by Cathryn Cade
A vest just like the one Pete himself often wore.
They’d taken over the place with their lewd jokes and rough laughter. She’d thought about marauders that day too. Stick Vanko had a Russian accent that was stronger than Pete’s.
Pete had been relaxed and genial—happy to have them there. He’d served them pitchers of his best brew, and gone back to the kitchen to make sure their portions were huge, and their food perfectly prepared.
“You’re—you’re just an outlaw,” Lesa breathed, now falling back against the support of his bedroom wall, her legs shaking. “You’re not just a brew-pub owner, you're one of them. Those Devil's Flyers.”
Outlaws on two wheels, who did what they wanted to whoever they wanted, and anyone who got in their way disappeared. She’d watched SOA along with the rest of the world, and even if the show had been fiction, it was based on fact, wasn’t it?
Pete’s face hardened, his nostrils flared, high cheekbones sharply etched, his mouth set in a ruthless line. His eyes were pure ice.
“Da. I’m one of them. Remember that, and the better you’ll do here. And in case you're planning to call someone to rescue you …” He held up her smart phone in its sleek, pink-and-black case. He’d stolen it right out of the hip pocket of her jeans.
"No!" Lesa reached for it, then drew her hand back at his searing look. "Give me that.”
He shoved it in his own pocket in answer.
“Give it back. I need it—and I can't afford a new one."
"Then don’t give me reason to toss it. Stay here quiet, like a good girl."
“I can’t stay here. What about my car? It’s parked out on your road. Everything I own is in there.”
“Don’t worry about it, no one’s going to get into it. There’s a bed. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
And with that, he closed the door with a solid thunk. Something rattled outside, a lock. Then his footsteps faded along the hall.
When he was gone, Lesa rushed to the door and banged on it. turned the knob. He’d locked her in.
She was trapped, at the mercy of a ruthless biker who looked at her as if she was his next meal.
And no one else in the world knew where she was.
CHAPTER FOUR
There had to be a way out of here.
Lesa hurried across the room. One door opened to a closet, empty of all but a set of old curtain rods and a plastic tub, which held more toy vehicles and a Ninja Turtle. That was weird, as she’d never heard anyone at the Hangar mention Pete having kids. Maybe he didn’t have custody, and they only visited occasionally? Ack, not her problem.
The other door led into a bathroom, old-fashioned as the house, with a pedestal sink, tub and shower, and toilet.
The door on the far side of the small bathroom was locked too. Lesa kicked it in frustration, and through the rattle of the hinges, she heard a low, mocking laugh. “Remember, be a good girl,” Pete Vanko called through the door.
She made a horrible face at the closed door as his footsteps receded across the room beyond the door, then thumped away down the stairs. Bastard.
This was his bathroom, she could smell him in here. And no wonder, with his shaving things littering the edge of the sink, and his shampoo and soap in the shower, his towels hanging on the rack.
She went back into the bedroom, and hurried to the lone window. It was long and built in the old style, with a lower sash that rose, leaving plenty of room for a person to climb out. But when she unfastened the latch and shoved the window up and open, her heart sank.
Yes, she could fit through it. But in this old-fashioned farmhouse with its high ground-floor ceilings, it was a long, long way to the ground.
And the only thing to break her fall was a scraggly, old lilac with only three scrawny stems. She’d probably wind up with one puncturing her somewhere, which would hurt worse than landing on the frozen ground.
She could drag the mattress off the bed and drop it down there to break her fall, but no way would that fit through the bottom half of the narrow window. And breaking the window would involve shards of glass to climb over, so that was a big no as well.
Darn Pete Vanko for not practicing modern home safety, and having a rope ladder handy. Unless she came up with some fantastic McGyver-ish solution to breaking out, she was stuck up here.
And in the distance, she heard the rumble of thunder.
No, worse. Much, much worse. That was the rumble of big motorcycles.
And there, out on the county road, a group of single headlights pierced the night.
Oh, God. The Devil’s Flyers were coming. Pete Vanko had called them out to deal with her. She was dead … or worse.
What if … what if he let them rough her up, or even rape her? She’d heard talk about bikers in the Tri-Cities, the Prairie Rattlers, doing things like that. Her dad had coached all three of his girls to stay out of the parts of town the gang frequented.
Lesa’s stomach clenched, and then roiled in an all-too familiar way.
She turned and raced for the bathroom. Dropping to her knees, she just had time to pull her hair to one side before she lost the contents of her stomach for the second time that day.
She vomited until her belly was empty, then shuddered with distaste as she reached blindly to flush the mess away. Good thing she’d eaten little except soda and crackers after being sick the first time.
She rinsed her mouth with cold water from the sink, then sank onto the edge of the old, round lipped tub, huddled with arms around her middle. If only she had never heard of Pete Vanko, or the Hangar.
How could a situation that had seemed like a dream come true, have turned into her worst nightmare?
It had all seemed so perfect, that first day …
CHAPTER FIVE
January 4th
This was it. This was the place.
Lesa Boggs slowed her car and turned off the road into the parking lot of the Hangar Brewpub and Grill.
Her heart gave an excited little flip-flop … or maybe that was her tummy. Either way, her nerves mingled with excitement.
This place looked … right. Right for her, and for her new beginning. A way out of the mess her life had become.
Lesa liked to make a list for each new situation that came along, of advantages and disadvantages. A little anal, maybe, but it helped her deal with life, made it feel more manageable. Gave her back a little bit of control. This past year, she’d made a lot of lists.
For the Hangar Brewpub and Grill, appearance was a big advantage. Even in the dead of winter, amid huge piles of dirty snow along the road and the back of the parking lot, the place looked prosperous but not imposing, and welcoming in a casual way, just right for a small town.
The brewpub sat on the north side of the main road through the small town of Airway Heights, Washington. It was surrounded by a paved parking lot in front and on the sides. A gravel overflow lot curved away to the rear, for deliveries and the like. Past that, a tall wire fence rose, with what looked like a building supply yard on the other side.
The one-story brewpub was sided in corrugated white steel, with a deep blue metal roof. A neon sign towered in the parking lot, a silver, old-fashioned prop plane with the words 'The Hangar' arcing over the top in big red letters, and 'Brewpub & Grill' below in smaller red letters.
No odd, angular art glass windows, no guessing if this was the right place because the owner was too snooty to put a sign out front, and no bored young men hovering to park your car—for a fat tip, of course. The last bar she’d worked at had all those things, along with a nightmare of an owner-manager.
Lesa drove slowly through the lot, bumping on frozen ruts. A low post-and-rail in front of the suilding, to one side of the handicapped spaces, had a sign that read ‘Motorcycle Parking Only’.
She pulled in next to a mud-stained pickup truck. Her old Buick stopped with a whine of brakes, the motor knocking twice before rattling into silence. She winced and moved car repairs to the top of he
r list of expenses, before rent on a place here.
If she got the job, that is. Disadvantage, she didn’t have the job yet.
She peered in the rear-view mirror. Advantage, eye-makeup smudge free. Lip gloss, visible. Long, thick, coffee-brown hair, hanging in fairly tidy order. Disadvantage, her face was pale with nerves, her eyes had a faintly desperate sheen, and her tummy was upset again. Nerves had a way of hitting her there.
She fumbled in her black fabric purse, found the end of her roll of antacids and stuffed two in her mouth, chewing and swallowing with the help of cold water from her sports bottle.
Then she bared her teeth in the mirror, checking to make sure none of the chalky antacid was stuck in her teeth. That would not make a good first impression on a potential employer, yuck.
Blowing out a breath, she opened her car door and stepped out into the wintry Eastern Washington afternoon. It was a cold, January day but at least the wind wasn’t blowing, which meant her brown quilted jacket was warm enough. Also, there had been a thaw earlier in the week, so the graveled lot was mostly bare, except for the berms of dirty snow and ice.
She took a second to unfasten her jacket and smooth down the hem of her plum tee over her black slacks—both designer markdowns from Nordstrom Rack, as was the purse over her shoulder. She loved nice things, she just couldn’t afford them until they hit the clearance racks, either passed over or returned by more affluent women.
Satisfied with her appearance, she crossed the parking lot to the front doors of the pub, pushed them open and stepped inside, hoping desperately she was walking into her future.
Inside, her spirits rose.
The interior of The Hangar was every bit as casual and comfortable as the outside had promised, with lots of wood, a double row of red-upholstered booths in the front, high-top tables throughout the middle.
The big, L-shaped room was divided by a waist-high railing, denoting restaurant from bar area, with high-tops on both sides and a long bar up against the mirrored back wall. Three pool tables filled a corner of the bar, with two men chalking pool cues for a game.
On the walls hung old black and white photos of planes and motorcycles. Lesa knew from her research on the Hangar’s website that the plane photos were from the early days at nearby Fairchild Air Force Base.
And, that the photos of leather-clad bikers on motorcycles were of members of a local chapter of the Devil’s Flyers on their Harleys. She also knew that the owner of this place was related to their president.
That last, she’d gotten not off the website, but from Wanda, the chatty owner of the small, cheap motel a few blocks away where Lesa was currently staying.
This information had nearly sent her back to her car, and out of town, but damnit, she needed this job.
And per Wanda, the Flyers weren’t bad guys unless someone ‘messed with them’. Lesa had no intention whatsoever of messing with them in any way, shape or form, no sir!
Anyway, extreme advantage—the Hangar did not resemble a sleazy, dirty, biker hangout, but instead, a friendly place to have a meal or just a few drinks and relax. The kind of place that got louder later in the evening as the beer flowed, where you could laugh out loud and holler at a sports team on one of the big screen TVs mounted up high, or sing along with the music, and no one would care.
It smelled good too, of savory food with a hint of freshly poured beer.
The clack of pool balls cut through the hum of voices and the clatter of metal from the kitchen. Five tables were full, one of them with four adults and two noisy toddlers, with three single men at the bar, and three younger guys at a high-top by the pool tables.
Two waitresses worked the floor, one a lean redhead with colorful ink on one arm, the other a plump blonde with heavy makeup and an inch of skin between her top and hipster jeans. Both wore snug, white tees with the Hangar logo on the front.
The bar itself was a long stretch of gleaming wood with a long row of taps and a soda fountain and a mirror on the wall. A cute, young guy with brownish hair in a messy man-bun was pulling beers, but he was not the man Lesa needed to see.
Peter Vanko, she knew from the website, was tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, maybe in his early thirties, with blond hair and light eyes that gazed at the camera with the calm confidence that said he was the boss of his domain.
He was also as hot as one of the grills in his kitchen, and Lesa was glad she’d been forewarned by his photo. She was good at maintaining a polite facade, but holy heck, give a girl some warning before confronting her with that much male splendor.
Maybe he was in the pub’s office, which she would bet was the open door past a display case full of tees and beer glasses.
She was jerked from her study of the pub when a toddler at the biggest table broke free and raced for the front doors. Reacting with long experience, Lesa stepped into the fugitive’s path and bent to give him a big smile.
“Hey, buddy,” she called, her voice bright but gentle, “Cool shoes. You have lights on your toes!”
The little boy skidded to a stop and then followed her pointing finger, looking down at his twinkling sneakers. “Wites!” he agreed.
A young guy in jeans and flannel shirt jogged to nab the little boy’s hand. “Thanks,” he said to Lesa. “Little squirt woulda been out the door if you hadn’t stopped him.”
“No problem,” she said. “They’re fast at this age, huh?”
“Oh, yeah.” The man swung the little boy up in his arms, giving him a mock scowl. “But I gotcha now.”
The little guy chortled with glee and kicked his feet as he was carried back to their table. “Dadd-ee! She seed my wites!”
Lesa smiled after them, then turned toward the bar.
A tall, blond man now stood at the end nearest, big hands braced on the bar, watching her from under his brows. She felt the impact of his light gaze like a physical impact in her chest, a strange combination of sizzle and ice.
This was Peter Vanko.
CHAPTER SIX
Forewarned was forearmed, Lesa reminded herself as she continued across the pub toward the man she hoped would be her new boss, keeping the smile on her face even though sweat prickled her underarms, and her stomach was flipping like a hooked minnow.
Okay, bad analogy. Disadvantage, thinking about slippery things always made her kind of sick, and her tummy was already upset. Puking on his floor would be a really poor first impression to make on a potential boss.
Peter Vanko stood without moving or taking his gaze from hers until Lesa reached the end of the bar where he stood.
There were other men at the bar, two of them wearing black leather vests with logos that proclaimed them members of a motorcycle gang, but Lesa hardly noticed them.
It was all she could do to keep her gaze friendly and open, her smile personable, when part of her wanted to flip her hair back and giggle like a high school girl under Peter Vanko’s magnetic gaze. And he wasn’t even doing anything.
What on God’s earth would the effect be if he really turned on the smolder? She better pray she never found out, that’s what.
“Hi,” she said, her voice by some miracle coming out only a little husky. “I’m Lesa Boggs. I called about the waitress job you have open? Here are my references. I have my alcohol server’s license too.”
He lifted one hand, and took the lonely piece of paper from her hand, looking down to read it. To keep her mind off what was not on that paper, such as the two-year gap in job history, Lesa studied her potential employer.
His square face was chiseled and tanned. Unlike his picture on the site, he now wore a short beard and ‘stache—oh, totally unfair, she was in danger of a beard-gasm right here in public. His neatly trimmed whiskers framed a wide jaw, straight nose, and sensual lips that were an invitation to sin. His lashes and brows were thick and dark, but his whiskers were dark blond. He wore his lighter blond hair just past chin length and shoved behind his ears like silky commas.
He was big, brawny eve
n. At five foot seven, she had to look up several inches to meet his eyes. And holy motorcycle boots, he was even better looking up close.
He must work out with weights to have shoulders, chest and arms like that. They were defined even under his western cut shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the collar open to reveal a simple, heavy gold chain around his neck. He wore this, not like the guys that postured and preened, but as if that was what he liked, and the heck with what anyone else thought.
He put her skimpy resume down on the bar.
“You handle rowdy adults as well as you do little kids?” he asked. His voice was deep and smooth, with a slight, intriguing accent mingled with his Western drawl. The look he gave her, arching one heavy dark brow, was pure challenge.
She smiled up at him, tipping her head in an invitation to confide as she slid into her waitress persona. “I sure do, Mr. Vanko. Just let me know whatever you need to enjoy your meal and drinks here at the Hangar, and I’ll get that for you. And if it costs extra, I’ll let you know up front. That sound good to you?”
One of the bikers at the bar chuckled, and the man-bunned bartender grinned from behind his boss’ shoulder. Lesa flushed, but pretended they weren’t there, focusing on the man whose approval she needed.
Pete Vanko pursed his lips in consideration, his crystalline gaze betraying nothing of his thoughts as he studied her for a long, suffocating moment.
Tension built until Lesa felt it like an invisible rope, twining between them, tightening in her middle and unfortunately lower down.
Something about his direct gaze on her gave her the totally illogical, and completely unwanted urge to throw back her shoulders and cant her hips—to pose for him, like a candidate for his sexual attentions. To break through his calm control and haul out the man beneath.
Just when she was ready to scream or run—or vault onto the bar and kiss that mouth—anything to break the tension, he straightened, tapping his knuckles sharply on the bar.
“All right. Your alcohol server’s license is up-to-date, you can start tomorrow. I’m short a waitress ‘cause my last one got married, left for Alaska. You get two weeks' probation. You show up on time, don’t mess up too many orders or piss off my customers, we’ll see about something more permanent.”