Riding with the Outlaws

Melody Nicole Jones had perfected the art of the polite smile. Twenty-two years of practice under her parents' watchful eyes had made her an expert at appearing content while screaming inside. It wasn't that she was unhappy, exactly. Just... restless. Like wearing shoes half a size too small—bearable, but constantly uncomfortable.

"Remember, back by eleven," her mother Valerie called as Mel headed for the door. Even now, with a nursing degree nearly complete, her parents maintained their curfews and expectations.

"Yes, Mom," Mel replied automatically, the words worn smooth from repetition.

Her father Preston—Press to his colleagues—looked up from his newspaper. "And you're meeting Allison's group at the library, correct?"

"Yes, Dad. Just study group." Another practiced lie. She was actually meeting friends at a café, but the deviation wasn't worth the lecture about "appropriate establishments."

The Jones household operated on unspoken rules. Melody was expected to be polite, studious, and above all, proper. Her parents weren't cruel—just relentlessly conventional. They had mapped her life with the precision of architects: prestigious college, respectable career, marriage to someone from the right family. The blueprint left no room for improvisation.

From childhood, Mel had been drawn to caring for others. When she was eight, a cousin had premature twins, and during a hospital visit, Mel had watched, transfixed, as a NICU nurse handled the tiny babies with gentle confidence. That moment crystallized her future.

"I want to be a baby nurse," she'd announced on the drive home.

Her mother had smiled tightly. "Pediatrician would be better, dear. More... substantial."

But Mel had remained steadfast, one of the few battles she'd won. Through high school, she'd volunteered at the local hospital, logging hours in the maternity ward, learning everything she could. The nurses had taken her under their wing, impressed by her dedication.

"You've got the touch," Nurse Diane had told her once. "Some people just do."

High school had been a parade of appropriate boyfriends, all sons of her parents' friends or colleagues. Tyler, the quarterback with the perfect family, had been her mother's favorite.

"Such good breeding," Valerie had whispered at a dinner party, as though discussing a show dog.

For nearly a year, Mel had dated Tyler, enduring stilted conversations about his football scholarship and his father's law practice. When she finally surrendered her virginity—more from curiosity than passion—the experience had been as bland as unseasoned chicken. His hands had fumbled under her sweater, his breath hot and uneven against her neck as he rutted against her with all the grace of a nervous teenager. She’d stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling afterward, wondering why everyone made such a fuss about something so... mechanical.

Two weeks later, she'd found him in the equipment room with Vanessa Martin after the spring formal. The memory still made her cheeks burn.

"Mel!" Tyler had scrambled to pull up his pants, his bare ass gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Vanessa smirked from behind him, her prom dress hiked up around her waist, one strap sliding off a shoulder to reveal the curve of a rose-tipped breast.

Something had snapped in Mel that night. "Don't bother explaining," she'd said, surprised by the steadiness in her voice. "I’m not interested in your excuses—or your pathetic two-minute performances."

"Come on, babe, it's not—"

"I hope she was worth it," Mel had interrupted, then turned to Vanessa. "He makes that weird grunting sound at the end, right? Like a pig finding truffles?"

She'd walked away to the sound of Vanessa's startled laughter and Tyler's protests. The next day at school, she'd returned his class ring in the cafeteria—dropping it into his chocolate milk while maintaining eye contact—then walked away as whispers erupted around them.

Her mother had been mortified. "That's not how ladies handle disappointment, Melody."

But for once, Mel hadn't cared. The small rebellion had tasted sweet.

College had brought freedom, but old patterns persisted. She'd chosen a school close enough to visit home monthly but far enough to breathe. Her nursing program was demanding, leaving little time for socializing, which suited her parents perfectly.

During her sophomore year, she'd met Blake in her required economics class. He was pre-law, from a family of attorneys, with the kind of pedigree her parents immediately approved.

"Finally, someone suitable," her mother had said after meeting him.

For six months, things had been fine. Not exciting, but comfortable. Blake took her to nice restaurants and cultural events. He discussed politics and literature with her father. He remembered her birthday and brought her mother flowers.

Then the texts became less frequent. Study sessions ran mysteriously late. Weekend visits home multiplied.

"Family obligations," he'd explain vaguely.

Mel had tried to ignore the signs, but after two months of growing distance, she'd driven to his apartment unannounced, a container of soup in hand because he'd claimed to be fighting a cold.

The woman who opened his door had been wearing his Harvard sweatshirt and nothing else, the hem barely grazing her thighs. A fresh hickey bloomed at the base of her throat.

"Can I help you?" she'd asked, perfectly manicured fingers clutching the doorframe.

"I'm looking for Blake," Mel had replied, already knowing exactly what was happening.

"He's in the shower." The woman had smiled thinly. "I'm Gabrielle. His girlfriend."

Mel had set the soup container on the hallway floor. "Interesting. I thought I was his girlfriend."

Gabrielle's smile had faltered. "Since when?"

"About eight months now. And you?"

"Three months." Gabrielle had crossed her arms, the movement tightening the sweatshirt across her chest. "Well, this is awkward."

"Less for me than you might think," Mel had replied. "I’m getting rather used to being replaced by ambitious twats."

When Blake had emerged, towel around his waist, water dripping down the hard planes of his chest, he'd found the two women sitting at his kitchen table, comparing notes like colleagues reviewing a case study.

"Mel! What are you—"

"Leaving," she'd interrupted. "Permanently. Gabrielle has been lovely company. Did you know her father's firm is considering you for an internship? That's why you've been so attentive to her, right? Career advancement?"

Blake had paled. "It's not like that."

"It's exactly like that," Gabrielle had snapped, standing. The sweatshirt rode higher, revealing the edge of black lace panties. "My father mentioned you were eager—practically desperate. Now I understand why."

Mel had left them arguing, feeling oddly light. Another relationship ended, another disappointment to report to her parents, but somehow, she couldn't summon the appropriate distress.

"Maybe you're just not trying with the right kind of men," her mother had suggested when Mel called with the news.

Maybe she wasn't interested in the "right kind" at all.

The truth—her secret—lived in the margins of her proper life. It resided in the romance novels hidden beneath her mattress and in the glances she couldn't help stealing whenever the Phantom Wolves rode through town.

Specifically, it lived in the form of one particular biker she'd been watching for years.

The first time she'd seen him, she'd been sixteen, waiting for her father outside the hardware store. The rumble of motorcycles had drawn her attention as the Phantom Wolves pulled into the parking lot across the street. Among them was a man with broad shoulders and dark hair who moved with casual confidence. Something about him had caught her eye—not just his appearance, but the freedom he embodied.

Over the years, she'd spotted him occasionally: at the beach, at the gas station, once at the diner where she worked one summer. She never approached, never even made eye contact. But in her mind, she'd constructed elaborate fantasies.

In these daydreams, she was different—bolder, unrestrained. She rode on the back of his motorcycle, arms wrapped around his waist, her thighs pressed against the hard muscle beneath his jeans. She spoke her mind without filtering her thoughts. She wore leather instead of cardigans, cursed when frustrated, laughed too loudly.

She'd learned his road name was Hawk. Nolan, someone had called him once. She'd stored the information like a precious secret.

After completing her nursing degree, Mel had moved back home temporarily while applying for NICU positions. Her parents had been delighted, seeing it as a return to the fold rather than a financial necessity.

One evening, she'd driven to Crescent Beach, needing space from her mother's hints about a colleague's single son. The sunset had painted the sky in violent pinks and oranges as she walked along the shore, shoes in hand.

The distant rumble of motorcycles had made her heart quicken. The Phantom Wolves often gathered at the beachside bar during summer evenings. She'd hesitated, then continued walking in that direction, telling herself she was just enjoying the sunset.

The bikes had been parked in a neat row outside the weathered building. Laughter and music spilled from the open doors. Mel had slowed, pretending to watch the horizon while stealing glances at the bar.

And then he was there, stepping outside, a bottle in hand. Hawk. The fading light caught on his profile, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder where a wolf tattoo snarled beneath his collar. His black Henley stretched tight across his chest as he leaned against the railing, the fabric pulling against biceps that spoke of years handling heavy machinery—or heavier men.

For a moment, she'd allowed herself to stare openly, drinking in details to fuel her fantasies. Then, as if sensing her gaze, he'd turned.

Their eyes had met across the distance—a brief, electric connection that had sent her heart racing. His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering just long enough to make her breath catch. His expression had shifted slightly, a flicker of interest or curiosity. For one wild moment, Mel had imagined walking toward him, introducing herself, stepping completely out of the careful boundaries of her life.

Instead, she'd looked away, turned, and walked back the way she'd come, pulse hammering in her throat.

That night, lying in her childhood bedroom surrounded by honors certificates and stuffed animals, Mel had made a decision. She would take the position at Memorial Hospital in the next county over. She would find her own apartment. She would begin, finally, to live on her terms.

Her parents would be disappointed. They'd expected her to take the offer at their local hospital, to continue living at home until she "settled down."

But Melody Nicole Jones was tired of being the good girl. Tired of following a script written by others. The brief connection with Hawk—imagined or not—had crystallized something inside her.

She wasn't ready to become a leather-wearing biker woman. But she was ready to stop being afraid of her own shadow.

Tomorrow, she would tell her parents about her decision. Tomorrow, she would take the first real step toward independence.

For tonight, she allowed herself one more elaborate fantasy about the man called Hawk—of calloused hands sliding up her thighs, of teeth grazing her collarbone, of whispered promises that had nothing to do with propriety and everything to do with hunger.

Her secret self, hidden for so long, was finally ready to emerge.