The woman’s head swiveled to the door and she gave Izzy a lazy once-over. Izzy strode to the counter. “I need a room for the night,” she said.
The woman smirked. “The whole night, or just an hour?” she cracked.
Izzy was about to lay into her, but she realized she was wearing fire-engine lipstick at five o’clock in the evening and her tits were practically falling out of her shirt. She tugged the material back up toward her neck. “The night,” she repeated and plunked down some cash from her wallet.
“My cut’s twenty,” the woman informed her as she slid Izzy a key.
“Your what?”
The lady gave her a cool look. “Twenty,” she repeated. “Per john.”
Izzy took the key, spread her palms over the counter, and leaned in. “Lady, it doesn’t matter if I have the entire male population of Rapid City come through my room. I ain’t giving you Jack Fucking Shit.”
“Now, look,” the woman protested.
“No, you look. I paid for the room. I’m using the room. And it’s none of your fucking business what I do in it. You got me?”
“My cut’s twenty!” the lady screeched.
Izzy leaned in closer, ignoring the smoke that, truth-be-told, was burning her eyes just a little. She gave the woman a hard stare. “Come and get it,” she said in an icy tone.
The woman reared back and stared at her. Her mouth was open so far that Izzy thought the half-smoked Marly would fall out and onto the floor. From the looks of the place, it would stay there a long time if it did. She swiped the key off the counter, pivoted on her boot heel, and strode for the door.
Her room wasn’t much better than the lobby. The smell was a little less putrid. The bed was made, but there was no way Izzy was getting in between the sheets. She left everything in the Charger and parked it right outside the door. She pulled the most recent photo of Jason Paul that Jeter’s mother had given her out of her pocket and studied it. It was unlikely that Jeter himself would show his face in public for a while. But Jason might be found, if he didn’t know anyone was looking for him.
It was almost seven o’clock now. She showered the road dust off herself and pulled her damp hair back into a ponytail high on the back of her head. Her hair was impractical, long as it was, but truthfully so much of Izzy life was decidedly… unfeminine. She loved her steel-toed boots, her dark brown leather jacket, and her Glock, but she was a woman, too, and never wanted to forget it. She didn’t often let her hair (or her guard) down, but when she did she went all the way.
Standing at the Charger’s trunk, she dug a blade out of her packed duffel bag and slipped it into the inside jacket pocket. This one wasn’t legal. She replaced the switchblade with her Glock and locked the gun safely in her trunk, though she still had her small Smith and Wesson .22 strapped to her ankle, inside her boot. Despite her job, she never actually went looking for trouble, but she always anticipated finding it. This was strictly recon, though, and unlikely to get hairy. She slammed the Charger’s trunk and slid behind the wheel.
As she rolled toward the street, the crooked blinds of the window in the office moved a little. Izzy smirked. If the hag wanted to search her room, let her. Izzy hadn’t left anything in it but wet towels anyway.
She pulled into a parking spot around the side of the building, farthest away from the streetlights. Counterintuitive to some when it came to safety, but Izzy relied on anonymity and her ability to blend in until she made her move. She set the alarm and headed for the front doors. There were a lot more bikes and trucks in the lot now. Apparently this place was busy on a Saturday night. Izzy had gone a little heavy on the eyeliner this time so that she didn’t seem out of place. She swung open the front door and stepped inside.
The place was packed. The jukebox was wailing some Waylon and Izzy felt right at home. If she wasn’t crawling places like this for skips, she was trolling them for a different kind of action on her days off. Places like this were nothing new to her. There was a large bar across the room and she decided to plant her flag there and get the lay of the land. She slid onto an open barstool next to an older man with salt-and-pepper hair. He lifted his chin to her and Izzy did the same.
“Haven’t seen you before,” he remarked.
Izzy smirked at him. “You come here a lot?”
“I live here,” he told her. “I eat from the kitchen, bathe in the sink, and sleep on the bar.” He winked at her for good measure.
“If you did any of that, Milo, my sanitation grade would be irredeemable,” said a platinum blonde from behind the bar. To Izzy she said, “What can I get you?”
Izzy nodded toward the tap. “Draft.”
“Lot of ex-military?” Izzy asked, as she noticed the flags on the wall.
“Yep. Got a lot of ‘em in here. I was a navy boy myself,” he said proudly, pushing up his sleeve and showing her a large black anchor tattooed on his forearm.
“That how you lost your finger?” she asked.
He laughed. “Nah. Lost it in the mill after I left. Got it in a jar at home,” he told her.
Izzy couldn’t tell if he was teasing.
“He does not,” the blonde informed her, giving him the evil eye.
“That’s a relief,” Izzy said. “Don’t want to sit next to a weirdo.”
The blonde laughed. “Well, I can’t guarantee that, but he’s harmless.”
As the blonde got a mug, the old man studied Izzy. “So I haven’t seen you before,” he repeated. “Where you from?”
“Denver,” Izzy replied.
“Nice town,” the man declared. “Lotta cowboys.”
Izzy set down a ten and picked up the frothy mug. “Lot of steel cowboys in here,” she remarked casually.
“Oh, yeah,” the man agreed.
Izzy scanned the bar and saw a group of men sporting black leather cuts in the far corner. As one of them stood, she caught the logo: Badlands Buzzards.
“Buzzards, huh?” she asked. “Interesting mascot.”
The man beside her grumbled. “You don’t want to get mixed up with them.”
“No?”
He shook his head gravely. “One percenters,” he said in a low voice, as though they might hear him over the din of the crowd.
“Ah.” Well, fuck, she thought. That explains the clubhouse. Getting mixed up with one percenters wasn’t high on her list of things to do, but the job was the job and maybe she could work around it. Jeter wasn’t a Buzzard, that much was certain. Maybe they wouldn’t care all that much if she suddenly plucked him from their midst. Or maybe they’d take offense and shoot at her. She sighed and wished for the millionth time that Pop were still around. Taking on a gang of one percenters required some serious boots. But the job was the job, and hers were steel-toed.
Chapter 8
Caleb stepped into the relative dark of Maria’s bar. The crowd was the usual mix of bikers, cowboys, ex-servicemen, and roughnecks. He spotted his friends at a table across the room. Daisy was serving tonight and Easy was keeping a watchful eye on her, much like Shooter used to do with Slick. Daisy was swamped so Caleb headed straight for the bar to get a cold one from the source. The regular, Milo, shot him a grin.
“What’s shaking?” the old-timer asked him.
“Not much,” Caleb replied. He didn’t bother to place an order. Maria knew what he wanted.
The woman sitting on the next stool over turned to look at him. She had long, dark hair, dark eyes, and ruby-red lips. Caleb wasn’t interested, but he was appreciative—especially since she had on a black cotton blouse and she’d obviously miscounted the number of buttons it had. He could see straight down into her ample cleavage. His cock stirred, but he ignored it, having just scratched that itch the previous evening.
She grinned at him, but he merely nodded and directed his attention to Maria as she set a bottle down in front of him. “Thanks, Maria,” he intoned as he swept the beer off the counter. “Send Daisy over with another one when she gets a chance.”
; “Will do.”
Caleb left the bar and headed for the table. Tex and Vegas were playing a game of nine-ball. Easy was alone with his back up against the wall.
“Rough crowd tonight?” he asked, easing into a chair.
“Little rowdy,” Easy grumbled. “And a couple of handsy drunks.”
The younger man nodded to indicate a hefty, blond man in a flannel shirt, more flab than muscle. He was grinning from ear to ear and leaning in toward Daisy—a little too close to Daisy—as she gathered his empty glasses. Easy started to rise from his chair. Caleb put his hand out.
“I got it,” he said, pushing back his own chair. “No one needs to go to the hospital.”
Easy was fiercely protective of Daisy, as were all the Burnout men. Caleb could admire it, but couldn’t risk it himself. He kept everything channeled into his patrols. Acting as unofficial bouncer at Maria’s was no different. It took every bit of Army discipline he had to keep himself under control. If he ever cared for a woman the way his brothers cared for theirs… well, he preferred not to think about the damage it would cause. Caleb had grown up knowing something inside him was on a hair trigger. It was best to aim it at people who deserved to feel the brunt of it. He sidled up to the blond lumberjack who was arguing with Daisy about another round.
“You’ve had enough,” Caleb told him.
The large man’s head swiveled in his direction. “I’m a paying customer,” he insisted. “And I want to pay for another drink.”
The man’s eyes were focused, his speech loose but not slurred. He wasn’t quite drunk off his ass, but he’d bought the ticket and was on his way there. Another drink and he might become a real problem rather than just a nuisance.
“Forget it,” Caleb said and gestured for Daisy to walk away. She gave him a thank-you smile and headed back to the bar. “You’re done for the night,” Caleb informed the man and waited, watching him closely to see if he’d get his back up about it.
He grumbled and glared, but didn’t argue. Caleb nodded to himself and returned to his table where Daisy had left him a second beer.
“Thanks,” Easy said.
“Any time,” Caleb replied.
The crowd remained thick. The place was slammed even for a Saturday night. Caleb kept one eye on the bikers, the other on the cowboys, and his ears tuned for any tones that sounded less jovial and more adversarial. There was a game of darts that might get ugly and a round of pool that was getting intense. Caleb kept his focus on the darts. Let Tex handle losing to his girlfriend—again—in any way he saw fit. When they’d first met, Caleb had seriously considered beating the shit out of the man after learning his ideas about women and sex. Tex liked them submissive and made no secret of it. Caleb had too much experience with assholes who needed to prove themselves to accept the man’s word that he’d never hurt a female. It had required Shooter’s intervention to thaw the ice between the two men. As disinterested as Caleb was about Tex’s private life, he no longer disapproved. Abby looked as happy as any woman Caleb had known, and he was content that his brother was a good man for all his proclivities.
Caleb scanned the dance floor again and saw nothing and no one of interest. His sweeping gaze halted at the bar, though. Apparently the lumberjack had tried to circumvent Daisy and get another round from Maria herself, who had tended bar enough years to know that he was quickly approaching his limit. Caleb saw the sharp shake of her head and took in the lumberjack’s disappointed expression. He tried again, to no avail, then washed his hands of it all, instead turning his head to focus on the pretty little brunette who was seated next to Milo.
The lumberjack leaned in again, as he was wont to do, apparently, when something sparked his interest. He clearly ignored the way the brunette leaned away from him and shifted uncomfortably on her stool. He put a familiar hand on her shoulder; she shrugged out from under his touch. It was obvious she wasn’t the least bit interested. The lumberjack had twice been denied beer, though, and it seemed broads were next on his to-do list.
The brunette rebuked him a third time, then got up off her stool to leave. She paid Maria, said something to Milo, and turned to head toward the front door. She didn’t look back to see that the lumberjack had waited a moment but was now trailing after her. She pushed open the door and disappeared outside. Caleb got up from his chair.
The dance floor was crowded, though, and he had trouble making his own way to the door. He had to take a few detours, which cost him some time. He finally reached the other side of the bar and shoved open the door. A quick glance to his right and he spotted the lumberjack, hard on the heels of the smaller, young woman. The lumberjack reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder. Caleb quickened his pace.
The brunette pushed his hand off her, but the man grabbed her by the back of the neck.
“Hey, I’m fucking talking to you!” he snarled.
Caleb’s boots pounded the gravel as he broke into a run. Before he could get there, the brunette half-turned and threw up an elbow. It smashed up into the lumberjack’s face. Blood sprayed. She raised her foot and swept his leg as he stumbled back from the blow. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground, smacking his head against the fender of a truck on the way down.
By then Caleb had closed the distance between them. He reached for her arm without thinking. The same elbow came out again, but having caught this show before, he blocked it with the palm of his right hand. He snaked his left arm around her torso.
“Hang on,” he ordered.
She lifted her boot again, this time slamming it down into his shin, just above his own boot where it could actually do some damage.
“Sonofabitch!” he snapped.
He put both arms around her and twisted their bodies so he had her pressed up against the truck. He felt her slender fingers glide along his hand and knew he was about to get his fingers broken.
“Hey, now,” he protested, pulling her tighter into him. Her back was pressed against his chest. “Hang on,” he repeated. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
She paused with her fingers resting over his. “Milo’s friend,” she replied, recognizing his voice.
“Yeah,” he said, letting go of her with one hand and reaching around behind himself. She stiffened again and started going for his hand when he drew out his wallet and flipped it open. The gold shield flashed in the yellow fluorescent light.
She stilled and Caleb felt reasonably certain he had the little hellcat under control. She had moxy though, and moves he hadn’t seen in quite a while, which made him intrigued and suspicious. “You got ID?” he asked.
She surprised him by laughing. “Why yes, Officer,” she teased. “Why don’t you frisk me for it?”
Caleb smirked, set his own wallet on the hood of the truck, and ran his hand along her hip. She wiggled a little. He found her wallet and slid it out of her back pocket. With one hand he flipped it open. “Isabelle Boucher.”
“My friends call me Izzy,” she replied.
Caleb moved his mouth to her ear. “We’re not friends,” he told her.
“Really?” she asked, and wiggled again. It was then Caleb became aware of a number of things. One, he was cupping her breast with his left hand. Two, he had a raging hard-on and it was pressed snugly into her Levi’s. “That’s not what the rocket in your pocket says,” she teased.
“Damn it,” he whispered and let go of her. He swiped his wallet off the hood and stepped away. He tossed hers back at her. Damn she was hot. Another button had popped during their struggle and a hint of black lace flashed at him. She was a damn good fighter, too. He looked away and chalked his erection up to adrenaline. “Are you alright?” he asked her.
She smirked at him. “You didn’t leave a scratch,” she said sarcastically.
Caleb rolled his eyes. “I meant him.”
The lumberjack was lying sprawled on the ground, moaning.
Isabelle shrugged.
Caleb slid his cell phone out of his pocket and began dialing.
“Who are you calling?” she asked. Caleb noted with some disappointment that she was fixing the buttons on her shirt.
“A ride for him,” he replied, nodding at the lumberjack.
She sighed. “Make it yellow instead of black and white. I’m late for a very important date.”
Caleb turned away from her to keep his eyes on the man who’d attacked her. “This is Officer Barnes,” he told the dispatcher. “Badge number 02765. I’ve got a drunk and disorderly at Maria’s bar. Assaulted a female.” He waited for confirmation that the closest cruiser was on its way, then he disconnected the call with a swipe of this thumb. “I don’t care what you’ve got going on,” he said. “You’re making a state—”
He turned and realized he was talking into thin air.
“What just happened?” whined the lumberjack, covering his face with one hand.
Caleb looked around the darkened lot but saw no signs of Isabelle Boucher. “I have no idea,” he replied darkly.
Chapter 9
Izzy would have loved to have stayed at the bar to play cops and robbers with yummy Officer Barnes, but she had more important things to do. Disappointing, to be sure, because he was six feet of ripped muscles and cool confidence. He was packing a nice-sized surprise below the waist, as well. But she’d left him to deal with Paul Bunyan alone. She couldn’t afford to lose her only lead on the skip.
The asshole at the bar had assumed that she had left simply to get away from him and on any other night that might have been true. But actually the gang of local one percenters had apparently decided to take their party elsewhere, and since neither Jeter nor Jason Paul had been among them, Izzy decided she needed somewhere else to look.
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