“Slow down!” I cried, though no one could hear me inside my helmet. I flipped on my blinkers, too. I could feel the bikers now, still accelerating behind us. The sound of their engines was nearly overpowering. Beside me, I could sense Carter rattling—his bike dipped in small, worried swerves across the lane. And though I couldn't be sure, I imagined his hands were shaking. If the chase continued, he'd be sure to have an accident.
It couldn't end like this.
I peeled off the road, slowing as I went for the shoulder. I shook back my hair, a final sign. Whatever it was these mongrels needed, they could take it from me. The fulcrum of engines sounded confused, and I thought I could hear strands of grunted, human sounds above the fray. They were deciding whether to divide and conquer, or just go for the weakest gazelle.
I kicked down in the shoulder, and waved my own white flag (a desecrated t-shirt), in Carter's direction. His head jerked briefly as he skidded past me on the road, but I couldn't be sure if he saw my gesture. Meanwhile, the herd of Cheaters had made a mass decision amongst themselves—all of them were turning around, towards me.
In a puff of dust, ten men formed a circle around me, though there were so many of them that they bled out onto the luckily vacant road. These were my former brothers, alright. And not a one of them looked happy to see me.
Dog, the surprising leader of the pack, peeled the red riding kerchief away from his nose and mouth first. His eyes were red-rimmed, sleepless looking. No surprise there—the pack must have driven around aimlessly for a day and a half, fruitlessly hunting their prey in the wrong direction.
“Dog!” I yelled, as the engines cut out. “You have to listen to me. There's been a terrible mix-up. The Knights of Styx didn't kill Dixon, and they didn't kill Rodney. They're not behind any murders this time. You have to listen to me.” I felt like I was in one of those nightmares, where you're screaming and no one will acknowledge you, but still I continued: “You're only going to make everything worse if you stage a raid tonight. Please, please, listen to me! I beg of you!”
Dog had fully dismounted, and begun to lope toward me throughout my little impassioned speech. My eyes scanned his person for a weapon, but then I realized—he didn't need one. There were a dozen of them, and one of me, and no one else on this highway to witness anything. I stood on my toes, scanning the outside world for Carter, but saw and heard no trace of my beloved. Had this been a huge mistake?
“Please, Dog,” I said, finally. And to think—this tall, pimply goofus had once been inside of me. Who could have imagined that he'd be the one to end my life?
“Gisele,” my old friend croaked, his voice hoarse. “Gisele, stop talking. We know all that. Flapper skipped this morning, after an ashtray called about the body they found in the garage. He's been working with Satan's Refuse to overthrow the Cheaters and the Styx this whole time.”
Sweet Judas. That traitor hadn't just murdered innocent men years ago, but he'd sold out his entire family, over and over and over again. It was Flapper who'd planted these seeds of dissent. Flapper who'd planned to take over my club, after leading them into battle against innocent men. For all I could imagine, Flapper intended to amass some kind of motley, terrible, super MC, made of the survivors of his little scheme. No wonder Satan's Refuse wore those bizarre masks, I thought. How freakish would one have to be, to be a part of this kind of psychotic plot?
On closer inspection, Dog looked exhausted beyond recognition. In just two days, his face had grown from silly and soft to weary and wan. Rising to the task of the unwilling leader made my old friend look...old.
“Dog—where's Tall Man?”
My buddy hung his head.
“Flapper's got him tied up, taken hostage. We've been riding the roads looking for the pair of them for hours and hours now, no dice. But if I know anything, he's coming for your little friend, and the rest of his MC.” Dog looked back at the road. For the first time in memory, I read fear in his face. Fear, and shame.
* * *
We waited for the men in masks, the whole of our combined MCs huddled together at the little roadside camp. An uneasy peace was brokered between the Cheaters and the Styx—though Dog was unapologetic about hitting me earlier, he did listen patiently to Wolverine's story about the ancient show-down, and Carter's and my accounts of the riders from Satan's Refuse. It occurred to me that he might someday grow into a fine leader, with a temperament so even, so open to listening.
“So that was the dead guy in the garage, then? That was what made Flap so upset?” This voice was Viper's—and his cruelty, it seemed, had also been mollified in the past twenty four hours' upheaval. His eyes were wide and questioning, as opposed to narrowed and livid, as was typical. In fact, every single Coffin Cheater looked like a freaked-out kid. I suppose no surprise—their whole leadership structure had been clobbered apart within hours. They were men with no master.
“What's the deal with the masked men, anyways?” ventured Whiz, one of the older Cheaters. Whiz and my Dad had been friendly adversaries, back in the day. Now the old man turned to me for his questions. “Why would anyone ride around so no one could see their face?”
“Get a lot more damage done when there's no witness to answer to,” Wolverine said cryptically, laying into another smoke.
“What's important now is that we're all armed and ready to fight,” Carter said, his voice cutting through the hubbub of speculation. “Who's got a firearm? I want those men at the front. If everything we've heard about this Flapper character is true—and we know already what Satan's Refuse are capable of—this group will ride in with guns blazing. All they want to do is raise havoc, and drive our MCs back into a feud.”
People nodded, but it was plain to see: a lot of these tough guys had never been part of a shoot-out. This wasn't all exactly par for an MC's course—elaborate murders in the wood, espionage. As if cautioning us against what was to come, at that moment a distracting siren cut through the swamp's underbrush, drifting our way from a distant highway. Every single biker seemed to quake in his boots.
I stood with Carter. For my part, I'd managed to block out most of my rattling brain's questions (how was Tati? When had Flapper crossed over to the enemy's sides? Was Tall Man dead?) And focus on the task at hand. And for the first time, surprisingly, I felt the full weight of my title as Den Mother. These men had been shits to me, but still, I wanted to protect them. Like they were my children. I smiled quickly at Dog in the silence. He smirked in return.
“There!” someone shouted then. I traced the cry to a skinny Knight, easily in his early twenties. “I heard it! I heard --” but before the little fella could continue, the camp felt surrounded. Soon, we all could heard the sounds: the sounds of thirty, forty bikes rolling in from the distance. Though we couldn't yet see the group from our little off-ramp enclosure, dread fell like a cloak across our little army. Flapper and Satan's Refuse was coming for us.
“Everybody get into a position!” Carter cried. “And remember: let the white flag wave first!”
But the riders were already panicking: I saw their guns glittering in their holsters. Carter began to wave his white scrap frantically. I squinted into the underbrush, and saw the first horrible thing. Flapper had dismounted his ride, and was waving a gun in the face of a man who was bound to the back of his bike. I recognized Tall Man, from the thin lines of his braids, the stoop in his shoulders. I swear the sonofabitch glanced in my direction as his gun fired, landing snugly in my old leader's chest. The third and final councilmember of the Coffin Cheaters shuddered, then died. It was then that I heard the sickening thud of the first bullet, landing in nearby flesh. Below me, Viper collapsed on his bike, slumped forever over his handlebars.
The masked riders were now upon us, screaming a war cry of “Yippy-ki-yay!” I couldn't match the shrieks to the many freakish, plastic-covered faces—I only know that the gunfire was loud, and awful, and all-consuming. Bright Magnums bloomed over the clearing. And after a first hail of bullets fell over t
he Styx and Cheaters—I saw Whiz twist terribly into the mud—Carter crouched beside me, balling up his white flag. He looked at me with terrified eyes.
“Gisele: take this,” he hollered, handing me a pistol I hadn't seen before. Though of course, I thought stupidly, he must've been packing—how else could he have gotten out of that Checker's alive?
“I can't take this, Carter! What about you?” But my old man just shoved the weapon towards me, extracting a switchblade from the base of his motorcycle boot.
“I'll be just fine with this. You fire if anyone comes toward you funny. And I mean anyone.” Before I could protest again, Carter had leapt over his bike and into the fray. I screamed for him, but he didn't turn his back.
Crouched behind my Street Bob, I watched some masked riders tumble off their bikes beside me, falling as soldiers in the dust. Still more of the Refuse were dismounting their whips at the roadside and running towards our little camp—we were vastly outnumbered, even between the combined clubs. Without any premeditated battle plan, the Styx and the Cheaters were just running helter-skelter, seeking shelter in the thin trees, or behind their bikes. A few men continued to wave their white scraps, screaming “Surrender, surrender!” To no avail.
I didn't dare to stand up and seek out Carter—fear had pegged me to the ground. But it was then that I heard a familiar screech, and saw the looming shadow of the only man who rode without a mask. As soon as I recognized the face in close up, he was right on top of me: Flapper had come for me. In all his terrible cruelty.
“Look at what we have here!” the mad-man cried, and his eyes truly looked crazy. “Little peace-keeper, huh? Well. It's too bad you had to stick your pretty little nose in the mix, Ms. Gisele. Would've liked to make you my sweet ass, in the new club I'm making. Damn shame you picked the wrong side.”
“Flapper,” I whimpered, ashamed of how weak my voice sounded. He was twirling his Magnum around his fingers now, the picture of an evil genius. Around us in the clearing, some of the gunfire had stopped.
“Flap, why did you do all of this? These are your brothers.”
The villain broke into a giddy peal of laughter. Then he cocked his weapon, and aimed it square at the center of my chest.
“Didn't you hear, little girl? Everyone knows that a real rider rides alone.” I shut my eyes tight, having all but forgotten the gun in my possession. So this was how it was going to end. This was just how my Pops had felt, before he'd met his maker.
“Hey, lard-ass!” cried someone I couldn't see, back in the direction of the Styx enclosure. Flapper turned his head for a split-second, but this turned out to be just enough time: a neatly thrown knife nestled into my attacker's chest, and the big man pitched forward in pain. He stumbled against my Street Bob, and I stood to avoid his fall. I saw instantly that it was Carter who'd thrown the weapon—but he hadn't killed his prey.
As I fumbled to cock my gun, Flapper reached for his. The old rider was quicker. I heard the shot slice across the enclosure, at close range, and I screamed louder than I've ever screamed when I saw Carter slump forward in pain. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop.
The ground was littered with the corpses of Satan's Refuse, and the corpses of the Knights of Styx, and the corpses of my fellow Coffin Cheaters. I could see Dog hunched behind an upturned bike, shooting off a round at two masked men. Wolverine and a few of his brothers were rushing towards my old friend's aid. An alliance had been formed from enemies, but at what cost? Flapper was gasping, spewing blood across my beloved bike. The knife in his shoulder looked to have punctured a lung. I took all of this in, but I ran through the bullets for Carter.
“Baby!” I cried as I reached him. His body was weakening before me. All of the color had drained out of his face.
“Hey, old lady,” he wheezed. “Ain't this funny. You protect me, I protect you...you protect me...” But as my savior trailed off, his eyes slid shut.
I never got to tell him, he had it all wrong: he'd protected me first. He'd always been the one protecting me. For all my toughness, I was always the one getting lucky, getting saved—and my loved ones were paying the price. I held my lover's head in my lap, and I cursed the sky.
Epilogue
* * *
Dear Gizzy,
Glad to hear everything's on the up and up. I know it was a rough summer. :-(
I've come to a personal decision: it's time to quit the groupie life. Me and a couple of the other girls are actually thinking of striking out on our own, music-wise. Lord knows I don't play an instrument, but I think I can carry a tune. My girlfriend plays guitar alright. And that's the thing about all these dumb boys: it's mostly confidence that gets them through the gigs, cuz it's not like anyone's a genius. And girls have an advantage, presentation-wise—if you're foxy, you can pretty much pack a house. I think I'm just tired of feeling second fiddle to a bunch of as-you-would-call-them “pasty musician types.” I'm a badass bitch, too! Oh, and that reminds me! Remember how I hooked up with Scotty a while back? You know, that fat old bartender from Casablanca? (Also remember how you've sworn to NEVER TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS?!) Well he and I write old-school letters back and forth, too, and he's told me if I ever got a group together we'd be welcome to come play as the house band at his new club in the city. I'm thinking that would be pretty amazing! I could be close to my favoritest twin in the world (badumCHH), and stay off the road! Just something to think about.
It sounds totally fucked up, but I have to say—I kind of miss our little summer adventure. It was really nice to spend so much time with you again, and remember how to ride a motorcycle, and be around the old gang. I guess I just wanted you to know that because though I talk a big game about leaving the crew, those old suckers are still my family, too. And I love them. And I understand why—in spite of everything—you've decided to stay. I'm proud of you, did you know that? I'm sure Dad would be, too.
Running out of space so xoxoxoxoxox, Tati
Smiling, I slide the letter into my pocket, then lock up our P.O. Box. It's time to race home—it's not like I can hang around town much, as there's a warrant out for my arrest (well—me and everyone else in my MC). So I gun it homeward, against no one but myself, buoyed by the Southern winds. It's technically hurricane season, but nothing big has hit land yet.
Before I kick off, I remember to check my tires for debris. Sure enough, there are a few pebbles lodged precariously in my hubcap, from a more recent trip to the beach. There's some sound advice I've never forgotten. And it's time for my own pang: thinking back to the first day—I met Knox, I still manage to get goosebumps. Well, I should say: the second day. I'm talking about the second time I met Carter.
I hop the moat to the den, as usual, and am greeted instantly by the hollers of my brothers. On the porch, a fresh band of ashtrays (Monika, Kelliye and Janet) are idling, waiting for their old men to come in from a day of lord-knows-what. Since this summer, I've managed to redefine the 'den mother' position to suit my particular interests and needs: now there's a lot less silly paperwork, and a lot more decision-making. Our new President, Dog, is pretty open to changing the infrastructure since the shoot-out. These days in my MC, folks fend for themselves. We're still a family, we still operate out of one home and one mass fund, but people are free to spend their days as they wish. And though there are responsibilities for every man in the club, I've discovered that severing certain relationships with violent crime groups in Miami has been great for morale, over all.
I nod to my brothers, but I don't stick around to chat. Instead, I gun it through camp, towards my new and improved quarters. This summer it was out with the bunk beds, in with a big wide double and some adult furniture. I peel off my helmet, toss it into the dust, and storm inside. The wind's still whipping. Better board up these windows before the rain hits.
He's waiting for me.
“Hey, baby. You get the movie while you were out?”
Tati's right—between the makeshift physical therapy and a long rehabilitation
period in the ICU (all under an alias, to avoid police suspicion...) it hasn't been an easy summer. But these days, we're just about back on track. He walks with a small limp (which he finds infuriating and I find heroic), and it's been no picnic weaning him off the morphine—but we've been for rides together. I've shown him around his new home. And doctors (yes, actual doctors) have informed me that he should be fully up and at 'em by this fall, provided we do our best to stay out of trouble...which'll be a difficult promise to keep.
“Shit. I forgot it. I forgot the movie.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes—fuck. Do you want me to go back and get it?” The wind's already at a fever pitch outside, so I don't know why I offered. He's crazy if he thinks I'm driving all the way back into the city to pick up something we could bootleg watch online. Of course, my old man won't hear of that.
“Guess it'll have to wait. Again.” He mock-rolls his eyes, but I can tell he's a little disappointed. We've been talking about this old flick for the whole duration of our relationship, so I guess I can kinda sorta see where he comes from.
“Poor baby. What can mama do to make it better?” I toss my hair coyly, I bat my eyes. Sometimes this makes us laugh—but not today. Guess he's not in a laughing mood.
“You can get on the bed. And wipe that schoolgirl grin off your face.” A little trill runs down my spine, but I do what he says. Even wounded, Carter Knox is still much stronger than me.
I sit down on the bed, facing my lover—who still insists on those trademark leather pants, despite his injury. He bends low, so he's close to my face. Looking dead into my eyes, he reaches down and cups my crotch—firmly, but not too hard.
“Ouch,” I say anyways. It's more like I breathe the words. Because now, still staring straight into my eyes, he's kissing me—he's brushing his stubble-framed lips against mine, and pushing hard against me. I tilt my head, so he can slip his tongue into my mouth. I reach my hands up, to cradle that perfect, perfect face.
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