Page 27 of Savior
It’s the first official club ride of the new year. Spring type weather usually arrives a lot earlier in Southeastern North Carolina, than it does up North where I’m from. Though nearly mid-March now, the wintery weather of the last two months seems to have lingered a bit longer this year. Weather this warm, feels like a bit of a fluke today. Or perhaps, just a drastic turn in seasons. A turn the MC is eager to take advantage of.
Dean told me we’re riding out to the JoCo Jokers’ territory. To a massive biker bash they’re hosting on their land for the surrounding MC’s. A peace keeping, networking thing they do occasionally, throughout the year. Apparently, the Saviors are always welcome. As the Jokers seem to be, here.
Slipping on the leather jacket Dean gave me for Christmas, over my black, corset style top that I’ve paired with the Harley Davidson boots he gifted me as well, I walk across the lot towards the group of men and their motorcycles.
It’s weird now, how they all look at me. Really look at me. With genuine smiles. Even the mysterious one they call Viper, who once seemed to almost avoid being anywhere near me. Who always seems to have a perpetual scowl on his otherwise handsome face, gives me a chin lift in greeting as I make my way over to Dean’s motorcycle.
“Where are the other bitches?” Viking asks, straddling his Iron Horse. A huge, custom Harley Davidson Fat Boy, stretched to accommodate his size. The bike is a beast. Even bigger than Serene had been. I can’t help but admire the custom paint job on it. Nordic symbols, wolves and ravens, around a large Odin on the gas tank, in hues of dark blues, grays and black. The artwork on the bike, matches the artwork and color scheme of the tattoos covering his body. “Did you hear me, woman?” I glance back up at him. “You feeling okay, Vanna? You look a little… pale.”
I take a deep breath of fresh, spring air, and let it out on a content sigh. “I’m fine.”
His skeptic expression remains. “You sure?”
“You care?” I teasingly counter him.
Viking frowns at me. “Yes.” He says, as if I just insulted him. He’s actually been a lot nicer to me since everything happened. Since that night he and Axel stayed with me in the hospital, watching over a comatose Dean.
I can’t help but smile at him, reaching out to pat his huge, inked arm. “I’m fine, Viking. I’ve just been a little tired lately. That’s all.”
He’s still looking me over, a serious expression of concern I’ve come to find is rather rare when it comes to Viking. At least whenever I’m around him. Though, he must have a serious side when warranted, as the Saviors’ Sergeant at Arms.
“Dean know?” he persists.
Shaking my head at him and topping it off with an eyeroll, I avert my attention to the zipper of my jacket and zip it up, before reaching into the side bag of Dean’s bike to remove my helmet and strap it on.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.” Viking says, like he couldn’t be less interested.
“Why do you guys call Viper, Viper?” I ask. “Your road name makes sense, obviously. Diesel and Dozer are jacked. Chopper rides a Chopper. Snowy looks like Santa. Ruger is kind of an asshole, so I don’t really care.” Viking chuckles at that last part. “But why is Viper called Viper?”
“Because you never see him coming. Like a pit viper. Once you spot him… ifyou spot him, it’s already too late.” Viking replies. “He’s a former US Marine Sniper.”
“Oh…” No wonder he intimidates me without ever trying.
It isn’t long before the other MC ladies join the gathering, dressed in their riding leathers as well, waiting around by their men’s bikes to get going. Dean makes his way over to me after giving the prospects a few last-minute instructions. Probably another “to-do” list, since they aren’t allowed to come with us today.
“Well, you look like you’re all set to go.” He slips his arm around my waist to pull me against him, and bends to kiss my lips. His hand drifts lower to give my ass a quick squeeze, then releases me to retrieve his own helmet, resting on the seat of the bike and straps it on. I watch him grip the handlebars, slinging a leg over her as he straddles the bike and situates himself on top of her. She might not be Serene, but Dean looks damn good on a motorcycle. He was born to ride. A sly grin slides across his handsome features as he looks me over, his brows arching above the rim of his dark riding glasses. “You comin’, doll? Lovin’ those fuckin’ pants on you, by the way.”
The skin tight leather leggings were another one of his gifts. “I should hope so… You’ve basically dressed me.” His wolfish grin letting me know without him saying a word, he’s imagining doing the exact opposite.
Stepping up to the bike, I grip the leather cut on his shoulders and climb on behind him, then slide my hands down his back to wrap my arms around his abdomen. Placing my feet on the passenger pegs, I scoot myself forward, closer against his back. His hand lovingly presses against my laced fingers, his touch lingering for a moment, as if cherishing my hold around his body. Then he starts the bike, revving it as it rumbles beneath us.
All of the motorcycles around us roar to life, one by one, and exit the lot in pairs of two. Axel and Viper leading the group with Cherry and Rosita as their passengers, followed by Dean and I, with Viking riding solo to our left. The others pairing up behind us.
I rest my cheek against the cut Dean’s wearing over his leather jacket, warm from the sun and his body heat, and close my eyes. I’ve missed being his passenger. The intimacy of riding together, clinging to his body, flying down the highway together as one.
Once we’re on the highway, a long straight run, Dean drops one of his hands to reach back, gently gripping my leg as we ride, smooth sailing, towards Jocsan County. I squeeze him a little tighter around his body in return, feeling the tight muscles of his washboard stomach. Wondering how I got this lucky, landing such a wildly beautiful man. My real-life action hero. Laughing quietly to myself, knowing full well he can’t hear me over the roar of the bike, I also know, Dean would hate being called that.
When we arrive at the tall, black iron gates of the JoCo Jokers’ clubhouse, the sun is almost set behind the thick wall of forest surrounding the property. Curiously peering over Dean’s shoulder, as what I assume to be a pair of prospects, lets us in, I can see what looks like an old monastery at the top of the lengthy driveway. The long road is lovely in and of itself, lined with gorgeous old Oak trees dripping in Spanish moss.
There are already about fifty motorcycles parked in the clearing in front of the clubhouse when we reach the structure. Dean offers me his hand, helping me dismount the bike before him. Removing my helmet as I look at the old monastery, I can hear the rock music thumping inside already.
“This is a biker club house?”
Dean takes my helmet from me, tucking it back in a side bag and hooks his own on one of the handlebars. “Sick, right? Lucky bastards.” He says with a tinge of envy, reaching down to take my hand. We walk up the stone steps to the large, solid wood, cathedral shaped double doors. “Wait till you see what they did to this old Nunnery.”
“A Nunnery?”
