Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club) (6 page)

“Hey! Hey, baby!”

“I'm
not
your baby. Did you know your miserable MC
killed my father? How could you know who I was and not tell me?”

“Oh, give me a break. You didn't seem so concerned a moment
ago, when my head was between your legs.”

It seemed for a moment like all my cells would burst. I took
a quick step towards Carter, then reared back and slapped him across the face.

The slap resounded so I was sure that the whole club could
hear it, even above the joyful din of couples being adorable. I wheeled around,
my damp hair slicing through space—but my movement was jerky and confused. How
was it possible to know such pleasure and such pain in the span of a few
moments?

In my hesitation, Carter rose and moved to block my exit.
“You're right. I'm so sorry. That was a horrible thing to say. But please, let
me explain.”

“You're just a fucking g
uy
. You want to bust a nut
and keep moving, that's your prerogative—but why me, huh? What are you trying
to prove, asshole?” Hot tears were murmuring behind my eyes, but I refused to
give this dickwad the pleasure of seeing me cry. I started to wail on his
limbs, but he wouldn't budge.

“Gisele, listen. I figured out you were a Coffin Cheater a
few days after we met. Of course I couldn't track you down. But when I saw you
tonight, I couldn't not--”

“What? Try to
fuck
me?”

“Yes.” His violet eyes were blazing with conviction. “I
couldn't
not
touch you. I couldn't ignore you. I've been thinking about
you all this time. Would have left town a few days ago, if I wasn't half-hoping
to see you again.”

The room felt hot and muggy, the air too close. I sat down
heavily on the squeaking bed.

“Your MC killed my father,” I repeated. “And now that
there's word the Styx are back in Miami, we're going after you.”

“So
you
were spying on
me
?”

“It wasn't my decision, believe it or not. I don't want a
war.”

We were silent. Somewhere in the house, I heard a clock
ticking.

“I'm sorry about your father,” Carter said slowly. “I know
there's no reason for you to believe me, but I've never condoned violence.
Whenever the Styx had fights, I tried to minimize the casualties. I've never
killed another man.”

“But the rest of your MC?”

“Well, I can't speak for them.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“This was a mistake,” I said, rising. At the very least, my
tears seemed quelched for a moment. I was still so furious. “Do you know how
fucked up it was for you to pretend you didn't know who I was?”

“You did the exact same thing. You wanted this just as
much.”

“Well...”

“Well, what? I like you. You like me.” Something in his
voice at that moment reminded me of a little boy. My big strong rider man
sounded like a little boy—petulant, a bit afraid.

“But we can't do this, Carter. You just said so yourself.”

“I said it would be
hard
. Not impossible.”

“What makes you think 'hard' is worth the risk? You don't
even know me. We've barely had a conversation.”
“And yet I want you.” He took a step towards me, dropping his arms from the
door's threshold. “I want you so, so badly.”

I couldn't help it: I thought of my father, then. His beery
breath, his bear hug. Whenever I was especially down about his loss, Tati had
liked to cheer me up by saying that he knew what he'd signed up for. “They're
like soldiers, Gizzy. They live by the sword, they die by the sword,” she'd
say, puffing on a cigarette, legs kicking against the jagged top of the
compound's moat, or the top bunkbed. I could see her so easily. I missed my
sister. I missed my family.

“I can't do this, Carter,” I said, slowly. And this time, my
words sunk in. The biker dropped his arms and stepped aside to let me pass.
With his head drooping in that blue suit, he looked especially sad—not a
grifter, not a road warrior, but a citizen. Not tough at all.

“It was really nice to meet you, baby,” my lover muttered to
me as I left. “And watch out for debris in those tires.” I couldn't turn to
look back, but I did let the 'baby' slide.

Chapter Seven

* * *

Dear Tati,

So you'll never guess—I am Den Mother now! So far,
it's a lot of logistical bullshit. I run (and cook) the books, I keep track of
everyone's whereabouts. You'd be shocked to see how much money we spend on GAS.
Wouldn't be too surprised if my next responsibility is “cook dinner for the
whole MC.” Feel like a fucking housewife. Do groupies have work, too?

Dear Tati,

Come home. Come home, like, immediately.

Dear Tati,

How do you know when you're in love? Asking for a
friend.

Four days oozed by with the speed of molasses, all with me
cooped up in my bunk learning the ropes of my den motherhood. Four days of not
seeing/touching/kissing Carter Knox, and four days of trying desperately not to
think about him.

I didn't trust myself to take rides—lest my legs betray me
again, and send me back towards Casablanca—so I quarantined myself to the
compound. In the cool light of morning, before anyone else woke up, I'd walk
the clubhouse perimeter. When it was time for the first rustlings of a wake-up
call, I'd station myself in the kitchen, where I could greet all the riders
before they set off on their days' journeys. There had been no further talk of
a war with the Knights of Styx, and it seemed no one else had glimpsed them zooming
around our turf. A small, sad part of me wondered if they were gone for good—if
Carter, upon being rejected, had asserted whatever authority he had in the club
and told his gang to clear out. That would have been just as well, I told
myself. He'd be safe from the raging Coffin Cheaters, and I wouldn't have to
lay eyes on his snaky, lying, no-good (firm, taut, beautiful...) ass ever
again.

I wasn't thrilled with my new leadership role, but I was
glad for the busy work. As complicated as our “second date” (or whatever I was
supposed to call it...) had been, I couldn't deny that I still had feelings for
the bastard. He'd been so sweet, so sexy. Feeling his body curl up beside mine
on that feathery bed had felt unbelievably natural, unbelievably...right.

But hey, this was life. People didn't get everything they
wanted. And the Coffin Cheaters were my family, at the end of the day: I owed
them any sense of belonging I'd ever known. Large thing to compromise on a man
I barely knew. A man who'd never even
bought me dinner.

I was scrubbing out the oven mid-reverie when Dog burst into
the kitchen, visibly distressed once again.

“Not another meeting at the Crossroads,” I whined. But my
buddy's face was ashen.

“No. Gisele, it's Ra Ra Rodney. He's dead. Someone shot
him.”

I dropped my sponge and leaned heavily against the cabinet.

Ra Ra Rodney hadn't been close with anyone but Jim Beam,
Mary Jane and
possibly
Nunu, but he was still our established club
president. I had memories of him from when I was a little girl—his whiskery
face bent always into a peaceful smile. My Dad had always preferred to call him
Willie Nelson, because of his excessively chill vibe and love of good country
music. Though Rodney hadn't been much of a leader of men, under his authority
the group had scarcely seen bloodshed. People always seemed to have work of
some kind. There was food. Plus, the cops hadn't come calling in years.

“Jesus.”

“I know. The fuzz found him face down on South Beach, bike
vanished. It was a Magnum .45, killed him. Three bullet holes—the neck, the
temple, the left shoulder. Those fucking Knights of Styx will have
hell to
pay.
” Dog's face was now twisted with an anger I'd never seen on him
before. His lips were a cruel snarl. For all his nickname, he looked like nothing
so much as a livid Rottweiler.

“How do we know it was the Knights?!”

He gave me a look like I'd asked him if two plus two still
equaled four. So that was where we were: behind enemy lines. This meant war.

“Really, Dog. I don't think they did it. Why would they?
We've all got a lot of enemies. Coulda been anyone.”

Clearly unconvinced, my friend offered his arm to help me
stand. “There's going to be a council meeting this evening to figure out our
next move. The gang will want you there. Den Mother gets a say in things, too.”
His face grim, Dog turned to go.

“You're not even going to ask me if I need a comfort fuck?”
I teased, merely hoping to get that hellbent look off my buddy's face.
Determination made Dog frightening. I much preferred him as the ever-inappropriate
joker, or even the creepy, too-handsy ex...whatever.

But he didn't bite. Instead, the biker pretended not to hear
me and swiveled on his boot heels, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

* * *

Before the council meeting officially commenced, Dixon made
a big show of filling everyone's tumbler to the brim with Cutty Sark.

“
In vino veritas
,” the bloated biker said, coming to
rest on his stool. Something from a discarded Latin textbook drifted through my
memory: vino was wine, wasn't it? Whatever. A humid wind rustled through the
rafters of the Crossroads. Outside, the sky grew dark. Mosquitoes buzzed around
us.

Flapper—too antsy to sit—was pacing the ground. He'd take a
quick slurp of his booze, then hustle back and forth so quick that much of his
drink slopped along the floor, joining the detritus of a thousand ancient
parties. It smelled especially rank in the Crossroads that day—a whiff of
decomposing rodent ran through the air. I shifted on my upturned bucket. I
wanted to steer the Cheaters towards a new leader as much as anyone, but this
meeting already felt creepy. The silent leaders, the solemn drinking of
booze... it all felt like the stuff of old drama, the kind of thing Tati and I
might have picked up in one of our secondhand school books.
Something is
rotten in the state of Miami-Dade...

Flapper, at last unable to contain his fury, spoke first.
“Well, we know who it was. The problem now is only: how do we find the
bastards?”

“They'll be in hiding already, if they know what's good for
'em. Goddamn cowards.” Dixon removed a pinch of chew from a tin and fixed this
below his bottom teeth.

“I say we put all the spare riders we got on reconnaissance.
Look everywhere. Scour Miami Beach, downtown—tip off any friends we have on the
force. We find one of the dipshits, we find 'em all. Plain and simple.”
Dixon and Flapper nodded in mutual assent, but then both riders turned to Tall
Man. The old bastard had spoken not a word so far.

“With this way, you will bring war on the Coffin Cheaters
again,” he murmured slowly. “I do not think we should move towards a showdown.
Not just yet.”

Flapper's eyes seemed to pulse with rage at this placid
suggestion, but Dixon convincingly swallowed his pride. All drank for a moment
in silence. For the first time it occurred to me that there must have been bad
blood circling between our club's three de facto leaders. These three men,
despite any pretense to the contrary, were not friends.

“Den Mother,” Tall Man said, turning to me. “What do you
think?”

Feeling six angry eyes on me, I sucked down a finger of the
Cutty Sark so hard it made me break out coughing. Not a one of the bikers
leaned forward to pat me on the back—they just continued to stare at me,
dubious, as if I were some object they'd been told contained a magical
property.

“So the choice is between—sending out all the scouts on some
kind of rampage, or...doing nothing?”

Disappointed, Tall Man flicked his eyes away from me. He
spat out his next words. “We would never do
nothing
.”

“I think Tall Man is asking if we should we risk an open
assault, or look for a culprit on a quieter scale.” Dixon contemplated the
bottom of his glass as he said this, and for a moment he looked like nothing so
much as a sad drunk at a day bar. “We have ways of moving around...quietly.”

“But no one knows who's done it still, isn't that right? No
one saw who killed Rodney?” My pulse was quickening. Unless...

“Oh, we've got a pretty good lead on that. There's a few
friends of the Cheaters can attest to a Knight in the area around the time of
the incident—fella called
Knox,
according to a credit card bill we've
got our hands on.” My heart sank.

I reached for my glass again, to the raised eyebrows of my
council peers. They were used to the company of quiet, sweet-voiced women. Nunu
and Esse and Rayna liked to make a big show of their two drink maximum—it took
each of them just a glass and a half of white wine before they became giggling
heaps of lady garbage. Tati was the same way, but I'd never understood this
female compulsion to act cute in front of the boys—perhaps because I had such a
hard time with playing coy. Though was it just my imagination, or was Flapper
smiling over his glass at me in an especially lecherous way? I averted my gaze
from the rider and focused on finishing my drink.
Yeah—focus, Gisele. What
you say next is very, very important.

“I don't think a manhunt is the answer,” I said carefully. I
rocked to and fro on my bucket, I huffed a bit of air towards my flyaway reds—anything
to convince them that there was no stake behind my attitude. I was pure casual.
“The morale of the club has already been compromised. Wouldn't it be better to
present a strong front? Turn the other cheek for now, wait until a good
opportunity for retaliation presents itself?”

The council was studying me closely. Dixon had even glanced
up from his empty tumbler.

“What kind of opportunity?” Tall Man ventured. His eyes were
so cold and grey. The perfect opposite of Carter's warm, dark pupils.

“Well...” I scrambled. “Say there's a big skirmish in the
paper in the next few days—some unsolved robbery or something.” Dixon laughed.
In our county, such things were daily occurrences.

“We could tip off the cops, maybe. Find some way to link the
Styx to a high-profile case. The police around here are always happy to have
cause to investigate an MC. And can you think of anything more humiliating for
a rider? 'MC found complicit with some big racket, every single one of the
suckers goes to jail?'” I made myself let out a small giggle, praying all the
while that it sounded unstaged. “I just think—we could do something bigger,
something better. Something that will hit the whole club where it hurts.
Violence is what they're good at. They'll be expecting us to tail them, and
they'll be prepared.” Okay. That last part had made sense, at least.
Please,
face, don't blush. Whatever you do, don't blush.

The Crossroads fell silent again, each man lost in his own
thoughts. Flapper was evidently not a fan of the high road—he continued to
clench and unclench his fists as he stomped across the seedy ground.

“I don't want to lose more men,” Tall Man conceded at last,
after a pause that had felt hours long. I might have collapsed with relief, but
I couldn't show my cards. Pops had taught me that, in midnight poker games by
the moat.

“It might be better to wait. To come up with some...plan.”
As soon as he'd forced the word out, I was sure I was home safe. If there was
one thing Riders were not good at, it was following through with a
plan.

The three of us turned to Flapper, the little mad dog. His
eyes found mine for a brief staring contest, and I mustered my courage. What
was so scary about him, anyways? So there was a rumor he'd shot someone. There
were plenty of
rumors
everywhere. Talk was cheap in an MC.

“I don't like it,” the smallest rider began. “I think
'morale' would be just fine if we put a price on the head of every Knight of
Styx we've ever seen. And that's the god's honest truth.” He fumbled in his
leather vest for the crooked end of a cigarette, jammed this into his mouth.
“But if the council wants to wait...I will follow the council's decision.” He
cut his eyes at me again, then returned his attention to the smoke. I let out a
slow, silent exhale.

Then—weirdly, in my opinion—Dixon bowed his head like
someone in church. “Thank you, Den Mother, for your righteous guidance.”
Drawing the last few fingers of Cutty from the folds of his leather jacket, he
leaned over the circle and filled my glass again. The previous draught was
already beginning to make my head buzz, my limbs loosen.

Without a word of goodbye or a glance in my direction, Tall
Man lurched out of the Crossroads. Dixon smiled weakly at me, then also began
to weave away towards the clubhouse quarters. Watching them retreat, I wondered
if either rider were truly sorry to learn of Rodney's death. Though not always
on the best of terms, these men had shared a brotherhood. Vows had been
exchanged. Were they remembering the good times with their former leader? Did
they feel at all like I had, when I'd lost my father? Or even how I felt daily,
recalling the absence of my twin?

I stood to go, turning my back on Flapper, who now murmured
softly in the direction of his drink. Of all the club members, this man felt
the least like a “brother” to me.

“Seems odd, is all,” he said now into the dirt, bending down
to snuff his cigarette in the mushy earth.

I couldn't help it; I turned around. Curiosity killed the
cat. Flapper's agitation was palpable in his movements—he looked dangerous as a
funnel cloud. I fought a sudden urge to run out of the room. Find my bunk, lock
the door, push a chair against the lock.

“A Knight killed your Pappy. And not one bone in you wants
to hunt the fuckers down?”

“I don't go in for all that cowboy justice. I just think we
could hit harder if we think things through. That's all.”

Flapper took a few paces towards me, his brow furrowed. I
held my ground. “When you lose someone you love, last thing you should be doing
is
thinking,
little girl.” Then, before I could move, Flapper had snaked
a beefy arm around my middle. He drew me close to him, so I was inches away
from his spotted, pocked face. His fingers were clammy. He smelled like tobacco
and stale rain. A smile revealed a spotty top shelf of crumbling, yellow teeth.
When he spoke to me, he whispered.