by Paula Cox
Moments later, I’m being dragged out of the car by my own hair. My brother spits at my feet as he asks, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Tory?”
Chapter 18: The Next Episode
The rain hits my face like tiny daggers slicing into my skin. The visibility on the road is unlike anything I’ve ridden in before, and I can actually feel my bike slipping side to side as I try to stay the course. To my side, my mirrors light up with flashing yellow lights. They’re on my tail, maybe only a mile back.
This is my worst nightmare—being hunted down by my own club. Not that I didn’t think it wouldn’t eventually happen. Growing up an outcast to these boys, there was always some fear that I would cross a line or make someone angry enough that I’d be chased out of town. I just didn’t expect that after all that I’d done, it would come down to screwing with the club president’s daughter.
Then again, it was worth it. Her soft skin against mine, her fingertips dragging small cuts as I pushed into her, her hair unfurling before me… she may be young and inexperienced, but that was an experience I would never want to forget. I just wish it could have lasted longer. Whether it’s the thrill of the ride and the bike bouncing underneath me or my mind drifting back to Tory and those breasts bouncing rhythmically to my pounding, I’m still flying half-mast.
I shake my head, pushing back the thought of her. I can’t focus on that right now. While I know she’s in trouble, realistically, I also know that her father wouldn’t do anything too harsh to her once he brought her back. She would survive. She proved that to me already. But I am a different story. I am a body they could toss without question. No one would probably notice if I didn’t show up for work, at least not after the stunt I pulled earlier in the day after talking to Leo.
Leo. Shit. I press a button against the side of my helmet, turning on the Bluetooth. I shout Leo’s name into the speaker near my lips until I hear the familiar beep and the sound of a dial. My mind races, pleading with the buzzing on the other end of the phone. Pick up, Leo, I think. Come on, you son of a bitch.
“Hello?” A surprised voice comes over the line. “What the fuck is going on Anton?”
“I’m being chased down by some Knights—that’s what’s going on. How the hell did you know that?”
“It’s all over the comm lines. We’re supposed to be keeping a lookout for you. And if we catch you, we’re to report back to Brandon.” There’s a pause followed by a long moan. “Shit. Who turned you in?”
“I’m not sure, but I think either our ex-vice president’s daughter, or her slimy boyfriend Derek.”
“Fuck! I knew that kid couldn’t be trusted. How close are they?”
“A half a mile back, or less. I’m going to turn off the frontage road and back on the highway. Hopefully getting further into Senator territory will scare them away before they start shooting. But I need something from you first.” I am practically howling over the sound of the wind and the rain against my headphones.
“What, man?”
“What you told me earlier, about Walsh working with the Senators. Is that true? Did you find anything else out about it?”
The other line goes silent as I shout, “Leo! Are you there? Leo!”
“I’m--I’m here. I just, I don’t know, man. I don’t want to get myself in trouble. Hattie is expecting, and I can’t—”
“I get it. I get it. But I’m dead if I don’t have some leverage. Do you get me? I can keep you out of it. And you know I’ll protect you. But I can’t do that unless you give me everything.”
“Okay, okay. There was something after you left. A shipment came in—lots of cash, probably at least eighteen thousand bucks. I was told to put it into the secret account—all of it. Then when I cut the checks, I asked Walsh about it again; he told me that it shouldn’t be distributed.”
“Shit. That’s enough. I’ll think of a story. You won’t be hung dry.”
“Thanks. Just hope you don’t have to use it. Get to the other side, stay safe, and don’t let Brandon catch you. He’s gunning for your head.”
“Literally,” I reply dryly before hanging up on him. My motorcycle careens off towards the exit ramp, going the wrong way. I ignore all of the red signs, as I hug the curve. A car skids by me, wailing on his horn. When I make it onto the highway, I skid across the two southbound lanes, across the median, and towards the other side where I come so close to an eighteen-wheeler that I can reach out and touch the rivets along its body.
The wind picks up traveling in this direction, but there’s no sign I’m being followed. I slow myself down just enough that I can slide through the light traffic without risking a black patch. A few motorcycles headlights appear coming at the opposite direction. At this point, with everyone on two wheels being a potential enemy, I take the smarter course and hide myself behind a slow moving tractor-trailer. The gang of three passes me by without a second glance.
After about twelve miles or so, I am road tired. Signs for the next exit begin tempting me, especially the appeal of a rest stop. I can at least dry off my shirt and grab a bottle water or something. With only a few seconds to spare, I make the decision to just go for it. At this point, it’s been almost a half hour without any signs of the Knights.
Before I fully get off the highway, I pull over and tuck my colors in the compartment of my seat. Flying the blue and silver proudly wasn’t going to get me anywhere tonight, especially not in this area. Motorcyclists, especially runners like me, made rest stops their homes at all hours of the night. The last thing I want is to get tagged before I have a chance to step off my bike.
Luckily for me, the stop looks empty. Besides a few truckers mingling around the doorways and a family sleeping the night off in their sedan, there’s nothing to set me off. Still, I run inside and hit the bathroom. My shirt dries under a hand drier as I wash the mud off my neck and forehead. Staring into the stained, cracked mirror, I look at the man that I’ve become. Something’s different about me these days. My freckled, war-worn face looks more settled, more determined. I look less like a madman and more like a man. Being with Tory has aged me in ways I didn’t think possible. But it’s a good thing. I’m not that bastard teen with a few tattoos running around with other guys with bikes. I’m my own person, my own warrior.
Back outside, the parking lot is emptier than when I left. The sedan is gone, evidently the driver got all the sleep he needed, and the trucks are all exiting back onto the highway one by one. Their line slowly creeps up as they merge into traffic. But as they pass, I see the real reason everyone has apparently fled. Behind the bed of the last trucks wait at least twelve bikes with the leader motioning down towards me.
They’re only about two hundred, maybe three hundred feet from the doorway where I stand huddled down. I creep out the door, past a few decorative bushes to where my motorcycle is parked. I make a run for it, leaping over a bench and down the concrete ramp. A shot rings out, hitting a window just above my head. Little shards of glass fall into the now drizzling rain. I grab my arms around my head before ducking down even further behind a wooden picnic table. My feet kick at it so that it flies up in front of me as a barrier.
Another shot hits to the side of me, landing and then passing through the wooden bench. My hands reach for my jacket where I last felt my revolver. But as I pat myself down, I realize that my gun is tucked away with the rest of my gear in that compartment. My head slams against the wooden planks of the table as I roll to the other side and wait for the next shot.
“Get the fuck out of there, Anton Murdoch! Come face your maker!” That voice… that sneering, self-righteous voice. There’s only one man to whom it could belong.
I stand up slowly, my arms raised above my head as I peek out from behind the picnic table. I’m instantly blinded by a dozen headlights pointed at my direction. Only the shadow of one porky, short man blocks my view.
“You think you can screw my sister and get away with it? What did I tell you, boy?” Brandon Walsh p
ulls the shotgun up to his face and fires. It lands right at the tip of my bicep. I curl away as fast as I can, but it still skids against my skin, breaking through the fabric of my shirt and cutting a straight line that bursts into red dripping blood.
I wrap my hand around my wound, as I wait for another one. But it doesn’t come. Brandon places the gun down at his side, as he screams again, “What do you have to say for yourself? What are your final words, bastard?” The faceless men around him break out into chortles and laughter as they begin to talk.
My mind goes blank, but it comes up with the only card I’ve got left to play here tonight. “I know about the Senators!”
Brandon takes ten steps towards me as he lifts the gun back up towards his face. This time, he points it directly at my head. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“I know about the Senators. And I’m not the only one in the club who does. There are ten of us who know, maybe more. And if you don’t let me go, let me live, they’ll know to start the uprising. So I suggest that if you want to keep yourself alive, you put that damn gun down right now.”
“Are you trying to blackmail me?” I see the lines on his forehead close in on one another, as he closes an eye and places a finger to the trigger.
“No!” I shout, my voice lost in my throat. My mind tries to focus on the task at hand, but the vision of Tory and our time together are flying past me at rapid speed, signaling my last moments are here. “I’m trying to save your sorry ass and the club. Do you think I want to see the Knights go down? I was born a Knight.”
“You weren’t born nothing but a bastard with a drugged up mama who didn’t even want you.”
“That’s true. But I am still a Desert Knight. I’ve been nothing but loyal to your daddy, and I don’t have any plans on being anything-but…if you let me go. But like I said, you risk messing with a civil war if you don’t let me go.”
“Who knows?” he asks, his voice lowering so he’s out of earshot of his henchmen.
“I’m not saying. How do I know you won’t kill me and then go after them one by one? I know you, Brandon Walsh. I know what you’re capable of.”
“You don’t know the half of it, boy.” His jaw moves from one side to another before he spits on the ground. The gun drops to his side, and his hand raises in its place. He turns back to his crew and shouts, “Pete! Do your thing!”
“What?” I shout, as he walks away, back towards his bike. The rest of the boys leave one by one. I watch helplessly as they go. Only Brandon and a giant of man remain behind. Pete grabs me from behind my collar and pulls me out from behind the picnic table fortress. I struggle against his grip, but he’s too strong. At nearly seven feet tall, over a half foot taller than me, he’s the embodiment of an enforcer. All muscles, all strength.
He throws me on the ground at the feet of Brandon. I try to get up as quickly as I can, but Pete’s enormous boot lands on the square of my back and pushes me back to the grass. Another foot, much smaller, flies and lands on my face, cutting my lip open and closing an eye shut from the mark of the steel toe.
Above me, Brandon yells, “You think I’m just going to let you get away with being a disobedient mother fucker? You think I’m going to let you threaten me?” Another boot lands on my side, right at my rib cage. I feel the crack of the bone, as I turn from the force. For a guy who looks like he belongs more in a carnival crew than a motorcycle gang, Brandon Walsh has a powerful kick.
“You’re never going to beat me, Anton.” Brandon screams, as Pete lifts my body about mid-thigh height and then slams me onto the ground, face first. “You’re never going to have my sister either.” I feel the wind rush out of me as Pete yanks an arm back and begins to pound on side where Brandon had kicked earlier. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I am totally defenseless. My legs kick and thrash against him, but as I tire out, they slow and stop altogether, leaving behind a trail of muddy grass.
“Do you understand me?” I have a feeling from the way Brandon’s screaming with the veins popping out from his throat that he’s been asking me this for a while now, but I’m spent. All I can focus on is the cold ground under my head and the rainwater cooling the bullet wound in my arm.
“Yes…” I hiss out from under the force of Pete pushing my head into the ground, practically suffocating me. “Yes…”
“You’re no longer a head runner. I’m stripping you of that title. You’re a peon. You do my bidding when I say. Tomorrow, you’ll show up and you’ll clean each and every bike that’s in the parking lot. That’s what pissants like you do. Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“And another thing,” I already know what’s coming, but I cringe as he says it. “You come anywhere near my home or my sister again, I’ll make sure to kill both of you. I let her go tonight so that my dad could handle her, but the next time, I won’t be so nice to her. She’ll get the same treatment you’re getting here.”
“Don’t… you… touch… her!” I cry out, using the last bit of my strength to do so.
He laughs and Pete follows. “Don’t worry about that, Anton. She’s in good hands. Your old pal Haunch is going to take mighty fine care of her. He and I go way, way back. And I know all about the things he likes. He’ll train her up right, like she should be behaving. Now doesn’t that sound nice to you?”
“You fucking asshole.” I try to push myself up to stand, but Pete lands a sharp punch to the crown of my head, and I fall back down to the ground.
“Stay away, Anton, or it won’t be good for either of you. You understand me?”
I suck in a long bit of air, trying to determine if saving myself was worth it. But to protect Tory, even if from afar, I would say and do anything. I reply, “Yes.”
He kneels down so that my eyes catch the glimpse of his boot before my nose. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir,” I relent. The words seep out of my broken lips like poison. I could let him kill me, but there were more things to live for. There was Tory and her hands around mine. There was my bike and the road before me. There was even the club with the boys that I actually loved like brothers and trusted like friends. And then there was my revenge against the man standing before me. These were all reasons to live and more. These were reasons to survive and thrive no matter the cost or the odds.
While Brandon Walsh thinks he can stop me, can keep me away from the one thing in life that I love, he has another thing coming for him. This isn’t the end for the two of us. But the next time we meet like this, he will be the one lying face down in the grass.
Chapter 19: Positive Signs
It’s been four weeks. Four horrible, long, agonizing weeks since I last saw Anton. The image of him on his Harley driving off into the blistering rain will be forever seared in my memory. And not night has gone by in which I haven’t dreamed of him.
It isn’t hard to forget though. My parents, mainly my dad, have made it a point to be brought up almost every dinner. It was my “family betrayal” and my “family shame.” Night after night for the first week, I was told that with fists. Then it became shoves and pushes. Now, it’s just died down to name calling and belittling.
Any sense of freedom that I had before Anton has pretty much disappeared. My phone is gone. My access to my money is gone. My car was sold off to some club guy with a teenage daughter. I watched my father stand outside like a used car salesman, as he shook the buyer’s hand and said jokingly, “Watch out for your daughter when she uses this thing. It may be contagious.”
I have no doubt that everyone in the Desert Knights knows what happened that night. When my brother found me, he wasn’t alone. There were nearly a dozen riders, most whom I didn’t recognize. But he sent me home on the back of the bike with just one guy, a man named Haunch. As soon as he told me his name, I immediately recognized it as the man my father planned on marrying me off to as part of the circle of life that was the Walsh reign.
He was what I would have to call an ogre of man. While his height did impre
ss me, he was not exactly well built. Haunch leaned over as he walked as if the weight of his muscular arms and legs were like anchors pulling his neck and back towards the ground. His face was thick and bumpy, showing that he had taken a bit too many punches in his life. And the teeth that stuck out of the thin, nearly white lips were jagged and yellow.
His voice wasn’t any better. When Haunch led me to his bike, he shouted over the rain, “Am I going to have to strap you in, or do you know how to ride?” But I couldn’t understand him. His mouth sounded and looked as if he was eating a bag of rocks. Instead, I just looked over at him and shrugged until he took me from around the waist and placed me on the back of the bike without another word.
It wasn’t until we were about halfway home that the rain let up slightly. A stop light gave him time to shout back at me, “I hate to be you.”