Faster (Stark Ink, #3)

by Dahlia West

  The crossed the tracks and into the industrial part of Rapid City. Warehouses—some empty, some used, all in various states of decay—boxed them in on either side. What the hell Clint was doing in a place like this, the fact that his silver-spoon ass even knew that there was a warehouse district, was a mystery unto itself.

  He pulled into a small lot that fronted a tiny building constructed of corrugated tin siding and cracked glass windows. Very possibly chewing gum was holding it all together. Ava had never seen the place before or heard Clint mention it. What they were doing here now was anyone’s guess.

  Cautiously, she parked her Honda next to his BMW but refused to dismount. She took off her helmet and glanced around. Off to the right, partially hidden by a large, overflowing dumpster, she saw a bike she recognized and her lips curled. She looked back at Clint, who was already stomping toward a large door.

  “What the fuck, Clint?” she called after him.

  He half-turned, jabbed a finger at her, then pointed back to the door. “Get your ass inside.”

  Ava looked up at the structure dubiously. She mentally calculated her odds against two men and frowned. Not great, but then, maybe she could kick one of the walls of this shit hole and send the whole thing crashing down on them. She might die, but then again, that might be better.

  She glared at Clint’s bike, faster by far. She could take off, lose him temporarily, but he knew where she lived, so what was the point? She slowly slid off the Honda and headed toward the door. As she approached, she tightened the chin strap around her fist and tested the helmet’s weight. It’d make a good weapon; plus, it was all she had.

  She grabbed the door’s rusted handle and pulled.

  Inside the tiny warehouse, which was more like a large storage unit, her eyes adjusted to the shadows until she made out two figures across the room. Her eyes skipped over Clint and landed on the second man.

  If he hadn’t been holding his helmet, she wouldn’t have known who he was. He had an under bite and a mop of hair that probably hadn’t been washed in a few days. The Wolf looked about as intimidating as a poodle, honestly. He didn’t look all that bright, either. If he had a high school diploma then he’d cheated to get that, too. Ava kept the grip on her helmet strap, just in case, but she felt much better about her odds after laying eyes on that unibrow.

  Ava only ventured slowly into the building. Her boots scraped across the pitted and stained concrete floor. She stopped just a few steps inside the door. If she couldn’t talk her way out, she’d just toss Clint the keys to the Honda and hotfoot it back out the door. Even if they followed her, this neighborhood was a maze of buildings and construction materials. There were plenty of places to hide.

  “So?” she demanded.

  “So,” Clint replied in a drawl. “I told you... you’re going to earn back what you stole from me.”

  Ava’s eyes flicked to The Wolf, who was smirking. But he wasn’t going for his zipper, so she held out hope that she’d be earning back the money some other way. She turned back to Clint. “How?” she asked, eyeing her company. “Race fixing?”

  It could work, she figured. Bet the long odds, throw the race at the last minute. Easy money— if Weasel didn’t catch on. Eventually, he probably would, though. So, their total potential haul was limited.

  As she looked at The Wolf and Clint, she didn’t much like the idea of losing to them, even if it was staged. And Emilio wasn’t here. He’d be a wildcard. He could easily beat either one of these mouth-breathers, maybe even Ava herself. She was about to tell them it would never work, or at least wouldn’t be worth it, but Clint cut her off.

  “Fuck no,” he sneered. His chin jutted up and Ava recognized the look. It was the same when he’d driven his first bike to school, showing it off in the parking lot. “I’m putting together a team.”

  She frowned at him, confused. A team to do what, if not fixing races? What the hell could Clint possibly want with ‘a team’? And why couldn’t he get anyone but The Wolf to be on it? Whatever this was, she instinctively knew it was a bad idea. She furrowed her brow at them. “So... what?... You want me to join your He-Man Woman-Haters club?”

  Clint didn’t answer. Someone behind her did. “We don’t let bitches in our club.”

  Ava turned toward the door to see three men filing into the warehouse. Her heart thudded in her chest as she held her breath. She stumbled back, farther into the building, putting distance between herself and them. Their heavy boots thudded on the floor as they invaded the small space, as though they owned the place. Ava realized they probably did.

  She didn’t recognize any of them, per se. Their faces weren’t familiar, but their cuts were. She’d seen groups of men, in varying numbers, hanging out at the impromptu races held around the city. None of them participated, none of them could. These guys didn’t ride crotch-rockets. They owned Harleys instead. They always stayed back from the crowds, just drinking and watching. Sometimes they picked up a few Bike Bunnies.

  Ava didn’t know any of them and didn’t care to. She steered clear of them at the races and when she spotted a few around town. Thankfully, they were easy to recognize. Walking toward her now, the back of their cuts weren’t visible to her, but she already knew what they said anyway. Rapid City only had room for one biker gang.

  The Badlands Buzzards MC.

  Chapter Eleven

  The one who’d spoken was standing in the front. He appeared to be their de facto leader with his confident swagger and his President patch. He wasn’t the tallest of the small group, or even the most muscled, but there was a strange glint in his eyes that made Ava’s blood run cold.

  The man smirked at her for a long moment before turning to Clint. “She’s cute, but putting her on your bitch seat isn’t going to make your run-times any faster.”

  Clint swallowed hard. “Hook,” he argued, “she’s... I brought her in. She’s the fourth. She’s our fourth.”

  The man called Hook frowned, looking perplexed. “I say bring in another rider and you bring me a bitch.”

  Ava shot a dirty look at Clint.

  “She can ride,” Clint insisted. “I’m telling you. She’s fast,” he assured Hook. “Faster than me.”

  Ava could see it pained him to say it, but it was clear that Clint was in between a rock and a hard place, having to defend himself unexpectedly. She hoped she didn’t have to pay for that admission later.

  “What’s your name?” Hook asked her.

  She hesitated before answering. More than anything, she just wanted to leave. The last thing she wanted was for them to know her name, or anything about her. Racing bikes was one thing, but this was a motorcycle gang. This was more danger than she was willing to court.

  He snapped his fingers in front of her face and she flinched.

  “Ava,” she ground out.

  “Ava.” He smiled. “I like it. Ava what?”

  Again she hesitated, but this time only for a second. There was little point in not telling him. Clint already knew everything there was to know about her. “Stark,” she told him quietly.

  His eyebrows shot up. He looked at the other two men. “Oh, ho ho. Stark? Stark?” He glanced over his shoulder at Clint. “You brought me a Stark?”

  Clint looked confused by the question so he just nodded.

  Ava was surprised, too. These guys had tats, but they sure as shit didn’t look like Adam’s work. She’d never seen a Buzzard in the shop. Surely Adam wouldn’t even touch them to stick them, but they knew her name. She couldn’t imagine how.

  “We got us a Stark, boys.”

  “Fuck riding,” the smallest one said. He reached down and grabbed his crotch. “I got something she can ride. Haze, get out your phone. Take pictures. We’ll send them to good ol’ Adam and Dalton.”

  Ava felt like all the oxygen was suddenly sucked from the room.

  Haze stepped forward and her heart slammed in her chest. Instead of looking at her, though, he moved to her bike. He ran his hand along
the seat. “How fast does it go?”

  She didn’t answer. Someone hit her in the shoulder. Clint. She gritted her teeth. “It tops out at one-eighty,” she replied reluctantly.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “You’ve opened it up that much?”

  She chewed the inside of her lip and shrugged. She seriously doubted these men came to discuss specs. “Once or twice,” she admitted.

  Hook laughed and slapped his leg. “Once or twice. I like this girl.” He glanced at Clint. “She drives fast. Wears leather. What’s she like in the sack?”

  Clint frowned. Clearly, he wanted to steer the conversation back to the business at hand. “Nothing special,” he muttered.

  Ava was too afraid to be pissed. She made a mental note to kick Clint’s ass later. For a whole list of reasons.

  Hook stared at her again. It made her skin crawl. “Maybe you don’t know how to ride her,” he suggested.

  Clint bristled. “I— ”

  Something slammed into Ava’s chest and she instinctively grabbed at it. She looked down to see a green canvas backpack filling her arms and then up at Haze who’d passed it to her. The large man had dark brown hair hanging just above a pair of cool green eyes. “Give me your phone,” he demanded.

  His voice was quiet but strong and commanding. If Hook wasn’t so hell-bent on running his mouth, it would be easy to mistake this man for being the one in charge. With one hand, Ava slipped her phone out of her pocket and handed it over.

  Haze took it from her without touching her. A small relief.

  Ava shifted the pack in her arms. It was heavy.

  “Haze,” Hook said, gesturing to the other man, “is going to give you an address. You hop on your little rice burner, scoot across town, and make a delivery. Simple as that.”

  “Deliver?” she said carefully, glancing at Hook “Deliver what?”

  His jaunty demeanor faded instantly. “None of your fucking business. Doesn’t matter anyway. Probably won’t be the same on every run.” He grinned at her again. “I got my fingers in a lot of pies.”

  Ava jutted out her chin and narrowed her eyes. “My pie has teeth.”

  Hook nodded as he smiled at her. “I believe it. Hey,” he called out to the others, lifting his hand and wiggling his fingers, “if I stick one in her, would I pull back a stub?”

  Someone laughed. “Probably. Give it a shot.”

  Ava’s heart stopped.

  “Hook, time’s a-wasting.”

  Ava turned to see the larger man frowning at both of them. It was hard to know who the bigger threat was.

  Hook snorted and grinned at Ava. “Haze is like that. All business, all the time. He’s right, though.” He moved forward, hand reaching for her. Ava backed up but was blocked by one of the others. Instead of touching her, though, he simply said, “Wallet.”

  Ava blinked at him.

  Hook snapped his fingers at her, breaking her hesitation. Confused, she slid her wallet out of her pocket and handed it over. The man opened it up and flipped through it. “You’d better hurry, Ava.” He held up her driver’s license and scrutinized it. “Ava Stark who lives at 1121 Peach Tree Lane.”

  “Sounds like a lovely neighborhood!” one of the others declared.

  Hook grinned at her. “I bet it is. Isn’t it, peaches?” He handed her back her license and tapped his watch. “You now have thirty-five minutes to get to that address and back here.” He nodded at Haze.

  Haze finished typing and handed Ava back her phone. When she looked down, he’d typed in an address, one she didn’t recognize. The pin on the virtual map had it located on the far side of town. Hook tossed her back her wallet. She nearly fumbled it in her near-panic.

  “Thirty-five minutes,” Hook repeated. He placed his hand to the side of his head and cupped his ear. “What’s that?”

  Ava stared at him. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Sure you did. You said, ‘or what?’ ”

  Ava shook her head dumbly.

  Hook ignored her protests. “A good question. Thirty-five minutes to get across town, make a delivery, and bring back my money. Because in thirty-six minutes, your boyfriend is dead.”

  He turned suddenly, like a snake finally striking. Though he wasn’t facing her, Ava jumped anyway. Instead, Hook grabbed Clint and pulled him close.

  “Hey!” Clint shouted.

  Ava heard the snick of a blade. Hook pressed the gleaming, presumably razor-sharp metal against Clint’s throat.

  “This wasn’t the deal!” Clint cried. He started to claw at Hook’s forearm but Hook pressed the edge of the blade in just enough so that Ava could see a thin line of blood well up.

  “Stop!” she yelled.

  “Thirty-four minutes,” Hook told her.

  Ava stood there, paralyzed, feeling helpless.

  Hook grinned. “I can just kill him now, if you don’t want shag ass, peaches.”

  Ava shot her arm through the bag’s shoulder strap and ran to the exit. Her pulse roared in her ears. So did Hook.

  “Bring back all my money, Ava Stark! Or I cut off pieces for every dollar that’s missing!”

  Chapter Twelve

  To be fair, Hook hadn’t actually said what he was going to cut off, or from whom. Even if he started with Clint, was there any guarantee he wouldn’t move on to her? Ava wasn’t willing to stick around and find out.

  She turned onto the pavement and gunned the engine, putting as much distance between herself and the warehouse, just in case. It was tempting to keep riding and just never come back. She was royally pissed at Clint right now, for this and a whole host of other transgressions, but being sawed in half by a switchblade seemed like overkill.

  She’d make the run. She had no choice. But Clint was absolutely going to pay for this bullshit. If they all made it out of this alive, Ava might just finish the job on him herself.

  She took the frontage road back toward the center of town, driving fast. A little too fast. A large panel truck pulled out in front of her just up ahead. It slid in next to a flat-bed that was headed toward her on the opposite side of the road.

  Ava’s hand hovered over the handbrake, nearly squeezing. At the last second, she changed her mind, though. Instead of slowing down, she nudged the front tire left. She couldn’t afford to slow down, not this early, at least. She needed all the time she could get.

  She held her breath as she hit the gas harder, sending the Honda surging forward. She managed to catch a glimpse of the driver of the flat-bed as she rocketed toward him. His jaw was slack as he stared at her. At the last second, he remembered his horn and laid on it, hard. Ava flinched at the noise.

  She held her breath, heart hammering in her chest, as she split the two large vehicles and zipped between them. The panel truck slowed, as though the driver was unsure if he was the one being honked at and why.

  The side mirror of the Honda nearly scraped the dirty, scarred side of the panel truck. Ava had mere inches to spare. She squeezed her eyes shut at the last second as she hurtled out from between the two huge vehicles, remaining unscathed. The panel truck skidded to a stop behind her but she left him in the dust as she sped toward the highway.

  Evening traffic was rough, though. The highway was nearly bumper to bumper with people just getting off work. Ava revved her Honda’s engine impatiently, waiting for another light cycle. She snatched her phone out of her pocket and glanced at the screen.

  She was still more than halfway to her destination, and the clock was still ticking away. She now had less than twenty minutes. She shoved the phone back into her pocket and yanked on the bike’s handlebars. She squeezed past a Toyota and up onto the sidewalk. Behind her, someone shouted angrily.

  Ava paid them no attention as she sped down the mostly empty sidewalk toward the intersection up ahead. She dodged a sidewalk sign and took a sharp right at the corner. The side street was far less crowded.

  The front wheel of her bike slammed back down onto the pavement and she took to the road aga
in, weaving in between cars. There was a neighborhood on the other side of the highway. She could pass through it on her way across town.

  Two more turns and she was farther away from the city’s center. Office buildings gave way to two-story houses with decent sized lots, a neighborhood nicer than her own. She gunned the engine and tore through the neighborhood. No one was home yet in this little burg.

  Or so she thought.

  She’d kicked the Honda up to almost 50 miles per hour, well above the posted speed limit, to shave off precious seconds. Halfway through to the other side, a large SUV backed out of its driveway, catching Ava off guard.

  She swerved instantly to avoid being run over. This time her mirror did connect. It crunched against a car parked on the other side of the street. Ava barely heard plastic and glass shatter through her helmet. She risked a split second look down and saw her side mirror hanging limply. Spider cracks covered the once reflective surface.

  Ignoring it, and the driver of the SUV who was now laying on the horn, Ava threaded her way through the sleepy subdivision, a bit slower in light of the circumstances. Her heart slammed into her chest and she felt almost dizzy. Street racing was dangerous; she’d never done it. She wouldn’t have risked it. Blood roared in her ears as she forced the needle of her Honda’s speedometer back up.

  She cursed herself. And Clint. And the fucking Buzzards.

  She sailed over a second set of railroad tracks that served as an unofficial barrier between this neighborhood and the next. As Ava sped along, homes got smaller, grass got taller.

  She slowed, briefly, to check the phone again. She was three streets from her destination. She found the street easily and spotted the address, which was a run-down house with weeds that came up to her knees.

  She parked the bike, hefted the bag onto her shoulder and sprinted for the front steps. A broken screen door leaned drunkenly on its hinges. Ava flung it open and banged on the heavy wooden front door.

  No one answered so she knocked again, more forcefully this time.