Page 1 of Sweet Revenge for the Bikers

1

MELODY

“So where’s my father, anyway?” I ask. “Was he going to meet me somewhere?”

It’s been an hour since we got to the rally, and I haven’t seen Dad anywhere. I’m sure he has better stuff to do than hang out with me, but it seems strange to finally be invited to a motorcycle event and he doesn’t even bother saying hi. Maybe it wouldn’t suck so much if I wasn’t stuck with the human version of a wet blanket.

Red shrugs. He’s staring down at his phone.

Ooookay. “You must have a better plan than me. I haven’t had a signal in ages.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Should we get drinks, or…?”

“Real fucking chatty, aren’t you?” he snaps. “Stay here, I need to go check on something and I don’t want to have to chase you down.”

“Cross my heart, hope to die.” If my fingers are crossed behind my back, that’s my business.

I wait all of thirty seconds after he’s out of sight before ducking between a tent selling handmade leather gear and another where the buzz of a tattoo gun competes with the distant rumble of motorcycles racing down the old landing strip. Freedom, finally! Time to explore.

The sound of the engines has always been nostalgic for me. It reminds me of hot summer nights with my window open, hearing Dad’s bike come down our street and knowing there’d be pancakes in the morning.

He was never the kind of father who showed up to soccer games or helped me with my homework, but he laughed a lot and Mom was happier when he was around. It took a while for me to understand that not everyone had a dad who missed stuff because he was in jail sometimes, or had uncles with names like Clutch.

It sounds bad, but until Mom died last year I thought he was just a good-natured deadbeat. It wasn’t until we talked about me taking over the house that I learned the truth about his second life as an enforcer for the Devil’s Brigade MC. If you ask me, the whole thing still sounds like something out of a TV show.

It’s hard not to gawk like a tourist at the rows and rows of motorcycles lined up on the cracked dirt and dried grass. I make my way around the grounds, feeling invisible in the crowd. I wasn’t sure what to wear to a biker rally, but it’s hard to go wrong with ripped jeans and a black T-shirt, knotted at my waist to show off a little skin. It’s more than a lot of the other girls here have on.

Crap.

Out of what must be hundreds of people here, I only know three of them, so of course one is coming my way. Uncle Clutch is talking with a tall man I’ve never met, even though he’s wearing a vest with a Devil’s Brigade patch.

I step to the side, turning my face away. A group of beefy men with back patches reading Riders of War are arguing loudly about motorcycles. It’s the perfect cover. I just ditched one babysitter and don’t want another one. Knowing my luck, he’ll ask me where Red is. I slip behind the noisy bikers, and let out a relieved breath when Uncle Clutch and the other guy continue past me without noticing.

The sound of a live band draws me to the edge of the rally. The sun is setting, and I can just make out the shape of the city skyline in the distance. We’re far enough away from anything that nobody cares about an abandoned airstrip being taken over by outlaws for the weekend. A few men are putting the finishing touches on a huge stack of old pallets assembled into a tower for the bonfire.

The heady scent of barbecue fills my nose as the summer breeze carries it past. I wander closer.

“Want a taste?” One of the guys manning the grills slices off a strip of meat and holds it out to me between his fingers. He’s probably twice my age and has a handlebar mustache big enough to be used for actual handlebars.

I grin and hold out my hand.

“Nope, try again.” He snaps his teeth together and winks.

I hesitate, but when in Rome, right? Careful not to touch his fingers, I lean in and bite down, taking the piece right from his hand. It’s sweet, a little spicy, and practically melts in my mouth.

“Good, right?”

I nod.

His smile gets a little wolfish. “If you think that’s good, I’ve got some more meat for your pretty mouth.”

“Wh—what?” I stare at him, too shocked to know how I’m supposed to react. This might be my first biker rally, but I’ve heard my share of crude comments. Still. Really?

“Shiiiiit, who let you wander around on your own?” A woman with a wild mane of blonde hair and breasts pushed up like they want to be part of the menu smacks him on the arm. “Go on, ignore this old goat and get your ass out of here, honey.”

With a bashful grin, I make my escape before things get even more awkward.