Piston by Andi Rhodes
Chapter Seven
This is nothing like a summer camp. It’s a way of life.
Holland
“You need to loosen up or everyone is going to get suspicious.”
I scrunch up my nose. Janessa is right but I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how to do that. The huge room we’re standing in is loud, smoky, and it stinks like weed and sex. I scan the crowd to see if I recognize anyone and breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t spot Piston. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he won’t be here.
“Here ya go,” Tyler, Janessa’s ‘date’, says as he hands us both beer bottles. When we arrived, he told us to call him Trainwreck, but I can’t quite bring myself to do that.
“Thanks,” I mumble and take a sip.
Janessa and Tyler move to the middle of the room and join in with the others who are dancing, if one can call it that. It looks more like horizontal fucking and it’s making me very uncomfortable, almost like I’m watching something I shouldn’t.
“First time at one of these things?”
I whirl toward the voice and have to tip my head back to look into the eyes of the very tall man in front of me. He’s wearing the same leather vest as almost every other man here, the same one that Piston was wearing the night of the underground fight. The patch on the left side says ‘Pony’ and his arms are covered in colorful tattoos.
“No,” I finally manage to say.
He throws his head back and laughs. Annoyance rolls through me. I cross my arms over my chest, careful of my beer so I don’t spill it and give him something else to laugh about.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“You are.” Pony lifts a joint to his lips and takes a hit, holding his breath for a few seconds and then blowing out a stream of smoke. “If you want anyone to believe that bullshit, you need to quit standing here like a prude.”
“Excuse me.”
“Aw, don’t get your panties in a wad.” He grins and there’s no denying that he’s good looking. If only his attitude matched his physical appearance. “Take a look around ya, darlin’. Everyone is having fun except you.”
I tilt my head. Pony seems like someone I could gain information from, especially if he’s high and his lips are loose. Why not take advantage of that?
I take a deep breath and dive in. “I am having fun, but I do have a question.”
His eyes travel from my face to my cleavage, where they stay for a few seconds too long. I purposely wore more revealing clothes. I knew I couldn’t wear the formal cocktail dress I had on for my father’s dinner party and jeans and a hoodie seemed wrong.
Pony takes another hit. “What’s your question darlin’?”
“What’s with all the leather vests and patches?” I ask, pointing to his own.
He narrows his eyes slightly but there’s no heat in his expression. “They’re cuts and the patches signify our road names, the club we belong to, and our position.”
“Can I also figure out your blood type by looking at them?” I chuckle at my own joke but quickly sober when he doesn’t seem to find it funny. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” He reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go get you another drink. Maybe something a little stronger to loosen you up.”
I shake his hand off. “Oh, no. I’m good.”
I lift my beer to my lips and try not to wrinkle my nose at the taste. I hate beer but it’s the least likely to get me completely hammered so I’ll stick with it.
“Could you point me in the direction of the bathroom?”
“Sure.” Pony points to a spot over my shoulder. “First door on the right down that hall. If there’s a line, you can go to the one at the other end of the hall… last door on the left.”
“Thank you so much.”
I quickly turn away from him and make my way through the crowd toward the hall. I don’t have to pee but I need to get a grip. I had a list of questions I wanted to get answers to tonight, but the second Janessa and I walked through the door, all my preparations went out the window. I figured Janessa would stick with me seeing as she talked about the party like she wrangled an invite for my story, but that didn’t happen. She saw Tyler and her hormones kicked in.
What the hell is wrong with you, Holland? You’re an award-winning journalist and a bunch of leather-wearing dudes are getting the best of you.
I shake the thought from my head. I never used to doubt myself. Sure, it took time to establish a career and to become the best, but it’s almost as if a year of covering local shit has robbed me of my abilities to capture dangerous and captivating stories.
When I turn the corner, I see that the bathroom door is closed so I walk past it. I have to practically flatten myself against the wall when another door flies open and two people spill out. They don’t seem to notice me, most likely because they’re too busy trying to put clothes back on. I watch them walk around the corner to join the rest of the party and then glance up and down the hall.
I’m alone.
I cross the hall to enter the vacated room and slam the door shut behind me. I take in my surroundings and cringe when I see the panties on the floor at the foot of the bed. There’s a dresser to my left, against the wall, and I start pulling drawers open to see if I can find anything to give me any insight into these people. It doesn’t take long to realize that this room isn’t going to tell me anything.
I open the door and peek out into the hall to make sure no one will see me exit. I quickly make my way down the hall, toward the second bathroom, but another door catches my attention. It’s closed but there’s a sign that reads ‘President Only’ on it.
I grip the knob and twist to find it locked. Of course it would be locked. I could pick the lock, but I don’t want to take the chance of being caught. That’s not something I could explain away.
I shift my attention to pictures lining the walls. There are dozens of them and upon further inspection, they remind me of the photos my father has scattered throughout his house. They show a family. Maybe not by blood, but closely bonded nonetheless. My eyes land on a framed photo of Piston. He’s standing there with his arms draped over the shoulders of several others. They’re grinning, almost as if they were caught in the middle of a joke or something. Not one of them looks intimidating. They look… happy, relaxed, normal.
Another picture catches my eye and I study it. It appears to be an older photo, faded and creases mar the image. It’s a group of men and women, all standing in front of what I assume is the building I’m in. Motorcycles are parked all around them. There’s a more serious undertone to this picture as none of them are smiling. It reminds me of a summer camp photo but the leather vests—no, cuts—tell me that this is in fact, nothing like a summer camp. It’s a way of life.
I move past the rest of the frames. Each door I pass, I test the knob and find them locked. The only door I haven’t tried is the steel door at the end of the hall. I make my way to it and flatten my hand on the cool surface. There is no knob on this door, but there is a keypad next to it on the wall.
My brain screams at me to turn around and return to the party, find some bikers who are willing to talk, but my journalist instincts tell me that there’s something important behind this door, something newsworthy.
I lift my arm and run my fingers over the keypad, almost as if touching them would somehow give me the code.
“You’re fucking persistent, I’ll give you that.”
