Free Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club) by Abriella Blake

to Flapper, the little mad dog. His
eyes found mine for a brief staring contest, and I mustered my courage. What
was so scary about him, anyways? So there was a rumor he'd shot someone. There
were plenty of rumors everywhere. Talk was cheap in an MC.
    “I don't like it,” the smallest rider began. “I think
'morale' would be just fine if we put a price on the head of every Knight of
Styx we've ever seen. And that's the god's honest truth.” He fumbled in his
leather vest for the crooked end of a cigarette, jammed this into his mouth.
“But if the council wants to wait...I will follow the council's decision.” He
cut his eyes at me again, then returned his attention to the smoke. I let out a
slow, silent exhale.
    Then—weirdly, in my opinion—Dixon bowed his head like
someone in church. “Thank you, Den Mother, for your righteous guidance.”
Drawing the last few fingers of Cutty from the folds of his leather jacket, he
leaned over the circle and filled my glass again. The previous draught was
already beginning to make my head buzz, my limbs loosen.
    Without a word of goodbye or a glance in my direction, Tall
Man lurched out of the Crossroads. Dixon smiled weakly at me, then also began
to weave away towards the clubhouse quarters. Watching them retreat, I wondered
if either rider were truly sorry to learn of Rodney's death. Though not always
on the best of terms, these men had shared a brotherhood. Vows had been
exchanged. Were they remembering the good times with their former leader? Did
they feel at all like I had, when I'd lost my father? Or even how I felt daily,
recalling the absence of my twin?
    I stood to go, turning my back on Flapper, who now murmured
softly in the direction of his drink. Of all the club members, this man felt
the least like a “brother” to me.
    “Seems odd, is all,” he said now into the dirt, bending down
to snuff his cigarette in the mushy earth.
    I couldn't help it; I turned around. Curiosity killed the
cat. Flapper's agitation was palpable in his movements—he looked dangerous as a
funnel cloud. I fought a sudden urge to run out of the room. Find my bunk, lock
the door, push a chair against the lock.
    “A Knight killed your Pappy. And not one bone in you wants
to hunt the fuckers down?”
    “I don't go in for all that cowboy justice. I just think we
could hit harder if we think things through. That's all.”
    Flapper took a few paces towards me, his brow furrowed. I
held my ground. “When you lose someone you love, last thing you should be doing
is thinking, little girl.” Then, before I could move, Flapper had snaked
a beefy arm around my middle. He drew me close to him, so I was inches away
from his spotted, pocked face. His fingers were clammy. He smelled like tobacco
and stale rain. A smile revealed a spotty top shelf of crumbling, yellow teeth.
When he spoke to me, he whispered.
    “You ever need help finding your heart in that foxy shell—you
know where to look.” Then Flapper dug his fingers into the flesh of my arms.
His nails were so sharp they nearly drew blood. I was too afraid to knee him in
the junk, but too proud to scream for help. As I pushed against his grimy
touch, the old Rider just pressed me closer and then proceeded to slide his
long, scratchy tongue across the surface of my cheek.
    Then, just as suddenly, he dropped me like a hot potato. I
wavered, stunned, in my motorcycle boots, but didn't fall to the earth.
Flapper's eyes looked wild, crazy, and I saw that he was laughing. Neatly, he
barreled past me, making for the exit. Finally, he called to me over his
shoulder:
    “Better watch out for those unsavory characters ,
little girl. Can't trust no one. Not your family, no one.”
    For his last act of humiliation, Flap pulled the dangling
string of the Crossroads' bare light bulb—the wide room's sole light source—leaving
me alone, to fumble towards the outside in absolute darkness.

 
    Chapter Eight
    * * *
     
     
    Once I had returned to my