Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance (17 page)

I think I’ve found someone I want to annoy for the rest of my life.

Lucky him
, I smile to myself.

A little bit about me. I am the mama bear to four little kiddos, two girls, and two boys. I’m also a wife-to-be to my partner of ten years. We were high school sweethearts, without the high school. My little (big) family are my rock, and I’m so lucky to have them with me through it all.

I am from New Zealand! Born and raised in a small town called Rotorua. It’s a beautiful city, just smells a little. I’m currently living in Australia on the Whitsunday Coast (Great Barrier Reef) where we hope to settle down for a long time. I love the beach, and margaritas, and wine. Don’t forget the wine. Chinese food is the best food.

One day I hope to travel the world, preferably the US, because I’m obsessed with it. I would travel now, but my bank account is like...“Dude, no.” So I’ve put that in the goal bucket.

I love all my beautiful readers, you have kept me going. You’re my inspiration to keep writing, with all your kind words and reviews. You are all amazing, and I write for you.

That’s enough yappin’ from me. See you all in Wonderland. x

Namaste.

More Books by Author Amo Jones

Sinful Souls MC Series

Perilous Love (Sinful Souls MC #1)

Intricate Love (Sinful Souls MC #2)

Tainted Love (Sinful Souls MC #3)

Westbeach Series

Losing Traction (Westbeach #1)
- Coming January 7th, 2016

The Devil’s Own Series

One Hundred and Thirty-Six Scars (The Devil’s Own #1)
– Coming March 2016

Her Queendom: A City of Dark Pleasures Short

Bibi Rizer

One hundred years after the Climate Wars,

Fifteen years after the Expiation,

At the height of the Embargo, our Island is a prison.

The only way out, is death.

The river welcomes me like an old friend, swirling its cold arms around me, pulling me down, down, past the glowing windows of the boudoirs, past the ruins, into the dark. Into nothing. Nothing is where I belong.

No wives, no children. No citizen pass. I am nothing. My last thought is of my brother.
Trust me
, he said, as he took my life away.

The cold of the water slows down my thoughts. How long have I been in the river? Am I dead? With that sluggish thought, I turn, my back slamming into something hard. Then some force sucks me into motion. Down deeper? Or up? Direction no longer has any meaning. I twitch and open my mouth, tasting the vile metallic sludge the river is famous for. If I don’t drown, I’ll die of some sort of septic shock. Either way works.

My body wants to breathe, wants to live. My lungs contract, sucking in water, and convulse in protest, coughing. It’s more frightening than I thought it would be. I imagined peacefully losing consciousness, rocked to death by the ebb and flow of the current. Instead my unwilling soul fights my desperate body. Let me go, I reason with myself. It’s over. Who would want to live like this? But my legs kick, my arms flail. The current sucks me upwards. I turn my head up and see the moon, beckoning me.

After I killed my third wife and her cousin, my fingers ached, burned. It was as though I couldn’t uncurl them from the hammer I used to do the deed. And my ears rung, so loud and clear that I spent hours searching, even before the police arrived. Searching for my other daughters, though they were safe at school. And of course, like some kind of fairy-tale queen, I felt their blood on my skin, no matter how much I washed. In the end, the approaching sirens were a relief. The roughness of the arresting officers, being hosed with cold water at the prison, it was all a relief. As much of a relief that a man who has seen the things I’ve seen can ever feel relief.

My drug addled wife and her cousin, raping my five year old daughter.

I would carve out my own eyes if it meant I could stop seeing that. I sometimes wish I had tortured them before I killed them. Maybe the memory of their screams would block out my daughter’s little voice.

“No! You’re hurting me! Stop!”

If I hadn’t left my wrist pass on the bathroom counter that day, I never would have known. What good did it do going back for it anyway? I’ve lost it now.

But my daughters are safe. My brother saw to that. My family is safe. What else do I have to accomplish in life?

I’m nothing.

“Breathe.”

I try to move but my limbs are like concrete.

“Try to take a breath. Come on now.”

My body wants it, wants the life I threw away. My lungs give a pathetic little flicker, then my whole body convulses, ejecting the rancid water from all the wrong places.

“That’s it, that’s it.”

I feel her hands on me, squeezing my chest with a firm grip, pushing death out of my body, forcing life back in. At last she lifts me up, wrapping her arms around me from behind. Holding me there she squeezes my ribs powerfully. A torrent of river water jets from my mouth. I taste sediment and slime, as though I’ve been eating mud. Then, as she releases me, I fall to my hands and knees, and vomit.

Finally my eyes remember how to see. I see night, and the rain slicked road beneath me. And I start to cry.

She strokes the back of my head and my back, her rich voice making wordless soothing noises. When the tears keep coming, she pulls me away from the puddle of vomit and into her generous lap. The tears burn at first, but after a while they soothe, and my sobbing releases the knots of regret that have had me tied up for so long.

I worked too hard. I was never home. I never noticed my daughter’s pain. Or her mother’s addiction or her vile cousin’s perverse desires. It was all my fault. What more can I do to atone for that?

Nothing. I have given all I had. There is nothing left of that man, that citizen.

“What’s your name?” she asks when the sobbing relents, at last.

“Rowe,” I say. That’s all I have left.

“You wanna tell me about it?”

“No.” I roll over and look up at her, still resting my head in her lap. Her skin is dark and smooth, her features bold – full lips, a proud nose, large brown eyes containing both mirth and pain. Her hair falls in damp black curls around her broad shoulders. “I was a free man until a week ago,” I tell her.

“Oh, honey, I’ve heard that story before. Only it’s a lie. You were never free.”

She’s right, of course. I thought I was free. I thought the privileged citizens and the sexual servants in the City of Dark Pleasures fit together like the parts of some benevolent machine. I thought the ferals in the ruins were crazy to live outside that. But when I lost my citizen pass, a week begging for food in the Pleasures, seeing the lust in the eyes of the men and women who wanted to use me there changed all that. Now I see that freedom is a myth.

I drag myself upright and sit across from her, looking around. “Are we in the ruins?”

She nods, standing and brushing mud and weeds off her clothes – leather pants and a fitted jacket, zips and pockets everywhere. It looks like a media suit, something she’s customized herself. I wonder what it can do. “We’re at the edge of the processing sector. If I hadn’t caught you when I did you would have been sucked into one of the turbines there, and processed into fertilizer for the farms.”

“Fuck. Thank you.”

“I don’t know why you’re thanking me, since you obviously jumped.” She gives me her hand, hauling me to my feet. “Did you change your mind?”

“No. I don’t know.”

Standing, I can see she’s as tall as me. The silver light of the moon makes her look metallic, hard and impenetrable. Magical, almost.

“You want to know what freedom feels like?” she asks. “So you’ll know, in case you ever find it?”

“I guess so.”

She takes my hand, leading me up some stairs from the river deck to the road above. There, parked in the moonlight, like a faithful transport bot, is a motorcycle.

“Wow. Is that yours?”

“That’s my baby. You like it?”

“Where did you get it?” Motorbikes have been outlawed in the Free City and the Pleasures for years, since before I was born. The only way I know about them is from contraband magazines, stolen out of the ruins.

“I built it mostly. Bits of this and that.”

I admire the bike as we get closer. An elegant love child of leather and steel, its large black tires seem eager to get into motion, almost as though it’s unhappy being stationary. “Is it self-driving?”

The woman snorts a laugh. “No way! Where’s the fun in that? Hop up.”

She invites me onto the rear seat. The soft leather seems to welcome me, cushioning my ass and thighs like it was molded to my shape.

“Thermo shaping foam,” the woman says. “Also,” she clicks a switch and welcome warmth rises up into my numb flesh. “Heated seat. Warm up those shrunken testicles.”

Warmth shoots down from my face too. I’d forgotten all about my sex parts. Up to this moment I was as emasculated as a Cull, but with the warmth of the seat my cock and balls wake up, tingling, as though reminding me of their presence, reminding me that they, and I, survived the Expiation when so many did not. I wasn’t killed. I wasn’t culled. I became one of the Alphas, a reluctant harem husband with a small party of brides I never particularly loved.

They gave me children I loved though. And they’re safe. My children are safe.

The woman turns, swinging her leg over the seat in front of me, her round ass pressing into my newly awakened manhood.

“What’s your name?” I ask. I just feel like it’s something I should know.

“Spark,” she says, rising up onto the kick starter. The bike bounces as she slams the starter down, then roars to life. “Hold on to me, or the back rest,” she shouts back at me, cranking the throttle. The tires squeal as we blast into motion.

Freedom. Freedom is the wind on your face, the world around you blurring into nothing, moonlight lighting you up like a diamond. Freedom is the softness of a beautiful woman’s hair wafting around you, the feel of her ass pressed against your crotch, the smell of leather, the empty road ahead of you. Freedom is the throbbing howl of a powerful engine, loud enough to drown out the little voice in my head. And new things to look at, so you don’t have to close your eyes.

The ruins are beautiful in their own way, after the uniform gray and white of the free city, the faded pastel colors, the chipped and worn reds and blues, flicker past us like the flowers of a giant garden. Things have fallen down, or burnt down, or simply slouch, as empty and dead as skeletons. But there is life here too. Vines trail over splintered walls, moss seeps through cracks like spilled honey, weeds burst out of corners. There are signs of people too – the remains of a fire, tidy little shelters built from scraps – though we don’t see anyone.

“What time is it?” I shout into Spark’s ear.

“Nearly dawn!” she yells back. “Wanna watch the sun rise?”

“Okay!”

She turns sharply, leaning the bike over and us with it. I wrap my arms around her, laying my face on the warm leather of her jacket. Soon we’re on a road skirting the processing sector, the smell of waste and industry mixing with the freshness of the night. The sky east of us lightens to a deep mauve just as Spark pulls her bike up to a weed covered embankment. Flipping the kick stand, she slides off, holding her hand out for me. I take it, and follow her up through the weeds.

When we reach the top of the embankment I stop. Ahead of us, the ocean spreads out, a dark blue jewel blanket, shimmering and trembling in the moonlight.

“Holy…fuck…”

“Never seen the ocean before, huh?” Spark says.

“I didn’t know you could even get to the ocean. I thought the roads were blocked, only open to those with special passes.”

Spark pulls me down to the beach, which glistens in the growing dawn light. “This road goes right through the ruins. There’s a spot where the humming is so bad that even older adults can’t stand to walk through it. But my baby back up there on the road? Her engine drowns it out, just the right frequency. Nobody ever comes down here.” She tugs me down to sit on the soft sand.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, and before I can stop myself, add: “You’re beautiful.”

Spark laughs lightly, looking out at the ocean. “You have a secret don’t you?”

“Yes.” This is my life now, I think. My punishment is having to tell people over and over, and watch the revulsion grow in their eyes.

“Everyone has secrets,” Spark says. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

I almost argue, or refuse, or make a joke out of it, anything to avoid the inevitable, but then my mind sticks on that word – inevitable. This is fate. If I can’t face it I might as well ask her to take me back to the river, and let the turbine take me this time.

So I tell her. Watching her eyes, I tell her how I found my beautiful little daughter in the garage being raped by my wife’s cousin, while my wife cooked up morpha on the workbench, watching it happen with dead addicted eyes. How I knocked out my wife’s cousin with one swift blow from a hammer, dragging my daughter into the house to lock her in the bathroom. Then I went back. My wife was trying to revive her cousin. Calling him “baby”. And I smashed her head in. And his. I hit them, hammered them until their brains spilled onto the concrete floor.