CHAPTER TWO
Starlet
I can’t believe I agreed to get on the back of a stranger’s Harley and ride off into the night not knowing one thing about him. Every horror movie I’ve ever seen featured gullible women who made similar mistakes and wound up dead. And as I hug Brick tighter, seeking shelter in his warmth against the rain, somehow, I know I’m safe. Never mind the nomad patch on the front of his cut or the huge Iron Norsemen logo on his back.
He’s a one percenter. And no matter how hard I try to escape that life, I always seem to end up right back where I started when I was sixteen. In the arms of a rugged biker.
The minute I agreed to take a ride with him, I already knew what I wanted. Him. I’d skip the bar if I could and direct him to the closest motel. There’s a string of cheap lodgings along the Louisiana coast, some charge by the hour. The kind of place I want to go tonight.
I can’t believe I lost control of my rental car and ended up in a ditch! I’ve only been free for a few hours. And this wasn’t supposed to happen, now what am I going to do?
There’s no way anyone can trace the disguised woman who rented the car. I wore glasses and gaudy makeup into the place that matched the picture on my fake ID. That’s how badly I wanted to get away, enough to risk everything. I’ve had enough of The Life—leather and bikes—violence and drugs—men who treat women like property.
My husband died last week in a motorcycle accident on his way home from New Orleans. When the sheriff showed up at my house to let me know, it took every ounce of self-control I could muster not to scream out in relief. The bastard is dead and gone. And I’m free. Really free. As long as I can get away from the brothers.
Then reality smacks me in the face to remind me of who I am by placing Brick in my path—or in my way—depending on how I look at my current situation.
I’m not just another old lady. And judging Brick by his patches and attitude, he’s not just another biker.
My father founded the Devil’s Crusaders MC. And since my dead husband was the current prez, the new president will claim me as his old lady.
See, I’m legacy pussy, which is lower than being a passaround in my opinion. At least those women get to choose who they sleep with. I shiver at the thought of being forced into bed with a man I don’t want, likely ten to fifteen years older than me with a beer gut and a shaggy beard hanging down to his chest. The kind of man that makes me want to vomit and curl into a little ball and die.
But not Brick. I squeeze his body just to remind myself he’s real. From the moment I saw him, I was drawn to him. Something about his voice made me feel safe. And his eyes … the way he held my gaze and showed concern for my wellbeing. That’s rare in my world. And though he’s pure iron—long and lean with dark features, I sense there’s something going on inside him, like he’s battling his own demons and might understand my situation if I opened up and told him everything about my life. I’ve only met one nomad before, and he wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted to get cozy with for too long.
Nomads filled a distinct need within the Devil’s Crusaders. Men who were worthy of the patch but not trusted enough to join a specific charter. They were paid well to fix the fuckups and then disappeared.
That’s another thing that instantly attracted me to Brick. He’s moving on, I assume, as soon as he handles whatever business he has in Louisiana. Which makes him the perfect candidate to fulfill one of the most important dreams I’ve ever had—to choose a man to sleep with on my terms. Though it’s sooner than I expected, who am I to question fate? Brother or not, Brick represents everything I despise and want in a man at the same time. Besides, he won’t be wearing that damned cut while we’re fucking.
We pass a sign for the next exit off the highway. Brick races up the ramp and we stop at a traffic light, the rain still pelting our bodies.
“Are you familiar with this area?” he calls to me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Continue down this street for a couple miles. There’s a bar called the Dirty Cajun.” And a motel with the same name.
He parks close to the white brick building and I hop off the bike and remove his helmet. I’m soaked and could use a couple shots of whiskey to warm up. Shaking my hair out, I hope I don’t look as pathetic as I feel. I grab my bag off the back of his bike and sling it over my shoulder. Everything I have in the world is inside it; my ID, money, clothes, pictures I treasure, and purse.
If I’d packed anything bigger, it would have alerted the brothers. Back in Alabama, I’m under constant surveillance, even when my husband was alive. But I played my role perfectly like a Hollywood diva, always the obedient old lady who supported her man. I never complained or asked questions. I just cooked, cleaned, and fucked Sammy every night.
“Starlet?”
I snap back to the present and look up. Brick is holding the door open for me.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
I nod and step inside, grateful for the heat that envelopes me. We both look around the place. It’s small and poorly lit, only a handful of customers are sitting at the bar. There’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the walls that probably haven’t been cleaned in a decade, faded red carpet, and a juke box in the corner. A classic Garth Brooks song is playing. The bartender acknowledges us with a nod.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” I say.
Brick gazes at me, then tugs my backpack off my shoulder. “Leave this with me.”
“Why?”
“Insurance. I want to make sure you don’t sneak off without saying goodbye.”
His eyes are blacker than sin and hard to resist staring at for too long. “I need to freshen up.”
He unzips my bag and lowers it so I can reach inside. “Take what you need.”
I pull out my purse. This isn’t the first time I’ve attracted the kind of man who expects me to do what he says. There’s comfort in the familiar, though. And maybe I’m not ready to completely separate from the only world I know, which includes the kind of man Brick is. As long as he’s not wearing a Devil’s Crusader patch, he’s a better person than the brothers I know. I sigh and find my way down a narrow hallway that leads to the women’s room. As soon as I’m inside, I flip the light switch on, and close and lock the door.
Of all the nights to run into a torrential downpour, it had to be tonight. Is God trying to tell me something? Or is it the devil? Because I’m starting to doubt my poorly planned escape. Maybe I’m meant to live out my days on my back with my legs spread wide for the next biker that wants to fuck me. I don’t have to do anything tonight. I can walk away at any time.
But I don’t want to. Brick will be my first step into the real world. A gift to myself—a reminder that I’m allowed to be attracted to a handsome man, to want to have sex with no strings attached.
Then I remember something important—very important. I drop my purse in the sink and fish inside for the thing I always kept hidden from my deceased husband.
I’ve secretly been on the pill for years. I open the blue case and pop out the dose. I’m a few hours late, but I’ve never missed a day. If Sammy had ever found out, he would have beaten me. The one thing he always wanted were sons. Too bad I didn’t feel the same. I loathed the idea of bringing another Sammy into the world. There’s enough misogynistic air thieves already.
I study my reflection in the mirror. My hair is plastered to my face and my mascara is running. There’s an electric hand dryer on the wall and I grab my brush and walk over and press the start button. Lowering my head, I brush the tangles out. After five restarts, my hair has some volume again. Next, I focus on my makeup, touching up my powder, eyeliner, mascara, and cranberry-colored lipstick.
After fifteen minutes, someone knocks on the door. My heart races as I consider what to do. The fear of being found by one of the Devil’s Crusaders is constant and justifiable. It doesn’t matter if I know who is likely on the other side of the flimsy wood door. Subconsciously, my fight or flight instinct is overwhelming.
I pull the switchblade from my boot and open it, ready to do whatever I need to do to survive. “Who is it?”
“Brick. Open the door.”
“I’ll be done in a minute.”
“Open the door, Starlet.”
I swallow my fear, surprisingly comforted by the commanding baritone. If Brick told me to drop my panties on the floor and let him fuck me bent over the bathroom sink, I wouldn’t question him, I’d just do it. I slip the knife back in my shoe and then unlock the door.
I step back as it swings opens. Brick doesn’t even look at me, his gaze sweeps the small space first, then his attention returns to me. He smiles. “I thought you looked good wet.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that,” I say as I pluck the shot glass from his hand that I assume is for me. I suck the dark liquid down, the slow burn a welcome sensation in my throat and chest. Warmth blooms in my stomach and I immediately want another drink. “Thank you.” I hold in the cough, that whiskey wasn’t smooth, it was rough and raw like the man who bought it for me.
Our gazes lock before he speaks again. “There’s a couple more shooters at the bar. Come on.” His strong fingers wrap around my wrist and he gives me a tug.
I hardly have a chance to snatch my purse out of the sink before I’m standing in the hallway. Guess I have to hold my pee, because Brick is determined to get me back into the bar area. We get a couple of nods as we pass behind the patrons seated at the opposite end of the bar from where our drinks are set up. Brick pulls out one of the stools and pats it.
“Sit down, Starlet.”
I do.
He stands next to me, blocking me from view of the other customers, selfishly keeping me all to himself. After he downs another shot, he dangles a key in front of my face. The plastic tag has Room 118 printed on it.
“Congratulations,” I say sarcastically. “You have a room.”
He gives me a crooked grin as he leans into me, his warm whisper tickles my skin. “We have a room.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to spend the night with you, Brick.” I hop off the stool and saunter over to the juke box, making sure I wiggle my ass just enough to entice him.
He’s worth the effort. Worth risking everything to sleep with once. I look back at him, admiring his height and powerful frame. Even through his long sleeve cotton pullover I can see the definition in his arms—his biceps are ridiculously huge. And those thighs… I don’t hide my interest. Instead, my gaze wanders lazily up to his lips which are curled in a wicked smile. His jaw is peppered with dark stubble. But I’m drawn mostly to his eyes. Those eyes can’t hide a thing.
The attraction is explosive. I want Brick to fuck me all night long. He knows it, and I don’t care. After years of fantasizing about this moment—the tall, dark, handsome stranger who’d help me forget my past, even if it was only for a night or two, I’m so ready to live it. My husband might have controlled my body when we were together, but he never knew what I was thinking about while we fucked. That’s why I have the courage to follow through, because I’ve waited so long and my body is on fire with need.
Turning back to the juke box, I see there’s thirty credits available and I start flipping through the music list, choosing a classic Heart song first, “All I Want to do is Make Love to You”. An appropriate choice considering Anne Wilson describes a scenario eerily similar to mine, memorializing a boy she picks up in the rain.
Is that what I did tonight?
Something about Brick tells me he can get a piece of ass whenever and with whoever he wants. That’s how imposing and hot he is. What girl could refuse him?
I punch in a half dozen more selections from the outdated music list, then walk the few feet to the raised dance floor. I let the melody saturate my mind, swaying my hips in unison with the electric guitar riffs. If my body language doesn’t do the trick, then my subliminal messaging will, because I’m willing him over to me. The bad boy biker is going to dance with me even if I have to physically drag him over here. Men in leather don’t usually dance, one of the rules from the Devil’s Crusaders. Dancing is for bitches—strippers or drunk old ladies. Not for brothers.
I laugh to myself. Who’s dancing now, Sammy? You’re laid out in a fucking coffin, six feet under the ground. I’m alive. Free. Seducing a man I don’t even know. That’s raw power. That’s something I’ve always wanted to do. You stole my dreams. Took a sixteen-year-old girl as your wife and then forced me to have sex with you.
I didn’t see Brick slip behind me, but I already know the feel of his strong hands on my body. My eyes pop open as he folds his hands over my stomach, his erection grinding into my lower back as we move together.
“I want you, Starlet,” he whispers near my ear. “Bad.”