Road Runner's Ride Read online

  Road Runner’s Ride

  Rebel Wayfarers MC

  #12.5

  Also includes Never Settle, RWMC #10.5

  MariaLisa deMora

  Edited by Hot Tree Editing

  Cover image by Eric Battershell Photography

  Models: Alex Boivin and Marie Eve

  Cover design: Debera Kuntz

  Copyright © 2015-2017 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 2015

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9983267-8-8

  DEDICATION

  To those friends who accept us as we are, warts and all.

  Missin’ me some Dino. He would have loved this side of Road Runner. Loved it hard. Ride in paradise, my friend. Miss you more every day.

  Contents

  ROAD RUNNER’S RIDE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  NEVER SETTLE

  One - Fran

  Two - Goose

  Three - Fran

  Four - Goose

  Five - Goose

  Six - Fran

  Seven - Goose

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A chorus of ‘thank yous’ go out to those Doms who graciously granted me an opportunity to step inside their world, in the somewhat limited fashion I would allow, in order to provide me the benefit of their earned knowledge and experiences. I appreciate the gifts given me, and thank you for the time and effort you’ve taken to ensure I got it right. Special thanks for Michael McT, genius Dominant. He gave the best explanation I’ve ever heard of what makes a good Dom: “A good dominant is whatever his submissive needs, and will know what his submissive needs even without their request, because in them he sees the desire that magnifies his own.”

  Woofully yours,

  ~ML

  Road Runner’s Ride

  Chapter One

  Chicago

  Kevin Hartley stared at the woman seated across the table from him, knowing his face was twisted in anger and embarrassment. This is exactly why I don’t do relationships, he thought, watching as she dissolved into crocodile tears. So much for hoping a public setting would keep her from making a scene. Mimi had never met a tantrum she was afraid to throw, and this one would likely be epic. Especially since his words meant she wasn’t going to get what she wanted.

  “What do you mean, I can’t come with you?” Her voice rose in pitch, capturing the attention of everyone at the nearby tables. “You’re going to Paris, for God’s sake.” This was a near shriek, and he closed his eyes.

  Maybe if I pretend hard enough, she won’t be there when I open them, he thought, seeing a vision of red slippers for a moment. The private joke caught him off guard, and he made the mistake of snickering. He only allowed a single snort to escape, then clamped down on his humor. It was only one, and it was quiet, but she caught it. Of course, she did.

  “Why are you laughing at me?” She had moved past shrieking and was now well into wailing territory, and he waited, eyes closed, confident the restaurant’s manager would be the next voice he heard.

  “Madame.” The smooth voice came as if on cue. Bingo. “Is there something wrong?” With a sick feeling in his gut, he knew that when he opened his eyes, everyone would be looking at him. Because, of course, it had to be the big, mean man’s fault the precious, pretty lady was crying. It couldn’t be her own selfishness driving the noise levels. Surely, that could only be the product of betrayal from the male at the table.

  Okay, he thought, time to try to contain the toxic spill. Save the chefs and children first. He was aware his internal dialog wasn’t providing the most enthusiastic pep talk he could have hoped for, but honestly, it was the best he could muster. Mimi’s posturing frustrated him to no end, and he desperately wanted to maintain his cool, because his good news didn’t deserve to be polluted with aggravation.

  She hadn’t always been this abrasive. He could remember a time only a year ago when they would not have been seated across the table from each other, but would have been pressed tightly side-by-side. During their meal, it would have been a toss-up to decide whose hand would disappear underneath the tablecloth first, touching and teasing the other to a quiet orgasm, no one the wiser.

  Her small hand, working at the fastenings of his pants with a sure touch. Then his breath would catch at the feel of her soft fingertips sliding down the planes of his stomach and into his briefs, the backs of her fingers trailing up the length of his already hard cock. Moving only her hand and wrist, jacking him to completion, a napkin strategically placed to contain the evidence of her mastery of his desire. The struggle to keep his breathing even, to answer the waiter’s questions, to remain silent instead of voicing his pleasure.

  “Mimi, please, don’t cause a scene,” he muttered, opening his eyes to see not only the manager but also the maître d’hôtel and their waiter all clustered near her chair, granting her their support. Obviously ain’t no bros before hos in this establishment. He snickered again at the incongruous thought of Mimi being a ho. No, she would never stoop to that. Now, a high-priced escort? Sure, she would contemplate that if it brought her enough money. Or a trip to Paris.

  “Don’t make a scene? Kevin, please.” She swept her hand out, knuckles smacking the poor waiter right in the Johnson. Kevin winced as the man bent double, sucked in a breath, and then quietly, tastefully turned green. No other way to do it in this kind of joint, he thought, but tasteful teabagging is a skill I do not want the chance to develop. Mimi, oblivious, churned on. “You tell me you’re leaving me and I’m not supposed to make a scene?”

  “Slight exaggeration, don’t you think, Mims? I can’t be leaving you if we’re not a couple, and if I remember correctly, we haven’t been a couple since you dumped me six months ago. On my twenty-third birthday.” With some validation, he noted the men moving slightly away from her, but then snorted again when he realized he wasn’t sure if it was in support of him, or because she was again throwing her arms around. “You only asked me to lunch—” He glared around at the occupants of the nearby tables. Yeah, she asked me to lunch, and then I get this crap when I give in and agree to show. Finishing his thought, he said, “—because you heard I was accepted into the program.”

  “Le Cordon Bleu,” she breathed, and he nodded, pleased when all three men turned to look at him. Less pleased when he recognized the distinct looks of surprise on each face. Yeah, that’s right, this giant oaf got into the most prestigious cooking school in the world. He knew they saw his size more than who he really was. “Paris,” she continued, emphasizing the word reverently, and that right there was the reason for the tantrum today.

  “Yes, to both,” he said. “And no, you won’t be going with me. I’m astonished you’d even ask.” Pushing back from the table, he motioned to the waiter. “You have my card on file, please place whatever charge there is from today.” He ge
stured to the still-empty table, devoid of anything except their still-unfilled water glasses. “Tip yourself, but don’t go big, I’m a student, remember?”

  “Surely you aren’t simply going to leave me sitting here, are you?” She actually asked this question. He could not have begged her for a more deadpan delivery of what he considered the best straight line in the world.

  “Yes, I’m leaving you here. And, please, don’t call me Shirley,” he said, turning and walking out of the restaurant and onto the busy Chicago sidewalk. With a glance, he took in the building across the street; modern in design, it was all glass and chrome, and several stories tall. The name on the building, Mason Corporation, etched in the granite over the glass doors.

  There was a roaring sound that seemed to come from right on top of him; startled, he jumped backwards as nine or ten motorcycles rode up the street. One column of the bikes close enough to the sidewalk he could have reached out and touched the riders’ shoulders as they passed. With envious eyes, he watched them moving along, going to the next intersection and turning left, quickly pulling out of sight. That was something he had always wanted to do, learn to ride a bike. If I do well enough in Paris, he thought, that can be my reward. I’ll buy myself a bike and join a gang. He snickered again, but thankfully, this time, Mimi wasn’t around to hear him.

  Chapter Two

  Paris

  “No, no, no,” the instructor thundered, and Kevin looked up, wincing in sympathy for the student at the preparation area near the front of the room. This was the fifth time she had been called upon to demonstrate in the class today, and—unfortunately for her—for the fifth time she had failed to perform up to the instructor’s expectations.

  This wasn’t a technically difficult recipe; they were preparing a crème anglaise to use in another recipe. The sweet custard was the base for the cake they would be making in the next part of the class and was the easiest component of the recipe. Unless you count hulling the strawberries, he mused, whisking a precise measurement of hot milk into his mixture.

  “Monsieur Hartley, would you be so kind as to explain what Mademoiselle Gandall has done wrong?” Oh great, now the instructor was calling on him. His least favorite thing in the world, being the center of attention.

  Lifting his eyes from the bowl in front of him, he stared across the room at the woman standing there, her face slowly turning red. “The heat Miss Gandall used to prepare the milk was not quite enough. The milk and vanilla must be fully boiling before it is whisked into the eggs and sugar,” he said in his not-quite-fluent French. In the months since coming to Paris, he had picked up more than enough to manage the classes or kitchen coursework. Still, each time he opened his mouth the instructors winced, and he knew they found his accent offensive. He just couldn’t get his mouth to make the sounds the way they did. “Ignorant American” was something he had gotten accustomed to hearing.

  “Correct,” the instructor said, turning to look at the poor young woman down the length of his highly elevated nose. “You will begin again.” Her cheeks now flaming, she held her head high, chin lifted as she nodded in response. Discarding the ingredients in her bowl and wiping it clean, she prepared to begin again. And again. And again.

  Four hours later, the instructor released the class after reminding them of their cuisson devoirs, the homework they needed to complete before attending class again the next morning. Kevin dutifully straightened his assigned area, only becoming aware that he wasn’t alone when he turned to leave the room. He was startled to see the woman still standing at her area, staring down. There was a single piece of flat paper lying in front of her on the countertop, and he frowned, his stomach clenching in sympathy for her because he knew what it probably was.

  “You got called up?” He stepped closer to her, looking down to see that yes, it was a summons to the school’s office. Ability to pay, while important, was not the primary criteria for continued attendance at this school. Their reputation was such that there were always many applicants on the wait list. This made it so if a student wasn’t making the grade, or if an instructor felt they were not going to represent the school favorably, they could quickly be replaced by one with greater aptitude or promise plucked from the list. Being called up to the office always seemed to be the first step down that road.

  “It might not be what you think,” he said encouragingly, lowering his voice. “I was sent to Madrid for a month last year. The letter for that looked just like the one you have here.”

  He wasn’t lying. The stationary was the same. However, his letter had held the information in the first paragraph that an opening had become available at the school in Spain for a recommended course. So, he had gone to Madrid for two months, immersing himself in precise pastry preparation techniques. Attempting to focus on regional disciplines in order to master Spanish dishes, all the while trying to learn yet another language, falling back on his stilted French when he failed to make his labored Spanish understood. Successful completion of the course meant he returned to Paris with an extra notch in his belt, and immediately rewarded himself with the purchase of a motorcycle.

  “This isn’t a letter telling me I’m good enough to go to Spain,” she said in English. He was so shocked at her usage, it felt as if he had to switch language gears in his head. Kevin had been exclusively speaking French long enough he no longer had to translate before he opened his mouth, and now, speaking English aloud just sounded damned odd in these rooms, under this roof. Sacrilegious, somehow. Blasphemous. “Don’t look so stupefied, Mr. Hartley. I don’t think I’ll have a reason to be competently conversant in French for much longer.”

  There was a hitch in her voice, and he gritted his teeth. He knew what it felt like to have your dreams pulled away, yanked out from under your feet like the tattered remains of a worn-out rug. Becoming a chef, that had always been his dream job. After high school, he had worked every job that would hire him, from security to construction, putting every cent aside that he could for school. He counted every penny, stretching dollars until they screamed, cooking every meal for himself in an effort to both save money and keep up the limited skills his foods instructor had instilled in him.

  Then his mother got sick, and Kevin stopped working to assist in caring for her. He moved home, where he and his father switched off days, taking her to treatments and appointments. The collapse had started small, just him helping out by dipping into his savings to make a house payment, buy medicine, or pay for the doctor. Slowly, drip by drip, the demands had worn away at the money in the bank until at the end, there was barely enough to pay for her funeral.

  He didn’t begrudge any of it and would do it again in a moment if the need was there, if it would help keep his mother on this earth just a little longer. However, it had meant no Paris for him, no cooking school, and no career path. For more than a year after her death, he had slogged on that way. Working whatever jobs came available, but without the drive he had before. Off track. Then one day, his father kickstarted his dream again, much as Kevin started his bike.

  “Boy,” his father said, staring across the table. “Your mom would be one upset woman. She’d be hot, all over mad at me if I didn’t speak my mind.” They were sitting at the dining room table, and his father had just polished off a second serving of the cake Kevin made for dessert. “You need to go, son.”

  “Go where, Dad?” Distracted from the conversation, he looked at the cake and an idea struck him about how to plate it. If he were cooking somewhere, he would do this…

  He reached out and sliced the thinnest sliver of cake possible, then dragged the container of fresh, heavy whipped cream towards his plate, using the bowl of the spoon to create a pattern of cream on the plate before positioning the cake in the middle. He then scooped more whipped cream and swirled a dollop onto the edge of the cake, lifting the cream into a peak. Voila, he thought, glancing up at his dad and freezing in place at the look on his face.

  “Paris” was the only word spoken, and Kev
in slowly shook his head.

  “No can do, Dad,” he said, picking up his fork and looking at the cake, thinking it unexpectedly looked dry and tasteless. Ruined. “I have a two-month contract for the Mallets security still to complete. Then, I’ve promised the preacher I’d help his son out with that construction job. Paris isn’t in the cards for me this year.”

  “Next year is yours, boy,” his dad said gruffly, and Kevin nodded, knowing it wouldn’t be in the cards for him next year, either. Especially if he decided to begin dating Mimi. She’d be high maintenance, take a wad of cash to woo. He jumped when his father slammed a fist onto the tabletop, roaring words that echoed around the small room. “Don’t do that. Don’t patronize me. I know what you did, son, and this is when you let me make it right. We get a schedule, look at what’ll be needed, and we’ll sort through things. A boy shouldn’t have to give up his dream the way you have. If your mom knew…” He paused and cleared his throat. “Let me make it right.”

  When his father put it like that, Kevin didn’t have a chance at refusing him. Shaking his head, he reached across the table, covering the clenched, quivering fist with his big palm. “Okay,” he murmured, gaze locking on his father. After a long moment, his dad nodded, breaking their stare. If it could, if it were meant to be, they would work together to make it happen.

  He thought, I might not be able to fix it, but at least I can offer her a friend. “Kevin,” he introduced himself softly, reaching out and holding his hand steady, perpendicular to the floor. “Please, call me Kevin.”

  With a weak and watery smile, she reached out, touching her palm to his and he felt a zap clear down to his groin. That electric connection made his cock stand up and take notice, and he narrowed his eyes, looking at her. He had a sudden vision of her kneeling in front of him, his hands twisted tightly in her hair. Her mouth would be hot around him, hands bracing and balancing against his thick thighs as he moved her. Her moans around his cock would vibrate through him. As if it were a movie, he saw his head thrown back, her head bobbing back and forth in front of his groin, taking him to the back of her throat, deep and fast.