Page 65 of StoryTeller's Tale

Hoping to hell Sheri will hang on, unable to warn her, I twist the throttle so hard it almost makes the bike sit up and beg. In my mirror, I can see the Jeep accelerating to keep up, and a darn pistol barrel visible out of the window. I throw myself left and right, zigzagging the bike, then take a corner almost at a right angle to the ground. Sheri’s scream echoes in my ear, but I haven’t time to explain and slowing down is not an option.

I take routes around the factories, turning right then left, hoping not to come across a dead end. For once I’m grateful I’m not on my own bike. The one thing the Kawasaki’s got going for it is the manoeuvrability and quick turn of speed. On my Harley, I wouldn’t be so agile.

At last, when I reach the main road again, I risk taking the direct route to the clubhouse. Ignoring any speed limit, I lay on my horn as I approach the gate, and luckily see it’s being opened quickly for me.

I tear through, go around the clubhouse and brake hard at the back, in my mirror seeing the brothers swinging the gate closed behind me.

“Hey, ST. Way to make an entrance,” Shotgun, their VP, drawls as he comes up to me. His eyes quickly go to the woman who’s still hanging onto my back. Now I’ve stopped, I can feel her hyperventilating. “Let me help you off, little lady.”

Loosening her hands, I watch her slump against the man who’s picked her up, lifted her off, and put her on her two feet. But she doesn’t stay vertical long. Within seconds, she’s bending over and vomiting.

“Sheri,” I cry out, going beside her, and pulling back her hair.

The partially digested dinner she’d just eaten is now on the ground. She retches a couple of times and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She pauses for a moment before she straightens. Then, ignoring the men surrounding us, launches at me.

“You delinquent bastard! You could have killed me! What the fuck did you think you were doing?” Stunned, I simply stand as her hand slaps my chest, then does it again and again, punctuating her words. “I don’t know how I managed to hold on. Or was that your plan? If you didn’t want me riding behind you, you just had to tell me, not do all those twists and turns, trying to make me slide off. Have you any idea how fucking terrified I was?”

“Lady—” Shotgun tries to get her attention.

Ignoring him, she continues to shout at me. “You’re a dick, you know that?”

“Christ, she’s scary,” Shout says quietly in a whispered aside.

“Woman!” Shotgun tries again, a little more forcefully. When she still doesn’t pay him any mind, he walks behind her and wrenches her backpack off.

Stunned, fear flares in her eyes as she turns her attention to him, trying to retake possession of her bag. But he holds it out of her reach, then turns it so the rear is facing her.

“You are fuckin’ lucky to be alive,” he roars at her. “And that’s all thanks to StoryTeller’s riding.”

My eyes narrow, then widen as I see what he’s pointing to. Sheri stares as well, her face draining of blood. Now it’s me who’s feeling sick to my stomach, and me who’s retching, bringing my recently eaten burger up.She could have been killed.I’d told her never to get between a bullet and me again, but that’s what I’ve done. Put her straight in the path of danger.

Did I draw Knuckles to her? Would she have been safe if I’d never turned up?I vomit again, thinking how close I’d come to losing her.

When my stomach is empty, I stand and try to make amends. “Sheri,” I start, my voice full of pleading, of apology, but then find I can’t summon the words to tell her how fucking sorry I am. There’s nothing that will express this anguish inside.

But she’s not even looking at me. Instead, she rips the backpack out of Shotgun’s hand and studies the hole with a perplexed expression in her eyes. Then, balancing it on her stomach, she pulls it open. After a moment looking inside, she brings something out, her stunned face meeting my incredulous eyes.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. In her hand, she’s holding that book that brought us together, but it’s not pristine anymore. Instead, there’s a neat round desecrating the cover. When Sheri upends her pack, holding the contents in, but shaking it, a bullet comes harmlessly dropping out.

“Well, I’ll be fucked.” Strider, the Prez of the chapter, has been watching the proceedings.

Buzz, his sergeant-at-arms, bursts into laughter.

Sheri just stands, holding that MariaLisa DeMora novel in her hand. Troubled, I see her already pale face going completely white. Worried, I close the distance between us and I’m only just in time to break her fall as she faints clean away.

While I’m still trying to get a good hold to lift her up, Strider comes and grabs the back of her shirt and raises it.

“What the fuck?” That’s my woman he’s touching.

With a dismissive snarl, he continues examining her back. “Haven’t you ever taken one to a bullet-proof vest?”

Fuck.Yeah. I have. But unless I drop her down, I have to rely on his eyes. “What’s it like?” She must have been so terrified of my riding, she hadn’t felt the bullet hitting.

“Not too bad, but she’s going to have a bruise. Bring her inside.”

Turning, he beckons to me to follow him, while calling out for a prospect to come and clean the forecourt up.

We enter the clubhouse, which is much like any other I’ve ever been in, only the positioning of the bar and the grouping of tables and what entertainment facilities there are serve to distinguish one from the other. Up behind the bar is a flag showing our insignia—two wraiths holding onto each handlebar while a skull gives a rictus grin underneath.

---