Chapter One
DEUCE
When the hot sun blares down from the light blue sky and thick humidity seeps into my bones, I almost bust a nut, it feels so damn good. Five years, three months and sixteen days in the joint will have that effect on a guy who hates to be caged up.
I went from running Atlantic City, to pacing an eight-foot cell. I fucked up bad, and even though I took the fall for my brothers, they still blame me, and I know why. Would’ve liked to blame somebody else for my worst fuck-up ever, but that shit laid squarely on my shoulders. In reality, I could blame my dick and my weakness for leggy blondes with huge tits, but a few sessions with the prison shrink taught me to own my shit. What he called accountability.
Main reason I’m standing alone at the bus stop a mile from Monmouth County Correctional with a prison-issued hundred-dollar debit card in my pocket, waiting for a New Jersey Transit bus to take me to Atlantic City. In a weird way, I didn’t mind being alone. I learned at an early age that the only one who would take care of me—was me. But my fucked-up family life is a story for another day.
The bus pulls up; I swipe my card and head for the back of the bus. Thankfully, it’s pretty empty, and I nab a window seat, put my small duffel bag at my feet, and lay my head back. Although all I’ve done today is sign papers and shift from one room to another on my way out of the labyrinth of Monmouth Correctional, I’m fuckin’ exhausted. I cross my arms over my chest and wriggle into a comfortable position. I let my mind drift as I look forward to the hour-and-a-half nap.
I wake from my nap about fifteen minutes before the bus pulls into the terminal in Atlantic City. I step off the bus, and the familiar scent of the ocean air brings back a shit-ton of memories, both good and bad.
As much as I dreamed about being released, even had a calendar posted next to my bunk where I checked off the days every night, it was fuckin’ scary being out in the wild again. On the inside, somebody tells you when to get up, when to shower, when to shit, when to eat, when to go to bed. As much as the regimen sucks, it’s also calming in some respects. Especially for a guy like me who can get distracted by the wind. Prison kept me grounded, kept me focused. The monotony was soothing.
From what I could see, nothing much had changed. A few more hotels closed down, and the outskirts of the casinos and the boardwalk were as shitty as ever.
After a visit to the bank and my safe deposit box, where I stashed my cut and a large chunk of cash I squirreled away before the DEA sting, my next stop would be visiting my beautiful princess—the only one I thought of constantly in the joint. Her sleek lines and curves in all the right places. Fuck, she could make me come just thinking about her.
In fact, my dick was getting hard right now at the thought of all her sexy deliciousness. Wrapping my thighs around her and riding her hard while screaming into the night was my favorite fantasy. She was every biker’s wet dream, and I couldn’t wait torev her up and listen to her purr in my ear. Yeah, she was my first love, my only love, the one who never let me down. She never shit on me, never gave me heartache, and I’d never find her in bed buck naked with her boss.
And, yeah, that happened with this chick I hung with back in the day. Came home, and there she was, sucking the life outta her boss’s dick—in our bed, that I paid for. Then she had the nerve to tell me it was only a blowjob. Bad news, I was living with a whore. Good news, I grabbed the guy’s money, then knocked the shit out of him. But none of that matters, ‘cause right now I’m about to run my hand down the softest, supplest body I’ve ever known. The true love of my life.
“She still looks good, right?” Maggie stands next to me as I gently pull the cover off my steel-gray Harley Softail.
“Amazing.” Not to sound like a pussy, but my eyes actually tear up.
“Just the way you left her.” Maggie does a slow circle around the Harley. “I’d come out and start her up and check on her while you were gone, but as you can see, she wore the years well.”
“Yeah,” I choke out, then turn away from Maggie’s gaze. Shit, I’m supposed to be a hard-ass biker, and here I am choking back alligator tears.
Maggie’s firm hand hits my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re finally out.”
“Me the fuck too.” I clear my throat and turn back to face her. “You look good.”
“Ha,” she huffs out a laugh. “Not bad for a fifty-year-old former bad-ass bitch who smokes too much.”
“Nah, you always look good to me.” I pull Maggie in for a hug, and she hugs me back.
“Shit, you must need glasses, boy.” She points to her face. “I got more fuckin’ wrinkles than a California grape.”
Maggie was what people called rawboned, with sinewy muscle wrapped around long legs and arms. She was a dealer at the Borgata with a mind like a steel trap, and a good friend, but I sure wouldn’t want to be on her bad side.
“You’re fuckin’ beautiful. So beautiful I don’t know how you’re still single.”
“That’s easy. ‘Cause I ain’t willing to put up with any man’s bullshit, I like to do my own thing, and there will never be anyone like Storm.”
My lips curve up. “Fuckin’ true.”
She’d ridden with Storm, the prez from a club up in Asbury Park, and word was she was as tough as him in a fight, and I fuckin’ believe it. Storm was balls out all day, every day, until it caught up with him in a shit bar in Newark. He got into it with a guy from a local street gang, then proceeded to beat the guy bloody. An hour later, when he left the bar, the gangbanger’s crew slit his throat in the alley. They said he bled out in minutes.
“That man could piss me off like no one else. He could also be as sweet as sugar when he wanted to be, and when he fucked me with that thick nine-inch dick of his, I couldn’t walk straight for a week.”
“Shit, Mags, you’re talking to a guy who’s been using his fist for the last five years, three months and sixteen days.”
“I ain’t lying. That man could fuck like?—”
I throw up my palms. “Stop.”
