Riding Dirty (13 page)

“Excuse me?” Mr. Kang’s face was a contortion of confusion.

“Consider us vigilantes for justice. You tried to do a bad thing tonight, and so, you get a bad thing done back. Just try and squeal about this to any friendly looking officers of the law, security guards, interested unsavory types, or your grandma, whoever. You breathe a word about us, you’re gonna wish we had put you in the can. See these friends of mine?” Bronson tossed a thumb in the direction of Luther and Dolce. Luther waved, grinning. “They’ll kill you if you say anything to anyone. Clear? My lady here is not actually for sale, it turns out, so we’re changing tonight’s program. You’re still gonna get fucked, don’t worry. It’ll just be…in a different sense of the word.” Bronson stepped blithely over to Rowan, kissing her full on the mouth. “Sorry we took so long baby. Miss me?”

“Terribly.” Rowan pressed a long, rapturous kiss on Bronson’s neck before remembering where she was and what she was doing. She blushed, and re-aimed her gun. “Let’s get out of here so we can get reacquainted.”

Luther, Dolce, and Charles gaped open-mouthed at the untimely display of affection.

“You two,” giggled Luther. “You’re hooking up now? It's like Bonnie and Clyde!”

“Holy shit. Figures. Fuck me.” Shaking himself, Dolce impatiently turned back to their forgotten mark sitting on the bed. “Let’s cut to the chase here, it’s been a long day. Empty your pockets, Ping Pong, and we’ll be on our merry way.”

Bronson watched as Mr. Kang’s face changed color from blanched powerlessness to white-hot fury, his intelligent eyes registering both the personal insult of being robbed and the broad disrespect of the racial slur. Kang’s eyes narrowed, mentally cataloguing their faces, and one corner of his mouth curled in an almost-grin. Bronson didn’t like that look at all. It was oddly familiar, and cold.

“I would be most happy to facilitate your departure,” said Charles. He reached slowly into his pocket, tossing a money-clip, cell phone and car keys on the pristine white bedspread. Luther caught Charles’ wrist and deftly removed his Omega Seamaster watch, pocketing it and the money-clip with a wink.

Charles turned to Rowan. “You’re making a mistake, my dear.” He said with chilling calm. “I’m sorry for you. You’d be better off as an honest whore. The rest of you, when we meet again, I will not be so sorry to settle my account.”

Bronson punched Charles hard, blood crushing out from his split lip. “You, shut up. Permanently.” He wrapped an arm possessively around Rowan’s waist, and headed for the door. “We’re done here, everybody. Vamanos.”

Luther whipped out his phone, texted Smiley that they were heading back to the clubhouse, and traipsed after Bronson and Rowan. Dolce lingered a second, eyeballing Kang. On an instinct, he stepped forward and snatched Kang’s cell, breaking it in two.

Charles stood silently as Dolce’s form faded into the distance of the hall. Finally alone and seething, he methodically re-knotted his tie, gathered his car keys, and picked up the hotel phone. Punching in a long number, he waited until a familiar voice manifested through the connection.

“Cosmo,” he said, “It’s Charles. You promised safe conduct but there has been a violation. You have one week to correct the insult before I do so myself. Consider our negotiations suspended.”

The night was young and love was free. Bonfires crackled, open pits smoldering under the slow rotation of whole spitted pigs in the parking lot. In laughing, whooping clumps, the leather-clad denizens of the Ruiners Motorcycle Club were cutting loose, mixing it up, and enjoying each other’s company. On a small raised platform a live band comprised of members and relatives played cover tunes, sweating and dancing in their bandanas.

It was family night for the Las Vegas mother chapter, a morale-building carnival that typically happened at least once a month, thanks to the relentless organizational skills of the motorcycle club’s matriarch. There were kids and teenagers moshing around sporting temporary tattoos and smiles, getting their faces painted, proud of their cool dads and fast-talking moms. Couples milled around, drinking and talking. But the singles were included as well, as every self-respecting club had a large population of ravenous, unattached hunters. Women in miniskirts and leather bras passed around red plastic cups filled with beer, laughing raucously and either choosing or being chosen by the unattached men of the club. Lots of the guys carried their own bottles of Jack Daniels or Cuervo, banking on the fact that eventually the kids would go home to bed and the night could really get going. There was school tomorrow, after all.

The whole Derian clan was present and accounted for, down to the newest grandchild. Axle relaxed at a picnic table holding the three-month old bundle of joy with surprising ease and tenderness while its mother, his daughter Taline, fussed and cooed from the seat next to him. Axle’s other grandchildren revolved in shifts munching on French fries, chasing each other, and running to greet friends while his son Rex and daughter-in-law Mara danced nearby.

Most of the guys were clumped and cheering around an impromptu wrestling match in the middle of the parking lot while the formidable club matriarch, Voski Miriam Derian, wife of Axle and mother to all, oversaw the barbecue pit. Voski was the daughter of an Armenian genocide survivor. She had grown up fast and smart; her unrelenting backbone had been Axle’s inspiration and bedrock. By extension, she was the foundation of the entire Ruiners clan. Tonight, she had insisted on throwing this celebration for what she saw as two significant victories for the club; their few months of peace, and Axle’s vague news that a new angle to steal from the Auditore’s had been presented by none other than golden-boy Bronson Ramsey.

Voski knew more than most about the inner workings of the One Percenters, and she possessed both an impeccable sense of timing and an arsenal of tactics for keeping the boys motivated. Now, between gun battles and busts, a barbecue was just what the doctor ordered. God knew there was plenty of steam to blow off; all those months of impoverishing ‘peace’ had been easy on no one. Voski saw tension between Rex and his father, worry on the faces of the brothers. She hadn’t seen Ramsey yet and needed to talk to him to collect the last piece of the puzzle.

In spite of the sticky situation at the club, Bronson was the closest to happy he could be as he navigated his signature Harley through the Las Vegas streets, Rowan’s body pressed close behind him, as they dodged and accelerated closer to the clubhouse. He had gotten used to her weight, her feel on the p-pad, and could effortlessly ride her anywhere, any way.

Family night was the perfect setting to truly initiate Rowan in Ruiners’ life—or at least to a more PG, easy-to-stomach iteration of it. He had noticed that, in spite of the vulnerability and tears he had witnessed on his first night with her, Rowan had a thick skin and quick mind. Bronson was beginning to think she could adjust to him, and him to her, maybe for keeps. With the buffer of wives and kids, Rowan could ease in to the club and the club could acclimatize themselves to his new old lady…she was his old lady. Bronson hadn’t really said anything about it yet. Tonight he would tell her. Bronson had made the decision, and it was time for everyone else to get used to it. Including Rowan.

When Bronson’s Dyna Wide Glide skidded to a stop and Rowan started to unwind herself from his waist, Rex’s ten year old son Daniel scampered up to meet them.

“Ramsey!” Daniel shouted, hugging the fighter with innocent enthusiasm. “No one at school believes me that I know you. Will you sign my shirt for proof? Especially to show Jessica Williamson, she sits next to me and has red hair and thinks she’s smarter than me but I still like her. You’re gonna grind Silverman to dust next week, right? You gonna Avalanche him?”

Bronson and Rowan laughed at the first full stop in the breathless greeting. “Double D!” Bronson chuckled, and leapt up from his bike, grabbing the giggling boy and swinging him upside-down in an easy ankle-hold. “Here’s the scoop on the next fight, you’re the first one to know: I’m gonna erase Silverman’s birth certificate. The guy’s an addict and he’s weak. Don’t do drugs, kid; it makes you a loser. Tell you what, find a sharpie and ask your mom, and if she says it’s ok I’ll sign your shirt for you.”

With a final tickle and swing, Bronson released his prisoner. Rowan watched Daniel dart away into the crowd snorting with laughter, no doubt in single-minded pursuit of parental consent and a permanent marker. Shaking her hair out of her helmet, Rowan set it carefully on the seat and trudged over wrapping her fingers through Bronson’s, smiling up at his relaxed face.

“Gee mister, are you always such an upstanding citizen?” she teased. “They should send you into classrooms.”

“I could teach you a thing or two.” Without warning, Bronson had scooped Rowan up and flung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, gratified by her whoops and squeals of delight. “Positive role model by day, but just wait til you get me in bed tonight, honey.” He turned his head and sank his teeth into her ass.

“Ah!” She squealed. “Did you just bite me? You!” She flailed, laughing and smacking at his back. “Put me down, there are children here! Oh my God, you weirdo.”

He obliged, capturing her in a fierce hug. “Hey,” he said, when their playful stumbling stilled. “I’m glad you’re here with me. Think you’d like to stay a while?”

Rowan pulled back, eyeing him quizzically, that old sphinx mystery fortifying her expression. Bronson’s pulse jumped, suddenly afraid to let her answer or think about the question himself. They hadn’t talked about their involvement yet; they had just sort of let the momentum sweep them between the sheets. Bronson had assumed she’d go along with his decision to be exclusive, but all of a sudden he wondered how she’d react. What were her plans, once she got the money she needed? Would she just take what she wanted and disappear?

Bronson understood that impulse. He’d done it himself countless times with women, with jobs. Shit, he’d done it with everything, actually—except for the Ruiners. And he was secretly working on ditching that life too, as soon as he could. For fuck’s sake, what were
his
plans? Did he want Rowan with him when he flew the coop? His personal bank account was still distressingly low for Mexico; the Auditores were siphoning all his prize money and Axle had generously decided to put the first fruits of their con toward Lacy’s liver. He’d need at least a couple hundred grand to set himself up south of the border. Even if he had the money now, and even if he did ask her, would Rowan come with him? And if she did, would he be able to stay faithful? It had never exactly been his forte.

god damn, those were a lot of ifs.

To divert from the uncomfortable line of thought he had accidentally kick started, Bronson smacked Rowans butt playfully and planted a light kiss on her mouth. “Come on,” he grunted. “I want you to meet people. I’m showing you off tonight.”

Smiley, Dolce and Luther roared up behind them not long after in a neat line of chrome. A tidal wave of kids surged up to meet them, and Smiley laughed obligingly when they begged for a stunt display.

“Donut! Donut! Donut!” They chanted.

“Alright babysitter, do your stuff,” Dolce muttered, wandering toward the clubhouse. His mind was elsewhere. So, apparently, was Lola.

Predictably, Luther joined in chanting with the kids, pumping his fist excitedly. “Donut!”

Left with no other option or ally, Smiley succumbed to the whims of the mob. He duck-walked his bike back out and away from the festivities, revving the engine and burning in a steady circle, the front wheel never moving an inch as the rest of the machine revolved in a 360. Bronson and Rowan laughed at the spectacle, but were soon brought back to socializing by a low, piercing feminine voice.

“Bronson Ramsey,” it purred, cutting under the din of the motorcycle engine and crowd. “Come give me a kiss.”

Rowan turned and found herself face to face with a tiny, glamorous woman with a cleft chin, high cheekbones, and an impressively constructed leather dress. She was part golden era Hollywood star, part desert warrior, and her flashing black eyes assessed before they smiled. She kissed Bronson twice on each cheek and then said, “Who is this? She's definitely a new face, I would remember if someone who looked this clean was here before.”

Bronson grinned. “Voski Derian, Rowan Thomas. My old lady.”

Voski kissed Rowan’s cheek, her inspection continuing. “Ah, so this is the famous Rowan who is helping you at the casino. I hear things are going well. You don’t look like a biker or a UFC fan. Where are you from, Rowan Thomas?”

“Well, Ms. Derian,” Rowan slipped effortlessly into her polite Southern social mask, eyes flashing to Bronson for support. “You’re right, I’m not a biker chick. I’d never been on a motorcycle before this month, and frankly I’m not used to it yet. To answer your question, I’m from Alabama and I’ve never seen a UFC fight, but Bronson made me swear I’d cheer for him ringside on Saturday. So I'll be there with my roommate.”

Voski nodded, a new twinkle appearing in her eye. “Well I’ve seen everything now. Ramsey and Miss Alabama: Ramsey bringing an old lady to family night. Axle will shit himself. Miss Alabama, maybe you can teach this wild beast some of your good manners; it would be a relief to us all if you could get him to chew with his mouth closed. Ramsey, has she met Axle? No? She can’t be your old lady until she's met Axle, lazy ass. She must. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Rowan was a little dazed by how quickly Voski and the Derians shifted from defensive indifference to familial warmth simply at Bronson’s declaration that she was his “old lady.” She had never heard the phrase before and kept trying to search his eyes for some sort of clue, explanation, or help. But Bronson was enjoying the spectacle too much, chuckling at the sight of the shy and angelic blonde being absorbed in the rowdy, gregarious Derian clan.

Far from rescuing Rowan from the crush of demonstrative welcome, Bronson tapped shoulders and brought in new faces as Rowan was hugged in circles and passed cups of beer and asked silly questions about Alabama that no one was even remotely interested in. Daniel appeared with a marker and received his signature, then offered to give Rowan a tattoo. She sweetly agreed and received a bold flower design on her forearm. After the pork was served and the beer ran dry, a somewhat dazed and overwhelmed Rowan excused herself to go find the restroom.

“She’s different,” murmured Voski, as the golden hair disappeared in a mob of black leather and exposed skin. “Opposite of you, gentle. It’s better this way, better than with the hang-arounds and tramps like Lola. That was a shit-show. You’ve always been so hard, you need something soft to come home to.”

Bronson was oddly content and comfortable hearing Rowan discussed this way, and felt the satisfaction of ownership. “I know. She’s…special.”

Voski exhaled. It had been a long road for her unofficially adopted son, and she had always harbored a secret wish to see him settled, with a family. Axle had always sworn it would never happen with Ramsey, and so far his womanizing had seemed to support that prediction. “He’s a wolf,” Axle always said. “He’ll roam the woods and steal sheep til he gets shot.” Voski had always pointed out that wolves mate for life, that Bronson needed a worthy copilot to keep him sane. Strange sex and partying wouldn’t satisfy him for long. She plainly saw the lonely opening in his life, the space for an anchor. The club was something for him, she knew, but it was not a partner.

“Special,” Voski agreed. She had only just met Rowan but trusted her instincts about the young woman. “But, can she handle all this? She’s not one of us Ramsey, she’s a cager civilian anyone can see that. Is she strong enough?”

“You have no idea, Ma.”

Rowan wove her way with some difficulty through the festival in the parking lot and stumbled into the dimly lit clubhouse, groping along the walls and over the revelers until she found a restroom. She did her business, flushed, and exited the stall to wash her hands. Splashing the cool water on her overheated face, she caught the mirror’s reflection peripherally and gasped, spinning.