“Clown masks?! Like one of those juggalos?” Flapper laughed so hard at this that a few other riders in the vicinity turned our way. I felt like I was in a gladiator's ring. My tormentors were barking all around me.
“Boys! Have any of you all seen a new MC in Miami? Likes to play dress-up?”
The men growled 'no.' Some of them laughed—that old heh-heh-heh of my childhood, but crueler, somehow.
“I'm not making things up,” I said slowly. “Really, boys. I'm not.” It was time to play the full hand. “I...I've been hanging around with a Knight of Styx. Carter Knox—the fella you mentioned at the council meeting. He's a scout, and he's told me for a fact that his club has nothing to do with the murders. In fact, I was with him last night, when Dixon was killed. And he's just here on a survey mission! Says the Styx are circling Florida because they want to make a truce with us.”
The grounds were silent for a moment. I tried not to make eye contact. The hatred in the riders' eyes was startling, and it cut me to the quick. Could I lose their loyalty so easily?
“You were 'with him last night,' huh? So you've been fucking the enemy,” Flapper pronounced. He was suddenly standing close to me. “We've got two good men dead on the grounds, and you've been running around wagging your puss at the men who shot 'em dead.”
“I don't believe they did it! Didn't you hear me, fellas? There's a new MC! They're ruthless. They target civilians, and they don't care about bloodshed. I've seen what they can do.”
“...and your Pops is likely rolling in his fucking grave.”
I swallowed hard, intent to keep hot tears from bubbling. Don't let them see you cry, Gisele.
“One man killed my Pops, Flapper. One man, years ago. And I learned from that night that I never want to see war again. I'm sure my Pops wouldn't either.”
Over the men's heads, I could see that Esse, Nunu and the rest of the girls had gathered by the portico. They were looking at me like I was a crazy stranger, their painted mouths agape.
“Is it fucking you like, Gisele?” Flapper barked at me now. “Cause we can arrange to have you taken care of right here, in the clubhouse. Don't need to head outside for whatever it is you're looking for.” The other men laughed at this teasing, but I saw in the leader's eyes that he was deadly serious. I believed, in that moment, every single rumor I'd ever heard about Flap.
“It's not about that, Flapper. I just don't want to see any more men dead. I don't want to see you make any more mistakes --” and in another moment, everything had gone dark. It was that fast. The pain came a moment after the fact—it started in my left temple, then began pulsing in waves across my face.
When I opened my eyes, I was prone in the mud. The side of my head felt sticky, wet. Towering above me was Flapper, brandishing the blunt end of a handgun. No one had rushed forward to help me—none of the women on the porch, not Dog, not Tall Man.
“You know, Gisele. In an MC? If you're not loyal to your brothers, you're not worth shit.” Spit flew from his mouth with these last words, landing on the side of my face. My head was aching.
“Men!” The rider crowed, returning the gun to the back of his jeans. Even where I wobbled in the dirt, I could see that his weapon was a Magnum. “Let's go string up some Knights of Styx!” The boys cheered. The engines revved. I lay on the ground until I heard the last bike hop the moat. And then, only then, did I permit myself to break down fully. For here I was, in this land I'd always considered my home, being made to wail and cower in the dust.
I couldn't just sit there and feel sorry for myself, though, that was for damn sure—it was time for action. I teetered back towards my room, the thoughts arriving fast and furious. My first feelings were for Dixon. How soon after our meeting had his life ended? What had he been doing, wandering around the moat in the midnight hour? It was more than conspicuous, that two of our club leaders had been shot dead within 48 hours. Either this mysterious new club of Knox's theory was as stealthy as they were malignant, or that gun in Flapper's hand had been for more than just show. Probably, I figured now, both were true.
Flapper. They said he'd shot a man once—but could he really have murdered Dixon, and Rodney? Of course, he stood a lot to gain, outing the Cheaters' leadership. Now, nothing stood between that derelict and the Club President job except for Tall Man. And possibly, possibly...me.
And once again, I needed to warn Carter and Scotty about the imminent danger—but leaving the grounds at a time like this would be akin to sealing my fate. Instead, I locked the door of my room and turned to the mirror. The wound on my head wasn't so bad, I figured—he'd barely broken the skin. I didn't need a stitch. Breathing deeply, I watched my eyes for a moment in the mirror. No nausea, no spinning stars—I had a headache, but apparently not a concussion. I pressed a strip of antibiotic gauze to my temple, and then, I began to pace. Though I was scarcely religious, I sent up a little prayer: please, God. Please keep Carter safe. Please don't let them hurt Carter. They can hurt me all they want, but just don't let the hurt Carter.
We'd laughed the night before. We'd laughed, and I'd pleased him...we could have been an old couple, or best friends, or any two normal people falling in love, in a normal place and time. But everything seemed impossible, now. And wasn't that my fault? Hadn't I chosen this life? I wasn't like Tati, who'd abandoned the club the very first chance she'd got. I'd always been loyal to the Coffin Cheaters, because I loved the road. I loved the adventure. But now, what had that loyalty bought me? Now that they knew my secret, I was sure to be cast out of the MC—or, worse—retained forever as some kind of sex slave. I paced the creaky floorboards, my mind weighing options: theoretically, I could go find Carter, and we could defect together. Race off into the sunset. Flick the dust of this crummy town off our boots, go anywhere. Be crazy and stupid and in love, and let our fucking clubs tear one another limb from limb.
But then what did Carter have to offer me? Could we ever be together? Really and truly? I knew it was nuts to have hitched on so fast, but I couldn't deny the well of feeling I already had for this man. He was like no one else I'd ever met. I tried to picture us seeing that movie he was always yammering about...it happened one day, or whatever it was called. I tried to picture us eating popcorn, massaging one another's feet, making elegant love on a living room rug someplace. A single bike engine droned by on the rode outside, and I couldn't, quite—I couldn't imagine any of it.
I sat down at my child-sized desk, drummed my nails against the oak. All I could do right now was wait. It wasn't like I could outpace the whole Coffin Cheaters armada, and it didn't seem as if the gang knew to head first for Casablanca—so that meant that Carter and Scotty, at least, were safe for the time being. Okay. So, I'd wait to be sure that the whole group had left the grounds, then I'd scurry back to Scotty's. I'd warn Knox about the raid, and perhaps he could get a message to the Knights of Styx at their secret hideout before the Cheaters caught up with 'em. Perhaps we could prevent some other young girl's father from being slaughtered without a chance to defend himself. Yes. This was exactly what I would do. Wait.
I stood to pace again, my head growing clearer. I recalled a secret emergency stack of Tati's cigarettes bundled inside of an old notebook, and I fetched these. I wasn't a huge smoker, but if there ever was a day... lighting a stray match on the bottom of my boot, I brought the little cylinder to my mouth and sipped. Instantly, I felt the slightest bit better. The confines of my room, the brief sense of peace—these briefly reminded me of the mystery savior, who'd kept me and Tati from harm on that fateful night so long ago. I gazed at my reflection again in the mirror—the bleeding had stopped. My tears had dried. I was bloody, but unbowed. And somewhere, a strange angel was watching over me. I was sure of it.
Suddenly, there was a knock on my bolted bedroom door: three heavy pounds in a row. My stomach seized. I raced through the possibilities—it could be one of the house girls, come to apologize (not a chance); or Flap, returned to claim a quick victory slap around/fuck before heading out into th
e open road. It was just as likely any other rider with a mean thing to say. I tiptoed toward the door, considered my chances.
“Who is it?” I called, timid.
In response, the knock merely repeated itself: three sharp, aggressive BOOMS. There were too many people around, I rationalized. Flapper wouldn't try anything truly funny in the morning light. My heart still pounding, I opened the door a crack.
“Somebody rang for a doppelganger?”
“Tati?!”
“The one and only. Now open this door—I have about a hundred questions for you, twin. Namely, why haven't you been responding to any of my letters? And—Jesus, Fuck, what happened to your face?”
At last! A single ray of direct sunlight after these dark, spotty weeks. I lurched beyond the threshold and grabbed my sister, practically clawing at the short shag cut she'd hacked her own red hair into. I almost sang with relief.
“Wow. You missed me that much, huh?”
“You have no idea. Now, quick. Come in.”
Stooping to grab her floral carry-all and what I determined by the outline was a large box of wine (always classy as hell, my sister), Tati followed me into our childhood bedroom. The little secret fortress that we'd used to share.
“Funny how time flies,” she said slowly, her eyes scanning the empty room. When she had lived here, we'd had posters on the walls for a dozen bands. These days I kept the place pretty Spartan, except for a few sporty photos of bikes I had my eye on.
“You're shaking, Gizzy.”
“No, I'm not.”
“What's wrong?”
Everything.
“Nothing.”
She came towards me again, and I let myself sink against my sister.
“Everything's gonna be okay now,” she whispered into my hair, rubbing my back. “I promise. Whatever's going on…Everything's really gonna be okay.”
Chapter Eleven
* * *
After Tati had practically shoved me into a hot shower and helped me re-dress the gash on my head, my sister and I divvied up a box of booze and a bag of peanuts like a couple of winos. Tati sat patiently during the whole fucked up saga—of the Coffin Cheaters turning on me, the shocking double homicide, and my sordid whatever-it-was with Carter. She didn't even once try to pipe in with a story about her band, or her boyfriend, or any of her famous, “My life is better than yours” kind of anecdotes. For once, my sister had shut up. Until:
“I'll fucking kill him myself,” Tati flared. “Flapper, huh? I don't care. No one touches my sister. You're lucky I wasn't here—I would have shot that fat fuck dead, with his own gun.”
“What, like that biker shot Dad? Really, Tati?” It already seemed like the skirmish outside had happened to somebody else. It was just too hard to believe that the whole club would turn on me like that—especially when I was trying to protect them.
“Knox sounds pretty dreamy, I must say,” she said at last, after I'd cherry-picked the parts of our courtship that I thought would make the most sense to an outsider. “But are you sure he's not just some scumbucket rider? I mean, what do you mean, he 'doesn't have a phone?'”
“That's not so weird. You don't have a phone.”
“That's because I'm off the grid. Me and all the boys. Plus, we have phones in the hotels.”
“Still makes it awfully hard to keep in touch with you, sis,” I grumbled, swigging a gulp of wine. “I've really needed you these past few weeks. And it sucked, not being able to talk to you.”
Tati was silent, processing. I could tell she felt awful—and it's not like it was my plan to make her pay, or anything. We definitely had bigger fish to fry.
“But you have to understand, Gizzy. This is exactly what I was trying to get away from—all the politics, and the violence. Someone hit you, don't you understand that? Some man who was supposed to protect you publicly shamed you, then knocked you out cold. This is exactly why I skipped town, you know I never wanted to worry that the next person I fell in love with could hurt me, or die in a gunfight, or end up in jail forever. I didn't want to 'die by the sword'...I wanted a very different kind of adventure.”
In my mind, I was comparing the physiques of Tati's rocker boyfriends with Carter's masculine outline. In one unbidden burst, I envisioned one of Tati's rocker boys naked. None of those skinny emo dudes could possibly measure up to the sculpted swells of my guy. How was that, for 'different kind of adventure?'
“Look at your face,” she giggled. “We're in this huge mess, and you're already so smitten.”
“I am not!”
“Of course you are. You're turning your allegiance to the MC all on its head, just for some guy you hardly know. Sounds like something I'd do.” Tati took a breezy sip of our fourth or fifth shared cigarette. “I just want you to be sure that he's worth all this trouble. Cause no matter what he tells you, remember: he's a man. And men only want one thing.”
I envisioned myself for an instant in the mirrored surface above Scotty's bed. I saw the back of Knox's curly head. I recalled how he'd sucked me to completion and then covered me with a blanket, apparently wanting nothing in return.
“I really think this one's different. And I think we have something. I can't—I can't explain it.”
Putting up her hands in mock defense, Tati kowtowed. “Okay, okay. I believe you. Just: don't be an idiot.”
Outside, the MC grounds were deadly silent. Though I was feeling sleepy after our long night of cavorting plus this morning's catch-up, I knew time was of the essence.
“So what's your plan again, twinnie? You're gonna roll over to this mystery tiki bar, save your knight in shiny armor, and race off into the sunset? Is that it?”
I stared into my sister's familiar eyes, sensing her guile. She was so effortlessly independent. We were fundamentally different, she and I. As wonderful as racing off into the sunset sounded, I knew it was something I could never quite do. And if I knew Knox at all, fleeing the scene wouldn't appeal to him either.
I am nine years old again.
“Pop, what's this long, pointy thing for?”
“Them's the brakes, kiddo. Ha-ha. Get it?” Glasses clink. It's a hot summer day, and the riders are gathered around a sweaty cooler, celebrating nothing at all.
“It's the damndest thing. I've never known a single MC's got a little beanpole girl for their mascot.” This is Ra Ra Rodney yammering—I know him by his slurpy laugh and the constant glaze of his eyes. He's always making fun of me and Tati, but I know he doesn't mean it. Rodney's the one who taught me long division, using a hefty cut of singles from the fat wad he carries around. Everyone I know here carries around so much money.
“What are you talking? Couple of those inner-city gangs seem to like the surf-boards,” yells Dixon. He spits a long trail of chew into the dust.
Everyone laughs in the circle: that familiar, crowing, heh-heh-heh. They have nowhere to be. No obligations at all. From what I've gathered, the riders all pool the money they make from mysterious nighttime trips to downtown Miami. I'm never invited to these.
“You want a ride, little G?”
“Really?”
Pop—with his greying, greasy hair tied back into its usual bun, that grizzly beard, those stamps of tattoos racing up and down his meaty forearms—he looks at me like I'm queen for a day. “Hell yeah, really. Put a helmet on and hold tight.”
The riders are laughing again—that callous heh-heh-heh—but I'm too excited to pay them any mind. I put my skinny arms around my dad's husky middle. Once, Pop took me and Tati on a rollercoaster. We were in Tallahassee for some reason I can't remember, and there was a fair. I'm scared now like I was then, but I refuse to show the other Cheaters that I'm nervous. Instead, I focus my eyes on the symbols on Pops' vest—the gaping grimace of a skull peering over the raised lip of a coffin. A hexagon, Rodney had told me once. Most old coffins are hexagons.
“You strapped in tight now, Gizzy?”
“Sure am, sir.”
“Alrighty then. An
d away we go!” I almost scream when he kicks the bike forward. Pop's back is moving, the muscles rippling, and I grip him harder around the middle. I shut my eyes tight.
We begin to coast. We pick up speed, stabling off, and I eke my eyes open the teensiest bit. I look at the ground whipping by below me—so close I could touch it. Then, I look up at the road. It's like we're eating the road alive. We're staring down a straight, open thoroughfare, zooming towards a horizon. And I feel so, so happy.
Pop yells something over his shoulder, but I don't hear it—I'm too busy watching the world whip by. The only thing I can focus on, when I want focus, is that pointed, grimacing hexagon. And some part of my baby-sized little nine-year old brain is putting two and two together, and I think, of course. Of course we're called the Coffin Cheaters. Because, of course, this is what it feels like to cheat death.
“Earth to Gisele?”
“Hey sis—I'm sorry.”
“Whatcha thinking?”
That I could never run away from the Coffin Cheaters. That I had to stay and fight. That whatever good there was left in this MC that had always been my home, I needed to preserve it. And hell, if I knew Carter Knox? He felt the same way about the Knights of Styx. We didn't want our clubs to flame out in an unnecessary war. Despite Flapper's hatred, despite Dog and Viper's cruel words, I still owed all these miserable shitstains most of my life.
“Come on,” I said, deciding as I spoke. “I want you to meet the boy.”
“Are you sure it's safe to leave now? Aren't the Cheaters all over the roads?”
I nearly snorted. Safe? Who the hell knew what safe looked like, anymore? And anyway—who cared?
Chapter Twelve
* * *
Carter
Scotty woke me up at seven, the little shit. I heard him outside, fluttering around his precious patio, attempting to clean up after the previous evening's disaster. I've never met a man so hung up on appearances. All of my brothers prefer the kind of dark, whiskey-packing bar that's off all the little highways in the South—or even the loud, zany dives of Little Havana, in downtown Miami. But Scotty? He likes to run a choice operation. Umbrellas in the drink. Old tunes on the record player. A real class act, this guy. I guess that's weirdly why we get along.
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