by Debra Kayn
Rich hadn't threatened her or even pressed her into a conversation. It was her own insecurities she needed to deal with tonight. Tomorrow, she'd face new problems and do what had to be done.
Chapter 6
The window in the small eating area off the kitchen gave Rich a view right into the kitchen of the townhouse behind where he stayed. He leaned forward and pressed his hand against the glass. The two houses shared a twenty-foot common space on the ground. He wouldn't even call that a yard.
He fingered the altered latch. It was the third window where he'd found a screw drilled into the metal flip-closure and a piece of dowel in the track, keeping him from opening the window. The double deadbolts on the front door and the entry into the garage seemed extreme for the neighborhood. But, it was the bigger and heavier locks in the bedrooms and bathroom that piqued his curiosity, and he'd gone looking for more security measures.
A rumble of a motorcycle outside irritated him. He flipped the latch, breaking the head of the screw off. It wasn't his Harley being returned. He'd recognize the sound of his own bike anywhere.
If a fire broke out, the woman living here would have a hell of a time getting out of the house while battling the frantic adrenaline rush. He worked out the rest of the screw and pocketed the pieces, relocking the window. At least now, there was an escape route.
The doorbell rang. Some door upstairs opened and soft footsteps padded through the house. Rich stayed in the kitchen. The less time he had to be around Wayne, Thad, Chuck, and Glen, the easier it'd be to slip out of St. John's when they gave back his Harley.
The first thing he'd do when he had his wheels was find a bar and spend the night on a stool until someone bought him a drink. Maybe find a woman's bed afterward. Then, he'd be good to go.
He had to stay ahead of Komoon Motorcycle Club.
Maybe he'd head east and go in a different direction, start over and find somewhere deep to lay low, and sink back into not giving a fuck.
Komoon MC had been a breeding ground for brothers turning their backs on each other, dealing with chopped bikes. It fit his life until they'd discovered his Notus tattoo. Now he had a death mark on him.
Closing his eyes, he rubbed his hand over his forehead. He'd lost track of the days he'd been here, and the last time he'd had a drink. One second he had his stash in the bedroom, the next, he couldn't find a bottle with a drop left in the bottom.
He remembered getting sick.
He remembered wanting to die.
He remembered waking up and finding the Notus members gone and a woman hiding in her bedroom. Since then, the woman had made fleeting appearances to run through the house for various things—laundry, food, to answer the door, but she always returned to her room.
Notus never used women. That was the rule twenty-five years ago, and he suspected that was still the rule today. But, he had no idea where the woman fit in with them.
She rarely spoke.
He refused to ask.
He couldn't even remember her name, but she had a twin sister. He remembered that.
The sound of a door opening changed the air in the house. He turned around to wait for a confrontation with whichever member came over. His irritation escalated. If the club believed having a woman here to keep him from running would stop him from walking out the door, they were more fucked up than he'd thought.
He wasn't going anywhere until he had his Harley back and the guys damn well knew it. The bike was the only thing he'd kept in his life. From the time he was sixteen years old, he'd rode that sweet fucker over more miles of asphalt than he could count. His softtail had saved his ass more times than anyone else.
The front door closed. Several seconds later, the elusive woman staying here peeked around the corner as she stepped softly toward the stairs. When she noticed she was caught, she stopped and straightened her shoulders.
"I..." She glanced over her shoulder to the living room and back to him. "That was Wayne at the door. He's out on the front step waiting for Clara and Ingrid to show up from the grocery store. They bought food for the house."
She stood on the balls of her feet, prepared to move at any moment. He walked toward her. She stepped back, closer to the front door. Staying away from her, he headed to the stairs. He had no desire to see Wayne.
Halfway up the steps, he stopped and turned around. "Who is Clara and Ingrid?"
She frowned. "Clara's my twin sister. She lives with Wayne. Ingrid is married to Glen."
He lowered his chin. "Who are you?"
"I'm Gracie."
"Which member do you belong to? Chuck or Thad?"
She schooled her facial features. "None of them."
He walked to the second floor of the house and went into the bedroom, getting enough information out of her to understand the situation. The fact that Wayne would throw a single woman, related to a woman belonging to the club, at him pissed him off, and he stepped back into the hallway, out of sight from anyone climbing the stairs
Though, he stood close enough to hear what was going on downstairs. The only way he was going to find out what Notus planned to do with him was if he figured out their motives first. If there were any abuse or manipulation of the woman from their end, he'd be disappointed in how the club had changed since he'd left.
The disrespectful treatment of women had been his one grievance he'd struggled with since joining Komoon Motorcycle Club. One he kept silent about because he needed a roof over his head and he preferred to have a place away from society.
"I bought you two blocks of cheese since I know you like to add cheese to all your dishes you cook." The feminine voice wafted upstairs to Rich. "Also, double the Steak-um packages. Those will be easy and fast to cook."
"Did you get more toilet paper?" He recognized Gracie's voice. "Oh, and I left my runners at your house."
"Got them." A clunk came from downstairs. "Also, bought this."
"Thanks. I never thought of that."
"Figured."
"Did you...?"
"Yes."
"What about—?"
"Bread? Yep."
Rich stepped closer to the top of the staircase. The two sisters sounded a lot alike, or maybe it was their habit of finishing each other's sentences that meshed them together.
"How are you doing?" asked Wayne.
Rich cocked his head to hear better. Which one of the women was he talking to?
"Fine."
He squatted, trying to look past the bottom of the stairs. Only Wayne's boots came into view.
"Glen said he'll come over Wednesday evening and you can go to the bar." A soft, almost timid, female voice came into the conversation. "If you need anything, give me a call, and I can send a bag with him."
"Thanks. I should be okay with everything you guys brought over, but I'll let you know if anything comes up when I throw away everything from the fridge that expired."
"We're having a meeting Tuesday night. Call me with a list, and I can pass it on while we're all together." Wayne stepped back until Rich had to stand and move away from the top of the stairs to stay out of sight. "We've got an active missing person case happening, so the more organized we can stay between us, we can keep things from falling through the cracks."
Rich's chest constricted. Missing person? In St. John's?
Sweat broke out on his forehead. He wiped his face, pushing back his hair. The need to get out of the house, out of town, and far away sent him back into the bedroom. He couldn't hear anymore. The less he knew, the better it was in case things turned south.
He'd already been a suspect in a missing person case when Thalia disappeared. What the hell was Notus doing getting involved in another one?
Chapter 7
Two weeks after moving back into her house, Gracie dragged the garbage can to the curb at the end of her driveway. She quickly returned to the garage and hesitated in the spot where she normally parked her car. The urge to spend time outside had grown stronger over the last couple of days.
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She didn't want to go for a walk through the neighborhood or take a folded chair out and sit in the front strip of lawn. She looked out on the quiet street. Her social game sucked.
It was her need for fresh air, and something other than the inside of the house to look at that had her standing in the open garage. It'd been harder than she'd imagined being shut up in her bedroom all day—every day.
Besides the two times she went to the bar in the evening which gave her enough time to hang up the weekly schedule, check in with Maureen, and pick up the orders for what Peyton needed in the kitchen, she'd stared at the same four walls. She was at the point where even going downstairs and watching an hour television show appealed to her. But, she wasn't ready to have a conversation with Rich.
He stormed around the house like a caged animal. At night, she could hear his anger in the thumps and grunts coming from his room. She had no idea what went on when he spent time alone—and she didn't want to know.
During the day, he spent his time pacing the whole house. From one window to the next, upstairs and downstairs, as if he waited for someone to pull up to the curb and pick him up.
She never received a thank you for the food she set on the counter three times a day, and he always ate. He never asked her why the Notus members stopped visiting him. It was as if they were two ghosts passing each other in an unheated house.
She adjusted the purse at her side and walked over and pushed the button to lower the garage door, cutting off the outside world. Then, she slid in the piece of rebar Chuck had made for extra security into the door track, making it impossible for someone to get access to her house.
Without her car in the double garage, the empty space seemed larger. Maybe she could turn it all into an office/family/party room like Wayne had done with his garage. She shook her head, amused at the idea, and sighed. It was Friday morning, and she dreamed about gatherings.
Tonight, Notus would probably be out on the search for the missing person. Clara would be home, probably visiting with one or more of the other women whose men were riding. She figured Wayne would forbid her sister to come over where Rich was living without him present, and she refused to pull the sister card because if she called Clara, her sister would come regardless of what Wayne had to say.
Dragging her feet about going back into the house, she moved a couple of boxes lower on the shelving unit to make up the space of where the box of wine used to sit. She stubbed her toe on the gas can for the lawnmower, and the cardboard slipped out of her hands. The contents tumbled onto the floor.
A yellow tennis ball bounced across the concrete floor.
Setting the box down, she picked up the tennis rackets and frisbees that'd spilled. The items could be taken to Goodwill. She hadn't been to a park since she and Clara had moved to St. John's and she had no desire to mingle with strangers at the community center.
She searched the garage and found the ball in the corner beside the hot water heater. Setting the box on the lower shelf, she crossed the cement floor and bent down.
A gray ball of fur charged directly at her.
She screamed, stumbling backward. The mouse stopped in the middle of the garage. She danced, afraid the rodent would run up her leg if she stopped moving, and reached for the closest thing. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the tennis racket.
Armed, she crept forward.
The mouse skittered back and forth in front of her. She raised her arm, held her breath, and lunged, bringing down the racket with all her strength.
Her arm vibrated at the impact of graphite hitting concrete, and she brought the racket down again, striking the concrete again. "Shit."
She yelped at the spark she created. The mouse ran toward her. Frantic, she whacked the floor, over and over, dancing back and forth, afraid to keep her feet near the mouse. She swung the racket, and it bounced out of her hand. Facing the mouse, she tried to pick up the weapon, and the four-legged rodent also headed toward the tennis racket.
Adrenaline filled, she tried to kick out and scare the mouse away. Skirting the racket, she spastically hopped, unable to get close enough without the mouse also moving toward her.
Intent on keeping her eyes on Speedy Gonzales, she startled when a large form brushed her arm, and a boot landed beside her. An even scarier hand lowered itself into her view and picked up the tennis racket. She flinched back in horror as Rich materialized in front of her and smashed the mouse.
He scooped the dead rodent using the side of his boot and the strings of her favorite Prince racket. "Garbage can?"
She hurried around him, keeping her personal space, and pulled the rebar out of the tracking of the garage door, then ran over to push the door remote on the wall. A shiver crawled down her spine, and she brushed her hands together, feeling dirty though she hadn't touched the mouse.
Rich strode out of the garage carrying the dead mouse on the tennis racket. He'd killed it.
Without any hesitation, he'd snuffed the life of something that scared her. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He'd kept his calm and showed no remorse. To any other woman, he would've appeared cruel and disgusting. To her, she was thankful.
That was a hard emotion to accept.
She wanted to keep her distance from Rich and bide her time until he was out of her house.
He closed the lid on the can and walked toward her. She hurried out toward the open door and waved both her hands in front of her to get his attention. "Throw the racket away, too."
Even from thirty feet away, she could sense his confusion. She'd never play tennis again, and she wouldn't touch something that had mouse guts on it.
"I don't want it. Throw it away," she repeated.
He turned around, dumped the racket in the garbage can, and returned to the garage. Once he was inside, she hurried over to push the button, and then set the rebar in the track. The whole time, she remained highly aware of Rich staying in the garage with her.
She rubbed her hands down the thighs of her jeans. "Thank you."
He continued standing there, looking at the garage door. "What's with the rebar?"
She gazed at where he stared. Having never had anyone in her home that wasn't aware of her past, she'd never thought of a good excuse to explain the extra safety measure.
"Chuck made it for me. With the rebar in the track, nobody can open the garage door with one of those universal remote openers or force the door up manually," she said.
He grunted and walked back into the house. She blew out her breath. The short conversation wasn't meaningful or of interest to Wayne. She could do better. At least, she lived through Rich killing a mouse in her garage and hadn't called in reinforcements to come and save her.
Her confidence in herself boosted, she wanted to try harder to get Rich to talk. Going on that decision, she went inside and headed toward the kitchen to take some meat out of the freezer to thaw. Later, she'd try to cook something for dinner instead of relying on a local restaurant delivery to feed them both.
Luckily, Rich had already taken his place at the living room window, and she took advantage of the privacy in the kitchen to plan tonight's supper. When she'd found every ingredient she needed, she listened for any movement in the other room. Believing Rich still remained in the living room, she gathered the tub of cleaners from under the sink and locked herself in the downstairs bathroom.
She could at least make sure one bathroom was spotless in the house for when the Notus members visited. She flipped up the toilet lid. After watching Rich's pattern on how he spent the days, she suspected he wouldn't even notice her if she spent time out of her room in small increments. Maybe being able to move around freely would help pass time over the weekend.
She finished the task in five minutes, made sure fresh towels were hung and carried the dirty laundry to the washing machine. Making a load, she added detergent and pushed the button.
Rejuvenated by doing something normal, she carried the tub of cleaners into the kitchen a
nd put them back underneath the sink. She headed for the stairs, planning on grabbing the vacuum from the hallway closet and at least doing the floor in the guest room while Rich appeared occupied.
Glancing into the living room, she stopped. He'd moved out of the room.
She jerked her gaze up the stairs and found him coming out of the guest bedroom. Not wanting to be caught standing and staring, she hurried back to the kitchen and grabbed a glass, pretending to get a drink out of the faucet. The water never made it past her lips.
The back of her neck warmed. She dumped out the contents of the cup and turned around. Rich leaned against the wall. For a split second, she found herself comfortable in his presence. He reminded her of the Notus members. The rugged, roughness of his face, fully bearded. The long hair. The wrinkles strategically placed around his eyes showing years of hardness. Then, she remembered who he was and what he'd done to the others.
"Do you need anything?" She pointed to the cabinet where the snacks were kept. "There's shelled peanuts, chips, and crackers if you're hungry."
"Why do you have all your windows locked so that they don't come open?" he asked in a low voice.
"I have air conditioning." She gulped. "There's no reason for them to be open."
"It's not safe. You need an exit in case of fire, or you need to leave in a hurry." He turned around and walked away, having stated his opinion.
She continued standing in the kitchen. The television came on. Taking her escape, she ran up the stairs and locked herself in the bedroom. Pacing the room, she tried to wrap her head around why he'd care if she had rebar in the garage door and screws in her window latches. Had Wayne told him about her fears?
She kicked off her sneakers and plopped down on the bed. No, Rich hadn't even remembered talking to her the first time he was brought to the house because he'd been drinking. Nor had he known who Clara and Ingrid were and who they belonged to. He probably couldn't even remember the bikers taking care of him while they sobered him up.
Now that Rich had to face reality, he probably noticed small things as he tried to figure out why he'd come back and how to deal with the consequences.