Dirty Rider: A MC Biker 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.

Dirty Rider copyright @ 2014 by Kay Perry. 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.

DIRTY RIDER

CHAPTER ONE

Th
e driver of the semi emerged from his cab with a furious expression on his face. Nolan "Sarge" Pierce allowed the trucker’s fury to wash over him. The two had nothing personal against each other. Of course the man was bothered. No one liked to be hi-jacked. His truck was weighed down with his load. He was then abandoned on the side of the road as if he were a piece of trash from the inside of the cab. Fucking shit. It was humiliating. Nolan understood that much. He understood the frustration the man was feeling. He was still planned to take the man's truck and to abandon him on the side of the road, but he understood.

Nolan wasn't sure what had tipped him off. Maybe the corner of his eye saw more than he believed. Maybe he could hear the hammer of the revolver clicking back, and maybe it was a sixth sense that put all the available information into the right order and that 'heard' the man pulling that gun with the intent of putting Nolan down. However one might choose to explain it, Nolan spun on the balls of his feet with a blurring speed and put his fist into the truck driver's forehead with the force of a hammer blow. He knocked the man into a quaking dance before collapsing into unconsciousness. The driver hit the ground, the .45 Colt revolver falling from his hand. The driver's body twitched as if there were live wires with popping and sparking.

An adrenaline rush consumed Nolan's blood stream as he kicked the revolver out of the driver's hand and then picked the weapon up, easing back the hammer and setting the safety latch. He shook with the urge to put a round into the asshole's head.

"Easy Sarge, he's down. Murder's more heat than this job needs." Catman told him, coming up to his side and looking down at the driver. "Fuck man. I never even saw him going for that gun. Nice reflex, putting him down like that."

Rick "Catman" Wayne, was one of three other
Satan's Soldiers MC
patch holders on this job. The others were handling the co-driver and checking the load before taking it back on the road. Rick was lean, fast and ruthless. Right now, however, he was stunned and flatfooted. Nolan darted his glance from the body of the downed driver to Rick and nodded, "Not sure how I saw it either, but you're right. Killing isn't worth the load. Get him to the side of the road."

Nolan was still shaking with pent up fury and souring adrenaline when the load checkers gave him the thumbs up. The trailers were brimming with cigarettes. Cigarettes were worth the weight of pure gold in California where the taxes on were cigarettes skyrocketing through the roof. They could turn both trailers over in less than a week. There was no need to worry about warehousing, or extended periods of holding the cargo. This shit would sell fast with major cash value.

Nolan jumped into the truck cab, got the engine rolling and pulled away from the curb. He pushed through the gears, hammering the diesel engine up to speed. Twenty miles and a warehouse dump lay ahead of him. Another driver would take the rig to Mexico by morning, selling it for chopping. It was a good heist, better than most. Other than almost being shot by an old trucker with a mean ass snub-nose, it was an easy take.

Nolan's hands squeezed the wheel, and he breathed in controlled intakes, calming himself down. "Fuck that was close," he shuddered. Nolan smiled at the rush, and then he was laughed as he guided the truck back onto the freeway, enjoying the engine roar and the rush.

*   *   *  

The hi-jack of the cigarette shipment was perfect. No one was hurt, killed or arrested. The truckers were alive, so there was no murder-heat to push the investigation over-the-line. As far as missions were concerned, this one went down perfectly. In fact, a third of the load had already been converted to cash and out of the holding warehouse. It was textbook, it was art, it was the dream of every heist... so why were the detectives already in their clubhouse bar, pushing questions about the truck that was hi-jacked just out of town?

Nolan remained silent as the detectives walked through the bar fishing for information like the rest of them. He listened as hard as he could to what the detectives were asking, and he ran the numbers in his head on what they knew and what they didn't.

Once the cops were gone, they had a meeting in the back office. Alan "Prez" Bowser was already off the phone with the run down from his sources.

The cops had recovered the stolen rig. They got to it before the Mexicans could begin parting it out. They brought it back whole, backed by some serious governmental cooperation, and had it returned to California for investigation and CSI. Nolan whistled, unable to hide his impressed expression.

"What the fuck was so important about these cigarettes?" Rick asked.

Alan shrugged, "Does it matter? Maybe it will matter later, when we plan another job like this, but for right now what matters most is that they had the truck on satellite tracking. The truck is recovered and I doubt any of you have thought to wipe prints out of the trailer or the cab, including you Sarge."

Nolan looked over at him, and shrugged, "Can't say I did. Thought the Mexes would have a day at the very least."

"Well they didn't and you were the one in the cab," Alan said, looking at him like he was looking down the barrel of a gun.

Nolan didn't like the glare, "So, what are you thinking Prez?"

"I'm thinking our chopper-shop in Eureka needs a new manager for about a year." Alan told him.

Nolan's heart dropped. He was going to be chilled, put down on ice. "Ah shit," he breathed out. "This could pass Prez. We don't need to go that far, do we?"

"Less than 24 and they have the truck, satellite GPS locations and then in our clubhouse bar? What do you think?"

Nolan ran the numbers through his mind, "Fuck," he sighed.

"Yeah, fuck," Prez agreed, nodding his head. "You take off now. No patch on your back either. I've already called the shop, and they are getting you a place to live."

Nolan got up, pulled off his leather vest with his member’s patch sewed on the back and laid it on Alan's desk, "This really sucks," he sighed, and walked out of the back room without looking back. For the next year he was Nolan Pierce, and just Nolan Pierce. Manager of a car and bike shop in the small town of Eureka. It was better than being in a prison, but not by much.

Nolan mounted his bike, started the engine and let it idle with its throaty chug while lighting a smoke and inhaling the blue mist. Then he exhaled the cloud up into the sky above him. A year, a fucking year. Maybe more if the heat wouldn’t die down. What was the big deal about this load? He shook his head. It didn't matter. He was iced.

After finishing his cigarette, he called the bitch he was living with, told her the score and instructed her to pack the place up. He wasn't even going to drop by the house. She whined about the work, but she would do it any way. She wasn't his woman, she was a club bitch. She belonged to whatever patch holding member decided he wanted her for a while.

Mary was good to him for the last year though. He didn't love her of course. The rule of thumb was not to fall in love with club bitches. But she put out well, and kept the house in good shape. She kept herself in good shape too. "Mary, in the back of the closet, under those web boots of mine, there's a loose floor board. The contents are yours. You did good for me, but I can't take you with me. That will set you up until someone else recognizes your assets."

She was quiet for a while and then said, "Thanks Sarge. It was good, right?"

"Yeah, it was good. Best I've had. Later."

"Later," she said and hung up the phone.

Ten grand and some coke should have held her better than she deserved. But she was right, it was good with her. Better than any others. If she hadn’t been a club bitch, maybe he would have brought her along.

He took hold of the handle bars and kicked his hog in gear. In seconds he was roaring down the road heading for the on-ramp to the north bound highway. By nightfall he would be in bum-fuck-Eureka, dead to the club, dead to the world. Iced.

CHAPTER TWO

Kristina Evans' Honda Accord was making jittery noises and complaining about speed. It was close to five in the evening when her nerves could no longer take it. She took the off ramp into the small town of Eureka. If she had had any clue as to just how small the town was going to be, she might have risked pushing on a bit further, pressing the Accord to hang in there. But she didn't.

As soon as she was off the freeway, she turned right and found herself in the middle of downtown, or whatever one might consider to be a downtown in this spec of the map. The Accord was complaining even more now. She switched off her radio, and concentrated on willing her cute little car to at least make it to a gas station.

The Accord pressed on, shaking and jittering, but it didn't die. Kristina spotted a place a block ahead called
Mickey's Bike and Auto
. She patted the dash of her suffering Accord. "Almost there. See it? Just a little further," she urged her little car.

The Accord pulled into the parking lot of Mickey's and wedged its way into a stall. But before she could turn it off it shuddered, made a very unique sound, and then died. Kristina sighed. She patted the dash board again. At least the Accord didn't abandon her on the freeway, "I'll get you fixed up. You did your part. I'll take it from here," she promised, hoping her credit cards were up to the task. "We'll make it," she nodded and stepped out of the car.

Downtown Eureka was not much to look at. In fact, after turning completely around and surveying the layout, she came to the realization that she had seen it all. "Wow. I didn't think they came this small any more. Wonder if they have even heard of the Internet? Probably got pancakes though," she smiled. She grabbed her laptop case, which served her as a purse and started for the door of
Mickey's Bike and Auto
, hoping they knew what a Honda Accord was.

The shop itself was fairly small. It was crammed with lots of cleaning supplies, some do-it-yourself paint touch up, oil, gas cans and an assortment of other stuff she had no interest in. There were also some leather jackets and helmets on sale. The lion's share of the building was consumed with repair bays which she could see past the sales counter. There was only one truck in the bays at the moment, with a man bent over the open engine wrenching on something. The truck was a Toyota, which gave her some hope that this place would have some knowledge about her Honda. Toyotas and Hondas were practically the same anyway, right?

"Hello?" she called out to the mechanic man.

He heard her and lifted a finger, signaling her to wait a minute. She sighed at. She really didn't want to spend the night here if she didn't have to, and she was sure her little Accord wouldn't break something hard to fix on her. It was too cute to act that nasty toward her. She realized this was complete bullshit, but she just chose not to accept it at the moment.

After more than a minute, the man straightened up from the truck, reached into the driver's window and turned the key. The truck purred smoothly to life. The man nodded his head, clicked off the key and then turned his attention to Kristina, who was smiling at this demonstration of success and skill.

As the man came closer, she noticed that he was very large, probably a few inches over six feet even, with a thick chest and arms. The strength of his stature was apparent, even under the baggy cover-alls he was wearing. His hair was to his shoulders. It was honey blond, woven with dark streaks from grease and old oil. She couldn't tell much about the rest of him because of the cover-alls, but she did feel a strong sense of power emanating from him. His eyes were light blue, the kind of light blue that seemed as if it were unreal or created by contacts. Deep laugh lines encircled his eyes, and serious, intense eyebrows arched above his eyes, imbuing him with a slightly dangerous look. He stalked her with the air of a panther. This was not a hunting panther, or one out to kill. Rather it was a panther that was just strolling through its territory, with the inner knowledge that he was at the top of the food chain.

Without her thought, or permission, her venus developed a strong interest in this man. She shifted a little in her stance, willing her venus to calm down, but it wasn't listening. So she momentarily pretended there was nothing in the universe known as sex and met this handsome, dangerous, man's eyes, "I have an Accord I need looked at. Can you do it tonight?"

The man was looking her five-foot-six body over like she was the one he was going to work on tonight, and he was going to have her purring just fine by morning. When his eyes came back to hers he said, "Let's take a look."

Most of Kristina's life had been spent playing the role of the push-over. She had grown up in a small town- not quite as small as Eureka was turning out to be- but small enough. Trying to alter herself and striving to become something more was very difficult, considering that everyone surrounding her had probably known her since her youth. She wasn't going to get anywhere by changing herself back at home. So she loaded up her car and embarked upon a long road trip, before deciding to attend college. While driving down the open roads, and heading for San Diego, where she was probably going to attend college, Kristina meditated on what she was compared to what she wanted to be. She found the gap to be challenging and in some cases, even extreme. But she was determined to become more than the persona that her small town would allow her to be.

Normally she wore pants or long skirts. But today she was wearing very short Daisy Duke shorts, white heeled sandals, and a half-T that fell just below her breasts. She was wearing these in an attempt to feel sexy, bold, and powerful. After experiencing the mental devouring that this mechanic had just performed upon her, she had to fight off the feeling of being small and exposed. She forced her arms to remain at her sides, and to not cover her breasts. She kept her legs apart in her stance so that they would be strong and so that they would not press together under his hungry eyes. "It's just outside," she told him, happy that her voice was even, and smooth, as if she had men looking at her like he did all of the time. She wasn't interested in his hunger- she only saught his skills with a wrench.
He's just a mechanic. He's my servant,
she coaxed herself. She then turned smoothly and strode out of the door, leading him to her car.

He followed her step, to her surprise and joy. Reaching into the car she popped the hood and then got behind the wheel. The mechanic lifted the hood, and he watched the rest of her long legs slip inside of the car while telling her to start it up. She turned the key. The Accord popped and then shuddered to life. It sounded so tired crippled with pain that it made Kristina wince.

The mechanic bent over her poor car. Gripping something with his large hand, he pulled. The car revved in a desperate way, and coughed. He pulled again, forcing the little engine to climb in power to the point that its pain spiked through Kristina's gut. She almost screamed at him when, without an ounce of pity, he managed to force her little car to scream and whine again.

She jumped out of the car and crept up beside him. She really noticed the magnitude of his frame when she got there, "So? What is it?" she demanded, more out of fury for his treatment of her car than any wish to be more powerful, by practicing her 'New-Kris' attitude.

He stood up from the engine and looked her over, as if he might grab something on her and rev her up a few times, just to check her out. "Sounds like the O2-sensor is shot and probably the catalytic-converter as well. "When was the last time you had it smogged?"

"Smogged?" she asked, her old-Kris showing through with her uncertainty.

"Where you from?" he inquired, his eyes boring into her, as if he knew old-Kris was cowering in there, and didn't want to deal with the new.

She told him, and he nodded his head, thankfully looking away from her and back at her engine. "Figures." He shrugged, "Can't do anything tonight. I'll take it into the shop in the morning, and make some calls. Could be a few days to get parts." He looked her over again, like he was still wondering whether he should give her a quick tune-up. Kristina wondered if she wouldn't mind one herself, "There's a hotel just down the street. Rates for a week are cheaper than the day."

"A week?" she blurted.

"You are from a small town, you know it’s going to take me a while." He told her with exasperation.

"But a week?" she pressed. "Seriously?"

"No, probably three days. Maybe four, but the rate will be about the same and if it is longer, you are at least covered." He explained.

"Oh," she said, gearing down on her rising anger. "Fine. Thanks."

Looking her over, he said, "Don't mention it."

She steeled herself from his gaze. Then gave him a smile, "See you in the morning then."

"I'll be here at nine."

She shrugged as if she wasn't worried about time or what constraints his life as a servant cast upon him. She simultaneously showed that she certainly had no interest in him: "I'll come by around lunch time. You'll have real answers by then right?"

"Real answers?" he grinned, "Sure, I'll have real answers by then. You'll have real money to pay for the fix, right?"

She shot a look at him, "Yeah, I got money, but I'm not stupid, so don't try to pad the bill. My dad's a mechanic." She said. “It was true, but what little she knew about cars she could write on the back of a postage stamp."

"I won’t try nothing, just making sure you didn't think you were going to pay for the fix with your ass. I don't need the grief. Cash is just fine," he told her, and then strode off to the shop door, leaving her behind with her suffering Accord.

Her ass? Grief?! Fury rose in her like a storm, but he stepped inside the shop before she could let the storm fly out against his back. Getting inside her car, she clicked the engine off, gripping the wheel and screaming from down deep in her lungs in response to being talked to like that. Now- Kris was not going to take that shit, not from some fucking hick-mechanic in a shitty little town like this one.

Getting out of her car, Kris locked and slammed the door, and then closed the engine hood. From the back she grabbed one of her roller bags and with her laptop case, she stormed off toward the hotel. "Fucking asshole!" she growled.

Upon entering the room at the hotel that was paid for in advance, she set to unpacking her clothing.  After all, though he might be an asshole, he was right -- the week was the cheaper way to go by far – so she set to unpacking her clothing. She was in the midst of taking off her clothing for a shower when there was a knock at the door. Wrapping a towel around her bare breasts, while still donning her Daisy-Duke shorts, Kris cracked the door open to find the mechanic standing there. "What?" she asked, caught by surprise.

"You didn't leave the key," he said with a bored expression.

"Key?" she repeated, "Oh. Just a minute."

Closing the door until it was only slightly ajar, Kris entered the room, searched quickly, and found her keys. She turned to see that he had pushed the door open fully and was smiling at her state of undress. She fought the urge to cringe, and mustering her hidden strength, she stood straight while approaching him, handing him the key while her other hand held up just enough towel to cover her nipples. "Here. I'll be there after lunch."

"So you said," he agreed, still taking her in.

"To bad you don't take ass, right?" she sneered, and closed the door in his face.

Shaken by her forcefulness and gall, she backed up, half expecting him to pound the door open and take her by force, just to show her who was in charge. But he didn't. A few moments later she heard the sound of a throaty motorcycle engine start up. She peaked out the window to see him pulling up to the parking lot exit on a very large motorcycle whose thunder vibrated her window. The throaty music of the engine turned her insides with desire, and then he thundered out into the street, disappearing from view an instant later.

If she was going to practice her “new-Kris” attitude, did she really need to start with a monster of a man like him? She bit her lip and let the curtain fall back into place.

In her doorway, out of the cover-alls he wore in the shop, he was wearing a black leather vest, that was open. His slight attire reveled a powerful chest and ab muscles that made smart girls like Kris go stupid. His arms were solid, thick and well defined. His hands, she was sure, could grip and lift an engine. In blue jeans his thighs were thick and she had the very strong impression that his ass was the same. A man like that could pile drive into her for hours, and if she wasn't able to treat him right while he did, she would be flaying and helpless in no time at all.