Devil Riders: A Biker Erotic Romance (2 page)

“Fuck that!” Curtis spits out, causing the entire table to laugh, myself included.

While rowdy, being able to put some names to faces removes some of their menace. “Bobbi tells me you’re wildcatters,” I say after Bobbi drops off my drink.

“That’s right,” Siphon says. “We are the mother-fuckingest wildcatters in Oklahoma. We can practically piss crude.”

“That would sting,” I quip. The subsequent silence makes me uncomfortable… until everyone bursts into laughter.

“Fucking-A,” Dutch says, hoisting a beer in my direction.

“So tell me about the Neon Hawks,” I say, genuinely curious now that I’m not so afraid that they’ll strip me and eat the flesh from my bones.

Dutch launches into his story. “Well, first you have to be a wildcatter for Hawk Oil. No exceptions. That fuck sitting beside you is our next President. Every April first, someone else gets to take over leading this bunch of sorry assholes for a year, and I’ll be glad to hand over the reins. Basically, we’re just a bunch of guys that like to drink, fight, and fuck. But what we like most is bringing in that liquid gold, isn’t that right, boys?”

Various loud expletives laced acknowledgments are given in return.

“And the motorcycles?” I prompt.

“Freedom, baby,” Chains says. “Nearest thing to flying without leaving the ground. Besides, you haven’t lived until you’ve fucked some bitch across the seat of a Harley.”

I can feel my mouth drop open at the comment, shock turning into embarrassed amusement, when Liz murmurs, “Ain’t that the fucking truth,” before planting a big wet one on Siphon.

“So you fight, drink… err… fuck, and drill for oil. And ride motorcycles. That’s the Hawks?” I ask.

“Among other things,” Toes says.

“Other things?” I ask, but nobody answers. I notice Dutch giving his head a slight shake, giving me the vibe that I’d heard something I shouldn’t have.

“Don’t worry about it,” Charlie says. “Just oil field stuff you’d find boring.”

“So, Liz, how long have you and Siphon been married?” I ask lightly, as if nothing had happened.

Tuesday I’m muscling the amp around, setting up for the night, when strong hands reach in and effortlessly turn the amp so I can plug in the piano. The hands’ unexpected appearance make me start.

“Sorry,” Charlie says, taking the amp cord from me and plugging it in.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, surprised at his appearance. “Bobbi said the Hawks only come in on Friday and Saturday.”

“No Hawks tonight. Just me,” Charlie says, turning the amp back around. “We lost the cutter head today so the rig is down until we can get it fixed. Why, aren’t you glad to see me?”

I smile in spite of myself. “It’s always nice to see a friendly face in the crowd. I just didn’t expect you, that’s all.”

Charlie grunts and looks over at the piano. “So, tell me about his rig here. It doesn’t look like any piano I have ever seen.”

“It’s a Roland RD 800 Digital Piano,” I explain. “It’s like an electric guitar, but with keys. Sounds just like a piano, or several other keyboard instruments, but it’s a lot easier to carry around than a Steinway.”

Charlie grunts again. “Yeah, I guess I can see that.” Charlie stares at me with his ice-blue eyes. “I was impressed by how you handled yourself that Friday. You really hung that fiddle player out to dry,” Charlie’s lips twist into a mischievous smile, “and you gave as good as you got Saturday. I’ve never seen Liz speechless before.” Charlie pauses, then chuckles. “It may have been because you were using big words. In any case, you may look and talk like a school teacher, but you have some fire in your gut.” I can feel myself frown, unsure whether his words are a complement or not. “That’s a compliment,” Charlie continues, “I just mean there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“Why do I think I could say the same about you?” I ask.

“Hell, I don’t know anything about anything except drilling,” Charlie says quietly. “Drilling and riding,” he adds after a pause. “One pays for the other.”

“And drinking. And fighting,” I suggest with a smile. “Not to mention fucking.”

Charlie’s mouth twists into a crooked grin that dissipates the cloud of danger that seems to hover over him. “Well, drinking and fighting anyway.”

I stare at him a moment before I bubble over into giggles. Bobbi’s right, there
is
something about Charlie. “I have to get started to pay for my dinner.”

Charlie smiles and moves off, sitting down at the bar and chatting with Christine, the bartender. I work though my set and every time I look at Charlie his eyes are on me. I’m used to having people watch me, but his expression suggests more than just a passing interest in a musician. It’s the same intense gaze I noticed that Friday night. As I wrap up my first set, I see Bobbi bring out two plates and sit them at the table where Charlie lounges with his feet kicked up in a chair. As I step off the stage, he waves me over, motioning to one of the plates.

“Is that for me?” I ask.

“If you want it,” Charlie says. “Tango is a crotchety old fart, but he can whip up a mean sandwich.”

“Charlie, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Why, have you eaten already?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Then sit down,” Charlie interrupts, kicking the chair back from the table with a foot. “I can’t eat both of these.”

I dither a moment then sit. I can’t afford to eat out on my limited budget, and the sandwich looks delicious. I take a quick peek at the contents of the sandwich followed by a delicate sniff before taking my first bite. The chicken covered in melted cheese and spiced with peppers is delicious, and I nearly swoon. “Oh my God this is so good!” I exclaim around a mouthful of food. I inhale the sandwich like a ravenous wolf. This is the first meal I’ve had in a restaurant, or bar and grill, in months. Charlie and I talk as we eat, and I can tell there’s a keen intellect hiding under that glowering façade. Charlie may act like a brawling, hard-drinking badass, and maybe he is, but there is
definitely
more to him than that.

“So, tell me why you’re here,” Charlie says during a lull in the conversation. “You didn’t say before.”

“You invited me to sit down,” I say, teasing him. “Seriously? I needed a job and this beats washing dishes.”

Charlie looks at me for a moment as he chews. “I don’t know sh… anything about music, but I can tell you’re too good for his place. There has to be more to it than that. Why aren’t you playing with some big orchestra in New York or some place?”

I try to decide if I want to air my dirty laundry in front of this near-stranger. “I did, until a few months ago. In Oklahoma City.”

“What happened?”

I tell Charlie an abbreviated version of my story. “I’m still looking, but until I can find another seat, this is where I play,” I finish.

Charlie has finished his sandwich while I was talking, so he leans back and kicks his feet up onto another chair. “For what’s it’s worth, I think he got off light with just a cut on his head. Sounds to me like he needs his balls cut off.”

“Good thing all I had was a music stand,” I say, nearly choking on the anger I still feel.

Charlie grins. “Like I said, there’s more to you than meets the eye. I bet you can be a real hellcat when you get mad.”

I snort at his comment. “Fraidy-cat’s more like it.”

“Uh-huh,” Charlie grunts, his grin showing his amusement.

I glance at the clock on the wall. “Thank you for the sandwich and the company, Charlie,” I say sincerely, “but I need to start my next set.”

I watch as the strangest emotion plays over Charlie’s face. It’s there only a fleeting moment and then is gone. “Thank you for sitting with me Alicia,” Charlie says quietly, “I enjoyed it.”

I feel my lips twist into a grin. “You know, so did I.”

The next two weeks, Charlie is there every night, either alone or with the Hawks. When he is alone I sit with him during my breaks, sharing a dinner with him during my first one. On Fridays and Saturdays, I usually join the Hawks once or twice each night. I learn a little more about the Neon Hawks and Charlie shows me his bike. His “hog,” he calls it. What I know about motorcycles I can scribble on the back of a nickel, but I can tell by just looking that these are no run-of-the-mill bikes. Slathered in chrome and neon, the bikes have a certain classiness all their own. They remind me more than anything of the art deco movement of the 1930s.

As I begin to get comfortable with the Hawks, I discover that they aren’t at all what I thought a motorcycle gang would be. Sure, they’re a rowdy bunch with their ribald jokes and coarse language, but I also find out they care about one another and the razzing is all in good fun. And no one is immune. The first time I call them a
gang
everyone instantly falls silent, staring at me with open malevolence. I nearly shit myself and I could feel my face going pale. Just as I open my mouth to apologize, the entire group bursts into boisterous laughter. As the Hawks poke gentle fun at my panicked expression, Charlie explains that they’re a
club
, not a
gang.
I’m not sure of the difference, but the distinction seems important to them, so I take extra care to never call them a gang again.

From that day forward, I have Bobbi or Christine give me a signal when the Hawks rumble into the parking lot. It takes them a couple of days to notice that I’m playing the opening bars of
Born to be Wild
as they come through the door, but once they do I can tell by their big grins they’re expecting it. They always give me a salute in acknowledgement and I give them a wink and a smile in return.

Friday, as I’m setting up, I try to contain my disappointment that the Hawks will be with Charlie tonight and I won’t be able to sit with him. Well, I could, the Hawks having kind of adopted me, but it isn’t the same when the rest of the Hawks are around. Except for the occasional expletive, Charlie is the perfect gentleman around me, but he seems more relaxed when he’s at the bar alone, and I wonder why.

I’m well into my second set when I finally accept that Charlie isn’t going to be here tonight, and as loath as I am to admit it, I
am
disappointed. I can’t explain why, because Charlie and I are as different as oil and water. We might mix when shaken, but we will always separate again. Still, even knowing that, I can taste the bitterness of my disappointment from his absence. 

Saturday I’m sitting at my usual place at the end of the bar, sipping my Sprite, when I hear the rolling thunder of motorcycle engines. For the life of me, I can’t hide my smile. I’m still grinning when the Hawks stride in, but my smile quickly fades. I hop off my stool and hurry over to where the Hawks, what there is of them, are sitting down. “What happened?” I ask Charlie. Dutch, Charlie, Toes and Chains look like they’ve had the shit beat out of them. “Where’s everyone else?” I ask, surprising myself that I actually care.

“At home,” Charlie says, his voice slightly slurred by a nasty swelling on his lip.

“What happened?” I ask again, unsure of what to do.

“We ran into a little problem last night,” Charlie says. “Nothing to worry about.”

I look at Charlie and Dutch, the most beat-up of the four. “You two should see a doctor!” I say to Dutch, not wanting to show how upset I am over Charlie’s injuries.

Charlie splutters out a laugh. “Fuck that. I’ve looked worse than this after a good hard fuck,” Charlie says, but then he softens. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. I’m fine, Alicia. Besides, you should see the other guys.”

“The other guys, the Hawks, or the
other
other guys?”