Unruly

by Ronnie Douglas

  “No one,” Killer finished. “I get what you’re trying to say, but we both had Uncle Karl. He was a good dad to both of us.”

  “Having someone leave or not say they’re your dad isn’t the same as your dad dying.” I thought back to sitting outside wrapped up in blankets watching the stars with Noah, talking about our dads being dead. We kissed the first time that night. It wasn’t like we were trying to exclude Killer, but his dad was still there. His mom wasn’t dead either. Me? I had my mother, but my dad was dead. Noah was alone. I thought about that night over the years when I got mad at him. I made a lot of excuses for him that I wouldn’t for anyone else.

  “You know Echo’s going to try to draw him in now,” Killer said. “He told me that if I’m not going to stick around, that leaves Dash to fill that role and see how things are done. He doesn’t like not having someone around that he can groom to be his heir. Crazy old man thinks he’s a king or something.”

  There was a new sort of ease when Killer talked about his father. As a rule, people didn’t call Eddie Echo crazy—unless it was a tale of what a badass he was. That sort of crazy was okay.

  “Noah isn’t like you,” I said carefully. “He could be like Echo . . . but he’s not . . .” My words drifted off. There was no nice way to say that Noah wouldn’t be as comfortable with shooting or beating a man. “He could do it, but it’s never going to sit right with him.”

  “Echo knows that.” Killer sighed. “Noah’s better with money and planning. I wasn’t ever going to be able to run the club. Thought about that when I was in the hospital. I don’t have any grief with it. I’d already decided to leave by then, but Echo . . . he needs to let Dash be himself, and that’s not a triggerman.”

  As casually as I could, I asked, “What about Alamo? He seems like he’s staying, and he’s . . . more like you.”

  Killer stared at me for a minute, shook his head, and told me, “You need to get things straight with Dash before you go asking about Alamo.”

  There I was trying to be gentle, and Killer had to be an ass. Seriously, I got that he and Noah were family in a way I wasn’t, but this was a step too far. I dropped the cigarette to the parking lot and ground it out with a bit more energy than maybe I needed to use. “I left Noah. It’s been six damn months. How much straighter do I need to be?”

  “I’m saying this as your friend, Ellie. Talk to Dash when you’re both calm and sober. Let him know that you’re not coming back. Echo doesn’t need trouble in the house over a woman, even though that woman is one we all know and love. You got me?”

  I nodded, and he went back inside and left me there alone. Maybe he was right. From the sounds of it, he knew more than I did about Noah’s idiocy. How the man could think that I’d be back was beyond me, but obviously he was delusional.

  Tonight, though, I wasn’t up to any more confrontations. I had an interview with Southern Belle Industries on Monday. It wasn’t a lot of money if I got it, but it was a potential door-opener. So I was going home and sorting through my portfolio of designs and the closet of clothes I’d made from those designs.

  I walked over to my car and opened the door, thinking of one of Mama’s few favorite phrases that wasn’t from the South: “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” It was an old feminist phrase coined by a lady called Irina Dunn, which was a tidbit I’d learned myself. Mama just knew she’d read it on a T-shirt, and she liked it so much that it had become a standby phrase in my home.

  I had no need for a man or a bicycle. I might want a man, but I didn’t need one. What I could use, though, was a job. That meant succeeding in this interview.

  Chapter 14

  MY PREPARATION FOR MY INTERVIEW WAS AS THOROUGH as I could make it. I’d dressed carefully, prepared, and even scored a relatively decent parking spot so I wasn’t walking too far in the humidity. Walking inside the office building made me think of those day spas that were trying awfully hard to be fancier than they really were. Lipstick on a pig could go only so far, and a nondescript office building in the South was still what it was no matter how much lipstick was applied. It wasn’t New York or Paris or Milan—and truth be told, I wasn’t expecting it to be. Those places, I suspected, were all perfectly fine, but my take on the world was more loving what you are than trying to be something you weren’t. That went for clothes and buildings as much as it did for people.

  After a brief wait in a remarkably uncomfortable chair in a room with the sort of soulless music that made me want to sing out loud just to drown out the noise, I was called back to a stark office.

  The walls were covered with framed magazine covers and assorted other pages. It was more of a “look at us” wall than decoration. The office itself was mostly windows and minimal furniture.

  “Ellen Gillham,” the woman who was apparently interviewing me read off the papers in front of her. She glanced at me and gestured at another stiff, modern chair.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said as I took my seat.

  She looked at me again in silent assessment. Her expression, like her tone, couldn’t have been less enthusiastic if she were paid to be so. Her glass and metal desk was almost completely barren, and the only eye-catcher was the vibrant red of her shoes. Staring at her feet seemed a little too submissive for my taste, but I silently awarded her points for the tactic.

  After a few moments, she looked back at the file, skimming my résumé and letter.

  “Pitch me,” she said.

  “Okay . . . well . . . I’m interested in joining the Southern Belle team. I’ve been working on my associate’s degree and—”

  “Do you have any skills that set you apart?” She was now examining her nails—which were apparently terribly engrossing.

  “My portfolio highlights—”

  “I don’t need a designer,” she said blandly, not even looking up from her manicure as she continued to study her fingertips as if there were lottery numbers written on her perfectly tipped claws. When she finally looked up, she added, “Everyone thinks they’re special. They’re wrong.”

  For a moment, I considered letting my ugly words fly free. My designs were good, and I was a fabulous singer and a great daughter. Maybe I wasn’t what she thought of as special, but I was a far way from common. I opened my mouth to tell her that, but she spoke before I uttered a word.

  “I’ll go through your designs, and if they’re actually worth anything, I’ll pass them on,” she said. “Chelsea at the desk will validate your parking.”

  And at that, I was apparently dismissed. The whole interview, if it could even be called that, was over in minutes. It wasn’t the biggest slap my ego had ever taken, but it sure as hell wasn’t fun.

  I wandered around until I found a little country and bluegrass bar I remembered from years ago and went inside.

  “Do you have any use for a singer for a couple songs?” I asked the bartender. “My father, Roger Gillham, used to sing here sometimes and . . .”

  The bartender looked at me and said, “That don’t mean you can sing, sweetheart.”

  “True, but . . .” I closed my eyes and started to sing Alison Krauss’ “Down to the River to Pray.”

  When I was only a couple of lines in, he cut me off and said, “Point made. I’m not paying anything, but you want to sing, go on ahead.”

  By evening, my mood was tolerable enough that I could drive home without feeling like my temper and disappointment were going to rise up and choke me. I should’ve left a bit earlier, but I hadn’t expected the sort of storm that was thundering around me now.

  The rain was making it damn near impossible to see the road as I drove back home. Singing had been good, but the reason I’d driven into town was an interview that had sucked. The only cure—yet again—was more music or someone sweet to improve my mood. Since I was (a) single and (b) in my Civic in the middle of a downpour on a backcountry road, I was singing along with the radio, flipping between country and classic rock stations, and venting my ugly mood by belting out
songs.

  My car was my sanctuary when I needed to sing loudly, but even after my afternoon of music and my current loud and unrestrained singing, it wasn’t curing what ailed me tonight. When even singing wasn’t curing my foul temper, I knew it was the sort of day best forgotten.

  Then I heard the ka-thunk.

  “No, no, no!” I jabbed the button to turn off the radio, but I didn’t actually need to hear more to know what it was. My car tugged to the left, and the feel of the road under my wheels was wrong. I had a flat, and it wasn’t just a slow leak either. That was a sudden jolt, which meant the tire blew . . . which meant that I had to pull over.

  I killed the engine after I pulled as far off the road as I could get without ending up in a ditch. At least the shoulder wasn’t terribly narrow. On the other hand, there was exactly no light out here. I kept my driving lights on so if anyone did come down the road they wouldn’t rear-end me.

  The swish screech of my wipers was louder now that the music had stopped. My tire was blown. My blades were bad. My bad day just kept getting worse. I took a breath and hoped things were as bad as they were going to get. I snatched up my phone and looked at it. No bars.

  “Really? Really?” I pounded the steering wheel a couple of times. There were a dozen things I’d rather be doing at midnight on a Monday. Even sorting laundry sounded a whole lot better. I leaned into the backseat and waved my phone around again on the slim chance that there might be a magic spot where I had reception. There wasn’t.

  No signal. No lights. No one in the passenger seat to lend a hand.

  I debated walking; I was only a few miles from town. I debated trying to wait out the rain; it had to stop sooner or later. I had no idea when, though; I wasn’t exactly a weather watcher. Neither walking nor waiting seemed wise. Traipsing along an unlit back road in the rain put me in danger of getting hit or picked up by someone dangerous, and staying in my car would mean sleeping here with only a locked door for protection. I had my gun with me, but that wasn’t something I was eager to use if there was a better option.

  Both of my potential plans so far meant I was risking ending up in a bad situation. I didn’t think people were inherently dodgy, but that didn’t mean I was going to go looking for trouble either. Sleeping in a car alongside the road was only marginally better than walking along the road . . . which meant I needed to woman up and change the flat tire so I had another option. That was the smartest and fastest solution. It just meant that I was going to be cold and filthy too.

  “This just keeps getting better,” I whined. Maybe it was stupid, but I didn’t want to ruin my best outfit. I’d worn it to the interview to highlight my skills as a designer. Destroying it while changing a flat after the disastrous interview was too much to bear.

  Lightning illuminated the sky, providing a flash of brightness that made quite clear that the road was getting nearly impassable. I needed to change the flat and do it soon.

  “Lousy day just gets lousier by the damn minute,” I muttered as I glanced in the backseat hoping to find something a little less nice to wear for wrestling the spare out of the trunk and sloshing around in the mud and rain. At least I had a pair of old boots there. If I had to sacrifice my new shoes . . . well, let’s just say that I’d be more likely to go barefoot and hope there weren’t any broken bottles.

  “From awful to fucking ridiculous.” I pulled off my shoes and shoved my feet in the worn-out combat boots. If I hadn’t cleaned my car, this wouldn’t have happened. I usually had several outfits in the car. Clothes were a passion. I designed them, sewed them, and I’d hoped to be getting an internship writing about them.

  Now I was looking at having to sacrifice my new favorite blouse to mud. I’d hand-stitched it and I’d be damned if I was going to let it get destroyed today on top of the rest of the day’s disaster. I looked outside again. Not a single car had passed in the fifteen minutes I’d been sitting here. Mud, rain, and darkness were all I could see. I should’ve stayed in Memphis tonight and taken another turn on the stage. I’d only gone onstage to sing again a couple of times so far, but it was like that first cookie after a long diet: I wanted more.

  Maybe tonight’s fiasco was God’s way of reminding me that I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to be doing. Now that Echo had pointed it out, now that I realized that I might be able to look after Mama if I let go of my reasons for refusing to take the stage, I felt like there was a compulsion to just do so. I felt guilty, though, for not realizing it till now, so I’d opted to drive back home rather than tell Mama I wanted to stay in Memphis and sing. The result appeared to be that I was stranded in a downpour with a flat tire.

  With another sigh no one was around to hear, I unbuttoned my blouse, set it aside, and debated. I was already down to a skirt, gray stockings, black calf-high boots, and a bright blue pantie and bra set. I shucked the skirt.

  Aside from the boots and stockings, it was a lot like stepping into the rain in my swimsuit. The combat boots over stockings looked a bit crazy, but it wasn’t like anyone was going to see me. “What the hell . . .”

  I picked up my little handgun and opened the door. I was willing to change a flat in my underthings rather than ruin my clothes, but I wasn’t stupid. Deserted roads were dangerous if the wrong sort of people came along. Fortunately, I’d spent most of my life around the Wolves. Bikers might get a bad rep in a lot of places, but they were my family—and they’d taught me to handle a gun and fight dirty if I had to fight at all.

  I popped the trunk, put my gun to the side, and heaved the spare out so I could get to the jack and lug wrench.

  By the time I’d loosened the nuts, my hair was drenched. I shoved it back, hating the way the tendrils felt as the rain washed all the product out. I didn’t even want to guess what my makeup looked like.

  I had the car up on the jack and the nuts off without much trouble. Lack of light made it slower, but it was going just fine—until I started shivering. My clothes wouldn’t have made a difference, but I was cold enough that I wished I’d had that tiny extra layer of fabric just then. I dropped one of the lug nuts and had to get my phone to use it for light.

  “Seriously?” I let out a frustrated yell as I scanned the mud and gravel to find the missing nut.

  I spied it, only to realize that I’d done so because of a flash of headlights.

  “No. No. No.” I scrambled to the back of the car, snatched up my gun, and tried to calm myself as the driver of the truck rolled to a stop behind my car. I stood there with a wrench in one hand and a gun in the other. If I were a different sort of girl, I might’ve tried to cover myself, but modesty wasn’t as much of a defense as a wrench or a bullet.

  The headlights were all but blinding me, and some part of me was cringing at the way I had to have looked. Wet underthings clinging to me didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination. My hand shook for a moment.

  “Ellen?”

  I lowered my gun. My hand still shook; whether from the cold or burst of fear, I wasn’t sure.

  “Alamo,” I said, my voice shakier than my hand. “Come to rescue me yet again?”

  He laughed. “Anytime you need me.”

  My heart clenched at his words.

  “I can usually take care of myself,” I said, despite my best efforts at being nice. I hated that he was seeing me a mess again.

  He, of course, looked both gorgeous and collected, and while I wasn’t exactly in need of rescue, I couldn’t help drinking in the sight of more than six feet of firm muscle and menace. If that wasn’t enough to make me smother a sigh, a glance at his face would do. He was the best sight I’d had all day.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

  “Taking a shower. Care to join me?”

  He grinned. “I save my cold showers for after I see you, darlin’.”

  I rolled my eyes. Alamo might tease now and again when the mood struck him, but I was fairly sure he found me about as attractive as an angry rattler. A guilty voice whispered that
maybe seeing me like this might change his mind, but I didn’t want his attention if he wanted me only for the exterior. I was an all-or-nothing girl these days.

  I folded my arms over my chest and said, “I dropped one of the lug nuts.”

  “Was that before or after you thought changing your flat while naked was a good idea?” He pointedly didn’t look anywhere but at my face.

  “I’m not naked.” Any lingering fear I had gave way to a touch of embarrassment and anger. He was in his usual jeans, T-shirt, and jacket. I had a handgun, a pair of boots, and not much else.

  He shucked off his leather jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “You’re going to freeze out here.”

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  Alamo’s jacket hung down far enough that my hips were covered. Add to that the fact that riding leathers were thicker than the stuff that people wore for fashion only, and I was weighed down by heavy, warm leather. The sheer pleasure of it left me momentarily speechless.

  I hadn’t realized how cold I was until I felt warmer. A small sigh of pleasure escaped me. “Thank you.”

  His voice was gruff as he ordered, “Just . . . get in the truck, woman. I’ll get this.”

  Maybe it was sheer stupidity, but I hated looking like I needed help. Alamo was a good guy. I knew he wouldn’t razz me over it, but that didn’t erase the urge to prove myself.

  “I can change it myself. Like I said, I dropped a lug nut. Just let me find it,” I said as I started to squat down.

  He caught my arm. “No.”

  “Your headlights are a lot better than my phone. Once I get—”

  “I’d rather not have my coat in that mess.” He nodded toward the mud that was oozing up over my boots. “I know you could change the tire, Ellen. We both know it.”

  I looked at him, trying not to shiver again. He released his hold on my arm.

  “I also know that you’re already cold, and I’m not interested in arguing. This road’s not too long from washing out. That’s why I was out here. Echo sent me and a bunch of the guys to check roads.” He softened his voice a little and added, “How about we both agree that you’re a badass and you get in the truck?”