Wild Ways

by Tina Wainscott

  She watched him walk to the Lincoln that was waiting for him. “Jet. Private cars. Who is that guy? And why would he help me?”

  “Sometimes when you get screwed over in life, you feel a need to make things right for others.” A thread of emotion lowered his voice. “He’s tight-lipped about his story, but he formed a company to get justice for those who can’t get it through normal channels. I imagine he got stomped somewhere down the line. Chase is the real deal. Trust us to help you.”

  “It’s hard to trust anyone. A lot of people have offered to help or given me information, and it’s all led to big fat nothing. But I’ll accept your help for as long as you’re willing to offer it.” She gave them a couple of days at most before other things pulled them away.

  He studied her, and though she sensed that he wanted to delve deeper, he merely nodded. “First order of business is to grab a couple of hotel rooms and get some shut-eye. You look like you’re about to drop. Rath and I usually pull off the road and sleep on our rolls.” He pointed toward a mat tucked up against his bike by pursing his lips, an unusual gesture he’d used once earlier. “But that’s at night where we’re not visible. And I don’t suppose you’d be up for that anyway. Today we’ll sleep all civilized.”

  She nodded, feeling the drag of everything pulling her down. Not only that she hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, but nearly being killed. The roller-coaster ride of hope and disappointment. She only hoped she had enough credit left on her cards.

  He gave her what he called a skull cap, the small black helmets she’d seen many bikers wearing. They mounted his Harley, and she settled her arms loosely around his waist. Her soul ached to hold tight and lean against his back. Let him drive, both figuratively and literally. But she couldn’t let herself count on anyone.

  A short while later, Julian pulled into a clean, small motel parking lot. She grabbed her small bag, retrieved earlier from her car, and preceded him into the office.

  “Two rooms,” Julian said, taking his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

  “I’ll pay for mine.” As he began to object, she said, “You’re helping me at no charge. I can take care of my own expenses.”

  Except she couldn’t, because the clerk shook his head after running the card a third time. “It’s not going through. Have another one?”

  Humiliation washed over her. She pulled out her second one and prayed for a miracle. No such thing.

  “I’ll get both,” Julian said, pushing his card toward the guy.

  “No.” She dug through her cash, but that was dwindling, too, and she might need it to pay for information. “Can we share a room? Would you mind? I don’t feel right you paying for my room, and heck, I’m beyond being squeamish about sharing with a guy for a few hours.” A stranger. A sexy stranger. Something thrummed through her at that realization, but the words were out. “As long as it has separate beds,” she added with a half smile.

  “All right.” He turned to the clerk. “One room then.”

  A few minutes later, Julian led the way to room eighteen. She dropped her bag onto one of the twin beds. “Is it all right if I take a shower first?”

  “Be my guest.”

  She tried not to think about that sexy stranger as she washed away dirt and grit. She didn’t even know who she was anymore, beyond her search for Di. She was no longer a banquet manager at a beachfront resort. She hung out in biker bars and associated with dangerous men who could shoot a lot better than she could. A man she was now alone with in a motel room. And while her usual wariness suggested she should bring her gun into the bathroom, it seemed paranoid at this point. He’d saved her life; he wouldn’t harm her now.

  She quickly dried her hair and dressed, vacating the dingy bathroom. “All yours.”

  He’d already stripped out of his shirt and shoes, wearing only faded jeans. “Stay put while I’m in here. We’re still in Kings territory, and they’re going to be gunning for you now. These guys don’t like to be crossed.”

  “But they attacked me!”

  “They won’t see it that way.”

  It felt strange to be ordered around. To be cared about in any capacity. He disappeared into the bathroom, and she pulled out her phone. The sound of a text notification stopped her mid-dial. Julian’s cell sat on top of his black duffel bag, a text lighting up the screen. She couldn’t resist taking a peek. She needed to see what this man who had swept into her life like some dark angel was about.

  It was from Estefan: When you coming back? We’re starting a new business. A good one. We need you home, man.

  The screen went to sleep. Someone cared about him. Wanted him to come home. Must be nice. Her home was a small apartment with little in the way of décor or furnishings. It was cluttered during the times Di stayed there, between her rehab stints. Even when Di was there, it was more tension and arguing than it was homey and peaceful.

  Speaking of home … she dialed her grandfather.

  “Mollie,” he answered, and she couldn’t tell if that was relief in his voice. Then again, the man showed little in the way of emotion. “Are you back in town? Please tell me you’ve come to your senses and begged for your job back.”

  This wasn’t going to go well. She sank to the bed. “I’m still in Oklahoma. I have a real lead, Granddad. And I have help now, an organization that takes on cases like mine pro bono.”

  “Why would anyone help you find a grown woman who was stupid enough to run off with a biker gang?”

  She flinched, because the inference was clear—she was stupid, too. “I think the owner feels sorry for me. It might only be for a day or so, but I’ll take any help I can get. Don’t you regret not trying to save Mom? Don’t you wonder if you could have stopped her from going down the path she did? Kept her from overdosing?” Her emotions thickened her voice.

  Mollie already lived with her own guilt as to whether she could have done something. She and Di had been out with their grandparents for the evening. They’d come home to find their mom snorting cocaine in the kitchen. Mollie’s grandfather had exploded and ordered her to leave until she cleaned up. She disappeared for three days, and then the authorities had notified them that she’d been found dead in some run-down apartment.

  He let out a long sigh she knew well. “I wish she wouldn’t have taken that road, but there was nothing I could do. We tried. Forced her into rehab, threatened to have you girls taken away from her. We let you all move in with us. You think because I wasn’t as obsessed with trying to save her as you are with Diana that I didn’t love her? That I don’t love your sister? I raised you both, dammit. My wife and I put our lives on hold so the three of you could have a stable environment. We bailed your mother out of jail twice.” He took a sharp breath. “Sorry, you didn’t know about that.”

  Jail? The word struck her in the chest. “Those times when you told us she’d ended up working the overnight shift at the bar?”

  “Yes. We finally realized it was pointless to try saving someone who’s intent on destroying herself. Diana followed in your mother’s tragic footsteps, and we’re tired, Mollie. Tired of fighting addiction. And you, like always, have stepped into the caretaker role. Aren’t you tired, too? It’s time to let go.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t. The thought of it literally tears out my heart. I can’t give up on her.” She cleared the emotion that was clogging her throat. “I just need a favor. I hate to ask, but I’m running out of money and my credit card limits. Is there any way—”

  “I’m invoking tough love, Mollie. I cannot in good conscience finance an endeavor that puts you in tenuous situations. I can’t enable your obsessive behavior anymore.”

  She suddenly became aware of a presence and jerked around to find Julian standing in the gloom of the room. His hair was damp, his chest glistening with drops of water as he continued to dry his hair. A black American eagle adorned his left pec, talons stretched to grab up some unseen prey. His muscular chest bore faint scars, probably from hi
s years in the service. His jeans were torn at the knees.

  “Sorry I bothered you,” she whispered and disconnected. “What were you in the SEALs, a spy?” Her clipped tone gave away her embarrassment at his having heard her begging for money, for support.

  “Stealth is part of the game.” He tossed the towel on the floor and dropped to the other bed. “You learn a lot that way. I find it useful to know as much about the people I work with as I can.” He propped himself up on his side, his arm draped over his hip, and regarded her. The slice of morning light cut across his shoulder and hair, highlighting a burgundy hue.

  “What have you learned about me?” Damn, why had she asked that?

  “You’re broke, and you’re alone in this. That, as tough as you are, it breaks your heart to think about giving up. Maybe because someone gave up on you. It’s more than love that drives you to find your sister.”

  “No one gave up on me.” Well, that wasn’t true. First her father had given up on all of them, and then, in her own way, her mother had, too. But that wasn’t what drove her. Julian seemed to be analyzing her, compassion in his eyes. She said, “Please, don’t feel sorry for me.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for you.” He rolled onto his back, his hands laced behind his head. “I doubt Chase does either.”

  So he’d heard that, too. “Then why are you helping me?”

  “Because you need it.”

  That was all he was going to say about it? She settled on her bed, both drained and restless. Facing him, though she was sure it wasn’t intentional. She couldn’t deny that she felt safe with him. No bikers would break in and take her away. She would hold on to that feeling, cherish it. Soon it would be gone, and so would he. And she would be alone again.

  “Oh, you had a text,” she whispered. “From Estefan. He wants you to come home.”

  He turned toward her, arching an eyebrow. “You read my text?”

  Now she rolled onto her back, trying to stifle a small smile. “I like to know who I work with, too.”

  Chapter 4

  Scotch and his boys rolled up to the old building late. He would get shit just for that. Wait till King Crimson heard the rest of it. He couldn’t afford to bring down the fury of the motherfuckin’ chapter, as he called it.

  The sign over the door was probably as old as the club, at least thirty years. They parked among the old Harleys, probably none of which were newer than 1999. Most of them looked like they could’ve easily fallen apart on the ride there. He nodded at the prospects standing outside as guards.

  Church was already under way, the meetings required for all members. When Scotch and his guys walked into the cavernous metal building, he could hear Crimson asking, “Are the girls ready?”

  Rancid, president of the Chicago chapter, said, “Right on schedule, broken and drumming up some cash at the bar.”

  “You been taking down the ‘missing’ flyers?”

  One guy gestured to the pile of flyers, girls’ faces and last seen information ranging from Georgia to Nevada. Every chapter had been collecting them—and the girls on them. Runaways, most of them, escaping parents or a spouse.

  Crimson shot Scotch a venomous look, creasing the lines he already wore on his Neanderthal forehead. “You’re late.”

  As his chapter’s president, it was Scotch’s responsibility to get his guys to Church on time. “We had some trouble at one of our local bars early this morning. Two of our members were shot. One took a bullet across the scalp; he’ll make it. Another took one in the chest. We’re not so sure about him. Doc’s working on him now, but it don’t look good.” He found the St. Louis chapter’s president among the sea of men in dusty leathers and black vests. “One of yours died at the scene. Another had his bike shot out from underneath him. He’s at the shop getting it pieced together again.”

  Crimson walked over to Scotch, his boots scraping the concrete. “Was it the Purgs?”

  “Wasn’t a club at all. This woman’s been—”

  “Woman?” Crimson interrupted. “Are you saying a woman shot up three guys?”

  “Naw, but it started with her, the broad that’s been looking for her sister.” Scotch ran his fingers down his beard as he gave them the whole story.

  There was a barrage of questions about injuries and deaths, then silence as the men digested the news. Most of them knew one another, even if they belonged to different chapters. Death and injury were a part of the OMG lifestyle, between road accidents and gang violence. Scotch had already attended seven funerals that year, and it was only July.

  The president rattled the chain ominously at his belt. “You shoulda taken care of this nosy sister a long time ago.”

  Scotch shook his head. “A broad like her disappears, and it would bring attention. Cops. She’s no runaway, no addict.”

  “But she’s now a bigger threat than some nosy cops. Look, chick walks into a beehive, she has to figure on getting stung. As long as we leave no proof, we’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe we could use her at the Ball,” another guy suggested. “Pump her up with meth, and she’ll be as willing as the others.”

  Crimson’s mouth twitched beneath his silver-streaked beard. “Two birds with one stone. We have a shortage this year, not enough strays. Get rid of these two guys. We don’t need that kind of shit this close to our biggest moneymaking event of the year. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “I’m on it,” Scotch said. The so-called Ball did earn big bucks for the club, but he thought it was too big a risk. “You all need to be on the lookout.” He gave them a description of the woman and her cohorts, least what little he’d seen of them. “These guys are dangerous. If you see ’em, take ’em out.”

  * * *

  Mollie rose from scattered and diametrically opposed dreams, some of violence and the last of a sexy Latin guy sliding his hands across her body. She sorted that from reality as she rose to wakefulness. No sexy guy touching her. Julian sat on his bed studying a map.

  He turned at her movement, and his smile made her heart hitch. “The sleepyhead wakes.”

  “What time is it? How long was I asleep?” She scrambled out of bed, searching for the clock.

  “It’s a little after fourteen hundred hours. Don’t look so panicked. You obviously needed to rest.”

  First she’d had to convert military time to standard time. Two o’clock! She ran her fingers through her hair, a makeshift brush. “What I need is to find my sister. I hate wasting time sleeping.”

  “Chacha, if you’re going to be any good for your sister, you have to take care of yourself first.” He flicked one finger up. “Sleep.” A second finger. “Eat.” A third finger. “Take care of your soul.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “Chacha just means girl, short for muchacha. Don’t get your hackles up. That’s just the way my family talks: girl, mami, and for talking to someone we care about, querida, which means loved or beloved.”

  “Usually when someone uses ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart,’ they have something in mind.”

  “I don’t.” He opened the curtains wider and patted the place on the bed beside him. “Come sit.” He raised an eyebrow when she hesitated. “To figure out our plan.”

  He turned back to the map in front of him. The sun washed over his back and skin as smooth as café latte. She’d never been this close to someone like him: tall, dark, and dangerous. Yet his smile was completely disarming. His hair was thick and had a slight wave to it. One leg was bent, pushing his knee out through the hole in his jeans, and his arm rested on that knee. She felt dizzy, off-balance. She shouldn’t even be noticing his attributes, shouldn’t want to sit next to him on that small bed.

  He looked her way. “I’m not going to bite. You’ve been dealing with outlaw bikers. You can’t be afraid of getting close to me.”

  She was, but not in a way she could articulate.

  “Sit.”

  This time it was more of an order, and she found herself complying. She kep
t a couple of inches between them, as much as possible in the limited space. “What do you mean by take care of my soul?”

  “What fulfills your soul?” he asked instead of answering. “A fine wine? Good meal? Bubble bath?” He waved at the room. “Fine accommodations?” His laugh was like honey sliding through her veins. More so when he took her in with soulful eyes. “I bet you haven’t taken any pleasure for yourself since your sister ran off.”

  “Of course I have. I’ve …” But she could think of nothing.

  “That’s what I thought. What makes you feel good?”

  There was nothing openly provocative about the question, and yet it tingled through her. She searched and came up with precious little. “Chocolate, I guess. A good, dark chocolate bar.”

  He waited, then said, “That’s it? That’s all you can come up with?”

  “I’m a little distracted right now.”

  He hooked his arms over his bent knees. “When I was in BUD/S, the training program you go through to be a SEAL, I kept focusing on things that made me feel good. A cup of Bustelo coffee in the morning. My mother’s platanos, so crisp at the edges, sweet and soft inside.” He rolled his eyes in pleasure at the mere thought, apparently. “Swimming in water that wasn’t sixty-nine degrees. Soaking in a hot tub. Sex.” He looked as though he were going to go on but closed his mouth instead.

  The last word, spoken in a casual way, still swirled inside her. “I’ll focus on that after I find Di. Not sex, the other stuff.” She forced herself to study the map in front of him, bracketed by his spread legs. “What’s the plan?”

  “While Chase hunts down leads on Brick, we’ll try to run him down as well. I have a feeling you’re like me, unable to sit around and wait.”

  She nodded, probably a bit too vigorously. Waiting around in this motel room with Julian was not what she wanted to do. She wished he’d put a shirt on, for goodness’ sake.

  Hmm, soaking him in as that bit of soul pleasure he was talking about?

  No. Don’t even go there.