Page 7 of Existential
FOUR
Dagne
Jesus, my ass is killing me. I gave up trying to hang on without placing my hands on Digits somewhere around Austin. Whoever said riding a motorbike is an amazing experience had to be high on drugs. My back aches, my legs are half numb, and I swear to God I have twenty bugs plastered somewhere in my hair and ears.
“You all right, babe?”
We slow and turn right through a set of ornate gates. The driveway is long and tree-lined, heading toward what appears to be an old plantation home. Not what I expected at all.
“Bit sore,” I say, letting go of his chest with one arm to lean out and look around him.
Crackers rides ahead, his tires kicking up fallen leaves on the dirt road.
“You’ll be off in a minute.”
We idle around front of the huge two-story house, and I take in the massive flags bearing the club’s insignia that cover each window on the lower level. Guess they like their privacy. A couple of girls, who can’t be a day over twenty at most, sit out on the covered porch, watching us pull up.
Digits kicks his stand out, and then extends his arm to give me stability as I climb off. I wrap my hands around his hard forearm and dismount, somewhat unladylike, and wobble a few steps like a newborn deer toward the house.
Crackers’ deep throaty laugh follows me as he crunches his way over the dirt to where I’ve collapsed on the porch steps. “Takes gettin’ used to.”
“You could’ve given me some warning.”
“What’d be the fun in that?” He marches past me, a smile still in place, and heads indoors. One of the girls gets up and follows.
The other eyeballs me as though I’m a sea of filth creeping toward her stilettoed feet.
“Come on.” Digits holds out a hand. “I’ll get you a drink and then you can work out where you’re goin’ from here.”
I take his outstretched hand—and his subtle hint that my stay is welcome short-term only—and stand unsteadily. He guides me indoors, and what I find quite literally steals my breath.
I expected trashed doors, holes in the wall, drunk and wasted bodies lying about, and possibly vomit or spilled food over the floor. I guess my preconceptions about the biker lifestyle need to be reassessed.
Polished timber floors invite you deeper into the beautifully restored house. The walls are painted black, which is probably the exact opposite of their original color, but the darkness is offset with hauntingly beautiful black and white photographs hung in intervals down the walls, either side of the grand staircase that sits front and center in the entrance. I look right and take in dark gray carpets, and heavy black drapes over the windows. A bank of bookcases lines one wall of what appears to be the formal sitting room, filled with an assortment of books that extend from leather bound novels to what appear to be motorcycle manuals.
“This way.”
Digits guides me left into another sitting room, filled to capacity with leather sofas, plush faux fur throws, and a beautiful fireplace on the far wall that has an enormous carved Fallen Aces insignia hanging overhead.
The house invites luxury, comfort, and a sense of worth. These people are proud of what they have, and it shows.
“This place is beautiful.”
Digits chuckles, shaking his head as he swings right to a bar set up on the far end of the rectangular room. “You should have seen it six months ago.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. Had a bit of a long overdue remodel.”
Maybe my first assumptions weren’t so far off then? Just a little late? “Well, whoever did the design, they have a great eye.”
“You’ve got Sidey’s old lady to thank for that.”
“Who the fuck is this?”
All previous ideas of this stopover being one of luxury and refinement vanish at the sound of the angry question bellowed behind me. I spin around and come face to face with a damn mountain of a man who stands a clear head and shoulders above me. His brown eyes are dark and hard, his frown firm, and the thick beard he sports doing nothing to soften his look.
“A stray,” Digits answers, firmly putting me in my place. “She needs somewhere to freshen up before she carries on.”