He moved towards the little woman, towards her fountain of dark curls. Tuck took the back of his best friend's head in his rough fingers. Athena was surprisingly soft to the touch—he'd been expecting a hardness in her skin, some evidence of the years of toil that she'd already committed to the MC. But A was still a woman, beneath the grubby overalls, beneath everything. Her blood was red. Her breath was sweet. He bent low, towards her waiting mouth. Maybe, Tuck thought, Just maybe...
When their lips touched, he waited to feel something. Some flicker of the content of his dreams or daydreams, some echo of the electricity he'd experienced with Bridie on the bike, or Bridie on the bed. But there was nothing. It was a little hard to admit—for Athena Sark's lips were soft and full and lovely, her face was beautiful, her mind was quick...but he didn't love her. And there was that word again: love. He'd never thought of conquests this way before. He was a goddamn biker of the Barons of Sodom, and he didn't bandy ‘love’ about lightly. He was the goddamn lieutenant of these fallen men! And yet...
Someone outside had pulled up a transistor radio, and a motley chorus of bikers were now at work butchering a familiar song: My Maserati goes 185/I lost my license, so now I don't drive...
Hadn't she said it was her favorite song? “Life's Been Good”?
Pulling away from his embrace, Athena's expression had changed. Her open lust was gone, replaced by an acceptance. Whatever it was their kiss didn't contain, she must have felt it, too. Instead, she reached up and placed a warm hand on Tuck's face.
“Okay, Fuckface,” she said. “Go get ‘em.”
* * *
“Are all of the Barons in?” Cannon was saying. After his demonstration earlier, the cop didn't require a microphone to speak above the fray. Barons just fell silent around him, like well-behaved school children. Tuck made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. Meanwhile, the Texas summer sun had begun its daily mission to bake everything under its jurisdiction. The air smelled like hot B.O.
Bridie had been tied to a tree back in the clearing. Tuck could see her in his mirror if he strained his eyes. Her dress was torn. Her pretty head still drooped from the hit she'd suffered earlier. Zuzu, in an unusual departure from the Big House, was sitting in a lawn chair “guarding” the prisoner, her silk kimono already damp with sweat in the heat. The older woman was cooling herself idly with an ostrich feather fan.
“Let's all take our marks, then. Is everyone on their marks?”
Here were the diminished Barons. The traitors, cowards, and fools. Though Tuck had never imagined that he would miss Yak's loud mouth, the thought of his body lying untended on the clearing ground made him sick. Never again, Tuck told himself. Come what may in this race, I will not be a part of the new regime.
With Athena's help, they'd masked the chief's Triumph below a very hasty coat of black spray paint. The paint job wouldn't hold up under scrutiny, but everyone was so preoccupied with their own rides that few were scouting their competitors. Plus, the man upstairs had taken up a post at the end of the race, so he wouldn't see his poorly-concealed bike contending for the prize until it was too late. They'd figure out what to do about all that later. This was as far as the plan went.
“On your mark...”
Athena, behind him, squeezed his hand tightly.
“Get set...”
Tuck shot a quick glance back at Bridie, who'd kept her frightened, listing eyes clamped firmly on his figure. He might have imagined it, but for a second it looked to Tuck as if she'd nodded. As if she believed in him. He thought of her pert little ass bent over a stove, in some house they had together, in some future. He thought of their bodies, forever clamped together as they rode across the open world...
My Maserati goes 185...
“GO, you motherfuckers! GO!”
Chapter Thirty-Two
DET. RAMIREZ: So wait, let me get this straight—Zuzu?
BRIDIE: Yes, Zuzu. The chief's main consort.
DET. RAMIREZ: Do you have a real name to give me?
BRIDIE: What am I, a phone book?
DET. RAMIREZ: Ok. While she was guarding you by the tree, Zuzu...informed you of a conversation the night prior in which Gil Cannon implicated the whole Waco police force in a secret drug-trading conspiracy?!
BRIDIE: Ya-huh.
DET. RAMIREZ: And did you have any special reason to trust this woman? I mean, after all of this lying at the MC? All of this abuse?
BRIDIE: Zuzu was in the same boat as me—she'd just gotten used to her captivity is all. Stockholm Syndrome, like you said.
DET. RAMIREZ: Jesus Christ. I mean, we're going to need names. Evidence. One woman's explanation isn't—
BRIDIE: What about tapes? Would tapes do?
DET. RAMIREZ: Ha! But why would there be tapes? The chief, was he a fan of Nixon or something?
BRIDIE: Not so much. But he was a senile motherfucker, with a savvy concubine.
(Scribbling on the piece of paper)
BRIDIE: Now, Z has never been a fan of the police. Which I'm sure you can appreciate, after listening to someone like Cannon ramble on about the “crooked cops of Waco...” But this should still be her address. Tell her exactly who you are—and that I sent you—and she'll give you what you want.
DET. RAMIREZ: Oh, my God. But Bridie—Ms. Calyer—why now? Can I just ask, if you've had this information for years, why give it up now?
BRIDIE: If we don't believe in people, what do we have, detective? I think you're a good egg. You don't think so?
(Pause)
BRIDIE: Just you promise me this, alright? You use that information. Bust open the scandal. I want all the dick bastards of Waco PD lined up and fired at. Those men are responsible for my aunt's death, not to mention her clients, the source of her disease. But can you leave the MC to its own devices? They've always had their internal way of dealing with matters of treason.
DET. RAMIREZ: You know we can't do that. If these tapes implicate the Barons in any kind of conspiracy, the law will hunt them down. It's always been that way.
BRIDIE: Ha. I suppose so. I guess we'll never quite be friends, then. Eh, lieutenant?
(Sounds of laughter)
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Triumph felt like no engine he'd ever known. It handled corners so smoothly. It leapt into the high gears like it was dying for a fix. In the first lap, Tuck made dust of the other Barons. He yelped at their frowns in the rearview mirror, feeling like the ultimate badass.
“Suck my dust, Spivey!” he called to the wind in his face—but his bike was already contending with the sound barrier. His own words whipped backward, bouncing against his helmet and ricocheting off into space. He felt free. So, so, free.
But this didn't last long. To his left, a hefty Harley was gaining. It was Bo Diddly, his face a mask of a sneer. Bo's biceps seemed to bulge out of his cut-off vest; Tuck could sense the strain of his opponent. A curve had appeared on the road ahead.
Time for an expert maneuver. It had been a while since he'd tried anything especially suave on a bike—had been a while, in fact, since he'd ridden completely sober—but now was as good a time as any. He feinted the Triumph towards the right—just enough so that Bo, in his infinite wisdom, swerved prematurely. The smaller bike corrected on the curve, Tuck leaned hard. So hard that he made a 45-degree angle with the road. But the space of track up ahead was flat and long. He egged the nubile engine higher and higher still. Breaking 100. 103. 105...
And again, he had no competitors. The road was yawning for him, eating him up whole. He dared to let his mind wander for a moment, to a few quick flashes from his night of bliss. How he had parted little Bridie Calyer's pussy with the round, hard plunge of his cock. How she'd arched her back upward and toward him, allowed him to pull her forward, so their joints were flush against one another. How her swollen breasts had appeared, spread wide below his palms, glistening with the sweat of their union, her nipples erect...
107. 110...
Or taking her from b
ehind. How she'd been so sweetly tentative at first! The little furrow above her brow, when he'd been so sure that this was a woman who wasn't afraid of anything. The surge of joy cresting her face when he broke into her, pressed himself against the curves of her ass. How he'd slipped in and out and in and out, how he'd reached for her raven hair and pulled sharply. How his fingers had danced with the swallowing heat of her pussy...
115. And still, no one behind him...
He'd taken her on a motorcycle. He'd pushed his fingers up and inside of her. She'd bent low later, craned to press her full lips around his cock. She'd gulped him down so greedily. He'd felt so safe in her mouth.
120! Let the bitches eat cake!
But just as Tuck's throbbing erection reached fullness, just as the flat expanse of road surface began to run out, Tuck heard the rumblings of a different kind of engine behind him. A car. A cop's Buick. It took a moment to register the sound of the roaring sirens, the swish of the red and blue lights swiveling. Tuck abruptly faltered on his Triumph. He barely topped 100, now.
“This is the police. Pull over,” trilled a baritone on the loudspeaker. For a split second, Tuck made for the shoulder—but then he remembered. This was fucking Waco. There wasn't a single cop he could trust within city limits. The lieutenant accelerated again. He twisted the gas as far as it would go just as the next pin-curve reared its ugly head.
“Pull over, you sack of shit, or I'll smear your blood all over the highway.” Of course. Cannon. Tuck shot a quick glance at his mirror. Sure enough, the so-called officer's stinking grin (below those idiotic Ray Bans) was in full view. There were no other Barons behind him—none that Tuck could see, at least. It wasn't unfathomable that they'd all been driven off the road. That all his ex-friends or comrades now lay slain in cold blood, just like Yak.
Though there was no way the crooked cop could hear him over the sound of the road, Tuck screamed a retort to the wind: “You'll take her over my dead body, you snaky fuck!” He yanked a hand up and flipped his opponent the bird. In response, the car picked up its speed. The turn was upon them.
Tuck took a deep breath. Then he leaned far into the whipping wind—so far he was pressed flat along the bike's body. He eased up on the gas as the road curled in front of him. The deceleration was just enough that the bike fell to an acute angle with the road. This time the angle was so harsh that if the Rider had wanted to reach out and graze the ground below he could have done it without strain.
Yet he pulled out of the second curve, successful. Behind him, the bigger engine had tripped against the harsh curve. Tuck gave the motorcycle everything. He bent his powerful body low over the bike. Its rider near parallel with the ground below, the Triumph broke 120, 130...140. The world whipped by like a movie on fast-forward.
And in the dim distance, there it was: the finish line. A hunched figure was standing on the shoulder, brandishing something tall in the air—a flag, perhaps? Tuck cleared his mind of all thoughts. Along the flat terrain, most of the Barons had begun to close in on his lead. He heard the frenzied purr of other engines at his heels and urged his bike forward. There were seconds to spare. He hit 145.
Then came the cop sirens. Cannon was zooming along the shoulder, and all too soon he was keeping pace with the lead motorcycle. The finish line was seconds away.
Tuck cut his eyes again towards the horizon and realized with a sinking dread that God wasn't toting a flag—he was brandishing a shotgun, which was now trained on the advancing duo. For a second, the Rider wondered if Officer Cannon and his surreal drug-running proposal had just been a cruel hoax, some kind of test for the Barons' morale. Maybe God—his mentor and protector all these long years—had finally woken from his stupor and was going to take back the MC and restore the Barons of Sodom to its Glory Days, to New Orleans! But it only took the flashing image of Yak's body on the ground to realize the truth. God had flipped. The barrel of his gun was trained right between the eyes of his soon-to-be-former lieutenant. And the rules were now clear: kill, or be killed.
In a desperate move, Tuck turned his body slightly so the speeding bike turned hard and fast in God's direction. Surprised for one crucial beat, the man upstairs shifted his weapon on his shoulder. Across the closing distance, it looked to Tuck like he was preparing to fire. The rider didn't swerve.
God's eyes registered a beat of shock as Tuck plowed straight into his body. The shotgun—unfired—went sailing into the air. The Triumph tripped briefly over the bony remains of its former owner, but the bumps were enough to send Tuck into a tailspin. A hundred meters off the finish line, the Rider desperately tried to control his engine as it looped across the open road. He released the gas, and tried to break. He bent his head low, in preparation for the inevitable crash.
The bike had slowed to 70, 60, 55 before its Rider lost full control. Snagging on a pothole, Tuck went sailing into the air over his handlebars. He saw a brief flicker of the world from above: a bloody mass of human flesh, a dazzle of men on motorcycles, a Buick with spinning sirens...then, nothing. Darkness.
Chapter Thirty-Four
DET. RAMIREZ: So, getting back to this 'race for your virtue': we know how it ended. But what happened to you at the camp, while you waited for the men to return? Here was another opportunity to escape...
BRIDIE: Except I was tied up!
DET. RAMIREZ: Okay, okay. Why don't you just tell us all what happened, from your point of view. What were you thinking, while the Barons were away from camp?
BRIDIE: Right about then, I'd lost my faith. From the smug, angry look in Cannon's eyes to the ruthless way all the Barons stepped over their fallen comrade, I kind of figured it was end-of-days-country. I couldn't cry, though. Mostly, I didn't want those fuckers to see me weak.
I'd spent the whole last night entertaining all these preposterous visions of my future life with Tucker LaRouche. The two of us on barstools, bantering nights away by the jukebox. The two of us in a garage, covered with oil and grease, puzzling over a broken engine. I imagined seeing Texas—heck, the whole rest of the world—from the back of his motorcycle, the two of us making everyone we met sick with envy because we were so beautiful and so happy. We'd fuck every evening, unless we felt like making love. I guess now that this was dumb-ass kid stuff. Because really, what were the odds? I thought of my aunt, and Mr. Reginald. Of all the ways love can just bite you in the ass. In those moments, watching the boys prepare for the race, it seemed better—more practical, even—to go it alone. Don't get attached. Everyone dies. Minimize the fallout, minimize the pain.
Then Zuzu had to open her big fat mouth.
“It's always been like this, you know. Since the beginning of time: it's always been harder for women.”
I just kind of nodded. From what I could gather, this lady's ganja habit could kill Willie Nelson, so nobody on the compound seemed to take Zu seriously. But then she stood up, and started to unbind my hands from around the tree.
“What are you doing?”
“Shut-up, pee-wee.” She winked one lazy, heavily mascaraed eye. “Now, I'm going to tell you all about love.”
The sun was at high noon. The Barons were nowhere in sight, the whole camp was quiet. My love was in jeopardy. My life was in jeopardy. And so, I sat under a tree drinking sweet lemonade and let an old woman tell me all about love.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The first thing Tuck knew when he woke up was that he couldn't move; the second thing he knew was pain. Not just the typical pain of brawl wounds, road rash, and blinding hangovers—this was something deeper and more horrible than he'd ever known. He craned his crusty eyes to survey his body's lower half, and realized his legs were a mass of blood. Certainly bones were broken. He opened cracked lips and let out a wail.
“Shut up, motherfucker! You want all of Texas to hear you?!” Then came the bracing slap of a glass of cold water, poured all over his face. Tuck felt the cool liquid move down and over his mouth, and felt a tiny bit of relief mingling with his surprise.
“Athena?”
“Try Zeus. You're never going to have enough money to pay me back for this particular life-saving effort.” His fussy little best friend was moving around a tiny, dark space lit by stubby candles.
“Where are we? How did—?”
“Hey, big guy. Shut up for a minute, okay? You need to conserve your strength.”
In the low light, Athena was bent over Tuck's bloody legs. In spite of her candor, the Rider detected worry in her face.
“What's the damage?”
“You've lost a lot of blood. Your right shinbone may or may not be broken in three places. Everything else is just bruising.”
“Awesome.”
“Could have been a lot worse, T.” Athena's voice was suddenly gentle. “Found you in a meadow, way off the road. You must've flew, for a minute there.”
“Man's greatest dream.”
“Smart-ass.”
As the mechanic daubed his wounds with some stinging potion, Tuck took stock of the gloomy hideaway.
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