Claimed by the Biker Giant (Maxine and Tank) novel Chapter 4

Maxine POV

This rather large biker leaned in to look inside the car, his bulky figure partially blocking the open window, causing the girl nearest it to back away.

Satisfied, he looked at me with a knowing smirk, then motioned for us to enter.

The clubhouse was nothing like I had imagined. Firstly, it was four levels high. Verandah all the way around, that I could see. It was more like a mansion than a clubhouse.

Women were gathered near the door, looking in, as if they were waiting for something; some were sitting on the wooden fence that surrounded the verandah. They were dressed in barely anything, showing all that was available, some love that sort of thing. People like me dress to stay warm or cool and don’t care about showing off the goods.

Bikes sat in neat rows in front, and cars were parked to the left of the building; the ratio of bikes to cars was approximately four bikes to one car.

I parked the bike with the others, climbed off, and took off my helmet. I placed the lid on the bike and shook out my hair while waiting for the girls to park and come to me. I heard some muffled scoffs, but I couldn’t care less —I wasn’t here to please them.

Bruiser came out of the clubhouse behind me.

“Max, you came by bike. Sweet.” He gave me a gentle squeeze and moved to take a closer look at my bike. The paint job was a wolf, fading in smoke. It took me months to finish, as I kept changing my mind, and the smoke obscured the mistakes.

“Who did the paint job?” He asked as he moved around to look at it from all sides.

“Me.” I was proud of the results.

“Does Mike know you can paint?” He sounded surprised.

“He has seen my bike when I used the garage to do a service. He never asked who did the paint work, just that he liked it.”

“Sweet, looks like we have someone to do touch-ups, and possibly a full paint job. We have a family reunion in a few weeks, and the ladies are invited to come along. You can join us.” Bruiser offered as my ladies arrived; they were not included in that invitation, I assumed, because I have a bike.

“Bruiser, you already met Jenny, Melony, Karen, and Heather, my other BFF, and Alice, Karen’s sister, and BFF to my sister.” Adding that comment, hoping that Bruiser knew precisely what that woman was like. Alice battered her eyes and leaned forward to show off what was under that almost shirt. My ladies greeted him with the respect he deserved.

“Ladies. Hands out.” Bruiser stamped the girl’s backs of their hands; they all had a bear, except Alice, who had a rabbit on her hand. I frowned, trying to figure out what the rabbit was all about.

He pushed my hand away.

“You are family, no need for a stamp.” I couldn’t stop the smile that crossed my face. I felt so special. Then the shoe dropped. Rabbit meant she would open her legs. Bruiser got my meaning loud and clear. It took a while to understand the purpose of the stamps.

“Come inside and meet the ole ladies.” I understood what he meant; these were ladies who had been claimed and had a different level of respect that those not claimed would never understand. I have met a few of them over the years and gained more insight into club life. They respect me as much as I respect them.

We entered the place, and the girls who had been waiting outside gave us a dirty look, as they were still stopped from entering.

“What’s so special about them?” One pouted, but Bruiser ignored her.

Inside was cleaner than I had expected —my fault for judging a group of men, since they often look messy when I see them at the shop. The place had a large, open space, with tables where you stand, as well as booths dotted along the walls, and stools at the bar, which ran the full length of the room. I loved the spacious room, the pictures on the walls, and some bike parts scattered about as decoration. A few barstools are bike seats; it was different, and it appealed to me. Being a lover of bikes.

“Sticks.” I greeted her as we got closer to the ladies Bruiser was taking us to.

“Hey, Maxie Max. How’s it blowing?” She stood up and pulled me into a warm embrace. This chick had no filter or personal space. Sticks was the President’s; her real name was Sandra, but she was my height at five-nine, and she had no shape to her body, just a lovely bean pole, almost no chest to speak of, yet she had had two boys. Hence the name Sticks.

Don’t touch or sit on someone’s bike, unless you are given permission.

The patched old ladies are the bosses of the girls; they tell you to leave or do something, and you do it.

There were more rules for the girls visiting, but I couldn’t remember them all at that moment. None had applied to me until now.

Alice had already broken at least three, to my knowledge. I am staying out of it. That rabbit on her hand told the members that she would open her legs for any of them, and no one would support her if she broke the rules. That she was not welcome to return, in other words, have your fun, and then kick her to the curb.

The doors were opened to let the other girls in. They looked at us in the no-go zone and pouted. We were sitting in an off-limits area unless we were invited. From what I understood, they were here to spread their legs and give the guys some relief, but not become part of the family. They might be hopeful that something would change; it was rare for a patch member to take one of these ladies, who had most likely been with every unattached member of the gang, at some point.

My girls left me with Sticks and wandered about with the other ladies, getting the tour of the place.

“Want to look around?” Sticks were offered, and before I knew it, we were walking around the vast ground floor.

“Ready to see the workshop, the guys might talk you into helping out, once they know who you are.” Sticks led me down a small pathway, lined with flowering shrubs, and to a set of large, farm-size sheds. Inside were bikes, some in bits, others crumpled from an accident, and others like they had just been detailed and were someone’s pride and joy.

There was a workshop here, where men were working on their bikes. They looked up at us when we entered and frowned. If Sticks were not with me, they would have most likely growled at me to get out.

“Who’s this Sticks?” A monster of a man asked, in the deepest voice I have ever heard, he looked a lot like the man at the gate, but with more toned muscles, that I would love to run my fingers over. Just a tad taller, and although he looked big and scary, he made my lady parts sing in a way they had never sung before.