“Your point?”
“You deserved the bullet.”
“Deserved?” Okay, it no longer mattered how fuckin’ hot this bitch was, she had no right to say that. “No one deserves to die.”
She unfolded her arms, balled her fists and glared at him.
Definitely feisty. His inner engine roared. “You don’t have to like me.” Though a part of him wanted her to. “Just take down the fuckin’ signs and go away.”
She took in a big breath, which lifted her breasts and made him want to groan again. Glaring at him she blew it out slowly. “No.”
“No?”
“Not until you promise to stop haunting Mad Dog.” Her cheeks pinked with rage. “And swear it on your biker jacket, cuz I don’t trust you.”
Laughter broke out all around them, though she could see no one but Rufus, and the house echoed with beyond-the-grave guffaws.
“Oh, to hell with all of you,” she said, and stomped out of the room.
3
Dead Reckoning
“Poker is a lot like sex. Everyone thinks they are the best, but most don’t have a clue what they are doing.” — Dutch Boyd
Rufus remembered the night he died. He remembered it well, on account of having to relive it every night at 11:45 p.m. precisely. Some ghosts are like that, trapped in an eternal loop.
He had been drinking with his buddies in the Scuttlebutt Bar by the harbor, celebrating a good day of business. He had managed to corner the local trade of illegal marijuana and helped organize the biker toy drive for the sick kids hospital. His life was finally getting to where he wanted it to be. Money was flowing in and he was doing good stuff. Sure, he wasn’t as squeaky clean as his sister wanted him to be, but he had bettered his ways.
High on life he headed to his house on Moby Dick Lane, which he had bought at an auction a couple months before. He called it his Victorian gingerbread house. It had lots of charm and a quirky, magical feel that appealed to him. It kind of spoke to him, but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone at the time. When he walked through the old hallway and looked at the small rooms flooded with natural light from big bay windows, he felt as if he had come home.
He only used three rooms in the rambling old house: the kitchen, his bedroom on the second floor, in which had had put a big-screen TV and music system, and a poker room, which had a card table and chairs in it. The rest of the house remained empty except for a stray, black cat that had adopted the place and liked to roam around. He planned to finish his new home room by room when he had time.
Once he moved his stuff in, he noticed the house had its own personality. The worn floorboards squeaked, a lot; sometimes without anyone walking on them, as if the building was still settling, or as if someone he couldn’t see was walking around. That thought crossed his mind often. Cold drafts appeared and disappeared at odd intervals throughout the day and night. A musty, dead odor lingered in the attic that could not be hidden no matter how much room deodorizer he sprayed around. And an odd feeling of melancholia hung in the air, more pensive than sad. Another guy might have been scared, but he didn’t feel that way. The house felt more like his home every moment he spent in it and, as strange as it would sound if he said it out loud, it became his companion.
The third day he lived there he found the black leather book in the attic. It contained photos and clippings of the house, dating back to the day it was built. One journal entry caught his attention. “The shaman said the house is built on a nexus point, a place where the mystical powers of the earth collide, a place where good and evil meet, a place of magic . . .” He had filed that information away and intended to tell his wacko sister Azalea, who claimed to be a medium, but he had died before he had the opportunity. She would find the book the day after he expired.
That night, the night he had died, was etched in his memory as if it were yesterday. That was, he supposed, his ghostly penance.
He had needed to get ready for the poker game. The fridge was filled with beer and the remnants of a take-out pizza from the night before. He cracked open a bottle and headed to the poker room with a couple bags of chips to get it ready for his company.
At ten o’clock his friends started to arrive. Most of the guys had nicknames, a tradition of serious poker players and bikers. They called him Big Dog, because his name was Rufus. He had hated his name, but what could he say? His hippie parents had chosen it when they dropped acid in the company of their pet dog. He would have preferred his friends to call him The Master, or something seriously hard ass, but they went with the canine motif. That’s life.
First to arrive at his event was his best friend, Ron Smithers, a tall, lanky biker who owned an auto shop on Third and went by the name The Flying Axel. Ben Murphy, a steroid-loving biker who spent his days fixing plane engines, came next. His handle was The Mechanic. Sam Chin, a second generation Chinese black-belt who owned the local martial arts club and went by the poker name Zen, came next, and George Addison, the local lawyer for thugs, a tall smoker with a pallid complexion, arrived on his heels. They called him Slim. The fifth man was Andy White, the coroner, who they called Death Wish. Alice Flinshaw, who owned the town beauty shop, arrived last. They called her The Stylist. After some bullshit talk, they settled into their first game.
Azalea, his sister, phoned him at 10:30, a call he would never forget. She told him to get out of the house and stay out, that danger was gunning for him. He laughed at her and hung up. His older sister was a nag, and he wasn’t in the mood to listen to her complaints. She talked to spirits and believed she could tell people their futures, but he didn’t believe in any of that shit. That was then.
There were seven of them at the table when Mad Dog arrived uninvited. He stormed into the room and stood at the end of the table.
“I want in,” he barked. Now that didn’t surprise anyone in the room. Usually strung out on some drug, the guy was unpredictable and dangerous.
Rufus had taken in Mad Dog’s appearance. His clothes were clean. It looked as if he had shaved in the last week and he couldn’t smell him. That was all good, for a junky. He could refuse to let him play, but he was part of their biker gang and leaving him out would be crossing a line Rufus didn’t want to cross. He shrugged and motioned for the man to join them at the table. What’s the worst that could happen, he had thought. The man was lousy at bluffing, never remembered the cards he played and had money.
Mad Dog sat down and the games continued. He showed more skill than Rufus remembered him having and figured the guy must have been playing online or somewhere else in town.
Rufus hadn’t had good cards for a week, so he decided to improve his odds with sleight of hand. All’s fair in love and poker. Having spent a year in Vegas, he had polished his cheating skills and almost never been caught. He had to be careful. No one likes to be cheated by a hand mucker.
The card players had drunk a lot of beer. They had all won their share of hands. So why the hell not? He slipped an ace of hearts up his sleeve and waited for a hand that could use it.
They were playing five-card stud and he was holding a ten, jack, queen, king of hearts and a deuce. Perfect. His ace would make it a royal flush. He bet a hundred and threw down one card.
Everyone but Mad Dog folded. He smiled and took a minute to stare Rufus down. “I call your hundred and raise you five.” He threw down a card.
Rufus threw in more chips.
An extra card was dealt to both of them.
Mad Dog’s smile widened.
Rufus looked at his. Another fucking deuce. Oh well, I can fix that. He slipped the ace out of his sleeve and exchanged it with the deuce. “I’ll bet a thousand,” he said, fully expecting Mad Dog to fold.
Mad Dog smiled. “I’ll call your thousand and raise you another.”
Rufus kept his features still but his gut wrenched. This was the kind of moment that made the whole night in poker. He would have to put in all his chips and count on a cheating hand. His heart rate rose and he swallow
ed slowly. With the ace in place he had the winning hand. Nothing beats a royal flush.
But, if by chance Mad Dog had an ace of hearts, Rufus would be in deep shit. Not only would he lose the game, but his reputation as well. Time to fold?
If Mad Dog had been any other guy, he would have folded. But there was history between them, bad history. No matter the cost, Rufus wouldn’t let Mad Dog win. Ever. The asshole was running around town with Jennifer, a woman Rufus still cared about. No one else in town would dare hook up with her, knowing she had been his woman, but Mad Dog didn’t care. He didn’t get honor between men.
“I’ll raise you another thousand,” Rufus said.
The room went quiet. Although they didn’t play with a limit, never had they had so much money on the table.
Mad Dog studied his opponent’s face and laughed. “I don’t have that much on me.”
“I understand,” said Rufus, smiling. He threw his cards on the table, face down, and reached for the pot.
Mad Dog grabbed his arm. “Will you take my bike in lieu of the cash?”
The players moaned.
Fuck. If he’s willing to bet his Harley, he has to have a good hand. Another royal flush? Possibly. They would end up splitting the pot, if that were the case. Four aces? Also, possible. He gave him a sideways glance.
“So, what do you got?” Rufus said.
“I want to raise you another thousand. You know my bike’s worth it.”
Mother Fuckin’ Hell. Rufus snickered. “Confident asshole, aren’t ya.”
“Jennifer tells me you’re not that good in bed. Not got the balls?” His grin turned dark. “It’s your turn, buddy.”
The ugly gleam in Mad Dog’s eyes told Rufus he was fucked. The guy really believed he had the superior hand. Rufus pushed in his chips. “I’m all in. What do you got?”
Mad Dog put down his hand: A nine, ten, jack, queen and king of spades. A good hand.
Rufus laughed. “Not good enough.” He put his hand down.
Mad Dog pulled out his gun. “You motherfucker. I threw away an ace of hearts and there aren’t two in a deck.” The shot at close range had a deafening sound that hit Rufus a millisecond before the bullet hit him in the middle of his forehead.
Rufus’s world spun before his eyes, a lifetime in a second. His spirit rose from his body and floated above the scene. The Stylist screamed. Holy hell! How could his life be over, just like that! It was just one mistake.
The next couple of days were a blur as he navigated the world of the undead. Desperately he clung to the earth. He wasn’t ready to move on, and for some unfathomable reason the universe let him stay.
Now, every night, he replayed his death.
The word got out that he liked poker and before long other ghosts joined him at the table and they had a regular, nightly game that ran before and his death. Even though he died every night, Mad Dog, his murderer, was never charged. None of his poker buddies admitted to being there and the cops needed a witness.
So, every night after poker, Rufus would visit Mad Dog. He took his revenge by playing pranks, hoping he might drive the guy crazy. It was almost as much fun as the poker. This had gone on for five years, though it seemed like five minutes to him.
Life after death had been pretty good for Rufus, until Charlie turned up.
4
A Haunting
“When a man with money meets a man with experience, the man with experience leaves with money and the man with money leaves with experience.” Unknown source
Charlie couldn’t believe Rufus. The nerve of the guy, telling her that he had a right to haunt Mad Dog. She stomped out of the teahouse and headed back to her brother’s home.
Despite Rufus’s abrasive behavior her traitorous heart fluttered. Rufus was the sexiest biker she had ever met, sinfully dark and yummy, an alpha who knew his own mind and wasn’t afraid to speak it. The kind of man who took over a room the second he entered it and left an impression no one would forget when he exited. A man other men deferred to and women drooled over. A man who stood head and shoulders above others. The kind of man she dreamed of meeting. Sigh.
He was dead. What was she thinking? He’s a ghost! She bit her lip. The warm visceral feeling of meeting him still flowed through her body. The way his stormy-gray eyes took her in and swallowed her made her feel womanly and appreciated, all in a millisecond. Damn him. It took the starch out of her anger. The guy oozed alpha power, biker charm and bad-boy moxie in spades. He may be dead, but she had never felt so alive.
She slammed the front door of her brother’s house. Darlene, who lay on the couch, looked up from her romance novel. A small woman with a big heart and enough energy to fuel a hurricane, her sister-in-law wore leopard leggings and a tight orange shirt. Her honey-brown hair fell to her shoulders in loose waves, framing her heart-shaped face. Heavy eyeliner emphasized her emerald-green eyes and false eyelashes gave her a vintage, vixen look.
“What happened?” Darlene said.
“I talked with Rufus.”
“That bad.”
“He’s the most infuriating—”
She laughed. “And hot.”
“Well, yeah, I guess. If you’re into ghosts.”
“Did you notice his curly eyelashes?”
Hell yeah. Charlie grunted. “I don’t care about his eyes.” Much. “He said Mad Dog deserves whatever he gets.”
Darlene took a swig of her beer. “Men. Why can’t they talk things out?”
“Exactly.” Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Have you talked to Mad Dog about talking to him?”
Darlene giggled, and her husky voice made it sound vampy. “Your big brother may be a rough and tough man, but he’s terrified of ghosts. Especially Rufus. He’s haunted by nightmares. He says the guy chases him with a butcher knife until Mad Dog jumps out of a window to escape. And then he wakes up shaking and crying. I think it could be PTSD.”
“Oh,” said Charlie. “It’s worse than I thought.”
“Yeah, I didn’t want to tell you all the details on the phone. If Mad Dog found out I told anyone, he’d be so pissed.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Anger management has been a problem in our family. Has he punched any holes in the walls yet?”
“About one a month.” She smiled. “I’m negotiating a loyalty deal from the local contractor.”
Charlie smiled. Darlene had a knack for seeing the funny in life. “Well, I thought if I talked to Rufus I could bring this whole mess to an end, but he’s not budging. He didn’t seem to be bothered by my boycott on the teahouse.”
“I guess when you’re dead your perspective changes.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Charlie sat on the overstuffed chair opposite the couch. “Where’s Mad Dog?”
“He’s doing some business.”
“Really? What business?”
“Hey, I don’t ask and he doesn’t tell.” She winked. “But I’m not stupid either. I think he’s supplying the local weed shop.”
“Legit?” That would be a change. Her little brother had run south of the law.
“I’m guessing he supplies illegal weed at a discounted price, which then gets sold as medicinal marijuana at a big price. And there may be a few drugs on the side.”
Charlie wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Sounds like easy work.”
“And pretty safe too. Listen, I’ve got some wicked mac and cheese in the oven. You in?”
“Absolutely.” She followed her sister-in-law into the kitchen, wishing her ass could be as small and solid as hers. How did she do that on macaroni? “So, when does the haunting start?”
“Usually about two. You might want to have a few beers first.”
“I’ll take you up on that.”
***
Around two, just after Mad Dog returned home, Charlie settled into the inflated bed in the laundry room. It had been fun swapping stories about her brother with Darlene. The more time she spent with the woman, the more it became clear that Darlene
was the perfect match for Mad Dog. The woman had a wicked sense of humor. For a reason that eluded Charlie, Darlene loved her crazy brother with all her heart.
Love never made sense to Charlie. It had to be a magical thing. She would never have expected anyone to fall in love with her scruffy sibling, with his hot temper and foul mouth, but, then again, she loved the guy too. There was a goodness inside him he didn’t show many people, but it was there and it was solid. He put family and friends first.
She wondered what it would be like to get to know Rufus. He appeared to be a hard-hearted biker, but she would bet her Harley on there being more to him. That was the best part of hanging out with tough guys: finding their weaknesses.
If Rufus were alive and wasn’t threatening Mad Dog, she would have liked to explore his, uh, personality. She laughed. Hell, it wasn’t his personality that flashed through her mind. His body was built for sin and she could imagine how well they would fit together. She fell asleep with a burning desire to get close and personal with a ghost. How stupid is that, was her last thought.
The sound of a window slamming woke her up. She checked her phone: 2:30. A cold breeze flowed over her body and the door to her room opened and slammed shut.
“Do tough guys slam doors?” she said to the air.
A low, ghostly groan echoed through her room. The wood panel on the door vibrated. The lights flicked on and off, and the air grew graveyard cold.
“Give me a break, Rufus. I’m not scared of you.”
Ice-cold air blew on her face. “You should be scared. You should be very scared.”
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose. “Go to hell, Rufus. That’s where you belong.”
A long, low chuckle bounced between the walls.
Goosebumps pebbled her arms. “I’m not scared.” Much.
Rufus shimmered into view two feet in front of her.
Shocked, scared, and, yes, turned on, her mouth dropped, but she said nothing.
“You’re stubborn.” His voice sounded normal, but it carried a weird, echoing addition. His eyes raked hers. “I’m a ghost and I can hurt you.” His eyes blazed with fire and he uttered a low, guttural groan.
The Biker Ghost Meets His Match (Gambling Ghosts Series Book 4) Page 2