Page 65 of The Biker and the Baker
I cry out from the sweet shock of it and grip the edges of the mattress to keep stable.
Buried to the hilt, he pauses to take my mouth, kissing me so deep I can feel it in my soul.
“Sweetest pussy,” he breathes after he breaks the kiss. “So fuckin’ sweet.”
And then he pounds me into oblivion, fierce and relentless. He comes with his head thrown back, a ragged growl ripping from his throat.
We collapse in a sweaty, oily heap, gasping for breath.
Minutes later, when our heartbeats have evened out, I say, “That was onehellof a massage. I need to come to this place more often.”
He chuckles. “Don’t forget you owe me, for breaking the rules. And I’m not talking about the tip.”
“Okay.” I brush sweat-clumped hair from my face. “What’s the IOU?”
“Not yet.” He kisses my neck, licks it, then follows it up with a small bite. “In a year’s time, I’ll cash in. And when I do, you better pay up.”
Chapter 15
Onyx
The heavy woodendoor heaves open and Cookie strolls into the terribly lit room with a perplexed frown. It’s sundown and the electricity has long since been disconnected from neglect, so I’ve lit up the old fireplace for visibility.
The Court Room. That’s what this was once called. Where the brotherhood would gather to discuss serious club matters and vote on appropriate actions, solidified by the drop of my father’s gavel.
When Cookie’s gaze lands on her brother, Roller, her frown deepens.
“You still around?” she asks him. “I thought you left?”
He tugs idly at his beard and grunts. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout sticking ‘round. Depending on what our boy here decides.”
Cookie walks up to the large, hand-carved table we’re at and drags a chair across the cemented floor to where she wants it before sitting down. “What do you mean?” She looks around the dusty room and sniffs. “What’s this meet-up about?”
I take a hit of my joint. “You remember me telling you about a bunch of random bikers’ tailing me like lost puppies over the past few months?”
“Yeah. What about them?”
“Well, it’s ‘cause they need a home. A president,” I say. “And Unc thinks I should give ’em one.”
Cookie bristles and slaps a hardened glare at her brother. “That’swhy you’re still around?” she bites out. “To convince him to start this shit up again?”
Roller leans forward and drops his forearms on the table, calm and cool. “It wouldn’t be the same, Cooks. I’m thinkingclean. Legit. Like it was before Judge got greedy and ran the club to the ground. We were happy once, remember? Was all about parties, weed, pussy, and riding free. ‘Til it wasn’t enough for Judge and we fell into chaos. But now—now we got a chance to make shit right. We got young, lost bikers looking for a home. We can revive DOH and change where we went wrong.”
Cookie scoffs, wholly unconvinced. “Motorcycle clubs are like churches. They all start out with the right motives and intentions. Always. Until greed and temptation inevitably creeps in. Suddenly all the legitimate reasons for starting it fly out the door and gives room for corruption.”
“Cooks—”
She swivels to me, effectively cutting him off. “Listen to me, Onyx, this lifestyle claimed my brother,your father, along with some of your best friends. I’ve been around long enough and seen enough shit to know that clubs never, ever stay clean. Ever. You wanna do something good with this land? Take a wrecking ball through this shit and throw up some high-rises. You’ve got the capital for it. You’re damn good at business, and even better at spinning profits. You wanna be the president of a club? Then let that be the goddamn billionaires’ club. You’ve got a lot in you, Nyx, and a beautiful, fucking brilliant brain. Don’t waste it on a club that’s already dead.”
The heavy chair grumbles when she rises to her feet, throwing her glare to Roller again. “You disappoint me, Roller. Thought you were through with this shit. Turns out you were just waiting for our brother todie.” She flounces to the door, then stops to toss me one last look over her shoulder. “Kill this shit, Onyx. Before it kills you.”
“And that went just how I thought it would,” Roller mumbles after she slams her way out of the room.
Taking another hit on my joint, I think on Cookie’s words.
Back when I realized that I’d probably never be able to ride through the compound gates again, I’d indeed considered leveling the thing to the ground and expanding The Metal House.
When Roller showed up proposing we revive the club, I told him no and avoided him for months. But now I’m conflicted about the whole thing. On the one hand, I miss the club life, the brotherhood, living with our own rules. Miss my dad. But on the other hand, Cookie spoke no lies. Clubs rarely stay clean. And while I miss the exciting parts of the club life, I don’t miss the crimes, the wars, the deaths, the raids, or the jail time. There was more bad than good, to be honest. The fact that more than half of Den of Heathens brothers aren’t here, alive, swigging beers at one of our unrivaled shindigs, but rather buried six feet under, is evidence of that. But memories have a way of fucking us up. We tend to remember things as far better than they really were. We love to “miss the good old days”, when in the old days we were wishing and praying for something better.
