Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance (25 page)

“I could never be embarrassed about the Play Pen or you, Momma. I owe you so much. You took in a scrawny, hungry seventeen year old with a chip the size of Utah on my shoulder and turned me into a confident woman who knows what she wants.” I see surprise in her face. Did she not know how I felt? Does she think I don’t appreciate all she did for me? “Momma?”

“Oh, baby, I didn’t mean you were embarrassed about me or the Pen. I thought you were embarrassed about Hot Rods and the Fallen Halos. You never mention them. Is there a reason you don’t want us to know them?” She watches me and I feel like a teenager again hiding the blush I wanted to wear. How do I explain this so she will understand it?

“I want to explain it to you but I might stumble with my words so bear with me. I like to ride my motorcycle. I like to ride in groups and I like to ride alone. Being a woman I get looks and assumptions placed on me because of it. The other women, Lori, Amanda, and Christine, felt the same way. So they found a couple more friends, Katie and Leigh, and formed the Fallen Halos. When a group of us ride we don’t get hassled and we can just enjoy it.” I hope she gets it. I see her nod and think she does.

“We needed an income that suited the want and the need to be flexible. That’s where the club came in. There wasn’t anything like it here. It was on the other side of town so I saw no competition to you and I agreed. We pooled our money and borrowed from friends to make it happen. There are still a few things to do but it’s coming along and we’re showing a profit so far.”

I realize I am proud of Hot Rods. I am proud that six women opened the place with no drama or jealousy. Our friendship will remain even if the doors close. Hearing a door open behind me gives me a startle. I turn and see something that surprises the hell out of me. I whip my head a round and see a slight blush on Momma. “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Momma. I think it’s great.”

I stand and turn to greet Greg and Match. “Good morning, guys. I’ll go see how breakfast is coming along so that you have time to get your day started. Thanks, Momma. Love ya.”

Walking back to the kitchen I realize just how lucky I am. I have great friends and a great family. Now I can see about starting a life with Jax in it daily. Things are looking up and it isn’t even nine a.m. yet.

Thank you for reading my entry to the Biker Chicks for B.A.C.A. If you enjoy it and would like to see more of these characters visit the Amazon store to purchase the Mercy’s Angels series and later in the New Year you may find the Fallen Halos.

You can reach me at many places.

https://www.facebook.com/doll.short.1?fref=ufi

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorBarbiBarnard

http://www.amazon.com/Barbi-Barnard/e/B00V99A1GE/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1441222155&sr=1-2-ent

https://twitter.com/DubsDoll

Somebody to Love

Eric Plume

Who dares, wins

Official motto of the Special Air Service

University District, Seattle WA

November 2008

I picked my phone up off the nightstand and swiped the screen. What I saw was the same thing I’d seen the last dozen times I’d looked; no calls, no texts. It was late and I needed to get to bed, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn out the light, not until I got an answer back from Ryan. I’d sent him two texts and left a message, all over two days; no reply.

“Face it,” I said. “He isn’t calling back.”

I tossed my phone back onto the nightstand and curled up under my flannel sheets, a cold lump forming in the pit of my stomach. I knew the lump wanted to come out as a big mess of tears, but I didn’t want it to. Even wanting to cry made me feel dumb.

Of course, thinking about what had happened made me feel dumber.

Since signing up at the University of Washington I’d slept with two guys; the first had been Brice, a chess club president with soft brown eyes and a slim build, a guy who had talked a lot about how he was attracted to minds and not bodies. I was a size 14 on a good day and good days were rare, so when paired with his stated desire for a serious relationship I’d been disarmed enough by his sweet words to go to bed with him on date five. After finding out about his
actual
girlfriend when I’d attempted to talk to him before one of his classes, I’d cried enough to need two wastebaskets for my tissues.

Apparently Ryan had used the same game my first lover Brice had; be earnest, good-looking and full of pretty lies, and I’d fallen for it.

Again
.

“Jerk,” I muttered, pulling the sheets tighter around me. A tear leaked out around my lashes; I shoved the rest away. I was
not
going to cry over that - well, that...

“Asshole,” I said, louder than before. That felt better, but sleep wasn’t happening.

I sighed and tossed the blankets off, reaching for my robe and putting it on. My apartment was always cold; the heaters didn’t work right. It was also small, which meant it was only a handful of steps before I was in the kitchen, examining the contents of my freezer.

“Step aside, Lean Cuisine,” I said, shoving the offending cartons out of the way. “This is a job for Haagen Dazs.” I dug my ice cream out of the freezer, anticipation and guilt fighting over who got to be first in line.

For most people food was something they put in their bellies because they had to or because it tasted good. For me food was like drugs or alcohol; first I felt a guilt-ridden rush and then the hangover set in. Like most addicts I hated myself for being unable to stop using.

I pried the top off the carton and stuck a spoon in, making the ice cream curl up into a ball. The first taste was always the best. And the worst.
You fat cow,
the back of my mind whispered as I shoveled cookie-dough flavored dairy products into my mouth.
You’re overweight because you eat too much.
I took another bite, loving it and hating it all at the same time while my issues had their way with my self-esteem.
You can stop anytime you want to, but you don’t.

While chewing on mouthfuls of delicious misery I thought about all the important things I should have been doing with my time; instead my heart found it necessary to make me sit and eat ice cream in my kitchen at two in the morning because a guy had taken me to bed and not seen fit to call me back.

“That’s it,” I said around a mouthful of Haagen Dazs. “I am
so
done with boys.”

Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t avoid the truth. What I wanted was a hug from somebody who meant it. Ice cream was cold comfort in more ways than one. My spoon scraped against cardboard; I glanced down at the empty carton and wondered not for the first time how I’d eaten so much without thinking.

“Dammit.” I threw my spoon at the sink and the carton at the trash can. The carton missed, bouncing off the side of the can and ending up on the floor.

My mother had told me that going to college would net me an education. She’d also hinted I’d meet a nice guy and find love, how what I’d gone through in high school was just a temporary problem. That by college, boys would have grown up into men who would treat me right.

“Bullshit,” I said into the empty silence of my kitchen. It hadn’t happened that way, and there were times I hated my mother for lying to me. Going to college didn’t change how I was a chunky head case with zero fashion sense.

The tears came back, leaking out of my eyes and sliding down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop them.

So much for not crying.

Attending college meant studying, and studying meant spending a large amount of time where information was kept. Most of my classmates loved to live online, but I preferred the library; people mocked me for my choice but I enjoyed the act of hunting down a book. Besides, I’d watched too many other students get gigged by professors for citing Wikipedia and I wanted my sources to hold up. I went to the public library because that way I didn’t run into as many of my classmates. I didn’t have friends; I had acquaintances who mooched off me for study help.

“Hello, Alyssa,” Ms. Peterson said as I walked up to the front desk, smiling at me. “Your psych test go okay?”

I smiled back. “I at least had answers for all the questions.”

“I’m sure you did fine,” she said.

“Let us pray,” I said.

She laughed. “You did fine the last time.”

I didn’t argue with her, but a B minus wasn’t ‘fine’ in my book. School was the only thing I’d ever been good at, and ending up at just above average in the one place I could stand out just wasn’t acceptable.

“Well anyway, your table’s where it usually is.” She paused and glanced behind me and her smile vanished, changing into professional blankness. “Ah...can I help you, sir?”

I glanced over my left shoulder - and took a big step back.

If a Hollywood director had called up Central Casting and asked them for a scary biker extra, the guy behind me would have fit the bill. He stood a foot taller than me and was at least that much broader, shoulders bulked up further by a leather jacket and vest. Shaggy black hair spilled down his back from underneath a bandanna, his bone-heavy features roughened by stubble. I didn’t cower, but it was a near thing. I did move aside so he could take his turn at the counter.

“Just here to return some books,” he said, deep voice laden with a Southern accent. Blue eyes so dark they were almost black studied first Ms. Peterson and then me, his stare distant and chilly.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the books from his hands. The right one had numbers tattooed on it in faded ink, but I couldn’t read them. I did recognize the books, all four of them pop-psychology titles.

“Much obliged,” he said, touching two fingers to the hem of his bandanna and smiling. Then his eyes met mine, and he repeated the gesture. Before either of us could reply, he walked away. I waited until he was out of hearing range to speak.

“Who’s he
?
”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s been coming around here a couple of times a week.”

I kept my eyes on him. Frightening as he was, the tight denim he wore made watching him walk away...pleasant. I blushed and looked at the floor when I realized what I was about. I didn’t like being leered at; catching myself doing it to someone else was uncomfortable to say the least.

“He ever cause a problem?”

“Not a bit,” she said. “In fact, he’s always really polite. Still scares me, though.”

“Yeah, I can see why.” I shouldered my backpack. “I should get to studying.”

“Good luck,” she said as I walked away.

I hadn’t meant what I’d said about being scared by him, not all the way. Growing up in Baltimore there had been a biker clubhouse between school and home, and the bus route had taken me right by it. At sixteen I’d pressed my nose to the glass and watched the men lounging outside their clubhouse; big, fierce-looking and bearded, arms covered in tattoos, vests with
LONGSTRIDERS MC
sewn into the back above a spread-winged stork in gold, purple and black. I’d spent my after-school hours watching
Sons of Anarchy
and had taped a Charlie Hunnam poster to my closet door, tucked away where my mom couldn’t see it. She hadn’t approved of my interest.

“I wish Hollywood wouldn’t glamorize bikers like that,”
she’d told me every time she got a chance.
“They’re no better than street thugs.”
Of course, my mom had also been one to cross the street to avoid black men; as I’d grown older I’d stopped trusting her views on people. After all, it wasn’t like the nice guys she thought were so perfect had done me any favors.

When I got to my table I was brought up short; the big biker sat two tables away.

I sat down and pulled out my Psych 302 textbook, trying not to stare at him. It wasn’t easy; I’d watched bikers on TV, seen them in passing from my school bus window but this was the first time I’d ever been so close to one.

He’d draped his vest and jacket over the back of the chair; I found myself trying to read the patches on the vest. I didn’t know what all they stood for, but I’d seen one before; a black diamond with “1%” stitched in gray. The Longstriders clubhouse back in Baltimore had a similar logo painted on the wall next to the front door, only in gold and black. He also didn’t have a logo on the back. I’d assumed all outlaw bikers belonged to a gang.