Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom)

by Blake, Abriella

  BRIDIE: Oh, I don't know—do Stockholmers feel guilty? I'd just betrayed the only friend I'd ever had. Seeing Athena's face, from her own bed... that's a big no-no in Girl Code. Wherever Sark is, I hope she's been able to forgive me for that night.

  DET. RAMIREZ: ...but the sex was consensual. You wanted to. And you and Tuck had already established a...bond.

  BRIDIE: I think I know what you're getting at, detective. The truth is, I wasn't trying to save myself. I had no ulterior motive. I hadn't allied myself with any party lines. Women, sometimes all we have is our desire—and, of course, our reputations. I was just following feelings. Ha—sometimes I wish I could still afford to live that way, you know? Do whatever tonight, damn tomorrow? I suppose that's ironic.

  You want the truth?

  I fell in love with him, Ramirez. I think of his face on top of me, now—the look in his eyes as he asked me, again and again, if I wanted it. He really cared about me, the way no man ever had before. I was falling in love with him. I fell in love with him. But I didn't call it that then. Not yet. Even though I am so much in love with him, still.

  (Long pause)

  DET. RAMIREZ: But you pushed Tuck away, all the same. I guess I'm just trying to figure out what you were thinking throughout your captivity at the Barons. How much…control you felt over the situation.

  BRIDIE: None, is your answer. I felt powerless.

  As soon as Tuck wandered away from my bed that night, I suppose I did make a decision. I felt as if I'd learned that I, like my aunt, had a darkness in me. I was capable of hurting people. I felt as if I had to atone for that.

  And I wanted all the big, tough Barons to believe I could be bad, too. That almost felt like a way to protect myself. So they thought I was a slut? I'd show them. I'd be their slut.

  Such a nasty word.

  DET. RAMIREZ: So that's why you didn't run.

  BRIDIE: That's exactly why I didn't run. Well that and the fact of...well, you've seen him. Pecs for days! Sometimes a girl's gotta fight!

  Chapter Thirty

  By morning, the Barons' camp was filled with an energy Tuck hadn't seen since New Orleans. No one was playing fixed card games on logs. Instead, thirty-plus bikers were revving their engines, wiping down their seats and hubcaps like this was all a big tailgating party. The news of the race for Bridie's custody had spread like wildfire. The promise of a good fuck was something to get excited about after so much boredom.

  The prize herself had even ventured down into the fray. Dressed in the same borrowed dress she'd been wearing two nights before, at Penny's—though this seemed like a lifetime ago—Bridie washed up by the wellspring, ignoring the chorus of ugly comments that went volleying over her head as she splashed in the shallow pool.

  Athena was nowhere to be found. Ditto, the man upstairs. Miserable Spivey seemed to have taken the reigns of the day's festivities. He was wandering from man to man, explaining the route of the race.

  After taking in the scene, Tuck made for his bike. He took nervous stock of its body—though the piece had never failed him before, it had been quite a while since he'd ridden at racing speed. After his inspection determined there was nothing wrong with the exterior, he started up the engine. The powerful machine thrummed to life beneath him.

  The night prior—in yet another distracting, immersive dream—Tuck had relived his earlier exploits with Bridie. Only instead of their union ending with Athena's interruption, things had...continued. In his mind's eye, Athena had approached the little cot where the lovers were spent and then started to shrug away her worker's overalls. She'd unbuttoned her dull little blouse. At various points in his imagination's reverie, Bridie and his best friend had been locked in a long kiss, their massive breasts pressed tight against one another. In a different figuration, Athena had watched—as if granting her blessing, really—as Tuck moved in and out of the raven-haired beauty.

  The whole thing had only heightened his confusion. He'd never had sexy thoughts about his best friend before—not once in their long, long friendship. Was it possible to be in love with two women at once? But wait—when had 'love' come into it? Tuck shook away the word, the memory, all the memories...just as a firm hand clapped him on the back.

  “Oh, hey there sailor!” Spivey trilled. His hot breath smelled of whiskey, despite the early hour. “Just saw your little girlfriend greeting the day. She's up late. Still sore from last night's pounding?”

  Though Bridie had ignored his 'good morning' at the wellspring, Tuck had been surprised to see her out and about, all the same.

  “I don't know what you're talking about, jackass.”

  “Don't be so coy, lieutenant. Officer Cannon saw you two making sweet love in the early morning. He gave us all the skinny after you left last night.”

  Aha—so he was the figure in the window. The brief flicker of a light extinguished. It had been Cannon all along. That shitheel of a police officer! He should have known.

  “I think a healthy diet depends on variety, don't you?”

  “I think you'd have a hard time racing with your kneecaps busted. Get the fuck out of my face.”

  Spivey eased back a few paces, but his eyes didn't stop laughing.

  “I think it'd be much harder to drive with the brake lines cut in your ride. But what do I know? I'm just a tub-o-lard, ain't that right?” Before Tuck could articulate a comeback, Spivey had waddled away down the path. He giggled like a schoolgirl.

  Tuck, determined to look fearless, waited until the fat man had oozed all the way out of sight. Then, he bent low to examine the underbelly of his engine. Sure enough...

  “Gentlemen!” A voice sliced through the camp: the man upstairs. “I'm so thrilled that the word has spread about our friendly little competition. What a great turn-out.” God stood in the center of the clearing, looking especially wizened in his original leather vest and tight pants. His Barons insignia caught the morning light and seemed to sparkle. “Brother Spivey is circling with information about the race course. I got up early this morning and personally saw to it that we've got a nice bit of track.”

  The men raised their fists, hollering barbarian cries of assent. The lieutenant looked around at his former colleagues. These were the men he'd thought of as brothers. The very first family he'd known. In two days, they'd all become enemies—people determined to deprive him of that which he wanted most. Then the Tuck cast around for Bridie. Where was she? Why had she pushed him away last night? And how the fuck was he going to win a bike race with no brakes?

  “But I do have something to tell you all before we get started. Let's all take off our helmets out of respect for the newest member of the Barons of Sodom MC: Gil Cannon.”

  There was a smattering of very tepid applause. Most of the Barons exchanged confused glances. In the hubbub, Gil Cannon seemed to appear from behind a tree. He was wearing his full policeman's uniform (baby blues and all), but over top—a leather vest inscribed with the club's insignia.

  What. The. Fuck.

  “Okay, fellas. I know this might come as a shock,” Cannon started. The sight of his po-po regalia had gotten quite a few boos. “But what I have to tell you is quite interesting, I think. First off: I'm police, but I'm not so straight and narrow as the coppers you're used to. None of us are, here in Waco.”

  The crowd stayed silent.

  “I've been discussing a business opportunity with your leader here, who's very keen on keeping you boys active and interested. I understand that since moving to our fair city, some of you in the club have been a bit—dissatisfied. There haven't been many assignments, I gather. Now, from my vantage, that sounds like no state for a Rider to be in.”

  A few men grumbled assent. Spivey, from the back of the crowd, shouted out a hearty 'HUZZAH!'

  “So we're going into business. The police and the club. The business is drugs, which I'm sure you're all familiar with. The Waco PD need some good men, some strong men, to work their corners and parks. We're supplying the product. All you have
to do is push it. And we'll split the profits, straight down the middle.” Cannon smirked at God, who waited, silent, in the wings.

  Surprisingly, Yak piped up: “This has to be some sort of twisted joke! Say it ain't so, Big Man!”

  God didn't say anything. He merely looked stony. Cannon smirked, then continued.

  “It is so, you piece of shit. This is the future. And if you're not riding with the club, you're no longer a part of the club. Period.”

  For a breathless few seconds, Tuck imagined a revolt. He would lead the men straight at these asswipes. Then he, personally, would drag them both, screaming, to the ground. He could lead these louts, couldn't he? He easily knew as much about the club's inner-workings as the man upstairs. He and Bridie would live in the Big House—or, no, they'd mosey back to New Orleans. Athena wouldn't be angry. She'd let them both live on in peace. She'd visit, sometimes...

  God stood, slowly. It seemed as if he was finally going to speak. “This begins a new era for the Barons of Sodom,” their leader pronounced. His voice crackled with age. “Lord knows I won't be around much longer. But I want you fellas to rely on Cannon. He's talking about a steady income. We founded the club to preserve just that: the outlaw lifestyle.”

  “Ain't exactly outside the law anymore, though,” Yak continued. His mutterings carried through the crowd. This insurrection was atypical—no one interrupted the man upstairs. The other Barons all grew silent, waiting to see what would happen.

  But Tuck was still lost in visions of what could be. If they were all to rebel, here and now, the Barons could ride the way that they were meant to, as free men with no leader, no God but open sky. They'd move across the badlands, or tool around the desert plains...they'd do whatever they fucking felt like. They sure as hell wouldn't spend their days pushing drugs in Texas' least favorite city, like two-bit criminals.

  A space had opened up around Yak in the crowd. God was shielding his eyes against the rising sun, seeking eye contact with his dissenter. His gaze was penetrating.

  “Ahh, Mr. Yak. I should have expected.”

  “I just think we can do better than all this. We're Barons of Sodom, ain't we? We serve no master, least of all the law!” A hesitant assent rippled through the crowd. Yak spat on the ground, for emphasis. And suddenly men were nodding, rubbing their moustaches in thought. Maybe it was happening! Maybe they were all strong enough, as a unit, to lead themselves. Tuck raised a fist in solidarity. He opened his mouth, to begin a chant.

  But just then—and so swiftly, it was hard to track where the sound came from—a pistol's discharge echoed through the space. All the men ducked. Some of them screeched like little girls. When Tuck looked up through the hubbub, he assessed the damage: Yak had collapsed to the ground. A pool of blood was blooming around the Rider's greasy forehead. He was dead.

  “Anyone else have an opinion to voice?” Cannon drawled. He'd slid his aviator shades down the elegant swoop of his nose and looked calm as a summer sea even as his murder weapon still exuded a trail of smoke. “Or should we go on and bring out the little sweet ass I know you fellas are dying to nail?”

  Tuck's heart was beating fast. All the men were demonstrably frightened. There was the sound of shifting leather, as everyone seemed to quake in their motorcycle gear. No one had ever slain another Rider before. Sure, there had been brawls. There had been bloody duels and races. But no member of the club had ever drawn a weapon on an unarmed comrade; no member of the club had fired for someone's head in a crowd. The Barons looked to their leader for affirmation, denial, anything—but God's face had turned to stone. He was in silent agreement with Cannon. So this was what a reign of terror felt like. This was the changing of the guard.

  “Bring her out, Bo,” Cannon said. On his command, Bo—the dullest crayon in the proverbial box—emerged from behind a tree, clinging tightly to Bridie. Her mouth was gagged with a soggy red handkerchief. There were fresh scratches on her beautiful face, new since the morning. Her hands were tied with a grubby length of rope.

  “NOOOOOOOOO!” Tuck cried, without thinking. Bridie began to fight against her captor when she heard his call. She thrashed to and fro, scanning the crowd for the source of his voice.

  “Don't touch her! You let her go!”

  “Please, let's be civil,” Cannon said, casting a withering glance Tuck's way. The officer nodded to Bo, who took a ham-sized fist and cuffed Bridie sharply on the jaw. The sound of two bones colliding rang through the camp like a tuning fork, and Bridie's lovely head went limp on her neck. She looked like a puppet with its strings cut.

  “Now if Miss LaRouche could restrain herself, we'd be able to proceed like gentlemen,” God called. For the first time that day, a few other Barons echoed their leader with a series of snorts and guffaws. They were turning, all right. The men of the brave new club had no need for a candy-ass, love-struck lieutenant. Never mind that they'd all been afraid of him yesterday. Never mind that he'd killed enemies of the club before with his bare hands.

  “The race has already been marked off, and the prize is easy—well, you already knew that.”

  More laughter.

  “The winner will get full and total control of our newest ward. Consider the little slut a kind of consolation prize, from us boys on the force to you fellas out in the fray. And if our little transaction goes well, there's plenty more pussy for all of you. Plenty more.”

  More cheers!

  “Now. Let's all follow Brother Spivey to the racecourse. We'll have us a pleasant Sunday morning, and then tomorrow, the work on the corners begins. Gentlemen: start your engines.”

  His heart still racing, Tuck scanned the crowd for relief—familiar faces, gestures of solidarity, anything—but he turned up nothing. Instead, the lieutenant watched each of his former comrades step neatly over Yak's corpse as they turned toward the open road. Not a one of them looked down.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  And where the fuck was Athena? Tuck fought off a wave of dread in his stomach: perhaps she'd figured everything out the night before. Had that been the warning he'd ignored, while entwined in Bridie's embrace? The plan she'd spoken of, did it have anything to do with Cannon and the new regime? Maybe she'd already fled. She could easily have taken the Evo and ridden off into the sunset alone. In fact, he wouldn't put such an independent gesture past his best friend.

  First things first: the bike with the sliced brake-line. He needed a new machine, stat. Tripping with anxiety, Tuck made for the garage. Last night this place had been the source of all his confusion and joy. She'd looked so beautiful in the light. She'd felt so good in his hands. Underneath him...

  Focus, LaRouche.

  Athena's garage was as clean and organized as it had been the night prior, though everything looked different now. The bikes seemed menacing. The lieutenant made a rapid inventory: here were dismantled engines in various states of disrepair. Here were bikes other Barons had brought in for weekly tune-ups—off the bat, he saw a '74 he recognized from Diggler's collection, and a big old-school Harley (with a sidecar!) that Tiny didn't ride but liked to haul from camp to camp. Neither of these options had anything wrong with them, but Tuck knew every engine in the armada like the back of his own hand; few were as fast as his own Harley. Because the Barons were such a ragtag club, there was a sharp distinction among the teams' bikes. They rode like free men, which he'd always seen as a unique feature of the MC—that is, until now.

  Then he saw it: God's favorite bike, hanging from a beam in the rafters. This was an almost mythical being—a faithful replica of George Romero's racer, the one he used to win the 1970 Daytona. The Triumph Trident. This sucker capped a top land speed of 162 mph. God had even named it Goliath, somewhat ironically. With its baby blue and white finish, front and rear suspension, light, manipulative body...no one had dared ride the thing since the man upstairs acquired it on the team's move to Waco. But then, Tuck LaRouche wasn't exactly “no one.”

  The lieutenant kicked a bucket with the heel of his
boot. He hopped up, so his eyes were level with the front wheel. How to get the bitch off the ceiling was the next question...

  “Watch your head, dipshit,” called a voice. His favorite voice, in fact: it was Athena's cranky, weary, holier-than-thou tone. She was lurking in a corner, fingers straddling a lever with a red knob. Before Tuck could articulate any kind of apology or explanation, the big bike was swooping toward him, snaking down to ground level with a series of mechanical clanks. He rocked to and fro on his bucket before toppling backward in space. The biker grabbed for a hold, but ended up flat on his ass against the concrete.

  “Guess I deserved that.”

  “Yeah. Guess you did.”

  The sounds of the race were mounting outside—Tuck could hear Spivey tripping over his words as he attempted to explain something about the course. Any moment now, someone would fire a pistol in the air. Soon after that, Bridie would become the property of some no-good, drug-dealing dickwad. He couldn't let that happen. For all the uncertainty Tuck had known in the past few days, this prospect came to him like a surefire bolt of lightning: he couldn't let his baby slip away. He wouldn't.

  “Do you even know how to handle a bike like this?” Athena asked. She was making a quick survey of the Triumph, running capable fingers around its coils. “She's a lot hotter than your Harley. And you might not be used to the size.”

  “I've ridden racing bikes before.”

  “Right. Cause you've ridden everything before, huh?”

  “Athena. Do we have to do this now?” The crowd sounds were reaching a fever pitch. But Athena held his gaze. She paused in her work.

  “I know you, Tuck. I know you want to play the hero. I know you want the woman who's beautiful and mysterious and new, like some kind of Lifetime movie crap. But can I just say it? We've been in deep shit before, and you've never had to prove yourself to me. Not once. We just—look out for each other. Like partners. Like equals. And you know me better. I know you better. I know everything about you. And I think I could make you happy.” His best friend finished her speech quickly, shifting her eyes to the filthy ground. It must have been hard for her to say those things, Tuck thought. Athena was the strongest woman he'd ever met. Begging wasn't in her DNA.