War-N-Wit, Inc. - The Coven (War-N-Wit, Inc. - Book 3)

by Roughton, Gail

  “Oh, I understand completely, Judge. I’ve spent years in a law office as a paralegal. One of the big ones, up in Macon. Know a lot of the attorneys, too. So I know all about the inner workings of the legal system. State, Superior, Federal. Stressful field, very stressful. ‘Course the advantage is I always have an attorney when I need one. And I always know which one I need.”

  I smiled brightly and Judge Ogles turned slightly green.

  “Erphm, yeah, well, I hope you don’t need one anytime soon.”

  “I hope she doesn’t need another one anytime soon, too,” said Chad, throwing the slightest emphasis on ‘another’. “Baby girl, I’m ready to blow this joint. Let’s get back on the road, the Eagle’s not just calling, he’s screaming.”

  Chapter Five

  We hit I-95 and rolled into Daytona right at sunset, heading straight for N. Atlantic Avenue and the hotel. Traffic was horrendous and slow and Chad’s brush with the jail cell had cost us two hours. Masses of bikes and bike trailers and pickups and cars moved bumper to bumper on the roads and jammed into parking lots, so it seemed like a good idea to make sure we had a place to lay our heads when it was time to lay them, reservations or not.

  The desk clerk’s eyes widened as he looked at the computer screen. Not a good sign. He looked up at Spike and Chad and blinked nervously. Nope, not a good sign.

  “Uh, sir, I’m sorry, but it appears those rooms were—they’re not—they’ve already been taken.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They, uh, they—those rooms aren’t available, sir.”

  “The hell you say!”

  The clerk backed up behind the desk. I would have, too. I’d never heard Spike’s voice sound like anything but melted butter—damn, that man had a great voice—but he could growl like a grizzly, too.

  “Get the manager up here. Now.” Chad didn’t make a move toward him but the poor guy backed up some more anyway, just to be safe. He reached out a cautious hand and grabbed the phone. Even more cautiously, he reached out and punched a button.

  “Mr. Harris? Can you come up front, please?” He hung up and backed away some more. “He’ll be right up.”

  He was. And very flustered to boot. The first day of Bike Week’s enough to make any manager of any hotel run screaming through the streets. He was a consummate professional, though. I could see the memory chips churning in his brain. He forced a smile and offered his hand.

  “Mr. Garrett! Mr. Forrester! Nothing finer than returning guests!”

  I made a mental note Spike didn’t advertise the M.D. after his name when in biker mode.

  “Not when they’re as pissed off as we are.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “Both of us have had standing reservations booked a year in advance for at least five years. And your clerk there tells us our rooms have already been taken?” Chad pointed back at the desk clerk, standing a good distance back from the desk. “The year I bring my wife and sister-in-law with us?”

  “I’m sure there’s been some mix-up.” The manager went behind the desk and commandeered the computer. “Just let me—” He broke off and frowned. Then he turned to the desk clerk and frowned harder.

  “Tyler? What’s going on here?”

  “I just took the desk an hour ago, Mr. Harris! Jeff was on duty!” Tyler grabbed a ringing phone and turned aside.

  “And Jeff took some money under the counter to do some room-switching, I’m thinking,” said Chad.

  “In which case Jeff’s ass better be grass,” Spike added.

  Mr. Harris abandoned any pretense of professionalism. “His ass is grass whether he took money for it or not! He’s completely fucked up—ah, excuse me, ladies, my apologies—he’s completely screwed up the reservations!”

  “So what are you going to do fix it?”

  “I don’t have any idea in hell! Too many rooms I know were reserved by returning guests—”

  Spike’s spine stiffened to showcase every inch of his impressive six foot six and wide shoulder span. He put the mellow back in his voice, which made his looming bulk even scarier. I’d have been scared if I didn’t know him, for sure.

  “We really aren’t worried about how you fix it for anybody else. We’re only worried about how you’re going to fix it for us. Because these ladies aren’t going to be sleeping in the streets. I’m sure you understand that?”

  Mr. Harris blanched. “I don’t have anything—”

  “Sure you do,” Chad assured him. “You just haven’t seen it yet.”

  He turned back to the screen and chewed the inside of his cheek as Tyler hung up.

  “Mr. Harris! That was a cancellation!”

  “Tyler, don’t joke with me about something like—”

  “No! For really real, Mr. Harris! And what with all this, I told the guy we wouldn’t even charge his card!” Tyler’s wide smile turned to a worried frown. “I didn’t figure you’d mind.”

  “Mind! Hell, boy, you’re up for the next promotion! What room is it?”

  “Let’s see.” Tyler took over the computer. “Looks like—it’s a double! Two queens!”

  “We had suites.”

  “But I don’t—I can’t—”

  “Let it go, guys. We’ll work it out,” I said. Besides, I needed the ladies. And pretty damn quick, too. “Take it and get the room cards.”

  * * *

  We parked the bikes as near our room number as possible and I snatched one of the cards away from Chad. Racing ahead, I swiped the card and hit the bathroom. When I came out, the three other members of our merry quartet were dropping saddle bags on the bed and taking stock of the situation.

  “They have bathrooms in the lobby, you know,” Chad said.

  “Yeah, real crowded, real small ones, didn’t you notice? There was a line in front of the Ladies.”

  I looked around at the room. It held two queen beds with a nightstand between them, a nightstand on each of the other sides, and nothing else. There wasn’t room for anything else. This room hadn’t started life as a “double”.

  “Well, so much for sleeping on the couch,” said Spike. “Or asking for a cot. Nowhere to put one. Okay, I’ll take the floor.”

  “You can’t sleep on the floor!” Stacy and I exclaimed in unison. “Look, guys, it’s not what we planned but it’s what we got,” I continued. “And damn lucky to get it. No point in anybody sleeping on the floor. Besides, we’d step on you if we had to go to the bathroom! It’s very simple. Chad?” I gave him a look demanding back-up. He sighed.

  “Yeah, it is. The girls take one bed, we’ll take the other and we can pile a bunch of pillows in the middle so Spike and I won’t accidently touch each other.” He shuddered. Guys. You had to love ‘em.

  I laughed. “You two would guard each other’s backs to the death in a fight but you’re afraid you might accidently touch each other? Boys don’t have nearly as much fun at sleep-overs as girls, do they? Too worried about the macho thing.”

  “That’s why boys have twin beds or bunk beds in their rooms and girls have canopied double beds.”

  “Guess so. So—are we doin’ Daytona or what? ‘Cause I’m getting hungry.”

  * * *

  We roared off into the night, headed back to Daytona’s Main Street. It was already dark but the streets were full of light. And bikes. A steady parade of them, from the smallest and simplest to the biggest and most elaborate. Bikers of all shapes and sizes. Dress code ranged from “classic” biker solid black to “gothic” biker—solid black with lots of chains and tattoos, complete with white face paint and brilliant red lips, painted to drip blood. Dogs of all sizes rode with their biker humans. The smaller ones peeked out from saddle bags and carriers, or even their owner’s jackets. Bigger ones perched between the rider’s legs. Lots of women rode their own bikes and lots of others rode “bitch” like me and Stacy. The one constant among them all were the jackets with the identifying insignia. The “colors”. The club identity. Even I knew the respec
t rendered by the clubs to a biker’s colors.

  Parked bikes lined the streets. The names flashed by. Gilly’s Pub 44, Boot Hill Saloon, Main Street Station, a big Harley-Davidson dealer, Dog House Bar, Full Moon Saloon, Bank & Blues, Dirty Harry’s. We cruised slowly up the street, the guys’ heads turning side to side. Looking for a place to park I assumed. I figured I was right when Spike turned into a spot that looked barely large enough to hold the Dark Angel. There was another spot a few bikes up for the Intimidator.

  We all unstrapped our helmets and I waited for Chad to get off so I could swing my leg over.

  “Wait,” he said. “Now listen. With bikes, it’s look, don’t touch. Don’t touch anybody’s bike.”

  Stacy and I looked at each other and back at Chad. “Oddly enough, darlin’, that’s not a problem. Believe it or not, neither of us feel any compelling need to caress a Harley-Davidson.”

  “And besides, we were raised to be polite and it’s not polite to touch other folks’ things,” Stacy added.

  Spike laughed. “Told you, didn’t they? You forget Chad, they’re ladies. They’re not club mamas.”

  “Sorry. It’s just—you get in trouble touching bikes down here. Because of that.” He pointed to a slow-moving trailer-truck driving by.

  “And that is?”

  “An outlaw gang cruising for bikes. They grab ‘em to strip for parts. Toss ‘em in those, they’re called crash vans. Big business for ‘em, very profitable. Bikers like us, individuals, we never leave the bikes out of our sight. Pick a restaurant. And that one,” he pointed, “has some damn good barbecue. With a great bar and live entertainment, so we won’t have to try and find another parking spot.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  Hungry as I was, I pulled Chad back as Stacy and Spike went on in.

  “Wanta show me the picture?”

  “What picture?”

  “The picture you got last night or this morning from those folks who want you to keep an eye open for the missing person. You can’t look for somebody if you don’t know what they look like. So I know they emailed you his file. Last night or this morning. And I’m pretty sure Spike’s on the lookout, too. I’m another pair of eyes.”

  Chad rolled his own eyes but didn’t argue. He pulled out his phone, maneuvered to the right spot and turned the screen toward me. I studied it closely. Typical biker. Not anyone who’d stand out in this crowd. Naturally not. Wouldn’t be much of an undercover man if he did. I concentrated on the mouth and eyes. A voice clip would’ve been better, I’m good with voices, but we take what we can get.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Now let’s eat.”

  Yep, great barbecue. Though of course I was so hungry pretty much any food would’ve tasted great.

  “Do we need to be?” Stacy asked through a mouthful of pickle.

  “Need to be what?”

  “Club mamas,” she said. “Spike said we weren’t club mamas.”

  Chad choked. “No!”

  “You sure?” I asked. “I mean, this biker thing the two of you have—”

  Spike took over, seeing as how Chad was still choking. “Honey, club mamas are strictly one percent clubs. They have club mamas, the other ninety-nine percent of bikers most certainly don’t. And to be a club mama, a woman has to sleep with the club. The whole club. Every member. So there won’t be any jealousy. No, the two of you don’t have club mama in your futures.”

  “Damn sure don’t,” Stacy affirmed. “What’s a one percent club?”

  “An outlaw club,” Chad clarified. “Also known as an OMG. One-percent Motorcycle Gang. Roughly one percent of bikers ride outside the law. They’re one percenters. Look around. You see a 1% patch on a jacket as part of the colors—that’s an outlaw biker.”

  Stacy glanced around. “And they just advertise it? Oh! Over there. There’s a couple. And there’s a few more.”

  “It’s Bike Week. Daytona’s neutral ground. It’s for everybody. But you still don’t let your bike get out of your sight. Why we’re sitting at this table and Spike and I have a full view of the bikes.” And in fact, we were at a table near a window and Chad and Spike were both positioned for a full view of the outside.

  “Then what are you gonna do about them at night? At the hotel?”

  “We know some guys in a big club stay at our hotel every year, too. The big clubs always park together and keep a sentry on duty all night. They let us park with them.”

  “Ewwwwwwwwwwwhhhhhhhh!”

  A shriek sounded from the loud and raucous table next to us. A chair banged back and high-pitched feminine laughter exploded as a gyrating body danced in the floor space between tables.

  “Okay, honey, you been waiting to do that all night! Get your eye-full!”

  Stacy’s eyes widened as the long-haired blonde thrust out her considerable chest, now showcased by the white t-shirt dripping beer. I’d already noticed bras weren’t considered a necessary part of the wardrobe for Bikers Week. Certainly not by this blonde.”

  One of the guys at the blonde’s table clapped madly and shouted “Too many dry t-shirts in this place! Let’s fix that!”

  A deluge of beer exploded over my chest. Stacy gasped with me and I knew she’d been baptized too.

  “Aw man! No fair! These chicks wearin’ bras!”

  “You gotta be kiddin’!”

  “C’mon, lil’ darlin’s, you gotta get with the program here!”

  “You want a program, buddy? How’s this for a program? How’s this feel?” Stacy surged out of her chair and drew the arm holding her beer mug back in a modified version of the underhand softball pitch that terrorized neighborhood soft ball games every summer of her childhood. She got two of the cat-callers with one shot. Full in the face. I wasn’t sure she’d gotten the one calling attention to our under-apparel wardrobe and besides, I didn’t want her having all the fun, so I stood up and tossed mine. I got two of them too, not as forcefully as Stacy’s toss, but I’d never been an athlete.

  The tossed bikers sputtered. The blonde with the impressive chest screamed “Bitch!” She grabbed her mug and tossed the contents in our direction. She’d never played neighborhood softball. It went way wide and caught a biker sitting at a table next to ours.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” Everybody at that table picked up their mugs. Beer exploded over Chad and Spike and quite a few innocent by-standers.

  “Ass-hole!”

  “Fucker!”

  Within minutes, the whole place joined the action. Clouds of beer rained down over the whole room.

  Chad grabbed my hand, Spike grabbed Stacy’s, and pulled us, non-too gently, toward the door, ducking under arms and weaving through bodies. As we passed the register, Chad tossed our bill and a hundred onto the counter.

  “Keep the change!” We barreled out onto the street and stood. We all looked at each other.

  Chad shook his head.

  “Damn, can’t take you two anywhere.”

  Chapter Six

  We found a t-shirt shop, not hard on Main Street, and changed in the back. I handed a plastic bag to Chad.

  “Stash this on the bike.”

  “Didn’t you just chuck those? No point hauling around wet t-shirts.”

  “No point at all. These are our bras. Both of ‘em are Vicky’s Secret bras. We’re not tossin’ fifty dollar bras, boy, you crazy or something? Besides, mine’s the red and black one you like so much.”

  “And mine’s my best black lace.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” Spike said. That pink highway running between him and my little sister darkened even more. Now it was hot pink.

  “Okaaaay, then let’s stop and stash this on the Intimidator. Then how ‘bout that place over there? Live jazz, the action’s a little less—overt—in there. Bikes’ll still be in sight, too.”

  “Works for us.”

  We started off toward the live jazz club. Spike stumbled and almost fell.

  “What the—”

  A black cat shot
out from under his feet and wove his way through the stands of bikes.

  “Oh, shit,” I said.

  “C’mon, Ari! You’ve never been superstitious about black cats,” Stacy said.

  “I’m still not. But that wasn’t just any black cat.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Honey, that’s not your cat. I promise. That’s not Micah.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said in Savannah,” I reminded him.

  Spike raised his eyebrows.

  “Wait a minute! You think that’s your black cat? From Pine Whisper?”

  “I don’t think. I know.”

  “No offense, sweetheart, but that’s just nuts!”

  “No, it’s not. It’s trouble. Big time.”

  “One little cat can’t cause that much trouble. Even if it is yours, which it can’t be.”

  “He doesn’t cause trouble. He gets me out of trouble. Which means it’s coming. Big time.”

  * * *

  I didn’t really notice the action was any less overt over at the jazz club. What I did notice was a group of bikers and their female companions at a far table. Bikers wearing 1% patches. Staring at Chad. The colors identified them as the “Dark Rulers”. I pulled his arm and maneuvered us toward the edge of the body-to-body dance floor.

  “What’s the matter, baby girl? Getting tired?”

  “Don’t look, but see that group over there at the table under the crystal light thingy?”

  “Well, since I’m not supposed to look, not really.”

  “Smart-ass. Edge around and look. But not like you’re lookin’. You’re the damn professional, not me.”

  He laughed. “I knew what you meant, just couldn’t resist. Okay, let me turn you around here. Okay, got ‘em.”

  “They’re staring at you. Hard. Especially one of the women.”

  “Jealous? I don’t get upset when guys stare at you hard. Unless they try to touch, of course.”

  “Will you be serious? It’s like they recognize you. Especially her. You told me nobody’d recognize you.”