Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club) (4 page)

Chapter Six

* * *

When life gets too confusing, sometimes the only thing to do
is go to a fabulous...bar. Sure, I wasn't much of a drinker in my free time,
but without Tati there to plan with and a whole queue of riders already
knocking down my door with “questions for the Den Mother,” I had to get out. I
tossed off my flannel and took my Street Bob to the streets. I let my headlamp
fill up the fast-darkening road, and neatly sidestepped Dog when he tried to
flag me down before the moat.

Everything was happening too fast. How come things never
happened at the right speed? This is what I liked about bikes: you always knew
what you were getting. You wanted to go fast, you could go fast. You wanted to
go slow, you went slow. But life had no regard for pedals—good things flew at
you in one go, and bad things took their time. There was no pacing in any of
it.

I yearned for my little family
—
my
twin, my father, even the mother I'd never met. It was hard to think about
“honor” as an effective orphan. I was loyal to the MC because my father had
been loyal to the MC. And I'd been born a Coffin Cheater, I'd had no choice in
the matter. But did I
really
owe them my allegiance, when all was said
and done? I didn't want to help anyone fight a war. I wasn't even sure I wanted
to help anyone deal with their old lady troubles or their stolen goods or
whatever else a Den Mother was supposed to do.

Then again, my father hadn't been given a choice when a
malicious dirtbag had killed him in bed. Jesus...it was one thing for
casualties to occur in an open shoot-out. It was one thing for casualties to
occur on the road. It was quite another for a man to shoot another man—his
sleeping twin daughters in the next room—in cold blood. My father hadn't died a
“hero's death,” as I so often liked to tell myself. He'd died alone, and
unarmed. He'd probably been so afraid.

And what about Carter? He'd seemed so kind and warm and just
slightly goofy by the roadside. His touch had felt so good. But where had he
been that fateful night, the night when my whole life changed? “Living by his
code?” If his code had played any role in the destruction of my family, well,
there was no question: any blooming feeling I had for him needed to be stamped
out, quick.

For no good reason, I found my bike snarling in the
direction of Casablanca—a place I hadn't expected to visit until (or, if...) my
loverboy had found some way to contact me again. It almost seemed unlikely that
the little midsummer garden could exist outside the events of a memory that was
already feeling more and more like something I'd invented, but sure enough:
here was the long winding road, spinning away from the gravelly shoulder. Here
was a trail of hastily parked bikes and scattered cars, framing the little
lean-to shack. It was a Thursday night. The place was bound to be hopping.
Perhaps I ought to have brought Dog, if a bar was really where I wanted to go.
I already knew that this was a club for couples, and lonely women would either
be made prey or objects of pity on the inside.

But it felt too late to turn around now. I shook my hair out
of my helmet and tromped along the cobbled path. I listened for the sweet drift
of old music, and let a familiar melody seep into my hips—Jackie Wilson. “To Be
Loved.”
Ha.

The patio was as I remembered—I mean, of course it was.
Several older couples were swaying back and forth to the music, their heads
thrown back with laughter. There were also a few scattered clusters of
whippersnappers my own age—likely local-yokels, from the looks of 'em. It
suddenly seemed like I'd made an awful mistake, returning to the scene of the
crime. There were just too many people in love here, each pairing looking for
all the world like they belonged together.

As I've said before, growing up in an MC will rid a girl
quick of any of that happily-ever-after mythology. Love at first sight seemed
totally ridiculous to me. The men and women I knew came together for sex, and
that was largely it. Even my parents' vaguely romantic meet-cute didn't sound
like a fairy tale—their coupling, after all, had sprung from violence and ended
in death. So it was strange to see these swaying duos, clutching one another
like life rafts, giggling in tandem. For maybe the first time, I imagined what
my life would be like with a partner—an equal. Someone I could talk to, and
care about. Someone to ride with.
Someone to care, someone to share...
oh,
that fucking Jackie Wilson.

And then I gave myself a little mental-shake.
Ick.
Remember,
Gizzy: you never played with dolls, you never even dreamt of being anyone's old
lady. Real riders rode alone. Everyone knew this.

Moving towards the back bar, I glimpsed Scotty fussing over
a margarita machine. He had one plump hand covered in a glop of
what-looked-like-raspberry puree. Once he saw me, his round little face cracked
wide into an unexpected grin.

“Lady love!” he hollered. “I knew you'd be back! Scotty
always knows these things! Wait here!” I'd never sat on Santa's lap before (on
our childhood trips to the mall, Tati and I had been closely instructed to
speak to no one—having been mainly installed as watchmen while our father
shoplifted)—but in that moment Scotty looked to me just how I imagined a merry
St. Nick might. I couldn't help but match his enthusiasm. He put a finger to
his lips before scurrying away, looking pleased.

“Can you pour me a Maker's Mark, one ice cube?” I trilled to
the other bartender—a skinny girl with ratted hair and neon blue leggings. She
didn't quite live up to the classy aspect of the club, that was for damn sure.

“You sure you don't want a daiquiri? House special.”

“Not in the mood for a fruity cocktail.”

“Huh. Not too many girls like bourbon around here.”

“Well, I'm not
too many girls.
”

Just then, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. Jumping
reflexively, I turned to see...
Carter. Fucking. Knox.
Dapper as he'd
been the week before. No—more so.

“Didn't I say I'd find you?” he smirked. And with that, the
whole day's miserable events began to fade straight from my mind. Sure, half of
me wanted to punch his teeth in, but the other half was failing to fend off a
flood of joy. His face, I realized, had already imprinted in my memory—unknowingly,
I'd memorized every contour. The thick, full eyebrows tapering gracefully
across a strong forehead. The lush, dark hair. Those crackling, colorful eyes
with their impish purple hue. That nose! In this light, I caught flecks of
green in his irises. His face already struck me like the face of a friend, the
face of someone I'd known for years—as opposed to, you know, fifteen minutes
(give or take).

Carter was in fine form this evening, his leather pants
snug. He wore a white wife-beater and a tattered denim vest, clipped through
with rows of safety pins—the tight shirt accentuated his form, so I could see
every raised curve in his chest. A tuft of dark hair spilled from the lip of
his collar. He wore shredded bike gloves on flexing fingers. I took note of a
wending shoulder tattoo, something I hadn't noticed before: a cobra, coiled,
prepared to bite. I wanted to place my hand on his throat, to reassure myself
he was real.

“Don't exactly see how
you
found
me,
goofus.
Mr. I-don't-have-a-phone.”

“Hold on—I'm still stuck on 'goofus.' Who says
goofus
anymore?”

“Oh, it's all the rage again. You didn't hear? Someone's
behind the times.”

Carter laughed. And I discovered I'd remembered what that
sounded like, too, the fullness of his sound. I thought about the improbably
straight teeth in his mouth. I thought about the swell of his lips. And how
those lips had felt, drawing me in...I could have kissed him right then. It
took muscle to refrain, in fact.

“I didn't expect to see you again, honestly. Just couldn't
think of a better bar.”

“That's what they all say.”

“I'm sure that's true.” A bit more peevishness seeped into
this remark than I'd meant, and I saw a little amusement flutter across Carter's
face. I regretted my word choice—I didn't even want to think about Carter's
cotillon of other highway lassies, if such a thing existed.

“But seriously, friend,” I began, dropping my voice. “You
don't have to pretend like you were going to try to find me. We're both adults
here. We know what...the other day was about.”
Carter leaned across me then, side-eyeing my half-drunk whiskey. With a nearly
imperceptible wink, he reached his hand along the bar and snagged my glass.
Before I could protest, the last of my Maker's had vanished down his throat.

“Asshole!”

“Looks like you need a drink, Gisele. Can I buy you one?”

Goddamnit it if I couldn't help smiling. I fought away the
bouncing, guilty voices in my head that were telling me to leave the scene,
stat. Bastard was smooth, that was for damn sure.

I know what ought to have been my first thought, laying eyes
on Knox for the second time: here was the dirtbag, in the flesh. I ought to
have been livid. But if Carter really was a Knight of Styx, and so my sworn
enemy...shouldn't something of his evil show on his face? I wanted so badly to
hate him, but his charm made this reflex impossible. I'd begin to be mad, begin
to launch into my furious scripted warning about how my MC would come after his
and waste them all, but then he'd laugh at some dumb joke of mine and...I
couldn't do it. Here in blissful Casablanca, it was so much easier to pretend
the meeting and my assignation to Den Mother and all those violent words at the
Crossroads had just been pageantry. Everything about Carter seemed so opposed
to violence and hatred and terror—I didn't want to believe that was what he
stood for.

So once again, we dodged talk of motorcycles—something he
also seemed all too happy to do. Once he'd secured me a second double whiskey, Carter
perched on a long bamboo stool, and turned to face me full-on.

“I'm sorry I left in a hurry the other day. I really am.”

“Ya-huh.”

“But you must know you're not an easy girl to find. No
public records of a Gisele Owens. Nothing in the phone book.”

My heart skipped a beat. Had he really been looking for me?
“Who's in the phone book anymore, Grandpa?” I said, taking a swig of my amber
courage and tossing my hair. I wished he would call me a 'movie star' again.

“People with nothing to hide.” Knox leaned closer, and I
caught that familiar drift of peach and ginger. Could that intoxicating aroma be
aftershave? Or did he really just smell like cobbler all the time?

We didn't say anything for a moment, but the silence was
meaningful. In his eyes I read apology. He placed a sturdy hand on the small of
my back, and finally, it all felt as real as it had on the highway, or in the
garden: there was something about his touch. The curl of his lips, the heft of
his hair. He had come for
me
. He had feelings for
me
, too. I
decided to believe this. I
needed
to believe this.

“Do you want to see the inside?” Carter murmured, his hot
lips brushing my ear. I imagined the grate of his stubble along my cheek. I
swear my hands started shaking. Didn't at all care that the “inside” he
referred to was the lean-to shack at the front of the club, or that here I was
again, making rash solo decisions on a weekday. I was happy to follow him. I
rose, as if hypnotized. He reached for my hand.

We probably made a funny pairing—Easy Rider leading Punky
Brewster in her flannel and biker gloves through an old folks' dance party. But
I didn't care. As with the entrance and patio of Scotty's, I soon realized that
the shack was not as it had originally seemed—the exterior and wraparound porch
were podunk as hell, but just past a thin screen door there was a modest little
cabin, lit mostly by candles and a few standing low-halogen bulbs. I listened
for the sound of life inside, but heard nothing. We were alone.

“What is this place?”

“It's Scotty's house. He lets me crash here sometimes, when
I'm breezing through town. You like it?”

My eyes were adjusting slowly to the low light, but I was
able to make out some pleasant décor: an unnecessary fireplace, set with large
stones. Three heavy, hanging baskets of bouganvillea swinging from the rafters
on the outside porch. A thick Flokati rug, blue, brushing softly against my
ankles. For a bona fide bachelor pad, the place even looked clean.

“It's very seventies in here,” I whispered. I felt the need
to whisper.

“This room hasn't changed much, that's true. But come this
way.” He reached for my hand again, and I followed. His dark curls caught shine
in the lamp light.

Though I'd been touched by younger men, I was keenly aware
of my inexperience as I walked down that hall. Carter was a man, from tip to
toe. The kind of man who fought duels in ancient times, the kind of man who
slayed dragons, or came home a war hero (so I'd been daydreaming...sue me).
What would he make of me, a gangly teenager, once he had me in his bed? And
what kind of girl did this all make me, that I was so wide-eyed and willing to
sleep with him, when we'd barely spent an evening talking? Tati had regaled me
with stories of how her musician boyfriends had wined and dined her, serenaded
her with love songs before “sealing the deal.” Knox and I hadn't even had
dinner yet. We'd never even been on a real date. Then there was, of course, the
convenient fact I'd been suppressing: that the man before me might have been
involved in the raid that killed my father...

“Hey listen, Knox,” I paused in the doorframe. “I'm not so
sure I can do this.” As soon as the words were out I regretted how childish and
silly they sounded. I felt utterly stranded between two emotional poles—my
body, screeching 'yes,' and my heart, screeching 'no.'