by Jc Emery
Then she composes herself, the smart shell back on, saying, “The day I realized I was stuck with you.” They smile at one another broadly. Jim shakes his head and turns around, his dark hair whipping at his jaw.
“Ignore her,” Ryan says. “I kick ass.” His eyes are back on mine, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. I let out an embarrassed laugh, trying to stave off the irritation I feel at my own reaction. Of course it was a blown tire and not a mob hit. What a silly thing to consider. Here, in the never-ending farmland, with nobody and nothing within fifty miles of us. No, that’s not how my father works. He’s typically a little more orderly than that.
“Damn girl, don’t be embarrassed over that,” Duke says with a dramatic roll of the eyes. “You gotta learn to handle yourself better than that if you want to hang around here.” He’s teasing me, giving me an opening to make light of the situation—exactly, I’m guessing, what one of them would do.
“Sorry about that, I’m new to this being on-the-run thing. I could use some pointers. Got any?” The crowd—which now consists of the entire group—breaks out into rowdy laughter. Duke gives me a smile, an actual, genuine smile. I smirk, knowing I’ve gained his approval for the time being. Ryan’s eyes light up as he sticks out his hand in offering. I look down at his dry and cracked hand, palm up, and then back at him. He gives me a small nod and I reach out, happy to make contact with him.
Ryan’s grip on my hand is tight, his skin warm. I never realize how cold my body runs until I touch another person. It’s unfortunate how little physical contact I’ve had with others that even the smallest touch matters to me. With a slight tug, he has me crawling out of the van and stepping into the low grass on the side of the road. Once I’m steady on my feet, he releases me, but keeps his body close to mine. Feeling brave for just a moment, I let my hand graze his. He hooks his pinky around mine, then lets go. I shudder involuntarily. He gives no reaction, leaving me to wonder how much another’s touch means to him. Is it inconsequential, even innocent as it was, or is it routine for him? I allow that thought to take precedence over the sight of the blown front tire of the van, the damaged cornstalks, and the disgruntled bikers. Because in that moment the only thing that matters is Ryan and the way his pinky felt wrapped around mine. As stupid as it sounds, it matters to me.
A strong elbow nudges my upper arm, bringing my attention back to reality. Looking up, I see it’s Ryan. “Huh?” I ask.
“I asked if you’ve ever ridden on a motorcycle.”
I think back, realizing I have. “My brother got a BMW for his birthday last year.”
Ryan chortles. “How far did you go?”
“Um, around the parking lot,” I say. “My father wouldn’t let him take me anywhere on it. He said it was too dangerous for me.” Ryan shakes his head, looking at the men around him.
“Well, today’s your lucky day. You’re a sitting duck here with the van. You get to ride with me.”
“I get to ride on your—” I sputter off then stop. Already, I have more freedom here with these people than I ever had with my father.
He leans in close and whispers, “Careful, little girl. You don’t want to go there.”
Ryan’s answering wink is enough to do me under, but it’s the words that spill out of his mouth that send shivers down my spine. Maybe I don’t want to be careful. And maybe I do want to go there.
Before I can embarrass myself further, Ruby comes around to my side, giving me a reassuring smile. “I’ll be riding with Jim, right beside you.”
I nod and give her a small smile, praying that she can’t see how excited I really am. Having lived my entire life in what amounts to, essentially, a glass bubble, the prospect of getting out and doing something wild is exhilarating.
As the bikers talk amongst themselves, Ruby leads me away with Ryan and Jim hot on our heels. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. We come around the van to the bikes haphazardly parked, set-up on their kickstands, in a large cluster. I can’t make out which one is Ryan’s. They all look the same—black and chrome with worn leather seats and cargo bags strapped to the sides. They each appear to have something unique about them. One has a second seat, another has a backrest, and a third has red flames painted into the black. Despite some of the wear and tear, each bike is obviously loved and cared for.
A heavy arm rests on my shoulders. Instinctively, I know it’s Ryan. He has this particular scent of leather and his own personal musk. Looking up at him, I catch the half-smirk on his face and allow myself to gift him a small smirk of my own.
“Trying to figure out which one’s mine?”
I shake my head, fighting the impending laugh, “They’re very similar looking.” He bends his arm at the elbow, closing in on my head until he has me in a full-on head-grip. Swatting at his chest, I giggle uncontrollably. Urged on by my reaction, he reaches up with his other hand and rubs his knuckles across the top of my head until I have no doubt that my hair’s a mess.
“My bike is nothing like the rest of them,” he grinds out. He firms up his grip on my head, turning my body in toward his. My eyes are closed, letting the rest of my senses take over. I breathe him in, enjoying every bit of who he is that I can. There’s something in the way that he’s strong and playful at the same time. He keeps me close to him, tucked snugly into his chest. For just a brief moment, as I’m inhaling his scent and his warmth, the rest of the world melts away. There is no danger, no fear, and no rough and rowdy bikers around us. There’s just me and Ryan.
When Ryan finally lets go of my head, I pull back, smack his chest one final time, and attempt to smooth down my hair. I keep my scowl in place, almost daring him to do it again.
“You messed up my hair,” I accuse. He gives me a flat look and steps back, leaning on one of the bikes. Nobody moves to protest, so I assume the bike is his.
Ryan’s bike is a Harley-Davidson—I think they’re all Harleys—but his does look different from the others. While all of the other bikes are chrome with shiny black paint, Ryan’s paint job is a black matte finish. The word FORSAKEN is painted over the matte in a shiny black finish. Without taking his eyes off mine, he reaches for his helmet and hands it to me. Clumsily, I grapple with the thing, surprised by its weight. It looks rather dinky, unlike the one my brother has. Where Michael’s helmet has a window for him to see and covers his entire head, Ryan’s merely covers the top of his head, leaving his face exposed to the elements.
“Careful, you drop that and it’s no good,” he says. Immediately, I tighten my grip on the helmet and hold it to my chest. I don’t really know what he means, but he’s asked me to be careful. I don’t want to ruin his things.
“You’re going to need to put it on your head,” Ruby says. She comes up beside me and takes the helmet from my sweaty palms. Placing it on my head, she brushes errant hairs from my face. She’s so close, her eyes are fixed on mine. Her large brown eyes and heart-shaped face contort painfully in a rush of emotion. She brings her hands to my cheeks as her eyes pool with unshed tears. She gives a small smile and whispers, “You’re beautiful.”
She looks so much like my mother, it’s almost unbearable.
Jim comes up behind Ruby and places a helmet on her head. It looks exactly like Ryan’s. As he snaps hers into place almost blindly, she pulls herself together and snaps mine into place as well. It’s feels a little loose, but I decide not to make it an issue. There’s too much going on in my brain right now to worry about it.
Turning back to Ryan, I see he hasn’t moved. His expression is a cross between indifference and sorrow, I just can’t decide which. I wait a moment until he snaps out of it and moves to sit in riding position. With his hands gripping the handlebars he gives me a quick nod and a mischievous smile. I walk awkwardly to the bike, trying to calm my nerves. Having watched these men ride for the past few days, I’ve been both curious and nervous about the prospect of getting on a bike. Up until now, only in my fantasies have I been able to passenger with Ryan.
>
Don’t be a baby.
Smiling at him, I place my right hand on his leather-bound right shoulder, using it for support as I awkwardly swing my left leg over the bike. I find myself on wobbly footing, but Ryan’s right hand grips mine as I dig my nails into his leather vest, and his left arm snakes behind him, pulling me closer to him. With his guidance, I land properly on the back of his leather seat.
“Not used to having something this big between your legs?”
“I bet you’d like the answer to that, wouldn’t you?” I say before I can catch myself. Ryan turns just enough so that I can see the lascivious smile that’s spread across his face. His tongue darts out and licks his lips, sending a shiver up my spine. My father would have had a holy fit had he caught me being mouthy in front of his men. Carlo Mancuso likes his women compliant. But the way Ryan’s looking at me, with his eyes practically glazed over, I’m guessing he likes his women mouthy.
“How long till Nevada, Cap?” A deep voice asks from somewhere behind me. I fumble with getting my feet situated on the small foot rests that stick out from the rest of the bike.
Surprising me, Ryan clears his throat and says, “A few hours.” The surrounding bikers mount their Harleys and start up their engines. Ryan follows suit and the bike come to life with a deafening roar. The bike’s intimidating rumble vibrates every inch of my person. I take advantage of my position and wrap my arms around Ryan’s midsection, pulling myself as close to him as possible. He leans back minutely. I let my cheek rest on his shoulder blade.
Slowly, the bikers spread out along the side of the highway, facing the road. Ryan steers the bike through the crowd and, like a shot, we’re the first on the highway. We kick into another gear and speed up, the rush of the wind and the sudden speed jostling. I let my fingers dig into his taut abdomen as we sail down the concrete stretch, surrounded by nothing at all discernible beyond the neatly laid rows of green that stretch for as far as my eyes can see.
A little too late, I realize I’ve left my bag in the van. My Aunt Gloria gave me that bag, and it has the few worldly possessions I now own. Fear claws at my heart. If I lose that bag, that money, then I have nothing.
“Ryan?” I ask, but he doesn’t react. I say it a little louder this time, and still nothing. I give myself a moment before screaming his name as close to his ear as I can. He jumps in place, but somehow keeps the bike steady.
“What?” He asks loudly, though not nearly as loud as I was.
Leaning toward his ear I say, “My bag! I left it in the van.” I think he’s not going to answer me, given how long it takes him. But when he does, there’s a noticeable smile in his voice.
“It’s safe,” he says. I know better than to ask how. Men of power, who have power because they’ve taken it, not because it’s been granted, they aren’t to be questioned. So I let myself trust him, even though I don’t know him yet.
The highway stretches out before us, but nothing changes. No matter how many miles we clock or how long we ride, it all just stays the same.
“How do you like it?” Ryan shouts over the cacophony of engines. I snuggle into him, not knowing if I’ll ever get another opportunity to be this close with him.
“It’s incredible,” I say. A smile breaks out on my face and I laugh. The rush of the wind and the power of the bike overtake me and, for just a moment, everything feels right.
“You’re smiling,” he says.
“You can feel that?” I ask, surprised by the attention he’s paying to my movements.
“Oh, I can feel a lot more than that.” He revs the bike and speeds us up, leaving the others in our wake. They catch up in a minute; a few of the men flip Ryan the bird and shout curse words at him. We’re going so fast, my entire body goes rigid. My hands clamp down tightly onto his hard abdomen, feeling his flexing muscles beneath the leather. My thighs tighten around his hips, searching for confirmation that I won’t fly off the back of the bike. Beneath my touch, he shivers. Whether it be the wind or my touch that’s affecting him, I imagine it’s my touch. Testing the theory, I run my thumb in small circles on his abdomen. Straightening his position, his breathing changes. It picks up at first, and then catches before evening out. And I know, without a doubt, that it’s me that he’s reacting to, a thought that both excites and terrifies me.
My hair whips up, slapping me in my face, and tickling my neck. The wind breezes past us with such force I worry if I let go for even a moment that I’ll take flight and be tossed into the green beyond. I close my eyes and let the feeling overtake me. Wind slicing into my skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. The bright afternoon sun, beating down on me, its warmth washed away by the brush of the wind. Everything is more intense out here. With every pull of my lungs and every beat of my heart, I actually feel the world moving around me. Everything feels alive, and active, not merely existing. From the birds flying overheard down to the occasional insect buzzing past. But it’s the bikes that make my skin taut with excitement. Ryan’s hips between my legs and his bike underneath me keeps my body in a constant vibration. But the bikes around us create a cacophony of noise, all rumbles and echoes of roaring engines, unlike anything I’ve ever heard before.
My father always said that I was far too precious to engage in anything dangerous. What he really meant was that I was too important an investment, a pawn, to do anything fun. Here, in the wind, it comes to me that I may just hate him a little.
Chapter 9
I take things like honor and loyalty seriously. It's more important to me than any materialistic thing or any fame I could have.
- Llyod Banks
WE RIDE FOR what feels like days, maybe even a week. Though I know that’s not possible. The afternoon sun moves little, and there is no telltale darkening of the sky. My backside cramps, and my legs long to stretch out. Even in my discomfort, the thrill of the ride hasn’t waned any. Being huddled into Ryan makes me think I could stay here forever.
I take the time to watch the men, who are mostly silent, but occasionally crack jokes and tease one another over the growling engines. The flat expanse of highway allows the bikers to spread out as they ride. Though they sometimes swerve and loop around one another, likely to keep things interesting, they all return to their original formation.
Ryan slows the bike, and the rest of the men in the club follow suit. I peer around his shoulder and tense up at the sight. Before us by perhaps a few hundred feet, there’s a collection of men on motorcycles, all wearing black vests, lining the highway just after the “Welcome to Nevada” sign. I work very hard, but nearly fail at stopping the impending tears from falling. Ryan’s muscles haven’t tensed under my touch, and the men that surround us haven’t given any indication that this is a problem. But until I know for sure that we’re safe, I’m not going to relax. As the motorcycles slow to a crawl and eventually stop just before the sign, I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in between Ryan’s shoulder blades. If this is an ambush, I’d rather not see it coming.
But just then a raucous chorus of laughter sounds and even Ryan’s body is shaking with the effort. The bike begins to move again, and with the sounds of excited laughter surrounding me, I open my eyes. The men at the border largely appear to be pleased with our presence. One by one they start their engines and tear off in front of us. When they’re all on the highway in front of us, we pick up our pace to keep up with the pack.
After riding along for no more than five or ten minutes, we pull off the barren highway and onto a dirt road the feels like it stretches for miles. Eventually, we pull up to a collection of decrepit old wooden cabins, sprawled out from one another, that make up the West Wendover Rustic Motel. Somehow, when they named the place, I don’t think this is what they had in mind.
A cabin identifying itself as the office sits in the center of the cluster. Its sign hangs precariously by the one remaining, intact chain. Its neon letters are busted with their remnants scattered on the wooden porch beneath it. The windows haven’t fared much be
tter, nor has its neglected porch, which houses three rocking chairs, two of which are occupied by old bikers who look like they’ve got one foot in the grave already.
Just as Ryan cuts the engine, the men of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club collectively cut theirs and dismount their bikes. Our new friends watch me with curious eyes. I even have the attention of the old bikers in the rocking chairs. Nervously, I dismount as gracefully as I can. Despite some minor shaking, I make it off the bike and on my feet without incident. Ryan dismounts quickly and comes to stand behind me. He’s so close I can feel the edges of his vest brushing against my back. I catch Jim’s gaze. His brows are drawn together, and his lips forms a flat line. His eyes look so cold I can barely reconcile this man with the one who first wrapped Gloria in his arms just a few days ago.
“Who are these people?” I whisper so that only Ryan can hear me. His chin brushes my temple; the rough drag of his days’ worth of stubble scrapes at my skin.
“Family.” His breath washes over my face. I relax, surveying the scene around me. The new faces all wear vests with the same Viking warrior and the word FORSAKEN on the back. The only difference is theirs say NEVADA on the bottom, whereas the men I’m traveling with vests say CALIFORNIA. Ryan leaves me and strides across the dirt lot to mingle with his men. Once he’s gone, I feel intimidated by the gathering. The Nevada Forsaken must amount to thirty in number. I’m barely getting the hang of communicating with the men I already know, much less this crowd, which ranges in age from mid-thirties to late seventies, if I’m guessing correctly.
“What are you doing over here?” I jump at the company, not having noticed anyone approach. To my ride side stands Ian. He’s expressionless as always, but he seems to have relaxed since the last time I caught his attention.
“Am I not supposed to be here?” I ask. His jaw ticks before he shakes his head. There’s some kind of struggle going on within him that I don’t understand.
