Page 19 of Mile High With the Bikers
“Have you seen anything on the news about the crash yet?” I ask Diesel after getting dressed.
I could turn on my phone and check, but it would be like turning on a giant ‘I’m here!’ sign and I don’t want to do that until I have to.
Assuming Dad made it.
My chest goes tight. He never understood how to connect with me on anything other than his own interests—mainly computers—but he’s still the only father I have. Hopefully Mason and Tim got him out of there. As harsh as it feels right now, there's nothing I can do either way.
I've got enough money in a private account to last me for a while, but not forever. God, if I could stay here for even a few more days, that'd make life a lot easier. And if I’m being honest with myself, I'm really not ready to be alone. Every time I let my mind drift, I'm watching flames erupt from the plane while people are fleeing. Diesel says they aren’t the good guys, and I’m not stupid. I know in the eyes of the law, they’re violent criminals, but I’ve seen them laugh, tease each other, and put their own lives on the line for me.
Good is relative. Dad donates a lot of his profits every year. That’s good. But he’s also responsible for Hermes, a program we created that straight up bypasses even the most advanced network security. He wants to use it to disrupt the status quo even if a lot of people get hurt in the process. That’s not so good.
Diesel checks his phone, scrolling and tapping the screen as he checks. “Not really, which is strange. It should be all over the news, but I bet Whittaker and the others are doing their best to keep it quiet.”
“So you think he made it?” I ask, trying to keep my voice curious, not desperate.
“If I had to bet I’d say yes, but he could be injured and they’re waiting to see how he does before making announcements. Do you have to work today?”
I shake my head.
Even though it isn't far, Diesel wants to take his motorcycle. Bull’s and Shrapnel’s are missing as well when we open the parking area. I manage to mount up the first try this time, and smile as I press my cheek to the back of his vest.
A couple of guys wave us through the massive gate, shirtless in the July heat, exposing their tattoos and how ripped they are. We pull into a courtyard in front of the looming warehouse with the huge club logo on the front. Beyond the warehouse, I get the impression there’s a whole little neighborhood hiding behind the walls. Complete with houses and a massive garage where men are working on their motorcycles. Bikers mill around the compound, going about their day. A lot of them have beers, even this early. There’s hardly a shirt in sight and more six-packs than the beer aisle at a supermarket.
Not that I'm looking when I've already got Diesel in front of me. Much.
Motorcycles are parked anywhere there’s space, but we ride right up to the front, stopping between two that I recognize as Bull and Shrapnel's. Diesel guides me up metal stairs and in through the heavy front door of the warehouse. I have absolutely no idea what to expect. Coming into the AC is nice, though. I fan my shirt as I follow him into what looks like a giant playroom for men.
The walls are painted black and covered with motorcycle paraphernalia. There's a giant Screaming Eagles MC logo on one of them, flanked by two American flags. Then there's a couple of pool tables, one of them in use. In back are some couches where three members are yelling at the football game on the big screen TV. An open area for… I don't know, dancing? Fighting? Push upcompetitions, for all I know. On one side there are booths kind of like a diner, where a couple of guys are nursing their beers, and on the other side, there's a bar where I recognize the backs of Bull and Shrapnel. Up along the wall on the far side of the room is a metal staircase that leads to a little platform with a door and big windows that overlook the whole common area. The blinds are drawn, though.
“New recruit?” a burly biker in a dark red T-shirt asks.
Diesel flips him off. “Fuck off, Zero. She’s just visiting.”
The biker grins, not bothered by Diesel’s grumpiness. “Gotta start somewhere. We could use some new pussy now that Lace is leaving. What’dya think, sexy? The pay is shit but the benefits are out of this world.”
“What does he mean?” I whisper to Diesel.
“Later.” He turns his blue eyes on Zero. “Not every woman who walks in those doors is here for sex.”
My cheeks flare pink. Considering how last night went, I’m not totally sure that’s true, but I’m not going to argue.
“Not with that attitude they aren’t,” Zero scoffs. “I’ll see if Angel’s around. Maybe she wants to play.”
Bull turns his head and spots us. “Hey! ‘Bout time you dragged your ass in here.”
Diesel takes my hand and leads towards the bar where the others are. “Ignore Zero. He doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s rare to see women around the clubhouse during the day that aren’t sluts or someone’s old lady.”
“Charming.” I wrinkle my nose. “I bet all the girls love being called old and sluts.”
Shrapnel's laugh is dry. “Some of them do. It’s a badge of honor in the club. Gives them status. Means we like and trust them enough to give them a place. It’s tradition. Don’t judge what you don’t understand.”
“Tradition is what people say when they don’t have a strong enough argument.” I wince. Maybe keeping that to myself might’ve been the better choice.
“You’re not wrong,” Bull says with a snort. “But it’s not your fight. They know what they’re signing up for and don’t need you to defend them. I dare you to spend any time with the women around here and tell me they can’t speak up for themselves. My ma’s old man rides with the Misfits up north and they call their club girls ‘patch bunnies’ instead of sluts.”
“That’s a lot cuter.”
Shrapnel shakes his head. “Look around. We aren’t weekend warriors. Anyone looking for cute would last twenty minutes.”
