When Brian reaches the table, he acts as if I'm sitting alone. He grabs my arm and says, "Let's go now."
Everest ignores me as I get up. He's watching the four other bikers coming toward our table. All I can read in Brian's eyes is determination. Catherine whispers behind me, but I can't understand what she's saying.
I grab my leather jacket from the bench and follow Brian. I don't really have a choice since his hold on my arm is strong. We reach the others, but Brian keeps walking, and as we move away, he says, "Don't wait for me. I need to remind her who's the boss."
We get a few catcalls, and I think I see the hint of a smile on Brian's lips. We keep walking until we reach a parking area where a younger guy is watching over the machines. His cut is almost bare except for the Iron Tornadoes logo and a "prospect" patch.
Interesting how a bunch of guys who are supposed to be rebelling against society and setting up new rules are actually recreating the most traditional initiation rites. They are no different from the army or religious orders or even college fraternities. Men are reinventing the wheel over and over again. MC prospects are just like the candidates for all those groups—they get to do all the grunt work for one year and get mistreated for another one or two until they've swallowed enough crap to be admitted as full members of the team.
The young prospect can't be a day over eighteen. When he spots Brian, he stands up taller, like a solider standing to attention. But then that's precisely what he is: a soldier of organized crime. Okay, maybe I'm being unfair. He's a soldier in a motorcycle club that harbors criminals. He probably has no idea what's really going on. He'd need to be higher in the food chain to know stuff.
That's when the million-dollar question pops into my brain. Did Brian skip the prospect trial period? Less than a year ago, he was in the police academy. I have no clue about rank insignia in general, but I'm pretty sure that some of the patches on his jacket indicate he's not low on the totem poll. What did he do that allowed him a quick rise through the ranks? As he starts his engine, I wonder if I really know him at all anymore.
"Helmet," he barks at the prospect, who hands him one from a pile at his feet.
"Get your sweet butt over here," he says, patting the saddle behind him and putting on his own helmet, which had been resting on the handlebar of his ride.
I roll my eyes but climb on behind him. When I'm settled, I sit as straight up as I can and grab on to the backrest. He turns his head and laughs. "Seriously, babe?"
It takes me about five seconds before I give up on the uncomfortable position. I let go of the metal bars of the backrest and wrap myself against him. Right away, one of his hands comes to rest on mine for a second, and strangely, this simple gesture makes my heart flutter. The Brian I know, the one who's always taken care of me, is still somewhere in there. I rest my head against his back and close my eyes. Who cares where we're going? The instant is delicious.
But when we stop and I open my eyes, I become aware that I should know better.
We're in land, in the middle of nowhere, next to the club's main house. I've never been here before but I know. The property must have been a farm to begin with. There's a main house, a very wide A-frame, and then a few other buildings that must have been barns and stables. The doors of one of the largest buildings are open, and it looks like it's been turned into a motorcycle repair shop. We've stopped a few feet away from the house on a patch of concrete, which must have been poured to create a solid surface for parking.
There are a few tables outside. About a dozen men, all sporting the club colors, are sitting or standing around the tables. They're having what seems to be a serious conversation. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or worried by the fact that reality doesn't match the fiction in my head. I would have sworn it would be like a permanent frat house orgy, but I'm the only female in sight.
"We're going to my crib," Brian says. "You stay silent till we get there." His tone doesn't leave room for discussion, and frankly, I'm so out of my comfort zone again that I'm at loss for words. I just nod.
As we get closer to the table, the guys interrupt their conversation.
"Hey, Ice, you've got luscious fresh meat!"
"Mind your manners, Lobster," Brian barks at him.
"Why? You're not gonna share that one? Come on, there’s enough of her for two!" Lobster's a chubby guy with red hair and tons of freckles. I'm not sure how tall he is since he's sitting at the table, but he's a beefy type of man. He's the sort of person who makes me understand why eighteenth-century doctors came up with bleeding as medical treatment—when I see people as crimson as he is, I feel this insane urge to prick them with a needle just to see what would happen.
"But if you don’t want to share, that’s fine with me. We could take turns. Maybe she would like to come visit me after you're done with her," he says to Brian, and then he looks at me and asks, "Hey, sweet butt, wanna know why they call me Lobster?"
I glance in Brian's direction, and with a very slight tilt of the head, he lets me know that I'm not allowed to answer, so I just shake my head.
"Because the sweetest and most impressive part of me is my tail," he says, and then he guffaws. The men sitting at the table laugh as well, but I have the feeling they're also laughing at him, and one of them looks almost embarrassed.
Brian keeps on going, pulling me behind him. "See you later, brothers," he says as we enter the house.