Last-minute changes were never good, especially when the heart was set on something completely different. Partying like a rock star while Mom was away, for instance. Escaping her watchful eye at a friend’s house and getting lit all weekend long.
Alas, that wasn’t to be. My older sister, forever an irresponsible wretch, backed out on helping our mother with her book signing. Specifically, Motorcycles, Mobsters, and Mayhem in Austin. It was Mom’s favorite event, one she looked forward to whenever it took place. Since confirming her attendance, she hadn’t stopped ranting and raving about her excitement.
Cassie went with Mom in her first year as an attending author. I joined Mom the next time. We had a deal. One year I’d go, and one year Cassie went. By right, this event should’ve been Cassie’s turn, but she backed out two days ago because of a big fight with jerk boy. Also known as her longtime loser boyfriend and the lurve of her life.
My sister could’ve done so much better than him. It was a sentiment echoed by our parents, because, shocker, jerk boy was a jerk. However, once I entered adulthood, I gave up trying to save her from the asshole.
Her life. Her choice. I was the last person she’d listen to, anyway.
Sighing, I dropped another dick lollipop in a cellophane bag and set it aside on the pile I’d amassed on my desk. I was stuffing Mom’s swag bags with the lollipops, little dick soaps, trading cards with characters from her most popular book, beaded keychains with a miniature cover of that book, a pen with her name, her business card, personalized magnets, stickers, and lip balm.
Whether I went with Mom to her signings, stuffing her swag bags always fell to me. Cassie never concerned herself with trivial details and Mom had a bajillion other things to do.
Once I finished stuffing the bags, I’d grab a bite to eat and bottled water, then slap stickers with Mom’s name in curlicue and tie each bag with a ribbon.
Half an hour later, I finished stuffing bag number two hundred. This shit took up my entire morning. Shoving my chair back, I stood and stretched, pleased with myself.
Stacks of books, boxes of mugs, tote bags, and T-shirts lined the floor of my normally neat room. Mom used a color scheme from each room in our house for her book covers. My cheery yellow and white décor didn’t suit a dramatic title like The Biker in Me, so she inverted those colors. Yellow became blue and white turned black. My lacy curtains and bedspread translated to dark smoke in her mind.
It worked—that book hit several bestseller lists.
I started toward my door, but an abandoned trading card sat at the edge of my dresser. When I grabbed the stack Mom left there, I must’ve overlooked this one.
Slice’s image taunted me. I bit my lip, shoved a hand in the pocket of my fluffy jacket, and immediately abandoned the idea of checking for a message from him. Or sending another one. Whatever it took for him to respond.
I laid the card back on my dresser and sat on the edge of my bed, needing a moment to gather myself and overcome my disappointment and despair over how my friendship with the biker had turned out.
Once the upcoming signing ended and I returned home, I’d decide if I wanted to demand answers about why he ghosted me or if I’d just forget him as he seemed to have forgotten me.
Mom pushed open my door and peeked in. “Are the swag bags finished?”
“I just have to cut the ribbon, tie the bags, and add your stickers, Mom.” I pushed excitement into my voice. If I didn’t think about Slice, I was fine. “I’ll be finished by dinner.”
“Get it done ASAP, love,” Mom huffed. “I don’t want to leave later than planned.”
We weren’t leaving until tomorrow, but I didn’t point that out.
“Slice will probably beat us there,” she announced. “We’re lugging all this stuff in a big old SUV, and he’ll be on that beautiful machine.”
“What?”
Slice was going? That changed everything.
Mom stepped fully into my room, still in her writer’s uniform of yoga pants and sweatshirt, her curls piled on top of her head in a messy bun. When she ran errands, she added socks, small earrings, and tennis shoes to her getup. She insisted it was a sufficient outfit, and dressing fancier was unnecessary. I disagreed. The minute I discovered I’d accompany her, determination to doll her up for the signing filled me.
As her assistant, she also gave me the responsibility of packing our bags. Her new, Effie-approved outfits already hung in the garment bag on my closet door.
We were supposed to spend tomorrow evening doing each other’s nails. That agenda had suddenly taken a left turn.
“Slice is coming?” The news buoyed me.
Slice was the model Mom had used several times on the covers of her various books. I met him at a photo shoot she’d arranged for a custom cover. Sparks flew immediately, at least on my end. Since then, we communicated through DMs and the occasional text. Any day I received a message from him was a good one.
I wasn’t sure if she realized we’d kept in touch.
She beamed at me. “I was hoping he and your sister would hit it off.”
So that was a no. She remained unaware of my close friendship with Slice, and my huge crush on him.
I pursed my lips, the green-eyed monster creeping in. It wasn’t like me to get jealous, but then again, my mother rarely meddled in my sister’s love life.
“It isn’t like you to play matchmaker, Mother,” I said with a pissy little sniff, unable to keep my thoughts to myself.
Hands on hips, she squinted at me. “That’s enough, Effie Monroe. Get off your frigging high horses. Your sister can’t attend and asked you to switch. You agreed. Deal with it.”
Clueless about me as usual.
Mom lived in her own little world where bikers, billionaires, and bad boys did anything for the women who loved them. Be it spending extravagant amounts, protecting them from any and every threat, or giving them earth-shattering orgasms, nothing was out of reach if it meant their special ladies were happy.
I wondered what she did with Dad.
Then I tried my best not to wonder and refused to let an iota of repulsive speculation enter my brain.
“I’m just surprised you thought to set up Cassie with Slice.”
Guilt crossed her face and she walked to me, then sat on the edge of my bed. She glanced over her shoulder. “Your dad doesn’t know,” she whispered. “Neither does Cass, but I don’t like Chad. I think he cheated on her.”
Duh.
Chad was always cheating on Cassie. Her life of denial was what made her so irresponsible. She was twenty-five years old and had dated that asshole since she was seventeen. She knew nothing but him and wasn’t keen on expanding her horizons.
A month after they met, he hit on me at my thirteenth birthday party. When I told her, she refused to believe me. Until he flipped it and accused me of flirting with his raggedy ass.
In that motherfucker’s dreams.
It was then the animosity between Cassie and me began. We’d been quite close once, but she had it in her head that I wanted her man. She ignored his many red flags and placed the blame elsewhere. In that way, she was just as toxic as him, so maybe they were perfect for each other.
A match straight out of hell.
“I don’t think Slice is Cassie’s type,” I blurted. If Mom had a little more awareness about me, my annoyance would’ve given me away.
Mom waved the words away. “Slice is a model, sweetheart. I think she’d love his glamorous lifestyle.”
Like I said, Mom lived in her own world. How was it possible for a woman so reliant on social media for reader and fan engagement to be ignorant of the fact that her favorite model was an actual outlaw biker?
Minutiae overwhelmed her. She rarely handled her socials. It was another task relegated to me. Not that I minded. I was a marketing major with a passion for photography. Helping my mom built my portfolio and gave me real world experience.
“Daria!” Dad called from the small hallway that separated the bedrooms. His footsteps pounded against the hardwood floor until he reached my door and walked into my room. “Hi, honey,” he said to me.
“Hey, Dad.”
Perfunctory greeting out of the way, he gazed at Mom, his hazel eyes practically morphing into hearts.
My parents adored each other. Mom often said she wrote to give the world a taste of real love. They’d been married for three decades, raised three children—my older brother lived in NYC—and were still desperately in love.
I believed that was why Cassie stuck it out with Chad. She thought he’d suddenly turn into our strait-laced businessman father. Never would happen, but she refused to listen to any of us.
Twisting an escaping curl around her finger, Mom stood and casually walked to Dad. She whispered to him, and he chuckled.
Mom turned to me. “Effie, if you really don’t want to come, Lennon is happy to serve as my assistant.” She indicated Dad with a flourish of her tanned hand.
I laughed nervously, not wanting to tip my hand. What she missed, Dad would home in on and the fallout would affect Slice.
One, I didn’t want Slice to lose Mom’s gig. Two, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to spend time with him. He’d been my ultimate crush for over a year now, and I desperately wanted to get closer to him. Whether he knew how down bad I was, I couldn’t say. Until recently, he’d kept in touch fairly regularly, so that meant something.
Right?
I hadn’t heard from him in about a month. I wasn’t sure why he’d ghosted me. Mom crossed all her ‘Ts’ and dotted all her ‘Is’ whenever she attended a signing, but MMM was like one big family and popular with the readers. No doubt she spoke to him today before she told me. Obviously, he had no problem answering her.
I pretended the evidence he’d dropped our friendship didn’t chafe.
“Why don’t you stay home?” Mom continued into the silence. “It’s a bum way to start your spring break. I’m the writer. You aren’t. It isn’t your responsibility to help me if you had other plans.”
Well, shit on a fiddlestick.
“My plans are already canceled, Mom,” I said innocently.
My plans could resurrect faster than…nope, wasn’t saying it.
“I won’t have anything to do if you leave me behind at the 11th hour.” Even if she’d invited me at the 11th hour. “Besides, Dad has his fishing trip with Uncle Mike. Remember?”
Mom and Dad exchanged uncertain glances.
“I need the money,” I announced. “There are several new outfits I want from Fashion Nova.”
Disapproval contorted Dad’s face. He wasn’t the biggest fan of my sartorial choices. Mom, however, totally understood and nodded.
“By the way, Effie, change of plans for tomorrow night,” she told me.
Shocked by her words, I snapped my brows together. I wasn’t complaining. Unless they involved Slice, her changed plans would make mine easier to facilitate.
“I held a contest and I’m meeting four of my readers for dinner,” Mom announced. “You’ll be on your own tomorrow evening.”
I handled her contests. “But—”
“You’ve been slammed with your multimedia project for that class.” Her mouth turned down.
Mom wanted me to join the writing empire she envisioned and had zero respect for my college career.
“I turned in the project weeks ago,” I gritted, my hackles up. I drew a deep breath. “It’s fine, Mom. I’m glad Dad helped you.”
“Cassie helped me,” she said pointedly. “Your father has his own work obligations.”
“Awesome.” I pasted a smile on my lips. “At least Cassie found something productive to volunteer for rather than sitting around pining over Chad the Cad.”
Mom laughed, walked to me, and kissed my forehead as if I were two. “Chad the Cad. Love it, Effie. But she didn’t volunteer. I paid her. She wouldn’t do it for free.”
I would not lose my fucking temper. Wouldn’t do it. If that happened, I faced a miserable four days. At least at home, I had the option of locking myself in my room.
“She does have a household to support,” Mom added.
“She handed that money over to Chad,” I yelled despite myself.
Mom shrugged. “It was hers to do as she sees fit. There’s a reason you’re our angel and she and your brother are the problems.”
“You’re our favorite,” Dad piped in with zero shame.
They could’ve kept their favoritism. I wisely kept my mouth shut.
“We were supposed to try out different looks tomorrow evening, Mom,” I grouched.
“I’m too grown for that nonsense, Effie.” Mom returned to Dad’s side. “I’m so disappointed Cassie couldn’t come with me. A problem she may be, but she’s fun. We would’ve had a blast with my readers. You’re all about the books and your future.”
That’s all my parents wanted to recognize about me. I ignored the pain of that thought. Once Mom started writing, she characterized her family according to the archetypes she created. I was her Mary Sue. Cassie was the Bad Girl anti-heroine. Heath was the villain. He’d flown the coop, a fact that still upset my parents. And Dad was the ultimate hero.
Ignoring my annoyance, Mom pursed her lips. “I wonder if Slice can join us?”
“Call him and ask him, babe,” Dad said. “Throw in an extra five hundred.”
“Brilliant idea, Lenny,” she cooed and sashayed past Dad.
He watched her walk away and grinned sheepishly at me. “I’ll, uh, help Mom try to convince Slice to spend the evening with her and her readers.”
Not if I convinced him to spend it with me.
The moment Dad left, I grabbed my phone and shot off a text message.
My mom told me you’re attending. Let’s meet for drinks tomorrow evening.
​
​
“Come back as soon as you can, Pretty Boy.”
The national president of Red Rum smirked and stared into my eyes as he said ‘Pretty Boy.’ I held my tongue since I couldn’t very well correct the president, unless I wanted my ass beat for disrespect. Besides, I’d had that nickname since I was a tyke. To me, it had never crossed over into this life, but Riker never gave a fuck. My twin, Drifter, and our father thought I was shitting them when I announced I wanted to abandon the name. They backed me up, but Riker Reinhardt was the president, not them.
Unfortunately, he declared my road name remained Pretty Boy. I wanted a more badass name. My modeling career was already the subject of jokes, and my moniker didn’t do shit to help me. No matter how fucking accurate.
“Did you hear me?” Riker snapped.
Fuck, I hadn’t answered.
I quickly amended that and nodded. Didn’t want the motherfucker thinking my tongue was useless. More than one chick would counter that point. I fought back a grin at the thought.
Riker’s severe look wiped away my smile and sent a chill down my spine. He had salt-and-pepper hair, leathery skin, and mean eyes. When Riker visited, I got my marching orders long before he arrived.
Except my request to attend the book signing as Daria Monroe’s model put me directly in Riker’s path. I didn’t understand how Drifter dealt with him on a day-to-day basis. Thank fuck, I patched in at Dad’s chapter instead of hightailing it to Vegas so my twin and I wouldn’t be apart.
It was hard in the beginning. Drifter and Dad didn’t have the best track record, so I understood why my brother jumped at Riker’s offer. But I’d take Dad any day over that psychopath.
Riker looked at Dad. He sat on the other side of the bar, since Riker—as national president and the president of the Mother Chapter—planted himself at the podium. I’d thought the matter of me attending Motorcycles, Mobsters, and Mayhem was settled, since I’d put in my request when Daria first contacted me several months ago.
Before I ended up with a bounty on my goddamn head. But Austin, TX was not Las Vegas or Oklahoma City, my home chapter and the second largest in Red Rum MC’s fifty-chapter organization.
Not one in each state. More like clusters across ten states.
Recently, I was accused of stealing a big drug shipment from one of our biggest rivals.
Stealing was beneath me. It was an interception.
Goose—Dad—and Riker congratulated me. Even after the shit hit the fan with the Satan’s Sinners MC. I was doing it on their orders anyway. They didn’t like my modelling gigs much and wanted me to prove I still belonged in the club, that I hadn’t gone ‘soft.’ They would’ve been fucking outraged if I shared that I’d once considered modeling full-time again and abandoning the outlaw lifestyle.
“If I hadn’t given my permission, your ass would be gearing up to ride out with me, Goose, and Drifter.” Riker’s tone was just short of chastising. “Lucky you, you accepted that writer bitch before you stole that merch.”
Still didn’t say shit. The motherfucker was notoriously erratic, but he was all about money. It bought loyalty.
I glanced at my brother. It felt good having my twin with me again. Since he’d left, I didn’t see enough of him. Drifter sat next to me, drinking a beer. Riker hadn’t shut his goddamn trap since they blazed in an hour ago to scoop up my dad and several of our members to head to Jackson, Mississippi.
For me, it would be a straight shoot down I-35. Dad, Drifter, and the others planned to branch off around the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex and take I-20.
“Pretty Boy,” Raptor called. He held up one of Daria Monroe’s books. One of her bestsellers, which featured me against a blue and black background surrounded by dark smoke.
She’d gotten this idea to pose me like that actor in the centerfold of Playgirl Magazine from decades ago. She swore it would catapult her sales through the roof. She was right, and she compensated me well for it.
One of the club chicks loved romance novels. I thought they filled a woman’s head with nonsense, but that was just me. I was feeling the chick at the time, so I agreed to take her to the signing.
And chitty bang, chitty bang, bop boo. Next thing I knew I was posing for Daria’s covers, immersed in modeling again.
It dawned on me that Riker had finally walked away from the podium. A glance around the room didn’t reveal his location. He’d either gone through the bat wings that led to our small kitchen or went to the can.
Dad walked over to me and clapped me on the back. “Be careful, son.”
Worry wreathed his features. He had a long neck with a prominent Adam’s apple and a long, sharp nose. Hence, Goose.
I glanced from him to Drifter, a reflection of myself right down to the long brown hair, dark eyes, and neat beard. “You sure you don’t want to ride with me? Don’t want those assholes to mistake you for me.”
“By the time you come back, we should have a solution,” Drifter swore.
My brows raised. “No shit?”
Dad leaned in. “It isn’t guaranteed, but Riker is going to talk to Satan’s Sinners’ leadership.”
“And he’s taking Drifter?” I gaped between Dad and Drifter.
“We don’t have the same fucking rockers.”
Assuming a motherfucker took the goddamn time to read our patches. I’d stolen a quarter rock worth of their drugs and made them look like fucking assholes. A cardinal sin, considering the street value. They’d see only my face, shoot, and not give a good fuck they’d fucked up my twin instead of me.
“We have the same goddamn face.”
Unconcerned, Drifter shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”
Asshole sounded as if he didn’t give a fuck. Ever since his old lady OD’d, I believed he had a death wish. I scowled at him, because even if he was sick of being among the living, I didn’t want to bury my brother.
Sliding off the stool, Drifter drained his beer, set the mug on the bar top, and raised his hand. “Save it, Slice.”
Image licensed from Period Images
Other than Daria and sweet little Effie, Dad and Drifter were the only ones who honored my wishes to call me by my preferred road name. Though Oklahoma City was my home chapter where I shared enforcer duties, I was a national special enforcer. I was a crack shot, but I handled knives even better, so Dad and Riker sent me out to slice motherfuckers.
Why wouldn’t I have that name?
Of course, they dare not call me that around Riker since he shot my request down for his own goddamn amusement. He enjoyed my fucking discomfort.
My phone beeped with an incoming text message. Daria or Lennon I supposed. She was usually a bundle of energy. Now, she was a ball of nerves, concerned I’d disappoint her and thus her readers after I explained I had work-related issues. Didn’t bother telling her a bozo was gunning for me. I’m not sure it would’ve mattered, but I’d opened a can of worms, and they all annoyed the fuck out of me. As Lennon explained, I’d just added to Daria’s stress. Two fucking hours ago, I assured her I’d attend, so I couldn’t imagine what they wanted now. They’d been calling and texting all fucking day.
I read the message. It took me a moment to realize Effie sent it. Other than an odd video chat here and there, I usually kept in contact with her on the Gram. It was easier. Although she rarely used it nowadays, giving her my cell phone number was a mistake. I suppose she skipped our DMs because I hadn’t responded to her in days.
Our messaging had gotten uncomfortably comfortable. When I realized how much I looked forward to communicating with her, I pulled back. It also helped that I was laying low and trying to save my fucking ass. Meaning I didn’t have time for a pretty girl full of sass and not enough sense to stay away from me.
A hundred-thousand-dollar bounty was no fucking joke. Motherfuckers would hand me over for a quarter the amount.
A moment later, another message came through.
Daria: Some of my readers won a contest to dine with me. Please come and make their nights. I’ll throw an extra five hundred in as payment.
Technically, she was my boss, though I preferred to think that we teamed up. But she paid for my lodging, my food, and my transportation, (in this case the cost of fuel for my ride). She was also responsible for my behavior at the events. I should’ve accepted her invitation to the dinner. It was the smart thing to do.
Effie, with her sun-kissed elfin face, her wealth of dark hair, and sweet voice, had fucking trouble written all over her cute little ass.
Sometimes literally.
She’d sent me a photo of her in sleep shorts with the word ‘trouble’ embroidered in hot pink letters on the material covering her backside. Once or twice, I jerked off to that image before coming to my senses and deleting it. My mind flip-flopped between Effie and Daria for several minutes. Soon, I’d be at Daria’s beck and call. She’d held the contest without my input; therefore, I didn’t have an obligation to fulfill.
That decided me. Effie asked first. Besides, I’d much rather have fun with her.
Because, fuck, who ever said I was smart?