Captive Ride (6 page)

Easy’s right. I’m not seventeen. I’m not alone. But that’s all the more reason to be careful. I’ve got a lot to lose now, a helluva lot more to lose than I did at the age of seventeen when I was a foster kid without a future who couldn’t see past the end of his dick.

No matter how much Annie Bloom’s supermodel body and peach fresh face cranks my engine, it’s not worth losing my family over.

Across the room, Easy looks at me as if I’m the saddest sap alive. I respond with a glare and crossed arms.

Back when we were deployed and even when we first moved to Fortune, it was easy finding girls to fuck but at the age of twenty-nine, I’m not interested in only a single night or even a series of them. Seeing Judge with his woman and even Wrecker hooking up with his stepsister is creating a strange discontent. I want more but that’s about as useful as wishing that the Bandits would leave before midnight.

There ain’t more to be had here. Not with Easy and not with Miss Annie. Resolutely I shut down those wants. I’m fine with my hand and if I need a body there’s always one willing to open her legs for me here at the club.

My future is mapped out for me. I belong here with the Death Lords MC.

My brothers are enough.

They have to be.

“
T
urn away
from the sinful desires, say no to the temptations of the flesh, seek God’s blessings in all things. Turn to the light, say yes to spiritual unity, and the rewards of the Lord will be plentiful.” My father’s deep voice is overloud in our small dining room. His oratory is suited for a bigger space, one even larger than the Fortune Methodist Church provides.

My eyes surreptitiously take in the time. It’s half past nine. It’s half past forever, actually. This is the fourth take of Father’s Sunday sermon. By the time the morning service rolls around, I’ll have listened to it at least three more times. Usually I can recite the whole sermon myself by Saturday evening.

I wonder what normal twenty-three-year-old women are doing on Friday night. Do they hang around together and watch television? Or are they at the bars in sparkling tops and too-short skirts flirting with men covered in tattoos and leather? Or maybe they’re having sex with their boyfriends. Anyone of those scenarios is better than what I do on Friday night or Saturday for that matter.

I’m not as innocent as everyone thinks I am. I’ve not only read books but taken advantage of the filterless Internet available on a couple of the library computers. There are pictures of positions I’d never even considered possible but the ones that I kept returning to were the images of one woman pleasured by two men.

Behind my bedroom door, I fantasize about multiple hands running over my body, multiple mouths kissing my skin. I want those multiples to belong to the two bikers that saw me home after out of town strangers vandalized my boss, Pippa’s, car.

Those two acted like one unit. They communicated with long looks and jerks of their head. When I asked Pippa about it, she gave me a worried look and said that they enjoyed doing everything together. It was a broad hint and maybe she thought I wouldn't get it but I did.

“Annie!” Father’s terse tone jerks me out of my fantasy. I try hard not to flush but that’s a losing proposition. My cheeks heat up in a predictable fashion.

Frowning, he reaches over to a stack of pamphlets and pulls one out. “I want you to attend this tomorrow.”

The half sheet of blue paper announces that the Fortune Knitting Club will be meeting at the Brew Ha Ha for its weekly get together. I swallow my groan of dismay. It’s as if he read my mind and purposely chose the activity as opposite from the bikers as possible. Actually that isn’t true because if he had read my mind, he’d take his cane and lash me with it. Father is a big believer in the proverb that a saved rod is a spoilt child.

When I was younger, he spanked me with a paddle that had the scripture carved into the wood. Between getting my mouth washed out with soap and my butt burned with the paddle, I learned not to stray too far from the path my parents had set for me. Before Mom left, it had been easier but when I was around fourteen she’d had enough of being the preacher’s wife and left us. She lives in Seattle in a writer’s colony. I think she may be a lesbian although I’m not entirely sure, but Father rails about the sins of homosexuality with special fervor.

Father forbade contact. The one time I thought about disobeying him, he had a literal heart attack. The doctors told me to keep his stress down or the next one would kill him. Father told me that not taking care of him would send me to hell. There’s so much that’s going to send me to hell. My reading choices, the pervy online pictures, the men who parade themselves bare naked in my imagination.

But I still can’t find myself turning my back on Father. He’s been the one parent who stuck with me and while he’s not super affectionate, I know he loves me. I can’t abandon him and frankly I don’t have many marketable skills.

If I left him, what would I do? I know lots about the Bible, how to put together a bulletin, pay bills, play the piano and smile when I don’t really feel like it. I haven’t seen a lot of want ads that are looking for those particular skills.

At eighteen I declared I was going to move out, get a job and live on my own. A few months later I slunk back with my tail between my legs. No one would hire me in town or even in the next county. I was too inexperienced. He never once judged me after my failed bid for independence and I was too embarrassed to try again.

I’m well suited to be church secretary. I have the dowdy clothes, the lack of sex appeal and soon I’ll be a pruny old maid. Truly, how’s a knitting club going to be worse than sitting in the parish house looking for more free clip art to stick into the church bulletin?

“Sure, I’ve been thinking I could knit a shawl.”

He nods approvingly. “You should think about a blue one. It would look pretty with your eyes.”

See? Not all bad.

“Thanks, Father.” I take the bulletin and place it in my lap. I don’t really need it though. It’s not like I have such a busy schedule that I’m not going to remember that I have an appointment after dinner tomorrow at the coffeehouse. And hey, maybe there’ll be some of my high school classmates there and I can check out how the other ninety-nine percent of the world lives.

T
he coffeehouse is nearly
empty but for the eight ladies of the knitting circle, all of whom may be older than my dad. Disappointment threatens to overwhelm me but I straighten my shoulders and smile because there isn’t any point to nursing those blue feelings. I could be home watching reruns of
Duck Dynasty
or
the Duggars.

Learning to knit and spending time with these ladies is better than anything I’ve got going on back home.

“Hey, Mrs. Wilkins, I hope you don’t mind a beginner like me joining you,” I say cheerfully and take a seat on the sofa next to her. She’s got the start of an afghan draped over her legs.

“While I don’t mind newcomers, aren’t you a little young for our group? You should be out with my grandkids.”

“If I was out with them, then I wouldn’t learn how to knit this amazing blanket. This is beautiful. How long does it take you?”

“About forty hours, dear.” She smiles kindly. “It’s good to see you out even if it is with us old ladies.”

Mrs. Wilkins may be in her sixties, but she has that Helen Mirren quality to her. Still beautiful and still turning heads of men twenty years younger. I should sit by her every knitting session and see if some of her magic rubs off on me.

“I’d kill to look as good as you, Mrs. Wilkins.” I pull out my plastic bag of supplies. “I went over to the Walmart and picked up needles and yarn so I’m ready to learn. Teach me,” I plead.

Mrs. Wilkins shows me the basics—how to hold the needles and hook the yarn around my thumb and pinkie. How to dip the ends together to form a purl or a knit stitch and soon I’m clacking along with the rest of them on my test row.

“How do you like that new librarian?” Mrs. Erickson asks. She appears to be working on something small and white. I remember then that her granddaughter is pregnant with her third kid in as many years.

“Pippa is awesome. She’s so smart and has great ideas for kids’ programs. We’re having a contest for the preschool kids to see who can read the most books before school starts. Each child who reads ten books gets a free one to take home. And we have things planned for older kids too. I’m really excited.”

“That’s wonderful,” replies Mrs. Wilkins. “Perhaps you will be able to work more hours there.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just volunteer.” I asked Pippa the other day if you needed a college degree to be a librarian. She has a degree in library science and is actually going to work on her master’s degree online. I didn’t realize you had to have schooling even beyond the initial four years. Seems like you need a college degree these days to work the gas pump.

“I hear she’s seeing Judge,” interjects Mrs. C. Mrs. C is the town megaphone. Anything that goes on in her circle is blasted all over. I think it’s a clever marketing move. After all, people keep going into her town grocery to buy things that they could get at half the price at the Walmart on the edge of town. But you go to Mrs. C’s because otherwise you don’t know half of what’s happening in Fortune.

“She’s too young for him,” Mrs. Erickson purses her lips in disapproval. “She is young enough to be his daughter.”

“Speaking of daughters, did you hear that Chelsea and Wrecker are seeing each other? Why, yesterday they were holding hands coming out of the Cut-n-Curl.” This gasped outburst came from Stella Jonas. She is not a missus. In fact, she has never been married. As I stare at her lined, leathery face, I wonder if that’s my future—outraged because two stepsiblings decided their feelings for each other weren’t familial after all. Father’s next sermon will probably be about the three categories of love—eros, filial, agape—and how we sinful creatures have twisted God’s ideals into something dark and unsavory.

Mrs. Wilkins merely knits quietly, smiling to herself as if the idea of the biker dudes pairing off in these unholy ways is completely normal. Then I remember. One of Mrs. Wilkins’ grandsons is Easy, a member of the Death Lords MC. The coffee shop door swings open at that very moment and in walks the devil himself.

T
he coffee shop
isn’t my scene. My scene involves either red meat or alcohol, and the coffee shop in Fortune is as close to a New Age establishment as a small Minnesota town will tolerate. There’s caffeine, crystals and sandwiches with weeds in them.

But when I see her car outside the Brew Ha Ha, I hit the brake on my bike so fast I almost end up ass over elbows. I haven’t had a bike related accident since I was ten and my front tire hit the curb as I was trying to wave down Kelly Pickleheart, my fifth grade crush.

Inside I find my grandma knitting with her church club but next to her on the sofa is my target. Because I’m not still ten, I don’t make the mistake of gawking at Annie. I’m fully aware of her sitting like a stone statue turning redder than the cardinal painted on Grandma Wilkins’ teacup.

“You’re looking as gorgeous as ever.” I lean over and give Grammy’s slightly wrinkled cheek a kiss.

“What are you doing here, Van?” she asks delightedly.

“I saw your car sitting outside and wanted to say hello.”

“Sit down, sit down,” she orders, and scoots over to make room for me between her and Annie.

“As long as I’m not going to be interrupting anything.” I take my seat and spread my legs out wide, brushing up against Annie’s leg. Her swift intake of breath makes me smile.

“Of course not—none of us mind, do we, ladies? Have you met Annie Bloom, honey? She’s Pastor Bloom’s daughter.”

I turn as Annie tries to press herself into the armrest of the sofa. Look out, Annie—the big bad wolf is here. “We met the other day at the library.”

“Is that right?” Grammy gives me a knowing smile. She didn’t raise five kids and a passel of grandkids without picking up a thing or two. I give her a discreet wink which she shoots right back at me.

“I stock all the new bestsellers,” Mrs. C cuts in. “You should stop by. I discount them by twenty-five percent, just like the big stores.”

“My reading appetite is…voracious,” I reply wickedly. Grammy tries to disguise her laugh with a fake cough and Annie looks torn between stabbing me with a needle and ripping my shirt off. “Can’t afford to buy new all the time, Mrs. C.”

Mrs. C tut-tuts in disappointment while Grammy takes pity on Annie and instructs me to get them all refills of their hot water.

As I wait for the teenager to fill up a jug of hot water for the ladies, I text Michigan.

I’m at Brew Ha Ha. LRRH is here.

Since when we calling annie little red riding hood

The thing about Michigan and me is we’ve been together so long we read each other’s minds.

Since I walked into the coffee shop and she looked at me as if I was going to eat her alive.

Which you want

But not at the coffee shop. Come over.

No

Chicken

Bawk bawk

I glance at the time before pocketing the phone. I’ll give him about ten minutes to get here. “What do you guys have to eat?”

The girl behind the counter licks her lips. “How about me?”

“Sorry, I’m not into jailbait, honey.”

Her lower lip pops out. “I’m nineteen.”

“And I’m old enough to be your daddy.” I quickly peruse the chalkboard menu and order two turkey sandwiches. “No, make that four. Hold the mustard and the weird green things.”

“You're only ten years older," she mutters and stomps away to make our sandwiches while I wait for Michigan.

He'll want to do something with his hands and mouth since he won’t be able to put them on Annie—yet. The time on my phone says nine minutes have elapsed when he blows through the door. He grunts a greeting to everyone but can’t get past Grammy without giving her a peck. Anyone watching him would think he didn’t even see Annie whose hungry eyes track him all the way back to the counter where I’m sitting. I grin at her and she flushes again. If she gets any redder she’ll burst.

“Stop,” he mutters under his breath.

“Why?” I ask, turning away from Annie as I do.

“You’re going to scare her off,” he says.

“I doubt it. She’s interested but doesn’t know how to get over the hump of saying yes. We got to lay out the invitation as obvious as possible.”

“Why am I here?”

He knows why but he’s having a hard time getting over the hump too. His obstacle is disappointment but I know in my gut that Annie’s the one for us. I know it like I knew Michigan would be my battle buddy and that we’d both make it out of the desert alive. Sometimes there’s just something inside of you that recognizes your other half. In my case, it’s happened twice. First when I met Michigan way back in boot camp and again a few days ago when I went into the library to keep an eye on Judge’s old lady and wound up being glued to the librarian’s assistant.

“You’re here because you can’t stay away.”

“This is never going to work.”

“Remember when we were in boot and that guy got the box of brownies from his grandma and the kill hat made him eat the entire box?”

Michigan tilts his head and gives me a
what the fuck are you getting at
look. “He puked all over the quarter deck and then everyone who laughed at him had to clean it up with their toothbrushes.”

“Everyone but you and me because neither of us laughed. That’s when I knew that you’d never do anything stupid to get me killed.”

“Never doubted your instincts, man. Kept us out of trouble more than once.”

“So why’re you doubting me this time?”

“Because your dick is talking this time, not your gut.”

He grabs one of the turkey sandwiches and stomps out, still not looking at Annie. He can’t look at her because if he does, he’s lost. Or that’s the lie he’s telling himself.

Michigan leaves as quickly as he arrives but just being in the same place as the two of them starts a burning inside of me. My body is tingling in spots that I didn’t realize even had nerve endings and I’m clenching muscles I didn’t know existed.

I pretend I’m utterly fascinated with the knitting when in all reality, I’m trying to hide how red I’ve turned. But I’m not red because they’re staring at me. Oh no. I’m red as blazes because my imagination of the three of us together is making me hotter than a furnace.

Exactly when the three of us became firmly planted in my mind, I’m not sure. I only know that when I close my eyes or drift off into fantasyland, I’m there with both of them.

I might be inexperienced but I’m not stupid. Easy’s obviousness is hard for even me to miss.

His winks and stares tell me that he’s willing to take me to bed and show me a few things. At the counter, he’s waiting for an answer. If I was a different woman, I’d have thrown down my failed attempts at knitting and sauntered over to both of them and demanded that they take me to bed.

I shake my head over my own fanciful thoughts. And while I’ve seen a lot of things on the Internet, the truth is I probably don’t have what it takes to satisfy one man let alone two, particularly these two since the rumors are that every licentious act spoken of in the Bible gets acted out at least three times a night in the old granary west of town that the Death Lords call their clubhouse.

I’d give my right kidney to visit during one of their infamous mashes. Lord, I’d give my right kidney to just sit by Easy a little while longer. I almost came apart when his knee brushed mine.

As if she can read my mind, Mrs. Wilkins says my name.

“Yes, ma’am?” I answer.

“Honey, will you see what the holdup is on the refills?” She gestures toward the table and I remember that Easy was supposed to get a carafe of hot water to fill the empty cups.

“Of course.” I stand on shaky legs and wipe my hands down the front of my pants. As I walk toward the counter, Easy stares openly at me, making no attempt to disguise his interest. The water is sitting near his hand along with a plate of sandwiches. As I reach for it, he grabs my wrist. It takes little effort for him to pull me toward him. I end up between his long denim-clad legs, my face so close to his I can see that his teeth are white and even. For some lame reason that’s what comes out of my mouth.

“You have really nice teeth.”

His grin broadens so that I can see almost all of them. Easy has a wide, very expressive mouth. It matches the rest of him which is also big. I look at his fingers wrapped around my wrist. He could easily span my waist with his hand. I’d like to pick it up and place it on my body to see if I’m right.

“I’m glad you like them, Little Red.”

“Little Red?” Self-consciously I run a hand across my rather dull brown hair. Pippa, my boss at the library, has gorgeous red hair and is shaped like a fifties pinup model—big chest, tiny waist, awesome butt. I’m a board. I could wear a shirt unbuttoned to the waist and have zero hint of cleavage.

He tugs me closer until my legs hit the side of the barstool and then he straightens to his full height of six feet, four inches. His body rubs against the front of mine and something long and hard presses into my belly. The shock of it widens my eyes and stops my breathing.

“Little Red,” he confirms. There’s dark intent in his eyes that even a virgin can read. “Because you look good enough for a big bad wolf like me to eat.” His big hand sweeps from my wrist up to my neck and for a wicked, hot second, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me in the middle of the Brew Ha Ha with his grandma’s knitting club watching. To my conflicted dismay, he only squeezes my neck before dropping his hand and moving away. “If you want a visit to the den, strap the cuff around your wrist and come out to the granary. I’ll know that you’re ready for what we have to offer.”

Then he exits as quickly as he arrived, leaving me dazed, confused and turned on. The waitress, nineteen-year-old Tricia Merriweather, is fanning herself behind the counter.

“Girl, you are so lucky. I’d kill for one of those.”

My gaze drops to the counter where a leather cuff with the Death Lords emblem burned into the side rests against the wooden surface.

I run my finger around the smooth interior. It’s still warm.

“What it is?”

Tricia leans forward. “It’s a claiming cuff. If you put it on that means no other Death Lords can approach you.”

“And if I don’t?” I can’t take my eyes off the leather.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. No one I know has ever got one, but I’ve seen them around. I heard one girl say it means you can go to another club and no one will touch you because they’re afraid of getting beat up by the Death Lords. Basically it’s hellagood. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

My fingers curl around it as if trying to hide it from Tricia’s acquisitive gleam. “I didn’t realize it was transferable.”

“Probably not, but it’d give me an in. I’ve been trying to get into a Death Lords mash for a few years now. They’re pretty strict on the no high school rule but I graduated in May. They can’t keep me out for much longer.”

The look of determination on her face convinces me. She’ll be in the Death Lords club some day. How it turns out for her, though, I’m not sure because I don’t know what she’s looking for there. I don’t know what she’ll find there.

Those are the questions that swirl in my own head and so I don’t put on the wrist cuff. I tuck it into my pocket and deliver the water to the ladies. They all quiet as I approach and I know they’ve watched the whole scene. Probably everyone in the shop has and my mind flips from Easy and his curious use of “we” as in what “we have to offer” and what kind of story I’m going to have to cook up for Father when he catches wind of this.

Mrs. Wilkins tugs me down next to her and hands me my poor knitting attempt. We knit for a while—or Mrs. Wilkins knits while I wrestle with the yarn and needles.

“My grandson Van joined the Marines out of high school. We worried, as all families do, but he came back sunny as ever. He brought Michigan with him. Michigan has no family, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” I admit.

She nods. “Raised by foster families. He’s Van’s family now. They’re different but I love them both. They’re good boys. I know some don’t like that club they associate with but it’s not about the women or the liquor. It’s about belonging, no different than what we’re doing here.” She waves a hand toward the other ladies who merely nod. Apparently for all the gossip about the club, they don’t appear to disapprove of it. “People congregating together with common interests has always been a thing. Doesn’t make them wrong for doing it. ‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.’ ”

“First Corinthians,” I respond automatically.

“That’s right, dear.” Mrs. Wilkins shifts away and engages Mrs. C in some talk about the newly released Nora Roberts book while the claiming cuff burns a hole in my pocket. There’s an opportunity for something magical to happen and it’s there for me to try if I have even an ounce of courage to reach forward.