Last Mile

When we got off the interstate, the terrain began to change. We started to wind around curvy roads and climb small hills. I could see the mountains off in the distance. It was hard to imagine an MC staking claim in the backwoods, but apparently that was where the Georgia chapter of the Raiders made their home.

I knew where the roadhouse was long before we reached it. Far off in the distance, I saw a building ablaze with lights, and bikes lining the parking lot. Gavin surprised me by not turning in but parking away from the others. But then I remembered something I had read, that only fully patched members parked their bikes together, and in turn, those bikes were watched over by a prospect. Everyone else was on his own.

After Gavin killed the engine, he glanced over his shoulder at me. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I said—a lie, considering that my anxiety had spiked from zero to a hundred just from being on the Raiders’ property.

When Gavin chuckled, I knew he saw through my line of bullshit. After he stood up and took off his helmet, he helped me. “You’re going to be fine, Vargas.”

I held up a hand. “Please. No more pep talking. I can’t begin to tell you how thankful I am that we’re not wired up tonight, because I would die a thousand deaths before I would want Peterson or the others to see me so fucking fragile.”

“I promise no one will ever know my ball-busting bitch turned chickenshit. Okay?”

I laughed as I smacked his arm playfully. “Thanks.”

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

We started across the parking lot toward the roadhouse. As I worked to control my breathing, Gavin slid a comforting arm around my waist. To others it would look like a possessive move to show ownership over me, but I knew in his mind he was doing it to try to put me at ease.

When we got to the front door, a burly tattooed guy with multiple piercings guarded the entrance. “Can I help you?”

Without missing a beat, Gavin said, “Yeah, we’re here for the party.”

Tattoo Guy smirked skeptically at Gavin. “Is that right?”

“It sure as hell is. Just ask Bishop.”

“You Marley?” When Gavin nodded in acknowledgment, Tattoo Guy stepped aside. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks,” Gavin said.

As we walked in the door, I somewhat expected everyone to turn and stare at us—confirmation of the true outsiders we were. But no one really looked our way, and if they did, we were greeted with a nod of acknowledgment. Across the room, a house band had music pumping out of the speakers, and couples danced on a makeshift dance floor. Others hung around the bar, sipping on beers and mixed drinks.

Gavin started to take a step forward, but I froze. Each time my gaze fell on a biker, he became my father’s murderer standing in front of me. My heartbeat accelerated wildly in my chest, and I fought to breathe. Ducking my head, I pinched my eyes shut and started counting to ten in my mind.

“Sam, are you okay?” Gavin whispered in my ear. The fact that he called me by my first name meant he was truly worried.

“Bathroom. I need a bathroom,” I gasped. When he started to lead me across the room, I jerked back and shook my head. “No. I do this on my own. You go on. I’ll catch up to you.”

Gavin’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Just give me ten to get my shit together.”

He looked as though he wanted to argue with me, so I pulled away from him and started across the floor. At the food table, I spotted the vice president’s wife, Alexandra, bouncing a dark-haired baby boy on her hip. I knew all about her from the files I had read, and just like with the president’s wife, I had been surprised that someone like her, a teacher from a respected, middle-class family, would have taken up with a biker.

“Excuse me. Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.

When her dark eyes met mine, a look of confusion came over her face, which wasn’t too surprising. I was sure she knew all the old ladies, girlfriends, and sweet butts of the club. The expression was quickly replaced by a smile. “Just down the hall from the kitchen,” she replied, motioning to the right.

“Thank you.” Without a word to her or the other women, I made a beeline down the hall. I burst through the door that signified it was for women by a pair of giant carved boobs on it. It was packed full of scantily dressed women fighting for mirror time as they worked on their hair and makeup. I bypassed them and went into one of the stalls.

Once I was safely closed inside, I placed my palms flat against the graffiti-colored walls. I tucked my head to my chest and once again began taking deep, cleansing breaths in and out. In my head, I kept repeating the mantra I had adopted many years ago. I am stronger than my fear. I am stronger than my fear. I am stronger than my fear.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, the overwhelming panic began to dissipate. I started slowly feeling like myself again—my strong, courageous kick-ass self. Pulling my head up, I rolled my shoulders to ease the tension the anxiety had brought on.

With my courage renewed, I focused on the task ahead of me. Throwing open the stall door, I made my way out of the bathroom. After entering the main room, I didn’t even falter when a hulking biker with gleaming silver piercings and arms covered in multicolored tattoos bumped into me. “Sorry, sugar,” he drawled.

I gave him my best smile before craning my neck to search for Gavin. I found him sitting alone at a table, nursing a beer. When I started to get near the table, he jerked his gaze to mine as if he had sensed me approaching.