Loving Me, Trusting You(3)

Now, I have blood on my hands.

I swallow hard and pull myself together. When you're flying down the highway at seventy miles an hour, the wind in your face, nothing between your body and the road but a bit of denim and leather, you've got to pay attention or you'll end up as roadkill. I've seen it happen before, and I'm not willing to end it that way. If I'm going to go, it's going to be spectacular. I deserve that at least, don't I?

I leave the intercom off in my helmet. I don't want to hear what any of them have to say, and I sure as shit don't want to listen to Nickelback. If Austin tries to play that crap again, I will kill him. Like you did Walker. I try to convince myself that I should feel bad, but I don't. I don't feel a lick of guilt for putting that f*cker down. When I slid that blade across his throat, I cried tears of relief. Call me sadistic or mental, I don't care. He hurt me in ways that may never heal. I have to learn to live with the scars, or I won't survive. So I killed a man and I don't feel the way I should about it. This is my cross to bear. This is my trial to overcome, to accept that I am a monster because they made me that way.

My next step is to figure out where I go from here, how to find something out there worth living for. Austin was … I guess he never really was that thing for me, but he was something, someone to hold onto at night, someone to run to during the day. But he wasn't that perfect, special something we're all searching for, that thing that Gaine believes he's found in me. Too much responsibility, I think as I hit the corner and take it hard, tilting my bike so low I could brush the ground with my fingers, taste the concrete and watch it wear away at me. For a split second, I almost let it, almost drop through that last bit of space and watch myself spin away into nothingness. But then I pull my bike back up and rocket down the empty, flat stretch of road towards the sunset. If anything, there are a few people left in this world that owe me a pound of flesh. I don't want to go to the grave with a debt hanging over my head.

Another motorcycle whips up beside me, and I don't even have to look to know that it's Austin's. I can tell by the sound of the engine, that's how familiar it is to me, how much it used to mean. I know he wants me to switch to the intercom, but why? So he can bitch at me? Tell me to fall back in line?

Fuck this.

I will never again allow a man to control me, whether directly or indirectly. This friggin' community is full of misogynistic bull from both sides. I've got girls from other gangs telling me I'm not worth anything but the heat between my legs, that I should be a good old lady and hop on the bike of a person with a penis. My response? You ain't never seen this bitch ride.

I give Austin and Amy a one fingered salute and gun it, kicking up dust in my wake and scarring the road with rubber. The good thing about being in a fake ass MC is that nobody really cares what kind of bike you ride so long as you ride one like a God and have respect for the machinery. Me, I can outrun Austin's custom clunker any day. I've got a Triumph Bonneville. This baby could run circles around him.

I speed up and hit a small crest in the road, launching myself high, silhouetted against the sky for the rest of Triple M to see, a dark shadow bathed in light. When I crash to the pavement again, the air kisses my skin and steals away my pain, hiding it in the rush of wind and the sizzling heat for a few, brief beautiful moments.

See, some people, like that stupid bitch, Amy Cross, they like to bury their noses in books to escape. Me? I like to straddle my bike and find a new place, somewhere I've never been so I can see something I've never seen. That's what I live for, that's my escape. I hide in experiences and lose myself in air and mileage and the scent of gas, shiny alloy wheels, stainless steel headers, chromed upswept silencers.

So when that beauty is threatened, I get upset. Really upset. Livid even.

I swing around the corner, past a genuine freaking cactus, and spot a smattering of people in the distance, dark against the sunlight. They've got bikes aplenty and they're using them to block the roadway.

Ay, Dios mio. What the f*ck is this shit? Malditos estúpidos.

I know I'm getting pissed because I'm starting to pull out the Spanish. I only do that when things get rough. And things are going to get really rough. I mean, I knew that. We all knew that. We've been lucky to get as many days without being accosted as we've had. Might have to move back to Spain with my broke ass mother. Ugh. Even the thought makes me shiver.

I hit the brakes and slow down, so Austin can catch up to me. I can feel his glare through the helmet, but I ignore it, sliding back into the ranks with Beck and Kimmi. I can't look at Gaine right now, but I do flick on my intercom.

“You disobeying the new Pres on purpose, Sawyer?” Beck asks, chuckling.

“Shut your f*cking mouth, Evans,” Austin snaps back at him. “Deal with outer turmoil then inner, you know that.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” Beck chortles, not at all worried about the cluster of shadowy figures. Why should he be? The man is absolutely insane. He's the perfect soldier, capable of downing a dozen men by himself. I've seen it many times. Brawn over brains should be Beck's motto.

We start to slow, filling the road with shining helmets and beautiful bikes, works of art in metal and chrome, curious faces and nervous twitching. You don't mess with another gang and walk away, no matter what they did to you. I don't even have to see their colors to know who we're up against.