CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE RUNWAY’S BEEN turned into a carnival. Fires burn in metal drums, half-dressed girls are dancing to the music that’s pounding out of the speakers, and the sound of engines revving is deafening. Floodlights turn everything white-hot and unreal.
Up ahead, a makeshift stage has been rigged on the back of a flatbed truck. Billy sits on a chair at its center, leather vest open, no shirt. A girl straddles one of his thighs, dancing on his lap. When he sees us approaching, he smiles.
"Well, well. Now that’s an entrance.”
Maze pushes past the first row of onlookers and heads for the back of the stage, kicking open the door of a trailer. Inside, it’s lined with event supplies: boxes of merchandise, stacks of water bottles, clipboards, and a small table with a first aid kit.
He sets me down on a plastic chair. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, massaging his shoulder.
I try to lunge up but the chair topples sideways. Maze catches it before I hit the ground, swearing again, then pulls a fresh zip tie from his pocket and binds my wrists to the chair.
“Rox!” he roars. “We need to fucking do something about this.”
She appears in front of me, and kneels.
“Max, babe,” she says softly. “You gotta calm down, okay, honey?” She unscrews the cap of a water bottle and presses it to my lips.
I choke, coughing water down my chin. “He’s in the booth,” I rasp. “They’re going to kill him.”
“Holy fuck,” Maze says to Rox. “It’s like she just snapped. What did you give her?”
“I only gave her the M-30 you gave me!” Rox replies, defensive. “I don’t fucking know what happened.”
Maze runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “Maybe give her another? She’s gonna hurt herself.”
For half a second, Rox hesitates. Then she stands, reaches into his vest pocket, and pulls out a foil package.
“Here,” she says, bending down in front of me again, another blue pill between her fingers.
I wail, the zip ties cutting into my wrists. “Wy-att!”
“I know, honey.” Her voice is soft. “Here, take this. I promise this is going to help.”
I’m exhausted. Despair seeps into every part of me, mixing with hopelessness. Wyatt is suffering and I can’t get to him. The fight is going out of me.
Rox presses the pill between my lips and I let her.
“Swallow, Maxie,” she says, lifting the water bottle again.
I do. This time, I manage to drink down the water without spilling anything over my chin.
“There,” she says softly. “You’re okay. It’s okay now.”
I’m not. I just can’t scream anymore.
She brushes damp strands of hair from my face. Her fingers trail gently over my scalp, petting like she’s soothing a child.
The sobs come in broken gasps, quieter and shallow. I’m so far from the paint booth now. And tied up. How will I ever get to him? He’ll die in there and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Rox keeps stroking my hair. “Just breathe for me,” she says. “You’re safe right now, okay? Nobody’s gonna hurt you in here.”
The chair creaks as I lean back against it, eyes half-lidded, despair creeping through every part of me and mixing with something worse. Apathy. There’s nothing I can do.
“I’m right here,” Rox is saying. “We’ve got you, Maxie. We’re gonna get through the rest of tonight, yeah?”
The floodlights outside make a buzzing sound like hornets.
I can hear it even over the music thumping beyond the trailer walls.
All of these people, dancing, shouting, having a good time.
And a hundred yards from here, he’s alone in a soundproof box.
A man is going to die and they don’t know or don’t care.
It’s absurd that the world is still turning out there, and I feel like I’m locked behind a glass, watching it move.
Rox wipes my cheeks again, then my chin, with a gentle, careful touch. Then she stands and moves to the stack of boxes by the far wall, digging through them.
She pulls a t-shirt out of a stack in a merch box and holds it against herself to check the size. Across the chest, in blocky, cracked lettering, it reads: “DISORDERED: RIDE HARD, STAY HARD” above a skull with flaming pistons for eyes.
“Okay,” she mutters. “This’ll do. Free her hands so I can dress her.”
Maze gives her a skeptical look, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
Rox walks back and crouches in front of me.
“She’s calm now,” she says to him, checking my eyes. “Aren’t you? You’re okay, right, babe?”
I just stare. Tears spill freely down my face, steady and quiet like a faucet left running. I couldn’t stop them if I tried.
Rox nods at Maze and he steps behind me. With two sharp snaps, the zip-ties break.
My arms feel hollow as they fall forward. My wrists tingle.
Maze reaches roughly under my arms and lifts them up, and Rox pulls the t-shirt down over my head. I don’t resist, but I don’t help. I’m soft and pliant like a doll.
“That’s pretty good, right?” Rox asks, standing back to assess.
Maze snorts. “She looks like a drunk college kid in biker merch.”
They look at me, heads tilted, sizing me up. Finally, Maze says, “We gotta bring her to him.”
He lifts one of my arms, slides his around my back, and hauls me to my feet. My legs buckle instantly. He catches me with a grunt, holding tight.
“Put your feet flat and stand on them, honey,” Rox says gently.
I look down to see my bare feet curling over, toes on the ground. I consider for a moment if I even could flatten my feet if I wanted to. Maybe, but it seems like too much work.
“Fuck,” says Maze.
Rox bends down and touches both feet, placing them on the ground.
“‘Kay,” she says. “Try walking now. You have to.”
Maze steps forward and reflexively my feet start moving, one in front of the other, even though Maze is holding up most of my weight.
I feel him sigh against me and we move forward to the door.
He hoists me up against his hip and carries me down the three metal steps.
And then they walk me toward the stage—and Billy.
The last rays of sunset have dropped below the horizon, and under the dark sky the lights from headlamps and string lights and barrel fires makes the event look even more bacchanalian. Hundreds of people mill around the stage.
Billy is commanding the spotlight, mic in hand now, no sign of the woman on stage with him anymore, welcoming a group of men who file up beside him.
“Let’s hear it for the real kings of the road,” Billy booms. “On my right, Lucas of the Grave Sons and Reaper Jack of the Iron Order, our closest allies. On my left, Snake of the Vagos and Big Mike of the Mongols, neutral but respected. And let’s not forget Red of the motherfucking Bandidos,” he finishes with a grin, “trying to stay in my good graces tonight.”
Red just grins and nods. The crowd roars, each name drawing a surge of cheers and wolf-whistles.
A row of folding chairs lines the back of the stage, but the presidents stand, fanning out in a line behind Billy, a wall of leather and muscle.
As Maze escorts me up the side steps, Billy turns. His expression falters when he sees me.
He covers the mic and leans away, speaking to Maze. “What the hell? She looks like shit.”
Maze shrugs, deferential but defensive. “Did my best, man. She’s a mess.”
Billy exhales sharply, then pastes his grin back on and steps center stage, voice booming again.
“Now, everyone say hi to Max. She’s been part of the O.D.
family a long while, and for me, she’s always been a good luck charm.
Every time I took a win, I had her nearby.
So tonight, we’re going to put her to the test and see if she can bring any luck to the other clubs. ”
He gestures broadly, drawing attention to me as Maze gently lowers me into a chair placed center stage. I slump down, weightlessness spreading like smoke in my bloodstream.
Billy paces in front of the line of presidents. “She may look like she’s used up some of that luck, but don’t worry, gentlemen. She comes with a few simple instructions for use.”
He lifts his hand theatrically.
“Here’s how it works. A kiss on the cheek, start your engines right. A little lap dance, feel the rhythm. A boob squeeze, double your chances. Flash her to the crowd, overtake the frontrunner. And a kiss on the lips?” He pauses, grinning wickedly. “Seal the fucking deal.”
Laughter erupts. Red from the Bandidos calls out, “What if we want a private blessing?”
Billy doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, if you’re falling behind, maybe it’s time to take Max backstage and try your luck the old-fashioned way.”
The crowd erupts into raucous cheers. The sound rolls over me like a wave crashing, indistinct and far away. I’m floating over the surface of it all. The lights smear when I blink. Everything feels three seconds too late.
“First heat’s live in ten!” Billy calls. “Representing the Mongols, Iron Order, and our little brothers, the Grave Sons. Who wants the edge?”
Big Mike of the Mongols, a wide-chested man with a belly to match, steps forward and drops onto the chair beside me, throwing an arm around my shoulders.
“Gimme all the luck you’ve got, sweetheart,” he says, then plants a sloppy, drawn-out kiss on my mouth.
My eyes don’t close. My body doesn’t react. I notice the pores on his nose and the folds in his eyelids as he pushes his tongue into my lifeless mouth.
He pulls back and smacks his lips. “Fuck, I feel luckier already.”
Cheers, shouts, laughter. It all blurs into one roaring noise.
Reaper Jack from the Iron Order is next. His face is lean, almost gaunt, with a gray-streaked beard and bloodshot eyes. He takes the other chair beside me, leans in close, and grabs my limp hand. He presses it into the bulge in his jeans and starts grinding against it.
“Warm me up, baby,” he says, grinding himself against my hand. His eyes never leave my face.
Billy’s voice jumps in from the mic. “Whoa! Here’s someone who’s not afraid to push the envelope. Reaper Jack isn’t going to take any chances on missing out on this luck.”