Trapped by Fate on Reckless Roads by MariaLisa deMora

Author:MariaLisa deMora
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, thriller, biker, brotherhood, alpha male, motorcycle club, honorable criminal

Chapter Seven

Retro

He watched Trina scramble up the mattress, flipping to her back and pushing up on her elbows so she could look at him.

He’d never forget the look on her face when he spoke his vows to her. As he’d stated, this would lock her to him, and everything he’d said had weight and power in his mind. If she wanted it, he would move heaven and earth to make it happen. The trust and belief in her expression had nearly taken him to his knees, would have, if it hadn’t been for his hold on her, the heat from her pussy baking through her jeans, a promise of its own.

Moving swiftly, he shrugged out of his vest, folded it and placed it on the dresser. Respect to the patches was respect to the club, and his vest never hit the floor, never hung from his apehangers, never draped over the back of a seat. Something their prospects were taught from day one, because cuts left unattended were fair game for other clubs, and the last thing a member wanted to do was have to admit they’d lost their colors because of stupidity. Losing them by force wasn’t shameful and would bring the club’s wrath to bear on their behalf. But losing them out of inattention only to be mocked and humiliated by another club? A beatout would be the least of that member’s worries. So even in the privacy of his own home, Retro followed protocol and treated the fabric extension of the club with respect. He made a note to have a chat with Trina about his vest, because for a woman new to the life, it might be tempting to try it on for size, something he couldn’t allow. Women weren’t club; they were the surrounding strength that allowed the men to do what they needed to do, but patches were reserved for members. Retro made another mental note to get her a support shirt, and to petition for a Property Of vest. No way would he stomach seeing Wanda’s damned First Lady vest on her, because she’d made such a mockery of the title. He’d burn that shit first, not wanting any hint of taint to transfer. No, Trina would get her own set, and he’d sort out what that meant later.

Club handled, it was just them in the room now, and he lifted the hem of his shirt up and over his head, gathering his hair out of the fabric with an economy of movement that would have told any observer how long he’d worn his hair so. When he’d moved off the family farm, he’d grown it out, first in a silent rebellion that seemed so juvenile in review, then kept it long because he liked it. Liked how he looked, how it felt, and how it set him apart from most of the population, a physical barrier of difference. Just as being in a club did, but in a more idealistic form, the standard one-percent designation making sense when he tore things down to their core.

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