Chapter 5
GOODBYE TEXAS, HELLO FLORIDA
VIKING
Two days on my bike is almost enough to have my ass permanently asleep. The vibration hums through my bones, a buzz that doesn’t fade even when I shift my weight. Sweat has dried and re-dried beneath my leather cut, salt stiffening the fabric against my T-shirt.
I’m ready for a few days’ break before we head back. The pack slows to a crawl as we hit the main stretch of Panama City, our engines throttling down but never fully quiet.
The high-rise hotels and condos that overlook the beachfront line the road to the right, their glass balconies flash with sunlight like a disco ball.
Tourists lean against their railings with drinks in hand, phones already lifted to snap a view they’re not used to seeing.
Over-the-top, mini mansions break up the palm trees on the left, manicured lawns and wrought-iron gates standing in sharp contrast to the road-worn line of bikes cutting between them.
Runners in tight workout gear glide across the sidewalks in the pounding sun, faces flushed and determined, avoiding dog walkers and families following the trails down to the beach. The smell of sunscreen and ocean air mixes with hot asphalt and exhaust.
Rumbling through town, we garner stares, heads turning in unison as if pulled by the same invisible string. Some faces light up with curiosity, others harden with annoyance. But we’re not the only club infiltrating this little ball of beach town.
Leather cuts and patches flash from passing side streets and gas stations. They probably should have checked the town’s event guide before planning their vacation if they wanted to avoid the annual rally.
Luckily for them, we congregate further down the beach where the motels haven’t been updated in twenty years. Where faded paint peels under the sun and salt and rust stains crawl down balcony rails.
The show of money disappears the longer we drive, the storefronts growing smaller.
Souvenir shops thin out, replaced by flickering neon signs and barred windows.
These bars aren’t afraid of a little scuffle when someone eventually says something out of pocket, and the sidewalks show the scars to prove it.
The beach becomes our only companion, a constant strip of blue glimpsed between billowing wild grass.
The refreshing wind carries sand across the road in thin, skittering lines.
We make it to the outskirts of town, where the bikes outnumber the locals, and the cut on your back means something to those who read it.
Nods are subtle, glances quick but deliberate.
Respect is measured and acknowledged without words.
A lack of it is noted for when we’re out later.
Chopper leads the group off the cracked pavement and into the parking lot of a run-down motel that looks like it’s seen better days.
Potholes dot the lot like landmines, and weeds pop through the asphalt.
A vacancy sign lights up only partially, indicating that rooms are still available.
Several letters are burned out, the rest buzzing faintly in protest.
Our arrival reverberates off the stucco U-shaped building until everything falls silent when we pull to a stop. The engines cut, leaving only the distant crash of waves and the ticking heat of cooling metal.
Standing from my bike, I stretch out the aches and pains that have settled deep into my muscles after days on the road. My back pops straight up my spine, my thighs burn, and my arms ache with a stiffness like they’ve forgotten how to fall by my sides.
Loose asphalt from a nearby crack crunches beneath my boots as I straighten. The late afternoon air is heavy with salt and humidity, thick enough to cling to my skin. It’s so much worse here on the panhandle coast than it was back in Texas.
The front office door sticks for a second before giving way to Si’s harsh pull.
He disappears behind the smudged glass to check us in and grab the keys.
The place isn’t much to look at with its sun-bleached siding, but right now, it might as well be a damn Hyatt for how ready I am to get into one of its rooms.
We’ve got a few hours before my meeting with Patch, and the thought of hot water and soap has me practically vibrating.
Or maybe that’s left over from the ride.
I can’t wait to wash the road from my skin before we head to the pier.
The layers of sweat and a few too many bugs cling to me like a second hide.
The ride in was long and unforgiving, and I feel every mile in my bones.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, the buzz cutting through the noise around us.
A smile lifts the corners of my lips before I can stop it, knowing who it is before I even get it free from my jeans.
It earns me a disgusted headshake from Warden, the token bachelor of our group, who’s leaning against his bike.
It’s like my happiness personally offends him simply by existing.
The man’s allergic to anything resembling commitment, but he has no problem letting the women he fucks think otherwise.
“Hey, mama. We just pulled in for the stay, perfect timing.”
“Ha, it would be if I wasn’t staring at your location before I gave you a call. I need to run over to the clubhouse. One of the guys should be there, right? I don’t wanna drive over if it’s a waste of time.”
“I’m not even gone two days, and you’re already looking for my replacement, huh?”
Josie chuckles on the other end, that soft sound hitting me square in the chest like it always does, but the clang of metal disrupts the moment. I swear, the ruckus in our house never ends.
“Woman, what is going on over there?”
“Oh, you know. Your daughter decided to volunteer me to bake cupcakes for the entire class tomorrow for their Friday celebration, but of course, my pan for said cupcakes isn’t here.”
I shake my head, picturing the scene perfectly—Josie standing in the kitchen, hands on her hips, probably glaring at an empty cabinet while our kid watches like she didn’t just throw her mom under the bus.
“You could always go grab ‘em from HEB.”
Si steps up to me then, the last lone key dangling from his outstretched fingers. Sweat darkens his shirt, and his eyes carry the same exhaustion I feel. I give him a nod as he drops them into my hand, the metal cool against my heated skin.
“You bite your tongue, Vik Eriksson. I can’t give these uppity moms any more ammo for their hate campaign.”
“Oooh, she’s bringing out the last name. Don’t forget, baby, it’s yours too. And don’t give those women a second thought, Josie. You’re twice the mom they’ll ever be.”
She sighs, the sound full of truths she already knows but still needs to hear sometimes.
The women in town give her a hard time simply because she’s married to me and associated with the club.
Half of them don’t raise their own kids, and the other half wouldn’t dare say a word to her face because deep down their bitch asses know they couldn’t handle what my wife would deal out if they found the balls.
“You’re such an idiot, you know that?”
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot, baby. And you’re stuck with me forever.”
Pushing the door open with my shoulder, I kick it closed behind me once I’m inside. The room smells of fresh bleach and mildew, the air stale and unmoving.
I chuck my bag on the bed. The blanket has its fair share of cigarette burns, and the mattress sags in the middle—more than a little worn in.
Unclipping my holster, I lay it and my piece on the nightstand, the comfortable weight leaving my side before I move to the bathroom to take a leak.
The bathroom light flickers when I flip the switch, buzzing overhead like it’s on a dance floor and not the ceiling of a seedy motel.
The sink drips in a constant rhythm, the mirror above it foggy with old water spots that the room cleaner obviously couldn’t be bothered with.
The tile beneath my boots has a large stain that could only be from one thing, but I don’t give a damn right now.
“Are you going to answer me? I need to head out.”
“Yeah, baby. Someone should be there. I’m gonna get settled in here, then I have a meeting with Patch tonight. Text me when you get home and before you go to bed tonight. Actually, better yet, send me a picture of you in bed showing me just how much you miss me.”
She scoffs, but I catch the smile in it even if she doesn’t agree. Her I love you comes before the call ends, and the quiet descends, pointing out my lonely night ahead.
“Fuckkkk,” I moan as my bladder empties, relief rolling through me hard enough to make my head fall back. We decided to cut the last stop to get in sooner, and we won’t be making the same call on the way home.
When I’m done, I scrub a hand down my face and stare at my distorted reflection for a second longer than necessary. Wind chafed cheeks. Beard rough. Eyes tired yet sharp enough to catch any bullshit tonight if it’s laid at my feet.
I turn the shower on and wait as the pipes rattle, coughing up rust-tinged water before it finally runs clear.
Slowly stripping off my clothes, I feel each ache as it announces the changes in my older body.
Fifteen years ago, the ride out here was nothing but a quick way to get to a fresh pool of hot pussy.
Now, it’s a necessary but unwelcome trip away from my girls.
The hot water hits my body like a new lease on the day, steam filling the cramped space as I brace my hands against the tiled wall and let my head drop forward, stretching the tight muscles in my neck. Scrubbing hard, grime and sweat spiral down the drain, as I wash the ride off me piece by piece.
Patch doesn’t like wasting time, and neither do I. Whatever this meeting is about on his end, I need a clear head. By the time I shut the water off, my skin is red, my muscles loose, and my mind sharper than it’s been all day.
I dry off, pull on clean jeans, a fresh shirt, and throw on my cut before holstering up again. Their weight feels as comforting as a hug from my own kid.
With a couple of hours to kill, I grab the keys to my bike and the room and head in search of some food to line my stomach in preparation for tonight.