Page 10 of The Belle and the Biker

Crash

The icy morningair is like a slap to the face, and I wish it were a person so I could punch back. That's the kind of mood I'm in.

I arrive at the club's garage at 9 a.m. to pick up my Harley-Davidson Fat Boy. It needed a tune-up and a new rear tire, so I dropped it off for Axl to take care of. As for me, I need a ride like I have never needed anything in my life. Seeing Savannah has that effect on me.

Axl is in the back. The bar makes him plenty of money, but he's the kind of guy who needs to keep busy 24-7. He's former Army, served overseas. He's seen some stuff there, barely survived some of it, and doesn't sleep well because of it. I could have taken care of my bike myself, but I asked Axl to do it because he seemed to need some kind of distraction recently. I don't know why; his energy just feels a little off.

He sets his tools down when he sees me and waves. We haven't had much time to chat. I only got back a couple of days ago, and the minute I walked into my apartment, Sprocket, the chapter's sergeant at arms, called me in to deal with some crack dealers trying to edge into our territory. As an enforcer for the Iron Ride, that's what I do; I go wherever someone's causing trouble in our territory, fix it—usually violently—and then leave. My home base has been in New York for a few years, but nowhere is truly home.

I've barely had time to say hello since I got here.

"Crash! You look like your name." Axl's voice is a gravelly rumble coming deep from inside his chest. He sounds rougher than I remembered. He takes a swig from a tall brown can. "You look like ten miles of bad road."

"And you look like warmed-over shit. Is that a Guinness you're having for breakfast? Well, I guess it's beer o'clock somewhere."

With the pleasantries out of the way, we hug and pound each other's backs hard. Axl is one of my closest friends. We met six years ago when we were overseas in Afghanistan. He was my sergeant, and I would have followed him anywhere. I chose not to re-enlist, but he stayed until a mission went bad and half his squadron was wiped out. He returned with scars on the right side of his torso and a darkness that comes out at unexpected moments.

"We haven't talked much about California," he said.

I'm burning with nervous energy and not in the mood to talk. All I want to do is hop on the bike and see Manhattan in my rearview mirror. "We haven't braided each other's hair or done each other's nails yet, either. You want me to make an appointment at the salon?"

"Someone's in a pissy mood this morning." There's a warning snap to his tone. It's not a good idea to push Axl too far.

"Sorry." I shrug. "I mean, you already got the message, and do you need more?" Right before I returned, the California sergeant at arms told Axl what had happened in a coded phone conversation.

I spent a considerable amount of time on recon. When we were satisfied, a few of the boys and I paid a visit to the local gang members selling ghost guns—handmade, no serial number, untraceable. We had a talk with them, and fists and boots were involved. After our friendly conversation, the gang members felt it would be a good idea to videotape confessions and email them to the police. The next day, they somehow appeared in a parking lot a block from the police station, trussed up like naked hairy-ass turkeys. They were also minus some teeth and needed immediate hospitalization due to multiple fractures. I smile at the memory. Good times, good times.

"You were getting in a lot of fights out there," he says mildly. "Not defending club honor or territory. Starting fights for no reason, that's not our thing."

"Is that why you called me back here?"

"Seemed like you needed a change of scenery." He looks at me searchingly. "You have anything you want to tell me? Anything on your mind?"

Sure. I can't stop thinking about a certain un-fucking-believably aggravating blonde whose favorite hobby is pointing out that I'm no Rhett Butler. Like that was a big secret. But I'd drive my bike off a cliff before I tell him that.

Speaking of the debutante, though… "Savannah said someone tried to mug her; he had a gun, but she managed to fight him off."

He looks at me sharply. "When? Where?"

"A few days ago, and not in our territory, or I would have brought it to you last night. Still…” I trail off. I have nothing to follow that up with.

Axl arches an eyebrow. "Still, what?"

I just shrug.

Axl takes a long swig of his beer, crushes the can, and tosses it into the trash. "Why are you even telling me about it? She's a grown-ass woman, and last time I checked, you hadn't claimed her as your old lady. We police our territory, not all of Manhattan. And you guys need to work out whatever's going on between you two. Oh, wait. There's nothing going on between the two of you."

How dare he be fucking right about everything? I scowl at him. "Tell the voices in your head they need to come up with some new material."

"Take your shitty attitude for a ride and come back when you pull your head out of your ass." He salutes me and strolls off.

I grab my keys from a hook on the wall and swing my leg over the seat. I can't wait to get out of the city. On foot, I love Manhattan; on the bike, not so much.

I take Interstate 87 out of the city, winding through traffic until the cars fall away and there are more trees than houses. I'm aiming for the Catskill Loop, one of my favorite rides. I'm going to spend the next few days at a little motel that I like, riding during the day, crashing early, and I hope to return with a clearer head.

Usually, getting on the bike is a glorious escape. The rush of the cool, clean air blows my tensions away. The bike and I are one, and it moves with my body as I lean into the curves. Today, though, images of Savannah flash in front of me as I ride, distracting me from the snow-dusted scenery. I haven't seen her in months, but she was never far from my mind. She hasn't dated anyone since I've been gone. I checked with Axl while I was away.

She looked as gorgeous as ever last night. Still dressing like a Southern girl in her pastels and pearls. It's crazy, but I kind of like that about her. She's just herself and won't apologize or change for anyone.

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