Devil Riders: A Biker Erotic Romance

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Devil Riders copyright @ 2014 by A. L. Summers. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

DEVIL RIDERS

W
e’re only on our first set and already that asshole Jack is pissing me off. When they’d arrived he’d made a scene about me playing with him and his band. That was bad enough, but for the last 45 minutes he’s taken every opportunity to slight me. I’m a professional so I hold my tongue, swallow my pride, and do my part.
The Drillers
aren’t a bad band for a bunch of amateurs, but they aren’t nearly as good as Jack seems to think they are.

“We’re going to close out our first set with one of our favorites,” Jack announces to the small crowd that has pretty much ignored us all evening, “I think y’all know this one.” Looking at me, he adds loud enough for the mic to pick up, “Try to keep up.”

I purse my lips in annoyance. Nobody belittles my talent unless they’re better than me. This asshole isn’t. We rip through
Devil Went Down to Georgia
and finish to a smattering of applause.
The Drillers
take their bows and begin to step down from the small stage for a break. I make no move to follow and keep my seat behind my digital piano. As soon as Jack, the last to leave the stage, steps down, I begin to stamp my foot, hard. I set up an upbeat tempo and launch into
Orange Blossom Special.
While originally written for violin, excuse me, fiddle, I take it and run with it. I layer in my own nuances and flourishes while pounding the shit out of the keyboard to bring the song to life.

I throw a quick glance at
The Drillers
standing just off-stage. Jack is standing there jaws agape while Rudy, bass, and Stockton, drums, grin like Cheshire cats. I smile and wink at them in acknowledgement. As soon as I finish, the room erupts into the loudest and most sustained applause of the night. I notice a group of Hell’s Angels wannabes laughing at Jack as he stomps toward the bar, all except for one guy sitting at the end of the table nearest the stage. He’s not joining in with the razzing, and is instead watching me with an intensity I find mildly off-putting. All around him, men and women wearing similar well-worn riding leathers offer mock salute to Jack with various beverages.

Rudy steps back on the stage as I get up from behind the keyboard. He gives me a platonic hug and a big high-five as he laughs. “Maybe it us who should be worried about keeping up with you. Where’d you learn to play like that?”

“Glenn Korff,” I reply. When Rudy shows no comprehension, I just finish with, “University of Nebraska.”

“Rudy Ginlette,” Rudy says, extending his hand as Stockton joins us onstage. “And this is Bob Stockton.”

“Alicia Davenport,” I say as I shake hands all around.

“Don’t let Jack get to you,” Stockton says, glancing at Jack as he sits at the bar, scowling at me, “he’s an alright guy once you get to know him.”

“Yeah, he seems like a real sweetheart,” I say sarcastically as we move to the end of the bar, where I normally sit when not performing.

“Listen, let me make it up to you, okay? Let me buy you a drink. What are you having?” Rudy asks. I’m leery of the offer and I guess it shows. “C’mon,” Rudy encourages, “I’m happily married with twin little girls. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

This time I accept with a smile. “Sprite, please.” I don't drink often in any case, but I never drink when I’m playing because I'm afraid it will make me sloppy.

“Oooh, wild woman,” Rudy teases, ordering my soda. Rudy, Stockton, and I sit and talk at the end of the bar. I learn that
The Drillers
are three high school friends playing local gigs for fun and a little pocket money. The band name comes from the fact that all three work in the oil industry. After some encouragement, I tell them my own story: after graduating with a music degree from Glenn Korff, I bounced around, playing piano where and when I could until I got my big break playing with the Oklahoma City Philharmonic. I played there for about a year, until the holidays just past, as a matter of fact, when they fired me over a scandal.

The orchestra was spotlighting the music of Vince Guaraldi and I was front and center, my first time as the featured performer. After one Friday night show and two shows each the next Saturday and Sunday, I suddenly found myself the new toast of the town. I still have the very complimentary review I clipped from the newspaper. Things were looking up, at least until I bashed the conductor over the head with a music stand.

I’d been warned early on not to let myself get caught alone with Mitchell Farinni. But when he asked me to his office to “discuss my performance” after the last show on Sunday, I was so jazzed from my performance that the warning didn’t even cross my mind. When he wouldn’t take no for an answer and got a little too grabby, I whacked him with the closest thing I could get my hands on: a music stand. The next day, I was called into the President's office and summarily expelled. The entire time I begged and threatened, Farinni sat there with a small bandage on his head and a knowing smile on his face. The smug bastard.

I stormed out of the President’s office with vengeance on my mind, but in the end I couldn’t find even one woman willing to come forward and stand up to Farinni. So now I’m right back where I started, playing gigs where I can and working a register at the grocery store to make ends meet. At least now I have a steady gig, playing seven to midnight Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday and seven until two Friday and Saturday. All part of Tango’s plan to “give
The Joint
some class,” as he said when he hired me.

I’m just finishing my tale of woe when I see the man I’d noticed earlier—the quiet Hell’s Angel wannabe—kick a chair out from under his feet and saunter in my direction.

“That was some bitch-slap you put on the fiddle player,” the man says as he coasts to a stop between me and Rudy, ignoring Rudy like he didn’t exist. The man is large, with narrow hips and a muscular upper body that his leather jacket can’t completely hide. I can’t put my finger on the reason why, but the man radiates a certain dangerous aura that makes me slightly nervous. Suddenly I am very glad to have Rudy and Stockton near.

“Yes, well…” I begin, but grind to a halt, unsure what to say and hoping that I hadn’t screwed up this steady paycheck with my little stunt.

“He deserved it,” the man continues. “If he‘d pulled that shit on me I’d have kicked his fucking ass.”

Although his words are supportive, his tone puts me on edge and makes me nervous. “Yes, well, uh, thank you Mr.…?” I begin, trying to hurry him on his way.

“Grieg. Charlie Grieg.”

“Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Grieg.”

“Hey, Chuck, you should watch your language in front of a lady,” Rudy says firmly, putting a hand on Grieg’s shoulder.

Grieg doesn’t even move his eyes from me. “If you want to play that bass again, I suggest you remove your hand,” Grieg says. His voice is calm but the threat is clearly heard. The moment Rudy removes his hand, Grieg gives me a small smile. “I’ll be seeing you around,
Fingers
,” he says as he casually moves back to his table.

As Grieg walks away I see a hawk embroidered on the back of his jacket, an oil derrick clutched in one claw, a barrel in the other.

“What an asshole,” Rudy mutters as Bobbi bounces up to take another round of orders.

“I see you met Charlie,” Bobbi says, all flirt and bubbles.

“Yeah. What’s his story?” I ask. I’m only on my fourth night at
The Joint,
but I would’ve remember him if I’d seen him before.

“He’s a regular,” Bobbi explains. “Him and his crew come in nearly every Friday and Saturday.”

“They look like Hell’s Angels with better haircuts,” I observe snarkily.

Bobbi giggles. “The Neon Hawks. They’re wildcatters for Hawk Oil. The Neon comes from their bikes. Lit up like a sign, with neon lights all over them.” Bobbi pauses and looks at the table. “That Charlie… there’s something about him,” she says slightly wistfully.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I exclaim, unable to completely hide my distaste.

Bobbi giggles as she picks up her drink-covered tray. “Hey! Don’t knock it ’til you try it. The nice thing about wildcatters is, they sure know how to pump.” Bobbi winks lasciviously and moves off, distributing the drinks.

“What’s a wildcatter?” I ask Rudy.

“Independent oil man that drills where there’s no known oil. Quickest legal way I know to go broke,” Rudy explains. “If you’re a wildcatter you’ve gotta have a pair of big brass ones.”

Before I can respond, Jack walks by and glowers at Rudy, Stockton, and me. “C’mon,
Fingers,
” Rudy teases, “let’s rock this joint.”

Saturday night
The Drillers
are back. Well, two of them are, anyway. Friday
The Drillers
were wearing what appeared to be dirty work clothes–going for a certain look, I guess. Tonight they’re dressed in black pants and crisp white shirts, neatly matching what I wear whenever I perform. Just before we start our first set, Rudy whispers that he and Stockton’ll follow my lead. Last Friday I was in the background, but tonight I’m front and center and covering for the fiddle.

We do some up-tempo country, a bit of swingy jazz, a little rock-a-billy, and just to be a bitch, I close the set with
Devil Went Down to Georgia
followed by
Orange Blossom Special.
We’re just setting up for our second session when the Neon Hawks arrive, the heavy rumble of bike engines heralding their arrival before they come through the door. While the rest of the Hawks drag tables together, loud and boisterous, Grieg walks straight to the stage. 

“Seems like someone’s missing,” Grieg begins. “I guess he knows his betters when he sees them.” He doesn’t call me by name but his comments are clearly directed at me.

“I wouldn’t say that, Mr.… Grieg isn’t it?” I demure, not wanting to get drawn into a discussion.

“It is, but call me Charlie. And I would,” Charlie says. “So tell me, Fingers, what are you doing in a place like this?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” I say, still trying to avoid talking to him without being rude. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get started.” Charlie smiles and makes a go-ahead motion with his hand before he turns and idles up the bar.

We begin our second set. Now that we’re settling in and getting comfortable with each other, we jam, each of us taking a turn to show what we can do. By the end of the second set we have the audience eating out of the palm of our hand, and Tango, the owner and cook, is beaming at us. I guess I didn’t screw the pooch last night after all.

As we thank the audience and leave the stage, Charlie rises and moves to intercept us. Rudy and Stockton step in front of me, shielding me from Charlie.

“Relax cupcakes. I just want to buy the lady a drink, if she’ll join us, to apologize for my language last night,” Charlie says with quiet confidence, as if their silent move to protect me is of no more concern to him than a fly would be.  

I pause, and then decide to nip this in the bud.

“It’s okay guys. I’ll be fine,” I say, moving between Rudy and Stockton. “Just this once, okay?” I say to Charlie, my tone making it a statement.

“If that’s what you want,” Charlie replies with maddening self-assurance. He leads me to the table and motions Bobbi over. “Give the lady whatever she wants,” Charlie says, and I can tell Bobbi isn’t thrilled at Charlie inviting me over. I’m probably cramping her style or something.

“Sprite,” I say, then sit quietly, not knowing what to say or do as I look around the table. There are eight men, not counting Charlie, and three women, and I strive to project a confidence I don’t feel.

“Unless you want me to call you Fingers all night, why don’t you tell me your name,” Charlie says as Bobbi moves off.

“Alicia,” I say, not offering my last name.

“Alicia, let me introduce you to the Hawks,” Charlie says. “This ugly mug belongs to Curtis,” Charlie says, looking to the big man to his right. “That’s his old lady, Beth. Next is Dutch, Toes, Will, his squeeze Pam, Tony, Rick, Chains, and lastly, Siphon and his old lady, Liz. Hawks, this is Alicia. I expect you to be on your best behavior around her.”