Hem held up his phone. A smiling picture of Holly was on the screen. “Holly Farris is single, twenty-four years old and a graduate student at UNT. She got her BA in creative writing from UT Dallas. She lives alone in Sugar Branch. She’s an only child from a wealthy family. Daddy was a banker, mom was a nurse. Her parents retired to Florida three years ago. And the best part…she’s a fucking reporter for the Dallas Daily News. She’s going to UNT for a master’s in journalism.”
“Great.” Hunter downed the rest of his whiskey. “How did you find all this out in the fifteen minutes you were out there?”
“I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.” Hem smiled. “She writes a column for the special interest section at DDN. Do you think she was here to write a story about us?”
“I sure hope not,” Hunter said. As Sergeant at Arms, Hunter was tasked with putting out fires. If Holly wrote a story about what happened tonight, it would be an inferno. The club already had to battle the stereotypes society slapped on them that they were dirty, uncivilized criminals. Sure, the club did some shit that was under the table but they also ran a legitimate business. They were pipeline welders. The best in the state. They had government and private contracts and made good money. They also owned the bar and the property where the clubhouse was.
The Knights of War’s original founders worked on the Alaskan pipeline in the late seventies. They took the dough they made on that project and started Knights Welding and Fabrication. Over the years, the company became intertwined with the club. They were never out of work with the oil industry constantly booming in Texas.
Hem tapped the screen on his phone a few more times. “Here’s her address and cell number.”
“Text it to me.”
Chapter Three
A few blocks from the bar, the drive-thru at McDonald’s was six cars deep. Holly needed some coffee and to sit a while longer before she got on the road for home. She didn’t have a gun with her but the dark-haired biker that Hunter left to watch her didn’t know that.
He seemed preoccupied with his phone anyway. Some watchdog he was. She found a spot in the rear of the restaurant to park. The coffee was hot and she sipped it carefully. She pulled her notepad out of her bag and made some notes. She wrote down what happened in the bathroom and descriptions of the inside of the bar. The bartender had been nice. Regret niggled at her conscience for having pepper sprayed Hunter, but it had been a visceral reaction when he grabbed her hand and started pulling her toward the bar.
She was pretty sure there would be a bruise on her thigh where the guy had grabbed her leg. What happened tonight would make a hell of a story for her column. Holly could use the information for that and for her thesis if she wanted to. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Despite what had happened, she was still curious. Mostly about Hunter. There was some truth to the bad boy persona being attractive.
Her notes turned into more of a journal entry than an outline. A little after midnight, she drained the last of the coffee and started her car to go home. Traffic was light and she made it to Sugar Branch in less than an hour. Turning onto her street in the small subdivision had never felt better. The other houses were dark this time of night. She hit the button on the garage door opener and parked inside.
The shower was a little hotter than she normally liked but she wanted to wash off that feeling of being violated. The top of her thigh bore a red mark that didn’t hurt much, but reminded her how close she’d come to being a statistic. What-ifs were dangerous thoughts so Holly pushed it to the back of her mind like she did with everything that made her feel uncomfortable.
Sleep eluded her. She made sure all the doors and windows were locked then plugged in the laptop beside her bed. She opened up her thesis and scrolled down to the part where she was going to write about personal experience.
She typed: Bikers are an interesting subset of society. Tonight I ventured out to a bar to hang out with the Knights of War. Their gritty culture of booze and loose women was apparent. I learned that they’re really no different than anyone else, honestly. Under the right, or perhaps wrong, circumstances, they did the same things other people did. I’d seen more rowdiness in college frat parties. A motorcycle club was like a fraternity for grown-ups. Only these weren’t college boys, these were men who colored outside the box.
For now, she’d settle for more research on the internet and watching Hell’s Angels documentaries. She wasn’t sure she was brave enough to go to the Devil’s Lair again. But if she did, she wouldn’t go unarmed.
Her phone vibrated on the dresser beside the television. She glanced at the clock and wondered who would be calling her at nearly two in the morning. She closed the laptop and put it on her nightstand and crawled out of bed to grab the phone. The display showed a missed call from an unknown caller. Probably the wrong number. She set the phone next to the computer and fluffed her pillow. She pulled the blanket up to her neck and closed her eyes. The phone vibrated again.
“Jesus.” She rolled over and looked at the screen. There was a voicemail. She hit the little reel-to-reel symbol and put the phone to her ear.
“Holly, it’s Hunter. We need to talk.”
Hunter opened up the cabinet above the stove and took down the bottle of Jameson. The Army shrink had advised him years ago that alcohol wouldn’t solve his problems. That was the last time he spoke to her. Unless someone had been in war, they had no idea what demons it spawned in the psyche. If a fifth of whiskey a day kept the demons at bay, so be it. Therapy worked for some guys but Hunter didn’t like being picked apart and told how he should feel about having seen his fellow soldiers--his friends--being blown up or taking a sniper’s bullet to the neck. Unless they’d been there, no one really understood how hot and warm blood was as it left the human body and seeped through the fingers of the person trying to stifle the flow. And until those fucking therapists cradled the head of a dying man and watched the life leave his eyes, they were useless in his opinion.
He downed the shot of whiskey and refilled the glass again. And again. The liquor slid down easy and warmed him inside. Maybe that’s what he liked the most. Having the usual coldness warmed up a bit.
Hem had given him Holly’s phone number and address. When he called her, he figured she might be asleep or in jail for a DUI. He’d left her a message with his phone number.
His cell phone buzzed on the counter and he picked it up, anticipating a message from Holly. Instead, there was a text from Cora.
Busy?
That was Cora’s way of asking if he wanted to fuck her. And he did fuck her on occasion. But he’d pass, knowing that she’d make herself available pretty much whenever he wanted her. There was a lingering suspicion that Cora felt more for him than she would admit, but he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know. Cora was an uncomplicated fuck buddy and he intended to keep it that way.
He replied to her message.
Busy. Some other time.
Sometimes he slept at the clubhouse and sometimes he slept at home. He was glad to be home that night. His bedroom was at the end of the hallway just past the bathroom. One thing the Army did for him was give him a shot at buying a house with a VA loan. It was nothing fancy, but thanks to his work at the club he now owned it free and clear.
A simple blue comforter covered the king size bed and the sheets felt especially soft as he slid in between them. His head spun from the booze and he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see Holly’s face but he did. He didn’t want to imagine her twisted up in ecstasy and agony, her naked body writhing beneath him but he did. This girl was going to be trouble.
Sleep came. Fitful, restless sleep. He dreamed of Holly running through the desert. A look of unfettered terror on her face. Her blonde hair bounced off her shoulders. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She looked over her shoulder. Then POP. A sniper’s bullet caught her in the head and she crumbled to the ground. The sand absorbed the pool of blood that spilled from behind her ear.
Hunter woke
up to the sun shining through his window. Church was in an hour. After a quick shower, he took off on the Crossbones. The industrial area of Dallas was filled with machine shops and warehouses. An old-school white sign with red letters announced the gated entrance to Knights Welding and Fabrication. The shop was closed on Sundays so the parking lot was empty.
To the rear of the shop was the Knights of War clubhouse. On the outside it looked like a large metal warehouse painted black. Inside, it was more of a lodge. The clubhouse was where business took place and private events were hosted. The bar down the road was public and for profit. Three bikes were parked along the side of the club. Hunter backed his Harley in beside Hem’s.
Church was held in the conference room, or as the club called it, the chapel. That was where they did God’s work. Sometimes decisions made in that room involved life and death. Sometimes they played God.
Hem sat at the bar, a steaming cup of coffee to his left and an open laptop in front of him. His black hair was pulled back in a ponytail that easily fell to his waist. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “What’s up, Hunt?”
“Nada mucho.” Hunter dropped his keys on the counter and walked behind the bar. The coffee pot was more than half full. “This shit fresh?”
“Yeah. I made it about fifteen minutes ago.”
Hunter poured a cup and stood opposite Hem. “What’s new?”
Hem smiled. “Nothing. Just watching a little internet porn to start my Sunday off right.”
Hunter laughed. “Yeah. That’s what Jesus would do.”
“Right? So, your girlfriend hasn’t posted an article or anything. Did you get a hold of her last night?”
“I left her a message. She didn’t call back.”
“All right. Well, I have a Google alert set up so I’ll get pinged if she posts anything publicly.”
“Cool. Where’s your brother?”
Hem pointed toward the corridor beside the bar. “Sleeping off a bender. He was shitfaced last night and Rochelle was trying to fuck him so I brought him here.”
“You slept here, too?”
“Yeah. I think she ended up taking a prospect home.”
Hunter sipped his coffee. “She’s busier than a truck stop bathroom. She was doing Linc in the men’s room.”
Hem frowned. “She’s a skank.”
“Did you fuck her when you were prospecting?”
Hem scrunched up his nose. “Dude. No. I have standards. That’s one hit I wouldn’t take for the team.”
The roar of bike engines outside signaled the arrival of the other members. Hem walked down the hall and banged on one of the doors. “Get your ass in here!” Then he carried his coffee and computer to the chapel. The double doors were held open by rubber stoppers.
The table in the center of the room reminded Hunter of the dinner table he grew up having family dinners at. His family hadn’t been supportive when he came back from his second tour in Iraq. They expected a war hero but he didn’t feel like a hero. It was easier to disconnect than to pretend he was what they wanted him to be. His mother kept in touch when he moved to Dallas. She was the only tie that held him to his family and when she died four years ago, he rode his bike back to Arkansas for her funeral. Then he turned around and came right back. The club was his family now.
The slam of the gavel on the table pulled Hunter out of his memory. Paul was the president and one of the founding members of the club. He sat at the head of the table. Maddox sat to his right and Hunter to his left. Hem sat at the opposite end with a red folder filled with paper. He read the minutes from the last meeting.
Kol rubbed his temples.
Hunter smiled. He knew that feeling. “You look like shit, brother.”
Kol squinted. “Thanks.”
“So, let’s address new business.” Paul looked at Hem. “What’s first on the agenda?”
Hem shuffled the papers. “We have the music and arts fundraiser next weekend in Austin. That’s all set up and ready to go. Sin and Stan will drive out on Friday. I’ll cut them a check before they leave. Membership dues will come out of everyone’s checks on the third of next month. The receptionist is pregnant.” He looked around the table. “Any of you assholes responsible for that?”
There was a flurry of no’s and head shakes.
Kol looked up at the ceiling fan. “Which one is the receptionist? Is she the little brunette in the front office?”
Maddox grimaced. “No. The receptionist is blonde, but the brunette is my niece.”
Kol grinned. “She’s a real nice girl, Maddox.”
“She better stay that way, you fucker.”
“You’re not tapping the blonde, right?” Hem asked.
Kol shook his head. “Nope.”
There was a knock on the door and everyone got quiet. Hunter unlocked the door.
“Sorry I’m late.” Butch ambled into the room and plopped down in the seat beside Kol. “I overslept.”
“Speaking of little blondes. I heard you had a run in with a reporter last night.” Paul rubbed his long, gray beard.
“It was a mistake,” Butch answered.
“Well, it could be a costly mistake. Since you seem to think with your dick, you’ll be cleaning the head for the next month.”
Butch stared at the table and nodded. “Okay.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you guys this but listen. When we’re in the bar, we’re in public. Keep your asses in line. If there’s a private function here at the clubhouse, do what you want. Within reason. Don’t ever assume a woman in the bar is a club girl. Dipshit over there demonstrated how that can go wrong.”
“I’m not going to lecture you on the whole no means no thing either. You’re not a bunch of dumb college dudes. If you’re gonna catch a charge, it better not be for a sex crime.”
Paul looked at Hunter. “You’re handling the reporter issue?”
“Yeah. Hem gave me her info. I’ll talk her down. You can never make a second first impression but maybe I can do some damage control.”
Butch straightened up in his chair. “I could talk to her and apologize--”
“No,” Hunter and Paul said in unison.
The men filtered out into the clubhouse after the meeting was adjourned. No cell phones were allowed in the chapel. Hunter picked up his from the bar. There was a missed call from Holly. “Damn it.”
Chapter Four
Playing phone tag was always fun. As soon as she hung up her phone rang. Holly answered. “Hello.”
“It’s Hunter.”
“I know. No one else who calls me has their number set to unknown.”
“I wanted to apologize for last night. On behalf of myself and my club.”
“How did you get my number?”
“I have sources. Just like you do. Are you writing a story about my club?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“We’re both adults here. There’s no need to bullshit. I know you’re a reporter and I know you’re pissed about what happened last night. Add those two together and well…”
Butterflies bounced around in her stomach. It made her uncomfortable that he had her information.
“What can I do to make sure what happened last night doesn’t end up on the front page of the Dallas Daily News?”
Holly was uneasy but opportunities like that didn’t drop in her lap every day. “Give me an exclusive interview…in your clubhouse.”
“Yeah. That’s not going to happen.”
“Then an unfavorable piece might happen.” She had no intention of writing about the bathroom incident but now that she knew his angle, she’d use it. He was worried and that put the ball squarely in her court.
“You’re blackmailing me. Surely that’s unethical.”
“You’re asking me to omit a key component from a story. That’s also unethical.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m not in the business of ethics.”
“Touché.” She smiled. “So do we have a deal?”
“Let me call you back.”
“I’m going out for a run. Text me.” She disconnected the call. Going to the Knights of War clubhouse might not be a great idea but after talking to Hunter, she had the impression that they weren’t a bunch of serial rapists. He had taken the initiative to track her down, even if his sole purpose was to save face. She was actually safer now. He’d be sure to not let anything bad happen lest it make the front page.
Holly laced up her shoes and stretched her legs. The street in front of her house was level and curved down into a cul-de-sac. It was a good warm up before she cut out onto the main street another block away. A half mile into her run, the sun disappeared behind a grouping of ominous clouds. Aside from the sweltering heat of summer, Texas weather could be unpredictable.
Lightning flashed in the sky and Holly did an about face and headed back toward home. A crack of thunder sounded only a few seconds after. The storm was close. The first drop of water landed on her forehead. Then a few more drops until she was an unintentional participant in a wet T-shirt contest.
She jogged up her driveway and under the covered porch. Her luck was for shit lately. It had been sunny for days then when she ventured out, it rained.
Water dripped off her nose and she left her shoes on the porch. Cleaning house was one thing she hated so she didn’t relish tracking in wet dirt. She checked her phone. There was a text message from Hunter.
“Meet me at Devil’s Lair at 7:00 p.m.”
The parking lot was nearly full. It was stupid that no one could buy alcohol at a store on Sunday, but drinking in a bar was legal. Great business for watering holes like the Devil’s Lair. It looked more like a wooden saloon from the nineteenth century than a modern day bar. A red neon image of a horned devil complete with a pointy tail sat on the roof. She laughed. Such a silly emblem for a biker bar.
Holly backed into a spot toward the back and cut the engine. She texted Hunter. It was still storming so she had offered to pick him up in lieu of her following him to the clubhouse from there. The bikes lined up against the wall all looked the same to her. Black steel.
Field Stripped: 15 Steamy Military Romances Page 47