Repo Chick Blues (The Leah Ryan Series - Book One)

by Sharp, Tracy

  * * *

  “Jesus, Leah. I told you this job’s too dangerous for a woman,” Cal said, shaking his head. He leaned against my kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. I’d told him about the call I’d gotten earlier and he was all bent out of shape about it.

  “Bullshit. It’s just as dangerous for you. Are you trying to tell me you’ve never had guys come after you for taking their car?”

  “Sure I have.”

  “Then how is it more dangerous for me than for you?”

  “Come on, Leah. I’m a guy. I know how to handle myself in these situations.”

  “Oh, really? So you’re implying that I don’t?” The pitch of my voice was rising higher with every stupid comment that came out of his mouth.

  Buddy, who was lying on the floor between us, had been watching our faces as we spoke. Once I raised my voice, he jumped up and glared at Callahan, growling a low warning.

  I patted Buddy’s large head. “It’s okay, Bud. Sit down.”

  Buddy looked up at me, moved closer and leaned his body against my legs. I’d seen other Rottweilers do this. It was a protective stance.

  I continued with a calmer voice and demeanor for Callahan’s sake, even though I’d have liked to see Buddy bite off a choice part of him for making such chauvinistic comments. “First of all, I can handle myself just fine. And if it wasn’t for Buddy here, I’d wrestle you on my living room carpet just to prove it.”

  Callahan raised his eyebrows. “We can put him outside.”

  I considered it seriously. Rolling around on the carpet with Callahan might really hit the spot right about now. Sadly, it wouldn’t solve the psycho problem. So I lifted my chin. “No, he doesn’t go out without me and I’m not tying him. Second of all, I’m not exactly afraid with this hundred and twenty pound Rottweiler living with me. He’s an excellent guard dog in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “What if whoever is after you has a gun? Buddy wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “He’d better be pretty fast with that gun.” I stepped over to my fridge. “Want a beer?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I felt his eyes on me as I bent down to get the beer off the bottom shelf. “Getting a good enough look, Cal?”

  “Yup. Thanks.”

  I narrowed my eyes and handed him the beer.

  “So, what’s with the work-out shorts and tank top? Were you doing aerobics earlier?”

  I lifted an arm, flexing my triceps. “You think I can get definition like this from doing jumping jacks?”

  His eyes moved to my legs. “Damn, woman. Those are some gams ya got there, too. How much do you lift?”

  I winked. “That’s my little secret. Let’s just say it takes a lot more than jogging on the spot to achieve and maintain these sculpted muscles.”

  “Ever think of competing?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not a body builder. And I don’t have the cheerleader moves to compete in the fitness competitions. I’m happy just working out.”

  “It works for you.” He kept leaning against the counter, sipping his beer and letting his eyes wander over me again.

  There was maybe two feet of distance between us. I could close that space in half a second. The counter he was leaning against was just about the right height for me to sit on and wrap my legs around him while he gave me a different kind of work out. I imagined him driving into me and tension pooled between my legs, dampening my panties. I fought a grin and placed my hands on my hips. “Cal, you’re being rude. Do I have to go get real clothes on for you to take me seriously or what?”

  “What? Just admiring your work.”

  “There’s a difference between an appraising glance and outright leering. You’re acting like a letch.”

  He lifted a hand in apology. “Sorry.”

  “So who do you think called me?”

  “It’s not Mr. Silk Pajamas from last night. So that leaves Mr. Woodard or Mr. Wilcox, who, by the way, called me to bitch about us taking his dog.”

  “Too bad. He should have treated him better.”

  “I said I didn’t know anything about a dog, that there was no dog when we got there.”

  “I would’ve told him I took the dog. I’m not scared.”

  “Taking his truck is not illegal. Taking his dog is.”

  “What? You see how thin he is! No cop in the world would arrest me for taking him.”

  “I didn’t think we needed the extra hassle. Anyway, he was yelling into the phone that he paid five hundred bucks for his dog and he wants him back. And get this, the dog’s name really is Buddy.”

  I laughed. “At least he doesn’t have to get used to a new name.”

  Cal chuckled. “But I don’t think he’s the one who is threatening you. I think Mr. Woodard, the drug dealer, found out who you were. He saw you in the truck with me last night. He’s got friends.”

  I nodded. I remembered his friends vividly. “Great.”

  “These are dangerous people, Leah. They’re not playing.”

  “Well what do they want? Their car back?”

  Cal shook his head. “They want payback. We humiliated them.”

  “Sore losers.”

  Cal stared at me. “When are you going to start taking this shit seriously?”

  I sighed. “Look. I know who this guy is.” I looked Cal in the eye. “His name wasn’t Brent Woodard back when I knew him. It was Sebastian Blacklock.”

  “What? How do you know him?”

  “I knew him from the area I lived in.”

  Cal knew I was holding something back, but he didn’t press. I figured I’d give him the relevant information without giving up too much about myself.

  “He went to Juvenile Detention. Everyone knew about it.”

  “What was he in for?”

  “I knew some kids who were in the same place at the same time as he was. They said he bragged about it all over juvie. He’s a real sick ticket.”

  “Bragged about what?”

  “He raped his sister, and then tried to kill her. Smashed her head in with a hammer. She lived, but apparently suffered some pretty severe brain damage.” I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling vulnerable. If he could do that to his own sister, what would he do to a simple acquaintance?

  “Nice guy. That’s probably why he changed his name.”

  “His parents probably changed their names and moved into a different area. His name hadn’t been released in the media, but most people in the area knew what had happened.”

  “I guess juvie didn’t do much to rehabilitate him.”

  “It rarely does. There’s a choice few who go on to be productive human beings.” I didn’t know if I fell into that group or not.

  “Look, this guy’s into some really bad shit. Word on the street is that he’s a pimp who likes his workers young.” He watched my eyes steadily to see if I caught his drift.

  “Child prostitution?” My stomach turned.

  He nodded slowly. “Early teens at least. And he’s into pornography. He is not a nice man. Word is that he’s made people disappear before. It would be nothing to make you disappear.”

  There was a dull roar in my ears and I could barely hear what Callahan was telling me. Child prostitution and pornography. Something was pounding behind my eyes. My blood boiled.

  “Do you hear what I’m telling you?”

  He reached out to touch my arm but I shrugged him away.

  “I think you should find another job,” he was saying to me. “And move.”

  I let out a short, harsh laugh.

  “Woodard will come after you.”

  “Let him come,” I said. “Just let him come.”

  Chapter Six

  I convinced Callahan that watching Woodard to see what he was up to would be in our best interest. I wasn’t about to be bullied out of my home, and certainly not my town. So that meant that I needed to be on top of what Woodard was up to. The truth was, I wasn’t about to let him get away with wha
t he was doing to those kids. We still had to make a living, so Cal and I decided that we’d better do a couple of repos before beginning our surveillance of Woodard.

  We began the day by repossessing a gleaming motorcycle which was only five months old. The problem was that there were twenty-seven motorcycles of various types parked outside the Juicy Lucy, a twenty-four hour strip club and hangout for gentleman who owned and loved motorcycles.

  This was a dangerous venture. These bikers never seemed to go anywhere alone. So it was best to attempt to repo the bike while they were all distracted inside. The good thing about repossessing the bike outside the Juicy Lucy was that the windows were covered with thick curtains to keep prying eyes out. I’d heard some pretty raunchy stories about what had happened inside the Juicy Lucy over the years. So chances were good that all the bikers had their attention pointed at areas other than outside at the moment.

  “So who is this guy? He’s obviously a member of some motorcycle gang.” I was stalling, not too anxious to step out of the truck.

  “Marvin May,” Cal began. “Twenty-one years old. Not quite a member of the gang, yet. He’s supposed to prove himself first.”

  “Which gang are we talking about here?”

  “The Coffin Nails.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” I muttered. There were several motorcycle gangs working in the area, the worst of which were the Coffin Nails, who apparently had absolutely no moral boundaries whatsoever. Even the worst of humanity might have some line they won’t cross. Like maybe a man might kill, but would never rape a woman. Or a guy might rob a bank, but never pick a pocket. There was usually something.

  But the Coffin Nails were not constrained by any such moral or ethical code. Often proving one’s self required one to engage in some pretty horrific behavior at the expense and detriment of another or even several other living beings.

  I nodded. “So Marvin isn’t technically a member of the gang. Maybe the gang might not care if Marvin loses his bike.”

  “Maybe. Maybe they might.” Cal shrugged. “Tough to say.”

  “So what’s the deal with the bike?” I watched the Juicy Lucy with a wary eye.

  “The deal is that Marvin is a dumb-ass kid who spent his college money on a bike so he could join the Coffin Nails and be a bad-ass.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “Problem is, the college money didn’t cover it. He had to take out a bank loan for the rest of the cost of the bike. That’s a thirty-five thousand dollar bike. It’s a custom made Blue Lightning with all the bells and whistles.”

  I nodded once. “Ah. And that’s why we’re here.”

  “Right. If he were a member of the gang, he’d be making money running drugs for them.”

  “If he were a member of the gang, he would’ve stolen the bike instead of paid for it.”

  “Maybe. You’d be surprised how many of these guys have Blue Lightning do their bikes.”

  I looked at the row of bikes sitting side by side, gleaming in the sun. There were a lot of gang members in the Juicy Lucy. I looked at the bar. Going in to distract them while Cal repo’d the bike was out of the question. The likelihood of me coming out in once piece, if at all, was slim. I’m an outsider. Worse yet, I’m female. And though I have a few contacts whose names would give these bikers pause, and maybe even make them shudder and turn away, I didn’t feel like relying on those old contacts. I hadn’t spoken with any of them in several years, anyway.

  It was either do it now or leave. So without another word, I opened my door and stepped out of the truck. “Stay here.” I tried not to slam the door. “I need my space.”

  Cal didn’t like it but he didn’t argue. He sat back and let out a deep breath, rubbing a hand across his jaw.

  Keeping an eye on the bar, I walked with deliberate steps toward the motorcycles. When I got to Marvin’s bike, I had to stifle a laugh. It was entirely too pretty to be a gang member’s bike. I marveled at the beauty of it. I’d heard of Blue Lightning Bikes. A local guy had started building custom bikes a few years ago and had built up a clientele quickly. His work was impeccable. His love of motorcycles was evident.

  The design was plain and beautiful. The bike was long and sleek, built light. Marvin had gone all out on prettying it up. An expensive paint job with ghosted flames and a picture of a skull and crossbones stitched into the seat. This baby had cost a pretty penny. It seemed to me that all he was doing was alienating himself from the gang by one-upping them.

  I threw my leg over it easily and got to work on the ignition. To boost the bike I’d chosen a lock lifter, forcing tension on the lock housing until it lifted out. I kept my breathing slow and even, though my heart rate had doubled. Panic is something you don’t want to do when stealing a motorcycle from outside a gang bar. I needed to keep my head about me. Okay, key casing was off, now I just needed to insert the small screwdriver into the keyhole.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door to the bar open and swing closed, but I kept my attention on the ignition while I worked the screwdriver until I felt the engine come to life. I sat up straight and looked at the sinewy man with a balding head and a thin ponytail as he looked back at me. It was a strange sensation. That moment when you know you’re caught but you think you might just have a shred of a chance at faking your way out of it.

  Fading dark-green jailhouse tattoos covered both his arms. He wore a leather vest open to reveal a bare chest, and jeans almost as old as I am.

  “Well, well. What have we got here? Little missy trying to steal a shiny new bike?” He grinned around a cigarette as he lit it, making no move toward me. “Marv won’t take kindly to someone stealing his pretty bike.”

  “I’m repossessing it. Marv hasn’t made a payment in a while.”

  “No shit.” He leaned back against the building. “And here we all thought Marv had money fallin’ out his asshole.”

  I shrugged. “Whether he has or he hasn’t. This bike’s going with me today.”

  “I don’t think he’d be too happy about you goin’ off on his ride.”

  “It’s not his ride. It’s belongs to the bank until he makes his last payment.” I decided that sitting here discussing it probably wasn’t the wisest course of action. I glanced at Cal, who was looking at me with a quiet desperation, and backed the bike out of its spot amongst all the others. I nodded once to the gang member. He nodded back, dragging on is cigarette and grinning widely. Either he was going to wait until I’d taken off down the road, to make it more of a challenge, or he was getting a real kick out of the fact that Marvin’s bike was being repossessed. I’d soon find out.

  I took off down the road at a breakneck speed, glancing in the side mirror to see if Cal trying to keep up with me. So far no bikes were coming after me. I got on the highway and weaved around cars and trucks, trying to get as much distance between me and the Juicy Lucy as possible, and took a position sandwiched between two transport trucks. It wasn’t the safest place to be, but it was the best hiding spot I could think of at the moment.

  Callahan’s tow truck came up beside me and he did a double take. He shook his head, his lips forming a string of curses before he glared and made quick movements with his hand, gesturing for me to get the hell out of there.

  The truth was, I felt safer where I was. This has often been a problem for me in my life. For some reason I tend to feel safe in situations where other people would likely have a coronary. I’ve been around the block a few thousand times and I know that people often feel safe when they shouldn’t. What people normally think of is safe, isn’t. It’s all an illusion.

  But, I felt bad for Callahan, who was obviously just moments away from having an aneurysm if I didn’t move from in between the two transport trucks. I lifted my hand and waved at the trucker behind me, and he waved back, shaking his head and smiling. I grinned at the trucker who’d been in front of me as I passed him, but he stared at me with a stony expression, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Although I had a bad
feeling about it, I moved into the middle lane, out into the open.

  Within moments, two motorcycles came up on either side of me. A quick glance at both assured me that these were members of the Coffin Nails. Enormous, tattooed arms bulged over handlebars. The one on the right smiled like a madman, which he probably was. The one on the left snarled at me. Callahan tried to intimidate the bikers by coming up close with the tow truck, but they would just swerve away and come back, like mosquitoes refusing to be batted away.

  I put the pedal to the metal to see what Marv’s bike was really made of. The bike shot forward, but I’d only gained about ten feet ahead of them. Frantically, I searched for a way to get them off my tail. At this rate, they’d follow me until one of us ran out of gas. I glanced at the gas gauge. Apparently Marv was one of those drivers who waited until they were in the red to put gas in their vehicles. The bike was literally running on fumes.

  I glanced behind me and up into the face of the trucker who’d smiled and waved at me. Even from this distance I could see the concern in his face. He was aware of the trouble I was in. An idea came to me. There was one thing the interstate was always full of, and that’s transport trucks. Transport truckers shared a kind of kinship. I knew that sometimes they engaged in less than legal tactics to reap revenge on drivers who cut them off or drove too slow. Drivers who didn’t show them respect. Grasping at straws, I pleaded with the trucker with my eyes, hoping he’d catch my meaning. He gave me a nod and motioned for me to move ahead of him. Relief flooded me.

  Time to move. I took advantage of the short distance I had on the two bikers and maneuvered myself back into the right hand lane, in front of the trucker. Again I glanced back, watching his lips move into his radio. The bikers followed me. This is what I’d expected. Within moments another truck came up beside us in the left lane. The truck that had been ahead of the first truck eased up on the gas, falling back toward us.

  We were quickly becoming boxed in. There was a small space for me to head back into the middle lane before the truck in front of us closed it off. I jammed my foot on the gas and flew back into the middle lane. I shot a look back in time to see the space close off tightly.