Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club) (2 page)

Chapter Two

* * *

The Coffin Cheaters made camp about an hour and a half
inland from Miami proper—far enough away that the law didn't know where to
knock, but close enough that town was easy to get to on a racer. I shirked my
billowy flannel gear for a sleek pair of leather pants and a white wifebeater,
because I liked to feel the air ripping across my bare skin. My long hair was
secured in a ponytail, then bound up in a helmet. Successfully hopping the moat—not
exactly the safest choice, but I was in the mood to be reckless—I landed on the
firm open road and instantly felt better. Fuck the ashtrays, I thought to
myself. Fuck my sister. Fuck Dog and his terrible jokes, his pencil dick. I was
an independent woman who could ride a motorcycle. I didn't have a degree, let
alone a birth certificate—I was about as free as one could be. Ostensibly, I
could keep going along this winding country road until I ran out of gas, just
living by my wits.

I clicked along the road a few notches above the speed
limit, enjoying the feel of the cold wind on my body. After gaining the
highway, I allowed my thoughts to drift back to some of the morning's
chit-chat.

Okay, so it wasn't exactly true that I'd never craved a “D”
(as the snaggle-toothed Esse had so crudely put it). I remembered hearing Tati
explain the joys of sex with her lech-y rockstar boyfriend, how “alive” he'd
made her feel. I'd let my midnight mind wander towards love before, but for
some reason I could never conjure a man in my imagination who wasn't a member
of my MC. That night in the clubhouse with Dog, after three or four jack and
cokes, I'd flirted with the idea of finding a serious partner—but there was
nothing sexy about the way my friend had panted his way through a full three
minutes of what he referred to later as “love-making.” We'd only hooked up a
few times after that night because I'd been bored, not because I'd been shaken
to the core or anything. And sure, I'd let one or two of Tati's townie friends
kiss my breasts and slip an amateur finger below the waistband of my jeans at
creepy after-parties at rock shows, but aside from that—I had starkly little
and a highly unexciting sexual history to report. Yet another thing to be
frustrated about, perhaps—but as I said, I wasn't designed to be anyone's “baby.”

The twists of Miami Beach began to spring up on the horizon;
the air began to smell of sea salt. I loved the beach. Sometimes I'd ride into
the city just to pop along the waterfront, looking at all the bright,
pastel-colored homes I could never imagine anyone living in. For how did people
live, I so often wondered, in something so banal as a HOUSE? How did they walk
their dogs, and pay their taxes, and wake up in the mornings for work? The
Coffin Cheaters were like the Knights of the Round Table—they were always
mid-party, mid-heist, mid-something. As intriguing as I found “civilian life”
from the outside, I knew it could never be for me. Not after what I'd seen,
what I'd been shown.

I signaled for a sharp exit, having gotten a little lost in
reverie. Behind me, I heard the blare of horns. “Four wheeled assholes!” I
laughed into my helmet, like a huge dork. My momentum choked my sound, but I
still loved the feeling of whooping on the highway. I loved how a big bike made
noise, made its presence known. I resisted the temptation to take my hands off
the handlebars and give the folks behind me the double finger.

Just then, I felt a whoosh of air to my left. Another rider—leather-clad,
riding a vintage Harley (1977? 1978, perhaps?)—was signaling at me. For a second,
I lost my balance and skewed to the far left of my lane. The rider pulled back,
but started to blare his horn.

Even as a mildly unsafe driver, I wasn't used to people
criticizing my riding skills—especially not other folks on hogs. Squinting with
irritation, I coasted down the nearest exit ramp. Once I'd reached the bottom
safely, I slowed for the shoulder. A thin strip of South Beach was visible on
the horizon.

I felt a rush of air behind me. The mystery Harley man had
also come to a stop, not five meters away. I watched him in my rear-view: in a
deft move, he cut his engine and slid off the back of his bike.

“What are you? A cop?” I hollered, peeling off my helmet. To
my chagrin, my voice came out shaky. The rider said nothing, just continued to
amble my way. Then he reached two meaty hands up and began to tug at the sides
of his own headgear.

“Excessive lane-changing, I know, I know. I'm sorry. Though
I don't see why a fellow Harley man would care enough to PULL ME OVER,” I
laughed. The man was still silent, as he approached. It occurred to me to be
afraid, but everything about this experience retained the glaze of the surreal—a
honking Harley rider, pulling me over? Surely he wasn't a
cop.
But then,
why....?

His helmet fully removed, the Rider knelt down by my back
tire, and proceeded to extract a long, thin twig from my wheel—clearly some
detritus I'd picked up while hopping the moat. He turned his face towards mine,
but his features were briefly hidden in the sun's glare.

“Another half mile, I do believe you'd have been roadkill,
Miss. Don't you know to
always check your tires for debris
?” With that,
I set my chin at the mystery man, I shook back my mane. Nobody fucking talked
to me like that.

The obscuring sun slid behind a cloud, and I got a first
glimpse at my so-called savior. The first thing I noticed were his eyes—they
were a deep bluish color, verging on violet. His eyebrows were thick, lending
his face something of a Mediterranean look; in accomplice, his nose was long
and pronounced, but a little crooked at the tip in a super endearing way. His
skin was a weather-beaten tan, slightly dewy-looking from the ride. I pegged
his age at about thirty, thirty-three. I noticed then that the man's chin was
comically super-hero looking, angular and jutted as a table corner. And his
hair, sparkling slightly in the smog, was a chestnut brown. Rich and
thick-looking. I resisted a sharp urge to run my fingers across his forehead,
to rumple those heavy waves.

As soon as I'd finished my stunned appraisal, I became aware
of the stranger's gaze on my face. He was running his eyes over me the way I
ran my fingers over new equipment: with a kind of tenderness, and awe. I
watched him linger for a moment on my long red hair, which had come loose of
its ponytail and now swam a little madly around my face from static. I felt a
betraying tinge of red sweep across my cheeks.

The mystery man's visage ventured South, over my neck, the
scoops of my shoulders, plunging finally into the depth of my cleavage. I was
sure I was sweaty from the ride. I wore no make-up. Still, there was finally
something amused, something condoning in that curious gaze. Something that
alternately thrilled me to my core, and told me I didn't need to be afraid.

“Don't be an idiot,” my hero muttered, smirking. He drew
himself up to his full height, and I realized how tall he was—a full 6'3” or
6'4”. Tati and I were tall for girls, and this had been another reason why I
was so blasé about the MC members—aside from runty Dog, they tended to be short
and heavyset. But this man had somehow retained the svelte, angular proportions
of a thin man while packing visible muscle. He wasn't squat. He was tapered at
the waist, yet his shoulders bulged below the strained hide of a shiny leather
jacket. You could tell his body was...good.
Really
good.

“I'm Gisele!” I blurted out, instantly ashamed of my
eager-beaver-ness. The man continued to half-smile at me, in this maddening
way. I was racking my mind for a follow-up remark, but I managed to bite my
tongue—it seemed very important that he be the first to respond.

“I'm—well, my full name is Carter Knox,” he said. I was
pleased to hear his rich voice come out a little unsure. Was it possible that I
made him nervous, too?

“Well, thanks for looking out, Mr. Knox.”

Still grinning, Carter kicked my back tire with the tread of
his steel-toed boot. “Ain't nothing. I live by a code. I hope people would do
the same for me.” A few cars whipped by on the ramp, and one or two paused to
honk at our delay. I didn't care. All of my energy was concentrated on one
thing: how to keep Carter right next to me for as long as possible. There was
something immediately exciting about him. And something dangerous, too.

“I'm Gisele Owens,” I elaborated, still searching for the
right words. I needed to say something sexy, something like a femme fatale
would say in a movie. “I love motorcycles.” Well, fuck me sideways. Whatever
the opposite of sexy was, I was hitting that out of the park. I wondered if my whole
face could possibly explode from shame, like a tomato might under a hammer...

But to my surprise, Carter leaned back a little in his
leather pants and released a belly laugh. Of all things, his mirth reminded me
of my father's old guffaw—it was full and commanding, big enough to fill up a
room. And as he tilted his gaze up towards the sun, I caught a glimpse of Carter's
tummy fuzz, a trail wending its tipsy way down a taut stomach to the top of his
leather pants. My heart quickened.

“Gisele Owens. She loves motorcycles. Well damn, how do you
like that?”

Instead of responding like a normal person, I hollered
straight into his face:

“Can I buy you a drink? You know, to thank you? Because of
the code, and all.” Surely, this had sounded desperate.

Not to mention, a guy like him probably had some hot blonde
wife and a bunch of biding mistresses all over the state. I hung my head
immediately, as if he'd already said no.

But then I felt the rough pads of his fingers on my chin,
yanking my face back up towards the light.

“Yeah sure,” he said. “It’s not everyday I meet a girl like
you on a Harley Bobber.”

Chapter Three

* * *

I followed Carter to a place of his choosing, back away from
city limits. I was briefly sorry to see the beach go, but all my nerve endings
felt electric at the prospect of going somewhere quiet with this man. I would
have tailed him in any direction.

The thought briefly frightened me again—there remained the
possibility that Carter Knox was some kind of charming highway serial killer,
and made a habit of tricking young biker chicks to follow him into the woods—but
it seemed impossible to me that a man with those eyes could ever harm me. He
had such a sense of calmness about him, a sureness I'd never known. I imagined
that he'd watch me chit-chat my way through a dozen meaningless stories, all
the while looking on with his merry gaze.

We pulled off the main road towards a muggy side street,
some thin avenue embroidering swampland—but our journey wasn't over yet. I
tried to keep my eyes on the street (as opposed to my guide's taut ass...) as
he led me through the twists and turns of the palm-lined path. At long last, he
clicked his lights once, halting in front of what looked like a lean-to shack.

Carter waved a gloved hand in my direction, then motioned me
forward. “It's not as bad as it looks,” he offered, reading my mind. “There's a
whole tiki set-up round the back. I'll show you.”

I dismounted, and allowed myself a few deep breaths.
Adventure,
I repeated like a mantra. My mother and father, they'd united over their shared
love of
adventure
. In a lot of ways, I'd grown up playing it close to
the chest—but it was possible still to change, to disrupt one's routine.

He was waiting for me.

“You make a habit of picking up girls on the side of the
road?” I called to him as I approached. I resolved to be cool. I resolved to be
like Tati.

“Do you make a habit of driving like a maniac?”

“Oh, please. A girl's allowed to have a good time too,
y'know.”

“Sure. You just stick out a leg, and any old sap will come
to your rescue. It's like that old movie—do you know it?
It Happened One
Night
?” I shook my head no. “Well, you should,” Carter said. His eyes
crinkled up at me again, gently mocking. His smile had a way of bending sweetly
around his slightly crooked, entirely cute Grecian nose. “It's a good one. And
you kinda remind me of that old movie star, Claudette Colbert. Yep. You must be
a movie star, kid.” He winked at me.

By now we'd circled the shack, and I saw that the alleged
“tiki-bar set up” had been no joke: we now stood along a flat cement patio,
flanked on all sides by short torches and tall grass. There was an assortment
of deliberately mismatched lawn furniture—chairs, mostly—and small bamboo
tables bearing drinks. It was still early in the day, but the place was in full
swing. Most of the patrons seemed to be in couples—the women painted and lovely
in long floral dresses, the men, bearded wiseguys in khaki pants and baha
shirts. The latter looked for all the world like retired versions of Knox
himself. A sprinkling of taped ukulele music danced over the grass. To be
honest, this party looked a lot like how I'd imagined weddings—the few times
I'd imagined weddings.

“So. You come here often?”

“I know the owner,” my date replied.

As if on cue, a fat, short man seemed to burst out of the
bushes. He held a round, hairy coconut in each hand and had a cigar clenched
between yellowy teeth. “KNOX!” the stubby man shrieked, dropping his “baggage”
so it went rolling around the ground. “Fucking son of a gun! Like I ever
expected to see you again!”

“That's right. A few of us are back in town, Scotty. This is—”
But at that exact moment, the music crescendoed along the veranda. A few of the
older couples stood to dance, beginning to sway their hips to and fro. Carter
bent low to continue his conversation with who I'd gathered was the club’s
owner, and I stared out at this strange new place. Sometimes I forgot how many
people there were in Florida, existing both outside my MC and still, in their
way, outside the norm of the white-picket-fence. I wanted to talk to everyone.
I wondered how they'd all known to come here, and how they were connected.

“Welcome to Casablanca, doll face,” Scotty was now shouting
my way, his voice loud above the music. “We are always open, and beauties are
always welcome.” Now there was an old movie I
did
know—some big cheesy
romance, framed around Humphrey Bogart. A bar called Casablanca...so it seemed
that my highway tough-guy had a thing for old movies. I couldn't help but grin
a little.

Scotty and Knox ended their little pow-wow with a
complicated handshake, as Scotty clearly bestowed some blessing of approval.
Then I felt Carter's warm palm on the back of my hand, his calloused fingers
gripping mine. He gently tugged on my wrist, and I understood we were bound for
some back room. I felt like giggling—this was all so fuckin' surreal.

We picked our way through the crowd, and finally came to a
stop in a kind of tented enclosure—there was a striped chaise resting by an old
stone birdbath. A thin white canopy separated this spot from the rest of the
patio. Somehow, it was quieter back here. Perhaps people knew to stay out of
the VIP room.

“You need anything, you holler for the owner. I'll be back
with two choice daiquiris, on the house.” Scotty scurried away before I got a
chance to thank him. I sat down heavily on the chaise lounge, instead.

“You look like you've never seen a bar before, kid,” Knox
said. He yanked a crumpled pack of American Spirits from his front pocket, lit
a match.

“I'm used to dark little dungeons that only serve Kentucky
bourbon. Don't quite know what to make of this bourgeois shit.” Carter laughed
again, and I felt myself crack a smile to match. I already loved the sound of
his laugh. I wanted him to laugh at everything I said, just so I could hear
that music constantly.

“So, tell me,” he said finally, once his peal had
diminished. “How does a movie star come by a Harley? What're you doing with a
bike like that?”

At this, I tensed up. Having been raised as an equal with a
bunch of swarthy outlaws, I retained little patience for patronizing remarks. I
squinted at Carter, hoping he'd catch the drift.

“I have a bike because I can ride one. End of story.”

“Didn't really answer my question there.”

“Well, how did you come by yours?” I shot back. He shifted
in his boots.

“I guess...same answer.”

“Funny.”

“Yep. Real funny.” He blew a smoke ring straight up, in the
direction of the almost-noontime sun.

It wasn't that the Coffin Cheaters were the CIA—I was
allowed to disclose my membership to select parties. But our MC had grown
especially wary ever since the battle that killed my father, if only because
the Cheaters had so many enemies on the Miami black market alone. It didn't
come up often, (as I so rarely socialized outside of my club), but there on the
veranda I was briefly yanked back into reality, despite the
gooey-cute-boy-haze. I did still have something to protect. I wasn't prepared
to tell a stranger about my life in the club. Not yet, anyways.

Scotty arrived with a silver tray of goldfish-bowl-sized
drinks, and he set these down with a flourish in the abandoned birdbath. Again,
he disappeared quickly. He had the essence of a man who was accustomed to being
on the run, that was for damn sure.

Carter took his goblet in two hands and raised it aloft. “To
new friends!” he said, clamping his eyes on mine once more. His irises looked
fully purple in the canopy-dampened light—and they shimmered, those big, stupid
eyes. Goddamn, he was handsome. “To new friends,” I murmured. We both drank.

My highway angel took a step closer to me, coming to a stop
in the center of our little pavilion. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and
then said nothing.

“I don't really...do things like this,” I stuttered, the
idiot in me taking the reigns once more. “Fuck. I mean...with strange men. I
don't usually follow strange men to old-timey roadside speakeasies in the
middle of the day. Not that you're strange, but...”

Carter took another step in my direction. I could smell him
across the distance, and his scent mingled with the damp, fragrant air. He
smelled like fresh leather, and something sweet I couldn't name. Some fruit,
maybe. Berries? Apples?

“You didn't exactly follow me. Aren't
I
kinda
following
you
?”

“I just want you to know that I'm usually very careful. Like,
I'm not a total head case. But thank you for taking the twig out of my tire.
I'm glad I didn't die on the highway.”

Why-oh-why wouldn't my stupid mouth shut up
. I was
like a car on blocks, wheels spinning in no direction. But he was so
frightening and enticing, at the same time. He was standing so close to me by
now that I could vaguely discern the square shapes of his musculature, the pecs
and abs rising below his t-shirt. I had this overwhelming desire to keep him in
my orbit—to keep him listening to my drivel, to hold him close no matter what.

“I'm pretty glad you didn't die on that highway either,” he
ventured finally, planting his feet toe-to-toe with my own. “And for the
record? I don't do things like this very often either.”

“You mean, pick up women for day-drinking sprees?”

“Exactly,” he laughed again. “I don't 'pick up women for
day-drinking sprees. I'm actually kind of a loner.”

“What'sa matter? Not everyone's turned on by all that talk
of
old move stars
?”

“You know, I think that's part of it. The ladies think, 'oh,
he rides a bike, he must be a badass.' Meanwhile, my ideal night in is a Turner
Classic Movie and a bucket of popcorn shrimp.” Carter waggled his eyebrows, and
I snorted a laugh. Jesus. Movie stars probably didn't
snort.

“Are you serious?” I asked, once my giggles had subsided.

“Half-serious. I fight a little. I have some ink. Is that
bad-ass
enough for you?”

I bit my lip instead of responding; quite suddenly, the
image of Carter Knox down in the mud with another vicious-looking biker had
sent a chill up my spine. We shared a long beat of eye contact in the following
silence, until I felt I couldn't stand it anymore. This tension was too
unfamiliar, too deep. I stood and turned my back to him, angling my hips
towards the birdbath.

“Guess they don't get many fowl up here,” I said, lamely—before
burying my head into my daiquiri. Yes, perhaps drinking would further dull my
blunt edges. At the very least, the drunker Carter was, the less he'd think I
sounded like a fucking idiot.

“What are you talking about? Fowl?”

I pointed to the birdbath, but didn't turn my head to face
his. Instead, I grinned at the tiny stone structure as he laughed again. My
date sure loved to laugh.

“That's a sundial, kid,” Carter said. Then, I heard his feet
moving in the grass behind me. I felt a series of bona fide shivers along my
skin, then flips in my stomach—the butterflies of cliché. He was now so close
behind me that I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck, the hair
along his arms grazing my own.

“I knew that.”

“You know about sundials? They say they come from ancient
Egypt. Like the obelisk. You tell the time by where the shadows fall. Pretty
genius, if you ask me.”

Ginger. And peach. He smelled like peach trees, with the
slightest additional edge.

I set my glass down on the sundial's surface.

His hands cut through the air, landing squarely on the sides
of my hips. He applied the smallest bit of pressure there, and I felt my center
leap, my skin tingle. My mouth, at blissful last, clamped shut. It didn't seem
like there was anything left to say.

Carter turned his head so his stubble grazed the side of my
bare neck. If I'd have pivoted, I knew I would have seen his violet eyes
burning into mine. He pushed his leather-clad hips forward, very slightly—but
enough so I felt an enormous bulge pressing into the center of my ass. The
fabric squeaked on contact.

“So what time is it, smartass?” Knox whispered into the
crook of my ear, but I knew that this wasn't a question. I allowed my body to
fully slouch against his, like he was an easy chair. And I didn't let myself
think about my bike on the road, or the sun moving across the sky, or the
bikers at home, or my sister in some distant motel. There was only the
perimeter of this magical new place. There was only this man.

His lips were soft when they brushed my neck. I felt the
sticky-sweetness of his drink. His stubble tickled. And at his touch, I became
aware of a new quality in my skin, one I'd never noticed before: I felt like
velvet, all over. Smooth. As if he had just discovered this as well, Carter
reached an exploratory hand up and across the back of my body. His fingers
lightly encircled my neck, and then he began to make small motions in my skin
with the pads of his fingers.

“Does that feel good?” he whispered into my ear. It felt so
good it was almost painful. I was sure that if I moved, I'd squirm and giggle
myself into a million pieces. But instead of allowing the foreign touch to make
me antsy, I sank further into it. Perhaps all of me
was
velvet. My base
began to thrum. My breath began to quicken.

“Oh, yes,” I cooed. I wanted more, but a part of me remained
self-conscious. We were basically outdoors, after all. And this man, however
handsome, was still a stranger to me—even if it didn't feel like it.

Carter set his drink down next to mine, then pressed another
confident hand into my back. Initiating with his thumb, he kneaded the muscles
along my spine that I hadn't even realized were sore. I arched into the massage
like a cat being stroked.

And yet, I was sure that I was experiencing something far
more sexual than the situation warranted. All of my skin felt hot, like water
approaching a boil. I'd never been with a real, grown-up man before (I didn't
count Dog), but I
did
know that Esse and Rayna weren't talking about
back “massages” when they yammered on about “the feminine pleasure zones,” all
hours of the day, ashing their menthol cigarettes across the clubhouse kitchen.
And the occasional urge I sometimes gave in to, that compulsion to press
against myself in service of daydreams—oh buddy, was I getting that now. I knew
that my secret, inner body was ripe and reddening, already slick with desire
for more of Carter's touch. He continued to knead my shoulders, pressing harder
and harder into my defenseless skin. He was so strong.