by Krane, Kasey
We ordered our food at the long, polished bar and then sat down at a small table at the back. As we started into our food, I asked him, “Isn’t this rather depressing?”
“Depressing? What do you mean?”
“Well, this is a charity ride for your dad. And here we are, in Tombstone, eating lunch. It just seems…a little too apropos.”
Bishop stared at me wide-eyed for a moment, and then bust out laughing. “Oh God, all the times we’ve done this, and it never crossed my mind. I…just don’t even know what to say to that.”
I smiled back at him and bit my lower lip in consternation. “Well, hopefully your father had a good sense of humor!”
“That he did,” Bishop said, still chuckling. “I think he’d get a kick outta it.”
Our lunch went quickly - most of the saloon was filled with bikers and many of them drifted past our table to greet Bishop. I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were also sizing me up, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing with Bishop. Finally, between bites of food and visits from fellow bikers, I leaned forward and whispered, “Be honest, Bishop - how many women have you taken on this charity ride with you in the past?”
He grinned, embarrassed, and said, “None. The members from the other clubs don’t realize you’re just here to do an article, so they’re trying to figure out how serious I am about you.”
Like a pin to a balloon, I felt myself deflating at his words. I was just here to do an article. Nothing more. Bishop was pretty blunt about that fact, and I needed to be, too. Especially with myself. I had to stop allowing myself to feel…anything for Bishop.
I forced a stilted smile onto my face and let the topic drop.
After the rain and thunder passed, the bikers began to file out of the saloon. It was time to hit the road again. This time, I wasn’t nearly as happy to plaster myself against Bishop as I had been. There wasn’t a real good way for me to keep my distance from this man who was destined to break my heart into little tiny pieces, and so I miserably attempted to hold on tight, while also letting go.
Fucking bikers and New Mexico and their sexy tattoos. In that moment, I hated it all…almost as much as I was beginning to fall for Bishop.
23
Bishop
As we were cruising down the road, I thought back through lunch, and that morning. Jules had been so amazing with my mother and with all of the bikers in the rally. Except Ghost; she seemed to tense up every time he came around.
But Ghost aside, she just fit in so damn well. And then…it changed. I tried to remember exactly what it was that had happened before she went all stiff on me, but couldn’t recall. She was laughing and we were chatting with other bikers as they wandered by, and then, she was as stiff as one of the board planks. Even now, as we were tearing down the freeway, she was holding onto me, but it was different than it had been that morning.
Before Tombstone, she’d been running her hands up and down my abs and thighs, and her whole body had been nestled against me. You woulda been hard pressed to fit a piece of paper between us.
Holy shit, now though, she was there and holding on, but I had the distinct feeling that this was out of pure necessity. No more wandering hands. No more teasing brushes against my cock. It was straightforward. Businesslike. Professional. She was no longer tempting me with fantasies of pulling off to the side of the road and fucking like rabbits under the shade of a saguaro.
This is exactly what you need, though. She’s leaving in a few days. At least one of you is smart enough to pull away, before…
Before what?
Before I fucked her again?
Before I spent every waking moment watching my fellow club members, making sure nothing happened to her?
Before I fell in love with her?
If I wasn’t in the middle of a goddamn biker rally, heading up the pack, I woulda pulled off the road right then and there and thrown up.
No fucking way was this supposed to happen.
She was a…
And I was a…
And we just didn’t mix! I couldn’t fit into her world any more than she fit into mine. She wasn’t going to be anyone’s Old Lady - she was too stubborn and smart and clearheaded and independent and funny and…
Oh motherfucking goddamn son-of-a-bitch, I sound like a whiny fucking pussy right now!
I wanted to run away from it all. I wanted to ride up into the mountains and forget the world existed and clear my head and figure out what the fuck I was going to do, but I couldn’t. Holding onto me in that very moment was the one person I simultaneously wanted to run away from…and to.
Was this even possible? Could an outlaw biker and a journalist even date? “Yeah, I run illegal guns and drugs for my MC and here’s my girlfriend, who follows every rule and every law and would love to write about the illegal shit I do, if only I were stupid enough to tell her about it.”
Oh motherfucking goddamn son-of-a-bitch, I was so fucked…
24
Jules
I felt the air change a little at a time around me - cooler. Cleaner. The bike was twisting around corners, forcing me to hold onto Bishop a little closer than I originally intended to after our lunch discussion. I wasn’t sure if I was happy for the excuse to hang on tighter, or angry with myself that I was happy for the excuse to hang on tighter.
So goddamn complicated…
Reluctantly, I opened up my eyes to find short, scrubby bushes lining the road, with green undergrowth carpeting the desert floor as we wound our way through the hills. We must have entered the Coronado National Forest while I’d been in a ride-induced trance against Bishop’s back. I wondered for a moment if I’d fallen asleep as an infant whenever my mother put me in the car and went for a drive. I should ask my mom, because it sure happened every time I got on the back of a motorcycle.
I heard the turn signal flip on for a moment and then they turned down a narrower road, a brown wooden sign used in all national parks flashing by before I could read it.
And then we were stopping. Finally. The loss of thrumming between my legs was disorienting. I struggled to get off the bike quickly, before Bishop could take me clinging to him to mean something…more.
I pulled the helmet off my head and felt slightly woozy from the change in head pressure. As comfortable as the helmet was, it had been pressing on my head for hours, and to have it off was heavenly. Stretching my neck and jaw muscles, I looked around and saw I was in a low, shrubby forest with some stumpy pines thrown into the mix. The air smelled light and clean. The heat of the day was finally beginning to melt away as the sun dipped lower in the sky.
The rest of the bikers began pouring into the campground or were passing us on the road that presumably led to the next campground over. “How many people are here today?” I shouted to Bishop as a particularly noisy Harley passed us.
“Several hundred. This year is one of our better rallies, attendance-wise. Not everyone can spend the night - some people rode with us and then continued on, and others only rode to Tombstone and then headed back. A lot of these guys are out of El Paso and so they already drove a couple of hours just to get to Deming.”
I watched as the Budweiser van pulled in and the employees jumped out and quickly began assembling a beer garden. “What’s up with Budweiser?” I asked.
“They’re a big sponsor for us. A lot of our money comes from sponsors, like Budweiser and the local Harley-Davidson dealership. They get a lot of business from this every year, and in return, we ask for a sizable donation in order to give them exclusive rights to sell here. You’re not going to find a Miller beer van pulling up anytime soon.
“Anyway, we need to grab our tent from the support van and get it set up before it gets dark. Ever set up a tent before?”
I stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was making fun of me.
“Ummm…no. They don’t exactly set those up in the middle of Central Park,” I finally said, drily. I hadn’t actually grown up in New
York City, but still, my family just didn’t do camping.
“Well, then this should be an adventure for you.”
We headed over to a van stuffed to the brim with every imaginable piece of equipment needed - air compressors, first-aid supplies, water, snacks, tire repair kits, and tents and sleeping bags galore. Bishop rummaged around until he pulled out some oblong shapes and said, “Let’s do this.”
We headed to a flat piece of ground with a tiny marker “Bishop” written on it, and set about putting up the tent. Between uncooperative tent poles and my complete lack of knowledge about erecting such things, I was fairly sure that this process was taking longer than it normally would have, and that Bishop had the overwhelming urge to tell me to go away and let him do it on his own. He restrained himself though, and finally we got it up and I took the opportunity to wander around and take pictures. I’d gotten some great ones of some cute, younger bikers flirting with a couple of young girls - Are they even legal?? - when I felt Bishop’s hand on my arm.
“Stop being a journalist for a minute, and just have fun,” he said, dragging me back to the tent so I could put the camera away. Sighing, I acquiesced. It might be fun to just kick back and relax for a bit.
I heard a roar of approval rumble through the trees, and Bishop grinned.
“Shit’s about to get fun,” he shouted into my ear.
‘Shit’ was apparently a wet t-shirt contest - men and women. The cheers were louder in general for the women ,which wasn’t surprising, considering the predominance of men in the crowd, but when Bishop got up on stage, I whooped and hollered for all I was worth, forgetting for a little while just how pissed off I was supposed to be with him. I wondered for a moment if I was going to have a voice in the morning. Bishop lost out to another biker who was obviously lacking in every way possible, and I thought for a moment that perhaps the competition was rigged. Or at least the judges were blind. No way any guy up on that stage outshone Bishop.
I allowed myself to relax. To have fun. Not to worry about articles or leaving or whether Bishop felt something for me. To just…be. It was heavenly. And unusual. And just a tiny bit more heavenly because it was unusual.
Bishop appeared next to me, dripping, his pecs clearly showing through his soaked white t-shirt. I had admired him up on stage but this close to me, it was hard not to rip his shirt off with my teeth.
“You ready for something to eat?” he asked.
Hell yes!
Nodding as if it really could go either way, when in reality, it felt like my stomach was trying to eat my backbone, I followed him over to the food line forming. It was simple food - shredded beef on a bun, potato salad, some weird pinky stuff mixed in with canned fruit - but I surprisingly loved it. My New York coworkers would no doubt turn up their noses at such a spread, but I dug in. “What…what is this?” I finally asked, pointing to the pinky stuff.
“Fruit salad,” Bishop said around a mouthful of food.
Huh.
I wasn’t going to bring my own to a potluck at work, but somehow, it just fit…everything. It fit this club, it fit the ride we just went on, it fit camping.
Bishop refilled my beer and then wandered off, chatting with other bikers. I didn’t mind - I loved people watching, and knew that as VP and as the son of the biker that this ride was dedicated to, he had his duties he had to fulfill.
I saw tall, Judge walk over and urgently start whispering in Bishop’s ear. I watched as they walked away into the forest, presumably to get some privacy to talk. I wanted to follow him and find out what they were discussing, but I knew that any trust Bishop did have in me would be completely shot if I pulled such a stunt.
Finally, they reappeared, Judge looking completely distressed, Bishop looking worried. He caught my glance and shot a big, nothing-to-worry-about-here grin. I grinned back and waved, thinking, “Something is up and you’re hiding it from me. If you think I’m dumb enough to fall for your ‘nothing is wrong here’ smile, you don’t know Jules Parker.” I waved a moment longer and then decided that I’d faked it long enough, and dropped my hand down into my lap.
Members of the other MCs had been slowly dispersing to their own campsites, until slowly, only the grinning Dead Legion were left, weaving around in the semi-darkness. A campfire blazed up, and I realized that I was actually a little cold - something I hadn’t been able to say since I left New York.
Bishop walked over, holding out his hand. “You wanna come sit by the fire with me?” he asked. I couldn’t say no to a smile like that, even if I knew it was a mask, covering up a lie. I held up my hand so he could help me to my feet, and we walked over to the campfire. Camping chairs and tree stumps encircled the roaring fire, and I watched carefully as we walked over to it. Beneath the laughing and jokes, I felt a small undercurrent of tension.
I didn’t know what was going on, and I sure as hell didn’t like that Bishop didn’t trust me enough to tell me.
25
Bishop
I walked Jules over to two chairs around the campfire and left her there with a promise to get her another beer. As I walked towards the Budweiser beer truck, lights spilling out, music blaring, and lines of people waiting, I thought back to what Judge had told me.
The club was slowly splitting in two under my feet. Despite my attempts to keep it together by proposing the plan to be VP, despite my agreeing to go along with Ghost’s moves farther and farther into illegality to keep the peace, peace was quickly disappearing. Even now, the group around the campfire was split in two, if you knew what to look for - those who were happy with the direction Ghost was taking the club, and those who were pushing back.
And that second group was recruiting me to be the new president. I’d heard it over and over again in private conversations - I should’ve been the prez all along. I wouldn’t have gotten us into this deal with the Sangre.
This talk was good for my ego, sure, but was it right? Would I have told the Sangre that we weren’t interested, and moved on? I wasn’t so sure - after all, I hadn’t fought the idea when Ghost first told me about it.
Standing in line for beer I didn’t want, surrounded by drunk bikers and half-naked women, I realized I’d never been so alone. I wasn’t much for soul searching - I was a go-and-do-it kind of a guy, not a navel-gazing yuppie - but maybe I needed to start really looking at my club. Where it was going. What it was doing under Ghost’s leadership. Did I want it? Did I want my Dead Legion to be gun runners? Did I eventually want us to end up running drugs as Ghost kept hinting?
When Ghost had first brought up the idea, as much as I hated it, it made sense. We were a trucking company. It was just as easy to deliver drugs as it was legal cargo, and because we’d been around for years without a whiff of illegality attached to us, the law enforcement didn’t suspect us. We could interspe a carton of drugs or guns in with a whole load of quilts and blankets, and no one was the wiser.
But I knew that Ghost would going after bigger and bigger payloads. One carton of drugs wouldn’t be enough - we would need to move three cartons in a load instead. This upped the chance that drug-sniffing dogs would catch us, but he didn’t care. The payout was never enough.
I wandered off into the woods to think, leaving the beer and the bikers behind as I went. I sat down on a sandstone rock and stared off into the distance. It was dark now, and the moon and stars were shining brightly in the night sky. The saguaros were standing silently in the night, dark sentinels against a gorgeous night sky. Even Deming didn’t get a view like this. How people could stand to live in crowded cities with smog and lights and no view of the moon or stars was beyond me. This…fed my soul.
I dropped my head and stared at the desert floor. I had to figure out what I was doing, and what the club should be doing. Did I want to lead the charge in cleaning up the club? Did I dare to split us like that? Ghost would never acquiesce to going back to being “just” a motorcycle club. Putting his bike up on the lift and working on it all day and delivering legal cargo fo
r multi-national companies wasn’t going to be enough for him, or for some of the other club members. The large payouts were more addictive than the drugs he wanted delivered, and for some of the club members, there was no way they’d agree to lose those large stacks of cash coming their way.
Ghost had always been blunt about what he wanted, so I couldn’t cry foul and say I didn’t know. Ghost even told me last year that he only continued this charity ride for my dad because it was the perfect cover for us. Who would suspect an MC that raised money for a trauma center? I couldn’t argue with the logic, but…
Somehow, our club had lost our way. Rather than being a club that helped vets re-integrate into society and gave people with a love of motorcycles a way to connect, we’d become just as dirty, just as wrong as some of the outlaw clubs that I’d read about in the news. Did I want to be associated with a group like that? But on the other hand, how could I give up my club, my family, my life?
“Hey Bishop, how’s it going?”
Jules’s soft voice broke into my thoughts, startling me. I jumped up and spun in a half circle, my hand dropping to Roger, half pulled out, before I realized who it was. And what she’d said. And that it was okay to relax.
“God Jules, you scared me!” I barked, rougher than I intended to. She paused, staring up at me, hesitating, unsure of whether she could come closer, unsure of what I was thinking.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” I said, trying again, calmer this time. “I didn’t hear you coming. I’m not normally so jumpy,” I ended with a smile, trying to pass it off as a big mistake. As if I hadn’t, in some dark corner of my mind, thought Ghost had come out to confront me, to force our issues out into the open…and stake his claim on the club.
