Old Man's Ride: Dust Bowl Devils MC Page 2

  “You can hitch a ride with me.” I looked up at the sound of that gruff voice. I hadn’t realized Wilhelm was listening. Hell, I’d almost assumed that he’d left already. He barely glanced at me as I stopped near the door.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “LA.” It’s a big city. There’s always work in big cities.

  “I’d appreciate it,” I said.

  Bill chuckled from the counter. “She won’t appreciate it enough to repay you, though.”

  “It was an offer, Bill, not a sale,” Wilhelm said, sitting back in his seat. “Go on home, Lily. Get your things. I’ll pick you up in a couple hours.”

  I nodded and raced outside, my tears dry and my feet lighter. I was filled with a different kind of anxiety, though - butterflies. I’m riding across the desert with Wilhelm Green. I barely knew him. The thought shouldn’t excite me. But my situation suddenly felt a little less terrible.

  ---

  I stopped at the bank on my way home. My meager savings would be enough to cover my costs on the trip, so I wouldn't owe Wilhelm for more than the ride.

  I must have been in shock - I packed a backpack as if I was going on vacation, quick and efficient. I wouldn't be able to carry much more than that anyway if we were taking his bike. Then I shot off emails to the few girls I considered sort-of friends. They'd think I was crazy. Maybe I was.

  I should have been more worried about the end of the road. I should have felt worse about leaving my mom. Instead, all I could think about was hanging onto Wilhelm as we went speeding through the desert. My arms tight around his strong chest. My legs parted and aligned with his. The rumbling vibrations of his motorcycle.

  When the bell rang, I grabbed my helmet and ran out without looking over my shoulder. Without saying goodbye. I still felt like this wasn't real, like I would be back in a few days after everyone had calmed down. It was the only way I could handle thinking about it. Otherwise, I might relent and let Bill - or Sam - have me.

  But I was too stubborn for that.

  My heart jumped when I saw him waiting astride his motorcycle. It was big, painted black and purple as was the style of the club, but he was a far more impressive sight than his bike. Cool, calm, wearing a black helmet and big black sunglasses and an unreadable expression.

  "Packed light?" he asked. I showed him my purse and my backpack, and he nodded. "Hop on."

  Just like that, I was leaving my whole life behind. My home, my only family. I felt a strange pull as I climbed onto the seat behind him, like I should stop, stay home. Like I wasn't meant to leave.

  But it had to be. They pushed me out, gave me no choice. I sighed as I settled down and clipped my helmet's chin strap. Wilhelm said nothing. He revved his engine, and once my arms were locked around his waist, we took off.

  Home's pull evaporated as we crossed into unfamiliar territory. Nondescript stretches of desert whizzed by, every mile the same as the last. We didn't turn from the highway until the sun began to set, and didn't find civilization until it was nearly dark.

  He parked us in front of a tiny burger joint. The only other building nearby was the gas station, though we could see the town further up the road.

  I slid from the back of the bike and nearly fell over. He grabbed my elbow before I could land on my ass.

  "Careful. You aren't used to riding for long, you're bound to be pretty stiff."

  "You don't say." I bent my knees one at a time, working some circulation back into my legs.

  "No need to be sarcastic, honey."

  My first instinct was to respond with more sarcasm, to let him know that I didn't respond to "honey" or "sugar" or anything like it. But something stopped me. The term of endearment that would normally set my teeth on edge instead filled me with warmth and put me at ease. Maybe it was the way he said it. I kept my sarcasm to myself and instead mumbled, "Sorry. Stressful day."

  "Hungry?"

  "Yeah."

  He didn't release my elbow. Maybe he thought I was still going to fall over. I hated to admit it, but I enjoyed the contact, possessive as his grip was. I'd never been so far from home, so far from my mom, and those facts were just starting to settle in and churn my stomach. His touch kept me grounded.

  We settled across from each other in a booth. The layout of the place was similar to the diner back home. Or maybe I just couldn’t get home off my mind and saw it in everything.

  Wilhelm lit a cigarette. “Want one?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Good girl.” He took his sunglasses off and hooked them on the front of his shirt. “I heard about your little talk with Sam.”

  Oh, fuck. Wilhelm Green. Sam Green. I’d nearly forgotten that Sam was his son. I could feel the color drain from my face. What the hell must he think? I tried to play it cool. “You did?”

  He nodded. And that was all. He showed no sign of wanting to continue the conversation, but I was curious. “What did he say?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Sam’s a liar.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that. “Then why bring it up?”

  He took a long drag on his cigarette, those light green eyes studying my face until I squirmed. He’d be even more handsome if he wasn’t so cranky. Finally, he said, “I know you think you’re a real tough girl. You don’t take shit from anyone, right?” I nodded. “Well, you’re wrong. So far all I’ve seen from you is petulance. You’re going to have to get a whole lot tougher if you’re gonna make a go of it alone.”

  I gaped. His cocksure tone sent a shiver down my spine, though I boiled with indignation. “Are you serious?” He smirked. Is he just baiting me? I looked around and tried to keep my voice down. “My only options were to be a fuckhole for your son, or for the entire damn club. I’m not a piece of meat, dammit.”

  “You could have earned your place like a man.”

  “What?” Was that an option? No. That was never an option. The men had to fight. They had to spill blood. Sometimes, they had to kill. I was no weakling, but no one would mistake me for a fighter. I was a slim nineteen-year-old girl, not muscular, not even tall. And for all my bluster and bravado, I hated violence. The thought of being in a fight, of hurting somebody, made me nauseous.

  Our food arrived while I turned that thought over in my head. I ate my burger like I was starving, despite my racing mind. It had been a very long day, and even the butterflies in my stomach needed to eat to continue on.

  When the waitress delivered the check, I tried to pay my part. He pushed my money away. “You’re gonna need that at the end of the road.”

  “I’m not a charity case,” I said, glaring.

  He glared right back, cool as a cucumber. I wondered if it was even possible to push his buttons at all. “And I’m not so destitute that I can’t afford a few meals for a pretty young thing. So indulge an old man. I’m paying.”

  I blushed. He thinks I’m pretty. “Don’t let that go to your head,” he said, noticing my reaction, “From what I’ve gathered, you think highly enough of yourself already.”

  “Bastard.”

  He huffed. “I don’t tolerate that sort of lip from anyone. I’m telling you that right now. I’ll let you off the hook because it’s been a rough day for you, but that’s your last warning.”

  Or what? I wanted to ask. I wanted to keep provoking him, pull more of a reaction from him then a huff and a short speech, more than those cold, calculating looks. But I bit my tongue. Again. I’ve been doing a lot of that.

  “We’ll be staying in this town for a day or two,” he said as he stood. I followed him back outside. “I’ve got some business to attend to. You’ll wait in the motel unless I take you out, understand? You don’t go anywhere alone.”

  “What?!” That was just too much. He may have been doing me a favor, but I wasn’t his prisoner.

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “How about you ask like someone that has some manners?”

  I knew I was being deliberately shitty. I couldn’t help it. I was stressed and fa
r from home, and his calm about the whole situation was making me angry. “Care to tell me what the fuck please, sir?”

  We’d reached his bike. He paused to kick the stand up, intending to walk it to the gas station just in the next lot. He didn’t look at me as he spoke. “Oh, honey. You’re going to pay for that.”

  I followed him to the gas pumps, a few steps behind. What did he mean by “pay”? I should have taken off right then. Fact was, I wasn’t his prisoner and I wasn’t his family, and if I wanted to run screaming, no one would take his side. Hell, he might not even try to follow me. I could make my own way to LA, or to anyplace else. But something stopped me. That hint of promise in his threat. Something smoldered beneath the surface when he’d said it, and that something lit a flame in my belly and in my pants. I glared at his back, at his colors - those damn patches that stated loud and clear what motorcycle club he was in. He filled his gas tank just as calmly as ever, showing no sign that he was angry or upset with me. I watched his movements - deliberate. Patient. He was like an old oak tree, or a boulder. There were few storms in this world that could knock him over. I doubted anything I could throw at him would move him at all.

  I waited outside while he paid, watching him walk to the store and back. Long strides, but no rush. He swung a leg over the bike and nodded towards me, indicating that it was time to go. I could hitchhike. I could find a bus. I could ask for a job in the burger joint and never leave this block. I climbed on behind him and clasped my trembling hands around his waist.

  ---

  He made me wait outside while he reserved our room at the single-story motel on the edge of town. One room.

  I thought I’d hyperventilate as I followed him to the door. The closer we got, the more vulnerable I felt. We’d be isolated inside. I’d been alone with him in the desert, but that was on the open road. This was just a tiny room. It felt lonelier than the vast expanses of dust and cacti.

  I followed him inside anyway. It went against my better judgment, my sense of self-righteousness, my anger. I shivered. Whatever was happening, I wanted it.

  He didn’t let me speculate for long. As soon as the door was shut, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me to the bed. “What the hell are you doing?” I squealed as he tore my backpack away. He manhandled me expertly, spinning me around to free the pack, his grip firm but not painful. Strong, though; pulling away would be futile.

  “You were warned,” he said. “You’re going to learn to keep a tighter reign on that mouth of yours.” Spinning again, I hardly realized what was happening before he was seated on the edge of the bed, and I was bent over his knees, one arm twisted behind my back. Fear coursed through me, but at the same time, excitement. Anticipation. The dangerous old biker had me at his mercy. And part of me didn’t mind at all.

  His hand came down on my ass. I should have expected it, prone across his legs as I was. Still, I yelped in surprise. Did that seriously just happen? My eyes watered as the delayed stinging sensation hit me. And my pussy heated. That was even more unexpected than the blow. I held my breath.

  “You’re going to accept your punishment?” he asked. He sounded a little surprised, but no one was more surprised than me. I nodded.

  His hand came down again with a muted smack against my jeans. I whined as the sting washed over me, but I held still.

  “You’ll keep that sass to yourself for as long as you’re traveling with me.”

  “I will.” My voice sounded high to my own ears. Different.

  Another hard smack made me cry out and jump. And then another. The only sound in the tiny room were his smacks and my cries and labored breathing. My ass felt like it was on fire. He really wasn’t holding back - and if he was, that was even scarier. I could almost sense bruises forming with each blow, feel my ass growing redder as my panties grew wetter. The pain and the growing need were too much - I couldn’t control myself. I moved my hips against him, seeking contact, pressure, anything at all to relieve that hot ache between my legs.

  “Jesus,” he breathed. Another blow landed, and his time his hand remained on the stinging globe of my ass, squeezing, kneading. It hurt, and it felt so good at the same time. I moaned.

  “I’ll be good,” I panted, “I’m sorry.” That didn’t sound like me at all. It felt like something had been unleashed inside of me, one blow at a time. Something I’d been fighting, but I didn’t want to fight anymore.

  “You damn well better be good,” he growled. He released my arm. “Stand up. Back to me.”

  What now? I obeyed automatically, wiping tears from my eyes. “Pull your pants below your ass and put your hands on the dresser.” He wanted to inspect his handiwork. I did as he asked, feeling terribly exposed. I could feel goosebumps raising all over my skin as I bared my reddened ass to him. Palms on the dresser, I reminded myself to breath and squeezed my eyes shut. Just how much does he want to see? If I shifted, he’d see the pink skin of my sex. Hell, he could probably already see the wet spot on my panties, smell my arousal on the air. I could smell it.

  The rough pads of his fingers traced around the fiery skin of my ass. Gentle as he was, it felt like sandpaper on the raw skin. I gasped and moaned as he brushed across one globe, then the other. I could hear his breathing hitch.

  “Goddamn” he breathed. His fingers dipped lower still, just grazing my wetness. I squirmed against his touch, desperate for more. He pushed my pants lower. “Look at you. You’re loving this.” His other hand came down on my ass again, and I cried out. He didn’t strike as hard against my bare skin, but I was already bruised and sensitive. My cry was cut off as his fingers plunged deep inside my eager channel.

  I couldn’t believe he was doing this. I especially couldn’t believe my reaction. I moaned and wailed as he reigned another round of open-palmed slaps upon my ass, and as he pumped one and then two fingers inside. I rocked against him with each thrust; my inner walls squeezed his fingers as I tensed with each blow.

  “You like this?” he asked, “You think you deserve this?”

  “Yes,” I gasped, “I deserve to be punished. Ahh…” I was rocked against the cheap motel furniture as he finger fucked me. “Punishment” wasn’t supposed to feel so incredible. Would he be mad if I came? I was close, but I was afraid of his reaction.

  “Damn right you do.” The slaps stopped. His fingers rooted painfully deep inside, pushing me higher up against the dresser, with my face against the wall. He leaned close to my ear and growled, “You need this. You need to be fucked.”

  “Oh, please, Wilhelm!”

  His fingers withdrew and surged back inside with vicious force. I cried out. “It’s Nomad. Or it’s Mr. Green. Say it.”

  “Please, Mr. Green.”

  “I will. Eventually. I’ll fuck you long, and slow, and as hard as you need.” His fingers curled inside me, and with deliberately slow motions, he stroked my g-spot. “But not yet.” His other hand snaked around the front of my thigh. “Now, come for me. I have work to do.” He stroked my clit with a calloused thumb.

  Just like that, his gruff words and rough treatment made me come. I wailed as my pussy convulsed around his fingers, as waves of pleasure and pain sent my head spinning to heights I didn’t know were possible. My whole world tilted.

  His fingers still worked inside of me, drawing my orgasm out longer as I squeezed him tight with each pulse. When I finally returned to earth, he withdrew his fingers and stepped away. I regretted his abrupt absence. I wanted to remain as we were, where I could feel the heat radiating from his body, feel his breath against my neck.

  But he stepped back. I turned, tugging my pants up. The air in the room changed. The electric spark was replaced by something colder. He turned away from me. “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be back before sunup.” He slipped inside the bathroom and slammed the door. Did he just sound… sad?

  Despite my exhaustion, I knew my troubled thoughts would keep me awake all night. What the hell had just happened? What did this mean?

  I wiped m
y eyes. Wilhelm - Mr. Green - definitely didn’t seem interested in talking about it just then. I’d bite my tongue. I’d at least wait until he did what he had to do and returned in the morning.

  I kicked off my shoes and jeans, slid my bra off, and crawled into bed. The sound of the shower running lulled me to sleep. I never even heard him leave. I must have been more tired than I realized. That or the storm of new emotions raging in my chest wore me right out. Maybe I could process them better once I was rested.

  ---

  When I woke up later, I woke with a start. I had no sense of where I was, or when it was. Something had pulled me out of a deep sleep.

  That something was a hand on my back.

  "What..."

  "Shh. Just me."

  "Who?"

  "Nomad."

  The day rushed back to me. I tried to sit up, but he pressed me back down. "Sun's not up yet. Go back to sleep." Then why wake me? Just to check on me? My cheeks heated at the memory of what we'd done. My ass was still raw, and it stung when I moved, but I wasn’t really hurt or injured.

  "I'm okay," I said.

  "Good." He stroked my hair, and I sighed contentedly. I didn't think the old man could be so gentle. "You're a good girl. I shouldn't have hit you so hard. Or done... Well. I apologize. I'm old enough to be your father and then some."

  What did his age have to do with it? "I'm fine," I said, rolling onto my side so I could see him. "It's fine." He avoided my eyes. Shit, why the hell does he feel bad? It didn't seem like him.

  I noticed then the bruise on his jaw. I jumped up, surprised at my own alarmed reaction. Why should I give a damn what happens to him? He's just my ride. "What happened?" I asked, touching the discolored skin. It hurt to sit, so I knelt next to him on the bed.

  "It's nothing."

  There wasn't any blood, so whatever fight he'd been in couldn't have been that serious.