No Man's Daughter: An MC Biker Romance

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

No Man's Daughter copyright @ 2014 by Kay Perry. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

NO MAN'S DAUGHTER

Lydia’s hand pushed the dingy dish towel in small, purposeless circles.
It was more or less a metaphor of her life. And that bothered her more than her actual life did. Ollie’s was still. Dead, actually. Roundup ended for the time being in little old Quimby, Montana, last week. All the local hands around were whipped. Otherwise the place would be humming. Lydia had nothing to do but catch up.

Only she didn’t want to do it. It was gonna pass, she told herself. It was gonna pass. The place would fill up and someone would tell her a joke. Dean the cook would buy her a beer when all was said and done and she would fall asleep once her head hit the pillow. Lydia was a sheepish woman who lived in her head, so it was often exhausted come bed time.

It was Friday. The third Friday and that meant that Lydia would go home for the weekend. Home for her was a generous, empty ranch house on a thousand acres about twenty-five minutes away. Lydia went home every few weekends just to knock the dust off the place. It was ironic that when she was growing up, Lydia rarely strayed from the ranch where she lived as an only child to aged parents. As was the case with any teen, when she hit "that age" she wanted to leave. See the world. And she did. Leave, anyway.

She got as far as Billings where she went to university, living on campus. She was called out of class one day to be notified that her mother and father were killed in a flash flood, drowned by a sudden creek rise on the back hundred of their spread. Lydia was so numb for such a long time after that she was pretty sure she floated all the way home, drifting in and out of consciousness as though the flood was drowning her too. Without much consideration, Lydia handed it all over to the foreman to let him run the show and she grabbed a simple job at her favorite eatery in downtown Quimby: Ollie’s. The only place her parents took her when they wanted to eat in town. Dean the cook let Lydia have the room above the diner. He thought she was nuts to live in the squalid apartment instead of the rolling mansion back home.

"A knockout girl like you with everything going for you. You don’t belong here," the cook counseled her.

But it was painful for Lydia to be at the ranch. Not able to stand it, she actually arranged for the sale—all done with the wave of her pen. The ranch wouldn’t be hers in 30 days. But even despite not wanting to go there on this, her designated weekend, she was having some second thoughts.

Little did she know that just as she was wrapping her head around leaving at the end of her shift and heading that way, those deliberations would be put to rest. Life for Lydia Finch was finally about to get interesting. Very.

***

Lydia’s T-shirt was faded but it was clean beneath the crisp white bib of her apron. The apron and the nametag were the only parts of her attire that were the eatery's official uniform. Ollie didn’t mind that she was partial to little jean skirts. She hadn’t done much to speak of to wreck it that morning and it was mid-day. Shame to ruin it now. Its soft texture, and the sweet way it made her body look—taut, firm, hot. Lydia really loved her body. She walked it, jogged it, yoga’ed it, not to mention to ran it off at work. She was a blessed human being in that department, she had determined. Dean the cook often confirmed. The sight of her exquisite frame was one of the few things that gave her joy. Fortunately, living a life of virtual solitude even amongst a dinner crowd, she didn’t have to admit that. She checked herself out a lot—someone had to—in the long mirror in the lady’s room where she ducked a little too often to steal a minute alone.

Lydia delegated herself to take apart the counter and give it a thorough once-over but she stopped as soon as she started. A whir. A buzz. Faint but… what? Dean wasn’t running anything. It wasn’t a fan of any kind. It wasn’t a sound she had noticed before and the place had been quiet before.

It was getting louder. And it was coming towards them.

Like a herd of Montana whitetail led by a magnificent stag, a troop of motorcycles filed in front of Ollie’s and systematically filled the vacant slots of the parking lot. Neat and square, a row of bikes, sparkling, with chrome-clad curves, pipes, and wheels like silvered wasps, formed in the prime places at the eatery. Lydia’s heart, if it could waft, did. The sight of these warrior-like men, whose mail was form-fitting tees, denim, and leathers that showcased heart-stoppingly beautiful musculature, nearly made her lose her footing. Lydia viewed men with muscles all of the time. Many with the smell of leather on them. Quimby was cowboy country. Almost no one around was a pencil pusher or a keyboard jockey. But these men on bikes, none of whom Lydia had ever seen before, were positively stunning. The spectacle, especially that of their hold-the-door leader, made Lydia lonely and lustful all at the same time.

Ten men politely milled into the eatery. They hesitated, obviously wanting to take command of the floor plan. Dean the cook had come out from around the counter to greet them. He gave them the go-ahead to push the tables together. “Please by all means,” he said. Lydia lightheadedly handed out menus as she was steeped in the smell of leather and grease and the electric force of masculinity. One fellow had a bag on the floor. Lydia was not paying attention and she felt herself almost airborne as she stumbled over. A very powerful grip took hold of her lean hips and steadied her.

“Easy, baby,” came a low, easy, honeyed voice.

Never in her life did Lydia ever experience such a surge of warmth. The contact of this Viking-like man radiated a pooling erotic heat within her that created a struggle for consciousness within her. His enormous hand grazed the hard surface of her thigh as he braced her upright. He held his contact there until he was sure she was steady. “Okay?” he inquired. “Lydia?”

“Yes, sure,” Lydia lied. She was not quite sure she would ever be okay again. “How did you know my name?”

He laughed. “It says so on your name tag. Unless you borrowed it.”

She laughed at herself. “No.”

“We can be a little overwhelming, poor darlin. You folks usually this busy on a Friday night?” He extended his giant paw to shake with Dean. “Mickey O’Halloran.”

Lydia replied, “We’re dead because of the round up the next ranch over. Usually the place is hopping. We have been swamped with the extra hands.”

“Goodness,” Mickey replied in perhaps the most sensual voice Lydia had ever heard. “What did you do with all of those hands?” After a moment’s pause, in which both Dean and Lydia were stunned, he continued. “If we are the dinner crowd I suggest the two of you come join us.” Lydia felt her eyes get involuntarily big. “In fact, Royce here is a fabulous cook. He can help you. What are there, ten of us? And two you of you … dinner is on us, for everyone here and just about anyone else who comes in, within reason.” Mickey handed Dean a fold of cash. “Will this buy the place for the evening?”

Lydia was certain Dean’s eyes watered and it wasn’t even his restaurant. “I think it will. You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m in a good mood and I am feeling generous,” Mickey replied. “Second question. Those cabins out back. Are those active? Do you rent rooms?”

“Yes,” Dean and Lydia said together.

“So do we have the place for the night?” Mickey asked.

Dean looked at Lydia, who could barely maintain her faculties. “Sure, why not,” he conceded. “You only live once. Hey, are you men drinking men?” he asked. The only response Dean got was a burst of hearty laughter. “Lydia, why don’t fix these fellas up with some beers and Barn Burners.”

Mickey looked at Lydia directly. She had never seen anyone with violet colored eyes before. He could not be any more handsome if he tried. She was coming unglued. “Now what, pray tell,” he began smoothly, “are Barn Burners?”

Lydia’s voice warbled as she answered. “They’re shooters. A secret recipe. Well, a recipe with a secret ingredient.”

Mickey grinned. Of course he had perfectly white, even teeth. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

“Not sure. I’d be happy to give you the recipe. Berna, the owner’s wife—well she’s the owner too technically ‘cuz she’s married to him—”

Mickey interrupted her. “Oh not so, I’m afraid. Montana is not a community property state. But any way, you were saying.”

“Yes, anyway, Berna made up the shooters and she’s put in a special blend of ingredient. We just have a bottle of it in the well “

“Berna’s Barn Burners,” Mickey recited.

“Yep.”

“Well if you’re serving them, I’ll drink them. Line ‘em up.” He smiled. In all her limited experience and slightly broader imagination, Lydia had never met a person who had this kind of effect on her. It was sort of a cruel thing for any man she met next. There was no way she was going to feel this again.

“This might ruin your appetite,” Lydia cautioned. “We probably should wait until after supper. But I suppose one won’t hurt.”

“My appetite is fine,” Mickey assured her. He was most definitely flirting. Lydia’s breath caught in her chest as she moved behind the counter and laid out shot glasses, enough for all.

She poured with finesse, deftly tipping the spouts and counting to measured precision as she replicated the eatery’s signature drink. Mickey and the others sidled up behind the anchored bar stools and knocked back the glasses. They shook their heads and hissed with approval. Lydia poured two, one for Dean and one for Royce. Mickey flicked one of towards her. “Have one.” Lydia hesitated. She wasn’t much of a drinker, especially since the last time she had a Barn Burner, but she indulged. She threw the shooter back and contracted as the contents made its way down her to her stomach. She drew hard through her nose. Mickey grinned. “Good stuff, missy.”

Lydia and the men were wobbly. “What is in this stuff?” Mickey asked as he tried to get his sea legs. “There is a definitely a hallucinogen afoot.”

“
Something
,” said another struggling rider.

“It only lasts a sec. It gets better,” Lydia promised. She didn’t move. Just pressed her finger tips to the counter to gain composure.

“This was most definitely an after dinner drink,” Mickey remarked.

“Food will make it better,” Lydia replied and already the peak of the buzz was receding. “There,” she said. The riders shook their heads a second time.

“Damn,” Mickey proclaimed as he leaned on a bar stool. “I am going to have to patent this if Berna doesn’t beat me to it.”

“You steal Berna’s recipe, she’ll beat you alright,” Lydia quipped. Mickey’s hands were slow and sure, but quick enough. He took hold of her hips and pulled her to him.

“She will, will she? Should I be afraid?” he murmured. All of it left her unable to answer the question.

“I– I—” she stammered.

“I think we ought to take a pass on those beers and go sit down,” Mickey had his arms now tangled around the small of her back. The chemistry that transpired all but knocked out the rest of the world. It truly felt like they were the only two at Ollie’s Eatery.

“How about some iced tea?” Lydia suggested.

“I’ll get the glasses and you get the pitcher,” he answered. Still composing herself from the Barn Burner, Lydia reached in the cooler and pulled out the tea while Mickey pinched plastic tumblers off their pyramid tidily stacked on shelves behind the counter. In one trip, he carried enough glasses for everyone in their dinner party.

“Something smells good.” Lydia could not believe how suddenly ravenous she was.

“Good enough to eat,” Mickey said lasciviously, as though he were thinking out loud. All eyes popped towards him. “You know what, excuse me. You are a fine woman but that drink… I swear… I have manners.”

“Some,” amended one of the riders.

“Okay some. Please accept my apology.” Mickey bowed.

“Okay,” Lydia conceded. “Only if you meant it.” Now Mickey’s eyes bugged.

“I did,” he said earnestly. “I do. You are.”

“Okay,” she answered. “Have a seat.”

Just as drinks were served, Dean appeared with a tray of sheep herder’s hors d’oeuvres—orange and onion slices on squares of cheddar cheese atop a saltine—and bread. “We are doing steaks.” He glanced at Lydia and then hesitated.