Drummer's Beat (Satan's Devils #2) (Satan's Devils MC)

by Manda Mellett

  As I ponder the puzzle, the quiet of the night is broken by a couple of bikes approaching. Head tilted to one side, I listen until I recognise the engine sounds as they draw close. It’s Wraith and Peg, back from Tucson.

  I watch as they park and when the throaty roar is replaced by the sounds of cooling engines ticking, I walk up to them, exchanging chin lifts with the pair as they dismount. “Sorted?” I have confidence in my VP and sergeant-at-arms, and know that if there was any problem they would have found a resolution to it.

  “Sorted,” Wraith confirms.

  “But we’ll have to get a new bouncer.” Peg’s glare shows me he hadn’t been particularly pleased with what he’d found at the strip club.

  “The girl, she okay?”

  “Yeah. Shaken but she’ll heal, Prez. Split lip and a black eye. Bastard back-handed her when she wouldn’t put out for him. Seemed to think it was his fuckin’ right to sample the goods.”

  Emitting a low growl, I turn away. Women should be under our protection. I already know many of the strippers would prefer to do anything but take their clothes off for money, but we pay well, and most of them haven’t got any other option. The bouncers are there to make sure the customers don’t get their hands on them, not to pressure the girls themselves. Of course, some of them are exhibitionists and enjoy what they do. But for the majority, we make their work as easy as we can. And in return, they give all they’ve got. The club makes good money for us, but if we don’t protect the girls, we’ll lose them. Wraith and Peg will know how angry I am; I don’t have to say the words.

  “What the fuck?” Swinging back around, I see just what has caught Wraith’s attention. It’s the Vincent. Seems I’ve run out of time. Now I’ve got to think fast and come up with some account of why it’s here and who it belongs to. Both he and Peg are walking over to it, their eyes gleaming with envy. While it’s not something any of us would want to swap our modern Harleys for, it’s a thing of beauty in its own right, and there’s probably not a biker alive who wouldn’t take a moment to drool over it. Completely absorbed in eyeing up its sleek lines, I’m given a moment to concoct my explanation. In the end, I decide to go for a short version of the truth.

  “It’s a woman who owns it. Came across her stranded, run out of gas.”

  “Wow,” Peg breathes. “A bitch?”

  Wraith thumps me lightly on the arm. “Only you could do that, Prez. A fuckin’ bitch with a Vincent. Gonna add to your collection?” He’s referring, I hope, to my stable of vintage bikes. “What you doin’ out here if you’ve got her warmin’ yer bed?”

  I might have guessed they’d jump to the obvious conclusion, so I give them a bit more. Once again I’m not veering far from the truth. “Nah, she’s not a club whore or after biker cock,” though I wish she were, “She’d had her wallet stolen and had no money. Got her topped up with gas and brought her here as it was late. She’s bunked down in one of the back rooms for the night.”

  My VP’s not stupid, and he quirks a brow at me as if asking for the rest of the story, but I stay silent. Saying too much is worse than saying too little. And I’m the prez. If I want to do something out of character, I should be able to do so without anyone questioning me.

  After one more piercing look and huffing a laugh, Wraith slaps my back. “Well I’m off to my bed which actually has a woman in it.” He bids us both goodnight, then marches off up the track.

  His words resonate with me and I start wishing there really was a bitch in mine. But when the sweet butts come to mind, despite my earlier intention, I know it’s not one of them I want between my sheets tonight.

  Peg only lingers a moment longer, and from his expression I know he’s puzzled too. But he’s a patient man and will be content to wait for me to enlighten him at the appropriate time.

  Chapter 6

  Sam

  The room Drummer has put me in is to the rear of the clubroom and is obviously a crash place when people don’t want to go home. Or, I realise as I wrinkle my nose in disgust on entering, where they fuck. It’s not particularly clean, but it has a bed, and in all honesty, tonight I’m just grateful to have somewhere to lay my head.

  Sliding under the sheets fully clothed, as I don’t feel comfortable getting undressed in a clubhouse full of rowdy bikers even if I have turned the flimsy lock on the door, I rest my head on the lumpy pillow, throwing my arm up over my eyes and hoping I’ll be able to sleep despite the thumping music still playing outside. And if I don’t? Well, it’s just for the one night. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll get to the bank and get my money situation settled and be able to get on my way.

  But on my way where? Since my mom died my goal had been coming here and finding my father. And now I’ve found him and discovered he wants nothing to do with me; I’ve no real purpose in mind. Thinking practically, soon I’m going to need to find a job as my dwindling savings won’t support me for long, and the only thing I own of any value is the bike that I ride. For the first time since the funeral, I’m at a complete loss as to what to do. Undriven, which isn’t like me at all. I’m close to California; maybe I could settle there? The thought that I could go anywhere should be freeing. Instead, it causes a churning in my gut. I feel adrift. Fighting back tears, I’m conscious I’d been hoping my father would at least have provided an anchor, if not an actual home.

  After tossing and turning all night, a loud knocking is a welcome warning that morning has arrived and soon I’ll be back on the road. It doesn’t do anyone any good to stay where it’s so obvious they’re not wanted. As I unlock and open the door, my eyes widen as they settle on the last person I expected to see. The president of the Satan’s Devils himself, who’s entering carrying a cup of coffee.

  Spying the cup, my hands reach for it eagerly. “Thank you. I didn’t expect room service.”

  He stares at me for a moment, and his scrutiny makes me wish that I’d at least had a chance to brush my hair. It must look like a bird’s nest after my restless night. A feminine wile that’s totally alien makes me try to go smooth it down as I steadily return his gaze.

  His eyes break away first. He glances over at the steaming cup and nods toward it. “There’s a reason for that. I needed to speak to you.” As he indicates the end of the bed and I see there’s nowhere else to sit in the room, I incline my head, and he sits. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “I spoke with Viper last night.”

  Curious and eager to learn whether he’d made Viper change his mind, I place my butt on the bed beside him and incline my head, this time to encourage him to continue.

  “I think it’s safe to say he’s in shock.”

  I’d seen that, and it wasn’t an extraordinary reaction. But how else could I have broken the news? Viper didn’t want to believe it, and part of me can understand why. I add my observation, “And in denial.”

  Drummer nods, “Yeah, there’s that as well. But at the moment there’s no proof.” As I go to speak, he holds up his hand, “For the record, I think it’s true. You are his daughter. You look like him, you know?”

  I do? I think back to the burly biker I’d met, his hair shaggy and needing a trim, his brown eyes reddened from riding in the wind and drinking. I hadn’t thought I’d been looking in a mirror, but maybe I’d been looking for the wrong things. I tilt my head to one side and shrug.

  Drum chuckles and points at me, “That right there, that shrug. It’s all him.” Then his face grows serious. “It’s too much for him to handle right now. And he certainly doesn’t want his ol’ lady to know.” He rubs the top of his slightly crooked nose, drawing my attention to it. It must have been broken at some time, but it doesn’t make him ugly, far from it. “Here’s the thing, he doesn’t want anyone to know who you are… Who you might be.”

  I came to find my father, to discover who and what type of man he is, I didn’t come to cause trouble. And having been dismissed, there’s no point leaving any problems for him in my wake. It had never been his fault that he hadn’t had any invo
lvement in my upbringing. It had been a stupid mistake by a boy too young to know better. A boy taken advantage of, albeit unwittingly, by girl five years older. Though the rejection hurts me to some extent, I understand it. “I’m okay with that. I don’t want to cause problems, Drummer. I’ll just get on my bike and make myself scarce.”

  The president gives me what I interpret as a smile, and a nod of appreciation. “Thank you. Glad you understand, darlin’”

  “So, what is my story? If I meet anyone?” I suspect he’s already had to explain my presence away.

  “You ran out of gas, it was late, I let you stay here.” It’s a succinct explanation.

  I’m curious. “Do you normally rescue damsels in distress?” Unlike his, mine’s a full smile.

  His thin lips purse together, and then one corner turns up, “You’re the first.”

  Somehow I can believe that, and I can only be grateful. There’s a moment of silence before he reaches into his pocket and comes out with a handful of notes. “Here, to tide you over until you get your money situation sorted.”

  I push his hand away, even while my eyes notice there must be a couple of hundred dollars there. “No, I don’t need it. I’ll go to the bank. I’m sure they’ll be able to help me out. Give me cash to tide me over until I get replacement cards.” I sigh, “Though I will probably have to stay in Tucson for a while. I’ve no address, so they’ll probably want me to pick them up from the bank.”

  “It’s a big enough city,” he replies. “That won’t be a problem. Unless you come back here.” The last is added as a warning, but it’s one I don’t need.

  I shake my head adamantly. “I won’t be coming here again, I promise you that.” The rejection from Viper had been final. But there’s a flicker of disappointment inside me, telling me I’d have liked to have got to know this enigmatic man who’s brought me coffee a little better. But why would he be interested in me? He’s a biker, he’s probably got hundreds of women just begging for him. Women who know how to attract such a man, what his needs are, and how to fulfil them.

  “Where will you go?” He’s just making conversation, there can’t be any reason he’d want to know. But it seems he’s in no hurry to leave.

  Again I shrug, the gesture now making me feel self-conscious. Did I really inherit that from my father? “I’ve no idea. I’ll maybe try Cali.”

  All at once he seems to come to a decision. “Let me know where you end up. You never know, once he’s had a chance to think about it, Viper might change his mind.”

  It seems unlikely, but as it wouldn’t be any hardship to give him a call and let him know, I agree.

  At last, Drummer stands, indicating a door that I already know leads to a bathroom. A grotty, smelly, bathroom. “You can shower in there and then I’ll be waiting for you out front.”

  “To escort me off the premises?” I grin.

  He almost grins back, but it seems smiling doesn’t come easily to him. “No, to run interference if any of those fuckers out there try to hit on you.”

  I’m a bit taken aback he’d think any of them would. I mean, I’d seen the women who were around last night, and they’re far more glamorous than me, but I thank him anyway.

  Once he’s gone I drink my coffee and get ready fast, not wanting to keep the president waiting, doubting he’d appreciate being kept hanging around. Feeling only slightly refreshed by the weak trickle of the shower, I leave my room and retrace the steps I’d taken the night before. As I walk through the club room I notice it’s fairly empty, just a man wiping down the bar who throws me a nod. I think nothing of it, it is still early and the men partied hard last night after all.

  But when I get outside, I find the real reason why there was no one around. Here are the bikers, Drummer in their midst, in various poses around my bike. A couple of them are even kneeling on the ground giving it up close and personal scrutiny. Viper, I notice, with a pang of regret, isn’t amongst them. Fleetingly, I wish I’d had the chance to show him what I’d done with it.

  Seeing me approach, Drummer stands and tells me with a grimace, “I think you ought to see this.”

  Having been convinced they’d only been admiring it, his words give me pause. Curious, I look where he’s pointing. Oh, shit!

  I often feel the Vincent’s a living creature—there have been times on the road when she certainly seemed to know her own mind and wanted to argue with me. And right now, if she had been a live animate object I’d have scolded her for peeing all over the ground. But it isn’t pee or water. Or gas. It’s oil. Lots and lots of freaking oil. Without examining it closer, I already know in my gut, I’ll be going nowhere today.

  “Hey, I’m Blade.” A tall man—but aren’t they all?—calls out.

  “Sam.” I introduce myself and nod across at the biker who’s picking at dirt in his nails with a knife.

  He points the blade toward my bike. “I’ll take it down to the garage and have a look at it for you if you like?”

  “No.” It comes out more forcefully than I intended, so I add, trying to sound a little more reasonable, “No one touches her but me.”

  A hand cups my elbow, and I swing around to find it’s Drummer. “Marsh here will run you down to Tucson in the truck. You can get your stuff worked out with the bank, find a hotel or something, and Blade will sort your bike out.” He uses a tone that suggests he will take no argument.

  But he knows nothing about me. I’m like a mama bear with the Vincent, and I won’t have anyone else working on her. I remember the auto shop we passed at the entrance to the compound. “I presume you’ve got all the tools and stuff at your shop? Let me use them. I’ll get her fixed and out of here in no time.” I have to stop myself snarling at the thought of someone getting their hands on her. And no one knows her like I do. Normally a reliable bike, why the fuck has she chosen to embarrass me like this right now when all I want to do is to escape?

  The shuffling of feet and the attention they’re paying to me lets me know not many people refuse an instruction from Drummer. As he glares at me, his steely eyes go cold. I think fast. I’m a woman, and these men surrounding me could easily use force to get me to do whatever they want.

  “Drummer,” I use a more conciliatory and feminine tone which I manage to summon up from somewhere. “I know you don’t want to extend your hospitality.” I remember the story he’s probably told everyone by now. “And I’m grateful for you getting me out of a jam yesterday. But really, I know what I’m doing, and the fastest way for me to get going is for me to work on her myself. And I’ll be down at the shop, out of sight.”

  He doesn’t seem to know how to respond. If I were a man and here for another reason he’d probably allow me to follow through on my suggestion. But I’m not, and I am. While his brain ticks over, another of the bikers butts in, “Why not give her a couple of hours, Prez? See what she can do? If she can’t fix it, we can take her downtown then.”

  I won’t be leaving my bike. Under any circumstances. My hands clench at my sides, getting ready to fight. Not physically, I wouldn’t have a chance, but verbally at least. My Vincent’s my baby, and all I have of my past. It’s not the value; it’s the one thing I’ve got left to remind me of my mom. Holding my breath, I wait for Drummer’s answer while pondering what on earth could have caused the oil spill. With luck, it will be something simple I’ll be able to quickly repair.

  The scrutiny of the men surrounding me is making me nervous, but I refuse to let that show on my face. Instead, I tilt my head to one side, watching Drummer as he deliberates. At last, he comes to a decision and steps back, waving in the direction of the shop. “You’ve got two hours,” he tells me, his set features showing he’s not comfortable with the situation at all.

  I could hug him, but I resist. Instead, I give a business-like nod, then, kicking the bike off the stand, I balance the weight and start pushing. None of them help me, it’s as if they’re testing me. I slip slightly on the oil but righting myself regain my footing. She’s
a heavy beast, but one I’ve manhandled many times before. Like an old friend, I limp her down toward the garage, the incline this time in my favour. Out of the corner of my eye I see the bikers are following me. Great, now I’m going to have a freaking audience! And then I hear what they’re saying, they're freaking making bets on whether I’m going to be able to make her right or not. Well, fuck them. I rebuilt this baby from scratch, and she’s not going to beat me now.

  It’s not a long distance, but by the time I reach the shop my arms are aching. At nearly five hundred pounds she’s almost four times my body weight. But I’ve learned the trick is in the balance. When I come to the ramp I look up in despair, but at least the biker called Blade steps forward and helps me push her up.

  Standing back, I can’t help but admire my sick but beautiful baby. And then Drummer taps me on the arm. “Two hours,” he reminds me before he marches away.

  Knowing I have no time to waste. I nod toward one of the bikers, “Tools?”

  “Here, you can use mine.” The bald-headed man who’d brought the gas yesterday brings over a large, heavy metal box. Slick, I think Drummer had said his name was. Eyeing the ground which, like in any garage is filthy with dirt, tyre residue, and of course, oil. I ruefully wish I had my overalls with me, suspecting my leathers are going to get ruined.

  It can’t hurt to ask. “Any spare overalls?”

  “Here!” Another man chucks me some. They’ve certainly not clean and about ten times too big, but better than nothing. Shrugging off my jacket—God it’s hot in Arizona—I pull them on, roll the sleeves and legs up as best I can, and then get down to work, ignoring the men watching me as I get lost in my task.

  First, I clean off the engine to try to see where the oil is coming from so I can start to identify the fault. That’s a messy job in itself, and quickly my hands are greasy and black. After a while my audience seems to get bored, and they wander off, thankfully leaving me to get on with it. The shop becomes filled with the sounds of engines revving, bangs and clattering of the tools, and the odd swear word as someone struggles to win the battle between a tight bolt and a wrench. The sounds comfort me, reminding me of home.