SAVIOR: A Motorcycle Club Romance (9 page)

“My roommate works as a waitress at a bar. I wanted to work there as well. However, you need to know how to make cocktails. My off the shelf mojito doesn’t cut it.”

“Maybe I can teach you,” he said. The offer seemed genuine. “Steel Eagles are taught how to pour cocktails by the time they are ten years old. I even learned to make old fashions when I was eight years old.”

“I’ll take up on it when we have some free time.”

The man scratched his chin “I suppose we should keep some bottles on standby. We could use it to keep ourselves warm.”

“Actually, alcohol doesn’t heat up the body. It just keeps the blood cells from-“

“I was kidding!”

“Sure you were,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Speaking of the Steel Eagles, how did they get their name?”

“We used to have a vat of molten steel at the club,” Max answered without skipping a beat. “One day, an eagle flew through the window and fell into it. We fished it out and made it into our symbol.”

I looked at him slack-jawed. “Seriously?”

“No, of course not,” he chuckled, he gestured towards the living room. “It goes back to World War II. Follow me.”

I got up and tailed him. “Your motorcycle club existed back then?”

The biker shook his head. “No, we were formed later in the seventies. However, one of our founders fought in World War II on the Western Front. He was in the air force as part of the 101 Division. They were more popularly known as the-”

“Screaming Eagles,” I said to Max’s surprise, following him into a spare bedroom. “My dad was a World War II buff.”

“When he formed a motorcycle club,” he continued, taking out a box out of a drawer. The biker opened it and revealed a treasure-trove of mementos. It contained photos, badges, a small handgun, and some other trinkets. Max pulled out a photo of a man in military uniform in front of a World War II bomber plane. “He decided to pay homage to his past as a paratrooper. The ‘Steel’ part of the name comes from the motorcycles we ride.”

“Explains the name,” I replied, eyeing over the contents of the box. “What’s with the gun?”

“It’s an M1911A1,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s the greatest handgun ever made if you ask me. It’s reliable, accurate, and has plenty of stopping power. That’s pretty impressive when you consider that it was designed over a hundred years go. Go on hold it.”

I nervously held onto with both hands as if it were a live bomb. “It feels light.”

“It’s unloaded,” he replied, sensing my apprehension and taking it from me. Max aimed it and hit the thumb safety. “And it’s about a half pound lighter than the average M1911A1 while having an even stronger frame. It was custom built to begin with but it’s had a number of modifications over the years. My dad changed the grip and sight system for better aiming. I installed a hair trigger so it doesn’t take as much effort to fire it. ”

“Sounds fancy,” I said, impressed at both the weapon and Max’s expertise in firearms. “But don’t you need to pack more heat than a small pistol?”

“No, it was the perfect weapon for my work,” Max answered. “When you’re out riding in a city full of close quarters, a handgun can be a lot more useful than a heavier firearm. A shotgun or rifle is more difficult to ready and fire. Automatic weapons like a submission gun might have a higher rate of fire but they are inaccurate and more likely to jam. A handgun is a lot easier to raise and fire if you’re in a tight spot. Besides, it’s a lot easier to conceal.”

I didn’t need to guess that an outlaw biker valued concealed firearms. “Sounds like it has some history behind it.”

“It used to belong to my father. Before that, it belonged to his father. It was one of the few things he left for me but the Steel Eagles kept it from me after his death. They didn’t think I was ready.”

“Yeah, giving a kid a gun seems like a bad idea-”

Max shook his head. “Actually, I had already been trained by them to use firearms. I just couldn’t use my dad’s gun because it held a lot of history. The gun was meant for my dad’s successor. It was more ceremonial than anything else.”

“What made them give it back? Did you turn eighteen?”

He hesitated before answering. “I killed my first man.”

I crinkled my nose in regret at asking such a personal question. “I see…”

“My days of fighting are over but I still keep it,” he said wistfully, putting the gun back into the box. “I don’t even plan on firing it again, even for home defense. No one bothers to come out here in the wilderness.”

“Why not get rid of it?” I asked. “I mean, it has some sentimental value but that comes with some painful memories.”

“It just didn’t feel right to bury the past,” he sighed, massaging his temples. “I thought one day I’d give it to Michael when he grew up… just as reminder of how blessed he was not to be born into violence. How he’ll never have to use it…”

A pang of sadness hit me. Max’s son should’ve been alive and running. Maria should be sitting next him instead of me. Even if it meant I could never be Max’s lover, I wished him to be happy with Maria and Michael. “There’s a lot of stuff you can pass on, Max.”

He tilted his head. “Like what?”

“You’re coffee skills for one thing,” I giggled. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a cup of coffee taste that great in my life. Seriously, where did you learn to use a French Press? I usually use a strainer or my roommate’s Keurig if I’m feeling lazy.”

He leaned back with obvious pride in his eyes. “That’s the just the cold making you appreciate a warm cup of coffee.”

“Don’t be modest!” I teased. “Did they teach you how to brew coffee back in your days with the Steel Eagles?”

“We bikers do have standards when it comes to good coffee,” Max chuckled. “But it’s Maria who taught me how to make coffee with a French Press. Would you believe that I lived off instant coffee before this?”

Folding my arms, I lied back against the bed. “I figured a European would show us Americans the value of good coffee instead of hot mud.”

“Maria was an expert,” he explained. “Her family back in Germany owns a coffee supplier. They were a small outfit but they knew their beans. The trick was the freshness of the beans and the water that went into them.”

“Have you ever talked to them?” I asked. “I mean Maria’s family.”

“Yes… and no,” he answered, his shoulders slumping. “We never told them about how Maria was blackmailed by the Black Cobras. However, we did tell them about our marriage. They weren’t happy with her getting hitched with an uneducated American.”

“Typical European in-laws,” I laughed. “You could be a Harvard graduate and they’ll still hold something against you.”

“But we eventually won them over,” he continued with a bittersweet smile. “Normally, I wouldn’t care much about what my they thought about us but I wanted Michael to grow up knowing his family. I never knew my relatives when I was a child. I planned on inviting them over to the States and showing them what Maria and I had built up over the years…”

“They should be proud,” I said, placing a hand over his. “And that she taught an American heathen the value of a good coffee.”

Max placed a hand under my chin. “That’s not the only thing I learned from Maria.”

My heart stirred as I pressed my body against him. “Then teach me.”

It was cold as a tundra outside but I didn’t care. I had a hot mug of coffee to keep me warm.

And I had a hotter guy to keep me company.

I awoke again in an empty bed. It didn’t look like I had slept very long after making love to Max. After dressing, I got up and wandered through the house.

I looked outside and expected it to snow even harder. To my shock, the blizzard had completely stopped. In fact, the sun shone and the landscape looked positively serene. Nonetheless, it was still too dangerous to venture out alone.

Suddenly, I heard a strange noise emanating from somewhere. It sounded like the static you get when tuning into a television channel with poor reception. I followed the noise to the kitchen.

I saw Max fidgeting with that police radio. He didn’t notice me until I spoke. “What’s going on, Max?”

“I was fooling around with this,” he answered, fidgeting with the police radio. “When I heard someone speak out loud. The voice came from a police frequency used by cops around this area. It sounded like he was in serious trouble.”

I raised an eyebrow as Max tinkered with the knobs on the radio. “Are you sure that it was-“

My statement was cut off by a desperate voice. “T-This is Officer Brown… my car flipped over… requesting help…”

“Oh my God!” I gasped. I knew that feeling of isolation and terror. “It sounds like he’s in some serious trouble.”

Max turned a knob to add clarity to the voice. “Wait, there’s looks like there’s more.”

I heard the voice again. This time it was much clear. “H-help! I’m… family of two… woman… child-“

Static drowned out the voice. I cursed under my breath. “We’re losing him.”

Then, we heard a small snippet. “Blanche Avenue and-“

It had cut off again. Max growled at the police radio. “Damn, I lost it again. Those cop cars cost a fortune but don’t have the tires for driving on an icy road.”

“Oh no,” I said, rubbing my temple. “That man is in serious trouble… and he has a family with them. The weather’s cleared up a bit but they’re still out in the cold.”

Max nodded in solemn agreement. “And he said their car was flipped over… with a child inside. He might have tried to get a family to safety and ended up in trouble himself.”

I didn’t have to be a psychic to know he was getting flashbacks to the death of his family. “Max, do you know the place where? I think it was Blanche Street or Route-”

“Blanche Avenue is a deathtrap,” Max grunted in frustration. “It’s a road that goes alongside a mountain pass. The road is full of potholes that road workers never fill up. That’s before you add in one of the worst snowstorms in history. The police are an hour’s drive away. We’re much closer and Blanche Avenue isn’t very long. We could take a risk and travel there ourselves.”