by Harley Stone
“There’s a guy chasing me, and Wasp is afraid you’re in danger.”
“What guy? Crap, I knew you were running from something. Are you sure you’re okay?” My nerves ramped up to prepare for a five-alarm fire. “Carly?”
I could hear Wasp talking to her in the background. The phone muffled for a moment and then she was back.
“You know that bouncer I work with? Spade?” Carly asked.
The name rang a bell. “One of the guys who volunteers at Trent’s school?”
“Yes. He’s on his way to the apartment. Wasp and Havoc will be there soon as well. Just hang tight until they get there.”
“Okay.” I pushed off the door and went to the kitchen to get a drink. “But why am I holed up in my apartment? Start talking, lady.”
“There’s this guy from my hometown—Nate—he’s… batshit crazy. I never told you about him, because I was hoping to leave it all in the past.”
“Is he the ‘bad man’ Trent’s scared of?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry, Jess. I didn’t think he’d find me here, but apparently, he’s been following us. He left a note in Trent’s bag, and when I found it, I panicked. I didn’t even think about you being in danger. I had to get Trent to safety.”
I couldn’t fault her for her actions. Trent would have been my priority, too. “But you guys are okay? You’re safe now?”
“Yes. We’re at the Dead Presidents’ clubhouse. It’s you I’m worried about. You shouldn’t be in that apartment. I should have called and warned you. I should have… Shit. I’m so sorry, Jess. You’ve been nothing but amazing to me and Trent, and I never meant to put you in danger.”
She was all over the place. “Carly, calm down. I’m fine. I’m in the apartment, the door’s locked, and your rescue team is on the way. Now, start from the beginning. What’s going on? Who is this crazy Nate guy?”
Before she could respond, my apartment door came crashing in. Fake wood splintered and the door bounced off the wall, half off its hinges, as a man wearing a sleeveless flannel shirt and faded jeans barreled into my apartment. His dark hair was buzzed, and his brown eyes were wild as his gaze darted around my apartment before settling on me.
“Where the fuck is Carly?” he roared.
Spade
I’VE ALWAYS HAD two families: the enormous, demanding one I was born into and bound to through blood and obligation, and the family I chose. Growing up, my second family consisted of a rag-tag group of boys and girls from the neighborhood. With that crew, I drank my first beer, smoked my first joint, and eventually tried my hand at grand theft auto. Thankfully, I was still a minor without a record—and had a father who promised the judge he’d bring fiery hell down on my head—so my first offense only earned me a joyriding misdemeanor. Several of my accomplices weren’t so lucky. Three of them ended up in jail.
One was shot and killed while we were trying to outrun the cops.
Shit got real in the weeks that followed Coby’s death. Court, the disappointed looks from my family, guilt—that shit was nothing compared to the pain and regret I felt while standing graveside and staring at the casket of one of my closest friends. I realized my life needed to change, so I cut ties with my bad influences, got my shit together, and focused on graduating.
After high school, I did eight years in the Army and gained a new second family. I would have stayed in longer, but duty called. I came home to help my father with the family business, but still craved the brotherhood and structure I’d grown accustomed to in the military.
That’s why I joined the ranks of a club for military veterans. And on days like today, the accountability provided by the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club was the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.
“Don’t forget about your cousin’s quinceanera, Tonio,” my mother said, carrying plates of food into the crowded dining room. “Josephina will be there, and she’s looking forward to seeing you.”
Mom set a plate of chorizo con papas—sausage and potatoes—in front of me and it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut. I wasn’t hungry, a fact I’d been trying to convince her of since I arrived, but one simply did not enter my mother’s house without gaining five pounds. The woman had two major goals in life: to home-cook every meal her six children ate and to get all of us married off, so we’d breed and give her a house full of grandbabies to cook for. I loved her cooking, and I wasn’t opposed to finding a wife and fathering a few ankle biters of my own, but I wanted my future bride to be an educated woman with meaningful goals and interesting hobbies.
In short, I wanted a bookworm with a career.
I’ve always had a thing for nerdy women, an attraction that stemmed from my eighth-grade crush on Ms. Rosales. She was a brilliant young teacher with perky tits and a narrow waistline who wore low-cut, tight blouses, and dark-framed glasses that made her eyes look big and innocent. Every time she removed them and sucked on the earpiece tips, I almost blew my load. I beat the shit out of two of my classmates to earn the privilege of sitting in front of her desk and getting a front row seat to her cleavage peep shows.
I jacked off so many times that year, I fully expected to go blind. Needless to say, I debunked the fuck out of that superstition.
Smart, sexy, career-oriented women have been my temptation ever since.
Josephina’s parents were friends of the family, and Mom had been trying to hook me up with the girl since high school. She had a great body and a nice smile, but she had no interest in college or a career and was boring as hell to talk to.
“I told you, Madre, Josephina isn’t my type.” We’d had this conversation so many times I was considering recording it so I could replay it every time the topic came up.
“You can take me to the quinceanera, Tonio,” my youngest sister, Rosalie, said, smiling up at me. “I’ll be your date.”
Rosalie was my favorite sibling. I was fifteen when she was born, and I’ve always been protective of her. When she was born, her upper lip looked like it was missing a chunk. The doctor called her condition a cleft palate and lip and prescribed several expensive surgeries to correct it. They started operating before her first birthday and didn’t finish until she was seven. I’d spent many nights rocking her to sleep and many days threatening school bullies who wouldn’t leave her alone. Her lip was barely noticeable now, but no matter how many times I told her she was beautiful, she didn’t believe me. When she looked in the mirror, all she saw was that messed up lip.
“Deal.” I booped her on the nose. “I’ll pick you up and you can ride with me.”
“Josephina is a beautiful woman who can cook and carry babies,” Mom said, apparently unwilling to let the matter drop. “She comes from a good family full of hard workers. What more do you want in a bride, Tonio?”
Brains? A sense of humor? Interesting life goals? “Not Josephina Gomez.”
Dad’s eyes lifted from his phone long enough to cast me a glare. “Watch your tone, hijo.”
I was twenty-eight, didn’t live at home, and we were discussing my love life, yet he somehow managed to make me feel like a rebellious teen again. If dads had superpowers, that was his. “Yessir. Sorry, Madre, I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful.” I replied, digging into the breakfast I didn’t want.
“Don’t worry, Madre, I’ll keep Josephina company,” my brother Miguel chimed in. Two years younger than me, he’d spent his childhood tattling on my every move. When I enlisted to serve our country, he called me selfish and accused me of hating the family and running from my duties. He was wrong about the family. They drove me crazy and sometimes made me want to drink battery acid, but I loved the hell out of every single member of the Fernandez clan. Even Miguel the kiss-ass.
The family business, however, I could do without. Unfortunately, it was Dad’s dream. He’d legally changed the name to Fernandez and Sons Construction within a month after Miguel’s birth. He’d brought the two of us into the business when we were still kids, and talked constantly about us taking it
over some day. His heart was in the right place—he’d grown up poor and wanted to ensure that we were taken care of—and I couldn’t find the words to tell him I didn’t want to be a carpenter for the rest of my life. For now, it paid the bills and kept the family happy.
“Thank you, Miguel.” Mom patted him on the shoulder. “Such a good boy. Always so helpful.” Turning her attention back to me, she asked, “You will be at your cousin’s quinceanera, right?”
Guilt was my mother’s superpower. Well, guilt and cooking. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And what about dinner tonight?” Mom spent her days running a food cart with my twenty-two-year-old sister, Maria, and still wanted to come home and cook giant family dinners. She was a wonder, for sure.
“No, ma’am. I’m working tonight.” Becoming a bouncer at the Copper Penny was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. It gave me an excuse to get out of most family functions, and having a second job was something my hardworking parents respected and never questioned.
Yeah, I loved my family. But I loved them more when I didn’t have to be around them twenty-four seven. No family should have to live and work together. If I hadn’t moved into the old fire station that served as club headquarters, I’d probably be wearing a straitjacket by now.
After breakfast, Mom handed us all sack lunches and sent us on our way. Yes, I was a grown man whose mom still made his lunch. I should probably be ashamed of myself, but adulting was some hard-ass shit, and I didn’t turn my nose up at a free meal. Ever. Even when I wasn’t hungry, as I’d proven by cleaning my breakfast plate.
Dad, Miguel, and my eighteen-year-old brother, Felipe, went straight to work while I drove the second work truck to drop Rosalie and my sixteen-year-old sister, Abril, off at school before joining the guys at the construction site.
The downtown apartment building we were remodeling stood a few blocks away from the preschool I volunteered at and a few more blocks from the club headquarters. Parking in the garage, I grabbed my tools and went right to work on the kitchen floors I’d been assigned to installing. I finished two floors before taking my morning break. Breaks were only ten minutes, so I usually stuck around the site. But since Miguel needed to take the second work truck home tonight, I decided to jog the few blocks to the club and retrieve my other form of transportation.
When I wasn’t driving around in one of two company trucks, I was riding my 2012 black Harley-Davidson Road King. The 2012 bikes weren’t exactly known for their reliability, and when I’d bought mine used, it was in limp mode with an oil leak and burned out voltage regulators. Wasp, the club’s vice president and resident motorcycle mechanic, took one look at it and said, “Why the fuck didn’t you call me before you bought this piece of shit?”
But the price was right, and I’d needed a bike to prospect with the club. That was almost two years ago. In the time since, I’d put over five thousand dollars into the sled, and the piece of shit still had more performance issues than a narcoleptic ninety-year-old man with one nut and a bad hip.
Wasp’s professional advice remained the same. “Buy a different fucking bike.”
I could afford to, but it was about the principal, now. I’d sunk so much scratch into this Road King, it owed me a couple hundred more miles. Besides, I’d been banking my checks with the hopes of someday buying a house. Living at the fire station was fun for a while, but after growing up in a crowded house, joining the military, and then moving in with a shit-ton of bachelors, I was ready for my own space and privacy.
Like usual, my cut was resting on the seat. Link didn’t like us to ride without representing, so I tugged the leather vest on and kicked my bike to life. It roared and then sputtered out. The carburetors probably needed to be cleaned out. And it was stupid that I’d had enough problems with the bike to know what it probably needed. Since I had to get back to work, the problem would have to wait. Threatening to take a chainsaw to the piece of shit if it didn’t run, I kicked it to life again. This time it kept its ass going.
By the time I parked in front of the construction site, my phone was beeping with an incoming message from Wasp. I took off my helmet and thumbed open the message.
Wasp: 911. Carly’s roommate is in trouble. Need anyone available there NOW.
Carly was Wasp’s girlfriend and one of my favorite bartenders at the Copper Penny. Her son attended the preschool where a bunch of us volunteered, and I liked that little squirt, too. I didn’t know what was going on with her roommate, but details were unimportant. Wasp was my brother, and he was asking for help. The apartment floor installations could wait. I texted him back.
Me: I’m on it. Send me the loc.
The address popped up on my screen. It was an apartment building, only a block and a half from my current location. Slipping my helmet back on, I started up my bike and headed that direction, wondering what was going on and hoping I wasn’t too late.
Jessica
THE INTRUDER IN the sleeveless flannel—who’d literally just busted down my door—glared daggers at me. He whipped his arm around so I could see the gun in his hand and stalked over. Poking his pistol into my side he leaned against me, and the sour stench of sweat, whiskey, and cigarette smoke invaded my nostrils.
“Where the fuck is Carly?” Nate shouted again.
Still in shock, I couldn’t form a response.
“Ohmigod, Nate? He’s there with you?” Carly screeched in my ear, reminding me that my phone was still pressed against the side of my head.
Nate must have heard her, because he ripped the phone out of my hand and put it to his ear. “Carly?”
Her response came out in a gasp and a curse.
Nate blew out a breath and relaxed his shoulders. “You left me.” He sounded crushed. Devastated. More like an abandoned little boy than a terrifying outlaw who was breaking and entering with deadly force. “You said you’d think about it, but you left. All your shit was cleaned out of your house. I tried to call you, but you turned your phone off. You know I love you. Why would you do that to me?”
“I’m sorry, Nate,” Carly replied.
I could hear her clear as day, and the panic in her voice was palpable. I absorbed it, making it my own. My heart was beating so quickly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it jumped out of my chest and took off down the hall. She was terrified of Nate, and the gun digging into my ribs said her fears were justified.
“I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry, but I needed some time to get away and think. I should have told you where I was going so you wouldn’t worry, but that has nothing to do with Jessica. She’s my friend and I won’t ever forgive you if something happens to her. Do you understand?”
He looked me over, and his eyes filled with contempt. “Then you need to get your ass here. Right now.”
“Okay. I’m coming. I’m like ten minutes out, but I’ll be there. Just don’t do anything until I get there, okay? Promise me?”
He made no such promise. “Hurry.” He ended the call and tossed my phone on the sofa. Looking around, he homed in on the broken door. Tugging me with him, he slammed it, but it hit the lopsided frame and bounced back. He gave it one final kick before dragging me down the hall toward the bedrooms.
“Is the gun really necessary?” I asked. “It’s digging into my ribs.”
He shoved me into my room and followed, closing the door behind us as he repositioned the pistol in my side. “Quit your bitchin’, Carly’s coming.”
I didn’t know which one of us he was trying to reassure, but he clearly didn’t know Wasp. Carly’s boyfriend wouldn’t let her anywhere near our building or this whack job. Wasp and company would show up and handle him. All I had to do was stall and try not to get shot.
Piece of cake.
Minutes stretched out, feeling like hours. Nerves made me feel like I had to pee. I asked to use the restroom, but Nate told me to hold it. For some bizarre reason, I considered my underwear. My bra was old and ratty, and I’d sewn the underwires back into it a couple of times. It
was comfortable, but definitely not what I wanted a mortician to bury me in. I couldn’t even remember which panties I’d chosen. Hopefully they were hole-free and at least somewhat cute. They weren’t riding up my butt, so they were probably the cotton ones that only little girls and old ladies should own.
Why do I care what a mortician would think? I’ll be dead.
My stomach bottomed out at the thought. I wasn’t ready to die, yet. I still hadn’t even gotten a work promotion. Needing to focus on something else, I wondered what was keeping the guys. A siren sounded in the distance. Nate tensed. I closed my eyes and prayed that nobody had called the cops. I didn’t know how he’d react to being swarmed by SWAT, and I didn’t want to find out.
Just when I started losing hope that anyone would come for me before this dirt bag went completely bonkers, I heard my name.
“Jessica? You here?” Wasp called out from the living room.
Relieved, I started to reply, but Nate rammed his pistol in my gut, cutting me off. “Shut the fuck up.”
There was movement outside my bedroom door. Nate heard it, too, and scooted himself half behind me, using me as a shield as he watched the door.
“The cops are on their way, Nate,” Wasp said. “You can still let Jessica go and get out of here before they arrive. Nobody has to get hurt or arrested.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Nate asked. “And why does he know I’m here?”
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I replied, “That’s Wasp. He’s Carly’s… uh… friend. She must have told him.”
If his dark scowl was any indication, he didn’t like that answer.
“Nate? Jessica?”
Nate’s eyes were cold, and his glare was hard as he kept his attention on the door, waiting. The doorknob moved.
“Jess? You okay? Nate? Let’s talk and figure a way out of this.”
“Fuck off,” Nate growled. “Get Carly here. I’ll only talk to her.”
“She’s on her way, man, but I need you to be cool until she arrives. You know she’s gonna freak out if you hurt her friend. You don’t want to piss Carly off now, do you?”