The Pick-up Chapter Five: Storm Riders
The coast road south of Oceanside was dark velvet and silver edges, the full moon throwing its light across the Pacific like a highway painted just for them. Lucky rode low, the Knuckle’s pipes barking steady thunder, Raven following in the Fury, her headlights washing his back like a silent promise.
The wind off the sea carried scents of salt, tar, and a faint electric tingle. A storm was building out over the water, lightning flashing behind a bank of clouds that seemed to crawl closer with every mile.
They pulled into a turnout near Torrey Pines, the ocean below thrashing against black rocks, spray exploding like fireworks in the silver light. Lucky killed the engine, the sudden silence leaving only the crash of waves and the ticking of cooling metal.
Raven slid out of the Fury, boots crunching gravel. Her hair whipped across her face in the salt wind. She leaned against the hood, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag before handing it to him without a word.
He took it, drew deep, and let the smoke curl upward, his eyes fixed on her. “You left him for good this time,” he said softly, not as a question.
She nodded once, the feather in her hair trembling. “I buried that ghost tonight. What I don’t know, Lucky, is what to do with the space it left behind.”
He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Fill it with me,” he said. His voice was rough, the storm and the years in it.
A low rumble of thunder rolled across the horizon. Raven looked past him, out to the endless black of the sea. “You and me, Lucky. We’re not star crossed, we’re 'storm crossed and storm tossed'. Every time we think we’ve escaped it, fate throws us back together in the middle of the fire.”
“Then let’s burn,” he whispered, and kissed her hard, the wind lashing around them like a living thing.
She leaned back from him just a little, eyes locked on his, as she recited for him, for the first time, the poem she had composed for them.
"I call it 'Fire and Shadow of the Eternal Flame' she said, then continued:
"You make longing feel like poems
all soaked in sweat and truth
they flow out unashamedly
sometimes unkempt, uncouth
and as they flow somehow they show
the yearnings of our youth
I come to you as fire and shadow
filling you with pleasured pain
pulsing you to overflowing
striving to relieve the strain
dissolving all that is not us
'til only we remain
we peer behind us, blissfully
into that other worldly place
we feel the beat of our contentment
see the thing that knows our face
our question answered by reply
'this flame may dim but never die'"
Behind them, the storm broke over the ocean, lightning splitting the night in white fire. Somewhere nearby, engines growled and rumbled. Three more riders, shadows on the highway, drawn into the same storm.
They pulled up to the guard rail, head in, outlaw style, their headlights shining on the dune facing the beach. They killed their engines but only one dismounted.
The lead rider, now flying the colors of the Gypsy Jokers, Oakland, jumped the guardrail and stood, starkly illuminated by the headlights as he looked off into the face of the oncoming storm. this man was a local legend in the outlaw biker world.
It was said that as a prospect, his name was Rob or Bob. But the club already had too many of those. So he was constantly being given a hard time for not having a nickname. They had tried out several, but none had stuck.
During one of the harassments, he was wasted, smoking hits from an 8-ball cocktail, half meth, half heroin, as he adjusted the chain tension on his panhead.
The bike was rocked back on the center stand with the engine idling and the tranny in low. The seat with the backrest and the rear fender, was propped up and leaning against the bench he was working from.
He was a moron.
Then, it was reported, he took a long pull off the glass pipe he was using, and during the coughing fit that followed, he passed it off to a brother from another mother.
Then he let out a long, milk curdling scream before sticking the pinky finger of his left hand between the chain and the rear sprocket. The scream cut off abruptly.
Then with a low moan, he reached down with his right hand, plucked up the ruined digit, displayed it to the others and declared with a grinning wince, "I got a name! I'm Three Finger Bob!" Or so it was said. Who knows?
Anyway, Three Finger Bob, the Legend, pulled out a hip flask, took a healthy pull and asked inquiringly "Who wants to ride with us, back to the Golden Gate?" As it turned out, we all did.
That storm wasn't done with any of us yet - and neither was Fate.
Comments