by Cathryn Cade
His rough voice cut through the music and buzz of conversation like a knife, and he flexed his hips in a crude mime of coitus.
Lesa froze, not even sure how to answer him. And she clearly wasn’t going to get any help from those nearest, who either looked amused or were pretending they were part of the pub decor. The two bikers standing with him were both grinning at her, clearly much entertained.
She shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m … headed across the street to meet someone.” Such as Wanda if she was still up, or maybe Lesa’s 90-year-old neighbor on the other side. But this biker didn’t need to know that.
With probably the most fake friendly wave ever, Lesa ducked through the slow group by the doors, and dashed out into the freezing winter night.
The wind grabbed her breath away, tugged at her pinned up hair, and cut through her jacket like icy little fingers. She ducked her head and jogged across the parking lot, around the snow berms, across the highway and the block to the motel. She nearly took a nose-dive on the icy cross-street, but she didn’t slow down until she was inside the Heights Motel’s front door.
The Heights Motel had been built with a roofed walkway along the front, which had been walled in and carpeted later in the hotel’s history, to keep the wind from blowing dust off the county road into the rooms.
Since the lobby was presided over pretty much all the time by either the owner or her grand-daughter, no one came in that they didn’t see.
Lesa would have worried about the woman alone here at night with the front doors unlocked, except Wanda had confided she had a loaded short-barrel shot-gun beside her chair, and both she and her grand-daughter knew how to use it.
The tiny lobby was dimly lit with the flicker from Wanda’s TV screen in her sitting room, which was behind the office. Wanda’s old dog growled softly, and Wanda peered around her armchair, saw Lesa and pushed herself upright.
“You have a good shift over there?” the woman asked, making her way into the lobby, her heavy key-ring in one hand. “My gosh, girl, you’re all out of breath. You run all the way back here?”
“I did,” Lesa said. “It’s cold out there. And I had a great shift, thanks.”
Wanda locked the front door, and nodded. “That’s good. Folks get to drinking, they sure spend money, don’t they?”
“They do. You should come over and have supper there one evening,” Lesa said. “The food is really good. And I’ll give you 5-star service.”
Wanda shook her head, her short, silver curls flipping around her thin face. “Oh, no. I’m not hanging out with no bikers, not me.” She frowned at Lesa. “Was there many of them in there tonight? They treat you right?”
“Oh, there were some, but they were fine,” Lesa said. “Just wanted their beer and burgers, like everyone else.”
Wanda gave her a look that said she knew better. “Well. When you come dashing in here, kinda thought you had that look a woman gets when she’s runnin’ away from a man who won’t take no for an answer. But I guess you’d know best, hmm?”
“Um, I guess so. But I appreciate your concern.”
“Well, you’re a nice girl. Listen, I got a kitchen here doesn’t get used much anymore. You want to do any cooking for yourself, you know where to find me—right here.”
“Oh, that’s sweet. Hey, I found a killer cookie recipe online. Do you like chocolate?”
She loved looking up recipes online. And baking would distract her from worrying about biker stalkers and making sure she did everything right to nail down her job—at least until she had enough savings to move on to a bookkeeping job or the like.
Wanda gave her a smile. “Is there a woman alive who doesn’t like chocolate? What do you need for these cookies?”
“Oh, I’ll bring the ingredients. But maybe I could come over and bake tomorrow afternoon?”
“Fine with me. Haven’t had a home-made cookie since the bake sale at the Legion Hall. Now, you better get to bed. You youngsters need rest.”
“Okay, goodnight.”
“You too. See you in the morning.”
Lesa made her way quietly along the narrow hallway to her room. Once inside, she flipped the light on, and made sure that not only was the door locked behind her, but a few of her heaviest boxes were shoved in front of it. If anyone tried to get in here, she’d at least wake up before they could do so. And they’d find themselves facing the business end of her pepper spray.
She pulled off her jacket, and then peered out around the corner of the heavy, polyester drapes. The parking lot was quiet. She could see only short sections of road on the other side of the berms of snow, but all the traffic seemed to be vehicles driving on by.
She let the curtain fall and began to undress. She was exhausted, and she smelled like grease and beer.
But she had money in her pocket, and she’d made it safely here without having to do whatever that biker had had in mind. She shuddered—ugh.
Pete, Rocker, T-Bear and the others she’d met so far were clean, fit and fairly polite. That guy was more like a character from SOA, or out of an old Hell’s Angels photo.
If there were more like him in the Flyers ranks, she might have to re-think her stay here in town. Because fresh start or not, she refused to spend her time dodging offers or demands to give bikers ‘a ride’. He didn’t look like the kind to take kindly to being turned down.
And if it came down to her or one of his ‘brothers’, with whom would Pete Vanko side?
Everything she heard, whether it was from Pete himself, or his biker brethren, or even Wanda led her to believe she may have walked into a situation that had dark underpinnings.
It was like driving along a winter highway that looked bare and dry, but then when a driver braked, she discovered the road was covered with that transparent film of frost known here in the north as ‘black ice’ … and a vehicle might go into a slide that could not be controlled in any way.
She took a hot shower, dressed in her warm jammies, and got into bed with her phone. She made a list of what she’d need to bake cookies, then read for a while.
But despite her weariness, it was a long time before the words lulled her to sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
January 6th
The next morning, Lesa slept in, luxuriating the ability to just roll over and go back to sleep … that is, until the sombre tones of an organ penetrated her slumber.
She woke confused, squinting at the dim room. She'd dreamed that she was back at her gran’s funeral service in the Tri-Cities, six years ago.
When the music went on, she groped for her phone and squinted at it. “Oh, right. It's Sunday.”
Her neighbor on the right, an elderly man, must be tuned in to a televised church program. As the choir began to sing a majestic—if muffled—hymn, she hummed along a few bars.
‘Rise up, my people, rise up.’ She grinned to herself. If she wasn’t going to be able to sleep, may as well do as they said. Although she wouldn’t be going quite as far as heaven, not today anyway.
She showered, made herself a cup of coffee in the tiny microwave, dressed in her last clean pair of jeans, her walking shoes, layers of pink tee, brown cardi, cream scarf and her jacket and gloves, slung her purse over her shoulder and took her laundry to the laundromat on the corner by the truck stop.
There was no one else there, although someone’s laundry was spinning in two big dryers. Lesa sorted hers into two washers, fed in a bunch of quarters, and then sat down on one of the rickety plastic chairs with her feet up on another, phone in hand.
No answer to her latest text to Traci. This was good in a way—it meant her youngest sister was fine. Traci tended to wait until she needed money or help to contact her family.
Billie had sent a picture of herself mugging with one of her female classmates in front of a laptop screen that read in large block letters ‘NERD? I prefer the term Intellectual Bad-Ass’.
Lesa was giggling when the laundromat door opened, and Streak walked in.
His long hair was bundled on top of his head, and he wore a yellow fleece jacket over his jeans and boots.
“What are you doing here?” they said at the same time.
Streak went first. “I’m bunking over on Barker, few blocks away, with a brother and his old lady. She don’t like me tying up her washer and dryer—too busy washing her kids’ shit.”
“I’m, uh, staying at the motel,” Lesa admitted. “While I look for a place.”
Streak opened one of the washers and began loading wet clothing into a dryer. “Not much to choose from here in the Heights. Or are you looking in Spokane?”
“Here, if possible. I like Spokane, but my car is—well. Anyway, I’d rather walk to work.”
He frowned at her. “You walk home, at two, three in the morning? That ain’t smart for a woman, ‘specially one like you.”
She guessed that had been a compliment, judging by the way he looked away after he said it, his cheekbones flushing.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “I’m going to get my car into the shop as soon as I get my first paycheck. But until then, I’m sure Pete would rather my car wasn’t broke down in his parking lot.”
He slammed the dryer door and started it up, then pulled a chair over near hers and sat, one long leg stretched out, the other foot tapping. “Tomorrow morning, take your car to JJ’s Auto right up the road. Tell JJ you’re a friend of the club. He’ll get your car in right away, won’t bill you till you get paid.”
“Uh, I’m not anyone's friend,” Lesa pointed out. “I just work for one of them.”
He gave her a look that said she was cute but dumb. “You work for the pres and his brother, and not cleaning toilets but doin’ an important job. So you are a friend of the club.”
For some reason, she kept going. “So, Sylvie would get the same deal?
‘Yeah, ‘cept Sylvie drives a nearly new, bitchin’ Firebird and she takes care of it with regular tune-ups and shit, so she doesn’t need this deal.”
Hurray for Sylvie. “How about Aysha?”
His lip curled. “No, because she’s stupid, throws attitude like a monkey flingin’ shit. Don’t know what she drives and don’t care.”
“Oh. Then, why is she at The Hangar?”
“Without telling you club business, which I won’t do, her mom is with one of the brothers—for now. We take care of families, if they show gratitude back, which means they don’t piss us and our customers off by being a cunt every chance they get.”
Which meant that Aysha might not be at the Hangar for long. Bad news for Aysha, but Lesa couldn’t bring herself to care much, as abrasive co-workers could make any job miserable. Also, Lesa hated to see their customers treated as less important than flirting.
“Cool. So, I noticed you have the vest but not the emblem yet. That means you’re a what, a sort of member of the Flyers?” she asked. “Like a junior biker?”
He glowered at her. “I ain’t junior anything. I’m a prospect, which means I do my best for the club, serve my time, then get invited to patch in.”
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t trying to make fun, honest. But what does that mean, patch in?”
“Means I get the club patches,” he said impatiently.
“Okay?” She wrinkled her nose, still not sure what he meant. Although his vest was kind of plain compared to the others, come to think of it.
He rose, shucking off his fleece, and turned his back to show her the back of his black leather vest. Under it he wore a long-sleeved tee, which was an unfortunate shade of faded pinkish brown. The back of his vest was empty except for an upward curving white patch that read ‘Prospect’.
“After I get voted in, which’ll be this spring unless something goes bad between me and the club, I can add the Flyers’ patch, and the rockers.”
“Oh, right. Thanks for explaining.” She wanted to ask more questions, such as would there be some kind of secret ceremony, maybe involving cutting his palm with a sharp knife, or kissing the emblem or some strange stuff like that. 'Cause guys did like their ceremonies, even after they grew up. But, if they did do things like that, it would undoubtedly qualify as ‘club business’.
“So, why don’t you have your own place?” she asked instead.
He scowled again. “Can’t afford it right now. Got child support to pay.”
“You have kids? Oh, my God. How many? Where do they live?”
He pulled out his phone, pride softening his face. “One. Javier. Lives with his mama over in the East Valley.”
Lesa took the phone, and cooed over the picture of Streak holding a toddler with dark hair, eyes. Both were laughing, and Streak looked happy.
“Aww,” she sighed. “He’s adorable. He has your smile. But obviously, his mother’s hair …?”
Streak shoved his phone back in his pocket. “Yep.” He rose and moved to the somewhat steamy front windows, staring out, his back stiff. Yikes, Javier's mama was clearly not a subject for discussion.
Lesa swung her leg, listening to the washers and dryers slosh and hum, and kept her mouth shut. She went back to checking rental listings on her phone.
“Hey, there’s a house for rent on your street,” she said. “Oh, it’s eight hundred a month. Never mind.”
“I know that place,” Streak said, turning back from the windows. He shook his head. “Almost too small to call a house, but it’s in good shape.”
“It’s darling,” Lesa said, bringing up the photo of a itty house with a bitty front porch—just room for the rocking chair it held. It looked like a doll house for adults. “But I can’t afford that much.”
“Good thing I know the owner then,” he said, and when she looked up, he smirked. “Deputy sheriff. Built it for his dad, but the old guy died before they could move him in.”
“Is this another friend of the club thing?” she asked, trying to tamp down the excitement bubbling inside. “And if it’s such a great deal, how come you don’t live there? You should grab it.”
Streak shook his head, his gaze darkening again. “Nope. My money’s goin’ to Javier and his mama right now, to keep her from moving back in with her bitch sister. That situation was not good for my boy.”
“Oh, Streak,” Lesa murmured, her heart aching for him. He clearly loved his son and took care of him.
His dryer buzzed, and he stalked over to open it. “Anyways, ask Pete to talk to the deputy. Bet he’d let you have it for half that, though I don’t know about utilities and shit.” He pulled an armload from the dryer and tossed the clothes on a table along the wall.
Lesa bounced from her chair, and walked over to grab a pair of his jeans that had fallen to the floor. She folded them, setting them on the table.
“Thank you so much. I will definitely do that.”
Even if it meant asking Pete for a favor. She had a feeling a woman didn’t want to owe too many favors to the Flyers. Not that she thought those she’d met so far would extort sex, or anything like that, but … she just planned to exercise caution in her dealings with them.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Her laundry done and folded in her little motel room, Lesa walked to the grocery store and bought a deli sandwich and a diet soda. She also purchased the ingredients to make the recipe she'd found on the internet for double-chocolate, chocolate chip cookies—because even on a strict budget, a girl had to have chocolate.
She ate in the store's tiny deli area, watching locals come in and out, doing their shopping, many of them still clad in their Sunday best.
A tall woman with pale blonde hair came in with a pair of blond twin boys dressed adorably in jeans, boots and little black leather vests over their fleece sweatshirts. Lesa, her seat partially hidden by a display of baked goods, had to stifle a giggle. They looked like biker bad-asses in training.
Their mother was stylishly dressed in fitted jeans, knee high black leather boots and a black-and-cream sweater coat, her blond hair sleek under a black beret. She let the boys climb into the bottom of a
shopping cart that had little steering wheels in a faux driver’s seat under the cart, crouched to say something that made them both giggle, and wheeled them away.
Lesa watched them go with a sigh. So cute, twins.
She had cookies to bake, so she hustled out of the store and back to the motel. At her knock, Wanda came to the door of her apartment, smiling when she saw Lesa.
"Hi," Lesa said, a little shyly. "You said I could bake …?"
“Cookies?” Wanda asked, and Lesa had to laugh at her hopeful look.
“Yes, ma’am. Cookies.”
Wanda hustled around her tiny kitchen, decorated in the lime-and-gold of the early nineteen-seventies, but with a new stove. “My son said I was going to burn the whole place down with my old range, so he bought me this one. Never thought I’d see a stove with the burners all buried under glass, but it sure is easy to clean.”
It was easy to bake in, too. In less than an hour, the two women were seated at Wanda’s little kitchen table, with a cup of coffee and a warm, gooey, chocolate cookie each. Since they’d both sampled the dough as well, one was plenty.
“So you’re from the Tri-Cities?” Wanda asked, her thin hands, knotted with arthritis, clasped around her coffee cup. “My late husband was from Kennewick.”
“I grew up in Richland,” Lesa said. “Out on the west side.”
“What brought you over here?”
Lesa took a big bite of cookie and then tried to chew, her mouth suddenly dry, her stomach knotting. She managed to swallow only with a mouthful of hot coffee, which scalded her tongue. Wincing, she swallowed. “Oh, you know … just wanted a change.”
Wanda smiled, but between them hung the unspoken words that this change had landed Lesa in a tiny, old motel in a small town, driving an old wreck of a car.
“Life throws us curve-balls sometimes,” the old lady said, her eyes kind. “But I’ll tell you, when I look at you, I see a brave, strong girl. One who’s not afraid to work, and not afraid to make friends. Lot of girls your age would whine and cry to anyone who’d listen, but you smile and keep on going. You’ll do just fine.”