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  Copyright © 2015 by Drew Elyse

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduces or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by By Hang Le

  Editing by Word Nerd Editing

  To my momma

  Who taught me to be a classy woman

  who says “fuck” a lot.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat of my Lexus, I attempted to rally the resolve to start it. I was already late enough, surpassing “fashionable” and landing directly on “rude”. Still parked in the garage, I had not even made the move to trigger the garage door to open. Ten minutes must have passed since I climbed into the beige monstrosity my fiancé, Nathaniel, leased for me. Actually, the color had some ridiculous name like “sandstone cashmere” or “satin fossil”, but it was beige. I had said as much to the dealer, but he pointedly corrected me. Nathaniel did not appreciate that. Nathaniel rarely appreciated much I had to say. For instance, he did not appreciate the crossover in beige with more beige leather interior was not the car I wanted. No, that was unimportant. Nathaniel wanted me to be seen in the Lexus, thus it was the car I drove.

  My cell rang from within my beige—as was the theme of my life—Dooney and Bourke handbag on the passenger’s seat. I used to be the type of person who gave the people in my life personalized ringtones so I would know who was calling by the sound, but Nathaniel had complained endlessly about that particular “juvenile habit” until I reset my ringtone to default. When I found the phone within the recesses of my bag, I saw it was my dad calling. I used to have the bass solo from Maxwell Murder by Rancid as his ringtone. It was a terrible ringtone, actually. It started and stopped very abruptly. Still, it always made me smile and reminded of how he would stop talking and focus on that small piece of the song if it was on.

  “You can’t ignore talent like that, girlie,” he would say.

  I unlocked my phone and answered, “Hi, Dad.”

  “How’s my baby girl?” his gruff voice responded. Some would find his deep, smoke-roughened voice intimidating, but it was one of the most comforting sounds I knew.

  “I’m fine. How are you, old man?” I shot back.

  “Watch your mouth. Long’s I can get on my bike, I ain’t old.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Anyway, wanted to know what you’re doing on Thursday. I was thinkin’ of ridin’ up to see my girl.”

  “I’d love that,” I told him. Nathaniel probably would not love it, but it had been months since I’d done more than talk to Dad on the phone. “I don’t have any plans that can’t be moved. I’d rather see you.”

  “A young, pretty girl wants to see me? Damn well better get my ass up there then.”

  “Please, like you couldn’t get all the attention you want from pretty girls younger than me.” To some, that might seem like an odd thing to say to one’s father. Of course, my dad was not like most men. My dad was the Sergeant at Arms of the Savage Disciples Motorcycle Club. I had grown up around the club, so I knew exactly how available young, hot women were to any of the men with a Disciples’ patch on their back.

  “Yeah, well, club girls ain’t nothin’ to write home about. Had the real shit, now everything else tastes artificial,” he said, his voice even gruffer at the mention of my mom.

  Mom had been the love of his life. She had been his old lady, worn “Property of Tank” proudly on her back, and loved my father fiercely for years. She died when I was six years old. I can barely remember her outside of Dad’s stories.

  Dad talking about her always took him down a sad road. I knew I needed to divert him off that path. “What’s been going on around the club?”

  “Not much, least not that I can talk about. Sturgis’s in a couple weeks, so the boys are prepping for the ride up there. And we’re thinkin’ about opening another shop and dedicating one location to bikes, the other to cages. Business has been non-stop lately.” The Disciples weren’t always law-abiding citizens, but they weren’t the criminal outfit the larger outlaw clubs were. The club made money through legitimate businesses, including one of the best garages in the Pacific Northwest. The shop brought in riders in from several states away and Canada to their shop in Hoffman, Oregon for their custom work. The work they did on bikes and cages—what the boys liked to call cars because they felt caged in when riding inside them—was superb. They may also have dipped into some less legal means of earning, but those activities had lightened up immensely over the years.

  “I think that is a great idea.”

  “So do I. We’re votin’ on it this week, so we’ll see how the club feels. Hang on a second, girlie.” In the background, I could hear males voices. Dad must have been at the clubhouse or the shop. I tried to pick out anyone familiar, but I didn’t recognize any of them. It had been five years since I had last been around the club for more than a day, so that was not particularly surprising. Still, a glum feeling settled in my chest at the thought that the place that had once been my home was now unfamiliar. Dad came back on the line a moment later, “Sorry, Cami, I gotta go. Pres needs me.”

  “Alright, I’ll talk to you later. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, baby girl. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

  After we hung up, it dawned on me that I was still sitting in the parked car. It was really about time I got going. I pulled down the visor to check myself over in the mirror one last time. My still perfectly curled brown hair had enough body to look vibrant, but not enough to make it “outlandish”. That was one of Nathaniel’s favorite polite ways to say something might look “slutty”. He used to use it quite a bit while “advising” me on my style choices. Recently, I learned how to make my appearance such that he would remain quiet. The dress I was wearing was a perfect example of that. A simple, A-line, sheath dress in a pale pink, not too tight, not too short, not low cut or revealing, paired with nude pumps—no stiletto heels or peep toes for me. The whole outfit screamed, “blah”.

  I looked to the white-gold watch Nathaniel bought me as a not-so-subtle statement on my frequent tardiness to meetings like the one I was currently late to, resigning myself to the reality that there was no more use in dallying. My life demanded my involvement, half-hearted or otherwise.

  “Camille, hun, you're just in time!” Sandra declared from the head of the table. Her perfectly highlighted hair pulled back into a French twist was so tight, it verged on giving her a facelift—not that she had never had one of those before. Her yellow, peony-printed dress and white cashmere cardigan were certainly well-styled, but something about the bright pattern and overly-trendy cut also spoke of a desperate desire to hang on to her retreating youth. Of course, I may of been reading too much into it. Her husband's penchant for twenty-somethings was hardly a secret.

  I wanted to laugh at her comment. I was strolling into the weekly ladies’ luncheon nearly an hour late. If I were any other woman seated at the table, I would have received a much less charitable welcome from Sandra, the self-appointed president of the Fair Oaks Country Club wives’ group. Perhaps because of my younger age, she seemed willing to cut me a small amount of slack. Being
that I was still a few months shy of 27, I was the youngest woman among the circle by a firm ten years.

  “I sincerely apologize for the delay, ladies. Nathaniel forgot a file he needed at the house. Silly man.” I flashed them my best attempt at an compunctious smile and hoped they could not see the strain it took to keep my eyes from rolling. The only thing my fiancé needed at the office was for the new, cute intern to cease spurning his advances. Luckily, I got the impression the girl was too self-respecting to give him that.

  “Oh, that's perfectly alright, dear. Men, what would they do without us?” She chuckled, as did a few of the other impeccably styled women. “We have only been prattling on anyway. Please, sit. It is high time we actually get down to business.” There it was. I had been waiting for the ill-disguised reproach. Sandra was the queen of slipping in passive aggressive digs. She never went so far as to pull out the southern “bless your heart”, but the sentiment was there, nonetheless.

  I moved to the open seat waiting for me, allowing a young man in the country club’s signature white polo to pull out my chair. As soon as I sat down, a waiter approach to take my drink order. Luckily, he was one of my boys. Dallas—though he usually introduced himself by his middle name, James, on the off chance one of the snotty patrons actually asked—would take care of me.

  “A Diet Coke, honey,” I told him. That was all he needed. Dallas and I both knew I never drank “diet” anything. There would be a Jack and Coke in front of me in short measure. Given that we were about to plan the sweet sixteen party for one of the ladies’ entitled little princesses, I needed all the help I could get.

  Dallas returned in a flash with my drink, meeting my eyes discreetly as he asked, “Is there anything else see you need, ma’am?”

  Salads would be delivered for all of us in due time. Our luncheons never included ordering for ourselves. He was asking something else entirely. “I am alright, for now,” I responded with pointed stress on the end.

  He gave me a nod of understanding as he pulled away. He would have what I needed once the godforsaken meeting was over.

  For the time being, I drank back the glass of nearly straight Jack Daniels while I listened to the women around me plan outlandish events and flaunt their latest purchases, all the while trying to keep my apathy beneath the surface.

  An hour and a half later, after all the hens finished their inane clucking for the week, I slipped down one of the halls, feigning I needed to use the restroom before I left. I met Dallas near the entrance to a large ballroom that stayed closed off outside of special events. There was little, if any, cause for anyone else in the building to wander that way. It was private, or as private as my life could get.

  “Please tell me you're stocked,” I implored.

  “For you? Always," he answered with that cheeky grin I'm certain got him all manner of female attention. Of course he was always stocked for me. I paid him well above his asking price to keep him that way and to keep him quiet.

  He produced the small baggie from his pocket while I opened my purse. The stack of bills I handed him was worth it. Even if it weren’t, I was spending my fiancé's money.

  “You are a gem,” I told him as I buried my purchase in the side of my bra. I leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. Dallas’ hand ran up my side in a sensuous way, reminding me how long it had been since I experienced any touch of that sort. In fact, it was likely the last time I needed to come to Dallas for such an exchange. Nathaniel got what he needed elsewhere, and I had no intention of touching him anyway.

  Dallas would fulfill that need as well, if I asked. It would not be a hardship for him. He was attractive, but he was also barely 21. It was not cradle-robbing by any stretch of the imagination, but he somehow felt too young for me—perhaps I had become so jaded, it made me feel older than my years. More importantly, it was not a choice I was willing to make. I may have been lonely, but I had never cheated on my fiancé. It was not out of any respect for him, more out of self-preservation. Dallas kept quiet about the drugs, but he had as much to lose from running his mouth as I did. He would have nothing to lose from letting the secret slip if anything sexual happened between us. Sure, he the club could fire him, but he could find another job easily enough. He had only taken the job because he was 19 at the time and could not yet work at a bar. Now, I was pretty sure he only stayed because of the lucrative side business I—and any other members that might have sourced from him—provided.

  No, so long as I was engaged to Nathaniel and forced to be an active member of the social circle centered around Fair Oaks, sex with the hot waiter/dealer was off the table. I was not about to shit where I ate.

  Fucking hell. I'd done it again.

  Don't shit where you eat.

  Simple. The garage was my job, my life, and the fucking receptionist? Not fair game. Too bad I couldn't remember that the night before when I been tossing back Jack like it was water and the hot piece started coming on to me. Those tits were supreme, and they had been all up in my face, begging me to finally settle the guys’ debate over whether they were real or not.

  They weren't, for the record.

  Not only had my brain followed my cock when it demanded satisfaction, the fucker checked out and let me fall sleep afterward without getting shot of her first. Now, I had screwed pussy I should've avoided and it was still in my bed. She’d settled in like she belonged. My clinger senses were tingling and that shit was never a good sign.

  Stacey—yeah, her name was fucking Stacey—was damn good at her job, too. If this went south, Roadrunner would have my ass. The club just voted to add a second location, which was the reason for the party the night before. We would have to find another decent secretary already, we didn’t need to lose the one we had.

  Fucking hell.

  I should've been more focused on her than reaming my own ass for being an idiot. She was starting to wake up. I wanted to bolt. Maybe she'd been drunk enough to forget? I doubted it. Maybe if I was gone, she’d work with me and pretend that shit never happened. More possible, but still unlikely. Planning on the fly and being hung over didn't mix.

  Before I figured out what to do, her eyes opened.

  “Hey, baby.” Her voice was rough, like I'd given her throat a good workout. Between that sound, those big tits peeking out over the sheet, and the fact that, even though I was hung over, I was still rocking some serious morning wood, I was almost distracted from what she said.

  Almost. Not quite.

  She fucking called me “baby”. My clinger senses were no longer tingling, they were blaring the alarm like it was DEFCON 1. It was time to shut that shit down.

  Step one: get myself out of bed before I fucked her again and made things worse.

  She looked up at me as I did, and I could see understanding start to hit. Then, she had to jump straight to determined. Not good.

  Step two: defuse that shit quick.

  “Look, Stace, this is ain't gonna to happen again.”

  I didn't say I’d be delicate. Delicate was not in my toolbox. Shit, for me, that was fucking delicate.

  Determination left the building and pissed took its place. Fuck. Pissed off female was also not within my skill set. All I had was sex and how to fix a Harley. Too bad sex was not on the table and there wasn't a Harley in the room. If I didn't figure this shit out on the fly, I’d be lucky to leave with my balls, let alone my job.

  “Are you shitting me, Gauge?” she snapped. Paying attention to what she was saying was fucking hard when those tits were still bouncing over the top of the sheet. I needed another drink or to sober up, and I needed to get a handle on that situation.

  “Nah, Stace, I'm not shittin’ you. Time for you to go.”

  “What the fuck?” Her voice jumped up a damn decibel and an octave. The last thing I needed with my hangover was a shrieking female.

  “Babe, you know how shit’s done around here. Don't act so fucking shocked. You want the steady-boyfriend thing, you’re better off lookin’ away from
the clubhouse.”