Rest & Trust

by Susan Fanetti

  “Don’t worry, Prez.” Lakota grinned and shook his head, letting his long hair swing like some kind of mane. “I got a lotta years left on the prowl, and a lotta women left on the sampler plate of life. No intention of settling down.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Eat up, boys, Trick’s got to get to the bike show.”

  ~oOo~

  This year marked the third time Trick had entered the Rat’s Hole Custom Bike Show. The last time, four years ago, he’d won the grand prize. Shortly thereafter, the Horde SoCal had returned to the outlaw life, and there hadn’t been much time for custom bike-building without a commission. In the intervening years, he’d said more than once that he was okay with it; he’d taken the big prize, made his statement. He didn’t need to do it again.

  But after his ordeal the previous fall, he’d wanted it again, like he had something new to prove. Sherlock didn’t completely understand, but then again, he didn’t completely understand Trick. That was a guy who lived in his own head. Sherlock had once thought they’d be closer; Trick wasn’t much like their brothers, either. But they were different kinds of different. Trick appreciated the past; he was interested in history and culture, the way the world had been, and the way it was. Sherlock appreciated the future; he was interested in where they were headed.

  Trick collected paper books; Sherlock collected the latest digital technology. They didn’t have that much in common, after all.

  The bike that Trick had brought to Sturgis, though—Sherlock was all over that futuristic beauty. It barely looked like a motorcycle at all—not because it had been buried in glitz and bullshit, but because Trick had pared almost everything away and left only minimalist beauty. When he’d won four years ago, he’d entered a bike he’d called Da Vinci’s Devil: a huge black and copper thing that looked like some long-dead Italian’s image of the future.

  This entry, he’d named HAL. Deep, dark, gleaming crimson, its wheels were hubless and spokeless, and its seat and steering were almost invisible without a rider on it. And it was completely roadworthy. Now that was a bike Sherlock could get excited about. Since it had been set up at the Chip on the first day of the show, HAL had been getting a shitload of attention from looky-loos, the press, even other competitors.

  As Sherlock wandered around the exhibition, studying Trick’s competition, he couldn’t imagine anybody else winning. But like all shows, it was part popularity contest, and Trick’s main competition had won the past two years. Winning this year would give him a three-peat, and people liked that kind of thing. His bike was nice, and Sherlock figured it would have had the show hands-down, if HAL had stayed home.

  There was a crew filming the show, and they’d cornered Trick for an interview. Even from behind him, Sherlock could see that he was massively uncomfortable. He kept shifting his weight on his feet, raking his hand through his long, unruly hair, crossing his arms over his chest and then dropping them again. Each time he looked like he was turning to step away, the interviewer shifted position, staying in his way. Trick was patient as a rule; it took a lot to get his back up. Out in public like this, with a camera on him? He’d let those dipshits trap him for as long as they wanted.

  Connor came up at Sherlock’s side. “Looks like a man in need of backup,” Sherlock said.

  “Agreed. The guy with the mic keeps hemming him in. What time is it?”

  Sherlock checked his smart watch. “Almost four-thirty. They’re going to start announcing winners pretty soon.”

  “Okay.” Connor slapped Sherlock’s back. “Time to scare some movie people, but by implication only. Deme!” he called, turning to the side.

  Demon came over. “What’s up?”

  “Trick needs an extraction.”

  Looking in the direction Connor had indicated, Demon smiled. “Let’s do it, then.”

  They walked three abreast to Trick and the film crew. Following Connor’s lead, they walked around and stood behind the cameraman and interviewer. Got right in their personal space and just stood there with their arms crossed until the cameraman peered over his shoulder.

  “Problem, fellas?”

  Connor ignored him and nodded at Trick, who was smiling. “Looks like we’re done here,” he said to the jackass with the mic.

  ~oOo~

  “I can’t believe we’re gonna have to put another one of those fugly trophies up in the showroom,” Bart complained with a smirk and tossed back a shot.

  “I could take it home, put it on the mantel,” Trick answered, still grinning and flush with his win.

  Connor shook his head. “It’ll scare the crap out of Lucie. Maybe scare your old lady into squirting that new one out early. You don’t want that on your conscience. We could put it in the john, on the back of the shitter. Then when it scares the crap outta somebody, they’re in the right place.”

  While most of both Horde charters continued to celebrate Trick’s show win and pile shit on his head, Sherlock felt a pull elsewhere. They’d been busy all day, and he’d only texted Sadie once. He missed her. So he leaned in and threw some cash on the bar. “Next round’s on me, brothers. I’m out.”

  Connor sighed theatrically and draped his arm across Sherlock’s shoulders. “Ah, young love. You’re goin’ back to camp to jack off with your girl, huh?”

  That was precisely what he was going to do, but he said, “Fuck you, Con,” and elbowed him in the ribs.

  “You’re not buying into the game?” Dom, from Missouri, asked. Sherlock loved poker, and he was good at it, usually one of the last men in at any game, and tonight was a big one. But he wasn’t feeling it.

  “Nah. I’ll pass, give somebody else a shot.” He gave Trick another hard pat on the back. “Congrats, brother. That is a badass ride.”

  “Hold up,” Bart called. “I’ll ride with you.”

  Lakota yelled and blocked their path. “Come on! We’ve only got one more night after this! We’re at fucking Sturgis! It’s barely past midnight!”

  Sherlock shrugged. “Sorry, brother. More chicks for you.”

  “Pussies,” Lakota mumbled and stepped out of their way.

  ~oOo~

  What Sherlock had by way of accommodations was a small pup tent, a sleeping bag, and a memory-foam camp mat. The tent was ostensibly meant to accommodate two people, but those people would have had to be excellent friends.

  The pasture terrain was level and not especially rocky, so he was comfortable enough. He wasn’t among the men groaning and stretching every morning, bitching about how they were getting too old to sleep on the ground.

  The Missouri Horde had had a Prospect drive an old RV up, and Showdown and Hoosier slept in there. Sherlock thought it was probably the last Sturgis for Hoosier. Maybe for Showdown, too.

  When Bart and Sherlock got back to camp, the fire was out, and it was quiet; the old men had turned in for the night. Bart pulled out his phone and headed to his own tent, offering Sherlock a wave and a grin. Sherlock went off and took a piss against a tree at some remove from the camp, then headed back to settle in.

  Once he was comfortable, he called Sadie on his personal phone. She answered right away, her voice low.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey. There a problem? You sound a little off.”

  “No, but Sid just put Ezra back to bed. I don’t want to piss her off with noise.”

  “The kid sleeping in the living room again?”

  “No, he’s in his room. But he doesn’t sleep much.”

  “Everything still going okay there?”

  “Yeah. Sid’s cool, and Ez is adorable when he’s not yelling. Muse is awesome. He makes me go to the clubhouse with him, though. That’s dull. But the wifi’s good there. I’m still able to work.”

  Of course the wifi was good at the clubhouse. He’d installed it. “Good. We got the all-clear, so Muse’ll take you home tomorrow.”

  “And you’ll be home when?”

  “Trip’ll take us three days. Maybe four, depending on how Hooj does. It’s a long
ride.”

  “You having a good time?”

  He liked the sultry sound of her voice while she tried to keep quiet. “I am. Trick’s bike won the custom show today. It’s a big deal.” He rifled through his little pile of dirty clothes and found a towel he’d been using for showers. Then he opened his jeans.

  “Cool. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too, little outlaw. What’re you wearing?”

  “Sherlock, no. I’m in their living room, camped out on their sofa.”

  “They in bed? Kid’s asleep?”

  “Yeah, but he could wake up any time. He’s up every couple of hours. Not exactly restful for anybody.”

  “Just went to sleep, though. That’s what you said, right?” He pulled himself free of his clothes. He was already rock hard and had been since he’d started the call.

  “Sherlock…” He could hear in her voice that she wouldn’t resist him for long.

  “I bet you’re wearing those little knit shorts you like. Blue ones or yellow?”

  “Yellow.” Yep, he knew it: token resistance. She wanted this.

  “One of those tiny t-shirts with the straps? Which one?”

  “Black one.”

  “You under cover?”

  “Sherlock…”

  “Sadie.”

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  “Good. Put your hand in your shorts. Between your legs. Are you wet?”

  A gasp. “Yes.”

  “Ah, that’s my girl. Now, push a finger in deep.” All he heard was a whimper. “Now put that finger in your mouth and taste yourself. What do you taste like?”

  “I don’t know. Warm. Maybe salty. You taste better.”

  He grinned. He loved the way she tasted. “Nice. Take that hand and play with your tits. Don’t talk, but keep the phone right up to your mouth. I just want to hear you make your sounds.” Her sex sounds were various and hot as all fuck.

  “What are you doing?” she breathed.

  “I am jacking off to the thought of you jacking off to the thought of me. I’m jacking off hard. That’s what I’m doing. Now don’t talk. I want to hear you.”

  She laughed quietly, and then the only sounds in his ear were those amazing little sounds she always made, tiny whimpers, wispy moans, deep, sweet breaths. Coming faster, a little harder, filling his ear. Fuck. He pumped his length through his hand, squeezing, imagining the hot, tight, wet clench of Sadie around him.

  She was breathing really fast now; so was he.

  “Ah, Sadie. You’re close, aren’t you? Just playing with your pretty little tits got you that close.” She made a sound that might have been agreement. Her tits were so sensitive, he had a hypothesis—as yet untested—that he could get her to come without touching any other part of her. “Okay, sweetheart. Get yourself off. Let me listen.”

  When she got herself off, she was all about efficiency, and if left undeterred would be done in maybe a minute. Had he been in the room with her, he would have pulled her away, made her make it last, but they were more than a thousand miles apart, and Sherlock was close himself. The sound of her breathing, those tiny, sweet moans, the picture they painted in his head of the way she must look, her fair skin flushed pink and glowing, her teeth bitten into her bottom lip—he didn’t want to wait. He let her go fast, and he went for efficiency, too, coming into the towel just seconds after she made the sound he knew was her finish.

  “I heard you, too,” she whispered, panting into the phone. “That was hot.”

  “Yeah, it was.” His eyes were suddenly heavy, and he felt more lonely for her than he had since he’d left Madrone. He wanted to be able to roll over and tuck her against his body, to sleep in their customary curl.

  “It’s hotter when you’re here, though.” She was sleepy, too; he could hear her dropping off.

  “Few more days. For now, get some sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you, little outlaw.”

  “I love you. Hurry home.”

  Yep. He was ready for Sturgis to be over, too.

  ~oOo~

  Hoosier stalked over to Sherlock, Bart, and Dom, who were saying their goodbyes. The Horde was breaking camp and heading to their respective homes. What had been a cozy little camp was now little more than a flattened, denuded field. Sherlock felt a little depressed, even though he was ready to be home.

  Hoosier was obviously in a foul mood himself. He wasn’t looking forward to the ride, but when they’d floated the idea of him putting his trike in the trailer and riding with Jerry the whole way home, he’d nearly blown a gasket.

  But that wasn’t the source of his mood this morning. “I’m not getting Lakota or Jerry. Sherlock, can you…track their phones?”

  Sherlock squatted at his gear pack and dug out what he’d need. “It’ll take a few minutes, but yeah. I can get a ping from the satellite. Let me set my shit back up.”

  Hoosier nodded. “A-assholes are probably passed out under a…table at the Throttle or somethin’, but I’m gettin’ jumpy. Not like them, especially not with Trick’s bike.”

  Lakota and Jerry had been in charge of loading HAL into the trailer and bringing it back to camp the night before. They hadn’t made it, and no one had seen them since about ten p.m., when Lakota had drawn the short straw and had dragged off with Jerry on their errand. Lakota’s bike was parked here at the campsite. “Last night of Bike Week, though, Prez. Probably just got too wrecked to make it out here.”

  “Then they shoulda fucking called.”

  “I’m on it. Give me fifteen minutes.”

  Hoosier nodded and turned to his VP. “Bart, take Con and ride into town. See if you can dig ‘em up.” As Bart turned and trotted toward Connor, Hoosier’s phone rang, and he answered it, crossing the camp to the Missouri RV.

  Dom squatted at Sherlock’s side. “Can I help?”

  “Nah. I got—”

  His sentence went no farther, because Hoosier yelled, calling everyone to him. Sherlock left his gear on the ground and went with his brothers.

  “We gotta get to the Chip. K.T. just called. We got bad trouble.”

  “Lakota?” Trick asked.

  His mouth set in a grim line, Hoosier nodded. “Jerry, too.”

  “They hurt?” Ronin asked.

  Hoosier didn’t answer, but he gave Ronin a long stare. Jesus.

  Sherlock’s heart began to thump heavily against his ribs. Worse than hurt?

  Badger, standing nearby, turned to two young Missouri patches. “Cox, Saxon—you keep the camp. Everybody else, let’s ride.”

  ~oOo~

  The Buffalo Chip campground was never not crowded during Bike Week. Half the events of the week happened there. It wasn’t what anyone would call a ‘scenic’ camp. But there was a small lake with a wooded area.

  As the Horde rode through the camp, Sherlock could tell that the campers still there had heard what was going on and knew it was their trouble. They passed campsite after campsite where the riders stopped what they were doing and nodded solemnly, or put their hands over their hearts, or doffed a cap or a do-rag.

  They followed Hoosier and Bart through the camp, to the lake, where several Sturgis PD cruisers were parked, lights flashing, as well as an ambulance…and a hearse.

  As they all dismounted, the Chief stepped out and went straight for Hoosier. At the same moment, two men came from the woods behind him, carrying a stretcher. On the stretcher was a black bag. A body bag.

  Hoosier sidestepped the Chief and went to the stretcher instead. The paramedics or whoever they were stopped when he put his hand on the bag.

  “I need to see.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the Chief said, coming to his side. “Hoosier, right? Night Horde SoCal President?”

  Hoosier gave him a look and then a nod.

  “I make it a point to know the clubs coming into my town. Best you leave that bag alone, Hoosier. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Who is it?” Hoosier’s hand still rested on the bag, at ab
out chest level.

  “According to the ID in his wallet, it’s David West.”

  Lakota. In a body bag. Sherlock took an involuntary step back. Connor grabbed his arm.

  But Ronin went forward. He had been at the back of their group, but now he threaded his way through them, touching no one, and walked directly to the stretcher. Without saying a word, he pushed Hoosier’s hand aside and opened the bag.