Page 64 of Creep
“You didn’t fucking say the Butchers were coming,” he says loudly enough that I hear him despite the roar of engines.
Road shakes his head. “I didn’t expect it. Don’t they hate fun?”
Clyde’s lip curls with clear disdain for his former club. “Yeah, but they don’t hate cheap booze and opportunities to fuck.” With that, he puts on his helmet, so if he says anything more, only Road can hear it.
Why? Why the hell is this happening to me?
The news is a bucket of icy water thrown in my face. When Creep straddles his bike and peeks my way, expecting me to take the bitch seat, I hesitate, because if the Butchers are going to be there, so will Domino. I’ll be leaping straight into the lion’s mouth, but backing out now would disappoint Creep, and humiliate him in front of everyone.
My mind races as I wonder if I shouldn’t embarrass myself instead and pretend I’ve got diarrhea or something of that nature, but I just—
Creep blinks, reaching out his hand, and when he squeezes my fingers, I know it’s a lost cause.
I’ll go. I only need to keep to the shadows so Domino can’t spot me.
Chapter 25
Angel
Therallyislikea beast with several bonfire hearts. Each club seems to have their own, but bikers, their families and friends are like a bloodstream in constant movement. Smoke curls toward the bright star-covered sky above, carrying the scents of barbecued food and sweaty bodies. At the mouth of this loud monster, the funfair is spat out like the consequences of a nightlong bender. It pulses with lights, and the screams coming from the tallest ride make me wonder if the people on it have a death wish, because that thing probably hasn’t passed inspection in years.
The grass under our feet is dry and crushed from the endless stream of boots and tires. Some people smell like they’ve beenhere for a week already, but their body odor disperses in the aroma coming from several food trucks parked between the rally and the funfair to feed the masses. I keep my head down, eyes darting in all directions so I can spot Domino in the crowd, but I’m starting to hope this event’s size can keep me hidden in plain sight.
I’d worried my outfit might draw too much attention, but most bikers are more interested in women walking around topless or in wet T-shirts than a guy in a crop top. Given how dark and crowded the rally is, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them assume I’m a tomboyish girl with a flat chest and move on without assessing me. Which is a relief, because plenty of them look like they’ve killed someone, or at leastreally wanted to. The crowd is all leather, denim, and hand-rolled cigarettes. Creep blends in like a bloodstain on asphalt.
Maybe I should be worried, because the ever-rising noise, and shadows of men clowning about in an attempt to upstage one another are an immediate callback to a childhood filled with uncertain nights. When my parents had friends over, what started as a regular party sometimes ended in shouting matches, vomit on the floor, or someone trying to get inside my room. But Creep’s fingers are woven through mine, and I trust him to make sure I’m safe.
For the first time in my life, rowdy masses of drunk people don’t make me anxious, and as I watch the crowd mingling, dancing, laughing, and admiring the motorbikes, I kinda love the chaos of it.
When we arrived on our roaring vehicles, I felt invincible. Something clicked in my mind, and I understood why the club means so much to Creep and what it’s like to be part of a fist adorned with knuckledusters. Anyone who dares mess with a Vulture, answers to all of them. The pack will protect its own.
Our arrival wasan event. Friendly clubs greeted the Vultures with howls and raised bottles, and guests came to our camp within minutes. Creep might be the quietest of all members of his MC, and no one outright approaches him, but I can’t miss all the curious glances directed at him.
And our joined hands.
No one with a little bit of sense lets their eyes linger on us for too long though. I might have worked on giving his exterior more polish, but while his handsome face might now be visible, his eyes keep scanning our surroundings for threats. A prospect from another club drops his gaze as we pass, and I swear the poor bastard crossed himself.
I probably shouldn’t enjoy that people fear him, but I can’t help myself when it makes me feel so very safe. He’s mine. My protector. And anyone who gives me shit will have to go through him first. Which they won’t, because Creep is a goddamn machine with no qualms about dispensing violence.
If I wasn’t afraid to attract the attention of a very particular man, I’d throw myself into a dance, climb one of the cars and join the howling into the stars, but I keep my head down, chin angled so my face catches enough shadow. If Domino’s here, I can’t risk him spotting me. As confident as I am with Creep as my guard dog, I’d rather rely on his aura alone, because the last thing I want is to get him in real trouble.
A part of me worried he might misinterpret my attempts to remain unseen, but when we reach the back of Prophet’s pickup and I look up, he’s beaming as if it’s prom night and he’s the underdog who’s come to the party with the school’s queen bee.
With a final squeeze of my hand, he joins his brothers in unloading the kegs of beer, liquor bottles, and food, and I step back to avoid being in the way. The girl Rooster brought as his plus-one offers me a beer, but I take a bottle of soda insteadand lean back against someone’s car, feasting my eyes on the efficient way my man moves even with heavy boxes.
I pinch myself, because for a moment I worry this is all the hopeless dream of a boy who always believed in people too much, and who settled on men who ended up chewing and spitting him out. But maybe Creep and I aren’t that dissimilar… despite our very obvious differences? At the end of the day, we both long for connection, and once we found it in one another, our lives slotted together like cogs that might just drive both our lives from now on?
How else would this very new thing between us feel so right?
The cool lime drink fizzes on my tongue as I take several gulps, almost emptying the small bottle by the time sharp nails dance down my arm. “I knew it was you!”
The voice is high-pitched and can only belong to a young woman, but the fact that she spotted me in the crowd means so could Domino, and my muscles freeze despite the friendly smile directed at me.
It’s Emi, a long-time client who I convinced to experiment with the hime cut, which has since become her trademark. She’s rocking it now, and while the dark green dye on her sidelocks and bangs has faded, it’s still a beautiful contrast with her thick black hair. She’s wearing an AC/DC T-shirt, which she’s tied on one side to reveal the roses tattooed on her stomach, and the tiniest shorts, which surely appeal to whoever she came here with. She’s petite, but her tastefully enlarged lips and chest provide a focus for male attention, and I feel the echo of heated glances cast at her even now.
“That guy you’re here with,” she starts, leaning her elbow on the hood of the car behind us, “he’s hot.”
Ohh, there’s abutat the back of her tongue, I can feel it. I could just ask what she wants to say but choose not to and finish my drink meeting her eyes.
