Forbidden Beauty

by Abriella Blake

  Yet again, the whole MC pivoted in my direction. I felt my traitorous face bloom hot again, so uncomfortable was I with the attention.

  “Whyn't you stand up and stake your claim,” Dog hissed into my ear. “You're already like our Den Mother. Comes with a bit more responsibility, is all.”

  I was dazed, so I followed the directive. As soon as I was standing tall, the Crossroads erupted into cheers. In spite of myself, I did feel a little honored. Dad was probably looking down from (or up from...) wherever he was, puffing up with pride at his baby's being officially inducted into the MC that had shaped his life. The support of the men, it did mean something to me.

  “With Gisele as our Den Mother, she must be treated with absolute respect. She'll get a say in how the club moves, have a hand in our financial operations, and most importantly, will help the council decide what's to be done with the Knights of Styx MC,” Dixon explained. As punctuation, he spewed out a long, brown trail of chew.

  “...so when the time is right, we can waste every last one of em. Slaughter them like little piggies. Vengeance will be ours, boys!”

  And the men cheered.

  * * *

  As soon as the meeting concluded, my formerly love-addled mind kicked into high-gear again. With a racing pulse, I ran back to the shelter of my bedroom to think, to pace, to attempt to make some plan of my own.

  Unsavory characters. By itself, the word choice wasn't much of a coincidence—it wasn't the craziest thing I'd heard a Cheater say, by any means—but something about how Scotty and Carter had murmured the term suggested a code... I live by a code, and I just hope someone would do the same for me. Then there was this clue: Knox had fled the tiki-bar when a couple of newbies had come in, and as I was leaving I'd run into Dixon.

  Jesus H. Christ.

  The more I thought about it, there were other indicators, too: the odd way Carter had looked at me when I'd refused to explain why I drove a nice bike; the way his body had cringed when I'd mentioned that I had “friends in high places,” or whatever damn fool thing I'd said. Then there was the fact of the man himself, a lone rider, driving around the Miami-Dade highways midday like some kind of...scout.

  Carter Knox was a member of the Knights of Styx. I knew this suddenly, and unavoidably, in my gut. The only real, live adult man I'd ever even begun to like was a kinsman of my greatest enemy. He'd been a member of the MC that had murdered my father as he slept in his bed.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  When life gets too confusing, sometimes the only thing to do is go to a fabulous...bar. Sure, I wasn't much of a drinker in my free time, but without Tati there to plan with and a whole queue of riders already knocking down my door with “questions for the Den Mother,” I had to get out. I tossed off my flannel and took my Street Bob to the streets. I let my headlamp fill up the fast-darkening road, and neatly sidestepped Dog when he tried to flag me down before the moat.

  Everything was happening too fast. How come things never happened at the right speed? This is what I liked about bikes: you always knew what you were getting. You wanted to go fast, you could go fast. You wanted to go slow, you went slow. But life had no regard for pedals—good things flew at you in one go, and bad things took their time. There was no pacing in any of it.

  I yearned for my little family—my twin, my father, even the mother I'd never met. It was hard to think about “honor” as an effective orphan. I was loyal to the MC because my father had been loyal to the MC. And I'd been born a Coffin Cheater, I'd had no choice in the matter. But did I really owe them my allegiance, when all was said and done? I didn't want to help anyone fight a war. I wasn't even sure I wanted to help anyone deal with their old lady troubles or their stolen goods or whatever else a Den Mother was supposed to do.

  Then again, my father hadn't been given a choice when a malicious dirtbag had killed him in bed. Jesus...it was one thing for casualties to occur in an open shoot-out. It was one thing for casualties to occur on the road. It was quite another for a man to shoot another man—his sleeping twin daughters in the next room—in cold blood. My father hadn't died a “hero's death,” as I so often liked to tell myself. He'd died alone, and unarmed. He'd probably been so afraid.

  And what about Carter? He'd seemed so kind and warm and just slightly goofy by the roadside. His touch had felt so good. But where had he been that fateful night, the night when my whole life changed? “Living by his code?” If his code had played any role in the destruction of my family, well, there was no question: any blooming feeling I had for him needed to be stamped out, quick.

  For no good reason, I found my bike snarling in the direction of Casablanca—a place I hadn't expected to visit until (or, if...) my loverboy had found some way to contact me again. It almost seemed unlikely that the little midsummer garden could exist outside the events of a memory that was already feeling more and more like something I'd invented, but sure enough: here was the long winding road, spinning away from the gravelly shoulder. Here was a trail of hastily parked bikes and scattered cars, framing the little lean-to shack. It was a Thursday night. The place was bound to be hopping. Perhaps I ought to have brought Dog, if a bar was really where I wanted to go. I already knew that this was a club for couples, and lonely women would either be made prey or objects of pity on the inside.

  But it felt too late to turn around now. I shook my hair out of my helmet and tromped along the cobbled path. I listened for the sweet drift of old music, and let a familiar melody seep into my hips—Jackie Wilson. “To Be Loved.” Ha.

  The patio was as I remembered—I mean, of course it was. Several older couples were swaying back and forth to the music, their heads thrown back with laughter. There were also a few scattered clusters of whippersnappers my own age—likely local-yokels, from the looks of 'em. It suddenly seemed like I'd made an awful mistake, returning to the scene of the crime. There were just too many people in love here, each pairing looking for all the world like they belonged together.

  As I've said before, growing up in an MC will rid a girl quick of any of that happily-ever-after mythology. Love at first sight seemed totally ridiculous to me. The men and women I knew came together for sex, and that was largely it. Even my parents' vaguely romantic meet-cute didn't sound like a fairy tale—their coupling, after all, had sprung from violence and ended in death. So it was strange to see these swaying duos, clutching one another like life rafts, giggling in tandem. For maybe the first time, I imagined what my life would be like with a partner—an equal. Someone I could talk to, and care about. Someone to ride with. Someone to care, someone to share...oh, that fucking Jackie Wilson.

  And then I gave myself a little mental-shake. Ick. Remember, Gizzy: you never played with dolls, you never even dreamt of being anyone's old lady. Real riders rode alone. Everyone knew this.

  Moving towards the back bar, I glimpsed Scotty fussing over a margarita machine. He had one plump hand covered in a glop of what-looked-like-raspberry puree. Once he saw me, his round little face cracked wide into an unexpected grin.

  “Lady love!” he hollered. “I knew you'd be back! Scotty always knows these things! Wait here!” I'd never sat on Santa's lap before (on our childhood trips to the mall, Tati and I had been closely instructed to speak to no one—having been mainly installed as watchmen while our father shoplifted)—but in that moment Scotty looked to me just how I imagined a merry St. Nick might. I couldn't help but match his enthusiasm. He put a finger to his lips before scurrying away, looking pleased.

  “Can you pour me a Maker's Mark, one ice cube?” I trilled to the other bartender—a skinny girl with ratted hair and neon blue leggings. She didn't quite live up to the classy aspect of the club, that was for damn sure.

  “You sure you don't want a daiquiri? House special.”

  “Not in the mood for a fruity cocktail.”

  “Huh. Not too many girls like bourbon around here.”

  “Well, I'm not too many girls.”

  Just then, I
felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. Jumping reflexively, I turned to see...Carter. Fucking. Knox. Dapper as he'd been the week before. No—more so.

  “Didn't I say I'd find you?” he smirked. And with that, the whole day's miserable events began to fade straight from my mind. Sure, half of me wanted to punch his teeth in, but the other half was failing to fend off a flood of joy. His face, I realized, had already imprinted in my memory—unknowingly, I'd memorized every contour. The thick, full eyebrows tapering gracefully across a strong forehead. The lush, dark hair. Those crackling, colorful eyes with their impish purple hue. That nose! In this light, I caught flecks of green in his irises. His face already struck me like the face of a friend, the face of someone I'd known for years—as opposed to, you know, fifteen minutes (give or take).

  Carter was in fine form this evening, his leather pants snug. He wore a white wife-beater and a tattered denim vest, clipped through with rows of safety pins—the tight shirt accentuated his form, so I could see every raised curve in his chest. A tuft of dark hair spilled from the lip of his collar. He wore shredded bike gloves on flexing fingers. I took note of a wending shoulder tattoo, something I hadn't noticed before: a cobra, coiled, prepared to bite. I wanted to place my hand on his throat, to reassure myself he was real.

  “Don't exactly see how you found me, goofus. Mr. I-don't-have-a-phone.”

  “Hold on—I'm still stuck on 'goofus.' Who says goofus anymore?”

  “Oh, it's all the rage again. You didn't hear? Someone's behind the times.”

  Carter laughed. And I discovered I'd remembered what that sounded like, too, the fullness of his sound. I thought about the improbably straight teeth in his mouth. I thought about the swell of his lips. And how those lips had felt, drawing me in...I could have kissed him right then. It took muscle to refrain, in fact.

  “I didn't expect to see you again, honestly. Just couldn't think of a better bar.”

  “That's what they all say.”

  “I'm sure that's true.” A bit more peevishness seeped into this remark than I'd meant, and I saw a little amusement flutter across Carter's face. I regretted my word choice—I didn't even want to think about Carter's cotillon of other highway lassies, if such a thing existed.

  “But seriously, friend,” I began, dropping my voice. “You don't have to pretend like you were going to try to find me. We're both adults here. We know what...the other day was about.”

  Carter leaned across me then, side-eyeing my half-drunk whiskey. With a nearly imperceptible wink, he reached his hand along the bar and snagged my glass. Before I could protest, the last of my Maker's had vanished down his throat.

  “Asshole!”

  “Looks like you need a drink, Gisele. Can I buy you one?”

  Goddamnit it if I couldn't help smiling. I fought away the bouncing, guilty voices in my head that were telling me to leave the scene, stat. Bastard was smooth, that was for damn sure.

  I know what ought to have been my first thought, laying eyes on Knox for the second time: here was the dirtbag, in the flesh. I ought to have been livid. But if Carter really was a Knight of Styx, and so my sworn enemy...shouldn't something of his evil show on his face? I wanted so badly to hate him, but his charm made this reflex impossible. I'd begin to be mad, begin to launch into my furious scripted warning about how my MC would come after his and waste them all, but then he'd laugh at some dumb joke of mine and...I couldn't do it. Here in blissful Casablanca, it was so much easier to pretend the meeting and my assignation to Den Mother and all those violent words at the Crossroads had just been pageantry. Everything about Carter seemed so opposed to violence and hatred and terror—I didn't want to believe that was what he stood for.

  So once again, we dodged talk of motorcycles—something he also seemed all too happy to do. Once he'd secured me a second double whiskey, Carter perched on a long bamboo stool, and turned to face me full-on.

  “I'm sorry I left in a hurry the other day. I really am.”

  “Ya-huh.”

  “But you must know you're not an easy girl to find. No public records of a Gisele Owens. Nothing in the phone book.”

  My heart skipped a beat. Had he really been looking for me?

  “Who's in the phone book anymore, Grandpa?” I said, taking a swig of my amber courage and tossing my hair. I wished he would call me a 'movie star' again.

  “People with nothing to hide.” Knox leaned closer, and I caught that familiar drift of peach and ginger. Could that intoxicating aroma be aftershave? Or did he really just smell like cobbler all the time?

  We didn't say anything for a moment, but the silence was meaningful. In his eyes I read apology. He placed a sturdy hand on the small of my back, and finally, it all felt as real as it had on the highway, or in the garden: there was something about his touch. The curl of his lips, the heft of his hair. He had come for me. He had feelings for me, too. I decided to believe this. I needed to believe this.

  “Do you want to see the inside?” Carter murmured, his hot lips brushing my ear. I imagined the grate of his stubble along my cheek. I swear my hands started shaking. Didn't at all care that the “inside” he referred to was the lean-to shack at the front of the club, or that here I was again, making rash solo decisions on a weekday. I was happy to follow him. I rose, as if hypnotized. He reached for my hand.

  We probably made a funny pairing—Easy Rider leading Punky Brewster in her flannel and biker gloves through an old folks' dance party. But I didn't care. As with the entrance and patio of Scotty's, I soon realized that the shack was not as it had originally seemed—the exterior and wraparound porch were podunk as hell, but just past a thin screen door there was a modest little cabin, lit mostly by candles and a few standing low-halogen bulbs. I listened for the sound of life inside, but heard nothing. We were alone.

  “What is this place?”

  “It's Scotty's house. He lets me crash here sometimes, when I'm breezing through town. You like it?”

  My eyes were adjusting slowly to the low light, but I was able to make out some pleasant décor: an unnecessary fireplace, set with large stones. Three heavy, hanging baskets of bouganvillea swinging from the rafters on the outside porch. A thick Flokati rug, blue, brushing softly against my ankles. For a bona fide bachelor pad, the place even looked clean.

  “It's very seventies in here,” I whispered. I felt the need to whisper.

  “This room hasn't changed much, that's true. But come this way.” He reached for my hand again, and I followed. His dark curls caught shine in the lamp light.

  Though I'd been touched by younger men, I was keenly aware of my inexperience as I walked down that hall. Carter was a man, from tip to toe. The kind of man who fought duels in ancient times, the kind of man who slayed dragons, or came home a war hero (so I'd been daydreaming...sue me). What would he make of me, a gangly teenager, once he had me in his bed? And what kind of girl did this all make me, that I was so wide-eyed and willing to sleep with him, when we'd barely spent an evening talking? Tati had regaled me with stories of how her musician boyfriends had wined and dined her, serenaded her with love songs before “sealing the deal.” Knox and I hadn't even had dinner yet. We'd never even been on a real date. Then there was, of course, the convenient fact I'd been suppressing: that the man before me might have been involved in the raid that killed my father...

  “Hey listen, Knox,” I paused in the doorframe. “I'm not so sure I can do this.” As soon as the words were out I regretted how childish and silly they sounded. I felt utterly stranded between two emotional poles—my body, screeching 'yes,' and my heart, screeching 'no.'

  Carter began to lope towards me, the fringe of his vest catching a thin breeze from the ceiling fan.

  “Do what? Huh, Gisele?”

  “I'm no fool. You're going to take me into that little room and...”

  “...and, what? What do you want me to do?”

  I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to place his rough hands on the swells of my breasts and squeez
e, hard. I wanted to feel his whole weight on top of me, so when I inhaled I felt him press closer towards my spine. I wanted...oh, I wanted a million things.

  He'd read something in my eyes, and sure enough, Knox was suddenly a few inches away from my face. I could feel his ragged breath, fluttering over the sensitive skin on my lips. He took my hand in his and drew it slowly up, so my palm was flat against his taut chest.

  “Do you feel that?” And I did—it was his murmuring heartbeat—“Maybe I'm nervous. Maybe I'm nervous to be standing here next to you. You ever think of that?” He leaned a hair closer. “And I swear, I don't get like this with 'other girls.' Say there are no other girls.”

  Then our lips were brushing, and then they were connected. His mouth was so much softer than I'd expected it to be. Carter brought his hands up to my cheeks, so he gently framed my face. I felt his fingertips rooting lightly through my hair at the temples. He continued to kiss me deeply, his tongue pressing hard against mine. By pure instinct, I snaked my own trembling arms around his trim waist, pulling his hips towards my own. For a beat, he pulled away from my embrace, pausing to gaze into my eyes.

  “You are so incredibly beautiful, Gisele Owens. Did you know that?” He ran a thumb down the bridge of my nose, and danced a few fingers over the constellations of my freckles.

  “I believe you.”

  “No, really. Say it like you believe it. It's true.”

  “I believe you,” I whispered, and smiled. It was hard not to smile. I couldn't think about anything but the joy coursing through my veins. This was happening.

  We kept kissing for a long while. Then, with a less gentle thrust, Carter backed me up against the wood-paneled wall. His body was pulsing with a fresh urgency. Reaching up, he pushed one of my wrists flush against the wall, forcing me back against the wood. As I gasped at his force, he moved his lips down to my neck, beginning to suck hard on the soft flesh there. I cried out at the pressure. I felt my nipples rise and harden against my thin tank top. Sensing my arousal, Carter began to tear at the shoulders of my covering flannel, pressing the pads of his fingers into my naked shoulders. His grip was so strong that he left red imprints behind.