Being on the back of King’s bike, my arms around his solid middle, I know what it’s truly like to be free and I love it. I always have. But I love it even more with King.
Nothing behind you and nothing ahead of you, just an open nothingness. No rules. No crowds. No noise. Nothing. Just you, your bike, and the road.
I’ve been on the back of plenty bikes, and even at sixteen, I tried to ride my own, but there’s nothing like being with King. Nothing like trusting him enough not to dump us. Nothing like having my hands on him. Nothing like feeling every muscle. In this moment, he owns me and the road.
I hate how much I like being on the back of King’s bike.
Heading North on the 101, through dense forest and miles of Oceanside cliffs, we just ride, free and open.
Touching my hand, the one wrapped around him and resting somewhere between his waist and chest, he asks, “Okay?” without saying anything.
As much as I don’t want to stop, I need to go to the bathroom. I give his hand three taps, something my dad always taught me. One tap is emergency, two is a problem, and three is bathroom or a break. King gets it, they all do.
We go a few more miles until King finds a place to stop.
In the middle of the dense woods, King pulls to the side of the road and takes a small exit that has a rest stop sign.
“Everything good?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me when he pulls into a space next to a tiny little bathroom building.
“I have to pee,” I whine, jumpy.
He chuckles. “I can tell. You’ve been a little wiggly.”
“Sorry.”
He lifts a cut-covered shoulder. “I liked it. Your tits were rubbing on my back.”
Jesus. “You’re awful.”
“Born and raised,” he calls after me, watching me walk away and into the small brick building.
I use the small and dingy bathroom quickly and walk out to find King on his phone, pacing back and forth in front of his bike on the sidewalk.
He doesn’t look happy.
I watch him for a moment, watch his body language. The way his shoulders tense and his fists clench and unclench. His face is hard, eyes narrowed and lips in a straight line. Something or someone’s ruined his mood, and I’m going to kill that something or someone.
Shoving his phone into his pocket, he stops and looks up, his eyes finding mine.
“Everything okay?” I ask him, walking up slowly.
“Yeah,” he answers, his voice deceivingly even. “Perfect.” I don’t believe him, but I also don’t push it.
Getting on his bike, throwing one powerful leg over it, he sits down and waits for me. “Comin’?”
“Yes,” I sigh, enjoying the view of him on his beautiful matte black Harley.
“Good, then hurry up and get the fuck over here.”
Laughing softly to myself, I walk up to him and wait.
“The fuck’s so funny?” Now he’s getting irritated with me. It’s kind of funny.
“Nothin’.” I smirk, egging him on.
“Bullshit.” Grabbing my hand, he hauls me toward the bike and into him, kissing me roughly. His tongue invades my mouth. “Now shut up,” he growls against my lips. “And get on the goddamn bike.”
“Getting on the damn bike,” I mutter, using his offered hand to crawl on and get comfortable.
“Wrap ’em,” he tells me, pulling my hands around his middle. “And hang on.”
“Yes, sir.”
I feel King laugh against my front. “Like that?”
“Yes, sir,” I say again, my cheek on his shoulder.
King doesn’t say anything, but he keeps laughing as he pulls back onto the highway and takes off.
He drives me crazy, and I’m sure I hate him, but right now, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
There’s nothing like a rally. Nothing quite as electric. They run on gasoline, hard alcohol, and loyalty. Family and friends, all together in one space for a good cause and a good time. Miles of bikes and a sea of Disciple colors. It’s an extended party, and a way to give back all rolled into one epic weekend.
I’ve been to a ton, but none quite like the Annual Children’s Charity Run. It’s the big one. The go all-out, full of family one.
It’s my favorite.
“How many people are here?” Lala asks me, her eyes wide, taking in the open field filled with people and bikes. “I’ve been to a few of these, but damn, this one is big.”
I don’t know the numbers, and I probably never will because on top of the club members, there are support clubs, friends, family, hang arounds—a little bit of everyone mixed in with the Disciples and their allies. People coming and going all weekend.
“A couple thousand, if I had to guess.”
“Shit.” She laughs, head shaking. “That’s nuts.”
“This one seems bigger than the one I came with Tank to,” Lilly surmises, shrugging. “But who knows? Last one was spent holed up in a room with Tank,” she adds, smirking.
“Dirty whore,” Ellison snorts.
With the girls, in the parking lot across from the field, we wait for the guys to check us in. We’re on tribal land in the middle of nowhere, at the end of the damn world. Where the land meets the ocean, we’re untouchable out here, just how the club likes it.
“So, this is a casino?” Lennon asks, looking at the large building behind us.
“An Indian casino,” Cali answers, eyes bright. “We’ve got the place to ourselves as long as we need it.”
“Good,” I breathe, happy to hear it. That means the pool is ours. The empty field that’s usually crammed full of campers and tourists is ours. The blackjack tables, the restaurant, and the beach? All of them are Disciple territory until we pack up and head home.
We have free rein.
“What’s the charity this time?” Peaches asks, tossing her bag over her shoulder and heading toward the sliding doors, all the girls following after her.
“For local foster care and displaced youth.” Things close to King’s heart, not that he’d ever admit it or acknowledge it. I’ve heard the stories, but that’s all they ever are—stories. King grew up on the streets. He was given up as an infant and put into foster care until he was old enough to run, and that’s exactly what he did—he ran. Ran away from his foster parents and the system at twelve. As far as I know, he’s lived on the streets since. Not that he’s told me any of this. All of it’s from word of mouth and hearsay. All part of the club’s rumor mill.
“Now you’re thinkin’ about King, aren’t you?” Lil asks close to my ear, walking shoulder to shoulder next to me. She knows, she’s heard the stories.
“Shut up,” I hiss, even though she’s not wrong.
She laughs. “You’ve always been so secretive about the two of you.”
“You’ve always been so nosey,” I fire back, eyes rolling.
“You can’t blame a girl. King’s always been a mystery. A really sexy mystery.” The sad part is, she probably knows just as much about him as I do.
Speaking of the sexy mystery man, I haven’t seen him since I crawled off the back of his bike about an hour ago, which is strange since I haven’t been without him in the last week. Always around, always watching, and suddenly he’s gone.
Just thinking the word gone in correlation with King makes my heart ache. Gone. Leaving. Something he’s good at, something he’s always done, and something that hurts every fucking time. And I’m sure when he leaves this time because he will, it’ll hurt like it always does.
“When are we getting drinks?” I ask the group, done thinking or worrying about King. “Now?” I suggest, ready to be pleasantly belligerent.
Everyone laughs, but no one disagrees.
I need a drink…or twelve.
“How many of those have you had?” Stitch asks, leaning into my back and looking over my shoulder at the drink I’m holding.
He smells good, like spicy cologne and sweet weed. Stitch, always grinning and always deadly.
“Twenty-nine,” I quip, looking at my half-empty cup.
I got my room a few hours ago. Dropped my shit off, and I’ve been down here since. Walked the booths and bought some goodies. Had some good fair style food and watched a couple street bike shows. Now I’m where I should be—at a bar.
He chuckles. “Well fuck. That’s a skill, drinkin’ that much without dyin’.”
I’m sitting at a pop-up bar, constructed out of old shipping containers, where half of every drink purchased goes to charity, so this sixth drink is for the kids. I drink like the drunk I’m not while doing it for a good cause.
“You’re not drinkin’?” I ask him, looking at his empty hand.
“Had a couple beers.”
I nod, looking over my shoulder to Stitches, and see King a few feet away, watching me. Staring. His eyes boring into my chest and into my soul, ripping it to pieces.
“We’re brothers, but I think he’d kill me if I touched you.”
“So no making out?” I tease, watching King, his eyes narrowed, almost like he can hear me.
“Might be worth dyin’ for.”
“You’re cute, but I like Cali more.” It’s the truth. If Stitch were single and Cali wasn’t a good friend, I might give him a try and she knows it, but I love the girl too much to do any of that shit.
Stitch snorts. “Chicks before dicks. I get it.” He raises his hands in surrender, smirking. “Maybe one little kiss?” he teases back, looking at Cali for permission. She just laughs and leans in. “Three-way kiss?” she suggests.
Too drunk to think better of it, I lean and kiss both of them, our faces smashed together. I laugh and Cali giggles.