Nordic Lessons

by Christine Edwards

Eternal Enemies

  Sparks fly up from my torch as I fuse a steel pipe onto the body of my latest design. Through the glass of my visor, I catch movement to my right and see a body standing close.

  Twisting the propane knob to ‘off,’ I flip open my protective helmet and stare at Bern. “What’s up?”

  “Got company, my man … and it’s not the good kind.”

  I watch him closely, reading his expression. It’s tight with agitation bordering on unleashed anger. My body locks in place as I ask, “Who?”

  “Your old buddy, Dag.”

  Fuuuuck. Fuck! Why today? Shit!

  In a clipped voice, I ask, “Yeah, okay. He alone?”

  “Nope, two of his crew are flanking.”

  “Got it. Gunnar around or did he already take off on the errand?”

  “Left about five minutes ago to get that helmet you wanted from Lars’ shop. I got your back, brother.” A black iron crowbar drops repeatedly against his left palm in a smacking motion. He’s primed to bring the heat if necessary. Knowing these jokers, it’s a definite possibility.

  I stare into his eyes and say in a serious tone, “Let’s get this fucking over and done with.”

  I push up and off my rolling stool, flinging my thick, flame-retardant gray gloves to the floor in supreme annoyance.

  Dag. What the fuck? Haven’t seen the asshole in three years and now he shows up at my garage, interrupting my work? This is bullshit and he’d better have a good reason for being here, on my property.

  I take the lead and step out of the wide double-bay door of the garage. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bern, not but a foot away from me, keeping close. I could handle all three of these dipshits if it came down to the wire, but having him here is certainly an added bonus.

  Purposefully stopping ten feet away, I cross my arms against my chest and widen my stance. The dominant gesture is second nature to me. I take in the three supremely fine custom choppers that are parked in a triangle, with Dag’s ride at the tip. They’re sweet rides … but mine are undoubtedly better, surpass them in both design and quality. His two brawny brothers are seated on their cycles. Dag is the only one who’s dismounted. They look like a bunch of thugs. And that’s right on the money.

  He’s standing stock still, arrogantly before me. I take him in, noting that he looks nearly the same as the last time we had a run-in. Yeah, the same. The split lip I gave him during our last tangle has healed up real good, with not even a mark.

  Too fucking bad for that ….

  He’s always been a pretty boy, too pretty to be a biker really. Icy blue eyes, typical of many in Norway, highlight a chiseled, oblong-shaped face covered with a hefty amount of stubble. His golden blond hair hangs loose and wavy, brushed back off his face to hang right at his jacket collar. He’s tall, nearly as tall as me, but not quite. He’s always been lean to the point of lanky. He looks like some fucking metrosexual twat posing as a biker. Dick. I take a slow breath and get down to business.

  I lift my chin in a quick jerk, a blatant indicator that I’m more than ready to have this dumb-ass encounter over and done.

  “Mikkel.” His low, stern voice cuts through the cool afternoon air.

  “Dag.” I grind the name out as if it’s crushed glass inside my mouth.

  He tilts his head and watches me closely. I know him all too well. He’s trying to pull some stupid psychological bullshit.

  I take in a deep breath of annoyance and state calmly, “Spit it out, Dag. Got shit to do.”

  I watch his two boys jerk back at my rude comment. They know full and well that no one addresses their club president like that and walks away unharmed.

  No one but me, that is.

  Dag plasters on a fake smile that he’s trying to pass off as carefree, but I can see the tightness around the corners of his eyes and the tension in his fisted hands. He’s pissed. Good.

  “One of our rides got nicked outside of our clubhouse last night. You happen to know anything about it, Mikkel?”

  I look up to the sky for a second to get a grip on the rage that’s streaming through my veins at the accusation.

  I dip my chin and fix him with a malevolent glare as I lean in and hiss, “Seriously? You’re here to bust my balls because one of your boys can’t keep a tether on his ride? What else do you want to know? Maybe if one of my brothers is banging one of your skank-ass old ladies?”

  His eyes narrow in fury as he grates out, “I’d watch yourself, Mikkel.” My name is basically spit out of his mouth in disgust.

  I lean in even closer to him, unfolding my arms and planting my hands firmly on my hips. “That a threat, old friend?” I growl. I purposefully place a heavy emphasis on old.”

  His eyes narrow sharply. “Depends.”

  “Oh yeah? This conversation is over. Get the fuck out of here.” I throw my left arm out in a dismissive wave and jerk my head toward the street. Turning to make my way back into the garage, I hear him call out behind me, “More than one of my boys saw someone wearing your club’s patch on their leather as they drove off with the stolen ride, Mikkel. You owe me an explanation. Right now!”

  I freeze mid-stride and spin around. I stalk right up to him, stopping short right before our black boots touch. Getting right up in his grill, I grind out, “That so? You calling out Devil’s Wrath for stealing, my man?”

  I watch him weigh his options before responding. We’ve known each other since grade school, used to be best friends for years ’til his true dark character began to emerge, one I detected at a young age and wanted no part of.

  He seethes anger as he hisses at me, “You always did think you were better than me, didn’t you, Mikkel? All your intellect, your family’s name and wealth. Always on the straight path in life, you never could do any wrong, could you?”

  I ignore his stupidity and give him a low, cautionary warning, “None of my boys took your brother’s ride. Our members save every fucking kroner for the sweet custom rides they own; you can take that fucking fact to your grave, Dag. Besides, I would know, and I don’t put up with bullshit like that in my club. We’re tight and we’re clean, unlike others. Now that’s far more of an explanation than you deserve, you fucking asshole. Get the hell off my property!”

  He glares at me with such intensity he’d probably strangle me on the spot if he could get away with it. I know that he runs guns through his MC. The Hellraisers Club needs constant funding to keep it running, pay the mortgage, etc. If you’re not bringing in the bankroll in a legit fashion then bikers often look for lucrative alternatives.

  “Are you insinuating that we’re into something illegal?”

  I nearly spit nails at him as I lash out, “It’s a fucking fact, Dag. You’ve always been into that shit, ever since you started your club, asshole. Not my fucking fault that you don’t have the legit talent to keep it up without the weapons. Now, for the second time, I have shit to do, can’t stand out here and listen to you fucking moan like a woman about your missing cycle, so get lost.”

  The two hulking guys get off their parked bikes, the insult too much for them to take. Bern’s moving in even closer, flanking me for the fight that’s about to bust open. He’s a bad-ass black-belt kick-boxer, studied that shit since he was five years old. He can hold his own, and so can I. I’m calm by nature, but once that bottle’s uncorked, that pent up rage becomes unleashed, I can be deadly.

  I smile calmly and whisper to him in a sinister, taunting voice, “Come on, you little pussy, throw the first punch. You’ve wanted to for so long now. Give me a reason to kick the shit out of you … again.”

  The insult is enough to ignite his rage. He lunges quickly for me, in an obvious attempt to take me down. I step back quickly and pivot to the side as he grazes past me, nearly falling forward from his own momentum. He turns, shouting loudly in anger, lowers a shoulder, and tackles me hard around the waist. We both topple over and fall to the black pavement with heavy thuds, and the savage blows immediately start up from both s
ides. He lands a punch square against my mouth, but I’m so pissed off that the pain doesn’t even register.

  I hear Bern growl out from above, “Back the fuck off! Let ’em fight!”

  The long dormant hatred I hold for him fires up within me. It swiftly takes over as we furiously lay into one another. With my larger size, I’m able to maneuver on top of him and let loose. I land three blows on his face before someone pulls me roughly off of him. I struggle against the hold, desperate to keep him down, to give him the beating that he deserves for calling my club out. For basically stalking my little cousin, stressing her the fuck out for years now, not taking ‘no’ for an answer when it’s obvious that she has zero interest. I see red as I pull violently away from the brawny arm that’s pulling harshly on me. I’m able to land another savage blow to his gut before I’m reluctantly tugged away from him.

  Once my weight is gone he immediately struggles backward and manages to stagger to his feet, trying to save face. He yells out in a fervent rage, “You’ll pay for that!”

  I shove off one of his boys who still has a hand on me and laugh. “Oh yeah? Looks like you’re the one who just paid up for the insult, you fucking pussy!”

  He lunges again and one of his brothers wisely holds him back this time. I must have clocked him hard in the nose because blood is seeping out like a leaky faucet. Good, taught that punk a well-deserved lesson.

  A white Oslo taxi rounds the corner and rolls to a stop not ten feet away from the chaos and parked motorcycles.

  Damn it! Really bad timing Elora ….

  She steps out with a look of confusion that quickly turns to fear when she sees the blood on both our faces. The taxi driver hesitates, as if expecting Elora to jump back in. He waits for a second, rolling down his window to ask her what she wants to do.

  I point to the interior of the shop and give a sharp command, “Go inside, Elora.”

  Eyes flaring, she nearly races for the entrance behind me, her red hair streaming behind her slim back. Dag and his boys watch her closely. Fury rises up like a tidal wave within me.

  I do my best to level out my voice, not wanting to give Dag the satisfaction of my anger. I warn him in a deadly tone, “Don’t you ever fucking look at her. Now fuck-off back to your sorry-ass clubhouse.” I jut my chin out in the direction of their club, which lies on the Eastern outskirts of the city. “That is, unless you want to go for round two, motherfucker? Cause truth be told, I was just getting warmed up.”

  He narrows his pale eyes and glares at me, knowing that he’s been outplayed this time around.

  Bern and I stand fast, claiming our territory as they mount their motorcycles. One after another the choppers roar to life as Dag yells, “This is just the beginning, Mikkel!”

  Squaring my shoulders, I shout back over the roar of engines, “Bring it, asshole, and as usual, you’re wrong because this shit between you and me has been going strong for over ten years!”

  Without waiting for a reply, I turn and stalk back into my garage, so pissed off that I’m shaking hard, grateful that Elora is here to distract me.

  When I’m about to cross the threshold I catch sight of Gunnar racing down the sidewalk, new helmet for Elora clutched tightly in his massive hand.

  “Oh shit! What’d I miss, boss?”

  I shake my head. Gunnar: good guy, hard worker. Never the brightest bulb in the box, though.

  I swipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, ignore his question and stride into the open bay to see my beauty. We have a lot of ground rules to cover tonight.

  * * *

  He looks like an imposing warrior clad in indigo blue. Both blood and oil streak his broad hands, and I watch in fascination as red drops from a fresh cut on his top lip drip steadily down his chin.

  So unbelievably raw and hot ….

  “You’re … you’re bleeding badly. Here, sit, let me have a look.”

  Without protest he takes a seat on a rolling stool next to a neon orange and black motorcycle. I reach down into my handbag, pull out a mini pack of Kleenex, and dab the blood as gently as possible. I move in close to inspect the severity of the cut.

  He stays very still but I can tell that he’s struggling to control his breathing. He watches me closely as I speak, “Well, it seems you are lucky. You’ve narrowly avoided the need for stitches. What in the world was that bust-up all about?”

  “Old school mate, lots of bad blood. Too long a story to get into right now, though.”

  He pulls back slightly, eyes raking me from head to toe. “You look beautiful.”

  I flush and glance quickly at my cobalt blue wrap dress and ivory cropped jacket, decorated with several silver zippers, some of them functional. Over-the-knee black suede Prada boots round out the outfit.

  “Thank you. I had the appointment I mentioned to you at the downtown gallery today, hence the proper attire.”

  “I look forward to hearing all about it over steaks tonight, min skjønne. I’m sorry you caught the tail end of that mess out there. Not something I wanted my girl to see.”

  He reaches out to touch me on the hip but freezes when he notices the filth on his hands. “Let me get cleaned up. Jag’s finished, have a look.” He cocks his head to the far bay of the garage. “It was the starter. Put a new one in, and it’s good to go now.”

  I smile and take in his midnight blue, button-down short-sleeved work shirt. His forearms are tanned and thick with honed muscles. Mmm ….

  The oval patch stitched on his right breast pocket reads, ‘Slave driver.’ Stealing a glance at Bern, who’s standing nearby pouring coffee, I see that his reads ‘Jack Meoff.’ ”

  What in the world?

  I burst into an involuntary fit of giggles and finally am able to ask, “What are these ridiculous patches all about? Your idea?”

  His eyes brighten and his lips twitch. “Every Christmas, we have a dark, running joke. We pick out fitting nicknames for each other, order the shirts, and regardless of what you’re stuck with, you gotta wear it every Monday to the shop.”

  I wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes. “And what happens if you refuse?”

  “You don’t.” Curt. Abrupt.

  “But if someone did?” I say between giggles.

  “Then you gotta wear it for two weeks straight.”

  I finally manage to contain my laughter. “That’s outrageous!” I level him with a heated, questioning look before asking, “So, is it true?”

  “What, babe?”

  “Are you a total slave driver?”

  I watch in fascination as he goes very still, eyelids dropping slightly. Then, holding me in his smoldering gaze, he says with supreme confidence, “Absolutely, Elora.”

  My breath hitches as I whisper ever so softly, “Oh.”

  A dark vision of him as the ultimate master in the bedroom begins to form in my mind; it’s graphic and irresistible. It’s undoubtedly about to become my sensual reality.

  Gunnar walks up, interrupting the sexual fantasy. Speaking in heavily accented English, he tells Mikkel, “Here’s her helmet.”

  I watch him reach out to take it from the huge man. He gives it a once-over, turning it around in his hands. Gunnar’s patch reads, ‘Hugh G. Rection.’ These guys are incorrigible.

  I choke out a laugh. Gunnar grins down at his chest and says, “Like that? Pretty funny, right? They finally picked the perfect patch out for me this year.”

  From the stack of papers he is going through on the desk, Bern pipes up, “Yeah right, Gunnar. You do realize that the guys who have to talk about it don’t have jack shit going on downstairs.”

  Gunnar gives a loud snort before saying sharply, “The ladies are always more than satisfied. Can’t get enough!”

  Mikkel shakes his head in exasperation and I can’t stop laughing at their ridiculous banter.

  “All right, Elora, I’m going to follow you over to your place. I’ll park on the street and wait for you. Need you to carry your helmet in the Jag, no
room on my ride.”

  “Of course.”

  He holds out the sleek, matte-black modern helmet that reads ‘Arai Corsair V’ in smoke gray lettering down the side. It looks very expensive and well constructed, which in the motorcycle world must mean top safety.

  “Thank you, Mikkel. It’s very nice. Are you certain?” I’ve come to know him well enough to understand that protesting his generosity is futile.

  He ignores my question, instead saying, “Try it on, skjønne.”

  He pushes back and the stool slides along the dark gray concrete floor. I watch him cross his arms and wait expectantly. I set my handbag down on top of a triple-decker red tool chest and lift the helmet up over my head. It easily slides down into place. My first impression is that it’s supremely warm and comfortable. I can see Mikkel clearly through the shield of plastic. I grin at him.

  I’m not sure if he can hear me well with the visor closed so I say loudly, “It’s quite nice!”

  He obviously did because I hear him say, “Looks hot, Elora. Like it on you, good choice.”

  I pull it off, shake my hair and set it down near my handbag. “I need to settle up with you for the repairs to the Jaguar.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Mikkel, this—”

  I’m cut off mid-sentence. His palm comes up flat out in front of him, a clear indicator that I should hush up. He speaks quietly. “Elora, let me do this for you, all right? Been a fucking long day, babe. Let’s get rolling. Need a shower asap.”

  He stands and moves toward the oversized sink. He pumps a substance in a massive orange bottle labeled ‘Gojo’ onto his hands and scrubs them vigorously before toweling them off and turning back to me.

  “Keys are in the Jag. Let’s go.” He calls loudly toward the office, “Bern, you good to lock up tonight?”

  “Yeah, my man, I’ll be here finishing up the brakes on the Frenchman’s ride.”

  “Excellent, looks like it should be ready for shipment a week before we projected. Call me if there are any more issues tonight.”

  “No worries, you two have fun.”

  He stares right at me, those tempestuous eyes burning with intent. “Oh, we plan on it.”