He nods at us. “Donovan. Beth.”
Even though my name is Elizabeth, everyone calls me Beth. My parents used to, Donovan does, as well as everyone at work and college, and of course the guys in the club. Well, except Diablo.
He calls me princess, which in most scenarios wouldn’t be a bad nickname to have, except in his case I know it’s short for Princess Prude. Which honestly just goes to show how much he doesn’t know me, no one else has ever accused me of being remotely prudish. Donovan told me it has something to do with Diablo thinking we’re involved but not having sex, which is why I just accept it. I’d rather he calls me a prude than question Donovan too closely about girls or his sex life.
I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I hate Diablo… well, maybe I do. He certainly made it clear from the start that he didn’t like me.
The first time Donovan introduced me to the club, the other guys were so friendly and welcoming, but Diablo justglared at me. I spent the entire time wondering what the hell I’d done to piss him off. And ever since, on top of calling me Princess Prude, he feels the need to put me down at every chance he gets. He’s never said anything overtly mean or cruel; but it’s constant digs and jabs. I’m all for banter; but what he does isn’t banter, he’s just an asshole.
I guess the main reason I hate him is because of how scared Donovan is of him finding out he’s gay. I can’t even imagine living in fear of your own brother because of what he might do to you, purely as a result of you being who you are. To my knowledge, Diablo’s never killed anyone, like his father. But I’ve seen the scars on his hands, he’s no stranger to violence, and the thought of that being turned onto Donovan, well, it makes me feel very protective over him. He’s my best friend, he knows me better than anyone, and I’ll do anything I can to look out for him.
The dusty yard is full of bikes, meaning all the members are probably here. They aren’t a big club, like others in the State. Donovan told me that most of the guys transferred out the more legit they got, preferring to move to clubs who are still involved with illegal work, whether it’s running drugs or guns. A lot of riders like the money and respect that comes with the illegal stuff. Usually, it’s hard to leave a club once you’re a member, but El Jefe said that they were allowed to move on if they wanted to.
Honestly, I’m relieved the club isn’t involved in illegal shit anymore, otherwise Donovan and I probably wouldn’t be friends, and I definitely wouldn’t be spending any time here. As it is, the guys in the club are harmless; they love their bikes, they love the girls that come as part of that, and they love spending time with their brothers.
Their money comes from the garage and the work they do on bikes. With motorcycles becoming so much morepopular, people are always after custom designs and specialist pieces. Seeing their bikes lined up in the yard shows how talented they are. I don’t know anything about the models or styles, but they look impressive, each unique in their design and showcasing the personality of its owner.
I hate to admit it, but Diablo’s bike is my favorite. The others have custom artwork, some with flames, or skulls, or tribal designs, or even a single vibrant color that makes it stand out. They look gorgeous, but there’s just something about Diablo’s bike that I love. Shiny black paint with chrome details, simple, but stylish.
“See something you like, princess?” The smooth voice of the devil himself sounds from behind me.
Great, he caught me staring at his bike.
“No, I was just noticing how everyone’s bike shows off their personality. You know, artistic, cultural, strong.” I point at each of the bikes in turn, before pointing to his. “And yours… simple.” I smirk, not able to resist the small dig at him.
Laughs erupt from the table near the clubhouse where the other guys are sitting, having a smoke and drinking. But Diablo stands completely still to the side of them, staring at me, hands behind his back, his face the empty stare I’m used to seeing on him.
Well done, you’ve pissed him off.
As much as I hate him, I can’t deny that he’s incredibly hot. He and Donovan are clearly brothers, what with them looking so similar. Both have light brown skin with dark eyes—inherited from their Mexican mother. But where Donovan has let his hair grow out with soft waves starting to form, and his face is always shaved clean; Diablo keeps his darker hair very short and maintains a five o’clock shadow.
The other obvious difference between them is the fact that Diablo has a large neck tattoo—a devil on one side andan angel on the other, meeting at the center of his throat. He probably has more tattoos, but he always wears long sleeves under his leather cut, so I’ve only ever seen the one on his neck and the smaller ones that cover his hands.
“Ouch!” Donovan laughs as he gently pushes me. “I’d better go get my brother some aloe vera for that burn.”
More laughter rises from the table as we make our way towards them.
Diablo
“See something you like, princess?” I can’t resist asking as Elizabeth stands there, staring at my bike.
It was a surprise when Donovan introduced us to her six months ago; she wasn’t the type of girl I expected him to show up with. I mean, I don’t know what I did expect, I’d never seen him with any girls before, but I wasn’t expecting her.
I hate to admit it, but he has great taste; there’s no denying that she’s beautiful, even if she never shows it off with her clothes. She’s thick and curvy, but it always looks like she’s trying to disguise or hide her figure. Like today, she’s wearing pale blue jeans which are slightly too big for her and have rips across the knees, with a t-shirt that has a picture of some actor or musician I don’t know on the front.
Or maybe she just doesn’t care about the way she looks. Her red hair is always piled messily on top of her head, strands flying everywhere like they refuse to be held. She stands out next to Donovan with her fair skin, I’ve never seen anyone in this State as pale as her before. Even white people tend to at least have a tan of some kind, but Elizabeth is practically luminescent.
“No,” she says, “I was just noticing how everyone’s bike shows off their personality, you know, artistic, cultural, strong.” She points at each of the bikes in turn, before pointing at mine. “And yours… simple.”
The smirk on her face purses her full lips, and her brilliant green eyes shine with smug laughter.
And this is why I don’t like her.
She thinks she’s better than all of us because she’s rich and lives in Radbury Heights, and I know she’s using my brother; I just can’t figure out why yet. Part of me thinks she’s leading him on so she can share stories with her friends about hanging out with the biker gang, using us to gain some sort of street cred with them.
I ignore the laughs from where Tank, Pretty Boy, and Slim, sit behind me, and continue to stare at her. They all love her, none of them understanding my problem, but that’s because of how sneaky she is. She has this ability to make everyone like her without even doing anything, and it pisses me off. And she comes across as all sweet and friendly, but every now and then, she bites back, and that’s the real her.
That’s why I love jabbing at her so much. Usually she keeps quiet, staying close to Donovan, only joining in the conversation when it’s appropriate. But every so often, there’s this spark in her that comes out, fiery like her hair, and that’s the Elizabeth I want other people to see.
