Another biker approaches in the other lane. A smile stretches across my face when I subtly move my arm down to my side and flash him the sign of respect, the feeling of camaraderie that I've so desperately missed. When he returns the gesture, I holler with uncontrolled delight.
I'm fucking back!
Tires gliding across the highway, boots precariously dangling over asphalt, fresh wind filling my lungs; this shit is my religion. Riding started out as something I did with my father when I was old enough to walk and he was still healthy. He taught me everything I needed to know about a bike-from how to change the oil and check the tire pressure to the etiquette of traveling in packs. My ‘uncles' were his club brothers and I spent most my life around vulgar men who liked their alcohol strong and their women loose.
Kids hanging at the club as much as I did wasn't the ‘norm', so my father kept my hair trimmed short and threw a baseball cap on me, as if to trick the guys into thinking there wasn't a young lady within the mix.
For the most part, it worked, until around sixteen when my large breasts appeared and my face began to thin out, making it undeniably obvious I was a woman and not one of the guys. My ‘uncles' became uneasy with my presence, so my father encouraged me to hang out with ‘girls my age' at school who were into sports and boys. By my junior year of high school, I had surrounded myself with preppy dirt bags and had completely sworn off club life. My head was so far up my ass that I was into dresses, makeup, and football players-girly girl on the outside and hardened biker daughter on the inside. Talk about a walking contradiction.
After my father was diagnosed with lung cancer the first year I was away at college, I tested for my motorcycle license and spent a good chunk of my inheritance on a brand new black Sportster 883. Riding became a way to escape my reality with nothing more than the wind in my face and the smell of the earth filling my lungs. Being kept from both my father and my bike for so long was nearly the death of me.
When I pull into the club's parking lot on the edge of town, a crippling feeling of déjà vu strikes my core. The metal one-story structure looks exactly as I remember it: plain and obscure, easily mistaken for an out-of-business repair garage without any markings or signs, even though two of the big doors on the side have been welded shut.
Shit. How can a person have so many fond memories tied to a mere building? I don't care if I ever return to the last house my father and I owned because this is home. Despite having a troublesome childhood void of a mother's influences, my father tried like hell to do the best for his baby girl and gave me the kind of life everyone deserves.
Parking beside a long row of black Harleys, I sit frozen to my seat, staring at the building as if expecting it to come to life. I could've asked for a furlough to attend my father's funeral, but I was too pissed that I wasn't there to say goodbye when he took his last breath and it would've been downright impossible to face my ‘uncles' who were crushed for not being able to keep me out of prison despite their best efforts.
A man emerges from the back door of the club, strutting in my direction without looking up. I've seen my share of badass bikers over the years, but there's something about the hot hunk that's so very different from the rest. The dude's face is chiseled and square like the kind of manly-man I fantasized about hooking up with while on the inside. Wavy brown hair hangs down to his angular jaw covered in light stubble, somehow putting his incredibly kissable lips on display.
He has the usual veteran biker's collection of various patriotic and Harley tattoos running up his muscular arms and disappearing beneath the short sleeved button-down bearing the club's logo. From the sizable bulges beneath his shirt, I imagine he's impossibly cut and capable of great strength. When I picture myself running my hands across the solid muscles, I can't help but shudder.
Shit. I may have just moaned out loud.
Lord help me, he's the perfect mix of beautiful model and surly bad boy that makes me want to spank his ass and ravish the rest of him.
Swaggering like he owns the place and has nowhere else to be, his black boots crunch against the loose gravel as he hums a tune beneath his breath. Clad in blue jeans, leather jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder, it looks as if he's headed to the fucking runway.
As he flips a stray lock of hair behind his ear, beautiful sky blue eyes land on me.
I stutter on a shallow breath. This guy is sexy as fuck. Damn if my underwear isn't already wet from just watching this man candy practically strut his stuff in front of me.
A dangerous, smoldering gaze takes me in from head to toe as he closes the distance between us. With a deep smile set over his beautiful and oh-so-kissable lips that bring two dimples into place, he makes a noise of approval inside his throat. That low growl that erupts from him may be the hottest noise I've ever heard.
Fuck me. I wouldn't mind if he had his way with me in the parking lot right now.
Realizing my underwear has gone from wet to so soaked I may be creating my own swimming pool at my feet, I ball my hands into fists.
What in the hell is happening to me? Since when do I act like a teenage girl with her first crush and become a pathetic pool of girly hormones over some random guy?
I suck in a deep breath, completely paralyzed on my bike and at a total loss for words. Not only is the bastard smoking hot, it's been forever since I've been with a man. And I can safely say I've never been with a guy like this one. Something tells me one night with him would make for a once in a lifetime experience.
"Aren't you adorable," he says. "Are you lost?"
Though the smooth, deep roll of his voice sets my insides ablaze, my blood boils. Adorable? I'll show him fucking adorable.
"Where the fuck's your president?" I ask with a scowl.
"Easy now, darlin'." He leans on the handlebars of the bike beside me. Blue eyes wide, he releases a deep laugh. "Is there a problem?"
"There will be if you call me darlin' again."
"Okay, I get it," he replies with a rolling laugh. Hands held up in mock surrender, he takes a step backwards. "I can get you in to see Remmy, no problem."
The moment he utters the name of my father's old buddy, my eyes close and I relax. I wasn't sure Remmy would still be in charge and had taken a chance by coming here. But the truth is, I have nowhere else to go. After our mother died, my brother opted to live with her sister and essentially severed all ties to me and our father. This place is my only family.
"Hey, you okay?" the gorgeous stranger asks.
When I open my eyes, the edges of his beautiful mouth twitch in amusement. Shit, I'd give anything to suck on those delectable lips. In an attempt to lessen the painful pangs between my legs, I adjust my hips before dismounting my bike.
Yeah, he's hot and everything, but I'm torn between wanting to throat punch the fuck out of him and just wanting to fuck him. Everything about seeing a chick on a bike must seem like a joke to him. "I'm fucking perfect," I snap.
"That you are," he answers with a deep grin.
As he turns back to the club at my side, I catch a tantalizing whiff of leather and musky cologne and nearly crumble to the ground. Having gone this long without having a man inside of me is going to be the cause of my mental undoing, especially if I hang around this hunk of hotness much longer. When his hand touches my lower back, I audibly wince and pull away.
Jesus. I feel like a bomb ready to explode.
His brown eyebrows knit together. "Sure you're alright?"
"Long day of riding," I blurt, mentally kicking myself for acting like such a freak.
"The name's Colt," he says, offering his large hand. It's calloused and slightly dirty, the sign of a hard worker.
I shove both hands in my back pockets. Not only am I not the type to shake hands, but I'm almost positive that touching this guy will catapult me over the edge of sanity. "Harley," I mutter under my breath.
He crosses his arms, lips curled in a sexy smirk. "As in the bike?"
"As in you're going to have a boot up your ass if you don't shut the fuck up."
"You're a lively one," he says with a deep chuckle. We reach the door to the club and he holds it open. "I like that," he whispers, tossing me a sexy wink.
Gasping with the familiar sights and smells of the clubhouse, I stop dead in my tracks. Very little has changed since I was a girl and it's like stepping back in time. Piles of empty liquor and beer bottles litter the same worn couches and armchairs from the 80s where I'd witnessed plenty of club members getting it on. A haze of smoke hangs in the dimly lit room among dancing dust particles. Zeppelin croons from the old-school jukebox in the corner, competing with the harsh laughter of men in another room.
The mural spanning across an entire wall of the US flag surrounded by eagles and Harley-Davidson wings beneath the club's name INFERNO GLORY has been touched up recently as the colors are impeccable and vibrant. Drawings of service patches from wars each of the members served stretch across the top as a striking reminder this club takes their patriotism seriously and anything less won't be tolerated.