by Huss, JA
Did you find me a place to live?
Shit. I totally forgot about my assignment today. I probably should find him at least one place to see. I text him back.
Yes. Will send details later.
My number is called and I go to the counter and ignore the next text. I’ve got everything in order, so I hand over my bill of sale, my insurance card, and my license. The woman doesn’t even say hello, just does her thing and asks for her money. I hand it over and ten minutes later I’m walking back to my Shrike Bike with the biggest fucking smile I’ve had in ages.
It’s really mine now.
It’s all mine and no one can take it away.
I smile all the way back to my apartment. But when I pull up to the crappy building I’m accosted with trucks of construction workers blocking most of the alley and my parking space to boot. I weave the bike between the men and the trucks and park in front of my stairs. I slip my helmet off and a prickle goes all the way up my spine as my eyes seek the cause.
And there he is. Standing on the small concrete landing that serves as my front porch, his knuckles in mid-air, like he’s caught in the process of knocking.
“Miss Veronica Vaughn?”
“Yes?” I answer back hesitantly. A man in a dark suit looking for me cannot be good.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Chapter Nine - Spencer
Ford’s phone dings as I enter the Shrike Bikes cafeteria where the guys are kicking back eating the catered lunch. That’s one thing they really love about doing the show. Not that they don’t love the money, everyone got a raise this time around. Hell, Rook is making a quarter of a mil and the boys are all pulling close to two hundred K themselves.
But men run on two things. Food and fucking. I can’t help them with the fucking part, and they don’t need it from what I know of their personal lives. But food—hell yes. We get fabulous lunches. Fort Collins might be podunk to most people living on the outside, but it’s got a shitload of great restaurants that are more than willing to feed us for including their logo napkins in a shot on the show.
Ford chuckles as I walk up next to him. He’s leaning against the white cinder block wall, smiling like a dumbass down at his phone.
“What’s so funny?” I ask him as I walk up.
“Kate,” he says, flashing me the picture on his phone. “She’s eating apricots for lunch and she’s got them all over her chubby face.”
Jesus Christ. I have no idea who this Ford is. He’s got baby on the brain these days. “It’s two minutes away, why don’t you just go home for lunch and spare the rest of us your pussy-whipped bullshit?”
“Because,” he says, looking up at me, totally serious, “it’s hard enough to leave Ash once in the morning. If I went home for lunch, I’d tackle her the minute I walked in the door and never want to leave.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I walk away and go help myself to the food, then take my plate and cop a squat next to Ryan at the table with the rest of the boys. Ford and his family. He’s only been back in town a week and I’m already starting to gag on his sickening happiness.
“You’ll understand one day, Spencer. When you’re tired of playing games with Ronnie, you’ll see.”
My fork stops midway to my mouth and I stare hard at him. “You better shut the fuck up, Ford.” He eyes me, then the camera crew, who are not on a lunch break, and winces.
Luckily he’s smart enough to drop it and not start spouting apologies.
“Hey.” Ryan jabs me in the ribs to take my attention off Ford. “I thought you were gonna show up at the Sundance last Thursday? I took my date there, hoping you’d bail me out, but you flaked on me.”
“Yeah.” I look over at him. Ryan is a few years older than me and he came from a bike family too, only his old man lost everything in a high-stakes poker game a few years back. Ryan and I were already friends—we met at the Elvis convention in Vegas the year before and we hit it off right away. We both have bikes, tats, and an insatiable drive to make money. “I had to cancel on Carla. In fact, I’m just too busy to do the Thursday night dates anymore. I might still hang at the Cat Call on Fridays since it’s close, but I’m not gonna do Saturday night dates either.”
“Totally understand, man. You’re hooked up big with commitments.”
Ryan’s tall and big, like me. But his tattoos tell a story I’m not sure I want to know about. His tats are nothing but violence. On a first look, they’re just a bunch of retro WWII shit. Old-school stuff. Diving swallows, anchors that say Mom, pinups. But if you ever have a chance to look closely, you see that’s not what they are at all. The swallow is dead and decaying. The anchor is attached to the foot of a drowning man. The pinup has a black eye.
He’s had a difficult life. Family had a lot of money when he was small, but they were new money. And sometimes new money has no idea what to do with all their money. So they do all the wrong things with it. Like gamble away the family business. Or get hooked on meth and try to sell their kids on the black market. Luckily Ryan was already thirteen by the time that shit started going down, so he got his little sisters out of it by turning in his mother the night before the ‘sale’. But that didn’t stop the downward spiral for long.
“Yeah, but we should go out this week. Just the guys, maybe,” Ryan says. “Celebrate a little, huh?”
“I’m in,” Griff says. “I’m a free man again, why the fuck not?” He gets up to throw his trash away and then heads back into the shop.
“I’ll go too,” Fletch offers. He’s the youngest. No steady girlfriend or nothing. He almost never hangs out with us since he heads down to Denver every weekend. “I’m sick of Denver.” He finishes his last bite of lunch and then gathers his trash and heads after Griff.
Ryan and I both look at each other and smile because Fletch only gets tired of Denver when he’s avoiding a girl. I’m shoveling some half-warm fettuccine in my mouth when the back door slams open and the cops come in.
“There he is!” that little fuck, Drake, calls out, pointing at me. “That’s him. I want Spencer Shrike arrested for breaking into my shop!”
Holy fuck.
I look over at Ford and he’s already dialing the phone. Ronin, I’m sure. Why the fuck do the cops have to show up when Ronin’s out of town?
I take a deep breath and come out swinging—so to speak. “Hey, Drake! What’s up, little dude?” I take my attention to the cops. It’s a short chick with blonde hair and a big guy with… “Scott? You a townie now?” This is the deputy who busted Rook last summer for speeding in my Shrike truck. It was a major scene because he’s the one who found out Jon had filed a missing person’s report on her. We’ve never been close friends or anything—in fact, he sorta hated my guts until that little Rook incident. But he lives down the road from me, so I see him driving through Bellvue a lot. And he always flashes me the country wave when he passes now.
That’s like the universal rural signal for what’s up? Which means we’re friends. Because if you’re not friends, you don’t country-wave people. It’s the law.
“Yeah,” Scott says as his little partner jots down notes. Of what, I have no clue, but the chick is getting busy with the pen and paper. Scott ignores her and walks up to me. “I had my name on the FoCo department waiting list for a few years. Full-time position finally opened up, so I took it.”
“Hey, Barney Fife?” Drake says. “This ain’t Mayberry. I want him arrested for stealing my bikes!”
Scott holds up a hand to me and then turns to Drake. “Mr. Cikes, we have a procedure, so why don’t you go give your side of the story to my partner over there, and I’ll handle Mr. Shrike.”
Drake scowls up at him and then does a quick turn.
“OK,” Scott says as he looks around, spies Ford, nods, and then takes in who all’s here. “I know what you’re gonna say. Talk to Ronin. But I don’t see him and I’d like to just get rid of this little twerp.” Ford walks up and stands next to me and Scott directs his tal
k to him as well. “So just tell me what you two were doing outside his shop last week and we’ll call it good, OK?”
“We weren’t outside his shop,” Ford says, taking over. “We were parked down the street. And the last I heard, we still live in America. Where people are free to park on any public street they want.”
“They were smoking a joint in the truck, ask them about the pot they were smoking in the truck!” Drake yells from across the room.
Scott rolls his eyes, but he’s got his back to Drake, so Drake can’t see. “Were you smoking pot in the truck, guys?”
We laugh. In fact, Griff, Ryan, and Fletch are all in the lunch room again now, and they laugh too.
We might be criminals guilty of a lot of bad shit. But we don’t do drugs and everyone knows that.
Scott leans in. “OK, come on, guys, you know anything about this? I don’t think you did it, but if you know anything—”
“He blames me for his bikes going missing,” Drake yells again. “And he stole my shit to get even.”
“Drake,” I growl. “Your shit is shit. Look around, asshole, do you think I need to steal your crappy bikes? You’re nobody. Those seven bikes stolen from my showroom are barely a blip on my bottom line. It’s called insurance, dumbass.”
He lunges at me, plows right through the little girly cop and sends her crashing backwards. The whole garage sucks in a collective breath as she skids across the polished concrete floor and comes to a stop against Ryan’s leg. Ryan leans over and extends his hand to help her up. She’s beet red with embarrassment, but she takes his hand.
And then Scott is slapping the cuffs on Drake. “You have the right to remain silent…”
We all just stand there as Scott pushes Drake out the door, leaving the little cop behind to wrap things up.
“Um,” she starts. “I’m… sorry.” And then she bolts out the door after her partner.
“What the fuck was that?” Ronin says from the doorway.
We all swing our heads in his direction. “Dude!” I laugh. “Insanity! Fucking Drake tried to say we robbed him or some shit. What’re you doing back, anyway?”
“You got me all riled up about Rook being pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Ford asks. “Since when? She never said anything to me about being pregnant.”
“Why would she tell you before she tells me, asshole?”
“Because we’re best friends. She tells me all kinds of shit about you, Ronin.”
Ronin is winding up to fight, so I stick my arm between them. “He’s fucking with you, Ronin. You’ve known him for ten years, and every time you fall for his shit.”
Director Larry bursts through the door now, and he’s the one who’s all riled up. “Holy cow! This is gonna be the best season ever!” He claps Ford on the back and Ford bats his hand away and steps aside. “We got all that on tape. Even”—he looks over at Ronin—“the pregnancy. Holy shit, if Rook is pregnant, our ratings will go through the roof!”
Luckily Ford pushes Larry out the door before Ronin knocks his teeth out.
I grab Ronin’s shirt sleeve and pull him outside. Scott and little cop are still busy arresting Drake in the parking lot, so we head across the street and start walking down Maple towards the shops so that the noise of lunchtime pedestrians and traffic drowns out our voices over any potential listening devices.
“We need to pull that bot out of that shop, like now, Ronin. This shit is getting crazy. I mean, who the fuck is in town stealing motorcycles? And why?”
“I dunno,” he says. “But we might have the whole thing on camera from the bot. We can’t risk going through footage parked in that neighborhood, so pulling it is the only option if we want to see who did it. I’ll go scout out the area tonight. Alone,” he adds. “You and Ford have already been made, so I’m the only option. Then we’ll come up with a plan tomorrow. Let’s just hope that little dick Drake doesn’t suddenly get smart and sweep his place for bugs.”
“Fuck.”
“We’ll figure it out. Just keep cool, man, OK?”
I look over at Ronin. “I’m always cool.”
“Yeah,” he agrees as we turn around and start walking back.
But I know what he’s thinking. I’m not always cool. Because I’m the one who lost his cool and shot that fucker up in Boulder. I’m the one who had us all staring at a murder one charge and twenty years to life in prison.
And I’m starting to get that feeling again. That twitchy feeling that says a storm is coming. That says I need to prepare.
Because not only do I have to worry about keeping Ronin and Ford safe, now I have to worry about Rook. And Ashleigh. And Kate.
But thank fucking God, my Bombshell is safe. No one knows about us. No one knows how much I love her. And that’s the whole reason I continue to break her heart, time after time after time.
I never want this shit we’re in to touch her again.
Chapter Ten - Veronica
“Well,” I say back, still standing at the base of the stairs. I should be walking up them, going inside. But this stranger has stopped me dead. “You found me.”
He adjusts his coat. It’s a long black trench, pressed crisp, and looks like it cost a million bucks. In fact, this guy screams money. And then he steps towards the stairs and descends. Slowly. Like he’s trying to make an impression on me.
It’s working. I’m just not sure what kind of impression he’s leaving.
Handsome? Yes.
Intimidating? You bet.
Dangerous? Absolutely.
When he reaches the bottom he looks me over. Like, not just the look-over. I get that a lot. That look says I’m a pervert and I’m imagining my dick between your tits right now.
No. Not this guy. This guy gives me a look that says pay attention.
And right now that look he’s giving me is making me wish he was just leering and looking for a mental image the next time he wanks himself off.
He stands there like he’s waiting for something, and I have time to take him in. Short, styled brown hair. Green eyes. Expensive suit that looks like it was designed specifically for his body. Which is large, easily the same size as my brother Vic’s. I bet he’s got muscles for miles underneath those clothes. He extends his hand. “I’m Mr. Mansi, owner of this”—he waves another hand towards the building in a dismissive gesture—“lovely piece of property.”
“Oh.” I laugh a little with relief. “Got it. I signed the monthly lease with Mr. Golden when I rented this place. So sorry, I just didn’t realize who you were.” I look around at the chaos of workers and take stock the way Spencer taught me back when we first started dating. “Where is Mr. Golden?” I drag my gaze from the commotion and stare Mr. Mansi in the face. “I don’t see him.”
It’s only then that I realize I’m still shaking his hand. For several seconds. He’s looking down at our grip with an amused smile and I pull my hand back self-consciously.
“He’s been… relieved of his position. I’m taking over from here. And that’s why I needed to talk to you. He should not have rented you an apartment in this building, Miss Vaughn. The first floor is contaminated with asbestos.”
I gasp. Holy shit, asbestos! That’s as bad as hepatitis in my book.
Mr. Mansi puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s OK, it’s not airborne. It’s not been disturbed. But it needs to be cleaned out, and I’m afraid that means you can’t stay here. You can’t go back inside now until they’re done. They’ve already started ripping it out. I’ve been trying to call you for several hours, and well, we couldn’t wait any longer.”
“Oh.” I breathe out some relief. “OK, so how long will it take? I guess I can stay with my dad.” He smiles an indulgent smile and all of a sudden I get it. “You’re kicking me out, aren’t you? For good?” I turn and kick the wall. “Goddammit.”
“Your lease was month to month and—”
I shove my helmet on my head and walk over to my bike and swing my leg over. I’m just
about to twist the key when he places his hand over mine. I look up at him and he’s smiling. Asshole.
“Miss Vaughn, can you take the helmet off so I can explain your accommodation arrangements?”
“My what?” I echo through my helmet.
He knocks on the helmet and I slip it off and rest it in my lap. “My what?” I repeat.
“I own several apartment buildings in the area. I’ve arranged for one to be provided for you. Would you like to see it?”
“Uh…” What am I supposed to say? “OK,” I manage after a few silent seconds.
“Come with me, I’ll drive you there.”
“No,” I say with a small laugh. “I don’t think so. I’ll follow you on the bike.”
He looks up at the sky and makes a face. “It’s getting cold.”
“I’m good,” I assure him as I push the helmet back down on my head.
And then he nods and walks over to the alley. I start the bike and back out, then meet up with him at his big black Dodge Challenger. He revs the engine a little, making the whole car sway and rumble with power.
That is sorta hot.
He nods at me and pulls out slowly. I catch him checking his rear-view to make sure I’m following. We cross College Avenue and weave our way up a few streets, not far from Spencer’s new shop. He pulls up to an underground parking garage and we wait for the gate to open for us. I follow him inside the dimly lit garage and he parks the car in a reserved spot near the door to the elevator. There’s a few other cars, sporadically spaced. But the place is pretty empty. Everyone must be at work. I pull up next to him, shut the bike off and engage the stand, pulling off my gloves and then my helmet, before swinging my leg over the bike.
I feel sorta badass while I do this. I mean seriously, I’m riding a custom Shrike Bike. I’ve got my old faded blue jeans on. I’m wearing Spencer’s painted leather jacket, and my four-hundred-dollar Frye boots are the biker icing on the cake. I’m like one hundred percent hotness. I know this because this Mansi guy’s eyeballs never leave my body.