It wasn’t exactly an unusual story. I’d wager half or more of the bikers I’d met were veterans, and a lot of the rest were cops, firefighters or other servicemen who’d soured on the shit they’d had to put up with, and gone their own way.
For another moment, we sat in companionable silence – and then I could help it. I yawned.
Mason looked at me, and said: “You should hit the hay. We’re riding out at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow.” And then he paused. “You’ve got somewhere to sleep, right?”
I laughed at him.
“Of course. Bertha hooked me and the other girls up with a motel room across the road.” I pointed back towards the roadhouse. “It’s not much, but it’s got a shower and a couple of beds. Apparently, Coyle doesn’t like his women smelling like his bikers do.”
With a groan, Recon clambered up from the rock we were sitting on, and offered me his hand.
“Well, then,” he flashed me a grin. “Might I have the honor of escorting you back to your hotel room.”
I looked up at him incredulously.
Here I was, some no-name biker slut, who he’d seen do the most shameful and disgraceful things in front of a crowd of strangers. And yet he was treating me like his Prom date.
And, as much as I hated to admit it, I liked it.
As I sat on the rock, looking up at him, I opened my mouth to speak…
He was a guy, right? He wasn’t sitting out here, shooting the shit with me without wanting something, right?
A blowjob. A fuck. All men were the same.
Right?
But as if reading my mind, Mason stretched his hand out a little further and murmured: “I’m just walking you back, Christi with-no-last-name. That’s all I want from you.”
And God, didn’t that make my stomach flip.
I reached up and took his calloused hand, and Recon pulled me from the rock. Then, hand-in-hand, he led me through the trees towards the sound of the roadhouse jukebox.
We skirted the edges of the gravel parking lot, which seemed like a smart move. Mason didn’t look like he’d be scared of any of these drunk assholes, but it certainly seemed a lot easier to avoid running into any.
At the edge of the driveway was a single lane of asphalt, and an old run-down motel opposite. A dozen bikes and more were parked there. Most of the Knuckleheads slept on the dirt, beneath the stars – but some still occasionally rented rooms and took advantage of modern conveniences.
In the room at the end was where I’d shacked up – me and three other girls who were riding with the bikers. Sherry, Rose and Kaitlyn were their names – and while we’d never be girlfriends, there was enough solidarity between biker chicks to look out for each other.
Recon led me to the door, and I paused outside it.
I turned to him – looking up into his handsome, tanned face and those intense, blue eyes.
Man, it was like being on a teenage date. I couldn’t believe it – I actually felt butterflies in my stomach.
“Maybe… maybe I can ride with you tomorrow?”
Mason’s lips curled when he heard that. He squeezed my hand.
“I’d like that,” he nodded. “I’ll ask Coyle.” And that dampened the mood a bit. Nothing like being reminded that I’m some other man’s property.
But if Mason felt the same, he didn’t show it. He just squeezed my hand again, and murmured: “Goodnight.”
And I didn’t know what else to do – so I raised myself on tip-toes, and pressed my lips briefly against his.
The kiss lasted less than a second. It was chaste, and innocent. But the moment my lips met his, I felt electricity spark between us.
I wonder if he felt it too?
I dropped back down, and bit my bottom lip.
“Goodnight,” my voice was cracking. I squeezed his hand one last time. “See you tomorrow.”
And then Mason nodded, and turned to walk away.
The floorboards of the motel porch creaked under his weight. I watched him swagger off – the v-shape of his muscular body moving side-to-side like a cowboy.
I felt it again. Those butterflies in my stomach.
Shaking my head, I reached for the door handle, and turned it.
I needed to get my shit together. Of all the dumb moves I could make while riding with these dangerous bastards, the dumbest would be to fall for one of them.
Chapter Eight
Mason
At 0600 the following morning, the sun rose above the mid-California countryside, and bathed a hundred groaning, hungover bikers in her warmth.
I was maybe one of two or three of them who wasn’t hungover – although as I threw back my blanket, and clambered up from the bedroll on the dry California dirt, I still had the taste of whiskey and Christi’s lips in my mouth.
I shivered at the memory.
As I stretched my arms and crinked my back, I started thinking back about the previous night – and how dumb I was being. I wasn’t riding with the Knuckleheads to make a love connection – and even if I was…
Her? Coyle’s woman? One of them, anyway…
Coyle was a dangerous man – and a jealous one. And from just one evening with Christi, I knew that she had more than a few demons of her own.
So why couldn’t I stop thinking about her?
I shook my head, and tried my best to get her face out of my mind. Instead, I started padding across the field out back, where most of us bikers were camped out, to grab some breakfast.
Even though the doors had only closed a few hours earlier, somebody in the roadhouse was already up and cooking eggs and bacon. A lineup of groaning, green-looking bikers were lined up for sandwiches and coffee – struggling to get going on an hour of sleep, or less, and a stomach full of rancid whiskey and beer.
I didn’t have much sympathy for them. Everybody knew Coyle liked to roll out at 0900 every morning. If these motherfuckers had their way, they’d maybe saddle up by mid-afternoon – and that means the Knuckleheads would never get anything done.
So, hangovers be damned – Coyle liked his boys on the road the moment the rush hour traffic had died down – and hungover or not, he expected us all in Fresno by early this evening. I wasn’t about to disappoint him.
I got into line behind some of the other bikers. A couple of them gave me nods of recognition, and a few grunted ‘hi.’ Since I’d become Coyle’s right-hand-man, most of the Knuckleheads knew my face – but I’d made a point of not getting too friendly with any of them, and while they might know my nickname of ‘Recon,’ I hadn’t cared to learn many of theirs.
Eventually, I shuffled up to the window of the roadhouse, and the tired-looking owner handed me eggs and bacon in a Kaiser roll, and a cup of steaming black coffee.
That was all on offer – this wasn’t Burger King. You didn’t have your sandwich ‘your way’, and there wasn’t any milk or cream for the coffee. But I didn’t care. After the number of cold MREs I’d eaten on the hot sands of the Iraqi desert, I took any hot, fresh-cooked chow I could get my hands on.
There were picnic tables around the corner from the roadhouse, and I found an empty one to perch on, while I chowed down on my sandwich. The roll could have been fresher, and the cheese wasn’t melted, but the food was good enough and my stomach rumbled happily as I wolfed it down.
As I ate, the crowd of bikers grumbled and complained in the background… until suddenly they fell silent.
I looked up from my food.
My biker brothers had stopped talking because they saw the boss arriving. Flanked on one side by Bertha, Coyle had emerged from his trailer and was striding across the parking lot like a hungry lion.
“Morning, boys,” Coyle grinned, as he reached the line for food, and shouldered his lieutenants out of the way. Snatching two sandwiches from the roadhouse chef – sandwiches which had, until a second ago, been destined for other bikers – Coyle perched on the corner of one of the picnic tables and tore a bit out of his roll like a shark sinking his teeth into an unl
ucky surfer.
“Here’s the deal,” he announced, as he chewed his food. “We roll out in twenty minutes. Anybody not in Fresno by sundown needn’t bother turning up at all. Got it?”
There was a mumbled affirmation from the crowd of bikers.
“You fuckers stay out of trouble,” he added, pointing an accusing finger at the Knuckleheads. “We’ve got a delicate situation we’re dealing with up there; and I don’t want any unwanted attention from the highway patrol. Dig?”
Again, another mumbled roar of agreement.
“Good,” Coyle gulped down the last of his sandwich. “Now hurry your lazy asses, and roll out.”
And with that, he tossed the foil wrapper of his sandwich over his shoulder, and slipped off the corner of the picnic table.
The crowd of bikers turned away and started mumbling amongst themselves again. Coyle, meanwhile, surveyed the crowd – and then his intense brown eyes turned to me.
Even as I stared into my Styrofoam cup of coffee, I could feel his gaze on me. What the fuck did he want?
I looked up, and saw Coyle and Bertha striding through the crowd of hungover bikers directly towards me.
“Mornin’, Recon,” Coyle grinned, as he finally stepped up and loomed over me. I looked up, saying nothing, as the enormous biker swung his leg over the picnic table and sat down opposite.
Bertha fell into step behind him – laying a possessive hand on Coyle’s shoulder.
“How you feelin’, Recon?” Coyle asked, studying me as I chewed my food.
“Just fine, boss,” I replied – and he grinned.
“That’s my boy. Got some self-control, unlike these animals.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the crowd of bikers. “Wouldn’t be surprised if half these motherfuckers are still lit when they roll on out of here.”
I said nothing. Coyle seemed to like that.
“Here’s the deal, Recon,” he eventually continued. “I don’t like my girls riding with drunks or deadbeats. You willing to haul one of my bitches up with you to Fresno?”
I felt my stomach tighten as I heard that.
His ‘bitches.’ He meant the girls who rode with us – his harem.
A harem that included Christi.
“Whadya say?” Coyle grinned. “I’m sure she’d reward you for it, if you know what I mean?”
And he gave me a lascivious wink – which kind of made me feel queasy.
But as distasteful as Coyle pimping out his girls was, I felt a surge of excitement at what he was asking me to do. I’d told Christi late last night that I’d ask Coyle if she could ride with me up to Fresno. Now was my chance.
“I’ll take Christi,” I tried to sound nonchalant about it. “If you want.”
Coyle’s grin widened. He looked like a well-mannered shark, with all those gleaming teeth.
“Christi, eh?” Reaching over, he punched me playfully on the arm. “I saw how you were looking at her last night. You sweet on her, son?”
“No,” I lied, through gritted teeth. “She’s just skinny. Takes up less room on the bike.”
He laughed at that one, and punched me on the arm again.
“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter,” the big biker grinned. “She’s got a nice little ass on her, that one. I dig it.”
And then he leaned in closer, and the joviality faded somewhat.
“Just don’t like her too much, okay son?” he warned me.
For a moment I wondered if this was his possessive side coming out. Fuck, he’d been happy enough to share Christi with Rooker and Bowser, like she was a piece of meat…
…but God help the man who tried to enjoy her without his permission.
And then Coyle clarified:
“She ain’t in it for the long haul, son.” He reached behind him, and squeezed Bertha’s hand. “She ain’t like my girl here.”
Leaning back against Bertha, Coyle explained:
“You ride with a club for a few years, and you see girls like Christi come and go all the time. Some of ‘em are rebelling against their parents. Some are hidin’ out from the cops, or from abusive boyfriends. Some just want free drugs.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Sooner or later they all drift off. Back in Reno last summer, I found one of my first bitches workin’ a glory hole in a truck stop. But then again, another bitch of mine went legit, and she’s married to a state congressman now.”
Shaking his head, Coyle warned:
“I don’t know what little Christi’s deal is, but don’t get too attached to her. You dig?”
I didn’t know what to say. That just made me more fascinated with her.
But I nodded. “I dig.”
“Good.” There was a thump, as Coyle landed his massive hand on my shoulder. “Now go pack your sleeping roll, and find my girl. You should roll on out of here well ahead of these drunken motherfuckers,” again, he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “You don’t want any of them pancaking you when they wipe out on the freeway.”
That was good advice.
I nodded, and Coyle seemed to be satisfied. With a groan, the big biker clambered up from his seat, and swung his leg over the corner of the picnic table.
“See you in Fresno, Recon.”
And then he and Bertha swaggered off, back towards the trailer.
I watched them go – the towering biker, and his lioness of a first lady. They were a scary, dangerous, magnificent couple. I didn’t know whether to be scared of them, or impressed. And I figure I was probably a little of both.
But with a shake of my head, I looked back down at my coffee, and decided it was time to follow orders.
Pack up my Twin-Cam. Find Christi. Hit the highway and put some good, square miles between me and the rest of these hungover motherfuckers, following along behind.
Chapter Nine
Christi
I lay bundled under the covers in my shitty motel bed, and felt like my head was going to explode.
Oh, shit. Why did I have to drink so much last night?
Well, I knew the answer to that. If I hadn’t, I don’t know how I’d have been able to cope with all the things I’d ended up having to do.
Sex with Rooker and Bowser. That threesome with Coyle and Bertha. With beer and whiskey swilling around inside my stomach, it was easy to disassociate from the reality of those sordid situations…
…maybe even enjoy them.
But man, did I regret it in the morning.
Groaning, I rolled over in bed, and found myself spooning with Kaitlyn’s pantie-clad ass. For some reason – and let’s not beat around the bush, it was probably the liquor – she’d gone to sleep in the opposite direction from me, and now we were lying in an opposite 69 position – the much less fun one.
Before I got a lungful of her morning gas, I rolled over, and practically fell off the bed as I did so. Squeaking, I clutched at the covers, and that was when I heard Sherry’s gruff voice sneer: “Check it out. Sleepin’ beauty’s up.”
Sherry was a tattooed biker chick in her early thirties. She’d joined up with the Knuckleheads in her early twenties, then ‘went legit’ when she shacked up with one of them, popped out a couple of babies and retired to a semi-normal life in California.
But it wasn’t long before bad things happened. Her husband had got into meth, and then into the state penitentiary… Then the kids had gone off to live with grandma, and Sherry had found herself back on the road again.
She was still young enough and pretty enough to get plenty of attention – but the crow’s feet were starting to show, and realizing what she lacked in youth, she’d started to make up for with a bitchy attitude.
Still, I liked her well enough – and as Sherry lurched over and helped haul me out of bed, I realized her snark had some genuine affection behind it.
“Heard about your little performance last night,” Sherry snorted, as she brushed my tangled hair out of her eyes.
At first I felt a stab of shame in
my gut, at the thought of my public indignity… But then Sherry fixed one of the spaghetti straps of my tank top, and laughed: “I remember my first time riding with these boys. Coyle had ‘em run a train on me at some roadhouse outside of Bakersfield.”
Her eyes glazed a bit, as she remembered all those years ago.
“I think I took twenty boys that night,” she smirked. “Haven’t come so much in my life.”
I shivered at the thought.
But before Sherry could expect me to say anything, there was a pounding at the motel door.
Rose, who was a leggy brunette, answered it in just her bra and panties, one of her boobs threatening to fall out of the tattered Victoria’s Secret push-up she was barely wearing.
The door creaked open, and she blinked as the sunlight seared her hungover eyeballs.
“Yo, Christi,” Rose eventually muttered. “It’s for you. Coyle musta sent Tall, Dark and Handsome over for you.”
I rubbed my gritty eyes, and turned towards the doorway.
There, silhouetted by the morning sunlight, was the unmistakable figure of Mason – or Recon, as these girls still knew him.
“Uh, hi,” I murmured, suddenly aware that I was standing there in nothing but a pair of bikini panties and a tank top.
But Mason didn’t seem to care. In fact, even though he was keeping up the perfect gentleman façade, I could see he was drinking me in like Bourbon.
Even with no makeup, my hair all tousled, and my panties riding up the crack of my ass.
“Coyle said you’re ridin’ with me,” Mason explained. “I want to leave soon. Think you can be ready?”
I rolled my tongue around my parched mouth. I needed water, and coffee… and if I could stomach it, some food.
“The roadhouse is still serving,” as if reading my mind, Mason suggested: “Why don’t I go get you girls some chow, while you get ready?”
Rose and Sherry seemed to like that idea.
“Aww, thanks, darlin’,” Rose even laid a flirtatious hand on Mason’s shoulder, and I felt an unexpected stab of jealousy when I watched it.
But he didn’t even react – just nodded in my direction, and then turned on his heel to saunter off.
No Way Out Page 5
