Coiled Truth: Black Cobras MC

Angelica

The engine roared, blocking out the sound of traffic. It was hard to keep a train of thought with the constant buzzing and the sound of the engine revving when I hit the throttle. Still, the questions that I hoped to leave behind as I rode kept coming to the forefront of my mind. What am I missing? What can I tell the Captain to make him think this assignment is going to be successful? Bikers always talked about how the open road helped them feel free and took all their worries away, but that wasn’t something I was feeling yet.

There was a loud sound, more of an explosion than a pop, and the bike stopped responding to my grip. It pulled hard to the left, dangerously close to the dashed white line that kept the traffic apart. I tugged the handlebars hard, trying to keep from swerving in front of the cars in the other lane as I slowed down. I heard honks from some of the cars behind me and felt the rush of wind as they swerved around me without slowing. It took all my strength and skill as a rider to get the bike over to the shoulder of the highway, where I put the kickstand down and shut off the ignition. I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of traffic for a moment so I could calm down, and got off the bike to inspect the damage.

The back tire had blown out, a big hole flapping in the rubber and pieces littered all along the last few feet of highway. I scanned the area around me to try and get an idea of where I was, but it was hard to say with the low light of the sinking sun. This part of the road had almost no streetlights, and the scenery looked the same as every stretch of 1-95 in this part of Central Florida, the cracked pavement surrounded by dense forest and palm trees. A lone billboard off the distance was blank, half of an old advertisement for a personal injury lawyer faded and flapping in the occasional breeze.

Call Nichelle, I said, and I heard the little computerized voice in my helmet say, Calling Nichelle.

Where are you? Your crab is going to get eaten if you don’t show up soon! Nichelle rarely bothered with greetings or pleasantries, getting right to the point so she could find out what she wanted to know as fast as possible. It was an occupational hazard of what we did, I supposed.

Why? Who all is over there?

Just me, but these crabs smell amazing and I need a distraction, she sighed. Pepe never called.

Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I’m sure he’ll call tomorrow, I said, though we both knew there was no way to know that for sure. Listen, I need a favor. I blew out a tire on 95. Call me a tow truck or something? Once this gets sorted out, I’ll come right over so we talk about Pepe.

No. You know who you have to call, she said.

"Man, it’s my night off. I want to eat crabs and watch Love and Hip Hop. I don’t want to deal with him," I responded, but my heart sank even as I said it.

That’s what Angelica wants. What would Angel do?

I didn’t answer. Angel would do things according to club rules, just as I followed the rulebook they’d given us in police academy training to the letter. It was important not to break rules and blur lines, no matter the organization you were dealing with.

Fine. I’ll call him. Put my crabs in the fridge, I’m coming for them tomorrow, I said, hanging up before she could object.

Call Drew, I told the helmet, and I felt my heart beat a little faster as the phone started to ring, unsure if I wanted him to answer or not. The prospect of more time alone with Drew was equal parts thrilling and terrifying, like being at the front of the line to ride a roller coaster and not knowing whether to run away or take the ride. No matter how hard I tried not to get more involved with him, the nature of my assignment was to get fully entangled in the world of the Cobras and he was their King.

What’s going on, Angel? he said. In the background I could hear the sounds of Jerry Springer’s talk show, men cheering and screaming at the screen as women threw food at each other.

I blew a tire. Are you at the clubhouse? Could you come help me?

Anything for my future old lady. Where are you? I let the comment slide and tried again to find a route marker.

I’m not really sure. I was heading down to Port Orange, so I’m on the side of 95 South somewhere, I said. Just past South Daytona, I think.

What you doing down there? The noise was gone and instead I heard the door frame slamming and him heading down the stairs. He was on the way already. I’d have my arms looped around his body in just a few minutes. The idea made me equal parts excited and nauseous.

Uhhh, my cousin works over at Grandma’s Salmon Shack. She said come by for a free plate, but obviously I won’t make it in time now, I added the lie to my mental bank of facts about Angel. Cousins and old friends were easy to invent when you were in a jam but keeping track of the lies later was harder.

Too bad. The hushpuppies there are pretty fucking bomb. I’m leaving now, I’ll see you soon, he said. While I waited for him to arrive, I quickly scanned the bike and my backpack for any obvious clues that might give me away. Thankfully, I’d left most of my stuff in my locker at the station, so I only had the bare minimum with me. As I stared out into the distance, watching pairs of headlights approach and looking for a single one, I ran through the basics of my character in my head.

Angel Jean Jones, born in Holly Hill, lives in a motel room in Daytona Beach. Father taught her to ride, died suddenly when she was twelve, left her his bike in his will. Dropped out of high school, did some shoplifting, a few nights in jail last year. Works as a bartender and sometimes a dancer at Pokey’s Gentleman’s Club.

Finally, I saw his bike pull up. He walked up to my bike, kneeling down and inspecting the tire, before getting up and locking his eyes on me. The setting sun brought out the red undertones of his brown skin, sweat glistening across the front of his forehead and along the top of his bald head. In Nikes, jeans, and a plain gray T-shirt under his cut, he looked like every other club member. But he walked with a swagger that let anyone who watched him know he was a figure of authority, someone not be questioned or messed with.

You’re lucky you didn’t end up with some road rash, or worse, he said, looking at my bare arms.

Shit, don’t I know it, I said. Shook me up a little. Thanks for coming to help.

Surprised you didn’t call Taylor, he said, brushing his hands off on his jeans and reaching over to take the keys out of the ignition.

I shrugged. You’re the president of the club and this is a club bike. I hoped he’d leave it at that.

Maybe. Or maybe you think of me before him; you just don’t want to admit it, he said. Come on.

I followed him back to his bike and he motioned for me to get on the back.

You’re just going to leave it here? I hesitated, looking at the bike. It wasn’t an expensive one, but it rode well, and I hated to see it get damaged any worse.

I’ll send the prospects back to deal with it, he said as he started his bike and the engine roared to life. Let’s get out of here. I put my arms around his waist and grasped my hands together tightly as he pulled off fast and sped into the night. He drove much faster than I did, and I struggled to balance my weight so I could keep some space between us. We stopped at a stoplight and he glanced back, half smiling at me.

You stop being so stiff and lean into it, the ride will feel much smoother, he said.

Bet that’s what you say to all the ladies, I tossed back, and he laughed as the light turned green, pulling away fast and then stopping lightly so I fell into him. I shook my head and went with it, tightening my arms and letting my chest rest along his back, my braids swinging lightly as they settled on him.

Now we can really ride, he said, cranking the throttle and speeding towards the clubhouse.

Drew

I pushed open the front door and inhaled the signature scent of the Black Cobras clubhouse, a mix of stale cigarette smoke and fresh blunts full of doja with a splash of frying grease and cool water cologne. The clubhouse was loud, though the crowd was thinner than usual. Just the boys and a few of the hang arounds and associates who would come by to try and score drugs or just drink free beers until someone kicked them out.

Right inside the door, parked on the couches in front of the TV, Vasquez sat fiddling with his laptop. He gave me a distracted wave as he showed Nate something on the screen. Against the back wall, sitting at the poker table, I saw Shivers and some chick he’d picked up a few days before that didn’t seem to want to go home anytime soon, talking to Taylor. Over their heads, we’d tacked and pasted pictures of every bike the club had ever owned, some taken with old-fashioned cameras back in my Pops’s day, others printed from social media accounts and smartphones.

It was always chaos because I liked it that way, and I was