by Debra Kayn
She glanced through the window of the car. The policeman dealing with her still sat in the driver's seat looking at a computer screen. One of her five roommates had committed a crime under the name of Doris Hinkle. Any idiot could tell that was a fake name.
The body of the car shifted against her. She straightened and let her hands drop to her sides. There was no way to prepare herself for what she couldn't control, but she would fight and do whatever needed to be done not to go back to her previous life.
"Here you go, Ms. Lundin." The policeman handed her identity card back to her. "You're free to go, and I'm afraid you won't be able to go back inside the apartment. The manager has informed us that a Ms. Hinkle signed a lease and has ignored three eviction notices. While it's no crime to stay with someone else as a guest for a short period, the tenant must be up-to-date on their rent."
Damn Laura. She was the one who signed the agreement and was in charge of paying the small rent for the low-income, Section 8 apartment from the money everyone chipped in. She sighed. No wonder Laura was rolling in dough. The bitch had pocketed what they each paid in.
"Can I have my backpack?"
The officer stepped over, picked up her backpack, and handed it to her. She never glanced at the other women. It was time to part ways.
She walked away without looking back. The other women were on their own. One foot in front of the other kept the shakes in her body from showing and the tears from rolling. Tonight had been too close of a call.
Her old fear, like an old friend, threatened to undo her. She walked faster, surviving until tomorrow her only goal.
She hitched her shoulder, holding on to her pack tighter. At least she'd had time to get a job before her living arrangement fell apart. A few more months with a roof over her head would've given her time to save for a first and last month's rent on a place of her own, maybe in a better apartment complex.
Being homeless again wasn't a setback. She still had a job. She'd manage. True independence would only take her longer and require extra work.
Chapter 4
Lieutenant Gomez of the St. John's Police Department stood with the Notus Motorcycle Club members outside the police department after giving their statement upon finding Alex Craine. Glen yawned, his body already relaxing from the round the clock schedule he'd been keeping all week.
"He's lucky you guys found him and called an ambulance." Gomez undid the sleeves of his blue, police shirt and rolled them to his elbows. "The paramedics said ten more minutes more, he would've been gone."
"Narcan. The wonder drug," muttered Glen. "Has his family been contacted?"
Gomez hooked his thumbs under his gun belt and his brows lowered. "Quiet resignation came over them at the news. I think the ordeal of having their grown son go missing was a wakeup call to learn they needed to keep tabs on him every day, whether he likes it or not. It's the only way they're going to keep him alive."
Wayne heaved a sigh. "A hard lesson to learn. Luckily, they have another shot. He could be dead."
"From your lips to everyone in a relationship with an addict. He was our second heroin overdose tonight. A woman over in the Quimby Apartment complex was found not breathing. Hell of a deal, because it wasn't even a rescue call. A squad was delivering a final eviction notice to a group of squatters. The females in the room were either not aware their friend had overdosed or were scared. By the time the addict was transported to the hospital, they'd bagged her." Gomez checked his watch. "I need to go back inside and sign off on the report and then head on home. My shift's over, and I get to pick my kids up from their mom's house in the morning."
Over the last two decades, Gomez had worked closely with Notus. Glen shook the lieutenant's hand. "Enjoy your time off."
A single father who stayed active and supportive, Gomez spent most of his days off the clock with his kids.
"Hey," shouted Glen, stopping Gomez. "Does one of your kids need a bike?"
Gomez shook his head. "Nope. The grandparents got that covered."
"All right. Talk to you later." Glen returned to the group.
Wayne jingled his keys. "I'm going home and crawling into bed with Clara at a decent time for once."
"See you guys at work tomorrow." Glen smacked Chuck's shoulder. "Good work tonight."
"You, too." Chuck walked to his motorcycle.
Thad ran his hand through his hair and put on his helmet. "I'm going in for two hours of overtime in the morning. I'll see you guys at work."
"Fuck that." Wayne sat his Harley. "You give Port Loaders forty hours a week. Why the hell would you give them more of your time, especially coming off a search?"
Thad shrugged. "I need the money."
"What for?" Glen put on his gloves and toed his kickstand.
"I contacted a P.I. Firm in Seattle about looking for Rich. Big city motherfuckers charge five times what they do here." Thad started the engine, lifted his hand, and pulled out of the parking lot.
"Is he on to something?" Chuck let his hands fall from the handlebars to the gas tank.
Wayne shook his head. "We're no closer than we were to finding Rich last week or twenty-two years ago."
"We've got money set aside in the club pot. If Thad gets an itch, he can dip," said Glen, knowing exactly how much money Notus had for their activities.
"I've told him that before." Wayne tied his hair behind his neck. "I think Thad's trying to keep himself busy. It's that time of year."
June twenty-ninth.
The date wasn't lost on him. That day, twenty-two years ago, had changed his life. Thad's sister, Thalia Bower, was the first person in his life that'd died. The crime was ugly and damaging. Before that, he hadn't seen the darkness that dwells in every corner of St. John's.
Glen started his Harley and pulled out behind Chuck. Wayne turned off two blocks away, heading for his house. Glen and Chuck continued on another mile and a half, entering a new subdivision where they'd both bought houses. He pulled in his driveway and watched Chuck stop five houses down at his own home. Around the curve, Thad lived at the end of the block in a cookie cutter house that matched everyone else's in the neighborhood. Three bedrooms, two baths, two stories, with an attached garage. Even the house colors were all some shade of brown, just different tones. The neighborhood allowed him to blend in while the rest of the world crossed the road to get away from him, all because he wore the Notus patch on their back.
If that wasn't bad enough, longtime residents remembered the speculations when Thalia disappeared. All eyes went to her friends, knowing normally, suspects knew the victim. Young men, rebelling from life, riding loud bikes, drinking and smoking too much, were the likely suspects. People, even after two decades, still remembered.
He opened his front door and shut himself inside. Even after Notus MC made a name for themselves by finding missing persons and doing good in the world, he still received the looks, the distance, the whispers.
Dropping his gloves and helmet to the floor by the door, he headed to the kitchen. A soft meow barely came through the sliding door in the attached dining room. If he hadn't been listening for the stray cat that had decided to hang out at his house over the last six months, he wouldn't have heard the cries of hunger.
He reached into the sack of cat food under his sink and grabbed a fistful of Kibble. Not a cat person, he had no idea why he'd started feeding the stray. Hell, he hadn't even had a dog or goldfish growing up. Pets were for other people.
The incessant cries and the cat's determination had worn him down. To shut the cat up, he'd fed it. Now the cat wouldn't leave.
Unlocking the door, he slid the glass open and dropped a handful of food on the deck. Jerking his hand out of reach of the cat's mouth lunging for him, he waited until the feline's attention focused on eating, and then stroked her back. Or, his back. He wasn't sure of the sex. The long gray fur, small size, and shyness followed by fierceness when frightened reminded him of a female.
Straightening, he closed the door and
was halfway to his bedroom when his cell vibrated in his pocket. Wayne's name came up on the screen.
"Hey," he answered.
"Paxton called and said there's a female hanging around in the alley behind the bar for the last hour. He needs to shut down the kitchen and wants to go home. He called here wanting to know if Clara wanted him to call the police, considering everything that had happened over the last six months. I told him to stay at the bar, and I'd go check it out, but Gracie called right afterward, and Clara told her sister what was going on. Now, Gracie wants to come spend the night over here and not be alone. Do you think you can escort Gracie over here?"
"Jesus, Wayne. Take a breath of air. I'll go check out the bar. You stay with the twins," said Glen.
"Thanks. Call if you need anything."
"Will do." He disconnected the call, grabbed his helmet, gloves, and patted his shoulder holster under his vest before walking outside and riding off.
It was more important for Wayne to stay with the twins. If Wayne over-explaining the situation hadn't of told him how much he wanted to stay home with his woman, the fact that Gracie had been kidnapped and terrorized during her abduction had. Gracie needed to know the world could be safe again. She'd made such stride forward, nobody in Notus Motorcycle Club wanted to have her retreat back to being scared even in her own home. It'd been rough for her since her twin moved in with Wayne, but he'd seen the strength deep inside of her that lived because Clara needed her more than Gracie needed herself.
The traffic light turned yellow. He shifted down and rolled to a stop, putting his boots on the ground to balance the motorcycle. An older Corvette rode through the intersection, reminding him that he needed to stay home for more than an hour and start the truck in his garage. He couldn't remember the last time he turned over the engine. Instead, he took advantage of the weather and rode his Harley everywhere.
The light turned green. He rode ahead, going five more blocks and parking on the main street in front of the bar. If a woman was hanging out in the alley, he wanted to approach her on foot without any warning to find out what kind of trouble she was causing.
Every few months, the working girls tried to sell their wares on the block. There were too many customers coming and going until two o'clock in the morning for them not to try and make some money.
He grabbed a flashlight out of the duffle tied to his bike, walked around the corner of the building, slipping his hand under his vest but leaving his pistol in the holster. The last time something happened in the alley, the clothes of a kidnapped seventeen-year-old girl were found discarded outside the back door of Vavoom's Bar. The child had later been found killed. That teenage girl was one of the missing persons the Notus Motorcycle Club had failed to find in time.
The alley, only lit by a single streetlight, buffered the traffic noise from the front of the building. He spotted Paxton's truck and two of the waitresses' vehicles parked on the far side. Scanning the area, he paid close attention to the two dumpsters blocking his view. Finding nothing out of the usual, he stopped near the door to the bar and shined the flashlight back down the alley from the direction he came. There was only one other door on this side of the building. If there had been a woman hanging around, she appeared to be gone.
To double check and make sure the area was safe, he headed toward the vehicles. A quick look around and inside, and he'd let Paxton know it was okay to go home for the night and the waitresses would be able to leave when they closed the bar.
He pulled on the door handles of the truck, finding them locked. Halfway to the next car, a faint scrape sound came. He stopped. Bending over at the waist, he peered under the car and in the beam of the flashlight found a dark shadow behind the car between the rear tires. Pulling out his pistol, he rounded the car.
"Don't move." He watched the bundle wrapped in a dark, blue sleeping bag for any movement.
When the person remained still, he shined the light on the ground and spotted two feet in sneakers. Irritated, figuring it was an inebriated homeless woman who sought a sleeping place in the alley, he slipped his pistol back in the holster and then grabbed the top of the sleeping bag.
"All right. Time to get up and—"
The bag came up and slapped him in the face. On instinct, he reached out, and luck was with him when his fingers closed around the back of the woman's shirt as she tried to escape.
"Hold on, there." He aimed the flashlight at the woman's face and grunted in surprise. "You."
Heidi stood in front of him. Her round eyes stared back at him in shock, or maybe she pretended. Having never run into her before and now having to chase her down twice, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was following him.
Heidi grabbed Glen's wrist and pushed. "Let go of me."
Glen dragged her closer, making him instantly remember what it felt like to have her body against his when he'd tackled her. "Not until I hear another lie about why you're here, sleeping behind a car."
"If you let go, I'll leave, and you don't have to put up with me here." She strained under his hold. "God, have you ever heard of talking instead of always grabbing me."
He let her go. She sprinted away without a moment's hesitation. Her accusation stopped him from going after her. He'd never abused a woman before, and he wasn't going to start now.
He shifted, and his boot got caught on her sleeping bag. Her large backpack sat on the ground, left behind. The kind of pack he'd see on people who hike across mountains or halfway across the United States. He squatted and rolled up her bag, then shoved it into the already full pack. Grasping the shoulder strap, he walked down the alley.
Hopefully, he could find her. If she wanted to keep her story to herself, fine. He knew where to find her tomorrow when Pauly's Peddlers opened.
At his motorcycle, he tied the pack to the back of his seat. He went inside Vavoom's, nodded at Meredith and Juanita working the tables, and pushed through the door into the kitchen.
Paxton looked up from flipping through a magazine, having already closed the kitchen for the night. "Wayne called and said you'd be swinging by."
"I found the woman in the alley. Looks like she planned to camp out." He leaned against the center, stainless-steel kitchen island.
"Homeless?" Paxton closed the magazine and stood from the stool. "There's a woman's shelter off of Martin Luther King Boulevard."
"I'll ride around the block a couple times and try to find her. She ran off when I asked what she was doing." He backed up to the door. "Remind the waitresses to walk out together when they close up."
"I will." Paxton lifted his chin. "Thanks for coming by and checking things out. I'm leery about leaving the women alone to close the bar if someone—male or female—is hanging around the alley."
"Not a problem." He walked through the bar and out the door.
Heidi stood beside his motorcycle, working furiously at the Bungee cord he'd used to tie her stuff to his bike. There was no way she'd have the strength to undo it.
She looked up and caught sight of him and her back straightened. "Give me my pack."
"How about I take you to the woman's shelter. They have cots that are more comfortable than the ground," he said approaching her.
Her tired gaze glanced away. "Doors close at ten o'clock."
Then, she was homeless. He rubbed his jaw. Nothing he assumed lined up with what he was finding out. She had a job, probably not much more than minimum wage, but enough to pay by the hour at one of the dump motels around town. It was better than sleeping on the street.
"You refused to take my money before, but I'd like you to let me buy you a room at the closest motel." He reached out and took his helmet, offering it to her.
She shook her head. "No vacancies. I just want my pack, and I'll be out of your way...whatever way that is because last time I checked, Glen Steele didn't own St. John's."
She remembered his name. He chuckled. Even calmed down, she continued throwing shit at him.
"The Lumberjack Mo
tel isn't full," he said.
"Are you calling me a liar?"
He tilted his head. The only people who stayed at the low-budget lodging were truckers, prostitutes, and businessmen who spent all their time at the conventional hall in Portland. "There's a convention?"
She nodded and slapped her hand down on her backpack. "Now, please, let me have my bag."
"If I do, where are you going?"
"Somewhere away from you." She rubbed her hand. "Listen, I'm sorry for whatever I did to piss you off this time, but I need to work in the morning. My clothes are in that bag."
"Where did you stay last night?"
She rolled her eyes. "In an apartment."
"You can't go back there tonight and stay?"
She exhaled loudly and closed her eyes a few extra beats. "I'm not an idiot. If I had a place to go, I'd be there."
"What happened?" he asked.
"Circumstances." She dropped her gaze to his motorcycle and plucked at the Bungee cord.
He couldn't let her stay inside the bar. She'd already tried to steal his wallet. He'd tried to give her money and had insulted her. If Gracie wasn't leery of others, he could ask her to help put Heidi up for the night. Asking Clara was out of the question, because of Wayne...well, Wayne wouldn't allow anyone around his woman that he didn't fully trust.
"Take the helmet." He thrust his arm out again. "You can stay at my house tonight."
She backed up, shaking her head. "No."
"Why the hell not?"
"I don't know you. I don't trust you." She pointed at the motorcycle. "I only want my backpack."
A white truck slowed down on Lombard Street behind Glen's motorcycle. Glen lifted his chin at Paxton rolling down the passenger window and leaning across the seat.
"Everything okay?" asked Paxton.
Glen walked over to the truck, looking at the road to make sure he wasn't holding up traffic. "Do you have ten minutes? She needs a ride to my house."
Paxton looked in the rearview mirror. "Sure."
He walked back to his bike and Heidi. "Go jump in with Paxton. He'll take you to my house."