Fuck, that felt good already. It was a sweet ride. He turned the key, the vibrations, the sound, soothing something in him that had been aching for the whole time he’d been in prison. It buzzed through his blood. Freedom. It was within reach. He pulled open the saddle bag that hung on the side. He yanked out a helmet from inside, a proper helmet, with a visor. That would do. He wore a helmet because he’d seen what happened to a human skull when they weren’t wearing one. Yeah, fuck that. He shoved on the helmet. He could just roar away and that would be the end.
He looked back over his shoulder. He couldn’t hear anything, but he could see the President’s bedroom. The room that had been his own bedroom. He thought of Cleaver laying his hands on April. Fucking dick. Was that really how her story was going to end? Becoming a whore of the MC? She was destined for better things. Blue would be turning in his grave, if he was dead after all. Hell, Colt felt himself turning in his own grave and he wasn’t even dead and buried.
Colt turned away from the clubhouse and revved, looking up into the sky. Could he leave her? Going back to get her would be trouble. So much trouble. He was nearly at his happy ending. Could he actually do it, leave April? Could he actually live with himself, knowing he had left her?
Suddenly, he was that little scrawny eighteen year old again. The first time he’d seen her, Blue had told him he had a very important job and Colt had been desperate to please him. He would do whatever Blue asked. And Blue had asked him to follow his daughter. She was due home for the summer, staying with her grandparents. Blue wanted him to wait for her at the airport, as she was flying in from some English boarding school. Colt had a beaten up old Wolf Classic motorbike. Barely even a proper motorcycle. It was all he could afford with the measly dollars he had managed to beg, borrow and steal at the time. He had a roof over his head, a space to sleep that was safe enough, and food in his belly. But that had been all he had. It only just ran, and Blue had helped him fix it up.
Colt had been sitting astride his bike in the pick up area of the airport, the hot sun bouncing off the road. He was a lanky thing, long legs and a skinny torso. He had his leather Prospect cut on and he wore it with pride, though it was incredibly hot, and too big for him. He had sneakers on, battered old Converse. His hair was long, floppy, and it always stuck up at the front in a bit of a cowlick. He thought he’d looked incredibly cool, with his cut, on a bike, shades on, waiting for an important person, who he was supposed to watch. He had thought he was the cat’s pajamas, for once, a sense of pride in who he was. He was a prospect of the Black Coyotes. People buzzed past him and didn’t look twice, but he didn’t need their affirmation. He felt good in his own skin. There were fumes in the air, cars were pulling in and out, people coming and going, no one was just there. Except him. He was there, waiting for April. Blue had described her. Blonde hair, about waist length, eyes like his; piercing blue. She’d be sixteen, two years younger than Colt. Colt had his eyes glued to the door and was assessing everyone who matched that description, determined not to miss her.
And then she emerged. His breath hissed out of his lungs. He wouldn’t have been surprised if butterflies followed her and rainbows came out over her head. She carried herself differently, her posture was tall, her chin held high. That blonde hair cascaded like golden silk down her back. She had a wheelie suitcase behind her, a leather handbag, wearing a little dress. She was perfection to Colt. At sixteen, she was still lithe, skinny, too, her face was a neatly put together little kitten face of pouty lips, big eyes and a button nose. Her skin, dewy golden perfection. She walked closer, toward Colt. His mouth had dropped open. The blood in his body pumped like a runaway train. He wouldn’t be able to say anything, his throat seized up. She flipped some expensive looking sunglasses over her eyes, and looked about, still heading his way. And now she was right in front of him, so close he could touch her. The air around her filled with sunshine and sweetness, her scent was flowers and peaches. Hope, and power, a sense of rightness. Like within her bubble, he could achieve great things. Colt breathed in deep, filling his lungs, taking a hit, wanting to get high off her. And then another. For a split second he thought she was looking at him, right at him, and her mouth opened and he thought she might talk to him. Might smile at him. His heart slammed into his rib cage.
But no. She passed by. To the taxi rank beside him. The taxi driver asked where to, she ducked her head a little to give the driver the address, her voice soft clouds. The taxi driver got out and grabbed her case as she swung herself into the back seat. She hadn’t even noticed Colt. But he had noticed her. He had his world flipped over, his heart now beat to a different tattoo. Hers. The poles of his orientation had swapped and there was nothing he could do about it. From that moment he would be hopelessly in love with April.
Colt would be watching, always from afar, watching her as she shone like an angel, and waltzed through a blissful teenage life. The most expensive education to be bought, boarding school in England, then to an exclusive private high school, then Brown University after she’d graduated. She’d come home for the summers and he would count down the days until he could see her again.
April. The skimpy little dresses and skirts she’d wear, very girl-next-door. Innocence that would drive him wild. He’d turn into a rabid dog the nights in the summers he was watching her. It got that bad. Fuck. April. Then she went to get a job in San Francisco after graduating and that was the end. Blue put her on the watch list for an affiliated SF based MC. It sucked. He’d force her out of his mind. Colt had gone back to drinking and whoring and outwardly enjoying the trappings of the MC lifestyle. Inwardly, he often thought about her, where she was, how she was doing. He’d revisit her in his mind only occasionally, normally when he drank too much. He’d wonder where she was, what she was doing. He’d day-dream about her noticing him, on one of the days when he was trailing after her. Wouldn’t it have been something if she’d seen him, stopped in her tracks, smiled at him. Hell, sometimes he dared to dream she’d approach him, talk to him. Sometimes he dared to dream she’d kiss him. And more. But she never did.
And now, at the ripe old age of thirty-five, Colt hesitated. Going back to get her would be trouble with a capital T. But maybe he wanted trouble. Maybe he didn’t want to end things there. Maybe he had a sense of duty to Blue. Maybe his teenage infatuation needed to be exercised.
He turned off the engine, yanked off the helmet, and headed back. Back to save April. As he always had done, as he always would do.
He hauled himself up onto a dumpster, on the side of the building. From there, he could climb onto the flat roof of the kitchen. Then, across that, it was another climb to the roof of the main building. Then it was a question of dropping down onto the windowsill of the right bedroom. He’d checked out whether there were any other prospects about the place, or guards, but it seemed all the members were still in church. That suited him just fine. He clung onto the concrete edge of the building, thankful that he’d done so many chin-ups in prison, and lowered himself down. His booted feet touched the windowsill, and he dropped quietly. The window was old, wood, half rotten. He thumped it a few times lightly and lifted the sash. It was as easy as that. He swung himself into the President’s bedroom, clambering over the window frame and thudding gently on the floor.
There she was, as he’d predicted. Her wrists were in restraints, tied to the bedpost. Her ankles, too. She was a picture. He couldn’t deny it. Her posh clothes all ruffled up, her chic hair all over the place. Tear stained makeup, wild eyes. She was beautiful.
“Christ. Give me strength,” he muttered as his body immediately reacted to seeing her there. Adrenaline and desire pumped a heady mixture through his body.
He approached, trying to step quietly, trying to look at her with reassurance. She was gagged, straining against the rag, previous tears streaked her face. He was close now, he bent down to her. Was she scared of him? She seemed wild. Who wouldn’t be, given the afternoon she’d had? He hooked a finger under the bandana material of the gag and pulled it off her.
“Colt!” She began desperately, but he interrupted her, shushing her. She immediately was silent, looking up at him with her big, blue eyes.
He forced air into his lungs. “You’re leaving with me, now,” he hissed. He began untying her wrist ties. She nodded. He had to lean over her to get the other wrist. Then to her ankles. He eyed up her ridiculous heels. “Take these off, we’ve got to run, to climb.”
“No way, these are Manolo’s.”
He was getting high off being so close to her body, her skin, spread out in front of him. “We have literally seconds, take them off or I’ll… fuck them off you.” He didn’t have time for her sassy arguing back. She wanted sass, he could match her there. His pulse raced. His head spun.
Her eyebrow arched. “If we have literally seconds, how do you think you’ll be able to fuck them off me?” She countered.
“I’ve been in the slammer for years, Kitten, it wouldn’t take me long to get myself there.” Jesus, he was hard. This was not the time for this. Yet, he felt so fucking alive.
“And what about me?” She batted back.
“What about you, Kitten?”
She pouted. “Selfish.”
He played along, smirking. “Selfish the first time. Selfless the next time.”
She raised her eyebrows, opened her mouth to say something but was speechless. Yes, he’d won that. Point to him.
“They are fuck shoes anyway,” he said, eyeing them and her slender ankles. His erection plumped and pressed uncomfortably into his jeans. So uncomfortable it felt good.
“I beg your pardon?” She said indignantly.
“They are fuck shoes, not for walking in, purely for fucking in. They look good on your feet up in the air-” he continued.
“I don’t think-”