Page 65 of Christmas Wish
Timmy shrugged, his gaze fixed on Brutus chomping away on the bully stick Ryder had just given him.
The mixing bowl slid on the counter, and Savannah put a dishrag under it then resumed stirring the batter. Ryder watched her every move—along with the way her tits swayed with each turn of the spoon. His dick twitched.I can’t believe I’m getting a hard-on watching her make waffles. Shit. This woman has me turned so fucking inside out.He turned away and pulled out two cups from the cupboard.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” he asked.
She glanced at him and smiled. “That’d be great.”
A gulp of the strong java hit the spot. He stood staring out the window, looking at the snow dusting the pine trees, the snowmen he and Timmy had built over the last week, and the deer as they cautiously walked over the snow-covered terrain then disappeared into the forest of trees. The ping of his phone drew his attention, and he glanced down.
Hawk:We’ll meet at 9 at clubhouse.
Ryder:Cool. Who’s going?
Hawk:Besides us – Throttle, Wheelie, Axe, Rock, Jax, Animal, Smokey, Helm.
Ryder:See you then.
“Waffles are ready,” Savannah said.
“Yippee!” Timmy giggled.
Ryder picked up the pitcher of orange juice and brought it over to the table. Then he sat down and rubbed his hand up and down Savannah’s thigh as she put three waffles on his plate. The scent of—clean, floral, and a touch of vanilla—wrapped around him, and he wondered how he’d managed without her for so long.
* * *
Ice crunched underthe Insurgents’ boots as they made their way to the clubhouse parking lot, their breaths vapor in the frigid air. They slid into SUVs, cursing the ice and snow that stopped them from taking their bikes to their destination. Ryder cupped his hands in front of his face and blew into them, his breath warming his cold face.
“It’s like the fuckin’ North Pole out here,” Wheelie said as he opened the back door of Hawk’s SUV.
“I’m freezing my balls off ’cause some damn punks don’t know shit about respect,” grumbled Smokey as he scooted across the seat.
“Kimber was curled up on the couch in front of the fire when I left,” Throttle said, closing the car door. “I’m gonna kick those bikers’ asses real good for taking me away from my woman.”
Hawk chuckled and Ryder nodded, knowing too well how Throttle was feeling. He’d rather be back at the cabin getting cozy with Savannah than out in the dark, but if he was being real honest with himself, it felt good as hell to be back on a mission with his brothers. He’d missed the action, and for the past few years, he’d let himself disengage from the brotherhood too much. Hawk had pushed him to start hanging out more at the club the year before, and Ryder had seriously considered giving up his inactive status and getting back into the thick of things.
“We ready to roll?” Hawk asked, looking behind him. The men lifted their chins, and he put the SUV in gear and followed the caravan of cars in front of them.
The parking lot was practically full when the bikers arrived at the bar. With heads down and hands jammed in leather jackets, the men walked across the lot then opened the scratched-up wooden door and went inside.
Brown Barrel was a classic dive bar: no karaoke, no bar trivia, only drinking as the main activity. An unruly mess of a bar in the seedier part of town, the place boasted five-dollar mugs of beer, a free jukebox with an eclectic musical selection—which included Elvis Presley, The Bee Gees, and Lamb of God—and a place where the patrons could smoke inside without any hassles.
The men pushed through the crowd and walked up to the bar, their eyes scanning the room for anyone wearing a three-piece rocker with Colorado on it. Ryder smiled when he saw the scuffed formica bar, which brought back memories of the hours he’d logged in there the summer he’d graduated from high school. He’d been bearded and had enough of a sturdy, muscular physique back then that he could get into the bar, no questions asked. The first time he’d legally ordered a beer and engaged in a philosophical conversation with an old biker, he knew he was hooked, and thus began his love affair with bars, motorcycles, and the Insurgents.
An old, unremarkable television tuned to the local news sat on a corner shelf next to the bar, but no one was watching. A steady stream of men going to the restroom confirmed that key bumps were still worth a visit to one of the filthiest bathrooms Ryder could remember. A few men decked out in faded denim vests, gripping the hands of worn-out women with gaunt faces and stringy hair, sauntered down a hallway, and Ryder remembered the time he’d fucked an older woman on top of one of three washing machines in the back room of the bar. The owner had let customers both wash clothes and have sex in the room. Ryder would bet his leather cut that the washing machines were still there.
“Here you go, bro,” Helm said, handing Ryder a mug of frothy beer.
“See any chicks you want to hit on after we kick some ass?” he asked.
“Nah. What about you?” Ryder replied, lifting the mug to his lips.
“That redhead by the jukebox swaying to the Tina Turner tune looks hot.” Helm pushed his shoulder length hair over his shoulders. “What do you think?”
Ryder glanced at her and gave a half shrug. “She doesn’t look like she fits in here. As a matter of fact, there’re quite a few people in here who look like they belong in West Pinewood Springs.”
“But do you think she’s hot?” Helm said.
“I guess.” The only color hair that was on Ryder’s mind was blonde, and the only woman on his mind was Savannah. No other woman compared to her, and he couldn’t wait to get home and fuck her hard and fast. Just thinking about it made him squirm, and he had to concentrate on the ceiling stain that was in the exact same location as it was seventeen years before.
