Wild Riders

The short thick heels of my boots were clicking against the asphalt as I was running toward my bike. Well, technically, my borrowed bike, which I got from the Venoms, the current MC that I was involved with. It was all stricktly bussines - no romance involved. There were some hot guys there, but hell, I’m not dumb enough to get myself involved with them. These guys were dominant, dangerous assholes, who claimed any women they touched as theirs. It mean being at their desposale anytime of day, no was not a word they understood and I was not one of the girls who’d let their holes get filled just to get to ride as a backpack on the bike of some dumbass. That’s not something I could come around with.

Throwing my leg over the bike, I climbed on it, making the motor roar to life and giving one last look at the group of men that were chasing me; giving them one last smile, I hit the road, with the black leather book I had stolen secured under my arm, and the wind hitting me in the face, making my hair flow in long brunette waves. I didn’t have the time to put on my helmet, and right now I didn’t care about it either. If I’d had lost any more time, I would have been dead from a gunshot in my head and, to be fair, I’d rather die riding than by looking at the muzzle of a gun.

I’ve made my escape plan and, as far as I know, it should be perfect. I started planing it the day I joined their club. A month ago I left all the cash I had in a safe at the airport, from which I’ll fly to South Carolina, where a little beach house is waiting for me on Folly Beach. The house wasn’t much. I found it on some website, it was being sold for a price that was reasonable enough for the state in which the house, which was more of a weekend cabin, was in.

As for the bike, I’ll probably trash it on a side road or maybe I’ll just accidentally let it fall down a hill into a river. I don’t care, the only thing that’s important to me right now is that I get out of here without anybody catching up with me.

Hearing the low roars of motorbikes behind me, I speed up. The best option for me right now is to catch up on time and to try and keep a low profile. I can’t be held up by the cops or shit like that. The good thing was, I was smart enough to have studied all possible roads, alleay way etc. in this town. If a shortcut to some place existed, I knew of it. I let out a breath through my mouth, trying to gather my mind and concentrait despite the low humm of danger which was looming somewhere not too far behind me.

Get off the main road. Airport is on the East side of town. I’m near 96th Ave, could turn up to 104th, then a few more turns, just to loose my dear followers, then past the cute little Asian market and the next turn left from there is a dead end for vehicles. I can leave the bike there, get to the airport by foot. Ehh, good enough.

Deciding the plan was good enough, I speed up, building up more distance was my main concerne, and I knew I was agile and experienced enough to handle the higher speed. Few seconds later I was at my turn to go down to 96th. The humming was still behind me, it didn’t surprise me, but I was confident I was going to loose them. Second later I turned up to 104th, the turn was one from hell, but I made it through, now making some more turns around the alleys, but with lower speed, so the sound of the machine was quietter and harder to spot. Once the murmur of the other bikes quietted down, and I was confident I had lost my “hunters”, I executed the last part of my plan. I left the bike in the alley near the little Asian shop and made my way up narrow steps, which led to a fenced off area. I jumped the fence, making my way down a path lined with dumpsters and what not, because it was a direct way to the airport.

The one and only good thing is, that I don’t have to worry about fingerprints and being sought after by the police. The motherfuckers I’ve worked for for the past few years wouldn’t be able to do anything with them. The cops don’t want any trouble with them, but that doesn’t mean they help them. They steer away from, letting them do their shit, as long as it’s not way outside the law, but they don’t help them with shit. If they want to report a crime, want to look for a persone, anything, they send them away. The cops just aren’t afraid of them, it’s not like their club is powerful enough to get some actual respect in the city, but they still like to dream. Another important thing is also, that I faked an injury, maybe six months ago? I supposedly accidantaly fell and pressed my hadn up against a hot exhaust. I was screaming my lungs out, didn’t want anybody to touch me, but they got someone to drive me to the hospital. The burn wasn’t all that bad, I played it up, made it seem worse then it was, and at the end, I wore leather glowes, saying I was ashamed of how my hand looked like.

Anyway, one might ask themselves, what about the book you stole? How would an insignificent MC have something one could want? Thing is, the little shit-heads want to expand. Not only in size, but also in business. They are snakes and although they ain’t as venomous as their name suggests, they still know how to play smart and do some damage. They infiltrated a little slut into one of the most feared MCs known in Europe. Sometimes, they refer to themselves as mafia blood, but we all know that’s bullshit. They may be family run, but they don’t do business the mafia way. What I mean is, they have no rules, no deals. It’s their way or deaths way. If they can get your agreement only over your deadbody, then so be it. They probably don’t even care about deposing your body afterwards. I doub’t they need to, not with the power they hold.

But anyway, the girl, of course, seduced and wrapped some weak link of a guy around her little finger and went for the kill. Not literally, of course, they could never bring that kind of shit, but she did get close enough to be able to steal the little black leather book that was now in my possession, and leave without a trace. At least that’s what they think, but I’m pretty sure that their little MC is on the verge of being killed off. Nobody can hide from the Hell Hounds.

However, since I want to live to see another day, I don’t want to get into the crossfire of those two MCs. I’m getting the hell out of here, moving into the little beach house that I bought from some old guy, who wasn’t able to take care of the property anymore. As much as I could gather from he few pictures that were posted online, it’s a dump, but I’m not complaining. I don’t need much, and it’s not like I can’t repair some stuff.

But for right now, there is only one thing on my mind. Keeping myself safe. I’ve always had to provide for myself on my own, and after doing so for so many years, I gained some skills that other, more “ordinary” people don’t have. The fact, that my mother was probably lying in a ditch, one leg in her grave, and that my dad was running his own MC had its plus sides, I guess. Thing is, there are only negative sides if you have to live in a world like mine. My dad didn’t have a lot of time for me throughout my childhood and when he did, he would teach me what he called “useful tricks”. It was lessons on “how to get away with crime“, which involved everything from pickpocketing to using a gun. When I was 15, he let me ride his motorbike for the first time, and I fell in love with it immediately. Till then, I could never understand where dad got the passion for it from, but once I felt the wind in my hair, the feeling of freedom filling up my body and mind, I was a goner. To be exact, it’s almost like experiencing the rush of sharing a kiss with a stranger. So many possibilities, so many bad and good things that could happen, but the nerve-wracking feeling that is spreading through you is clouding your judgment and you end up being compelled by the feeling.

Finally at the airport, I was frantically looking for the little golden key, which was stashed somewhere in my bra. Running while having your hand down your shirt in an airport is not the best look, and this statement was proven by all the curious looks I got from people waiting to get on their flights. If I had more time and wasn’t chased by some biker dudes, I would probably have screamed something to them about minding their own damn business, but that wasn’t going to happen right now.

When I finally managed to fish out the key, I was already in front of the small square boxes. I quickly scanned the numbers, finding the one with the number 058 and unlocking it. I grabbed the black, fake Salvatore Ferragamo bag I “inherited” from my mother, throwing in the little book I had been squeezing to my side this whole time, and fishing out my tattered old wallet, in which was my boarding pass and passport, and ran to the check-in. Since I hadn’t spotted any of the MC guys yet, I hoped their stupidity would hold them back from coming here long enough for me to get past security, out of this open space, and out of this State altogether.

Looking around, just to check my surroundings, I locked up the metal box, and squeezed the little key tightly in my fist. I took a deep breath before quickly pushing the air back out through my mouth. My fingers, which were wraped around the small key loosened up, the blood flow returning to my, by now, pale white hand. As my nerves calmed down with my breathing, making me less gittery and less suspicious looking, I steadily walked to the check in point, ready to leave the life I’ve lead for the past two years behind me.