Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club) (7 page)

“You ever need help finding your heart in that foxy shell—you
know where to look.” Then Flapper dug his fingers into the flesh of my arms.
His nails were so sharp they nearly drew blood. I was too afraid to knee him in
the junk, but too proud to scream for help. As I pushed against his grimy
touch, the old Rider just pressed me closer and then proceeded to slide his
long, scratchy tongue across the surface of my cheek.

Then, just as suddenly, he dropped me like a hot potato. I
wavered, stunned, in my motorcycle boots, but didn't fall to the earth.
Flapper's eyes looked wild, crazy, and I saw that he was laughing. Neatly, he
barreled past me, making for the exit. Finally, he called to me over his
shoulder:

“Better watch out for those
unsavory characters
,
little girl. Can't trust no one. Not your family, no one.”

For his last act of humiliation, Flap pulled the dangling
string of the Crossroads' bare light bulb—the wide room's sole light source—leaving
me alone, to fumble towards the outside in absolute darkness.

Chapter Eight

* * *

Once I had returned to my room—and locked the door, and
shoved a chair against the lock—I began to pace along the floorboards. This was
hot water like I'd never known before.

I was so totally and completely in over my head.
Time to
think, Gizzy. Think, think, think.

At the very least, the whole MC wouldn't be out tailing Carter
tomorrow morning. I had done my best to protect my lover (or whatever I was
supposed to call him)—and at this point, not having his blood on my hands was
about the best I could do. But that didn't mean his club was safe from the
Cheaters' vengeance—especially not with cretins like Flapper on the road.

Then again, I thought, halting my train of thought: who was
to say that the Styx
hadn't
killed Rodney? It seemed, in that moment, as
likely as not that our oldest enemies were behind the murder of our leader. And
Carter! He hadn't struck me as a liar, when he'd bragged to me in that darkened
bedroom about how he'd never killed a man—but was it possible that I'd been
hoodwinked? Might Knox, in some way, have been using me to get to Rodney?
Moreover, was Knox a killer? I paused in my treading, leaning against my
bedframe for support.

But no, wait, hold up—a real leader didn't think this way.
There was no hard evidence, no proof whatsoever that Rodney had even
been
murdered on the beach with a Magnum...all I had to go on was the word of the
high council, and Lord knew that those three misers were capable of trading in
misinformation. It was certainly better to
not
jump to conclusions. And
some illogical but confident inner voice believed Knox—he couldn't be a
murderer. I figured that no one with those hands, those eyes, that mouth, was
capable of destroying life. Flapper, on the other hand, had the markings of a
madman. Even if I didn't know all the facts yet, I knew who I could trust.

My mind was made up, if my allegiance was still confused: I
needed to get a message to the boy, and fast. If Carter was still bumming
around town because “he couldn't not touch me” (oh, how I flattered myself...),
he needed to scram. I also wanted my own answers: what were the Styx
really
doing back in Miami-Dade? Didn't they know how dangerous it was, even crossing
Coffin Cheaters turf?

* * *

Casablanca was uncharacteristically empty that night. The
dance floor, vacant, reminded me of an abandoned city pool that Tati and I used
to bum around, back during our brief, pre-teen flirtation with skateboards. The
whole bar was shuttered, the tiki torches unlit. I caught a glint of lonely
moonlight dancing on the tip of the sundial (/birdbath...), back in the
pavilion where he'd first touched me.

“Hello?” I called into the empty, hearing only an echo. I
crept across the garden path towards Scotty's house. It was a weeknight, and
late, but still—I hadn't banked on the club looking like this. I crept across
the grounds, scanning the area for any sign of recent traffic, but: nothing.
Spooky.

Before leaving the compound, I'd had to wait until all the
bikers had trundled off to bed. Huddled in a ball in the far corner of the top
bunk, I'd watched the big house until every last light had been extinguished.
Then I'd walked my ride in neutral down past the moat, waiting to climb aboard
until I was some distance away from the main house. It had been so strange. I
felt like a runaway, sneaking away from home in the middle of the night. And a
not-so-small part of me felt like a traitor.

There appeared to be a single candle flickering in Scotty's
bedroom window, which I took as an invitation. Moseying up to his front door, I
knocked twice—lightly—on the screen door. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I
took note of the interior: the room was slightly disheveled, unlike it had been
a few nights prior. The living room furniture looked off-center to me, as if
someone had shoved the couches and tables to the side and then failed to return
them to their proper locations. Had there been some kind of skirmish here? Fear
began to grumble in my chest.

I knocked again. Louder this time.

“Who's there?” rasped a voice, quick to respond At first I
didn't recognize Scotty's scratchy baritone; in freaked-out whisper mode, the
bar owner might have been a child. But following his sound with my gaze, I
watched Scotty's stubby frame materialize. He was dressed in black from head to
toe.

“It's me. It's Gisele.”

“Oh, Jesus. Keep your voice low.” Toddling toward the door
and beginning to undo a few complicated-sounding locks, I took further
inventory of my host. Scotty was pallid, his eyes were sleepless. It was hard
to believe that a mere few days ago this man had been the gleeful conductor of
a big, fun party. Now, he looked like a refugee.

“What's going on?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice to a
whisper. “Your club is closed.”

On entering the cottage, I confirmed my original suspicions:
there had definitely been some kind of scuttle here. A slashed pillow was
raining feathers across the living room floor. A creepy stain of some dark
material was still glistening, fresh-looking, on the shag rug.

“Were you followed here?” Scotty asked sharply. I noticed
then how he'd kept us by the entrance, forbidding my full passage into his
house.

“No. I snuck away. But --”

“If you want him, he isn't here.”

“...Oh. Well, do you know where he is? Because I have an
important message.”

The old bartender regarded me as if I were a cockroach. And
for a moment, my fear took on a new shape. Did Scotty think I was the enemy?
Was it possible that some member of the Coffin Cheaters was responsible for the
shuttered club, this destroyed room? But how could that be, when I'd been
watching our club's grounds all night? As far as I knew, no one had left my
camp to hunt trouble.

Just then, I heard what was fast-becoming my favorite sound
in the universe: the rumbling strength of Carter's grunted laugh, coming from
someplace I couldn't see in the low light:

“It's alright, Scotty. She's okay.”

“But Case, how can you--?”

“I said it's
okay
, Scotty.”

I turned my head to and fro, searching for his face in the
dark. In another instant, I understood: the odd stain. The slashed pillows. I
ran towards the couch. Knox lay among the wreckage, his sculpted face pale. He
was clutching an arm to his naked chest.

“What happened?!”

“As if you don't know! You and your whole filthy MC!” Scotty
spat out these words, wagging a fat finger in my face. I would have defended my
club, but I was so worried looking down at Knox that I couldn't spare the
little goon any attention. My eyes fully adjusted to the light, I was able to
piece together the crucial part of the story: someone had come and roughed up
my man. A long, thick gash ran down Knox's arm. Luckily, this appeared to be
his only injury. I noticed he was dressed in riding gear, the same leather
pants and boots he'd been wearing when we met. Gosh, that felt like so long
ago.

“You look like you need a doctor.”

“I'm fine. Scotty's got Neosporin for days.”

“You need more than Neosporin, Knox.” I bent low and began
to inspect the wound. This was another lesson gleaned from Pops: basic first
aid. I'd helped a dozen men cope with road rash and busted limbs, gashes and
bruises from squabbles and duels. Put a bunch of testosterone-gunned hotheads
in a room, fights were merely par for the course.

“I can help you with this. We need a bandage, though.”

“That's rich. Don't you know who did this to him?” Scotty
had appeared by my elbow again, and made as if to block me from touching his
friend. I had never felt like an enemy to anyone before, and I didn't enjoy the
feeling now.

“I had nothing to do with this. I swear to you.”

“Don't know how we can trust you. Bunch of leather wearing
freaks in clown masks come into my nice establishment, roughing up
my
patrons.
Would have damn near killed Knox, him being the only one to brandish a weapon.”
Scotty indicated a short pistol, with a nod of his head. The gun was notably
not a Magnum, like the one that'd supposedly killed Rodney. “Jesus H. Christ.
And what is the world coming to?” Apparently exhausted, the little man sank
down onto the back of an upturned armchair. He looked so small, so terrified. I
felt for him—dignity lost, home ruined.

But something about the story didn't quite add up: for all
their salt, I could never imagine the Coffin Cheaters wearing clown masks. We'd
never gone in for props. It was hard enough to keep those guys in our basic
uniform: the leather vest, the dark jeans.

“And you think it was the Coffin Cheaters, came running
through here in masks?” I began carefully, moving my eyes from Carter to
Scotty. The former was cringing on the couch. That arm was probably hurting
something fierce.

“Don't know who else it could be, exactly. Not like Miami's
overrun
with vice-loving no-gooders. Besides, I know every MC that's passed through
this town in the past twenty years, and I didn't recognize these guys.”

“You said they had weapons, these guys? Guns?” I knew for a
fact that the Cheaters rarely rode armed. We'd even been branded softies
before, by other clubs. Because our men tended to pick fights with their fists.
My thoughts drifted again towards the Magnum, on the beach. Had this mystery
club entered the room, guns blazing?

I surveyed the wreckage again, casing for more clues among
the debris. So Scotty had been made a target—that was strange, granted his
bar's speakeasy secret location, here in the woods. It seemed to me that only
riders and upper-class outlaws knew of this hamlet. And this mysterious,
vigilante crew of bikers hadn't gone after Knox until he stood his ground
against them—that seemed like evidence that they hadn't been looking for him
specifically. Add to that the clown masks, Ra Ra Rodney's mysterious
death...was it possible that Miami was now home to a
new
crew? Some
unprecedented evil, out to raise havoc just for the helluvit?

I bit my lip, then looked down at Knox. He seemed like a
little boy again. His eyes squinted with pain; his jaw was clenched. Removing
my trusty flannel, I gripped the shirt between my elbows and proceeded to tear
a long strip of fabric from the sleeve.

“Glad to have Florence Nightingale on my side,” the biker
croaked. He smiled up at me, and I felt a wave of relief. The man before me was
not bound by an allegiance to a club, nor did he suspect the Coffin Cheaters of
evil—that much was clear from his trusting expression. Ridiculous as it was, I
was suddenly and deeply aware that I'd found someone special on the roadside
two weeks ago. That this, whatever it was, was
real
.

As I fashioned a tourniquet from my shirt, Scotty paced his
destroyed living room.

“It wasn't the Coffin Cheaters, Scotty. We'd never wear
masks. I'm positive that you've got some fresh hell on your hands. Any odd
types been lurking around the bar lately?” I wound the fabric so tight that Knox's
eyes bulged with surprise as I secured the knot. Like Pops had always said:
the
thing is to staunch the blood flow. Blood loss is no good for road
warriors...not to mention crime scenes.

“But how can you be so sure?”

It was time to show all my cards. Enough of this mincing
around; I was already in too deep.

“Because I'm their Den Mother, and I just came from a club
meeting. We're all sitting pretty tonight. Debating whether or not to go after
the Knights of Styx for the alleged murder of our leader.”

“Wasn't that whole skirmish years ago?” Scotty breathed
heavily. I heard the clanking of bottles in the corner: in his agitation, it
seemed my host had brought the bar inside.

“Our current president was apparently killed on South Beach
last night. Shot thrice. Someone's tipped them off about Knox being in town, so
they think it's the Knights of Styx raising all this hell. You got any water?”

“Would you like some Maker's with that?”

“It's not for me. It's for the
patient
.” Knox,
already looking more chipper, raised his head:

“In which case, make it a double, barkeep!”

“No way, Jose. Alcohol thins your blood,” I corrected. When
I looked down again, Knox's eyes were full of mirth. And was it my imagination,
or were they also slightly wet? I silently thanked the darkness for covering
what I was sure was a fierce blush striping my cheeks. There was just something
about that man. In the direst of situations, he still managed to make
everything look so...
cool.

Now, my charge murmured to me, in a voice so low I knew it
was meant for my ears only.

“You're not just fooling me now, right? You really think
there's a new club in Miami? Starting fires and taking names?” I almost
laughed.
Hell, it's as probable a theory as every other crazy thing I've
heard today.
But I suppressed the urge to be goofy, reading fear in those
lilac eyes. Here was the thing about Knox and me: there were so many reasons
for us not to trust one another. The very foundation of our romance was built
for collapse. Yet here I was anyway, tending my enemy's wound. Literally unable
to stay away.

“It wasn't my club, Knox. You have to believe me. Even
though you're a no-good lady-killing sonofabitch, I'd never let them go after
you. Now hold still while I tie this.” My cheeks felt so hot I was sure my
blush could glow through the gloom. The biker put his muscular hand on my
thigh.

“Why did you come here tonight then, Gisele?”

“I came to warn you. The Cheaters want your head on a plate.
They want you out of town.” My voice began to shake. Just seeing him here,
bleeding, brought to mind all the possible worst case scenarios. What if I'd
come too late? What if I hadn't been able to convince Flapper and the other two
to stand down? He could've—we could've...