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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
*Zane “Father” - Chaplain*
Lace turns to me, head tilted down somewhat so that she can look up into my eyes from underneath her long, black eyelashes. She takes a huge bite from her turkey leg and tears off a chunk. Somehow, she manages to look really hot doing so. Only a slight stain from the dark lipstick she had on is left behind, just enough color to darken her naturally rosy lips, and the oil from the meat now adds a bit of shine
What the hell is going on right now? Why am I standing here staring and analyzing her lip color? How do these guys exist around her and still keep focused on everything else?
As if she can read my thoughts, Lace smiles, her cheeks filled with meat — a visual worse for my tightening pants than her wet lips. After wrapping said lips around her straw and sliding it deeply into her mouth, she takes a sip then hands the cup over to Bay before holding her emptied hand out toward me.
Wiggling her fingers, she asks, “Will you be my chaperone?”
Those words get me to finally look away from her, and my attention darts to Bay and Chaz for guidance. As soon as they spot my desperate, silent attempt at asking for advice, their gazes float to the overcast sky.
Chaz even starts casually whistling.
I puff out my cheeks, let out a slow breath, and take her hand. My body legit cannot cope. When she gives my fingers a gentle squeeze, my balls draw in so tightly that I swear all my jizz reroutes up my body and into my hand just to figure out a way to get inside her. The sudden dampness in my palm is proof that, if it were possible, I very well might get this girl pregnant by simply holding hands.
“I would like to make a quick trip to the bathroom, then maybe go check on Vee and give him the rest of my turkey leg and tea.”
She tugs me toward the end of a long line of portable toilets. The mobile bathroom at the end is a bit bigger than the others, but so is the line. Chaz and Bay stay behind us, hopefully paying closer attention to our surroundings than I can right now. Once we get to the front, we each take turns going. I can see why she chose this one, the inside is a bit more glamorous than the usual ones and even has a small sink with running water.
About as cleaned up as we can get at an outdoor event this size, we finally leave the concession and restroom area and head back to our charity booth. Just in time, too. The crowd is dense, eager to watch the next several endo runs.
A few people put up a bit of resistance when Chaz and Bay plow through them, but only until they see who is trying to get to the front; their defiance does a complete one-eighty as soon as they spot our Hell for Leather patches.
The reason for such an expansive turnout apparently has something to do with the female riders — the ones wearing Rolling Stones colors — lined up to take their turn.
I hate asking because this is probably something I should already know, but their involvement with Stoney is lost on me. On the bright side, I guess it would be better to ask Lace than look like an idiot to my superiors. What I really want to ask is why the hell Stoney has women wearing his colors, but figuring that approach might be taken the wrong way, I try a different tactic instead. “How long have they been with the Rolling Stones?”
Lace scoffs and shakes her head. “About a year. They live in Jacksonville. The Atlantic Beach area. Stoney sponsors them.”
Oh. I wonder what those dues look like; a bartering system, no doubt — “I scratch your back, you scratch mine” sort of deal.
There are four of them in total, from what I can tell, and all four have really nice bikes. Only two out of the four bikes are capable of doing endos, though. First up is a woman who looks like she could pass as one of the girls who dance at Tit for Tat. She has long bleached hair, more of whitish silver compared to the whitish yellow Lace has, and it turns into a bunch of light rainbow colors at the bottom. Pastel, I guess?
Her bike is the same make and model as Baylor’s but way more modded out; instead of all black, hers is white and royal blue. In fact, all their bikes have that royal blue color.
Lace catches me studying them and starts a round of dissociated introductions. “Cynthia, the vice president, better known as Cyn on the streets,” she says, nodding toward the first woman. “A fucking lunatic but hilarious as hell. The girl bowing out with the V Star Custom is her baby sis, Riya, their secretary.”
There are absolutely no similarities between them. Riya is short and petite and looks like a different nationality. Indian maybe. “Is the woman on the Victory Judge their president?” I inquire next, nodding toward the redhead.
“Yeah. Nixie is pretty chill unless you piss her off or fuck with anything she is loyal to.” Lace lets go of my hand and points to the female biker approaching the endo lane. “The one up for the stoppie kiss next is Tori, their treasurer. Bona fide nerd. Apparently her bike is Italian like Vee’s but by a different manufacturer. I overheard him talking about it once.”
“Yeah. Agusta Turismo. Sexy ride. All of them are. Honestly, with bikes like theirs, Kal should be the one sponsoring them, though, not Stoney. Well except for the gender part. Not sure where Kal stands on that. Never really crossed my mind to ask.”
“And that right there, sir, makes you part of the problem.”
Fair point. I clench my teeth and grimace down at her.
She chuckles and flaps a hand at me. “Eh, no need to let it tangle you up. Besides, last I checked it was Hell for Leather standing for rebellion this rally, not some feminist movement. Not yet at least. Better treat us right, though. One day we will rule the world, especially women like Nixie and her club.”
Women like Lace, too.
So caught up in the lesson, it takes the crowd going a bit wild to snap my attention back to the actual track — a little too late to catch the good stuff. Cyn cruises around her kissing partner, and the one with the Italian bike — Tori? — settles into place, waiting for the flag to drop. As soon as it does, she pulls a picture-perfect endo. Her tire comes within inches of her mark; the dancer barely even needs to bend forward for the kiss.
“Damn she is good. ‘Bout gave me a heart attack, though.” Lace chuckles, her hand over her chest.
“You and I both. Takes two, though. The dancer didn’t even flinch. Snow, right?”
