by Sybil Bartel
She scoffed. “I’m Stone Hawkins’s daughter. I knew how to ride before my feet could reach the gears.”
The sound of motorbikes came closer.
“Come on, come on,” she clipped, looking down the driveway. “We got a better chance on this beast than on foot. I can take us around the back way, and we can hit the cabin from the north. Besides, we need to ride off so Mama tells Daddy we went to Kentucky.” She grabbed the handlebars again.
I glanced down the driveway.
I had not thought of the merits of misleading them as to our location. On compound, we had always stayed and held perimeter. We were all taught the dishonor of saving your life over sacrificing it to protect the borders of the compound.
But I was not on compound anymore, and I had more to protect than a chain-link fence.
Shoving the guns into one of the backpacks, then dropping it, I stepped next to my woman. “Move.”
Complying, she retreated from the motorbike and picked up the backpack.
I grasped one side of the handlebars and placed my other hand on the frame of the motorbike under the seat. Then I shoved with all of my strength.
I got the heavy piece of machinery upright, and my woman made a whooping sound.
“Yes!” She clapped once, and before I could get the kickstand down, she toed it with her foot and moved in front of me. With the backpack on her shoulder, she grabbed the handlebars and pressed a button on the right. “Come on, come on, start.” She pressed a second button on the right handlebar.
The motorbike roared to life.
“Heck yes.” My woman revved the engine and spoke over the noise. “Grab the other backpack and put it in the saddle bags.” She shoved her backpack in the bag on the far side of the motorbike then glanced at a lit-up display between the handlebars. “We got over half a tank of gas. We’re good to go.”
Picking up the second backpack, her shotgun and the ammo, I placed everything except one of the handguns inside the opposite leather bag attached to the rear of the motorbike. Leaving the barrel of the shotgun sticking out from the corner of the saddle bag, I secured it shut and shoved the handgun in my back waistband.
My woman straddled the motorbike. Nodding over her shoulder, she revved the engine. “Foot pegs are on either side. Get on.”
I hesitated.
No female had ever told me what to do.
“I know what I’m doing, I promise,” she reassured. “All you gotta do is lean when I lean and hold on to me. Come on, swing your leg over and get on.”
I took no issue with stealing the dead man’s property, even though coveting anything on compound growing up was strictly prohibited, and stealing was a sin punishable by death. Not that there had ever been opportunity or material items worth taking when ownership of anything did not exist.
I was at peace with taking the motorbike and weapons.
I was not at peace with getting behind my woman.
She looked nervously down the driveway. “Tarq, we gotta go.”
Tarq.
The shortened version of my name, getting behind her, none of this was sitting right with me, but I could not deny the sound of motorbikes getting closer.
Resigned, I threw a leg over and found one foot peg, but I did not lift my second leg off the ground. “You are going to balance the motorbike?”
She patted my leg like a child. “Gotcha covered. Put your arms around my waist and hang on.”
My jaw tight, I put my arms around her and lifted my second foot to the peg.
Pulling her dark glasses down over her face, she simultaneously gave the engine gas and lifted her foot off the ground.
The motorbike shot forward.
My arms instinctually tightened around her waist.
“Don’t worry,” she said over her shoulder. “I got us.”
The engine whined higher, and she pulled a lever with her left hand as her left foot lifted a lever. The engine’s whine decreased, and we took on speed until the engine was whining a higher-pitched noise again. Then she repeated the motion with her left hand and left foot, pulling a hand lever and lifting a foot lever, then giving the motorbike more gas.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
Humid air hitting our faces, the smells of flora and fauna coming at us faster than I had ever experienced, she raised her voice over the wind and turned the handlebars to follow the curve in the dirt road. “Gettin’ us outta here.”
Both of our bodies leaned the same direction the bike turned and alarm hit. I looked at the ground speeding by. “We will fall.” Gravity would prevail.
“No, we won’t. I got this.” She righted the motorbike after the turn and took on more speed. A lot more speed.
Then something happened.
I was not thinking about River Ranch.
I was not looking for other bikers with guns.
I was not navigating a world I did not understand.
No misunderstood manner of speech.
No men hunting me.
No boundaries.
No woman occupying my thoughts.
Wind.
Earth.
Air.
For the first time in my existence, I understood the word freedom.
His arms tightened like a noose around my waist as I took a turn. “We will fall.”
“No, we won’t. I got this.” I came out of the turn, and we were at the end of the driveway. Glancing left and right for the other Lone Coasters or Daddy’s SUV, I didn’t spot any of them, but I wasn’t taking no chances. Instead of turning onto the state road, I drove straight across. The dirt lane continued in a mess of backroads that bordered other parcels of land, but eventually it came out on a county road I could take. A long loop would get us to the back side of Daddy’s property, and we could hide the bike somewhere there.
Rush’s Street Glide and his stupid custom pipes were so dang loud, I wanted to get as far away from the house as fast as possible. Once we crossed the county road, the dirt lane was no better than Daddy’s potholed driveway, but I didn’t care. The bike was new and big, and I knew it could handle it.
I opened it up.
Tarquin’s arms around me, his body stiff behind mine, we flew down the dirt road.
The air cooled, and the old orchards on either side were alive with citrus blooms. If it weren’t for the fact that we were on a stolen Hog with dead men left behind lying on Daddy’s driveway, it would’ve been a perfect moment.
A perfect moment with a grown man who’d never ridden on a bike, or in any vehicle for that matter.
I almost couldn’t wrap my head around that. Daddy had taken me on his bike since I was little, and by the time I was twelve, he’d taught me how to ride. He’d always said girls should be on the back of a bike with their old man, but since I was his daughter, I was the exception. He said I needed to know how to handle a bike better than any man in his club.
So he’d taught me.
I used to cherish those memories of Daddy spending time with me, showing me how to shift and turn and maneuver around cones he’d set up in the driveway.
Now all of it was tainted with the fact that he was gonna sell me off like some piece of property with no value except what he could get outta the deal.
Anger surged.
Then, as if he knew what I was thinking, Tarquin’s right hand left my waist and his hand covered mine.
He gave the Harley more gas.
I couldn’t help it. I smiled like a schoolgirl. “Why, Tarquin Scott, I do believe you’ve got some biker in you.”
His lips touched my ear. “I am nothing like those men.”
My smile faded. “No, you sure ain’t.” For one, he could shoot like the devil himself.
He changed the subject. “What are you doing with your left foot?”
I loved his voice, but I loved it even more on a Harley. “Shifting. There are six gears. First gear you push down, then gears second through six you lift up. Reverse for downshifting.”
“And with your left hand?”
“That’s the clutch. You need it to shift. Every time you switch gears, you pull the clutch, shift, then give it gas nice and steady as you release the clutch.”
“You do not release the clutch all at once. Why?”
Despite us running for our lives, in that moment, I felt lighthearted. “No, I don’t. If I did, I’d be jerking us around on this bike like a carnival ride.”
“I do not know what a carnival ride is.” His hand over mine, he twisted the throttle with a gentleness he reserved for when he was touching my body. “This makes it go faster.”
The way he had no inhibitions about life—not with sex, not with asking questions, not with admitting to things he didn’t know—my infatuation with him grew. “Yep, that’s the throttle.” I eased off the gas and pulled the brake. “This hand brake is for the front wheel, and my right foot does the brakes on the rear wheel.” I slowed us down and downshifted. “Every time you slow down or speed up, you gotta shift the engine. You hear the engine sputtering when your speed decreases, you know it’s time to downshift. You hear a high-pitched whine like the engine’s running too hard, then you shift to a higher gear.”
“How do you keep the motorbike upright?”
I saw an in. “I’ll tell you, but only if you say motorcycle. Or Hog or Harley.”
His mouth brushed my ear again, and he pulled the throttle. “How do you keep the motorcycle upright?”
This boy had the devil inside him as sure as Daddy had club life running through his veins, and damn if that didn’t make me smile. “I don’t keep the bike upright. Speed does that for me.”
“And when you turn?”
I didn’t know whether to be sad he knew so little about life or be thankful he wanted to learn. “It’s simple physics. Forward momentum. You keep the bike movin’, and you’re good to go. You don’t wanna ever slow down too much durin’ a turn unless you absolutely have to. And if that happens, put your foot out, hovering over the ground, in case you need it for balance.”
“What else?” he demanded.
The impromptu driving lesson taking my mind off how mad Daddy was gonna be, I glanced at the controls. “Right here you got the headlights for driving at night.” I turned them on, then off. “Here’s the horn, but I ain’t using it right now. Only use it if someone’s about to run into you.” I put the left, then the right, turn signals on. “These are the blinkers. You have to use them every time you turn on a public road to signal which way you’re goin’. It’s the law.”
“Whose law?”
Sweet Jesus, what had I gotten myself into? “Uncle Sam.”
“I do not have an uncle.”
“Sayin’ Uncle Sam is just a way to refer to the US government. They got all kinds of laws and rules. It’s why we got police and lawyers and courts. But I digress. There’re rules for drivin’. You can’t just do whatcha want. You gotta stay within posted speed limits, use a turn signal when you turn, stop at stop signs, let pedestrians go first, and since this is America, we drive on the right. There’s also a ton of smaller rules, but those are the basics.”
“How do you know the speed limit?”
“There’ll be a sign with a number on it.” I nodded at the speedometer. “You keep the number on there the same as the speed limit. Well, that is if you don’t wanna break the law and get in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Dependin’ on how much over the speed limit, you could just pay a fine, or you could go to jail.”
“What is a pedestrian?”
“Another way of sayin’ on foot. It’s someone walkin’. You always gotta let them go first, especially if you come to a crosswalk.” Before he could ask, I explained. “A crosswalk is white painted stripes in the street, usually at the intersection of two streets. It’s where people on foot are supposed to walk when they cross the street so they don’t get hit by a car.”
“You cannot cross streets wherever you chose?”
“Not busy streets with lots of traffic.”
He was quiet then for a bit.
I couldn’t begin to imagine being him. Knowing life one way your whole upbringing, then all of a sudden being thrown into a world so different, you had to learn everything all at once. I had nothing but sympathy for his situation, and here I’d thrown him in even deeper, getting him mixed up with Daddy and the Lone Coasters and my problem with Rush.
Guilt filled my heart. “I’m sorry I put you in this situation.”
“What situation?”
“With me.” I steered around a pothole. “With my daddy’s motorcycle club. With Rush.”
“You put me nowhere. I am here by choice. I could have walked away as soon as I was strong enough.”
Shifting, giving the bike more speed, I bit my lip. “Could you have?” I asked, feeling even more guilty. “Where would you have gone?”
“I do not need you.”
The words hurt. A lot. But I had to remember who I was talking to. “I’m guessing you don’t mean that sentiment as anything except pure fact.”
“How else would I intend it?”
In all my life, I’d never met anyone even close to as honest as him. “With ill intention, like you were bein’ mean. Say we were in a fight and you said, ‘I don’t need you,’ out of spite, just to be mean.”
“We are in no such fight, and I would not say words with the sole intent of spite.”
Always a little nervous around him, jittery-like, but also feeling the irony of his pure honesty, I smiled. “No, I don’t think you would.”
“I told you I would not.”
And that was it. His word was his bible. I may not have known Tarquin Scott very well, but to the bottom of my soul, deep where thoughts went to hide, I knew that. He was a man with integrity like no one I had ever met.
I watched everything she did and catalogued it.
Gas, clutch, shift, release, more gas.
Brake, hand and foot, clutch, shift, gas.
Turn, lean, gas, straighten.
Left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot, they all worked together at once.
Like shooting a handgun.
Hands aiming, feet bracing, eyes sighting—it was a coordinated effort.
I took in the machine between my woman’s legs and made a decision.
“Stop,” I demanded.
Obeying me, she pulled the clutch in, downshifted three times and took her hand off the throttle before squeezing the hand brake and pressing the foot brake in tandem.
The motorbike coasted to a smooth stop.
“What’s wrong?” Glancing around, she put both feet down and held the bike upright between her thighs.
“Dismount,” I ordered.
Leaning away, she looked over her shoulder at me. Her expression was that of someone fighting amusement. “This ain’t a horse. You can just say, get off.”
“Get off.” My gaze trained studiously on the controls, I did not look at her.
“You thinkin’ you want a go at driving this beast? Because I gotta say, while I admire your gumption, this is a helluva bike to get your feet wet on.”
I frowned as I looked at letters and numbers I could not read. “My feet will stay dry unless it rains.”
“Lord, give me strength,” she muttered, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. “You sure about this?”
I did not hesitate. “Yes.”
She pressed a button on the right handlebar, and the engine shut off. “Suit yourself.” She put the kickstand down and swung her leg over. “You ever ridden a bicycle?”
“There were no bicycles on compound.” I was not ignorant to the tyrant ways of River Stephens. He had forbidden any vehicles except his few personal motor vehicles. Anything with wheels would have been a means for the brothers or sisters to get away.
“Right.” Her hands went to her hips. “Okay. So, here’s the deal. We’re out in the middle of nowhere, and these orchards go for miles. You dro
p that bike or crash it, we’re hoofin’ it out of here. And I gotta say, I ain’t feelin’ particularly enthusiastic about that option, considerin’ Daddy’s gonna be out lookin’ to tan our hides somethin’ fierce.”
I slid forward on the motorbike and toed the kickstand to the up position. I would kill her father before I ever let him lay a hand on her. “How do you start the engine?”
Reaching over, she fingered a metal part on the tank between my thighs. “This is the key. It’s turned on already, but you’d turn it if it wasn’t. Then you hit the run switch,” she patiently explained as she pressed a switch on the right handlebar. “Then the on switch.” She pressed another switch.
The engine came to life, and I immediately felt the machine’s powerful vibration under me. My life blood pumped through my veins and hummed with anticipation.
She patted my left leg, then squatted. “It’s in neutral right now, which means it’s not in gear.” Taking my boot, she put the toe part over the bar. “In order to make the bike run, you’ve got to pull the clutch and put it in gear, but not yet, okay?”
I nodded at her instruction.
“Good,” she praised absently as she pressed my boot down on the lever. “Feel that click? Now you’re in first.” She stood. “What you’re gonna do now is let the clutch out. Do it nice and slow and simultaneously give the bike gas. Once you start moving, lift your right foot off the ground.” She stepped back. “Okay, you got this, baby. You can do it,” she praised. “But sweet Jesus, don’t drop our bike!”
I did exactly as she said.
As I gave it gas, the bike moved forward, and I lifted my foot.
The heavy machine wobbled and I panicked. Putting my foot back down, I pulled the brake in all at once with my right hand.
The bike jerked to a stop and sputtered right before the engine died.
I frowned.
“No, no, you’re doin’ good. You just stalled out is all.” Coming up beside me, she patted my shoulder. “Everybody does that at first. You got nervous when the gas took, huh?”
I did not answer. I did not have to. She kept talking.
