prison buddy!” I walk toward him with full enthusiasm, but then get sidetracked when I see women and babies arriving.

I take a detour and stop to coo over them. The babies, not the women. Although given that I tower over all three that are standing there, I could probably coo over them too.

“Mira? Writer Lady?” Tank, as I have found out is his name, calls out to me. I was momentarily distracted. I would like to say that doesn’t happen a lot but that would make me a liar and Gran didn’t love no liars, let me tell you. “Mind if we talk?”

I wander closer to where he’s standing near a leather couch that has seen better days. He has a quiet, solid presence about him, the exact opposite to what I’ve got going on. By the time I stop in front of him I notice that he’s so tall he towers over my 5’9” frame, and I find I like the feeling of being petite. He’s so pretty up close, all manly but somehow gentle. His face is nice too. Sure he is ruggedly handsome, with a small scar on his top lip, but he has crinkles next to his eyes which makes me think he smiles regularly. His face is so kind and somehow that underlying kindness reminds me of Gran. She had a similar face, a face well lived in, she would say.

Oh pumpernickel! I stopped listening to what he was saying because he’s too darn pretty. Maybe I’ll just launch into my intentions for being here. So I do. And I let him have it.

“OK, an MC book sounds cool and all but you can’t work here. Pres will never allow it,” he says, trying to let me down gently.

Well, I’ll just have to have a word with this so-called “Pres.” Looking around, my eyes fall on the ridiculously large man standing just inside the doorway. A man that looks very familiar to me even though his name tag is a name I don’t recognize.

Deciding to use his formal biker title I call out, “Mr. President? I’d like a word please.”

His eyes flash before darting to the men and women behind me before he tips his chin. “Follow me,” he replies in the gruff voice I most definitely recognize.

I follow “Marx” down the hall that isn’t nearly as dingy and gross as I expected it to be. In all honesty, I had expected the clubhouse to be smelly and dank and covered in old bullet holes and smell like sex and lube, but it’s actually really airy and clean smelling, even if it does have bachelor decor. I’ll have to make the MC clubhouse in my book way grosser than this one.

“Have a seat, Mira or should I call you Melody Baldwin?” He asks, sitting his very large body into an office chair that looks like it doesn’t quite have the structural integrity for a man of his size.

“Aha! I knew you recognized me!” I crow.

“Yeah, so look, about that, my men, they don’t know that I read.” Marx says, picking at the edge of his desk with his blunt fingernail.

“What do you mean they don’t know you read? They think you’re illiterate?” My brows furrow as I try to figure that one out. “Did you tell them you can’t read to make yourself look cooler?”

“What? No. They don’t know I read…your books. The genre you write.”

“Ohhhhhh, they don’t know you read sexy murder books.”

His thick dark brow raises, “They’re romance books, Mira.”

“Are they? Because I kinda just think of them as sexy murder. I mean, yeah the couples or throuples often fall in love, but the main thread is mystery. Murder. The carnal stuff is just window dressing. Apart from the happy ever afters. Oh, and the declarations of love and the epilogues where they have a million children and live happily ever after.” He raises a dark brow at me. Again. He seems to do that a lot. “OK, I guess they’re pretty romantic.”

“Whatever you want to call it, my men don’t know. So if we could keep it between us?” Both brows are raised in question, and I’m thinking that this could be my big bargaining chip. I mean, I want access to the clubhouse to be inspired and get the inner workings and all that jazz. I need to be here for the research aspect. I’m probably less likely to be arrested here too.

“Ohhhh, I hear ya,” I dramatically wink at John, or Marx as his leather vest thing says. He frowns back at me. “I keep how I know you hush-hush, and you’ll let me hang out here and write? I mainly need to do research and stuff, you know, make sure the action in my book is as realistic as possible.”

He frowns even deeper. “You want to set up base here?”

“Yeah. Maybe on one of those long tables. I’ll clean all the sex fluids off them.” I give him a conspiratorial wink. “You won’t even notice I’m here! And I won’t write about anyone in particular, because I already have my characters sorted out. I just need to see how a working clubhouse, well, works.” I shrug. Then give him the big eyes that I think might make me look imploring. Or nuts, either or.

“I’ll let you work in the common room for two weeks. No mention of my men or any of our businesses, I want full confidentiality.”

I let him sweat and put on my thinking face. Which is me squinting a little and looking at the ceiling. It’s how I write my characters’ thinking faces. “So, I get two weeks in the common room in exchange for keeping your little secret?”

He nods. “And signed copies of your next three books.”

“How about the next four? I have four MC books planned out. I mean, you are one of my biggest fans.” I smile at him.

“That stays between us.”

“Of course! So, I get two weeks full access in return for keeping my lips sealed and signed book copies. Deal.” I beam and thrust my hand in his direction. He takes it and gives it a gentle squeeze which is somewhat disappointing because I was bringing my handshake A game.

“Deal.”

I stand, excited to get settled in immediately.

“Mira?” I turn toward Joh- I mean Marx, “Can I just say that action scene in ‘Solar Eclipse of the Heart’ was fucking edge of your seat type shit.”

“Hey, thanks Mr. President! I hope you enjoyed the pegging scene in there too,” I grin as he shudders slightly. Men. Wouldn’t know a good thing if it lubed up and entered their back passage. “Well, I better go out there and set up. You won’t even notice I’m here!” I give him a curt nod and gather up my things. I have a novel to write.