CHAPTER TWO
Starlet
Ican’t believeI agreed to get on the back of a stranger’s Harley and ride off into the night not knowing one thing about him. Every horror movie I’ve ever seen featured gullible women who made similar mistakes and wound up dead. And as I hug Brick tighter, seeking shelter in his warmth against the rain, somehow, I know I’m safe. Never mind the nomad patch on the front of his cut or the huge Iron Norsemen logo on his back.
He’s a one percenter. And no matter how hard I try to escape that life, I always seem to end up right back where I started when I was sixteen. In the arms of a rugged biker.
The minute I agreed to take a ride with him, I already knew what I wanted. Him. I’d skip the bar if I could and direct him to the closest motel. There’s a string of cheap lodgings along the Louisiana coast, some charge by the hour. The kind of place I want to go tonight.
I can’t believe I lost control of my rental car and ended up in a ditch! I’ve only been free for a few hours. And this wasn’t supposed to happen, now what am I going to do?
There’s no way anyone can trace the disguised woman who rented the car. I wore glasses and gaudy makeup into the place that matched the picture on my fake ID. That’s how badly I wanted to get away, enough to risk everything. I’ve had enough ofThe Life—leather and bikes—violence and drugs—men who treat women like property.
My husband died last week in a motorcycle accident on his way home from New Orleans. When the sheriff showed up at my house to let me know, it took every ounce of self-control I could muster not to scream out in relief. The bastard is dead and gone. And I’m free. Really free. As long as I can get away from the brothers.
Then reality smacks me in the face to remind me of who I am by placing Brick in my path—or in my way—depending on how I look at my current situation.
I’m not just another old lady. And judging Brick by his patches and attitude, he’s not just another biker.
My father founded the Devil’s Crusaders MC. And since my dead husband was the current prez, the new president will claim me as his old lady.
See, I’m legacy pussy, which is lower than being a passaround in my opinion. At least those women get to choose who they sleep with. I shiver at the thought of being forced into bed with a man I don’t want, likely ten to fifteen years older than me with a beer gut and a shaggy beard hanging down to his chest. The kind of man that makes me want to vomit and curl into a little ball and die.
But not Brick. I squeeze his body just to remind myself he’s real. From the moment I saw him, I was drawn to him. Something about his voice made me feel safe. And his eyes… the way he held my gaze and showed concern for my wellbeing. That’s rare in my world. And though he’s pure iron—long and lean with dark features, I sense there’s something going on inside him, like he’s battling his own demons and might understand my situation if I opened up and told him everything about my life. I’ve only met one nomad before, and he wasn’t the kind of guy you wanted to get cozy with for too long.
Nomads filled a distinct need within the Devil’s Crusaders. Men who were worthy of the patch but not trusted enough to join a specific charter. They were paid well to fix the fuckups and then disappeared.
That’s another thing that instantly attracted me to Brick. He’s moving on, I assume, as soon as he handles whatever business he has in Louisiana. Which makes him the perfect candidate to fulfill one of the most important dreams I’ve ever had—to choose a man to sleep with on my terms. Though it’s sooner than I expected, who am I to question fate? Brother or not, Brick represents everything I despise and want in a man at the same time. Besides, he won’t be wearing that damned cut while we’re fucking.
We pass a sign for the next exit off the highway. Brick races up the ramp and we stop at a traffic light, the rain still pelting our bodies.
“Are you familiar with this area?” he calls to me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Continue down this street for a couple miles. There’s a bar called the Dirty Cajun.” And a motel with the same name.
He parks close to the white brick building and I hop off the bike and remove his helmet. I’m soaked and could use a couple shots of whiskey to warm up. Shaking my hair out, I hope I don’t look as pathetic as I feel. I grab my bag off the back of his bike and sling it over my shoulder. Everything I have in the world is inside it; my ID, money, clothes, pictures I treasure, and purse.
If I’d packed anything bigger, it would have alerted the brothers. Back in Alabama, I’m under constant surveillance, even when my husband was alive. But I played my role perfectly like a Hollywood diva, always the obedient old lady who supported her man. I never complained or asked questions. I just cooked, cleaned, and fucked Sammy every night.
“Starlet?”
I snap back to the present and look up. Brick is holding the door open for me.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
I nod and step inside, grateful for the heat that envelopes me. We both look around the place. It’s small and poorly lit, only a handful of customers are sitting at the bar. There’s floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the walls that probably haven’t been cleaned in a decade, faded red carpet, and a juke box in the corner. A classic Garth Brooks song is playing. The bartender acknowledges us with a nod.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” I say.
Brick gazes at me, then tugs my backpack off my shoulder. “Leave this with me.”
“Why?”
“Insurance. I want to make sure you don’t sneak off without saying goodbye.”
His eyes are blacker than sin and hard to resist staring at for too long. “I need to freshen up.”
He unzips my bag and lowers it so I can reach inside. “Take what you need.”
