Page 64 of Demon

And when I turned, she was in front of me. No fear in her eyes, no alarm, no anger. Just compassion. And pity. I sank back into the chair.

Ciara moved closer, her naked body in front of me, her scent swirling in the charged atmosphere of the room. Earthy and natural. My nose was in line with her belly button, the soft flesh pulling across her lower abs, over the frame that still hadn’t eaten enough meals, down the gentle mound with the tiny patch of dark hair. Turning, I pulled her into me, tugging her between my legs where my cock was already awake at the sight of her.

I should fuck her, distract the thoughts rioting in my head, still the chaos in my brain, even just for a few minutes. Ciara settled in closer to me, her tender flesh just above her pussy resting against my cock, the earthy scent of the solace between her legs catching in my nose. I inhaled, pulling in a lungful of her. Of my woman, even if she didn’t let me call her that – yet.

Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her closer, placing my lips on the skin between her belly button and her beautiful cunt. I moved over her skin gently, chaste little kisses, plucking at her flesh with my lips. Her skin was slightly salty, a residue from the fucking I’d given her last night. Her hands wound in my hair, scratching my scalp, and I closed my eyes, savouring the sensation and the taste of her skin. She would be mine, this girl. One day, she would acknowledge that. In the meantime, I would happily keep kissing this body and worshipping this pussy.

*****

The bikes roared together, chasing the birds from their trees and shaking the ground that we were parked upon. The entire club had squeezed into the carpark at theDog on the Tyne, a sea of leather and the menacing faces of the three crowned skulls on every rider’s back. Bikes were lost under camping equipment and luggage, panniers filled, and pillion seats stacked with tents, and sleeping bags, alcohol and food. The rally was only for three days, yet between us, it looked like we carried enough to thwart a small siege.

I waited patiently, Ciara perched on the back, the big silver bike vibrating under us, an impatient purr, the pull of the road pulsing through my veins. When we moved away from the pub, the battle cry of exhausts was spectacular, something I’d never get bored with. From across the carpark the club’s officers mounted up, my father swinging his leg over the bike and patting the seat behind him, beckoning for his old lady to jump on behind him. Then he turned and nodded at Indie. It was something he always did, a nod to show it was time to ride. I’d seen it so many times, I’d seen it but not seen it. Not till today. And now I noticed it. Noticed things about him. I noticed him pat Tori’s leg before revving the engine; I noticed him tip his head in acknowledgement at the rest of the ride. And I saw him look at me and nod. And that I’d never notice him do before. But maybe he always had. Because suddenly I could no longer take him for granted. A weight rested heavy in my stomach.

Suddenly, the air filled with the revs from the bikes, and behind me the birds took to the sky again, startled from their leafy perches, escaping the steel monsters on the ground beneath them. The Kings were riding. Everyone would hear us. Everyone would know us.

We pulled out onto the road; the tarmac shaking under our wheels and the roar of our exhausts bouncing off the metal cages of the cars we passed. I rode beside Magnet and Suzy, keeping pace with the officers, the vanguard of the president, just in front of us. Whether the traffic we passed knew who we were or not, I couldn’t be sure, but nearly every single vehicle moved to the side for us, and together we rode north. And still we kept coming from the junction, pouring out, a procession of bikers, kings of the road.

Chapter Thirty One

Ciara

There were motorbikes everywhere. We were wedged in the middle of what must have been one hundred of them, and yet, as we rode over the Tyne Bridge, there were more clusters of bikes. Little pockets of five and six riders, all laden like packhorses: steel pack horses. They weren’t all the deep and guttural Harley Davidsons that we rode with. Some were quieter, more of a purr, or a dull clicking of an engine turning over. And others screamed at the top of their voices, not the deep throatiness of the Harley, but a banshee, an angry, coked up banshee. Racing bikes.

We weaved in and out of the traffic over the Tyne Bridge, purring our way out of Gateshead and skirting Newcastle City Centre, heading more and more north, until the brick and breeze block blurred away and a sea of fields greeted us. I remembered the route from the previous day; windy roads, the tilt of the bike only centimetres from the tarmac as we took corners, barely slowing. And still I closed my eyes, squeezing my arms round Demon, clinging on for fear he’d tip me straight off the side.

The pace was furious. No speed limits were respected and if I’d wanted him to slow down, even my terrified yells would not have been heard over the deafening roar of the bikes. The rally site was already buzzing when we got there, and the once lush green field of almost infinite grass was swamped in tents, the sun shining off the polished chrome and shiny paint of the bikes littered everywhere.

We drove on, in the same formation, joining the sea of leather. Further on, the field broke up into encampments. It looked more like a battle site than a rally. A fag flew from each camp. A burning skull, a dragon rearing up from a plume of fire, a flaming hammer. Every one of them ominous. And then came flags I recognised. An angel and a demon in a passionate embrace, the horned helmet surrounded by Nordic runes, and then the three crowned skulls.

I had barely noticed the procession of noisy motorbikes had come to a stop, and I barely noticed the pat on my leg until I felt his hand grip round my thigh when I hadn’t responded. Demon had already removed his helmet, hanging it on the handlebars and around us the rumble of exhausts suddenly stopped. Leather moved. Climbing off bikes, pulling luggage and tents and equipment from the back of seats and the insides of panniers.

Demon was doing the same, yanking out poles from a bag and sliding them through the crinkling blue material that lay on the floor at his feet. And quickly the little dome tent took shape. Within a few minutes, the camp had transformed from a patch of flattened grass to a commune of tents, taking over the land, motorbikes parked next to them like steel sentries.

“So, what now?” I asked, scanning across the land of multi-coloured domes.

“Now we drink.” Magnet wrapped an arm over my shoulder, swigging from the open can in his other hand. Demon shot him a look, and he dropped it immediately, chuckling.

“And get stoned,” one of the twins joined in.

“What? For the next three days. That’s all we do?” I asked, watching Demon raking around in the bottom of the panniers and pulling out a box of lager.

“Some of us fuck, too,” the twin continued, flashing me a cheeky grin.

“Careful, Cade,” Demon stepped forward, his hand gripping his can.

“Caleb.”

“Whichever fucking one you are. I don’t share.”

“Come on,” Suzy linked her arm in mine. “I’ll go show you round.”

“Really? There doesn’t look like much more here other than tents and bikes.”

“Yeah, but it gives the men time to set up camp and get a few beers down.”

We wandered away, weaving through encampments and bikes, into the centre of the field. I’d seen a bit of it the other day; the bare bones of the stages, the outer shells of the marquees, but today it looked like a village had been built overnight. The outdoor stages were already attracting a crowd, music cutting through the early summer’s day, and the smell of onions filled the air around us. My stomach grumbled loudly.

“Hungry?” Suzy laughed, the sun cascading over her delicate face and gentle blue eyes.