Old Ghosts: Gypsy Riders MC

OLD GHOSTS

Copyright ©
2014 HONEY PALOMINO

All Rights Reserved Worldwide

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, locations and incidences are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This book is for entertainment purposes only.

This book contains mature content and is intended for adults only.

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OLD GHOSTS DIE HARD, JUST LIKE OLD HABITS DO

“You know what you have to do, Mike,” the woman sitting behind the desk said to me, her red lips snarling into a smile that spread tightly across her face. 

She was right.  I did.  And while it went against my every instinct, I would give her what she wanted - what she demanded - every time.  She was holding my balls to the fire, and so far, I hadn’t found a way out of it.

Her bright red hair was pulled into a bun on top of her head, and her green eyes squinted at me as she waited for me to respond.

I stood up slowly, my heart thumping in my chest. Despite my hatred for the woman, my cock betrayed me and it hardened before I even reached it.  I opened my jeans, the buttons popping open on my 501’s like a countdown to my own personal nightmare.

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Bang.  

I’d almost rather be dead than go through with this.

I looked down at her, the object of my disdain.  She stood up, and slowly reaching up, she pulled the pin from her hair, releasing a cascade of red curls around her shoulders. It didn’t matter that she was beautiful.  She was ugly on the inside, and I hated her.  

My disgust with her was even stronger than my disgust at my growing cock.  It was like a bad habit that I couldn’t shake.  And even if I could, I had no choice in the matter.  If I didn’t do what she wanted, she would take away the only thing in the world that really mattered to me.  There was nothing I wouldn’t do to avoid that.

Even this.

“Bend over,”  I said to her, as I closed the distance between us.

“Once again, you’ve made the wise choice, Mike,”  she whispered, as she quickly removed her silky shirt and lacy bra. She turned around and bent over her desk.

I raised her dark blue skirt around her hips to find that once again, she wasn’t wearing any panties.  Just like last time.  And the time before that.  And the time before that.

I wasn’t surprised.

“Condom,”  she whispered needlessly.  I was already opening the package.  She braced herself against the hard, wooden desk. “Make it good this time, big boy.”

After one quick glance at the door of her office to make sure it was locked, I wrapped her red curls around my fist and entered her swiftly, roughly, without any hint of friendliness.  

No.  This was all business.

But she liked it that way.  Her body told me so as it wrapped around me, gripping onto me rhythmically as I thrust into her, my cock betraying me even further as my flesh easily forgot who she was.  

It didn’t matter.  

As usual, it was a warm body, and in situations like this, my cock seemed to possess a life of its own, inhabiting my body completely with its need for something it never seemed to find.

I was just the idiot trapped in the car as it barreled out of control. 

I pulled her hair hard as I thrust into her, harder and faster, the force pushing her violently up against the desk, her breasts smashing into the glass top and leaving imprints of her nipples on it.  She bit her hand, suppressing a scream as I pounded into her relentlessly.

Her cheeks flushed as red as her hair, and I knew she was close.  I picked up the pace, hammering into her as fast as I could and as soon as I felt the first spasms of her pussy, and her wetness seeping around my shaft, I slammed into her with one, last hard thrust, my cock exploding inside of her.  

Quickly, I pulled out, and the shame and disgust flooded over my heart while I pulled off the condom and put my cock back in my pants.

I reminded myself why I was doing this as she stood up and turned around.  As she shimmied her skirt back over her curvy hips, she quickly reached up and tried to press her lips to mine.

“Kissing isn’t part of the deal,”  I grumbled, turning my head away to avoid her lips, throwing the used condom in her trash can. 

“Oh, fucking relax, Mike,” she said.  “It’d be real good for you and the club if you were nicer to me, you know.”

“I do what I have to.  Don’t fucking push it,”  I snarled.

She stood in front of me, still topless, and staring up at me with her hair falling in messy curls around her face.  Her beauty was striking, there was no denying that.  If she had been anyone else, I would have taken her a second time. Her fingers traced my cut sensuously, and yet it did nothing but make me want to get away from her sooner.

“I gotta go.”

“Okay, okay…,” she turned, and sat back down at her desk as I headed for the door.  “Give my love to Rosie, Mike.”

“Fuck you, Detective Jones,”  I snarled, without turning around. I couldn’t look at her another second.

“Indeed,” she smirked.

I opened the door of her office to the sound of her soft laughter, and thundered out of the precinct as fast as my boots would take me.

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Have you ever had one of those days where you wake up and you know something important is going to happen?  Something exciting, something unexpected, something unpredictable?  Like when you get that feeling in your gut that signals anticipation so intense you can’t even begin to think about anything else? 

But you have no idea what it is you’re supposed to be looking for, so you go around feeling lost and on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop?  And you spend the day just hoping it lands on the pavement in front of you?  That you have time to side-step it somehow, instead of falling victim to its wrath when it finally shows its face?

That’s what this day was like.  

I just never for a moment thought its face would turn out to belong to Mike Montgomery.  

Mike Montgomery, little Rosie’s dad.  Mike Montgomery, rough and tumble president of the Gypsy Riders Motorcycle Club.  Mike Montgomery, a rugged package of deliciousness all rolled up into one mysterious, leather-clad man.

Rosie was seven years old and my student at George Peabody Elementary School.  And her dad, Mike, or Big Mike - as Rosie told me he was called as we sat on the curb that first day of school waiting for him - was indeed the president of the Gypsy Riders.  

Rosie’s mom had died during childbirth, and Mike had raised her on his own.  These important facts I had been told by the principal of the school on my first day at my new job.  It was a week before classes were starting and Ms. Johnson was telling me various details about my new students.

The story she told me about Rosie was sadder than almost anything I had heard, and I decided right then and there that I was going to take Rosie under my wing before I even met her.  My own mom died when I was a young girl, and I couldn’t help but feel protective toward Rosie.  

“Mike Montgomery is a good man.  He’s a good dad that’s been dealt a bad hand, but he’s always taken the best care of Rosie.  For the last seven years, I get the impression he’s had to make some difficult choices, but he and Rosie have a good relationship.  Maybe someday he’ll settle down and find another mom for Rosie, but ever since her mother, Rose, died, he’s been devoted entirely to Rosie.  I’ve known him since he was a boy in this very school.  He was in my class when I was a teacher here.”  Ms. Johnson said.  She had been at Peabody Elementary for over thirty years.  She had neglected to tell me Rosie’s dad was a biker, but Rosie was quick to tell me that herself.  She seemed proud of her dad and his club, and she talked about him all day.

Today was the first day of school, and when I finally met Rosie that morning, it was clear she would be a pleasure to have in class.  She was smart as a whip and sweet as candy, with a small side of sass.  She told me all about her dad’s club, and her friends named Reaper, Demon and Sandman.  I was tempted to disregard her stories as figments of a child’s imagination, but as her stories grew richer, I couldn’t help but believe her.