Stone: The Lost Boys MC #2

by Rylan, Savannah

  I was blind to why he did it, though.

  I didn’t understand anything. Why my father was really doing this. Why Stone was wrapped up in all this bad shit. But I trusted him. More than my own father, actually. Which felt weird. I had always trusted my father. But these past couple of years raised a lot of questions about him. Questions I found no answers to in his office.

  Despite the answers that should have been there.

  I sat down on the couch around midnight and sighed. My legs hurt from pacing. My head hurt from thinking. It was dark outside, and all I could see were the stars on the horizon. The few stars the skyline of San Diego afforded me in the dead of night. What would happen if my father found out I tipped Stone and his guys off? What would happen to me if he found out I was involved with Stone?

  Would I be arrested? Aiding and abetting? Would I go to jail, just like them?

  You crossed a line, Hayley.

  It was true. I crossed a line I couldn't come back from. Despite the fact that I didn’t hand over the pictures I took, I still tipped off men who were seen as criminals. I had officially taken a side, whether I understood that at the time or not. My father would see it no other way. He’d see it as me taking their side instead of his. Seeing things their way instead of his.

  “Guess we’ll cross that bridge if, and when, he finds out,” I murmured to myself.

  I pulled out my phone and checked for any phone calls. None from Stone, and none from my father. I pulled up a message to Stone and typed it up quickly, telling him to let me know when he was safe. If he was safe. I hovered my finger over the green button to send, knowing damn good and well this could come back to haunt me if they had been caught. If Stone’s phone was in evidence, eventually they would find my text to him. Our phone calls. All of this would come back on me, and all because of my own actions.

  “You’re already in deep,” I said.

  I sent off the text, then pulled my laptop onto my thighs. I needed to pass the time somehow so my heart rate would settle down. I pulled up the internet search and decided to do a little pop culture investigating. I typed in “Lost Boys MC” into the search bar and started opening tabs. There wasn’t much, to be honest. No matter the variation I typed, I only got two or three tabs out of the searches. Most of them conspiracy blogs. A couple of them, local newspapers.

  And all of my tabs only had good things to say about the crew.

  Local MC Rallies Around Soldier’s Funeral, Wards Off Protestors.

  Lost Boys MC Gun Down Senator’s Almost-Killer.

  Local MC Holds Charity Event At Bar, Benefits Children With Cancer.

  Everything I read was wonderful. I took in stories about the crew helping people in the neighborhood and donating to charities in all corners of the city. I read about how they took down our Senator’s almost-assassin three years ago when he came into town to give a massive election speech. Story after story about the crew helping with funeral protestors and keeping the people of San Diego safe.

  Why would my father go after a crew that apparently did wonderful work for the community?

  I closed out all the tabs and pulled up a clean search history. I erased all the cookies and data. Anything that could clog up what I was about to type in. Then, after drawing in a deep breath, I typed it in.

  Rose Woolf, obituary.

  If my father didn’t have this information in his office, I knew I’d be able to find it in public records. But my original search didn’t turn up anything. I pulled up the online public records for obituaries in the area, then typed in my mother’s name. And still, nothing.

  “Maybe it’s under her maiden name,” I murmured.

  I typed in every form of her name I knew. I used her first and middle name. First and last initial. First name and maiden name. I tried looking it up by her birth date. Hell, I tried looking it up by her death date.

  And I couldn't find anything.

  I furrowed my brow as I continued searching. I combed through records. Archives. I used my father’s log-in information I knew from way back when on the secured backend of the police website, trying to figure it all out for myself. I dug through it all for a few minutes before I closed everything out, hoping I didn’t raise any red flags at twelve thirty at night.

  There’s nothing.

  I tossed my laptop off to the side and sat back into the couch. What the hell did that mean? Why wasn’t there any record of my mother’s death? No certificate, despite the fact that my father told me countless times where the accident had occurred. Right in the heart of San Diego. There was no formal obituary, that was almost always run in the newspapers. Nothing in their online archives about it, and nothing when I plainly searched her name on the web.

  I really needed to speak with my father.

  It was almost one o’clock in the morning, and I gave up hope of hearing from anyone. I’d know by morning if things were okay or if I had fucked up. If Stone was caught, the police would be banging down my damn door. Wondering why we were calling and texting and shit like that. I’d be able to call my father in the morning anyway. Ask him how he was doing. How things went.

  Then, I could ask him about all the questions running through my tired mind.

  Like why he never talked about my mother. Or why he never talked about her death. Or why I couldn’t remember much from her funeral, if anything at all. Why we never went to her graveside and why I couldn't ever get him to regale me with memories of her.

  Me, her own damn daughter.

  “My father’s hiding something,” I murmured.

  Seeds of doubt planted themselves in my mind. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, feeling them beginning to ache. My head pounded. My body felt weak. And as all sorts of questions ran through my head, scary little dots began to connect.

  What if my father didn’t talk about my mother because she was alive?

  I shook the thought away and pulled a blanket over me. I was getting ahead of myself. I needed sleep. In the morning, I could go over to my father’s place like I always did for breakfast and ask him. Point blank. That way, I could get a read on him. Like I did this morning after mentioning the club to him.

  The only thing you’ve got is your gut.

  It was a mantra my father chanted to me all the time as a child. He taught me that, when all else looked as if it was failing around me, I could trust my gut. And right now, my gut told me my father was the liar. My father was the one with the issue. My gut told me that Stone and his guys were good people. Maybe caught up in some shit, but good people trying to do good things.

  It made me sick to think about the fact that my father was lying about my mother.

  I closed my eyes and felt the couch cushions swallow me whole. I sank into its comfort, closing my eyes and letting my mind spiral. The questions kept popping up. The mistrust for my father grew. Tears sprang to my eyes as I pulled the blanket up to my chin, trying to shield myself from the world as much as possible. A week and a half. I’d been back a week and a half, and my life was crumbling around me. Things I knew were concrete facts about my life became nothing but unanswered questions. Theories, if anything. The man I thought I could trust with my life I didn’t even trust with my mind any longer. And the men my father taught me my entire life never to trust were the men I trusted more than my own conscience.

  Despite Stone’s rugged and gruff demeanor, I had more faith in him than my father. I placed more stock in his word than my own damn father’s. It made me sick to my stomach, and yet somehow made a sick bit of sense.

  My father was prejudice against motorcycles crews.

  And I was almost certain it had something to do with my mother as a person, and not her death.

  Twenty-Five

  Stone

  One Week Later

  One week. We had to be in that damn bunker an entire week. One week in a massive room with one shower, one bathroom, some fuckin’ twin mattresses to sleep on, and MREs to keep us afloat. The coffee tasted like chunky d
iesel fuel. The technology was rudimentary, at best. But it fed us the information we needed to make sure the coast was clear.

  We fled there that night and hunkered down to wait out the heat that came down onto our shoulders. Our cell phones went offline and dark the second we activated the bunker, which locked us off from the rest of the world. We used radio transmissions and software we acquired to tap into the local police force databases. We kept abreast on the information they had on us via a rolling screen of data Notch could barely read himself.

  I mean, he was our tech guy. But he was more of a tech fixer. Not a tech guru.

  We kept ourselves afloat on what was going on. And when it started getting to the good stuff, I had Notch take recordings. Usurp camera feeds. Take down notes and screenshots of the information we had. I had rolling proof that Harry Cheng had cut a deal with the damn detective. Fuckin’ Woolf had gotten to Cheng and traded an immunity deal in exchange for setting us up. That fucker sold us out without a second thought, which explained all the heavy-handed tactics Harry employed at our meeting. He wanted to know what we knew so he could feed it back to Woolf. He wanted to make sure we took that shipment and helped them with some last-minute sales plans in an effort to set us up that night.

  I knew exactly how to handle shit like that.

  “Notch, I want you to compose a message to Yung,” I said.

  “Wait, Jin Yung?” he asked.

  “Yes. Do it now. Encrypt it. Do whatever backwards ass shit you can to make sure that email can’t be traced back to this bunker.”

  “I can make that happen. What do you want in the email?”

  “Send off the proof we have. The screenshots. The recordings between Woolf and Cheng. Send him undeniable proof we know Cheng sold us out, then leave one sentence behind.”

  Notch typed away as the other guys began packing up their things.

  “Okay. Ready for your message,” Notch said.

  “Tell him, ‘we’re done, you’re burned,’” I said.

  “We’re done?” Bronx asked.

  “Send it,” I said to Notch.

  We’d woken up the morning of day seven in that damn underground bunker to the news that Detective Woolf had officially been placed on another case. Ours had been buried, the sting operation was defunct, and the file had been placed in the archives for now. That meant the heat was low enough for us to resurface. But there was one piece of information that stuck in my mind. One piece of information that had come to light a couple of days ago. The police figured it was just a theory. An explanation that couldn't be proven as to how we got away.

  “Are you ever going to tell us who tipped you off?” Texas asked.

  There were rumors floating around and notes jotted into electronic files about a tip. Someone who had insider information on how the sting operation went south. But without proof of the theory, it fizzled out within forty eight hours. They filed us away, like they usually did, and we were free to come out of hiding.

  I have to keep Hayley safe.

  “I won’t reveal my source for now. They need to be kept safe. But in time, I’ll fill you in. Yes,” I said.

  “Email sent,” Notch said.

  “All right, guys. Time to rejoin the world,” I said.

  We resurfaced later that night, around eight. We lugged our bikes out of storage a couple miles into town, then rode off in our separate directions. I knew Texas was heading home. Back to Ella and Keva. I didn’t know where Notch or Bronx were going, but seeing as they drove off together, I figured it was to get chips and beer.

  And me? Well, I was headed to the zoo.

  To park right next to Hayley’s car.

  I sat there, waiting for her to get out of work. I didn’t even turn my damn bike off. I watched her walk through the front gates of the zoo and look my way. And even in the darkness, I saw her eyes widen. Her walk became a trot. And her trot became a jog. Soon, she was running up to me, her hair billowing behind her and her chest heaving for air.

  She came to a stop in front of me, and I watched her eyes fill with so much. Anger. Relief. Frustration. Confusion.

  Happiness.

  “You were right,” I said.

  “What?” she asked breathlessly.

  “About that night. You were right. Your father had a sting operation in place, and they almost caught us.”

  “But you guys are okay?”

  “Do I look okay?”

  “Don’t get smart with me. You’ve been off the radar completely for a damn week,” she bit.

  I nodded. “I’m sorry. Yes, we’re fine. We got there and scoped things out before your father could swoop in and take us down.”

  She paused. “Did you just apologize?”

  I chuckled. “Maybe.”

  “Why didn’t you get in touch with me? To tell me you were okay? Let me know you hadn’t been taken in for questioning or thrown into some dark, dank hole?”

  “Haven’t you talked to your father lately?”

  She clenched her jaw and I saw something flash behind her eyes. Fury. Oh, she was angry. But not with me. I furrowed my brow as my eyes cased her body, watching her pull her cardigan around her luscious form.

  Something had happened.

  “We had some things to take care of after we left. We needed to lay low until the heat of the failed sting lifted. I took the time to put some plans in motion that gets the crew out of some shady shit we have fallen into over the years. That’s what I’ve been doing the past week,” I said.

  “I’ve just been working. Finishing up my training with the zoo,” Hayley said.

  “How’s that going?”

  “Eh, this is my last night shift, so to speak. Come Monday, I start my regular hours.”

  “Sounds like a cause for celebration.”

  I snickered. “I suppose I could go for a drink. Or five.”

  I smiled. “Good thing I got plenty of beer back at my place.”

  She followed me back, and we quickly walked up the stairs to my place. I didn’t even get the door pushed open before her hands were on me, ripping my clothes off. Ripping my belt from my jeans and pushing my leather jacket off my shoulders. I didn’t even get the damn door locked before she fisted my shirt, pulling me in for a kiss.

  I flipped the lock just before my hands fell to her hips, squeezing her excess and drinking her in.

  “I was so worried,” she whispered.

  “I was worried about you, too,” I murmured.

  I growled as her teeth raked against my lower lip. We stripped one another down, caressing and gripping every part of each other we could. We stumbled into my bathroom where I turned on the hot water. I let it pour over us from the waterfall shower head, drenching us as I pinned her to the wall. My lips kissed down her cheek. Down her neck. I lapped at her pulse point and kissed down the sumptuous valley of her breasts. I wanted to taste every cavern of her body. I wanted to praise every peak of her thickness. I wrapped my lips around her nipples, tugging and sucking as her hands fell to my hair.

  “I’m so glad you’re back,” she whimpered.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Hayley,” I murmured against her skin.

  I slid to my knees, letting my tongue trail down her stomach. I slipped her voluptuous thigh over my shoulder, smelling her womanhood for the first time in days. I grunted as my tongue fell against her pussy lips. I lapped up her slit, gathering her juices as the water poured over our bodies. I pinned her hips to the wall as she gasped and whimpered, my tongue pressing into the depths of her lips.

  “Yes, Stone. Fuck,” she groaned.

  What apologies I couldn't say with my lips, I traced with my tongue. I found her clit and I wrote my sincerest apologies along her swollen nub. Her juices ran down my chin. Coated my neck. She bucked against me, my stubble tickling the sides of her pussy as her hands fisted my hair. I flattened my tongue over her clit, allowing her to use me any way she wished in order to take what she had deserved.

  “Stone. Stone. Ston
e. Yes. Yes. Yes! Stone! I’m so—glad you’re—ba—ck—”

  I slid my tongue into her fluttering pussy and felt her walls clamp down onto me. Her juices dripped onto my face, marking me as her own. Because I was hers. All of me was hers. She was the first thing on my mind every damn morning this week and the last thing I thought about before I slipped off to sleep. Hell, I’d dreamt about her. Dreamt about having her in my arms. Straddling my lap. Sitting on my face and wrapped around me on the back of my bike.

  I swallowed down her arousal, not wasting a drop as my tongue cleaned up her swollen pussy lips.

  “Oh, Stone,” she sighed.

  I reached up and bashed a button with my palm. It turned off the shower and turned on the misters as I slipped my thigh from her shoulder. I stood up, gripping her thighs and feeling her excess pour through the slats of my fingers. And as I hoisted her against the wall of the shower, my cock fell against her entrance.

  It had memorized where to go, and I slipped against her walls as her pussy opened up for me.

  “Shit,” I grunted.

  I pinned her against the wall. Her nails curled into my back. She kissed me, licking herself off me as I slowly rolled against her. Her walls fluttered around me. They opened for me and pulsed around me as my cock grew thicker inside her warm heat. She locked her legs around me and I moved my hands, pressing them into the shower wall.

  “I love you, Stone. I love you so much,” Hayley gasped.

  I captured her lips and swiveled my hips. My pelvis tickled the tip of her engorged clit. Her sensuous peaks fell into the divots of my muscles, blanketing me in her comfort. My heart soared. My mind swirled. My cock fell into the recesses of her body, aching to release. I rolled slowly. Deftly. Effortlessly against her. Until both of us groaned and grunted the same truth to one another, over and over again.

  “You’re mine, Hayley. I—I love—I—Hayley—fucking hell.”