Alone on Earth

by Susan Fanetti

  There were maybe a dozen goats, all different. Some were big, with heavy horns, some small, with only stubs. Some were standing and others lying, but they were all eating. Riley saw that they weren’t in an enclosure. They were loose on this back lawn, only the dog keeping them in line. Not that they looked like they were in any big hurry to make a break for it.

  She heard a sharp whistle, and the dog jumped off his perch and trotted to the goats. As soon as he hit the ground, they stopped eating and watched him. And with pure, complacent docility, they turned in the direction he herded them and ambled to the barn. Standing at the wide doors into which they were being led was a lean guy with long, reddish hair pulled back in a ponytail. He saw her and nodded; she smiled and waved, and he rubbed his dog’s head and followed the animals into the barn.

  That was it. No gawking, no running up for an autograph. He just nodded and went on about his business.

  “Riley? Are you coming in?” Pru was coming up behind her.

  “Yeah. It’s pretty here, huh? Quiet.”

  Pru nodded, but she made a little face, wrinkling her nose. “Yeah. Kinda smells like fertilizer, though. Which I guess makes sense.”

  Riley took another deep breath, because she hadn’t noticed anything unpleasant. She still didn’t. The air smelled sweet and new to her. She shrugged and let Pru lead her back toward the front. She noticed that the van was parked next to two big, black motorcycles. The guys, though, must already have gone inside the hotel. The house. Whatever. They went up onto the porch and through the glass-front door.

  The room they walked into was kind of a cross between a hotel lobby and a living room. There were two big sofas facing each other, with two armchairs clustered at each end. Along one wall was the front desk. A staircase rose with a subtle sweep up to a second floor. To one side of the front desk was a glass-front door that looked like it led into a hallway. To the other side was a solid swinging door. Probably the kitchen. Off to the left, up a step and past the staircase, were closed double doors.

  Everything was open and light and tasteful. It didn’t feel like a hotel. Or like a house. It certainly wasn’t a creepy Victorian filled with faded floral damask. Or cats.

  Their bags were stacked near the foot of the staircase. Tanner, Mark, Bart, and another guy—wearing a black leather vest nearly identical to Bart’s, so another biker—were standing near the front desk. A tall woman, statuesque and beautiful, with dark red hair that curled over her shoulders, was behind the desk entering something into a laptop.

  “Come on. They’re checking in.” Pru pulled a little on the sleeve of Riley’s jacket, and she followed her to the desk.

  The redhead smiled warmly and held out her hand across the desk as Riley approached.

  They shook. “Hi, Riley, Pru. I’m Shannon Ryan, the manager. I’m just going over some of the details, and then Steve will show you up to your rooms.”

  As advertised, she went over the details. Riley let Pru pay attention to all that, and instead she looked around some more. The other biker was young, and his patch, actually, was different, now that she could see the back. Bart’s had big patches on the back—one that curved across the top, reading “Night Horde”; another that curved across the bottom, reading “Missouri”; a large graphic in the middle of an angry horse’s head with a mane of fire; and then a small square patch near it that read, simply, “MC.” The other biker’s vest had only one patch, on the bottom, reading “Prospect.” The same word was sewn onto the left front breast of the vest.

  Riley had done a little research, so she knew that a “Prospect” was, like, auditioning for a place in the club. She didn’t know what that audition entailed, but it explained why he looked so young, she guessed.

  Apparently done with her spiel, Shannon handed keys—actual keys—over to Riley, Pru, Tanner, and Mark. Then another guy whom Riley had not noticed came forward and started collecting bags. Bart nodded at the other biker, the Prospect, and he, too, went to pick up some bags and follow the bellboy—did little places like this have bellboys?

  “Well, then,” Tanner turned to Bart. “Where’s a bloke likely to find a pint in these ‘yer parts?” He spoke the last few words in a broad, cowboy drawl, smirking a little as he did.

  Riley thought he probably meant to offend, but Bart didn’t take it. He simply smiled. “We’re having a little…get-together at the clubhouse tonight. Isaac and Lilli will be there. The rest of the club and a lot of the town, too. We’ve got a full bar, and we’ll have plenty of food. ‘Round eight o’clock, we’re usually getting a good start. Omen’s gonna be driving you guys around this week, so let him know when you’re ready to go.” He turned back to Shannon, still standing behind the desk. “You be there tonight?”

  Shannon looked not entirely pleased by what Bart had said, but she smiled. “I can probably stop in.”

  “Okay, then.” Bart pushed away from the desk and walked through the cluster of people, heading to the front door. Riley was a little bummed.

  “Hey, Bart—thanks for the ride.”

  He turned back to her and gave her that crooked smile. Crooked was better than crinkly. Definitely.

  “Welcome. I’ll see you guys later.” He went out the door.

  As they were heading up the stairs to their rooms, Riley heard a loud engine roar—must have been Bart starting his engine. Loud as it was, it was a good sound.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bart was pretty proud of himself for keeping his cool around Tanner and Riley. He’d been afraid he’d be a drooling moron, especially when he’d been late and had run into the airport, but then he was there, and they were there, and they were just people. And Tanner Stafford was an entitled asshole. That dulled any possible starshine right quick. Bart supposed lots of celebrities were used to other people doing for them, but watching Tanner strut around like he was in charge of the world reminded Bart that these were just people who played dress-up for a living. They were going to play people who’d actually bled for the truth their fiction was based on.

  And suddenly, Bart hadn’t been nervous or intimidated at all.

  Where Tanner had given off the strong whiff of shithead, Riley had been quiet and sweet, most of her face hiding behind big, dark sunglasses. She was so little! He’d seen her headshot, so he’d known her stats. About five-one. Which he knew was short, but standing next to her, he’d still been surprised by how he towered over her. She was like a sprite, even in those fancy cowboy boots with the colorful flowers all over them.

  Her assistant, Pru, was pretty hot, too. Taller, rounder, brunette rather than blonde, but obviously related. Cousin, he thought Riley had said. She had a funky little mark on her cheek, and a tendency to pull her hair forward on that side. She almost had an air about her of being in charge. Riley seemed to step back and let Pru take care of things, which was the opposite of how Tanner was with his friend, whose name Bart couldn’t remember.

  He felt conflicted about them coming to the clubhouse tonight, and he could tell that Shannon did, too. Things could get pretty crazy at a Horde party. Lots of public indecency. Fighting. Things that the Hollywood set probably only knew in make-believe. If Tanner was an asshole to a drunk Horde, he could end up not being quite so pretty.

  Actually, that was an upside.

  Bringing Riley and Pru into that, though—that could be dangerous.

  Club girls, regulars, knew what they were getting into. New girls got told what to expect. The Horde were decent guys and treated women, overall, pretty well. Or, more or less. Depending on what “pretty well” meant. Most of them didn’t have a lot of interest in what women had to say, but they weren’t violent with them, and they didn’t force them. Isaac and Show had old ladies and barely even looked twice at the club girls. Badger was still shy and waited for a girl to move on him. Bart had a couple of favorites. C.J. did, too—older women he’d been banging for years. Len and Havoc could be rough, but they went for the girls they knew were up for it. Len preferred a roomful. V
ic was the only one the girls worried about. But he’d been better, since all that shit with Marissa Halyard.

  Bart didn’t like to think about that. He did a lot better if he managed to push that to the back of his head. That was nightmare shit. Pretty much everything that had happened two years ago—almost exactly two years ago—was like something out of a fucking horror movie.

  He laughed at the thought. Hollywood was here to make that movie. But they weren’t getting the horror parts. They were making some high-toned drama about the strength of the human spirit. He supposed that was the story, too.

  Anyway, the club girls knew what was what. And they knew that when the night got late and the snoots got full, the guys got rougher. Bringing women into a straight-up Horde party who weren’t there as pussy got complicated, unless they were known to be with someone. Because unattached girls just didn’t come to these parties unless they were looking to end up on their knees. That Isaac had suggested the Hollywood people come tonight spoke, Bart thought, to his growing frustration with the project. He said he wanted to show them what it was like, but Bart thought he was looking to scare them.

  Bart should have talked to Show before he invited Hollywood. Show would have seen the folly and, as Isaac’s VP, best friend, and chief advisor, would have walked Isaac back. But Bart hadn’t thought about that, and now it was time to meet in the Keep. He pulled up in the clubhouse lot, dismounted, and went into the Hall.

  Isaac wasn’t there, but everybody else was—no, that wasn’t right. C.J. wasn’t around. Bart checked his phone—C.J. was late. And he heard Isaac’s bike pulling up outside just then. So did everybody else; Bart could see them beginning to shift and stand, finishing their drinks, putting down their pool cues, turning off the television.

  Isaac strode in, hooking his night riding glasses in his kutte pocket. Bart was still standing just a few feet in from the door, and Isaac dropped his arm over Bart’s shoulders. “Hollywood all settled in? Any trouble?”

  Bart didn’t know whether to nod or shake his head. “They’re good. Omen’s there.”

  Isaac grinned. “You get yourself an autograph?”

  “Nah. Just got them to the B&B.”

  “What’d you think?”

  At that, he shrugged. “Just people. Pretty people.” He’d let Isaac make his own judgments about any of them.

  At first Isaac narrowed his eyes, as if he were trying to see past Bart’s statement, but then he nodded and clapped Bart’s back. “Good enough. Okay, brothers, let’s get to business. Got some news.” He took two steps toward the heavy double doors of the Keep and then stopped. “Where’s Ceej?”

  Show answered. “Not here.”

  Bart caught a look between Len and Show. Isaac did, too. He asked, “Anybody call him?”

  “Yeah, boss. I called.” That was Len, the club’s Sergeant at Arms. There was a strange tension in the room. Bart felt like he’d missed a conversation. It looked like Isaac had missed it, too.

  “Somebody gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

  Len cleared his throat. “He’s not comin’. He was pretty far gone down a vat of Wild Turkey, Isaac. Don’t think it’s more than that.”

  Something told Bart that it was probably more than that. Blowing off the table was hardcore. That meant a big fine, at least. And Ceej had been causing all kinds of minor trouble at the table, butting heads with Isaac, disrespecting his position. Trouble had been brewing between them for the past couple of years.

  C.J. was original Horde, of Isaac’s father’s generation—the last of them, in fact. Bart, about a decade younger than Isaac, wasn’t witness to Isaac’s trouble with his old man, but it was the stuff of club legend. Big Ike had been a hard father. The long, jagged scar bisecting Isaac’s left cheek had come courtesy of his old man’s drunken rage. But Bart knew—he’d seen, until the summer two years ago—that Isaac and C.J. had been pretty close. C.J. had respected him at the head of the table, and he’d loved him like a son. Until Isaac had met Lilli. That summer, when Lilli had inadvertently gotten tangled up in the Horde, which had resulted in her almost dying and the Horde voting to kill one of their own for it, C.J.’s attitude about Isaac had begun to change. He’d voted with everyone to send Wyatt to his Maker, but he’d been Wyatt’s sponsor, and he’d taken it hard. He blamed Isaac for it. He thought Isaac had brought his old lady too deep into the club.

  Nobody else now at the table agreed, but as the months went on, Bart thought that Ceej had started to get comfortable on the other side, always the odd vote. He was losing his sense of brotherhood as he got settled more deeply in his simmering war with Isaac. Nothing good could come of it. And now he was blowing off the table.

  Isaac was staring at Len, the muscle at the back of his jaw flexing under his beard. Finally, he cocked his head a little and nodded. “Let’s go.” He turned on his heel and stalked into the Keep.

  When they were all assembled at the table, that empty seat between Vic and Havoc sucking some kind of energy out of the room, Isaac opened the meeting.

  “Hav, I want you flanking Ceej on this bar thing—ready to take point. If something’s up with him, we need somebody to step in.” The Horde were working on opening a bar in town, something to siphon the tourist/overnighter business away from Tuck’s, the town bar, which everybody wanted to stay town—and that meant rough. As Signal Bend had gained the business of visitors who wanted to see where the shootout had occurred, or who had just heard about the town as a nice place to spend a weekend—Shannon had been marketing the hell out of the B&B, and the shops on Main Street had been tooting their horns as well—there had been a general chill over the local spirit. Though the Horde had no interest in owning and running a wine bar, the intent was to give the visitors a place to have their nice wine and mixed drinks, so Tuck’s could go on in its pugnacious ways. Havoc had been the biggest complainer about the loss of recreational brawling.

  The project was C.J.’s. He was the club secretary, with closest sight to the money. They’d bought a property. Now, Ceej was supposed to be dealing with the permits and licenses, and preparing to hire a manager, so the Horde wouldn’t have to fuck with the day to day. He hadn’t reported any progress on the project in a couple of weeks now.

  Havoc shook his head. “I know nothin’ about this shit, boss. Wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “We better hope Ceej is on it. Talk to him. If he’s not a help, then we have another problem, but we’ll deal with that if we have to. Talk to Shannon. She’s the one came up with the list of possible managers. She knows that business. See what she can do.”

  Havoc stared down at the table, clearly unhappy, but then he nodded. Isaac nodded, too.

  “Okay. We got Hollywood in town—two of ‘em today, a couple more Sunday, more next week. Everybody gets a shadow, at least for a while. Lilli and me are up first. Omen is bringing them tonight.”

  Show looked up at that—yep, Bart thought, Show would have stopped it. Tried, anyway.

  “That a good idea, Isaac?”

  Isaac met Show’s look steadily. “Yeah. We give them the full tour. But keep our closets closed.” He turned out to the rest of table. “That means hands off the California pussy. Look but don’t touch. You too, Len.” Len had had a couple of encounters with a pretty little writer who’d been in town a couple of times over the past year. “Otherwise, carry on.”

  Bart asked, “What about the guys?”

  “You planning on making a move on Mac Studly, Bartholomew?” The table laughed, and Bart felt himself blush, which was fucking annoying.

  “Haha. No—but Tanner Stafford turns out to be a dick. Sucker bet he’s gonna piss somebody off.”

  “Man digs himself a hole, that’s his grave.” Bart nodded; he could live with that.

  Leaning forward, his forearms on the table, Isaac got serious. “We have bigger problems. I talked to Sam this afternoon.”

  That got the table’s full attention. Sam was Sam Carpenter, President of the mother ch
arter of the Scorpions, the international MC with which the Horde was allied. They weren’t a support club for the Scorps, but they helped them out, filling in the mid-country gap on some big runs. They’d banked a lot of markers over the years and had called them all in during the Ellis affair.

  The Scorpions were hardcore outlaw, way out of the Horde’s league. They were a very powerful friend to have—but they would be a fearsome enemy, so that friendship was precious, and the balance was not on the Horde’s side. Sam had expressed concern about the movie and the attention it brought to the Horde, and thus to its associates.

  Bart knew that, because Isaac led with everything on the table. He didn’t hold shit back. It was one of the things that made him so good in that seat. Everybody knew he could be trusted. He might consult away from the table, but as soon as he had something solid, he brought it to the whole club. And then he listened. He was hotheaded, but he wasn’t bullheaded. And he knew his own weaknesses. He was easy to trust, easy to follow. Even when he led them into the wilds, he cleared the best path he could.

  “We’re gettin’ company, brothers. Show and I have tried to ease everybody’s mind about this movie, but Sam needs to see for himself. They all do. We got six Scorps on their way from Jacksonville. They’re stopping on the way in ‘Bama, picking up Tug, maybe a couple of others. We can expect maybe a dozen Scorps in here next Friday.

  Bart swallowed hard. “All of the actors will be here by then. Even the ones only staying a day or two.”

  “I’d say that was the point. I didn’t tell him when they were coming. He already knew. Courtesy, I expect, of our great friend, Rick.”

  Rick Terrance was a friend of Lilli’s, and now Bart’s. He was a top-notch hacker, who’d worked with Lilli and had helped the Horde take Ellis down. As compensation for that, Isaac had put him with Sam, and now he was the Scorpions’ Intelligence Officer. There was just about no piece of digital information he couldn’t get his hands on.