Riding with the Pack

Harlow

“Come on, baby,” I begged my 1972 Pontiac GTO. I peered around for a sign of civilization, but the last rest stop I’d seen was at least fifty miles back. It was dark in the New Mexico desert, and it was beginning to feel like mine was the only car on the highway. The squealing noise under the hood was only getting louder.

“Gnaw Bone – 4 miles” a bullethole-ridden sign read. In my twenty-one years, I’d never heard of a stranger town name, but it appeared to be my only saving grace at that moment.

“Just four more miles. You can do it.” I tapped the steering wheel lovingly. But mere seconds later, the emergency battery light came on. “Crap.” Then the car slowed despite my foot on the gas pedal. “Well, screw you, too,” I sneered as I guided the car over to the side of the road and put it into park. “Please don’t be the alternator,” I said, even though that was where all signs pointed.

With a huff, I turned the ignition off then tried restarting, but the car was dead. I flipped on the flashing emergency lights and dug around the glove box for the flashlight.

I popped the hood, swung the car door open, and stepped out into the cool nighttime air, pulling my leather jacket on over my tank top. As I lifted the hood, I jumped at the sound of a howl off in the distance. It was followed by more howls. Eerie given the almost-full moon overhead.

“Coyotes,” I assured myself. “And they don’t bother people.” But another round of howls sent shivers down my spine. “Get a grip, Harlow,” I scolded.

Concentrating on the car, I spied a worn serpentine belt and who knew what else was wrong. The car would have to be towed to a garage. But how the hell I would pay for repairs was beyond me. I had maybe two hundred bucks to my name, and this could run me well over a thousand.

I pulled out my cheap phone to search online for a tow truck but groaned when I couldn’t get an internet signal. “Seriously!?” I really was in the middle of nowhere.

My eyes hovered over the “Contacts” icon on the phone screen, but there were no contacts to speak of.

“Gnaw Bone – 4 miles,” I remembered. “It isn’t that far.”

The howls rang out again, and I gulped.

“Calm down,” I ordered myself. “Just wait here and see if anyone drives by. Worst case scenario, you sleep in the car and start hoofing it in the morning.” I slid my hand into the back pocket of my jeans and was comforted when I felt the handle of my dad’s switchblade. I’d kept it on me ever since…

Shaking my head to keep thoughts of the past at bay, I climbed back into the car and sat watching the road for any hint of headlights.

Cyrus

It was just past 1:00 AM when I climbed onto my bike to head home. We’d been celebrating all night after we got our cargo safely stored away. A successful gun run was as good a cause for celebration as any. Most of my brothers, the Bone Hills Howlers, were still out in the hills having a good time, their howls echoing through the darkness.

“If you wanna start shit, you can get off my property!” I heard a female voice say from across the road. Bonnie Black stood in the doorway of her bar staring down two douchey-looking college guys. Curvaceous and covered in tattoos, she was as gorgeous and imposing as ever. She caught my eye for a sec before I looked away. The bar was Blood Dogs territory, and their problems were none of my business. The two college dudes mumbled an apology, and she let ‘em back in.

Bonnie looked in my direction again, but her gaze was aimed at something behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see my best friend Blayze standing by the office door of the garage. He lit a cigarette and coolly took a drag, waving a little “howdy” to Bonnie. She responded by flipping him off and storming back into the bar. Blayze would deny it, but I noticed his lip twitch up in a brief smirk.

“I’m heading out,” I told him. “Got an early morning tomorrow.

“We’ve still got inventory to finish on the cargo,” he said. “Then I need you to go over the books with Tank.”

I nodded my understanding. By “go over,” he meant cooking the numbers. The Howlers made a modest living off the garage, but the real money came from our firearms dealings.

“I’ll be here,” I respond. “Night.”

Blayze waved me off as I started my bike and peeled out eastward on the highway, the howls of my brothers just barely audible over the roar of my hog.

A few miles later, I was near the dirt road turnoff to my old farmhouse when I saw a car with flashing emergency lights at the bottom of the hill.

When I came to a stop, I saw it was a classic muscle car. A green GTO with a white stripe down the side. I expected the driver to be some middle-aged guy, but to my pleasant surprise, out stepped a slender, smoking hot girl. She wore her thick brown hair in a ponytail and rocked a black leather jacket over a tiny tank top. And lucky me, she seemed to need a mechanic.

Harlow

Gripping my switchblade, I opened the car door and stood. The bike had stopped in front of me, and its driver hopped off. The motorcyclist was wearing a leather vest, and I noticed the patch that said “V. President” above the right breast pocket.

“Here’s trouble,” I said to myself. I knew right away what the patch meant. The guy was the Vice President of a motorcycle club.

I pictured some old burly guy under the helmet, but damn, was I wrong. When he took it off, I saw he was young and extremely good-looking. Tan with dark hair and a sharp, stubbled jawline. Still, the guy was in an MC. I was wary.

“You okay?” he asked, looking me up and down.

“Broke down,” I said. “I think it’s the alternator.”

“That sucks. What year is she?” he asked, eyeing my car. “71?”

“72.”

“Nice. I work at a garage on the edge of Gnaw Bone, just up the way. I can give you a ride and have her towed up there.”

“You’re a mechanic?” I asked.

“Yep. Whaddya say?”

My gaze wandered from his chiseled jaw to his big, calloused hands. The grease under his nails told me he was telling the truth.

“That’s nice of you,” I said, “but I don’t know if I have enough money.”

“Well, I can’t just leave you stranded out here. I can get your car towed on the house. And the ride’s no problem. Unless you’re scared of riding on a motorcycle.”

“I’m not scared.” A flash of anger rose at the teasing. But then I betrayed myself when the howling off in the distance made me jump. The guy let out a laugh.

“My name’s Cyrus,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let me at least give you a ride into town. We can assess the damage and go from there.”

Letting my guard down, I slipped my switchblade back into my pocket before taking his rough hand and shaking it.

“I’m Harlow.”

Cyrus handed me his helmet as we walked to his bike. He swung a leg over to straddle it and gestured for me to get on behind him. I hesitated.

“Come on,” he said with a sly smile. “I promise I don’t bite.”