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“You go with me to the rally, I’ll make that happen.”
Her eyes narrowed at the blatant carrot and stick offer. Tap, tap, tap. “I’ll have to review my offers from other hot, fine-assed bikers.”
“I am the only biker with a fine ass,” he informed her. “All the rest are tubs of greasy lard with long, unwashed beards.”
Her eyes twinkled, but she pointed to the bike.Show me.
Not a yes, but not a no. For a guy who only a few hours ago was sure he wasn’t going to go, he was hoping for thatyesway more than was smart. But a man getting his head and heart tangled up with a woman wasn’t all that interested in smart.
No surprise, soon after he started explaining and demonstrating the oil change process, she wanted to take over, get hands-on while following his direction. She picked up on things fast.
Typical for a first-timer, she did get her shirt dirty, so he was glad he’d told her to remove that pretty bra. The day continued to go well, enough breeze and sunshine to make things feel hopeful and good. As requested, she did mixed communication with him, signing as well as typing. She told him that, like most languages, ASL could have different signs for the same expression. The man who taught the intro signing class hadsaid friends and family who signed regularly might develop shorthand versions of phrases only known to them.
He copied her gestures. To internalize them, he resolved to start signing when he knew a word. Like if he asked her if she wanted bacon for breakfast, he’d say it, but also make the gesture for bacon. That sizzle sign that looked more like a pig running away.
He needed to learn it. He might never hear again. He forced the words into his brain pan. But watching her eyes light up when he signed back and asked to learn more, helped take his mind off that. Whether he could hear or not, he liked talking to her like this. Maybe he’d get good enough they’d develop their own phrases, known to just the two of them.
When they were done with the bike, he brought out two folding chairs. The concrete pad was under a tree, so the shade was good. They sat companionably, taking in the day as she drank her soda and he finished his beer. He’d chosen the downwind chair so he could smoke a cigarette, but he hadn’t lit it. Not until she posed a question that put a small cloud over his mood.
“Will your brother be at the rally? Any of the Fallen Angels?”
“No.” He lit the end, drew on it as he dropped the lighter and pack into the mesh pocket of the chair. “It’s outside their territory, and they don’t get along great with the one-percenters who hold it. Though those guys aren’t likely to be there anyway. This one is a smaller, more regional event, heavily family-oriented, the wilder stuff discouraged. Though some of that always happens, particularly in the more partying campgrounds and at the night spots.”
She made a querying gesture, and mouthedone-percenter?
“OMG members. Outlaw motorcycle gang," he explained. “Most bikers, they’re enthusiasts. Part of legit motorcycle clubs, a lot of them formed around a common theme. Clubs where youget a membership because you own a particular brand of ride, like Harley-Davidson. Veterans clubs, Christian groups, or locals who just form a club and create a cut for themselves. For those groups, belonging is usually as simple as ‘Hey, you're interested in joining? Great, pay your fee and let’s ride!’”
He tilted a half-smile at her. “In those clubs you’ll find some like me and my crew, those who customize or work on bikes. But most are just people who love to ride, who like experiencing the world like that. Lawyers, doctors, retired couples. It crosses all the lines, blue collar, white collar, black, brown, white. Men and now a lot more women, on their own rides instead of straddling a pussy pad.”
He stopped at her amused look. “Sorry, less PC term there, Mistress. But MCs have every kind of person you can imagine, hopping on their bike for a rally getaway, or just a ride after work to remind themselves life is more than the grind.”
He flicked ash off the cigarette and took another draw, his eyes going back to the horizon. “Somewhere along the way, when those clubs kept pointing out that the OMGs make up less than one percent of bikers, the term caught on. To MCs like the Fallen Angels, it’s a badge of honor, being called one-percenters.”
He grimaced. “Almost all of them started riding for the same reasons as the ninety-nine percent. The freedom and feel of the ride, the life. That’s why you’ll see them at the rallies. They enjoy them, same as anyone. Plenty of them can be decent guys, when they’re not having to do and be what they signed up to be.”
Men who had been as close to him as his own brother.
He crushed the cigarette into his empty beer can and put it down on the concrete. “The bond is different in a group like that. Taking off the cut, walking away from them…it was hard.” The world’s biggest understatement. “Before then, the circles I ran in, everywhere I went, that cut was recognized and got respect. You’re part of something strong. But that respect, too much of itcame out of fear, because of what happened to people who didn’t respect it. That wasn’t how I wanted to earn or hold respect.”
He glanced at his arm tattoo. “When I was growing up, my mom read to me from a book about jungle animals. I liked the cover. So I gave it to the artist as a guide.”
She touched his tense arm. He tilted his head toward her, an acknowledgment, but he’d already reached for the second cigarette. She didn’t say anything as he lit it. He wished she would put her fingers into a typing frenzy, to stop his damn mouth from moving.
“I worked hard as hell to sever the connection, took the hits, even encouraged them, to make that severing as public as possible. It didn’t matter a good goddamn. If I hadn’t been the brother of the Fallen Angels president, they wouldn’t have targeted her there. They knew the police wouldn’t pursue it much, but because I was separate from the club, I didn’t have the defenses a club business would have had.”
He shouldn’t have gone down that road. Should have stopped with “No, Colt probably won’t be at the rally.”
Fuck, Nicole’s death had ripped off that scar and turned it into an infected wound. “People like Rose can say it’s not my fault,” he continued, his chest tight with the ache. “But it’s not about blame or guilt. That’s just what you use to give something like this a target, a poison arrow to dig in and make something shitty feel even worse, because you feel like you should have been able to dosomething. Be born as someone else. Or not be born at all.”
He left the chair with an abrupt movement and moved a few steps away, sucking hard on the cigarette. He wanted to feel the burn. “They fucking shot her when she was a foot away from me. I saw the van coming. But why…”
He shook his head, a hard snap. The words could bang around in his head, but he spoke them into a void of silence as absolute as God’s absence that day.
“Why didn’t I tell her and Aubrey to stay the fuck away from me? Why didn’t I act like an asshole and scare her off? I was sure as hell raised to be a mean bastard, one no woman with any sense would want her kid around.”
She’d started to rise, but he made a sharp gesture. Moving to the bike, he picked up the toolbox and put it on the seat. “Sorry, Mistress. Just… Fuck. I’ll be back.”
He didn’t look at her as he said it, so no gesture she made would stop him, short of throwing herself in his path. He returned the bike to the barn, but when he emerged, he didn’t return to her right away. He headed for the house, shoulders set as though a rod had been driven across their span. She could see the headache propelled by that flood of anger.
