It hit her then. Took nearly two weeks, but it hit her while she was sitting in her mother’s living room, smelling the trace scents of her perfume and fabric softener in the air. Gertie felt her heart constrict and she gave a small gasp. She scooped up her purse, apologizing, and rushed out of the room like a hysterical woman in a soap opera. Gertie headed for her mother’s bedroom and shut herself inside, sliding down the door until her ass was on the carpet. Her purse was still clutched to her like a stuffed toy, and she let the tears roll silent down her face.
This was the room it happened in. Genevieve had cracked her head on one of the heavy, antique wood nightstands, the one on the far side of the bed. The mess had been cleaned up and the room still smelled like bleach. But Gertie wasn’t thinking about the organic mess of that event. The room was soaked with depression and shame.
Gertie steadied her breathing but she was crying all the same. She didn’t want to be like Genevieve. She did not want to be a simpering, drunken, useless mess. But the parallels were there, weren’t they? Unfaithful husband. Unable to stand her own loneliness without chemical help.
She opened her purse, pulling out the weed. She might have rolling papers. She hoped so. She dug further into the leather pouch, finding the little package she was hoping for. She laid a sheet out on the dresser next to her, dipped into the baggie and crumbled the small tuft of pot she pulled out over the paper. She rolled it tight, sniffling and huffing away to calm the tears, then dug a lighter out of her bag. This would be difficult to do as emotional as she was, but she really wanted to take the edge off of this … whatever this was.
With a lumbering effort Gertie got to her feet and moved to the window, pushing the slider up and breathing in the air from the yard. It was quite fragrant, must have been the lilac trees in the neighbor’s yard. She lit the end of the joint, inhaled, then let it out directly through the window screen. She sobbed as she did it, hand to her forehead, closing her eyes.
Gertie was standing where her mother had died. She looked down at the beige carpet, noting how the nap was thick and lush from a good cleaning. She sunk down onto the edge of the bed, covering her mouth as another loud sob wrenched free of her throat.
No one came after her. That wasn’t a surprise. She was the youngest, the emotional fuck up. Let her be, we’ll collect her when we’re ready to leave.
She went back to her purse, pulled out her phone. Taking another draw on the joint she held it while she crossed the room to the window, exhaled again, and started thumbing through her contacts. When she came across the name Buck her thumb froze.
A second time for a biker to whisk her away? Could she really ask that?
He likely thought she was insane anyway. Her eyes came back to the joint and she made up her mind. She hit his number, selected “Call” and then brought the phone to her ear.
Well, he did want to know where she was getting narcotics in the city.
Chapter Sixteen
Buck was right: Jayce was furious that a girl had nearly OD’d in the dorms. And he was furious that this orange Oxy was on the streets because it was fucking dangerous.
They brought the pills to the sheriff’s department out of curiosity and courtesy. Sheriff Downey was not an ally, just an uneasy colleague when it came to crime in Markham. She was bright enough to let the club take the lead on problems too dirty and big for a small sheriff’s department, but if the body count got uncomfortably high or the crimes themselves weren’t connected to the MC, she was fast to step in and take lead. She was tough, probably had to be with the field she was in, and she was smart, too.
Their lab ran tests on the Oxy, and the scariest part was not the fact that the club didn’t know it was being dealt in Markham, but that it was street-made. Someone was making this shit somewhere, and fucking with the levels. A person addicted to Oxy already could handle the pills, it would only take one pill at a time for them to keep their high. Economical, but strong.
Someone who’d never taken Oxy, or just occasionally? Pretty damn toxic.
There was a lot of mumbo jumbo Buck couldn’t follow, all he knew was this could be bad for the citizens of Markham. The Rebels were just rolling into the parking lot of the clubhouse when he felt his phone go off in his pocket. He parked, yanked his helmet off and dug the phone out while swinging his leg off the bike.
He saw the name and number on the display and couldn’t help it. He grinned and answered on about the fifth ring. “Hello?”
“Buck? It’s me.”
He was still smiling when he asked, “Who?”
There was a pause. “Gertie.”
“Oh, Gertie. What’s up?”
“I found a dealer in town. He said he had weed, ice and H.”
Buck was nodding. “What did he look like?”
“He was … black. Um, ball cap. Dark baggy jeans.”
“Did he have tats on his knuckles?” Buck broke in, impatient.
“Umm, yes.”
“Spelling TOWN, right? With a G on the thumbs?”
“I … I think so.”
Buck nodded. “Good. That’s … that’s what I expected them to have. Nothing else?”
Buck was striding to the clubhouse door when she offered up “I asked about Oxy.”
Buck stopped. “Why? Why’d you ask about Oxy?”
“I don’t know. I was trying to think of other things that people sometimes buy on the street.”
He furrowed his brow. “What did he say?”
“He said he could get it. He’d drop it off at my place.”
“You didn’t give him your address, did you?”
She scoffed at that and he had to grin again. “How stupid do you think I am?”
“Okay, okay. Thanks for telling me. You see anyone other than those guys, let me know, okay?”
“All right.” She sniffled after she said it and he frowned.
“Are you okay?” he asked, changing direction from the clubhouse door and heading for an abandoned stacking stool along the wall. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m … I’m sorry. I’m at my mother’s house.” She hiccupped.
He sank down to the stool, sighing. “Are you all right?” he repeated.
“They read her will. I don’t know, being here right now … I’m crying. For the first time. I’m really crying because my mother’s dead.”
Buck squinted across the lot, watching the guys hovering around the bikes lighting cigarettes. He knew Gertie came from money, he could only imagine the house she grew up in. “What are you doing after?” he asked, scratching his chin. “You want company?”
He knew how it sounded, and the pause she gave him in return told him she understood. “Yes,” she said softly. “I do.”
“Meet you at your place?”
She hummed for a moment. “Can you come rescue me from my family? Again?”
Buck thought of the women waiting in the clubhouse, the same women on standby night after night. He’d been with all of them, couldn’t remember a particular trait of any one girl. Just willing bodies and soft limbs. Why the hell would he drive thirty minutes or more to scoop her out of a house he’d never been to, pull her away from people he didn’t know?
Maybe he had a White Knight complex. Maybe he liked a girl that needed to be rescued from shit. Maybe he wanted that kind of dependency. Whatever the reason, he was answering without really thinking. “Text me your address and give me time to get there.”
“Okay,” she answered, almost sounding shy. “Thank you, Buck.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said before snapping his phone shut.
He caught Knuckles as he was walking past. “Heading out,” he shouted, shrugging off his kutte. “Personal errand in the city.”
Knuckles raised a pierced eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”
“No,” was the easiest answer. He held out his kutte. “Can I borrow your leather?”
Knuckles pinched his cigarette between his lips, slid his kutte down his arms then pul
led off his leather jacket. It was an old beat-to-shit bomber. Buck transferred a few personal effects into the jacket from his kutte. That included a couple of condoms.
Knuckles smirked when he saw them. “Say no more,” he muttered, carrying both of their kuttes into the clubhouse. Buck pulled the jacket on and headed to his bike. He couldn’t do anything about the insignia on his Dyna, but at least he wasn’t flashing his colors on his back.
Knuckles would likely be blabbing to the whole club that he had a booty call at the least, or a woman. He could give a shit. Gertie was his type, she was outside of the club, and he’d be the only one to be with her. There was a lot of attraction to that concept. It was probably the most territorial thought he’d ever had for his own selfish reasons.
Buck checked his phone, got the address, and fired up the bike. Sure enough she was in a neighborhood he’d never been to, only heard of.
The ride from Markham to the land of the elite was marked with all walks of life. No one in Markham was loaded, but even here there were distinct differences between the classes. The truly poor were on the outer edges, which meant city folk headed their way immediately got the worst impression of the town. Between the limits of both civilizations was a bit of farmland. It smelled good, the freshest part of the drive. Even the clean, gleaming city streets didn’t smell as good as that farmland did.
When the industrial and downtown parts of the city gave way to lawns that got bigger and wider he knew he was close. He pulled up to what he thought was the right address and rechecked his phone. Yep, right house. And that’s when he felt a slight hesitation.
It was a huge brick thing with white trim and black shutters. The driveway had iron gates. The lawn and walkway didn’t, though. He felt like he’d walked an entire football field just to make it to the door. He paused, considered just phoning her to tell her he was here, then decided he wanted to see the inside of the house.
He had no idea why.
With a steady hand he raised the wrought iron knocker, slamming it down on the plate underneath. It was loud. That was a solid wood door.
His knock was answered by a polo-shirt wearing model type. Seriously, that’s what the guy was. He was shaved smooth, hair swept to the side and up a bit in front like he’d been caught in a stiff wind. His perma-tan face was locked in a generic smile until he took in Buck fully, then he frowned. “Who are you?” the prick asked, tone implying Buck better be hiding a pizza somewhere or there’d be trouble.
“Gertie here?” he asked as an answer. That was met with a couple of blinks. He had the same eyes as Gertie, Buck realized. Must be one of her brothers.
“Is she … expecting you?”
“Yeah,” was his answer, not wishing to elaborate. Usually the wealthy were respectful somewhat, at least from what Buck had experienced. Good breeding and manners being beaten into them usually at least had them tripping over their own politeness, unable to be outright ignorant. This guy did not suffer from that condition.
“We’re in the middle of some highly personal family duties,” the man explained, leaning back. For a second Buck thought he was letting him in, and when he made to step forward the man barred the door again, even closing it a bit more. “I’m sure you’ll understand that we don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Gertie called me, she wants to leave. Go get her.”
Her brother jerked his head back. “How do you even know her?”
Buck tilted his head. “Fine.” He pulled out his phone and hit her number, on his recent calls list. “I’m calling her to let her know I’m here,” he informed this fucking Gatekeeper. “Go on back inside.”
“Louis!” came a shout from behind the door just as a cell phone rang inside. Buck hung up as Gertie yanked the door all the way open.
When she did he saw the grandeur of the inside, sloping wooden staircases and an actual fucking chandelier hanging over marble floors. And that wasn’t even a room in the house, that was where people put on their fucking jackets.
“What the hell?” Gertie snapped, stepping out on the steps. Buck went down one level, keeping his eyes on the brother because Louis was doing a hell of a job doing the same to him. “Stop being an asshole. I want to leave, I called him to come get me.”
“Gertie, we’re sorting out Mom’s stuff. Don’t you want to be here for it?”
“No!” She whirled on him at that. “No, I don’t want to be part of that. You and Henri and your wives arguing over her furniture and jewelry? That’s what it’ll become and you know I’m right.”
“Don’t you want anything of Mom’s?”
Gertie growled in frustration and stalked around him, back into the house. Buck was caught between the stare down with her brother and his own amusement at seeing a thirty-year-old woman throwing a tantrum.
“This,” she hissed as she returned, holding up a square of cut glass or crystal or some shit. “Okay? I want to keep this. You do remember this, right? It’s what she hit Henri with that scarred his eyebrow? This is what I want to keep to be reminded of our dear mother.” With violent and jerky movements she shoved it in her bag and stalked past him.
The brother had shifted his glare from Buck to Gertie, but Buck still offered a “See ‘ya around,” before following her to the curb.
She was wiping her eyes when he caught up to her, and he knew enough to be silent. This might have been stupid to get involved in. He most definitely wasn’t getting laid, not with her so distraught. Seeing that whole family drama thing had been awkward as hell, but it had also been fascinating.
“You all right?” he finally asked as he handed her a helmet.
“Yes,” she said between sniffles. “Thank you.”
“So that was your brother?”
“My oldest brother,” she specified. “Takes it upon himself to be my father sometimes.”
“Likely just cares about you,” Buck offered lamely.
“He could try doing it without being an asshole,” was her reply before pulling on the helmet and turning to face him. “You taking me home or not?”
Chapter Seventeen
Gertie was wearing a dress again, but she had no trouble keeping it tucked under her butt. Her chest pressed to Buck’s back was exciting. Her arms wrapped around his torso, ditto. She had her cheek to back of his leather jacket, her bare legs clenched against his denim-clad ones, and they were flying. It honestly felt like flying. The wind snaked under her skirt, brushed along her arms, and she didn’t feel like crying anymore. Not one bit.
The ride to her apartment was too short. When he pulled to a stop in an empty spot on the street to let her off she released him reluctantly. He took the helmet back, stowing it away. “Where can I park?” he asked over the rumbling motor. “I don’t want to leave her out on the street.”
She had a spot, it came with her condo, and she certainly wasn’t using it. “Behind the building,” she said, pointing where he could turn in. “Second level. Spot 28. Take the elevator to the sixteenth floor, I’m number 1618.”
He nodded and took off noisily. Even the loudness of his bike was thrilling. She stood and watched him until he’d pulled into the underground lot, biting her lip. Then she turned to the doorman, a new guy, smiling at her brightly and holding the door. She hurried through and towards the elevator, pushing the up button and waiting for the doors.
Her heart was tripping. Her pulse was fluttery. Inviting him here could only be an invitation to sex, right? But was she really going to do this? Let that man into her place? Her bed? Her body?
At the thought a warm rush colored her face and something twitched down deep inside. It might have been the pot, because she was feeling quite light and impulsive from it. But she knew damn well there was more to it than that.
She’d listened to Louis and Buck in front of her mother’s house before she stopped the stand-off. No one in her entire life had thought to take Louis down a few pegs. Buck had done it simply by not cowing to money and privilege. And that had been thrilli
ng too.
In her condo she dug the ashtray out of her bag. It was crystal, cut to be glittery and cast rainbows like a prism. Her mother had carried it room to room while chain smoking Virginia Slims and working on a glass of vodka and ice. It was true what Gertie said about it; her mother had hit her brother with it once. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa with a lit cigarette and he took it away so she wouldn’t burn the house down. She woke up as he’d been putting it out. She’d been angry he’d thought to take care of her and grind out a half-used cigarette. She grabbed it up and swung, catching him right across the brow. It needed three stitches to close and he’d bled like the dickens for an hour. His eyebrow was still a bit askew, out of line, because of it.
Gertie set the ashtray down next to her television, a sadness coming over her again. She wasn’t sure what happened that made her mother so miserable, she’d had a charmed life with no hardships that Gertie could see. Sure, she’d married the man who knocked her up and he left her for another woman. But she was miserable before the affair.
The doorbell rang, and Gertie turned to answer it. She tried to shake off her mother’s ghosts, but she wasn’t sure if anything other than a ride on a motorcycle and wind in her hair could do that.
She pulled the door open, and almost sighed. Okay, maybe that could do it.
Buck smiled at her as he stepped past her into the entry. Gertie shut the door then led the way wordlessly to the living room. Her furniture was modern and minimal because the whole building was made that way. It wasn’t her style, but seeing it now she wondered what he thought of it all.
She turned to her guest, just in time to catch his eyes low. She felt a blush. He’d been staring at her ass, she’d bet money on it. “Um, do you want a drink? I have beer,” she offered, as though something about her indicated beer wasn’t allowed past her front door.
“Sure,” he said easily, eyes shifting to take in the rest of her space.
Gertie left him to it, heading to the kitchen on the other side of a marble-topped counter. It was open to the living area, but she couldn’t see him. She pulled out two bottles of Heineken, wondering if it would even count as beer to a biker.
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