“Tati, Carter—I see the pair of you have met,” I yawned. “But enough pleasantries. We should probably go hunting for the Coffin Cheaters, yeah? Before they find the Knights of Styx and raise some kind of hell.” I glanced a little shyly at my new old man. He was beaming at me, like I was his proudest possession.
And hell—I guess I was.
After a short discussion, it was decided that Tati should stay behind. I could tell that she was still too shaken from the murder in the garage to be of much use to our mission—and there was the fact that she wasn't exactly easy on her whip. As I prepared for the journey ahead, she called her boyfriend, and I overheard her sweet, sad murmurings from Scotty's bedroom. This jerked me out of my love haze, to an extent: it made me sick, the unfairness of it all. My wonderful, brave sister had been forced into a situation that could compromise her entire future. I had to do whatever it took to make sure no more harm came to her.
My thoughts drifted again to the body in our wake. He'd be long dead by now—had the ashtrays heard the noise in the garage, and sent someone out to investigate? And what would the riders think? I prayed that there was some shred of sanity left within the reaches of my club, that some saving grace of a Cheater might connect my blurted story to news of the masked corpse—but it seemed just as possible that my twin and I would be blamed for my attacker's death. Those men who used to be my brothers...would they ever trust me again? Would I ever be able to call myself a Coffin Cheater again? I wondered.
“You about ready, doll?” Knox asked, appearing suddenly in the mirror behind me. He'd slicked his hair back with a shiny gel, and donned a leather jacket, riding boots, and motorcycle gloves. He looked fit for a stealthy, super-important secret mission, and absolutely fly as all hell. Glancing down at my scuffed leather pants and ragged flannel, I kind of...didn't.
“You know I need you to come with me, Gisele,” my old man said. “No man's as strong as the lady who rides behind him.”
“But Carter—what if it doesn't work? What if we can't stop the Coffin Cheaters?”
“It'll work.”
“I just don't want you to go through what we did. I don't want someone I've known all my life to hurt someone you love.”
Knox had crept up behind me, and now his beefy arms encircled my waist. He nuzzled my neck.
“You think too much, Mama,” he said. “Now. Are you sure you can travel alright? Do you feel back on top after resting?”
Right. Like we'd gotten a lot of resting done.
“Oh, I'll be fine.”
Carter smirked. I wondered how much of his bravado was studied. He couldn't possibly be this calm and confident all the time, showing no fear in the face of serious danger. Though it already felt like we'd known each other forever, and our recent commitment in the lounge was still making me dizzy with glee—I still saw so much mystery in this man.
Turning, the biker smacked my ass so hard I let out a yelp. “Let's get a move on then!” he hollered. And he looked, of all things, excited.
We drove and drove into the humid night, Carter leading the way toward the Knights of Styx campground, in the distant North. I found myself checking the roads for other motorcycles, other lonesome headlamps wending their way around the off-roads we traveled. Tati had confirmed that sometimes the masked men of Satan's Refuse rode alone—but thankfully, there were no other motorcycles on the road with us that night.
As good as it felt to be back on my bike and moving with purpose, all of my fear and adrenaline had also returned, about as soon as the Vicodin had fully cleared my system. I kept my eyes pinned to my leader's back, in an attempt to focus. My thighs, I noticed, were still sore from our fucking. For the first hour of the trip, I tried to concentrate on this strange, wonderful pain. But well into hour four, I felt all my limbs had grown numb.
At long last, Knox signaled for an exit—one of those sad, Florida truck-stops advertising the home of the world's largest alligator at some backwoods barn miles out of the way. As I slowed to his speed, I felt tired again. It seemed like an impossible thing to ask for, but I hoped against hope that we'd find some place to sleep for a while. But could we afford to wait that long? How long would it take the Coffin Cheaters to suss out their enemy's secret lair?
Dismounting, my biker came towards me. He's my old man. He's my old man, I thought to myself. I had to keep repeating it. It didn't feel real yet.
“You hungry, princess?” Carter asked.
“Could use some chow, sure.”
“Why don't you wait here? I'll grab us burgers or something.” He indicated a Checker's with a toss of his slick mane, and I nodded. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten.
I watched the biker whistle as he moved toward the fast food joint, and I tried to relax a little on my seat. But something felt so...off. It didn't feel right that Knox was all smiles and smooth sailing—not when his entire MC could be in mortal danger. There was some sort of urgency that our mission lacked. I was antsy, and ready for action. I wanted to put this trouble to bed, so I could get back into one. ..
It was then that I heard the clutch of a dozen motorcycles, popping and putting like a rain of bullets. My heart lurched in my chest. I froze on my bike.
The chorus of a dozen whips sounded closer and closer behind me, until I was sure I was in recognizable spitting distance from the Coffin Cheaters. If these guys were from my MC...Well, I could imagine them killing me. I could imagine Flapper wobbling off his Harley and pulling that damning Magnum out of his holster, shooting me dead right there in the parking lot.
I was suddenly sweaty all over, cold with fear. I kept my eyes locked on the door of the Checker's. A part of me prayed for Carter to appear immediately and whisk me off to safety, but another part mentally commanded him to stay inside. Whoever these fellas were, they were likely no friends of ours.
“So what did the bird say then?” I heard a rider yell, cutting his engine. Slowly, I lowered my head, so it was level with my handlebars. Thankfully, the voice didn't sound familiar.
“The dumb bitch asked why I wore the mask,” called someone else. This voice was deep and throaty, full of phlegm. Neither of them, I confirmed, were of the Coffin Cheaters. I breathed a little easier. But just as soon, I recanted my relief—if they weren't Cheaters, they were Satan's Refuse.
“Whad you tell her, Sput?”
“Told her to mind her own fucking business.” Someone spit on the ground, and I jumped ever-so-slightly in my skin. I was currently blocked from the group, separated from these new bikers by a big, tan Cadillac. Oh Jesus Lord, I prayed, don't let the person who owns this car come outside.
“And then what happened?”
“Bitch still wouldn't shut up. So I had to give her the slip.” The gang was silent for another moment, until a few riders busted out laughing. Another chill raced down my spine. Gave who the slip?
“I never get why sweet butts need to know all the answers,” cried someone else. They sounded young, whoever this was. “Should be enough for them, really. All they need to know is: we're in an MC. MC's got a uniform. End of story.”
“A-fucking-men!”
“But the masks are some kind of Freddy Krueger bullshit,” piped up another speaker—the whiniest so far of the bunch. “I get the whole element of surprise thing, but I see why it can scare a lady.”
There was silence then, but for the flicking of a few lighters. Yet, I could feel the atmosphere grow tense on the farther side of the lot. I imagined the young boy from earlier, the man now lying dead in the Coffin Cheaters' garage. How would his voice have sounded among this angry crowd? Whatever had enticed him to be a part of a group so vicious?
“You think the masks are bullshit, Hunter?”
“I didn't say that!”
“'Cuz that sounded like that was what you said.”
“I'd never say that! Jesus, you know I'd never say that, Sput!”
“You know why it is we wear them, huh?”
“Of course I do! We ha
fta protect ourselves.”
“More like we hafta protect everyone else!”
“Shut up, Rook. And no: we wear the masks because we've got a code. We're not the usual fucking MC shit. We do whatever the fuck we want, we fuck with whoever the fuck we want, and we wear the masks because we're Satan's fucking Refuse, and that's the end of the goddamn story. It's just like Flapper says—”
But the men hooted and holler at this, each voice guttural—almost animal. Flapper?! Were they talking about my Flapper? What were the odds? But then again, didn't it make perfect sense? If Flapper was really in cahoots with a mysterious new MC, these tough guys could easily have helped him obliterate Dixon, and Rodney, and Lord knew who else. Furthermore, if Flapper was working with Satan's Refuse, he'd have more than enough manpower to destroy the Coffin Cheaters AND the Knights of Styx, if he so chose. He could make some kind of super-group. That motherfucker could be holding all the cards.
“And with that, it's burger time. Someone stay out here and watch the bikes. I elect: Rook.”
Laughing and stamping, the crew dismounted. I didn't move a muscle as I watched them process toward the truck stop, I merely held my breath. Carter was still in there.
Carter, who some of them probably still recognized from the other night at Casablanca.
Chapter Sixteen
* * *
Carter
She looked hot as hell, pressed against her bike in the fog from that evening, her red hair flying behind her in the wind. I couldn't help but be distracted, whenever I glanced into my rearview. It just felt so good to have a woman—especially a woman like her, strong on the street and supple in the bedroom. I know we were in danger, but it was so hard to keep my mind (and my cock) from swiveling back toward the afternoon, when she'd lain below me and begged for it. How good it had felt, knowing I had her.
So that's what I was thinking about, when I heard the rowdy crew come in behind me—my old lady's sweet ass, or that stern little expression she made as she tried to think something through. I admit, I could have been more alert. But being with her, I never could focus on the dangerous stuff. I was just imagining her tight little package, and everything I planned to do to it once we were completely clear of all the MC bullshit.
I saw it first in the check-out guy's eyes—the unabashed fear. And then I felt breath on my neck. I didn't even have to turn all the way around before I figured it was another one of those masked psychos, here to make trouble.
“I remember you,” the voice behind me gargled. “You're the real piece of work from the other night. Funny story—what are you doing so far from home? We're not so close to Miami, tough guy. Hey—and how's that slash on your arm?” All healed up, you son of a bitch.
But I didn't say a word. Just looked straight at the cashier. Poor scared kid—looked like he could have wet his pants.
“We don't take too kindly to lone riders around here,” spat some other asshole. I could tell they were circling me from behind, the vultures.
“Yeah! Don't you know whose turf you're on? Little boy?”
I took a deep breath. My eyes still clamped on the clerk, I nodded my head very slightly, indicating the space below the counter. I waited to watch a glimmer of comprehension move over his face. Once I felt sure that he knew what was about to go down, I blinked. Long and slow.
I thought, for another second, of my old lady. Gisele Owens. Her sister wasn't the only one who could draw blood to keep her safe. I counted down from three in my head, and then—I moved.
Chapter Seventeen
* * *
Gisele
Carter tore out of the store so fast that it almost seemed like the right sounds came after: a loud clanging, shouts, what might have been gunfire. He ran for his bike, and I anticipated his movement by gunning my own idling engine. We both kicked away from the ground simultaneously, and I never looked back. I never figured out quite how close we'd come to a deathly run-in with Satan's Refuse.
Carter's bike set the pace, driving up from seventy to eighty to a cool hundred in the span of moments. Neither of us feinted backwards, but it didn't sound like we were being followed. I listened to the roaring of my engine cede to the quieter sounds of the swampland around us, and after some minutes passed, I began to feel at ease again. I dropped speed, and gave myself the luxury of a quick glance to the rearview. I saw no bikers.
Some more minutes passed, and Carter signaled for the shoulder. This was a lonely, open stretch of roadside. It seemed that there was nothing around us but cicadas and humidity. Shaking, I dropped gears, coasting to a slow stop behind my leader. My heart was racing, but it was definitely quiet. I dismounted, and ran towards the man.
“What happened in there?! Are you alright?” My fingers fumbled for his helmet, his chest, his arms. I needed to touch him, to ascertain that every part of him was safe.
“Baby! I'm fine! You think a few freaks in a Checker's are really going to throw me?” I knew he was joking because his voice shook. I clawed at the fabric of his wifebeater, suddenly desperate. If something had happened to Carter, I don't know what I would have done. Coming so close to danger only made my feelings more clear.
“Gisele! Are you crying?”
“Don't you dare make fun of me, Knox.”
“I'm just concerned that you don't think I can handle a bunch of goons in masks.”
Knox tossed his helmet into the soft grass beside us. I saw that he was laughing, and yet again that liquid, lovely feeling spread across my skin.
“Listen, Carter: I overheard one of those guys mention Flapper—that's the name of a big honcho in my crew. Now I smell a rat. Do you think they were on their way to the Styx camp? I'm worried that those masked freaks and my club are somehow...working together.”
And just as quickly, his smile balled up.
“Jesus,” Carter breathed. “I never thought of that.”
Cicadas whirred all around us. And though we were deep inland by now, I found my thoughts drifting to South Beach—the smell of the salty air, the faces of the pasty (or excessively tanned...) tourists milling around Miami proper. So much had changed in just a few short weeks.
“Okay, I'm thinking. There's a motel ten miles up the lane. We should camp there for the night.”
“But we have to get to the Styx first, Carter! Isn't time kinda of the essence?”
“Gisele,” he said softly. Was this the voice of defeat? Were we throwing in the towel? Putting our own hides before our brothers? In spite of everything, I hoped not.
Chapter Eight
The motel Carter mysteriously knew about (why, I did not ask) was pretty grim. The lobby and hallway were striped in this hideous burgundy and orange pattern, and the carpet was flecked Berber knock-off, the color of milky coffee. While Carter conferred with the ancient night desk attendant, I took stock of my reflection in the gilded lobby mirror. I still looked a little peaky and haggard from the events of the past few days. Plus, I couldn't fight away the sensation that somehow, Carter and I had already given up on our noble quest. So many hours had gone by since the Cheaters had kicked off from camp—it seemed impossibly wishful to imagine that we could still prevent my corrupted club or Satan's Refuse from finding the Knights, and doing God knew what with those innocent men.
Silently, I followed Carter up the dingy hall, my eyes hewing close to his slumped shoulders. It occurred to me then that he must have been exhausted, too. He'd been so brave. So kind, to take care of me. It wasn't like living happily ever after with this amazing man was some kind of worst case scenario, I reminded myself. It was just that my dream of our glittery future together was clouded by our present. I wanted us to flourish on our own terms.
My old man grabbed my hand before pushing open the thin door to our room. He turned to face me, full-on.
“Gisele, I know you wanted to find the MCs tonight. But we aren't much use to anyone with our strength down. Do you trust me?” He got the most adorable little furrow in his brow when he was worried,
or upset.
I nodded. Of course I did.
Carter nudged me toward the room head first, guiding my shoulders into the gloom. I fumbled across the wall for a light switch, but his breath tickled my ears first: “Don't.”
Instead, my old man crossed to the window in three brisk strides, and fumbled with the pull string for the shades. Outside, a big fat moon was glaring down at us. Its glow filled the shitty motel room with the loveliest kind of light.
“Look. Now you're an angel,” he said, nodding at my pale skin. But I could barely register these words as they slid through space. I was too busy looking at Carter in the moonlight, and I mean really looking at Carter. I think it can be easy to fall for someone, when they're handsome and willing and strapping and saving you from certain death on a Miami highway. But with a new clarity, I understood that I would have fallen for this man in any time, in any place. His eyes—so hopeful and direct all at once, both vulnerable and tough, equal parts 'softie' and 'biker'—it was as if I could fall into them, and experience a whole gamut of humanity in the process. So I did. I fell into his purplish gaze and felt safe, reassured, adored, sure about everything. A piece of damp, dark curl fell across his forehead, and Carter flicked the tendril away with a shake of his head. He was so goddamned cute. Impossible words were bubbling up in the base of my throat:
I love you, Carter.
But it was something else, too. There was some other conviction, peering at me over the small divide of the grim double bed, the paces between us on the floor. The feeling was related to love, but more complicated, too. His warm eyes, his slick grin...how safe he managed to make me feel, in the direst of moments—yes. Wait. Recognition. There was something about Carter that wasn't just spellbindingly strange and new—there was something familiar about him.
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