by Cathryn Cade
Moke already had an arm around his woman, but Stick had the keen impression that if he had not, he’d have done so now. The big Hawaiian’s face tightened a hair, although he smiled.
“Stick, meet Shelle Mason. Shelle, this is Stick Vanko, our president. His old lady Sara.”
Shelle nodded to both of them, and smiled, although it looked strained. “Hi, uh, hello. Nice to meet you both.”
Stick pulled out a chair for Sara and sat beside her.
“Drinks for you two?” Rocker’s woman Lesa asked. “Pete and I brought over a fresh keg.”
“Da,” Stick nodded.
“Nothing for me,” Sara said. She looked to Shelle. “So, Shelle, what do you for a living?”
Moke’s girlfriend straightened. “Now, I’m a waitress. But I’m also a college student.”
“Really?” Now this was interesting. Sara approved of higher education. “What are you studying?”
“Counseling. I want to work with teens. Runaways, and from troubled homes, foster kids. That kind of thing.”
“She’s gonna be awesome at it,” Moke said, giving her a proud look. “She knows what they need.”
She smiled up at him, but then the two shared a strange look, one that set the hair up on the back of Sara’s neck. She and Stick exchanged a glance and he raised his brows.
“Ah, Shelle has something to share with you all,” Moke told them. He frowned around the table. “So please listen with open minds, yeah? And learn.”
The friends around the table exchanged looks. Pete’s eyes narrowed on Shelle’s face. “Then why doesn’t she just spit it out?” he challenged.
Moke’s new lady had pretty skin tone, but now Sara watched with concern as she went pale under her natural tan. She had to give credit, though—Shelle had courage. She looked them all in the eye as she spoke.
“Okay, so, I decided to be a counselor for troubled kids because...that’s my background. And, uh, you know kids act out when their lives are shit, either harming themselves or others. Or uh, forming addictions.”
She paused, and Rocker broke the heavy silence, his voice gentle. “Well, you clearly ain’t no crack-whore, honey, so just share what your problem is.”
She made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “I have...I’m a kleptomaniac.”
Another silence. “A what?” Manda breathed, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what that is.”
“She steals shit,” Pete said, his voice hard.
Shelle flinched visibly, and Moke pulled her closer in the circle of his arm.
Lesa smacked Pete’s arm. “Be nice.”
“Why?” Pete demanded. “That’s what it is, right? This mean we’re gonna have to lock everything down around here, watch our wallets and shit?”
“No,” Moke gave his friend a thunderous glare. “It doesn’t. She doesn’t steal from people she knows.”
“Oh, so just strangers? That’s great,” Pete muttered. “We gotta warn everyone who comes in here to party with us.”
Moke opened his mouth, but Shelle reached up and touched his face with her fingertips. When he looked to her, she shook her head. “I have to do this, not you,” she whispered. “You know I do.”
He lifted his chin but cast another warning glare around the table.
“It’s okay,” Sara said firmly. “We’re listening, Shelle. Please go on.”
Pete scowled, but kept his big mouth shut. Sara loved Stick’s little brother, but he could be a judgmental a-hole.
“First,” Shelle said quietly. “I’ve been maintaining for nearly three years—except for one lapse. For me, kleptomania means that I have be real careful out in public shopping places. Stores, grocery stores, that kind of thing. I’ve never stolen anything big, just...stupid stuff like pens, makeup, junk jewelry...that kind of thing. And I don’t steal from anyone in, uh, private. That’s not how it works for me.”
“And you put it back,” Moke added.
She nodded. “Yeah. I got real good at that.”
She looked Sara in the eye, and then Stick. “So...I know you have to decide if you want someone like me around. And I respect that. You can, uh, let Moke know what you decided. And I can stay away from here if need be.”
There was another silence, as they all waited for Stick to speak. He took his time, then tapped his fingers on the table.
“All right. Shelle, thank you for sharing this up front. Here is what I know—my brother Moke thinks enough of you to bring you here. And we think a lot of Moke. We trust him. So we’ll assume we can trust you too, da?”
Shelle nodded, her shoulders sagging with relief. Moke leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Proud of you, tita.”
Sara smiled at the couple. All the Flyer old ladies had been waiting for the right woman to come along for their big, quiet Hawaiian. “And Shelle, you think you’re the only one with junk in your trunk, think again.”
“True that,” Billie said to Shelle with a warm look “Ask Lesa and me about our dad sometime.”
But Rocker was giving Sara a quizzical look. “’Junk in her trunk’? Sara, I don’t think that means what you think it means.”
“Yeah, I do,” she retorted. “Skeletons in your closet, ghosts in your attic, yada yada.”
He opened his mouth, and then closed it, his eyes twinkling like mad. “Well, my old lady has some serious junk in her trunk, an’ I like her like that, all I’m sayin’.”
Billie blushed. The other guys roared with laughter—except for Shelle and Moke, who were smooching.
Sara frowned at Stick, who was chuckling too. “Okay, what?”
He winked at her. “You’ve got plenty, that’s all you need to know, blazhinka.”
“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll Google it.”
“Already did.” Manda waved her phone at Sara, eyes twinkling in her pretty, freckled face. “Uh...it means you have a nice, uh, round ass.”
Sara’s expression must have conveyed her disgust, because everyone at the table laughed again, even harder.
She rolled her eyes at them all, and rose with dignity. “I am going to find a bottle of wine and open it. Ladies?”
She swept away from the snickering Flyers, knowing that her old ladies would follow her. She rarely invoked her authority, but when she did, she expected to be heard.
Wine, opener and glasses in hand, Sara, Lesa, Billie, Manda and Shelle met on the back patio, which was very pleasant with the September sun slanting in across the meadow.
Sara had also had some sturdy evergreens brought in, along with a few big cement tubs, now full of fall grasses and a few gold and orange mums.
Stick didn’t mind as long as she didn’t try to make it too feminine, and while some of the men snickered, she’d noted she wasn’t the only old lady who now liked to sit back here.
Wine opened and poured, the women relaxed, and soon were chatting happily.
Sara took a few sips and set hers aside. It didn’t taste good, for some reason.
“So, you’re a waitress,” Lesa said to Shelle. “Where have you worked?”
Billie giggled. “She means, can you handle rowdy bikers, cowboys and local rednecks without spilling a pitcher of beer.”
Lesa shrugged good-naturedly. “So? We can always use good help at The Hangar.”
“I’ve been a barmaid, bar-tended and waitressed at a big truck stop in SeaTac,” Shelle said. “And I do need a job while I finish my degree. The hours would have to work around whatever class schedule I end up with, though.”
“We can do that,” Lesa said. “Just get me your references, okay?”
Sara watched Shelle’s shoulders sag. “I...don’t exactly have references from my last job. See, there was this wallet.” She bit her lip. “I guess I can share now, because the guy who got me fired, and tried to kill me, is in jail now.”
Sara’s brows went up. She’d heard an abbreviated version of the story from Stick, but this was the inside scoop, from the woman who’d gone through it. “Do tell.
”
They all listened with fascination as Shelle told them her story.
At the end, it was quiet for a moment. Then Manda hiccupped quietly. “Wow,” she breathed. “Guess every one of us here has been through some bad shit.”
“True that,” Billie agreed emphatically. She held out a fist to Shelle. “Sisterhood.”
Shelle tapped her fist, then Lesa’s, and Manda’s, smiling mistily. “Thanks,” she said. “I’d love to hear all your stories, too.”
“Oh, you’ll have time,” Sara assured her. “Since you’ll be around for a while.”
“I just wish I coulda run away to Hawaii during my thing,” Manda said wistfully. “Summer’s here are nice, but they’re kinda short.”
Shelle nodded. “That part was awesome. Moke’s property is so gorgeous.”
“Too bad he has to sell it,” Lesa sighed. “I could so do with a tropical getaway.”
Sara tapped a finger against her lips. “Hmm,” she said. “I wonder...”
But that was a thought for another time. Right now, she heard the twins’ voices coming around the south end of the clubhouse, and Blackie’s deep ‘woof’ with them.
She sighed. Time to get home and cook supper for her men, big and small.
The boys burst into view, eyes wide with excitement. “Sara! Sara! Papa says we can eat supper here! He ordered Mexican food! For everyone!”
“And this is why we love our Papa,” she said. “He has the best ideas.”
“Wow, that’s really nice,” she heard Shelle ask Manda. “Do you guys do this a lot?”
Manda shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it is. Around here, you just get used to kind of going with the flow, you know? And we all help out when needed too. When T and I were staying here, I cooked.”
CHAPTER FIFTY
As it turned out, Shelle was needed at The Hangar long before anyone thought she would be.
She’d handed in her papers in Seattle, and begun the process of transferring to a college here in Spokane. Once that was started, there was nothing to do but wait.
So, when Sylvie, The Hangar’s best waitress, took a bad fall while skating in a local roller derby, and was told she’d be on crutches for several weeks, off work indefinitely, Shelle hustled in, chose a Hangar tee-shirt and got to work.
She liked the brewpub-restaurant right away. The place was rustic, comfortable and full of the smells of good food and good beer. Moke and T showed up to ‘support’ her during her first evening shift. Which meant they staked out a high-top in the bar where Moke could watch her work. Then they ate, drank beer, played pool and chatted with the other Flyers who came through, and many of the locals.
Shelle paused by their table after delivering an order of pizza and beer. “Stop staring at my tits,” she ordered, narrowing her eyes at Moke.
He set his hands on her hips and pulled her between his brawny legs. “Can’t,” he assured her regretfully. “Your tits in that tight little tee...so ono.”
She put her hand on his chest, trying to repress a smile—which was impossible when he was looking at her like she was a big ice cream cone he wanted to lick. “You are a big pain in my ass, you know that?”
T-Bear rumbled a dirty laugh. “Shelle, I’m surprised at you, sharing deets of your sexy times like that.”
Moke laughed at the look on her face, and she tipped her head forward to bang her forehead on his chin. “Gah! Not what I meant.”
“Well, when you kids are ready for that step, you let Uncle T know, ‘cause I know where to buy lube real cheap,” T said.
“A-and I have to get back to work,” Shelle said, her face flaming.
“Shut up, T,” Moke ordered, and kissed her. “Later, tita.”
She smiled at him hazily.
“Say, Shell, you gonna get back to work or what?” T asked, grinning. “Man, good thing I came along, ‘cause you two need public supervision.”
Shelle straightened with a snap. “I’m going. Just tell your friend here to stop kissing me.”
“Moke, stop kissing her,” T ordered. “These people need their beer.”
Moke winked at her. “Later?”
She nodded and got back to work.
It turned out working at the Hangar was on another plane from working at the Travel Center in SeaTac. For one thing, although she and Pete were still keeping a polite distance from one another, Shelle loved working with Lesa. The brunette was bubbly, funny, efficient and worked even harder than her and Pete’s employees.
And for another, everyone in Airway Heights knew who the Devil’s Flyers were—and thus they treated the staff of the club’s brewpub with respect. Shelle could not get enough of this.
Also, the place had an atmosphere of easy friendliness. She guessed it was a small town thing. Whatever, she liked it.
Until it all went to hell in a hurry.
Shelle was made aware by the other old ladies that while they—and she by virtue of being with Moke—were the elite of the women who hung around the Flyers’ clubhouse, there was another strata of women there.
The club whores, as Sara bluntly called them. Women who liked hanging around bikers and traded sex for the privilege of doing so. Many of them, Sara explained, just came to party, then went happily on their way. But some wanted more and were willing to do whatever it took to claim one of the brothers as her own.
Shelle found out just how true this was, in the most painful of ways.
Saturday night was party night at the clubhouse. On a warm, sunny evening in September, this meant barbecue night.
Thus, after her day shift at The Hangar, Moke picked her up on his bike and brought her back to the clubhouse to experience, as he put it, ‘the full Flyer monte’.
Shelle had a blast. The back patio of the clubhouse was ringed with barbecues emitting delicious smells, and tables groaned with other foods. People talked, laughed, ate and drank while class rock spilled out into the evening air.
She met more of Moke’s brethren, including Rav, a long, lean, broad-shouldered guy with a gleam in his eyes that made her glad she was with Moke. She also had the pleasure of meeting a couple of the prospects, Streak and Drew. She met some of the older members, Webb and Velvet, who she instantly adored, and Snake and Darlene, who looked her over with rudely open curiosity. Bouncer looked her over as well, did not bother to smile, merely grunted and went on his way. Fine with her.
There were many strangers there that evening, including some families with little kids racing around. And the club ‘hos’ Sara had warned her about.
One of them, a lithe brunette with breasts that could not possibly be real and nails out to there, glared at Shelle from her place at a table with Bouncer, Snake and other guys.
“Moke,” Shelle asked, tipping her face up to his. “Is there a reason that chick is trying to use her death-ray vision on me?”
He looked over her head and scowled. “Nope. Misti means nothing to me. And she keeps it up, her and me will have words.”
She smiled up at him. “How about you just kiss me instead?”
He did, with the result that Shelle forgot all about the bitchy Misti, and everyone else around them for a while.
By eight o’clock, Shelle was a bit tipsy, as she had drunk two of Pete’s fabulous beers and done shots with Manda and Kit, a gorgeous funny old lady who was present with not one but two guys.
Shelle wanted some alone time with her own guy. Who was plenty big enough for two guys, she thought with a snicker.
She wound her way through the tables to Moke, and leaned over his shoulder, nipping at his ear with her lips. “You ready to take me home, kanaka?”
He reached up and claimed her hands with one of his. “Yup. Got your purse?”
She did not. She looked around and spied it hanging over a chair. “Got it,” she said happily.
Moke rose, arm over her shoulders, and turned her toward the door. “’Night, everyone.”
They were nearly to the front doors when a shriek of feminine o
utrage rang out. Moke turned, Shelle with him. “What the hell? Trouble this early?” he muttered.
Snake’s woman Darlene stood in the middle of the room, shaking her right hand in mid-air. “My ring!” she shrieked, the big room going quieter as people turned to look her way. “My ring is gone—my big turquoise Snake got me in Arizona.”
“Calm down,” someone hollered. “Everyone look around.”
There was a general hustle, accompanied by much laughter and one drunken scuffle when two bikers knocked heads.
“Maybe she left it in the bathroom,” Shelle said. “I could go look there.”
“Yeah, the bathroom,” sneered a voice. Shelle turned sharply to see Misti sneering at her. Hands on hips, the shook her head. “Maybe they should look in your shit.”
Moke stiffened. “What the fuck? Bitch, shut your filthy mouth.”
“Yeah,” T rumbled, rising to his full height like an unhappy bear. “You don’t badmouth an old lady.”
Darlene shoved her way through to them. She was swaying on her feet, her eyes glassy. “Lemme see her purse!” she demanded.
“No way in hell,” Moke thundered.
Shelle cringed under the weight of all the other people’s stares. “Moke, it’s okay.”
She moved back to their table, and up-ended her purse. “Here, have a look.”
Out tumbled her wallet, lipgloss, phone...and a heavy silver ring, laden with turquoise.
“My ring!” Darlene shrieked. She dove for it, grabbing it off the table. “You thieving cunt—you took my ring.”
She went for Shelle, but Moke moved faster, pulling Shelle behind him and blocking Darlene with a huge hand on her chest.
“Snake!” he thundered. “Handle your woman.”
“Fuck, it’s true,” a woman said. “Heard she was a thief. It’s true.”
Shelle shoved clear of Moke, and faced her, her head buzzing, heart racing. “It’s true, but not this,” she called, sweeping out a hand toward Darlene. “I wouldn’t steal from one of you—I wouldn’t.”
“Ain’t what we heard,” a man muttered. “Heard you’re one of them kleptos, takes shit every chance you get.”