Read Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club) Online
Authors: Abriella Blake
* * *
Gisele
I could sense that we'd reached the famed 'Knights of Styx'
secret meeting spot before I heard the engine humming, or the shouts of the
riders. In the cold light of morning, I struggled to keep my faith. As
wonderful as the night before had been, there still loomed the threat of our
journey's finale. What would we find at the bikers' campground? And what the
hell were they going to make of me and Carter, the motliest of pairs?
I rode close behind him; when he slowed, I slowed. And
there, in the belly of Northern Florida, so far from my home, we came across a
clearing. Thirty men were bellowing, their assorted Harleys in a circle, and
the death shepherd Charon was emblazoned on the back of each vest. There they
were: the Knights of Styx.
Among these very souls,
I realized,
is the
yellow-belly who murdered my father.
Carter seemed to speed up when the full Styx assembly came
into view, and it was then that I realized—he was excited. And why shouldn't he
have been? These men were his brothers, after all. He tilted back on his racer
and popped a wheelie on sight, and I swear I could hear the Styx cheering for
him above the fanfare of their tailgating party.
“If it isn't THIS fucking bastard!”
“Tex, where in hell have you been?!”
I cut my engine and parked a few meters beyond visibility,
while Carter was swept up into a mass hug.
“Tex! Never thought I'd see your pretty little face around
these parts again!”
“Tex, you goddamn son of a bitch!”
With a pang, I realized he'd never told me his biker
nickname, the moniker that made him who he was to those closest to him: Tex. I
took a gander at my man, who was beaming from all the attention.
Tex
didn't really seem to fit him, in my humble opinion.
“Hold up, fellas. Fore we all roll out the welcome wagon,
y'all need to meet somebody. This is my old lady—Gisele.” That damning blush
crept over my skin as a few dozen big men set their eyes on me. Fucking
genetics, I tell you.
“Hi,” I said shyly. You'd have thought I'd never seen an MC
before—my voice came out as a squeak. My demureness, however, seemed to set the
gang at ease. I scanned the many scruffy faces—there were no women here at camp
today.
“Well if it isn't,” boomed a thick Texas accent, from within
the belly of the beast. The crowds seemed to part, and a hefty sonofagun with a
walrus-grade moustache addressed the group. From the way the men seemed to
cower as he spoke, I deduced the walrus was their club president.
“Wolverine.” Carter—or, I supposed,
Tex
—pronounced,
lowering his eyes a little. “You and I need to talk. Private-like.”
The rider called Wolverine just nodded, then jerked his head
away from the crew. Carter met my eyes, indicating I should follow.
Though I was glad we'd beat our rivals to the secret camp,
it struck me as odd that neither the Coffin Cheaters nor Satan's Refuse hadn't
found their way to the den yet. Even without a lead location to go off, my boys
had enjoyed a day's head start on their quest for blood. The whole thing made
me deeply antsy. I bit my nails as we trudged back towards the road, scanning
the horizon in either direction for the sounds and sight of revving bikes.
“Didn't think you'd come back from your scouting mission
with a piece of ass,” Wolverine drawled, in a voice just loud enough for me to
realize he'd meant me to hear him. So it was true, about the Knights of Styx
men. Carter had spoken of how his club liked to tie their women up, bandy them
about like property...but Jesus, Gisele, now was not the time for such thoughts.
“We don't have a lot of time, Wolf, so I'm just going to
blurt it out. It's the Coffin Cheaters. They're hunting us. Some new gang in
the city knocked off two of their club-members last week, and they're convinced
it's us that's behind it.”
Wolverine's bushy eyebrows raised, but only slightly.
“So those dumb country shits are the same old war-mongering
asswipes, huh? After all these years?” The Styx leader lit a cigarette. “I
should've expected. What fools we were, thinking we could stage some
truce
.
Puh
.”
Anger bubbled up inside me. All I could see in that moment,
beyond that big, fat, miserable moustache, was my father's expression as he was
jolted awake for the last time. No matter what they'd done to me recently, the
Coffin Cheaters were my family. I'd show this dirtbag “country shit.”
“The Coffin Cheaters are well within their rights,” I
blurted out. “Nobody's forgotten that skirmish six years ago. You raided their
club in the night. You sacks of shit shot an innocent man at short-range, unarmed.”
Please, please, don't cry, Gisele. Whatever you do, don't let this fucker
see you cry.
“And he was a good man, too. Better than anyone in your sorry
excuse for a club, I bet.”
“You better get control of your old lady, Tex,” Wolverine
whistled—and to my further injury, he started laughing. I suddenly understood
the surge of protective fury that Tati must've felt in the garage, the evening
before. I wanted to throttle Wolverine's fat, stupid face. Instinctually, I
took a step towards him. I reached towards some phantom holster at my side,
imagining for an instant that I had a weapon.
“You better back the fuck off, woman,” the President said.
He'd stopped laughing. Carter moved to grab my wrist, but I shook him away.
“
Gisele
.”
“I know you didn't bring a traitor bitch home with you,
Tex.”
“Was it you,
Wolverine
? Was it you who killed my
father in his bed?” It was happening now, and there was nothing I could do. My
vision grew blurry. I began to wobble in my shoes.
“Listen, girlie. I never laid a hand on a Coffin Cheater.
And that shoot-out you're referring to? That was well within
our
rights.
Some drunk motherfucker called Flapper shot three of our men, over a tiny piece
of business in Little Havana. And he wasn't man enough to shoot anyone in the
face. No, that motherfucker killed our boys while their backs were turned. Two
of my best friends and my brother.” Wolverine spit on the ground, for emphasis.
“So just you watch who you're talking to.”
Carter finally managed to get ahold of me then, and pressed
me into the folds of his leather jacket. I was still shaking, though my tears
had stopped. The world skewed around me—Flapper? I conjured his cruel
expression, the way he'd licked me at the Crossroads. Was he truly the source
of all this evil, of every horrible thing? Wolverine's eyes were burning with
the righteous fury I'd come to know so well. And I knew right then that the
walrus wasn't lying. My whole life, on the other hand, was apparently built on
an injustice that was much more complicated than pure good and pure evil.
“We only came to warn you, Wolf. We were hoping to get to
the Cheaters as well—want them to know this was all a big misunderstanding—that
their real enemy is this nasty new club that goes by the name of Satan's
Refuse. The man Flapper you've heard of? He's the scumbag who's in on it, and
he's leading his club into a war for a power play. I've been working with
Gisele here for a few weeks now. She's the Cheaters' den mother.” He clung to
me harder, and I allowed myself to collapse into his smell, his broad, powerful
arms.
No matter what happens,
I told myself,
I still have you.
Wolverine looked at the pair of us, and something in his
mean little gaze seemed to shift. Maybe he'd also been in love with the wrong
person before. Or maybe, he was just kind, deep down.
“Satan's Refuse, huh? That's not a bad name.” He dropped his
cigarette into the dirt, ground it out with the heel of a steel-toed boot.
“Alright, Romeo and Juliet. Why don't you tell us what we ought to do?”
* * *
It was decided that Carter and I should ride around the
camp's perimeter together, scouting for signs from either of the oncoming
crews. We'd wave white flags, and attempt to court any oncoming hellions into a
sit-down. Between the MC's crested uniforms and our travel plan, I felt like I
was going into a ground war circa 1880. I'll admit—it was a little exciting,
riding around together like the king and queen of the castle. I felt a flicker
of that same familiarity he and I had known two nights before, when we were
just shooting the shit on Scotty's couch. I took the lead this time, and for
the first time in what felt like weeks I enjoyed the sensation of the wind
ripping through my red hair.
The bewildered Knights of Styx remained at their camp site,
idling at the ready. Each of the men had been instructed to hold fire, under
any circumstances. Yet I perceived more of the dark truth in each of their
eyes, when Wolverine told his riders that the Coffin Cheaters and some mystery
organ were riding in from the South to pick a fight. If I'd had any doubts
about that terrible Flapper story before, these slid by the wayside now. We
needed to kill that motherfucker, it was clear—only then could peace be
brokered between the three clubs.
As he had when we'd first met, Carter abruptly pulled up
beside me, signaling for the off-ramp. My eyes skittered to my rear-view
mirror, where I saw what he'd just seen: a rangy crew, ten or more men on
un-muffled bikes. The riders' headlamps were too bright to be sure, but I thought
I recognized the outline of one hunched figure, leading the pack on a custom
Sportster: Dog. My old friend, sometime lover.
Carter, ever quick on the uptake, was already waving his
makeshift white flag—it flew in a long cloth train behind his bike. He kept his
blinkers on and slowed a bit, while I sent up a silent prayer in my head:
Please
let them slow down, and talk. Please let them not be so brainwashed by Flapper
that they can't listen to reason.
I hoped they could see my long red hair,
the custom features of my Street Bob. For this was the ultimate test of my
adoptive family: did they love me enough, finally, to stand down?
I slowed my bike, so I was sharing the road with Carter.
Across the lane divide, he flashed a quick, tight smile in my direction. The
bikes behind us picked up their paces, closing the gap between us.
“Slow down!” I cried, though no one could hear me inside my
helmet. I flipped on my blinkers, too. I could feel the bikers now, still
accelerating behind us. The sound of their engines was nearly overpowering.
Beside me, I could sense Carter rattling—his bike dipped in small, worried
swerves across the lane. And though I couldn't be sure, I imagined his hands
were shaking. If the chase continued, he'd be sure to have an accident.
It couldn't end like this.
I peeled off the road, slowing as I went for the shoulder. I
shook back my hair, a final sign. Whatever it was these mongrels needed, they
could take it from me. The fulcrum of engines sounded confused, and I thought I
could hear strands of grunted, human sounds above the fray. They were deciding
whether to divide and conquer, or just go for the weakest gazelle.
I kicked down in the shoulder, and waved my own white flag
(a desecrated t-shirt), in Carter's direction. His head jerked briefly as he
skidded past me on the road, but I couldn't be sure if he saw my gesture.
Meanwhile, the herd of Cheaters had made a mass decision amongst themselves—all
of them were turning around, towards me.
In a puff of dust, ten men formed a circle around me, though
there were so many of them that they bled out onto the luckily vacant road.
These were my former brothers, alright. And not a one of them looked happy to
see me.
Dog, the surprising leader of the pack, peeled the red
riding kerchief away from his nose and mouth first. His eyes were red-rimmed,
sleepless looking. No surprise there—the pack must have driven around aimlessly
for a day and a half, fruitlessly hunting their prey in the wrong direction.
“Dog!” I yelled, as the engines cut out. “You have to listen
to me. There's been a terrible mix-up. The Knights of Styx didn't kill Dixon,
and they didn't kill Rodney. They're not behind any murders this time. You have
to listen to me.” I felt like I was in one of those nightmares, where you're screaming
and no one will acknowledge you, but still I continued: “You're only going to
make everything worse if you stage a raid tonight. Please, please, listen to
me! I beg of you!”
Dog had fully dismounted, and begun to lope toward me
throughout my little impassioned speech. My eyes scanned his person for a
weapon, but then I realized—he didn't need one. There were a dozen of them, and
one of me, and no one else on this highway to witness anything. I stood on my
toes, scanning the outside world for Carter, but saw and heard no trace of my
beloved. Had this been a huge mistake?
“Please, Dog,” I said, finally. And to think—this tall,
pimply goofus had once been
inside
of me. Who could have imagined that
he'd be the one to end my life?
“Gisele,” my old friend croaked, his voice hoarse. “Gisele,
stop talking. We know all that. Flapper skipped this morning, after an ashtray
called about the body they found in the garage. He's been working with Satan's
Refuse to overthrow the Cheaters and the Styx this whole time.”
Sweet Judas. That traitor hadn't just murdered innocent men
years ago, but he'd sold out his entire family, over and over and over again.
It was Flapper who'd planted these seeds of dissent. Flapper who'd planned to
take over my club, after leading them into battle against innocent men. For all
I could imagine, Flapper intended to amass some kind of motley, terrible, super
MC, made of the survivors of his little scheme.
No wonder Satan's Refuse
wore those bizarre masks
, I thought.
How freakish would one have to be,
to be a part of this kind of psychotic plot?
On closer inspection, Dog looked exhausted beyond
recognition. In just two days, his face had grown from silly and soft to weary
and wan. Rising to the task of the unwilling leader made my old friend
look...old.
“Dog—where's Tall Man?”
My buddy hung his head.
“Flapper's got him tied up, taken hostage. We've been riding
the roads looking for the pair of them for hours and hours now, no dice. But if
I know anything, he's coming for your little friend, and the rest of his MC.”
Dog looked back at the road. For the first time in memory, I read fear in his
face. Fear, and shame.
* * *
We waited for the men in masks, the whole of our combined
MCs huddled together at the little roadside camp. An uneasy peace was brokered
between the Cheaters and the Styx—though Dog was unapologetic about hitting me
earlier, he did listen patiently to Wolverine's story about the ancient
show-down, and Carter's and my accounts of the riders from Satan's Refuse. It
occurred to me that he might someday grow into a fine leader, with a
temperament so even, so open to listening.
“So that was the dead guy in the garage, then? That was what
made Flap so upset?” This voice was Viper's—and his cruelty, it seemed, had
also been mollified in the past twenty four hours' upheaval. His eyes were wide
and questioning, as opposed to narrowed and livid, as was typical. In fact,
every single Coffin Cheater looked like a freaked-out kid. I suppose no
surprise—their whole leadership structure had been clobbered apart within
hours. They were men with no master.
“What's the deal with the masked men, anyways?” ventured
Whiz, one of the older Cheaters. Whiz and my Dad had been friendly adversaries,
back in the day. Now the old man turned to me for his questions. “Why would
anyone ride around so no one could see their face?”
“Get a lot more damage done when there's no witness to
answer to,” Wolverine said cryptically, laying into another smoke.
“What's important now is that we're all armed and ready to
fight,” Carter said, his voice cutting through the hubbub of speculation.
“Who's got a firearm? I want those men at the front. If everything we've heard
about this Flapper character is true—and we know already what Satan's Refuse
are capable of—this group will ride in with guns blazing. All they want to do
is raise havoc, and drive our MCs back into a feud.”
People nodded, but it was plain to see: a lot of these tough
guys had never been part of a shoot-out. This wasn't all exactly par for an
MC's course—elaborate murders in the wood, espionage. As if cautioning us
against what was to come, at that moment a distracting siren cut through the
swamp's underbrush, drifting our way from a distant highway. Every single biker
seemed to quake in his boots.
I stood with Carter. For my part, I'd managed to block out
most of my rattling brain's questions (how was Tati? When had Flapper crossed
over to the enemy's sides? Was Tall Man dead?) And focus on the task at hand.
And for the first time, surprisingly, I felt the full weight of my title as Den
Mother. These men had been shits to me, but still, I wanted to protect them.
Like they were my children. I smiled quickly at Dog in the silence. He smirked
in return.
“There!” someone shouted then. I traced the cry to a skinny
Knight, easily in his early twenties. “I heard it! I heard --” but before the
little fella could continue, the camp felt surrounded. Soon, we all could heard
the sounds: the sounds of thirty, forty bikes rolling in from the distance.
Though we couldn't yet see the group from our little off-ramp enclosure, dread
fell like a cloak across our little army. Flapper and Satan's Refuse was coming
for us.
“Everybody get into a position!” Carter cried. “And
remember: let the white flag wave first!”
But the riders were already panicking: I saw their guns
glittering in their holsters. Carter began to wave his white scrap frantically.
I squinted into the underbrush, and saw the first horrible thing. Flapper had
dismounted his ride, and was waving a gun in the face of a man who was bound to
the back of his bike. I recognized Tall Man, from the thin lines of his braids,
the stoop in his shoulders. I swear the sonofabitch glanced in my direction as
his gun fired, landing snugly in my old leader's chest. The third and final
councilmember of the Coffin Cheaters shuddered, then died. It was then that I
heard the sickening thud of the first bullet, landing in nearby flesh. Below
me, Viper collapsed on his bike, slumped forever over his handlebars.
The masked riders were now upon us, screaming a war cry of
“Yippy-ki-yay!” I couldn't match the shrieks to the many freakish,
plastic-covered faces—I only know that the gunfire was loud, and awful, and
all-consuming. Bright Magnums bloomed over the clearing. And after a first hail
of bullets fell over the Styx and Cheaters—I saw Whiz twist terribly into the
mud—Carter crouched beside me, balling up his white flag. He looked at me with
terrified eyes.
“Gisele: take this,” he hollered, handing me a pistol I
hadn't seen before. Though of course, I thought stupidly, he must've been
packing—how else could he have gotten out of that Checker's alive?
“I can't take this, Carter! What about you?” But my old man
just shoved the weapon towards me, extracting a switchblade from the base of his
motorcycle boot.
“I'll be just fine with this. You fire if anyone comes
toward you funny. And I mean
anyone.
” Before I could protest again, Carter
had leapt over his bike and into the fray. I screamed for him, but he didn't
turn his back.
Crouched behind my Street Bob, I watched some masked riders
tumble off their bikes beside me, falling as soldiers in the dust. Still more
of the Refuse were dismounting their whips at the roadside and running towards
our little camp—we were vastly outnumbered, even between the combined clubs.
Without any premeditated battle plan, the Styx and the Cheaters were just
running helter-skelter, seeking shelter in the thin trees, or behind their
bikes. A few men continued to wave their white scraps, screaming “Surrender, surrender!”
To no avail.
I didn't dare to stand up and seek out Carter—fear had
pegged me to the ground. But it was then that I heard a familiar screech, and
saw the looming shadow of the only man who rode without a mask. As soon as I
recognized the face in close up, he was right on top of me: Flapper had come
for me. In all his terrible cruelty.
“Look at what we have here!” the mad-man cried, and his eyes
truly looked crazy. “Little peace-keeper, huh? Well. It's too bad you had to
stick your pretty little nose in the mix, Ms. Gisele. Would've liked to make
you my sweet ass, in the new club I'm making. Damn shame you picked the wrong
side.”
“Flapper,” I whimpered, ashamed of how weak my voice
sounded. He was twirling his Magnum around his fingers now, the picture of an
evil genius. Around us in the clearing, some of the gunfire had stopped.
“Flap, why did you do all of this? These are your
brothers
.”
The villain broke into a giddy peal of laughter. Then he
cocked his weapon, and aimed it square at the center of my chest.
“Didn't you hear, little girl? Everyone knows that a real
rider rides alone.” I shut my eyes tight, having all but forgotten the gun in
my possession. So this was how it was going to end. This was just how my Pops
had felt, before he'd met his maker.
“Hey, lard-ass!” cried someone I couldn't see, back in the
direction of the Styx enclosure. Flapper turned his head for a split-second,
but this turned out to be just enough time: a neatly thrown knife nestled into
my attacker's chest, and the big man pitched forward in pain. He stumbled
against my Street Bob, and I stood to avoid his fall. I saw instantly that it
was Carter who'd thrown the weapon—but he hadn't killed his prey.