Dizzy
A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel
Cate C. Wells
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Cate C. Wells. All rights reserved
Cover art and design by Clarise Tan of CT Cover Creations.
Edited by Tiffany Mills.
Proofreading by Jean McConnell of The Word Forager.
Special thanks to Erin D.
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Contents
Chapter 1
FAY-LEE
Chapter 2
DIZZY
Chapter 3
FAY-LEE
Chapter 4
DIZZY
Chapter 5
FAY-LEE
Chapter 6
DIZZY
Chapter 7
FAY-LEE
Chapter 8
DIZZY
Chapter 9
FAY-LEE
Chapter 10
DIZZY
Chapter 11
FAY-LEE
Chapter 12
DIZZY
Chapter 13
FAY-LEE
Epilogue
A Note From The Author
About the Author
Sneak Peek
Books By Cate C. Wells
1
FOUR YEARS BEFORE CHARGE
FAY-LEE
Chaos, that flaky bastard, is gone, and I’m royally screwed.
I sink to the curb in front of the Steel Bones clubhouse. I stare at my knees and pick at the frayed edge of my jean shorts.
I’ve looked everywhere, and I’ve waited for almost two days now. No one’s seen him. His bike’s gone. This rager is finally fizzling out. People are gonna start noticing that I’m not going home.
My backpack was in Chaos’ saddlebag, so I’ve got no change of clothes. No makeup. Somewhere along the line, I lost my phone.
This is not the worst situation I’ve ever been in—that’d be the shed incident, hands down, and I’m not gonna think about that now. This predicament is small potatoes. No need to panic.
There’s a nip in the air, but the sun’s shining. Everyone’s mindin’ their own business. Prospects are cleaning up inside. Over by the garage, a monstrously large and shaggy brother is showing his two boys how to change the oil on a white SUV.
In broad daylight, this ain’t a scary scene. Shit gets wild after dark, but I can handle myself. I’ve been sticking with the sweetbutts until they all pair up, and then I sit with the old-timers at the bar.
I just stayed up all night listening to a dude with no legs named Boots tell stories about a wild woman he knew who left for California and never came back. At heart, it was a tragic story, but my belly muscles still ache from laughing.
I’m three hundred miles from home, and three hundred miles away from New York City. It took me two weeks to get this far, hitchin’ and walkin’ when I couldn’t find a ride. It’s early fall now, but the weather’s gonna turn soon.
What am I gonna do?
I got lucky with Chaos. Or so I thought. When he picked me up at that rest stop, he said he was heading up to Newfoundland, and I could ride with him all the way to New York State. He took my last twenty for gas, but he didn’t try that hard to fuck me, or at least, he hadn’t yet.
He’d said we’d only be stopping in Petty’s Mill for a few nights. Petty’s Mill is every small town, everywhere. Historic downtown along the river. A gas station, a fast food joint, and a tractor supply on the road in. Probably on the way out, too, but we didn’t get that far.
Chaos said he had business with some old friends. It wouldn’t take long. Now he’s disappeared, and no one seems to know or care where he went.
No use crying about it. I need a plan. I pluck at the loose threads on my shorts and try to think.
Over by the garage, the shaggy dude has taken off his T-shirt. He’s got it hanging from his back pocket. He’s got a nice body. He’s thick, solid, but he’s got what my oldest sister calls “painter’s back.” All those muscles a man gets from manual labor, day in, day out. She should know the name for it. Her first husband hung drywall, and he was ripped. We all thought he was a catch until he brought home the clap.
I tear my eyes from the man’s muscles. I need to focus. Men are trouble, and I’m in enough as it is.
If I had my phone, I could ask one of my older sisters to send money. Dee would probably tell me she’s got her own problems, but Carol’s a soft touch. Only problem is her case number ends in eight, so she doesn’t get her benefits until the seventeenth of the month.
Heh. The shaggy dude’s oldest boy, a skinny kid maybe eight or nine, is taking his shirt off, too, but he doesn’t have a back pocket to shove it in. He tucks it in the elastic waistband of his shorts instead. I don’t particularly like kids, but that’s cute.
The boy has to stand on the bumper to see under the hood. They’re both so serious—him and his daddy—deeply considering the engine in manly silence. The younger boy’s gettin’ bored. He’s sittin’ in the gravel, drawing in the dirt with a stick.
Mama’s boyfriends never do shit like change their own oil. She likes flashy men who spend a lot of time in the bathroom. A man who can bullshit you into abandoning your better sense. Charmers. They don’t stick around long after she turns up pregnant, but damned if they don’t always come around again when their luck runs out. Like bad pennies.
I’m nearly nineteen, and since I can remember, I’ve been raisin’ Mama’s kids. And my sisters’. I’ve been cleanin’ up other people’s messes and fixin’ their problems and bailin’ them out of trouble, and I’m done with it. If I have to, I’ll walk to New York.
I sure as hell ain’t never goin’ back.
That ain’t even an option.
But still. I’d rather not walk. The blisters on my heels from the day I walked out of Dalton to the interstate to hitch my first ride are still pink and a touch raw.
Over by the SUV, the younger boy’s gotten bored, and he’s wandered off toward the dumpster and the line of recycling bins on the side of the garage. This is how you know you’re not in Kentucky. People here separate their paper and biodegradables. Back home, we burn it out back in the same trashcan.
This is a strange motorcycle club all around. They’ve got more money than most. The clubhouse is huge, and they’re building an addition. It ain’t a riding club or a gang so much as a business. Half the parking lot is taken up by yellow construction equipment: excavators, loaders, dozers. My nephews would be in heaven.
They’ve got other hustles, too, like a garage. Most of the sweetbutts work at their strip club, The White Van. A few girls have half-heartedly tried to convince me to talk to Cue, the brother who runs the place, but reading between the lines, they don’t believe I have the shape for it. I’m too skinny, and I’m an A cup. Another difference between here and back home. The club in Dalton would hire you on the day you turned eighteen, no matter how you looked.
&nb
sp; Still, I could give it a go. Search out Cue. He should be easy to find. Bald as his name, apparently. I’d make an awful stripper, but all I need is one paycheck to buy a bus ticket. I could do it if I were drunk.
Uh, oh. The little guy has spotted something on the roof of the garage. The sun’s glinting off a hunk of glass in the gutter. I scrub my dry, bleary eyes. Is that a beer bottle?
Now, he’s pulling himself up on the dumpster. He barely makes it. His feet scrabble against the sides as he drags himself up by his lil’ chicken arms. Kid’s no more than six or seven. Adventuresome, though.
Reminds me of when one of my nephews found a way into the crawl space and set himself up a hidey-hole down there with a beach chair, sleeping bag, and snacks. He was pretty much living down there until the rats ran him out.
Now, there’s an idea. This place is sprawling. The main clubhouse, the garage, the huge yard with its makeshift stage and firepit, the woods beyond. And then there’s the frame and scaffolding for the addition. There’s got to be a nook where I can hunker down. I’ll think better after getting some sleep.
Thunk. Thunk. The little dude is jumping, trying to grab the gutter. The plastic lid bows under his weight. Like his daddy, he’s sturdy. Hope it holds.
The other two haven’t even noticed he’s wandered off. The shaggy dude’s bent over—long, wild black hair falling in his face—straining with a wrench. Sweat’s glistening on his back, muscles tensing under his ink. His tattoos are faded and old school. A skull with a sword through the eye socket. A cross. Dog tags clutched in an eagle’s talons. A heart wrapped in banners reading Sharon, Parker, and Carson.
There’s a sword through the center name, blood dripping from the tip. Guess things didn’t work out with Sharon.
I rub the stars on my inner wrist. My brother did them with a needle and thread before he left for Florida, and we never heard from him again.
Thud. The intrepid explorer has landed flat on his ass in the dirt. My body tenses, anticipating the wail, but this guy’s a tough customer. Hops up, doesn’t bother dusting himself off, and clambers right back up. Kid just might make it.
I should get a move on. The place is clearing out, and soon, someone’s gonna notice the raggedy chick poppin’ a squat out front.
I stand, hand instinctively reaching for my phone. Damn. I can’t believe someone stole it. I was sitting at the bar, and I swiveled on the stool for a second, and it was gone. Well, maybe it was longer than that. And maybe I left it while I went to pee, but still. It’s gone.
I head back for the clubhouse, but a clatter, a grunting, and a flailing catch my eye. Holy crap. The little guy’s dangling from the roof. He found some milk crates and stacked them on top of the dumpster. He must have kicked them over when he grabbed for the gutter. Now he’s twisting and turning, trying desperately to walk the wall and hoist himself up, but he hasn’t got the strength. His knuckles are white, and his eyes are glued on the prize.
Oh, my lord. He’s letting go with one hand to try and grab the bottle.
I have only known raccoons with this level of determination.
I bolt over, vault up on the dumpster—gross—and grab him by the calves.
“Stop! I almost got it!”
Fair enough. I brace him with my chest and lift him higher. The plastic lid sways, creaking under our combined weight. If we crash into this dumpster, and I’m somehow stabbed to death with that damn broken bottle, I’m gonna haunt this kid for the rest of his life.
“Got it!”
I lower him down, my arms shaking. He’s a husky one.
“Thanks, lady.”
Before I can say boo, he jumps off the dumpster, waving a shard of glass, shouting, “Parker! Look what I got!”
I leap down and lope off before his hot daddy looks over this way. Last thing I need is to draw the attention of one of the brothers of the Steel Bones Motorcycle Club. Not when I plan to squat in their digs and riffle through their shit until I have enough cash to blow town.
I’ve been an uninvited guest of the Steel Bones MC for a week. I’m freezing. I’m starving. I’m sick to death of classic rock, and I stink.
I hope that when the club kills me, they make it quick. I’m so freakin’ cold, all they’ll need to do is give me a good wallop, and I’ll shatter into pieces.
And they are gonna catch me soon and kill me, ‘cause my luck has always been shit, and I ain’t cut out for bein’ stealthy. Besides, my feet are so numb, I’m trompin’ around like a slutty, grubby Frankenstein.
Geese honk high overhead, and the dark is easing to gray as I slowly turn the knob to the clubhouse’s back door. It’s dawn. Frost covers the yard. You can see my boot prints clear as day, coming from the woods.
The sun better melt that soon, or I’m gonna be busted in a comically Scooby Doo fashion. Tell the truth, I can’t believe I’ve evaded detection this long.
I gently nudge the door. Sweet. It’s unlocked. In the week since Chaos bailed, the door’s been fifty-fifty. Drunk bikers ain’t the most conscientious. The club’s also hectic with all the construction mess. A whole chunk of wall is nothing but plastic sheeting. Guess they figure if a person can bust in like the Kool Aid Man, why lock a door?
I pad down the hall past the offices, heading straight for the kitchen. My stomach is pretty much gnawing on itself at this point. The clubhouse was a ghost town last night, so I couldn’t crash the party like I have been—defrost, chow down, lift cash from whoever passes out.
It’s so blessedly, beautifully warm in here. My frozen skin prickles, burning as it thaws. I ain’t gonna last much longer sleeping rough.
I’m still wearing the clothes I was wearing when Chaos left—a short-sleeved belly shirt that says Cute But Psycho, jean shorts cut up to my ass, and combat boots. Thank goodness I was able to snag a wool horse blanket that was covering a bike out in the garage, or I’d have frozen to death days ago.
Luckily, I’ve only had to “head on home now” for a few hours each night. Steel Bones parties hard; they start early, and they go late. Last night was a fluke. If happens again, I’m gonna have to fuck a dude to get a bed. It’s getting too cold. That’s a last resort, but I’m a practical girl.
That’s tomorrow’s trouble, though. Right now, I’m in heaven: an industrial kitchen, clean as a whistle, pantry stocked full. I swing open a cabinet. Oh, yeah. Bread. Peanut butter. I pile my arms up and move to the fridge. There’s jelly. Grape and strawberry. Every condiment you can image. A whole row of mustards. Glory day.
I grab what I need and head for a counter, slapping down ten slices like I do making lunches for the kids at home. I spread the peanut butter thick and glop the jelly on with a spoon.
I rummage through a few drawers, but there’s no wax paper I can find, so I stack the sandwiches and put ‘em in a plastic grocery bag. Whoever runs this kitchen, she’s got those cutesy sacks where it’s sewn to look like a cat with a big ol’ skirt, and you pull the bag out of the cat’s ass. Adorable.
I use the heel of bread to wipe the last of the peanut butter out of the jar and eat it as I root through the cabinets. Tuna, pasta, mayonnaise. No good. Chips, pretzels. I pop a bag open and munch as I scan the shelves. There’s a bag of mixed nuts. Jackpot. That goes in the bag. I grab some beef jerky and a box of snack cakes, ‘cause I’m only human, and I head out, snagging a few bottled waters as I go.
I should go walk the woods for a spell and come back in the afternoon. Wait in the tree line for a car load of sweetbutts to roll up and slide on in with them. But the feeling is just coming back in my thighs, tingling and sharp. And the woods are spooky as hell when you’re alone.
Besides, the clubhouse is dead. From the hallway, I can see the commons—the bar running the length of the converted five-bay garage, the pool tables and jukebox, the vintage doors that slide open on tracks. There’s no one in sight. Not even a dude passed out on the ripped leather sofas.
This is a first.
I do a lap around the commons,
checking once again for the phone I lost that first night. You never know. Maybe it fell down a crack. As I root around the bar—no phone—I grab a bottle of vodka. That’ll help me pass the day. I should count myself lucky and scurry back to my makeshift camp until tonight.
Or I could go upstairs. Find an empty bunk. Get a shower. Sleep in a bed.
Do I dare?
There’s a dozen or so rooms in the annex. As I’ve learned this past week, only five brothers actually live here full time. Heavy, the club president. He’s a giant beast of a man with a voice like the crack of doom. He stomps around, sending folks fleeing in his wake.
There’s Wall. Bodybuilder type. Says ma’am. I think his wife put him out. He’s a nice guy.
Then there’s Nickel and Creech. They are not nice. Nickel’s a brawler. He’s gotten into a fight every night I’ve been here, and he hasn’t lost once. He’s not interested in the ladies that I can tell. Not so Creech. He’s a tattoo artist. Inked head, full sleeves, gauges. Grabby, pervy, and a huge asshole.
An older guy lives here, too. He looks like Superman if Superman had gray hair, a stoop, and a two-pack-a-day habit.
Five guys. A dozen rooms. Those are good odds. If it were the Lotto, I’d be emptying my pockets.
I listen hard, holding my breath. No signs of life. Maybe the guys are out on a run? It’s a work day, but you can already tell that the weather’s gonna be gorgeous and clear.
I tiptoe to the stairs, holding my bag of sandwiches and vodka behind my back. If I get busted on the second floor without a brother, I’m gonna look guilty as hell, but I’ve gotten away with bolder shit by battin’ my eyelashes and keeping it movin’.
Dizzy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel Page 1