Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club) (10 page)

But then what did
Carter
have to offer me? Could we
ever be together? Really and truly? I knew it was nuts to have hitched on so
fast, but I couldn't deny the well of feeling I already had for this man. He
was like no one else I'd ever met. I tried to picture us seeing that movie he
was always yammering about...
it happened one day
, or whatever it was
called. I tried to picture us eating popcorn, massaging one another's feet,
making elegant love on a living room rug someplace. A single bike engine droned
by on the rode outside, and I couldn't, quite—I couldn't imagine any of it.

I sat down at my child-sized desk, drummed my nails against
the oak. All I could do right now was wait. It wasn't like I could outpace the
whole Coffin Cheaters armada, and it didn't seem as if the gang knew to head
first for Casablanca—so that meant that Carter and Scotty, at least, were safe
for the time being. Okay. So, I'd wait to be sure that the whole group had left
the grounds, then I'd scurry back to Scotty's. I'd warn Knox about the raid,
and perhaps he could get a message to the Knights of Styx at their secret
hideout before the Cheaters caught up with 'em. Perhaps we could prevent some
other young girl's father from being slaughtered without a chance to defend
himself. Yes. This was exactly what I would do.
Wait.

I stood to pace again, my head growing clearer. I recalled a
secret emergency stack of Tati's cigarettes bundled inside of an old notebook,
and I fetched these. I wasn't a huge smoker, but if there ever was a day...
lighting a stray match on the bottom of my boot, I brought the little cylinder
to my mouth and sipped. Instantly, I felt the slightest bit better. The
confines of my room, the brief sense of peace—these briefly reminded me of the
mystery savior, who'd kept me and Tati from harm on that fateful night so long
ago. I gazed at my reflection again in the mirror—the bleeding had stopped. My
tears had dried. I was bloody, but unbowed. And somewhere, a strange angel was
watching over me. I was sure of it.

Suddenly, there was a knock on my bolted bedroom door: three
heavy pounds in a row. My stomach seized. I raced through the possibilities—it
could be one of the house girls, come to apologize (not a chance); or Flap,
returned to claim a quick victory slap around/fuck before heading out into the
open road. It was just as likely any other rider with a mean thing to say. I
tiptoed toward the door, considered my chances.

“Who is it?” I called, timid.

In response, the knock merely repeated itself: three sharp,
aggressive BOOMS. There were too many people around, I rationalized. Flapper
wouldn't try anything truly funny in the morning light. My heart still
pounding, I opened the door a crack.

“
Somebody rang for a doppelganger
?”

“Tati?!”
“The one and only. Now open this door—I have about a hundred questions for you,
twin. Namely, why haven't you been responding to any of my letters? And—Jesus,
Fuck, what happened to your
face
?”

At last! A single ray of direct sunlight after these dark,
spotty weeks. I lurched beyond the threshold and grabbed my sister, practically
clawing at the short shag cut she'd hacked her own red hair into. I almost sang
with relief.

“Wow. You missed me that much, huh?”

“You have
no
idea. Now, quick. Come in.”

Stooping to grab her floral carry-all and what I determined
by the outline was a large box of wine (always classy as hell, my sister), Tati
followed me into our childhood bedroom. The little secret fortress that we'd
used to share.

“Funny how time flies,” she said slowly, her eyes scanning
the empty room. When she had lived here, we'd had posters on the walls for a
dozen bands. These days I kept the place pretty Spartan, except for a few
sporty photos of bikes I had my eye on.

“You're shaking, Gizzy.”

“No, I'm not.”

“What's wrong?”

Everything.

“Nothing.”

She came towards me again, and I let myself sink against my
sister.

“Everything's gonna be okay now,” she whispered into my
hair, rubbing my back. “I promise. Whatever's going on…Everything's really
gonna be okay.”

Chapter Eleven

* * *

After Tati had practically shoved me into a hot shower and
helped me re-dress the gash on my head, my sister and I divvied up a box of
booze and a bag of peanuts like a couple of winos. Tati sat patiently during
the whole fucked up saga—of the Coffin Cheaters turning on me, the shocking
double homicide, and my sordid whatever-it-was with Carter. She didn't even
once try to pipe in with a story about her band, or her boyfriend, or any of
her famous, “My life is better than yours” kind of anecdotes. For once, my
sister had shut up. Until:

“I'll fucking kill him
myself
,” Tati flared.
“Flapper, huh? I don't care. No one touches my sister. You're lucky I wasn't
here—I would have shot that fat fuck dead, with his own gun.”

“What, like that biker shot Dad? Really, Tati?” It already
seemed like the skirmish outside had happened to somebody else. It was just too
hard to believe that the whole club would turn on me like that—especially when
I was trying to protect them.

“Knox sounds pretty dreamy, I must say,” she said at last,
after I'd cherry-picked the parts of our courtship that I thought would make
the most sense to an outsider. “But are you sure he's not just some scumbucket
rider? I mean, what do you mean, he 'doesn't have a phone?'”

“That's not so weird.
You
don't have a phone.”

“That's because I'm
off the grid
. Me and all the
boys. Plus, we have phones in the hotels.”

“Still makes it awfully hard to keep in touch with you,
sis,” I grumbled, swigging a gulp of wine. “I've really needed you these past
few weeks. And it sucked, not being able to talk to you.”
Tati was silent, processing. I could tell she felt awful—and it's not like it
was my plan to make her pay, or anything. We definitely had bigger fish to fry.

“But you have to understand, Gizzy. This is exactly what I
was trying to get away from—all the politics, and the violence. Someone hit
you, don't you understand that? Some man who was supposed to protect you
publicly shamed you, then knocked you out
cold
. This is exactly why I
skipped town, you know I never wanted to worry that the next person I fell in
love with could hurt me, or die in a gunfight, or end up in jail forever. I
didn't want to 'die by the sword'...I wanted a very different kind of
adventure.”

In my mind, I was comparing the physiques of Tati's rocker
boyfriends with Carter's masculine outline. In one unbidden burst, I envisioned
one of Tati's rocker boys naked. None of those skinny emo dudes could possibly
measure up to the sculpted swells of
my
guy. How was that, for
'different kind of adventure?'

“Look at your face,” she giggled. “We're in this huge mess,
and you're already so smitten.”

“I am not!”

“Of course you are. You're turning your allegiance to the MC
all on its head, just for some guy you hardly know. Sounds like something
I'd
do.” Tati took a breezy sip of our fourth or fifth shared cigarette. “I
just want you to be sure that he's worth all this trouble. Cause no matter what
he tells you, remember: he's a man. And men only want
one
thing.”

I envisioned myself for an instant in the mirrored surface
above Scotty's bed. I saw the back of Knox's curly head. I recalled how he'd
sucked me to completion and then covered me with a blanket, apparently wanting
nothing in return.

“I really think this one's different. And I think we have
something. I can't—I can't explain it.”

Putting up her hands in mock defense, Tati kowtowed. “Okay,
okay. I believe you. Just: don't be an idiot.”
Outside, the MC grounds were deadly silent. Though I was feeling sleepy after
our long night of cavorting plus this morning's catch-up, I knew time was of
the essence.

“So what's your plan again, twinnie? You're gonna roll over
to this mystery tiki bar, save your knight in shiny armor, and race off into
the sunset? Is that it?”

I stared into my sister's familiar eyes, sensing her guile.
She was so effortlessly independent. We were fundamentally different, she and
I. As wonderful as racing off into the sunset sounded, I knew it was something
I could never quite do. And if I knew Knox at all, fleeing the scene wouldn't
appeal to him either.

I am nine years old again.

“Pop, what's this long, pointy thing for?”

“Them's the brakes, kiddo. Ha-ha. Get it?” Glasses clink.
It's a hot summer day, and the riders are gathered around a sweaty cooler,
celebrating nothing at all.

“It's the damndest thing. I've never known a single MC's
got a little beanpole girl for their mascot.” This is Ra Ra Rodney yammering—I
know him by his slurpy laugh and the constant glaze of his eyes. He's always
making fun of me and Tati, but I know he doesn't mean it. Rodney's the one who
taught me long division, using a hefty cut of singles from the fat wad he
carries around. Everyone I know here carries around so much money.

“What are you talking? Couple of those inner-city gangs
seem to like the surf-boards,” yells Dixon. He spits a long trail of chew into
the dust.

Everyone laughs in the circle: that familiar, crowing,
heh-heh-heh. They have nowhere to be. No obligations at all. From what I've
gathered, the riders all pool the money they make from mysterious nighttime
trips to downtown Miami. I'm never invited to these.

“You want a ride, little G?”

“Really?”

Pop—with his greying, greasy hair tied back into its
usual bun, that grizzly beard, those stamps of tattoos racing up and down his
meaty forearms—he looks at me like I'm queen for a day. “Hell yeah, really. Put
a helmet on and hold tight.”

The riders are laughing again—that callous
heh-heh-heh
—but
I'm too excited to pay them any mind. I put my skinny arms around my dad's
husky middle. Once, Pop took me and Tati on a rollercoaster. We were in
Tallahassee for some reason I can't remember, and there was a fair. I'm scared
now like I was then, but I refuse to show the other Cheaters that I'm nervous.
Instead, I focus my eyes on the symbols on Pops' vest—the gaping grimace of a
skull peering over the raised lip of a coffin. A hexagon, Rodney had told me
once. Most old coffins are hexagons.

“You strapped in tight now, Gizzy?”

“Sure am, sir.”

“Alrighty then. And away we go!” I almost scream when he
kicks the bike forward. Pop's back is moving, the muscles rippling, and I grip
him harder around the middle. I shut my eyes tight.

We begin to coast. We pick up speed, stabling off, and I
eke my eyes open the teensiest bit. I look at the ground whipping by below me—so
close I could touch it. Then, I look up at the road. It's like we're eating the
road alive. We're staring down a straight, open thoroughfare, zooming towards a
horizon. And I feel so, so happy.

Pop yells something over his shoulder, but I don't hear
it—I'm too busy watching the world whip by. The only thing I can focus on, when
I want focus, is that pointed, grimacing hexagon. And some part of my
baby-sized little nine-year old brain is putting two and two together, and I
think, of course. Of course we're called the Coffin Cheaters. Because, of
course, this is what it feels like to cheat death.

“Earth to Gisele?”

“Hey sis—I'm sorry.”

“Whatcha thinking?”

That I could never run away from the Coffin Cheaters.
That I had to stay and fight. That whatever good there was left in this MC that
had always been my home, I needed to preserve it.
And hell, if I knew Carter
Knox? He felt the same way about the Knights of Styx. We didn't want our clubs
to flame out in an unnecessary war. Despite Flapper's hatred, despite Dog and
Viper's cruel words, I still owed all these miserable shitstains most of my
life.

“Come on,” I said, deciding as I spoke. “I want you to meet
the boy.”

“Are you sure it's safe to leave now? Aren't the Cheaters
all over the roads?”

I nearly snorted. Safe? Who the hell knew what
safe
looked
like, anymore? And anyway—who cared?

Chapter Twelve

* * *

Carter

Scotty woke
me up at seven, the little shit. I heard him outside, fluttering around his
precious patio, attempting to clean up after the previous evening's disaster.
I've never met a man so hung up on appearances. All of my brothers prefer the
kind of dark, whiskey-packing bar that's off all the little highways in the
South—or even the loud, zany dives of Little Havana, in downtown Miami. But
Scotty? He likes to run a choice operation. Umbrellas in the drink. Old tunes
on the record player. A real class act, this guy. I guess that's weirdly why we
get along.

Though I'm
no angel.

It took a
moment for the full events of last night to swim to the surface of my memory,
but when they emerged, I smiled: the redhead. Her hopeful eyes, her funny
little pout, her tits like two perky melons. Gisele Owens. I'd had redheads
before, but none so brazen as all this.
Won't you come for a drink with me, Carter?
...I came here to warn you, Carter...
The image of her coasting along the
shoreline on that Street Bob was almost too much...oh, she made me laugh, that
girl.

Rising off
the couch with a crick in my neck, I waited for a second for the hangover I
assumed was forthcoming. Took another second to remember that I hadn't had
anything to drink the night before. That, somehow, made it all the more
difficult to believe—I'd really passed a whole night, just shooting the shit
with that girl? Well, shooting the shit, among other things.

“You up in
there, princess?” the little man called. “'Cause I have a message for you.
Someone called from the Knights. Wolverine.”

“What is
it, bud?” Sitting up, I reached for a handy pack of cigarettes. Scotty's shitty
brand: Marlboro Lights.

“They're
camped far North, almost to Georgia. They heard about your troubles, though. If
you give the go ahead, they'll head South.”

“Hell, I
don't even know who we're supposed to be fighting yet. Can you just tell 'em to
hold steady?”

“I don't
know why you don't get a fucking phone and tell 'em yourself.”

Scotty had
more to complain about, but I wasn't listening. My memory was still drunk on
the redhead—the softness of her fingers, the clarity of her gaze. We'd sat on
this couch almost all night. Her flinty, daring eyes were just like Claudette
Colbert's.

“Seems
pretty clear cut to me, anyways,” Scotty said, appearing finally by the screen
door. He looked like he'd slept well. That was good. I felt terrible about the
wreckage in his bar, even though I wasn't sure how we could have planned for
these new
unsavory fucking characters
. “You want to get the fuck out of
town,” my host continued. “There's no reason for you to stick around Miami,
unless the Knights want to pick a fight with these new freaks
and
the
Coffin Cheaters. For no good reason at all, mind you.”

For no good
reason at all, huh? That little sweet butt had driven through the dead of
night, against the wishes of her MC, all to warn
me
about a raid. I
remembered her taste, from the other night. I remembered her spazzy, stubborn
way of making conversation. I remembered how she'd kissed me.

Farther back
still, I remembered her frightened little face. The dancing bears on her
childhood nightgown. I remembered the sound of bullets raining by in the dark
night.

I was a kid
that night, too—couldn't have been more than twenty, twenty two. I'd joined up
with the Styx only weeks before, fresh out of my “contract” with the Hernandez
brothers' garage. Our then-president had told all us new recruits, “this is for
your initiation, you little sons of bitches. I want you to run in there and put
a cap in every Coffin Cheater you can find. I've got beef with these animals.”
The other boys had done what they'd been told—the club promised us a
brotherhood, after all, and most of us would have killed then for a family—but
I'd hung back. I didn't want to kill anybody—least, I didn't want to kill
anybody that hadn't done anything to me directly.

I'd planned
to hang back, but when the bullets started, we all ran for cover. Most of the
boys retreated, in fact. The Cheaters were better prepared than we'd expected
them to be. A few men went down. I might have made for my bike and the open
road if it wasn't for the strangest sound—that of two crying kids. Girls.
Naturally, that kind of thing wasn't too common in an MC clubhouse. I followed
the sounds to a little room with a bunkbed in it, where I saw two pretty
red-heads with their hair in braids, screaming and running wild while the
windows around them caved to enemy fire.

I didn't
think. I pushed them down. They were screaming, 'Papa, Papa,' but I didn't let
them up. No kid was getting shot on my watch. And even then, I could tell which
one she was: the little sparkplug. The one that wouldn't stop hollering for her
family, no matter what.

“It was
fate,” is some pansy-ass buzzword shit, but this coincidence couldn't be
brushed aside easy. I'd had plenty of women. I'd driven through plenty of
towns. But what were the odds that the little peanut I'd saved in the night,
the little girl who'd taught me to never raise my gun in anger to another man—what
were the odds that she'd come streaking down the highway one day, looking fly
as all hell? Not so high. Gisele Owens was old lady material. I wasn't about to
leave that in the dust.

“I'm not
skipping town just yet, Scotty.” I said, rising. “You see, there's this
girl...”