Free Devil Riders: A Biker Erotic Romance by A. L. Summers

 
    DEVIL RIDERS
     
    W e’re only on our first set and already that asshole Jack is pissing me off. When they’d arrived he’d made a scene about me playing with him and his band. That was bad enough, but for the last 45 minutes he’s taken every opportunity to slight me. I’m a professional so I hold my tongue, swallow my pride, and do my part. The Drillers aren’t a bad band for a bunch of amateurs, but they aren’t nearly as good as Jack seems to think they are.
     
    “We’re going to close out our first set with one of our favorites,” Jack announces to the small crowd that has pretty much ignored us all evening, “I think y’all know this one.” Looking at me, he adds loud enough for the mic to pick up, “Try to keep up.”
     
    I purse my lips in annoyance. Nobody belittles my talent unless they’re better than me. This asshole isn’t. We rip through Devil Went Down to Georgia and finish to a smattering of applause. The Drillers take their bows and begin to step down from the small stage for a break. I make no move to follow and keep my seat behind my digital piano. As soon as Jack, the last to leave the stage, steps down, I begin to stamp my foot, hard. I set up an upbeat tempo and launch into Orange Blossom Special. While originally written for violin, excuse me, fiddle, I take it and run with it. I layer in my own nuances and flourishes while pounding the shit out of the keyboard to bring the song to life.
     
    I throw a quick glance at The Drillers standing just off-stage. Jack is standing there jaws agape while Rudy, bass, and Stockton, drums, grin like Cheshire cats. I smile and wink at them in acknowledgement. As soon as I finish, the room erupts into the loudest and most sustained applause of the night. I notice a group of Hell’s Angels wannabes laughing at Jack as he stomps toward the bar, all except for one guy sitting at the end of the table nearest the stage. He’s not joining in with the razzing, and is instead watching me with an intensity I find mildly off-putting. All around him, men and women wearing similar well-worn riding leathers offer mock salute to Jack with various beverages.
     
    Rudy steps back on the stage as I get up from behind the keyboard. He gives me a platonic hug and a big high-five as he laughs. “Maybe it us who should be worried about keeping up with you. Where’d you learn to play like that?”
     
    “Glenn Korff,” I reply. When Rudy shows no comprehension, I just finish with, “University of Nebraska.”
     
    “Rudy Ginlette,” Rudy says, extending his hand as Stockton joins us onstage. “And this is Bob Stockton.”
     
    “Alicia Davenport,” I say as I shake hands all around.
     
    “Don’t let Jack get to you,” Stockton says, glancing at Jack as he sits at the bar, scowling at me, “he’s an alright guy once you get to know him.”
     
    “Yeah, he seems like a real sweetheart,” I say sarcastically as we move to the end of the bar, where I normally sit when not performing.
     
    “Listen, let me make it up to you, okay? Let me buy you a drink. What are you having?” Rudy asks. I’m leery of the offer and I guess it shows. “C’mon,” Rudy encourages, “I’m happily married with twin little girls. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
     
    This time I accept with a smile. “Sprite, please.” I don't drink often in any case, but I never drink when I’m playing because I'm afraid it will make me sloppy.
     
    “Oooh, wild woman,” Rudy teases, ordering my soda. Rudy, Stockton, and I sit and talk at the end of the bar. I learn that The Drillers are three high school friends playing local gigs for fun and a little pocket money. The band name comes from the fact that all three work in the oil industry. After some encouragement, I tell them my own story: after graduating with a music degree from Glenn Korff, I bounced around, playing piano where and when I could until I got my big break playing with the Oklahoma City Philharmonic. I