Coming October 12, 2020!
Sometimes a girl wants a man with a firm hand.
I’m a hundred miles from home, and my ride is gone. I’m broke. My phone’s missing. And a wild-haired biker busts me sneaking a shower in the SBMC clubhouse.
My punishment for trespassing is to be his house mouse. Cook. Clean. Take care of his needs.
But he wants to punish me a different way. Do things I’ve never done before. Take care of my needs.
And I want it, too. I want him. If only for this moment before life inevitably comes crashing down on me again.
She makes me try things I’ve never done with a woman before. And she loves every moment. She’s perfect. And she’s in deeper trouble than she knows. She stumbled into dangerous business, and my club sees her as a threat.
Be that as it may, no one is gonna touch her. As soon as I saw her, dripping wet in that towel, I knew two things. Fay-Lee is my woman. And she’s gonna turn my world upside down.
She can run, but I’ll catch her. I’m faster and stronger. And she belongs to me.
Dizzy is a steamy, age-gap romance. It’s a full-length prequel to the Steel Bones Motorcycle Club series, but it can be read as a standalone. Intended for adult readers.
No cheating. HEA guaranteed.
It’s been a week since Halloween. I’m freezing. I’m starving. And I stink.
I hope that when the Steel Bones Motorcycle Club kills me, they make it quick. I’m so freakin’ cold, all they’ll need to do is give me a good wallop, and I’ll shatter into pieces.
And they are gonna catch me soon, and kill me, ‘cause my luck has always been shit, and I ain’t cut out for bein’ stealthy. Besides, my feet are so numb, I’m tromping around like a slutty, punk rock Frankenstein.
Geese honk high overhead, and the dark is easing to gray as I slowly turn the knob to the clubhouse’s back door. It’s dawn. Frost covers the yard. You can see my boot prints clear as day, coming from the woods.
The sun better melt that soon, or I’m gonna be busted in a comically Scooby Doo fashion. Tell the truth, I can’t believe I’ve evaded detection this long.
I gently nudge the door. Sweet. It’s unlocked. It’s been a week since Chaos bailed, and the door’s been fifty-fifty. Drunk bikers ain’t the most conscientious. The club’s also hectic with all the construction mess. A whole chunk of wall is nothing but plastic sheeting. Guess they figure if a person can bust in like the Kool Aid Man, why lock a door?
I pad down the hall past the offices, heading straight for the kitchen. My stomach is pretty much gnawing on itself at this point. The clubhouse was a ghost town last night, so I couldn’t crash the party like I have been—defrost, chow down, lift cash from whoever passes out.
It’s so blessed, beautifully warm in here. My frozen skin prickles, burning as it thaws. I ain’t gonna last much longer sleeping rough.
I’m still wearing my Halloween costume, a homemade Daddy’s Lil’ Monster belly shirt—turned inside out so as not to draw attention—booty shorts, the remnants of fishnets, and combat boots. Thank goodness I was able to snag a wool horse blanket that was covering a bike out in the garage, or I’d have frozen to death days ago.
Luckily, I’ve only had to “head on home now” for a few hours each night. Steel Bones parties hard; they start early, and they go late. Last night was a fluke. If happens again, I’m gonna have to fuck a dude to get a bed. It’s getting too cold. That’s a last resort, but I’m not a proud woman.
That’s tomorrow’s trouble, though. Right now, I’m in heaven: an industrial kitchen, clean as a whistle, pantry stocked full. I swing open a cabinet. Oh, yeah. Bread. Peanut butter. I pile my arms up and move to the fridge. There’s jelly. Grape and strawberry. Every condiment you can image. A whole row of mustards. Glory day.
I grab what I need and head for a counter, slapping down ten slices like I do making lunches for the kids at home. I spread the peanut butter thick, and glop the jelly on with a spoon.
I rummage through a few drawers, but there’s no wax paper I can find, so I stack the sandwiches and put ‘em in a plastic grocery bag. Whoever runs this kitchen, she’s got those cutesy sacks where it’s sewn to look like a cat with a big ol’ skirt, and you pull the bag out of the cat’s ass. Adorable.
I use the heel of bread to wipe the last of the peanut butter out of the jar, and eat it as I root through the cabinets. Tuna, pasta, mayonnaise. No good. Chips, pretzels. I pop a bag open and munch as I scan the shelves. There’s a bag of mixed nuts. Jackpot. That goes in the bag. I grab some beef jerky and a box of snack cakes, ‘cause I’m only human, and I head out.
I should go walk the woods for a spell, and come back in the afternoon. Wait in the tree line for a car load of sweetbutts to roll up and slide on in with them. But the feeling is just coming back in my thighs, tingling and sharp. And the woods are spooky as hell when you’re alone.
Besides, the clubhouse is dead. From the hallway, I can see the commons—the bar running the length of the converted five-bay garage, the pool tables and jukebox, the vintage doors that slide open on tracks. There’s no one in sight. Not even a dude passed out on the ripped leather sofas.
This is a first.
I do a lap around the commons, checking once again for the phone I lost Halloween night. You never know. Maybe it fell down a crack. As I root around the bar—no phone—I grab a bottle of vodka. That’ll help me pass the day. I should count myself lucky, scurry back to my makeshift camp until tonight.
Or I could go upstairs. Find an empty bunk. Get a shower. Sleep in a bed. Do I dare?
There’s a dozen or so rooms in the annex. As I’ve learned this past week, only five brothers actually live here full time. Heavy, the club president. He’s a giant beast of a man with a voice that sounds like the crack of doom. He stomps around, sending folks fleeing in his wake.
There’s Wall. Body builder type. Says ma’am. I think his wife put him out. He’s a nice guy.
Then there’s Nickel and Creech. They are not nice. Nickel’s a brawler. He’s gotten into a fight every night I’ve been here, and he hasn’t lost once. He’s not interested in the ladies that I can tell. Not so Creech. He’s a tattoo artist. Inked head, full sleeves, gauges. Grabby, pervy, and a huge dick.
An older guy lives here, too. He looks like Superman if Superman had gray hair, a stoop, and two-pack-a-day habit.
Five guys. A dozen rooms. Those are good odds. If it was the Lotto, I’d be emptying my pockets.
I listen hard, holding my breath. No signs of life. Maybe the guys are out on a run? It’s a work day, but you can already tell it’s gonna be a beautiful, clear day.
I tiptoe to the stairs, holding my bag o’ sandwiches and vodka behind my back. If I get busted on the second floor without a brother, I’m gonna look guilty as hell, but I’ve gotten away with bolder shit by batting my eyelashes and keeping it movin’.
As far as I can tell, the guys who live here have the bigger rooms at the end of the hall. I take a gamble on the first door I come to. It opens no problem, and I slip inside, quickly shutting the door behind me.
This must be a crash pad. There’s a twin bed. Faded navy fitted sheet, nothing else. A low dresser with an old, filmy mirror. No bottles or knickknacks on top. An overflowing ash tray on a wooden stand like my Meemaw had. And an empty bottle of Southern Comfort on its side on the floor. I can see a toilet through an open door past the dresser.
Dare I dream? I hustle over. There’s a shower stall! And a worn towel hanging from the rod. No soap or anything, but it’s clean enough. Oh, it’s on.
I rip my shirt over my head as I kick off my shorts. I peel the fishnets off and drop them into the empty trash can. They’ve been nothing but snags since last weekend. My fingers are still a bit numb from the cold, so it takes me the longest time to untie my shitkickers.
My panties come off last. Whew. Shameful. I rinse them in the sink, wring them out, and hang them to dry. Wet panties are gonna suck if I have to go back outside. Maybe I’ll leave ‘em here, and come back for them later tonight.
I run the shower as hot as it’ll go, and the small room fills with steam. I hop in, and oh, the Lord loves me. Water pressure! The water drums on my back, sore from sleeping on the hard ground, and streams down my body, warming me through and turning my skin bright red.
There’s even a bottle of shampoo. It’s practically empty, but I add some water and shake, and there’s more than enough to wash my skinny self and lather up my hair.
This is amazing. I sprayed my hair with pink and blue color for Halloween, and every day since, my scalp has itched. I use my fingertips, scrub real hard. I love the feel of suds slipping down my bare back.
I’m done in less than five minutes. I shower quick. I hate running out of hot water with my hair lathered up.
I grab the towel and sniff. Could be worse. I squeeze my hair dry, wipe the steam from the mirror, and smile. Still crooked. And there’s the scar from when I tripped and busted my mouth open on a curb. It needed stitches, but Mama left it too long. The scar’s not so bad, though. Only a thin white hash mark across the corner of my lips.
I wish I had a toothbrush. I check the medicine cabinet. There’s an open box of condoms and floss. I grab the floss, wind it around my fingers. What the hell? It’s something.
I should take the condoms, too.
I’ve riffled through a half dozen purses, and I have exactly seventeen dollars hidden in the sole of my left boot. The chicks who hang with Steel Bones seem to operate purely on credit, and the brothers don’t ever leave their wallets unattended.
A bus ticket to New York City is thirty-nine dollars. I’m not desperate enough yet, but I could make that in fifteen minutes in a dark corner. Dee goes down the truck stop sometimes, and she’ll get twenty for a blow job. I grab the box of condoms, tucking the floss inside.
Maybe there’s warmer clothes in the dresser. Life’s got to throw me a break at some point, right?
I step into the room, naked as a jaybird except for the towel wrapped around me, clutching a box of condoms, and my heart stops.
Sitting on the bed, bare-chested, is a huge, red-eyed man with wild black hair halfway down his back, and a wiry black beard, almost as long. It’s the dad with the white SUV.
Up close, he looks like the bastard child of a bassist from an 80s metal band and that god with the lightning bolts. Up close, I can tell he’s younger than I thought. He’s in his thirties. His tattoos curl around his hunched shoulders, and he’s wearing the most hangdog expression I’ve ever seen on a man outside of a funeral or a court date.
He’s swigging from the bottle of Southern Comfort. Guess it wasn’t empty after all. In his other hand, he’s holding a thick, flannel shirt.
Well, let’s make lemonade. I smile wide and cock a hip.
“Hey, mister,” I say. “I’ll show you my titties for that shirt.”