“Oh, I can feel a lot more than that.” He revs the bike and speeds us up, leaving the others in our wake. They catch up in a minute; a few of the men flip Ryan the bird and shout curse words at him. We’re going so fast, my entire body goes rigid. My hands clamp down tightly onto his hard abdomen, feeling his flexing muscles beneath the leather. My thighs tighten around his hips, searching for confirmation that I won’t fly off the back of the bike. Beneath my touch, he shivers. Whether it be the wind or my touch that’s affecting him, I imagine it’s my touch. Testing the theory, I run my thumb in small circles on his abdomen. Straightening his position, his breathing changes. It picks up at first, and then catches before evening out. And I know, without a doubt, that it’s me that he’s reacting to, a thought that both excites and terrifies me.
My hair whips up, slapping me in my face, and tickling my neck. The wind breezes past us with such force I worry if I let go for even a moment that I’ll take flight and be tossed into the green beyond. I close my eyes and let the feeling overtake me. Wind slicing into my skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. The bright afternoon sun, beating down on me, its warmth washed away by the brush of the wind. Everything is more intense out here. With every pull of my lungs and every beat of my heart, I actually feel the world moving around me. Everything feels alive, and active, not merely existing. From the birds flying overheard down to the occasional insect buzzing past. But it’s the bikes that make my skin taut with excitement. Ryan’s hips between my legs and his bike underneath me keeps my body in a constant vibration. But the bikes around us create a cacophony of noise, all rumbles and echoes of roaring engines, unlike anything I’ve ever heard before.
My father always said that I was far too precious to engage in anything dangerous. What he really meant was that I was too important an investment, a pawn, to do anything fun. Here, in the wind, it comes to me that I may just hate him a little.
Chapter 9
I take things like honor and loyalty seriously. It's more important to me than any materialistic thing or any fame I could have.
Lloyd Banks
WE RIDE FOR what feels like days, maybe even a week. Though I know that’s not possible. The afternoon sun moves little, and there is no telltale darkening of the sky. My backside cramps, and my legs long to stretch out. Even in my discomfort, the thrill of the ride hasn’t waned any. Being huddled into Ryan makes me think I could stay here forever.
I take the time to watch the men, who are mostly silent, but occasionally crack jokes and tease one another over the growling engines. The flat expanse of highway allows the bikers to spread out as they ride. Though they sometimes swerve and loop around one another, likely to keep things interesting, they all return to their original formation.
Ryan slows the bike, and the rest of the men in the club follow suit. I peer around his shoulder and tense up at the sight. Before us by perhaps a few hundred feet, there’s a collection of men on motorcycles, all wearing black vests, lining the highway just after the “Welcome to Nevada” sign. I work very hard, but nearly fail at stopping the impending tears from falling. Ryan’s muscles haven’t tensed under my touch, and the men that surround us haven’t given any indication that this is a problem. But until I know for sure that we’re safe, I’m not going to relax. As the motorcycles slow to a crawl and eventually stop just before the sign, I squeeze my eyes shut and bury my face in between Ryan’s shoulder blades. If this is an ambush, I’d rather not see it coming.
But just then a raucous chorus of laughter sounds and even Ryan’s body is shaking with the effort. The bike begins to move again, and with the sounds of excited laughter surrounding me, I open my eyes. The men at the border largely appear to be pleased with our presence. One by one they start their engines and tear off in front of us. When they’re all on the highway in front of us, we pick up our pace to keep up with the pack.
After riding along for no more than five or ten minutes, we pull off the barren highway and onto a dirt road the feels like it stretches for miles. Eventually, we pull up to a collection of decrepit old wooden cabins, sprawled out from one another, that make up the West Wendover Rustic Motel. Somehow, when they named the place, I don’t think this is what they had in mind.
A cabin identifying itself as the office sits in the center of the cluster. Its sign hangs precariously by the one remaining, intact chain. Its neon letters are busted with their remnants scattered on the wooden porch beneath it. The windows haven’t fared much better, nor has its neglected porch, which houses three rocking chairs, two of which are occupied by old bikers who look like they’ve got one foot in the grave already.
Just as Ryan cuts the engine, the men of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club collectively cut theirs and dismount their bikes. Our new friends watch me with curious eyes. I even have the attention of the old bikers in the rocking chairs. Nervously, I dismount as gracefully as I can. Despite some minor shaking, I make it off the bike and on my feet without incident. Ryan dismounts quickly and comes to stand behind me. He’s so close I can feel the edges of his vest brushing against my back. I catch Jim’s gaze. His brows are drawn together, and his lips forms a flat line. His eyes look so cold I can barely reconcile this man with the one who first wrapped Gloria in his arms just a few days ago.