Prologue
Rain and hail pounded the asphalt and visibility wasn’t great. That didn’t matter, because I could still see my target.
He was on the empty road up ahead, traveling at the speed limit, maybe a few clicks over. Nice, big hog. Not flashy. Powerful, though. The look of the hog suited the man. He was big. From what I’d seen, he wasn’t about flash. He looked like he was about power, too. I’d been fantasizing about him and the power he exuded since I first laid eyes on him. His body. His voice. His hands. His eyes. His presence.
It was time for him to notice me. Well, to notice me with more than an expressionless eye sweep from head to toe, which he did every time he saw me.
He wore jeans, black boots, and the fresh Dominion Brotherhood patch on his leather. I wondered if he’d blacked out his Jackals ink yet.
I increased my speed as I approached and knew he was aware of me. He had that look about him that told me he was aware of everything in his orbit.
I pushed, until he was only a few bike lengths ahead.
He didn’t slow.
He didn’t move over.
He rode steady.
It went on for half a mile. No greeting. No acknowledgement.
I looked ahead. Foggy. But enough room that even if something was in the fog ahead, I had time.
I quickly swerved across the center line and passed him, and then I got back in our lane, and just in the nick of time, too, because there was a garbage truck coming at me.
I rocketed ahead until I couldn’t see his headlight in my mirror.
I smiled under my helmet as I took a detour up ahead that I knew would take me back to the clubhouse.
***
I climbed the stairs and stepped into the main room and pulled my helmet off, greeting Nolan, the new prospect who was at the bar, with a nod. He smiled wide at me, his eyes traveling the length of me as if he’d seen me in some fantasy sequence where I pulled my helmet off and my hair went spilling down in slow motion.
I knew the reality. Helmet-head wasn’t pretty, and my face was pink from the wind. You’d never know it by the way he stared at me.
I fluffed my hair out. “Hey.”
“Somethin’ to drink, Jojo?” Nolan offered.
“I’m good, Nolan. Thanks, bud.” I emphasized the ‘bud’. He did not need to get any ideas of being anything other than a bud.
I had big plans for the rest of the afternoon. I was going to get into comfy cozy bum-around clothes, grab some herbal tea, curl up on the couch in the TV room (the screen was way bigger than the one in my room), start up the gas fireplace, and warm up under my electric throw while I watched an episode or three of This is Us.
I waved and headed down the hall, running into my older brother Spencer on the way. He was coming out of his room with his dog on a leash.
“Hey you,” I greeted and then squatted. “Hey boy,” I petted my brother’s German Shepherd, who whined in excitement at seeing me and gave me his paw. I taught him that trick when he was a puppy.
Spency gave me a critical once-over. “Out ridin’?”
“Yup,” I said.
“In this?” His eyes narrowed. He was dressed for the rain. Chakotay would only get enough time to take a whizz and then Spence would rush him back in.
“It’s cool.” I waved and headed to my room, hearing my brother cuss under his breath behind me.
Whatever. All of my brothers were overprotective. To a fault.
This room was temporary, but I’d still taken the time to make it mine with flowers, a frilly bedspread with blocks of pink and blocks of black and white leopard, the top of the dresser covered in framed photographs of friends and family, and some photos on the walls. In about a month we’d be moving into the new clubhouse and this joint would become a bit of a biker Air BNB type place for guests of the club and bikers passing through.
Originally, it was planned that I would move in with Dad, since Deacon and Rider, my other brothers had moved in with their girlfriends. They all had rooms there, and Spencer would get a bigger room since he didn’t have a secondary place to live. But, Spencer had a new girlfriend and though it was new, it got serious fast. I was expecting he’d stay with her.
I wouldn’t get a room in the members’ wing. I wasn’t a member. I was the daughter of the Prez so I got a room in his wing. I’d helped him plan the layout and it’d be a great apartment with loads of space. But the fact remained, I was under his roof and he wanted it to stay that way until I graduated from teacher’s college. This had pros and cons. Pros in that I loved my family and Dad took care of my financial needs. Cons in that it was impossible to date when your father was Prez of an MC and not only your three big brothers but another dozen biker brothers all made it their mission to ensure your hymen stayed intact until the day you died.
I put my helmet down on my dresser and changed out of my leather jacket, boots, t-shirt, and my jeans into a soft purple tracksuit, tying my semi-damp hair up in a ponytail, and slipping into my old over-loved pink bunny slippers.
I trudged out to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I waited for it, seeing Spence and Chakotay come back all soggy before the kettle boiled, then I headed down the hall to the TV room and got tucked in to watch my show.
***
Shit. I forgot Kleenex. This show always killed me. I watched for the feels it gave me, and for Kevin Pearson (Justin Hartley): the only non-biker type of my fantasies.
I wiped my eyes with my sleeves and suddenly I wasn’t alone.
Christian Forker was in there with me. He was damp from riding in the rain and immediately it was evident that he was angry.
He quirked his eyebrows up, looking thrown at either my appearance or my tears. Or both. The anger shifted to surprise.
“I’m okay. Just the TV show.” I waved my hand and wiped my eyes.
The anger was back, and fuck me, but it made my heart speed up and not in a bad way.
He glared at me. His nostrils were flaring.
“Something wrong?” I asked innocently.
“You lookin’ for a man to put you on the back of his bike or you lookin’ to be put over his knee, biker princess? That stunt you just pulled, I know which of the two you need more.”
My mouth dropped in shock.
He shook his head, staring at me with annoyance.
“It’d take a special kind of man to make me wanna ride bitch,” I snapped. I loved bikers, but their chauvinistic belief that a woman should only ride on the back of a man’s bike (aka: riding bitch) was infuriating to me.
“Yeah, well it’ll take a special kind of bitch to get my attention. And it ain’t the kinda bitch who’s just lookin’ to piss off her daddy and big brothers by riding my dick. Don’t be stupid out on the road. I see you pull shit like that again, I’ll be forced to do something about it.”
He stormed off.
God, he was fucking beautiful. And if I got my way, he was going to be mine.
1
I have never been a fan of the man-bun. Long hair? Yes. Fuck, yes. I have always had a thing for long hair. Ponytail on a guy? Okay, I can deal (though I preferred to see it flow free). Man-bun? Meh. Not a huge fan. At least not until Christian “Fork” Forker.
The first time I saw him, he strode into the kitchen of my brother’s girlfriend’s family and sucked the breath straight out of me with one dirty look. I instantaneously clenched my thighs while simultaneously feeling tingles in all of my erogenous zones. The biker was leather, wind, muscles, and Alpha. The package was complete with long fair hair, bright blue eyes, and sexy facial hair.