CHAPTER SIX

“Fuck me. The want never went away.” - Rider Marinos

 

 

 

       He was such a dirty bastard.

      Who fantasized about doing dirty shit to a woman when she was all beaten and broken inside like a china doll?

      Such a dirty bastard. And he owned his shit.

      Rider needed to get a hold of himself.

      Where had his thoughts led him to? He was meant to be thinking of ways to secure Zara some help back to normality, to get her from his club in a little while. None of his boys were happy when he’d told them she’d be staying. Instead, he was knee deep in old fantasies mixed with the new of fucking her.

      Fucking her again.

      Fucking her some more.

      He felt punch drunk, despite he hadn’t touched a drop of booze all night until a few moments ago. Dragging the bottle of whiskey closer, he unscrewed the cap and thought about taking it right from the bottle.

      Strung out wanting a woman. What were the chances of that she would crash-land back in his territory and he’d still want to fuck the fuck out of her?

      She made him hard.

      She’d shocked the fuck out of him.

      And then filled him with rage hearing what had been done to her. An extraordinary sense of possessive ownership had threatened to grind Rider’s teeth to fucking dust in his mouth, so much so he’d called on patience no outlaw was known for.

      Part of him wanted her gone from his club before she became too important, before she could slide underneath his skin, easily hand over the problem to someone else. He knew people, if he truly wanted her out of his hair he could easily reach out to one of the other chapters and have her go there for her own safety. The fact that Rider didn’t do that, spoke volumes.

      Fuck.

      Maybe she should go home. She hadn’t mentioned any family yet, but surely, she had people, people who would have missed her, wanted her back?

      Long goddamn night. It felt never ending. Most of his brothers had crashed out or were still propping up the bar celebrating the night. Far as he could see there were zero fucking things to celebrate here, he felt visibly sick to his belly.

      Zara had been raped, beaten, countless unquestionable times.

      Yeah, nothing to celebrate.

      Pouring two fingers of scotch, his third in a matter of minutes, downed it in one long burning gulp, trying without success to ease the tension between his shoulders.

      His head was already throbbing, he supposed the booze wouldn’t help that, but it might stop him from thinking of the way Zara had taken off for the shower when he’d pointed to the bathroom door, she was hurting all over, but the desperation in her hasty steps made him frown.

      She’d struggled with her shirt, he’d noticed before the door had closed, she was favoring her ribs. It had been on the tip of his tongue to offer his help.

      Fucks sake, where had that come from?

      The woman had been violated in the worse way, he doubted she wanted his hands on her, even to lift her shirt over her head.

      He’d gotten out of his room quick sharp, leaving her to wash up, only to return a few minutes later with another plate of sandwiches and a bag of chips. He left them on the bed, hesitated to listen to the water coming from behind the door. 

      His dick ached.

      Yep. He was a dirty bastard.

      Slouched down in his office chair, Rider pulled the sleeves of his shirt down past his fingers.  The cabin was frigid cold for October, there was even some frost in the early morning air and they were calling for snow, he could see it happening.

      With his club on lockdown, expecting the sheriff and his crew to come by anytime soon, he hadn’t wanted to hang around inside, the walls had closed in on him until he felt restricted of clean air. It wasn’t often Rider was taken by surprise, but fuck if seeing Zara hadn’t kicked him in the fucking gut.

      Assaulted with memories he let them play for a while.

      They wound around his mind, erotic webs fixing themselves in place.

      The way she’d screamed as he’d fucked her into his bed, how her legs wrapped him tight like a cobra, she’d been silky wet and Rider had gone down on her for so long she’d begged him, pleaded insisting that she couldn’t take anymore.

      He could still feel the tight clasp of her pussy, those deep sharp wet thrusts taking him down to the bottom of her, and that soft exhale as she’d stretched around his cock, that first caress of pleasure, he’d seen play on her face the second she began to like it as rough as he gave her it, her body undulating wanting him to move inside her with force.

      Nails gouging his back up.  He’d loved that.

      He’d fucked a virgin and liked it.

      Best night of his life. He’d known it.

      Hadn’t had sex like it.

      Miss sunshine virgin had rocked his fucking boots.

      Rider didn't kid himself about the image he presented to the citizens of Armado Springs.  He was never the golden boy, the glorified boring jock and not the boy to bring him to mom and dad for an apple pie supper.

      He left women with a wicked taste of curiosity, and a touch of fear in the older generation because they knew first hand or had heard of his reputation.

      No one messed with Rider.

      Nevertheless, he loved his town and did all he could for the people within its borders. Rider contributed to charities, he helped flagging businesses to get back on their feet. 

      Last year when half the church burnt down in a freak thunderstorm the Renegade Souls rallied the money together, held a giant cookout and even arranged for an out of town construction company to donate most of the hard labor to the fund.

      Now if he'd used persuasive non-political tactics to get that discount, did it really matter. His sway reached far, they'd all heard of Rider, whether by association, or word of mouth. If people didn't bend over backward to aid his requests, then he'd help them along to change their minds.

     Outlaws would never be in style.

      Just because he did good things didn't mean Rider was in any way a good man. Gray areas covered a wide span of space. It was impossible to be a Hollywood type when you had an ink sleeve and a bad attitude pouring out of your every facial expression.

      This was his city and he loved every seedy inch of it. He didn't have the key to the city, but he felt in a somewhat part owner of Armado Springs since he ran a lot of it whether people knew or not.

      Rider Marinos might present a mean image to those who didn't know him, their opinions and whispered rumors were not wrong about, he'd buried more men than he could count, but he was never black or white, his moral compass was surrounded by murky underhanded gray areas.

      The biker with a heart was probably going too far. But he did care. He cared a fucking lot for Zara, he was realizing with startling clarity that stung his chest.

     Hadn't he always. He'd just buried it.

      Now she was here. And he was caring too much as if it was the first time all over again.

      She'd plagued many of his dreams over the years. He'd wanted her, taken her and discarded her in a fucked-up way because he was too pussy to admit he liked a woman for more reasons than just a simple fast fuck.

      As if reminded of the last time his dick had been wet by her it kicked to life behind his zipper demanding the same wet warm attention, making him crave her again. Grinding the heel of one hand on his crotch to calm the ache Rider took another long gulp of the whiskey, it's familiar burn racing to his gut.

      Dick ignored.

      Fantasies ignored.

      He was a filthy bastard without an ounce of good intentions picturing her in his shower. Imagining the slow rivulets of water sluicing down over her naked body. She would be using his soap, the unscented white bar that sat on the shower ledge, a strange possessive sensation swept over him.

      She'd smell like him.

      Fucks sake. He pressed the heel of his hand against his zipper again, telling that hardening bastard to shut up.

      He was sat chicking out over his past one nighter.

      If he looked down to see he was growing a pussy, he wouldn't be surprised.

      He pushed Zara out of his mind for the moment, choosing instead to take up drinking professionally, at least for the next hour.

      Now wasn’t the time to try and recall the exact sound she made when she came underneath him or how her pussy sucked him in, drowned him in blissful heat.

      She’d however, done something more impactful for him than provide him with a few moments’ worth of dirty fantasies of old.

      She’d pressed home the urgency of their situation.

      And it was theirs now. Not just a vendetta club-to-club.

      That shit-for-brains Hades had performed something to warrant Rider's utmost attention. He would hunt that bastard to the ends of the earth, he would make him his only goal in life, to bring death to his door in the most painful of ways, to shove justice for Zara so far down his throat Hades' would shit it out even as he hurtled his sorry ass into Hell.

     Forty-five minutes later, Rider was outside his room, swaying in his heavy-duty leather boots, effects of his fast drinking session taking full hold of him when he rested his shoulder to the doorframe to stay upright, thumbs hooked into the waist of his jeans trying to talk himself out of going inside.

      After more than half bottle of whiskey, a whole shit ton of sexual fantasies and murderous thoughts later he was no clearer on the new shitstorm.

     Advice from his VP would be to dump her at a local woman’s shelter and let her dice fall where they may.

      Fuck. That.

      He’d scraped the girl off once before against his own wants, and somehow, she was then led into the hands of monsters.

      Three years. God fucking damn it. Three years.

      He only made the same mistake once.

      His room was cast in near complete darkness except for the shine of the moon from the one window that didn’t have a curtain only a broken roller blind that was stuck midway, he’d been meaning to have it changed, but not on his list of priorities Rider had left it to hang broken, now he was reluctantly thankful he didn’t when the light hit his bed perfectly to show how Zara was sleeping with the covers buried essentially masking her face.

      Had the light bothered her? Some reason that had him frowning.

      Closing the door with a quiet click, he toed off his boots, picked up both and carried them over by the tv, under his arm he carried a lone pillow and a dark gray wool blanket, the kind you get in jail only less itchy. He fucking hated those jail blankets, he was sure they kept them so as no one got any sleep down in lockup.

      Cops were sadistic motherfuckers.

      Rider was tired as hell, his eyes burned, and didn’t want to hunt a bed elsewhere.

      Truth was he hadn’t for a second thought he’d sleep anywhere else.

      He could insist this was his room, he was president, he’d sleep wherever the fuck he wanted, but again the truth was he felt he should be close by to Zara if she needed him.

      Need me? She doesn’t know you, bud.

      He mentally shrugged, the effects of the booze meant he didn’t listen to himself when he took a spot on the floor, close enough to the bed he could watch her.

      He punched the pillow under his neck.

      Rider vaguely recalled Zara liked to sleep with a lot of pillows, she’d told him post-coital when his balls had been drained and he’d felt a hundred feet tall for all the flattering statements the little virgin had paid him; You’re so big. Omg, I’ve never felt that before. Can we do it again and again and again? More. Harder. Faster. Please.

      Fuck. Shut up thinking of that.

      His glance reached out through the dark, noticing his one flat as fuck pillow on the bed under all her blonde hair. Strange that he was remembering how she liked to sleep now when the shit volcano had just begun to boil.

      It scared the crap outer him that he wanted to make her his concern. He already had enough on his plate without adding more.

      Club was all. Club was everything.

      First and foremost.

      So why was he thinking of doing it then? Why did Zara stir every forgotten instinct Rider had in his body?

      A good man would do a good deed without expectation of thanks or reward. But Rider wasn’t a good man, far from it. He could still taste the latest murder on his tongue, he was the least good man there was.

      And yet.

      He gave the lump under his bed covers a cursory glance, a long glance. His dirty bastard thoughts reappearing. He blamed it on being drunk.

      He blamed it on the situation, the danger made him horny, and usually, he would have fucked his adrenaline away already if things had gone to plan.

      Some fast-meaningless fuck that lasted only the minutes it took to empty his balls and drain the surge of his spiked energy. forgotten instantly.

     Wanting Zara was not new. He’d sullied that good girl once and wanted to again.

      Only now it wasn’t so easy. So, could he be what she needed instead, to make her his concern?

       With a tired sigh, no more thinking, an arm slung over his eyes, he let sleep claim him.

 

 

      Staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, Rider groaned. Bloodshot eyes stared back making him wince. Right, that's why I don't drink a bottle of whiskey at a time anymore. 

      His head was giving an imitation of one of those African tribal dances he'd saw once on the news, the kind with the drums.

      Lotsa fucking drums all out of sync playing loudly between his ears.

      He moved lethargically, searched around under the sink hoping to find a bottle of pills he could down. He kept the number to three, swallowing them dry, cursing when they didn't immediately have an effect.

      Rider didn't appreciate the reminder of his own stupidity, nor did he have time to dwell on it, not with an MC to run, businesses still flagging that needed his attention. Why the hell had he been drinking a dark mood again? The woman asleep in my bed. Oh yes, her.

      Zara was still passed out, did women sleep this long, this deeply? Usually, he kicked them out, didn't reach the sleep portion. He poked his head back into his bedroom, she was in the fetal position, the covers pulled up to her forehead, if not for the odd twitch and movement he would have guessed she was dead.

       He frowned. Scraped a hand over his clipped beard. Deep in thought around the throb of his temples. Fuck this pain.

      Maybe he should wake her? let her fucking sleep, shithead, she's been through an ordeal.                

      Yeah, sleep was good for her. As an MC president, he'd witnessed some really fucked up stuff over the years, really fucked up, sadly to admit some from within his own club before he'd cleaned house of the scum dragging them down into the dirt, but none were in the stratosphere as that poor girl on the other side of the door.

      From the moment he'd noticed her Rider had felt an overwhelming urge to protect and also to go homicidal maniac on the fuckers who had damaged her.

     Instead of waking her as he wanted to do, he closed the door quietly and he boiled himself to a state of wakefulness for the next fifteen minutes in the shower. With his wet hair tied back in a haphazard bun, jeans pulled up his legs and a long sleeve gray shirt, he was glad he was dressed when he stepped back through. Because Zara was awake, sitting up in his bed tenderly poking around her swollen blackened eye.

      He could detect his presence startled her, best to start as he meant to go on, he mused, he wasn't gonna walk on fucking eggshells with her, not when she awoke something within him.

      “Good mornin', darlin’ you slept a while. You must be hungry, we can see about getting you somethin’.“

      She gave him a shy look, otherwise didn’t speak.

      And Rider was too busy looking at the way the shirt she’d slept in was falling off one creamy shoulder, to care if she replied.

      His already dry tongue felt like the Sahara sand in his mouth.

      He'd left one of his bigger shirts for her to wear last night seeing as the only clothes she'd had on he'd tossed in the furnace along with their filth and stench vowing never to see her in them again, he admitted she looked good in his shirt.

      Damn good. Real fucking good.

      Rein it in, dirty bastard. The last thing Zara needed was to exchange one perverted fucker with bad intentions for another.

     “Did----did you sleep in here?” he heard, cranking his neck around to see how she was looking down at the floor to his makeshift bed he had yet to fold away. He did it now, striding the room to hook both in his hands. Putting them away consisting of tossing the blanket and pillow on the chair.

      “Yes. It’s my room.” he smiled, practically seeing how her brain’s cogs began to turn in all the right directions. He recalled she was smart. She could join the dots.

      “Oh. I see.”

      “My room, darlin’ so let’s get this outer the way, I can guess what you’re thinkin’ and you're only half right." for now.  "You’ll stay here in my room. I’ll stay here in my room. We’ll sleep, that’s it. Got it?”

      Zara blinked giving Rider the impression of an old wisely owl. All wide-eyed and curious. He didn’t like seeing her with bruises, though. He’d send Butcher to check on them once he got some food in her.

      “I-- well, isn’t there another room I can use? A sofa, even. I saw several out there. I’m easy. Stick me anywhere. I don’t want to put you out of your room.” she pointed to the door. He assumed she meant the common room.

      No fucking way was she sleeping out there with his boys in and out constantly.

      Was she fucking crazy?

      Was he crazy?

      He had several unused flops now a couple of his boys had set up perma-residence in town, he could easily put Zara in one of those. Why was he insisting on this?

     “We’re both in here, babe. End of.” he gave her his back while he shrugged into his cut, the leather fit him like a glove.

      He liked that feeling of sliding it on, it gave Rider a sensation of comfort, of home, of peace, of belonging. Didn’t matter what kinda trouble and strife his club got into, and it was always a lot, too much sometimes for them to keep their heads above water, but once his cut was on, and he was sat at the head of the table in church Rider felt indestructible.

      Offering Zara his room, his protection was as close to a guarantee of safety as the president could give. He was saying; take my bed, no fucker will ever harm you again, Icy, not while I have breath in my body.

      But typical Rider and his infamous impatience, he growled low in his throat when she tried to protest again. Why couldn't she just accept it?

      Women always liked the words and the dispute.

      Not in his club.

   “Enough, Zara. I’ma grab you some sweats to put on, we’ll see about getting you some clothes that actually fit you today, make a list of the shit you need, a good list, you hear? If you’re gonna be here a few weeks, you’re gonna need more than a shirt and pants. The kitchen is to the right, down the hall and hang another right. I’ll see you there.”

      Like a living thing had crawled up his ass, the swift and potent possessiveness Zara provoked in him stretched and vibrated in his belly, making him close the door behind him with some force.

      He cursed under his breath, feeling out of his depth with one stupid conversation she'd barely even participated in.

      He’d wanted women before, but not like this.

      He wanted Zara immediately.

      To do things to her he’d only ever fantasized about.

      The dirty. The filthy. The downright scandalous.

      And he had once upon a time, all night long, with her screams ringing his ears and her nails clawing his back raw.

      For so long she’d become just a memory somewhere in the recess of his mind, he believed he’d made more of their night than it was, that’s how good sex was, the memory of it builds it greater than it had been, like talking up cold pizza, it’s the best thing ever when you’re ravenous.

      But he recognized the truth when it head-butted him.

      Out of this world came to mind.

      And she was back in his life.

      He was no Einstein but he could link A to Z, it was obvious his thoughts would go there, to reawaken those recollections for old times’ sake.

      Least, his dick was on board as it ached behind his zipper.

      His fucking dick had a mind of its own and a dry spell to contend with.

      Rider wasn’t cut from the white knight cloth for fuck's sake.

      An outlaw riding to the rescue.

      Zara’s rescue.

       His Icy girl.

      Goddamn…this was an existential crisis if he ever saw one.

      He sucked in a breath, letting his feet carry him away from his room before he turned back and did something he regretted like pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be okay and not to fear him.

     Outlaws and good deeds were the perfect oxymoron’s, but even as he strode towards the kitchen to grab food for Zara, he could feel his lines blurring.

      Twenty-four hours ago he hadn’t thought of her in forever.

      Now all he could think about was her.