The Biker's Rules

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Epilogue

***POV – Damion

18 months later

Damion: I’m sure that from lack of use, my sperm grew legs and looks like frogs instead of tadpoles. But the situation is going to be rectified before the night is over.

I touch my crotch with a groan, abstinence is definitely not my thing. These last weeks have been torture, being in bed next to the woman of my dreams and she won’t let me even touch her. Fuck, a week without sex with Mel is a fudging long time, two weeks is a fudging excruciating fierce eternity.

My dick stirs at the forecast of ripping off her clothes and moves into a full-blown hardon when I look at the photo she sends me as her answer. She’s fudging with me, the devious little witch but I keep staring at the picture of her feet, her toe-nails painted in a checkered flag pattern. Damn my soon-to-be wife. Even her fudging feet turn me on.

Damion: You make my balls so blue – sure this maltreatment is sexual abuse!

This time her answer is a photo of her butt, covered by a skimpy black undergarment with my skull logo in white printed on the right cheek side. I drop the phone on the bed with a smile and turn to look at my image in the mirror. Dressed in a black suit and black T-shirt, a single white orchid on my chest breaking the darkness like an angel. The dubious fact that I’m getting married is still sinking in. Me? Damion fuck ... fudging Grimm getting married … it’s a laughable matter. The bad-boy, man-whore biker who got knocked on his ass by his best friend’s little sister – hard like a fudging wrecking ball. Shoved back, knocked out, bowled for a home-run and I wouldn’t change it even if I could. Why would I? This is it, the moment I’ve been waiting for for what seems forever, probably since I was 8.

Fuck, who knew that I would walk into a haunted house and meet an angel, one that would fight my demons, one by one – fixing a once broken boy to turn him into a man. I pick up the paper laying on the table and look at it with a huge smile - my new rules, set up by my soon-to-be-wife.

Rule 1: You know your demons now - don’t let them feed on your guilt.

Rule 2: No more fighting - unless there’s a good reason.

Rule 3: ALL girls (excluding your wife) are off-limits.

Rule 4: Your wife is in control of your sex life - your body belongs to her alone in any way she wants to use it. And you only have sex in the space where your wife is present.

Rule 5: Desire is necessary and needed.

Rule 6: Protection is overrated. (And doesn’t always work)

Rule 7: Lose your heart over and over again - every day.

Rule 8: Get drunk on love and get a fix of your Mel-drug whenever you need it.

Rule 9: Your wife (and kids) will keep you fit and healthy.

Rule 10: Only do dangerous things with a clear mind.

These are definitely rules I can follow, forever.

The door flings open and Logan burst in, his face as white as the white flower pinned on his jacket and he runs into the bathroom. He makes a few dry gags, spitting into the toilet, before splashing his face with water. Right now I’m supposed to be the one puking my nerves out, getting drunk or cold feet, or whatever it is guys on the brink of getting shackled usually do. But it seems that Logan is more nervous than I am. Actually, I’m not nervous at all – I know Mel is ‘the one’ and I want to marry her.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He looks up confused as if my words startled him.

“I have and it gets worse, I’m fucked.” He takes the open bottle from the table and gulps down a big sip before holding it out to me, quickly retracting his hand to knock back some more alcohol. Who pissed in his pants, I wonder? It’s not like Logan to react like this. Well, maybe it is.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He truly looks lost and I have no idea what it’s about. The last time he looked like this was a few weeks back – he got pussywhipped by a one-night stand in Chicago whose name he doesn’t even know. Poor guy hasn’t been the same ever since.

“I’m whipped, I’m fudging ... fulk ... ug, fucking whipped, dude!” At least he tried not to swear. Eh, yeh, we’re all struggling with that these days, but the ladies are strict as hell on this subject. He holds up the bottle and drinks some more. Somebody got hold of his balls, and I know how scary that feeling is. Mel still got her hands solidly on mine.

Shi ... p, my best man is going to be drunk and nervous, while I’m cool and collected.

“Are you ready little brother?” Alejandro strolls in, followed by the rest of the gang and I glance at the clock. Just a few more minutes and then this shit ... ship is going down, for real. I grab the bottle from Logan and down some of the liquid courage – not that I need it, just because it’s some good stuff.

“Slow the fuc … er heck down you little mongrel!” My father shouts from downstairs, trying to remember not to use curse words, but clearly failing. He got stuck on baby-duty because mom is busy helping her new daughter to get ready. It’s no secret that Mel’s my mom’s favorite, above all 3 of her boys, but even she comes second to the wild little fucker dad is trying to lay his hands on.

But then again, he’s wiggled everybody around his chubby little pinky – and I’m the biggest fucking softie when it comes to him – balls down. I hear a faint giggling sound when dad yells “Gotcha!” His footsteps going downstairs again and we all smile at his one-sided pleading conversation with his grandson.

“Look pal, your mom is busy making herself pretty for that lame-ass of a daddy of yours … so you’re stuck with me, get it! So please, just for today, can you keep your little ass out of trouble. Do it for granny, ok? And no shi-er pooing in your pants, I’m not going to change your diaper little man.” The little guy shouts joyfully and dad curses some more, probably trying to keep his hands on that wiggling little busy-body. I guess desperate times call for desperate measures, and my father is desperate.

The little boy is a handful. My appreciation for my parents grew by the multitudes since I got a kid that acts just like I do … eh did, not that I can remember me ever being such a wild as fuck, over-energetic, tireless hand-full arrogant little shit – and that’s putting it nicely.

“That kid is going to kill dad, he’s not fit enough to run after him the whole time.” Alejandro giggles and winks at me.

“No shit sherlock, that’s why all of you are going to help him after we said our vows.” I look at them with a big satisfied smirk on my face. “For the next two weeks, he’s your problem.”

“Flip, I get tired just looking at the little dimwit,” Enrique complains walking into the room with Leyla. The little beauty is dressed in a violet dress, her red hair in soft curls around her delicate little face. She’s got the big bad playboy like putty in her hands, hell, she’s got even Jackson eating out of her palm.

“Shit, I still don’t know what my sister sees in you,” Jackson teases, “but she looks like a fuc … fudging princess. You’re a lucky bastard, Grimm. And you better treat her right, else we’ll cut off that overperformance … dic… eh dobble-dong of yours.”

Enrique coughs lightly, placing his hands on Leyla’s ears. As I said, we’re all trying to limit the swearwords around the kids, but it’s not always an easy accomplishment. My head shoots up to find all of my new brothers-in-law and my real brother glaring at me with mocking eyes, except for Logan. It’s as if he’s on another planet, he finished the first bottle and already opened the next one.

“It’s fuc … eh unbiased that you lot get to see my girl before I can.” I gasp sulking and suddenly I feel like I seriously need a drink when the picture of her perfect behind flashes into my mind. I pull the bottle away from Logan.

“She’s the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.” Mom interrupts, standing at the door with a composed proud smile and I know she’s more than happy about the choice I made. She points to her watch and taps lightly on the glass. “You guys better hurry up, it’s time and the girls are ready.”

Logan chokes on his drink and spits some of the expensive liquor over the rug and almost onto his brother. Mom takes a laughing Leyla by the hand and they walk down the stairs gossiping about how stupid boys are.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Enrique hisses, taking the bottle away from his brother.

“I don’t know!” He shouts and then storms out of the room. “Let’s just go!” His brothers look at each other and then just shrug their shoulders, used to the littlest Blackburn to be overdramatic sometimes, or maybe it’s true what they say that weddings are soppy.

Alejandro pushes me out the door, his arm almost protectively around my shoulders and I take in our surroundings. My mom, together with all the bridesmaids, changed my childhood home and the beach into a blissful romantic fantasy world with lots of flickering lanterns and flowers, leading up to the waterfall.

We drive our black bikes down the beach slowly. Not to be cynical about my future wife’s choice of venue, but I almost fell to my death right at the spot where I now have to say my vows. Maybe she’s trying to make a point, I’m not sure. With Mel I never am. It’s also the place where we had sex on the beach, under the waterfall, in the pool, in the ocean, on the rocks … let’s just say that we’ve claimed this spot more than once if you get my drift. Anyway, it looks beautiful and romantic, almost heavenly.

We park the bikes and stand in a semi-row next to the podium where the pastor will perform the wedding. Suddenly I’m tired of this being patient shit, my eyes moving over the guest seated on wooden stumps on the beach. I prob my fists into my pockets and wiggle my toes in the sand, feeling fretful cause all I want right now is to see the girl I love, to drown into her Lapis-Lazuli eyes, to sink into that heavenly place only she can take me to. Yep, I’m all geared up to say all the la-di-da’s and I-do’s so I can take the new Ms. Grimm to bed and fuck her silly. I kick up the sand that covers my right foot with a grunt – ok, I’ll admit I’m horny, but I’m blaming the lack of intercourse this past two weeks.

“Amps down little bro, it’s normal to be nervous. Fuck, I’m anxious as shit and it’s not even my wedding.” I smile at my big brother and I can’t imagine what my life was like without him. Not to mention that he’s the one that knocked some sense into my stubborn head – literally and if it wasn’t for him I probably wouldn’t be here saying my pussy-ass vows.

“He’s not nervous, he’s horny.” Jackson intervenes and my whole fleet of best-men laughs at my situation, all fucking seven of them. Sean is the only one that shows a small, or rather a teeny-tiny bit of empathy on his face – a microscopic minuscule amount, but it’s at least more than the rest. Logan, well, he’s staring at the sand as if he’s expecting the attack-of-the-crabs any moment now.

I scan the guests for a seriously ugly brute – you know, but the sound of motorbikes blasts over the speakers, then ‘Fairytale’ starts to play and my attention moves to the small body running down the beach between lots of checkered flags.

It’s Xamos, (a combination of both grandfather’s names) my one-year-old son, dressed in a black jumpsuit with the Reaper logo on, his little legs moving as fast as they can. His face is covered by what Mel calls a ‘beast-grin’, his emerald-green eyes shining with mischief under thick lashes, his black hair messed up like always.

He’s aiming straight for me like a thunderbolt, leaving the rest of the wedding party behind. I grab the little sucker with a loving grin, swinging him in the air. He yelps with excitement, his eyes begging me to do it again. This is for sure my kid, my DNA – a wild adrenaline junkie that you have to keep under eye 24/7. Hell, once we found him halfway on his way climbing to the roof, another time he made his way onto the back of Hawk. Luckily the gelding just walked around carefully with his little rider. And his favorite thing is to ride on my bike with me. I throw him high up in the air and then I try to keep him still in my arms, not an easy accomplishment.

“Hey little dude, we are getting married,” I tell the toddler in my arms as if to convince myself that it’s truly happening, his eyes smile in mine for just a moment as if saying ‘no ship sherlock’, and then he starts squirming again. I literally throw him to Alejandro like a football and he catches him, swings him a few times in the air before throwing him to the next uncle in the line, until he lands in Ilkay’s arms. Ilkay tries unsuccessfully to keep him still so Noah gets up from the front row and takes the little man for a walk down the beach. I look at the bridal party slowly making its way down the beach. First up is Luke and the little redhead, Leyla. Then all the bridesmaids follow close behind them, Kiara, Thalia, Aria, and Lee. (You will learn about all the new girls in the next books)

But I can’t tell you anything about them, except that they’re all wearing different shades of blue and violet, because my gaze is fixed on Mel and it’s as if the rest of the world turned into a hazy fog. She walks between the flickering lights, her arms hooked into Uncle John’s, her head looking down. I’m not sure how to describe her dress other than it’s white and hot as hell. I smile thinking that it’s for sure a dick-teaser, but I won’t make the mistake again of pointing it out to her.

And then her violet orbs look up and I’m lost and found all at once. For probably the first time in my life, I stand still, rooted to one spot and I’m ok with that, because of Mel. My fudging best friend’s little sister, my angel, my love, my life. Her brothers were right, I am a lucky fudging devil. My mind is suffocating and I order it to clear up and remember this moment for all eternity. The way her dress clings to her legs when she moves, her hair blowing in the soft breeze, the light blush on her cheeks, the roundness of her breasts, the look in her eyes, the way the sand moves between her toes.

Her eyes are steadfast, a smile curve around the corner of those kissable lips as she walks calmly down the beach. It’s as if the earth stopped and everything starts orbiting around her instead. She is the center of my axle, my universe, my fucking safety car. The testosterone parts in my body take over and everything goes blank, I take a deep breath to get some much-needed oxygen to my brain, the lack thereof caused by the rapid blood flow to my southern parts. And then she’s right in front of me, and the nerves flip the lid in my head, my vows and everything spinning like a bike without brakes around the track.

I look at Alejandro with a help-a-brother-out look and he gives me a reassuring smile softly whispering in my ear, serious as daylight.

“Just use a lot of adjectives brother.” So I do, I speak from the heart, letting everything I feel out with colorful descriptive words. And then it’s done. Vows said. Rings on. All the boring shit is over and I’m not waiting for the pastor to say it, I grab my wife and kiss her, deep and hungrily, saying more in that action than with all my vows.

“Well, I guess you may kiss the bride.” The pastor smirks.

“Don’t worry, he does everything fast ... life, love, babies, bikes, kisses ... ” I sort of hear what Jackson says.

“I love you, Melaena Grimm,” smiling cause it has a fudging good ring to it. And then I kiss her again, making sure to add in some adjectives and promises of what’s still to come.

And right then everything comes together … the girl from the haunted house, the angel from the locker, my best friend’s sister, my checkered flag, my light in the darkness, my baby-momma, my wife.

The end.

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