It Ain't Me, Babe

Beauty beamed, her smile lighting up her whole face. “I’m so happy for you both. I used to worry ’bout the guy. I’m glad you give him a voice, a safe place to be himself. He has a tough job, being so young. But Christ, the guy is one helluva good Prez. Even the old guys—Smokey and Bone, who’ve seen three Hangmen Presidents in their lives—they say Styx is the strongest, the best. Born to wear that patch.”

I quickly finished shelving the last pair of pants and pulled Beauty in for a hug. It shocked her. I could tell by her sharp gasp. I did not show affection often, it was not natural to me, but I really appreciated Beauty’s friendship, especially right now.

“Ahem.” Someone cleared his throat behind us. Letting go of Beauty, I glanced over her shoulder.

“Hello, Flame,” I greeted, spotting him standing awkwardly at the main door. His eyes darted all over the place, from the floor to the ceiling and over his shoulder. He was always uneasy, always on guard.

“Mae. Beauty,” he greeted flatly with a nod. Flame was dressed in dark jeans, white shirt and his cut. His strangely-cut dark hair was messy and windswept from riding, but his large, almond-shaped black eyes shone with their usual eerie glare.

He addressed me blankly. “Styx had business to attend to. Sent me to pick you up and take you home. Straight to his apartment. Okay?”

“Oh, okay,” I replied. “When will he be back?”

Flame shrugged. “When he gets back.”

I knew that was as much information as I could expect. Club business after all.

I quickly ran into the back room to collect my purse, then waved good-bye to Beauty. “See you in the morning!”

“Bye, honey!” she called as she made her way to a rather large grizzly customer in the helmet section.

Flame was already waiting for me on his Harley, back stiff, eyes roaming and head twitching. I had only ever ridden with Rider and Styx. Strangely, it felt like I was betraying them by getting on the back of Flame’s bike. In truth, he unnerved me at the best of times. Even more so in such close proximity.

Awkwardly clambering aboard, I reached out to grip his waist but he leapt forward on a low growl. “Don’t put your f**kin’ hands ’round my waist!”

I lifted up my hands, showing they were clear from his body. “I am very sorry,” I hushed out quietly.

After a few moments, he appeared to relax. “I can’t be touched on my waist, my stomach or any lower. Okay, Mae?”

My heart beat fast with nerves and I frowned in confusion. “Okay,” I confirmed. Then I enquired, “Can I grip onto the side of your cut? Just the material, not your body? I will not touch you, I promise.”

Flame nervously glanced back, his obsidian eyes wide. Surprisingly, his hands began shaking on the handlebars. Then, hesitantly, Flame answered, “That’s fine. Just… don’t touch… don’t f**kin’ touch…”

I nodded my head in agreement, fisted his cut, and abruptly we rolled away. Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the compound. As we parked, my pulse accelerated. A black-and-chrome Harley was parked out front—Rider’s Harley.

He was back!

Dismounting the bike, I thanked Flame and went to make my way inside the back stairwell to Styx’s apartment. Flame rode off out of compound with a roar and I stopped mere inches from the backdoor. With Styx gone on business, I should be able to speak to Rider alone, to try and get my friend back, to try and salvage whatever relationship we had left.

For the last four weeks I had been told to use the back entrance to Styx’s apartment unless the club was open to wives and old ladies. It was not a Friday or Saturday night, or a Hangmen family day for that matter, so I knew I was breaking the rules if I went in the bar without Styx. I did not want to anger Styx but…

The need to see Rider won and I found myself pushing through the doors to the bar. The first thing to greet me was the thick fog of tobacco smoke, followed by the strong scent of liquor. Rock music was blasting through the speakers and I spotted Smiler at the bar, nursing a beer.

“Good afternoon, Smiler,” I said. His eyes stuck out like organ stops on seeing me alone in the brothers’ bar. Smiler never smiled—his soubriquet was ironic—and he rarely talked. He jerked his chin up in greeting.

“Were you on the run with Rider?”

He nodded his head slowly, eyes inquisitive.

Looking down, I fidgeted with my hands. “Where is he now?”

“His room.” I went to walk off, when Smiler added, “Might wanna stay the f**k out of there, though.”