Ride (Bayonet Scars) (8 page)

“How do you like it?” Ryan shouts over the cacophony of engines. I snuggle into him, not knowing if I’ll ever get another opportunity to be this close with him.

“It’s incredible,” I say. A smile breaks out on my face and I laugh. The rush of the wind and the power of the bike overtake me and
, for just a moment, everything feels right.

“You’re smiling,” he says.

“You can feel that?” I ask, surprised by the attention he’s paying to my movements.

“Oh, I can feel a lot more than that.” He revs the bike and speeds us up, leaving the others in our
wake. They catch up in a minute; a few of the men flip Ryan the bird and shout curse words at him. We’re going so fast, my entire body goes rigid. My hands clamp down tightly onto his hard abdomen, feeling his flexing muscles beneath the leather. My thighs tighten around his hips, searching for confirmation that I won’t fly off the back of the bike. Beneath my touch, he shivers. Whether it be the wind or my touch that’s affecting him, I imagine it’s my touch. Testing the theory, I run my thumb in small circles on his abdomen. Straightening his position, his breathing changes. It picks up at first, and then catches before evening out. And I know, without a doubt, that it’s me that he’s reacting to, a thought that both excites and terrifies me.

My hair whips up, slapping me in my face
, and tickling my neck. The wind breezes past us with such force I worry if I let go for even a moment that I’ll take flight and be tossed into the green beyond. I close my eyes and let the feeling overtake me. Wind slicing into my skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. The bright afternoon sun, beating down on me, its warmth washed away by the brush of the wind. Everything is more intense out here. With every pull of my lungs and every beat of my heart, I actually feel the world moving around me. Everything feels alive, and active, not merely existing. From the birds flying overheard down to the occasional insect buzzing past. But it’s the bikes that make my skin taut with excitement. Ryan’s hips between my legs and his bike underneath me keeps my body in a constant vibration. But the bikes around us create a cacophony of noise, all rumbles and echoes of roaring engines, unlike anything I’ve ever heard before.

My father always said that I was far too precious to engage in anything dangerous. What he really meant was that I
was too important an investment, a pawn, to do anything fun. Here, in the wind, it comes to me that I may just hate him a little.

Chapter 9

I take things like honor and loyalty seriously. It's more important to me than any materialistic thing or any fame I could have.

- Llyod Banks

WE RIDE FOR
what feels like days, maybe even a week. Though I know that’s not possible. The afternoon sun moves little, and there is no telltale darkening of the sky. My backside cramps, and my legs long to stretch out. Even in my discomfort, the thrill of the ride hasn’t waned any. Being huddled into Ryan makes me think I could stay here forever.

I take the time to watch the men, who are mostly silent, but occasionally crack jokes and tease one another over the growling engines.
The flat expanse of highway allows the bikers to spread out as they ride. Though they sometimes swerve and loop around one another, likely to keep things interesting, they all return to their original formation.

Ryan slows the bike
, and the rest of the men in the club follow suit. I peer around his shoulder and tense up at the sight. Before us by perhaps a few hundred feet, there’s a collection of men on motorcycles, all wearing black vests, lining the highway just after the “Welcome to Nevada” sign. I work very hard, but nearly fail at stopping the impending tears from falling. Ryan’s muscles haven’t tensed under my touch, and the men that surround us haven’t given any indication that this is a problem. But until I know for sure that we’re safe, I’m not going to relax. As the motorcycles slow to a crawl and eventually stop just before the sign, I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in between Ryan’s shoulder blades. If this is an ambush, I’d rather not see it coming.

But just then a raucous chorus of laughter sounds and even Ryan’s body is shaking with the effort. The bike begins to move again, and with the sounds of excited laughter surrounding me, I open my eyes. The men at the border largely appear to be pleased with our presence. One by one they start their engines and tear off in front of us. When they’
re all on the highway in front of us, we pick up our pace to keep up with the pack.

After r
iding along for no more than five or ten minutes, we pull off the barren highway and onto a dirt road the feels like it stretches for miles. Eventually, we pull up to a collection of decrepit old wooden cabins, sprawled out from one another, that make up the West Wendover Rustic Motel. Somehow, when they named the place, I don’t think this is what they had in mind.

A cabin identifying itself as the office sits in the
center of the cluster. Its sign hangs precariously by the one remaining, intact chain. Its neon letters are busted with their remnants scattered on the wooden porch beneath it. The windows haven’t fared much better, nor has its neglected porch, which houses three rocking chairs, two of which are occupied by old bikers who look like they’ve got one foot in the grave already.

Just as Ryan cuts the engine, the men of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club collectively cut theirs and dismount their bikes. Our new friends watch me with curious eyes. I even have the attention of the old bikers in the rocking chairs. Nervously, I dismount as gracefully as I can. Despite some minor shaking, I make it off the bike and on my feet without incident. Ryan dismounts quickly and comes to stand behind me.
He’s so close I can feel the edges of his vest brushing against my back. I catch Jim’s gaze. His brows are drawn together, and his lips forms a flat line. His eyes look so cold I can barely reconcile this man with the one who first wrapped Gloria in his arms just a few days ago.

“Who are these people?” I whisper so that only Ryan can hear me. His chin brushes my temple
; the rough drag of his days’ worth of stubble scrapes at my skin.

“Family.” His breath washes over my face. I relax, surveying the scene around me. The new faces all wear vests with the same Viking warrior and the word FORSAKEN on the back. The only difference is theirs say NEVADA on the bottom
, whereas the men I’m traveling with vests say CALIFORNIA. Ryan leaves me and strides across the dirt lot to mingle with his men. Once he’s gone, I feel intimidated by the gathering. The Nevada Forsaken must amount to thirty in number. I’m barely getting the hang of communicating with the men I already know, much less this crowd, which ranges in age from mid-thirties to late seventies, if I’m guessing correctly.

“What are you doing over here?” I jump at the company, not having noticed anyone approach. To my ride side stands Ian. He’s expressionless as always
, but he seems to have relaxed since the last time I caught his attention.

“Am I not supposed to be here?” I ask. His jaw ticks before he shakes his head. There’s some kind of struggle going on within him that I don’
t understand.

“You’re supposed to be here,” he finally says, his voice a little lighter than a moment ago. “Ruby, she uh,” he begins
, but doesn’t finish. I turn and face him fully, practically begging for answers. There’s so much I don’t understand about what’s going on and why. I’m willing to take anything he’s willing to give. I can’t squander this opportunity.

But he’s all tight-lipped and silent now. I take a deep breath and push it out quickly. “Please,” I say so softly that it brings back unwanted memories of every time I’ve asked my father for
lenience and he refused to grant it. The memory is anything but welcome.

Finally, Ian turns so that we’re
face to face. He’s average height for a man, which means he still comes close to a foot taller than me. Searching his eyes for answers I can’t decipher, I’m struck by how much he reminds me of my brother. Though his coloring is much lighter than Michael’s, they have the same eyes. My mother’s eyes. Ruby’s eyes. My eyes.

“Just give her time, okay?” he says. I tilt my head to the side as I focus on my breathing.
In and out. In and out
. The creeping kick of sorrow begins to engulf me. All I have left of my brother and my life before are my memories. A life I can never have again. But she’s not here, nor is anybody I have ever loved. I don’t understand these people or their ways.

“For what?” I finally choke out, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like I’m on the verge of tears, even though I am. For the first time since meeting him days ago, Ian gives me a moment of vulnerability. His face softens
, and he tugs his lower lip into his mouth.

“She’s not good at this shit,” he says then walks away
, leaving me disappointed. I could chase after him and beg for answers, but he’s shut down. I have no hope he’s going to give me any more than he already has.

I spend the next few minutes observing the people around me. I catch the attention of most of the men who pass me
; a few nod their heads, a few just stare, but nobody stops. It isn’t until I grow restless enough to contemplate seeking out Ruby that I see her. She heads toward me, an apologetic smile on her face. Urging me toward the center cabin, she tells me there are people I need to meet. She introduces me to men who I won’t remember with nicknames I’d blush if I said aloud. They all become a blur after a while. Thankfully, bikers aren’t the most talkative of folks, so the introductions are quick. Finally, we reach the old men in the rockers.

“This her?” the one on the left asks. He’s so wrinkly and hairy I can bar
ely make out the tattoos that cover most of his flesh. He has a full-length beard that mostly covers his leather vest. Beneath the distractions, his blue eyes sparkle with a rare kind of interest. It’s both a curiosity and an appreciation that, surprisingly, doesn’t feel creepy.

“Alexandra Mancuso,” I say, without waiting to be introduced. I offer my hand and give him my most respectful smile. Slowly, he lifts his hand and places it in mine.

“Rage,” he says. Though life and age have gotten the better of him, I have no doubt he earned his name, just like they all have. And with a name like Rage, I choose not to discount him, despite his friendly demeanor. His grip tightens on my hand, though the effort appears to tire him out as his hand shakes. “I’d change my name if I were you.”

“You think I need a nickname?” I ask, trying to keep the mood light.

“Mancuso isn’t a friend,” he mutters. My stomach sinks in fear. I want to trust that Ruby, my mother’s sister, wouldn’t go through all of the trouble to save my ass just to bring me here to a group of men who hate my father enough to take revenge on him through me. Still, what do I really know about Ruby?

“You can’t have loyalty to Forsaken and Mancuso. I don’t care if he is your father.”

Gathering all the courage I have, I say, “I have no loyalty to his family.” As awful as it sounds, it’s the truth. Carlo has always put his family before mine. Never once have I felt he loves and appreciates me for who I am, but rather what I can do for him. I want to believe he loves me, in his own way.

“
Don’t make us regret this.”

And just like that, our conversation is finished. Ruby takes me by my arm and leads me away from the crowd, around the corner of the cabin. Night is falling now
, and the sheer darkness of the desert is intimidating.

“The van will be here
soon, but we won’t be leaving until morning,” she says gently. I nod and open my mouth, but nothing comes out. She catches the movement and raises an eyebrow. “There something you want to say?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. I’m not sure what I should say, if anything. Staying in this place overnight strikes a chord of panic within me, but I can’t really say that aloud. I’m so anxious to get to wherever home is and to see it with my own eyes, that I can barely contain the frustration at this delay.

“It’s Jim. He and Rage have some shit to work out. If it were up to me, we’d go straight through.”

“It’s okay,” I say, but she shakes her head.

“Who is Rage?” I ask. He seems to carry himself with a certain amount of authority, but I can’t place where he fits into all of this. I know Jim is the president, but I don’t know if that means he’s the president of all Forsaken members or just the ones in his group.

“He’s Jim’s father. Old bastard retired out here some years ago
,” Ruby says, clearing her throat. She shakes her head and gives me a forced smile. “Ryan’s going to keep an eye on you until Duke and the others get here. Since you two are getting along, I thought you’d prefer that to one of the other guys.”

“Thank you,” I say, trying to control the nervous excitement that pulsates through my body. Unlike the other night when the men stayed outside of my room
, I’m hoping Ryan comes inside. So far, he’s the only person who’s really talked with me. Ruby’s made some sort of effort and Ian is getting there, but other than that, it’s been a lonely journey.

In the distance, I see Ryan approaching. Despite the encroaching darkness, I can see the pleasant smile on his face as he nears. In hi
s left hand is my bag, and in his right is a similar-sized leather bag. He comes to stand beside me, shifting both bags to his left hand. He places his right hand on my lower back, guiding me toward the surrounding cabins. From behind me, I hear Ruby shout, “Remember what I said!”

Those men are off limits to you
.

I tell myself I’
ll respect her wishes, even if the thought of being alone in a cabin with Ryan gives me other ideas.