by K. J. Dahlen
A biker who was so clearly different from all these other men.
Who was this man?
We rode through the night along empty back roads for hours, never seeing another set of oncoming headlights. The maddening, slapping and skidding of Todd’s corpse along the pavement mercifully ended a while back when the bloody arm anchoring him to the bike chord ripped free at the shoulder. At several points, the gruesome sound and the way bike pulled to either side of the road from the weight made me gag. The sound of the remaining limb bouncing as it was attached to the rope was completely drowned out by the bike’s engine and the wind. When most of the body was gone, the performance of Remy’s bike improved tenfold, and the whole thing became at least possible to ignore.
Not that I could of course.
It was all too hideous and fresh. Something out of a horror film. My mom was an ER nurse at a small hospital back home, and I would visit her a lot when I was younger. Seeing bloody wrecks wheeled in from EMTs was all too common, so I’d always been able to deal with gore better than most people. But this was a whole new level.
When Remy briefly stopped to cut the mangled tether line, freeing the last of Todd, I finally threw up. Honestly, I was surprised I didn’t pass out.
Dragging Todd seemed like such an obscene overreaction at first, but then some pieces started to fall into place. The way the other bikers apologized to Remy, Top crying, and their morning embrace. It went beyond even close-knit camaraderie. I think that Bren was related to Remy and Top in some way.
My old life melted farther away by the second. I didn’t trust Remy or even like him. He’d stood idly by while my aunt and uncle had been brutally murdered. He was a monster that could kill without a second thought.
Once we’d gotten back on the road Remy pushed his bike that much faster. His bike, unlike the other American motorcycles, had a surreal sense of speed. We were so far behind though, that the rest of the gang’s taillights were almost a memory.
Remy leaned forward and twisted the throttle. The night’s wind, still warm this far into the summer, rushed over us like an ocean wave. The dark landscape became a blur. Remy, the bike, me, we were one body-connected. I was terrified that we’d lift off the pavement and fly away.
My God, the power...
I was forced to hold on that much tighter, not only to stay on his bike but—and I hated myself for it—some part of me was squeezing him just to squeeze him. To feel him all around me. My legs, my arms, we could hate one another, but on the somber ride to what would probably be my own hellish end, we were closer than lovers.
The road became hypnotic. His tires gripping the asphalt along with the pounding engine, sent vibrations reverberating through my inner thighs. It rattled my ribs, lungs, and chest. I had trouble thinking straight. That rhythmic drumming, raw and unyielding, escaped my lips with every exhaled breath.
We roared up through the sea of red taillights and fell into a loose formation with the other riders.
It dawned on me that this was the first time I’d ever been on a motorcycle, and as much as I tried to deny it, I felt a sense of complete freedom and—something else. I thought it was danger or dread, but it wasn’t. There was a foreign ache running through my muscles. It was a wicked kind of excitement from a darker part of my personality I didn’t know I had. The road chill had finally started to set in, but the warmth of the man in front of me cut the bitterness in the air.
Something about Remy’s scent was intoxicating. The leather, gasoline, and dust, made me want to bury my face deeper into his broad, muscular shoulders. Although I didn’t have the words to describe how I knew, he smelled like I thought he should. Fresh sweat from exertion mixed with oil from the bike, the copper notes of old blood and spent anger. So much anger.
Remy was danger personified.
I got lost in the enveloping sensation of being wrapped around him. His radiating heat mixed with the steady, pulsating vibration from the bike, the abrupt roughness of the road and our subsequent jerks and thrusts. The bike’s rumbling felt trapped within me.
I squeezed Remy so tight I feared he’d think I was trying to throw him off the bike.
Swells of barely contained pleasure crashed against me like a coming tide. My muscles contracted against it. I refused it, willed it away, but the ecstasy of all these new sensations was relentless. My breathing spiked as I noticed I was actually getting wet!
I wasn’t paying attention to the fact that we were weaving in and out of bikes at well over a hundred miles-per-hour. All I could think about was how it felt being so close to him.
One of Remy’s abrupt shifts loosened my grasp on him creating just enough space for the wind to hit my chest like a sledgehammer. My fingers slid off his hard chest, across his ribs, then slipped from him completely. My heart in my teeth, I could feel my thighs immediately give way. I screamed, but couldn’t hear my voice over the engine, the road, and the wind.
Holy shit, I was falling!
Remy’s deceptively strong hand whipped out behind me at the last possible second and slammed me into his back. I grabbed him as tightly as possible, the denim skirt I was wearing crumpled into basically a thick belt as my inner thighs grinded down the back of his rough jeans. My pussy quivered as I slid over every coarse fabric ridge, before slapping back onto the oiled leather seat.
He didn’t even slow down.
Remy leaned forward, again pushing the bike even faster. The engine screamed as we blew past the rest of the bikers in the wrong lane of the highway. I screamed uselessly again as we were bathed in the deathly yellow floodlights of an oncoming tractor-trailer truck. My world went white. There was nothing except the light and a long thunderous howl from the gigantic truck’s horn.
At these vicious speeds, there would be no stopping the semi or us. We’d be turned into a paste.
Remy leaned forward until his chest pressed against the gas tank with me flush on his back, then accelerated even more. He dared the mechanical monster to blink, to jack-knife or hell—just to hit us. I don’t know. I mashed my eyelids shut, and simply let whatever was going to happen…happen.
At what felt like an eternity later, Remy sailed us out of the path of the screeching truck. Tire rubber burned all around us from the truck trying hopelessly to stop. The hot slipstream of air behind it as we passed, pushed into us like an explosion, threatening to topple us.
It was a testament to his skill and tenacity that Remy was able to keep us on two wheels at all. He slotted us up front in the formation, right next to Top. They shared a look, Top shook his head in amused disbelief, and everyone kept on riding like it was nothing.
I was a screaming, crying mess whose heart was on the verge of bursting for so many reasons.
Right then, I knew that regardless of what happened, I was never going to survive Remy.
2
Remy
On my Kawasaki, I was completely in control.
At over a-hundred-miles-an-hour, I became a god.
Life was simple at that speed. There was only one direction to go. I was all alone in an ocean of pavement and no force on earth could stop me. The whipping wind and the rumble of the road was the only place I felt at home anymore. The faster I went, the clearer things were. The ride was never long enough, especially not after such a shit show like tonight.
The neon haze of our destination peeked into view like an oasis mirage. The worse part of the ride began; the slow down. It’s when everything I’d been outrunning from the whole ride started catching up with me.
I wished I could blow past Muse’s and just ride forever.
The Burnt Pig Bar, although we just referred to it as Muse’s Place, was as close to a permanent residence as a few of the members had. Top, Spare Rod, Fish, and Twitch and Twatch all had their mail delivered here.
The bar, basically a squat box of brick and glass, wasn’t much to look at, but the attached motel was a totally different feel. A pool, valet waiting area, white columns and massive windows
. A biker would be hard pressed to find a better place to spend a night after a long-ass haul across the panhandle, but not tonight. I didn’t want any of it.
Tonight there was work to be done.
That two-stage, neon sign with the pig rotating over the flickering flame, typically a sign of good times ahead, was now just a reminder of all the shit show the Steel Veins had become. I thought about Bren…
How did we fuck that gas station job up so hard?
We pulled into our normal parking spots behind the bar.
Muse leaned against the open door already waiting for us. She liked to meet us in person whenever we arrived if possible. It was relatively easy for her to know when we were on our way in. In such flat, wide-open countryside, she’d have been able to hear us coming for miles.
Huge fake tits, black dyed hair, long black dress, black everything, Muse was a total Elvira-type chick. But instead of being borderline albino she was a smooth dark caramel in both skin tone and texture. No one ever believed she was pushing fifty. A real snake charmer, Muse could talk the moon out of its shine.
Despite all the bullshit today, it was always good to see her.
She’d always sauntered over to Top’s bike first, but this time she moved a little quicker when she saw the body across the back of his seat. She had her arms out with a consoling hug before he’d even thrown down his kickstand.
Top spared a pained glance at Bren, then swept her up into a big hug. She whispered something to him and the man broke down like a child. No one faulted him for it, not today. Top wore his emotions like the patches on his vest.
Part of me envied that kind of weakness.
All I felt after that long ride was overwhelming apathy.
I killed the engine and had to pry my cargo’s arms free to get off the bike. I traced the girl with my eyes.
Uncertainness and terror marred her soft, if a little plain, features as she glanced around and took everything in. Her glasses reflected the outside floods. It was the first time I’d ever seen a frightened deer on the other side of a pair of headlights.
Dark, shoulder-length wavy brown hair, now a tangled mess from the wind of the ride, and skin pale enough to trap the moonlight, she had tight curves buried under a billowy, white linen shirt and jean skirt that buttoned up the front. Her smooth skin was unblemished and radiant.
Supple, was the word that came to mind. I had to touch it to see if it was real.
I lifted her skirt at the side of her waist, and slowly ran a finger down the length of her thigh. Her body trembled slightly in the wake of my dragging finger. Her heartbeat was pounding so hard that I could feel it behind her knee. She was such a small thing, fragile thing.
I could wear her like a belt.
I walked around the bike to see if I could draw her gaze.
She didn’t move. Her full cheeks were marred with dust and streaked with lines of mascara.
She was pretty.
That of course, would make everything worse for her.
“Get off my goddamn bike,” I demanded.
I thought about the speed, the truck that almost hit us and riding in the pack with the other guys. Most of the time I’d forgotten she was on my bike at all. Maybe I over did it with that ride? Then I remembered the piece of shit that killed Bren.
My baby brother, Bren, was the last decent thing about the Steel Veins and now he was dead.
No. I hadn’t gone far enough. A bullet to the head was too merciful. I should’ve dragged that fucker behind my bike while he was still alive.
She slid off the seat and pulled at the edges of her skirt, as if she could somehow make it longer.
“My name is—” She started.
“I don’t care what your fucking name is.” I rubbed two fingers across leather seat where she was sitting, it felt slightly damp. Looking to see if she would flinch, I brought them to my nose and breathed it in.
Breathed her in.
She lowered her head.
Brushing aside her hair, I found her chin and forced it back up at me. I expected to see resignation and despair like the slags we typically fucked here, but no. This girl glared at me, her hate-filled eyes sparked with a defiant intensity that was surprisingly invigorating.
Good.
“Hold onto that hate. That’s the only friend you have here,” I said, walking past her. The guys were helping Crutch hobble inside. The fun was over for now, there was work to do. “Let’s go.”
Despite how much she hated me, the girl was my goddamn shadow as we all piled in through the bikers’ entrance. I absently pointed to a table in the corner, she dutifully went off and sat down, then I joined the rest of the guys by the pool tables.
Crutch was tossed a bottle of whiskey then was taken into the back room to get cleaned and sewn up. He’d sleep like death tonight, but he’d survive. I had Tee grab the shovels and take a few guys out to the back meadow to start the hole.
We’d get a stone for Bren in a day or two, but we’d put him in the ground tonight.
The staff had the bar cleared when Top walked into the room cradling the boy. Bren’s face was so pale it looked like he’d been replaced with a mannequin. It hit hard because he was so young; everyone’s kid brother. He was our club’s unofficial mascot. Top took it the worst for obvious reasons.
Our club’s membership path, like most, went like this: Acquaintance, Hang Around, Prospect then finally Full Patch. Bren had skipped Acquaintance status, but was stuck as Top’s personal Hang Around for—hell, ever since he’d been big enough to reach the handlebars. The only age requirement in the charter to be a Steel Veins member was a valid motorcycle license.
Bren had his license for three years.
We’d vote Bren in every year, and every year, Top would black ball him. In a brotherhood like ours, new patches had to be unanimous. This summer, Top finally caved and let him join, but only as Prospect… That was until I bitched him out for it. Top finally agreed to just make Bren a Full Patch and be done with it. We both knew Bren deserved it, Top was just overprotective.
As a Full Patch member, Bren was as much of a Steel Vein as anyone else in the club.
He would’ve been nineteen in a few months.
I pulled up a stool next to the big man at the bar. Bren was laid out to the right of both of us while his hole was being dug. It was just the three of us. Me, Top and Bren at the bar. The rest of the guys knew to give us some space.
The first drink was for blood only.
We sat in silence for a few minutes looking over our fallen new member. Top had our shots of root beer ready. Any other toast would’ve been whiskey, but Bren never developed a taste for alcohol.
He was the last decent thing about this club and now he was dead.
Top took out his nine-millimeter, dropped the clip and thumbed out two rounds. They clattered across the polished wooden bar and rolled in small circles until finally coming to rest. “I shoulda never let him in,” the big man mumbled, wiping the tears from his bushy beard. Some of our crew had been killed in the past and it had always been rough, but never hit this close to home.
“Nope,” I agreed without hesitation, picking up one of the bullets up. I snorted at how much I had in common with the bullet as I rolled it through my fingers.
Cold, hard and useless without a gun.
What could I say? Top was right. Our younger brother was just that, too young. Bren didn’t even have a gun when he was killed.
“It shoulda been me or you…” Top cleared the broken gravel from his throat. He tried to continue, but couldn’t.
“At least we deserved it,” I finished the sentiment for him. We deserved it a hundred times over for all the shit we did, but Bren was the one to catch a bullet? Nah. In what universe did that make any fucking sense”
Neither of us could accept it.
I bit down on the bullet until my teeth ached, then rolled it to the back of my tongue.
“Amen,” Top said, dropping his bullet into his shot
glass. We clinked them together and downed our root beer.
Now, all three of the Daniels brothers had a bullet in them.
Top immediately chased the soda with several large gulps of the shittiest, bottom-shelf well whiskey they had, growling against the acidic burn and stood up. Top only drank the worst alcohol when something bad happened.
We all took our penance differently.
He slapped me on the back and started the eulogy. Most of the members took turns recounting everything about Bren that they could remember. From Bren’s first ride at twelve years old to the first time, they’d got him laid, the bar boomed with choked-up sentiments, uproarious laughter and clinking glasses. The staff struggled to keep the clubs cups full.
I slunk to the back of the room and sat quietly. I was no good at these things at the best of times, let alone now. Bren had been on my mind the whole ride here, the last thing I wanted was to hear more stories about him.
I glanced back at my latest mistake to make sure she hadn’t run off.
The girl was right where I left her, looking small as ever. Her head in her crossed arms hunched over the table, no doubt hoping to go unnoticed. She looked like the frightened puppy Top brought home for Bren after Mom left.
I guess this time, I’d brought home the puppy.
Her eyes and nose poked up over her elbows as she surveyed the room. I saw a bit of fire in her earlier, and beneath her demureness, I hoped to see it again. I wondered how crafty she was.
Would she try to escape?
What did I care if she did try to escape?
Muse’s place was so far from everywhere that it wouldn’t matter if she tried. Someone would catch her eventually. If it weren’t for me, she’d already be dead. I couldn’t help her anymore. I absently rotated the mug of beer in my hand. I still didn’t know if keeping her alive was a kindness or a cruelty. Why did I even want to help her?
Her boyfriend killed my brother.
People die all the fucking time. That’s all you can rely on someone to do. She was on her own.
Fuck her.