The Pythons Motorcycle Club
by Elephant List
“What are you doing?” Jenny asked in panic from the back of the motorcycle, her fingers tightening hard around his jacket as she felt the heavy shape of a handgun beneath the leather.
He said nothing and the motorcycle kept moving toward the police cars.
Two days earlier...
Jenny had been working the front desk at the Harley-Davidson dealership in Daytona, Florida for almost two months.
She was not hired because she knew much about motorcycles.
Everybody knew that.
Jenny was a redhead with pale skin, a pretty face, and the kind of body that made middle-aged men suddenly forget what part they came in to order. The dealership manager never said it out loud, but he liked having her near the entrance, smiling beneath the fluorescent lights while chrome bikes glittered behind her like expensive bait.
Jenny understood the arrangement.
She was not stupid.
She answered phones, pointed customers toward parts, handled paperwork, laughed when she had to, ignored what she could, and watched men walk through the glass doors pretending not to look at her.
Most of them were harmless.
Some were rich weekend riders with clean boots and brand-new leather jackets.
Some were divorced accountants trying to look dangerous.
And then, on a Friday afternoon after lunch, five bikers rode into the parking lot who did not look like they were pretending anything.
The first two bikers came through the dealership doors laughing too loudly.
One of them was short and wiry with tattooed fingers and mirrored sunglasses hanging from the neck of his faded gray shirt. The other was taller, heavier, older maybe, with a shaved head and sunburned skin peeling around his neck beneath a sleeveless denim vest.
Denny and Leon.
They walked slowly across the polished floor like they owned the building.
Denny leaned both elbows on the front counter and looked Jenny up and down without shame.
“Well damn,” he said, grinning. “Harley got angels working reception now?”
Leon chuckled quietly beside him while pretending to inspect a rack of riding gloves.
Denny kept going.
“She’s fire too. Daytona finally improving customer service.”
Jenny forced the kind of smile women learn young.
The fake one.
Then a deep voice came from somewhere behind them.
“Cut the crap.”
The words were not loud.
But they landed hard enough that both men immediately straightened.
Denny smirked to himself and stepped aside while Leon drifted toward the gift shop without argument.
That was when Jenny saw him for the first time.
Tall. Lean. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Brown hair slightly too long around the collar. Black jeans. Brown leather jacket faded from real miles instead of fashion stores.
And confidence.
Not loud confidence.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that did not need attention because it already expected the room to move around it.
Jenny suddenly realized none of the rich middle-aged men who came into the dealership every weekend looked anything like this man.
Those men bought motorcycles.
This one looked like he lived on one.
“Parts,” the tall man said.
Just one word.
Jenny blinked once before pointing toward the back hallway.
“Straight ahead, then left. Mark will take care of you.”
The man gave a small nod and walked off in that direction without another word.
Denny wandered toward the gift shop, still smirking to himself while picking up random keychains from a display rack. Leon drifted after him more quietly, hands in his pockets.
For the first time since they entered, Jenny was alone again behind the counter.
Or almost alone.
Through the dealership windows she noticed the older couple standing outside near three parked motorcycles baking beneath the Florida sun.
The man was tall and weathered with gray hair tied behind his head and an old sleeveless black shirt exposing faded tattoos along both arms. The woman leaned against one of the bikes smoking a cigarette slowly while ocean wind moved strands of bleached blond hair around her sunglasses.
Neither of them looked rich enough to shop there.
Neither looked impressed by the dealership either.
They looked temporary.
Like people who never stayed anywhere long.
The older couple spoke quietly to each other near the motorcycles, almost whispering beneath the distant sound of traffic outside the highway.
Then the woman suddenly looked toward the front desk.
Not casually.
Directly at Jenny.
Long enough to make her uncomfortable.
Jenny lowered her eyes toward the counter almost immediately, pretending to organize paperwork that did not need organizing.
Even as a teenager she preferred trouble over stability.
She came from a decent middle-class family in Orlando, but somewhere along the way she became the black sheep without ever fully understanding when it happened.
At seventeen she dropped out of high school and started working nights as a bartender near tourist bars along International Drive.
Most people around her had eventually stopped trying to convince her to become somebody else.
A few minutes later the tall man returned from the parts department carrying a small cardboard box beneath one arm.
He passed the front desk without slowing down.
“Thanks.”
No smile.
Barely even looking at her.
Then he glanced toward the gift shop.
“Let’s go boys. They had it.”
Denny dropped a keychain back onto the rack while Leon pushed himself away from the wall near the riding jackets.
The group headed toward the exit together.
And that was when Jenny finally saw the back of the tall man’s leather jacket.
A large faded patch stretched across the shoulders:
THE PYTHONS
Motorcycle Club
And stitched beneath it in smaller letters:
BISHOP
The group disappeared beneath the bright Daytona afternoon sun along with the sound of motorcycles fading somewhere beyond the highway.
Jenny told herself she would probably never see them again.
At four o’clock she clocked out, grabbed her purse, and headed across the parking lot toward her light blue 2006 Civic sitting alone beneath the heat shimmer rising from the pavement.
She was halfway there when she heard the low rumble of a motorcycle engine firing up somewhere behind her.
Jenny turned her head.
It was him.
Bishop slowly emerged from the far corner of the parking lot riding an old black FXR at almost idle speed, one hand resting loosely on the handlebars while the motorcycle rolled toward her like something taking its time on purpose.
Jenny instinctively glanced back toward the dealership entrance.
Still daylight.
Customers inside.
The other receptionist only one shout away.
She kept walking toward her car anyway, maybe slightly faster now, until the motorcycle finally stopped beside her.
Bishop killed the engine.
Silence suddenly rushed into the space between them.
“Just wanted to apologize for my boys.”
Jenny adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder.
“They’re fine. I’m getting used to it.”
“You new here?”
“At this job? Yeah. About two months.”
A faint smile almost appeared at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again.
The conversation became strangely easy after that.
Not fast.
Not flirtatious.
Just easy.
While he talked, Jenny kept catching herself studying him too closely.
The calm voice.
The confidence.
The way he looked completely comfortable standing still.
This guy was legitimate.
Not one of the wealthy middle-aged men buying expensive motorcycles to feel younger for six months.
Something else entirely.
Fifteen minutes passed so quickly it barely felt like five.
Finally Bishop nodded once toward the street.
“Let me buy you a beer.”
Jenny hesitated.
Her eyes drifted toward the dealership building.
Then toward the security camera mounted high on a metal pole near her car.
Bishop followed her gaze immediately.
“You choose the place.”
Jenny thought for another few seconds before answering.
“Okay. TGI Friday’s. Straight ahead, right at the traffic light, then about three blocks down on the left.”
Bishop looked at her for a second longer than necessary.
“You’re good with directions.”
Jenny finally smiled for real.
“You should see me with maps.”
“I’ll follow you.”
Jenny climbed into her Civic still unsure whether accepting the invitation had been a good idea.
There was just something about Bishop she could not fully explain.
Something calm.
Mysterious.
Real.
She drove toward the restaurant with his motorcycle following behind her through late afternoon Daytona traffic.
The beer turned into dinner.
Somehow the conversation kept going.
Jenny talked much more than Bishop did. About Orlando. Bartending. Daytona. Bad jobs. Bad decisions. Bishop mostly listened while occasionally saying just enough to keep her going.
A man of very few words.
Outside the restaurant Bishop paid the bill while Jenny searched for her keys inside her purse.
“What you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
Jenny looked up.
“Hm... I work till four again.”
“I’ll pick you up,” Bishop said.
“I wanna show you something.”
Jenny hesitated for a second before nodding once.
“Okay.”
During the drive home Jenny kept reminding herself she could still get out of this tomorrow with one simple excuse like, “Sorry, something came up.”
The next day dragged painfully slow.
Every hour felt longer than the one before it.
By the time four o’clock finally arrived, Jenny caught herself glancing through the dealership windows every few minutes without meaning to.
But when her shift ended and she stepped outside, the parking lot looked almost empty beneath the late afternoon sun.
No Bishop.
No motorcycle.
A strange mix of relief and disappointment settled in her chest at the same time.
Jenny started walking toward her Civic.
Then she heard the low familiar sound of a motorcycle engine somewhere behind her.
She turned just as Bishop rolled slowly into the parking lot entrance.
He stopped beside her and left the engine idling beneath him.
“Hop on.”
That was all he said.
Jenny stared at him for a second before climbing onto the back of the motorcycle.
The first thing she noticed was the vibration.
The second was how naturally her hands settled around his waist once they pulled onto the road.
Bishop first took her riding across the hard-packed sands of Daytona Beach while warm ocean wind pushed through her hair and the late afternoon sun burned orange above the water.
After that they headed north on I-95 toward Flagler Beach.
The tavern sat just off the highway beneath a faded beer sign buzzing softly against the coming evening.
The rest of The Pythons were already there waiting outside beside their motorcycles.
Bishop killed the engine and glanced back toward Jenny.
Then, for the first time since meeting her, he finally smiled slightly.
“Come meet everybody.”
A few beers later Jenny finally gathered enough courage to approach Sally near the tavern patio while the others talked beside the motorcycles outside.
“I love your tattoos,” Jenny said.
Sally smiled faintly behind her cigarette.
“You got any?”
“Just two.”
Jenny brushed her hair aside, revealing a small black star tattoo behind her right ear.
Sally nodded approvingly.
“That’s a cool little tattoo.”
“What’s your favorite?” Jenny asked.
Without embarrassment, Sally lowered the collar of her loose tank top slightly, revealing a faded number 13 tattooed high above her right breast.
“This one.”
Jenny smiled.
“Does it have a story?”
“Got it after meeting Jerry at a Pixies show in Atlanta back in the nineties,” Sally said. “No. 13 Baby was our song back then.”
“I know The Pixies,” Jenny said with a faint smile. “Good music.”
Sally pulled slowly on her cigarette before glancing toward Bishop across the tavern.
“Look,” she said quietly. “Bishop really likes you. When he’s with you, he’s only with you.”
Then her expression shifted slightly.
“But he’ll expect the same back from you.”
Jenny followed Sally’s eyes across the patio.
Bishop was already watching her from a distance.
Sally exhaled smoke slowly.
“He’s a good man in his own way. But men around him tend to get hurt.”
Jenny suddenly stumbled slightly against the edge of the table without understanding why that sentence unsettled her so much.
Later that evening, Bishop leaned closer toward Jenny near the bar.
“I still gotta show you that thing I told you about yesterday.”
Jenny looked at him over the rim of her beer bottle.
“What thing?”
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth again.
“You’ll see.”
They left Flagler Beach sometime after sunset and rode back south toward Daytona with warm night air rolling across the highway.
About twenty minutes later Bishop turned into a quiet industrial area filled with small warehouses, repair shops, and dark storage units sitting beneath old fluorescent lights.
He stopped in front of one near the end of the row.
The metal garage door rattled loudly as he unlocked it and pushed it upward.
Jenny followed him inside.
The place smelled faintly like gasoline, old leather, and machine oil.
Motorcycle parts covered metal shelves along one wall while tools hung neatly above a heavy wooden workbench. Toward the back, a narrow staircase led up to a mezzanine apartment overlooking the garage below.
Bishop glanced around the place almost thoughtfully.
“Just got it a few months ago.”
Jenny slowly turned in a small circle taking everything in.
It was half garage.
Half workshop.
Half apartment.
And somehow it fit him perfectly.
Bishop showed her the mezzanine above the garage.
A small kitchen.
A worn leather couch.
An old television sitting crooked on a metal shelf.
Bathroom beside the bedroom.
Simple.
Temporary.
Lived-in.
Jenny slowly walked through the space while Bishop removed his jacket near the bed.
For a few seconds neither of them said anything.
Then Jenny suddenly crossed the room, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him hard enough to interrupt whatever thought he had been about to say.
Bishop kissed her back immediately.
Jenny guided him toward the bed without letting go.
The evening light had softened to a warm amber glow, spilling through the bedroom curtains and painting Bishop’s bare chest in shades of gold and shadow.
Jenny lay beneath him, her legs wrapped loosely around his hips, her fingers tracing lazy patterns along his shoulders.
He lowered himself slowly, his weight pressing her into the mattress in a way that felt safe rather than suffocating.
When he entered her, it was with deliberate patience, just the head at first, letting her adjust to the stretch.
She gasped softly, her nails digging into his back as she felt the full length of him slide home.
He was long and thick, filling her completely, and for a moment they both stilled, breathing together.
She tipped her hips, drawing him deeper, and a shudder ran through him. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.
He moved slowly at first, deep, grinding strokes that let her feel every inch.
His hand slid down her side, over her hip, his thumb pressing into the soft curve of her belly as he rocked into her.
She arched her back, meeting each thrust, her breath hitching when he angled just right.
He watched her face, the way her lips parted, the flutter of her eyelids and it made him ache.
He slowed, pulled out completely, and she let out a whimper of protest.
But then he was sliding down her body, his mouth finding her wet and swollen.
He licked her with firm, broad strokes, his tongue circling her clit until her thighs trembled against his ears.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, her hands tangling in his hair.
He hummed against her, sending vibrations through her core, and she bucked against his mouth.
He lapped at her until she was breathless, then kissed his way back up her stomach, her breasts, her throat.
“Turn over,” he said softly, and she obeyed without hesitation.
She rolled onto her belly, propping herself up on her elbows.
He settled behind her, his hands spreading her thighs, and entered her again, this time from behind.
The angle was different, deeper, and she buried her face in the pillow to muffle a cry.
He gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh as he fucked her with long, steady strokes.
She pushed back against him, meeting his rhythm.
The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, their mingled breaths, the creak of the bedframe.
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, and she came apart with a broken cry, her walls clenching around him.
He followed moments later, thrusting deep and holding there, spilling inside her with a low, guttural moan.
He collapsed beside her, pulling her close, his heart hammering against her cheek.
They lay tangled together, the sheets twisted around their legs.
Bishop was on his back, one arm behind his head, the other cradling Jenny.
She rested her cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
His hand found her hair, his fingers threading through the strands in a gentle, soothing motion.
The minutes passed in comfortable silence.
His thumb stroked her scalp, her ear, the curve of her neck.
She traced idle patterns on his stomach, her palm flat against the warm skin.
Her fingers wandered lower, brushing the trail of hair below his navel.
She felt him stir—a twitch, a thickening against her thigh.
She looked up, catching the slight smile on his lips.
“Someone’s ready again,” she teased, her hand sliding down to cup him through the cooling slickness.
He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “You have that effect.”
She massaged his balls, rolling them gently in her palm, then wrapped her fingers around his growing shaft.
He was already half-hard, and with a few slow strokes he stiffened fully in her grip.
She kept her head on his chest, her lips brushing his skin as she leaned down and took him into her mouth.
She worked him slowly, her tongue tracing the underside, her hand pumping what she couldn’t reach.
His fingers tightened in her hair, not guiding her, just holding.
He let out a long breath, his hips tilting upward as she took him deeper into her mouth.
“Jenny,” he whispered, a warning in his tone.
“Not yet,” she said, swinging a leg over his hips.
She straddled him, guiding the head of his cock to her pussy, and sank down with a slow, deliberate motion.
They both groaned.
She rode him in a lazy, rolling rhythm, her hands braced on his chest.
He watched her, his eyes dark and hungry, his hands finding her waist.
She leaned forward, her hair falling around them like a curtain.
“Tell me when you’re cumming,” she murmured, her lips brushing his. “I want to taste you.”
He nodded, his hips bucking up to meet her as she picked up the pace.
She could feel the pressure building, her own arousal mixing with his, the friction slick and perfect.
“I’m close,” he breathed, his jaw tight.
She didn’t slow down. Instead she rode him harder, faster, until his hands clenched on her hips and his whole body went rigid.
And then she stopped.
In one fluid motion she lifted off him, dropped her head, and took him back into her mouth just as the first hot pulse hit her tongue.
She swallowed, working him through his climax, her tongue swirling around the head until he shuddered and stilled.
She stayed there, lips sealed around him, until his hips stopped twitching.
Then she lifted her head, licking her lips, still catching her breath.
He pulled her up, cradling her against his side, his arm wrapped around her like he never wanted to let go.
“You’re going to kill me,” he muttered, but there was no complaint in his voice, only wonder.
She nestled into the crook of his shoulder, her hand resting over his heart.
For a while neither of them moved.
Bishop rested against the headboard while Jenny lay beside him with one leg draped lazily across his waist.
Then he looked down at her.
“You ever done anything insane before?”
Jenny smiled faintly against his chest.
“Depends who’s asking.”
Bishop ran his fingers slowly through her hair.
“Me and the group got a service lined up tonight.”
Jenny tilted her head slightly.
“What kind of service?”
For the first time all evening, Bishop hesitated.
Then he answered calmly enough to make it even worse.
“We’re hitting a safe.”
Jenny stared at him.
He kept talking.
“Easy job. In and out.”
“Where?”
Bishop looked at her for another second.
“The Harley dealership.”
The words hit her almost physically.
Jenny suddenly sat upright in the bed.
“What?”
Bishop remained calm.
“They keep cash in the office safe over the weekend.”
Jenny pushed damp hair away from her face, breathing faster now.
“You’re serious.”
“We need somebody inside who knows the layout.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Warmer.
Dangerous in a completely different way now.
Jenny climbed off the bed quickly.
“I need a shower.”
Bishop watched her disappear into the bathroom without trying to stop her.
Hot water poured over her skin while panic slowly spread through her chest.
The dealership.
The cameras.
The manager.
The front office.
Everything suddenly collided together inside her head at once.
Part of her wanted to get dressed and walk out immediately.
Another part still wanted Bishop.
That was the problem.
Jenny stayed beneath the water much longer than necessary before finally shutting it off.
When she stepped back into the bedroom wearing only one of Bishop’s loose gray shirts, he was already pulling on his jeans beside the bed.
“My turn,” he said quietly.
Jenny nodded automatically while forcing herself to think.
Then she remembered the small 7-Eleven a block away from the warehouse.
“I’m gonna grab cigarettes,” she said. “And maybe something to eat.”
Bishop glanced toward the clock near the bed.
“Alright.”
Ten minutes later Jenny stood inside the fluorescent glow of the convenience store holding a pack of cigarettes she did not even really want.
Then she noticed the public phone near the back wall beside the lottery machine.
Jenny looked toward the cashier.
“You sell phone cards?”
Back at the warehouse Bishop never once asked whether Jenny was still going with them.
After all, she had come back from the 7-Eleven.
They remained in bed for another hour beneath the dim apartment light while midnight slowly approached outside the garage windows.
Bishop rested quietly beside her with one arm draped across her stomach.
Jenny barely heard a word he said anymore.
Her mind kept circling the same thoughts over and over.
The dealership.
The safe.
Bishop.
Especially Bishop.
A little after midnight they rode out to meet the rest of The Pythons beneath an empty gas station canopy near the highway.
Nobody talked much.
Denny smoked.
Leon leaned against his bike silently.
Jerry drank bad coffee from a paper cup while Sally watched Jenny carefully from across the parking lot.
Then the engines started.
Five motorcycles rolled south through the sleeping streets toward Daytona.
Jenny’s stomach tightened harder with every mile.
When the Harley dealership finally appeared in the distance, flashing red and blue lights were already reflecting across the empty road.
Police cars blocked the parking lot entrance.
Sirens echoed through the night air.
Jenny felt all the blood drain from her face instantly.
The other motorcycles slowed.
Bishop lifted one hand calmly without even looking back.
A signal.
Keep moving.
The others continued past the dealership without stopping.
But Bishop slowed down instead.
Jenny froze immediately as the motorcycle turned directly toward the police cars.
“What are you doing?” Jenny asked in panic from the back of the motorcycle, her fingers tightening hard around his jacket as she felt the heavy shape of a handgun beneath the leather.
He said nothing and the motorcycle kept moving toward the police cars.
Closer.
Jenny’s stomach dropped.
For one horrifying second she thought Bishop was actually going to do it anyway.
Just him alone against the police.
The flashing lights reflected across the dealership windows while two officers slowly turned toward the approaching motorcycle.
Still Bishop kept riding calmly forward.
Closer.
Then he parked beside the police cars blocking the entrance.
The two officers immediately stiffened as the motorcycle rolled to a stop beside the blockade.
One of them rested his hand near his holster.
The other aimed his flashlight directly toward Bishop’s face.
Jenny could barely breathe anymore.
Bishop calmly killed the engine.
Before either officer could say a word, Bishop nodded once toward the parking lot.
“My girlfriend works here,” he said evenly. “She needs her car. That Civic over there.”
One of the officers looked directly at Jenny.
“You work here, ma’am?”
Jenny swallowed hard.
“Yes.”
“Can I see some identification please?”
Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened her purse and handed over her driver’s license along with her Harley-Davidson employee card.
While the officer checked them beneath the flashlight glow, Bishop looked toward the second cop almost casually.
“All this for her car?”
The officer exhaled through his nose.
“Anonymous call about a possible burglary.”
Jenny felt her stomach twist violently.
The first officer handed her documents back. “You’re okay, ma’am.”
Jenny nodded automatically. “Thank you.”
She climbed off the motorcycle slowly.
Bishop followed a second later.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then Bishop stepped closer and gently held her face between both hands.
Jenny looked up into his eyes.
One second.
Two.
Five.
He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the forehead.
“Glad you’re safe.”
Then he released her, climbed back onto the motorcycle, and started the engine again.
Before pulling away he glanced once toward the police officers.
“Officers.”
Then Bishop slowly pulled away from the flashing lights.
Jenny remained standing there for another second before turning toward her car.
Arms crossed tightly against herself.
Shoulders raised.
Eyes fixed on the pavement beneath her feet.
She kept walking through the empty parking lot fighting back tears while the sound of Bishop’s motorcycle slowly faded farther and farther into the humid Daytona night.
For days afterward Jenny kept asking herself the same question over and over.
Did Bishop actually love her?
Or had he simply needed somebody inside the dealership?
She tried calling the number he had once written for her on the back of a bar receipt.
The line was no longer in service.
Three days later she drove back to the warehouse district near the highway.
The unit was empty.
A small FOR RENT sign now hung beside the closed garage door like nobody had ever lived there at all.
At night Jenny still replayed everything inside her head while lying awake in bed.
The tavern.
The beach ride.
The warehouse.
The kiss on her forehead beside the police cars.
Part of her still wondered whether Bishop knew it had been her.
But deep down Jenny slowly realized something even worse.
She had not called the police to stop the robbery.
She had called to protect him.
The days went by and almost three months later a package arrived for Jenny at the Harley dealership during a slow Tuesday afternoon.
No return address.
Only postage stamps from Key West, Florida.
Jenny carried the box into the back office and opened it alone.
Inside rested a brown leather biker vest folded carefully beneath black tissue paper.
Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted it free.
A large patch stretched across the back:
THE PYTHONS
Motorcycle Club
And stitched beneath it in smaller letters:
Jenny.
Part 2 of 3 coming soon.