“Okay. Okay. Okay,” Athena chanted, a vein in her temple visibly pulsing as she thought fast. “So my next question is: Bridie, do you think you could drive a motorcycle?”
The bloodhound yelped from somewhere close by. It had found something. It was going to find them.
“Okay, it's not a question anymore. Bridie, here are the keys to the motorcycle. You both need to get out of here, and as fast as you fucking can.”
“But—”
“You know Yoda, right? Do, or do not. There is no try. Now, go!” Athena all but shoved the pair out of the cave and into the harsh daylight. It was suddenly clear that she planned to stay behind.
“Athena!” Tuck stage-whispered through the bushes. “What the hell are you doing?! Come out here!”
“That dog's going to feel awfully silly if he doesn't catch a body,” Athena said, and for a second, they all might have been back in the garage. It could have been two days before—before any miserable, terrible shit had gone down. In one direction, Tuck glimpsed the rest of a life he'd never get to lead—days spent idling around a dull campsite, evenings lost to the plains. The women of Dixie's. Garage banters with Athena. And in the opposite, mysterious direction he glimpsed the other fork in the road: Bridie. Bridie—a dangerous continent unto herself—and all the mysterious adventures being with her would involve. Tuck shot his best friend a sad, long look.
“You're the greatest, A. Stay cool, alright?”
“Get the fuck out of here, dumbshit,” Athena fired back. But her eyes were moist. The bloodhound brayed again, and Bridie steered her Rider in the direction of their ride.
The Triumph had not been triumphant, but the mustard-yellow Honda looked all right. Somewhere in the morning's hubbub Athena had found time to replace the severed brake line. Bridie looked the bike up and down. She'd ridden this bike. She'd technically been ridden, while on this bike. But driving a motorcycle was a completely different beast, made more difficult by the fact that it would be carrying two.
“You have the keys, sweetness?”
Bridie cut her eyes at Tuck before flicking the ignition into life. The bloodhound in the distance began barking up a storm. Its human companions were so close that Bridie thought she could hear the sound of dry leaves crunching under their feet.
“It's now or never, lover,” Tuck whispered.
“I could do without the condescending terms of endearment,”
“That's a lot of big words for a biker. Now, just like a car: give it some gas. Go slow at first. The bike follows your body, alright? Your whole body is steering.”
Bridie bent low, and Tuck pressed into her sides. She could feel his body humming with a nervous energy. She imagined the police finding Athena alone in the cave and doing God knew what to her. The bloodhound took up again, sounding giddy with discovery.
“Now. While there's a little noise cover. Now, Bridie. Go.”
She gave the motorcycle gas. They went.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tuck tried not to think about Athena, now long gone in the dust. To her credit, Bridie's loopy driving made it difficult to focus on anything except the road.
“Have you driven ANYTHING before?” Tuck called into the wind, after the pair had pulled out of one particularly heart-stopping pin-curl turn.
“Don't be a jackass!” the girl cried. But he saw the whites of her knuckles on the handlebars, and felt all the clenched muscles in her back. It wasn't so crazy, her being afraid. This was as outlaw as she'd ever been, easy.
They stuck to the side streets. Thankfully, the racecourse had moved in the opposite direction of the campground—so it was possible that all the crooked police would keep looking for the fallen Rider (and with luck, the missing girl...) in the wrong part of town. It had crossed Bridie's mind that she could as easily drive away from everything—the MC, the cops, even Athena—if only Tuck wasn't so weak. Then again, they also had no food, no money, no water, and the gas tank was emptying fast.
By noon they'd circled the city a few times over. The tank had reached a perilous low, and the thick silence hanging between the lovers echoed with regret. The only thing that had really improved was Bridie's driving.
“You could possibly, possibly, be a Rider someday,” Tuck joked into the soft crook of Bridie's left ear, after she'd executed a turn especially well. But he instantly regretted his word choice: probably, no one would be a Rider “someday.” The club, as he knew it, was defunct. It was a strange feeling. Despite all the corruption and lies, the old MC had constituted the only family he'd ever had. Now, he was a true outlaw. He had no country and no king.
“We have to stop somewhere,” Bridie said finally. The heat was blazing, and Tuck's face was wan with pain. They needed to get a doctor to look at that bum leg.
“Alright. Go to Dixie's. We'll take the back streets.”
“You think we can trust her?”
“She's the third person I trust in this godforsaken world,” Tuck said. As soon as he said this, he realized it sounded a tad dramatic—yet it felt true. The rest of Waco seemed a nest of enemies. All these poor suckers, they'd probably throw the two miscreants on the fire for petty change. For drugs, even.
The parking lot at Dixie's was empty, which was a nice surprise. (Penny's was an up-and-at-the-bar-by-8:00am crowd.) With minimal clanging, Bridie nosed the Honda behind a pair of pungent dumpsters. Then, taking a moment to get her land legs, she reached for Tuck. Despite the heat, his skin was clammy and cool.
“You don't look so good, partner.”
“That can't be true. I'm looking at you, aren't I?” He grinned dopily, but his head lolled on frail-seeming shoulders. With all of her might, Bridie pushed her body into the crook of Tuck's arm. The Rider hobbled towards the bar's entrance, taking slow steps.
At first glance, Dixie's seemed vacant. There was no sound on the jukebox, and no old-timers snoozing along the bar.
“Hello?” Bridie called. “Penny? Penny! We need you!”
After a few interminable-feeling heartbeats, the swinging doors to the back room pushed open. Miss Penny appeared, looking gaunt and harried, as if she too hadn't slept through the night.
“Oh my stars,” drawled the bartender. “What happened here?”
“Tuck's been in an accident, and we can't go to the hospital. Is there a place where we can...?” Bridie gestured around, helpless for a moment. She suddenly felt weak. In all the frenzy, she'd managed to forget that neither she nor Tuck had eaten anything in over a day. Her body shuddered below their combined weight, threatening to collapse.
“Christ on a cross...come sit down,” Penny said. She went to the bar, and pulled out three rocks glasses.
“Is now really the time for that?!”
“Honey, this is especially the time for that.” With a grimace, Penny set three shots of Jameson in front of the pair. She watched while Bridie tossed back half a shot, and Tucker fumbled with his own glass.
“Let me see this leg, now,” Penny said, with a surprising efficiency. She dragged a small stool along the grimy floor of the bar, and propped it up before Tuck like an ottoman. Wincing, the Rider lifted his leg. Both women instantly noted the damp blood spreading through his jeans.
“These wounds weren't dressed properly at all,” Penny said, sucking on her teeth.
“Well, we didn't have a lot of time,” Bridie scowled. The bartender cut her eyes in the girl's direction. She cast a quick look towards the parking lot outside, then stood up.
“Stay here. I'll be back with some rubbing alcohol. Take napkins—here—and apply pressure... I'll be right back.” With that, the bartender retreated into the gloom.
“There's no people,” Tuck croaked. He seemed to be slightly more at ease in the gloomy bar than on the quaking bike, and soon started making eyes at his whiskey glass.
“It's the middle of the day!”
“That's still pretty weird for Dixie's.”
The back doors clattered open again to reveal Penny, hauling a
heavy black case. The bartender resumed her spot on the stool and set to work moving things around in her bag. She extracted a fat wad of medical tape, cotton, and rubbing alcohol.
“Penny, why do you have all of this?!” Bridie cried.
“I used to be a nurse, darling. Probably way before you were born.” The bartender spoke through her teeth as she set about threading a needle. “He's going to need a stitch or two.”
“You were a nurse here, in Waco?”
“Nope. I was stationed in Guam. T, drink your medicine,” the older woman danced the Jameson just below Tucker's nose. A thankful Rider tossed it back.
After they'd fallen asleep in a moldy banquette (which was after Penny had presented the pair with hastily-made peanut butter sandwiches and fresh water, which was after she'd finished cleaning and dressing Tucker's wound...), Bridie woke from her deep sleep and gazed at Tuck in the empty bar. His eyes were flickering, slightly open—he was probably dreaming. It was dusk, but there were still no customers at Dixie's. Before this could be contemplated much further, Bridie slid back into a peaceful doze. Perhaps, just perhaps, she thought, everything would be alright.
Then again, maybe not.
Tuck woke up to the feel of high beams in his eyes; many high beams. He flailed in the light, taking a moment to remember where he was. The memories returned in a mish-mashed flood, a montage of images: the crushed body of his leader. Flying above a crowd of Barons. Sipping whiskey in a dark bar, the dark cave. The beautiful woman riding him into sweet oblivion...
“Oh, it's him, alright. Smug son of a bitch.” Gruff hands grabbed him by the shoulders and drew him into a standing position. “Looks like he's a bit worse for wear, though. Heh-heh-heh.” Then Tuck heard the sound of something crunching and felt a flood of incredible pain. His assailant had kicked his steel-toed boot straight into the fresh dressings along his shin. It was then that the face that matched this voice appeared to him, from some recent memory: Spivey. Ye olde tub-o-lard incarnate.
“And this is the girl? This is definitely the girl?”
A few of the high beams (or flashlights, as the Rider now realized) swiveled back toward the banquette. Bridie was coming to in their gaze, shielding her pretty eyes against the light.
“That's the bitch, alright.”
“Why don't we just shoot them right here? Make it look like a lover's quarrel, all nice and tidy?”
Spivey ground his teeth for a thoughtful moment before responding to his unseen companion.
“No. I think the Officer would like to pass judgment, as God cannot. You take the girl. This jackass is for me. And don't forget to thank our tip-off.” Spivey leered in the lieutenant's face. His breath was sour. Tuck cast around for Penny, but the bartender was nowhere to be seen. Bridie had woken all the way up, and her voice became a long wail of protests.
“Are you going to shut your girlfriend up, or should I?” Spivey cooed into his captive's ear. Tuck resisted the urge to spit in the big man's miserable face—but one look into the beady little eyes assured him that Spy meant business.
“Bridie! It's alright! We're going to be fine, just go with the men!”
“Tuck!”
“Do you hear me? It's going to be okay!” The pain in his shin was beginning to subside again—it seemed that whatever potions Penny had given him had remained strong as he slept. Going slack in Spivey's arms out of pure spite, Tuck attempted to nudge his mind into high gear: who was responsible for throwing them under the bus? Only two women could have ratted them out here—Athena or Penny.
Bridie was whimpering. Tuck overheard the other scout—who he surmised was a member of the local police force—whispering disgusting things into his lover's ear. His body went cold with fear all over again. He could imagine surviving the grand inquisition Cannon surely had prepared for runaways, but Bridie? What would they do with Bridie when they found her?
Spivey bound his captor's hands in front of him, and then looped these shackles over the bottom of the bike seat. There was no chance of escape.
“Bet you're thinking long and hard about your choice in friends,” Spy laughed. “It's like I always say: never trust women.”
For some reason, the first woman that came to his mind at this remark was Sark, the fountain-haired best friend. Had she really managed to outsmart the police? Were they holding her somewhere? Perhaps she'd cracked under torture, told the PD about all of his usual haunts.
Tuck shook his head. But Athena Sark? She was tough as nails! She'd never rat out her best friend, never, not in a blue moon. But as if reading his thoughts, Spivey carried on.
“Hell, I'd be jealous, too. Hot piece of ass like yourself. A so-called lieutenant. Imagine I'm nursing a love, then some ho-bag meth-head comes a knocking and your pants drop like a beat—I'd probably flip, too. Heh-heh-heh.”
Athena. Had to be.
Gil Cannon, shirt crisp and white as moonlight, was pacing the MC campground like a king. The coup had taken mere hours. Once the Barons had seen their precious God's guts splayed along the highway like road kill, every last one of the doubters had flipped. So what if they were going to be drug dealers? So what if they'd watched a man of the law kill one of their brethren in cold blood? Tucker, the only viable alternative to the leadership, was no better—a cold-blooded killer himself. It hadn't taken long to convince every dullard in a leather vest that LaRouche had cheated in the race in an attempt to murder the man in charge. And none of the dummies even asked how he did it.
Meanwhile, every man in a uniform had been sent out to find the body; Cannon wanted to hold it up to the men, to demonstrate exactly what happened to a traitor. He required absolute and unquestioning loyalty, and luckily, a group of lost, bored guns for hire were ripe for the picking. And so they'd all come back to camp after the race, every last Rider, shouting the praises of the Waco P.D. Some of the buffoons were already out on the city corners, zooming around the East Side looking for trouble.
Though, of course, the little wench had presented a problem.
When the police tracked and captured Athena Sark—who'd conveniently claimed to be “camping” alone in the woods, just by the leg of track where Cannon had watched LaRouche spin out—she'd refused to bite. The boys had already beaten her so bad her face was unrecognizable, but still the tough mechanic played dumb. Her and the older wench, Zuzu, who'd been in charge of watching the ward. In all the chaos, few of the men seemed to have noticed that there was no longer a “prize” to be had at the end of the race, but Cannon was still getting nervous. Though he had no doubt that the coyotes or harsh terrain would kill the Calyer girl long before she figured out how to be a savvy runaway, he couldn't chance it. Bridie couldn't be allowed to walk free, knowing everything she knew. There was a thirty thousand dollar reward on her pretty little head by now, and all the papers had been alerted. If Tucker LaRouche managed to escape and blab to the police, he would never be found credible. But a ripe little doe-eyed eighteen year-old in a ripped dress? Hers would be a harder story for the Feds to ignore.
“Any word?” the Officer bellowed toward his detail, a group of squat, pimply men who'd been enlisted special, from the pawn shop division. Few of them had even seen this sort of action before.
“Waiting on a radio signal from one of your motorcycle boys,” chirped one chickenshit, his blonde hair looking waxy in the camp gloom. “Small city, I'm sure we'll know by morning.”
In lieu of something productive to do, Cannon lurched back toward the garage where Athena and Zuzu were being held. He heard the women's screams from yards away. Not wishing to look inside, the officer huddled outside the door instead.
“Where is he, you sack of shit?” SMACK.
“I told you I don't know, ugly.” SMACK. “Is that all you got? The PMS cramps that bad this month?” The older woman started to laugh at this—she laughed the thin, labored croaks of a dying person, but it was laughter all the same. SMACK.
Great, Cannon figured. A couple of Joan of Arcs. If no one
flipped by dawn, he'd have to kill them both. Headache-city—that was two more murders that their already taxed police department would need to cover up.
The officer lit a cigarette. Squinting into the darkness, he saw high beams on the road, followed by the sound of victory cries.
“WE COME BEARING GIFTS, SIR!” Spivey shrieked. He looked like a wicked Meat Loaf, all sweat and leather and curled lips. “DING FUCKING DONG, THE WITCH IS DEAD!”
“Bring them here. And keep them bound!” They were all lined up in the garage now, every single one of his mosquitoes, these enemies to justice. Cannon felt like he was back in 'Nam, cracking skulls in the name of freedom. He resisted the urge to whistle.
“Mr. LaRouche. Never expected to see you again,” Cannon drawled. Pacing the length of the garage, he secured a tire iron from the gaping yaw of Athena's toolbox. He picked it up and gently tossed it between his hands.
“Guess I'm unlucky,” Tucker drawled back.
“That shin looks pretty bad.”
“Just a scratch.”
“Oh, yeah? A scratch, huh? Spivey—would you come check this out?” Not bothering to conceal his eagerness, Spivey snapped to his new leader's side. He took the proffered tire iron, waited for a nod of approval, then launched the weapon straight into the white dressings around Tuck's already shattered shin.
The Rider almost threw up at the shockwave of pain that ran threw his body. It was excruciating. He dimly heard himself scream the heartrending scream of a burning man. Beside him, bound, Bridie collapsed into silent sobs. And now the tribunal from hell was advancing on her.
“Don't worry,” Cannon smirked, his lips slick around a cigarette. “We're going to kill him, sweetie. Just want to have a little fun first.”
“ATHENA,” Tuck was wailing now. “ATHENA—HOW COULD YOU...”
“Stop blubbering like a little pussy,” Spivey oozed.
Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom) Page 14
