Cocky Biker: A Stand Alone MC Romance Novel (Cocker Brothers of Atlanta Book 2)

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C
ipher
:
A way of changing a message to keep it secret.
D
ecipher:
Uncovering that secret.

E
very MC has a code
. Whether written or unspoken, you live by it. Ours is secret to other clubs not only because it’s personal, but because we don’t like them much. We don’t need their approval. We don’t need to spread the word about what we do. We hide it. We keep it secret.

But that doesn’t mean we don’t get heat wherever we go.

The patches warn weaker spines to back off.

The stronger ones see them as a beckoning.

Bring it on. Gives us someplace to put the itch-to-hurt that we men all share.

It’s in our DNA.

The Ciphers – we live by our code without spreading the word. But the word spreads. Because that’s how things work when you’re saving people from shit they can’t fix on their own.

We consider ourselves servants to our code.

We put our mission first.

We live it. We breathe it. We search for it.

We are given it by a force outside ourselves.

The same force that drives storms, tornadoes and hurricanes. Just like those, we arrive without warning and level shit.

When we leave, rebirth is possible.

It’s messy. It’s fucked up. It’s beautiful.

It’s The Ciphers.

I almost gave my life to boxing. I was this close to going pro. Imagine my finger and thumb held up with a little space between them. But I dropped it because I don’t fight to make other people rich.

I fight to make them better than they thought they could ever be.

I fight because I like it. I fight to give life where there was nothing but shit.

When I was a boxer, I had to live by society’s laws. I don’t want to. Ever.

It’s why my dad hates my guts.

And why women love me.

The rule-makers don’t obey their own rules when they’re in the way, but they expect me to?

Fuck. That.

They can suck my cock if they think I’m stupid enough to bend to laws that don’t make sense when you’re dealing with men who ignore them. Men way worse than I.

I follow no one.

I travel
with
The Ciphers, but I don’t follow.

I move with them.

In tandem. In sync. In purpose.

Together.

“Hey Jett, put that thing away,” Scratch says as he struts into my hotel room.

Glancing up, I mutter, “Fuckin’ thought I locked that.”

He glances to the door. “Guess you fuckin’ didn’t.”

Closing my tattered notebook, I lean back in the shitty chair not meant for a big guy like me. “What’s up?”

“You’re not gonna believe it.”

Now my brain’s spinnin’ around possibilities.

“Try me.”

He throws down a wrinkled piece of paper balled up so many times the ink is nearly incomprehensible. I read it and raise my grey eyes to meet his. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“We leave in an hour.”

After I give him a grim nod he strolls out, shoulders tense.

Reopening my journal, I scrawl a quick finish to my previous entry:

We’re about to face our biggest battle. All the years traveling with The Ciphers has led to us coming face to face with something nasty like this. Let’s hope what they say about ‘practice’ is true.

The ones left standing will never forget these coming days.

Ever.

“
W
hen was this coffee made
?” I point at the stale and bitter cup of crap.

“Hour ago,” is the diner waitress’s dry reply.

“Bullshit.” I push it toward her.

Her lips get even thinner as she sizes me up with an irritated glare that would shrink a normal woman. But I’m no normal woman.

She repeats, “Hour ago,” this time with a pinch of loathing.

I lean back and throw my arm over the worn 1960’s booth, that kind of yellow-brown that should never have spread through the design community like it did back then. “How would you know that…when you just started your shift?”

Now we’re in a standoff.

“Phyllis told me,” she snarls.

My mouth twitches upward. “There’s a diner waitress named Phyllis? Of course there is.”

I’d expect it of a diner in Bakersfield, but not here in pretty Studio City, California, on the valley side over and across from Beverly Hills.

I slowly push the cup closer to the edge. “Either she lied or you’re lying.”

She watches what I’m doing, with eagle eyes, wondering if I’m really going to send it to its shattering death. My face is telling her I will have no hesitation in doing exactly that.

And it’s going to be a bitch to clean up.

Her eyebrows pierce the center of her forehead. She doesn’t move. Not until it’s
almost
too late. Reaching quickly to capture it, she swears under her breath and shoots me a death glare. She’s about to demand, “What’s your problem?” but a riotous interruption stops her.

The back door has just opened and strolling into Twain’s Diner are five, beefy, dirty-looking bikers wearing matching leather jackets and bad attitudes.

She and I both observe their entrance.

“Shit,” she grumbles. “As if my day didn’t already suck.”

As she walks off with my cup, I call at her back, “Start a new pot, Alice.”

Over her shoulder, she snarls, “My name’s not Alice.”

Like I care.

Striking grey eyes bore into my awareness from the biker with blonde hair. He’s locked on me, as the rest of his motorcycle club takes up the entire counter on one side, each with a seat between them. I read the patch on their backs: The Ciphers.

The spinning stools groan under their muscular weight, and their conversation hasn’t stopped. Someone says something about being so hungry he could eat the register, and each takes turns upping the last in weird things to digest. It ends in, “Your balls,” and dissolves into guttural laughter.

Fucking dumbasses.

I glance over to Grey Eyes because I feel the stare. It rumbles through my cells and we hold a look so I can drink him in.

Partly I’m pissed he’s eying me so boldly like he has the right.

Partly because he’s fucking hot as hell. Can’t help but look. It’s been a long time since my body was under a man. Too long.

They’re all big. One kind of reminds me of The Hound from Game of Thrones, minus the burns. He notices that Grey Eyes isn’t partaking in the convo and he glances over his immense shoulder to size me up.

Apparently I win his approval.

Like I give a shit what these guys think of me.

Bikers.

What the fuck.

Sighing impatience, I turn my attention to the window to watch expensive cars drive up and down Coldwater Canyon.

I’m in Los Angeles on business. Not pleasure.

That’s the story of my life.

It’s been this way since I was ten.

Hell, maybe before that, too.

Maybe I was born to do what I’m about to.

Maybe that’s why God conceived me into the horror that he did. Maybe I was destined to crush it
and
him, the sadist. The one who has no idea I’ve found him, and that I’m coming for him. I can’t wait to see his face when I’m pointing my gun into his twisted face.

It doesn’t matter that Grey Eyes is boring a hole into the side of my head right now.

It sure as fuck doesn’t matter that he’s that masculine kind of sexy I’d love to melt into if I was another girl.

I don’t have time for distractions like him. Not when I’m this close.

Annoyed as hell, I call over with a dark challenge, “What are you looking at?”

An amused smirk tugs up those smooth lips of his and he keeps right on staring at me.

And says nothing.

Cocky bastard.

Alice hands them menus, but he doesn’t turn around. His buddies greet the waitress with a grunt each.

Luna, stop looking. If you don’t put wood on a fire it eventually goes out.

Rummaging through the backpack that carries my whole life, I feel the cool, comforting metal of my 9mm. It’s not legal to carry a concealed weapon in California. The evil this is meant for has bigger guns than these. But those machine-gun toting bodyguards will be too late. I have the element of surprise and years of experience sneaking around, on my side.

I get away with bringing this gun with me everywhere.

No one expects a woman to have a weapon.

And if they knew, they’d believe I wouldn’t dare use it. How fucking wrong they’d be.

Pulling out the silver pocket watch I stole at fifteen, I read the time and finger the gentle engraving on the back before slipping it into my bag. I had it engraved myself with a one-word promise:
Soon.

“Five sausages. Double stack of pancakes. That come with potatoes?” Grey Eyes asks Alice. She nods, pen and small ticket book in hand. “What kind?”

“Home fries.”

“Extra of those. Four pieces of toast. Two cups of coffee.”

Alice raises her penciled-in eyebrows. “Two cups? You don’t just want a refill?”

He shakes his head one time. A pudgy, scary-looking fucker to his right is talking under his breath to the guy on the end who can’t be older than twenty-two, but who definitely belongs with these dark-souled bastards. He’s the tallest of the group, hunching down so he can hear the quiet information being given him.

Outside of the cooks, the only other person in this shithole is an old man with the Los Angeles Times spread out in front of him. What’s he got to read about? The perpetually sunny weather? Which star divorced who? The drought? How often can you publish: We Need More Water?

I watch ‘Alice’ go to the kitchen window to talk to men who look like they could be my family. And there they are slaving away for minimum wage. I will never do that.

One slides a plate at her, and she begrudgingly walks it over to me.

I hold her eyes.

We’re like two dogs waiting to see who’s the weaker one.

It’s not me.

It’s not her, either. Turns out ‘Alice’ has some fight in her. 

Good. In this world, she needs it.

Equal rights or no, the truth is that women are still victims in this society. The less of us bowing down to that ugly fact and standing up in our own power no matter who we come across, the better chance we have of changing it. Forever. 

“Thanks,” I tell her as she sets down my scrambled eggs and well-done bacon. My show of gratitude (albeit subdued) takes her aback.

She nods slowly, and an understanding rises between us. Unspoken, but we both feel it…I can tell.

“I’ll get your coffee.” She walks away.

I reach over for the saltshaker. Can’t wait to cover my home fries with this. I’m starving.

Haven’t eaten since lunch two days ago.

I was so close to finding him that I’ve forgotten to feed myself. When you’re obsessed, pausing for anything gets in the way. Even food…until you get so weak you can’t function. Which is where I found myself this morning.

The sound of heavy black boots clomping toward me is like a time bomb.

Out of my periphery I see thick, muscular thighs walk up.

I sigh and shake the salt over everything on my plate. Even the bacon.

“I don’t want company,” I mutter.

A steaming cup of fresh caffeine lands in front of my left hand. Grey Eyes slides into the booth with the grace of a lion. You’d think a beast that large wouldn’t be able to slink the way it does, but he sure fucking can.

We regard each other in silence. He takes a sip from his own full cup, not giving a shit that it’s mouth-burning hot. His lips wrapping around that rim is sexier than it should be. I can’t help but watch. He notices and licks those lips…and with purpose.

“Great,” I mutter. “Another cocky fuck who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

He pauses and disarms me with a smile so genuinely entertained that I find myself adjusting my weight in the booth.

Why does this guy make me nervous?

He’s as relaxed as if we were lying on a beach with piña coladas in our hands. I glance to his and soak in how thick his fingers are. They say you can judge the size of a man’s cock by the size of his hands. I’ve found that’s not true, but you
can
tell the shape of it by his fingers. Grey Eyes has trunks for digits.

“I said I didn’t want company,” I repeat, glancing over at the low snickers of his friends. They’re enjoying this a little too much.

Fuck it.

I grab my backpack and go to leave.

This is a big city.

I’m hungry and salivating now that food is this close to getting in my mouth, but I can find more someplace else.

“Hey hey hey.” Grey Eyes reaches over. Not all rapey-like. More just surprised and hoping for my patience.

I flinch, so that makes him stop just shy of grabbing my arm.

I don’t like to be touched unless I’ve asked for it.

This is
my
body.

I say who comes near it.

“What?” I demand. “You come over and sit down like we know each other or something. We don’t. And I just want to eat my breakfast.”

More cautious now, he motions to my plate. “So eat.”

“Alone.”

The place is silent.

His friends are watching us.

The old man in the corner, Alice, and the guys in the kitchen, are watching us.

Grey Eyes feels them, too.

The air is thicker than his neck, and that’s saying a lot.

Maintaining eye contact, he calls over his broad shoulder, “Alice. Bring my food over here when it comes out.”

I almost smile at him calling her that.
Almost.

Amusement dances in his eyes, like we’re in on the fun together now. I’m standing by the booth, wondering what the best course of action is.

If he had a bully vibe, I’d be outta here, but he’s got this weird kind of friendly manner that doesn’t match that patch and leather.

He leans back and throws an arm over the booth. “We don’t have to talk,” he calmly says. “I’ll even BUY your…salt fest.”

Again, I almost smile at his noticing I have a thing for flavor.

Fuck it.

Dropping my backpack on the booth with a loud thump, I sit. “Fine. You’re buying. But I’m not giving you anything for it.”

“Yeah, pretty much got that,” he smirks. To the diner he loudly calls out, “Show’s over,” and the sounds of normalcy resume.

In a voice tainted with sarcasm and low enough that only he can hear me, I ask the cocky fuck, “You always get what you want?”

Without missing a beat, he throws back in the same hushed volume, “Only if I want it bad enough.”

We stare at each other until I volley back, “Well, I hope I don’t fall into that category.”

His smirk deepens. “I’m just havin’ breakfast and I like to look at a pretty face sometimes. I get tired of lookin’ at them.” He jabs a thumb toward his club then leans in. “Who says I want you, Sunshine?”

I blink at the name, knowing he means it ironically. Leaning in, too, I hold his eyes.

“Most men do.”

I stretch and arch my back on purpose.

He’s not the only one with an impressive chest.

His eyes fall where I expect them to go, to my cleavage made deep by double D’s I inherited from my mother. I’ve been told I could be Penelope Cruz’s sister, and I can see where they get that idea. My mother looked a lot like her, much more so than I. 

Only
her
beauty led to her undoing.

I won’t let that happen to me.

I won’t be used.

For sex. For money. For money for sex.

Not like she was.

But I will manipulate the fuck out of who I want to, if it entertains me…like right now.

Grey Eyes slowly lifts his eyes from my display and there’s a gleam there that’s not just sexual as he chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. He’s not some animal, a dog in heat, or some kid. Like I sensed, he’s no rapist or scuzbag. He thinks I’m entertaining, too, and he’s having fun with this.

He thinks he found a good opponent.

Smirking back at him, I dig in. Damn, food tastes so good when you’re really, REALLY hungry.

The waitress drops his plate down and coldly informs him, “My name’s not Alice.” 

He gives her a wink and a disarming smile. “It is now.”

I watch her cold expression melt into confusion.

I know the feeling.

He and I eat in silence, watching each other from time to time. I catch him glancing to my breasts just once. Each time our eyes meet, I hold his look for a moment and then go back to my meal. The residue of these exchanges builds a solid zing in my bloodstream.

Best scrambled eggs I’ve had in a while.

As I nibble and savor the final sliver of crispy bacon, Grey Eyes spreads strawberry jam on toast and looks at me with caution like he knows the end is coming.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re treating me like a bird you don’t want to scare off?”

In the same private volume I used, he answers, “Because you’re perceptive.” After a charged pause where neither of us can look away, he whispers, “I’d say more
cat
than bird. You’ve got secrets, Sunshine. I like that.”

How the fuck can he tell that just by looking at me?

“It was uncomfortable meeting you.” I grab my pack, take one last sip of coffee, then get out of the booth and walk away.

It’s been a long time since a man woke my body up this way. I am damp and ready for things I don’t have time for.

Don’t look back, Luna.

Don’t do it.

But I can’t help myself.

Stealing a glance behind me, I discover him turned around in the booth, unashamedly watching me leave. Those amazing eyes of his lazily drift up from checking out my ass, and the look in them pulses a response back from my poor, neglected pussy.