by J. C. Emery
“How’s the nick?” he asks. The room is heating up quickly, and I think the only thing I could do about it would be to put some distance between him and me.
“Fine,” I say. My lungs barely have enough oxygen in them to get the word out.
“No more avoiding me,” he says. I’m an idiot—I nod in agreement. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I want to argue with him about it, but not avoiding him gets muscled, taut man parts pressed up against me, and even if it is at work, and it is embarrassing, it’s been a while.
“No more being an asshole,” I say. If he’s going to give orders, I’m going to at least bargain for a fair deal.
“I’ll try,” he says. It’s something, and I should take it, but I don’t.
“I won’t avoid you so long as you’re not an asshole,” I say. My eyes catch sight of his lips, and I’m distracted all over again.
“Don’t avoid me and I won’t be an asshole,” he says. The intensity of the conversation is broken just slightly by the small smile that appears on his lips.
“I doubt you’re capable of that,” I murmur. He bends down and presses his forehead to mine.
“Take the money.”
“You’re being an asshole.”
“Money.“
“Asshole,” I say.
“You can try to fight me, but I got you,” he says and takes a step back. His hands fall from my neck and hip. As he backs away, he licks his lips and looks me up and down. I push off the door to the janitor’s closet and follow him out into the open office. He grabs his helmet from my desk and turns to leave. Still in a daze, I turn at the wrong time, and his hand slams down against my backside.
My eyes are so big, and my skin from head to toe darkens to a crimson red that feels uncomfortably hot. I barely get my head turned in time to see him open the side door and disappear.
Margot’s eyes are intently focused on the paper in front of her, but it’s obvious that she’s about to die from shock and curiosity, perhaps both.
I plop into my seat and try to ignore the subtle stinging of both my ego and flesh at the fact that I was spanked. At work. In front of my boss. By an outlaw biker.
I LOOK DOWN at my store-bought, pre-made salad with disdain. It’s one of those salads that looks yummy enough in the store, but when you start eating it, you realize why it was so cheap. I guess that’s what I get for buying a pre-made drugstore food product. The lettuce has been shredded, and the cheese tastes waxy. And to boot, I made the mistake of checking out the expiration date and realizing that today’s the last day for recommended freshness. Call me crazy, but ever since I saw that, I’m basically convinced that my lunch is going to kill me. After what just happened, I might be okay with that.
“This is ridiculous,” Margot says from her desk. She recovered from her shock a few minutes ago when she started humming themes songs from television shows interchangeably. She swivels around and drags herself over. She places her elbows on the edge of my desk and leans in. “That thing looks awful. Just go grab something else for lunch.”
“I’m fine, really. It tastes fine,” I say in protest, but I’m not a good actress and she sees right through my pitiful attempts at lying. I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes trying very hard to pretend like that scene between Grady and I didn’t just happen. Margot gives me a curious glance. She’s not going to let this go. I haven’t eaten lunch out of the office since that day I went to The 101 Club, and she’s started to notice. Before then, I’d gone out for lunch regularly. I’d even made a comment or two about hating to pack a lunch. It makes me feel like I’m eight years old all over again, but I don’t like the alternative much, so I stay in. And now that I know what happens when I go out for lunch in a post-Grady world, I really don’t think I want to do that again.
“Uh oh, that’s two fines nearly back to back,” Margot says with a sympathetic smile. “You can talk to me, Holly. That scene was kind of intense.”
“Okay,” I say and lean in. I have to give her something to sate her need for gossip. The woman is a damn bloodhound when there’s a story to be scooped. “I’m a little tight on money right now. I just don’t need the added expense of buying lunch.”
“Is that what your fight was about, that you won’t let him help you with money? I mean, you can’t really be tight on money with Grady around,” she whisper shouts with a mischievous smile on her face. My stomach drops, and my face falls at the mention of his name. Margot has done so well not to mention him much in recent weeks that her teasing catches me off guard, but what do I expect after that show of caveman idiocy? I really don’t want to talk about Grady or the band of hooligans he has keeping tabs on my every move. They’ve already invaded every other part of my life. I don’t want them to now invade work as well. I guess that went out the window the moment he stormed in here demanding to speak to me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “Is that impolite? I just meant that…I have a cousin with glaucoma. I know he buys from a guy in Willits who says he gets his stuff from the club. I just figured with those nice houses and bikes they have and all…oh, nevermind.”
Margot’s worked herself up into a tizzy. She leans back in her chair, rubs her hands together, and pouts. She keeps doing this. As if Grady’s totally inappropriate ass slap, and Cheyenne’s repeated visits to my desk aren’t enough, I also have Margot who just can’t let this fake relationship go. Only, both Cheyenne and Margot think it’s real.
“I just have to ask—is everything okay with you two?” Margot says as her brows furrow and her lips form into a pout. I blow out a breath and push away the awful, rotted salad and decide to end this once and for all.
“I don’t know what we are to each other, nor do I know what he’s doing. He’s insane. I can’t even tell you what that little stunt was. We had a very brief encounter, and I haven’t been with him since,” I say. I don’t count him knocking on my apartment door and me not answering us being together. Nor do I count me trying to avoid him in a parking lot us being together. And I certainly don’t count his impromptu drop-in and rear-end assault as us being together. Those are the only times I’ve seen Grady since that day, and when I’m in a relationship, I typically require a little kindness and affection. Though, the pre-rear-end assault part wasn’t so bad.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Holly.” Margot reaches over and pats my hand, then slides back to her desk.
“It was hot though,” she mutters. “No man has patted my ass like that in at least twenty years.”
She manages to leave me alone for a few hours, but when attendance reports come in a little after four, she jumps from her chair. “Sorry,” she says, “but I...uh, I have to cut out early. You okay here?” She inches toward the door.
I stare at the reports. Margot never says where she’s going, but she has to “cut out early”—as soon as attendance reports show up—at least once a week. I shrug her off, deciding it’s for the best. Cheyenne is still missing classes, not as many as she was before her dad approved her counseling, but enough that I’ve had to fudge the last two reports so she doesn’t get in trouble. “No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She pauses at the door and turns back to me. Her mouth opens, then closes again in a very un-Margot-like display of hesitation. Finally, she says, “I’m sorry about Grady, but you’ll find someone better suited for you, hun.” And then she’s gone.
What the hell does she mean by that? I may not be some badass biker chick or anything, but is it really so unimaginable that a man like Sterling Grady could be with someone like me? Maybe I’m just not interesting enough to date a biker. I should try an accountant or someone else with an equally boring sounding job. But what the hell does she know? It wasn’t Margot he had pressed up against a door. It was me.
I’m about to pack up for the day when the main office door swings open. Looking up from my computer, I see none other than Cheyenne rushing toward me with wide eyes and shaking hands. She looks over her shoulder at the door several times befo
re she rounds my desk and stands beside me. I turn to face her and practically whisper, “Cheyenne, what’s wrong?”
“There’s a man leaning on my car. I tried to call my dad, but he didn’t pick up. The guy said he had a message for Dad and he wants me to give it to him.”
Jumping to my feet and maneuvering around her, I cautiously walk toward the door and keep an eye on the inset window. “Did he leave or was he still there when you came in here?”
“He was still there. I didn’t wait to hear the message. Dad has very clear rules about talking to strangers, and that’s like, the one rule I don’t intend to break, ya know?” she says. I inch toward the door and stop breathing for a good few seconds before I catch myself. I can’t let myself freak out right now. Cheyenne needs me to be the adult. She came to me for a reason. The only problem is that now I want an adult to come deal with this for me.
Leaning against the old, rusted classic Volkswagen Bug that Cheyenne drives is a man in a black suit that costs more than my monthly gross pay. He’s all fine lines and perfect fit, and his body language exudes a confidence that only comes with a pay grade I’ll never know. His sun-kissed skin tells me he’s not from around here. Nobody from Mendocino County is particularly tan, especially not during this time of the year. We’re much too late into the fall to still have a lingering summer tan. The man fills out the suit well, which tells me he is either naturally gifted with a great body or he works for it. His black hair is gelled back, and he’s sporting some expansive as all hell sunglasses despite the fact that it’s cloudy out.
“You don’t know who he is?” I ask Cheyenne. She slides up beside me and presses herself against my side as she forces me to share the small window in the door.
“Does he look like anyone I know?” she asks. I bite my tongue to keep from telling her what I think of the people she knows.
“Stay here and try your dad again,” I say then squeeze out the door. Once I’m on the other side, I’m mentally screaming at myself. What the hell am I doing out here? I should go back in and call the police, but I know that when Forsaken are involved, you don’t call the police. I really don’t need to give anyone in or associated with the club ay more reason to have to talk to me about anything. As it is, I’ve been ditching Grady and his buddies who keep trying to give me money for the last few weeks. He’s made it perfectly clear how he feels about my avoiding him. I just can’t deal with him right now, though his world keeps finding ways to impede on my own despite my attempts, and I don’t like it.
“Sir,” I say as loudly as I can bring my voice to get, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”
“I have a message for Forsaken,” he says in a thick accent that sounds definitively East Coast. His words are all compressed in telltale spots and then dragged out in others. It’s not Boston, but it might be New York.
“Then deliver it yourself,” I say with a snap. I knew the moment Cheyenne said a man had a message for her dad that this was a club problem, but this man doesn’t look like anybody in the club. They’re all rugged beauty and blue collar, working man’s attire. This guy is sleek and all business in a very expensive way.
“That’s not how this is going to work,” he says. His mouth turns up just slightly in the corner. “Please tell Grady that…”He doesn’t get any farther—I cut him off, totally unable to listen to this crap. My blood pressure is likely through the roof right now. My hands shake, and my knees feel weaker than I’d like to admit, but I don’t show this to the best of my ability. My palms sweat, and my heart thumps wildly in my chest.
“Stop, just stop!” I shout. “This has nothing to do with me or Cheyenne. So just get out of here and leave her alone.”
The man against the car moves his hand in his pocket so the corner of his suit jacket is shoved back. Beneath it, a bright gold gun shines in the overcast rays of the sun. “Yelling at me is not wise.” “Now,” he says and clears his throat. “Please tell Mr. Grady that Mr. Mancuso’s business associates are in town and they would like to schedule a meeting with him to discuss an acquisition. We’d like to avoid a hostile takeover if possible, but we understand that the club is quite fond of our assets and some aggressive tactics may be necessary.”
“And why can’t you tell them this yourself?” I say with my eyes glued to the gun at his hip. He makes it sound all business, but there’s an underlying message that I’m missing.
“Two birds, one stone. I wanted to check on Cheyenne. She’s a beautiful young girl. She should be with her family. I’d hate to see her ripped from them.” Regardless of what I think of Grady and his stupid deviant club, that has nothing to do with Cheyenne. She’s just a teenager, and she’s obviously scared out of her wits. Forgetting the gun entirely, I stare up at this man and meet his eyes. The shake of my hands is gone, and now it’s just a mild straining in my muscles, like my body is instinctively preparing to run.
“Leave her alone!” I scream. I’ve heard so many stories about the club and what they’re capable of. I want to tell this man that he had better not let the club hear him say that or it’ll be the last thing he does. But that’s not my place, and the club’s affairs aren’t my problem. But Cheyenne is my responsibility right now, and I have to think of what’s best for her. Surely getting her out of here and away from this man is priority one.
“I do hate to be yelled at,” he says dryly and slowly moves his hand to the gold gun and grips it. “Please don’t make me hurt you.”
My stomach drops, and I take a single step backward. Our eyes are locked on one another. I move back another step when he takes a step forward. The immediate need to get out of there takes over, and I turn around and run back to the door as fast as I can. I don’t turn to see if he’s following. I just fling the door open and, once I’m on the other side, quickly slide the locks into place. My eyes lift up and peer out the window. The man is gone.
“What did he say?” she asks. I keep my mouth shut about it and instead bolt over to my desk, where I grab my purse and fish out my keys.
“Nothing, but we have to find your dad. Right now,” I stammer out.
“He isn’t answering my calls,” she whines. “I tried Uncle Wyatt, but he isn’t answering either. Should I call my Aunt Ruby?”
“Who?” I say as my eyes dart around the room. I try to think of a game plan. I know we need to get out of here, but I’m not sure how since I don’t know where the man is. Would he really hurt us, or was this all about just scaring us?
“Uncle Jim, the president of the club. His wife,” she says as she chews on her bottom lip and looks around fearfully. Recognition dawns on me, and I remember who Ruby is. I don’t know what good calling her would do, but I don’t argue. When I nod, Cheyenne pulls out her phone, slides her finger across the screen, and brings it to her ear. We need to act. I reach out and grab her hand and lead her down the back hallway toward Principal Beck’s office. It’s closest to the staff parking lot, and maybe, just maybe, we can get out that way without incident.
I keep my ears open as Cheyenne gives her Aunt Ruby the lowdown at warp speed. I’ve experienced it, and I’m not even sure what she says, she says it so fast. All I can hear on the other side is mumbling. Cheyenne makes the call short and slides the phone back into her pocket when she’s done. Looking at me with tears welling in her eyes, she says, “They’re in Church. They don’t have their phones. Aunt Ruby is calling the prospects now. She said to stay put.”
“You want to stay here?” I ask incredulously. I can’t imagine anything worse than staying here like a sitting duck. Everything in me tells me that I have to get her out of here and to her dad.
“No—yes,” she says quickly, and then corrects, “I don’t know.”
“We’re not staying,” I say. My body buzzes with fear and anticipation of all the awful things that could happen here. If I can get us in the car, we’ll be safe. But here in this building with who knows how many old rusted locks and broken latches? Not just no, but hell no. I
am not staying here.
“Okay, if you’re sure,” she mutters. Nothing in her voice or demeanor tells me that she trusts me. I can’t blame her. I shouldn’t be trusting me, either. I just can’t stop thinking of the ways that man could get in here and how we’re isolated enough from anyone else that nobody could hear our screams. The custodian could be anywhere on campus, and we no longer have campus security—they got laid off. So it’s likely just her and me and that crazy bastard outside. No and thank you. We have to go.
At the back door, I tell Cheyenne to stay put, and then I rush around to the windows, looking to see if the man is anywhere in sight. Thankfully, this part of the building has pretty good visibility and not much blockage. Taking a deep breath, I grab Cheyenne’s hand again, tighten my grip, and rush out the door with her. It’s a short distance to my car, parked in the third spot from the door. I don’t pause to look around, for fear that I might trip to waste time.
“It’s unlocked!” I shout to Cheyenne as I let go of her hand and we part at the front of the car. She heads for the passenger door and I for the driver’s side. In a matter of seconds we’re inside the Jeep and locking our doors and then the backseat doors as well. I start her up, and we peel out of the lot with nobody else in sight. Still, I don’t stop shaking until a few minutes later when we’re pulling through the gates of the Forsaken Motorcycle Club’s clubhouse.
WE’RE AROUND THE table and about to vote on what to do with Junior. We just got through a waste-of-time rundown of what happened at The 101 Club. We’ve figured out that we don’t got shit—no car, no witnesses, no evidence, and no fucking tracks. Which is just goddamn wonderful if you ask me. We didn’t catch the car that was used to get away when some prick fired a couple of rounds into the place. Didn’t even get a glimpse of it, like it’s a fucking ghost.
Jim brought it to the club to talk about moving Junior out of the safe house and into someplace more permanent. We’ve talked about this twice now, and moving him has been voted down both times. I already asked him if this was Ruby holding his dick again, or if this was his idea. The old man swears it’s his idea, but I fucking doubt it. For every ounce of support and loyalty she’s shown that man, he owes her, at the very least, giving her his ear every now and then. I only fucking wish he had the fucking spine to tell her no once in a while. One more call from his Old Lady, and I’m gonna call to patch her ass in. Apparently she’s running this shit anyway.