Captive Ride

By: Ella Goode

Chapter One





Flint


“I’m going to take her,” I tell Judge, the Death Lords President. Hell, he’s my president but in this, I’m going to make the call because I've been the one watching her--not Judge or any other of my MC brothers.

Judge chews on this. He doesn’t want to give me the go ahead because he feels like he owes Amelia Voll.

“She in danger right now?”

I glance at the door that she just walked through with the stick up his ass lawyer. It’s the fourth time she’s been out with him.

“Yeah.” In danger of getting blood splattered on her shirt if she doesn’t stop seeing the asshole.

“And if I tell you to sit tight a while longer?”

I don’t answer immediately because I won't lie to my President, but I’m not going to sit on my thumb while someone else takes what’s mine. “I’ve played the patient soldier for a long time,” I finally say. I’ve been watching Amelia for four years now. I’m pretty much done with standing on the sidelines.

Judge heaves a sigh. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Don’t plan on it.” Unless she wants the pain. I don’t have any problem spanking that pert ass of hers until it is rosy red.

“I don’t want you coming back a wreck either,” he cautions.

“I’m thinking that it’s my call whether to take that chance. Not getting any younger,” I remind him.

“It is your call,” he agrees. “It’s nice you pretend that I had a say in the matter, but we both know you are just giving me a heads up instead of asking for permission.”

I shrug even though he can’t see me. “I never did like asking for permission. Guess that’s why I’m part of the Death Lords.”

Judge chuckles. “I’ll see you in a year or so then?”

“Why so long?” I ask with surprise.

“Cuz it’s going to take that long for you to convince her that whatever you plan to do is for her own good.” With that he hangs up.

I run a hand across my jaw feeling the closely trimmed facial hair. Is Judge suggesting that I'm not her type? I know I'm not her type. Her type wears suits. I wear jeans and boots. Her type has skin smoother than an icicle in winter. Mine is rough and scarred. She battles in a courtroom and most of the men she's dated fight it out in stale smelling offices and boardrooms. I fight in back alleys, secret wooded areas, and in bar parking lots.

But her type isn't working for her. When it comes to men, she hasn’t discovered what she wants. Or at least she hasn’t found what is going to fulfill her which is why she flits from one guy to another or goes long patches with just a rotation from her pretty healthy toy chest.

The sound of the restaurant door opening jerks my head up. A couple leaves. They look like a fucking ad for some ritzy store at the mall. Suit coats, ties, shiny shoes. There’s no question I don’t look like any of the men inside that restaurant with my leather cut, unshaved jaw, and jeans. But if Amelia had wanted something like the tight assed prick that just walked out and didn’t even help his woman to her car, she wouldn’t still be looking. She’d be shacked up with the boring suit, popping two and a half kids, and working at some law firm downtown fighting for corporations.

Instead, she lives alone in her small two bedroom bungalow on the South side of town, has an office in a strip mall, and represents what most people would classify as undesirables. No one’s stayed the night at her place since I started watching her and she’s not playing house with anyone else. She’s a loner but given the recent uptick in dates, I’m guessing she’s feeling the sting of that lifestyle.

Amelia’s too much work and not enough play.

I swing my leg off the seat of my low rider and amble up to the door. A rush of cool air conditioning hits my body about the same time as the eyes of the hostess. Those eyes get big and bigger as they take in my six foot two inch body, covered with tattoos and ending in a pair of size thirteen shitkickers.

We both know I don’t look like anything else around here. That doesn’t stop her lips from parting and her tits from swelling underneath the white cotton shirt that she has left unbuttoned so that all the customers can appreciate the cleavage she’s pushed together.

“Just one today?" Her years of cigarette smoking have thinned her skin and deepened the tone of her voice to throaty and sultry.

Another time, I would’ve taken this little piece out back behind the restaurant and fucked her silly during one of her smoke breaks. But since I’ve started watching Amelia, my sexual appetite knows only one thing. Her. And it’s time I fed myself because I’m feeling fucking ravenous.

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