He wore leather. Jacket. Chaps. Boots. Leather bracelets on his wrists, leather necklace around his throat. He was big, I’m talking tall and meaty with a deep and smooth voice and he also had that I don’t give a fuck air about him that drove me wild. I’m attracted to assholes. I know, it’s crazy, but it’s true. I don’t cream myself when a nice guy gives me a sweet and lingering look. I get all quivery when I get a dirty look or am faced with arrogance in that full biker package.
There’s a problem with my taste in men. I strictly go for bikers. Bikers do not go for me. Why?
I’m not unattractive. Some people tell me I actually am the opposite. There are good genes in my family. But, I’m off-limits to the kind of men I’m attracted to.
My father is the Prez and my three brothers are members of The Dominion Brotherhood MC. And because I grew up in the life, I don’t only have my big brothers to protect me, I have the brothers. Bikers: young and old of all shapes and sizes who think of me as one of theirs, who think of me as a little girl that needs protecting.
I’m nineteen and still a virgin. I would’ve given it (my cherry) up four times already, believe me, I tried, but got stopped each time by a biker. I got roadblocked either by my family, our club, or by the biker himself.
If I dated outside our circle, it’d go differently. I’d be deflowered long ago.
I have no desire to date outside our circle. I want a biker. I want someone who fits with my family and my extended family. I have three older brothers by blood and dozens of older brothers and uncle-figures by oath. The Dominion Brotherhood MC takes care of their own. We laugh together. Cry together. Raise hell together. This is the life I want. Yes, I am a biker princess, daughter to a biker king. I want my own king.
I want a man who doesn’t just ride bikes and raise shit. I want a man who has leadership skills to run his own chapter. I want a man who has the guts, the balls to go head to head with anyone. I want a man who loves me desperately. Like Deacon loves Ella. Like Rider loves Jenna. Like Daddy loves Laura. Like Spencer loves Pippa. I’ll settle for nothing less.
Is Christian “Fork” Forker the man for me?
I’m pretty sure he is.
How do I know? Beyond the way he looks, everything I know about him so far gives me hope that he’s the one for me. He’s fearless. He’s fierce. He goes head-to-head with anyone based on what he believes in. That’s what loyalty is to him. He hated where his club was headed, so he made changes. Because of Christian, what little was salvageable from The Wyld Jackals is now patched over by us. He saved his cousin Ella from a very unpleasant fate. Yes, he turned on his blood and his patch, but he did it for the right reasons. It’s incredibly sexy to me. So many bikers go along with what their club wants because the majority (or some dictator President) rules. But when something is fundamentally wrong with your club’s mantra, what do you do? Do you walk away? Do you suck it up and remain a part of something that’s against your grain? Or do you do what Christian Forker did and shake things up then turn it all on its head so that you can turn things right side up? I was into him based on his looks and the whole biker package that he portrayed before he defected from the Jackals. After he publicly wore the Dominion Brotherhood patch for the first time, though? Seeing him with that patch, seeing him stand with my dad, my brothers, the other brothers? Something clicked. It was then I knew he was the man for me.
Some people think he’s a dick. He mouths off without doing it just to be a dick. He is who he is and he’s letting everyone know it. I’ve gleaned things about Christian from the few interactions we’ve had as well as the things I’ve heard.
And I’m guessing that if he wants me, he won’t care that I’m the baby girl of Deke Valentine or the baby sister of Deacon, Ride, and Spence.
He won’t be like Luke, who was too afraid to really love me.
He won’t hesitate to take my cherry because he’ll be laying claim to me. If I’m his, it’ll be publicly. No more secrets.
I’ve saved it, not because I’ve wanted to, but because of how off- limits I am to the kind of man I’d be willing to give it to.
And I’m ready for him to notice me. Really notice me.
And tonight, at Deke’s Roadhouse, it really begins. I’m determined that one way or the other, he’s going to know that I want him to notice me.
I’ve been trying and failing, really trying all week.
He hasn’t given me that dirty look since the day I first saw him, though a few times it’s come close. Strike that, I did get a dirty look when he made that comment about me being taken over a knee. I thought, ‘Um, okay!” That dirty, sexy look does things to me.
But since then, I get almost nothing. It’s like I’m invisible. He moved into the room next to mine above The Roadhouse and we pass one another in the halls sometimes. I’ve tried to help him notice me, particularly this past week, but it’s not working.
I flipped my hair in the kitchen when he was beside me one day last week, waiting for his turn at the coffee machine and my hair caught his jaw. He raised his eyebrows at me for that. We were the only ones in the kitchen.
“Oops. Sorry,” I said with a smile. And then I noticed I’d snagged the last cup out of the big carafe. “Oh. Oops again. I’ll put on another pot.”
He scowled and abandoned the kitchen, grumbling something about Starbucks.
We’re moving to the new clubhouse as soon as it’s ready, likely a month or two, and we won’t be neighbors any longer. He’ll be in the members’ wing and I’ll be in Dad’s apartment, so I was thinking I want him noticing me now. I was thinking I should take advantage of our proximity while I can. Dad’s room is way down at the end of the hall whereas mine and his are near the mouth of it, by the kitchen.
On Monday – I let him see me in a towel.
I heard him heading to the bathroom at five thirty from just inside the ladies’ bathroom where I was waiting. I lived in a joint with a whole bunch of men, so I didn’t strut to or from the bathroom in a towel… not usually. Monday was different. He worked just outside of Ipswich, I’d heard he was a welder, and he left early every weekday. Some club members only stayed at the clubhouse occasionally, others lived here. As far as it seemed, Christian Forker had moved in and didn’t live anywhere else.
The rest of this place tended to sleep later than he got up. We had a few guys with day jobs outside our block but as far as I knew, Christian was the only one who left at five forty-five every day, hence my plan…
Sunday night, I set my alarm and I was showered by 5:25 the following morning.
I stood there a good five minutes before I heard him as I listened for noise at the edge of the doorway to the women’s’ bathroom and when I heard it, I was on the move. Casual. Hair wet, white towel around me and hitting at just barely decent a smidgeon below my butt cheeks.
I nearly collided with him, in his t-shirt and boxers, messy hair. There wasn’t enough time for me to fully take in the vision though.
“Mornin’,” I mumbled and protectively reached for the bit of towel that was tucked at my cleavage to make sure it didn’t let go.
He didn’t answer, unless you counted a jaw clench and a narrowing of his eyes, which he aimed at the wall.