Devil Riders: A Biker Erotic Romance (3 page)

Charlie snorts. “The other other guys. Siphon took it the worst, the stupid fuck. The rest of us are just a little banged up. I swear, I think Siphon likes to get the shit beat out of him.”

“What? Why?” I ask, not understanding.

The four guys start to laugh. “First off, Siphon likes to fight. But mostly, it’s Liz. She’s a real scrapper and the nastier, the dirtier the fight, the better she likes it. I’ve seen her kick more than one guy’s ass and trust me, nothing turns her on like a good fight. She’s probably fucking the shit out of Siphon again right about now. Make him forget all about it,” Dutch explains with a grin.

“But what
happened?”
I ask yet again, nearly desperate to know.

Charlie and Dutch look at one another before Charlie looks back to me. “Let’s just say we had to point out the error in someone’s thinking and leave it at that, okay?”

“But… why didn’t you call the police?”

“Because there are some things we can handle better than the police,” Charlie says. “Alicia, it’s okay. The problem is solved and we won’t have to deal with it again. Don’t worry. Shouldn’t you be up there?” Charlie asks with a nod toward the stage.

I look at the clock on the wall. “Yeah, I guess I should,” I say, not wanting to leave.

As I play my first set, I watch Charlie start knocking them back, his lip curling into a sneer with each drink he tosses down. By the time I finish the first set, the four of them are well on their way to being drunk and Charlie is playing grab-ass with Bobbi, much to her delight. That doesn’t sit well with me at all, but I say nothing and take my spot at the end of the bar.

By the end of the second set, the rest of the Hawks are gone but Charlie is drunk on his ass, pawing at Bobbi and making her squeal and scold, though I can tell she’s enjoying the hell out of it. Once again I take my place, sip my soda, and watch Charlie and Bobbi while trying to hold back the green monster.

I wrap up my final set and I have had about enough of Mr. Charlie Grieg and his roaming hands. As I sit down at the bar, Christine sets my Sprite in front of me. “Give me something with a little more kick,” I snap. I can see Christine’s eyebrow go up, but she turns and does as I say. She sits the shot glass in front of me and I toss it back, not even caring what it is. The liquid burns all the way down, forming a mushroom cloud in my stomach. “Woof,” I grunt hoarsely. “What was that?” I whisper to Christine, my voice lost to me for a moment.

“Jack, Black Label,” Christine says. “That one’s on the house. Looks like you need it.”

I chase the shot with the Sprite to take the edge off. “Fucking men,” I mutter under my breath.

Christine smiles. “Don’t be too hard on him… Bobbi’s been working on him for months.”

“She can have him,” I spat.

Tango steps out of the kitchen and announces last call. I take that as my cue to pack up my shit and get the hell out of there.

“Christine! Can you count me out tonight?” Bobbi calls, escorting a staggering Charlie to the door as I stow my gear.

Twenty minutes later, I slam the hatch shut on my Golf. Bobbi’s car is gone, but Charlie’s motorcycle is still there… the prick.

Tuesday evening I’m just kicking off my first set when look who wanders in: Mr. Grieg. I refuse to even look at him as I play some Guaraldi, the easy jazz soothing my nerves. When Bobbi brings out two plates and sets them at the table, I grit my teeth. If he thinks I’m going to pretend nothing happened, he has another thing coming.

During my break I take up my station at the end of the bar. I catch Charlie watching me but I give him the cold shoulder. The funny thing is, I expect Bobbi to be all over Charlie, but she seems rather cool toward him as well. Or at least no more the flirt than she is with most of the male customers. I spend the entire evening ignoring Charlie and, much to my annoyance, he doesn’t seem to care. The sandwich that would have been mine sits at his table all evening even though I saw Bobbi pick it up several times to take away. 

Wednesday and Thursday are near duplicates of Tuesday, and each night that sandwich sits there, Charlie making no move to call me over and me too stubborn to go on my own.

When Friday rolls around, I’m delighted when Rudy and Stockton show up, dressed in black pants and crisp white shirts. I tease them approvingly. Having them join me onstage helps lift my mood, and by the middle of the first set we’re rocking the house. The Hawks are there, and while they seem to be their normal loud and boisterous selves, Charlie seems withdrawn. Tango has told me that word is starting to spread about Fingers
,
the new keyboardist playing at
The Joint,
and the crowd is larger than any I’ve seen here. Tango seemed inordinately pleased with himself, even slipping an extra hundred in my pay envelope. I’m feeling pretty good again… until one of the customers starts hassling me.

I’m not afraid because I can see Rodney, the huge bouncer, watching, but the guy just won’t take a hint. I’ve been here long enough by now to recognize the type: a roughneck, an oil field worker, a man that works hard and plays harder. When I jerk my arm away, I see Charlie moving in as Stockton and Rudy rise from where they’re eating to come help me.

“I think you’re bothering the lady,” Charlie says quietly, stepping past Stockton.

“What’s it to you?” the man challenges.

Charlie doesn’t back off and I can see the rest of the Hawks starting to rise. “It’s okay, Charlie,” I say, trying to defuse the rapidly escalating situation. When five more guys stand up, squaring off on the Hawks, Rodney begins to move, heading to get between the two groups.

“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Charlie says, as casually as I would say the sky is blue, but once again the implied threat is there.

“Or what, asshole?”

“Or you’re going to get seriously fucked up.”

Oh hell… I slip off my seat and begin to back up. Rudy and Stockton get between me and the two men since Rodney has his hands full with the crowd and is paying no attention to what’s going on right in front me.

“Oh yeah? Well take your best shot you pussy,” the man sneers. Charlie doesn’t move, not rising to the bait. There’s a tense ten seconds when I think maybe they’re going to back off, but the man is feeling his oats and takes a swing at Charlie.

Charlie ducks under the wild roundhouse and comes in under the swing, driving a bone-cracking right uppercut into the man’s jaw. Even I can tell that one punch has put the man out on his feet, but Charlie grabs the man by the back of the head, driving the man’s head down into Charlie’s fast-rising knee with a sickening crunch. The man folds like a sack of potatoes. 

That sets off the two factions, and Rodney’s about to be overwhelmed when the sound of a shotgun being pumped stills the entire bar. Christine is standing there with the shotgun pointed straight at the downed man’s buddies.

“Which of you assholes wants the first load?” Christine asks, her voice quiet but hard as diamonds, leaving no doubt that somebody’s about to get shot. Bobbi is standing behind the bar, well away from the direction of the impending blast, while Tango is standing in the door to the kitchen with a baseball bat in his hand. And me? I’m about to freak out, if you want to know the truth.

Charlie smiles, slow and easy. “Like I told your man here,” Charlie says to the downed man’s friends, toeing the lump on the floor, “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Rodney starts hustling the men out the door, two of them scraping the man-shaped lump off the floor while muttering promises of retribution.

Charlie says nothing, casually watching the men drag their friend out. “You okay?” he asks me as the door closes behind the last of the men.

I step out from behind Rudy. “No, I’m not fucking okay!” I shout, mad and terrified at the same time. “What the fuck is wrong with you people!” Charlie waits until I get my act together. “I’m sorry,” I say, breathing deep, trying to get my wits about me again. “Thank you Charlie. You too,” I say to Rudy and Stockton.

Charlie smiles. “Come on, let’s get you some air. Bobbi, tell Tango that Alicia is taking a breather.”

“Yeah,” Bobbi breathes, “I could use one, too.”

Charlie leads me out into the parking lot and immediately sits astride his motorcycle, standing it upright. “You ever ridden on a bike before?”

I shake my head no. “They scare me.”

Charlie thumbs the bike to life, the neon lighting the area around the bike. “Get on.”

“Charlie, I–“ I begin, but Charlie interrupts.

“Get on.”

“I don’t have a helmet!”

“Fuck the helmet! For Christ’s sake, live a little!” Charlie barks, revving the engine.

I start to back away but change my mind. Fuck it. I swing a leg over and tuck into Charlie’s back. The moment I’m settled, Charlie guns the bike out of the parking lot and we go roaring down the two-lane, heading away from town. \

“Where are we going?” I shout over the roar of the wind.

“Wherever we want!” Charlie shouts back, opening the throttle, the bike lunging ahead with a roar.

At first I’m terrified, but as we bellow down the highway I find that the terror becomes excitement, a feeling of freedom pouring over me like I’ve never known. For the first time, I understand what the allure of the motorcycle is. We ride for maybe an hour before Charlie begins to slow. We’ve made so many twists and turns I am hopelessly lost–and I don’t care. Charlie eases the bike down a narrow drive cut into a copse, the Harley rolling to a gentle stop while making its distinctive
potato, potato, potato
sound.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“It’s where I live.”

In front of us is a small house, neat as a pin from what I can see in the light from the Harley’s powerful headlamp. A giant Ford truck is sitting in the open carport.

“Why’d you bring me here?” I ask, not afraid, but wary.

“I don’t know,” Charlie says. “I guess all roads do lead to home, eventually.”

We sit for what seems like a long time, the motorcycle idling in the darkness. “Are you going to invite me in?” I finally ask.

I feel the Harley snick into gear. Charlie turns the bike around, walks it backwards into the carport next to the Ford, and kills the engine. “Are you sure you want to go in?” he asks as he dismounts.

“No,” I answer.

“I won’t hurt you,” Charlie says, helping me off the bike.

“I know. But–”

“But what?”

“But–I can’t figure you out,” I admit.

“Not much to figure out.”

I follow Charlie into the kitchen of his house. The house is a typical single man’s pad, though his is neater than most.

“Want a beer?” he asks, opening the refrigerator door, taking a bottle, and offering it to me. When I shake my head, he twists the top off and throws it on the counter before leaning into the cabinet for support. “Fuck…”

“What?” I ask.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Charlie takes another long pull on the beer and stares at me. I stare back, determined to wait him out. “We used to be the good guys. Now… I’m not so sure.”

Charlie sips his beer and I can tell he’s mulling over what he is going to tell me. “The Neon Hawks aren’t just a group of roughnecks riding motorcycles for fun,” he begins. “Yes, we’re wildcatters for Hawk Oil, but we’re more than that. An oil field is a rough place. Drugs. Guns. Theft. You name it. About ten years ago, the Neon Hawks started to… protect, I guess you could say, things that needed protecting.”