For a long time, we didn’t move.
Eventually, he lifted me off and cradled me in his lap, hands stroking my back, my hair, the curve of my ass. “You okay?” he asked, real concern in his voice.
I nodded, dizzy and happy and spent. “More than okay.”
We sat that way, naked except for boots and the helmet staring at us like a pervert, until the edge of the sky went pink. My teeth started to chatter, and he wrapped me in his jacket, zipping it up so the collar covered my mouth.
He found his shirt and pulled it over my head, then dressed himself, never taking his eyes off me for more than a second. When I was decent, he reached into his jeans and pulled out a silver ring, dull and battered, nothing fancy.
He took my hand and pressed the ring into my palm, closing my fingers around it. “It was my mom’s,” he said, voice rough. “Last thing I had before the world went to shit. I want you to have it.”
I tried to give it back. “I can’t—”
He shook his head. “I want you to. Besides, it might bring you luck. God knows you’ll need it.”
I slid it onto the chain with my cross, letting both hang close to my heart. “Thank you,” I said, voice barely audible.
He kissed me, slow and sweet, then helped me up. We straddled the bike, me in front this time, his arms locked around my waist. The city below was waking up, the first semis rumbling down the interstate, the smog haze turning gold.
He gunned the engine, but kept the volume down this time. We rolled away from the overlook, the sun at our backs, the night still heavy on our skin.
18
Axel/Darla
We rode into Fable Christian Church like it was Normandy, and we were expecting machine guns behind the stained glass. Sunday morning, sun glaring off a hundred parked minivans and F-150s, every old lady in Lexington already crowding the steps in floral print and pastel hats. Vin took the lead, me on his six, Shivs and Canon fanning out behind. Our pipes weren’t just loud—they were a declaration of war.
We parked right at the foot of the stairs, front tires kissing the sacred curb. I could see the ushers twitch, a wave of panic hitting their comb-overs as they realized the “biker problem” from the evening news was now a live event. The choir was still singing inside, voices floating out through the open sanctuary doors, but the real show was about to start on the lawn.
Vin swung off his Road Glide and stretched his back like he owned the whole damn block. He scanned the crowd, zeroing in on the highest-value targets: the pearl-wearing matriarchs, thedads in golf shirts trying to corral their sons. He flipped open a manila envelope and fanned out a stack of flyers, the black-and-white pages barely able to contain the grainy warehouse photos, the manifests, the blurry faces behind the bars. Above it all, the headline: “THE TRUE WORK OF FABLE CHRISTIAN—SEE IT FOR YOURSELF.”
Shivs handed flyers to kids first—smart, because once a kid starts screaming, every adult looks up. Canon, never one for subtlety, just dropped stacks on the hoods of minivans, windshield wipers holding down the evidence. DJ wandered the perimeter, filming everything on a GoPro strapped to his cut, making sure nobody missed a moment. Even Red had shown up, despite her professed loathing for organized religion, and she was already cornering the local Channel 3 camera guy for a “statement.”
The congregation was a perfect spectrum of panic. Some tried to ignore us, gripping their Bibles like shields, but most couldn’t look away. I watched as the flyers hit the hands of a group of church deacons—they scanned the images, eyes going wide at the sight of unmarked crates, then flicked up in unison, straight at the church doors. A few guys in security polos, ex-jocks gone soft, started herding women and kids behind the columns. It was almost touching, until you remembered half these assholes were in on the scam.
Vin caught my eye and jerked his head, like, “Your move, kid.” I got it. This was my op, my beef, but I wasn’t feeling the victory yet. Not until I saw her.
Darla.
She was framed perfectly in the front pew, visible through the huge open doors, light slashing across her face in stripes through the stained glass. Her hair was pinned up, too many bobby pins for fashion and not enough for security. She wore a blue dress that probably met every inch of the church’s modesty code, butthe fabric hugged her hips in a way that was pure rebellion. She gripped her hymnal so tight the tendons stood out on the backs of her hands. Around her neck was the chain, my old silver ring threaded next to her cross, hidden but not invisible.
I felt the hit like a sucker punch. All my tough-guy posturing, the bravado and the beer, and there she was—scared, angry, beautiful, and impossibly brave. I raised my hand in a casual wave, not sure she’d see me, but she did. Her face flickered through a hundred emotions in a second: shock, terror, then a fierce kind of pride that made my whole body lock up. She dipped her chin, once. That was all I needed.
The choir finished their song, a reedy “Onward Christian Soldiers” that would have been funny if not for the sheer number of actual soldiers outside the building. And then, as if the drama had been waiting for him, Reverend Maple appeared at the doors.
He didn’t walk. He glided, every step choreographed like a politician on a debate stage. His suit was tailored, red tie brighter than a blood drop, every hair in place. He paused at the top of the steps, one hand raised, a smile already loaded for the news crews.
“Brothers and sisters!” he called out, voice booming like he’d been practicing in the mirror. “Welcome, friends and guests! What a blessing to have such… lively interest in today’s service.”
He steepled his fingers, a move I’d seen a hundred times in his office when he was about to tear someone down without raising his voice. He scanned the crowd—didn’t acknowledge us by name, not yet. That was the trick, to act as if the wolves on your porch were nothing but stray puppies. He waited, letting the silence stretch, watching the flyers pass hand-to-hand.
Vin laughed, a deep-chested rumble that drew every head. “Nice tie, preacher. You dress up for us?”
Maple kept smiling, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “I dress for the Lord, son. But you’re welcome to take notes.”
Canon, always the poet, added, “You gonna read them their rights, or just their last rites?”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, the tension snapping between curiosity and outright fear. Some of the old men on the council tried to shield the women, but it was like throwing up an umbrella in a tornado. I saw the principal of the church school—Mrs. O’Hara—pull a flyer from a kid’s hand, then nearly drop it when she saw the photos. She looked up at Reverend Maple, her eyes huge and pleading.
