Loving Me, Trusting You(40)

“Name's Austin Sparks. You remember me, don't you? We stopped through here five, maybe six, years ago to take care of some business. Kent was running the show then, but surely you remember Triple M?” He takes a step forward, but the man in the sunglasses doesn't smile. His silver beard looks like a tangle of spider webs in the wind, all wispy and shit. I hate him right off the bat. When his gaze moves straight past Austin and onto Kimmi, I get ready to fight. When he looks at Mireya next, I'm ready to kill.

I don't mind men being men or whatnot, but I don't like asshat motherf*cker cock sucking pieces of misogynistic shit. The only man that hates a woman is a man who isn't even really a man at all. Only a nutless sack of crap would have a problem with a lady invading his space. If you know who you are and what you can do, you own it and you prove it. You don't put others down to make yourself feel better. Only the weakest of the weak need to go about proving themselves that way.

This guy, their President I guess, looks old, wise. He doesn't seem so bad at first glance, but I sense that things here are not exactly what they seem. Did they see us roll into town? Don't think so. Did somebody relay information back to them? Probably.

They knew we were coming; this was planned.

I just hope Austin knows it.

“You goin' to answer me or not?” my friend asks, letting his voice drop an octave. None of these sons of bitches have gotten off their bikes yet. Bad sign. Violence is a sure thing now. This is going to escalate in a split second. I'm not going to have time to react later. It's now or never.

My hand slips into my jacket while Mireya watches, tire iron clutched between her fingers. I don't know where she got it or how long she's been holding it for, but I don't care. I have to do what I have to do. I have to stop this before she really sees why they're here. Teaming up with Bested by Crows is fine, but when it's for the reasons that are simmering beneath the surface here, it's a fat load of smelly ass bullshit. I can't respect that decision.

I pull the hammer back with my thumb and don't wait to hear whatever response they've got planned. My hand comes out and the trigger goes down, hitting the front tire of their Pres's bike and shredding the rubber to pieces.

Chaos explodes.

People are shouting and weapons are being drawn. One or more of us might die here today, but I had to do it. For her. These men came here because they don't want women to ride motorcycles? To participate in the politics and the inner workings of the groups they give their hearts and souls to? Well, f*ck 'em. Fuck 'em all.

I duck down behind my bike, making sure Mireya is safe behind hers, and I wait. Silence descends, cutting the frenzied activity like a knife. Nobody moves.

“Who the f*ck fired the first round?” somebody from Broken Dallas is asking, but no one responds. They're not going to because nobody knows. Except Mireya.

Her brown eyes look orange in the harsh glare of the hot sun through the dust, turning the look she's giving me from fierce to deadly. She narrows her gaze on me and I know, just know that I'm going to get it later. I keep her in my sights and lean my back against the metal of my motorcycle.

“I don't want to start anything,” Austin says, staying right where he is, standing up in the middle of this instant battlefield, chin up, shoulders strong. I don't think I've ever been prouder of him than I am in that moment. Despite the circumstances, I smile. I think he'll make an alright Pres if we give him some time. He's got the balls for it at least. “But I will if I have to. You got a problem with us being here, fine. You let us know and we're gone.” Austin pauses and a gust of wind whips around his face, slapping his sandy hair against his furrowed brow. “But if you f*ck with us, we'll destroy you.”

Cheers go up from our side, loud whoops of excitement and a thrill of danger. We don't do this sort of thing very often, but I have to admit, the rush of adrenaline is nice. I could get used to this. Maybe. Mireya isn't cheering, but she isn't unhappy either. Her face is perfectly neutral, schooled into this blank expression that's just begging to be read. I want to know what sorts of thoughts are going through her head. Does she suspect the same things I do? And if she does, does she know why I did what I did? I hope to hell she doesn't. Ignorance is bliss and all that, right?

I watch my friend standing tall amongst a sea of crouching bodies and get ready for folks to pop up like daisies, for gunfire to rain down from the sky like hail, and for blood to be shed in a needless ritual of crap. That's the way of the road sometimes, you know.

My muscles tighten and my body gets straight as an arrow, rigid and pulsing with pent up violence and barely restrained threat. I feel like a real man right here, getting ready to protect the woman I love. This primal bullshit would see me dead with a smile on my face, just so long as I knew she was going to be okay, that she could walk away from this without anymore scars, that one day, even if it's far off in the future, that she could smile and mean it.

I scoot forward and inch across the dirty pavement towards her. Her brows wrinkle up and she tilts her head to the side like she thinks I'm f*cking nuts. As soon as I've crossed the small bit of space between us and hide myself safely behind her tire, she opens her mouth to growl at me.

My hands come up and grab her face, my lips meet hers, just a slight slide of dry mouths, burnt and cracked from the sun over our heads. The crackling energy inside of me transfers over into her body, sending chills along her exposed skin, snapping her spine taut and bowing her back. It's like I'm feeding my spirit into hers, infusing her with the wicked wild energy I'm feeling right now. I pull back and spin, rising to my feet in a fluid motion of muscle and purpose. I'm going to back my Pres, and I'm going to make sure we get a chance to do what we came here to do. Robbin' banks might be illegal, but on my list of immoral sins, it doesn't rank near as high as lookin' the devil in the eye.