New Honey in Town

by Cathryn Cade

Moke walked Shelle back out into the damp, chilly afternoon, to a car. It was a big, seventies-era boat with a crap paint job and one mismatched door. But the motor purred to life with a smooth, deep purr that told Moke the engine had been rebuilt for speed and power.

  Four of the Seattle Flyers walked with them, Wheels and three other guys. None were his size, but they all looked plenty tough and road smart.

  "You know who you're up against?" Moke asked Wheels.

  The other biker nodded, his hard face tightening. "Oh, yeah, we do. An' we might not have his ass yet, but that mother-fucker goin' down—hard. Time we get through with him, the cops gonna have to tape him back together to put him on trial. Don't worry, we'll take good care of your woman."

  Moke nodded. "Thanks, brother. Appreciate it."

  Wheels smirked. "And you best get back in there and have you a turn at steppin' on some snake. Not that we left you a lot."

  That was fine with Moke, he'd take sloppy seconds in this case and enjoy the hell out of it.

  He watched Wheels and another Flyer climb in after Shelle. Two of the brothers mounted bikes and fell in behind the car as it drove out of the compound gates and sped along the road, headed for downtown Seattle.

  Only then did Moke turn to the brother who stood waiting in the clubhouse doorway. "Show me some snakes."

  The Flyer nodded. "With pleasure. I'm Crack."

  He led the way to another, smaller building in the center of the compound. Looked like a storage building, and it was locked up like one too.

  Inside, a chair sat in the center of a plain room, with unfinished walls and a stained cement floor. Tied to the chair was a big man in filthy jeans and a Rattlers cut.

  He lifted his head and looked to Moke, out of one eye. The other was swollen shut, a huge bruise covering the left side of his face. Blood trickled from his nostrils, and his mouth was swollen and cut.

  He sneered at Moke.

  "His handle's Grinder," Crack said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. "Not sure what that says 'bout his manners."

  Moke smiled humorlessly. "He needs a lesson in how to treat a lady, for certain."

  "Who the fuck'r you?" the Rattler mumbled, his voice hoarse.

  "Your worst nightmare," Moke said.

  Crack snorted. "Really?"

  "What?" Moke said. "I always wanted to say that."

  He rolled his shoulders, and turned back to the Rattler. "But all you need to know is, I'm the man who's with the woman you tried to cut."

  He reached to his belt and flipped open the big Buck knife he'd purchased that morning. It felt good in his hand.

  Had to hand it to the Rattler. He wasn't a pussy by any means. He didn't scream when Moke cut him. Just gave more of a guttural choking sound. Of course, Moke didn't do more than two cuts. That's how many the Rattler had given Shelle, that's how many Moke gave him.

  After that, he used his fists.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  It turned out Shelle wasn't in trouble with the cops, although they weren't exactly happy with her.

  But since Darius Albany was still in the wind, they didn't need her to testify—yet.

  "We will be calling on you to do so at some point," Lt. Schmidt informed her sternly. "And we expect to be able to get in touch with you at all times. If you leave the area again, we need to know where and for how long."

  "Okay," Shelle said, guilt sitting heavy on her shoulders. "Although—the reason I went to Hawaii was that you, uh, promised me protection before. But those bikers got to me."

  Lt. Schmidt sighed. "Yes. That was...regrettable."

  That was for sure. She sat up straighter. "Anyway, I'm going to be moving soon. To eastern Washington."

  After that, she was passed off to Det. Washington, who took down Moke's name and phone number as emergency contact, and Shelle was free to go.

  "We still haven't apprehended one of the two men who broke into your apartment," Det. Washington told her. "I recommend that you accept protective custody, at least while you're in Seattle."

  Shelle looked away, reaching up to fiddle with her hair. "Oh, that's okay," she said. "My, uh, boyfriend will watch out for me."

  Washington's eyes narrowed. "I see."

  Crap. The other woman could tell Shelle was hiding something. Good thing the detective didn't have X-ray vision, or she'd see that Shelle knew very well where the other Rattler was—probably having his face rearranged by a vengeful Moke Ahuelo.

  "Ms. Mason," Det Washington said slowly, as if choosing her words from an array only she could see. "We noted that you arrived here today in the company of four of a local gang. If your new boyfriend is a member of the Devil's Flyers...think carefully before you place him and his associates before your own safety." She raised her brows, waiting for Shelle to agree.

  Shelle had some choices on how to answer that. She chose to smile at the other woman, who was only doing her job. "I hear you, Detective. And thank you for the work you do. I'll see you around. Oh, and the Flyers are not a gang—they're a club."

  Washington looked as if she didn't know whether to say 'You're welcome' or 'You're an idiot.'

  In either case, her problem, not Shelle's. She walked out of the room and the building. Her escort had one new addition. Moke straightened from leaning on his silver rental pickup, and smiled at her. "Hey, tita. You ready to go?"

  She walked over to him and put her arms around him, smiling up into his tough, handsome face. "Moke. I sure am."

  His arms closed around her, and he bent to kiss her, both of them oblivious to the other Flyers waiting a few feet away, and the cops who were surely watching from the building.

  Then they got into the truck and drove away. The damp had turned to one of the fine, misty rains that were so prevalent in Seattle, so the windshield wipers swished back and forth, and spray shot up from the tires of other vehicles.

  With the threat of Albany lurking, Moke wanted to get Shelle out of the city as fast as possible. But she wanted to pack up her apartment.

  After a discussion on this, Wheels had the solution. "We'll get my old lady and a couple of prospects to come and help. Crack and me will stay on guard while y'all pack up."

  Shelle blinked, her mouth open. Moke shut it with a gentle finger under her chin. "Told you Flyer family sticks together and helps out," he said.

  She smiled at him, and Wheels. "I see that. Thank you. I accept your very kind offer."

  Wheels’ old lady was a skinny redhead with awesome silver jewelry, who rarely smiled, but who worked like a fiend. With her in charge, Shelle's meager belongings were packed and in the back of Moke's rental pickup in an hour.

  Shelle decided all of her furniture, either hand-me-downs or Ikea, could all stay. None of it meant anything to her, and maybe it would help someone else.

  To her shock, Princess appeared in the apartment doorway as they carried out the last load of boxes. The blonde looked nervous but determined. "Hey," she said to Shelle. "So, you're leaving. That's good. There's been other guys sniffin' around while you were gone. So...be careful."

  "Thanks," Shelle said. "I appreciate it. And you be careful too."

  The stripper snorted. "I was born careful, girl. Besides, I almost got enough cash saved to get the hell outta here. Going south, somewhere it don't rain all winter." She didn't ask where Shelle was going.

  Shelle nodded. "Good idea. Good luck. And," she added with a grin, "Thanks for taking Eric off my hands. He was a loser."

  Princess' eyes rolled toward Moke, who appeared in the doorway, filling it with hot, handsome goodness. "Yeah. I see you traded up—way up."

  Shelle laughed, her gaze locked with his. "I did. I traded all the way to the top. And no matter where we go, the weather up here is fine."

  Moke smiled back at her, that amazing flash of white teeth and humor that made her heart sigh. Or maybe that was Princess.

  "You ready?" he asked.

  "I am ready," Shelle said. "Let's go, big guy."

 
The Flyers escorted them all the way to the other side of Snohomish Pass. Shelle thought this was really nice, but Moke merely snorted. "Think a biker's gonna turn down the chance to get his ass out on the highway on his bike on a nice day? No."

  It was a beautiful day. The rain had stopped, and the clouds were breaking up, revealing a bright blue sky.

  They drove up through the spectacular canyon that was the west side of the pass, past narrow waterfalls splashing down vertical cliffs, stands of timber and rock slides, with jagged peaks standing high above.

  Traffic thinned out once they got past the recreation area at the peak of the pass. They rolled down past a lake, and on east through valleys with farms and small towns, past stands of towering, white windmills, and over the Columbia River. From there the landscape changed to prairie, with vineyards, truck farms and vast expanses of grain fields.

  Shelle took it all in. It felt as if she could see forever out here. Instead of being a mile or less away, the horizon was a far, faint strip of blue mountains, with miles of rolling prairie in between. Mt Hood soared in their rear-view mirrors, standing guard over the coast behind.

  As they drove east, the mountain shrank slowly until there was nothing before and behind but prairie, the occasional farm and town, and the blue vault of sky.

  "I just realized," she said to Moke. "It's September now. Summer's over."

  "Not out here," he told her. "We have a lot of nice, sunny, warm days ahead. Cool nights. It's a great time of year in Airway Heights. I’ll take you for a road trip—take the bike over to Coeur d'Alene, ride around the lake. You'll like that. Have to buy you some leathers first, though."

  Her heart missed a beat, she was sure of it. "Leathers?" she breathed. "For me?" Oh, my God, how fah-reaking cool was that?

  He chuckled, and gave her leg a squeeze. "Yeah, for you. You gonna be on the back of my bike, you gotta have the gear."

  She nodded so hard her hair flopped. "Okay."

  "And your own cut, with Property of Moke on the back."

  He laughed aloud at the look she gave him. "So, that's a no?"

  "Uh...that's a no, nope, never happening," she assured him.

  "We'll see. I show you a few more things I can do with my cock, might work you around to it."

  When she opened her mouth and then closed it again, he grinned over at her. "Nothin' to say to that, tita? You maybe scared that I'm right?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "Hmmph."

  He laughed for several miles down the road.

  "You're lucky you're so hot," she grumbled.

  "And sweet," he reminded her. "Don't forget that. 'Oh, Moke, you're so sweet. Just like a big old batch of Hawaiian honey.'"

  Now he had her laughing with him. But since they were on a straight stretch of highway with no other vehicles but a semi trundling along behind, she also unfastened her seat-belt, rolled onto her knee and gave him a big kiss on the corner of his mouth. Then she put out her tongue and tasted him there.

  "Huh," she said. "What d'you know? You're right. You are my Hawaiian honey."

  Then she hung on, shrieking and laughing as he hit the brakes and made a hard turn off the interstate and onto a farm road that led into a copse of cottonwoods, planted around an abandoned little house.

  “You crazy Hawaiian!” she yelled at him. “You’re doing it again—trying to make me wet my pants.”

  He stopped out of sight of the highway and turned off the motor. "Yeah, but only in the sexy way. Tita, you can't say shit like that to me when I'm driving," he told her. "'Cause there's only one way for a man like me to thank you for that."

  "What's that?" she asked, but breathlessly, because she had a pretty good idea.

  "Take off those sexy jeans, and I'll show you," he told her.

  And he did.

  It was way more fun than driving off that steep driveway at his family’s Hawaiian homestead.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  When they drove into the little town of Airway Heights, Shelle saw it was a very small town indeed. The main street held a gas station-slash-truck stop, a grocery store, a farm-and-ranch supply store—and she had no idea what that would entail—and some familiar fast food joints. There was a little, one-story motel, and across the street, The Hangar Brewpub & Grill.

  “Show you around tomorrow,” Moke told her. “Now, we’re headed for the clubhouse, get some dinner and relax. Then we’ll head to my place.”

  “How do you know there’ll be dinner?” she asked.

  “Cause it’s Saturday night in summer. Always a barbecue going on, whoever’s in town comes. There’ll be families and friends.”

  They turned off the main road and headed south through a meadow. “There it is,” Moke said, pointing ahead on the right, to a sprawling one-story building. “Used to be a carpet and flooring place, but town didn’t grow like they thought. Place went under, and Stick, our pres, bought the place cheap.

  They pulled into a paved parking lot that ran the length of the building. The lot was about half full of gleaming motorcycles, jacked-up pickup trucks and other vehicles ranging from sports cars to a shiny, black, 70's muscle car in one corner of the lot.

  Strangely, a vintage pink Cadillac with fins sat beside it.

  By now, the sun hung low in the western sky.

  As they stepped down from the truck, Shelle checked her appearance in the side mirror of the truck, wiping under her eyes for any stray mascara, and fluffing up her hair with her fingers.

  Moke waited patiently. “You look gorgeous, tita.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’m just…nervous.”

  He bent to kiss her. “I know. Just remember, they’re gonna love you.”

  It was warm out here, and the air had a pleasant dry feel.

  The throaty rumble of an approaching Harley drifted on the evening air, along with the babel of country music and voices from inside the clubhouse, and laughter, the occasional shriek of a child. Over the scents of curing hay in the field behind them, Shelle caught the scents of vehicle exhaust, cigar smoke, and the enticing smoke of barbecue.

  The plate glass from the flooring showroom still made up the front doors and huge windows beside them, but now the glass was reinforced with steel bars, and shutters that looked as if they could withstand a military attack if closed.

  A big, old airplane propeller had been mounted over the front doors. Shelle squinted. Was that…yes, that was a black lace thong hanging from one arm of the propeller. She guessed guys were guys, whether they were bikers or not.

  The interior was shadowed, but with the doors front and back open to the summer evening, she could see one big room, with a bar running along the right wall, pool tables and foosball along the left, and tables and chairs scattered throughout the middle. Ceiling fans moved lazily overhead.

  People sat, and stood in small groups, drinks in hand. The biggest TV screen she had ever seen took up a good portion of the back wall, with speakers on either side. Several big leather sofas slouched before it, along with low tables. Two pool tables took up an area opposite the bar

  Shelle was fascinated by the people thronging the big room. The Seattle Flyers had scared her, but they’d been strangers, and would remain so. These were Moke’s close friends, his family.

  Some surprised with their ordinariness, but most looked like what they were, bikers and their women. Most of the men wore cuts, some with no shirt underneath. Jeans and boots were the norm, which she had to admit worked for them.

  Their women rocked the biker chick look, with big hair and earrings, lots of makeup and jewelry. Several wore tight, skimpy clothing from bustiers and halter tops with tiny skirts or cutoffs.

  When she and Moke walked in, most of the talk and laughter continued.

  Then a deep, rough voice bellowed, “Well, look who’s back! The Hawaiians are here!”

  As all eyes turned their way, Shelle made an effort to stand tall, and smile at all the curious faces. Moke’s arm around her waist made this easier.
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br />   A huge, burly, ginger bear of a man lumbered toward them from the bar, followed closely by a freckle-faced blonde with wide eyes.

  “T,” Moke said easily. “Yep, I’m back. This is Shelle. Shelle, meet T-Bear and Manda.”

  T-Bear clasped hands with Moke and held on, beaming. “Man, am I glad to see you. You’re at work tomorrow morning, eight sharp. An’ I’m on vacay for two weeks.”

  Then he threw back his head and guffawed. Moke laughed too, but the blonde rolled her eyes and grinned to Shelle.

  “Hi, Shelle,” she said. “Welcome to Eastern Washington. I’m Manda.”

  Moke’s partner turned his smile on Shelle. He looked her over, head to toe, and then winked at her. “You done good, bro. Real good. Now come and have a drink, you two. It’s Saturday night, time to par-tay!”

  Moke leaned down to be heard over the loud music and voices. “You want a beer, or a soda? Don’t think they have wine. And guarantee no umbrella drinks.”

  “You have to start with a shot,” T-Bear pronounced. “Flyer tradition. Then, you can have your wimpy little girlie drinks and shit.”

  Manda shook her head. “He doesn’t mean anything,” she said to Shelle. “He’s just…”

  “A party guy?” Shelle said. “Moke told me all about him, and you. I’m really glad to meet you.”

  “Yay!” Manda said, hunching her shoulders like an excited little girl. “Me too.”

  Shelle chose a shot of whiskey, and Moke grinned proudly as she saluted him with it. “To the Flyers.”

  She tossed the shot back, shuddering as fire burned down her throat and into her middle.

  “Nice, tita,” Moke approved. What else he might have said was interrupted as two more brothers barreled in, greeting him loudly.

  “Come on,” Manda offered. “I’ll show you around.”

  Shelle looked to Moke, who was greeting a big, handsome blond biker with his hair tied back. Wow, he was almost as handsome as Moke.

  Manda giggled, and Shelle blushed, realizing she’d spoke aloud. “Oops. Sorry, shots talking.”

  “No, it’s awesome. All the women think Pete and Rocker are the hottest. But you and me know better, right?” She gave her huge, burly ginger biker an adoring look.