Nickel's Story: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

  “Hey, man.” He grabs my arm. I swing with the other, clock him across the face, follow up with a jab to his ribs. He don’t even step back. He tackles me, pile drives me into the weeds at the side of the road.

  I fight for a while, too crazed to do anything else, but Forty’s got sixty or seventy pounds on me, and he’s an ornery motherfucker.

  “You done?”

  “I gotta get Story, man.” I kick and flail and Forty takes it all like a Goddamn punching bag. He’s got my wrist pinned, the one holding the gun, so I can’t get enough momentum to get out from under him.

  “Stop, brother. You got to stop.”

  Slowly, slowly, the madness ebbs. I can’t call it ugly. It ain’t. It’s fear, stark and terrible. It unarms me, and the pain of it is so raw, I’d give anything to lose my mind again. But I can’t. I got to get to Story.

  “You done now?” Forty exhales. “What the fuck happened?”

  “Ike’s got Story, man. He hurt her. He says he’s gonna kill her.”

  “Fuck.” Forty pushes up and sits next to me. We’re both panting, covered in road dust. I still got my gun in my hand. Thank fuck I left the safety on.

  “What’s he want?”

  “I don’t know. Fuckin’ blueprints.”

  Forty has his phone out, and he’s dialing. I hear Heavy’s charred voice bark, “You find him?”

  “I got him,” he answers, putting Heavy on speaker. “Ike has Story. He says he’s gonna kill her. He wants blueprints.”

  “What blueprints?” Heavy is all business. This request ain’t so strange to him.

  Forty looks at me. I try to think. What was it? “Des Wade’s. The properties in Pyle.”

  “What would he want with them?” Forty asks. “We did that work years ago.”

  “Don’t worry. I know what this is about.” On speaker, I can hear Heavy call the order to mount up. “Where you at?”

  “Barrow Road,” I say. “Almost to my old place. That’s where he’s got her. He sent a picture.” My guts clench. She was hurt. Her face. Oh, God.

  “How long ago did he contact you?” Heavy’s breathin’ hard like he’s jogging while we talk.

  I don’t even know. I check my cell. Somehow it came out of the crash fine. “A half hour.”

  “You respond?”

  “Fuck. No.” I drove off half out of my mind and wrecked my bike a quarter mile away. Shame burns my face. “What should I say?”

  “Text him now. Tell him you’ll get the blueprints; it’ll take a few hours. Tell him you need another pic of Story holding her phone so you can see the date and time.”

  The fear rears up again, threatens to pull me under. I have to fight to keep my brain straight. “Heavy. We got to get her.” My words are as close to begging as I’ve ever come.

  “We will, brother. We’ll be there in less than thirty. Forward whatever he texts back, and watch your phone. In the meantime, we need to organize.” There’s a pause. “Forty? Lou Ellis lives up that way, don’t he?”

  “Last I heard.”

  “Let’s meet there.”

  Forty’s hard face turns to stone. Lou Ellis is a sore subject. He’s an occasional hang around. His sister Nevaeh fucked around on Forty when he was overseas. She’s been out of town for years, though.

  “Yeah. Okay.” Forty gets to his feet and offers me a hand. “We’ll meet you at Lou’s. Get Wall to bring my rifle.”

  “Nickel?” Heavy invests a lot in my name, shit we don’t need words for.

  “Brother—” I don’t know what to say, but Heavy hears me anyway.

  “Ike ain’t gonna hurt her. She’s his one way out of this shit. If he’s this desperate, he’s in deep to the Rebel Raiders, and they got to be pushing him. He wouldn’t have done this otherwise. I’m thinking right now these blueprints must be his ticket out of a world of hurt. She’s safe. We’re gonna get her out of there.”

  I don’t care if Heavy’s feeding me lies; I hold those words so tight I can feel them in my hands. “All right, brother.”

  “You solid?”

  I know what he’s asking. “I’m solid.”

  Maybe for the first time in my life. I’ve lost the ground under my feet, but I will fucking fly if I have to. If my girl needs me to.

  “You got me?” I ask Forty. He mounts his bike, shifting as far forward as he can so I can ride bitch.

  He knows what I mean. “I got you.”

  I ain’t gonna lose my shit again. I got my brothers, and if that’s what I need to keep me even, then so be it. I ain’t a proud man. I’m Story’s man.

  And I’m gonna get my woman back.

  CHAPTER 21

  STORY

  Blood is trickling down my chin, and it itches, but I’m so scared, I don’t dare move my hand to wipe it away.

  I have to pee, too, but I’m frozen in the corner of this couch, and besides, I can’t imagine pulling down my pants anywhere near Ike Kobald.

  He’s merciless, his eyes as dead as a shark’s. When he opened the door, he grabbed me, backhanded me so that I tasted metal, and then threw me on this couch. He said if I moved, he’d pop me again so hard my eyes would swell shut, and I wouldn’t even see the bullet coming for me.

  I would have pissed myself if I’d had to go then.

  He’s agitated. He’ll pace the room for a while, peering out the cracks between the boards in the windows, muttering to himself, checking his phone constantly. Then he sits in that recliner, staring at me and then the phone, sipping a fifth of Wild Turkey and drumming his fingers on the gun resting on the end table next to him.

  This was a bad choice.

  I didn’t tell anyone that I was coming here. I knew Ike Kobald was bad news, that he’s riding with the Rebel Raiders. And I didn’t consider that he might be holed up in his old house? It’s like I’m fifteen again, following Ryan Alston into the fields, knowing better but doing it all the same.

  The knot in my stomach coils tighter and tighter as Ike stands, paces, sits, fiddles with his phone and stares and then checks his phone again. Finally, it chirps. He takes my phone from his back pocket, throws it at me, and makes me pull up the home screen. Then he says, “Hold it up and smile.”

  He takes a picture of me, and then he snaps. I throw the phone back.

  This has to be good. Someone knows where I am, and they care that I’m still alive.

  Ike’s phone chirps again. He must like what it says because he sinks into the chair, and even though it isn’t reclined, it’s so old he’s leaned back at ease, a guy watching TV after dinner rather than a psychopath holding a woman hostage.

  I search the room again for anything I could use as a weapon. Ike took my keys, and he has my phone. My purse—with the expired mace and the nail file—is in the car. There’s a coffee table, a brand-new TV, an empty curio cabinet, and not much else. There are two wood-framed pictures hanging on the wall beside me: a young woman in a white dress swayed against a scowling man in a powder blue, bell-bottomed suit and a baby picture.

  “That’s me. Cute, ain’t I?”

  I startle. Ike’s lit a cigar. He’s smirking at me, puffing away like he hasn’t a care in the world. “By the time Keith came, Ma kind of fell behind on the home décor.”

  I swallow, but my throat is so dry, it sticks. I should say something. They say if you get kidnapped, you’re supposed to make yourself human. Talk about yourself, your family.

  “My ma covered every inch of our place with stuff.” My voice shakes, but I force myself to keep going. “She was big on tie-dye and dream catchers.”

  Ike raises his eyebrows. He seems surprised I’m calm enough to speak.

  “Oh, yeah,” he drawls. “Sunny Jenkins is your ma, right?”

  I nod.

  “Fucked her a few times back in the day. Ditzy bitch. She kept it tight for all that she passed it around.”

  He sneers, watching to see how I react. I keep my face straight. He isn’t the first asshole to talk shit about my ma. Still, my
chest hurts. I know what my ma was, but it’s not like it doesn’t hurt to have it thrown in my face. He does seem to have fond memories. That can’t hurt.

  “You should let me go.”

  He snorts and puffs his cigar. “’Cause of some pussy your ma served up fifteen years back?”

  “’Cause this is fucked up. No one’s goin’ to give you money for me.”

  “Don’t need money. Obviously.” He waves his hand around the room. “I ain’t hurtin’ for cash.”

  He’s joking. I’m about to piss myself, and he’s being a smartass. “Why, then? Why are you doing this?”

  I asked when he first threw me on the sofa, but he just told me to shut up.

  “Not your business. Ain’t my little brother taught you yet? Old ladies got no place in club business.”

  “We’re not—” I don’t know if it’ll hurt or help to say that Nickel and I aren’t really together. We’re not, I guess, but the words feel like a lie.

  “Not what?”

  I have to try it. “We’re not a thing. He’s not going to give you anything for me. Ask anyone. We’ve never even been out together once.” My eyes mist up, and I blink really fast.

  Ike tuts. “Now, don’t lie, little girl. I saw you two. In the parking lot at The White Van.” He winks and casually scratches his junk. “Dudley Do-Right. Always tryin’ to save the ladies.”

  It strikes me then, cuts through the terror, leaving a bitter sadness. This piece of shit and me? We both understand something about Nickel Kobald that no one else seems to really get. Nickel is the good guy. He’s brave and strong and—hell. He’s a bouncer and a bounty hunter. He spends all his time protecting women and catching criminals. All he’s missing is the badge and a chin dimple.

  And—because he is who he is—he’s going to bust through that door to rescue me, and Ike is going to take the gun resting on the end table and unload it in Nickel’s chest. I can see it clear as day.

  How much time do I have?

  It’s been maybe ten minutes since Ike’s stopped obsessively checking his phone. Whatever’s happening must be unfolding right now, which means Nickel knows, which means my crazy man is racing to me, guns blazing, straight into disaster. I am not going to let this go down like that.

  I draw in a deep breath, and flip the switch in my brain like I do whenever I’m in the spotlight and a hundred people—or a few dozen drunk dudes—are staring at me, and in my head I’m all nerves and stage fright, but I trust my body because it knows and can do things my mind can hardly imagine.

  I’ve made my body strong and graceful, and all I need to do is trust it. Trust myself. There’s a way out. Maybe I can’t see it, but it’s there. My mind is whirring so quick, I hardly realize Ike is rambling on.

  “You know that fucking so-called brother of mine gave Jeannie the cash for that bitch lawyer she got? She wouldn’t have never testified at my parole hearing if she didn’t have that cunt’s voice in her ear. Jeannie couldn’t wait to throw that in my face, either. Even your own blood knows you’re a piece of shit.”

  Ike is amping up, mimicking his ex with a high-pitched voice. I’ve never seen such hate in a man before.

  “Dudley Do-Right cost me a year inside,” he spits. “Now his dead body’s gonna earn me my patch with the Rebel Raiders, and probably a cool five thousand besides for the shit he’s bringing.” He laughs, the sound churning my stomach.

  “He always did think he was better than the rest of us. His corpse got more cash value, that’s for sure. I think I’m gonna make him watch you choke to death on my cock before I kill him. How big are those bug eyes gonna get then?” Ike smirks and winks.

  I can’t stop the whimper of fear that escapes my lips.

  “Now don’t get impatient, baby. He’ll be here any minute.”

  CHAPTER 22

  NICKEL

  I’m wearing a path in Lou Ellis’ carpet, waiting, straining against my own skin to keep myself from flying off half-cocked again. My brothers are gathered around the dining room table. Heavy, Forty, and Pig Iron are bent over a diagram I sketched of the place, and Big George is getting reports from the perimeter they’ve set up around the house. Lou and Gus are standing at the exits, eyeing me. Heavy probably put them on guard to hold me back.

  When we first showed up, Nevaeh Ellis wandered out of the bathroom wearin’ nothing but a towel and Air Pods. Guess she’s back in town. Forty went stiff as a board. Lou sent her into town with a twenty and instructions to stay gone ‘til he calls. Forty’s head seems back in the game now. It better stay there. This all hinges on him. My girl’s life is resting on his aim.

  Creech, Dizzy, Cue, and Scrap are in position at the house on Barrow. If Ike’s at the old place, he’s not leaving. If he ain’t...I’m not letting myself think that way. There’s no car but Story’s, no lights except in the living room, so it’s most likely Ike’s there, and he’s alone.

  Wall is heading for us with Forty’s AR-10 and scope. As soon as he gets here, we move out. The plan is as good as it can be with what we know. Charge had Kayla bring the designs for the improvements he’s making to Boots’ place. They look like blueprints to me; they’ll look like blueprints to Ike.

  I’m gonna approach the house alone, get Ike to open the door. Forty will be in the tree line. While I hand the plans over, I duck and wedge myself in the door, open it wide as I can. As soon as Forty fires, Dizzy leads a team in through the back. We got contingencies in case Ike insists on a drop, but if he uses Story as a shield…it’s understood. If I need to take a bullet so Forty can get a shot, I take it. Story is the only priority.

  Charge is hovering over me like usual, leanin’ against a wall, waiting for me to lose my shit which I do every few minutes. When I start lookin’ antsy, he claps me on the back, saying “It’ll be soon.”

  Charge glances at his phone, and I spring to my feet from where I’d perched on the edge of the sofa. “You good, brother?”

  I scrub my face with my hand. “I look good?”

  “To be honest…yeah. Relatively. You ain’t never been this, uh, coherent before when there was shit on the line.”

  “Ain’t shit, man. That’s my girl.”

  “Story Jenkins.” Charge says it like he can hardly believe it. Can’t be pissed at him. I can hardly believe it, too. “She even legal to buy beer?”

  “You the one to talk about legal?”

  “Kayla’s got a kid. Story’s…well, I’ll put it this way. I always felt guilty staring at her titties at the club. Just sayin’.”

  “You tryin’ to piss me off, brother?”

  Charge raises his hands, palms out. “Only tryin’ to pass the time.”

  “Well, you done missed your chance, brother, ‘cause after this, my girl ain’t dancing no more.”

  “No?”

  “Not strippin’ anyway. That’s done.”

  “She gonna be a kept woman?”

  “She gonna be whatever she wants to be. She ain’t gonna want for nothing, and she ain’t never gonna be in a position like this ever-a-fucking-gain.”

  Charge chuckles, but I can tell that he feels me. “You’re far gone, aren’t you, my brother?”

  “No. Not gone.” I shoot him a look he cannot mistake. “Home.”

  And we don’t need to say nothin’ else ‘cause my brother gets me, bone deep. He still hangs close, there for me, but he loosens his stance. He knows he don’t gotta babysit me. I ain’t gonna let the ugly take me over.

  There’s nothin’ that owns me but Story Jenkins.

  CHAPTER 23

  STORY

  The minutes are ticking down, and Ike’s cigar is down to a stub. He’s not even looking at me anymore. He’s watching a video or something on his phone, giggling every so often. My brain skids between the need to act and all these random memories. I need to focus on escape, but my brain keeps flitting from memory to memory. Maybe what they say is true about how when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes.

&n
bsp; I remember my first recital when Miss Amy met us as we came off stage and gave each of us a star-shaped lollipop. She said we’d been perfect and beautiful, and my heart was whirling from dancing and the applause. I was hooked. I fell in love, and I never gave up.

  I guess I’m supposed to feel regret that all I did in my life was become a stripper like my mom, a stripper on my way to becoming a community college dropout. In this moment, I’m supposed to decide I want more for myself and get off this sofa to fight for a different future. That’s what would happen in the movies, but that ain’t what’s happening in my head.

  I’m remembering early on at The White Van, when I was at a loss for what song to request, and all I could think of was Bruce Springsteen’s “Born To Run,” which I’d heard in the car on the drive in. The guys in the audience came alive at the first chords, went crazy, singing at the top of their lungs, sloshing their beers in the air. I wasn’t dancing for them anymore. We were in it together. I don’t care that we were in a funky, dark strip club; there was joy in that place.

  I remember the day I took over Swinging Seniors, all those old ladies shuffling in and sighing like let’s get it over with. Fuckin’ exercise. I thought hell, no. We’re gonna dance, and we did until the laughter and hollerin’ could have lifted the stained ceiling tiles of the old junior high cafeteria and floated straight to heaven.

  Maybe the world thinks I should want more. Want different. But I don’t.

  I want joy, and I always have. I ain’t never had much, but I’ve always had that. Dancin’ on the pad next to our trailer growing up. Dancin’ for Nickel Kobald. I don’t ever want to give that up. I want to live with Nickel Kobald in my arms, and I want to dance.

  Dance.

  Shit. I got an idea.

  I flash a glance at Ike. He’s still watching his phone. He doesn’t notice me start measuring with my eyes.

  It’s seven steps to the recliner, three steps to the coffee table. The coffee table is six feet long, maybe two feet wide. The pictures are two feet above my head. The picture of Ike’s parents is bigger, but the one of Ike as a baby has a thick, beveled wood frame. The end table with the gun is on the left side of Ike’s chair. The lever to lower the recliner is on the right.