by Lowe, Aden
That frown deepened a little. "Find things? Or find people?"
"That too."
"So… What? Like tracking down runaways?"
He shrugged again. "Sometimes. Other times, messages need to be delivered, or someone needs to be brought home. I've delivered paperwork a few times. Stuff like that."
"This is what you do for work?" Sincerity shone from those blue eyes, like she genuinely wanted to know.
Another shrug drew her closer. Damn, he needed to break that habit. It could become a giveaway in a vital moment, and reveal a thought or weakness to a rival. In this business, that was something he couldn't afford. "You could look at it that way. But it's really more a diversion, I suppose. A way to stay the fuck out of my own head and think about other people and their situations. It gives me something to think about besides my own shitty stuff, and long periods of being alone, which is also good, since I'm rarely fit company for anyone."
She smiled a little and let her arm loop around his waist. "I guess that makes sense. At least a little."
The little breeze returned long enough to lift a small lock of her hair and bring it to brush against his neck in a faint tickle. The sensation brought images roaring into his head. Images of the two of them amid tangled sheets, with all that black silk wrapped about them in a kind of mystical binding. A strong mental kick in the ass dislodged that image, but did nothing for the renewed throbbing pulse in his cock.
The further they walked, the more the noise and music from the Rattlesnake receded, leaving them alone with the scent of honeysuckle hanging in the warm air, along with undertones of vehicle exhaust and asphalt cooling from the sun's heat. The security lighting around the parking lot focused more in the opposite direction, leaving them with only dim illumination.
"What's over there?" He gestured toward the row of lights, dim with distance, beyond the overgrown field bordering the parking lot.
Her shoulders lifted slightly in her own version of a shrug. "I'm not sure. Those lights aren't always there, and they don't seem to match with any houses or anything. I've never bothered to take the time to find out."
Hmm. Finding out what those lights came from suddenly seemed like a pretty good idea. Especially if someone who knew the area as presumably well as Rita had no idea where they came from. "Interested in checking it out with me?" As soon as the invitation hit the air, Falon realized the mistake, but it was too late.
She came to a standstill and turned to face him, staring up. "Why would you want to do that?"
He forced a slow smile and raised one eyebrow. "Seemed like a good idea. Something wrong?"
She smiled back a little. "No, of course not. People who aren't from here usually don't bother being curious about anything that goes on here. And I'm not all that used to being invited to do much of anything either." One hand raised to allow a delicate fingertip to brush the center of his lower lip. "What all did you have planned, exactly? And when would this adventure happen?"
Heat roared through him at her touch, ready and willing to pick up where they'd left off when the shotgun had boomed. "I was sort of thinking tonight, now, just to ride out there and see. It might be fun." The thought of her behind him on his Harley set a crazy pulse pounding at the base of his throat.
Rita studied him for a long moment, probably figuring out how to refuse and still be nice. "Okay."
"Okay?"
Her smile dazzled for a moment. "Yeah, okay. As in, yes, I'd like to go."
He'd made a fool of himself with that, and didn't even really mind. "Okay, then. Ready?"
She nodded and let him take her hand and lead her toward his bike, only to halt when the destination vehicle became unmistakable. "Wait, you're on a motorcycle?"
Shit. "Yeah. Is that a problem?"
Calculation narrowed her eyes a little, and the dim security lighting created a sort of optical illusion to make them appear closed, reminding him how she looked under his kisses. "No, of course not, just a surprise. I guess I expected a pickup truck or muscle car instead." She started walking again.
While he dug his spare helmet out from where he'd strapped it to the rear fender, Rita separated her masses of hair and braided it in swift movements with a tidy result. The extra lid was clean, thanks to the little cover that protected it, even if it hadn't been worn in a very long while.
Falon swung astride the bike and started it, then waited for her to climb on. She hesitated only the briefest moment, then slid up snug, allowing those gorgeous breasts to flatten themselves against his back. The heat of her thighs around his hips send another blast of wanting through him.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, but let her hands drop to his thighs, right up close and personal.
Uh oh.
Riding with Rita seemed like a very interesting prospect.
***
His scent was the first thing she noticed, that same spicy cologne from earlier in the evening, just not as strong. Combined with soap and laundry detergent from his shirt, the effect was a strange mixture of intoxicating and comforting.
The heat made itself known next, seeping first through his shirt and hers, and then into her skin. Her nipples hardened in pure reflex, reacting to the play of muscles under that t-shirt they pressed against. It wasn't at all difficult to plaster herself against him and hang on to enjoy the ride. In fact, the only hardship lay in restraining her explorations for the time being.
Vibration from the bike's engine worked its way up the base of her spine and sent tendrils to touch every sensitive area of her body, kindling little fires all along the way. Falon's every movement, no matter how small, stoked those flames until a raging inferno threatened to consume her. She only barely managed to hang onto her composure by promising herself she would taste all of him later.
Between her thighs, Falon moved a little as he guided them onto the old County Road out of Stags Leap, headed toward where the row of lights seemed to come from.
Falon leaned them into Diggers Curve, just half a mile from the Rattlesnake, then straightened the bike out and laid on the throttle to carry them screaming through the night, the engine's roar echoing between the sandstone cliffs and the River. The eight-mile straight-stretch ended in the series of narrow curves that led upward and into the hills, out of the river valley.
Rita signaled Falon when they approached the turn onto Carliss Road, which should take them toward the row of lights. He slowed for the turn, and in the decreased engine noise, she warned him of the loose gravel they would be on soon. Road rash was an experience she had no desire to repeat.
Carliss Road, covered with limestone gravel at this point, wound along the slope of a hill, through a heavy forest that contained the bike's engine noise and redirected it into a thrumming pulse that hung between the trees. At the top of the hill, the road became even narrower and left the cover of the forest for a short distance. The silvery glow of the limestone faded and went dark, replaced by sandstone creek gravel, packed into a hard, mostly solid, surface by the weight of log trucks and farm equipment.
Heading downhill, Falon slowed the bike so that they nearly coasted, without a great deal of noise, until they returned to the muffling cover of a forested area. Halfway down, the forest thinned and Falon slowed as they moved onto a small plateau that offered a view of the narrow valley spread below. He cut the motor and studied the scene in silence.
The Rattlesnake was clearly visible, and beyond it, the rest of Stags Leap, and a curve of the River. A barge made its way upstream, the throb of its engines rolling from side to side off the hills, and masking the sound of the freight train running parallel on the River's opposite bank.
Closer, on the near side of a forested strip, a series of a dozen bulbs hung suspended from poles. Several small campfires, each with a few people sitting or rolled into blankets beside them, burned to one side of the lit area. And in the center of the strung lights, a series of long tables were laid out, each with a number of unidentifiable items spread across them
, and all with two to three people standing over them.
"Fuck." Falon sucked in a sharp breath. "Ready? We need to get out of here."
Rita shrugged. This certainly hadn't been the romantic night ride she'd expected. "What's wrong?"
He started the engine but stayed off the throttle. "Forget what you saw down there, forget we rode out this way, and if you're religious, pray we get out of here without getting caught."
***
Chapter Nine
Tension seeped noticeably away from Falon's muscles as they rolled back onto the lot at the Rattlesnake, and Rita couldn't help but appreciate the way those more relaxed contours felt under her hands and pressed to her chest. What the hell had that been back there? Why had it made him so nervous?
She ran the scene back through her mind, but nothing really stuck out. It had all looked about as harmful as a marathon bridge tournament. He couldn't have recognized anyone at that distance, surely. The visibility had simply been too poor. So what did that leave, then?
By the time Falon let the bike stop in a little sheltered area between the camper and the storage shed, Rita still hadn't arrived at a conclusion that made sense. More than a bit reluctant, she slid off the bike, hating how the coolness of the night air replaced the warmth of his body on her front. The damn chin strap of the helmet had wound a thick stand of her hair around itself in a complex knot that required infinite patience to free, occupying the entire time Falon took to secure the bike.
Finished, he took a long slow look around, and seeming satisfied with everything, Falon took her hand and led her several yards across the lot, only to stop in what seemed a totally random spot. When he turned back toward the bike and carefully looked the area over, as if searching for some missing detail, at least he cleared up the mystery of where they'd stopped. At ten yards, the bike should be clearly visible from the security lighting, but it seemed well hidden in the parking spot he'd chosen.
That he felt the need to hide his bike sent a hard rock of apprehension to the bottomless pit of her stomach. "Falon, what's going on? Is someone looking for you?"
The debate over what to tell her played visibly across his features. "I hope not. If they had a lookout, or game cameras set up, or any sort of security measures, they very well could be."
"But why? Do you know them or something?"
His mouth tightened and put his hands on his hips, clearly indicating he'd said all he was going to.
"If you're in danger, shouldn't I know about it? After all, you're renting my camper, and I'd like to think we'll be sharing a bed some, too. So if you're in danger, doesn't that put me in danger?" Damn, maybe she shouldn't have put it that way. He could just as easily walk away and disappear forever.
But he sighed and dropped his hands. "Come inside, let me explain." He fished keys out and led the way to the camper.
Had she made a mistake? Or underestimated him when she considered Kellen more dangerous? Inside, he indicated she should sit at the little table, and offered her a beer from the mini-fridge concealed within the cupboard, then sat across from her.
"You're probably not going to like this, and I won't be surprised if, after you hear it, you decide I'm not the kind of guy you want renting your camper, or sharing your bed." A fine sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead, even though it wasn't all that hot. Worry?
"Why not just tell me first, then let me decide?" The top twisted off her beer with a satisfying hiss and she took the first sip. Hopefully it would make whatever he had to say go down a little easier.
He nodded and opened his own bottle, but rather than drink, he played with the bottle, making an elaborate pattern of interlocking wet rings on the table top. Clearly, her potential reaction to whatever he had to say concerned him.
"Look, just say it, okay? I'll listen first, then tell you what I think of it."
"You're right." He finally took a drink of his beer. "Okay, the thing is, what I told you earlier, about my wife and all that, was true. I just left out some. After I left the military, I took a job as a bounty hunter. It gives me something to do to occupy my mind, and I get to make a useful contribution to society." He looked up from where he'd started to strip the label from the beer bottle, clearly trying to gauge her reaction.
Rita shook her head, not getting what he might be apprehensive about. "Bounty hunter? As in…?"
"As in skip tracer, or whatever you want to call it. Someone gets in trouble, the judge sets bail, they get my boss to guarantee the bond. So if the person doesn't show back up for court when they're supposed to, my boss has to forfeit the full amount the judge set. To prevent that, my boss has me and several others who track down people he's bonded out if they don't show up the first time."
"Okay. So not like the old time bounty hunters, then, the ones who hunted down criminals for the reward money?" A slight sense of relief percolated through her chest as scenes from an old Western movie she'd watched with her father played through her mind. What he did sounded far less dangerous.
"No, not like that. Usually it's guys trying to skip out on paying child support." The beer label lay in tiny shreds on the table. "Anyway, I'm here hunting someone."
Child support? That didn't sound so bad at all. "You going to tell me who it is? I might even know him, make it a little easier for you to find him."
"Oh, I think you know him. I'm here for Tom Kellen."
She laughed a little. "Funny. Now who are you really looking for?" Her smile faded gradually under his steady gaze. She shook her head. "No. Falon, you can't go after him. Besides, he doesn't have any kids."
"No, he doesn't. He isn't wanted for child support either. But I have to go after him. And I have to get him." Each fragment of the label had become a tiny paper ball.
Rita's heart pounded with fear, which was ridiculous. The only thing she really knew about this man was that his kisses melted her bones in record time, and she wanted a whole lot more of them. Of their own volition, her hands lifted in a kind of helpless surrender. All she could do was wait for him to tell her more.
"I have to get him, partly because it's just what I do now, and partly to stop him from hurting anyone else. Over the years, far too many people have died by his hand, and that doesn't even consider the ones still living in the hell of addiction and loss." The little paper balls were all lined up in a neat square.
Her eyes fell closed and she forced them open again. What on Earth did he mean? Surely he'd mistaken Kellen for someone else. "That doesn't even make sense, Falon. I know Kellen's bad news. The whole Club is. But they aren't killers. Well, not in the usual sense, anyway. I'm sure they could, given the right reasons, but they don't."
Falon frowned at her, studying her for several very long moments, one brow lowered as if he worked at a puzzle. His lips parted, as if to say something, but then he raised one hand and rose from his seat. "Wait."
Like she could do much of anything else. She watched the play of muscles under the back of his t-shirt as he pulled a leather duffle bag from the tiny closet under the bunk. After a moment of sorting through the contents, he returned to the table with a thick manila envelope. Back in his seat, he slid a thick sheaf of papers out onto the table, and turned them to face her.
Kellen scowled back at her from the top sheet, a lurid bruise along the top of his cheekbone. "What is this?" She laid an index finger on the edge of the paper. The image was grainy, but unmistakable, and under it, a list of details, including height, weight, hair and eye color, and birthdate.
Falon flipped the first page back to reveal a list charges and convictions. "These are arranged by state and severity. You'll notice he has a pretty wide range of skills. Rita, the Hell Raiders are not what they seem. Yes, Kellen started the club as a teenager with his three friends, but did you, or anyone else, never wonder how a bunch of unemployed guys always have custom bikes and plenty of money?"
When he put it that way… "I guess we all preferred to look the other way."
He nodded. "Yeah, th
at's usually the case. And it's usually easier. If anyone had questioned them, things would have gone very badly. The Hell Raiders were patched over, or absorbed by, a much larger organization a few years back. Now they're part of the Brothers of Sin MC, an outlaw organization with ties to nearly every kind of criminal activity in the Appalachians. It's uniquely organized, with a central power structure, but it's all affiliate clubs. Just small clubs joined together for the power."
Sickness rolled through the pit of her stomach as her subconscious recognized the truth. "One of them brought a woman back with him from somewhere, and she stayed here several months. She had a gorgeous tattoo that spread all across her right shoulder and went halfway down her back. It stood out to me because of the unusual wording at the time. It said something about being a Sin Eater. When I asked what that was, she said it was part of a women's MC she belonged to."
He frowned again and flipped through the stack of papers. "Here it is. The Sin Eaters are sort of the female equivalent to the Brothers of Sin. If anything, they're more brutal. Now, you ready for the really bad part?" He waited for her nod. "Kellen is now the National President of the Brothers of Sin."
Well, okay then. But how did that relate back to… "I guess I get that, though I'm more than a little shocked someone I know could be anything National. What doesn't make sense is how Kellen and the Hell Raiders, or the Brothers of Sin, have anything to do with the campers or whatever we saw tonight. There wasn't anything there that looked like they'd be involved in the slightest."
He gave her a blank look first, then understanding changed his expression. "Rita, that wasn't just some people camping or out raising hell. Did you notice some were sleeping and others working? They were manufacturing meth and getting it ready for distribution. Two of those tables were actually cooking it. Others were processing and packaging. By the time they're done, several pounds of new shit will be headed for the street."