Forbidden (Devil's Sons Motorcycle Club Book 1)

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Forbidden copyright @ 2015 by Kathryn Thomas. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

Book 1 of the
Devil’s Sons Motorcycle Club
trilogy

CHAPTER 1

"Lose the headscarf!" Bionca ordered.

Afia rolled her eyes and examined herself in the mirror hanging over her dresser. "Not happening," she said in a lilting mezzo-alto voice, her Iranian accent noticeable. Eyes the color of a Persian sunset, golden and smoky, stared out from a flawless, dusky-brown face, and her lush pink lips curved in a half-smile. Dark eyebrows winged over heavy-lidded, almond-shaped eyes with thick, black lashes, and her cobalt hijab fell in folds around her oval-shaped face, hiding her rippling, glossy, chestnut hair.

Her roommate, Bionca Hailey, tossed platinum blond dreadlocks that were streaked with purple and blue over her tattooed shoulder and struck a vogue pose in the mirror behind Afia. Hands on her narrow hips, Bionca thrust her meager bust forward, backing away with giggles at the sight of herself. She playfully canted her head from the left to the right, her studded nose wrinkling in speculation, as she stared at her striking Middle Eastern friend. At length, she pointed a finger coated in black nail polish at Afia and said, "Eh, I guess you're right. It adds character. Makes a statement, you know? Like, fuck yeah! I'm Muslim. Deal with it!"

"Well, something like that. Minus the f-word, of course," Afia replied with a grin.

"Right, right. So, come on, already, girlfriend! I'm ready to hit the club, dance with a few hot guys. That thesis is kicking my ass, and a few Jägerbombs are just what the doctor ordered. Hey, I heard Blue Keepsake is playing at The Wisecrack. Wanna go? Ohmigod, I've had a crush on their front man for, like, half a decade."

"Ugh! Don't even mention the thesis right now. You know I lost three pages the other night. Forgot to save as I typed, stupid technology. Give me your keys."

Afia held out her hand, and Bionca dropped the keys to her Porsche convertible into her palm, both girls chuckling in amusement. The last time they had gone out together, Bionca had gotten plastered and misplaced them, and they had to take a cab back to their apartment, only to discover Bionca had dropped them in her bra. New rule was that Afia would drive them to and from the fun.

Bionca got ready to leave but paused at the door with a stricken look.  "Wait—did you call your mom so she doesn't freak out like last time if you don't answer your phone?"

"Relax. I've got it covered," said Afia. "I told her I'd be at the library for a few hours and my phone will be on silent. Take it from me—I complained so much about term papers that she
wants
me to be in the library."

"You're so bad! I mean, you're really so good
that it's cute when you try to be bad!"

"Oh, shut up! I’ll have you know there's more to me than meets the eye." Afia showed off chic black designer balloon pants that ruched at her thighs and draped to her ankles over stylish sandals. She wore a daring, form-fitting cami beneath an oversized, gray cashmere cardigan. The clothes suited her slender frame.

"Very sexy! I'm noticing," said Bionca in a sing-song voice.

They strutted out of Apartment 212 and hit the elevator bay to take the short ride down to the ground floor. Then, they were out the front doors of the lobby and into the early spring night where the sidewalks in their downtown neighborhood were alive with pedestrians seeking a good time just like them. Afia and Bionca stayed within a block of the university where they attended graduate school.  Their apartment complex was conveniently located in the heart of all the action, but tonight Bionca was planning on showing Afia a new hotspot.  The purple Porsche chirped as Afia disarmed the alarm and unlocked the doors.

They climbed in and Bionca pulled down her visor to use the mirror to check her makeup, pleased with the cherry cola lipstick. She blotted her lips and looked to Afia with a dimpled smile. "Normally we hang out at college clubs, right?"

In the back of her mind, Afia was thinking her conservative Muslim parents would be horrified to know that's where she usually hung out, but she nodded in answer to Bionca's question, wondering what her best friend was about to spring on her now. "So, what type of club is The Wisecrack?"

"Take the interstate. We're headed a little further out tonight. It's easy to find, I promise."

"Don't ignore me," Afia said with a grin. "What kind of club is it?"

Bionca sighed and groaned, giggling. "If I tell you, you're not gonna want to go. Let's let it be a surprise."

"Bionca!"

"Listen, just give me a chance to show you a change of scenery.  Let's make a deal. If you hang out at the club for a half hour and you find you don't like it, we can leave."

"You say that, but in reality that's not going to happen."

"Have I ever let you down before?"

Afia snorted and kept her eyes on the road, shaking her head with a smile. Wherever they were going, anytime Bionca got an idea, it was hard to steer her away from it. Afia decided to tag along for the ride, if for no other reason than to make sure her rebellious, party-loving roommate didn't get into too much trouble. By the time the sleek purple car pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of The Wisecrack, Afia was definitely having second thoughts about following Bionca inside, but it was too late to turn back.

"Ta-dah! It's a biker bar!" Bionca hooted.  She punched open her door and hopped out with a gleeful shout that begged for attention. All eyes in the parking lot slid in their direction. Afia scrunched down lower in the driver's seat.

"I've watched TV shows about clubs like this. They always involve fist fights and gunslingers. Are you sure you want to go in there?" she asked nervously.

"Just half an hour! But, you'll love it, Afia. I know you will. I mean, look at this place! It's got all the gritty spunk missing from the watered down college clubs.  You have to simply"—Bionca took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, extending her colorfully inked arms out at her sides—"expand your mind."

Afia reluctantly opened her car door and got out, closing and locking the car behind them. She glanced around the lot, surveying their surroundings. They had taken a fairly straightforward route to get there, but the club was tucked away on a lonely lane that looked miles away from anywhere civil. 

The building looked dilapidated, but it was clearly an affectation. There was no way it could be as old as it looked. The whole place was lit up with bright neon lights.  Unpainted siding, faded and gray, fronted the medium sized bar. There were few windows, and those present were tinted opaque black. In bold red letters, painted onto the aluminum roof that slanted over the front of the building, were the words
The Wisecrack
.

In front of the bar, there were rows upon rows of motorcycles that took up most of the parking lot—plus, souped up cars, the sort of vehicles that graced magazines.  For Afia, the entire tableau was reminiscent of something from a movie set.

"Wait for me," Afia called after Bionca. She pulled her cardigan closer and hurried up. They strolled past a banana yellow 442 Oldsmobile, gleaming beneath the street lamp, shiny enough to see their reflections in the paint. "Have you ever been here before?" Afia hissed.

"Once or twice a while back," Bionca replied. There were lurkers and folks hanging around by the entrance to the bar the girls had to push through. Bionca fit right in. With her black leather pants and white t-shirt showing off her skinny arms covered with colorful tattoos, not to mention her colorful dreadlocks, she looked like she belonged in a place like this. Afia, on the other hand, couldn't have stood out more.

She would've preferred to leave, but the pounding music loud enough to be heard outside lured her. She was a first generation American, born to Iranian parents who had tried to foster a love of their native culture within their progeny, but Afia had really grown up on American grunge rock, and the band that was rocking out inside was calling her name. The squeal of electric guitars and pounding drums, screamed lyrics, and excitement had her peering over Bionca's shoulder for a peek inside.

"I told you they were performing." Bionca threw up rock star hands and swayed her hips, strutting on inside with Afia close on her heels. The inside of the club wasn't what Afia had expected. Beneath her sandals were hardwood floors. The ceiling was plastered with eye-popping posters, and blue smoke hovered like a gauzy cloud. The club was packed and the noise was thunderous.

A makeshift stage was at the back of the establishment where the long-haired members of Blue Keepsake jumped around with flashy guitars and microphones.  A mosh pit had congregated near the stage, but from where the girls were standing, they could see tables where those unwilling to stand around could sit, and Afia made a beeline for an empty chair. It was Bionca who rushed right into the mass of dancers to get closer to the show.

"Bionca?" Afia looked around in alarm when her friend vanished. She couldn't fathom how a girl could disappear as quickly as Bionca seemed to do every time they went out together. "Crud!" she muttered.  She felt like the odd-man out, being one of the only people sitting down. Her amber eyes darted left and right, taking in the sights and excitement. A mohawked bartender was manning a long, crowded bar.  She pondered ordering a soda but changed her mind when she saw how many people she would have to wade through to get over there.

Crossing her arms on the table, Afia watched her cellphone count down the half hour so she could find Bionca and tell her she was ready to go. Things in the bar were looking a tad bit too wild for her. Unfortunately, the digital numbers on her smartphone seemed to transition slower than ever. Afia closed her eyes, suppressing a groan. When she opened them, she noticed him.

He walked into the crowded club flanked by five or six people. She couldn't count his entourage because her eyes were riveted to his face. The shadow of a beard covered his cheeks and his cleft chin, and his mouth arrested her attention. His lips were set in a firm line, bottom lip fuller than the top. Gold rimmed, phthalocyanine blue hued shades rested on the bridge of his nose.  Thick, dark brows knit together above the sunglasses as he turned his head and surveyed the interior of the smoky bar. Afia felt the moisture on her tongue dry up, as her mouth fell open and her eyes widened at his sheer sexiness.

"Wow," she whispered to herself.

She watched him slowly lick his lips and flip back the tail of his leather jacket. Her burning eyes drifted down to his body, the wide shoulders, and the abs rippling beneath his ribbed white tank. Denim jeans hung from his hips. He wore a dark leather belt with a massive belt buckle that proclaimed KING in scripted letters. When he moved, it was the slow, methodical prowl of a predator on the hunt. Something in his stance commanded attention. It was obvious why the women nearest him stopped whatever they were doing to stare.

Afia absently adjusted her hijab over her hair, finally tearing away her gaze. She cleared her throat and contemplated braving the throng for that soda after all.  She was feeling parched. She had never seen a man that dripped such sex appeal, and she was a graduate student; she had seen plenty of good looking men on campus. Her light brown orbs skated back in the direction where the man had been standing, but apparently he had moved deeper into the bar and she could no longer find him. She whistled and rolled her eyes at her silly moment of weakness. She didn't need to be staring at a guy like that anyway.

"Argh! Please, tell me it's been a half hour," she muttered under her breath. She picked up her phone. She was staring at the screen when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. When she turned to the side to see who was approaching, it was none other than the show-stopper who had walked in moments before.  If he had seemed like a world wonder from a distance, the man was an absolute universal marvel up close! Her heart skipped several beats.

"Is somebody else sitting here?" He had a voice rich as the height of summer, deep as a still, hot night. Her heart resumed pounding, faster than before. Afia swallowed thickly, shaking her head. He grabbed the chair and almost turned away from her table, and Afia exhaled a sigh of relief. He was apparently just looking for a spare seat. Why had she thought he would join her? What was getting into her? She hid a self-deprecating smile with the back of her hand, looking away.

Her eyes flickered back up and her smile froze when he seemed to second guess himself and turned back. "I've never seen you in here before," he said, making small talk. He plopped the chair down with its back to the table, and the stranger sat astride with his arms resting on the back of the chair. When he took off his shades, she could see that his eyes were the same indeterminable, see-through blue.