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  She steals a glance at him while she finishes cleaning the mess in her lap. He is as handsome as ever with his messy but sexy windswept hair and facial scruff. His green eyes twinkle in the sun as he watches her. To his credit, not even once do his eyes move down to her chest. She can’t tell whether he respects her too much to ogle or he’s afraid she’ll bite.

  “So I was just riding by and saw you in the window,” he begins.

  She looks at his leather jacket. It’s well-worn, rough around the edges with some of the stitching coming loose. His patches clearly pledge allegiance to his motorcycle club, the Suicide Kings. One rectangular patch declares his title as Vice President while a diamond-shaped patch has the numeral one and a percentage sign. She’s not familiar with that one and points it out.

  “This one? It simply states that we are the outlaw one percent of all motorcycle clubs, the cream of the crop if you will. We’re the one- percenters,” he says proudly.

  “And who would the president of your cream of the crop club be?” she asks.

  “That would be my father,” he says.

  When he talks about his father, a dark look comes across his face and she wonders if there's bad blood between the two.

  It can’t be that bad if he’s the vice president in his father’s club, she thinks to herself.

  Luke’s coffee arrives and he uses the time he sips the hot drink to study Kayla. She is the whole package; smokin’ hot, fiery attitude and brains to match. Her silky blond hair and her almond-shaped brown eyes give her an exotic look that just adds to her overall appeal. Finally, he can resist no longer and lets his gaze drop to her bare shoulders, slender yet defined arms, and then to her chest. He finds the way the low scoop of her tank top emphasizes her chest infinitely erotic. The thin black material does little to disguise her nipples as they push their way through.

  She is different! His last romantic attachments have either been of the military brat persuasion or the ‘old ladies’, the biker chicks that could never actually become members of the Kings, but all of them were definitely fun to bang. Most of them weren't much more than arm candy and pretty much brainless, unlike Kayla.

  “If you’re going to spend that much time staring at me,” she says, interrupting his thoughts, “you could at least warn me, so I could fix my hair and straighten my bra or something.”

  Luke drops his eyes as his face turns red.

  “You’re blushing,” she exclaims. “That’s good. Proves you’re not a total heel, at least.”

  Luke peers down at his coffee, at a loss for words. Blushing? How can the vice president of a ruthless outlaw motorcycle club be made to blush by a woman? Glancing back to her face, Luke realizes, for the first time, the hold she has over him even though they have barely known each other. It makes no sense, whatsoever.

  Part of him feels like putting her in her place as he would have done with any other chick; just stand up and exercise his authority over her, but he doesn’t. He sits there sipping his coffee and wondering what the hell this woman is doing to him.

  Kayla continues to watch Luke. It’s interesting to see the influence she has on such a tough guy. She’s sure he’s never blushed before after being caught checking a woman out. Maybe there’s more to this biker guy than she first thought. Question is where to go from here? She watches as he takes off his black leather jacket. Underneath he’s wearing a faded black Metallica concert tee from the Enter Sandman tour.

  The guy has cliché taste in music, at least, she thinks amusingly.

  He’s got some guns on him too. The man works out and can kick some serious ass. Dillon was a grade A tough guy; yet, Luke handled him like he was a child; no contest. That, of course, begs the question, what exactly did Luke do in Afghanistan? She has the idea that he was not just some run of the mill soldier. In fact, when it came to Special Forces, he's probably not an average Special Forces guy either… Then she notices the hash marks on his arm.

  Luke catches her studying him. “You wondering what these are for, huh?” he asks, pointing to the strange marks.

  She nods, not trusting herself to speak.

  “That’s more like a first…no, a second date conversation; sorry.”

  “What? You’re assuming that you’ll even get a first date with me. What mak—"

  “You’ll date me. You can’t stand the fact that I won’t tell you what they mean. You’ll date me if for no other reason than to satisfy your curiosity,” he says with a smug smile on his face.

  “You—how can…I mean…,” Kayla fumes and sputters, unable to come up with anything fiery to say in return. His self- confidence both infuriates her and makes her desire him even more. Finally, she shoves her half-empty plate away from herself and digs around in her purse for money. She pulls out a ten and plops it on the table along with a couple ones. She stands up and Luke follows suit. He grabs his Jacket and steps out of the booth.

  “Ready to go for a ride?”

  “Fine,” she snaps without even thinking. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Luke’s Harley is amazing. It’s a solid black 2008 Dyna Wide Glide with raked-out wide-stance front forks, giving it a stretched-out chopper feel from the ape hangers to the bobbed rear fender, no mufflers, and just straight pipes. Portrayed on the side of the tank is the Suicide Kings mad hatter complete with the 9mm barrel in the open mouth. Nothing shouts crazy like a suicidal mad hatter! As Kayla positions herself behind Luke, he fires up his machine. She loves the feel and sound of the bike’s loud throaty rumble as Luke revs the throttle. He hands Kayla a glossy black full-face helmet and in turn shoves a flat, black, old-school helmet on his own head. He skips the strap, pops the clutch and they’re off with a roar.

  It has been a long time since she last got on a bike. She never trusted Dillon and always felt he was just a hair away from a fatal accident and that, of course, was a constant bone of contention between them. Luke’s bike might scream power crazed mal content, but his actions speak differently; at least as far as she has been able to tell. She should not have been surprised when the final destination of their little ride just happened to be his house.

  Luke owns a very old two-story Victorian on the edge of the Berkeley Oakland border. It’s sort of mustard yellow with a brown trim. The yard needs landscaping, but it’s still in decent shape. She’s even more surprised to find it halfway clean. Not the image she had of a biker’s house and nothing like the atrocious apartment Dillon lives in.

  Kayla takes a seat on a comfortable, black leather couch and accepts a glass of ice water. They attempt a civil conversation for a while. Finally, Luke sets his glass down on the coffee table and moves in to take what he came for; sex. Luke’s abrupt, forward behavior doesn’t rattle Kayla in the least, being familiar with most bikers’ typical manners.

  His mouth finds hers; their hands pull and tear at buttons, zippers, bra strap, and belts. Clothes fall where they may, and naked bodies come together like a couple of powerful magnets. Luke is as aggressive as he is skilled and knows his way around a woman’s body, and for some reason, especially hers. He reads her signs of passion, hints of desire, and in seconds her motor is purring.

  He takes her, but not before she’s ready. Kayla cries out in passion as he enters and soon his moans of pleasure mix with hers, mouths glued together like two wild beasts trying to devour the other. Luke makes love like no man she has experienced before. He has the same raw passion and desire that Dillon has, but it’s not buried beneath a thick layer of violence. Luke is aggressive and takes control, but he makes Kayla feel like she is the one in control and everything he does is exactly everything she wants. He’s not taking, he’s giving, and that makes all the difference in the world.

  Without separating, they move from the couch to the floor; then to the wall in the hallway, and finally to his bed. He’s on top; she’s on top; they’re side by side; this way and that; sweating, moaning and crying out in ecstasy; giving, taking, and finally, collapsing in one another’s arms, spe
nt and satisfied in a way neither had experienced before. Lying nose to nose, mouth to mouth, drinking in one another’s breath, it occurs to Kayla that she has broken her promise to be done with bikers. Now she’s back in bed with a biker. But not just a biker…a soldier and that, she tells herself, makes every difference. Tired of the constant conversation between her ears, she finally drifts off to sleep.

  Luke is confused. How can he be getting involved with a doctor…well, Physician's Assistant? She can never be a part of his world and he’ll never fit into hers. He’s not an educated man. Well, not in the same way she is. He’s a soldier and a damn good one. He can kill a man a mile away with a sniper rifle or just as easily up close and personal with a blade and he can do it without remorse.

  The army reinforced his skills every day of his life while he was training for years before his three tours in Afghanistan. They taught him to kill and to eat lunch afterwards; no qualms, no regrets. He loved the brotherhood he shared with his fellow soldiers in Afghanistan and he missed it terribly until he became a Suicide King. Well, a Suicide King the second time around.

  He was the only brother in the Kings that wasn’t initially jumped in. His father was president and he just grew up a King. After coming back from the war, he insisted he be jumped in and he’s glad he did. That move earned him the trust of even the most ruthless members. The process of joining the Kings varies from man to man and it’s the last part of a long process, beginning with becoming a hanger on.

  As a hanger on, you are allowed to hang with the brothers at the club house and go to club parties. However, you are not allowed to participate in any club meetings. You are still an outsider. After you prove yourself as a hanger on, you can become a prospect if a brother vouches for you in good standing and mentors you. That is the longest period and can take years. A prospect has all the rights a hanger on has, including being part of the club meetings and the planning of illicit activities. Prospects have the trust of the club.

  In the end, before you are patched in, you have one final assignment. For some, it means a three-minute beating at the hands of four brothers and the result is usually a hospital stay and a Suicide King’s patch. Other prospects may be required to do one final task to prove their loyalty to the club. That final task is decided on by the President, Vice President, Secretary, and the Sergeant at Arms. Luke’s final task had been a particularly gruesome one. It was discovered that one of their old ladies had been having an affair with a member of the Harbingers and had been slipping the Harbinger sensitive information about the Kings and their illicit activities. It was Luke’s job to grab her and get what information she knew out of her before killing her. It was a task ultimately suited to Luke alone and played to his strengths.

  Taking her was the easy part. After Jake learned of his old lady's betrayal, he was eager to set things right by helping the Kings capture her. Jake set the perfect trap. He knew when her lover had time off, so he deliberately went on a weapons delivery out of state to make her seize that perfect opportunity to hook up with the Harbinger.

  Another brother drove Luke to Jake’s house and sure enough the Harbinger’s bike was parked out front. People are at their deepest sleep between the times of 2:30 and 5:00 am so Luke chose to do the deed at 3:00am. He took his favorite silenced Sig Sauer 9mm and one of his favorite Emerson fixed blade knives with him. The Harbinger would find death by a bullet; one in each knee, one in the crotch, then one between the eyes. Amy wouldn’t be so lucky.

  The Harbinger’s screams woke Amy from a dead sleep. At first, she didn’t know what was going on and figured her boyfriend was having some kind of very vivid nightmare; that was until Luke shot his other knee out and blew his dick off.

  Amy begged! That right there was testament enough to her lack of character in Luke’s mind. She wasn’t brave, defiant, or at least quiet. She cried and begged for her life like a child. She was, of course, perfectly willing to throw the Harbinger under the bus. When Luke could not take any more of her pathetic begging, he fired one more bullet ending the Harbinger’s sorry life.

  It turned out Amy was a fast talker and a quick liar. It was a literal blood bath before Luke was satisfied that he knew every bit of information she had passed to the other club. At 4:45 sharp, Luke took several pictures with a burner phone and lit the four Molotov Cocktails he had brought with him. He stood in the front room, tossed the flaming bottles of gas in four strategic locations and walked out feeling really great about a job well done. He hopped into the brother’s car and thirty minutes later, his father and other King’s brass were looking at the photos and toasting the newest member to the Suicide Kings. That was four years ago.

  Chapter Eight

  Tough Love?

  “You and your father must be close,” Kayla observes one afternoon. She and Luke are kicking back at a small diner after an exhilarating ride along highway one near Stinson Beach.

  “Close?” Luke replies. “What gave you that impression?”

  “Well…he’s the president and you’re the vice president of your club, so…”

  “We’re anything but close, Kayla, and the club would be a whole lot better off if he were to step down and let me run things.”

  “Oh, wow…,” Kayla breathed. “Sorry…”

  “Let me tell you a little story here. I think it’ll help you understand why I am not particularly close to him.”

  “I like stories.”

  “Well, this one’s not your typical warm and fuzzy childhood tale, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Kayla nods her head, takes a bite of her sandwich and waits for Luke to begin. After a moment, he starts talking and Kayla notices a strange thing. It’s like an invisible shield just passed across his face. His eyes lose their trademark brilliance and his face becomes an unyielding, unreadable mask.

  It can’t be that bad, she thinks to herself, just before Luke begins speaking.

  “It was two days before my eighth birthday party and I was talking about it to my classmates during lunch recess. My dad had sent out an invitation to every single one of the twenty-three children in my second grade class, so it had seemed odd that nobody knew anything about it. After retelling the time and day of my party to them, I began to suspect that they hadn’t received their invitations yet. But the more I talked about my party, the more my classmates distanced themselves from me and by the time I got home from school, I was in tears.

  I expected to get calls from kids confirming they would be at the party, but no one called all day on Saturday. I woke up bright and early on Sunday morning. I was so excited I had barely slept a wink. I couldn’t wait to see the pile of presents on the dining room table. I wanted lots of things but mostly the Lego Millennium Falcon set. I thought I would have so much fun putting it together with my father.

  When I went downstairs for breakfast, I was a little surprised to find no presents and no decorations at all. I guessed my father would put them up before the party at two. I was in the middle of pouring my cereal when my dad came downstairs.

  “Hey little man, your father has to run into town to take care of an errand. You can make yourself a sandwich for lunch, right?” he had said.

  I nodded. I thought he was going to get my presents. It was a sunny and warm day, so when the time of the party drew nearer, I went out and sat on the curb to wait for my guests to arrive. I was a little nervous when no one seemed to show up, but I just thought they were running late. I hoped my dad would arrive with the cake before my friends came.

  When it was after 2:30, I finally left my spot on the curb and went back inside. I couldn’t deny it any longer. My party had come and gone and nobody, not even my dad, had shown up. I intended to go to my room and crawl under my covers, but as I passed by my dad’s office, I decided to take a peek. The door was usually closed and locked; but for some reason, it was open a crack that day. I pushed it open and walked in.

  The first thing I noticed was all the pictures of people and their motorcycles.
There were oodles of them. Some were kinda funny, but many were downright scary-looking. Then I noticed a pile of envelopes on my father’s desk. I picked the first one up and my heart dropped down to the bottoms of my feet. It was an invitation to Mark, one of the kids in my class. I looked at the next one. It said ‘To Holly’. I counted them; twenty-three invitations, one for each of my classmates. My father had forgotten to send them. I was sure he had forgotten it was my birthday, as well.

  It was almost five when I heard my dad’s chopper coming up the street and by the sound of it, he wasn’t alone. I ran to the living room window and looked out. Three motorcycles were pulling up to the house. I watched anxiously as my father got off his bike. He wasn’t holding any cake or decorations, let alone presents. He had forgotten my birthday altogether. I ran to my room, slammed the door and collapsed on my bed.

  After a few minutes, there was a knocking on my door, so I jumped up, excited, thinking that maybe I was wrong and I would still have a party. I opened the door, breathless with anticipation. My father did not look happy.

  'Why the hell haven’t you finished your chores? You didn’t take out the trash and there’s crap all over the place downstairs. I have guests and there are dirty dishes in the sink, breakfast dishes on the table, and I doubt you vacuumed the living room. What the hell is wrong with you?' he'd said.

  'You forgot!' I'd said.

  'What?' my dad had asked, getting angry.

  'My birthday is today and you forgot. You also forgot to send my invitations!' I had told him.

  'You were in my office? What the fuck were you doing there?' he had demanded. 'You know my office is off limits, dammit. And as to those stupid invitations, until you start doing better around here, there’s not gonna be any party; so you can just forget this birthday. How could you even think you’d get anything the way you have been acting?'

  'I told everybody in my class I was having a party today and now they’re just going to laugh at me on Monday,' I had said, bursting into tears.