The Long , Hard Ride Home
Up & Running Book 1
Synopsis: This is a romantic adventure of woman in an abusive marriage in the 1% biker world who escapes due to the help of a stranger. Buttons is trapped in a loveless and abusive marriage for years. She is afraid to stay but more afraid to leave. She finally finds the courage to flee with the help of Tin Man. Tin Man is ex-military, U. S Marine, and haunted by the failure of his past life both personal and war related. Yet, he helps Buttons to regain her confidence, beauty and strength to return and confront her abuser and rescue her children from his control.
Please note: Swearing is involved in this book.
UP AND RUNNING
Chapter One – The Night Before
The smoke of the campfire had barely settled as the morning sun broke the crest of the hill. Silence encompassed the encampment as the last embers of the dying night smoldered.
The drunken revelry of the previous evening still lingered in her head. Her brain hummed. Buttons shook her head, causing waves of dizziness and nausea to send her back down to her bed.
The fresh bruises were starting to ache and swell on her once delicate face. Her lips were encrusted with salty blood. Licking them cautiously with the tip of her tongue, she
reopened her cut and oceans of warm copper filled her mouth. She savored the taste; it was the only thing that kept her feeling alive. The acrid, lingering smoke from the campfire crawled slowly across the ground, filling her nose and making her cough.
She tried to focus and again was overcome with reeling dizziness. She looked around slowly and realized that everyone was still sleeping. Asshole was snoring and passed out from the previous evening’s debauchery. Alongside him was his gun, a 1911A Colt 45. Dark, evil thoughts filled her mind. She picked it up and turned it, pausing in her thoughts. It felt heavy and cool in her hands. The weight of its potency terrorized her. She considered its likely victim. Should she use it on herself? Or should she turn it on him? Either way, she would end her suffering in a matter of seconds. Was it worth the risk?
What if she missed? She looked over at his sleeping form. Had she ever loved him? Gazing upon his still angry face, she doubted it. Quietly, she replaced the gun by his side, wickedly pointing it at his head. Letting him realize, when he awoke, just how close he had been to death.
Everyone called him “Asshole,” but his real name was Buddy. What an odd name for one so ruthlessly cruel and mean. There was nothing friendly about him, which made it all so ironic and senseless. Even in sleep, the foulness and stench of evil never left him.
Fear kept her there. Fear of the unknown, fear of leaving him, fear of what he’d do once he caught her. And he would catch her; just like he had many times before. Each time, he left more physical marks, which eventually healed, but the emotional damage never did. Each time, she returned to face his wrath, disapproval, and her humiliation in front of the other club members. Each time, her courage failed a little more, and eventually she knew she would never have the strength to leave.
Death seemed inviting and the only way out, had it not been for last night. She envisioned the face of the stranger, recalling the look of concern and tenderness and the strength of his character. Where did he come from? She had never seen him before.
It seemed like a dream, and maybe she had only imagined it all. She knew full well that the fearful mind creates paths of escape that are necessary for survival. She tasted fear, that odd metallic taste that fills your mouth and heightens your senses. Suddenly, the cold morning air hit her hard and she felt chilled to her core. Shivering violently, she felt like she couldn’t stop. Afraid it would waken him, she forced herself to stop. A cold breeze slapped her back to reality, her reality, painful as it was. Yet, it provided her no way out.
Last night at the bar was a party celebrating the opening of a new biker clubhouse. Bikers from all over were invited. Asshole, the club president, brought his club, the Iron Claw, and his women. His biker club was an entourage of nomads, as they traveled from place to place. They never settled in one place for very long, eking out a living as best they could and moving on when they couldn’t.
Walking up to the entrance, she saw bikers who were huddled in groups, whispering and posturing amongst themselves for position and recognition. Loud rock and roll music emanated from the bars’ doors and windows. The building shook, vibrating with excitement. The sun was slowly setting, and it cast a rosy reflection on the glass panes and the chrome on the bikes parked outside. A club bouncer parted the doors as Asshole and his group entered the bar.
The haze of the smoky room lifted as their eyes grew accustomed to the dimly lit bar. Smoke stained, glass jars filled with candles illuminated the room. The live band blared rock and roll music, and the lights from the pool tables and pinball machines cast a flickering glow, adding to the surrealism of the night. Excitement and anticipation floated through the air like electricity before a summer storm.
The bar was filled to overflowing, surrounded by stools and tables. The chairs were fashioned in leather, cracked by use, like seats on a bike. The stools were filled with revelers despite the hazards of being old, rickety, and dangerous. Beer glasses filled with frothy foam and shots were lined up at the bar. They were being downed as quickly as the three bartenders could pour them. In spite of the extra help, they could not keep up with the demand. The newly arriving club members would not be ignored as they competed for status and drinks.
Recognition meant everything. They all vied for the prize; the rewards and status that accompanied power. Sauntering across the room, club presidents, surrounded by their enforcers and probates, greeted and acknowledged only those who were worthy enough to gain their attention. In the biker world, every member had a job, a title, and a purpose. The enforcers were selected by their size and brute strength to maintain the peace and protect the president. The probates were newly acquired “wannabe’s,” who had not yet proven their value and loyalty to become members of the club. They were called probates, as they were still on probation. One biker deferred to another unless their mere presence decided otherwise. Attendees in the know walked cautiously or cockily depending on their status. Revelers parted or huddled tightly depending on who approached them.
Asshole and the Iron Claw positioned themselves towards the back of the room. Asshole had decided to challenge Bohan, his vice president, to a game of pool. His probates and enforcers appeared relaxed as they stood against the walls, watching and waiting. They assumed seemingly casual positions, but having been former military, they were continually alert to any signs of trouble. The cue ball was struck, the balls scattered, and the game was on.
Buttons watched them knock about the balls, but she knew it was a battle of dominance or submission. She was a possession to Asshole, nothing more, merely a symbol of conquest. Submissive at his side and obedient to his every want and desire, she had become a mere wraith of her former self. Once confident and self-assured, her mind continually battled between wanting to cringe in fear or rise up in defiance. She had seen his eyes lingering over the younger biker chicks with their perky tits and taut bellies, flaunting all their stuff. Scantily clad in all their glory, having never been weakened by child birth. She hated them, and she wondered how she had somehow missed out and when she had let that all pass by her. Was she ever that desirable? She couldn’t remember, and she thought, “Dammit, how did I get into this mess?”
Even the beer tasted like warm snot.
She hated him. She hated what she had become. She so longed for love…a love she never knew nor experienced. She pined for someone who would, or could, love her for who she was. But who was she? It was so long ago that even she didn’t remember. She was very drunk. This was one thing she never allowed, but tonight something in the air was different. Weakness and power zoomed through the atmosphere, zapping its victims at will.
His constant demands and need to show his authority over her overpowered her senses. “Who in the hell did he think he was?” Yet, she seethed in silence, never allowing neither her face nor her words to betray her deepest thoughts. The loud, obnoxiously repetitive beat blaring from the band hurt her ears. The smell of unfiltered cigarettes and pot filling her nostrils made breathing difficult at best. The alcohol churned in her belly from far too many shots. She never touched the stuff, never did shots, never wanted to throw up the contents of her stomach. Yet, tonight, the drinks she had consumed betrayed her self-control and emotions. Anger and pride overtook her. Damn him.
The drinks propelled her to determine that she had satisfied enough of his demands. She rose and placed two quarters on his table, challenging Asshole in pool and in life.
Everyone in the club froze, as if suspended by time and logic. Asshole sneered and snarled with disbelief. Insulted by her purposeful defiance, he grabbed the quarters, roughly shoved them down her shirt, and said, “Get me a beer, bitch.”
She reached in, grabbing the coins with no regard for the consequences, and threw them back at him, stating firmly and loudly, “Get your own *&^%ing beer!”
Now the whole bar stopped, leaned in close to listen and paused silently, eager to watch. It appeared as if even the music stopped. Maybe, it had, as no one who was there remembers. But what followed, everyone would remember.
Asshole reached out and grabbed her by the throat. He shook her from side to side like a rag doll, while slapping her face. All the while attempting to regain his dignity in the face of his fellow bikers, yet consumed by rage.
The stranger stood at a careful distance. He had seen worse, but he had seen enough. He watched painfully as the onslaught continued.
Asshole continued to batter her. He was confident that his enforcers were watching his back. Yet, Bohan, his vice president, pulled back in dismay as did the whole bar.
The stranger cringed painfully while he watched the woman’s man slap her to the ground, pick her up, and throw her into the doorposts.
He had determined that in this situation, it had escalated out of control. Despite the odds, despite his self-imposed restrictions on getting involved, as the enforcers circled in, he had the audacity to say, “enough.”
Jaws dropped, heads turned to record, eyes widened to observe. The deafening silence was eclipsed by a quietly mumbled commentary - “Oh, shit!”
Nobody ever defied Asshole. Nobody left standing or left alive to tell about it.
Oddly, the stranger didn't seem concerned, even when he lowered his hand to lift her to her feet. The bar parted for him.
He was very tall and exceptionally handsome. He was covered in black leather with patches she did not recognize. His blonde curls created the illusion of a halo and the light from the pool table behind reinforced this deception.
Nobody dared move an inch in protest. Not even Asshole.
Terrified and bleeding from a gash on her forehead and lower lip, she nodded a quiet thank you and she returned to her tormentor's side.
The stranger nodded back at her. He turned his face and glared at Asshole. His enforcers moved forward and suddenly stopped, overtaken by his defiant stance. Dazed, the whole bar witnessed his parting disgust and ominous warning glance. He turned his back on Asshole and uneventfully left the bar. All she remembered was his smile and those curious curls as he disappeared into the night.
Asshole's humiliation would now be directed at her, as she remained by his side. No one came to her aid. This affront to him, no matter how intentional or unintentional, would be another reason to beat her further still after the others had gone to sleep.
She was right to fear his retribution, as he was somehow unable to touch the stranger. What possessed this man to come to her aid? He didn't seem afraid of anything or anyone. Somehow, somewhere, it was obvious that he had faced and confronted something far more evil than Asshole’s ire and again he walked away unscathed. This realization alone is what kept the others from responding by beating him senseless.
***
The chill of the damp morning air woke her from her thoughts. She trembled with fear.
Looking off into the distance, she saw his figure and his blonde halo of hair now silhouetted by the rising sun. He beckoned to her with no words, but she read him loud and clear. Urgently, he waved her on to where he stood in the clearing.
Now, it was her only chance. Quietly, yet quickly, she rose from Asshole's feet. He snored and she froze in fear. He rolled over to place his arm where she had lain, gently caressing his gun. His huge paw groped the ground in search of her, but the remains of alcohol returned him to his slumber.
She pivoted and turned towards the now blazing sun. Momentarily blinded by its brilliance, refusing to turn back now, she ran. Up, she was up and running, running to him, the stranger, whom she did not know. All she knew was that he would keep her safe.
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