That's right, yak it up: I had my first date ever in the ransacked living room of a bar owner, in the hours just before dawn, following a dust-up brought on by some mysterious MC. There was both dread and jasmine in the air. He smelled like sweat, with the faintest whiff of that ginger-peach. He wore nothing from the waist up but a few tattoos and a flannel tourniquet, and his legs were poured into leather pants. I slipped the biker a tumbler of ice water and myself a hefty bourbon, and we sat on opposite sides of the sullied couch trading stories. Barely touching, preferring to talk. I asked him how he had gotten into the whole MC racket, and Carter told me he'd loved motorcycles since he was “this high,” and found on leaving high school that he “wasn't fit for any other kind of work.” Got a job working at a Cuban auto shop, took a shine to the many vintage Harleys there, met the right guy at the right time, then bang—the rest was history. And what about me? Skirting the mention of my father's death, I told Knox how my parents had been a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, so it had seemed only proper that their offspring follow in an outlaw's tracks.
What do You think about Forbidden Beauty (Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club)?
