Viking Page 4

  It feels too good to explain. Riding is my outlet. My sanity saver. When I’m about to lose my shit, I take my Harley out and unleash my frustrations on the road instead of some fucker’s face. The fact that Bonnie can become part of this rather than a hindrance is an unexpected boon.

  Thoughts about whether Alanah would be as graceful on my Harley try to pierce my brain. I push them away and concentrate on the smooth road underneath my tyre. We’re almost there. Away from the Clubhouse, my father, and a temptation I can’t begin to understand.

  We weave our way to the top, pulling up in the spot closest to the barrier. It has the best view of the city lights and it’s the furthest from the single streetlight that illuminates the parking area. Perfect for late-night meetings like this, Jolly’s Lookout has a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view over the valley.

  Tonight, I’m not interest in any scenery except for the beauty in front of me. Bonnie is currently untangling her long, dark copper-brown hair with her fingers, her attention fully immersed in undoing the damage that the wind has done. I use her distraction to my advantage.

  Seizing her by the waist, I lift her onto my bike seat and, careful to avoid the hot pipes, I step between her legs. The handkerchief sized skirt she’s wearing is easily pushed up around her hips, exposing Bonnie’s bottom half to me. Looking down, I marvel at the sexy view that the few vehicles we encountered on the way up here would have been treated to.

  Thankfully, Bonnie has never been shy about sharing her assets for visual inspection. She does, however, make her distaste known whenever someone tries to get a bit too touchy-feely without her permission. I’ve seen her mean right hand in action up close, and I wouldn’t wish her stinging slap to the face on anyone who didn’t wholeheartedly deserve it.

  “Did you want something?” Bonnie asks with a coy smile.

  I lift and then lower my right shoulder. “I dunno. Did you have something to offer?”

  Our playful words are a contradiction to the intensity of the spark that ignites between us when we’re alone like this—hell, it’s there even when we have an audience. Whatever this relationship might be lacking in emotional connection, our attraction to one another more than makes up for.

  We’re hot together.

  And that’s more than enough to see us through this year.

  “Hmmm.” Bonnie inspects her fingernails. “I can’t think of anything off the top of my head.”

  Nuzzling my nose into the sensitive spot between the bottom of her jaw and her shoulder, I run my tongue along her collar bone. A shiver runs through Bonnie’s body and I know it’s not from the slight chill in the air.

  “I can think of something.”

  Bonnie slides her hands under my T-shirt. She makes her way over the ridges of my six-pack and up to my chest. Tweaking my nipples between her fingertips, she pinches them until I shudder in response.

  “And, what would that be?” she asks.

  With a hand on either side of her waist, I lift and turn her in one smooth motion. Kicking her legs apart, I bend her over the seat of my Harley and pull her arse hard against my growing bulge. I use my hands on her hips to move her over my hard-on.

  “A little something, something that might just make you scream.”

  She rests one elbow against the leather seat and reaches back with her other hand to cup me.

  “If you think you’re up for the job, big boy,” Bonnie purrs. “I’m game.”

  Her skirt is already sitting above her hips, so I pop open my jeans and slip them down my arse until my cock is free. Bunching the lace of her G-string in my hand, I give it a hard yank. It gives with ease, and I throw the scrap of lace on the ground before using that hand to guide my dick into her tight body.

  Sex with Bonnie is the best I’ve ever had. She’s always completely relaxed, with none of the shyness that the other girls I’ve been with have demonstrated. Bonnie is carefree and vocal about what she enjoys which makes my job a lot easier since I don’t have to second-guess myself.

  I set a moderate pace, taking the time to appreciate the way she pushes back to meet me thrust for thrust. With one hand, I hold her hips while the other one slides around to her neatly-trimmed mound and down to her clit.

  My fingers make contact with the sensitive nub, and Bonnie’s hips jerk. I press down with the right amount of pressure, rubbing a circle like she showed during one of our earlier times together. Like I said, Bonnie isn’t backward in coming forward and once we decided that we were going to be exclusive fuck buddies this year, she set about teaching me what she’s likes without delay. Her tutelage was in-depth and very much appreciated.

  “You like that?” I ask.

  “Mmmm hmmm,” she moans. It’s the only reply I receive because I decide that I’m ready to kick this up a notch.

  Bending over her back, I increase my pace as well as the pressure on her clit. Bonnie clenches around me, squeezing my dick tight with her pussy and then releasing me. I press harder, then thrust deeper, and her inner thighs begin to shake. Knowing that she’ll kill me if I stop what I’m doing and fuck up her orgasm, I concentrate on maintaining my speed and continuing to work her clit.

  Her pussy grips my cock, spasming around me. Once, I know she’s fallen over the edge, I use both hands to hold her hips and pull her back to meet my thrusts. Pounding into her, over and over, until my balls begin to draw up tight and the swirling heat overtakes my lower belly, I throw my head back and hold her in place while I pump my hips like a deranged man as my climax takes hold.

  “Fuck me,” I groan. Spent, I slump over her back, a sheen of sweat coating me and making my shirt to stick my upper body. My cut creaks, the almost-new leather protesting, as I swing around to plant my arse on the seat of my bike and hold Bonnie in my lap.

  She curls in a ball on my thighs. I hold her easily in my arms and we just sit there, both of us panting together while my heart races in my chest.

  “You’re better than a wet dream,” I state. “Ain’t too many fuckers living a reality like mine.”

  Bonnie giggles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Kissing the back of her head, I lower her back to her feet. Bonnie wanders over and picks up the ripped lace from the ground. She holds it in the air, inspecting it with annoyance on her beautiful face.

  “Another pair shredded.” Bonnie throws them at me. I catch them in the air and shove them into the pocket of my jeans. She scrunches up her nose and holds her hand out for them. “I need them back. It’s a long ride home and you’ve fucked me bareback once again. I need some kind of barrier between my lady parts and your bloody seat.”

  It’s my turn to scrunch up my face. I arch and eyebrow, and ask, “Thought you said you’re on the pill?”

  “I am, dumbass,” she snaps. “I’m talking about riding back to town with your cum dripping out of me. It’s not exactly pleasant.”

  She has a point. I shrug my cut off, then pull my T-shirt over my head. Handing it to her, I laugh when she lets it dangle from her fingertips.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “Use it to clean yourself up or wear it home. I don’t care, but it’s gotta be better than nothing.”

  Bonnie pulls her tiny top off then puts on my T-shirt. It engulfs her, covering her from her neck to halfway to her knees, and completely hiding her leather skirt from view. Comparing it to the outfit she’s been wearing all night, my T-shirt is positively prim on her.

  “You’re such a gentleman,” she calls from behind the bushes where she’s gone to clean herself up. “I can’t imagine how the other girls ever resisted you.”

  I slip my arms through my cut. Without a T-shirt under it, I look like an extra in a porn flick, but I guess it’ll do until I get home. Rebutting my jeans, I lean on the seat of my bike, and wait for Bonnie to come back.

  “Imagine how much of a gentleman I’d be if you were actually my girlfriend?” I ask when she is close enough for me to s
tudy her reaction. I shouldn’t be throwing out barbs to test the water—not after we’ve already come to an agreement about what this year means.

  Bonnie jerks like I’ve hit her. Hurt floods her face, then she pushes it away half a second later and slaps my bare shoulder. She wriggles her way between my thighs and leans her back against me. The lights of Brisbane’s suburbs twinkle in front of us, like a cloud of fireflies.

  “Eeek,” she laughs. It sounds genuine, however I’m not so sure after catching her expression. “Screw that. Boyfriends are too much work for a girl like me. Plus, I’m allergic to feelings, those things itch like a bitch.”

  Resting my chin on the top of her head, I try to examine what I’m feeling about her flippant answer. It’s a cross between disappointment and relief. Which is stupid since, until inopportune thoughts of Alanah hit me tonight, I’d been happy with our arrangement.

  Why am I searching for signs of more now?

  Guilt, the desire for a legitimate distraction, or something deeper?

  “Anyway,” Bonnie continues. “We have a deal.”

  I speak with her as she chants her personal mantra, “One year of fun and fucking before France.”

  SIX

  Bonnie

  Vic drops me off around the corner from my house, and like usual, he sits there until he sees the front porch light go off. It’s our signal to say that I’m safely inside. His Harley bursts to life, the thudding engine out of place in the early a.m. hours in my strictly upper middle-class suburb. Leaning back against the door, I strain to hear every last note as he rides off into the distance.

  “Is that you, Bon Bon?” my dad calls from the living room.

  His childish nickname for me should be embarrassing at my age, instead it still makes me feel warm and loved. My parents are wonderful. They are the definition of the perfect nuclear family, priding themselves on keeping their marriage and careers ticking over like a well-oiled machine in this era of easy divorce. I know how lucky I am to have their unwavering support, which is why decisions like hanging with the Black Shamrocks MC and riding on motorcycles with bikers need to be kept from them.

  My tendency to walk on the wild side would only upset them and that’s the last thing I want.

  “It’s me, daddy,” I reply in a whisper-yell, careful not to wake my mum and siblings. “I’m busting for the loo. I’ll be back down in a minute.”

  I’m still wearing Vic’s T-shirt and not much else. A quick trip to my bedroom to change is in order before I say goodnight to my father. The questions my attire would raise aren’t easily answered.

  “No worries. I’ll put the kettle on. You’ve put in some serious hours at the studio this weekend. A nice cup of hot chocolate is just the treat you need.”

  As far as my parents know, my nocturnal habits are the result of my crazy dance schedule. While I do dedicate a lot of hours to practice, my studio isn’t open at two in the morning—no matter what my parents may believe. But, I’m a good kid in my parent’s eyes and they’ve always worked under the belief that they can trust me until I prove that their trust is misplaced.

  After quickly cleaning myself up—removing my liberally applied makeup and dressing in my usual dance uniform of tights, sports bra, and belly-skimming cotton T-shirt—I head back down to my dad. Like promised he has a steaming cup of hot chocolate waiting for me on the coffee table. He’s even snuck the biscuit tin out from wherever he had it hidden. My mum is always following some type of diet fad that the rest of us are browbeaten into doing with her so anything tasty needs to be smuggled into our house with all the precision of a military exercise.

  “Good night?” Dad asks. He selects two biscuits, then slides the tin over to me.

  “Yeah, not bad.” I ignore the biscuits and pick up my mug. Blowing gently over the hot surface, I smile at him.

  “You’re spending a lot of time at the studio,” he states. “I know you’re disappointed, but I hope you’re not being too hard on yourself for missing out on France this year? We all know you tried your hardest, Bon Bon.”

  My dad is too much. Tendrils of guilt begin to wrap themselves around my brain and I try my hardest to escape their grip. I’m definitely upset at being stuck in Brisbane for another twelve months, but I haven’t exactly upped the ante in the studio because of it. If anything, I’ve gone out my way to dodge extra work since I was told I didn’t make the cut this year.

  Me and humble pie aren’t close acquaintances. Some of my behaviour toward the end of last season was a bit over the top. I thought I was a shoo-in and let my ego get the better of me. I was a smug bitch, and while most of my teammates are sympathetic to my disappointment, there’s a definite edge of gloating from those who take satisfaction in seeing me get my comeuppance.

  “I’m okay,” I reply. “I have a spot next year so I’m—”

  “Are you friends with Collen McCormack again?” Dad cuts me off.

  Raising my gaze from the chocolatey goodness in the cup I’m holding, I meet his worried expression with a timid half-smile.

  “Ah, not really,” I try to hedge. “Why do you ask?”

  “The Sarge mentioned that he was worried about you and Sharleen meeting up with Colleen again.”

  Bloody Shari! Her lack of control is going to get us all in trouble if she’s doesn’t get it together. First, she’s dabbling in coke with Brian, now she’s telling her police officer father that we’re still friends with Colleen. Our parents know that Colleen is involved with the Black Shamrocks MC now, but even before that, they’d forbidden us from seeing her any longer. After Colleen’s parents died and she moved over the other side of town to live with her uncle, her life moved onto a different trajectory to ours—one that made our parents nervous. Shari’s dad is a Sergeant, so he knows more than he should about the dark side of this city and he had gone out of his way to infect my usually easy-going parents with his paranoia.

  “I don’t know why he’d say that,” I say with a shrug. “I haven’t even spent much time with Shari since she hurt her knee.”

  My father doesn’t appear completely convinced. He runs his eyes over my face and I work to keep my expression as open and neutral as I can. On the inside I’m seething, but I can’t let my dad see that. Even though he has known Colleen since she was born, he’s let Shari’s father talk him into believing that she’s a bad influence. I’m not willing to risk my parents trust and my freedom to come and go and see who I please by showing him how pissed I am at my silly best friend. We’ve always been a trio and Shari’s stupid vendetta against Colleen isn’t getting in the way of seventeen years of friendship—or the fun I have planned for this year.

  If Shari would only open her eyes and see that it’s not really Colleen’s fault that her knee was ruined. Truthfully, the blame is mine since I was the one who suggested that Shari would be fine to babysit, Colleen’s little sister, Kerry, while we went on a double-date with Vic and Cole.

  “Here, you know you want another one,” I joke to break the silence. Selecting a biscuit, I push the biscuit tin his way. Dunking it in my hot chocolate, I savour the rich goodness and use it to give myself time to formulate an appropriate response. “Daddy, I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m fine, I swear. I’ve come to terms with missing out on France this year. I’m happy to have another year to spend with you and Mum. Please don’t let Shari and her dramatics get in the way of us enjoying our extra time together.”

  Dad rolls his eyes. He knows what I’m alluding to. As Sergeant Lucian’s best mate, he gets to hear all about their ongoing problems with Shari’s behaviour since her injury. “As long as you promise to come to us if you need us, I’m happy to let you make your own choices. You’ve never given us any reason to doubt your judgement and I hope you never will.”

  Draining my mug, I stand. The words I need to say—a complete lie if I’m honest—take a moment to form. “You have my word, dad. You’ll never have to doubt me.”

  “You’re a good girl, Bonnie D
uBois,” my dad says with a wide grin. He steals another biscuit and settles back in his armchair to watch whatever European sport he’s currently addicted to. Formula One by the looks of the vehicles that begin to fly around the screen when he presses play. Dad has a friend in Ireland who sends him videotapes of the races, so he can stay up-to-date. As a chronic insomniac who’s kept awake by old injuries from his tours in the Vietnam War, my dad spends most of his nights in front of the television, nodding on and off as the pain allows.

  Despite his life of pain, he is even tempered and loving; always pushing his kids to do their best and treating my mum like a queen.

  Quite honestly, my dad is the best man I’ve ever met.

  I know how hard he works, and it kills me to lie to him. The guilt from earlier returns, great big waves of remorse hitting me with enough force to almost break my resolution to stick by Colleen. Laying my hand on dad’s good shoulder, I squeeze it gently while I remind myself that my unfailingly loyal was passed to me through the genetics of the man I’m currently lying to.

  “You’re the best dad in the world,” I say in a tone that allows for no argument—because every word is true. “I’m so lucky to have you. Please believe me when I say that I okay. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  There is enough truth in my lies to let me lay some of my guilt to rest.

  With absentminded affection, Dad pats my hand. “Off to bed, my girl. It’s too late to get this sentimental.”

  I take his gentle rebuke for what it is—a deflection so he can get his own emotions back under control—and head for my bedroom. Closing the door behind me, I lay down on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

  What a strange night I’ve had.