Page 13 of Mile High With the Bikers
“I can’t ride,” I blurt out, feeling a little dumb for being shocked that literal bikers have motorcycles waiting.
Shrapnel wheels one of the bikes back. “You’ll be fine. Feet on the pegs, hold on tight and try to follow what feels natural for balance.”
“No, I mean. Ican’tride.” I gesture down at the skirt that hugs my legs and falls nearly to my knees.
Diesel pulls a switchblade out from inside his jacket and flicks it open. “Easy enough to fix.”
“Hey! I have a change of clothes in my bag just—” I motion with my finger for them to turn around.
“It’s a little late to convince us you’re shy,” Bull teases. “We’ve seen the goods, angel.”
“This is different! Sort of. Please?”
They glance at each other. Diesel rolls his eyes, but they line up at the end of the spot with their backs to me. I rip open my backpack and pull out my clothes. It’s nothing fancy, just some lightweight black travel pants, a gray t-shirt and some slip-on shoes, but getting out of that stupid uniform makes me feel more like myself.
My phone is still in airplane mode. I chew on my lip as I stare at it sitting in my hand. The temptation to connect to the network and see if anyone has tried to call or text is hard to resist. Dad and I might not have the most normal relationship, but I don’t want him dead.
No.
Can’t check yet. I power it off completely and shove it back into my bag along with my balled up uniform. This isn’t how I planned to run, but maybe it’s fate.
“Done.” I shiver. It’s summer, but the breeze is cool tonight. I move to get my uniform jacket back out of my bag, but Shrapnel is faster.
He shrugs off his leather vest and holds it up for me to slip into. “Here. It'll block the worst of the wind. Did you want us to drop you off somewhere or do you want to come back with us for the night? The clubhouse is downtown so we've got a little ride to go before we can relax.”
The vest is huge on me, but it’s already warm from his body heat, and the scent of him surrounding me makes my heart beat faster. “Um, sure. I can crash with you if that’s okay.” I’m actually relieved by the offer because it’ll give me a night to figure out what I want to do.
“Never going to turn down the company of a pretty woman.” Shrapnel swings his leg over his bike, then pats the seat behind him. “You're wearing my cut, so you're riding on my bike.”
It takes two tries, but I manage to get my leg over the seat and settle behind him. They very kindly don’t laugh, but I’m pretty sure I hear a chuckle. When the insides of my thighs are pressed against the outside of his, and my arms are wrapped tightly around his waist, he starts his bike.
Oh my God, it's like sitting on an industrial strength vibrator. Okay, not quite, but I can definitely see the appeal.
Bull’s bike roars when it comes alive, before settling into a steady purr. “Let’s roll.”
We pull out after Bull, with Diesel behind us. At first it’s hard to ignore the feeling that we might tip over every time the bike leans, but on the straightaways, it’s actually kind of fun. At least until we hit the highway and I swear they’re trying to break the sound barrier. A couple hours ago we survived a literal plane crash and now a motorcycle ride is making me dig my fingers into Shrapnel's sides in sheer terror.
The scary thing about being on the motorcycle is that there’s nothing between me and the road except trusting in physics and Shrapnel’s skill. But the ride is smooth, and panic can only last for so long. Eventually it’s almost like meditation. Nothing is important but the feel of Shrapnel in front of me, the rumble of the bike underneath, and the cool air rushing past my face and making my hair flutter.
I'm free.
But at what cost? I wanted to get away. Needed time to think about what the Hermes project really means and if this is what I want from my life, but I never planned on disappearing forever. I just needed space to talk to Dad without being under his thumb. As much as I resent him and think he’s making a big mistake, I don’t want him to burn up in a fiery explosion, not to mention Tim and Mason, who are just doing their jobs. I hope they’re all okay. If anyone could get him out safely, it's them, and at this point there’s nothing I can do about it from the back of a motorcycle.
The highway passes through patches of suburban sprawl on the outside of the city before we hit downtown and the bikers take an exit near the river. Then we weave through unfamiliarneighborhoods. It’s an older area, a mix of commercial spaces with apartments above, and single-family homes. Some of the buildings have boards across the windows, but most are neatly maintained in spite of needing a little TLC.
We pause at a red light, and I look up. We’re here.
A large compound with tall walls sprawls in front of us, the only way in through a massive two-part gate that's shut tight. Rising behind it is a warehouse with a sign on it that has to be at least a story tall on its own. It's lit up by spotlights and reads “Screaming Eagles MC” with an eagle logo below it, just like the guys have on the backs of their vests. I steel myself to go in, but instead the guys roll through the light and pull into a side street, slowing down in front of a bar.
The sign over the door identifies it as The Eagles' Roost, and it looks like it’s in full swing even though it's well after midnight. Loud rock music pours out the open door, and there’s a row of motorcycles parked on the sidewalk out front. Small groups of big tattooed men in leather and jeans mill around, chatting, drinking and smoking.
They pull around the back into an alley, and Bull hops off, unlocking a tall gate and swinging it open. He rolls his bike in as Diesel and Shrapnel ride past to park. Shrapnel lowers his feet and kicks down the stand. Before I even get the chance to figure out how to dismount, Bull takes care of it for me, lifting me right off like I don't weigh anything, and putting me down on the asphalt. I stumble after so long in the saddle and have to grab his strong arm to steady myself while my legs come back to life.
He wraps an arm around me to support me. “Steady, girl. You okay?”
I’m so exhausted that I just lean into him. “Oh you know how it is. I met these crazy bikers at work, and then there was an orgy, a hijacking, a plane crash, stealing a car… The usual. I’m sure a couple hours of bar hopping will be a great end to the night.” I yawn, the kind that starts small and then feels like a full body experience.
Shrapnel laughs. “That wasn’t an orgy, baby. That was just the warm-up act. Stick around and we’ll be happy to show you.”
