Nickel's Story: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Romance

by Cate C. Wells

  My heart is pounding. I’m scared, and I’m in way over my head, but I can’t let that stop me. I can trust my body. My brain’s a different story, but my body has never let me down. I can do this.

  My stomach aches with nerves, and I wait. The timing has to be perfect.

  Ike belches, rubs his belly. His phone chirps, and he cracks a smile. “Well, ain’t you in luck. Dudley Do-Right came through in record time.”

  The next moment, I hear the growl of a motorcycle engine and the crunch of tires in the driveway out front. Ike reaches for his gun with one hand while he fumbles for the ashtray with the other.

  “It’s gonna be like puttin’ down a mad dog,” he mutters to himself, the faintest note of hesitation in his voice, and I thank God for that cigar nub, cause his grinding it in the ashtray is the only thing that gives me the eight beats I need before his grip is firm on the gun.

  One.

  I grab Ike’s baby picture from the wall.

  Two. Three. Four is a jeté over the coffee table. Five and six take me to the recliner.

  I’m not in my mind. My brain wouldn’t know how to do this next thing, but my body knows. I pull the lever on the recliner as I leap onto Ike, throwing my weight forward so that chair falls back, and at the same time, I slam the corner of the picture frame into Ike’s right eyeball, over and over.

  He screams and bucks, but I clamp my thighs tight and stay on. I hear Nickel in my ear. Why the fuck you stop then? And I don’t.

  Ike’s hands rise on instinct to protect his eyes, and as soon as they do, I grab the gun, disengage the safety, press it to the nearest body part, his shoulder, and I shoot.

  Bang.

  Warm, wet drips splatter on my bare skin above the neckline of my top. I gag.

  He howls, flails at me with his uninjured arm, and I fall to the floor. I’ve got the gun, and I try to keep it raised as I crab walk back, Ike looming above me, stumbling, grappling in the side pocket of his pants for something—a knife?—and I know I need to shoot again, but my hands are sweating so bad, I keep losing my grip.

  The door flies open, slams against a wall, and simultaneously, another shot rings out from a distance, a soft pop, and Ike’s head snaps backward and he crumples back onto the chair like a puppet with its strings cut.

  “Baby, baby.” I’m on my ass, staring and shaking, and then there’s a hard wall of muscle at my back and strong arms wrap around me, gently lowering my hands and slipping the gun from my fingers. “I’m here. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

  Nickel’s scent—leather and laundry soap—filters through the reek of this place, and he gathers me up and carries me outside like a bride, and I want to argue that I can walk, but I don’t think I can. Every part of me is shaking.

  I vaguely register others showing up, a few hushed instructions. An SUV backs up to the front porch, and a large mass is quickly and quietly heaved into the back. Oh, God. That’s Ike. That’s his body.

  My throat seizes so tight air whistles as I try to drag in breaths.

  “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Nickel sets me in the passenger seat of my car, shrugs off his jacket and covers me. He grabs my chin and forces me to meet his eyes.

  “You took his ass out, baby. Didn’t you?” He smooths my hair and strokes his palms down my shoulders. He’s shaking, too. His eyes are blown-out, black pools, but there’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth. “My badass ballerina. You took him out with a picture frame.”

  He’s freaking out, but he’s in control. My body eases. If he’s okay, then he’s telling the truth; it is going to be okay.

  “He was going to kill you,” I babble, simultaneously bursting into tears.

  Nickel sucks in a breath, surprise and understanding and something else making the hard planes of his face heartbreakingly open. “You were saving me?”

  “Of course. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

  He presses his forehead to mine, firm so I can feel him nod. “Always have been. Always will be.”

  Then he buckles me in, and he drives us to the clubhouse, obeying the speed limit, both hands on the wheel.

  CHAPTER 24

  NICKEL

  “Some people dissolve a dead body in lye. So I’ve heard.” Creech is huffin’ and puffin’, a black trash bag slung over his shoulder.

  We’re halfway up the mountain to the burnin’ spot. I’ve got another trash bag, and Wall has a third, twice as big as ours. Creech has the dude with the tear tattoo, I’ve got Ike, and Wall has the fat guy.

  Heavy’s got an orange game bag filled with deer over his shoulder. Forty’s carrying a sapling.

  “Ain’t like anyone is going to believe that we bagged two deer and then decided to walk up a mountain for the hell of it,” Creech grumbles.

  “It’s tradition.” Heavy isn’t breathing hard at all, even though he’s such a massive motherfucker. I’m drenched in sweat at this point.

  “It’s bullshit.” Creech spits. “It ain’t even deer season.”

  “So we won’t run into any hunters,” Wall points out.

  “We could burn the motherfuckers out back at the clubhouse.” Creech has been bitchin’ for the past two hours straight at this point. Ticks that carry Lyme disease. His boots rubbing his heels. The fact that Forty won the coin toss and gets to carry the tree.

  “You don’t shit where you eat,” Forty says.

  “I’m just sayin’. There’s a middle ground between shittin’ where you eat and climbing a fucking mountain to dispose of three bodies.”

  It ain’t just a body, though, is it? It’s my brother. It had to happen, and I thank God every day that Forty’s aim was true, but still…even with all the blood drained, the bag weighs heavy.

  It ain’t the first I’ve humped up this mountain. We’ve made this trek more than a few times before. As Heavy says, it’s tradition. Started back almost the same time Steel Bones did. Slip, Eighty, Grinder, and a hang around named Carl were up on the mountain, hunting elk. It was late at night. They’d been drinking. Carl took offense at something Grinder said, which ain’t hard to do. Grinder’s an asshole. Carl threw a punch, the two of them threw down, and it wouldn’t have been a thing, but Carl grabbed a burning stick from the fire and tried to take Grinder’s eye out.

  Slip and Eighty jumped in, and Carl didn’t make it. They burned him in the campfire and buried him in the morning. A few years later, they passed by on another hunting trip, and lo and behold, a tree had sprung up from old Carl’s remains. Seemed like a sign. Steel Bones has buried its bodies in the spot ever since.

  We get to the clearing around noon. There’s a general groaning as we drop our bags, everyone but Wall. Wall carried the fat man from Twiggy’s the whole way, and he didn’t bitch once.

  Forty and Wall stalk off, probably to see if the shovels we hid up here in a spider hole are still there. Or to get away from the sound of Creech’s mouth.

  “Carl’s doing well.” Heavy lowers himself to a fallen log. Carl’s birch is at least forty feet tall.

  I sit at the other end of the log. “Dutchy’s not lookin’ too good.”

  “Yeah. That’s that emerald ash borer. Invasive species.” Heavy knows all kinds of random shit.

  “That what got its leaves?”

  “Yup.”

  “Too bad we couldn’t have planted Inch right next to Dutchy.”

  “Truth.”

  For what Inch Johnson did to Crista, for all the years Scrap spent locked in a cage because of it…the least we could do is have a place to bring Scrap now that he’s out. So he can see it was worth it. Crista sure as shit ain’t showin’ any gratitude for what he done.

  Heavy and I sit in silence a while. Creech wanders off in the same direction Forty and Wall headed. Up this high, there’s a stiff wind buffeting the very tops of the trees. It whistles in the branches, shuffling the leaves like paper. It’s peaceful.

  Maybe it’s the calm down by the ground compared to the wildness of the wind whipping high overhead, but
there’s something in this place that soothes the spirit.

  “He deserved to die.” I ain’t lookin’ for reassurance. It’s a fact.

  Heavy grunts. “He ain’t gonna be missed.”

  He won’t. Ike was just another in a long line of Kobalds who made the world worse for bein’ born. Uglier. And how much different were we, really? In the end, we were made of the same stuff. Blood and fists and rage.

  “He was my brother.”

  “He was.” There’s a rustling in the brush, and Forty and Wall emerge, carrying shovels. Heavy stands, rolls his broad shoulders. “So am I.”

  I sit there a while longer and watch as Heavy hacks into the short grass, churning up the brown dirt. Forty and Wall join him, and after a time, Creech wanders back, and we spell them, finishing up the pit until it’s five feet wide and seven feet deep. Heavy helps me throw the garbage bags in, and Creech douses the lot with lighter fluid.

  We back up, and Forty hands me a box of matches. A hawk shrieks overhead.

  “Rest in peace, Ike Kobald.” I light the match, flick it, and a stream of fire reaches skyward for the shortest moment and then disappears, trapped and dampened by the cold dirt of the hole.

  It’s not unlike the life we were born into, Ike and I. His fire starved and turned to ash before he ever had a chance to reach for more, but I got lucky. When I had nothing but rage and ugliness, I had a Story to reach for.

  And sometimes, that’s all you need.

  EPILOGUE

  STORY

  Nickel’s been acting very cagey today.

  After what went down with Ike, I was worried that it would send us back to square one. No matter how awful the man was, Ike was blood. Nickel keeps insisting all I did was slow Ike down, though. The kill shot was to his head, and if he was gonna hold a grudge—which he isn’t—it would be against the brother who took the shot, not me.

  No one says who took the shot. No one talks about it at all. It’s club business, and that’s kind of that.

  I have nightmares sometimes, but Nickel’s always there to fuck me back to feeling safe. We’ve been spending most nights at his place ‘cause they’re doing some kind of renovation in the space below my apartment, and it’s loud, and there’s fumes.

  Nickel asked if we could drop by my place after work today. He wants to do something that requires more privacy than we get at the clubhouse. I’d guess anal if he didn’t seem so damn serious about it.

  It’s been a weird month. Everything’s changed, but nothing’s changed. Nickel really doesn’t want me to dance at The White Van anymore, but Heavy said no one changes their routine until we know what kind of blowback there’ll be from the cops.

  I’m not sure if I want to quit. Nickel gets that I need a paycheck, and I ain’t ever relying on a man to pay my bills. On the other hand, I hate seeing the look on his face when I come out on stage—it’s pure misery for him now that he can look his fill at home—but I really, really hate dental hygiene.

  Besides, one night a week teaching Swinging Seniors isn’t enough. I think I’d waste away if I didn’t get that hit of pure joy when my body takes over, and my mind blisses out. I feel really selfish sometimes. I have all I ever wanted—I’m Nickel’s girl. Can’t I suck it up and give up dancing? I know if I put my mind to it, I can find a way to get through school. And spend the rest of my life cleaning teeth.

  Anyway, Nickel disappeared for a few hours this afternoon. Just said he had to take care of something. I’d think it was the doctor or his group, but it’s the wrong day. Then he came back to ride me to work, and he was totally silent. He spent my whole shift out front or pacing the club like he used to do when his anger was riding him hard.

  I’m definitely gonna make him spill when we get to my place. I’ve got ways of makin’ him talk.

  When we pull up in front of my place, it’s almost three in the morning. There’s no moon out, and the street lamps are mostly busted, but there’s light blazing from my building.

  It takes a minute to register. There’s no brown paper in the windows of the storefront on the first floor below my apartment anymore. The lights are all on, spilling onto the sidewalk out front.

  “They must be done with the renovations.” I’m excited to see what it is. A coffee shop would rock. Downtown Petty’s Mill is getting just bougie enough that it’s a possibility.

  Nickel grunts, and I scurry up to snoop.

  They must have replaced the glass cause instead of the old, cloudy panes, there’s sparkly new ones. They’d better look to putting in a metal gate. My neighborhood is getting fancy and all with Des Wade’s new waterfront construction a few blocks over, but my street is still a tad shady.

  I’m thinking about that when I catch my reflection on the far wall.

  There are mirrors, floor-to-ceiling. And a barre!

  “It’s a dance studio!” I shriek, clutching Nickel’s forearm. He’s watching me so closely, a strange expression on his face. His mouth is half-softened in a smile, but there’s worry crinkling his eyes.

  “Want to take a closer look?”

  Do I—

  He holds up a key ring, dangling it from his fingers.

  Holy.

  Shit.

  Fay-Lee said Steel Bones goes big. But this?

  “Nickel Kobald.” I shriek and snatch the keys. “Did you buy me a dance studio?”

  “Don’t break my fingers, babe,” he chuckles, following me while I fling the door open and proceed to poke my nose in every corner. It’s amazing.

  The studio is wired for sound, the wood floor is sprung and polished to glowing, and there’s a locker room with white cabinets and a ballet-pink chaise lounge.

  “No pillows?” I’m laughing, giddy.

  “You’re gonna have to pick those out yourself.”

  “It’s for me?”

  “I bought the whole building.”

  “You did? You bought the whole thing?”

  We’re standing in the locker room, Nickel in the doorway, blushing. He’s actually red in the face.

  “Too much?” He offers me a wry smile.

  My eyes prickle with unshed tears. “I’ll never be able to pay you back.”

  “Ain’t like that.” Nickel seems to draw in a deep, steadying breath. “I’m gonna renovate the other floors, too. Combine the second and third, put in a master suite and another bedroom.”

  “Yeah?” I saunter over to my man, slide my hands up his chest. He grabs them and squeezes.

  “I’m gonna marry you, Story Jenkins, and when you’re ready, I’m gonna put a baby in your belly. You’ll bring our little ones down here, and they’ll play in a corner while you teach all the yuppie ladies how to shake their asses. We’ll make bank once the waterfront is finished. I talked to Heavy. It’s a sound business plan, he says.”

  “Is that how it’s gonna be?” A tear escapes and tickles down my cheek. I’m grinning like a total idiot.

  “I’ll make you happy, Story. I’ll do whatever it takes to be the man you need me to be.”

  “I know you will.” He’s made all my dreams come true. I’m gonna work so hard to make his come true, too.

  “You trust me?” His breath is hot on my lips as he leans close, his eyes glued to mine.

  “Yeah, baby.” I wind my arms around his neck, and he sways forward, stepping me back and guiding me down onto the chaise lounge. He’s hard and heavy, and his cock jerks against my belly. His black eyes swirl, and I know this man so well, I can pick out the threads of fear…and the overwhelming love.

  “I got you, baby,” I murmur, holding him closer, cradling him in my arms while he bears down. “I got you.”

  As I lay there, guiding my man inside me, I can’t help but smile. There’s joy here in these walls. I can feel it. And I’m never letting go until the joy is spilling out the doors. After all, letting go isn’t in me. It’s not how I was made.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  I endeavor to write trashy reads that satisfy emotionally. Ri
ght now, I’m into bikers, but I’ve been known to flirt with mountain men, aliens, dukes, mobsters, and billionaires. Regardless of the backstory, my characters are human, their love is messy, and their happy ever after is hard won. I love mistakes, flaws, long roads, grace, and redemption, in life and in books. Romance readers are my tribe because you all understand.

  Did you like what you read? Please do me a solid and leave a review here! Thank you!

  Want insider information on new releases and special offers? Check out my newsletter!

  Want to read the beginning of Scrap and Crista’s story? Visit my web site at http://catecwells.com.

  Want to connect? I’m @catecwells on Facebook or BookBub. Let’s chat books!

  OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

  Charge: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Novel (Book 1)

  Charge and Kayla’s story, an older man/younger woman, single mother romance.

  Scrap: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Novel (Book 2)

  Scrap and Crista’s story. Coming soon!

  Twitch: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Novella

  Shirlene and Twitch’s story, a prequel to the Steel Bones MC series.