Tough Love (The Nighthawks MC Book 6)

by Bella Knight

  Willow peered into both bedrooms. “I call the one on the right. The one on the left good with you?”

  “Why you want the smaller one?” asked Ajai.

  “More light,” said Willow.

  “Okay,” said Ajai. She paced the wide living room. “Plenty of space for projects.”

  “We can make the parts for Ghost’s stuff here, and deliver it in boxes. She can concentrate on putting them together and painting them. She’s about to pop, so the more we take off her plate, the better,” said Willow.

  “Hidden depths,” said Skuld. “Grasshopper teaches the teacher.”

  “Who is Grasshopper?” said Willow.

  “A student. From an old TV show called Kung Fu,” said Ajai. Skuld smiled, amused.

  “We can do her stuff in exchange for rent,” said Willow.

  “Let’s stay with what we have and pay her back,” said Ajai. “We’ll probably pay less in rent than twenty percent of the take. When she’s in the hospital, we’ll be putting her stuff together for her. Ask for a discount then.”

  Skuld smiled as Tito looked in all the cabinets, measured the holes in the walls, and made notations. “Valkyries,” she said. The girls turned to her. “I’m proud of you.”

  Both beamed at her. “We don’t have motorcycles yet,” said Willow. “Can’t afford a Harley right now.”

  Skuld laughed. “Well, I know one person selling his, and it’s a low-rider, but we need to find a second one. You have a test to study for, and you have to take the All-Day Saturday Riding Course to get your license.”

  “Can we have Killa help us paint the bikes the way we want?” asked Willow.

  “I know that one,” said Ajai. “No, we have to give her the bikes, and they have to take the bike apart, send the stuff we want painted out, and ship it back. It’s a pain in the butt, but it makes for a much better paint job. It’s also not cheap, so we gotta work our asses off to pay for it.”

  “As if we weren’t busy already,” said Willow.

  Tito came back out of the second bedroom. “We’ll start right now. Let’s put on gloves and fill up the truck with this wrecked furniture. Someone may need some firewood.” The girls grabbed the broken chairs, and Skuld and Tito wrestled the beer-soaked mattresses and the broken headboards into the elevator; the frames seemed okay. They filled up the truck bed. Nantan swung by and picked up the teens, and they were off to finish their night deliveries.

  “I’ll follow you to help unload,” Skuld said to Tito.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  They drove to a recycling place and dropped off the stuff. “Timeline?” asked Skuld.

  “A week or two, actually,” he said. “Winter’s slow. Be glad for the work.”

  “I don’t see it happening, but if Ghost or Killa are slow with the funds, or don’t have enough, get hold of me and I’ll pay.”

  “Good,” said Tito. “Love being part of the Nighthawks. Get winter work that way.”

  “You flipping anything?” she asked.

  “Two condos. Gotta keep people busy in winter. Lot of ‘em go to Florida. South Dakota’s busy in summer. People with kids that wanna stay here, I keep ‘em busy.”

  “Good,” said Skuld. “I want a nice townhome, but I have specifications. I play in a band; I play loud music.”

  “Need a lot of soundproofing. Or, you need to live in a musicians-only building.”

  She laughed. “Wish there was one in Vegas.”

  “How about a duplex? You could have the other person be a musician.”

  “Lots of those in the Valkyries,” she said. “And the Iron Knights.”

  “Have two I’m looking at. Either I can buy it, fix it up, then sell it to you. Or, you can buy it and I can fix it up.”

  “I’ll buy it,” she said. “Rota’s damn particular about what she wants; and what she wants, she gets.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Tito.

  He showed her the two listings, and then Skuld called the realtor and went to each. Both were in pretty good neighborhoods, but rough didn’t bother Skuld. One was bland, vanilla, and boring. The other had been inhabited by an Indian couple on one side, so the walls were painted wonderful colors of sand and red and blue. The other side had been completely trashed by druggies.

  “I’ll take this one,” she said to the startled realtor. “I’ll get the money in escrow as soon as we agree on a price. The second half of this duplex needs a complete rehab.”

  “I’ll get the price down,” said the realtor.

  “Make an offer,” said Skuld. “My woman will love it.”

  The offer was made. Skuld brought Rota by to see it. Rota pulled on the braid closest to her ear, a sure sign of excitement.

  “Which side do you like best?” asked Skuld, opening the door to the Indian side first.

  “Loving the colors,” she said, stroking the walls of the Indian half of the duplex. “Arches. They painted them when there weren’t any. Kitchen needs slight updating; replacing the cabinet doors will do, and the drawer pulls. Shouldn’t cost much.”

  Skuld took her tablet out and made notes. “What else?”

  “Love the hardwood,” she said. “This side stays the way it is, for now.” She went out the door into the winter sun, and walked next door. “Desert landscaping, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Skuld.

  “Besides, if we have intruders, having them limp over spiny cactus in the dark is kinda fun.”

  Skuld grinned. “That’s my girl.”

  They used the code and got into the other side. “God,” she said. “Holes in walls, this sand color looks like vomit, the carpet has to go, kitchen needs a new counter.”

  “Granite like your eyes?” asked Skuld.

  “Of course,” said Rota. “Black. With little flecks of mica. Keep the colors pale —pale yellow in the bathrooms and the kitchen, pale blue in the living room, white in the bedrooms. Easier to paint over if they want to. We can even pay for the cans, or have Tito’s people do it.”

  “Looking ahead. I like it.”

  “Duh,” said Rota. “Gotta see ahead on the road, or you get flattened by a semi in the wrong lane.”

  “True,” said Skuld.

  They had all had problems with trucks wandering out of their lanes, especially at night. Truckers often drove for many hours straight, and didn’t always get the sleep they needed. And, some were assholes, but most weren’t.

  “Okay. What else?”

  Rota gave her a long list. She sent the list to Tito. “Let’s go sign for this, shall we?” They walked out the door, made sure the electronic lock engaged, and got on their bikes for a ride to the realtor’s office.

  After signing a pile of papers, they went back and changed the door codes. Then, they went to their jobs. Rota was a climbing trail guide. Even in winter, in the wind, some people couldn’t resist the rock faces. She combined hiking and climbing, switching shoes and gear. It gave hikers the confidence to handle rough terrain, and climbers the ability to find the best rock faces. She liked helping people push themselves to their limits.

  Her class was awaiting her at Red Rock. She had them check each other’s gear, then she checked it as well. Then, they went up a rock face to a more gentle climb, before they switched to another rock face. They made good time, and sat on the top, eating sandwiches and fruit and handfuls of nuts. They went back, and kept a good pace to keep from making a night descent. That, she got extra tips for doing.

  Skuld went to teach DEA people how to fight dirty with what tools were available —sand and rocks on the ground, pencils and pens, or even furniture. Some law enforcement officers ended up in situations alone, with backup too far behind to make a difference. She had groups of them rush single agents. She also taught them things to say, and words in various languages guaranteed to start or stop a fight.

  She explained how to keep their cover intact while still defending themselves. She taught barrio fighting. Although a blonde, Skuld had grown up in a nasty
neighborhood and had learned to fight other girls in street fights, to stay alive. All without drugs, selling her body, or being beaten into a gang.

  Afterward, she worked out, pushing her muscles in weights combined with balance, standing on one foot while lifting the smaller weights, twisting and bending in very precise poses. Some FBI Valkyries came in the middle of her workout and warmed up, and she talked them through the poses. They laughed as they lost balance, holding in their abs, or stumbling on the mats like drunks. Some of them wanted to do some throws, so she got them throwing each other on the thick tumbling mats.

  Skuld got a shower and talked very dirty trash with the Valkyries. Then, she went to get sweaty again, beating on some drums at the studio she owned with another Valkyrie woman named Kara. She had a wild fall of black curls and could play a mean guitar and sitar, and mix with the best. Skuld worked as a session drummer and guitarist, occasionally bass. She could also code and mix. She did the track, a crashing mix of drums and cymbals, for a death metal band. They banged it out, with the lead singer screaming into the microphone about death and destruction. It was exhilarating.

  She ate Sonic when the band ordered it, chewed on cheese sticks and downed a lime drink. She mixed for a while, then went in for another drumming session with the same band. She showered —they had a tiny suite at the studio. Then, she went home to find a moving van at the tiny apartment, and starving students carrying out her stuff in carefully labeled boxes.

  “Shit,” she said, going in to see Rota. “When the fuck did you have time for this? You went rock climbing today!”

  “Gave Nantan the door code and let the Wolfpack in to pack. There was at least one Valkyrie here at all times, I promise. Didn’t take that long.” It wouldn’t; they loved the road. It was mostly climbing and workout gear, and Skuld’s drum set, guitars, amps, and the numerous cords.

  “Mostly full truck. Grab something and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Skuld did as Rota desired, and carried boxes out. They got the van only three-quarters full, even with their bed, sofa, and kitchen tables and chairs.

  “Oops,” said Rota, “paid for too much truck.”

  “Easier to unload,” said Skuld, kissing her forehead. “Final check, and let’s get out of here.”

  They both ran around, looking for anything they missed. Two Wolfpack members were already scrubbing the bathroom.

  “Cleanup service, too,” said Skuld. “Well, at least we get our deposit back.”

  They headed out, little things in their saddlebags, like Rota’s rock collection. She collected tiny, interesting rocks from her hikes and climbs, and Skuld’s silver jewelry for her ears, throat, and belly button.

  Unloading didn’t take that long. Rota paid the guys. Skuld was stunned to find that the kitchen cabinet doors and pulls were already replaced.

  “I see the hand of Tito,” Skuld said.

  “Keeps his people busy in the winter,” she said. “They were next door most of the day, from what I hear.”

  “We have cash flow,” said Skuld. The studio was making money, bands booked solid. Winter was when they liked to write and record.

  The law enforcement gym also kept her in clients. They loved the road, and had few real expenses. Rota was paid a lot of money, especially in winter and high summer.

  Skuld looked serious for a moment. “But this is a big drop.” Nearly all their savings were gone with buying the duplex and repairing the other side, except for their rainy-day investments Lily was making for them.

  “Well, then, you’re going to have to rock,” said Rota. “I climb, you play.”

  Skuld smiled. “I can do my other job.” She grinned wickedly. “Been a while since I’ve had some fun.” She sent a text.

  She got one nearly immediately from Wraith. “Need you to be my very angry girlfriend for the night. Drummer persona. Club Crimsonale.”

  “On it,” Skuld texted back. She looked at Rota. “You’ve got this?” she said, gesturing at the boxes.

  “Part of the Starving Students’ job. Not just unload, unpack too.”

  “Wicked,” said Skuld. She grabbed drumsticks, not her favorite pair, and put on some dark red lip gloss and some crimson eye shadow. “I’m off to pretend to love Wraith.”

  “You do love Wraith,” said Rota.

  Skuld gave a suggestive smile. “Not that way, dear heart. Her door doesn’t swing that way.” Rota burst out laughing. They touched foreheads, and Skuld was out the door.

  The club was hot, sweaty, and jumping. Crimsonale was a place to see and be seen, with the walls painted black and silver. There were women dancing in cages overhead, and the DJ spilling out sick beats. People didn’t wear much, even with the cold outside, because it was an oven inside with all the gyrating bodies. Skuld locked up both her helmet and her leather jacket, wearing only her leather pants in black, and a red bustier. Silver chains and feathers fell from her ears. She pushed past the front of the line, held up her drumsticks, and was let in.

  Wraith was in one wild-ass getup, leather edged with chrome. She looked like a human touring bike. She gyrated on the floor. Skuld went straight to her, grabbed the back of her neck, kissed her hard, and grabbed her waist. They danced together, pulses pounding in time with the music.

  A black man with absolutely no body hair, dressed in black leather on the bottom and nothing on top, gestured to Wraith. She grabbed Skuld’s wrist, and dragged her toward the man.

  “Stamp,” said the man.

  Wraith held out a hand, a C-note clenched in it. He simultaneously gave her the stamp and made the note disappear. Wraith sighed, and palmed a hundred from her tiny pant pocket. She held out her hand, and it was stamped with invisible ink, the C-note melting away.

  Wraith kept hold of Skuld’s wrist, and they were led down a hallway by a woman in a silver dress. The kind that did nothing to hide any of her assets. In the back, was a VIP room; there were men with women in the same silver dresses sitting on their laps. There were lines of coke on mirrors and bowls of candy, laced with meth on the tables.

  There was one table of all women. Skuld knew the Valkyries, and they were not them. They were Mexican, Dominican, Jamaican, one Thai. They all had hard eyes. They did not wear the silver dresses. Instead, they wore silken tops; in gold, silver, or crimson, with palazzo pants in black. I feel so underdressed, thought Skuld.

  Wraith went to the women’s table, and stood in front of them, a wicked smile on her face. She did a half-bow, and Skuld did the same.

  “You have twenty seconds,” said the Dominican woman, a beauty with a flat nose, a diamond nose ring, and hair dyed silver. She wore silver everywhere, including the rings and bracelets, and loops in her ears.

  “Drummer. Hard rockers. Need everything,” said Wraith. Skuld held out her drumsticks, and did a complicated beat on the table before putting them away.

  “You can pay?” the Dominican asked, inclining her head like a queen.

  “Hundred thousand to start. Visiting bands, here and gone, need a connection.” Skuld wondered when Wraith was going to run out of pithy sentences.

  “Why a mix?” asked the woman.

  Skuld answered; she’d been in the scene for years. “Different effects. Blow makes you go all night, heroin brings you down, meth —in careful doses, lets you play for days. Ecstasy brings you sex in your music, some like that.” She gave an ice-cold smile. “Some of the new pills, supposed to make your brain run faster… that stuff, they pay, and pay… and pay for.”

  The woman brought out a silver lacquer bowl. She put in a marble that looked like a white pearl. She passed it down, and the people put in jet or white marbles. They passed it back to her. There were only two jet marbles in it.

  “Motion carried,” she said. “Money?”

  “Cash or wire transfer?” asked Wraith.

  The woman laughed, a full-bodied one, full of joy with a hint of menace. “I like this one. A hundred thousand, twice a month. You’ll get your mix.” Wraith and
Skuld both smiled with feral glee.

  The woman waved her hand, and another man with no body hair (this time a Dominican man) in red leather pants and no shirt, came up. He had a briefcase in his hand. He popped it open. There was blow, crystal meth, meth candy, pills in a rainbow of colors, and heroin with syringes included.

  “Nice,” said Skuld. “Sell like ice cream in summer. Gone in a day.”

  Two men in the other section started arguing over the girls. “You stole my woman!” one said, in a roar. Skuld kept her face impassive; she recognized that voice as a DEA agent she’d thrown around on the mat that very morning.

  Wraith slipped out a cell phone and said, “Account number?” The woman took the phone away from her and punched in the number. As she handed back the phone, Wraith cuffed the woman. “DEA. You’re under arrest.”

  Rather than stand around doing nothing, Skuld leapt toward the back door she knew was there, despite it being painted black like the wall. She slid the last meter, and blocked the door. The Thai woman knew muay thai, but Skuld knew dirty street fighting. She had the woman down on the ground, out like a light, with a well-timed punch to the jaw. She laid the woman against the door, conveniently blocking it. She fended off both the Mexican women. They had strong arms, but she fought dirty, breaking one’s ribs and the other one’s ankle.

  The Jamaican moved like a dancer, launching herself in an aerial attack. Skuld leapt and grabbed the woman by the throat with one hand; her outstretched claw-hand helping to steady her. She threw the woman off her, but the attacker kept coming, raining blows. Skuld blocked, deflected, then used the door to push herself off it. She landed on the woman, and pulled her hand up behind her back.

  Wraith took a flying leap, and put a twist tie on the woman. They wrestled her other arm up, and put the other one in the tie and pulled it tight. The woman howled, a long sound full of rage. Skuld pulled her upright, and howled back in her face. The woman’s eyes were still full of hate, but they held something else… fear.

  “Tom,” said Wraith, calling over the DEA agent Skuld had thrown around that morning. “Please take out the trash.”