Forbidden Beauty

by Abriella Blake

  “You look like you need a doctor.”

  “I'm fine. Scotty's got Neosporin for days.”

  “You need more than Neosporin, Knox.” I bent low and began to inspect the wound. This was another lesson gleaned from Pops: basic first aid. I'd helped a dozen men cope with road rash and busted limbs, gashes and bruises from squabbles and duels. Put a bunch of testosterone-gunned hotheads in a room, fights were merely par for the course.

  “I can help you with this. We need a bandage, though.”

  “That's rich. Don't you know who did this to him?” Scotty had appeared by my elbow again, and made as if to block me from touching his friend. I had never felt like an enemy to anyone before, and I didn't enjoy the feeling now.

  “I had nothing to do with this. I swear to you.”

  “Don't know how we can trust you. Bunch of leather wearing freaks in clown masks come into my nice establishment, roughing up my patrons. Would have damn near killed Knox, him being the only one to brandish a weapon.” Scotty indicated a short pistol, with a nod of his head. The gun was notably not a Magnum, like the one that'd supposedly killed Rodney. “Jesus H. Christ. And what is the world coming to?” Apparently exhausted, the little man sank down onto the back of an upturned armchair. He looked so small, so terrified. I felt for him—dignity lost, home ruined.

  But something about the story didn't quite add up: for all their salt, I could never imagine the Coffin Cheaters wearing clown masks. We'd never gone in for props. It was hard enough to keep those guys in our basic uniform: the leather vest, the dark jeans.

  “And you think it was the Coffin Cheaters, came running through here in masks?” I began carefully, moving my eyes from Carter to Scotty. The former was cringing on the couch. That arm was probably hurting something fierce.

  “Don't know who else it could be, exactly. Not like Miami's overrun with vice-loving no-gooders. Besides, I know every MC that's passed through this town in the past twenty years, and I didn't recognize these guys.”

  “You said they had weapons, these guys? Guns?” I knew for a fact that the Cheaters rarely rode armed. We'd even been branded softies before, by other clubs. Because our men tended to pick fights with their fists. My thoughts drifted again towards the Magnum, on the beach. Had this mystery club entered the room, guns blazing?

  I surveyed the wreckage again, casing for more clues among the debris. So Scotty had been made a target—that was strange, granted his bar's speakeasy secret location, here in the woods. It seemed to me that only riders and upper-class outlaws knew of this hamlet. And this mysterious, vigilante crew of bikers hadn't gone after Knox until he stood his ground against them—that seemed like evidence that they hadn't been looking for him specifically. Add to that the clown masks, Ra Ra Rodney's mysterious death...was it possible that Miami was now home to a new crew? Some unprecedented evil, out to raise havoc just for the helluvit?

  I bit my lip, then looked down at Knox. He seemed like a little boy again. His eyes squinted with pain; his jaw was clenched. Removing my trusty flannel, I gripped the shirt between my elbows and proceeded to tear a long strip of fabric from the sleeve.

  “Glad to have Florence Nightingale on my side,” the biker croaked. He smiled up at me, and I felt a wave of relief. The man before me was not bound by an allegiance to a club, nor did he suspect the Coffin Cheaters of evil—that much was clear from his trusting expression. Ridiculous as it was, I was suddenly and deeply aware that I'd found someone special on the roadside two weeks ago. That this, whatever it was, was real.

  As I fashioned a tourniquet from my shirt, Scotty paced his destroyed living room.

  “It wasn't the Coffin Cheaters, Scotty. We'd never wear masks. I'm positive that you've got some fresh hell on your hands. Any odd types been lurking around the bar lately?” I wound the fabric so tight that Knox's eyes bulged with surprise as I secured the knot. Like Pops had always said: the thing is to staunch the blood flow. Blood loss is no good for road warriors...not to mention crime scenes.

  “But how can you be so sure?”

  It was time to show all my cards. Enough of this mincing around; I was already in too deep.

  “Because I'm their Den Mother, and I just came from a club meeting. We're all sitting pretty tonight. Debating whether or not to go after the Knights of Styx for the alleged murder of our leader.”

  “Wasn't that whole skirmish years ago?” Scotty breathed heavily. I heard the clanking of bottles in the corner: in his agitation, it seemed my host had brought the bar inside.

  “Our current president was apparently killed on South Beach last night. Shot thrice. Someone's tipped them off about Knox being in town, so they think it's the Knights of Styx raising all this hell. You got any water?”

  “Would you like some Maker's with that?”

  “It's not for me. It's for the patient.” Knox, already looking more chipper, raised his head:

  “In which case, make it a double, barkeep!”

  “No way, Jose. Alcohol thins your blood,” I corrected. When I looked down again, Knox's eyes were full of mirth. And was it my imagination, or were they also slightly wet? I silently thanked the darkness for covering what I was sure was a fierce blush striping my cheeks. There was just something about that man. In the direst of situations, he still managed to make everything look so...cool.

  Now, my charge murmured to me, in a voice so low I knew it was meant for my ears only.

  “You're not just fooling me now, right? You really think there's a new club in Miami? Starting fires and taking names?” I almost laughed. Hell, it's as probable a theory as every other crazy thing I've heard today. But I suppressed the urge to be goofy, reading fear in those lilac eyes. Here was the thing about Knox and me: there were so many reasons for us not to trust one another. The very foundation of our romance was built for collapse. Yet here I was anyway, tending my enemy's wound. Literally unable to stay away.

  “It wasn't my club, Knox. You have to believe me. Even though you're a no-good lady-killing sonofabitch, I'd never let them go after you. Now hold still while I tie this.” My cheeks felt so hot I was sure my blush could glow through the gloom. The biker put his muscular hand on my thigh.

  “Why did you come here tonight then, Gisele?”

  “I came to warn you. The Cheaters want your head on a plate. They want you out of town.” My voice began to shake. Just seeing him here, bleeding, brought to mind all the possible worst case scenarios. What if I'd come too late? What if I hadn't been able to convince Flapper and the other two to stand down? He could've—we could've...

  But Knox was shaking his head slowly, his eyes still merry. He reached up and brushed away a few of my straggling tears. By instinct, I attempted to set my chin, appear tough: but in another moment, I gave up the ruse. So what if he saw me cry? On some deep, unspoken level, I knew I had earned his respect. I thought of the slap from the other day—the look in his eyes when he'd realized how furious I was at being duped. Something about that brought me away from the dark thoughts. I broke into a smile.

  “I'm so glad you're alright,” I whispered.

  “This is going to be really hard, you know,” he murmured to me, his eyes suddenly more alert, his voice grave. “And what makes you think I'm worth it? I'm a stranger.”

  “Hard, but not impossible. And hey, I like to think we already know some of one another's deep dark secrets. You're no stranger to me.” While Scotty clanked away in the far corner, his movements made jerky with fear, I felt a hand on the back of my neck. My weakened soldier pulled me towards him on the couch, guiding my lips towards his own with the sureness of a pro. Keeping his eyes open so I could see the intensity of his gaze, he kissed me. It was a kiss both long and too-quick, simultaneously hard and soft. I remembered some other platitude of Tati's, told to me as her tan legs kicked back and forth against the moat: You know you're in love when it bowls right over you. Nothing makes sense, yet you have no questions. Was that what I was feeling, already? What on earth had pulle
d me to this man?

  Come hell or high water, I was in this now. There was no backing down.

  Chapter Nine

  * * *

  Once we'd eased a nervous Scotty back to bed, Knox and I had what felt like our first, real, date. That's right, yak it up: I had my first date ever in the ransacked living room of a bar owner, in the hours just before dawn, following a dust-up brought on by some mysterious MC. There was both dread and jasmine in the air. He smelled like sweat, with the faintest whiff of that ginger-peach. He wore nothing from the waist up but a few tattoos and a flannel tourniquet, and his legs were poured into leather pants. I slipped the biker a tumbler of ice water and myself a hefty bourbon, and we sat on opposite sides of the sullied couch trading stories. Barely touching, preferring to talk.

  I asked him how he had gotten into the whole MC racket, and Carter told me he'd loved motorcycles since he was “this high,” and found on leaving high school that he “wasn't fit for any other kind of work.” Got a job working at a Cuban auto shop, took a shine to the many vintage Harleys there, met the right guy at the right time, then bang—the rest was history. And what about me? Skirting the mention of my father's death, I told Knox how my parents had been a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, so it had seemed only proper that their offspring follow in an outlaw's tracks. He asked about Tati, and I rattled off her life story, too. How she'd never cared much for motorcycles. How she'd spent all those years of our childhood plotting her eventual escape from the Coffin Cheaters, engineering an alternate future for herself, while I'd been...what? Oh, yeah. Twiddling my thumbs.

  I remained too afraid to ask the serious questions. Like where had he actually been, that night when the Styx raided our camp? And what had the fateful skirmish been about? I'd been told it was a 'land bar,' but I'd never really known the truth. In fact, we skipped over much of the past in favor of the future.

  “So what really brought you back to Miami?” I ventured. “Because I was raised under the impression that we threw you bitches out of town for good.”

  He laughed that warm, engrossing laugh. “Believe it or not, I was sent here on a peaceful scouting mission. Some members of the Styx had hoped to have a sit-down with the Cheaters and see if we couldn't smooth over the past, possibly share the county. A lot of the old leaders have died off in the past few years. And the new Knights? We're not all so hell-bent on destruction.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “And what about the Cheaters? How do things stand with you all these days?”

  I told Carter about my recent appointment to Den Mother. About the miserable triumvirate of our leadership—those three sour old-timers with beer for brains and tempers to boot. I didn't mention Flapper's especially mean streak, or how he'd come on to me in that horrible way. Looking back, I'm not sure why.

  At long last, we danced back to the issue at hand. “So who do you think really caused this tiff at Casablanca, huh? Does Scotty have any enemies?”

  Knox's brow furrowed for a moment. He chewed on the inside of his lip, in thought.

  “Have you seen any other unsavory characters around?” I thought using our familiar little code term might provoke a smile, but...nothing. He still seemed lost in his own ideas.

  “It's gotta be somebody new. Some new MC,” the biker said finally, confirming my original suspicion. I couldn't help but smirk—great minds did think alike. “I mean, clown masks? No club I know would come calling in the night like this, on a bunch of civilians.”

  “But how could there be some new MC that neither the Styx or the Cheaters know about? We're supposed to have a monopoly on all south Florida! From the Everglades to Miami!”

  “Come to think of it, I've seen a few kids,” Knox murmured into his drink. “It's too early to say anything for sure, but I've seen a few bruisers rolling around on new bikes. Don't know what their beef would be with Scotty, but I do plan to investigate.” He took another sip of water. “You know what you should do is ask your druggie sister.”

  I threw a light punch at Knox across the couch, and for a moment felt like I was hanging out with Dog. I resented that! Tati wasn't a druggie—she was a groupie. And despite that whole rock star reputation thing, I didn't quite believe she was hitting the sauce.

  “Tati will be all the way in St. Louis by now.”

  “But she's been traveling for a while, isn't that right? She may not be a biker anymore, but she should have noticed if there was some new crest floating through the Bible belt. Might be worth a letter, at least.”

  I made a mental note. It was high time I wrote to Tati anyways—no matter how crazy I was convinced she'd find me, the moment I started rambling on about my new, mysterious knight. Again came that familiar pang of longing. Everything would be easier if she'd just decided to stick around.

  He must have seen some sadness sparkling in my eyes, because Knox took the initiative and changed the subject, quick. “Something tells me you still haven't seen our movie,” he tutted.

  Dawn had begun to flicker on the horizon. Early morning birds were rallying, making sound in the trees. That heavy dampness I'd always imagined was particular to a summer morning in Florida seemed to be oozing through the cracks in the walls. I was sweating bullets, but I didn't care.

  “I don't exactly have time for movies these days,” I yawned. “By the way? You know, you're right. Bout what you said before.”

  “What? What did I say before?”

  “That you're a big ole, 'movie-loving softie.'”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What kind of biker likes old Hollywood?”

  “What kind of girl rides a bike?”

  “You fucker!” I punched him again—lightly, on the shin.

  The bourbon had made me pleasantly bold. I reached for Knox's calf and began to knead the muscles there, and for a bizarre, blissful moment we might have been an old couple on the couch, having the same old bicker we always had. I knew it was crazy to indulge in this kind of fantasy, but it was as he'd said before: somehow, I couldn't not.

  “Some day, I'll show you my club. You'll see exactly how tough I am then, kiddo.”

  “Oh, I'm so scared.”

  “You should be,” the biker said, suddenly alert. He raised himself onto his elbows, stared straight into my eyes. “The Knights of Styx don't fuck around. The only women in our club are for fucking. They're our little sweet asses, or our old ladies. They sit around all day, waiting—then they beg for it in the evenings.”

  Against my will, I felt my spine tingle. All I could manage as comeback was a croak: “Oh, do they?”

  “Yeah. We like to spread our girls wide, tie them up to the four corners of the bed. Leave them writhing there, craving it, and wait until the exact moment when they feel they can't stand it anymore. Then, we split them open. Fuck them so hard they have to muffle their yells in the pillows. We fuck them so hard their pussies turn raw.”

  I was breathless. Unthinkingly, my innocuous little massage had climbed up the inside of his leg—I didn't even realize I'd been running my fingers along the taut flesh of his inner thigh.

  “...or is that too softie for you?” When I glanced up, Knox's eyes were full of mirth.

  “You god-damn son of a BITCH,” I shrieked, yanking a pillow from the cushions and thwacking his wounded arm.

  “Ow! Jesus, it was only a joke!”

  “Oh, and you're so fucking funny.”

  “Why're you so twisted up?” he chortled. I continued to pout, and Knox took survey of my profile. Then he cocked his head to one side. “You want to get fucked like that?”

  “Will you shut up?”

  “I'm serious. You want to get fucked like that, baby?” When I met his gaze again, his dark eyes had hardened. There was something dangerous in them now. Wincing, he drew himself into a sitting position. We were facing one another on the couch, our eyes—and mouths—just a few inches apart. I felt the heat of his breath.

  “Because if you do want to get fucked like that, ju
st say the world. Say the word, and I'll bend you over this couch right now. I'll slap your ass until it's sore. I'll whip my cock out, spread you wide, and fuck you like a fuckin' animal. I'll be fast. I'll be so hard every part of you will feel me, every part of you will curve around my dick. It will hurt.” He paused for effect. “But then I will make your cum rain down my cock, and when you think we're done? When you're positive you can't take it anymore, you know what I'll do then?”

  I didn't say anything. I was afraid if I did, he'd stop.

  “I'll make love to you. I will fuck you like you've never been fucked, and then I will make such love to you.” Then, sparing me a single wink, he clammed up. I said nothing for a moment. I could hear the both of us breathing hard.

  “Your arm,” I mustered finally. Carefully, I unwound his flannel wrap, so the gash running from his elbow to his wrist was showing. The blood had dried around the wound, and it didn't look so deep as it had before. Holding his gaze, I lowered my head and kissed it, lightly. He didn't wince.

  “You see? I'm a big boy,” Knox said.

  “So, not such a softie.” When he laughed this time, it was the throaty, restorative laugh of our first meeting, by the birdbath. A laugh that rang carefree.

  I began to stroke his arm, lightly. I loved the feel of his skin below my fingertips. Though we maintained eye contact, I felt the remainder of my nerves seep away. I wasn't shy, or neurotic, or inexperienced. That is—for a moment.

  With his good arm, Knox grabbed me tight around the wrist. Still grinning, he pushed my stroking arm down, sliding my palm across the damp, thatched surface of his chest, his belly. He carried my hand to the top button of his leather pants, and loosened his grip for a beat. I appeared to waver for a moment over the dark fabric, but then, as if reading my mind, he leaned his shaggy head back and nodded: yes. My heart racing, I plucked at the thin button of his pants. I listened, thrilled, to the sound of his zipper sliding down.