Page 75 of Running from Drac
“And I’m hoping one day to change your mind. But I need this right now, Amber, and the guy has the bikes to sell today. I don’t want to hold off and someone else snatch them up before I have a chance to buy them.”
“Them? As in plural?”
“Yeah, I’m buying a bike for Wesley, too. Gives him something to look forward to when he gets out. We’re gonna start a motorcycle club. It’s gonna be called the Elm Street Riders MC. It’ll be the first horror villain themed club in Nevada.”
“That sounds dangerous, Eddie. Motorcycle gangs are reckless and scary.”
“It’s not a gang, Amber.” My voice drops into a low growl. I hate that MCs always have to come with that stigma. Sure, I want my club to be one percent, but that doesn’t mean wehave to be the kind of guys that give bikers a bad name. “And I’m not asking for your permission on this one. This is just something I have to do.”
“Fine. If you want to kill yourself, Eddie, go right ahead, but don’t think for one minute that you’re going to convince me to get on that death trap. Where are you getting the money for this, anyway? I thought you were broke?”
Shit! How do I tell her I have hundreds of thousands of dollars, without telling her I have hundreds of thousands of dollars?
“The guy’s practically giving them away.” This time I’m not lying. What the guy is asking for his bike is crazy as fuck.
“I’m gonna go. I hear Pippa and Poppy shouting my name.”
“Amber, please don’t hang up mad—”
She cuts me off. “It’s too late for that, Eddie. If you buy these bikes, I’m not going to be happy.”
The phone clicks without her even saying goodbye. Shit, she doesn’t even say I love you. I know she’s upset about her mom, but for her to completely shut down just because I want a motorcycle is insane.
“Want me to text the guy and tell him you changed your mind?” Rich asks quietly.
I shake my head. “No. I’m not going to let Amber douse my dreams. She’ll get over it… eventually.”
Rich smirks like he knows better. We both do.
We pull up to a two-story house sitting on a corner lot. It has a wide garage, and a neatly trimmed yard with one of those white picket fences people talk about. Out front, four bikes glisten in the Nevada sun, chrome flashing like the hilt of a knife. They’re beautiful, like a line of metal gods sleeping in the heat.
We park just outside the fence, and almost instantly the front door swings open. A little girl bolts out laughing as she’s chased by a tall man wearing a biker cut.
“Iris, you come back here,” he calls after her.
She’s tiny, maybe five or six, with dirty blonde hair that flies behind her like a cape. There’s a glittery fake tattoo on her arm. It’s a butterfly with neon pink wings. She’s got scuffed sneakers and a sparkly blue tutu over jean shorts. She clutches something to her chest and stops just short of the fence line, panting.
“Daddy, that scary guy is back!”
Rich shifts uncomfortably before tugging his mask into place. The last thing he wants is to scare a kid.
The girl darts behind the man’s legs as he approaches the gate. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with arms thick from years of riding. His dark brown hair is cropped close to his ears, and he’s got a tired but kind look behind his sharp blue eyes. There’s something about him, almost like a dangerous calm. You can tell he’s a man who’s seen too much and barely lived to share his story.
“Good to see you again, Rich,” he says, offering a firm handshake.
His eyes shift to me. “And you must be Eddie?”
I nod taking his offered hand. His shake is perfect, hard and firm with nothing but respect. “Thanks for letting us stop by.”
“No problem. The name’s Oliver, but everyone calls me Cipher.”
I notice the patches on his cut. It’s different from what I’ve seen around town. This one has two rectangles: one reading LE and the other MC, both scrawled in stitched Old English lettering.
“Like the patch?” he asks, catching me staring.
“Just never seen one like that. I’m used to seeing the one percent diamonds.”
Cipher’s face hardens. “Ah. You in a club?”
