Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

  But Bryce was hungry. The look on her face when she’d delivered her parting shot was fierce. She’d go for broke and never back down. On a normal day, she’d be a pain in my ass. But if Dad really was a suspect for murder, things were only going to get worse.

  Who’d been killed? How had I not heard about a murder in town? Forget my old connections, murder was big news for a small town and should have spread like wildfire minutes after the body had been found. Unless . . . had Marcus found a body from the past? Had the sins of our past caught up with us?

  As a club, we’d justified murder because the men we’d killed would have done the same to us. Or our families. We’d rid the world of evil men, even though we’d been devils in our own right. We were guilty—no doubt. But that didn’t mean we all wanted to spend the rest of our lives in the state penitentiary.

  I raced faster down the streets of Clifton Forge, not bothering to obey traffic laws. When I pulled into the station, the chief was waiting for me at the front desk.

  “Dash.” He motioned for me to follow him into his office. Once the door was closed, he took a seat behind his desk, snagging a string of licorice from an open package.

  “Where’s my dad?”

  “Take a seat,” he said as he chewed.

  I crossed my arms. “I’ll stand. Start talking.”

  “There’s not much I can tell you. We’re investigating a crime and—”

  “You mean a murder.”

  The chewing stopped. “Where’d you hear that?”

  Marcus’s shock was genuine. I guess he’d told his officers to keep it quiet, only Bryce had been one step ahead of him too. “Your new friend, the reporter, asked me if I had a comment regarding Dad’s arrest for murder. What the fuck is going on?”

  A vein in Marcus’s forehead ticked as he swallowed the bite and ripped off another. “Do you happen to know your dad’s whereabouts between the hours of five p.m. last night and six a.m. this morning?”

  “Maybe.” I held perfectly still, though a hint of relief slowed my racing heart. Marcus was asking about last night. Thank fuck. The past had to stay in the past. And since Dad hadn’t killed anyone last night, this had to be a mistake.

  “Well? Where was he?”

  “Got a feeling you already know, so why are you asking?”

  “Your father has refused questioning until his attorney arrives.”

  “Good.”

  “It would help us if you both cooperated.”

  We didn’t cooperate with anyone, certainly not the cops. If I opened my mouth and said the wrong thing, Marcus would mark me as an accessory and throw me into a cell next to Dad’s. One Slater behind bars was enough for today.

  When I remained silent, Marcus scowled. “If you’re not talking, then neither am I.”

  “Fine.” I spun for the door, slamming it so hard a picture on the wall rattled as I stormed out of the station.

  I hadn’t learned much, but what I’d learned was enough. For now.

  Straddling my bike, I slid on my shades, then dug out my phone to call my older brother.

  “Dash,” Nick answered with a smile in his voice. A smile that had been there permanently over the past seven years, ever since he’d reconnected with his wife. “What’s up?”

  “Gotta talk. You busy?”

  “Give me one sec.” He put the phone into his shoulder or something, because his voice got muffled as he yelled, “Go long, bud. Longer. Last one.”

  There was a rush of air and Nick laughed as he came back on the phone. “This kid. He’d play catch all day if I let him. And he’s getting good. I mean, he’s only six but he’s a natural.”

  “Future wide receiver.” I grinned. Draven, my nephew and Dad’s namesake, was the spitting image of Nick. And he was Nick’s constant companion. “You working today?”

  “Yeah. Draven’s hanging with me at the garage for a few hours. Emmy’s taking Nora to get her ears pierced.”

  “Uh . . . isn’t she a little young?” Nora had recently turned four.

  “Don’t get me fucking started,” Nick muttered. “But I’m not arguing with Emmy at the moment.”

  “Why not? Did she piss you off?”

  “No, she’s . . .” He blew out a long breath. “We were waiting to tell everyone but Emmy’s pregnant. Or, she was pregnant. She miscarried last week.”

  “Hell, brother.” My hand flew to my heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too. Emmy’s having a hard time. So if she wants to get Nora’s ears pierced and have a mommy-daughter day in Bozeman, I’m not going to say a damn thing.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No, we’ll get through it. What’s up?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. The last thing I wanted was to add this to Nick’s burdens, but he had to know. “Got some bad news. Wish it could wait.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Someone was murdered last night. And either Dad did it, he knows who did it, or someone’s trying to frame him for it. They arrested him about thirty minutes ago.”

  “Fuck,” Nick spat. “What else do you know?”

  “Nothing. The cops aren’t talking.” I wasn’t going to admit that the only reason I knew half of what I did was because of a sexy, devious reporter. “Dad lawyered up. Once Jim meets with him, I’ll learn more.”

  “Let me call Emmy. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

  “No, don’t,” I told him. “There’s nothing you can do here. Just wanted you to be aware.”

  “Dash, we’re talking about a murder here.”

  “Exactly. You, Emmeline, the kids. You don’t need to be anywhere near this shit.” He needed to stay in Prescott, playing catch with his son, kissing his daughter and holding tight to his wife.

  “Fine.” Nick blew out a long breath. “But if you need me, I’m there.”

  “I know. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “It’s always something,” he muttered.

  “Hasn’t been for a while.”

  “True. Did he . . . do you think he did it?”

  I stared at the gray siding of the police station, picturing Dad inside those walls in an interrogation room. His hands cuffed and resting on a cheap-ass table as he sat in an uncomfortable chair.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe. If he did, there was a reason. And if he didn’t, then Clifton Forge is definitely not a place I want you bringing those kids.”

  Because if someone was after Dad, they could be after us all.

  “Watch your back,” I said.

  “You too.”

  I ended the call and started my bike. The feel of the engine, the vibration and noise, was a comfort as I sped through town. I’d spent long hours in this seat, driven hundreds of miles, thinking through club strategies.

  Except the last year, there hadn’t been club business. There were no squabbles to settle. No crimes to hide. No enemies to outsmart. My time behind the handlebars had been spent simply enjoying the open road. To think about the garage and how we could increase our custom jobs and sock away a pile of money for a rainy day.

  When it came to dealing with a murder arrest, my mind felt sluggish and rusty. It surprised me how quickly I’d forgotten the old ways. Though we’d been tapering things off for years, the Tin Gypsies had only disbanded a year ago. The last arrest I’d had to deal with had been nearly four years ago, and even then, it had been for one of Leo’s drunken bar fights.

  I pulled into the parking lot, walking my bike back into its space. As I walked to the office, I glanced down the lot toward the clubhouse.

  The yard was overgrown, and I needed to find an hour to mow. The inside was no doubt musty and covered in dust. The last time I’d been inside had been during winter when a raccoon had snuck inside and tripped the motion sensors.

  On a day like today, when I needed information and answers, I’d give anything to walk inside the clubhouse, call everyone to the meeting room table and get to the bottom of this.

  Instead,
I’d have to settle for the garage’s office and a few people who were just as loyal to us now as they had been when we’d worn the same patch.

  Presley was on the phone when I opened the office door. She held up one finger for me to be quiet. “Okay, thanks. Call me back if you hear anything else.”

  I went to the row of chairs on the wall beneath the front window. Presley’s desk was the only one in the waiting area, and though Dad and I had our two offices along the far wall, we normally congregated around hers.

  Presley’s official title was office manager, but she did a lot more than we’d put in her original job description. She made sure bills got paid and customers were happy. She shuffled paperwork to my desk or Dad’s for signatures. She ran payroll and forced us all to talk about retirement plans once a year.

  She was the heart of the garage. She set the rhythm and the rest of us followed suit.

  “What’d you find out?” I asked.

  “I called the salon.” Her face paled. “Stacy said she saw a bunch of cop cars at the motel on her way into work this morning. There’s a rumor that a woman was found dead, but she’s not sure if it’s true.”

  Goddamn it. It was probably true. “Anything else?”

  She shook her head. “That’s it.”

  What I needed was to talk to Dad, but given Marcus’s attitude, that wasn’t happening. So for the time being, I’d have to funnel information through the lawyer.

  The door to the office opened and Emmett walked inside, followed by Leo.

  “Heard I missed some stuff this morning,” Leo joked.

  Not in the mood for it, I shot him a scowl that wiped the grin off his face. “Where the fuck were you?”

  “Overslept.”

  “That’s been happening a lot lately.”

  He ran a hand through his messy blond hair, the strands still wet from his shower. “Am I not getting my work done?”

  I didn’t answer. Leo was the artist in the bunch, doing all the paint and design while Emmett, Isaiah and I preferred the mechanics and fabrication. His work was getting done, but he’d been drinking a lot more lately. His arrival time in the morning getting later and later. Every night he seemed to have a new woman in his bed.

  He was still acting like the club’s playboy.

  “I think we’ve got more important things to worry about at the moment than Leo’s degrading work quality, don’t you?” Emmett asked, taking the chair next to me.

  “Degrading work quality,” Leo mumbled, shaking his head as he sat in the last open chair. “Assholes. I hate you all.”

  “Gentlemen, do me a favor,” Presley interjected. “Shut. Up.”

  “What’s the plan, Dash?” Emmett leaned his elbows on his knees.

  I ran a hand over my jaw. “We need to find out whatever we can about the murder. Dad will stay quiet so the cops aren’t going to get anything from him. But they have something. Need to find out what it is. Isaiah has the garage covered, but Pres, limit jobs so he doesn’t get swamped. Emmett and Leo, start asking around.”

  They both nodded. We might not be a club anymore but we had connections.

  “What are you going to do?” Presley asked.

  Emmett and Leo didn’t need my help, and unless the work in the garage was too much, I’d let Isaiah and Presley handle it. Because there was another person in town who had information, and she’d either give it up freely or I’d drag it out of her.

  “Research.”

  Chapter Four

  Bryce

  “I love Sundays.” I smiled at the newspaper on my desk. The bold headline wasn’t fancy or flowery, but it sure grabbed your attention.

  WOMAN MURDERED. SUSPECT ARRESTED.

  We ran an eight-page newspaper that went out twice a week on Wednesdays and Sundays. When Dad had bought the paper, he’d kept the publication days the same but had drawn a clear line between the Wednesday and Sunday editions. Wednesday was geared toward business, focused on the activities happening around town, the classifieds and announcements.

  Sunday’s paper had the good stuff. We ran the major headlines on Sunday, giving the townsfolk something to talk about after church. If there was a major story in town, it came on Sunday. Whenever we did a feature or multiweek piece, it was on Sunday.

  I lived for the Sunday paper. And this week’s was definitely going to cause a stir.

  The ads George had been working on for page three and Sue’s column on the new wedding venue outside of town would likely go unnoticed behind my article.

  Murder had a way of grabbing attention.

  Small-town gossip traveled fast and I had no doubt that most people in and around Clifton Forge already knew about the murder. But gossip was just that, speculation and rumor, until it was printed in my newspaper. Then, it became fact.

  After leaving the Clifton Forge Garage—and one pissed-off biker—behind on Friday, I’d come to the paper and immediately begun writing.

  As stories go, this one didn’t have a lot of detail. Chief Wagner was keeping tight-lipped about the murder as well as the victim. Before they released her name, they were tracking down next of kin.

  The only details he’d divulged in his press sheet were that a woman had been murdered at the Evergreen Motel and they had a suspect in custody. Lucky for me, I knew who the suspect was and had been able to add it to my report.

  Along with my well-timed photo.

  Draven Slater’s name was splashed across the Tribune’s front page, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. I was going to report this story from beginning to end—the judge’s gavel slamming on a wooden block as he sentenced a murderer to life in prison.

  I was taking a risk that I knew the end of my story already. Journalists typically didn’t assume the primary suspect was guilty, and normally, I prided myself on keeping an open mind. But my gut screamed that Draven was a criminal and while he’d been able to escape incarceration for his previous arrests, I doubted he’d be able to slip free this time.

  Reporting and writing this story could be the mark I made on this town. It could establish my career here. My name. And it could be the story that filled the hole in my life.

  As the police and prosecutors worked to build a case against Draven, I’d be right along for the ride, reporting whatever tidbits they threw my way. And since the chief wasn’t very forthcoming at the moment, I’d do some digging on my own.

  I was buzzing at the prospect of real investigative journalism.

  The door behind me opened and BK stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. His black apron hung past his knees. “Hey, Bryce. I didn’t think you were still here.”

  “I’m just leaving.” I stood from my chair and folded the fresh paper in half before tucking it into my purse. I’d come in before dawn to help Dad and BK finish up the print run, then gotten papers bundled and ready for the delivery crew. After the paperboys and papergirls left with their parents, I snagged my own copy.

  This one was a keeper.

  “Are you heading home?” I asked. Dad had left thirty minutes ago.

  “Soon as I get everything shut down.”

  “Have a good one, BK. Thanks.”

  “You too.” He waved, disappearing back into the pressroom.

  BK and I only crossed paths on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. He worked odd hours, mostly coming in at night before a print run. Sometimes he’d do maintenance on the presses, again preferring to work at night. Occasionally, he’d do some early-morning deliveries if we were short on help.

  Like the other staffers here—myself included—BK worked hard for Dad. One day, I hoped to inspire that kind of loyalty from the paper’s employees too.

  I smiled at the paper once more, thinking of Dad’s reaction to my story. When I’d turned it in on Friday night, he’d gotten a Cheshire catlike grin on his face. Dad didn’t want me digging into the Tin Gypsies, but he had no problem reporting on a murder and being the first to announce Draven Slater as the primary suspect.

&nb
sp; He’d come in to run the presses with BK last night, making sure the paper printed without a hitch. My story had reinvigorated Dad. He knew I was going to keep digging, finding out whatever I could about the murder. He hadn’t said a word to stop or slow my progress. Though he had cautioned me: Dash Slater wouldn’t let his father go to prison easily.

  Yawning, I walked out of the bullpen, surveying the empty desks. It was six o’clock in the morning, and once BK left, there’d be no one working today.

  Except for Art, who’d been the receptionist slash security guard for nearly two decades, the staff held flexible hours. Dad didn’t care. Neither did I, as long as everyone met their deadlines.

  Sue was responsible for the classifieds and, like me, preferred to work in the morning. George, who ran advertising, came in before noon, just in time to clock in, grab a handful of mechanical pencils and a legal pad, then head out for whatever lunch meeting he’d booked the day before. And Willy, a fellow journalist who had an aversion to his desk, rolled in around six or seven each night, dropping off his latest story before disappearing to wherever it was Willy disappeared to.

  It was a different pace, working here. A far cry from the chaos of television. There were no makeup artists or hair stylists following me around every corner. No cameras tracking my movements. No producers barking orders.

  No pressure.

  Since it was quiet here, I often found myself alone. Or on the good days, alone with Dad. He worked whenever there was work to be done, which, for a newspaper with only six employees, was often. It had allowed us many hours, each working independently at our desks, but still together.

  I pushed open the front door, turning to lock it up. My car waited in the first parking space, but I was too keyed up to go home. I hadn’t slept for more than a few hours last night, and it would be a while before I crashed.

  So I headed for the sidewalk, making my way over three blocks toward Central Avenue. I hoped the delivery drivers were fast today, getting papers into the hands of our readers.

  I was sorry that today’s headline was possible only because a woman’s life had been cut short. While I enjoyed the thrill of a dramatic story, the sadness and tragedy beneath was heartbreaking. I wasn’t sure who the victim was, if she had been a good person. If she’d been loved or if she’d been lost.