Becca Vs. Biker

t I did to piss him or her or it off, but I’ve about had it. A nice, long stay in a hospital, where they give you sleeping pills and Oxycodone sounds like a fucking vaycay at this point. So, bring it on.”

I finally finish, panting, and stare at him, mentally daring him. He’s just staring back at me, speechless, and I realize in a small part of my brain that he probably didn’t expect this reaction when he decided to hijack me. But whatever. I don’t even care.

“Listen lady,” he finally growls, and my stomach flips unexpectedly at the sound. God, he may be a hijacker and a biker and an all-around bad dude, but that didn’t mean he isn’t sexy as fuck. Especially the deep timbre of his voice. I think I could listen to him all day long. “I don’t have time for this. I have to get into the city. Are you going to move over into the passenger seat or what?”

“Gladly,” I say, throwing the minivan into park and moving over. Hell, it isn’t my minivan. I pay enough in insurance every week that whatever this jackass does to the van will be covered. Plus, talk about the ultimate excuse for not showing up to work on time. Sorry Mr. Boss, I got hijacked on the way to work today.

Yeah, I think he’ll let that one slide. I didn’t want to work on the Walter file today anyway. Or any day, but usually, I’m not handed such an awesome excuse to get out of it.

He climbs inside and throws the van into gear, smashing the gas pedal to the floor as we execute a U-turn on two wheels.

“Whoa there, sunshine,” I say, buckling myself in. “Surely getting to … wherever … dead isn’t gonna help, right?” I mean, I’m willing to get stabbed, but that’s because I want a vacation, complete with pain pills. I don’t want to be dead. There’s a difference. With the second one, you don’t get to enjoy the endless sleeping …

He ignores me and just keeps checking the rearview mirror as he frantically weaves in and out of traffic. It’s like all of those chase scenes that you’ve ever seen in a billion-dollar Hollywood project … except in an Areostar instead of a Porsche 911. Somehow, it loses its appeal in a minivan.

He’s not saying anything, so to fill the silence, I start talking. I’d say that I have a captive audience, except he’s the whole who just captured me, or at least kidnapped me. But either way, he was stuck listening to me, and I pounce on the opportunity to let off some steam.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but the weather has been so shit lately that even though summer is almost here, I have almost no tan whatsoever. You can’t lay out in a snowsuit, you know. When I put on my bikini this summer, people are going to have to put on their sunglasses so they don’t get blinded by my legs!

“And then,” I say, really warming up to the topic, “I’m 10 pounds overweight! Have you seen such flabby thighs in all your life?” I pinch at my thighs, showing underneath my skirt, and he glances over for just a moment … and then almost runs us into the car in the next lane. “Watch it!” I yell and he swerves back into our lane to a chorus of honks.

“Anyway,” I say, since he still doesn’t seem to be talking much, “here I am, 26 years old, and I’m not getting any younger, you know. Not that I want to push out a bunch of babies or something, but god, I’d at least like to find a boyfriend who can keep it up in bed.” I look over, and he’s looking … strange. Ill. Red in the face. “Are you okay?” I ask.

He nods, not looking at me.

A real talker on my hands.

“What I’m really looking for is a guy who will fuck me. Like, really fuck me. My boyfriend wilts after three minutes in bed and then he’s snoring two minutes after that. Did I tell you he was fired? Because he was,” I say, not waiting for an answer. “Which he’s taken as a sign from the universe that I should be the one to support us. I have student loans from law school, you know. I don’t want to sound overdramatic or anything, but student loans are a real killer, especially the ones from Harvard. They see you coming and going. I’ll be paying off loans until the day I die, and ten years after that, if my boyfriend doesn’t get his ass out of bed and start working again.”

We pull up to the Beth Israel hospital and I stare up at it, and then back at him. “Are you hurt?” I ask, scanning his body over for blood or knife wounds or something. I notice his bulging muscles on almost every square inch of his body that I can see, and feel my pussy grow wet with desire. I ignore it. I’m good at ignoring lust by this point.

But what I don’t see is any blood, or even a Band-Aid.

“I gotta deliver some papers,” he growls. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

I jump out of the van after him and hurry to catch up. This is about the most exciting thing that has happened to me in the last … I don’t even know, and I’m not about to let him get away now.

4

Harlan

I hand the papers over to Crankshaft, President of the Black Fist MC. “It’s all there, boss,” I tell him. “The Dark Tribe is definitely working with the FBI. What a bunch of fucking narcs. They almost took me out on the way over here, but I got away. I’m never going to see my Harley again, though.” I feel a wave of panic wash over me at the thought. I loved my Harley. Losing it was like losing a piece of my soul.

The girl I kidnapped comes walking into the room, interrupting whatever it was that my prez was about to say. “Hey, I told you to wait out in the hallway,” I warn her, my voice testy.

“It’s my minivan,” she volleys back instantly. “Or, at least it’s my name on the rental receipt for it. And anyway, I can go anywhere I want to.” She turns to my president and says, “Hi, I’m Becca Whiting,” sticking her hand out to shake, for all the world appearing as if she’s in a drawing room and meeting with local dignitaries.

Becca … I roll the name around in my mind, testing it. Somehow, in all the craziness, I had forgotten to ask her for it.

“Oh, hi,” he says, taken aback, and then with a grin shot at me, he says, “I’m Crankshaft and I’m the president of Black Fist.”

“Really? Crankshaft? Your mother named you Crankshaft?”

“Maybe not my mother,” he says with a wry grin, but doesn’t explain any further. Apparently Becca hasn’t been around too many bikers—we rarely go by the names written on our birth certificate. I mean, c’mon, my real name is Fredrick. Who's scared of a Fredrick? That sounds like a German prince or something for fuck’s sake.

So as far as anyone knows, I’m Harlan, and that’s all that matters.

“What happened to your arm?” she asks, nodding at Crankshaft’s left arm, which is in a sling across his chest.