Biker Chick Campout (Rebel Wayfarers MC)
Biker Chick Campout
Rebel Wayfarers MC
Story #8.5
MariaLisa deMora
Copyright © 2016 MariaLisa deMora
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.
First Published 2016
ISBN-13: 978-0-9967486-2-9
DEDICATION
To my son, who amazes me every day with his capacity for love and life: Love ya, bubba.
BIKER CHICK CAMPOUT
The segregated circles in which motorcycle club princesses and prospective members travel seldom collide. When they do, if romance is involved, it can be an improbable match at best.
Carmela Estavez is tired. Tired of being the princess, she’s had enough of never living up to family expectations, and she is seriously fed up with people watching her every move. Riding her motorcycle cross-country to meet up with friends, she’s ditched her daddy-mandated escort and is ready to spread her wings and fly. She just hopes she doesn’t crash and burn in the process.
Justin Youngblood has wanted to be a member of the Rebel Wayfarers MC for as long as he can remember. Hurley, as he’s not-so-fondly known, is powering through his prospect period, but not always on the right side of his brothers in the club. This means that at nearly a year into his tryout, he’s still getting slapped with the punishment details. This weekend is a perfect example, chaperoning a hen’s party in the middle of nowhere that won’t get him any points with anyone.
Then what looked to be a boring weekend turned into the ride of his life when in rolled a honey-skinned beauty. He’s supposed to be on guard duty, not on the prowl, but there’s just something about this one. She’s got trouble written all over her, and if there’s something he likes, it’s getting into trouble.
Contents
Biker Chick Campout
Thank you
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Originally written as a short story for the charity anthology Biker Chicks: An Anthology of Hot MC Romance, what you are reading now is a much-expanded version. In the original short story, we saw everything from Carmela Estavez’ perspective. Now, we have a window into Justin Youngblood’s world, and I hope you like what you see.
Enjoy!
Woofully yours,
~ML
Biker Chick Campout
Hurley
“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” Justin Youngblood ground his teeth together in irritation when his brain belatedly caught up with his mouth, and he realized he’d spoken those words aloud. Snapping his lips shut on the mutter that was just barely underneath his breath, he froze in place, hoping no one had heard. Quickly tipping his chin down, he broke the stare he’d been directing towards his chapter president.
Not good. Not good, Justin’s head supplied about five seconds too late. This was something he already knew because the vibe in the room had gotten heavy, the air thick, hard to breathe. That shit happened when you had fifteen pissed off alpha males in the same space. Time for damage control. “Sorry, brother. Respect. More than willing to do whatever’s needed, Slate, but you sure I’m the one you want in that van?”
Justin had just been informed he would be the sole escort for a weekend bash some of the brothers’ old ladies were planning. The timing sucked, because recent chatter across the entire club was about a possible rollout to Indy, and maybe beyond, depending on how things shook out. The call was expected any day, which meant if this bullshit assignment stuck to him, he would be in the woods on the western edge of the state and not in place to make a play.
And he needed to make a play.
Said play would be calculated so he’d be part of something important, the success of which would help solidify his place in the club. It had to be big. Bigger than this girls’ night out party, for sure. He groused silently, Get stuck with this, gonna be a fuckin’ perpetual prospect. I need a real chance to show the club what I can do.
Rebel Wayfarers MC were his family. A true family for him, and had been for years. But, things had stalled since he’d sewn on the prospect patch, and lately, it felt as if he was skirting a little farther away into the weeds instead of drawing closer to the inner circle. One fuckin’ chance, is that too much to ask? Every major run the club dealt with seemed to happen when he wasn’t around, and that kind of repeated slight looked intentional, which cemented his feelings.
He knew from the sympathetic looks turned his way he wasn’t the only one under the impression the old guys were keeping him at arms-length. His instincts said those men still thought of him as the snot-nosed kid who’d been running around the clubhouses and garages since before he was old enough to grow a beard. He reached up, stroking across his cheeks, feeling the rough stubble of a five o’clock shadow. Put the lie to that every day, he thought, now if the OGs would just pay goddamned attention to what’s right in front of their faces.
“Prospect.” A warning growl whipped through the air, the curt tone drawing a stinging line down his ego, as intended. That would be Gunny, the member he most looked up to. A man who was mentoring him, bringing him along and making sure Justin didn’t fuck up too badly. He’d given Justin his road name, too, after a particularly bad night of celebration. Not a name he’d expected—or liked at first—but regardless the origin, he’d embraced it in a way that made certain everyone understood his pride. “First, his title is president, not brother. When he tells you to do something, that’s who’s speaking. Second, and do not mistake this as being less important, Hurley, tell me you did not just disrespect our prez?”
“Unintentional, SAA.” Hurley backpedaled, hating every second of moments like this because he knew it would look exactly like what it was: him trying to save face. A tactic to which he seemed to resort far too often. Gunny was the Fort’s sergeant at arms, and he drilled protocol and rules into Hurley all the time. Just didn’t seem to stick. “Respect, Gunny.” Gotta watch my alligator mouth, he thought, feeling the eyes of every man in the room on him. Hurley consciously straightened his shoulders, standing taller, determined to pull every inch he owned into play. “If there’s a need, I’m all over it.”
“No shit, Sherlock? Jesus. You want my gratitude for givin’ me that? Fuck me. Hurley, there’s a need, or I wouldn’t have fucking said I needed you to roll the van to Chi-town for a fuckin’ pickup.” Slate, the Fort Wayne chapter president and a man who wasn’t Hurley’s biggest fan, glared at him. Somehow between when Slate took over from Bingo here in the Fort four years ago, and nine months ago when Hurley patched into the club, he’d managed to run afoul of the man no less than a half a dozen times.
Slate glared across the bar to where Hurley stood. It was Hurley’s night to serve as a waitress to club members. Not something he enjoyed, but an assignment was an assignment. And that’s how you need to look at this fuckin’ campout. An assignment. Nothing more, nothing less. Not any kind of a slur or dig; just another meaningless task to complete in his efforts to earn full membership in the club. Hurley swallowed, his mouth suddenly full of acid as the thought of failure loomed.
Shaking his head, Slate snapped, “Pros, you should know by now that I ain’t gonna explain my fuckin’ ass every fuckin’ time I tell you something. I say it, you do it. It’s a simple fuckin’ exchange. What you don’t do is bow up and get your panties in a twist e
very fuckin’ time someone opens their goddamned mouth.” Slate shook his head. “You’re gonna have to bury that shit,” he paused, and Hurley would understand why when the words he most dreaded were finally spoken, “or you ain’t gonna make the cut, man.”
Threat delivered, Slate stared at him. With difficulty, Hurley stood his ground and held Slate’s gaze until the corners of his president’s eyes crinkled, signaling Slate had moved past the moment and was sliding away from pissed. That was how Slate and most of the men in the club handled things. Once something was in the past, it was forgotten unless you fucked up again. Until, he corrected himself with an inward wince.
“DeeDee’s sortin’ all kinds of shit for the trip. Talk to her, let her know if she’s bein’ unreasonable.” DeeDee was Slate’s mother-in-law, and a long-time Rebel old lady, having been hooked up with one of the founders of the Fort Wayne chapter. Hurley remembered Winger fondly and was glad DeeDee had found herself a life after losing both her husband, and her daughter, Lockee, to an accident. She remained immersed in the club, managing one of the businesses, and was now old lady to a newer member, Captain. Without saying the words, Slate was telling him even if she was an RWOL, DeeDee wasn’t in charge. This had the pleasant effect of giving Hurley a tiny sliver of his manhood back, even while acknowledging that she’d probably be busting his balls. Hard.
“You got it, Prez.” Hurley tried to imbue the title with respect and love and brotherhood, all rolled into one, and knew his brother understood everything Hurley was trying to say when Slate stepped forward, reaching out. Hurley met his grip, letting himself be pulled into a clinch, careful to steer clear of the center patch on Slate’s vest when he thumped with one fist. Not his place, not yet. Only patched members should handle the colors that every man worked his ass off to earn, and Hurley hadn’t made it that far. Not yet.
Slate stepped back, and with a tip of his head called Gunny and the other officers through the door behind the bar. Business afoot no doubt, and Hurley stuck behind the fucking bar for the night.
Tomorrow he’d have a chat with DeeDee and see just how screwed he was gonna be on this little safari. Didn’t matter what anyone said, he knew up front it wasn’t going to be anywhere near worth his time, because sitting in a forest listening to the bitches play their games wasn’t within spitting distance of anything he wanted to do. And with DeeDee, you never knew what to expect. He’d known her a long time, and she could be up for a lot of things. He’d suspected he’d get an inkling of her plans from whatever shopping list she’d thrown together, and then be able to sort out what he wanted to push back on from there.
“Pros.” He heard his—please God—temporary title called and looked over at the pool tables to see a group of members looking his way. Worm, another of the many long-time members, that very longevity a tribute to the worth and value men found in the club, waggled an empty bottle his way, calling, “Beer, bitch.” With a nod Hurley bent back to his tasks for the evening, pulling three bottles from the cooler stashed behind the bar and slipping a bottle opener from the back pocket of his jeans.
“On it, brother,” he called.
***
“She’s gonna try to piss you off, but don’t let her get to you.” That was DeeDee speaking from behind him as they wound their way through aisle after aisle of the grocery store. She’d laid claim to his assistance the minute Slate passed the word along, and the past couple of days it seemed all Hurley had time to do was tend to chick business and listen to her talk. Right now she was yammering on about Ruby, Slate’s old lady, but she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Slate’s dislike of him had bled through to his woman, and Ruby expressed that dislike every chance she had. Vigorously.
DeeDee spoke again, still out of sight. “She’s been cooped up with the twins. ‘Course that’s her own fault, having four kids all in diapers at the same time.” Her tone changed, turned musing when she asked, “What was she thinking? Four kids that close together? Crazy momma.” A sigh, then she called out, “Hold on. Stop here, let me look.” Brushing past him as he rolled to a slow stop, she reached out to the shelves and grabbed a couple of cans, tossing them into the cart. “You just gotta hold your cool. Gotta let her do her thing, Hurley. She’ll burn out fast.”
Turning to look at him, the expression on DeeDee’s face softened as she registered his displeasure; she appeared almost regretful. “Don’t look like that, honey.” Carefully he blanked his features, wiping away the sneer he was sure he’d been wearing. “You know this is an honor, right?” She was another who had known him his whole life. Shit, he’d only stopped calling her Mama Dee a couple of years past. No doubt she thinks it’s a fine assignment for a piddly little prospect.
“Yeah, right. Sure I do.” Pushing past her, he leaned his forearms to the cart handle and continued up the aisle. “Where to next, DeeDee?” No sound of following footsteps so he paused and glanced back to see her still planted, unmoving. Rolling his eyes, he asked, “What?”
She stared at him for a long moment before stating firmly, “You know who I am. You know who Ruby is. You better have learned about Mica and the rest of the gals from Chicago by now, and I know the boys are long on history, so I trust you have. So how exactly do you see this as beneath you?” Head tipping to one side, she sighed heavily. “You see us as unimportant? We’re just the old ladies, so no big. Ain’t no thang, right?” He straightened and opened his mouth to speak, but DeeDee raised her voice, cutting him off.
“Club first, we all know that. Every woman who hooks her life and love to a man in a club gets where she stands. And she only stands there for as long as she remembers. Try to make a man choose, you might not like the choice he makes. But we women,” —she gestured to herself— “we also know that we make your lives easier. We know that we matter. We know our men worry and fret, and the less reason we give them to do that, the more they can focus on staying healthy and making good decisions. Every time Slate or Jase roll out there’s a chance they won’t come back, and my job is to make it so they have one less thing to worry about. If you,” —her hand swept out, not quite finger-pointing, but it was close— “think that’s not worth your time, if you believe that making it so our men worry less is so far beneath you, then you should petition to stay at home. Us old ladies? Honey, we don’t want you. Don’t want you and sure as hell don’t need you, except as our men feel you are necessary. You go on now, walk away,” —hands to her hips, head tipped far to the other side— “I got this.”
Shaking his head, he tipped his chin down as he told her, “You’re a pain in my ass. When did you turn into a drama mama?”
“Isn’t me pulling a drama in the middle of a grocery store.” She denied her tirade, and he laughed, looking up to find her grinning at him. “Gonna help an old lady out?”
His answer was to ask, “What’s next on your long-ass list of things to do?”
Carmela
Following the cone of her headlight through the deepening dusk, she guided the bike down the country road, steering carefully around the sweeps and curves. The bright light of a bonfire shone through the trunks of the trees lining the road, and she smiled at the sight. Navigating the final turn, she slowed to a crawl, dropping her feet to balance the bike as she braked to a stop. This was the first of what she hoped would be many annual girls’ weekends, and she had been looking forward to having a chance to talk, really have conversations with the women she saw already gathered around the fire and camping spaces in the clearing ahead.
Heads had popped up at the sound of her engine, and she mentally counted off the women, putting names to faces as they appeared. Standing next to two bikes near a partially erected tent was DeeDee Spencer, a longtime biker babe from Fort Wayne. In a space adjacent to her stood a petite blonde and a striking black woman, Jessica Nalan, and her girlfriend, Brandy Still. It looked like those two had ridden down together on Brandy’s cherry red crotch rocket. Opening the bike’s throttle a little, she continued roundi
ng the clearing in a broad sweep, pulling up next to three bikes parked in a neat row. These would belong to the other women from Chicago, Mica Rupert, her sister Molly Scott, and their friend Kathy Montcell.
Carmela Estavez shifted into neutral and then carefully pushed her bike backwards onto the concrete pad, toeing down the kickstand and killing the engine before she tipped the bike over onto the support. Taking off her jacket, she folded and draped it over her handlebars, rolling her wrists and stretching out her forearms. Looking around, with a broad, welcoming smile she nodded at the women coming her way. “Hola, mi amigas,” she called happily, lifting her leg over the seat just in time to be engulfed in a hug from first one, then another of the women. Passed rapidly from one set of arms to another, she found herself finally at rest, tucked into a lean body, and she looked up, grinning. “DeeDee,” she said, “so happy to see you, mama.”
One hand smoothing her hair, she heard DeeDee say, “Good to see you, too, honey. We were starting to worry when you weren’t here by sundown.”
“Give her to me.” This shout came from behind her, and she turned in DeeDee’s arms, knowing to whom that voice belonged. Headed her direction was a determined-looking redhead. Carmela twisted, holding out her arms in welcome, as they wrapped each other up in a hug. When the affectionate greeting came, it was soft as a wish. “Maria Luisa Carmela Estavez, I’m so glad you were able to come.”
“Ruby Melanie Davidson Jones.” Her own voice was rough with emotion. “I’m so glad I could make it, too.” She stepped back, her hands dropping to Ruby’s wrists, holding on to that connection. “Lookin’ good, little mama. Who knew popping out two babies at a time would make you even more beautiful. Oh yeah, baby. You’ll find out if you look this good with four kids, your old man’s gonna keep you busy-busy, chica.”