Page 95 of Riding the Edge

Hurrying to catch up with him, I grab a pair of leggings and shimmy them on.

“Lady,” he calls, causing me to look over my shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“We’re riding,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head. Judging by the tone of his voice and the steel in his eyes, there is no room for argument and to be honest, I don’t want to fight him on it either. Make no mistake about it, I’m not eager to throw my leg over a bike but I am desperate to help him in any way I can. If that means getting on the back of a motorcycle, then so be it.

Sliding my feet into a pair of slip-on sneakers, I pull a t-shirt over my head and hurry out of the bedroom. By the time I reach the front door, he’s got his boots on and is leaning against the frame. Grabbing my hand, he ushers me out of the house and towards his bike that is parked on my driveway. He digs into the saddlebags and pulls out a helmet. Without a word, he fits it to my head and adjusts the chin strap.

Hopping onto the bike, he grabs the handlebars and eyes me expectantly. My palms sweat, and I bite the inside of my cheek as I stare at the death trap in front of me. If someone would’ve told me I’d be climbing onto a motorcycle at forty-eight years old, I’d laugh in their face. Then again, my smart mouth would’ve had a few choice words for the person who also told me I’d be falling head over heels in love with a biker named Wolf, too.

My daughter is a big believer in detours, something she’s learned through Riggs and his late friend Bones. She says you might not always travel the path you planned, but that doesn’t mean you won’t end up exactly where you belong. I suppose Al and I have found our detour in one another.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, I place a hand on Al’s shoulder and hoist my leg over the Harley. Seated behind him, I grip his shoulders and get used to the feel of the vibration between my legs.

No wonder these things are all the rage.

Taking my hands from his shoulders, Al pulls my attention back to him as he lowers my arms and wraps them tightly around his midsection.

“I got you, Lady,” he calls over his shoulder.

Swallowing the lump lodged in my throat, I close my eyes as he revs the engine and peels out of the driveway. Instinctively my grip tightens around him and I hold on for dear life, all the while keeping my eyes tightly shut. I silently pray to Saint Anthony that we make it safely to wherever it is we’re going and vow never to ride again. But then something strange happens ten minutes into our ride and I feel compelled to open my eyes. It’s almost as if there is a voice whispering against my ear, encouraging me to spit in the face of fear and live for the moment.

My eyes flutter open and I lift my chin allowing it to rest on Al’s shoulder. The wind rushes over me as he masterfully guides us through the streets of Brooklyn and soon I give myself over to the adrenaline. My death grip loosens and a smile spreads across my face.

Another experience to check off the list.

As we continue to ride, I become more comfortable, mimicking Al’s body and leaning into curves. He starts to slow past the gates of the former compound of the Satan’s Knights and I feel slightly disappointed that our time riding has come to an end. Al throws down the kickstand, and the engine dies as he slowly turns to me.

“You okay?” he asks, lifting his hand to my cheek.

I search his eyes for a moment before nodding and covering his hand with mine. This isn’t about me. It’s not about taking a ride on the wild side or checking things off a bucket list. We’re not here because of my demons.

“I’m fine,” I reply quickly. Removing my hand from his, I undo the chin strap and remove the helmet from my head as he dismounts from the bike. Taking it from my hands, he hangs it on the handlebars and glances across the lot. Silence stretches between us as I climb off the Harley. Smoothing down my hair, I tuck the stray strands behind my ears and step beside Al.

“I don’t remember the last time I was here,” I start, following the path of his eyes. “When did they excavate?”

He doesn’t answer me as he shoves his hands in his pockets and strides towards the area where the clubhouse used to be. Instead of repeating the question, I watch him stare into space and give him a moment to collect his thoughts.

“There’s nothing left,” he points out. “Not a trace.”

After bomb tore this place to shreds, the ruins remained for quite some time, making it fair to assume they were waiting for the insurance adjusters to come and assess the situation. I, myself, wondered if they would rebuild but no one ever discussed it and it wasn’t my business to question, then Riggs bought the bar and any talk of this place being restored was shut down.

“It’s like the last thirty years never happened,” he continues, turning to face me. “Like the Satan’s Knights never existed.”

Cocking my head, I meet his gaze and spot the confliction in his eyes.

“A memory lives forever,” I tell him.

He nods, diverting his eyes.

“The times are changing.”

“Is this about the bar?” I question softly.

“This is about everything,” he admits. “It’s about Jack losing his mind and the club falling apart,” he reveals, jutting his thumb over his shoulder. “When things got bad for us and the situations became more and more hopeless, I’d come here and stare at the pile of debris that was left after the blast. Sometimes I stayed for minutes, other times I sat here for hours, but every time I walked away, knowing what I needed to do. I walked with my head high, ready to fight for everything we built.”

“You’d come here to recharge.”

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