by Lucas, Helen
And then I saw him.
He sat hunched over on the motel bed, the figure he cut clashing brilliantly with the kitschy floral pattern of the motel duvet cover. He looked something like a ‘80s punk who had moved down to Florida, with a tight white t-shirt and a leather jacket, covered in patches and spikes, stretched over it. Tattoos crept up his neck—a saw the letters “U,” “N,” “F,” “O,” and “R” stretching down from beneath his jaw. Unforgiven, I guessed? On the other side of his neck, I noted a grim reaper, surrounded by flames, leering at anyone who got close.
And now, I was supposed to get close to him.
He looked up at me. I saw he had more tattoos on his face—small ones, tears, beneath his left eye—three of them. His face was beautiful in a kind of tragic way. He had a long scar stretching over his cheek from the corner of his mouth—I guessed it had been torn, somehow. His eyes were dark hazelnut, and his hair was a dirty blonde. I couldn’t tell if he had gelled it, or if he simply hadn’t washed it, but it was tousled in a way that made it look like he had just stepped out of a magazine.
I felt an uncomfortable flutter in my chest. A flutter I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. A flutter that warmed me, warmed my gut, warmed my chest. I bit my lip and forced myself to keep looking at him.
“Fang, say hello to Special Agent Claire Powell,” Doug said, interrupting my reverie.
He stood. He was six feet tall, give or take, with broad shoulders and a kind of angry swagger in his step, a swagger that made him look like a bomb ready to go off or a wild animal that had only just barely been caged and controlled. The kind of animal it was a sin to try and tame.
“I’m Fang,” he said, his voice lacking any emotion whatsoever. “James MacKinnon. But everyone in the Damned calls me Fang and you should too.”
“Right,” I said, offering him my hand. His grip was firm, but not intentionally—some men try to crush your hand when they shake it, but Fang clearly just didn’t know any other way. “Special Agent Powell. Good to meet you. I look forward to working with you.”
“Ditto,” Fang grunted, his eyes narrowing. That probably meant he was lying. I would have to remember that for the future. Eyes narrowed means he’s not being truthful.
I noticed that he had even more tattoos on his hands—a tiger, roaring, on his right one, and a shark on the left. His knuckles were even tattooed—“HATE” on the right hand and “LOVE” on the left.
We all sat at the table and Doug handed us binders containing our assignments, along with summaries of all the relevant intelligence that Fang had collected over the past few months.
“We’re calling this Operation Snakebait,” Doug began, lighting a new cigarette. A halo of smoke surrounded his head, making him look like a saint in an old masters painting. If only he were.
“The objective,” Doug continued, after a few puffs. “Is to force a collapse of the Damned Motorcycle Club. We plan on doing this by eliminating the Damned’s leader, Emmet Byrne, goes by ‘Fatman,’ while simultaneously seizing enough of the club’s illegal assets that continued operation will be impossible.”
“What about other high ranking members? Is there any chance that there might just be a power struggle?” I asked immediately, looking up from the dossier.
“The Damned don’t maintain a rigorous hierarchy. Fang is perhaps the best positioned to take over if Fatman is out of the picture, and he’s on our side,” Doug answered. Fang nodded.
“He’s a dangerous guy, but he’s not a strategist. He rules with an iron fist—no subtlety. Micromanages everything. No one else knows how the club’s finances and shit works. Holds it all real close to the chest.”
“You don’t even know?” I asked, frowning.
Fang gave me a deadly, disgusted look.
“I don’t like books and numbers. I like riding and cracking skulls.”
“Sounds like the Damned have too many guys like that. Sounds like you need someone who can actually run an organization.”
“Well, Jesus fucking Christ, why don’t you fucking offer your services as a gangland consultant?” Fang spat back. “How much do you bill per hour?”
“Listen, you Hell’s Angels-reject,” I started but Fang stood and cut me off.
“The Hells Angels are a fucking corporate joke,” he snarled. “We’re the real deal—real scary ass one percenters.”
“Fang, calm down,” Doug said, not raising his voice one bit. That was Doug—he always spoke like he was ordering at a restaurant, and he usually got what he wanted.
And, yet again, he did. Fang sat down, smoldering like a camp fire that refused to go out.
“Doug, I ain’t working with this mouthy bitch,” he growled.
“What the fuck did you call me?” I all but screamed, standing up and ready to leap over the table and scalp him.
“You heard me,” he snarled once more. “Bitch.”
“Calm. Your. Selves,” Doug whispered, he voice barely audible. Somehow, that got our attention. This middle-aged, mild-mannered guy who looked more like an overworked accountant than anything else could always command a room if he wanted to.
“Fang, speak to Special Agent Powell respectfully when you are communicating in a professional context and not in the field. You will be working with her, and that’s final.”
Then, he turned to me.
“Powell, understand that Fang is a veteran and has several of the symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He may sometimes say and do things he doesn’t mean or that he regrets. Isn’t that right, Fang?”
He shrugged.
“That’s what the VA doctors tell me.”
“To continue with the brief…” said Doug, sighing. “Special Agent Powell will pretend to be in a relationship with Fang—the slang term for such a position is ‘old lady,’ as in ‘Fang’s old lady.’”
I rolled my eyes but I held my tongue.
“Fang has already begun to mention his new ‘old lady’ to the club, so that Special Agent Powell’s appearance won’t come as a surprise. In the meantime, Fang will give Special Agent Powell a crash course in the customs, culture, and skills necessary to pose as an authentic motorcycle club member… Or, at least, the girlfriend of one.”
“He’s going to train me?”
Fang grinned, but there was no joy in his smile.
“That’s right.”
“Once Fang is satisfied with Special Agent Powell’s progress, he’ll introduce her to the club and have her initiated. From there, we’ll proceed with the operation and, at the earliest opportune moment, arrange a sting to arrest Fatman and as many Damned personnel as possible. In the meanwhile, Special Agent Powell will collect as much intelligence as possible on the illegal operations and, especially, assets, of the Damned MC. Once Fatman is gone, we’ll swoop in and castrate the club’s resources—drugs, money, weapons, stolen vehicles. Even if the remaining members try to continue the gang, they’ll be too impoverished to be an effective criminal force.”
It wasn’t a bad plan. It was just crazy enough, just dangerous enough to work.
The only issue was, it was predicated on my being able to convince the Damned that I was one of them. And on Fang being able to control himself.
Damn it. Such a jerk, but so good looking.
Good god, where did that thought come from? No, I had a job to do—and I wasn’t going to let myself get distracted from the task at hand.
But wasn’t the only reason I was doing this job to have a distraction? A distraction… Isn’t that what I wanted, what I needed most of all?
No. No. No, Powell. Keep your head in the game.
“Any questions so far?” Doug asked, his look still cool and calm as he took both of us in. Dumbly, we shook our heads.
“Good. Then we can continue. Powell, you’ll need to turn in your sidearm.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry—we’re just assigning you a smaller pistol, something more easily concealed. Especially when you’re not wearing
much of anything.”
Fang snorted and I felt myself flush, in spite of myself.
I drew my sidearm, my trusty full-sized Glock, removed the magazine, and decocked it. I slid it over to Doug and he accepted it, passing me back a much smaller Glock, one that would fit in the palm of my hand.
“This is like a toy,” I mumbled. Doug grinned.
“You’ve still got six rounds of .45 ACP in there, so it’s definitely no toy.”
He was right about that. I tucked the gun into the back of my pants, mentally noting that I should acquaint myself better with the feel and handling of it later.
“So, what kind of training am I going through?” I asked, glancing at Fang.
“Fang? Would you like to elaborate?”
He sighed, rolling his eyes like a spoiled kid in a grade school classroom.
“Well, first, you have to learn to ride a motorcycle.”
“Fine.”
“Not that you’ll actually be allowed to ride any of our bikes. It’s a thing that everyone does—the guys teach their old ladies to ride their bikes, but deny it, deny that they ever let any bitch touch their bikes.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Welcome to MC life, sister,” Fang growled. “You’ll at least have to appear knowledgeable about motorcycles.”
“Right. That makes sense.”
“And you’ll need tattoos.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise and dismay.
“Tattoos?”
“Yeah. Lots of them.”
“I can’t get temporary ones?”
Fang gave a short, cruel laugh.
“No. If you want to roll with the Damned, you need real ink.”
I bit my lip but then scowled. No one was looking at my body these days anyway, so who would care if I had hideous tattoos splayed all over my skin?
“And, of course, Fang will teach you all about the history and traditions of the club. Everything you’ll need to know to blend in and be seen as a real member, a real… er, old lady.”
Doug allowed himself a tiny smile as he repeated the term.
“Of course,” I replied.
“And you’ll need to live with him, to maintain the illusion that you two are in a relationship.”
“What? I need to live with this slob?” I exclaimed.
“Listen, I’m not excited about it either…” Fang grumbled.
“Sorry, am I going to cramp your cool bachelor pad style?”
“Yeah, that’s right. You’re cramping my style already,” Fang spat back. I could tell this was going to be fun.
We went over a few final details: how and when to contact Doug, what kinds of handlers would be keeping an eye on us, and what kinds of evidence I was going to be documenting and how.
Still, in the back of my mind, I was steaming and stewing. I couldn’t believe this—couldn’t believe that I had agreed to this, to living with a former addict and a biker to boot. And we had to pretend to be… To be lovers.
Did that mean we had to have sex?
The thought excited me and made me sick at the same time, and then the fact that it did excite me made me sick all over again. I couldn’t imagine Fang touching me, holding me, making love to me…
In fact, I couldn’t imagine any man doing that. Any man except Fred. No. Don’t think about that.
But it was too late. I was remembering how Fred touched me, the feeling of him inside of me and on top of me, how I felt so full when he was deep inside of my flesh, how I loved the way he sighed and groaned and grunted as we made love… Fang could never replace that.
And he didn’t have to. I didn’t care. There wouldn’t be any feelings here and this was just a job, a mission. What did I care if we had sex? If it made the mission more successful…
But did I just want it? Was I just telling myself that to keep myself from feeling guilty about wanting this jerk of a biker sitting in from of me, this bad boy who looked like a sad, misunderstood punk Adonis?
“That should finish everything up,” Doug said, ending the meeting. “So, unless there’s anything else…”
There wasn’t. He began to pack up his computer and his files. I stood and Fang did too, our eyes meeting awkwardly.
“So, uh, I guess I’m going with you,” I said lamely.
“That’s right,” Fang replied, his voice stiff, his eyes suddenly unable to meet my own.
“I’ll have someone come by and pick up your car, Claire,” Doug cut in. I gave him my keys and followed Fang out to his bike.
And goddamn, what a bike.
I’m not a car girl. I’ve never been impressed with fancy sports cars or muscle cars or anything like that. I have, however, always had a soft spot in my heart for motorcycles. Not that I ever had any desire to ride one, but they just seem so sleek, so beautiful and deadly… And the idea of something nice and warm vibrating between my legs always did sound pretty tempting.
But here was a huge metal beast unlike anything I’d ever seen before. It was long and narrow, with a low seat, and thus a low profile—probably to reduce drag. The fenders over the front and black tires were painted white with flames on them, while the fuselage had the same design, along with black writing in Arabic.
“What does that say?” I asked, jerking my finger at the writing. Fang tossed me a helmet, which I caught unsteadily.
“Salaam. It means ‘peace.’”
“That’s an odd motto for a biker gang.”
“It’s not our motto. It’s mine. That’s what I’m looking for,” Fang said, not making eye contact with me.
“Aren’t you wearing a helmet?” I said, changing the subject as Doug waved at us before getting into his old BMW.
“I don’t like helmets. And I only have one.”
“Helmets are safe.”
“Motorcycle clubs don’t ride safe,” he said, obviously getting tired of answering my questions.
He climbed onto the bike and I followed him, sitting behind him, my legs splayed open on the tiny back seat of the machine. I wrapped my arms uncertainly around his waist while my legs gripped the sides of the bike. I was wearing jeans and I suddenly wondered if they were be torn about by the fierce, powerful wheels of this finely tuned machine.
And then suddenly, it roared to life. I leaned in close, pressing my face to Fang’s back, inhaling his scent—a potent combination of sweat, cigarette smoke, gasoline, and the leather of his jacket. It was…
Intoxicating. Goddamn it.
Off we went. I let out a little shriek that was totally uncharacteristic of me and I felt myself flush for having cried out, hoping against hope that maybe the helmet would have muffled the noise and Fang wouldn’t have noticed. But I felt him snort and I knew he had.
We were going fast. I’m sure if I had been in a car, I wouldn’t have felt so terrified but being so exposed to the air rushing past me was an incredible thrill and one that I would have to get used to. As Fang weaved effortlessly in and out of traffic on the way to the highway, I found myself squeezing him tight, feeling his strong body encased in his leather jacket, his patches and pins rubbing against my forearms.
We pulled onto the highway and up the entry ramp, racing faster and faster as we merged with traffic, the dull orange lights gleaming and glittering by overhead as we soared down the road. I let out another little shriek as Fang pulled around a huge truck, hugging it tight, as tightly as I was hugging him, and then cut in front of it.
“Don’t go so fast!” I squealed into his ear.
“This is how fast I always go!” he roared back over the rushing of the wind cutting past us. And then, as if to emphasize that, as if to demonstrate that he could go even faster, he sped up.
I must have been about to break his ribs but I didn’t much care—if he insisted on driving like a maniac, then I was going to crush his diaphragm like a maniac. The bike careened from one end of the road to the other as we hit one of those patches of traffic that mysteriously crops up around Miami some
times in the late evening.
The traffic didn’t slow us down one bit though, or if it did, it was so minor that you couldn’t even notice it. We simply slid in and out of lanes, cutting in front of cars and then in front of others, drifting and flying, practically gliding, until we were in front of the traffic and could see the cause—a single lane, brought on by an accident.
An accident caused by a motorcycle, it seemed, as we darted by.
I wanted to ask Fang what he thought about that but I knew it would just piss him off. Instead, I hugged him closer, laying my head on his shoulder and trying my best to relax as we roared into our new life together—a life that we would share for the next few months, at least.