Riding Dirty (19 page)

“Yep.”

“How many times have you been in this diner?”

“More than I can count.”

“Do you know anyone here?”

He looked around and shook his head. None of the faces at the counter were familiar. He wasn’t sure who owned the place these days. It was funny how small towns were depicted on television. The residents all knew each other and gossiped about their neighbors. That hadn’t been Cole’s experience. Then again, his family had moved away from Brawley before he’d had the chance to learn everyone’s business.

Mia helped him with his milk shake, sucking on the straw with a pert mouth. She had freckles across the top of her nose, and her pink cheeks reminded him of strawberry ice cream. Although she was wearing an edgy black tank top, she looked sweet. Her sherry-brown eyes and sleek, dark hair said career girl, rather than trailer trash. She could pull off French maid or sexy librarian. Biker babe? No way.

The other guys would notice her. Cole hoped there wouldn’t be any trouble tonight, because he’d go into a rage if someone touched her.

“Are we heading to Slab City?” she asked, after he paid the bill.

“Not yet. I have a few stops to make.”

The first one was his childhood home, a modest two-bedroom in a nondescript neighborhood. It wasn’t the worst area of town. By Brawley’s low standards, they’d done okay. He pointed out his bedroom window to Mia. The prickly pear cactus underneath it had added an extra challenge to his late-night escapes.

He drove by the empty gypsum factory and the abandoned mines where his father had toiled for so many years. It was ironic that he’d come home covered in pale gray dust every day he’d lived “clean.”

“Why’d it shut down?” Mia asked.

“They found an alternate method to produce gypsum. Mining it is labor intensive and not very earth friendly.”

His father had grown weary of the mine long before he got laid off. Cole realized that his dad had been thirty-two at this turning point. Near the same age Cole was now, but already burdened with a dead-end career, two half-grown boys and a house payment.

Cole wouldn’t have felt right about breezing through town without visiting the cemetery, so he went there next. He parked his bike and found his brother’s final resting place, a dry dirt mound with a flat marker. It said Rylan’s full name, his birth date and the year of his death. There was a plastic bouquet next to the gravestone.

Clearing his throat, Cole removed a letter from his pocket. He’d written it in prison after he’d heard the news. He didn’t want to keep it, and he didn’t want anyone else to read it. He crouched down and set the envelope on fire with a cigarette lighter, mixing the ashes in the dirt. When he was done, he felt no worse or better. Burning a piece of paper didn’t magically release him from the pain of loss. But neither did punching someone’s face.

He stood, reaching for Mia’s hand. She held it tight. Maybe being with her released him, just a little.

Their next stop was Slab City, which was more of a spectacle, and less emotionally charged for him. He wasn’t
from
here, like Ace. Nobody was, really. The Slabs was an off-the-grid trailer park for down-and-outers. Many of the community’s residents were seasonal RV travelers who came for the winter. Others lived in the shantytown all year round. It was a sad, colorful place, steeped in poverty and addiction. There was no art like Slab art, formed by twisted junk and broken mirrors. Doll parts, electronics, abandoned cars. Society’s rejects were creative, and they had plenty of materials. The Slabs even boasted its own outdoor gallery.

Cole took Mia to the gallery and paid the fee. He knew the man who collected his money at the gate. The crabby old recluse either didn’t recognize him or didn’t care. Cole put his arm around Mia’s waist and led her around.

“This is amazing,” she gushed, pouring over every fucked-up tweaker project. She used a lot of terms he didn’t understand, such as expressionism and avant-garde. He enjoyed it, even though no one was around to hear her and be impressed with him by association.

“How do you know so much about art?” he asked.

“My husband.”

His hand dropped from her side. “He was an artist?”

“No, he...” She trailed off, seeming to realize she’d given away an indentifying detail. “He wasn’t.”

They came to one of the more disturbing exhibits. There was a naked Barbie doll nailed to a pegboard by the throat. Red gunk was splattered across her torso. Her wrists and ankles were tied with wire, legs spread-eagled. Nipples and genitals had been crudely painted on the smooth plastic. Mia’s eyes darkened at the sight. She didn’t have any fancy praise for this piece, no lofty interpretation of its merits.

They moved on in silence. There were some sick depictions of masculinity, as well. Mutilated metal penises jutting from robot bodies. Cole had seen them before, and laughed with his friends. He didn’t laugh today.

“I’m sorry,” he said after they left the gallery. “I shouldn’t have taken you there.”

“It’s okay. I’ve seen worse.”

“Really?”

“Not since the attack, but yes. I’ve studied torture devices with graphic illustrations.”

“Historical stuff?”

She nodded.

“The artists weren’t lurking nearby.”

“That does add a bit of a creep factor,” she said, offering a weak smile.

They strolled through the rows of trailers. Cole showed her the pirate radio station, and the medicine woman’s shack. Not everyone in the Slabs was on drugs. There were misfits and oddballs who just wanted to live free.

“That’s the hot spring,” he said, pointing to a muddy-looking pond. “We’d bathe there when we had to.”

“Did you like it?”

“Hell no. It was unsanitary.”

“It wasn’t fun, living here?”

“It was, sometimes. I liked running wild all day and doing my own thing. This is a place for outlaws. But it’s also hot, and dusty and miserable. When I started high school, they treated me like a leper.”

“Why?”

“There’s nothing lower than a kid from the Slabs. I didn’t have clean clothes every day. Which is fine when you’re a little boy and don’t give a fuck. It’s not so cool when you’re a teenager and want girls to like you.”

“I can’t imagine girls not liking you.”

“Well, imagine me with ratty hair. The other boys called me Troll, instead of Cole. Because of those troll dolls.”

Her eyes softened with sympathy.

He looked away, uncomfortable. Maybe he did have a few sad stories to tell. But they were nothing compared with what some kids faced. He’d seen girls Skye’s age begging at the side of the road. Families digging through garbage for food. Mothers walking along the highway, hoping to earn a quick buck.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he said, putting his arm around her. “I only stayed for two years. Some people never leave.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

M
IA WAITED OUTSIDE
while Cole checked into the hotel room.

The rally was about ten miles from Slab City, in another quirky desert town called Bombay Beach. There was a large open area between the hotel and the eastern shore of the Salton Sea. Dozens of motorcycles were parked in a long row, next to dusty pickup trucks and muscle cars. Black flags with the Dirty Eleven logo were placed around the perimeter, flapping in the early evening breeze. Metal chairs, Mexican blankets and old tires were scattered in a large circle around a fire pit. Three men in vests like Cole’s were unloading logs and wood pallets from the bed of a truck.

Mia couldn’t see their faces from here, much less their wrists. She turned her attention back to Cole, who’d procured a room key. He opened the door to lucky number seven and gestured for her to go in.

She’d braced herself for suspicious stains and bedbugs, so she was relieved by the space. Although the decor was outdated, with avocado-green carpet and peach-striped wallpaper, the room was clean. The comforter and the sheets were white.

“Is it up to your standards, Princess?”

“Let me check the bathroom,” she said, ducking inside to use the toilet. The fixtures were a bit rusty, but serviceable. She flushed and washed her hands, noting that the water ran clear. “It’s okay,” she said as she came out.

“We could go back to Slab City and bathe in the community springs, if you’d rather.”

“No thanks.”

Cole feigned surprise. “I thought you were an exhibitionist.”

“I’d love to visit a nude hot springs,” she said. “Just not that one.”

Shaking his head, he went to retrieve their bags from his motorcycle. She flopped on the bed with a groan. The hours on the bike had been hard on her fanny. Rather than pleasantly stimulated, she felt sore. Cole set her bag on the dresser, which was across from the bed. Even from her prone position, she could see her reflection in the mirror.

He removed his vest and his white T-shirt, which was dusty from the road. Then he went into the bathroom, bare-chested, to wash up. Mia watched him with lazy appreciation. He had a fantastic torso, strong and toned. He looked great going, too. His back was a thing of beauty, rippling with muscle, his waist trim. The word
OUTLAW
was written in old-school lettering across his broad shoulders. She imagined digging her nails into it, watching in the mirror as he moved on top of her.

He left the door open while he peed, not concerned about politeness. Then he zipped up his pants and bent over the sink to splash water on his face. After drying off, he walked out, sniffing one armpit.

“This is quite a show,” she teased. “Maybe you’re the exhibitionist.”

He glanced from the mirror to the bed, as if considering the possibilities. She didn’t know how she’d react to the weight of his body on hers. She might feel trapped and panic. Or she might come like crazy.

She noted that her face in the reflection looked worried. Worried about him, and her plan for the evening, and their future together. It wasn’t as simple as searching the crowd for a wrist tattoo, having mind-blowing sex with Cole and walking away.

She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. Revenge, justice, an affair...forever?

Cole seemed to recognize her turmoil. Instead of joining her on the bed, he removed some items from his backpack. He put on a black T-shirt, along with his cut. Then he wrapped an army-green bandanna around his forehead, knotting it in the back. He produced a black bandanna and handed it to her. “Tie this on my arm.”

She secured it between his biceps and his elbow. “What are these for?”

“The black armband means mourning, for my brother. The green is for soldiers. Officers wear black on their heads, too.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Officers are the highest-ranked members in the club. Everyone else is a soldier. Or a prospect, but they don’t even have their colors yet. Full-patch members are either officers or soldiers.”

“Why aren’t you an officer?”

“I was, before I went to prison. I’d have to get voted back in.” He rose from the bed and put his sunglasses on. With his eyes covered and a bandanna on his head, he looked even more dangerous than usual. “Are you afraid?”

“I’m nervous.”

“No one will hurt you here. The worst they’ll do is try to get you drunk and hit on you.”

She moistened her lips, uncertain. It wasn’t as if she’d never dealt with flirting or harassment at work before. Some of Philip’s colleagues had been chauvinists. One had groped her at a party, leading Philip to grab him by the jacket and shove him out the door.

It would be foolish to tell Cole about any bad behavior on the part of his buddies, however. She didn’t want him fighting. These men weren’t art collectors and antiques dealers. They settled conflicts with fists, knives and guns.

“You don’t have to go,” he said. “You can stay here in the room. I’ll make an appearance and come back to you.”

For some reason, her eyes filled with tears. She hadn’t expected to him be so sweet. He was rough and tender in equal doses, always ready to give her what she needed. “I’ll go. I just have to freshen up first.”

“Do you want me to wait?”

“No. I’ll meet you over there.”

He gave her a quick kiss, like a husband saying goodbye before work. Then he left the key on the bed and walked out the door.

Mia sat up and dug into her tote bag. She’d almost brought the leather corset with her, but she decided it was too daring. She wanted to blend in, not stand out. So she’d settled on a simple black tank with a lace-up front. It was sexy enough. Men would look at her cleavage instead of her face. She also had a pair of gray snakeskin ankle boots with pencil-thin heels. Philip had given them to her for her thirtieth birthday. Although the boots weren’t her style, she’d kept them, and they seemed right for this occasion.

Before she changed clothes, she washed her face and reapplied her makeup. She used a liberal amount of charcoal-colored shadow and black mascara. The more, the better, if one of her attackers was in the crowd.

When she was dressed, she glanced in the mirror. Her boots pinched her toes, but that couldn’t be helped. With her dark hair and smoky eyes, skintight jeans and exposed cleavage, she hardly resembled her former self.

She was ready.

Pocketing the room key, she locked the door and walked to the rally across the road. It was just past sunset, too early for the fire. Cole was playing horseshoes with his friends. A group of older men stood near the row of motorcycles, smoking cigars, and a trio of hard-looking women were sitting around a card table. There were a few dozen people milling about, most of them club members. Mia tamped down her anxiety and continued forward, teetering a little in her spike heels.

She didn’t expect Cole to drop what he was doing and greet her, but he did. His friends watched him walk toward her, laughing and making remarks she couldn’t quite hear. He flipped them the bird over his shoulder, so the words must have been suggestive. When he reached her, he gave her an appreciative once-over. “You look nice.”

“Nice? That’s the opposite of what I was going for.”

He studied her cleavage and glanced back at his friends, who were still gawking. She got the impression that he didn’t want them to see so much of her. He had several other reasons to be uneasy about her presence. He was an informant, and she knew it. They were also from different worlds. The guys might rib him all night for bringing an outsider to the rally.