HANDS OFF MY WOMAN: Padre Knights MC

by Claire St. Rose

  In the corner was the luggage that had been all packed and ready to take her and Bobby to the resort for their honeymoon. She'd have to unpack the suitcase later, and she found herself wondering: What was the protocol for this? Bobby had bought her an entire set of vacation clothes, and she'd never worn them. She'd taken the tags off and washed them, though, so they couldn't be returned. Was she supposed to keep them? Give them back? She could ask her mother, but odds were pretty damn good that Mama would slam the phone down as soon as she heard Ali's voice—if she picked up at all.

  She sat on the bed, her head in her hands, and the tears fell. She really had made a mess of things. She had no regrets about not marrying Bobby, but she wished she'd had the courage of her convictions to keep away from him in the first place. She'd been right when she'd called the wedding off the first time. The only mistake she'd made was going back to him.

  Ali heard a knock on the door, and her heart skipped in her chest. She glanced towards the nightstand, where she'd started keeping her weapon after she'd taken it out of the truck. She had an urge to stick it in the ass of her jeans, like she was some hero in an action movie, but she'd read somewhere that doing that was really just a good way to take a bullet in a butt cheek. Her week had drawn more than enough public attention without that.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to find some calm. The odds were against someone being there to hurt her. When she peeked out the window, she saw a car she didn't recognize, but it looked like a fairly new model, with the super-bubbly look of a Hybrid of some kind. It was a middling blue shade, not too bright and not too dark. It didn’t look like a gang car, and there wasn’t a huge green devil on the hood. So that was something.

  She put her weapon down and went to answer the door.

  She saw Travis Lathrop through the glass before she opened it, and her heart settled back down into its normal rhythm. "Hello," she said as she drew the door open. "I didn't expect to see you, Mr. Lathrop. Is everything all right?"

  He gave her a curious look. "Based on the message you left me, I'd say no. I tried to call you back, but your phone seems to have been turned off?"

  Ali sighed. "I've been getting all sorts of phone calls from reporters. More than I want to deal with right now. I'm sorry I made you come all this way. Can I get you some tea? Something to eat?" She stepped back so he could come inside.

  "Tea would be wonderful, thank you," he said. He followed her gesture into the living room, and Ali went into the kitchen to fill two glasses with sweat tea and put a few cookies on a plate.

  This is Texas, she thought. World falling down around my ears, and I still take the time to make tea like a proper lady.

  She waited in the kitchen for the tears to run themselves out, then wiped her eyes and carried everything into the living room on one of her grandmother's trays.

  "I hope you don't mind me skipping the chat about the weather and asking after your health," he said as she picked up the tea. "I'm here to find out why in the world you're giving up."

  Ali paused and thought for a moment. "It was over even before yesterday, Mr. Lathrop."

  "Travis, please."

  She nodded. "My business was ruined here. As soon as the story got out that some men who happen to be in a motorcycle club were helping with some improvements to my property, it was all over. I lost all my students that week, and even when I went back to Bobby and made things right with him, my students' parents had enough. I hoped for a long time I'd be able to work things out, but—" she shook her head. "It's not going to happen, and I need to be all right with that. I'm not even sure I'll stay in Arroyo Flats."

  "Is there anything I can do to convince you to stay? Rebuild the program?"

  Ali shook her head. And then the whole story poured out. Well, the edited version, anyway, but that included the dirty dealings of the Sheriff. His taste for very young girls included.

  That was when Travis's face grew storm cloud black. "How do you know this?"

  She told him about the gangs in town, and what the Padres had done to try to keep their hands as clean as they could. She told him about the shootout, and how the Sheriff had flipped sides, and how Alejandro had suggested that it had something do with the Sheriff wanting girls even younger than the ones he'd been able to find, who were usually of age but simply looked younger.

  "It just so happens," Travis said, "That I'm good friends with the Attorney General in our lovely state. I will make some phone calls. It sounds like the people you've heard this from aren't the sort whose testimony will generally stand up in court?"

  She thought of Pitbull up on the witness stand, with his shaved head and his tattoos. "Not likely," she replied.

  "Then I'll take care of this." He placed his hand on Ali's, gently, not as an invitation, just as a comfort. "I hope I'm not sharing too much when I say that I had some personal experience with something of this nature when I was a child. There's a reason I fund what I do. And I will do whatever I can to make sure that this man can't prey on any more children."

  "Thank you," Ali heard herself saying. "Thank you." Because it wasn't just about Arroyo Flats, and the Diablos needing to get out of town. It was also about the Sheriff being a foul piece of trash, and someone needing to stop him.

  Travis accepted her thanks with a quiet nod. "And where will you go?"

  Ali gave a ladylike shrug. "Somewhere around San Antonio, I think. I'm not sure yet. I'll need to see what's available."

  "I'm sure it's occurred to you that your business model—animals helping troubled kids—is incredibly portable? And that it might even be more needed outside a city center like San Antonio?"

  "They must have programs like this already, though," she said. "It took me years to piece together enough to make it work here, and even then I needed to supplement with regular riding lessons."

  "There is a similar program in the area, it's true," he said. "It's actually within my portfolio. And it happens to need a new Director to expand and further develop the offerings. Interested?"

  She could hear everything. The condensation beading up on the outside of her water glass. The ice clinking against the glass itself. The soft sound of Travis taking a cookie and munching on it thoughtfully. She could hear it all because she wasn't breathing. Even a little bit. "What are you offering me?"

  "A job," he said. "If you want to keep the ranch here as an option for yourself, I'd even suggest that we keep it as a secondary location for the program. We'll rebrand it a little bit here, and use it to welcome local kids to experience the delight of animals. And you can keep some of the rooms within the ranch private, and use them whenever you'd like. The program in San Antonio is well established, and you'd have your own offices, plus a salary that—well, it's modest, but for a non-profit, it's pretty damn good, if you don’t mind my saying so. You'll be able to find a nice apartment, or a small house—whatever you're looking for."

  "Yes," she said, feeling the weight of one problem fall away from her like so much stone. "Yes, absolutely. When can I start?"

  He smiled, and she seriously considered flinging her arms around his neck. "Let me see how quickly I can schedule the movers."

  CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

  Alejandro stood outside the Diablos' warehouse and tried to keep his pounding heart to a dull roar. He was sure they'd seen him riding up. They weren't blind, and they had to be on the lookout for retaliation. He needed to walk a fine line here—he knew that. If he moved too quickly, or was too abrupt, they'd assume he was there to try and kill people, and they'd shoot him twenty feet from the door. If he was too weak, his hands up in the air like a coward coming to beg for mercy, they'd shoot him just the same, but they'd laugh while they were doing it. No, this had to be played exactly right, and he'd only get one shot at it.

  He got off his bike, pushed the kickstand down into the dust, and walked to the front door of the warehouse like he belonged there. He didn't quite swagger, but he didn't mince either. He hooked his thumbs in his belt lo
ops like a cowboy, and he wore his weapon on his belt. Near his hands, but not quite touching them.

  About ten feet from the door, three Diablos poured out. One of them held a shotgun, sawed off at the barrel for maximum destruction, and the other two had hand guns. All of them were trained on him, though they were aimed closer to his feet than to his head. That was something. That was respect, and a threat, but not a guarantee. He might make it out of this alive, if God was on his side.

  "I'm here to see Bolt," he said quietly. He kept his hands where they were, and kept his face neutral. Calm. He heard safeties click off, and he felt a muscle in his jaw twitch, but he kept his eyes focused on the Diablo right in front of him.

  It was the man to his right who spoke to him. He had a long scar from his temple to his jawline, looked like someone had tried to peel his face off with a shard of glass. "Yeah, but Bolt ain't here to see you, Rembrant."

  The men laughed, and it was the wrong kind of laugh. It was the laugh that said they were on their own to shoot him or not, whatever they felt would be best. Which meant that his odds of getting in to see Bolt had dramatically decreased.

  He surveyed the three quickly. Only one of them had the red hair and the green eyes, the one with the shotgun, the man on his left. Figured. Do or die, he told himself, and then he lashed out.

  He went low, sweeping Scar off his feet into the dust. Before Diablo could react, he rolled, coming up as close to Red as he could without tangling his feet up. Close—he had to get close, so that shotgun would be useless. He knocked it out of Red's hand as he came up, managed to catch it on the way down before it hit ground—that was pure luck, but it looked amazing from Diablo and Scar's point of view, that was for sure—and got behind Red, pushing the barrel of the shotgun up into Red's jaw.

  "First of all, the name is Shakespeare. Second, I'm being nice," he said, letting his voice drop low and gritty, cold and harsh. The voice that had made him Turk's right hand, and earned him the title of Prez when Turk couldn't hold it any more. "A whole bunch of my men are dead. I didn't call up to San Antonio to get the rest of my people down here, so that we could roll the fuck over you. I didn't have one of my guys plant a bomb in your car, or in your home, even though that's right in his fucking wheelhouse. I came here to see Bolt and work out a fucking truce, and that is exactly what's going to happen now, or else his family here is going to be down a head." Diablo and Scar hesitated, and he jabbed Red harder. He was impressed—Red hadn't made a sound, though from the sharp smell, Red's bladder was a hell of a lot more scared than Red was letting on. "I am not playing, boys. Now."

  The moment stretched out. If he was wrong about who Red was, if he was just some dumbass prospect who happened to be ginger, he and Red were both going to die. But if this was Bolt's little brother, like he was pretty sure it was, he'd just checkmated them.

  Scar kept his weapon trained on Alejandro and Red, but he nodded. Diablo dropped his weapon to the side and stepped back into the shadows of the warehouse. As soon as he was out of sight, Alejandro heard the sound of running feet.

  CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

  Ali had just closed the door behind Travis when Cristina's car pulled up the driveway. Ali tried not to groan. She wanted nothing but to sit down and dial Alejandro's phone a thousand times until he picked up, but it wouldn’t get her anywhere good. She needed to focus, get through what she needed to get through. She'd tear him apart for abandoning her again if—when—she saw him again. She opened the door for Cristina and wrapped her up in a hug as she came up the steps. "Thanks for coming, sweetie."

  "Of course, mami," Cristina said.

  "Are you mad at me?" Ali asked as they settled down on the couch.

  "Mad at you? No. Do I think you're making a huge mistake, one that you'll regret for the rest of your life?" Cristina sighed and leaned back against the arm of the couch. "I don't know, Ali. I know it would be the wrong choice for me, but you're not me. Maybe you can change him, help him make something of his life that's not just blood and tears."

  "I don't want to change him," Ali said. "And this isn't about him, anyway. Not really."

  "Yeah, I know, it's about how you need to get in touch with your inner woman. But Ali—my cousin, he's not going to give you what you want. What I want for you."

  "I know," Ali said, and Cristina subsided, her eyes searching, confused. "I think that's where I've been wrong since the beginning, Cristina. I kept waiting for someone else to give me the life I wanted. And the truth is that I need to go find it myself. I can't keep waiting for it to just arrive. That's not how it works, not when it's something worth having."

  "That may be the first thing you've said that made any sense at all," Cristina said. "Do you have anything stronger than this tea? I was up with the mothers until all hours, and what a mess."

  Ali winced, went to the kitchen, and brought out a bottle of whiskey. "Do you think Mama will ever speak to me again?" she asked as she poured.

  Cristina shrugged. "Probably. I think she understands better than you think. She thought this was something she wanted. And the comment you made, about him assaulting you—that got a lot of people's attention. There are a couple of women who've come forward since yesterday, saying that they were also on the receiving end of Bobby's… attentions, after he'd had too much to drink."

  Ali felt her face draw tight. She'd meant to make her point to him, to find a way to put into his head that she didn't dare be alone with him again, much less intimate. She hadn't meant to tell everyone in the community that he was the next best thing to a rapist. But that was when she'd assumed she was the only one. She thought back to the way people had avoided him at parties once he'd gotten going— especially women. "I hope he gets some help for the way he is," she said, finding it the fairest way to say what she was thinking. "How's Carmac taking it?"

  Cristina threw back her whiskey and puffed her lips out. "He's trying to spin it. You're unstable, of course, and Bobby's been seeking treatment for his drinking—I could just about hear his teeth grinding at that point—and the other women are just trying to get attention, of course."

  "What's Bobby saying?"

  "Not much, actually. Once Alejandro left the church, he kind of… dropped into a pew and didn't move. Your mama and his cleared the guests out of the church, and the groomsmen tried to hustle Bobby out, but he was just quiet." Cristina was silent a moment. "I wish I hadn't pushed so hard, Ali. I feel like this is my fault on both sides. I shouldn't have introduced you to Alejandro, but I shouldn’t have pushed you back towards Bobby either. I should have let you make up your own mind."

  "You were doing what you thought was best," Ali said, and made herself smile. It was the truth, after all. As misguided as it might have been, it was the truth. "I appreciate that." She dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out the engagement ring.

  She'd worn it long enough for it to need to be cleaned. She hated that it looked tarnished in her palm. As if she hadn't taken good enough care of it. And maybe she hadn't. Maybe things with her and Bobby would have worked out, if she'd just managed to put a little more effort into it.

  But at the same time, he would have needed to do more, as well. More listening, more understanding, more trying. It just hadn't worked out, and maybe that wasn't anyone's fault at all.

  "I don't imagine Bobby's going to want anything to do with me for a very long time," she said. "Do you think that you could get this back to him? I don't feel right having it in the house. Not after last time."

  There was a certain depth to Cristina's sigh as she picked up the ring. "It would have been so much fun to decorate the mansion with you."

  "Well, if things work out the way I'm hoping they will, you'll get to decorate something with me. Not a mansion, but maybe a little house, up near San Antonio."

  She'd hoped to get a smile, maybe even a squeal out of her friend, but no such luck. Cristina sat quietly, studying the way the light reflected through the diamond and made tiny rainbows on her hand. "So you'
re leaving?"

  Ali sighed. "Bobby ruined my business. It was everything I wanted, and he destroyed it to try and force me back with him. I'm done with Arroyo Flats. I got a job offer up towards San Antonio, running a program that will help kids. It's the next best thing, Cristina."

  "And it's close to Alejandro. So you can be close by when he gets killed."

  "I don’t think it's going to be like that."

  Cristina's smile was soft and sad. "That's because you're not thinking with this," she said, tapping one manicured fingernail between Ali's brows. "So I hope to hell he's doing a good job with this." She pointed into Ali's lap.

  Ali's cheeks flushed, and she nodded. "He's doing just fine," she said.

  "You know I just want you to be safe?"

  "I do. Promise."

  Cristina smiled, the whiskey filtering through her and softening the hard edges she spent so much time keeping filed clean and tight. "And make me a couple little nieces and nephews to play with, okay? I don't want my babies growing up without family."