Nickel's Story: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

“Wasn’t that from a movie?”

  “Yeah. We should watch that after your nails are done.”

  “I thought we were hot tubbing.”

  “Get this, we can watch TV from the hot tub.” She waggles her eyebrows. “We just open the French doors. It’s awesome.”

  “Won’t Parker and Carson be pissed?”

  “As their mother, it’s my duty to limit their screen time.” Fay-Lee presses her lips together all prim. “Besides, Parker’s gettin’ to be a real perv. If you’re in a bikini, he won’t wanna be lookin’ anywhere else.”

  “Gross!” I nix the idea of hot-tub-movie-time right quick. “Let’s just go through your closet and try on all the stuff that still has tags.”

  “I am totally spoiled, aren’t I?” Fay-Lee sighs.

  “You deserve it,” I say, and I mean it. Fay-Lee got dealt a shit hand comin’ up, and honestly, I don’t think there’s enough stuff in the world to make her spoiled, but Dizzy’s sure tryin’.

  “You do, too.” Fay-Lee tucks my hair behind my ears and presses her forehead to mine. “You deserve someone who can love you right.”

  A twinge of pain twists in my chest, popping the happy bubbles that’ve been flipping around in my stomach all day. “And you don’t think Nickel can do that.”

  It’s not a question. It’s what my ma and Larry think. And Charge and Forty and Wash and Roosevelt.

  “You know what? Here’s what I think.”

  Fay-Lee bends over almost in half and grabs a hand mirror off of the nightstand. She scoots next to me and holds it up, her arm straight so both our faces are framed. Her black hair makes my blonde even whiter, and her tan makes my skin glow like pearl. I think we’re pretty, her and I, and I think our eyes are maybe too old for our faces.

  She lays her head on my shoulder. “I think that all along the world’s been telling both of us it knows better than we do. What’s for us. What we can have, and what we can’t. And we believe it ‘cause we’re so used to bad news being true. But I don’t think anyone knows us better than we do. We got to play by our own rules ‘cause the game we was born into ain’t on a level field. You know?”

  Fay-Lee presses a kiss to my temple. We stare a little longer into the mirror until Fay-Lee crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue, and I blurt out, “I hate dentist school. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.”

  “Of course you do,” Fay-Lee grabs a hand and shakes a bottle of polish. “You’re a dancer. You dance. That’s what you do.”

  That’s true. All of it.

  A few hours later, before I head out, I snag a stretchy pair of black pants from Fay-Lee’s closet. Most of her clothes won’t fit my boobs and butt, even though we’re the same size officially, but I love her style, so if I can squeeze my ass in, I’m gonna borrow it. These pants have tiny diamond studs down the side seam, really teensy and sparkly.

  We don’t hot tub or watch a movie ‘cause it’s late afternoon by the time my top coat dries, and I want time to take a long bath before my date.

  It only occurs to me on the drive home that this is kinda gonna be the first date I ever had. Dean and I only ever hung out at the clubhouse or at my place, and Evan and I just chilled at home or at parties.

  The bubbles in my tummy are fizzing again, and I’m so nervous I have to take a few deep breaths and do barre to get myself loose. I’m out of the bath and about to style my hair when my phone rings. I have two hours to do perfect S-curls. I almost don’t answer ‘cause who calls anymore but telemarketers?

  I glance over though, and it’s Forty. I didn’t even know I had his number in my contacts. Instantly, a ball knots in my stomach. There’s no reason Forty Nowicki should be calling me.

  “Forty?” There’s noise in the background, the deep murmur of men’s voices.

  “Hey, Story. You with Nickel?”

  “No. We’re supposed to go out later. Not till eight.”

  Forty relays something to whoever’s in the background, and then he says, “You don’t know where he’s at, do you?”

  Something’s not right. The brothers are like a military outfit. They don’t lose each other.

  “No. He’s not at the clubhouse?”

  “No. He ain’t at The White Van or the Autowerks or any of the sites. And he ain’t pickin’ up his phone. He was supposed to be at church an hour ago.”

  A cold sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades. No one misses a club meeting. Cue always gets someone to cover the guys when there’s church.

  “Did he work today?” I ask.

  “Uh. No. He said he had personal business. But he was supposed to be done by now.”

  Forty’s being cagey as fuck. If it were almost any other brother, I’d call him on it, but Forty’s not the one. Dude has a stick so far up his ass he can’t hardly nod yes.

  “I’ll call him, okay?” I say.

  “You get ahold on him, tell him to call in.”

  “I will. If he shows up, have him text me?”

  “Will do.”

  As soon as we disconnect, I’m dialing. Nickel doesn’t pick up, and his voicemail is full. What the fuck. I text him, and he doesn’t read it. A deep unease begins to weigh down on my chest. I text again.

  I try to ignore my nerves and blow dry my hair, but every third second, I’m checking my phone. What if he ran into the Rebel Raiders? What if he was buying me flowers at the grocery store or getting his hair cut—for me, for our date—and the Rebel Raiders found him?

  He would do that. He would do some stupid thing like that without backup when there’s a war on ‘cause for all his bite, he’s a puppy inside. The worry is making everything really clear.

  I turn off the dryer. I can’t take it. I call The White Van, and Austin says he hasn’t seen him all day. I call the Autowerks, and a prospect jokes about how everybody’s lookin’ for Nickel today.

  I call Ma and ask for the number of the shrink he’s been seeing, but she says Dr. Rosenthal doesn’t see patients on Thursdays. I call Nickel, and again, I go to a full voicemail box. I shouldn’t panic. He’s a grown man, and he’s totally badass. Besides, I don’t know his schedule. Maybe he was working a bounty gig up in Pyle, and it went long.

  But Forty would know if he had a gig. Still, he could be doing anything. Maybe he went for a ride and got stuck in traffic. And didn’t call in to say he would be late for church?

  Shit. This not panicking isn’t working. I’m sweating out my hair so I’m gonna need to blow dry it again before I start with the curling iron, and my hands are shaking.

  I give up, and I stalk to my closet and tug on a pair of pink velour sweats. I don’t bother with underwear. I keep feeling like my phone’s gonna ring any second, and the plan will be back on, and I’ll feel stupid for worrying. But the minutes tick by, and my phone’s quiet on the coffee table.

  Where could he be?

  He could be on a ride. He wouldn’t take a call on the road. But that’s not true. All the guys have Bluetooth and those things that clip in their helmets. He could be in a ditch on the side of the—

  No. I start pacing. Fifteen minutes pass. A half hour. An hour.

  The phone rings, and I leap half way across the room for it. My heart leaps, and then slams down. It’s Forty.

  “Forty?”

  He cuts right to the point. “Any word?”

  “No. Have you heard from him?”

  He exhales, his concern poorly hidden. Oh, fuck.

  “Not yet, but I’m sure he just let the time get away from him. No worries, sister, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “I will.”

  I can hardly swallow past the lump in my throat. I can’t just sit here, doing nothing. I pull on some socks and lace up my sneakers.

  Where could he be that the guys haven’t checked? He could be in one of those basement meetings, but it’s been so long now…I can’t imagine a meeting would last that long.

  I pull up the pictures he sent on my phon
e, zooming in until I recognize the buildings in the periphery of one of the pics. Christ United, a few blocks over. I’ll go, drive past. See if his ride is in the parking lot.

  With a plan, the pressure on my chest eases up. I grab my purse and head out. I’m there in less than five minutes. There are no vehicles in the parking lot, and none on the street.

  Oh, shit. Where do I look now? I can’t go back to my apartment and wait.

  I rack my brains, running through every conversation we’ve had, losing the thread over and over again to mounting panic. And then, almost the instant the street lamps flicker on, it comes to me. His old house. On Barrow Road.

  I put the car in drive and head out of town. Petty’s Mill is the kind of small town where no one who grew up here needs a GPS to get around. There’s so little to do, most kids have explored every dirt road—and partied in every field—by the time they graduate high school.

  Barrow Road runs down to the flats, a few miles from the Happy Trails Trailer Park. I’d say it’s the wrong side of the tracks, but except for Gracy’s Corner, the bluffs, and the new development downtown along the river, there’s no right side of this town.

  It takes about twenty minutes to get to the turn-off, and I slow down as I drive past tiny ranchers and some pre-fab homes. The sun has set, and there’s no lights out here, but the moon’s full enough to see by. Nickel had said something about the place being boarded up and a van or something in the front yard. There’s plenty of vehicles up on blocks, but most places look lived in.

  I’m getting very close to the river before I see a house that fits the bill. There are boards in the front window and a broke-down Winnebago. The place is dark, and there’s no bike I can see, but there is a garage with its doors shut.

  I pull into the driveway and turn off the engine. I get out, taking only my keys. I’m just gonna peek in the garage, see if I see anyone through the windows, and head out.

  It’s strangely noisy way out here in the sticks. The crickets chatter in waves, and the rush of the Luckahannock is a muted roar in the distance. Bullfrogs honk from a marshy thicket down behind the house.

  Nickel wasn’t exaggerating. The place is a shithole. The roof is saggy, and some of the siding is hanging loose. It’s bigger than the trailer Ma and I lived in, but it’s so much worse—there’s no evidence at all that anyone house-proud ever lived here.

  We had a flower bed with a short, plastic white fence and ceramic frogs with crystal balls, fairies with rainbow wings that circled in the wind, all sorts of stuff Ma picked up at the flea market when we were flush.

  There’s nothing but scraggly weeds in this lawn, and the stairs to the porch are wood planks set on cinder blocks. And there’s a smell, even so many feet away. Dank mold and cat piss.

  I hurry to the garage, peeking in a side door. It’s locked, but the window panes have been busted out. There’s a lot of junk, but no bike. My skin crawls at the idea of getting close to the house. I consider shouting for Nickel from close to my car, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’d be like hollering in a graveyard. He’s most likely not here anyway.

  I should check my phone. Maybe he called or texted back while I was poking around the garage. If I get back in my car, though, I’m going to chicken out. I stiffen my shoulders, take a deep breath, and jog up the rickety steps to the porch and peer in the crack between the boards and the front window frame. There’s no light. No movement. I knock softly.

  An image flashes across my mind. Nickel sitting in the dark, head in his hands, wrestling with whatever happened in this place. All alone. I knock again, louder.

  “Nickel?” I call. “It’s Story. Are you in there?”

  A shadow stirs, rising from an easy chair on the periphery of what I can see, and I jump out of my skin.

  “Nickel?”

  The door creeps open, and I squint inside, my heart pounding, fear and relief both flooding my mind, keeping me glued in place.

  “Baby?”

  A thick arm emerges from the door, followed by a thick shoulder, a bald head, and a hideously grinning face. I turn to run, and I make it two steps before my body is jerked back, and there’s an arm like a vise around my waist and another at my throat, choking off my air.

  “Well, hot damn. Steel Bones delivers,” Ike Kobald cackles, his breath reeking of cigars and booze. “Welcome home. Story.”

  CHAPTER 20

  NICKEL

  I thought cash could buy you anything in this world, including time, but fuck me if I ain’t found the one thing where people are slow as shit to take your money.

  You want to buy a property, it ain’t like you go sign a paper, give them cash, and walk out with the keys. You got to wait for the seller—some old guy who brings his lawyer who’s even older and still logy from the liquid lunch they comin’ from. Then you wait for the title company guy to get out of his last meeting. You think you’re good, but then you gotta wait for the real estate agents. They don’t gotta be there, but when they heard the name Steel Bones, they crawled so far up in my business that I felt like they should be buyin’ me dinner first.

  And then—I guess ‘cause I’m payin’ cash so they think I’m a whale or somethin’—everybody’s gotta try and small talk me instead of giving me the papers.

  I know I’m late for church, but I left my phone in my saddlebag, and I wasn’t gonna leave that room without the keys ‘cause I sure as shit ain’t sittin’ through that ever again. Next time, Harper can handle it. That’s why she’s on retainer with the club. I just didn’t want her up in my business.

  This purchase ain’t exactly smart from a financial perspective. I’m probably over-paying by at least twenty percent. It’s my money, though, and honestly, even gettin’ ripped off, this ain’t making a dent in what I have in savings.

  When they hand over the keys in a little yellow envelope, I’m out of there. I ain’t surprised I got a shit ton of voicemails and texts. I check voicemail first. I got so many the box is full. It’s all Forty and Heavy asking me where my ass is. I delete some to free up space and check the texts.

  The itchy frustration from the past few hours disappears when I see my girl’s name. I hope it’s a pic of her in what she’s wearin’ tonight. I used to think selfies were stupid, but now all I want is a pic of my girl makin’ duck lips in front of a mirror. I miss that pretty face so hard.

  I tap and as I read, my shoulders tense right back up. Story’s worried. Apparently, Forty saw the need to freak her out. My fault for not telling the brothers exactly what I’m up to, but for Christ’s sake, I ain’t a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl out past curfew.

  I’m gettin’ ready to call Story when I see the last message. Ike. Really? He’s got something now, an hour before I got a fuckin’ date? I almost save it, but for some reason I tap, and my blood freezes in my veins.

  There’s a picture.

  It’s Story.

  She’s huddled on a brown, pheasant-print couch, her arms cradling her middle, huge eyes downcast. She has a busted lip. Adrenaline shoots down my veins, shorts my brain, and it’s all I can do to read the message underneath.

  get the blueprints for the des wade sites in pyle

  you try anything or tell sbmc or anyone, she dies

  you got 24 hrs

  shes real pretty

  you best hustle dudley do-right

  A dam breaks and blood roars in my ears, my sight goes red, all the fucking reframing and deep breathing and tai-fuckin’-chi floods away, churned into shattered pieces by the rage animating my body like some fucked up puppet master.

  I’m on my bike, racing down Main Street, my only thought to get to Story and end that motherfucker.

  Terror looms, huge, crashing waves mixing with fury, seizing my chest in a steel grip and sending sweat pouring down my back.

  When I close in on Barrow, I draw my piece from the holster in the small of my back and wedge it between my thighs, ready, my nerves taut, primed to take out, destroy, blow that fucker’s sku
ll open and—

  My brain screeches, skids, and throws up an image. A gaping hole. Strands of blonde hair caught in the jagged edges.

  The wind in my face forces cool evening air into my lungs. Trickles of ice cut through the howling in my brain. I ease off the accelerator. What the fuck am I doing?

  A shard of sanity glints at the edge of my mind, but it’s too new, too fragile. It’s instantly swept away by another flood of fear, ten times as powerful as the ugly. I jam my foot on the gas a few hundred yards before I hit the curve at the turn off to Barrow. I’m coming in too hot, and I lean it hard. When I hear the scrape, I force myself to hold the lean, although it’s more muscle memory than brain cells at this point. I’m gonna lay it down—hard—and Story’s waitin’ for me. She needs me, and I’ve fucked up again.

  I can feel the weightlessness when the rear tire loses traction, and I’m flying through the air, luck the only reason my bike don’t come down on top of me. Instead it slams into the guardrail. My ears are ringing, and there’s a crushing weight on my chest, but it ain’t from the crash, it’s knowing I let Story down.

  I stumble to my feet, limp the few feet to where my piece is laying in the dirt by the side of the road. By some miracle, nothing in my body is broken. Everything fuckin’ hurts like hell, but it ain’t nothin’ if I can get to my girl. I go to pry my bike out of the gnarled guardrail, but the front is mangled and the back tire’s blown. It ain’t rideable.

  I stagger off in the direction I was goin’, nothing in my mind but a pounding and the knowledge that a man is about to die. Ike or me if I’m too late. I get maybe a few dozen feet when I hear an engine roar behind me. Forty’s Softail Slim. I’d know it anywhere.

  I keep plowin’ on while he pulls up, walkin’ his ride to keep pace with me. My mind ain’t clear, but I ain’t stoppin’ for nothing.

  “Where the fuck you been?” he asks.

  Shit. What am I doin’? I shake my head as if that’ll clear it. “You need to take me to the old place down the way. You got a gun?”

  “What’s goin’ on here, Nickel? Fuck. Stop a minute.” Forty pulls off to the shoulder, and I keep on limping forward. He has to jog to catch up, but it don’t take long.