Page 46 of Baker

“He looks sketchy. He acts sketchy. I say he’s sketchy.”

I tossed my hands in the air. “He might be,” I said. “I don’t care. I’m not married to him, I’m just riding his dick.”

As much as I told myself that was the case, the spasm in the pit of my stomach said otherwise.

EIGHTEEN - Baker

Our MC had several rituals, most of which were a result of my superstitious beliefs. For one, on the eve of every job, we went out to eat as a group. Our choice for the night was Hunter Steakhouse. A no-frills dive with a small seating area and large portions, it was known for mouth-watering Prime Rib.

Unlike most motorcycle clubs, we didn’t wear colors. In our opinions, donning a leather vest with a patch stitched on the back wasn’t enough of a commitment. Additionally, the vests drew unwanted attention to the group, making the members a target of the local, state, and federal authorities.

We chose to have the MC’s patch tattooed on our backs. In the club’s eyes, joining the MC was a lifelong pledge; therefore, the patch should be a comparable commitment.

We rode our motorcycles side-by-side, and equally spaced. That formation was maintained regardless of speed, and our speed was ever changing. Cash and I set the pace, as we were in front. If we sped up, the group sped up. If we slowed, the group slowed.

Although we had many choices, we rode our Harleys when riding as a group. A mismatched group of bikes that spanned four decades in age, their only common theme was loud exhaust pipes.

Cash twisted his throttle back and held it in place. I accepted the challenge without question. The high speed would test my body’s ability to absorb the imperfections of California’s roadways.

In half a mile, the group was veering in and out of traffic, changing lanes three at a time, and speeding past vehicles that were moving much slower than the MC’s one hundred miles an hour. The sound from the motorcycle’s exhaust was close to deafening, and stood as a warning against anyone considering getting in our path.

When our headlights illuminated the exit sign to Highway 8, Cash let off the throttle. The laughter and shit-talking started as soon as the sound of our exhaust cackled to a dull roar.

As we rolled into the restaurant’s parking lot, Reno shouted at Cash. “I had mine about half-throttle. Might want to get that ‘Glide checked out. Probably needs a set of rings.”

“Motherfucker doesn’t need rings, asshole,” Cash retorted.

Reno backed his bike into the stall beside Cash and peered over his left shoulder. “Sure acts like something’s wrong with it.”

“Fuck you,” Cash seethed. “There isn’t--”

Ghost backed in beside Reno, positioning his rear tire to be even with the three that were already parked. “Had mine about half-throttle, too. If I’d have pegged it, I’d have climbed up your back fender.”

“Same here,” Goose said dryly. “Had to let off mine. Damned near hit Reno when we took off. I twisted that bitch all the way back, and then I decided you must have just been dicking around. You didn’t have yours pegged, did ya?”

Cash looked at Tito and cocked an eyebrow. “Well?”

Tito situated his bike beside Goose’s and shut it off. “I’m with Reno. I thought I was going to hit Ghost. Maybe there’s something wrong with yours. Plugged exhaust or a bent valve. Something.”

Cash glanced at me, pulled off his helmet, and let out a long breath. “What do you have to say?”

I draped the chin strap of my helmet over the handlebars. “Me?”

“No, motherfucker. I’m talking to the palm tree behind you.”

I turned toward the entrance and brushed the wrinkles from my jeans.

“God damn it, Bake,” Cash whined. “There ain’t nothing wrong with Mary, is there?”

A stripper in Austin, Texas once sucked Cash’s cock so aggressively that one of his nuts swelled to the size of a baseball the next morning. We rode to Phoenix, Arizona, but he couldn’t go another mile. The swollen testicle required thirty-two thousand dollars’ worth of surgery and ten days of antibiotics. Even though he limped for a month afterward, he swore it was the best blowjob he’d ever received.

The human vacuum cleaner’s stage name was Mother Mary. In her memory, Cash graced every post-blowjob Harley he owned with her name.

I turned around and situated my bracelets. “I had another half inch of throttle,” I lied. “You were just playing, weren’t you?”

“Son of a fucking bitch.” He looked at his bike, and then at me. “Seriously?”

“Half, maybe three quarters of an inch, yeah. Why?”