Forbidden (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 1) (2 page)

"Oh," Afia blurted. She hadn't a clue what to say to him. Her voice halted at the back of her throat, and her muddled brain couldn't come up with a response. "Um..."

The man threw up a finger, and a server materialized out of nowhere wearing the characteristic The Wisecrack black vest that was opened to expose a heavily tattooed chest and a rotund gut. "What can I do for you, Shank?" asked Bub, an old-timer around the biker bar.

"Whiskey. You know how I like it, and—what are you drinkin', sweetheart?" He moved the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other with his tongue, as he studied the foreigner sitting across from him.

"Um, soda is fine. Coke, if you have it?" Afia looked down at her phone. What was she doing? What was she doing? Was she having a drink with him?

"Coke for the lady," he ordered.

Bub Walker nodded his bald head and pushed through the crowd back to the bar.

The stranger extended his hand to Afia in a handshake that showed off blue and black ink curling up his wrist, the rest of the elaborate tattoo art hidden beneath his leather jacket. Her golden eyes shifted from his hand to his face. He waited patiently for the handshake. 

Maybe she was shy, he surmised.

Samuel "Shank" Elison was aware he was intimidating; that was part of his allure. He was tall and brawny, and with the right look, in the right place, he was downright menacing. Add to that the gun in his waistband and the knife handle peeking from the top of his boot, and he could see why he frightened her. Had the striking girl met him in his corner office at General Motors, she might've looked at the mechanical engineer a little bit differently, but that was part of his other life. As it was, he had met her here, in a biker bar that looked like the farthest place she wanted to be.

"Who'd you come here with?" He decided to strike up a conversation. Nothing tickled his fancy more than novelty. He had read somewhere that people with high IQs were naturally drawn to the different and unique. It was true. The woman with the cat eyes and the tremulous smile fit the bill perfectly. Sam lowered his head, looking up at her with dilated pupils that swamped his pale blue irises. She hadn't said a word. He had a strong urge to hear her voice, but he realized the metal music wasn't exactly conducive to conversation. Not to mention, she looked like the cat had her tongue.

Bub slapped down a tumbler of whiskey with ice and a glass of fizzy Coca Cola, which Sam had him put on his tab. Then, he beckoned to the girl to grab her drink and follow him. He had a hunch she would balk at the idea. But, she surprised him.

Afia closed shaky fingers around the cold glass of soda and ice and stood on unsteady feet.  She scanned the crowd for Bionca, knowing her friend was probably in the middle of the mosh pit making bruises and new best friends, and she grinned wryly, shaking her head. How had she gotten into this situation? Her cellphone, she tucked into the pocket of the loose, flowing pants, as she tentatively followed the brawny biker out of the club through double doors that led to a back porch. He seemed to know the place.

Strings of lights lit the porch, and there were a few picnic tables occupied by others seeking a little solitude, smoking cigarettes and drinking beers. The music could still be heard outside, though not quite as loud.  Afia found the stranger sitting on the edge of a picnic table. He had one foot on the bench and the other leg dangling over the edge, and he had his eyes on her like he didn't want to look away for fear she'd disappear. That was the sense she got. Like he was sure she wasn't real.

She fingered the hem of her hijab self-consciously. A small smile touched her lips and then turned into a full-fledged nervous laugh at how intently he was staring at her.

"What's your name?" he asked. His voice sent chills down her spine, and his smile sent butterflies flying around inside.

"Afia," she answered shyly. "And, you?"

Her accent made his lips curl upwards. She wasn't like other women he had met before. He liked that. "People around here call me Shank," he replied. "But, my real name is Sam, Samuel Elison."

"Nice to meet you, Sam." She took a sip from her straw and settled gingerly on the top of the table next to him. Her sandaled feet kicked back and forth over the edge. She studied the glass of bubbly soda, avoiding eye contact. Something about this man made her feel warm, and the heat didn't feel like the safe kind. She could hear her mother now, telling her how a Muslim girl was supposed to hold herself above contempt.  Her cheeks flushed. She was doing the wrong thing. She couldn't stay out here alone with Sam. She didn't even know him.

"You know, I came here with a friend of mine—and, it just occurred to me—I really shouldn't be where she won't be able to find me, so if you'll excuse me."

She hopped down from the table. Sam hurriedly tossed back his whiskey. "Whoa! Hang on a second."

"Forgive me. It was nice to meet you, but it's...well, it's kind of inappropriate for me to be alone with you like this. I mean, in my culture, it's just not done."

"But, we're not alone," he pointed out with a grin. Throwing his arms wide, he gestured with his empty glass at the couple kissing at the edge of the porch and the group of friends playing drinking games at a picnic table nearby.

She blushed and smiled, saying, "You know what I mean."

He got down from the table and took a step toward her. "No, I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, but I can respect your wishes. I just want to talk to you. Tell you what, would it make you more comfortable if I help you recruit your buddy? She can join us."

CHAPTER 2

Afia had encountered every sort of westernized male. She had encountered the arrogant chauvinists and the hyper-sexed Casanovas. She had even encountered some who were open-minded and understanding about their cultural differences. She had rarely met a guy whose first response to her desire not to be alone with him was, "Let's go find your friend so she can hang out, too."

Her eyebrows winged upwards over her eyes in surprise, and then they flew together over the bridge of her nose in consideration. Then, as if in answer to the sticky situation, the double doors of the bar swung open and a giggling, tipsy Bionca suddenly stumbled out. She pointed at Afia with a limp wrist. "There you are," she slurred. "I've been looking all over for you." The party animal wove through the tables to get to Afia's side.

"See? I told you I shouldn't be where she wouldn't be able to find me," Afia reiterated to Sam.

"Whew!" Bionca said comically. She giggled and covered her mouth, her eyes roving over Sam from head to toe. "Where'd you find this fine hunk of handsomeness, Afia? Hi...I'm Bionca, by the way, her very single best friend and roommate."

Sam chuckled. "Bionca. That's a pretty name. Hey, we were just talking about you. I was telling Afia we should get you to come hang out with us. Pick your poison. I'm gonna go get refills. You up for another?"

"Make it a vodka, and we're friends for life."

"Consider it done," he said.

"Ooh, I like him." Bionca pointed after him.

He sauntered off for more drinks, and Afia grabbed Bionca by the arm and dragged her to the picnic table in a huff. "What are you doing? I was trying to find an excuse to get back in the club, not stay out longer."

"Honey, why? Did you see him? If a guy like that wants to get you alone, you let him!" Afia rolled her eyes and growled. "Alright, alright," said Bionca. "I'm here now. Your precious morals and values are untampered with. Can I say something, though? I know you want to make dear ole mom and dad happy, and that's admirable. But, I really think at twenty-seven you should be considering your own happiness for a change."

"I cause my family enough headaches. This would give my father a stroke," Afia deadpanned.

"How are they gonna know?" Bionca whispered.

Afia's eyes widened at the suggestion. "Shh!" He was coming back. She straightened away from Bionca and schooled her face to register none of her emotions. She was excited by the prospect of trying something different, hanging with someone new, but she was appalled at herself for being excited. One thing about what Bionca said was patently clear. She was twenty-seven years old. It was past time she started preparing herself for a suitable
Muslim
husband.

This bad boy couldn't be that. His dark brown hair ruffled in the breeze over his tanned face. He had taken off his leather jacket somewhere inside the bar. His arms and chest were covered in tattoos. He walked like he had the secret to sex in his pants, and he smiled like he wasn't telling. The very sight of him made Afia tingle, and she wasn't supposed to do that. She wasn't supposed to be here.

"One vodka, one whiskey, and two new friends. What brought you ladies out tonight?" he asked.

Bionca quickly supplied an answer. "Ugh! Dude, grad school is a bitch. I wouldn't survive if I didn't act a little irresponsibly once in a while. Right, Afia?"

"Huh? Yeah...no, um, we just like to go out sometimes. Bionca's favorite band played tonight."

"Blue Keepsake? I know those guys. Randy Jade went to college with me."

"You went to college?" Afia couldn't hide her surprise. He looked like the sort of guy who quit high school at sixteen to hang around a mechanic shop and gawk at bikes. He chuckled at her response, and she blushed, realizing how she must've sounded. "I mean..."

"It's cool. I get that a lot. I tell people who wonder about me not to judge a book by its cover."

"Enigmatic! I like that," Bionca cooed flirtatiously. "There's more to him than meets the eye." She lifted her brows at Afia and nudged her in the side. Afia crossed her arms and closed off her body language, glancing away.  Her soda was going flat. Bionca let out a laugh. "Don't mind her. She's usually much more fun. I think you make her nervous."

He reached across the table to touch Afia's arm, and she pulled back. He smiled apologetically and dropped his hand to the picnic table. "Trust me I don't bite. I can prove it. Won't you come over here and sit next to me, tell me about yourself. You share your story, I share mine."

He issued the challenge, staring her in the eyes and daring her to turn it down. If what her friend was saying was correct, Afia just needed to be eased out of her shell. He was intrigued by her, and he wanted to know more about her. Sam wasn't the type to pick up hot chicks at a bar. If a woman caught his attention, she was worthy of it.

Bionca didn't make it easy for Afia to say no. She scooted over, forcing Afia off the edge of the bench. In a huff, Afia reluctantly moved around the table to Sam's side, sitting down a distance away from him. In her culture, it was improper for them to touch. Sometimes it was frustrating trying to explain to Americans what they thought was prudish and uptight behavior, but Afia understood the reason for her propriety. She wasn't overly religious; she considered herself deeply spiritual. Her body was a well-written book, waiting to be read carefully by the man who deserved to break the spine.

She smiled to herself as a Quran scripture came to mind, the one her mother most often quoted when speaking of love and romance. It roughly translated to: "I created you from one soul, and from the soul I created its mate...so that you may live in harmony and love."

"I'm fun," she said softly, wistfully. "I'm just more than a good time."

He arched a brow, pleased at her assessment of herself. "Where are you originally from?"

"My family immigrated to America from Shiraz in Iran thirty years ago. But, I was born here, so technically I guess you can say I'm from Arizona. I'm at the university trying to make my family proud, working on a degree program towards becoming a physician assistant. What did you go to college for?"

"If I tell you, you have to promise to keep it under wraps. Some of the guys around here think I'm dumber than a box of rocks, and that's fine by me. I like to be underestimated," he said with a laugh.

"You don't strike me as the kind of guy people would call dumb to your face," Bionca contributed.

"Ha! True. Anyway, I have a degree in engineering.

"I'd like to say I'm still undecided," said Bionca. "Unfortunately, a while back I made the terrible decision to stick with speech and language pathology. Now, someday, somebody's kids will be coming to me for hearing screenings. Yay me!"

"Tattoos and all," Afia pointed out.

Sam flexed his biceps and showed off an impressive array of artwork. "I'm a big fan of body art, body modifications, piercings. Where'd you get your work done, Bionca?"

"Let's save some for a conversation another day," she said, rising to her feet. Afia looked up in surprise. Bionca pinned her with a look. "What? I didn't come all the way out here to sit at a table and chat. Let's dance! The band sounds like they've broken set. The DJ here is supposed to be sick!"

"Sick?" Afia mumbled.

Sam rapped the table with his knuckles and stood, too. "I can vouch for that. I don't dance, but I'll hang with you ladies inside."

Afia had no choice but to follow. The dancefloor was less crowded when they reentered the bar, but the atmosphere was no less festive. A rowdy game of pool had struck up near the back. The stage lights were down, and the DJ was operating from a glass enclosed booth, spinning records at a moderate volume. Conversations buzzed.

Sam spotted the folks he had come to the bar with at their usual booth. One of his boys threw up his arms in question, and Sam waved dismissively. He'd be around to them when he got around to them. He looked back at the beautiful Iranian, thinking that he wanted to hold her hand, but he remembered she didn't care to be touched. Instead, he beckoned with a toss of his head for her to follow. Bionca shimmied and wiggled out to the dancefloor, and Sam assumed a position on the wall nearby. He lounged back with his thumbs tucked in his belt loops to watch.

Afia felt more comfortable when there was distance between them. With just Bionca, she could pretend like nothing was out of the ordinary. She was familiar with Bionca's corny dance moves. The girl writhed like a seizure patient. Afia fought laughter. The DJ spotted her hijab from the booth, and he decided to add some Middle Eastern flare to the mix to Afia's delight and surprise. As Iranian drum samples pulsed from the speakers, she put up her arms with a gleeful exclamation. The track looped a wailing soprano voice before seguing with the beat and an American crooner singing about exotic enticement.

Afia's hips swayed in a characteristic Persian dance. Her shoulders shifted up and down and her hands flourished with mesmerizing sweeps of her arms. She caught the rhythm of the music, undulated down to the floor, and then shimmied back up. Her torso moved sinuously, her cardigan sliding down off her shoulders and whispering to the floor as the crowd sent up a cheer for more, and Bionca helpfully snatched the sweater out of the way.

Afia realized she was getting scads of attention and grinned in amusement. She twirled around in a circle and continued to work her hips. Her hands told a story. They said, "Look at my face. Follow my feet. See my femininity."

She very subtly rolled her stomach, hips shifting right to left. Sam's eyes followed every movement. There was an understated sexiness to the dance that teased at his masculine awareness. He had seen his share of skilled strippers and rump shakers, but what Afia was doing with her body elevated seduction to an art form.  His eyes begged for her to get less inhibited; yet, she held to the playfulness that had other men ogling her as closely as he was.  He cleared his throat and shifted positions against the wall.

"Who is she?" Quentin asked. Sam looked to his burly black biker friend who had sidled up next to him while he was watching Afia. "She keeps lookin' over here at you."

"I noticed," Sam said with a half-smile.

Quentin drew his fingers over his short and kinky, auburn-tipped Afro and let out a whistle of appreciation at the hot chick working the dance floor. "She know you the leader of the roughest, toughest motorcycle club this side of the desert?"

"The Devil's Sons," Sam said with a sigh.

"Wholesome girl like that might wanna leave a wolf like you alone."

"You know me, Q. When I get a hankering, it ain't easy to call it quits."

"Yeah, I know. But, you're a good man, regardless of your bad boy act. You'll do the right thing. Leave her alone, bro. Come on. I got a bottle of Widow Jane with your name on it."

Quentin's chuckle rumbled deep in his wide chest. He stretched, showing off dark black skin etched with pictures, muscles bulging in the black t-shirt that clung to his monstrous body like second nature. The loose fitting black jeans and Timberland boots gave him an edgy look, especially combined with his height and size. He looked like he could rip a man from limb to limb, and he could. All of The Devil's Sons were forces to be reckoned with.

Besides Quentin, there was Kaleidoscope, the crimson-haired French national with an eye for beautiful bikes. She rode a modified vintage Indian Chief the same shade as her hair. Tokyo was a genius college kid who knew Japanese bikes better than he knew anything, and his brother Manga was antsy to join the gang, too. But, at eighteen, Sam still considered Manga too young. Then, there was Brick, the Southern Boy Wonder. He was a cornbread-fed redneck as big as the state of Texas who could end a fight by just stepping up, weighing in at close to three-hundred pounds of pure muscle and bad mood.

The crew had enemies, rival biker clubs, but for the most part they stuck to themselves. Sam had found the quickest way to make a name was to not make noise. He stared after Quentin who ambled back to their booth. He looked over to Afia who seemed like a misplaced light in the dimly lit biker bar. He was aware it was in her best interest for him to fade out of her life before he ever took a foothold. Chances were, he wouldn't fit into her world any more than she fit into his.