Story Summary: Gruff biker Emma Swan and her outlaw motorcycle club Charming Knights clash with officious mayor Regina Mills when they move their base of operations to Storybrooke, insinuate themselves into local politics and business dealings, and run afoul of rival biker gangs. Can love bridge the gap between Emma & Regina's vastly different worlds and protect their families from the dangers of deadly gang wars? AU slowburn Swan Queen Biker/Motorcycle Club Romance
A/N: This story is told through alternating POVs between Emma and Regina. It contains mature language & depictions of violence, sex, drug use, and alcohol consumption. This fanfic is meant for entertainment purposes only and is not a true depiction of motorcycle club life, gun culture, small town politics, police and law institutions, or crime syndicates. I anticipate this story being at least 10 chapters and becoming Part 1 of a Leather & Lace AU SQ biker series. It's slowburn SQ and some characters are OOC. As the story progresses, there may be character deaths. End of the Prologue contains a list of "biker" slang definitions used in the chapter/greater story.
They call her "Savior" but she's all about the most sinful ways to get things done.
Fiercely loyal to her motorcycle club, Emma "Savior" Swan doesn't give a damn if anyone disagrees with the way she and her Charming Knights MC brothers ride down the road of life. They're nomadic badass bikers who'll turn Storybrooke into whatever outlaw paradise they desire for as long as they desire - uppity (and alluringly sexy) small town mayor be damned.
They call her "Madame Mayor" but she'll do whatever it takes to protect her family and her town.
The unassailable Regina Mills will stop at nothing to ensure her town runs smoothly for her constituents and remains a safe place to raise her darling young son. Under no circumstances will she allow the reprehensible Charming Knights or any other crime syndicate to ruin her town or her life - imbecilic (and ruggedly sexy) biker chick be damned.
Their enemies will stop at nothing to destroy both their worlds.
When a nefarious threat presents a common problem for both women, coming together must mean more than satiating their mounting desire for each other if both their families are to survive the crucible of gang warfare.
Leather & Lace: Ride or Rule
Prologue: Meeting The Mayor
Emma Swan
I slammed my brass-knuckled fist on her desk and said, "Are you the stupid twit who vetoed my shit?"
It was my opening salvo, really, so I shouted those fucking words at her. This bitchy brunette mayor of a podunk town with the wonkiest internet connection in all of Maine called Storybrooke that August "Puppet Boy" Booth and Lance "Lancelot" Washington dragged our motorcycle club, Charming Knights, from Boston in the middle of the hottest July heatwave ever recorded, just so we could set up shop for a spell.
How long was a spell?
Hell if I knew.
At eight in the morning on a Monday, I was too preoccupied with battling the tit-twisting aftermath of a weekend spent exposing every inch of my body to the wonderful W3 - whiskey, weed & women - when we discussed today's duties at our makeshift clubhouse, this sweet ass huge cabin situated on the forest edge outlining this weird ass small town. There was no way I could've devoted one ounce of attention to our Vice President Puppet Boy's musings about our stop-over's timetable when a fucking freight train was delivering containers of stabbing pain to my brain with no scheduled stops in between.
If extrapolated from past excursions, I had years of blasting into this irksome mayor's office ahead of me.
Let's see, we were in Boston for five years, Tallahassee for three before MA, and Rayleigh for three before FL. We're the most nomadic motorcycle club on the East Coast, we have a patched-in lady rider, that hardcore bitch is me, and I don't give a damn if anyone disapproves of anything we do.
Neither do my Charming Knights brothers.
We're a brotherhood with one sister thrown in the mix - unfailingly loyal to each other to our very cores - and we fucking love it that way. We're outlaws who drop heat when necessary but don't have a death wish mandate to hold any territory. We defend turf if we want to keep it.
Don't want to keep it? We ride the hell out to bigger and better pastures. That's why I love my MC.
We were always on the go eating pavement on customized bikes like chromosexual mavericks with our hair kissing the wind from underneath brain buckets and loose-leg ladies happily riding backwarmer.
I'd ride the horizon forever if I could.
Did it all the time in my mind.
Some people call it running.
Charming Knights call it living.
And it's the fucking best life. I ought to know. I had the fucking worst life as an orphan lost to nightmare foster homes, shady juvie centers and drugged-out grifter gangs before Puppet Boy bumped into me and offered family life and life purpose with Charming Knights. Like a true sister, I rode out diligently to wherever my family wanted to ride.
Hence, Storybrooke.
At our final club meeting in Boston, Puppet Boy animated some big spiel about how we'd snag a golden nest egg in Storybrooke. Like this rinky-dink little town with no strip club in sight is somehow a veritable goldmine hidden from the rest of the world where our MC, at the snap of our fingers, will drop some serious retirement cake into our coffers.
As they say, I had to see it to believe it and, until I walked into this fucking brunette's office, I was hardly one step into the land of impressed.
I understood my MC's Sergeant-At-Arms Lancelot's quixotic motivations for our cross state trekking. He wanted his old lady Guinevere and their unborn child as far away from any scene involving her shithead ex-boyfriend Arthur and his fucktard Round Table Knights MC. We went to war with those RTK fuckers in MA and won. Residual animosities will always exist, especially after we made off with their hardbody babes all Helen of Troy style and they're self-destructive enough to wage war against us ad nauseum.
But the true reason we left Boston had more to do with serious money depletion rather than our pussy pillaging tendencies.
Puppet Boy's been to Storybrooke before and scoped out its potential. He knows a road warrior's widow once affiliated with his estranged father's MC, Portal Hopperz, who owns a diner in the heart of town and lives in a B&B with her young and sexy granddaughter. Long story short, aforementioned young and sexy road warrior progeny has Puppet Boy's big and little heads trapped between her lanky legs, and her even looser northern lips gave him the lowdown on the wealth of the town.
So yeah, both gents had pussy on their pituitary glands but also embraced the allure of easy going wallet stuffing when they considered Storybrooke. Their ranked positions bestowed them instant clout during Church in our clubhouse's chapel where we discussed this important move, and our collective disillusionment with Boston led to a majority vote to ride into Storybrooke.
Seven days after that seminal vote, I blew fist-first into this uppity mayor's office.
If you ask me, small towns equal big problems. But you can't tell our wooden-headed club VP anything once he has chowder fed tits-and-ass embossed on his brain. When he falls hard for a girl, it's dick first but generally genuine.
To his credit, this seaside snorefest of a town must be teaming with priceless princess pussy if this olive-toned sun-kissed brunette sitting before me - a Visconti Alchemy fountain pen in her hand stilled mid-scribble over a document on her marble desk, her mouth tightly pursed and her head menacingly tilted, like she and the pen were preserved in amber - was any true indication.
Gods, I hope so. I haven't burned up some bed sheets with worthy pussy in an embarrassingly long time.
Sure, I always bagged primo T&A when carousing with my best wingman, the smooth talking shitmeister Killian Jones. I call him "Kill" because he has a certain way of getting rid of club problems. He's a livewire, really, so only idiots cross him; even if it takes him a lifetime, he will settle a grudge permanently. (A man cultivated that degree of determination when the first account he had to settle permanently was a drunkard stepfather who practiced bare knuckle boxing on his step-kid's faces.) Kill queued up hot chicks outside his door more frequently than he did enemies, which is on the order of whenever he's fucking breathing, because the damn dude's a blue-eyed roguish Don Juan Lothario doused in serious metrosexual vibes. We don't call him the "Panty Pirate" for nothing, although he prefers "Hook" because he "hooks up with pussy nonstop."
Kill and I tag-teamed a pretty enough leggy brunette before our Boston exodus - a rare playtime thing because I'm really not one for dude-dicks in my face and never one for that shit in my body. Kill and I just get down like that, totally hands off each other, once in a blue moon to shake up the monotony and give a lucky chick the thrill of a lifetime. And that lucky leggy chick ended up preferring my lady-on-lady mojo to Kill's pound-town offerings by a landslide, coming back to visit my bed every night for two weeks.
I'm never hard up for cunt, but I'm also not a total cunt. That fourteenth day I finally got shot of the little brunette by explaining the score: I don't make love to hit-n-quits and I don't date anybody period.
Giving another woman earth-shattering orgasms is a golden gig for me. I honestly enjoy making chicks cum over and over again - absolutely fucking love making them pant & moan until they scream my name - even if I don't get my rocks off in the process. But a woman catching feelings for me is her golden ticket to the outside of our clubhouse's front door. I wanted to be locked down by a relationship like I wanted assholes for eyes.
All things considered, that chick was a big inflate to my sex game ego. Couldn't help but puff my tits out in self-congratulatory praise. But I've been living through a dry-spell when it comes to digging into a woman with brains bigger than her breasts and aspirations larger than her ass.
A woman who was a bad bitch.
When I took Storybrooke's Town Hall steps two at a time and blasted into this prissy mayor's eminent domain, I was hyper-aware that I just barged into Queen Cleopatra's audience chamber like a Roman general out to conquer more than the lands of Egypt. Before the bitchy brunette morphed her seriously suckable burgundy lips into a shape words could escape and after she arched an arrogant eyebrow sharper than a sword at me, I knew she was the epitome of shit you did not pursue unless you rocked an iron-clad exit strategy or a heavily armed armada.
I knew she was a bad bitch of the highest order.
Which meant she was absolutely fucking perfect for me.
Which meant I would absolutely fucking fuck up my callout mission to bend her to my MC's will.
Unsurprisingly, my brothers had that same premonition about me meeting the mayor but experienced it sight unseen before I raided her office.
Before heading out to Storybrooke's Town Hall, I collected my road dogs from one of our rec rooms: our Road Captain Kill and our newly patched-in brother, the freshly delivered from a six month stint in jail, Will "The Knave" Scarlet. Of course, with my life being what it was - a series of chaotic complications sprinkled with tiny moments of slightly milder disorder - I couldn't just go on this run without being bombarded by their sermons. My brothers were overprotective of me but did so in a way that only goofy-ass idiot older brothers mustered, which is to say they were huge dicks about it.
As I traipsed through a sea of crushed beer cans, half-eaten food, and soon-to-be smoked bowls of weed, Leroy "Grumpy" Minor, our five foot short club Secretary, wrapped one of his meaty hands around my arm and blustered, "For fuck's sake, sister. Before you break that mayor's fingers off in your hungry cunt, get her Johnny Hancock on our papers."
Can't blame Grumpy for the permanent wintry disposition. His ex-baggage Astrid slapped him with child support payments bigger than his fathead and hardly ever allows him to visit his two boys, Short Stack and Mini Me - six and seven year olds who are just as short as their nicknames suggest but cuter than Grumpy's genes should've had any ability to bequeath them. Bitch had the impertinence to say our lifestyle wasn't conducive to Grumpy's children's happiness even though his earnings create that happiness and she's shacked up with a useless unemployed biker from the equally useless Dusterz MC.
As much as I miss Grumpy's two little dirt devils going on special "runs" with me to "steal" the cookies and cupcakes I would secretly purchase for them and hide around our clubhouse, I'm never signing myself up for baby mama drama. Babies and little kids are great. But they're also tethers to people who will hand you all the reasons in the universe to want them permanently removed from your (and your kid's) life. Good thing I don't rock spermy balls or give a damn about any chick enough to talk sperm donors with her.
Speaking of sperm donors, in true Panty Pirate fashion, as Kill gallivanted past me laughing at Grumpy's sage advice while sheathing his custom-made rapier into a weathered scabbard on his black leather belt, he couldn't resist adding his two doubloons to the lecture, "If I were you, love, I'd tape those papers to my ass and make her sign them with her fucking tongue."
Lancelot, the stoic one of our bunch - he's a broody presence due to serving two military tours in Afghanistan - chimed in with his big brother orders as he lifted a paintbrush smothered in blue goo to the wooden crib he built for his upcoming bundle of joy & tears, "Ignore that Pirates of the Caribbean looking motherfucker. Don't make me have to pull you from a shitastrophe. That means no five finger discounting. No pussy diving. And especially no Hulk Outs. Just go in and say: sign these for me, Mrs. Mayor. Then go get yourself a big lunch at that diner Puppet Boy hits up everyday. Got it?"
"Gonna be real good, daddy," I joked. I loved messing with Mr. Moody, and was suddenly selfishly thankful his paint job wasn't going to win him any favors from Guinevere. He was turning his kid's crib into a lamentable rendition of a Smurf village massacre. It would take me several hours to go behind his back, strip that shit off, and repaint it to showroom perfection. But, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I'm the kid's godparent so he or she will have the best of everything, even if I have to chop off Lancelot's hands to provide it.
"Take this shit real serious before I give you real serious shit to take," Lancelot replied, still laying his point and his paint on too thick.
I cringed. It was either do that or laugh at him, and no one laughed at Lancelot. Dude's got the sense of humor of a dead man and the strength of, well, a reanimated dead man named Frankenstein; only Guinevere was gifted with his smiles. Never heard him chuckle. He's Martin Luther King Jr until you give him a reason to become Malcolm X. Making fun of him, yeah, never.
Still, I found Lancelot's words of wisdom highly hypocritical given how he scored his old lady and given how many times I've saved his ass from the business end of a knife because he snapped over someone, especially that shit-eating Arthur, edging near his wife. Outside of his Charming Riders branded tats on his forearm and back, Lancelot only rocks one other piece of ink: Guinevere's name wrapped around a sword. Needless to say, dude was obsessed. Love turned our club's best warrior into a squishy-wishy motherfucker who gave me advice he couldn't even follow himself.
Being my club's only female rider, I never let my brothers ribbing me go uncontested lest they grow into truly misogynistic pricks.
"Yo, assholes," I said evenly. All three men turned their attentions to me with chin jerks in my direction. I flexed my hands in a dramatic fashion like a puppeteer, "My magic digits and motorboat tongue will get this mayor so lit, she'll do anything and everything for me."
Kill chucked, Lancelot leveled exasperated eyes my way, and Grumpy, well that grim bastard snorted.
"You mofos think I'm bullshitting? I stole Kill's bed bunny right from under his spent dick and tapped her cunt so hard she made me chocolate pancakes butt ass naked everyday for two weeks."
"So, love, you're saying that you support sexual enslavement?" Kill quipped like the jackass he often was.
Lancelot's eyes went predator dark at Kill. I had to suppress the urge to knee Kill in the balls before ushering his dumb ass off to safety by spinning him toward the door instead. I'm not what you'd call a pillar of humanity by even the loosest sense of the concept, but I don't tolerate anyone turning chicks out and neither does my club. That bastard Kill knows Guinevere's history but he can't hold his tongue to save his life. I said he was often a jackass, did I not?
"I'm saying it takes a woman to know a woman, Captain Moron, and you wannabes don't have big enough clits for the job. I'll give this mayor such good citizen, she'll think I'm hitting the streets canvassing for her ass. On that note, fuck you all. Kill, mount your pretty face up while I grab Free Willy. We ride out in five."
It's a full-time job putting my brothers in their places. Grumpy's a boozy avuncular jerk, Lancelot's a cock-blocking killjoy, and Kill's always a willing heckler. But they knew their pep talks. Gotta be crude, rude and in the mood to succeed. Life will test you. Always.
That sentiment applied doubly when you're a woman. Shit's way worse for us. Biker or not.
With my luck, which is the worst luck fathomable, that shit'd go triple for me.
[SQ biker SQ] [SQ biker SQ]
So, this morning on the way to the mayor's, with the hot wind blowing my hair dry and my two road dogs rolling toward Main Street in a beeline behind me on their big body Harleys, I expunged the extraneous thoughts rattling around my head, including musings on the need for restful sleep, and settled on righteous fury as my only train of contemplation.
What I needed was a dossier filled with specifics about which of the mayor's buttons to press and all the other pockets to line with "hello" money so things got churning smoothly in Storybrooke. What I had was jack shit; the only intel I rolled with was the knowledge that the mayor refused our initial offer. I mean, fucking duh.
Turns out Puppet Boy spent most of his recon duty stuffing his face with large plates of good food and stuffing his dick between a large pair of pert boobs. Love the fucker, but sometimes he's the wrong guy to send solo into a new town, club VP or not.
I should've sifted out details on my own by performing some kiss & tell sessions with the chattiest most slutty local bed bunnies or by outright stalking this mayoral bitch for a few days. But I was already duck-walking my bike, Bumblebee, into a parking spot outside Storybrooke's Town Hall, a building that screamed well-placed money, regal authority and spinster chick aesthetics all in one go.
Spoiled spilled milk, too late to cry.
Divesting myself of my gloves and brain bucket, while Kill and Will posted up their bikes, I gripped the mindset needed to properly score into the town's resident ruler so she'd rip apart easy-peasy like a perforated sheet of paper.
Blasted right the fuck into her office unannounced and called her ass a twit.
But this prickly brunette wouldn't just roll over and take it doggystyle like a horny biker groupie ...
"How did you get into my office?" She spat. Her beautiful chocolate eyes met my greens with controlled fury; some sort of defense mechanism that wasn't working for her. Even under her mascaraed scrutiny, it was easy to decipher from the sinfully seductive octaves of her tight gravelly voice that she was angrier than a rabid dog with lit firecrackers shoved up its ass. No surprise she was the kind of bossy bitch accustomed to having her questions answered immediately.
And no surprise the combo of her velvety voice dripping with angry sex vibes and her raised brow promising wicked punishments made my breath hitch mid-throat.
Umpf!
I rolled my shoulders forward to drive out burning breaths, and gulped in a fresh gust of air. Remained tight-lipped because I wanted to fuck with her mood and cool my head the fuck down.
I tossed the brunette a smug smile.
Her upper lip ticced wildly. "And who do you think you are to use that tone of voice with me?" She gritted, dropping her pen to her desk like an atomic bomb. Her kohl-lined reddening browns burrowed a hole through my forehead.
Fuck this mayor was something else. Her features were all soft angles around her full cheekbones and soulful eyes, but that's where that warm & fuzzy shit ended. Everywhere else on her ticked off face from her unwavering jawline to a bulging fault line forehead vein were junkyard-metal hard and cold. All that shit added up to being a gorgeous aphrodisiac.
Excuse me for typecasting, but I'm an unrepentant lezzie who prefers my bad bitches to be like my motorcycles: powerful as fuck.
This HBIC checked all my "like" boxes with big, bold, heavy-handed strokes.
Definitely could've used backup inside her office. Either Kill or Will, whichever of the pair was in the mood to be the most reckless so he could thrash about her office breaking shit to intimidate her and also have charged-up enough guts to keep my libido in chains by slapping the back of my head the nanosecond my tongue jutted out the side of my mouth at the sight and sound of her moxy.
But both lieutenants were posted in front of her building as sentries. That was their assigned duty.
Fuckit.
I'd dropped words on her chin that let her know she's dealing with a boss rider. "I strolled right past a snoring redhead whose narcoleptic oversight augured badly for her prospects of remaining gainfully employed as your minimum wage earning secretary," I teased, noting with an arrogant wink how this dark-haired beauty was well aware of my twinkling greens memorizing every inch of her statuesque face.
The woman didn't hide the fact that she was affected by my ability to string together more than one word. (I'm a biker not an idiot. Even us dropout riders have read a book or two. In my case, more than a book or two.) The brunette straightened her posture with a noticeably restrained flair and rocked a suddenly stunned expression - for the briefest of moments - before it was abandoned for measured mirth. She hadn't drank all of me in with her judgmental browns even though her mouth quaked with the beginnings of a titter.
Dammit if I wasn't looking forward to the returned favor like a fat kid waiting for someone to slice a birthday cake. "As for my tone, lady, it's my natural speaking voice when I'm something in the vicinity of livid."
"Why do I even bother with you people?" She harped, agitated brown eyes pinning me to her office door.
"Oh, you'll do more than bother with my people if-"
"Don't talk," she interrupted, jutting a finger in the air to enumerate her point. "Not now and..." she added, wrenching her eyes tightly shut. "Preferably not ever."
What the actual hell?
I had to ease my fist from her desk. Just soak this bitch on in full force. At first I thought she was not verbally sparring with me because she finally did drink me all in and was laying down some mild law before we started throwing bows at each other. I mean, I looked completely badass. Before thundering into her office with fire churning in my gut, I armored up in my knock-you-the-fuck-out biker chick regalia:
A tight white Marvel's Black Widow tank top, even tighter black jeans, red leather wrist straps, some take-no-prisoners black motorcycle boots, my black & dark red Charming Knights leather cut emblazoned with our colors (two swords crossed in front of a broken heart shaped shield with a Pegasus, wings spread wide and proud, perched behind the shield), an over the shoulder holster for my iron (a M1911 pistol), my workman black leather belt with a sheath for my blade (one of my babies: an eight inch Smith & Wesson Special Ops M9 bayonet), silver & blacks skull rings on my right hand, and on my left hand my lucky brass knuckles the mayor was already acquainted with. Well, her desk, anyway.
I discovered that she hadn't peeped the full me - or didn't give a damn if she had - when she pinched the bridge of her nose. You don't do that shit when you're in a heated kerfuffle that can quickly escalate or when you're intimidated by someone.
"By the gods," she added in a huff of annoyance, most likely directed at both the pain in her face and the pest in her office.
Real talk: that migraine shit would annoy me too. So would being surrounded by incompetence. While the fleeting thought of sending flowers to her secretary for continuing to do me the solid of keeping her ass in dreamland crossed my mind, I chuckled inwardly thinking about how she'd probably be unemployed within the hour. It would be the right move to fire the redhead after letting someone like me waltz into her office in exchange for some quick zzz's.
One of my MC brothers half-stepped on an all important mission, then you place all your money on his ass being strung upside until he passed out. Our club President David "Prince Charming" Nolan would revoke his patches in a heartbeat. Hell, he'd sword tip-pry them clean off the slacker's cut and burn 'em in a bucket right in front of the guy. Prince Charming, well, he's a sweet and loving man until he's not. Once he's armored up and mounted on his high horse, there's no bringing him down unless your name is Mary Margaret, his old lady, who we all affectionately call Snow.
Being the only woman rider of the club has a perk: I easily notice Snow's influence all around our clubhouses, both on the walls and on the members. My brothers take Prince Charming's cue and actively seek Snow's opinion on the shit bogging down their hearts or their minds, which skirts into the club's business side of things more often than they'd ever admit. They defer to her for so much positive support, she ought to charge them by the millisecond and call her racket The Hope Fundraiser.
In her mid-thirties, the petite brunette was the glue that keeps us together, defusing heated situations that cropped up around our clubhouse and gaining Prince Charming's ear when things outside of it went nuclear. The woman was born into the rider life; she knew not take shit from her man but also how to give it to him without lobbing off his balls (Prince Charming's patches and tats prove he's our leader but Snow's respect for him proves he's the man to lead us). All said and done, she's the perfect old lady.
So yeah, Snow's the person who planted the idea in Prince Charming's mind - likely while planting a kiss on his dick - of me being the member to sic on mayor duty. And Prince Charming being pussy-whipped in a good way - Snow and our club President were made for each other like they shared one big ol' sappy heart - forced Puppet Boy to run it by me because Puppet Boy's a natural born storyteller. He could weave his grand tales into my ears, even if I didn't believe half of his shit or listen to the full gist - I owed him that much.
And, I owed Snow. She treated me like a daughter before the Charming Knights welcomed me as a sister. I've never been especially close to other women. I never knew my mother, had no sisters or female cousins due to being an orphan, grew up with chicks who had no involvement with me unless they wanted taboo orgasms, and I didn't care enough about the hit-n-quits I fucked to bother with knowing them at all. Life had made me her bitch and I wanted nothing more than to revenge fuck her right in the ass. I was astonishingly soulless. Full of darkness. Caring for nothing but the open road, my next meal, another joint hit, and the easiest lays.
Snow broke into a real fucked up Fort Knox to reach me. Told me her man's MC was a home, not a cage. I knew jack shit about having a home, everything about living in cages, so I took a chance on her brand of hope and the Charming Knights way of life.
Snow is the only woman I trust. So, naturally, part of me suspects Snow already saw the mayor around town and this callout duty was her way of pushing me toward something she felt I needed. She abhors me having a revolving bedroom door and a closed heart because she believes in that bucket of bull about true love and soulmates. The infuriatingly upbeat woman often chastised me with the same probing question over cold beers: "When will you believe that you deserve more outta life?"
We both knew callout duties from Prince Charming couldn't be refused.
In Charming Knights, your duties were top priorities because they sustained and protected the lives of everyone in our club and our families. You wear our cut, you do your job. A principle I believe this mayor could easily identify with regarding her own staff, which is why I couldn't allow her offense against my MC to blow by unanswered.
I'm in this prim and proper magistrate's office to do my Charming Knights duty.
Bored and hungover as I was this morning, I was also here because I so dig a challenge.
I loudly cleared my throat. "You know, I hear they've developed a combo medicine to deal with tension blowback. It's called Tylenol and sex," I quipped nastily.
That snapped her eyes to attention.
"With my secretary currently indisposed, you will not encounter any difficulty leaving the same way you strolled in," she bit out, voice stonier than a gargoyle statue. "Therefore," she added with an exaggerated flourish of her wrist angled toward her office door, "you can do it now."
The harsh bright light from the merciless sun streaming into her office through expansive windows - framed by elegant black & white curtains I'd kill to have drawn closed to soften the lighting in the air-conned room - haloed her lissome shoulders from behind and morphed her into something approaching an avenging angel.
I was surprised she didn't attempt to fling me out her office or battle-ram past me to claw at her secretary's assed-out face. Then again, not really. She undoubtedly had more staff on deck she could siren call to do her dirty work. Bourgeois twats like her always did.
That I was even highlighting those scenarios meant I was losing my touch. Or rather, was not losing my desire to touch her. I imagined Prince Charming leaning against his Harley, with a half-spent cigarette dangling from his mouth, chuckling and taunting, "You can't handle some mean pussy when you got the meanest one between your legs?"
Off the mayor's look of irritated menace, I sighed and crossed my arms at my chest. I could grow roots like a tree. I was that degree of unmovable.
Then she did some truly evil bitch shit that I lacked any and all ability to defend against.
Her coffee irises slowly dragged themselves from the bird motif tats lining the right column of my neck to my black Charming Knights ink on my right forearm until they landed squarely on the patches of my cut that announced my road nic Savior and my rank Enforcer and then -
HOLY FUCK!
She slid her sweet pink long tongue across the quivering flesh of her bottom lip, moistening it to a brilliant shine, as her eyes fluttered shut and she mewled.
Actually fucking mewled.
My vagina didn't know me anymore.
My mouth went dry as the Sahara Desert as every single drop of fluid in my body receded south, transforming my folds into Niagara Fucking Falls.
My mind conjured the image of her tongue doing that sexy-as-fuck stunt anywhere and everywhere on my body, and my clit saluted hard, shooting electrified tingling sensations straight to my core like an eel. My nub defected to this gorgeous mayor's side of the battlefield like the traitorous little shit that it was.
I scowled wide to counter her look of smug satisfaction.
Wanting to recoup at least a modicum of my badassery - my core had clenched so abnormally tight, almost to the point of sucking my jeans into a vortex of lust, I looked like a premature ejaculator about to blow his wad - I scraped my brass knuckles across an area of her desk that housed a Jenga-stacked mound of papers just begging for a tip-over nudge.
As my fingers skittered along the fattest edge of the stack, my naturally curious eyes quickly took in the decor of the wall closest to us. The fancy silver framed awards, certificates and diplomas lining her immaculate office's wall told her story: she's a Harvard and Yale educated piece of work, co-founder of Regal Bank of Storybrooke, and owner of an internationally top-rated equestrian facility called Enchanted Forest Farm who went by the name Regina Mills.
She was fan-fucking-tastic. I hadn't even touched this mayor and she already ruined me for every other woman on the planet.
There were a million reasons why I shouldn't spread her eagle and fuck her senseless against her desk - a very important one brought me here this morning - and yet one glorious reason why I should claim her with my teeth and my tongue: smart pussy was the best pussy.
I was doomed.
Just completely and utterly fucked.
[SQ biker SQ] [SQ biker SQ]
When the tetchy mayor finally flung open her eyes, a devilish arch swept over her brow.
She sighed out a smirk.
In the oddly bearable silence that was anything but companionable, I grew more fuckstrucked by the second and she knew it.
She could see the darkening lust stealing the green from my eyes. And, shit, I still couldn't focus on my callout duty because my body decided my life's work was to keep studying this bad bitch's lips.
That top lip of hers had an achingly sexy scar - delicate like a lone eyelash yet something tough like a tat - and it jerked a few times, teasing the emergence of another smirk, or gods help me, the return of her pornstar lip-licking antics that would hit me clean and hard in my clit for a second time.
Gods, I'd give away my best bayonet for her to mewl again.
I had to ixnay the warmth skating down my spine. "Answer my goddamn question, woman," I ordered.
And that did it for her sexcapade migraine, apparently.
She shot up from her profanely large black leather chair, scooting it back toward those huge windows with a forceful leg bump and served up a scowl that could lacerate the most leathery of faces. Call it my big girl's intuition, but I'd bet both my tits this indomitable mayor has a fast & mean right hook in her.
"I'll do one better and call security," she spat, a long manicured ringed finger hitting the intercom button and receiving no response. She played off her disappointment with a little beaut delivered under measured tightness, "He'll more than graciously answer your asinine question on the way back to that earsore I suggest you hop on and ride straight out of Storybrooke."
Insult me?
Cool. I can take it. I like vajayjay, ride a crotch rocket, and hang out with lawless men twenty-four seven. Not like I haven't heard everything from the Big Book of Stuck-up Bitches Insults.
Insult my 2015 yellow & black Ultra Limited & Low Harley?
You wake the goddamn beast.
I've been riding motorized wheels since I was seven. From dirt bikes to ATVs until I hit the pavement with my first secondhand Harley at sixteen. Riding is more pleasurable to me than eating the sweetest bear claw and eating out the wettest pussy - and I fucking love doing both those things more than I do breathing clean air.
Like my brothers and my wits, I trust Bumblebee with my life. She's sacrosanct.
"What the hell do you know about riding anything, Regina Mills?"
Eh, it's usually an overtly sexual beast that wakes the hell up. Look, I'm not blind. This dusky brunette headcase encased in a form-fitting black pantsuit - its white oxford blouse swaddling her generous decolletage so tightly her chest resembled an overstuffed burrito - had voluptuous curves. Oh so many touchable curves - from the perfect globes of her breasts to the rising swell of her hips that my hands and lips were jealous only my eyes had explored thus far. Her entire body was primed to trap a motherfucker in an infinite loop of pleasure, and hell, I wanted her with an intensity I've never thought possible. Not just body, but soul.
Riled up as she got me just looking at her - and dammit if I wasn't bordering on licentious - I did not give one actual fuck to the wind if she summoned a battalion of toy cops to her rescue.
The way I see it: just more ass for me to kick.
And from what I'll wager is an overly ample derriere on her … after what she did to us … forget kicking hers.
My blood burned Mt. Vesuvius lava hot. I wanted to see her literal naked ass draped over her desk, bouncing pinked and swollen, taking whack after whack from my brassed-up hands like a naughty girl with an even naughtier safe word. Record that hotness on a burner phone like I'm plotting to pull a sex tape leak scandal on her mayoral reputation.
When the brunette opened her mouth to speak, yanking me back to the reality of the obnoxious black and white palette of her office's interior design, I mentally kicked myself for forgetting to rock a red bandana that could've easily doubled as a mouth gag.
"While it's certainly an accomplishment you remained in school long enough to learn to read information framed on walls, it's Madame Mayor to you," she corrected pointedly, her eyes rolling faster than my bike's wheels when they finally hit an open stretch of highway. "There's another tidbit you could stand to learn," she kept at me, her tone growing menacingly jovial. "It concerns a different, less touristy ride my upstanding town can offer a person of your caliber. Care for a quick lesson?"
I shouldn't have considered the thought of dominating her on her home turf because - of course - she'd gather confidence and strength from a familiar setting.
But I itched to punish her. I had to scratch that itch.
She threw a shit-covered monkey wrench into my MC's plans to introduce ourselves to her town, take over The Rabbit Hole, Marine Garage and possibly some pawnbroker's spot, plus collect money for an altruistic cause.
Seriously, what kinda person doesn't like a carnival boasting fast rides, fun prizes, and gooey funnel cakes when the proceeds benefit her town's public elementary school?
A twit like this mayor. That's the fuck who.
Sure, we get a liquor license and some other shit in the deal. Last time I checked, that's called a win-win. My club could easily steal the shit we need or want, but we're on this kick to become one hundred percent legit, eventually.
Fostering goodwill helps the townspeople look away from the shadier things we must do to get out of the criminal life. The key is her signature; with the mayor on board, on paper, we're practically set with carving out room to maneuver and eventually take over Storybrooke.
I was all in with that endgame. Just needed to suss out a fuller picture of her. "Yeah, let's say you try to teach me that factoid," I challenged. "But we take it slow so I can luxuriate in that shit."
"Delighted to oblige," she hummed, moving a bit away from her desk. "It's been said that riding handcuffed in the backseat of a partitioned cop car then being unceremoniously tossed into a hot jail cell is a truly engaging experience. If you remain in my office for this next call, you'll be able to confirm the validity of that assertion firsthand. Of course, that is assuming you haven't already had the pleasure of accumulating a wealth of such encounters," she stated, her black Louboutin heels not worrying her feet at all as we continued to stand, sizing each other up like venerable fighters at a title bout match weigh-in conference.
"Call 'em, lady. Can't wait to greet 'em," I said, hands still crossed at my chest but much looser.
Yeah, I'm one hundred percent certain her boys in blue won't overwhelm my brothers downstairs. I doubt this town has more than a handful of lawfucks, and Kill can take down at least two on his own with his swashbuckling blade and pistol skills. Will's a wildcard because he likes to talk shit first, but he's a proper thief - so he's fast - and an even better dirty tactics brawler. Most people fail to watch both sets of his limbs to their own detriment.
"Are you mentally incapacitated?" She hissed, still standing at attention and still doing it pissed. "This is not an idle threat. It's a concrete promise."
She dipped her body an inch closer into my territory, bracing her lower thighs against her desk's edge. I was too busy goading her anger earlier - and trailing lusty eyes over her supple curves - to have fully noticed that she was likely a good foot shorter than me, give or take a few inches, out of heels. It was a sudden realization that made me ache to scoop her into my arms and mark her neck with dark-as-fuck bites announcing - for all of Storybrooke to see - that she belong to me.
And only to me.
I'm woefully a sucker for petite powerful women.
If this mayor had more than my twenty-eight years under her belt, say in the area of thirty-three, then I'm hitting my dream woman trifecta. Natural outlaw inclination to claim her or not, I kept myself detached.
"That's the type of promise I hope you're capable of fulfilling," I flicked at her.
"Do not make the mistake of underestimating me, dear," she said with a devilish glint in her russet orbs. She damn near made my red cotton panties dissolve when her throaty voice sailed across her desk and docked deep within my core the instant she languidly rasped, "You have no idea what I'm capable of."
Under duress from the pinching sensation emanating from my throbbing core, I took a deep breath that I loathed she actually witnessed. It'd be easy for her to misconstrue my heated desire with my succumbing to her grit. Or maybe I was simply mad that both were true. The bitch had the temerity to quirk an eyebrow and lift the corners of her lips at me.
Look, I don't believe in love at first sight. That BS was manufactured by chick flicks and fairy tales. But, I knew the twisting sensation in my gut was something more than lust at first sight. She was making me consider shit I hadn't before. Really think about how I needed to handle things. But, yeah, my mouth wasn't emailed that memo.
"And you have no idea how much I love surprises," I quipped, "It's a shame you don't strike me as being the same way. I could show you a wonderfully startling thing or two."
She scoffed. "I highly doubt it."
"All I need is space and opportunity," I stated with a wide grin that became a rictus of naughtiness.
She planted both her silver-ringed hands on her desk, metal clinking loudly against marble like Chinese gongs, and leaned in close enough to discover - through a warm exhale of a breath I forgot I was holding - that I had a grilled cheese, three Heinekens, and two cigarettes for breakfast. Which was also close enough to admire the leather and oil smell of my cut that usually got a woman on her back with her legs spread wide open trying to wrap herself in the scent and around me.
The bossy brunette's eyes outlined my mouth but the rest of her offered no clue to the nature of her thoughts.
Still, her actions and their meaning didn't matter in the grand scheme of escalating tensions once I realized she was close enough for me to inhale the intoxicating apple and cinnamon tones that comprised her womanly scent.
She smelled so fucking good.
If I could bottle her scent and sell it, fuck Coco Chanel No. 5. She is how every woman on earth should smell. The woman's essence launched my nips into a puckered tizzy. Tightness pooled in my abdomen, the pressure both a sweet agony and an unbearable torture. If she's a stickler for driving stick, then I'd gladly be the first to show her the benefits of riding tit & clit. Because, truth be told, I would never get enough of her scent.
With a curl of mischief on her lips the mayor beckoned, "Then, have a seat," and motioned toward a nearby chair with a flourish of an upturned palm as if offering her business card to someone she just met at grocery store. "There's your needed space."
Her other hand retrieved an ancient looking smartphone from a charge cradle and speed-dialed somebody she placed on speakerphone while holding the phone close to her mouth like a cupcake she was going to devour, "We're about to discover just how keen you are on the opportunity to have Sheriff Graham wrestle you to the ground. I imagine he will not present your usual experience in that regard."
I welcomed the offered seat, plopping down loudly. "So, you like to watch? Think you can get him to bring some friends along for our floor romp? Or are you too ice queen to get down like that?"
For her part, she rolled with a poker face, effortlessly lowering herself back into her leather throne.
Dammit if she's not a fucking Venus.
And, well, a fucking Venus Flytrap.
"Trust me, dear," she started matter-of-factly, 'You do not wish to witness how I get down with the law," she concluded, growing irked over continuing to hear a dial tone. It's not lost on me that she's mirroring my language. She has an edge to her. All feisty fire. I want to burn to ashes inside her flames.
"Lady, you have no idea," I chortled. "I imagine that would be an infinitely more beautiful sight than you cowering behind the law."
She cradled her phone in the palm of her hand. Began to text with one thumb as she spoke, "Involving the law in our little scrabble means you aren't worth my thorough consideration," she said, finally settling her gorgeous eyes on me slouching in her chair.
Like a kid thoroughly chastised, and a fucking idiot, I corrected my posture, unfurling to sit ramrod straight. She lit a fire under my ass with the knowing smirk she flung at me.
Pulling my cut in closer to my sides when she returned her phone to its cradle, I countered, "Gosh, I don't know what to say after becoming so besotted with your wonderful hospitality, except that you had no fucking reason to block our party permit or liquor license."
Whatever threat this Sheriff Graham turned out to be, he certainly wasn't going to be a punctual one. A second later, that fact was made crystal when her call went straight to voicemail, what with the auditory cue of "You've reached the voicemail of Sheriff Graham. Please leave your message at the dingy."
Gotta love small town ineffectual cops. If Charming Knights can't line this sheriff's pockets - one who rocked an accented voice - with foldable or smokable green, then we'll ply him with lickable pussy to make him our biggest cheerleader.
The mayor shifted slightly in her chair, loose strands of frisky hair invaded her face before she pinned them behind her ears. Through her body language and how dejectedly she hit the "end" icon on her call, it was easy to decipher that she finally arrived at the same conclusion I had moments ago: she's on her own and desperately needs a new tactic.
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're referring to," she offered too quickly but confidently. "While I do peruse hundreds of documents in a single day, I certainly would recall seeing any paperwork associated with an organization such as your own. If, in fact, said paperwork had crossed my desk. Alas, it did not."
"Right," I chimed, crossing my boots at the ankles, wiggling them. "Let's say you deliver that mayoral speech again but this time you hand me a soundbite in your cute politician language that contains the literal truth."
For what seemed like an eternity, but was only a few seconds, she weighed my words. I almost thought I played my cards wrong until a slow, sexy-as-all-hell smile enveloped the lower half of her face. "How would you like a glass of the best cider you've ever tasted?"
"Pst," I huffed. "I don't rock cider. Too little kick for the ride it's trying to give you. Got anything stronger?"
"Whiskey neat?"
"Slap in two tiny igloos."
"Curious," she said, drumming her fingers along her desk's edge. Perhaps stalling for time until whoever the fuck she texted arrived.
"How so?" I was thirsty-as-hell and would be crazy-as-hell to turn down a free drink. Hopefully, she wouldn't dropkick me with a slipped roofie. She doesn't seem the type to be so callous but she's definitely not living in a glass house. So. Fingers crossed.
"I pegged you for one who didn't beat around the bush when it came to her liver killers," she said with a disarming smile.
"I like for things to be cool at first on my lips then warm up later in my hands," I retorted, looking unimpressed as I nodded and pursed my lips. "This drink you're offering makes itself or what?"
"Goodness, where are my manners?" She quipped, flashing a wholly amused smile.
"Might wanna get that checked out. Forgetting simple shit is a blatant red flag for busted brain syndrome."
"You don't say," she said, returning to her composed state as she rose from her chair, dignified and commanding like a supreme court judge dismissing court proceedings, and sashayed to a painting of an apple tree mounted on a wall. "Although I'd posit there's nothing simple about our unexpected meeting. Well, far be it from me to hope this encounter will become quite forgettable."
"Nah, lady. It's rather like herpes. Gonna stick to you and flare up on you every now and again." I said, realizing I had my eyes trained on her feet. Her heels defied gravity under her calculated strides as they click-clanked against the floor and -
Oh my fucking gods ... I knew it!
She's an evil bitch goddess with a firm ROUND ass that won't quit your dreams for nothing. An ass I'd get locked up in the worst prison in the shittiest, most lawless country in the world just to see disrobed before me.
Fuck me.
My panties were drenched. Again. I wanted to slowly moan against the shell of her ear: "Woman, come swim in me." Instead - and wisely - I cleared the constricting lust from my throat with a coughed humphf.
She stopped her movements for a split second, perhaps a preternaturally knowing pause, before she tugged one side of the painting from the wall to reveal several hidden shelves of alcoholic drinks, a tiny cooler of ice, and tumblers.
"Hmm, now there's an image to get you in a drinking mood," she said, her back facing me and her ass still speaking to me, "Our ceasefire deal is, I ply you with a drink and you tell me the real reason why you're being especially obstinate about leaving my town."
"First thing's first," I replied, my eyes agog as I squirmed in the chair like a school kid with her hand up dying to answer a question. "Charming Knights been in Storybrooke a while and we haven't done a damn thing. So, why do you want to ban the big kids from your playground?"
Truthfully, all we've done so far was throw a kickass party on our lease-to-own property to loosen our nerves. Hell, even the women we panty popped were hangarounds from Boston with the sole exception of Puppet Boy's local gal. Our arrival and settling down phases were both uncharacteristically tame. We usually barged in all barbarian horde style and turned a new locale into Sodom & Gomorrah real quick.
Damn.
I didn't know why it was so important for me to hear this mayor's side of things. But I needed to hear her explanation - and especially her voice - as if were hardwired into my DNA.
She was milking my weakness for all it was worth. "At this point in your life," she said, sidling next to me - and oh so close to my errant fingers - to rest that delectable ass of hers against the edge of her desk while brandishing two glasses with two ice cubes in each. She began to pour that sweet dark amber liquid into them, "Do you even need to ask?"
She proffered me the drink, looking me in the eyes while she passed the alcoholic baton.
"I could operate on assumptions. But knowledge is power. Power is transformative. Stop me if you've heard this PSA before," I replied, taking the drink from her hand, smarting over being unable to touch her fingers during the transfer. She did not allow that possibility with the way she held the glass like she was serving a shot of poison. I almost whined like a housebroken puppy that needed to pee.
She fingered the rim of her glass and then brought it to her lips. "You sound intelligent and yet you're currently displaying great difficulty in making the two puzzle pieces of a two-piece puzzle fit together."
She took an excruciatingly long sip. One that brought all my attention back to her moist lips. Gods, the things I could do to her lips that don't even begin with kissing.
I tossed back my libation in one gulp, forgoing deep detection of the drink's notes in favor of a harsh kickback in my throat; the noticeably shrinking ice cubes gave my nose the brusque wake-up call my brain needed as they bowled into my skin.
I'm not here to window shop or to sample.
But, damn ...
Those hard browns of hers glued themselves to my neck again. The large swan inked there probably look like it'd take flight toward her face. The other tats in the area hold less meaning to me, but something tells me she was making up her own stories about my body art. Dirty ones, I hope, because I have a lot of tats - most of them in places she can't see … but could.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
[SQ biker SQ] [SQ biker SQ]
Running my fingers through my loose blonde locks that tickled my neck in the frosty office air, I blew out a long breath and mentally prepared to lay into this bitch hard so I wouldn't want lay down with her, and well, do that hard.
"Dammit, lady, who shat in your cup of hot water and told you it was hot cocoa?"
She looked me straight in the eyes.
"I'm the mayor of a wealthy hideaway seaside town with a majestic natural forest nearby. I've considered the types of visitors such a setting will attract, what that increased traffic could spell for my town and the very decent people living within it, and have done so in a manner befitting more than just a little bit."
"There's no law against throwing parties in your precious little shit town."
"What is your name?" She asked calmly.
The innocuous seeming question was left field. But that was the exact point. She wanted to regain control of the conversation.
"Angry bitch," I hurled at that beautiful chin of hers. Couldn't help the devious smile that took up residence across my entire face, revealing my dimples. She parked pleasantly surprised eyes on those little buggers.
"I've surmised that's your mood from your grandiosely choreographed entrance into my office," she said, slinking back behind her desk and lowering herself, once again with grace, into her chair. An air of refinement adorned her like royal armor. "Should I call you Savior while we continue to converse or do you have a government issued name?"
"Bite me," I grunted, spinning the tiny ice cubes around my glass.
She chuckled. "Not without proper introductions, dear."
I huffed with a shrug, inwardly glowing from this wholly exasperating yet insufferably sexy woman's surprise playfulness. It took every speck of willpower I possessed not to press the matter and bite her first.
"It's Swan."
"Is that a first or last name?"
Like every other small town or city official the Charming Knights have encountered, she's asking for my name because she wants to run a full spread on my history through some nefarious backdoor channel. Gather some info she can hold over my head like the Sword of Damocles. If she's successful with her hunt, she'll pull up a rap sheet so long, she could slide from Maine to China on that fucker.
Yeah, lots of interesting backstory to work with. For starters, how I could return to her Town Hall in the dead of night with my tools and pilfer a lot of her fancy shit. Her office is something straight outta the palace at Versailles. Get my boy Will up in here with me and we can do some true damage.
"It is what it is," I said curtly. "But the annoying prattle spewing from your beautiful mouth still ain't the truth. Can't say how long this cordial ceasefire of ours will last without it."
"Your documents never once crossed my desk," she prevaricated with more force than necessary and in a register that competed with the finest operatic sopranos. It practically screamed I'm a tell and she's a liar.
I looked askance at her. "Ding, dang, dong. That's my bullshit meter going off the Richter scale," I said, leaning one elbow on my knee and taking in her unreadable face. "Look, you gave me a drink so I'll give you another chance to come at me with something, anything remotely resembling the truth. Because that there was not it, lady. Not for one minute did I believe that shit."
"Be that as it may, it's the truth. Whether you believe what I've said or not doesn't render its veracity invalid. If your papers were denied, my best guess is someone on your end did not fill them out correctly or did not file them properly. I'm unable to confirm either of those occurrences because, again, I never handled your paperwork. This is becoming -"
"Whoa nelly!" I interjected, abruptly popping up in her chair like a jack-in-the-box. She didn't so much as flinch. "Now that was the biggest load of crap I've ever heard."
"I'm pretty sure that's not true," she bit out, a hand slowly flexing toward a paper stack while her other continued to nurse her drink.
"Wrong as piss in pecan pie," I said, my words oozing with vitriol. I readjusted my posture and the handle of my blade inadvertently greeted us both. She spied my steel and then read my face, searching for intent. I simply shrugged. I usually didn't allow "talks" to carry on this long without a resolution in my favor, forced or not, but I was all about us using our big girl words (and occasional profanity.)
It didn't escape my attention that I was affording this major an inordinate amount of leeway due to my knuckleheaded attraction to everything about her, including her ability to lie as if it were as subconsciously automatic to her existence as breathing. "My girl Belle does not make anything on the order of a mistake when it comes to drafting or filing legal shit. She's the very definition of exacting. That, and she's a lawyer."
Belle "Beauty" French wasn't just some lawyer we knew. She's Charming Knights royalty. Her father's a founding member along with Prince Charming's father. He's also a real crotchety sonofabitch who's especially proud of the fact that his saggy old balls sired a little girl who restored a Harley for him all by herself at age thirteen and scored a 1600 on her SATs without prep three years later.
This brunette bitch can continuing playing any game she damn well fancies with me, but insinuating that Belle suddenly popped a brain aneurysm that prevented her from hitting the law bullseye was a bottom barrel crowbar tactic.
"Given your distinctive career choice, having a lawyer on retainer is a rather prudent course of action," she supplied. "So is complaining to the proper civil servant. You see, liquor and public grounds gathering permits do not warrant my attention because my office is not the permits office."
"What the hell, lady? Being mayor of a crap town in the middle of the boondocks means you can approve any and all shit," I gritted through teeth so tightly clenched I'd have to shell out thousands of dollars for orthodontic work to correct the impending twisted alignment.
"Here's a novel idea," she said with a sing-songy cadence, her fingers cradling a document she was shifting toward a metal tray marked Next Quarter. "You cease telling me how to do a job I've performed successfully for the past seven years and just file another permit."
That superciliousness shit inspired a primal kind of anger. "No."
"No?" She parroted with a quirked eyebrow.
"No."
"How do you propose to obtain a permit otherwise?" She asked, brow deeply furrowed as if it were completely soul-sapping to crest the tall mountains of my obtuseness. "Especially a notarized one," she added, needling me with her mounting confidence.
"I'm going to slap two sheets of paper on your desk and you're going to sign them. Then a nerdy little dude I know named Doc will handle the rest. That's the fuck how."
Officially, Doc's our Treasurer. He's also our notary, soldier, spy, plumber, babysitter, whatever the hell we needed because he's a jack of all trades and doesn't know what to do with himself if there's nothing for him to do. If I delivered this intractable mayor's signature on our papers, Doc would make it rain diamonds because that'll give him some time-zapping shit to do.
But this mayor's beautiful face twitched into a wretched canvas resembling a constipated schoolmarm's reproachful glare, and I knew shit would hit the fan and get blown every-fucking-where but in the direction of her signing my permits.
"I will do no such thing," she asserted forcibly, "If you continue to believe I will, then you are the dimwitted backwater miscreant I pegged you for earlier."
I pushed myself off her chair lightening quick, cocking an intimidating lean to my head as I leveled a snarl at her. "Why don't you unscrew that penis you've been fucking me with all morning and come at me like a real woman," I derided, ring-tossing my whiskey glass onto her desk where it clanged violently and spilled its melted water before rolling onto its side. "You might actually enjoy not being a lying cunt," I jeered.
She stopped the whiskey glass' travels with a tense hand and coal black eyes. "If you remain in my office one second longer," she hissed, voice brimming with the underpinnings of a growl. Her entire posture tightened as she hit me with the unbridled fury powering her eyes. "You will not enjoy the consequences. This is not a threat. This is not even a promise. This is simple unadulterated fact. Now get out of my office," she clipped.
"No fucking sheriff here, remember?" I guffawed.
Then, I slammed my palms down on the paper stack in front of her. Our hands mere centimeters away from grazing each other. I briefly wondered if her fingers would feel soft or hard tracing over the design paths of my tats and silently admonished myself for the weakness. "And I'll stop you before you can call him or your sleeping beauty secretary again."
She stiffened even more. A vicious sneer curled at the right corner of her mouth as she tightly gripped her whiskey glass like she wanted to brain me with the fucker.
"Get the hell away from me before I make-"
"How?" I interrupted, pinning her with an intense gaze. I leaned over her desk, almost face-to-face, invading her personal space like a virus run amok in her lymph nodes. Despite running the full spectrum of emotions and settling on unraveling anger, I did not want to physically hurt her - not in a way that couldn't be soothed afterwards with slow kisses. I also didn't want to painfully extract shards of glass from my fucking face. But I had to instill the fear of the gods in her. All for pieces of paper. "You're not packing any heat," I added.
"Are you out of your mind?" She demanded, not squirming under my stare but meeting me blink for blink. Fuck if that didn't make me respect and desire her even more.
"Naw, I'm uniquely within it. The thing is, I actually hate playing the part of an outlaw biker stereotype," I said, anxiousness seizing my gut. "But they say the world is a stage. So, what the hell. I'll be an Oscar-winning actress today. My club tried doing things the right way and that wasn't good enough for you. Now you'll do things my way because that's good enough for me," I retrieved my pistol, thumbed the safety off, swung it up fast to rest it sideways on her desk with my finger on the trigger.
Enraged brown eyes momentarily captured my iron occupying the desk then tracked upward to my jawline.
"Is that supposed to frighten me?"
"Let's just say it should inspire you."
"Not unless you can use it properly, dear."
"There's more than one way to use it, lady, and none of them are going to feel as good to your flesh and bone as putting pen to paper."
"Why don't you entertain me with a fascinating tidbit about one of those ways," she said, slowly enunciating each word as if she were talking to a child or a non-native English speaker.
"Are you for fucking real?" I lobbed at her, genuinely dumbfounded at her nonchalant facetious demeanor. I was caught off guard for the first time by a woman who I hadn't even fucked. "You set the mark for how nasty this gets between me and you. My unsolicited advice? Make the only choice there is and just accept that shit."
"What are you going to do if I do not just accept it?" She asked cuttingly, her words slicing and dicing my bikerhood like razors. She schlepped her drink to her taunting mouth, quickly draining every last drop before calmly depositing the glass back on her desk. "Kiss me?"
She narrowed her eyes down to slits, shooting red-hot pokers at my chin. "Kill me?"
"Lady -"
"My unsolicited advice?" She interrupted, arrogantly arching a brow, "Make up your mind expeditiously and definitively, dear. Because you're gravely out of your element and I'm vastly out of your league."
I couldn't even …
There were no words ...
The enormity of her defiance forced an out-of-body experience. My breathing was nonexistent, my heart far from beating in my chest, and the fire behind my eyes millions of light years away. I felt a nothingness and a heaviness all at once. I must have appeared queasy to her; the last thing I consciously registered her doing was opening her mouth in an "O" shape.
The memory of my personal credo being tattooed across my nape in calligraphic lettering snapped me out of my preternaturally quick otherworldly haze and deposited me back into my body.
Think Before You Sink ...
They call me "Savior" because I bail my club outta tight spots and finesse my way out of situations like this before things escalate to the point of no return.
That's my claim to fame.
But here we were at the precipice.
I knew exactly what I had to do and I hated myself for my willingness to do it. Immediately pushed that self-hatred out to my fingers where it danced on the flames of my fierce determination like a whirling dervish.
I siphoned in a cathartic breath, heating my throat and lungs past the point of scratchy pain.
She left me no choice.
[SQ biker SQ] [SQ biker SQ]
I cocked my pistol and pointed the business end at her left tit without compunction.
"You don't know me, Madame Mayor, and you don't know my real name. Most importantly, you have no idea what I'm capable of. You think you do, but that's a highly dangerous line of imagining. A real deal death trap, if you will. So you gotta ask yourself two salient questions. Would someone you once pegged as a dimwitted backwater miscreant carry a loaded pistol if she didn't intend to use it? If she hadn't already used it? You wanna take a chance on me not using this iron pointed at your tit, then by all means refuse," I dictated icily, shifting the gun slightly to my right while I rummaged through my cut's pocket for the forms in question.
My blood and my breaths thrummed in my ears as I slammed the papers next to her whiskey glass, blanketing her forearm with them.
Her eyes never once left my jawline. The devil himself should be wary of her.
"But, we both know you have no good reason to take that chance and every reason to want me to simply walk away. Especially if whoever you texted earlier happens to chance upon my brothers who are waiting outside your fancy building armed with more than just their devil-may-care attitudes. No, you're too intelligent and too classy to make a costly mistake. So, you won't refuse me. Not when you consider these papers trivial but the girl with a loaded gun considers them paramount."
The brunette's breathing stilled for several seconds as her prominent forehead vein swelled to epic proportions. She shot a furtive glance at my iron before stabbing me in the eyes with her undivided attention.
I granted her the reprieve, then I plowed my message home, "Now tell me that ain't simple unadulterated fucking fact."
She bit back those razor sharp retorts that must be second nature; her mouth opening and then closing like an exotic tropical fish taking in air. She didn't hold back out of fear or out of resignation. You don't wear the look she had on her face due to either of those conditions.
The look in her eyes told me she was beyond the realm of any emotion's reach except the resolute one of inextinguishable righteous indignation she leveled at me. Hellfire consumed her eyes, burning brighter than a million suns, yet she was eerily calm. To the initiated there was no mistaking the reality that her calmness was indeed a palatable fury capable of manifesting itself in a wholly incalculable and dangerous manner.
She released her grip on her glass. "This is the iceberg's tip, Swan," she said, low and menacing and deadlier than I ever thought a woman could muster from such a lithe frame. She mashed her pen's chisel tip to one permit but did not move to sign it. Her eyes zeroed on my greens with such deadly precision a muscle in my jaw jerked. "If you sail full speed ahead, there will be no lifeboats."
The raging inferno in her eyes and the pounce-ready tilt to her shoulders brooked no room for argument.
So I held a speedy debate the only place I could: inside my head.
Did I overreact?
Did I feel any guilt?
Didn't matter.
Couldn't matter.
She had to sign those papers.
I had to make her.
"I do what needs to be done," I snapped back. I didn't have a single doubt in my mind whether or not shit just got real. I won this fight the only way a loyal rider could when pressed to the cliff's edge: big guns out. Real ain't the half of it.
This shit between us - all of it - wasn't over by a long shot.
With one quick fluid motion she inked her John Hancock on both forms and slid them to my side of her desk. "Well, that makes two of us, dear."
Butterflies fluttered frantically in my stomach like they were trapped in a burning room and couldn't escape. An anxious, almost giddy anticipation consumed my features as my vagina became sired to her voice. Her obedient thrall. I had no right to feel even an inkling of desire in that moment. But I'm an outlaw and this mayor was unlike any woman I've ever met.
She's the type who knew all about winning the long war; all in like a lifer and that was simultaneously a wonderful and a terrible thing. She has mad heart and likely could rip a fucker's out without flinching.
A bad bitch indeed.
"Good," I prodded with disdain, scooping up the papers and pointing my iron's barrel at the floor as I backed away from her desk and eased up on the trigger. Unable to leave shit alone or peel my eyes away from her unwavering stare I added, "Might make things interesting around here."
Her self-control was staggeringly resolute, but a vicious, hungry beast lurked beneath the surface. It called to the hairs on my arms, prompting them to grow erect and point toward her like tiny rods of iron being tugged by a magnet. My skin heated in the silence, jettisoning its intensity between us like solar flares.
This unassailable woman slowly quirked a dark brow.
"Oh, things will be particularly interesting," she ground out with an impossible degree of anger, her eyes brutally challenging as her lips contorted into an almost thin line. "Because I'm going to bury each and every one of you Charming Knights six feet under my town if it is the last thing I do."
I watched in arrested fascination as the Mona Lisa smile on her face grew horrifyingly dark, confirming the conviction of her words with uncanny accuracy.
The problem was, even after everything that just transpired between us, that Machiavellian smirk of hers did it for me. She wanted to rain shit down on me and my club, I mean utterly destroy us, and all I wanted to do was taste every inch of her until that utterly destroyed me.
When my brothers got wind of what I've wrought on our MC, they'd put me on grunt chores for months like a lowly Prospect until I redeemed myself.
Scratch that. Once Prince Charming discovered how this all went down, fuck a furious recrimination or some menial chore duty. He'd also place my bike under lock and key with a guard standing by, effectively keeping me from enjoying the one ride between my legs that's more rewarding than sex.
Fuckit.
I'm a glutton for punishment and pain. They're a pack of M&Ms to me.
Suppressing a smirk of my own, one that inevitably would've revealed just how much the pure adrenaline coursing through my veins and the ignominious curiosity assailing my clit rendered me momentarily witless, I flicked my M1911's safety on and tucked it into my pants.
I just showed her a glimpse of the real me.
I sure as fuck wanted to know all of the real her.
I slid her a chin jerk in acknowledgement of the gauntlet she just threw down at my club's feet and said the only thing that could be said when you squared off against a titan of womanhood and you were a damn fool looking forward to the battle because no one, not even this woman who set your soul on fire, was gonna catch sight of that scared little orphan Annie you once were - not ever.
"Your move bitch."
To Be Continued ...
Please let me know your thoughts, suggestions, feelings, rants about this chapter!
Up Next: Regina's POV!
But first, quiz time! Just kidding. Here's a list of "biker" slang terms used in this chapter.
MC = motorcycle club/biker gang
clubhouse = MC's home or compound where its members hangout, conduct business/meetings, have parties/orgies and live (if they don't have homes of their own)
patched-in = full member of a MC
brothers = term of endearment and respect used between MC members (in Emma's case she's a "sister")
bikes = motorcycles
chromosexual = someone who loves customizing a motorcycle
brain buckets = helmets
backwarmer = a woman riding "bitch" on a bike (sitting in the "bitch seat" or the space on a motorcycle's seat directly behind the bike rider; "backseat")
get shot of (someone) = break up with someone
old lady = wife or serious girlfriend of a biker who is recognized by members of the MC as being off limits to anyone other than her husband/wife or boyfriend/girlfriend who is a member of the MC
hardbody = a sexy woman
road warrior = a lone wolf (and usually violent) biker who lives on the road and calls it home
nomad = a biker affiliated with a MC that doesn't call any particular city its home
church = an important MC meeting that can't be skipped unless by permission from a MC's President or Vice President and that only patched-in MC members with voting rights can attend
chapel = room in a MC's clubhouse where important discussions happen like church, only patched-in members enter this room unless special permission is given or a prospect is being voted into the MC
prospect = someone working towards becoming a full member of a MC who must prove worthiness by doing anything and everything a patched-in member says and who must be voted into the MC by an unanimous vote
a run = a trip or mission, usually out of town but basically anywhere outside club property
duck-walking = moving your bike with your feet when it's in neutral and you're still straddled on it
cut = a leather vest that is a sacred piece of clothing to members of an MC. It has a biker's patches and her/his MC's colors on it. It's never to be disgraced by being dirty, misplaced or stolen, left on a floor, or worn by anyone except the biker it belongs to.
colors = emblem/symbol/logo of an MC
road dog = travel companion
bed bunny = loose woman
citizen = a regular person with no bike life to their name
patches = badges sewn onto a cut that displays a biker's rank, road nic, MC name, MC origin city, and other info about the biker and her/his MC
road nic = nickname
heat = a gun (or the police)
steel = a knife or blade of any sort
iron = a gun