Conley (Heartlands Motorcycle Club #8) - Frankie Love Page 0,8

here, refusing to go — but then I think about her sweet tits in my hands, the way her pussy dripped as I licked her up and down, how she tensed under me as her orgasm coursed through her.

She wants me — but she is scared. Of what, I’m sure. The mention of me being in the club changed everything — and I’m guessing she’s had a bad run-in with another motorcycle club in the past. But we aren’t like the other guys. We’re the good guys. At least that is what I keep telling myself and keep trying to tell the other members of the Heartlands.

I know I’ve done a lot of shady shit in my time. Hell, Killian grew up seeing the worst of it. But it doesn’t mean we are bad people. We’ve strayed but we’re doing our goddamn best to toe the line. I just wish Calico could see that.

When the sun begins to rise, and the diner across the street opens, I ride toward home, knowing the seedy shit that could take place at night has passed us. The route to my house isn’t too long, but I decide to take the long way, wanting to clear my head. It’s Saturday — which should be my day off to tinker around the house and my land — but I need to make sure Calico’s car is fixed quickly, and even though I trust the guys down at the garage, I want to supervise.

Which is an excuse, as I very well know. What I really want is to see her again.

All of her.

I pass a huge old yellow farmhouse for sale, and I put on the brakes, looking at the big wraparound porch with a white swing, dormer windows and five gables across the top. There is a large barn in the distance, and a big garage up front. It’s a beautiful piece of property that I have seen hundreds of times. But I’ve never seen it with a for sale sign. I take note of the agent selling the place and take a few photos on my phone before heading home. I haven’t been buying houses — for investment purposes, I’ve been buying commercial real estate — but that house is something special.

Though as I drive up to my place, a modest and unassuming house on a quiet block, I remember why I have a two-bedroom place. I’m a bachelor — have been forever — and don’t need much space. So long as I have enough room for my bike and my beer, I’m good.

What would I do with some big ole’ farmhouse anyways?

Inside, I make a pot of coffee and do a load of laundry — dropping my clothes from the night before in the load. My place is low-key, just like me. Lots of folks might think the prez of an MC might live in some shady compound — but I’ve turned a corner in my life. I’m done with the drugs and guns. It may have given me a thrill to make some big run, but that was in the past. I’m fifty-six years old and am ready for a life with more meaning.

That’s not to say I don’t want those fuckers, the Outlaws, to pay for what they continue to do. It’s one thing to make drug runs — it’s another thing to abuse the women in your club, the girls who have no place else to go. Hearing what they did to Saint’s girl, Cat, makes my blood boil.

I want to be a good example for the younger guys in the club… and hell, if they don’t like it, they don’t have to stay. But so many of the kids are settling down — Ranger, Killian, Saint, Chain, hell, more than that. Babies on the way and wives to care for. Fuck, I don’t want them to suffer because we think we’re invincible.

We’re not. None of us are. And I don’t want to lose my guys to prove that point.

So while I’m drinking my morning coffee, I do the goddamn laundry and make a fucking grocery list, I log online and pay my garbage bill. Not because I’m a weak man — because I know what it means to actually be strong. It has nothing to do with muscles or the size of your fucking engine. It has to do with heart. With integrity. And I need to make sure I model that for the guys growing up in the