Along Came Merrie

by Beth D. Carter

  “What’s this fucking bullshit about Gray Dog being a hero?” North instantly demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Givon answered. “Merrie Walden is sticking with the story.”

  North snorted. “He threatened her, then.”

  “If he did, I can’t do much about it unless she tells me the truth.”

  “Well, shit,” North said. “We’ve had several businesses wanting the Demon Devils as their protectors instead of us. This is bad for the Wolves, Givon.”

  “You’re going legit, North. I don’t need to hear about your extracurricular extortion activities.”

  North chuckled. “There’s a reason why the Red Wolves are just over the county line. Your reputation is safe, Sheriff.”

  “Fuck you, North,” Givon grumbled. “You’re still trouble in Destiny.”

  “So what’s the deal between the three of them?” North asked.

  “Who? Braden, Leo and Merrie?”

  North nodded.

  Givon shrugged. “They’re together.”

  “Like…all together?”

  “Well, I think it’s more a case of the two men share her,” Givon said.

  “I don’t know…” North shook his head. “I can’t imagine sharing a woman in a long-term relationship. A one-night stand, sure, but no woman is worth being in bed with another man’s junk for the long haul.”

  “Well,” Givon replied. “It’s not really our concern. But if it works for ’em? Hell, more power to them.”

  “I guess. Hey, want to go fishing soon? I haven’t been to the lake since Old Patch died.”

  “That would be great,” Givon said with a nod. “I could use a little break. Axe is going to remain an open case on my books since I can’t list him as dead, although I’m pretty positive we never have to worry about him again.”

  “Yeah, that’s a sure bet.”

  “Well, I better get back,” Givon stated. “Let’s get to that fishing trip soon, all right?”

  “You betcha. Later, asshole.”

  “Jerk,” Givon teased back.

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  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Johnny Cash’s throaty voice filled the mechanic shop, filtering beneath the pick-up I was working on. The engine had blown a gasket, an easy enough fix, but I’d needed to wait for the part to be delivered before I’d been able to get on with the job.

  Son of a bitch owner was hassling me—kept coming in and staring at my tits and demanding to know when it could be collected. Not my fault he’d bought a fancy car and we lived out in the sticks. This neck of South Dakota wasn’t exactly top priority for deliveries, and the part had taken three days to arrive.

  I wiped the back of my hand over my cheek and the slick coolness of a smear of oil chilled my skin. Winter was approaching. Soon I’d have to shut the huge doors facing the quiet road that brought us passing business. But that was okay. I didn’t mind winter here—it meant my boss, Bruce, closed the door of his office and stayed in there all day drinking bourbon and watching porn. It meant he was out of my hair.

  I reached for a spanner. Idiot shouldn’t have hired a female mechanic if all he was going to do was moan about my gender forevermore. Didn’t seem to matter to him that I was the best damn engineer for miles around.

  The song ended and the DJ started to rattle on about some festival in Denver, miles away and not something that interested me. I wasn’t a typical girl. I liked machines, shiny big bikes and cars that purred. Make-up and cocktails and dancing at parties wasn’t my thing. Give me speed and danger and horsepower—that’s what fueled my desires.

  Suddenly the radio flicked off.

  “Jesus, Sandra, what the fuck are you doing?” Bruce shouted.

  A hard pain hit my ankle. He’d kicked the only bit of me sticking out from beneath the car. Bastard. But luckily I wore steel-toe capped boots that went well over the base of my leg.

  “Asshole,” I muttered, scooting out on my support trolley.

  He stood above me with his hands on hips and jowls wobbling. “Why haven’t you finished this fucking gasket yet?”

  “Because I’m out here on my own,” I said. “I had two services to do this morning, for locals, and a guy stopped in with a slow puncture that I fixed.” I glanced at the big black-and-white clock on the wall above a shelving unit of spare parts. “And I should be heading home but I’m staying to get this done, out of the goodness of my heart.”

  “Good fucking job.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  I could smell the alcohol from here.

  “Well, it’s not like you’ve got anything to go home for, is it,” he added.

  I ignored him. Misogynistic bastard wasn’t worth the emotional effort. Damn, I’d really have to find another job. I’d had enough. And it wasn’t like I was tied here anymore, not now Nan had passed two months back. I’d looked after her for three years and that’s what had kept me working for Bruce and putting up with his abusive shit. Now her finances were sorted, all I needed to do was sell her small house and the world would be my oyster.

  Bruce hiccupped and wandered off, apparently forgetting that I was lying on the floor.

  I shook my head and rolled back beneath the car. It wouldn’t take long then I could go home and make a meal for one. It still hurt that Nan was gone. She’d been as much of a support to me as I’d been to her, but she’d lived to a grand old age and I had a million happy memories.

  I set to work on the gasket that was proving fiddly but it wouldn’t defeat me.

  Bruce didn’t turn the radio back on. Instead, he locked up his office door—no doubt to protect his prize porn collection—and headed out onto the street.

  As his faltering footsteps faded, I relaxed. I’d come to enjoy this time of the day, when he’d gone and it was just me and the machines. They were good company—they spoke to me with creaks and groans, they smiled at me with the shine on their bodies and they enthralled me with their resilience and power.

  That was all fanciful thinking, of course. They were made of steel and a whole load of other stuff that wasn’t capable of thought, but they were predictable and didn’t let me down. One day I’d own something fabulous, a Ducati maybe or a souped-up streetcar. Something with style and panache, that had attitude and could hold its own.

  But not around here.

  I sighed and continued to work. Thoughts of traveling had filled my dreams this last month or so. ‘Itchy feet’ my Nan would have called it. I wouldn’t have contemplated leaving her alone. She was all the family I’d had, but now…

  A low rumble sounded in the distance. Thunder. I didn’t think we had a storm forecast but up here in the hills, the weather was a law unto itself.

  A breeze wended into the workshop and fluttered around me. I didn’t mind the onset of cooler weather—the snow and the ice chilled me but also made me feel alive. Being outside with the elements, with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, was part of my soul, part of being a South Dakota girl. I wasn’t afraid of the seasons. I was made of tough stuff.

  The thunder continued, rolling and bumbling along, much longer than usual. After a few more seconds, it dawned on me that it wasn’t thunder at all. It was something coming toward me, along the road.

  Must be a car with a blown exhaust limping here. Well, it would have to wait until tomorrow. I’d done enough hours.

  The engine got louder, so loud I realized that it was more than one vehicle making the noise. It was several. It became deafening, the sound vibrating around the small space beneath the pick-up and seemingly tapping through my bones.

  I scooted out from beneath the car, dumped my spanner into my toolbox and stood. Wiping my dirty hands down my overall, I walked to the door and peered out.

  Pulling up on the forecourt were about fifteen bikers all astride, by the looks of it, Harley-Davidsons. They were, without exception, dressed in
black leather jackets that were adorned with patches. Most had helmets on with scarves covering the lower half of their faces and a few had passengers riding pillion.

  I admired the chrome and black steel, breathed in the scent of the petrol and the hot rubber from where they’d burned up the mountain roads.

  One bike rolled forward, its engine growling.

  I tore my gaze from the fabulous chrome-winged handlebars and looked at the rider.

  My heart rate picked up. I wasn’t usually the type of girl to be intimidated, and certainly this group of bikers didn’t bother me, but him…

  His face was covered with a white scarf that had a picture of a black skull on it. I could only just see his eyes behind dark shades. His arms were bare—he wore a black T-shirt, and instead of a jacket, he had on kind of a waistcoat, but not the sort that would go under a suit. It was made of soft cracked leather and had badges stitched onto it.

  I stared at his biceps and forearms. They were inked to the max. Big, intricate pictures that melted into one dark image that contained skulls, snakes and roses. The tattoos didn’t stop at his wrist. They went over the backs of his hand right to his knuckles.

  “You work here?” he asked in a deep, gritty voice.

  “Yeah, I’m the mechanic.” I straightened my hat, which had BB Services embroidered on the front, above the peak.

  “Get me the owner.”

  “He’s gone home for the day.”

  “What? And left you, a girl, in charge?” He laughed and turned to his buddies. “Did y’all hear that?”

  There was a collective murmur of mirth amongst the group.

  I put my hands on my hips. It was the way he’d said girl that had riled me. “Yeah, you got a problem with that?” Fuck. As I’d spoken I thought what a stupid move it was to add attitude. I’d heard about gangs of bikers, Hell’s Angels, and probably shouldn’t provoke them. Didn’t they do bad things to people?

  He turned off his bike—the last one with its engine running—and silence spread over the forecourt.

  I tipped my chin, refusing to be threatened. They were on my territory.

  I couldn’t help a shiver of nerves, though, or was it that breeze again?

  The apparent leader dismounted. He stood by his bike and I got to see just how tall he was. His legs were like tree trunks and also encased in leather. He wore battered biker boots and when he turned side on and tugged off his helmet, I had a good look at his back view.

  It was high and taut and the leather caressed his behind to perfection. How could such a bad ass have such a good ass?

  I folded my arms and watched as he balanced his helmet on the seat and ran his hand through a mass of dark curly hair.

  He then turned to me and tugged down the skull scarf, revealing his face.

  He had sharply angled features and a healthy dose of stubble on his jawline and chin. His lips were full and thick and when he shoved his glasses to the top of his head, pushing back his hair, I saw that he had black-as-night irises, heavy lashes and eyebrows and a scar sliced across his right cheek in the shape of a crescent.

  Fuck, he was the most handsome, rough-and-ready bastard I’d seen in a long while.

  “What’s your name, mechanic girl?” he asked, stepping up close.

  He came so near he invaded my personal space, but refusing to be overwhelmed, I stood my ground and looked up at him. The scent of the road and the open air seemed to swirl around him, along with petrol and leather. He was earthy, masculine and he had a sinful glint in his eye that tugged at a female part of me that had been dormant for a long time.

  “Either you’re stupid or you have a death wish, woman.”

  “Neither, and my name is Sandra. What’s yours?”

  He leaned in.

  I could smell his breath—coffee and mint and perhaps a hint of tobacco.

  “You don’t need to know.”

  “I’m thinking…” I said, stepping away then walking up to his machine. “That you need me and that’s why you’re here.”

  “I want the guy in charge and a guy mechanic. This ain’t no job for a woman.”

  Oh, God, he really is another one of them!

  I reached out and slid my fingertip over the curve of his handlebars.

  A biker to my left coughed and caught my attention.

  I eyed him up. He had a scarf over his face too—military camouflage—and what looked like ski goggles held it in place.

  He shook his head, just slightly.

  He was warning me not to touching the bike.

  I didn’t heed the warning. I couldn’t resist. Something deep down and primal in me had to feel it.

  I slipped my touch from the central groove right out to the end of the handlebar. The cool metal and the smoothness of it thrilled me.

  “Oh, fuck,” muttered the guy with the camouflage scarf.

  There were a few intakes of breath around me.

  A low growling sound reverberated next to my shoulder. It was boss man grunting.

  “Beautiful beast,” I said.

  “Get. Off. Her,” he said, reaching out and wrapping his hand around my wrist. He yanked my arm upwards so it was lodged next to his chest. “No one touches without permission.”

  His fingers were huge and his grip tight. My heart rate rocketed as I thought about what damage those tattooed hands could do to me, or, alternatively, how they’d feel doing fabulous things to me.

  Get a grip, Sandra. He’s trouble.

  I swallowed—my throat was suddenly dry. “So what’s her illness? Why are you here on my forecourt? I thought you guys did your own repairs.”

  How the hell had I managed to speak without my voice trembling? I must be on a suicide mission tonight or something.

  “Us guys?” he said. “What do you think we are?”

  “Hell’s Angels,” I said, glancing around. “Aren’t you?”

  “Oh no.” He tugged me.

  I staggered nearer to him and my breasts pushed up against his knuckles. “You’re not?” I asked, darts of awareness shooting through my body. Even through my overalls I could feel the heat of his hand, the rigidity of bone beneath flesh.

  “No,” he said. “We’re Wild Angels, so much more deadly.”

  The guy with the camouflage snorted and there were a couple of “yeahs” around the group.

  “Well, deadly or not,” I said, tugging my arm but not managing to get it free, “it seems you need something I have, so maybe it’s time to play nice.”

  “Darlin’,” he said, leaning forward and putting his lips by my temple.

  His breath heated my skin and sent a tickle of sensation over my scalp and down the nape of my neck.

  I stared at the stubble on his throat, how it arced over the jutting point of his Adam’s apple then disappeared into his collar.

  “I don’t ever play nice,” he murmured, “but that don’t mean to say the ladies don’t enjoy it when I’m bad.”

  I hitched in a breath. Jesus, he was too damn cool for his own good. Too fucking presumptuous by a long shot. But maybe he had a right to presume. I’d been on my own for a long time, not even bothering with one-night stands for the last year, and he was a bad boy—the type of bad boy that pushed my buttons every damn time, even when I tried to resist.

  “Well, since you’ve already stated you don’t want a lady,” I said, twisting, “I don’t see what you want me to do with that information.”

  He studied me, his eyes black vats of sin. “You can do with it whatever the hell you want,” he said, the right side of his mouth twitching into a half smile and creasing the scar on his cheek. “But right now, we gotta get my baby sorted.”

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  About the Author

  I like writing about the very ordinary girl thrust into extraordinary circumstances, so my heroines will probably never be lawyers, doctors or corporate high rollers. I try to write characters who aren't cookie cutters and push myself to write complicated situations that I
have no idea how to resolve, forcing me to think outside the box. I love writing characters who are real, complex and full of flaws, heroes and heroines who find redemption through love.

  I’ve been pretty fortunate in life to experience some amazing things. I’ve lived in France, traveled throughout Europe, Australia and New Zealand. I am a mom to an amazing little boy. I’m surrounded by friends and family. And although I love holding a book in my hand, I absolutely adore my e-reader, which I’ve named Ruby. I love to hear from readers so I’ve made it really easy to find me on the web.

  Email: beth@bethdcarter.com

  Beth loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

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