Biker Blues

by Dale Mayer

  “Perfect timing,” she said with a bright smile and more energy than she was feeling. “I was just about to check out.”

  “And you can,” the doctor said smoothly, “As soon as I check that wound over.”

  She studied his face, then switched her gaze to Morgan’s. She caught the relief in his gaze and relented. “Fine. Let’s make this quick.”

  It was quick. And painful as hell. When the doctor and nurse departed, she sat on the bed, desperate to hold the tears in and failing miserably.

  Somewhere between being all fired up to go and the doctor leaving, she’d gone from energetic to bawling like a baby.

  Strong arms gently enfolded her, tucking her up against a muscled chest. She burrowed her face against Morgan gratefully and let the hurt flow.

  When the storm abated, she rested, his heart gently pounding against her ears. So strong. So steady.

  So not hers.

  Confused by everything that had happened, she asked, “Can we leave now?”

  “Yes.” Keeping an arm around her shoulders, he gently led her outside of the hospital to the parking lot. There he helped her on the bike and stood indecisively staring at her.

  “I’m fine,” she said quietly. “They gave me a shot. I’ll be able to hold on.”

  With a short nod, he got on, fired up the bike, and after waiting for her to adjust, pulled slowly out of the parking lot.

  This trip was so different from the last very hazy memory scorched by panic and pain. Yet also so different from the many they had taken while together. So different – and yet so much the same. It must be the pain making her so sentimental. She had to hold herself together. Get through this.

  Be ready for when he left again, because he would. He was a traveling man, and he’d already left once.

  *

  Morgan drove slowly, carefully, opposite from the screaming, panicked ride he’d taken the night before. He could feel her gentle weight against his back. Loved the familiarity of her behind him. Loved having her there. Some girls rode stiff, others rode and you didn’t even know they were there. Jazz had always been one to blend and join with him when riding. It had made the riding more fun. More pleasurable. They’d always been good together.

  Now that he finally had a chance to regain all he’d lost, some asshole was trying to take it all away from him. From them.

  Her weight on his back deepened. He twisted experimentally, but her body responded. She was conscious, just using him for support. That was fine with him. She could lean on him all the way. Forever.

  “Are you okay?” he called back.

  “I’m fine.”

  But her voice didn’t sound like she was fine. “We’re not far now.”

  He took several more corners and came to a stop in front of a single house with a huge backyard and triple car garage in front. Parking, he hopped off and helped her down.

  “Whose place is this?”

  “Mine.” He watched her curiosity as she studied the large garage and home. He wanted her to like it because he’d finally gotten the garage set up the way he wanted it, but if she didn’t, he was okay to move. Her place was much too small for both of them. He needed a garage.

  “Interesting.”

  There was something about her voice that had him stopping to turn and look at her. “What’s interesting?”

  “It’s a family home,” she said shortly, walking forward.

  He stopped and studied it. The house was big. Four bedrooms, and a huge backyard, so in a way, it was a family-style. Then he looked at the neighborhood. Middle-class, with an elementary school one block away, in perfect suburbia. He’d chosen it for the garage. Right?

  Or had he subconsciously thought to leave his road trip lifestyle behind? Having Jazz here now – it felt right.

  Had he really figured his brother would fail at holding Jazz that he planned to bring her here since buying the place a month ago? Pondering the concept, he realized he’d some inner searching to do. Had it been in the back of his mind to buy a place here because of her?

  Damn right. She was his.

  Chapter 10

  She didn’t know what to think. Bad boy Morgan, the hot rod, hot rider of her past – her one step to the left, someone she’d desperately wanted and had as many times as she could – had bought a family home.

  The bad boy was thinking stability? Normal suburbia. She hated that hope bloomed in her heart.

  Her head knew it was foolish. Her heart didn’t care. Maybe he wasn’t planning to take off again.

  “When did you buy this place?”

  “A month ago.”

  She nodded. That figures. This was a new phase. He wasn’t likely to stick with the changes.

  “Come on inside.”

  She followed him, wondering at how her world had been shaken up in two days. He led her inside and upstairs where the kitchen and living quarters were. It wasn’t a show home, and there was nothing flashy about it. She could see toddlers playing in front of the big bay window and friends and family gathering at the large table. Bright yellow walls were highlighted by wood edgings, and the big skylight let in the sunshine right above the kitchen island.

  Tears burned at the corner of her eyes.

  She loved everything about it. “It’s beautiful,” she mumbled, turning to look out the living room window.

  “Thanks.” She heard the sound of a coffee grinder as he put on coffee. She had to wonder when he’d become so domesticated as she looked at the big mixer and fancy stove.

  Maybe he’d always been this way.

  Maybe she’d been so busy with him in bed, she’d never noticed. But it was while in bed he’d worked so hard to take care of her.

  She sighed. This was so stupid.

  “Sit down and relax. You need to rest all day.”

  “I need to go to work,” she said, choosing the closest chair and sinking gratefully into the leather. She stroked the smooth material. Loving the suppleness and warmth. So him. So her.

  “That’s not happening.”

  She struggled back up out of the chair, the tone and arrogance of his voice pissing her right off. “Then I’ll leave right now.”

  “Also not happening.”

  Suddenly he was there right in front of her, his arms on hers holding her still and getting in her face.

  She winced as he jarred her shoulder. The sharpness of his voice hurt her almost as much. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to yell at him and tell him to leave her alone, but she couldn’t as pain bit at her.

  “Easy, Jazz.” He enfolded her into his arms and cuddled her. “You’ve been shot, your body is in shock, and you need rest.”

  She nodded. She knew that. But she was so damn confused, and he was making her nuts.

  “Come on.” He led her down the hallway to the first room. It was a small bedroom but brightly colored with a single bed. “Lie down here. I’ll bring you a coffee.”

  He tugged the bedspread back and helped her sit down. “Back in a moment.”

  She waited until he left then slipped out of her nasty jeans. That was when she realized she still had his jacket on. Underneath, she only had her camisole knit tank top.

  Jacket off, she slipped under the sheet and snuggled deeper under the covers and let herself relax.

  *

  Morgan had stopped in to see if she needed help getting undressed and watched her slip under the covers and settle in with her eyes closed. He walked back to the kitchen, frowning. She was so pale. A couple of days’ rest and she’d be much better.

  Now to get her to stay here.

  While pouring coffee, his phone rang.

  He didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  No answer.

  He frowned, mentally noted the number, and hung up. He returned to pouring the coffee. The phone rang again. Same number. He answered it. No one there again.

  Carrying the one cup to Jazz, he stood in the doorway and watched her. She was sleeping. He glanced down at
the cup in his hand and then took a sip. No sense in wasting it.

  He returned to the living room and stood beside the window, wondering at the phone call. Was it a prank call or connected to the rest of this bullshit?

  The number meant nothing to him, and he could hardly ask the cop to run it and see if it had anything to do with the shooting.

  When it rang again, he pulled it out and checked the number. The same asshole. He clicked the talk button and said, “You’d better have a reason for calling.”

  Heavy breathing.

  He snorted. “And scare tactics don’t work on me.”

  No answer, but a harsh intake of breath before a hard click.

  So not a friendly phone call, and not someone with the wrong number. He wrote down the number and texted it to the cop, adding a note of explanation. Then hating the problem, he headed for the shop. Whenever his world turned upside-down, he headed to his shop.

  Looking around behind him, he pushed open the door and stopped.

  “What the fuck?”

  His garage had been trashed. Parts and pieces strewn everywhere, and the shop counters completely tossed to the floor. His old Harley lay in pieces across the various places in his shop. He raced forward, screaming in rage. The beautiful tank had been scratched all along the side. He’d been restoring it. Now the scratch marred the blue coating.

  Pissed, he turned to study the rest of the shop. He kept it locked normally. Had it been locked this time? He’d shoved his keys into his pocket, and damn if he could remember.

  Something hit him – he stopped and looked around. For all the mess, it was more like a kid having thrown a tantrum.

  He didn’t keep valuables here except to another biker, and he couldn’t see anything missing. The scratches, although pissing him off, were more over-the-top tantrum than anything else.

  Was this wanton destructiveness done by of a group of bored teens? Why? He’d done nothing to them. He didn’t even know any.

  As he slowly picked up the mess in the room, he’d considered something else. This mess – it was something a woman would do. There wasn’t anything physically taxing about the damage done. The scratches on the gas tank spoke female. But who and why?

  He wasn’t in a relationship and couldn’t think of one woman who’d retaliate against him in this manner.

  So why the break-in? He texted the cop he’d been dealing with and five minutes after hitting send, his phone rang. Wary, he checked the number. It wasn’tt the prankster. “Hello.”

  “Morgan, what the hell is going on?” the cop asked. “A break-in?”

  “I know. I can’t say it’s related. I also don’t know when this happened. I was at the hospital all night.”

  “And you were in the shop yesterday?”

  He frowned, thinking about it. “I can’t be sure. I found out about my brother and after that, well, my day went to hell and back again.”

  “So it could have happened the night before?’

  “Yes, possibly.” Hell, he didn’t know.

  “Well, I have other news. I checked with the Medical Examiner and it looks like your brother – if it’s him – was murdered.”

  Chapter 11

  Jazz woke up to the sound of kids playing and dogs barking.

  She lay in place for a long moment enjoying the cheerful chaos. This is what she wanted. Peace, quiet, and that whole happy family thing.

  She wanted a man who would stay by her. Single parenting wasn’t her thing.

  For a long time, she figured parenting wasn’t her thing. She’d never had a partner that made her dream of white picket fences and two perfect kids. Until Morgan. She known he’d never stick. He’d been a great ride, but not for a long-term trip. Look where that had gotten her.

  Nowhere.

  Except with memories.

  Her mind was consumed with him. Only him.

  Her body trembled at the thought of having him back in her bed. It had been a long cold year. She shuddered. How was it she was in his house, in his bed, and not with him?

  She threw back the blankets and sat up slowly, her mind hung up on the possibility of bedding Morgan, knowing it would be short-term only. Could she do that? She wanted to. Without the heartache. She didn’t need that part of it. She’d have to take what she wanted and walk away – just as he did.

  Only that wasn’t her.

  But it could be. Maybe.

  She closed her eyes. She was injured, and all she could think about was going down on the man and tasting him again. He loved it and had always returned the favor. God, they had been a pair of minks. The heaven had lasted for weeks into months and just when she dared to hope for permanency, her world had collapsed.

  She straightened and walked to the window and looked out. There were children playing street hockey outside. Such a normal scene. Such a beautiful scene.

  She let her gaze turn to the other side. Morgan had the garage doors open and appeared to be cleaning out the inside. Typical. Then that garage was likely to be his man cave. A man cave, Morgan-style. He didn’t need a big screen TV and a well-stocked bar. He needed bike parts and the smell of oil, and tools carefully strewn around the space.

  That was heaven for him. She understood. Always had. They talked about her shop, his shop one day down the road. Too early for commitment. Too far away to be more than a dream, but they had talked. They had listened. They had laughed.

  She leaned against the window ledge and studied the hilly horizon. The huge lake was only a block away, the waves of blue rippling in the heat. Stunning. She loved this area. Vineyards and sunshine, fruit trees and farmlands.

  Hard to believe it was all within a few hours’ drive of the Lower Mainland. But it was, and she’d no plans to leave.

  A deep rumble sounded outside. As she watched, a Harley purred down the block. A friend of Morgan’s. She’d met a couple of them but had been treated as she’d been – politely—Morgan’s current flavor of the month. She passed it off, trying not to let it bug her. She knew for many people the relationships changed like the clothes on their back, but many more were into long-term hookups. It took special people to make that happen regardless of the lifestyle.

  She’d thought she’d been his lifestyle match.

  Maybe she still was. But she needed trust.

  The motorcycle rolled past Morgan’s house without stopping. It carried on to the far end of the block and turned back in a circle, then fired up and ripped down the street. As it came abreast of Morgan’s garage, the driver pulled something out from the front and appeared to hold it up.

  A gun.

  She screamed. “Morgan.”

  There was an odd popping sound, and then the bike raced off down the street.

  Jazz ran down the stairs and out the front door, barely aware of her state of undress. She was in her damn underwear. She barreled into the garage, screaming, “Morgan. Morgan.”

  “Easy, I’m here.” Strong arms caught her and held her close. “I’m fine.”

  She struggled in his arms, her good hand reaching up to check his face. To make sure he wasn’t lying to her.

  But with eyes turned black with the shock of what had just happened, he gazed down into her eyes.

  “Tell me that didn’t just happen,” she snapped. “Tell me that wasn’t another drive-by shooting.”

  “I’m thinking that’s exactly what it was.” Morgan stared off in the direction the bike had disappeared.

  “And I’m thinking that this was the same person that shot up my place, and shot me.”

  He had his phone out and was making a call while she stood in the circle of his arms, shaking. He’d almost been shot! Instinct had sent him running for cover so the shooter couldn’t get a clear shot. Otherwise, he’d be dead.

  Just as she’d almost been dead. Why? What did this person want? She tried to think about what she’d seen, but it was hard to think. For a warm sunny day, standing as she was, barefoot on the cold cement floor of the garage while he spoke t
o a cop, and boy, he was getting chummy with whomever he was talking to…but she needed to get warm. Looking down at her skimpy attire, she realized she also needed clothes. She slipped out of his arms and made her way back to the house. Were they still safe here if the shooter had found them? Morgan had been in the garage where he was easily visible. Would the shooter have made an attempt if he’d been in the house? Had he not known Morgan was home? Or had this just been too good of a chance to pass up?

  She hadn’t caught sight of the license plate. For that matter, she couldn’t tell if the biker had been male or a female. The frame had been long and lanky, but that meant nothing. There had been a decent set of shoulders on him/her. The rider had worn a helmet and a set of leathers. The sex could easily be disguised. Damn. She couldn’t still the panic over her race to the shop, so afraid she’d find him dead on the floor.

  Inside the house, the shaking got worse. She looked down at her toes to see them turning grayish blue. Shock.

  Oh God. What if the shooter had succeeded? Had the shooter seen Morgan at her house? Maybe that had been the first attack on him and this one the second. Maybe this had nothing to do with her.

  It made more sense. She was a tattoo artist. She drew dragons and flowers and immortalized people on skin for crying out loud. She didn’t deal with shooters, killers, or psychos. Well maybe…there were always a few oddballs in and out of the shop. But not this odd.

  Then again, she couldn’t help but think of all the drive-by shootings in neighboring counties. It wasn’t so hard to believe something like that was happening here, right?

  But it just didn’t seem likely. This was a small town. A tourist town. People came here to enjoy the weather, swim in the lake, and taste the local wines. Not to get involved in shootings.

  Upstairs in her room, she realized she still had a problem. No clothes.

  She walked into Morgan’s bedroom and stopped. A huge bed. Chocolate brown walls. Lots of closet space but only a few clothes. She opened a drawer to find underwear and socks neatly laid out. Seeing that helped her to realize another side of him. He actually kept his laundry neat and tidy. She cast her mind back, but all the clothes that she remembered where the ones they had been tossing to the floor in their panic to get at each other. She didn’t remember them caring beyond that.