Forbidden Beauty

by Abriella Blake

  The twists of Miami Beach began to spring up on the horizon; the air began to smell of sea salt. I loved the beach. Sometimes I'd ride into the city just to pop along the waterfront, looking at all the bright, pastel-colored homes I could never imagine anyone living in. For how did people live, I so often wondered, in something so banal as a HOUSE? How did they walk their dogs, and pay their taxes, and wake up in the mornings for work? The Coffin Cheaters were like the Knights of the Round Table—they were always mid-party, mid-heist, mid-something. As intriguing as I found “civilian life” from the outside, I knew it could never be for me. Not after what I'd seen, what I'd been shown.

  I signaled for a sharp exit, having gotten a little lost in reverie. Behind me, I heard the blare of horns. “Four wheeled assholes!” I laughed into my helmet, like a huge dork. My momentum choked my sound, but I still loved the feeling of whooping on the highway. I loved how a big bike made noise, made its presence known. I resisted the temptation to take my hands off the handlebars and give the folks behind me the double finger.

  Just then, I felt a whoosh of air to my left. Another rider—leather-clad, riding a vintage Harley (1977? 1978, perhaps?)—was signaling at me. For a second, I lost my balance and skewed to the far left of my lane. The rider pulled back, but started to blare his horn.

  Even as a mildly unsafe driver, I wasn't used to people criticizing my riding skills—especially not other folks on hogs. Squinting with irritation, I coasted down the nearest exit ramp. Once I'd reached the bottom safely, I slowed for the shoulder. A thin strip of South Beach was visible on the horizon.

  I felt a rush of air behind me. The mystery Harley man had also come to a stop, not five meters away. I watched him in my rear-view: in a deft move, he cut his engine and slid off the back of his bike.

  “What are you? A cop?” I hollered, peeling off my helmet. To my chagrin, my voice came out shaky. The rider said nothing, just continued to amble my way. Then he reached two meaty hands up and began to tug at the sides of his own headgear.

  “Excessive lane-changing, I know, I know. I'm sorry. Though I don't see why a fellow Harley man would care enough to PULL ME OVER,” I laughed. The man was still silent, as he approached. It occurred to me to be afraid, but everything about this experience retained the glaze of the surreal—a honking Harley rider, pulling me over? Surely he wasn't a cop. But then, why....?

  His helmet fully removed, the Rider knelt down by my back tire, and proceeded to extract a long, thin twig from my wheel—clearly some detritus I'd picked up while hopping the moat. He turned his face towards mine, but his features were briefly hidden in the sun's glare.

  “Another half mile, I do believe you'd have been roadkill, Miss. Don't you know to always check your tires for debris?” With that, I set my chin at the mystery man, I shook back my mane. Nobody fucking talked to me like that.

  The obscuring sun slid behind a cloud, and I got a first glimpse at my so-called savior. The first thing I noticed were his eyes—they were a deep bluish color, verging on violet. His eyebrows were thick, lending his face something of a Mediterranean look; in accomplice, his nose was long and pronounced, but a little crooked at the tip in a super endearing way. His skin was a weather-beaten tan, slightly dewy-looking from the ride. I pegged his age at about thirty, thirty-three. I noticed then that the man's chin was comically super-hero looking, angular and jutted as a table corner. And his hair, sparkling slightly in the smog, was a chestnut brown. Rich and thick-looking. I resisted a sharp urge to run my fingers across his forehead, to rumple those heavy waves.

  As soon as I'd finished my stunned appraisal, I became aware of the stranger's gaze on my face. He was running his eyes over me the way I ran my fingers over new equipment: with a kind of tenderness, and awe. I watched him linger for a moment on my long red hair, which had come loose of its ponytail and now swam a little madly around my face from static. I felt a betraying tinge of red sweep across my cheeks.

  The mystery man's visage ventured South, over my neck, the scoops of my shoulders, plunging finally into the depth of my cleavage. I was sure I was sweaty from the ride. I wore no make-up. Still, there was finally something amused, something condoning in that curious gaze. Something that alternately thrilled me to my core, and told me I didn't need to be afraid.

  “Don't be an idiot,” my hero muttered, smirking. He drew himself up to his full height, and I realized how tall he was—a full 6'3” or 6'4”. Tati and I were tall for girls, and this had been another reason why I was so blasé about the MC members—aside from runty Dog, they tended to be short and heavyset. But this man had somehow retained the svelte, angular proportions of a thin man while packing visible muscle. He wasn't squat. He was tapered at the waist, yet his shoulders bulged below the strained hide of a shiny leather jacket. You could tell his body was...good. Really good.

  “I'm Gisele!” I blurted out, instantly ashamed of my eager-beaver-ness. The man continued to half-smile at me, in this maddening way. I was racking my mind for a follow-up remark, but I managed to bite my tongue—it seemed very important that he be the first to respond.

  “I'm—well, my full name is Carter Knox,” he said. I was pleased to hear his rich voice come out a little unsure. Was it possible that I made him nervous, too?

  “Well, thanks for looking out, Mr. Knox.”

  Still grinning, Carter kicked my back tire with the tread of his steel-toed boot. “Ain't nothing. I live by a code. I hope people would do the same for me.” A few cars whipped by on the ramp, and one or two paused to honk at our delay. I didn't care. All of my energy was concentrated on one thing: how to keep Carter right next to me for as long as possible. There was something immediately exciting about him. And something dangerous, too.

  “I'm Gisele Owens,” I elaborated, still searching for the right words. I needed to say something sexy, something like a femme fatale would say in a movie. “I love motorcycles.” Well, fuck me sideways. Whatever the opposite of sexy was, I was hitting that out of the park. I wondered if my whole face could possibly explode from shame, like a tomato might under a hammer...

  But to my surprise, Carter leaned back a little in his leather pants and released a belly laugh. Of all things, his mirth reminded me of my father's old guffaw—it was full and commanding, big enough to fill up a room. And as he tilted his gaze up towards the sun, I caught a glimpse of Carter's tummy fuzz, a trail wending its tipsy way down a taut stomach to the top of his leather pants. My heart quickened.

  “Gisele Owens. She loves motorcycles. Well damn, how do you like that?”

  Instead of responding like a normal person, I hollered straight into his face:

  “Can I buy you a drink? You know, to thank you? Because of the code, and all.” Surely, this had sounded desperate.

  Not to mention, a guy like him probably had some hot blonde wife and a bunch of biding mistresses all over the state. I hung my head immediately, as if he'd already said no.

  But then I felt the rough pads of his fingers on my chin, yanking my face back up towards the light.

  “Yeah sure,” he said. “It’s not everyday I meet a girl like you on a Harley Bobber.”

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  I followed Carter to a place of his choosing, back away from city limits. I was briefly sorry to see the beach go, but all my nerve endings felt electric at the prospect of going somewhere quiet with this man. I would have tailed him in any direction.

  The thought briefly frightened me again—there remained the possibility that Carter Knox was some kind of charming highway serial killer, and made a habit of tricking young biker chicks to follow him into the woods—but it seemed impossible to me that a man with those eyes could ever harm me. He had such a sense of calmness about him, a sureness I'd never known. I imagined that he'd watch me chit-chat my way through a dozen meaningless stories, all the while looking on with his merry gaze.

  We pulled off the main road towards a muggy side street, some thin avenue embroidering swampl
and—but our journey wasn't over yet. I tried to keep my eyes on the street (as opposed to my guide's taut ass...) as he led me through the twists and turns of the palm-lined path. At long last, he clicked his lights once, halting in front of what looked like a lean-to shack.

  Carter waved a gloved hand in my direction, then motioned me forward. “It's not as bad as it looks,” he offered, reading my mind. “There's a whole tiki set-up round the back. I'll show you.”

  I dismounted, and allowed myself a few deep breaths. Adventure, I repeated like a mantra. My mother and father, they'd united over their shared love of adventure. In a lot of ways, I'd grown up playing it close to the chest—but it was possible still to change, to disrupt one's routine.

  He was waiting for me.

  “You make a habit of picking up girls on the side of the road?” I called to him as I approached. I resolved to be cool. I resolved to be like Tati.

  “Do you make a habit of driving like a maniac?”

  “Oh, please. A girl's allowed to have a good time too, y'know.”

  “Sure. You just stick out a leg, and any old sap will come to your rescue. It's like that old movie—do you know it? It Happened One Night?” I shook my head no. “Well, you should,” Carter said. His eyes crinkled up at me again, gently mocking. His smile had a way of bending sweetly around his slightly crooked, entirely cute Grecian nose. “It's a good one. And you kinda remind me of that old movie star, Claudette Colbert. Yep. You must be a movie star, kid.” He winked at me.

  By now we'd circled the shack, and I saw that the alleged “tiki-bar set up” had been no joke: we now stood along a flat cement patio, flanked on all sides by short torches and tall grass. There was an assortment of deliberately mismatched lawn furniture—chairs, mostly—and small bamboo tables bearing drinks. It was still early in the day, but the place was in full swing. Most of the patrons seemed to be in couples—the women painted and lovely in long floral dresses, the men, bearded wiseguys in khaki pants and baha shirts. The latter looked for all the world like retired versions of Knox himself. A sprinkling of taped ukulele music danced over the grass. To be honest, this party looked a lot like how I'd imagined weddings—the few times I'd imagined weddings.

  “So. You come here often?”

  “I know the owner,” my date replied.

  As if on cue, a fat, short man seemed to burst out of the bushes. He held a round, hairy coconut in each hand and had a cigar clenched between yellowy teeth. “KNOX!” the stubby man shrieked, dropping his “baggage” so it went rolling around the ground. “Fucking son of a gun! Like I ever expected to see you again!”

  “That's right. A few of us are back in town, Scotty. This is—” But at that exact moment, the music crescendoed along the veranda. A few of the older couples stood to dance, beginning to sway their hips to and fro. Carter bent low to continue his conversation with who I'd gathered was the club’s owner, and I stared out at this strange new place. Sometimes I forgot how many people there were in Florida, existing both outside my MC and still, in their way, outside the norm of the white-picket-fence. I wanted to talk to everyone. I wondered how they'd all known to come here, and how they were connected.

  “Welcome to Casablanca, doll face,” Scotty was now shouting my way, his voice loud above the music. “We are always open, and beauties are always welcome.” Now there was an old movie I did know—some big cheesy romance, framed around Humphrey Bogart. A bar called Casablanca...so it seemed that my highway tough-guy had a thing for old movies. I couldn't help but grin a little.

  Scotty and Knox ended their little pow-wow with a complicated handshake, as Scotty clearly bestowed some blessing of approval. Then I felt Carter's warm palm on the back of my hand, his calloused fingers gripping mine. He gently tugged on my wrist, and I understood we were bound for some back room. I felt like giggling—this was all so fuckin' surreal.

  We picked our way through the crowd, and finally came to a stop in a kind of tented enclosure—there was a striped chaise resting by an old stone birdbath. A thin white canopy separated this spot from the rest of the patio. Somehow, it was quieter back here. Perhaps people knew to stay out of the VIP room.

  “You need anything, you holler for the owner. I'll be back with two choice daiquiris, on the house.” Scotty scurried away before I got a chance to thank him. I sat down heavily on the chaise lounge, instead.

  “You look like you've never seen a bar before, kid,” Knox said. He yanked a crumpled pack of American Spirits from his front pocket, lit a match.

  “I'm used to dark little dungeons that only serve Kentucky bourbon. Don't quite know what to make of this bourgeois shit.” Carter laughed again, and I felt myself crack a smile to match. I already loved the sound of his laugh. I wanted him to laugh at everything I said, just so I could hear that music constantly.

  “So, tell me,” he said finally, once his peal had diminished. “How does a movie star come by a Harley? What're you doing with a bike like that?”

  At this, I tensed up. Having been raised as an equal with a bunch of swarthy outlaws, I retained little patience for patronizing remarks. I squinted at Carter, hoping he'd catch the drift.

  “I have a bike because I can ride one. End of story.”

  “Didn't really answer my question there.”

  “Well, how did you come by yours?” I shot back. He shifted in his boots.

  “I guess...same answer.”

  “Funny.”

  “Yep. Real funny.” He blew a smoke ring straight up, in the direction of the almost-noontime sun.

  It wasn't that the Coffin Cheaters were the CIA—I was allowed to disclose my membership to select parties. But our MC had grown especially wary ever since the battle that killed my father, if only because the Cheaters had so many enemies on the Miami black market alone. It didn't come up often, (as I so rarely socialized outside of my club), but there on the veranda I was briefly yanked back into reality, despite the gooey-cute-boy-haze. I did still have something to protect. I wasn't prepared to tell a stranger about my life in the club. Not yet, anyways.

  Scotty arrived with a silver tray of goldfish-bowl-sized drinks, and he set these down with a flourish in the abandoned birdbath. Again, he disappeared quickly. He had the essence of a man who was accustomed to being on the run, that was for damn sure.

  Carter took his goblet in two hands and raised it aloft. “To new friends!” he said, clamping his eyes on mine once more. His irises looked fully purple in the canopy-dampened light—and they shimmered, those big, stupid eyes. Goddamn, he was handsome. “To new friends,” I murmured. We both drank.

  My highway angel took a step closer to me, coming to a stop in the center of our little pavilion. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and then said nothing.

  “I don't really...do things like this,” I stuttered, the idiot in me taking the reigns once more. “Fuck. I mean...with strange men. I don't usually follow strange men to old-timey roadside speakeasies in the middle of the day. Not that you're strange, but...”

  Carter took another step in my direction. I could smell him across the distance, and his scent mingled with the damp, fragrant air. He smelled like fresh leather, and something sweet I couldn't name. Some fruit, maybe. Berries? Apples?

  “You didn't exactly follow me. Aren't I kinda following you?”

  “I just want you to know that I'm usually very careful. Like, I'm not a total head case. But thank you for taking the twig out of my tire. I'm glad I didn't die on the highway.”

  Why-oh-why wouldn't my stupid mouth shut up. I was like a car on blocks, wheels spinning in no direction. But he was so frightening and enticing, at the same time. He was standing so close to me by now that I could vaguely discern the square shapes of his musculature, the pecs and abs rising below his t-shirt. I had this overwhelming desire to keep him in my orbit—to keep him listening to my drivel, to hold him close no matter what.

  “I'm pretty glad you didn't die on that highway either,” he ventured finally, planting his fe
et toe-to-toe with my own. “And for the record? I don't do things like this very often either.”

  “You mean, pick up women for day-drinking sprees?”

  “Exactly,” he laughed again. “I don't 'pick up women for day-drinking sprees. I'm actually kind of a loner.”

  “What'sa matter? Not everyone's turned on by all that talk of old move stars?”

  “You know, I think that's part of it. The ladies think, 'oh, he rides a bike, he must be a badass.' Meanwhile, my ideal night in is a Turner Classic Movie and a bucket of popcorn shrimp.” Carter waggled his eyebrows, and I snorted a laugh. Jesus. Movie stars probably didn't snort.

  “Are you serious?” I asked, once my giggles had subsided.

  “Half-serious. I fight a little. I have some ink. Is that bad-ass enough for you?”

  I bit my lip instead of responding; quite suddenly, the image of Carter Knox down in the mud with another vicious-looking biker had sent a chill up my spine. We shared a long beat of eye contact in the following silence, until I felt I couldn't stand it anymore. This tension was too unfamiliar, too deep. I stood and turned my back to him, angling my hips towards the birdbath.