No Way Out

by Simone Scarlet

  Just as I’d said before, when I had Christi’s arms wrapped tightly around my waist, and her head pressed against my back, it was easy to imagine that we were just some young couple, out for a ride, without a care in the world.

  But the reality was far from that. I’d just learned all of the brutal cares Christi had – and she had no idea of my own.

  But I drank in the pleasure of the ride, and was almost disappointed when we finally hit the outskirts of Fresno – riding past that cheesy old sign which promised that this sunbaked town was “The Best Little City in the U.S.A.”

  As it turned out – as it always turned out, riding with a gang like the Knuckleheads – we weren’t going to get to enjoy the amenities of the Tower District, or the eateries of Las Palmas. Instead, Coyle had given us the address of a deserted old business district, up in the north of town, where there was an old abandoned warehouse, and a rickety old roadhouse with such a bad reputation that even the Fresno Police Department gave it a wide berth.

  It was funny how many bars we ran into like that – where even the police were too afraid to come visit. But, in retrospect, that explained perfectly why Christi had chosen to ride with us.

  There was nowhere better to hide from crooked cops than with a gang even the cops were afraid of.

  It also explained what I was doing, riding with the Knuckleheads… But that was a different story…

  The roadhouse we were headed to was known as the Broke Spoke, and had been catering to the “One Percenters” – the most dangerous of roaming biker gangs – since it was founded in the post-war era.

  In all honestly, not much had even changed about the place since way back then – it was the same faded, slat-sided single-story bar, with a brick kitchen out back and a lineup of bikes outside.

  Only the models of the bikes changed over the years – and some of those not even that much. When Coyle rolled up later today, on his ’42 Knucklehead, that old bike would feel right at home.

  As it happened, though, we were the first arrivals from the Knuckleheads. As I pulled the old Twin Cam to a halt between a Triumph Bonneville and an old Indian, I realized Christi and I were the only members of our gang who’d show for hours.

  But that suited me just fine.

  I cut the engine, and the steady rumble of the Harley faded. Then all we were left with was the thumping bass of the roadhouse jukebox, and the inexorable chirping of the cicadas, who’d emerged as evening approached.

  With a weary groan, I swung my leg over the seat of the Harley, and helped Christi slide off onto the dirt. We were both stiff, tired and thirsty – and I was looking forward to an ice-cold beer.

  So was she, apparently.

  “I hope they make margaritas up here,” she smacked her lips. “I’ve got a thirst on me…”

  I curled one arm over her shoulder without even thinking about it, and as we stepped up onto the wooden porch, it hardly even occurred to me that we probably looked more like boyfriend and girlfriend than two members of the toughest biker gang in central California.

  There were old saloon doors at the entrance to the bar, and as I shoved them open, I half-expected the music inside to come to a dead halt, and dozens of suspicious eyes turn in our direction – just like in the movies.

  But this wasn’t a movie – and as Christi and I sauntered inside, nobody even looked up.

  There was a long bar across one wall, a half-dozen round tables and chairs, and a pool table in the corner. At this point in the evening, the place was slow – we counted maybe three or four bikers slumped at the bar, and a table of three more playing cards at one of the tables.

  A cute waitress in a short black skirt barely acknowledged us as we walked in – simply grunting: “Sit anywhere you like” as she walked past.

  We chose a table by the window, and I picked the chair facing the door – giving me a view of the whole bar as I sat down. It was an old habit from my Army Ranger days – but one that had saved my ass more than a few times since then.

  “Whaddya want?” It was the waitress again, smacking her gum as she reluctantly came up to our table.

  I glanced over at the bar, and as I suspected, there wasn’t anything fancy on tap. But after six hours riding the California highways, sometimes fancy was overrated.

  “I’ll have a pint of Miller Lite,” I told her, “and a margarita for the lady.”

  The waitress nodded, and strolled off with a bored look on her face.

  As we waited for our drinks, Christi looked around the place.

  “Man,” she shook her head. “I’ve seen so many places like this, they’re all starting to blend into one another. Sawdust on the floor. Shitty beer on tap.” She rolled her eyes. “And if I have to listen to La Grange by ZZ Top one more time, I swear I’m going to throw myself in traffic.”

  I laughed – she wasn’t wrong.

  Our drinks arrived – and as Christi sipped her frosty margarita, a smile spread across her face.

  “It’s good,” she confirmed – and my beer wasn’t too bad either. For all the crap they give American beer, an ice-cold Miller Lite after a hard day’s ride isn’t to be sniffed at.

  “Miss?” I looked up at the waitress. “You guys serve food?” It was a legitimate question – half these roadhouses didn’t serve much of anything aside from whiskey and beer.

  “We’ve got burgers,” she replied – and that got my mouth watering.

  “We’ll take two,” I held up two fingers. “How do you take it, Christi?”

  Her eyes widened – like nobody had given her the luxury of choice in quite some time.

  “Medium rare, no onions?”

  The pleasure was short-lived.

  “You’ll get ‘em how we make ‘em,” the waitress replied frostily. “Five bucks each. Ketchup and mustard is at the end of the bar.”

  And then she was gone – and I felt Christi lean over and slump against my shoulder.

  Without even thinking about it, I stretched my arm out over her slender shoulders, and we sat like that in silence for a few minutes, sipping our deliciously ice-cold drinks and studying the other patrons of the bar.

  God, it was weird.

  The previous night, I’d seen Christi suck and fuck two virtual strangers – writhing beneath their sweaty bodies in full view of a bar full of horny bikers.

  In contrast, she and I had done nothing – our lips had barely touched, once.

  But over the course of this day… I don’t know. I just felt at home with her. As I felt her nuzzle into the crook of my arm, I realized that it felt like my arm had been built perfectly-proportioned to curl around her. She was the perfect height, and size, to pull tight to my shoulder.

  And I knew that she felt the same – that after months of each of us feeling lonely and isolated in this rough and dangerous gang of bikers, we’d finally found each other…

  But that was a dangerous discovery – because if there was one thing three tours in Iraq had taught me, it was that the moment you started caring about something, the moment you risked losing it.

  And for me, specifically, that was a very real danger.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christi

  A couple of hours after we’d forced down our gristly cheeseburgers, other members of the Knuckleheads started rolling up to the Broke Spoke.

  The place was happening now. Not counting our guys, two other, different groups of bikers had rolled up, and six or seven of them were shooting pool, laughing uproariously as they circled the table.

  The other group of new arrivals had split up – half of them leaning against the bar, with eight or so more gathered around a pool table, playing for bundles of dollar bills.

  A few months ago, I might have thought of them as a dangerous crowd – this was the sort of bar nice girls like me would have turned on their heels and walked out of the moment I saw inside…

  …but those few months were a lifetime ago, and now I realized these guys were just small-fry’s compared to
the crew I rolled with.

  And that much became obvious the moment more of the Knuckleheads began to roll up – the deafening rumble of Harleys pulling to a halt outside, and the saloon doors crashing open as they staggered in, one by one, or in small groups.

  A few of them gave Mason nods as they lumbered past, or grunted something like: “’Sup, Recon?” But aside from undressing me with their eyes, the bikers all seemed to ignore me…

  …just the way I liked it.

  They just headed straight for the bar, or slumped into a chair at one of the tables. Some of the bigger guys literally shouldered the other patrons out of the way as they struggled to get the bartender’s attention.

  The dynamic of the bar changed as more and more of the Knuckleheads turned up. Our boys were muscling in on the turf of the other two groups of bikers, and what started off as grudging acceptance soon turned to angry glances and hushed whispering as more and more of our guys turned up.

  And it wasn’t just the dynamic of the bar that had changed. As faces like Rooker and Bowser turned up, ignoring me as they lumbered past, I noticed that Mason peeled his arm from my shoulder, and sat stiffly by my side.

  He was deliberately trying not to show me any affection now that we were back amongst our peers – and although I knew that was for my own protection, I’m not going to lie; it kind of stung a little.

  I’d been alone for so long, just those few moments of relaxed intimacy – the warmth of his skin against my bare shoulders, or the weight of his arm around my waist – was like taking a long drink after weeks of drought.

  “Hey!”

  The sharp sound of an angry voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

  Glancing over towards the pool table, I saw one of the other biker groups – the middle-aged guys who’d rolled up earlier that afternoon – were now actively squaring up against a couple of Knuckleheads.

  “Jesus, quit crowdin’ us, you assholes,” one of the bikers was snapping, shoving a Knucklehead known as Big Mac out of his way. “We’re tryin’ to play pool here!”

  Big Mac had earned his moniker due to his fondness for the McDonald’s burger of the same name – and he was a big, round bastard with a belly almost as wide as his shoulders.

  He did not take kindly to being pushed around.

  “You keep your hands to your goddamn self,” Big Mac roared back, shoving the other biker up against the pool table, “or I’ll snap ‘em off, you understand?”

  As Big Mac loomed over the other biker, I noticed several of the other Knuckleheads shuffle up behind him. If anything went down, they’d have their brother’s back – and it wouldn’t end well for the other guys.

  Nevertheless, none of the older bikers seemed to have got that memo – and the guy who’d shoved Big Mac in the first place squared up against him, clenching his hands into fists.

  “Why, I ought to…”

  I thought he was going to take a swing – and that would have meant things would turn ugly…

  But he never got to finish his sentence.

  At the very moment he opened his mouth to speak, the doors of the roadhouse crashed open, and Coyle swaggered in – flanked, as always, by Bertha.

  Coyle got exactly the sort of Hollywood entrance that Mason and I hadn’t. The jukebox was silenced. A hundred pairs of eyes turned in his direction. Everybody shut up – including the two gangs of bikers who weren’t affiliated with us.

  Coyle just had that power. He was bigger, and louder, and more dauntingly charismatic than any other bastard in that room.

  And now he was here?

  That meant trouble. The biker at the pool table had no idea what he’d just stumbled into.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mason

  I’d dealt with ambushes, IEDs and boobytraps during my months in Iraq.

  But this situation? In this roadhouse bar?

  Every bit as potentially explosive.

  As Christi and I sat at the corner table, watching the leader of the Knuckleheads swagger in, I felt her reach under the table to squeeze my hand.

  I didn’t want to advertise my fondness for her to any of the other bikers – but even so, I didn’t hesitate in squeezing it back.

  Things had the potential to turn ugly – and I wanted her close to me if it did.

  ***

  “Now then,” Coyle boomed, as he stepped into the center of the bar, his cowboy boots clomping on the wooden floorboards. “Just what in the Sam Hell is goin’ on in here?”

  Coyle’s intense, brown eyes narrowed as he caught sight of where the ruckus was going down.

  He strode across the bar, and the other bikers backed the fuck off from him as he did so.

  It was like Coyle was parting the Red Sea as he strode through the crowd – and this was a gang of bruisers and thugs who wouldn’t have normally given an inch for anybody.

  But Coyle wasn’t anybody.

  Within moments, he was over at the pool table, standing shoulder to shoulder with Big Mac, and staring down at the offending biker with a dangerous smile on his face.

  “What’s goin’ on here?” Coyle’s lips curled, and his eyes flashed.

  The older biker had been ready to throw down with Big Mac just a few seconds earlier – but now he was cowering like a frightened dog.

  “T-this guy bumped into me, is all,” he stammered. “The big jackass needs to look where he’s going.”

  “Who are you calling a jackass…?” Big Mac didn’t finish that sentence. Coyle raised one finger, and Mac fell silent instantly, like the well-trained dog that he was.

  Turning back to the other biker, Coyle reached one of his big arms forward, and laid it gently on the smaller man’s shoulder.

  It wasn’t aggressive. In fact, in normal circumstances, it might have even been viewed as comradely.

  But I’d felt the weight of Coyle’s big arm on my own shoulders, crushing you under its implied power.

  It was an act of dominance, and in addition to the smile Coyle was grinning, was probably a far more terrifying combination than anger and violence could ever have been.

  “Now, normally, friend,” Coyle grinned at the offending biker, “I’d leave Big Mac here to sort out your disagreement himself.”

  The man crushed beneath Coyle’s forearm gulped.

  “But tonight,” Coyle continued, smiling murderously, “we’ve got business to take care of. So why don’t you chalk this one up to experience, and you and your buddies pack up, and go someplace else?”

  Coyle sounded deceptively reasonable as he murmured this, but not a man in that roadhouse bar thought that his suggestion was anything other than an order.

  And, to his credit, the older biker seemed to understand that, too.

  He shrugged off Coyle’s heavy arm – a half-hearted attempt to regain face, which Coyle allowed him to do. Then, looking up, he nodded and hissed:

  “Sure. We were ready to roll out anyway.”

  His buddies gave each other confused glances. They still had nearly-full pints of beer in their hands, and had only just broken the balls for a brand-new game at the pool table.

  But they were as smart as their friend was – and started gulping down their Miller Lites, and pulling on their jackets.

  Coyle smiled, and purred: “You boys have yourself a good night, y’hear?”

  The older biker nodded. Then, remaining deferent to Coyle, he turned to Big Mac and hissed: “...but you better watch yourself, big guy.”

  Big Mac just laughed, as the group of bikers slowly shuffled past, towards the door.

  They practically tiptoed through the room of Knuckleheads, and the moment they made it through the swinging saloon doors, were down the steps and crunching across the gravel double-quick.

  The last we all heard of them was the sound of their bikes revving up, and the skitter of the spinning tires kicking up the dirt.

  They were gone – but Coyle wasn’t finished.

  Striding into the center of the room, he stepped u
p to the bar, and then clambered up on top of it.

  That was a sight to be seen – a big, 300 lb man, balanced on the top of an old wooden bar like one of the bartenders from Coyote Ugly.

  But with his now looming view over the entire room, Coyle’s booming voice caught everybody’s attention.

  “That goes for the rest of you, too,” he roared, and everybody who didn’t have a Knucklehead Harley parked outside knew he was addressing them. “It’s time to grab your shit, and get gone. The Broke Spoke’s havin’ a private party tonight, and your asses aren’t invited.”

  That seemed to be enough for most of them. The bikers at the bar drained their drinks, and gave each other nods. A moment later, they were heading to the door.

  The big guys playing poker seemed to feel the same way – all but one of them.

  As his buddies gulped down their unfinished drinks, one burly, middle-aged guy with a buzzcut pushed back his chair and staggered into the center of the room.

  Emboldened by beer and whiskey, he looked up at Coyle, looming above him, and roared:

  “Just who in the hell do you think you are?”

  The room fell silent. Every eye in the bar turned to look at this brave, or foolish, bastard. His buddies, at the poker table, exchanged nervous glances – wordlessly asking each other: “What does this idiot think he’s doing?”

  But the idiot continued.

  “My buddies and I ain’t going nowhere,” he barked up at Coyle. “We were here long before you and your assholes showed up. Y’ain’t kickin’ us out.”

  Again, his buddies exchanged nervous glances – they clearly didn’t want to be caught up in their friend’s bravado.

  On top of the bar, Coyle peered down at the ballsy biker and the smile on his face just widened.

  I’d seen it do that far too many times before – and it scared the living shit out of me.

  “Well, well, well,” towering over the guy with the buzzcut, Coyle grinned: “What do we have here?”

  The biker gulped nervously, and even I could tell he was rethinking the wisdom of his actions.