CHAPTER ONE
Brick
The light rain had started out providing some relief from the brutal Louisiana humidity. Even late at night with a breeze, I can’t get used to this heat. Not that I’m complaining exactly, the southern air is cleaner than what I breathed in Philly for fifteen years. There’s no traffic. No congestion on the highway even. But when the rain gets horizontal, even my Nightrider needs a break.
I speed up, looking for the closest overpass, maneuvering carefully around the deep puddles so I don’t hydroplane. Three miles down the road, I spot one. I’ve spent hard years travelling the states on my bike, hundreds of miles between each Iron Norsemen clubhouse.
My latest destination, helping launch a new chapter in Shreveport.
I’m a nomad, an enforcer who goes where I’m needed to make sure my brothers are true to the patch. I don’t live by the same rules as other members. I don’t owe my allegiance to one president or particular charter. I live for the name—for what our patch signifies. Fear none, respect few. That’s my mantra, the only thing I know.
I park under the overpass and climb off my bike. Reaching inside my vest pocket, I grab a cigarette from the weathered pack. I light up and take a deep drag, liking the stale taste it leaves in my mouth. I usually only smoke on the road, a habit I picked up from my father a long time ago. The bastard is worm fodder, buried at Arlington National Cemetery three years ago. A lifelong Marine, he beat the military way of thinking into my head and body.
Only thing, those beatings left more than physical scars. When I turned eighteen and told him to go fuck himself and that I wasn’t interested in following in his miserable footsteps, he threatened to kill me. I laughed in his face, grabbed my backpack, and walked out of his house forever. The next time I saw him, he was laid out in an open casket—dead from a heart attack at fifty.
I flick the filter into the trees lining the road. Look where the fuck I ended up, old man. Sometimes I talk to him when no one is around. Usually when the weight of the world is bearing down on me and I realize how alone I really am. There’s no going back no matter what you do. I can’t resurrect my father and apologize for never calling him, for not reaching out when I heard about his sudden illness from a family friend in Philly. Not that he deserves an apology—but you only get one father, even if he’s a sonofabitch.
Instead of doing the right thing, I dug my boots in deeper and embraced my solitary lifestyle—loving the nomad patch on my chest, living for it.
Screeching tires and the flash of headlights bring me back to the present. Through the blur of the heavy rain, I spot the only car I’ve seen on the highway for hours. It weaves to the left, the right, passes me, then drives off the road, hitting the trees up ahead. Shit…
I jog the hundred yards or more, prepared to find someone gravely injured or even dead. There’s no cell service available, so whoever it is, they’re fucked.
I scramble between the trees to find a late model convertible, the front end buried in a tree. The headlights are still on and I wipe the wet from my eyes. The driver’s side door is open, but there’s no one inside. The driver must have jumped out—maybe hurt and dazed. Music blares from the speakers and the AC is still blowing strong. There’s nothing to speak of inside really, just a bottle of water on the passenger seat and a backpack on the floorboard.
That’s when I hear something or someone move behind me. I twist around and by pure instinct, grab whoever it is by the throat. Blame my quick reflexes on my father. He taught me to react first and ask questions later.
She’s soaked to the bone, a cut above her right brow. Confusion and fear show in her wide eyes, but she doesn’t say a word. I let her go slowly, my gaze fixed on her beautiful face. She’s shivering so hard her teeth chatter. Better get her to shelter so she doesn’t catch a cold.
“You need to get out of the rain,” I say.
She gestures at the car. “Do you suggest crawling back into that death trap?”
Her long red hair is plastered to her face and shoulders, and she’s only wearing cutoff shorts and a skimpy halter top. I look down at her feet and find cowboy boots, then shake my head. Every woman I’ve ever met is unprepared for emergencies.
Thunder cracks overhead and she flinches.
“Can you walk?” I yell over the noise.
She nods.
I turn back and reach inside the car and turn the ignition off, then pocket the keys. She walks to the other side of the vehicle, opens the door, and grabs the bag off the floorboard. Once she joins me on the driver’s side again, I take a last look around, knowing there’s nothing we can do for the car right now. “Come with me.” I grab her hand and drag her to the overpass where she can at least get out of the rain.
There’s a couple street lights illuminating the bridge, so we can see each other clearly. I dig in my saddle bags and pull out a blanket and thermos filled with hot coffee and offer them to her.
She meets my gaze, then eyes the stuff in my hands. “Thank you.” She wraps the blanket around her shoulders and then tries to open the thermos. When she fails a third time, I take it and easily pop the top off.
“Here.”
I watch as she takes a deep drink, still shaking.
Now that she’s safe, I scrutinize her appearance a bit more. Green eyes and burgundy-colored hair, a color no woman is born with. Her eyes are wideset and her nose is thin and perfect. There’s just a hint of freckles on her cheeks. And her full lips would be a welcome pleasure on my cock. There’s a tiny diamond stud in her nose and her arms are tattooed—the right one, full sleeve.
I silently admire her ink, intricate Celtic knotwork and magnolia trees, the sun and moon, and some asshole’s name I bet she doesn’t fuck anymore.
“Who’s Sammy?” I ask, testing her.
She frowns. “No one you need to worry about.” She tucks her wet hair behind her ear. “Who are you?” She considers my vest, her eyes lingering on my nomad patch. “You’re a brother?”
“I’m something.”
“I bet you are.” There’s no warmth in her tone, like she disapproves of who and what I am.
Bet she has a story to tell—deep secrets she’d never share. Someone hurt her in the past, I can tell by the way she carries herself, opens up for a split second, then withdraws behind whatever imaginary, defensive walls she’s constructed around herself. The more beautiful a woman is, the more pain she totes around. That’s something I’ve learned after being on the road, meeting the kind of people I have.
Ignoring her icy demeanor, I stare out at the pounding rain. “This isn’t going to let up any time soon. Do you have family nearby? Somewhere I can take you?”
She wraps her arms around her middle, hugging herself. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
Rough around the edges, scared even. “Only when I need to.”
“And what about that choking shit?” she asks.
“Don’t sneak up on a brother next time.” She’s obviously spent some time around an MC. Maybe an old lady or passaround, or maybe she just doesn’t like what we represent. I shrug, losing interest. “No loss to me, girl,” I say. “You can stay here all night or accept a ride to whatever bayou-side shack you want. Your choice.”
She chuckles then. “Bayou-side shack? Let me guess, you’re not from around here. Are you here for pleasure or business?”
“Does it matter?”
“Nope.”
An awkward moment of silence follows, then she speaks up again. “Thanks for checking on me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m Starlet.” She extends her hand and I notice she’s wearing thin, gold bands on each finger and her thumb.
“Brick,” I say, shaking her tiny hand, feeling her warmth and liking it.
“Brick? What kind of name is that?”
I don’t miss the quick glance between my legs. I smirk, used to that reaction whenever a woman hears my name. “Want to find out?” I ask.
The blanket slips off her shoulders as she hooks her fingers on her belt loops and looks me up and down. I can’t deny my attraction to her. And if I know anything about women, she feels the same. “You are a sonofabitch, aren’t you?”
I laugh. “Sometimes. Something tells me I’m the kind of dude you like, though. A lot.”
She rolls those startling eyes at me and smiles, revealing a dimple in her right cheek. “Maybe. If you give me a ride on that bad ass machine of yours.”
I turn to my bike. “You like Harleys?”
“I like Fat Boys and Nightriders.” She leans over my bike, running her fingers over the tank, following the line of the pinstripes like she’s tracing the shape of my body. I’m instantly hard thinking about her hands on me.
And she knows it, because that sexy smirk on her face tells me everything I need to know. She doesn’t just like my Harley, she wants the man in leather who rides it.
Aphrodisiacs don’t exist, but a hot woman talking bikes might just be it for me. I look at her again, admiring her thin legs and smooth, white skin—determined to fuck her before we part ways tonight. “Get on, Starlet, we’ll find a place to have a drink before I take you home.” If she missed the emphasis on the before I take you home part, then I’m losing my touch. Either way, she’ll find out soon enough.
She steps back as I repack the saddle bags and then hand her the half helmet I keep for passengers. Without complaining, she straps it on her head, once again demonstrating her comfort around bikes and a man like me. I climb on first and watch as she straddles the seat behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, pressing her tits into my back, lighting me up inside like Fourth-of-July fireworks.
Within seconds, we’re racing down the highway, hoping to find a bar first, then a motel.