The Biker's Rules

Happy birthday

Date = 31 October

Place = San Francisco (Reaper venue)

POV - Damion

I think I f****d up again.

How is it that I could swirl on two wheels at over 220 miles an hour around a track, but I can’t scrape together enough courage to speak to the one person who means the most to me?

“We’re very proud of you, son,” Dad says. Mom just smiles.

“Thanks. I love you guys to bits.”

“Right back at you, champ.” My father winks at me and leads his wife to their table. They’re sitting with Uncle John, Dean, and some other high-and-mighties that in one way or another, form part of our team.

I throw back the cloak of my grim reaper suit, feeling the material scrape against my bruised back, and sit down at my assigned spot at our table, next to Ilkay, all dressed up in bloody scrubs as a mad doctor.

“Hey, dude,” Axel, a werewolf, opposite me says, “Nice body paint.” I look down at my exposed torso, professionally painted along with my face, to look like a skeleton, up to where it disappears into some black cargo pants, rounded off with high-top leather boots, black with silver buckles.

Another skeleton face walks up — Sean. Tall and lean and blond, with dark eyes grinning, looking like what I know is my almost mirror image tonight. The only difference between my and my teammate’s costumes are the color of our cloaks — black versus Monster green.

Next to him is a girl dressed as a green alien, which, I guess, is his plus-one for the night. I didn’t bring one — my plus-one was already invited. The couple find their seats, with his friends and family, at the table next to ours.

“Grimm,” he shouts, “Mark says he’s gonna start the announcements.” It’s still early, but our team manager is excited to brag about the great season the Monster Reapers are having. A comeback from last year’s disaster where we ended fifth on the roster, with Sean taking second place and me not even on the charts.

But we are back at the top.

I scan the room. Logan, an evil wizard, is talking to Cat-woman in a dark corner. One of the zombie twins, not sure which, is getting something from the bar. Moving along I find what I’m looking for walking down the stairs.

Melaena Blackburn — the one source of trouble I never manage to avoid.

My heart gives a double beat, kickstarting it into a rhythm that could circulate blood through all my organs and back in a millisecond flat. Too bad the blood is flooding into a single organ — down south — where it gets stuck. That would explain why my head is buzzing. It can clearly be attributed to a loss of control on my part.

With each step down her short drop-dead black dress, with white lace trimmings and little red roses around the hem, slides upwards, just enough to be enticing, making my mouth drool for more. Coincidentally, her sugar-skull girl theme fits in perfectly with my Grim Reaper.

At the bottom of the stairs, those wet-dream legs, cladded in net stockings and laced into knee-high black boots, makes their way to our table, bad attitude spilling from her with every swing of her lush hips and mouthwatering ass. I’m so f*****g f****d.

As she comes near, our eyes lock and I can see the blush on her cheeks, even under the light white dusting of makeup covering her face. The black circles painted around her eyes make them pop with brilliant effectiveness that affects my brain cells, turning them to mooch, and like a greenhorn imbecile, I give her a goofy smile as she plops down onto the chair on my right. My doing. I made sure to put her name next to mine.

“I like your costume,” Kiara says as she settles on her chair. She’s dressed as a witch. Mel’s eyes do a quick scan over my bare chest before she bites down on her bottom black lip with a stitched-in smile that curves up to the middle of her cheeks.

“Has anyone seen Jackson?” a zombie with blood-red eyes asks while putting a bottle of Johnnie Blue on the table. Derived from the question, this walking-dead must be Enrique. The twins, for some or other f****d-up reason, decided to dress up as identical zombies, complete with contact lenses to cover the only definite distinction between them — their eyes.

“Last I saw him he was heading upstairs with a sexy she-devil,” Logan joins us, taking his chair.

“Guess he will be a while then,” Ilkay chucks.

“Or not,” Axel contradicts, “It’s Jackson.” The brothers laugh and nod at that. Cause it’s true. We all shoot with the f**k-and-run concept, but while the rest of us at least do it in a civilized caring manner, Jackson does not — he’s never civilized, and he sure as f**k doesn’t care.

A server saunters up, hips swinging, with a tray of peach champagne. She walks around the table and hands each one a glass. When she comes to me she pulls out a Sharpie from somewhere between her t**s and holds it up.

“Can you sign my apron?” She bends over and flashes me with her babies right up my face. Like all the other waitresses tonight, she’s wearing a skimpy black-and-white maid outfit.

I indulgently take the pen. She points to the top of her white apron where it fits snugly over her cleavage. I open the Sharpie with my mouth, the lid between my lips.

“Gmf,” Mel snorts and almost downs her champagne, and I figure, just then, that I’m off to a bad start. But not everything that happens with the female species is my fault. It just happens.

I grab the bottom part of her very short apron and drape it over the table. This causes her to stand up straight. I squiggle my signature, put back the lid, and hand her back her pen. Chuffed she struts away and I let out the breath I was holding.

Not two minutes later two more servers sidle up to me, both with markers ready.

“Can you sign my boob?” One asks and Mel chokes in her champagne.

“I’m sorry, I’m not signing anything else tonight,” I say more harshly than intended.

Disappointed they leave.

“You’re supposed to use them, not scare them away,” Enrique says with a smirk. Though, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, because these days you’re as pink as Dean.” Naturally, the boys noticed my sudden lack of s****l encounters. But there’s no need to discuss it with them. How do I tell them I get off every night in the shower thinking about their little sister? Yeah, that’s not a conversation I’m planning to have … ever.

“Enrique,” I grunt.

“Yeah, bro?”

“Shut the f**k up.” And for once he listens and answers me by lifting his glass. I take a sip of champagne and peek a look to my right. She’s turned her back to me, quietly chatting with Kiara, too soft for me to hear. Her hair is hanging loose, soft curls down her back, with a crown of red roses on the top of her head.

“Oh, darling, you look so hot with all those painted muscles.” Chloe grabs me from the side around my neck, forcing my eyes away from the object of my hardon, and I’m immediately pissed off.

She’s melted into a nurse’s uniform, much too tight and much too short, with a red lace bra struggling to hold her oversized t**s in place. I push her away.

Kiara rolls her eyes so hard that they come close to falling onto the table.

Ren stands behind Mel’s chair, dressed as a bloody murderous clown. Her eyes are big and filled with fear, locked onto me as if asking for help.

I wonder if the stupid freak knows that the girl is terrified of clowns. Or is this some kind of sick joke of his? I winch as she suddenly grabs my leg in a painful grip under the table, way too high to be appropriate for the company we’re in, but lower than I would have liked. I put my hand over hers and she immediately relaxes her grip.

Do something, my numb brain flickers through.

“You need to get to your table,” I chide, “Mel doesn’t do clowns.” I’m looking straight into the rednose bastard’s eyes as I say this. He doesn’t look thrilled about the double meaning of my words. Oh, he gets it.

“So what he’s saying is f**k the hell off,” Logan chimes in from next to Kiara. “You’re scaring my sister.” Ren’s head jerks up, obnoxiously full of himself, a clouded expression on his face. A look that makes my gut turn, and not in a good way.

“Oh, I’ll be ready for the dance, darling,” Chloe nags. Yeah, not gonna happen. She slides her hand through Ren’s arm and they walk off to their table.

“Hey, bro,” Logan looks at me worriedly, “You’re supposed to open the dance floor and you don’t have a date.” Yeah, that was part of the plan.

“If you weren’t as ugly as hell and sprouting a d**k, I would offer up my services,” Ilkay teases. I decide to play along. I look at Axel with a pouting face.

“Don’t look at me,” he chuckles. I turn to Enrique.

“Not going to happen, dude.” She hasn’t removed her hand.

“Don’t sweat, guys, I was actually thinking of asking Mel,” and just for show I add, “or Kiara.” I hope Kiara gets the drift, while the rest of the table stays in the dark.

She does. “Take Mel,” she says hastily, “I can’t dance for s**t in these shoes.” Oh, I owe that girl a great big something. And her eyes show me exactly that … and more. They also threaten that I must not hurt her again or else …

Mel is still in a slight state of shock.

Fucking clown.

Then I grimace at his mistake. At least she’s not going to go near him tonight. Poor bastard dug his own grave.

And still, her hand stays put. I squeeze it softly while looking into her eyes. For a moment she looks a little lost.

Hell, I love it when she loses her cool and reveals the softer Mel lurking beneath that tough girl exterior.

Then she shoves my hand away with a feisty flick of hers, her cool sliding back into her eyes. That too. I love that, too, when she gets all ruffled and agitated.

Mark takes up the microphone and it honks out a loud shrill BEEEEEEEPPPPP.

“Testing, testing,” he says into it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is probably one of the most special Halloween parties we’ll ever get to experience. We’re here to mainly celebrate Damion’s 21st birthday. It’s a big day to become officially a legal adult. But with that, we also want to celebrate one of the best seasons we’ve had so far.” He drops his hand with the mike to his chest as if thinking what to say next. Our eyes meet over the small distance and I smile. Mark was one of the best racers of his time and now he’s probably the best manager s***h coach out there.

“Although the season is still ongoing, we know after the Malaysia race last week, that Damion officially won back his championship! And Sean is on the ball in third place. Ensuring that we will be reclaiming the team-of-the-year trophy from Honda.” Mark lifts a glass towards me. I toast back.

“Hear! Hear!” my boys shout.

“This year we also smashed nearly every record in the book.” People cheer and whistle loudly, the most noise coming from the guys at my table. Mark waits for it to quiet down.

“Damion broke the fastest speed record during the Tissot Sprint, Mugello with a whopping 371.2 km per hour.” An exuberant huss charges through the venue. “He also broke his own lap record with 7 seconds.” The murmur continues.

“And for the first time, he competed in The Isle of Man TT, and not only won, but did so in the fastest time ever recorded.” I’m almost more proud of that accomplishment than being the Grand Prix champion. It’s a grueling race. Difficult and very dangerous.

But I did it.

“Hell, yeah!” Logan shouts while lifting his champagne flute. The rest of the boys follow suit and glasses clash against each other. The guys are clearly in a joyful mood that they seem to spread through the building.

“And with our new upcoming Reaper bikes, new records are guaranteed. Nobody is going to keep up with us in the next season.” Blackburn Inc. designed and engineered powerful new prototypes for our next season. I’m test-riding them between races and they fly like a dream.

Sean salutes me from his table. It truly was a great year, both of us ending with a podium finish, with Enervoltz rider Graham Scott — my biggest competition — between us in second place. He’s not happy to hand the championship over.

“Oh, and one more thing … Enervoltz is changing hands at the end of this season. Their Texan Oil Company owners decided to quit after the accident.” A shocked buzz fills the room as people start whispering between them again. That’s big news. We’ve been competing against Enervoltz, Ducati, and Honda for years in MotoCross, but it turned into a war these last 4 years since we entered into MotoGP.

At 18 I won both rookie of the year and championship in my first season and we won the team trophy. Then champion again, the following year. However, last year, I got injured after a pileup. Graham took the championship and Honda took the team title. But this year we’re back on track.

“All I can say is bring it on!” Mark lifts his glass again. Then he looks at me.

“Damion,” He moves his eyes to Sean. “And Sean, we are so proud of you, boys.”

“And tonight, we want to wish our champion a very happy birthday!” He lifts his glass and everybody shouts ‘CHEERS’!

He holds up his hands again to calm the crowd.

“That’s enough from me. Damion and Sean are now going to open the dance floor for us. Enjoy the party people!” He points to the DJ. I changed the song at the last minute, but after our conversation in the truck, I know it’s a perfect fit.

I hold out my hand to Mel with a lopsided grin and lead her to the dance floor. Sean and his ‘alien’ follows.

Some hard wolf whistles and cheerful shouts fill the room, making her blush. So f*****g fetching.