Biker Blues

by Dale Mayer

  The cops bagged the note and the box. They packed up all the pizza.

  Then came the questions.

  Chapter 15

  Jazz hated to bring up and go over all the same damn shit she’d been over and over again. No, she didn’t recognize the tattoo. The picture was blurry. Yes, it could be one of hers, but it could also not be one of hers. She had no way of knowing any more than they could tell her if the guy in the image was dead. Not from the picture alone.

  No, she hadn’t seen anything. Yes, she’d caught a glimpse of the driver, but no, she hadn’t recognized him. He wasn’t remarkable in any way and no, she hadn’t seen his vehicle.

  Neither had Morgan.

  They appeared to be expecting the answers, but she didn’t get any idea of what to do or where to go to get answers to their questions.

  She knew she didn’t have any to offer. If she had, she’d be all over them.

  “What do we do now?” she asked when they finished and looked ready to leave.

  “That’s a problem,” Shawn said. “The trite and yet true answer is stay safe.”

  Morgan snorted. “We’re being preyed upon. We’ve been shot and possibly poisoned and yet you don’t have any suggestions?”

  “In cases like this, we do all the background checks and search for whoever this person is, take all the evidence, and hopefully he left a trace of himself behind. If he did then great, but all too often they don’t, and then we have to wait. Hope that he makes a mistake. Hope he shows his hand.”

  The second constable said, “Regardless, someone you know personally or professionally is stalking you. They’ve already made one attempt on your life. Don’t give him an opportunity to make another one.”

  And then they left.

  After Morgan locked the door and they’d climbed the stairs back up again, he asked her in a quiet voice, “Do you want to go away for a few days? Wait until this blows over?”

  “Will it blow over?” she countered. “Or is this the case of he’s watching us leave and will just wait until we return?”

  “There’s no way to know. This person is obviously unbalanced.”

  “I think they’d have to have a grudge against us,” she said. “The cops said to look at anyone who we’d argued with, had a falling out with, a fight. Ex-lovers, ex-loves. Basically everyone.”

  “Do you know anyone who’d do this?” he asked. “Anyone who might think they were justified?”

  “The tattoo is the clue, but I really don’t know why.”

  “The guys asked you several times if you recognized it.”

  “And I do. Sorta. Just not enough to know it’s a duplicate like the one on your brother’s ass.”

  “If it’s my brother.” Morgan stared off in the dark. They lay on top of the bed now, fully dressed, neither ready to make the move toward sleep.

  “If it’s not, it can’t be a coincidence that he’s wearing the same type of tat as the image we were given.”

  “What if the image is of the same person and the sender thinks we had something to do with the guy’s death?”

  “Or thinks you had something to do with the guy.”

  She stared at Morgan. “But how would he know what the tattoo means? Besides, I didn’t ink that one.”

  “But someone did. So either my brother got someone else to do that on purpose to make it look like one of yours, or someone is copying your system and was his lover.”

  She groaned and closed her eyes. “See, that’s the problem. I don’t know where the rumor started that I did this to all my lovers, but in truth, I’ve only given that tattoo to a couple of guys. Everyone just thinks because I’m a tattoo artist with a soft spot for bad guys that I’m sleeping around and tattoo every bastard that I have sex with.”

  “And that’s not true?” He sat up and leaned over her. “So why do I have one?”

  “You asked for it, remember?”

  He frowned down at her. “I did?”

  She stared in shock, “Don’t you remember?”

  His grin slid out sideways. “I wanted to be yours. If that made me yours, then I was good with it.”

  She shook her head. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “I don’t show my ass to guys,” he said with a snort. “I might if I were into sports and had a large changing room thing going on, but I can’t say I’ve been in that situation lately.”

  “Another lover,” she asked quietly. “We don’t know the shooter is male.”

  “A jealous lover?” he sat up and stared at her. “That would imply that someone knew you had done the tattoo and was jealous of you.”

  She nodded. “The thought occurred to me.”

  “So we need the names of the men you’ve slept with.”

  She winced.

  “So many?” He lowered his gaze to his hands.

  “No. But it’s private.”

  “Honey, I understand that,” he said gently, his gaze now locked onto hers. “But not everyone needs to know. The police do. They also need to know who might be in these men’s lives now.”

  She nodded but couldn’t look at him. “There’s something else you need to know.”

  He reached out and nudged her chin up. “What?”

  She sighed. “Each tattoo is a little different.”

  His eyebrow raised. “What do you mean a little different?”

  She shrugged then gasped with pain. “Damn it. I have to stop doing that.”

  “Stop avoiding the question.” He frowned. “What do you mean that all the tattoos are different? If they are different, why is it that you didn’t recognize this one?”

  “They are customized to the man in question,” she said as honestly as she could. “And I never did one just like that. It’s like someone took my theme and changed it slightly so it became theirs.”

  “I don’t understand this tattoo bullshit anyway. It’s like you’re branding us.” He shifted back and away. “I never really thought about it before.”

  “I’m not sure I like the way this conversation is going,” she said. “I don’t brand my lovers. I’m not saying ‘look, world, this man was mine.’ I’m not notching bedposts when I sleep with a man.”

  His lip curled. “But it’s like you are doing just that.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice, feeling very odd right now. Feeling insecure and misjudged. It had never been her intention. People wore tattoos for all kinds of reasons, with memories being the biggest. She’d only gifted the tattoo to a few special lovers. Long-term relationships. Not because she wanted them to remember her, but more because she wanted to give them a gift from her. They’d gifted her with their presence for the length of the relationship, and it had to have been good if it had lasted, so it was a natural move on her part to give them something in return.

  She’d done the tattoos while they’d been in love. Enjoying each other and looking at the future. She didn’t thank them then kick them out of her bed.

  The thought made her cold inside.

  And that he’d have thought such a thing made her remember the year they’d spent apart and why.

  She got up and walked over to the window. She couldn’t help stare out at the night and wonder – who the hell hated her so much that they’d try to kill her? And who the hell loved her work so much that they’d try to copy her?

  How did the two even begin to go together?

  Needing a little space and knowing it wasn’t likely a good idea but still compelled to get out instead of being a prisoner, she turned to Morgan and asked, “Can we go to my house, please. I need clothes.”

  He got up, a frown twisting his lips. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “No, maybe not, but apparently the shooter knows we are here anyways, so what difference does it make?”

  “He could follow us.”

  “And?” she challenged him. “That’s another thing. I want my truck. I feel trapped here. I don’t like it.”

  “You’re not trapped,” he e
xclaimed. “But I do understand as I have both as well. Still we can go anywhere.”

  “Good.” She smiled. “Then let’s go to my house.”

  *

  He glared at her. She’d always been able to do that to him. Turn the tables on a conversation so he was caught by his own words.

  “It’s only a few minutes away. Hell, we could go clear across town here in fifteen minutes. So going to my house is barely going to take ten minutes.”

  He gave in. There was no reason not to. Maybe they were safer indoors versus being out there, but as the shooter already knew where they were and had managed to get another message to them, maybe it was better to show him that they didn’t give a damn.

  “Let’s go.”

  He hopped off the bed and held out his hand. She put hers into it and together they ran down to his garage. He walked the bike out of the garage and closed the big door then tossed her a helmet. He put his on and threw a leg over his newest bike, a big Harley he’d been after since forever. She slid on behind him and he turned the key. The engine roared to life.

  They rode through the quiet neighborhood, watching the area, the other drivers, as if aware their shooter could be any one or none of them. Traffic was light. The moon was bright. He loved the power of the machine between his legs. A couple of bikes passed them going the other way. Both lifted a hand.

  Another bike pulled up behind them. Morgan took the turning lane to make the corner he needed to get down to Jazz’s place. They were almost there.

  Jazz squeezed her arms around his waist. He twisted slightly to hear if she was saying anything, but she didn’t appear to be speaking. He picked up speed at the corner. The bike behind them flew around the same corner and passed them.

  Jazz relaxed back. That was when he realized that she’d been worried about the other bike. He studied it as it took off into the night, something about it catching his attention. Something he’d seen before – on the bike who’d shot at him while he’d been in the garage. Only it was too dark to see. He shot forward, trying to get as close as he could. There’d been a sticker on the straight pipe of the bike that had been at his house. A reflective sticker, and he was sure that was the same type of thing he’d just caught sight of as the bike that had gone past.

  But was it exactly the same? The road was full of bikers. They loved the highways up here. There was nothing like taking the mountain pass down to the lower mainland. They could ride for hours without seeing a house. Not too many places were left where you could still do that.

  The biker sped off in front of him. Morgan slowed down. He might have chased it if he’d been alone, but not with Jazz riding behind him.

  A block away from the house, he slowed to turn onto the residential street. Jazz’s house was the third one in. He pulled back, bringing the bike to a stop two houses early.

  In front was a bike – likely the one he’d just seen – sitting on the road in front of Jazz’s house—facing them.

  Biker Blues: Morgan

  Part 2

  Dale Mayer

  Chapter 1

  Jazz tensed, and her good arm wrapped around Morgan’s waist tightened. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “Good question,” he said in a low voice. He kept the engine running gently. She wondered what he was going to do. He’d run with a tough crowd for a long time. He was no one to mess with and all of the local members knew that. Maybe that’s why the shooter was staying back. Smart. If he had to, then he could take this guy but if the asshole had a gun, well, shoot enough times and some were bound to find their mark.

  “Let’s turn around and get out of here,” she said in a loud voice to make sure he could hear her.

  “Can’t do that,” he said calmly. “If I turn around, he might shoot you in the back.”

  She gasped. She hadn’t considered that.

  “Then what?” she cried. “We can’t just stay here like this.”

  Just then, as if someone from inside the houses called, police sirens sounded in the distance. They were getting closer. She willed them to hurry.

  The biker on the far side shifted his weight and revved up his bike.

  Morgan turned his wrist, letting the power of his own engine roar through the bike. If this was a macho testosterone contest, she wasn’t interested in seeing who won.

  “Please,” she cried out. “Let’s leave.”

  Morgan shook his head. “No. No more. He’s been chasing us for too damn long.”

  “And this is going to make it better?” she asked, her voice rising at the end. “How does that make any sense?”

  “We need to know who he is and where he’s going.”

  “I don’t want to get shot again,” she muttered, trying to talk to him in a low, calm voice. “This is suicidal.”

  The sirens sound louder and louder. They’d be here in a few minutes. She didn’t want to talk to them. What was she going to say? Then she realized that Morgan was rolling the bike slowly backward. She watched for a reaction from the other guy, grateful that Morgan appeared to being sensible. “Thank you.”

  Then the engine ripped to life, throwing her slightly backwards as he lifted the front tire. Using the heavy machine as a shield, he raced forward.

  “Shit. Shit.” She’d so hoped he’d been retreating. Apparently not. She tightened her grip. In the darkness of the night, both bikes screamed revved. She couldn’t see what the other guy was doing, but she hoped he was racing away. She peered over Morgan’s shoulder. The bike was racing toward them. Shit.

  As she ducked down behind Morgan, she realized the other man had a gun in his hand pointed at them. Damn it. Morgan was going to get shot!

  Just as the two were heading for a head on collision and she wondered at the sensibility of throwing herself off the side of the bike, Morgan did a complete 180 degree turn and spun around just as they came abreast of the other biker and then spun around again, still keeping the big machine in front of him.

  The other biker ripped past them without a shot fired.

  Jazz watched him disappear into the night, relief pounding through her brain. Oh, thank heavens. She hadn’t wanted to get into a confrontation. All she wanted at this time was to go into her house, pack up a bag, and get the hell out again.

  That the shooter knew where she lived and knew they’d been on the way to the same place was damn scary. She had no intention of staying there – especially not alone – until this asshole was caught.

  As the relief and trembling about their near escape filtered through her mind, she realized something else. Morgan wasn’t slowing down and heading into her driveway, he was ripping down the street after the damn biker.

  She shook her head. No. She didn’t want this. Let him go. Morgan. Let him leave, please…

  But Morgan was on a mission, and following this asshole was the end game. She couldn’t blame him, but she really wished he’d dropped her off at her house first. She wasn’t interested in playing cops and robbers. And where the hell had the cops gone? She needed them. Damn it.

  There was no sign of Morgan slowing down. She peered over his shoulder and watched the biker weaving through the traffic ahead of her. Morgan wasn’t riding close, but it was close enough that he could track the rider from a slight distance behind. She understood. He was hoping for the rider to think he’d lost them. In fact, Morgan had been racing bikes since he was old enough to ride. She’d put her trust in him.

  Hell, she already had.

  *

  Morgan whipped out from behind a truck and moved up two vehicles. The biker was ahead. Not being sneaky any longer, but also not trying to race away. He either thought he’d made it out of everyone’s sight or he didn’t give a damn. Considering how brazen he’d been so far, the second option was quite likely. Jazz’s safety came first. And that meant he couldn’t take as many crazy ass chances as he’d have taken if he were alone.

  Still, he should have taken her to her house, grabbed her stuff, and gone home. But the
chance to follow and learn something about their stalker was too big a temptation. They needed to find out who this asshole was. Where he lived. What the fuck he was doing? And why?

  The bike shifted to the left, changing to the turning lane. Morgan quickly followed, staying behind several other vehicles that were trying to change lanes too. The bike caught the light and turned ahead of him.

  Morgan took the chance, hearing a horn honk in front of him. He hit the gas and ripped forward ahead of the cross traffic.

  With a sigh of relief, he caught sight of the bike up ahead making a right-hand turn. This time there was no one else between them. No vehicles to hide behind. Shit. He slowed down and pulled off to the side behind a car. He watched through the windshield to see the biker slow down ahead and pull into a large apartment building with underground parking.

  Morgan pulled out his phone and sent a text to Constable Shawn Proctor The cop should be able to track the owners or renters of one of the units and match it to the owner of the bike. He hadn’t been able to read the license plate yet—if there was one. He’d love to identify the reflective sticker on the left pipe, but he hadn’t been close enough to be able to pay attention to it.

  He sat on the side of the road and studied the secure parking. But there had to be hundreds of apartments and condos here. Interesting. It implied a certain income level if they lived there. It could also mean that the guy was visiting or renting and wouldn’t show up on any registry.

  With a click of his wrist, he turned off the engine. What he wanted was to get inside and check out the bike. The biker might not be close by anymore, but that still meant his bike was there and the chance to examine it closer itched at him.

  “What are you doing, Morgan?” Jazz said behind him, fatigue and worry in her voice.

  Crap. He couldn’t leave her.

  He twisted on the seat. “I was thinking of checking out the bike.”