Marc

We exited the highway and rolled to a stop at the traffic light on the frontage road. The heat from the engine radiated between my legs as the sound from the exhaust barked through tailpipes in low, powerful bursts.

“I love riding back here,” Taryn shouted over the exhaust’s tone.

“That’s good, because I love having you back there.”

“The weather is gorgeous,” she said. “Perfect for riding.”

“The weather’s always gorgeous,” I said mockingly.

The light turned green. I accelerated through it, welcoming the rush of wind as our speed increased. Riding was an escape for me, and it didn’t matter if I was traveling at 30 miles an hour or 80, the relief I received was the same.

I began riding when I was in the military, using my time on the road as therapy. Without it, I suspect I’d have become another statistic. With it, however, I could ease my mind of the demons that had come to possess me.

In time, the demons faded, but my desire to ride never did. I now looked at it as maintenance for my soul.

I turned into the parking lot. “You sure you’re up for this?”

“I’m sure.”

I circled the lot and came to a stop in a stall beside the door. The early morning rush was long since over, and the parking lot was half empty. I shut off the engine and swept the kickstand down.

After removing my helmet, I turned around. “How’d you like the PCH between here and San Clemente?”

“It was gorgeous.”

Highway 5, between Oceanside and San Clemente was labeled the Pacific Coast Highway, or the PCH. While traveling on it, for a good portion of the ride, the ocean was visible. On an early Sunday morning, the ride was breathtaking.

I lifted my leg over the seat and hung my helmet on the handlebars. “I love that stretch of highway. North of LA, it just gets more scenic.”

She got off the motorcycle, and carefully placed her helmet on the seat. “Can we do that one sometime?”

“We’ve got the rest of our lives, Tee. We can do that stretch, and a hell of a lot more.”

She looked the bike over, and then smiled. “I’d rather ride on this than take a car, any day.”

I looked at the black paint and glistening chrome and smiled. “Same here.”

She glanced at the front door and smiled. “Shall we?”

We stepped inside and waked to the register. Unlike our first visit, I didn’t order for her. As soon as she made eye contact with the cashier, she gave her order.

“Iced Caramel Macchiato, strong on the caramel.”

“Size?”

“The big guy.”

He looked at me. “And you?”

“Grande coffee, black. Whatever you’ve got in bold.”

He rang up the purchase, and we waited together at the pick-up station.

“I can’t believe you have me drinking coffee.”

“It’s not exactly coffee, but it’s close.”

“Three months ago, the thought of it made me hurl,” she said.

The day marked our eight-week anniversary. It was hard to believe a little more than twelve weeks had passed since we’d officially met, but it had somehow rushed past us. It seemed Taryn provided me a similar escape as the motorcycle, but being in her presence was all that was required to reap the benefits.

“Coffee is the icing on life’s cake,” the barista said as he placed the drinks on the shelf. “Here you go.”

“I’m a newcomer,” Taryn said. “This is all I can handle for now.”

“Living life without coffee is like eating cake without frosting. You’ll know what I’m talking about when the time comes.”

“I can’t wait,” she said, her tone coated with sarcasm.

I offered an apologetic wag of my eyebrows, and we turned away.

We walked outside and sat at an empty table. While we sat and talked about the scenery of the morning’s ride, the mid-morning sun crept to the center of the sky.

“I like talking to you,” she said. “It’s fun.”

I gave her a look. “Fun?”

“Yeah. It’s fun. I like that you listen when I talk.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. “I value what you’ve got to say.”

She cinched her ponytail to her scalp and then shook her head. “Well, I like it.”

In the distance, a low rumble could be heard. Undoubtedly a group of bikers doing what most did with their Sundays in Southern California – enjoying a day on the road. Unlike most states, California gave very little reason not to ride. The weather was always cooperative, the scenery was second to none, and there were plenty of people to ride with if one so desired.

The drone from the motorcycle’s exhaust increased, and soon had the intensity of a rolling thunder.

Taryn craned her neck and peered off in the distance. “Is that motorcycles?”

“A lot of them,” I said.

“Holy crap.”

“Sunday in Southern California. Nothing better to do.”

She shifted her eyes to meet mine. “Do you ever have to, you know, mess with those guys?”

“Who?”

“The biker gangs. Like the Sons of Anarchy guys?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Haven’t had a need to. Not all the Motorcycle Clubs are the same. Some are more in need of regulation that others.”

“Not the clubs,” she said. “The gangs. The mean ones.”

I chuckled. “I know what you’re talking about. They call themselves clubs.”

“Oh.”

The rumble thickened the air. Two by two, the bikers entered the lot on our left. Wearing their colors, and a stern look, they filtered into the lot until it was filled.

It was none other than Navarro and roughly a dozen of his men.

“Oh, my God,” Taryn said. “Should we go?”

I shook my head. “We’ll be fine.”

Taryn’s eyes darted toward them, and then shot to me. “Did you see that one? He’s like eight feet tall.”

I didn’t need to look. Certain she was talking about the Sergeant-at-Arms, Pee Bee, I simply grinned. “I saw him.”

“What would a guy do against someone like that?” she whispered.

“Give him the respect he deserves,” I said. “These guys are all about respect.”

“If you’re nice to them, that’s all that matters?”

I took a sip of my tepid coffee. “They don’t want their asses kissed. They just want to be treated with respect.”

She alternated glances between them and me. “Why would anyone do anything different?”

“You’d be surprised.”

The half-Irish half-Hispanic former Golden Gloves boxer, Cholo, held the door as each of them passed through. After a quick check of the lot, he walked in behind them. The outdoor patio area was empty, short of us, and I was pretty sure they weren’t going to sit inside.

We could have got up and left, but I wasn’t about to do something as cowardly as depart while they were inside. I hadn’t made eye contact with Navarro, but I suspected he saw us. We were seated thirty feet from the door, in a wide-open area.

Pee Bee came out first, with P-Nut at his side. While he listened to P-Nut tell a story, he walked around us, nodding as he passed by.

Taryn swallowed heavily and then looked at me. She was undoubtedly nervous with them seated behind her.

I extended my arm over the top of the table, and turned my hand up. She placed hers in my palm, and I closed my fingers around it.

In small groups, the men came outside, until all of them were gathered around us. Some stood while others sat. A few that I didn’t recognize walked to their motorcycles and looked them over.

After ten or fifteen minutes of listening to them talk, I decided we’d paid our respects, and mentally prepared to leave.

Navarro sauntered toward my motorcycle, knelt, and looked it over. He turned toward me. “This your scoot?”

“Sure is.”

He gave a shallow nod of acknowledgement. “Heritage is always a good choice. Best of both worlds. Me? I prefer a hardtail. Not too friendly for the misses, though.”

I chuckled. “I suppose not.”

Wearing well-worn jeans and boots, he appeared to have nothing on under his kutte. His bare arms were covered in tattoos, and where they weren’t tattooed, they were tanned brown from the time he spent on the road.

He stood and walked in our direction. As he approached, I noticed a recent wound on his left upper arm. I’d seen enough of them to recognize it as a bullet wound, and I suspected he got it while rescuing the teenage girls.

He stopped at the edge of our table. He glanced at Taryn, and then at me. He extended his hand. “Nick Navarro,” he said. “I’m the president of this rag-tag bunch of misfits.”

I shook his hand. “Looks like a pretty well-organized bunch to me. Name’s Marc. Marc Watson. Pleasure to meet you.” I tilted my head toward Taryn. “That’s Taryn.”

He released my hand, wiped his palm on the thigh of his jeans, and reached toward Taryn. “Pleasure.”

She smiled and shook his hand. “Thank you. Pleasure to meet you, too.”

“Just out for a Sunday ride?” he asked.

I raised my empty cup. “Got a cup on our way back from San Clemente. Headed home now.”

He gave a nod and stepped aside. “I won’t keep you.”

I looked at Taryn. “You ready?”

She nodded and then stood.

We walked to the motorcycle, got on, and put on our helmets. After I started the bike, I met Navarro’s gaze, and raised my left hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Nick.”

He tapped his index finger against the name stitched into the small patch on his kutte. “Call me Crip.”

I grinned and gave a nod. At that moment, he wasn’t an outlaw biker, and I wasn’t a cop. We didn’t share a brotherhood of being former Navy SEALs. We were simply two bikers, out on the road, enjoying a Sunday ride.

I had no idea when the turning point came, but I was glad it did. Having his respect was crucial in my line of work.

I lowered my left hand and released the clutch.

While stopped at the traffic light at the intersection beside the coffee shop, Taryn leaned forward.

“That was weird,” she said. “He had a tattoo just like yours, did you see it?”

I grinned and released the clutch. “I didn’t even notice.”