I’ve set up the gallery in roughly chronological order. So the first images show establishing shots of the farm, a few of the guests laughing and talking, and some photos of Cas pre-wedding, holding Mariana and looking happy. Then there are a few pictures of the guests gathering around the spot where Cas and Jenna will be saying their vows.
And then, my heart jumps in my chest as a closeup of Hawk flashes up on the screen, bent over his guitar.
I’ve been working on these pictures for a few days now, and since the only photos of Hawk I took were from the beginning of the ceremony, I haven’t seen these in a while. In spite of myself, my stomach does a little flip as I study his chiseled features. The strong jaw. The sensual lips. The shadow of a beard. His dirty blond hair falls over his eyes as he plays. My breathing speeds up just a bit.
I click to the next pictures, a collage of his hands as he plays. I’ve always had a weird thing about hands. They’re one of the first things I look at on a guy. I can’t explain exactly what it is about some hands that I find attractive, but it’s not something I can turn on or off. You could show me the handsomest guy on the planet, and if I don’t like his hands, he’ll leave me totally cold.
Hawk’s hands are square and strong. Masculine. They look like hands that can do things, fix things. I gaze at the photo collage, at the way his fingers play over the frets and strum the strings. These are hands that know how to be subtle. Not just how to hammer, but to stroke.
I click through a couple more pictures of Hawk. My skin is starting to feel electric. I keep thinking about his hands. Wondering what it would feel like to have them on me: touching me, caressing me. Dimly, I’m aware that maybe I’ve put too many pictures of him at the beginning of the gallery. Maybe I should take a few of them out…
And then, the photo that makes me stop in my tracks, and draw in a sharp breath.
The one where he’s looking straight at the camera — straight at me — a teasing half-smile playing on his lips.
Oh, my gosh…
A shiver runs through me. His hazel eyes are slightly mocking, a challenge in his expression. Before I can push the memory away, I hear his low growl in my ear when I asked him if Hawk was his real name.
“Real enough. Besides, you’ll like it a lot better when you’re screaming it with my head between your legs.”
I stare now at his eyes, transfixed, my nipples growing taut. A low ache begins between my legs. For a second, I look away, embarrassed — as though he can see me staring at him. Then, unable to help myself, I drag my eyes back to the photo. I trace the outline of his lips on the screen. My skin prickles as I remember how it felt to be in his arms — how tightly he held me against him when I fell off the speaker…
A sharp rap on the door of the carriage house jolts me from my thoughts, making me jump.
“Jesus!” I hiss, slamming the laptop shut like I’ve been caught doing something bad. I go to the door and look out. It’s Lourdes, my grandmother’s housekeeper.
“Your grandmother wants to see you in the main house,” Lourdes informs me when I open the door.
“Okay,” I nod, and glance back toward my computer. “Let her know I’ll be there in a few minutes. I just have to finish something up.”
Lourdes presses her lips together and tries to keep her face devoid of expression. “Your grandmother says now,” she says simply.
I suppress a groan. I don’t know why my grandmother can’t just call me or text me like a normal person, instead of using Lourdes to summon me. It’s embarrassing, and it’s not Lourdes’s job.
Irritation flares up inside me, but I try to push it down. This isn’t Lourdes’s fault, after all, and I don’t want to take it out on her. “Okay,” I sigh. “I’ll be right there.”
Lourdes nods once, then turns back toward the main house.
I shut the door and shake my head, my eyes rolling practically out of my head. Of course Gram said she needs to see me now. Even though in all likelihood, she’s just going to ask me to take her poodle Mary Jane out for a walk or something. Other people wait for Gram, but Gram waits for no one.
I’m still flustered and uncomfortably warm from looking at the pictures of Hawk on my laptop when I wander into my bedroom to put on something more presentable than the tank top and faded leggings I’m wearing. I know Lourdes couldn’t have known what I was doing — or at least, what I was thinking about doing. But all the same, I’m embarrassed to be caught having thoughts like that. Especially about someone I have no business thinking about in that way.
When I reach the bedroom, I slip off the tank, grab a bra from the dresser drawer, and find a button-down shirt in my closet. Kicking off my leggings, I find a pair of jeans that aren’t too wrinkled and put them on instead. I pull the elastic band out of my hair, run a brush through it, and give myself a quick glance in the dresser mirror. Good enough. It’s not much, but at least maybe my clean-up won’t invite a full-on critique of my wardrobe from Gram. She has very definite opinions about what is and isn’t appropriate to wear in front of other people.
After slipping on a pair of ballet flats, I walk back out into the main room, out the front door, and across the backyard to the main house as I wonder what she wants to talk to me about.
7
Samantha
My grandmother, Phyllis Jennings, is one of the upstanding members of the citizenry of Tanner Springs. Her husband — my father’s father — was a prominent banker in town. I never knew Grandpa Jennings. He died many years ago, when I was a child. And frankly, I didn’t know Gram growing up, either. My dad skipped town on my mom when I was a baby, and apart from a few grainy photos, I barely even knew what he looked like.
I met Gram right after my mother died of cancer, when I was nineteen. I barely knew of her existence, but I guess she had known of mine. Given that she didn’t know my dad’s whereabouts either, I counted as basically the only remaining direct family she had, apart from a sister-in-law who lived about an hour away. A few weeks after my mother’s funeral, Gram sent me a letter asking me to come visit her in Tanner Springs. We had an awkward but not entirely unpleasant first meeting, at the end of which she silently pressed an envelope into my hands that ended up containing several hundred dollars.
After that, we kept in formal and infrequent touch, mostly through cards and letters at holidays. About two years ago, Gram’s letters started coming more frequently. She told me her health was starting to fail, and eventually asked me if I would move to Tanner Springs, to keep her company in her last months. She had a fully furnished carriage house, she said, and it was mine to stay in for as long as I liked.
It just so happened that Gram’s request couldn’t have come at a better time. I was just pulling myself together after a breakup with the man who would completely sour me on the idea of marriage, and the prospect of getting out of town was an appealing one. I packed up the few possessions I cared to take with me into my little car and drove five hours south to Tanner Springs, expecting to find a frail, dying shadow of the grandmother I knew. Instead, she was as hale and hearty as ever — apart from a recent acquisition of hearing aids, which she despised and swore she didn’t need.
I probably should have been angry that my grandmother basically tricked me into moving to Tanner Springs. But frankly, it’s not like I had left that much of a life back in the city. So, in exchange for eating a few meals with her per week and listening to her complain about whatever’s pissing her off on any given day, I have a place to stay I could never afford on my own and the flexibility to build up my photography business.
When I find Gram in the main house, she’s standing at the large front window to the sitting room. She’s staring outside with a sour expression on her face. Her aging poodle, Mary Jane, is by her side, watching the goings-on with much the same expression.
“Those neighbors across the street have a tree service over there,” she sniffs disdainfully. “They’re going to pull down that beautiful old oak tree in their front yard.
I just know it.” She shakes her head as if she can’t believe their audacity. “That tree has been there forever. It’s part of the neighborhood.”
My gaze follows hers. “It’s also taller than their house, and it’s leaning,” I remark. “One good storm and that thing would crash through their roof.”
Gram purses her lips. She doesn’t like to be contradicted. “Well, there must be something they can do,” she says stubbornly. Beside her, Mary Jane emits a low growl of agreement. “One doesn’t just tear down a tree like that on a whim.” The corners of her mouth turn down. “That tree’s been here much longer than they have.”
A small smile lifts the edges of my mouth. So that’s the problem. The neighbors across the street, the Cantwells, are a young professional couple who moved in a couple of months ago with their two twin boys. He’s a veterinarian and she’s a realtor, if I remember correctly. The house used to be owned by the former mayor of Tanner Springs, who left town a while ago under somewhat mysterious circumstances. Gram herself doesn’t know exactly what happened to him. It’s clear from the way she talks, though, that she enjoyed the prestige of living across the street from the mayor. I don’t think the new neighbors, with their two rambunctious sons, quite live up to her standards.
“You can’t just tear down a piece of history in a neighborhood like this,” Gram is muttering to herself. I know better than to argue with her, so I try to do the next best thing.
“Gram,” I interrupt her, changing the subject, “Lourdes said you wanted to see me?”
“Oh. Yes.” Reluctantly, Gram turns away from the window and faces me. “I got you a job,” she says with a satisfied nod.
I suppress a groan. This is exactly what I was worried about. Ever since I got to town five months ago, Gram has been trying to convince me that photography isn’t a real job, and that I need something more respectable, more steady. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told her I’m getting a decent amount of work and don’t need any help from her connections. She is convinced that I’m wasting my time and energy on a career that will never pan out.
“Gram,” I begin, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “I really appreciate your concern, but I told you, I’m working on building up my photography business. I can’t take on any…”
“Oh, nonsense, Samantha.” Gram cuts me off impatiently. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time in between working to take your little photographs.”
My blood starts to heat up at the reference to my “little” photographs. It’s not news that Gram doesn’t think much of what I do, but it’s still amazing how quickly she can get under my skin with remarks like this. I start to repeat the mantra in my mind that I use whenever she’s making me crazy: She’s an old woman, she’s set in her ways, she doesn’t have any family except you, she’s just trying to help in her own way…
“My good friend RuthEllen Hanson is director of the library,” Gram continues, raising her chin. “She’s looking for someone to work there, perhaps part-time to start, and then eventually full-time.” Gram looks at me and gives me a thin smile. “Of course, when I told her my granddaughter would be available, she was immediately interested in hiring you.”
“But Gram,” I sigh, trying a different tack this time. “Wouldn’t it be better if, you know, I actually applied for positions I actually wanted?”
“Well, I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want this position. It’s certainly not particularly challenging. Even someone with no education can do it,” she says pointedly, referring to the fact that I decided to skip college. “All you’ll be doing is checking out books and re-shelving things. How hard can it be? All you need to know is the alphabet.” She flashes me a look as though she can’t believe I’m looking her gift horse in the mouth.
I push down the urge to argue with her. “I’m sure it’s a lovely job,” I say instead. “And thank you for thinking of me. But I just think…”
“What?” she interrupts, her tone challenging.
Oh, God… She is just not going to let this go, I know. It’s really no use trying to fight her on this. And if I turn down this job, she’ll just look for another one for me. I take a deep breath and let it out.
“Okay, Gram,” I say wearily. “I’ll contact your friend…”
“RuthEllen,” she says promptly.
“RuthEllen. I’ll contact her for an interview.” Maybe RuthEllen will hate me, and Gram will be satisfied that at least I tried, I tell myself, but I know better. My grandmother is one of the stubbornest people I know, and she won’t rest until I have what she considers a “decent” job.
“Excellent, dear,” she says in a dismissive tone, but she seems pleased. She turns her attention back to the front window, and I understand I’m being dismissed.
“Oh, and one more thing, Samantha,” she calls after me as I turn to go.
“Yes?” I ask, glancing back.
“Please take Mary Jane for a walk.”
8
Hawk
“I happened to run into Len Baker this morning,” Rock is saying. “He happened to ask me how the permitting process for the warehouse is going.”
“‘Happened to run into’?” Brick comments sardonically, noting Rock’s repetition of the word. Len Baker is the chief of police for the city of Tanner Springs.
“Yeah,” grunts Rock. “He told me he thinks his days are numbered as police chief. Holloway’s looking to replace him, rumor has it.” Rock takes a long look around the table. “He said Holloway’s working pretty hard behind the scenes to get his preferred candidate for county sheriff elected, too.”
The men grow silent for a moment, taking in his words. There’s no way this is good news for us. Of course, we should have seen it coming. The new mayor, Jarred Holloway, has been crowing about cleaning up the “crime element” in Tanner Springs. And by crime element, it seems pretty clear he means the Lords of Carnage MC.
The warehouse Rock mentioned talking to Len Baker about is one we own on the south side of town. It’s where we keep inventory of various kinds. Including some that’s less than legal. Mainly, guns.
Lately, though, shit’s been heating up enough that the club’s been looking to get out of the gun running business. We’ve been tossing around the idea of a new project: to renovate the warehouse and make it into a garage and repair shop. Most of us have a decent amount of experience fixing engines of various types. So far, though, we haven’t made any moves on that front.
It looks like that may be about to change.
Gun running used to be one of our club’s largest sources of income. Tanner Springs is situated along what the Feds call the “Iron Pipeline.” The Pipeline is the route along Interstate 95 and its connector highways. It’s the main route for gun smuggling between a bunch of the southern states and states up north in New England that have stricter gun laws.
Most of the guns we run end up in New York City and New Jersey — especially to places with a lot of gang activity like the Bronx and Chinatown. Demand is steady, prices are good, and the Lords have solid connections and a lock on the gun smuggling traffic in this part of the state. For a long time, it kept us sitting pretty, financially speaking. And in spite of the risks, it was more than worth it for us — in part because of a long-standing arrangement we had with Abe Abbott.
Abe Abbott was the mayor of Tanner Springs until about two years ago. He also happened to be the father of our club’s Vice President, Angel. The arrangement between the Lords and Abe Abbott didn’t actually have anything to do with Angel being his son, though. This was a deal that Rock cut with Abe a long time ago, back when Abe was first running for mayor.
The deal went something like this: the Lords did what needed to be done to keep the crime rate down low in Tanner Springs, including keeping bad shit from outside from coming into town. In exchange, Mayor Abbott and the TSPD looked the other way on a lot of the Lords’ questionable activity, as long as that activity was kept out of the public eye.
It was an arrangement that worked well for both sides for many years. Abbott kept getting re-elected, and the Lords kept on with business as usual. We even do some fundraisers in the community, to keep the fine upstanding citizens of Tanner Springs from clutching their pearls whenever they see us ride by.
Well, that shit all came to an end a little over a year ago. After Abe Abbott disappeared, and the deputy mayor lost the election campaign to Jarred Fucking Holloway.
For years — as far back as I can remember — Mayor Abbott never had a serious challenger for his re-election campaigns. But a couple of years ago, Abe found himself up against it in the last election cycle, facing a young upstart on a mission to make Tanner Springs his own little empire.
Jarred Holloway grew up here in Tanner Springs, the son of an asshole lawyer who always thought he was better than everybody else in town. Even as a kid, Jarred Holloway was a snot-nosed son of a bitch — the kind of kid that would tell other kids in his class that his dad would sue them if they didn’t let him have his way. He was four years ahead of me in school, and damned if the best memory I have of him isn’t when a group of guys pulled him into a corner after school one day and beat the shit out of him for telling the principal they were smoking weed in one of the bathrooms.
Holloway went away to the state university, and came back to town years later with an MBA and an even bigger attitude than he had before he left. Without ever having held a public office before, he launched himself into the mayoral campaign, using his family money and connections to raise a big pot of campaign cash before Abe Abbott even knew what was happening.
At first, it seemed like Holloway was just doing it to make a name for himself as an important player in town. After all, Abe was well liked, and Tanner Springs was prospering. Crime was low, the streets were well-maintained, repairs were quick whenever a sewer main or something went out. He even managed to sort of buck the trend of decaying small towns, getting some new commercial developments going up around town. It seemed pretty unlikely a young upstart with no track record could unseat a popular and successful mayor with years of experience.
HAWK (Lords of Carnage MC) Page 4