I said, “Okay, Cox, I hear you, and I’m really grateful for you trusting me. That does set a lot of things straight. But all of that must be pretty well known around town. I bet my daddy could have told me all of that.”
I bit my lip, it was a mistake to say that. Cox hated it whenever I mentioned my daddy. I went on, “None of what you just told me now is like state secrets, is it?”
“No, it isn’t, Nikka, but this is: the club is headed for a big problem right now, and we may need Warhog again. We might need Butcher.”
“That’s pretty hardcore, Cox.”
“That’s why I’m telling you, Nikka. This may be your last chance to get out before it all blows up. There’s just one chance of a meet tomorrow sorting this thing out, but none of us really believes that it will work.”
“Cox, I don’t want out. How clear can I be with you, I want in.” I wanted to tell him that what I wanted was to be with him, whatever it meant and wherever it was. I figured it would only scare him away if I said that, so I held my tongue.
His tongue was what I wanted more than anything right then. He reached out for me, pulled me to him. He must have felt my heart, banging in my chest. I could practically hear it thumping. The look in his eyes was hard to read, like he was scanning me. He said,
“You know Beanie still hasn’t found Cap. Have you any idea where he is?”
I thought that I’d handled the situation with Snori and Trols so badly, I just didn’t want to tell Cox anything about it. Still, it didn’t seem as though anybody had seen Cap since then. I shook my head. He said,
“Nikka?” I looked away. He snapped,
“There’s always something you keep back, Nikka. Didn’t you understand any of what I said about trust? Am I not getting through to you at all?”
As Cox stomped out he slammed the door behind him.
Crosstown Traffic
I took a joint outside the clubhouse, sat in under a tree as the sky was turning dark blue. Walked around the lot, kicking dust. Bumped into Snori. “When are you fucks going back to the land of the ice and snow?” was what I wanted to ask him. Instead, I just pulled my lips tight, folded my arms and stepped around him.
As I passed, he grabbed my arm. Same arm as before, in the same place. I hated the heat and the smell of his breath on the side of my face. He hissed in my ear, “Don’t you be spreading stories now, will you, little girly? We’re the ones with the myths and the sagas.” And I shook as he let go roughly, and he said, “Don’t forget.”
I had to get out of there.
I drove around going nowhere in particular and feeling wretched and miserable.
It was only because I was driving around with no place to go, no pattern, turning at random and doubling back more than once, I started to notice that wherever I went, a dark sedan would be somewhere behind me and about two cars back. Not near enough that I could see the driver or read the license plate. I couldn’t even be too sure of the color, only that it was dark, but it stayed there like a shadow that was running late.
I had refused to wear the wire, but I wondered if maybe the dragon lady might not have given up yet. Perhaps she’d let me go a little too easily. I began to wonder if, as well as having me followed around, the dragon lady could have had devices planted in my car. A tracker or a wire, or even both.
Look at Little Sister
Cox watched from the clubhouse door. Bogart’s Harley climbed the incline up to the clubhouse as he returned from the Meathook. Bogart pulled up and leaned the bike on its stand outside. On the back of the bike was another girl. Another looker, too. She looked a lot like Angelica. Could they be related? Los Muertos could have brought sisters across the border, that would make sense, sure. Bogart turned in the saddle and spoke to her, pointed up at the clubhouse. Along the wall Cox saw Angelica, about the same time the girl did. She jumped off the back of the bike, ran over to Angelica.
Angelica never knew what Bogart did to get Inez and bring her back Hell’s Kitchen, but he brought her, safe and well.
When Angelica saw her sister, smiling, tired and dirty, all the stress of the last few days burst out of her and she hugged Inez’s neck and sobbed. She looked in her eyes, stroked her face, held her close and she wept.
She held Inez’s face in her hands, smoothed her crinkly black hair, brushed her face and kissed her over and over.
And now, she knew, she owed Bogart. Forever.
As Bogart stepped up to the clubhouse door, the two girls came over and hugged him. He almost smiled as he said, “Okay, girls. You’re happy. I get it. That’s good. Now, run along and be happy.”
Cox could see at once that Los Muertos hadn’t come up with the money, he didn’t even have to ask. They passed a look. Cox chewed inside his lip. They both knew that this was real trouble.
Who knew what the deal with the girl was, though. Bogart couldn’t be moving the club into trafficking. Not without a council. It was against everything the club stood for, Bogart’s rules as much as anyone’s. More than anyone who was alive and not in jail. Cox was sure it wasn’t something they needed to discuss, otherwise they’d be discussing it.
Bogart clapped Cox’s shoulder. “How’s Chief Ballmer’s little girl?” Cox knew that Bogart was riding him.
“Yeah, she’s good.”
“So, she your old lady now or what. Or should I maybe just wait until our brothers have flown home before I ask any more about that?”
“Yeah, OK, Bogart, that was partly to give her space from the Vikings,”
“HEY!” Bogart snapped, “Not out loud, okay, not ever. We got enough trouble.” That was true. They went inside and Bogart said, “Look, if you’re okay with her, it’s alright with me. You want to keep your pole dancing cheerleader to yourself, I think it’s unbrotherly of you,” now Cox really knew Bogart was riding him, “but I guess we’ll have to get along with you being a selfish bastard for a while.” They stopped by the bar and Bogart peered over his shades, his wily, crinkly eyes firm. “Just know,” he said, “You answer for her, Cox. She’s your responsibility.”
“Of course, Bogart.”
Images and thoughts of Nikka danced around Cox’s mind He thought about her more and more. The way that she bit her thumb, her tight, fit little moves – oh, yes. But more than that. She understood him, and she made him feel different somehow. Made him think of himself like he was a better man.
The Weight
I saw Beanie, shuffling out of the woods at the back of the yard, pale with a hollow look in his face. I went over and asked him, “What’s wrong Beanie?” and he couldn’t speak, but his eyes were so empty, I knew it was something bad. Something very, very bad.
Emotion can be hard on a prospect. They’d rather die than let a full member see it. I sat him down behind an outbuilding so he could have some time before any club members saw him. I fired up a joint and handed it to him. His eyes were blank but he took it, then I went in to grab a bottle of bourbon and a couple of shot glasses.
He had hardly moved when I got back, and his fingers were trembling on the spliff. I handed him a shot glass with a good sized slug, and he slung it back without his eyes moving. As the bourbon hit, he shook, once, hard. Then he looked at me.
The horror that he had seen shocked him so hard, its impact was still stamped on his face. “Cap,” he said and his bottom lip trembled. I knew it. He got a hold and he said, “They opened him, Nikka. They opened him up.”
I thought of Trols’ big, shiny serrated blade.
Gypsy
Hacker pulled up outside the Meathook, leaned his Harley in a dark patch of the parking lot, near the road, far from the bar and the line of bikes by the steps leading to the club doorway.
On the way in he checks that Jake, Shank and Boxers rides are all in the line. There they are, engines still warm and ticking.
From her perch at the bar, Gypsy watched as he strode into the bar, and the background noise of the Meathook changed key. He was a tall, rangy, biker with hair the color of straw. His cheek
bones and jaw, even his short mustache and beard, they could all have been chiseled from granite. The short, neat beard can’t hide a deep cleft in his chin. His deep, emerald eyes were hard and penetrating. His expression was rock solid. The barroom floor could have burst into flame, his face wouldn’t move.
Her kick-ass leather waistcoat had black tassels on the big sliver buckles, and it was open over a white cotton shirt with a tall collar. The shirt was open most of the way, exposing a black lace bra that struggled to contain her hefty, heaving beauties. Sinuous Thai silver chains lay across the tops of her breasts, so as to show them as they when they rose and fell.
Sheer dark gunmetal nylon sheathed her long legs, with a tiny tight black leather mini skirt, a couple of tassels each side for added interest. Black lacy tops of the hold-ups peeked out just below the hem of the little skirt. The huge Mexican silver buckle on the wide black belt was low and loose on the sheen of leather stretched over the curve of her stomach. Short black Spanish hand-made cowboy boots with embroidery and raised heels helped to focus attention on her calves and thighs.
Gypsy sent her tried and tested not looking at you look to Hacker, along the bar. For a long time. When his attention was engaged, that look was supposed to be followed up by the disdainful tilt of the chin to say, You thought it was YOU I wasn’t looking at? Hah! Only his attention didn’t register her, Not at all. Not even in a not looking at you, either kind of a way. Not even in a didn’t you once take off all your clothes in high school? kind of a way. Gypsy wasn’t used to that. Hacker was talking to the barman, Grinder. Grinder looked like he was made out of two or more truckers. When she rolled her practically empty glass around and looked into it, Grinder noticed. But Hacker didn’t.
She wanted him. She wanted him so bad she could taste it right on the back of her throat, feel it with the tip of her tongue. Her thighs tingled and she got squirmy in her panties with the very thought of him. If she had known then what the cost was going to be, would she have done it any differently? Hard to say. Gypsy learned a lot in the next few days. If she’d seen what was coming, would she have acted differently, or would she have figured it was all worth the price?
Intricate tattoo art on his strong neck slipped down the muscles inside his black work shirt. On the back of his cut-off leather motorcycle jacket was the Savage MC top rocker, the big ‘S’ with a dagger and drips of red. The bike jacket had big zippers and buckles and even with no sleeves it looked like it weighed about as much as she did. He rocked up to the bar, loose-limbed in denim baggies, ordered a bourbon and talked with the barkeeper. Leaning at the bar, his ass was a miracle.
Gypsy recognized Hacker from high school, where he had been a few years above her, and he graduated from pretty cool to face-melting hot. That ass. The word was that he was pretty high up in the local motorcycle club, too. Thrillingly dangerous. The way that she looked in high school, she had the best shoes, the best clothes, the coolest makeup. She had all the money. But she had been under a layer or two of puppy fat. She looked a whole lot better now.
Gypsy strutted slowly over to the jukebox. She put on George Thorogood and the Destroyers Get a Haircut and Get a Real Job. The room was full of nobody caring, even though every other man’s eyes slid down the length of her throat, over the sliver chains and inside her shirt, around her black bra and then up her thighs. Every other man except Mr Hacker. The jukebox had John the Revelator, but only the Curtis Stigers version. If it had Son House she would have played that. She was going to cue up Bad Company, the original by Bad Company, but then she saw the live version of Mr Big by Free, so she lined that up with Hendrix If Six Were Nine, thinking, Ignore that, motherfuckers.
She crossed back to the bar, figuring she’d have to buy her own damn drink, but a clean glass was waiting for her with a glowing shot of bourbon. She looked up in Hacker’s direction, but it was Grinder who returned her smile. Good guy, Grinder. Ah well.
As she carefully and studiously didn’t watch their conversation, she saw both men make gestures toward the back of the bar. The corridor led to the payphone, the men’s room and the back rooms, so she decided to head Hacker off at the pass.
She stood waiting in the corridor, rolling the remains of her bourbon around the glass. He loped along from the barroom like he was in slow motion. When he got to where she was standing, she was blocking his way. He looked in her eye as he waited for her to move aside. No expression, no greeting, no, “Hi, nice to see you,” nothing. Like he didn’t even recognize her. So, she decided that she’d have to do the talking, “Hacker, right? We were at high school together.”
“We were at the same high school. Wasn’t anything ‘together’ about it. Now, would you stand aside.” When she didn’t move he put his hands on her upper arms to move her to the passageway wall, but as he moved her she was sure that he caught her perfume. Not just the scent from a bottle, the one that smells like patchouli and cum. As his fingers contacted with her skin, a shock ran through her. His bottom lip tightened and that was how she knew that he registered it, too.
He moved her, his hands gripping her arms, moved her to the side. Their lips were close enough that they could taste each other’s breath. His was like the Old Crow Reserve bourbon that he’d been drinking, but it still carried a whiff of the mannish boy.
As their mouths came close together, he paused. Only for a moment, but long enough that he couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. His voice was thick as he said, “You were always trouble, Gypsy. Looks like you still are.”
Gypsy put out her bottom lip. He could still have reached it with his teeth. She was sure that the thought crossed his mind. She said, “Enough trouble to scare you away, Hacker? I am dissapoint.”
His thumb dragged on his bottom lip, “It isn’t the amount of trouble, it’s the kind. You’re just spoiled rich-girl trouble. Look-what-I-can-do, spit-in-your-eye trouble that your daddy’s money always comes along and mops up afterwards. I wasn’t interested in high school, and I’m not interested now.”
“No?” She lifted an eyebrow and tilted her hips at him, “Seems like there’s an armadillo in the front of your pants who is very interested. He is with you, right?” She watched his jaw muscles work as she told him, “He’s followed me round the room pointing at me like the Mona Lisa’s eyes. Well, like one of the Mona Lisa’s eyes. Did you not notice?” She felt his heat right in front of her crotch. Her own heat was rising, too.
He was about to pull away. She said, “So what, have you got some ol’ lady keeping you on the straight? Or maybe you got an eightball patch?” His eyes narrowed at that.
“Alright,” he said, “have it your way. I’m here for a reason, and that’s what I’m headed for right now. If you can figure out which hog to stand by outside, then after I’m done here maybe, just maybe I’ll take you for a ride. You probably think you’d like that, little girl.”
Gypsy chewed the inside of her lip. As he left he said over his shoulder, “At your own risk if you don’t have a brain bucket.” She knew that he meant a helmet, and he knew that she wasn’t carrying one.
Outside in the dusk, a row of about fifteen bikes, most of them Harley Davidsons, leaned by the entrance like horses outside the saloon in an old western. It seemed a safe bet to Gypsy that Hacker’s wasn’t going to be in a line with all the rest of them. Far across the lot, away from the lights she saw a matt black bike. Low seat, high bars, no dressing at all. She thought, that’s him.
She thought it would be fun to really surprise him. Jump in the saddle and wait for him, ready on the hog. But she also knew that if he saw someone on his bike, he’d probably shoot them before he even wondered who it might be, so she stood waiting by the side of the bike like a little groupie.
About fifteen minutes standing around and Gypsy was starting to wonder if this was all worth it, when two drunken bikers lumbered towards her. One was tall and wide, with mean black shades, a mass of frizzy hair and a big, bushy mousey beard. The other was short and fat with a bandana and
a face covered in ugly ink. Looked like prison ink from the quality of the art. Both of them had swarthy complexions and she took them to be Mexicans.
The taller one said, “Hey, sweetbutt,” His accent sounded Mexican, “I got something here needs a cleaning. Get your tongue ready for work.” The other one laughed and moved to step behind me.
She said to the first one, “Ooh, I bet you got a cock that tastes of, let me see I’m guessing,” she narrowed her eyes and made her lips purse like a wine snob on a TV show, “don’t tell me, warm, runny enchilada cheese and mmm, I’m guessing... beer farts?” and she licked her lips. He moved towards her and she had to step back to keep the other one in sight. The first one said,
“You’ll be able to give me tasting notes, because my cock is about to be part of your calorie controlled diet for today, with a hosing of cum for afters.” They both laughed and the short one said, “I got a special seating arrangement for you to try while you savor the big sausage,”
Gypsy said, “You know whose hog this is, right?” as she turned to keep the short, fat guy with the bandana in view. The first one said,
“Yeah, but also I know that you ain’t sitting on it, so I don’t think you got any protection there.”
She was still turning, but she couldn’t keep facing both of them. She said, “You sure you want to make that bet, soldier?” but right then the tall one grabbed her from behind. He was as strong as he was big, and there wasn’t anything she could do to get out of his grip. She thought she’d better bide her time. As he held her the other one came up close in front. Put out a finger to pull her shirt forwards. Peered down into her rising hot cleavage. She tried to keep her breathing steady as he leaned his head down to sniff. Then he slipped his hand inside her bra. Grabbed her breast. Started to squeeze. She heard the first one say to him,
Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance Page 28
