by Chiah Wilder
“Pretty fucked up,” she muttered as she pressed the garage door opener.
Opening the car door with one hand, she grabbed her briefcase with the other and slid out of the vehicle, closing the door with her hip. The headlights turned off, submerging the garage into darkness. Ashley cursed under her breath for forgetting to have Mark replace the burnt-out lightbulb while he’d been there the previous Saturday.
Then she heard a scrape, like shoes against concrete.
She froze.
She felt someone’s eyes on her. Clenching her jaw, she spun around to see if someone was standing in the driveway. Her mind running wild, she expected to see Jeffrey walking toward her, but no one was there.
Still, there was that uneasy feeling she couldn’t shake.
Someone is here, I know it. I feel it.
She stood there and listened, hearing nothing but the branches swishing and leaves rustling in the wind. Her breathing quickened, and a scream crawled up her throat when out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a man skulking in the shadows.
I have to get the hell out of here!
Stumbling in the darkness, Ashley screamed as she raced toward the back door. Grabbing the doorknob, she quickly unlocked it and rushed inside, slamming it shut.
“Holy shit!” Fumbling with the locks on the door, she managed to bolt them just as the man slammed against it. “Fuck!”
She dashed over to the nearest window and tried to open the latch, her fingers clumsy from fear. The alarm system was connected directly to the police station, so opening the window and setting it off would be quicker than dialing 911 and trying to explain coherently what was going on. Finally, she disengaged the lock and pushed the window up, the shrill siren of the alarm almost deafening.
Ashley ran back to the door and pressed her ear against it, half expecting the man to throw himself against it once more. She held her breath, listening, but there was nothing.
She stayed that way until she saw the red and blue lights flashing eerily against the hardwood floor. Tears of relief trickled down her face as she went into the family room and switched on the lamps.
At that moment, the familiar ring of her phone sounded surreal. She brought it to her ear and told the officer she was in the house, and that she was safe. At their knock, she opened the door for the two police officers and took a seat on the couch as they went through the house and garage, making sure all was clear before returning to the family room.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Officer Pedersen asked.
“I’d come home from dropping off a friend, and when I got out of the car in the garage, I heard something on the driveway or sidewalk. I wasn’t sure where it came from,” she said as she wrung her hands in her lap.
“What did you hear?”
“It sounded like footsteps, or the sound shoes make against pavement. I don’t know.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“Not clearly, but I saw a man off to the side, hiding in the shadows. I know it was Jeffrey.”
“Who’s Jeffrey?” the young cop asked.
“Elion—Jeffrey Elion. He’s after me because I sent him to prison. He got out a couple of months ago, and he’s been stalking me ever since. I testified against him at his trial in Denver over four years ago.”
“Does he live in town?”
“In Denver, but he could’ve moved up here. A lot of weird stuff has happened to me since I arrived in town. One of the tires on my car was slashed, eggs were smashed against my car, and I saw someone staring at me in the parking lot of where I work. I’ve also had the feeling of being followed, or someone watching me.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.
“So you’ve seen”—Officer Pedersen looked down at his notebook—“Jeffrey Elion several times?”
“Not exactly. I mean, I haven’t seen him like I see you, but I know it’s him.”
Pedersen exchanged looks with the young cop, then nodded. “Okay. We’ll look into it and let you know. We can add you to the patrol for tonight if you’d like.”
“That’d be good.”
After double-checking the windows and doors, the two policemen left. Ashley set the alarm, dragged a chair from the kitchen, and propped it under the doorknob, and then did the same with the door leading to the garage. Then she made sure every blind, curtain, and shutter was closed.
When she finally sank down onto the couch with a glass of much-needed white wine, the urge to call Smokey gripped her, but she ignored it. Her life was complicated enough without tacking on another problem, yet she had the feeling that if Smokey knew about Jeffrey, he’d somehow make it all right. He’d keep me safe. In exchange, though, she feared she’d lose her heart, and he’d leave her broken. There was one thing she’d learned at an early age: men left, and women cried while picking up the pieces.
Stretching out, she grabbed the afghan and pulled it over her. She would sleep on the couch with the lights on, and tomorrow, she’d see what the cops had found out about the dirtbag terrorizing her.
Sighing, she got comfortable and closed her eyes.
14
For the rest of the week, Smokey stayed away from the office, having enough going on in his life without adding Ashley to the mix. Since she hadn’t reached out to him all week, even professionally, he’d decided to put her on the back burner until shit with the Rising Order and Ryan’s criminal mess were dealt with. The way the guys had been ribbing him at the clubhouse over the past few days only solidified his resolve not to see her even stronger. The last thing he needed, or wanted, was a steady woman in his life. It was fine for Rock, Throttle, and the others, but he was a confirmed bachelor. Growing up with two fucked-up parents taught him that love was a crock of shit.
The perfect example of that was his parents. His mother was pregnant at fifteen, married at sixteen, and had five boys before she turned twenty-five. When she married, her parents had disowned her because they couldn’t stand Dale Harty, so Smokey and his brothers never knew their maternal grandparents. As far as their paternal ones went, their dad never spoke of them or anyone in his family. As a matter of fact, Smokey didn’t know a damn thing about the old man’s past. All he knew was that the bastard was a mean, angry drunk, bitter over being stuck with five brats and a frigid wife. Because the old man had a sense of loyalty to his family, he would never leave, yet blamed his kids for screwing up his life and took his frustrations out on them. He believed that corporal punishment—and a lot of it—was essential to keeping them in line, but he never laid a finger on their mom. He only went as far as emotionally pushing her to the side unless he was drunk, which was when he’d tell her how much he loved and needed her. Smokey’s mother had lived for those moments. Yeah … pretty fucked up.
Smokey turned into the lot of the shelter and parked near the smoking corner where Gavin, the gangly, dark-haired teen, was leaning against the wall, lighting a cigarette. It had taken Smokey over three months to get the quiet and angry boy to interact with him, but he understood Gavin, because he’d once been just like him.
“Hey,” Smokey greeted as he approached him.
Gavin tipped his chin up at him. “Hey.”
“Smokey, my man. Gimme some.” Little Ricky held out his hand, palm side up, and slapped it against Smokey’s. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. What’s happenin’?”
“Not much.”
Little Ricky came off as a tough kid, full of false bravado, but Smokey saw the scared little boy inside.
“How’s school going?” he asked him.
Little Ricky took a puff of his cigarette before answering. “I hate that shit. I don’t need it.”
“I hear you. I hated school too, but I got my GED. You need to do that if you hate the assholes in high school.”
He laughed. “I don’t hate the chicks. It’s just the homework bullshit that’s crampin’ my style.”
“Maybe you can get one of those cute chicks to help you study.”
&nb
sp; A large smile spread across the teen’s face when Smokey winked at him.
“I like the way you think, dude.”
Clapping him on the back, Smokey turned his attention to Gavin. “How’re things going with you?”
He said nothing, his dark eyes darting from Smokey to Little Ricky, and back to Smokey again. “Okay,” he muttered.
Little Ricky laughed. “All he’s been doin’ is waitin’ for that chick to come by again.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Gavin said in a menacing tone.
Ignoring him, Little Ricky continued. “Can’t say I blame him. The chick’s sexy.”
Gavin’s lips thinned as he glared at the teen. Sensing a fight was about to break out, Smokey stepped between the two boys and pointed to his Harley.
“I got some custom artwork put on my bike. Go check it out.”
Gavin dropped his cigarette butt onto the ground and snubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he sauntered toward the Harley.
“Let me know how you like it,” he said.
Smokey had spent thousands of dollars customizing his bike, right down to the nuts and bolts that held it together. The latest design was a mural of demons at a poker game he’d had done at Hawk’s bike repair shop. The VP worked alongside a few local artists with whom he contracted, and the end result was kick-ass.
“So who’s this chick you’re ragging Gavin about?” Smokey asked.
“Some volunteer.” He cocked his head toward Gavin. “He’s got it bad for her. Me? I prefer chicks around my age.”
Smokey glanced over at Gavin, who was squatting on his haunches, looking at the Harley’s fender. “Oh yeah? How old’s this volunteer?”
He shrugged. “I dunno—maybe twenty-six or so? I caught him writing her name—Ashley—in a notebook.”
His eyes widened. “What color hair does she have?”
“Black, with blue eyes. The chick’s a real looker, but like I said, I like them younger.” Little Ricky took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to him. Smokey shook his head no, and the teen took one out and lit it up.
No fuckin’ way—it can’t be. She’s not the only woman in town named Ashley with black hair. And blue eyes? Fuck, what are the chances of that?
“It’s real cool,” Gavin told Smokey, interrupting his thoughts.
“It’s awesome,” Smokey replied as he walked over to him.
“I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”
“We gotta change that.”
Gavin straightened up and met his gaze. “Cool. Uh … maybe I could—I mean, if it’s allowed—check out your club?” The teen looked down at the ground. “Maybe someday?”
“I can ask the president about it. I’ll let you know when we can take that ride,” Smokey said. He knew Banger wouldn’t let a fifteen-year-old come around the clubhouse, but he didn’t have the heart to tell the kid that. The club didn’t need the feds accusing them of corrupting a minor. Once Gavin hit seventeen, he could come by, and if he liked what he saw, he could start prospecting.
A car honking dragged his attention away from Gavin to a silver Audi pulling into a parking space.
Gavin murmured, “I have to go,” then strode away, disappearing into the building.
“I didn’t know you were coming by,” Brady said as he slid out of his car.
Smokey crossed the parking lot. “Just stopped by to see the kids.”
Brady slammed the car door shut and waved for Smokey to follow him. “It looked like you and Gavin were having a conversation. That’s huge.”
“Yeah, he’s a good kid. What’s going on with his mom?”
“She’s still in rehab. I have little hope that she’ll stay clean. She’s been through this many times.”
“Does Gavin get along with her?”
“Who knows? He’s not real open with his feelings. Most of the residents have problematic relationships with their parents. I just try to keep them safe and in school.” Brady opened the building’s back door and gestured for Smokey to go through. “What’s going on with you?”
“Busy as hell. I could use some help on a couple of my construction projects. I thought I’d ask Gavin if he wanted to make some extra money.” Smokey turned into the director’s office, and plopped down into the chair in front of Brady’s desk. “Would you have a problem with that?”
“No. I think it would be good for him. It’d also get him away from some of the teasing Little Ricky and Five Dime have been laying on him.”
“Yeah. Little Ricky started that shit up when I was with them in the smoking corner.” Leaning back, he rested his ankle on his knee. “It seems like Gavin’s got a crush on some volunteer.”
“It appears so. I’ve talked to the boys about giving it a rest, but you know how useless that is.”
“Little Ricky told me her name is Ashley. Does she have a last name?” For a split second, he saw malice in Brady’s eyes, but then it was gone.
“Callahan,” he replied quickly.
I knew it. I never would’ve pictured her helping out in a homeless shelter. There’s gotta be a reason for it.
“Why are you asking?”
There was an edge to Brady’s voice that puzzled him. “I was curious. Turns out, she’s working on a project for my company.” Did Brady’s jaw just tighten? Fuck, he’s got the hots for her.
“That’s interesting.”
He put his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers as he fixed Brady with a glare. “It is.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, picking up a pen.
Smokey noticed how tightly he gripped it. So tight, in fact, his knuckles turned white. “She’s a smart woman with great marketing insight. How long has she been volunteering at the shelter?”
“A few weeks.”
“She’d be great in mapping out a marketing campaign for the summer fundraiser.”
Brady let the pen drop to the desk, the tenseness in his face dissipating. “That’s a good idea. I’ll talk to her about it.”
Over dinner, I bet. A stab of jealousy hit him hard, catching him off guard.
“I’ll have to make a note to call her tonight,” Brady continued.
Another unpleasant pang shot through Smokey as he wondered if Ashley had been going out with the director. As if jolted by an electric shock, he jumped up from the chair.
“I’ll see ya.” Without waiting for Brady’s reply, he walked out of the office and straight to the parking lot.
Mounting his Harley, he fired up the engine and peeled out of the lot.
He headed out of town, loving the feel of the road beneath him. Cool wind whipped against the back of his jacket as the sun warmed his face. Following the swells of the road, he passed pine trees and shrubs as he increased the bike’s speed until he hit that place where he felt weightless—like flying—and the rage inside him dissolved. Riding always cleared his mind; he couldn’t imagine not being on a motorcycle. Riding was in his blood—it was his life.
For the next two hours, Smokey rode on narrow roads around canyons, valleys, and streams before heading back to the clubhouse.
When he walked into the main room, he saw Rags and Klutch sipping on beers between shots at the pool table. Cruiser was enjoying a blow job from Tania, while Jax, Chas, Shadow, and Gopher engaged in a conversation at the bar.
“Smokey,” someone called out.
He looked over at a table where Tank was sitting on a chair with Kristy on his lap, his heavily tattooed arms wrapped around her. Kristy had been with the Insurgents the longest of all the club girls. She’d become part of the club fabric when she was only nineteen years old, and fifteen years later, she still held the record among the club women for giving the best blow jobs. Two years before, the Insurgents had given her a room of her own, which made the other girls, particularly Lola and Brandi, madder than hell, but they hadn’t dared complain. They knew the score: if they didn’t like the way things were done, they could leave. As far as the
men went, there wouldn’t be any hard feelings or regrets, because there was always a line of willing women ready to take the plunge into the wild side of living. Outlaw bikers never had a shortage of women who wanted to party and spread their legs for them.
Smokey pulled out a chair and sat down. “Hey, Tank. How was the poker run?”
“Fuckin’ great.” Tank patted Kristy’s thigh, and she jumped off his lap. Blowing the two of them kisses, they watched her ass sway as she strode away.
Looking back at Tank, he asked, “How much did you win?”
“Over a grand—not too shabby. I spent most of it on food, lodging, and gas. Bear made out okay, but Itchy lost his ass.” He laughed. “There was this sweet piece in Duluth who knew how to party. I almost took a detour on the way back just to spend a few more nights with her. Hands down, it was the best fucking on the trip.”
Smokey grinned. “How did Itchy make out?”
“He’s not choosy, so he made out just fine.” Tank put his hand into a yellow bowl on the table and scooped out some popcorn. “Itchy’s such a horny fucking bastard.”
“You got that right.” Smokey chuckled. “Whatcha got going on for tonight?”
“A group of us are heading out to Twisted Spoke. Why don’t you join us? The brothers are saying you work too damn hard,”—he leaned in over the table— “and that you’re stuck on some chick.”
“Right on the working, total bullshit on the woman. What time are you heading out?”
“In about an hour.”
Smacking his hand on the table, he rose to his feet. “Sounds good. I’m just going to shower and change.”
He bumped fists with several of his brothers as he made his way toward the stairway. Taking them two at a time, he was in his room in no time. It’d been a while since he went out drinking with his brothers, and he planned on getting shit-faced. Kicking off his boots, he removed his clothes, then headed for the bathroom.
Twisted Spoke was a rough-and-tumble biker bar located on the outskirts of town. It was a bar the Insurgents frequented, and the owner, Toque, was good friends with Banger. The only other bikers who came into the place were either friendly MCs, or bikers who didn’t have a fucking clue. The minute they saw the three-piece patches and the stone-faced outlaws, they’d hightail it out of there.