Dead Men Motorcycle Club (13 page)

"Oh fuck," I screamed, "Oh god! Oh god! Oh Cash, yes, yes!"

I could hear him grunting above me, the animal lust taking hold of him as well. With ever shout and every stroke, he was bringing himself closer. His grip on my sides tightened and the sound of our bodies colliding was louder than ever. He released himself to his passion and roared with pleasure as he came. I felt the flood of his warmth spreading into my body, soaking me from the inside. His inflamed passion wouldn't
released
me even though he had finished and still he thrust himself into me, as though he were unwilling to allow our moment of pleasure to end. Finally, exhaustion got the better of him and I felt his pace slowing and his grip loosening.

I fell forward onto the bed, feeling his cum leaking from inside of me as I lay face first on the bed. He still stood above me panting softly. I turned over to smile up at him and saw that he was grinning down at me. In three months, we'd never had sex that I would describe as bad. There was just some way about how our bodies connected that wouldn't allow us to do anything but enjoy ourselves to the fullest.

"Mmm," I murmured, "I think I've got to take a quick shower myself."

"Heh
alright," he said, moving out of my way so I could slip off to the bathroom. He
laid down on the bed and focused his attention on the television I hadn't even remembered was on. When it came to Cash, it was easy for me to get lost in him. Sometimes all it took was a small reminder that nothing else mattered. My feelings for him were more than skin deep.

After a quick shower, I returned to the bedroom and found him half asleep on top of the sheets with the television still blaring. I playfully jabbed him until he woke up.

"Let's get some sleep alright?" I said.

He mumbled something like agreement and got underneath the sheets - his one concession to an actual bedtime ritual that night. I turned off the TV and the light and slipped into bed beside him. He was still warm and I pushed myself up beside him as he drifted off to sleep. The
comfort of being in his bed
- our bed - and relaxed like this was too much to deny. As I tried to fall asleep, I found myself unbelieving that I had so recently thought of giving all this up for a gamble on a rich stranger. Alexander had so much, but he and I didn't have this connection. We didn't have this special magic that made even sleeping next to one another seem like a fairy tale romance.

The next morning I woke up to the alarm clock on my phone going off. Beside me, Cash grumbled but pulled himself out of bed. You have to admire that kind of resolve. No matter how tired he was, he always knew it was better to get up in the morning and get on with your day. It was that kind of work ethic that my dad would have loved about Cash, even if he hated most everything else.

We got dressed for our morning and I had to remind myself about why I was getting up. I've never been remotely good at waking up in the morning, and sometimes it just didn't seem worth it. Still, with Cash out of bed, things were already a lot less comfortable.

"So," I asked him as we headed out to his bike, "What happened to Vickers' bike? Is it really fucked up or just a little fucked up?"

"Oh, that," he said, "It's probably a lot less bad than it seems. I think something just got bent in the roll and you'll be able to hammer it out in a few minutes."

That didn't really mesh with what he said the night before, but I was starting to get a clear picture. Cash
had
wanted to get me out of the clubhouse. His jealousy was getting the better of him. I hoped that our evening of passion would set him straight and that I wouldn't be forced into any more busy work, though I was happy to get a little time in the garage that
morning, even if it was mundane. I'd spent far too little time away from the garage in previous days.

"I didn't tell you the best part," Cash said as he sped down the street towards the garage. He was keeping the bike quiet and slow so as to carry on a conversation.

"What's that?"

"When we trashed that place last night we made sure to screw with all the engines of the cars there," he said.

The thought of sabotaging an engine sounded pretty evil to me. I mean, it was one thing to
vandalize a
place, but messing with their car? That's rough. Then the full extent of what he was telling me became clear.

"Wait a minute," I said, "If their engines are fucked, they have to come to Peasant to get them fixed."

In unison we said, "the
only garage in town." I laughed hard on the back of the bike. Sometimes I didn't give Cash a lot of credit for subtlety, but when it came to this sort of stuff he was pure genius. Not only had he done the job as
Donnovan had asked, but now he'd get paid double for it by repairing all the damage he'd caused in the first place.

"You're a clever one, Mr. President," I told him. He turned his head back to grin at me and I hugged him tighter as we approached the lot of Peasant Motors.

It was early when we arrived. There was only one other bike outside, along with Karen's car. I gave Cash a kiss as I got off the bike.

"I'm going to head over to Hep's
place and see if he needs any help," he said. It was easy to tell when Cash was in a good mood. The first thing that happened was he became extremely helpful. That was a nice thing to have around when you're having a rough day.

"Okay," I told him, "see you for lunch?"

"Absolutely."

I walked into the business office to grab a cup of coffee that I knew Karen would have made by now. Sure enough, she was already digging into her daily mountain of paperwork, two cups deep into the java herself. I poured myself a paper cup full of the strong stuff and
spared her a short greeting. I could tell she was too involved to be much use of conversation that morning so I headed into the garage.

Tubbs was leaning over Vickers' bike just a few feet from the door.

"Morning," I said to him. "How's it look?"

"Hey Emma," he said, "Oh, I already fixed it up. Damn thing just needed a fender bent back into shape."

I was a little disappointed that I wouldn't have any work to do that morning, though I could always use the time tuning up my own bike. I was more confused as to how Tubbs had gotten the work done so quickly. It was only nine in the morning.

"When did you get in?" I asked.

"A few hours ago," he said. "I wanted to get this out of the way so we could chat before anyone else showed up."

"Chat?" I asked. "What's up?"

"It's Alex Donnovan, the rich kid," he said. I was worried about this. Tubbs was a careful observer and I hoped he hadn't noticed anything the previous night. I had been careful, but there are always details to miss and mistakes to be made. I nodded to him in understanding of the subject.

"I just wanted to warn you away from him," he said. "I mean, I know you're with Cash, it's just... be careful. I stuck around last night to talk to him as much as I could. I think he's trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"He didn't say anything specific, but I got the feeling that he was looking for ways to disrupt the club."

"That doesn't make any sense," I told him. "His dad needs the club to buy up San Viero."

"Yeah," Tubbs said, "But after he's used us, he needs a way to wreck us. He's looking to turn this town into an ocean side paradise. I don't think a guy like him
actually
wants a bunch of bikers around in his new paradise."

"You're right," I said. That made complete sense. Guys like Reginald
Donnovan
- and his son - had no problem using muscle like the Dead Men to do their dirty work, but they would never want to live alongside them.

"I'm not sure what he's planning," Tubbs continued, "But just keep your guard up. Don't trust him with anything. We'll get through this.
Donnovan doesn't know who he's dealing with."

I felt slightly reassured by Tubbs' confidence in the integrity of the club. Mostly I felt betrayed though. Suddenly all of Alexander's motives had shifted in my mind. He'd seemed honestly interested in me, but now I saw different. I was nothing special to him, except as a way of tearing apart the club on his way out. If he'd stolen me away at the right moment it could have sent Cash into
a frenzy. He'd never have been able to hold the club together like that.

I thanked Tubbs for his advice and returned to my bike. I smiled when I saw it, dismissing my thoughts of the previous day. My Charger had been special, but I was failing to account for how special this bike was. It was more than just a motorcycle and it was certainly more than an act of rebellion against my dead father. This bike was a sign of my new allegiance and my new love. For as long as I had it, I would always remember this place and these people. Even without it, San Viero and the Dead Men had become more than just a weird little town and its bike gang to me. They were both a part of something called "home."

I got out my tools and got to work disassembling my bike for the hundredth time. I had learned every piece by heart, but I was still discovering something new. The cool weight of the wrench in my hand reminded me that this was all real. My feelings for this bike, for the Dead Men and for Cash were more than just passing fancies. I'd found my life, and I would fight for it. Every part had its place and together, they could ride through any storm.

"Just... about...
GOT IT!
"

I let go of the wrench and allowed myself a moment to wipe the sweat from my forehead. People laugh when I tell them how much I hate working on tight screws in confined spaces - there's just something about that phrasing that always brings a chuckle - but today this was my job. When you work as a mechanic, it's not all glamorous. Actually, none of it is glamorous. Those shows you see on TV where people build custom motorcycles for celebrities? That's just them. The rest of us are stuck tightening the steering on late-model Toyotas. Still, it beats being stuck in an office.

Here in the town of San Viero, California, there's only one place to go when your car breaks down. Peasant Motors is the best garage in town for anything on two wheels or four. Of course, it's also the only garage in town. Peasant earned a great reputation back in the early 70s with high quality work and fair quotes. Little by little, the other garages shut down and Peasant expanded. Eventually they became the only game in town. In some places, having a monopoly means higher prices and lower quality. That's just not the way in small towns though. Here, being the only garage is a responsibility. Peasant Motors has the job of keeping all the cars, trucks, bikes and occasional lawn mowers in San Viero running. And when I saw it's our job, I really mean it's
my
job. My name is Emma Percy, and I'm the best mechanic you're ever going to meet.

How I got to working at Peasant has as much to do with my talent as a mechanic as it does with the real owners of the shop. The extent of the relationship isn't widely advertised, but the worst kept secret in San Viero is that the Dead Men Motorcycle Club is running Peasant Motors. I remember the first time I figured it
out,
I was a little bit shocked. After all, like most people, I'd heard about the kind of shady activities that motorcycle clubs got into. That they'd be running a garage in a small town seemed out of character. It looked like a nice place, not a den of criminal activity. It took some time before I understood that the things the MC did outside the law didn't necessarily end up as a stain on their legitimate business. Just like a person, an MC can have two sides to its personality. On the one hand you've got the dangerous criminal element. On the other you have a pillar of the community. You have to come to a place like San Viero to see that in action.

The duality I found in my place of employment was reflected in the people who I worked alongside. Among them were people who had done time in prison, people who readily admitted to fights that ended with the other guy dead and none of them were without a
host of other crimes on their rap sheets. This was the life they lived, but it didn't have to be their whole world. The man who once stuck a knife into the belly of a bouncer outside a club in Houston might be the same guy who feeds your plants while you're on vacation. The man who helps you rebuild a steering column might have a half dozen charges for drug trafficking. The latter case is the situation I found myself in most recently. The car was no problem. I'd done more challenging work before, and usually in worse conditions. Say what you will about Peasant Motors and their extra-legal activities, but the shop was state of the art. My co-worker for the morning was a man who had first seemed like a threat and later became one of my trusted
friend. I guess that's just another one of those dualities that are so common around here.

Tubbs didn't fit his name at all, which is probably why he was saddled with it. He was rail thin and stood at almost six and a half feet. If he'd been wearing all black and holding a lantern on his head he could easily be confused for a lamp post. I'm not trying to be mean or anything. Tubbs has become one of my closest friends, after all. That kind of good-natured teasing is just the way things are in an MC. IT took me a while to realize that that was where I was now. I might not wear their patches, but I was a part of the club and it was a part of me.

The best reason I can come up with for why I had let the Dead Men become such a large part of my life in only a few short months was the club's president. Of course, he wasn't just a distant political figure like the American president. He was also the owner of the garage I worked in and - last but far from least - my lover. Cash was everything I'd always wanted to find in a man. He had all those great qualities that women say they're looking for - loyalty, a sense of humor, a sharp mind and a body that could turn your head from half a mile down the road. He had one thing that I'd never found before him though - he wanted me to be the best. Sometimes it's easy to forget that part of a relationship. It's not just about getting what you want or even about improving yourself. It's about helping your partner be the best they can be, too. I was a great mechanic when Cash met me. He wanted me to be a legend. It was the kind of flattering but daunting prospect that's just enough of the former to keep you running.