At that thought he could almost hear the Army shrink chiding him for trying to be Superman and telling him that he was right to feel wrong about what had happened.
His panic and stupidity had gotten Tiny killed. It was hard not to see it that way. He had brought evidence of a homicide into the clubhouse at the same time that the cops might be coming after Tiny. Either way, it was a huge mess that he’d made, and to keep him from being arrested his brother had gone down.
He shrugged the kutte down his arms, folded it, and tossed it across the truck’s cab. With a wince, he hefted his ass behind the wheel, his breath coming hard from the ache in his ribs. He watched his brothers assemble at their cluster of bikes, lighting cigarettes and checking their bikes, bags, and tire pressure. It made his hands itch.
He wanted to be on that ride.
Instead he started Tiny’s big black and chrome Dodge Ram, pulled out of the parking spot, gave his boys a farewell honk, and pulled out onto the street.
Closer to his house he felt better. His shoulders relaxed, his ribcage felt as though it expanded to let his lungs work. He pulled the truck into the long driveway that ran up the one side of the house and behind to the detached garage, stopping at the door. He grabbed his kutte and carried it to the back door, digging his own keys out of his jeans’ pocket. Inside the house, he leaned back on the closed door, taking a deep breath, and letting his eyes close. The placed smelled stale from being closed up this long, with a slight undercurrent of the garbage in the kitchen. Well, at least that would give him something to do.
He hung his leather by the door and took care of the garbage first, then put a load of laundry in the wash. Next, he went through the fridge and got rid of anything that had turned, started to stink, or had grown fuzz. Another bag full for the garbage. Then he made a list of what he’d need from the grocery store.
In a new, clean shirt and jeans Knuckles returned to the backyard and opened the side door to the garage, tossing the bags in the garbage can. Two days until garbage day.
The pile of metal in the corner called him over. The frame was draped in a sheet, its guts held in three different boxes and a plastic dairy case. It was a 1973 Harley Davidson Sportster, mostly, and it had likely spent more time as spare parts than an actual motorcycle. He had insane visions or custom building that Sportster into something badass, and he had been hoping that Tiny would help.
Even though he’d never actually asked the guy, come to think of it.
Knuckles pulled the sheet off the beater frame, sighing. He knew bikes, sure. He could fix them, knew the mechanics. But Tiny was the one that could build the bike itself, customize the frame and all the other parts that held the mechanicals in place. Making all those moving parts work with something made from manipulated metal was beyond Knuckles’ ability.
The frame was cold from being in the garage, and his hand felt the flaking paint and rust. It needed to be primed. If there was enough metal to be primed properly.
Not to mention all the grease and shit. What a mess the thing was.
With another sigh, he pulled the rolling stool up to the dairy case and leaned forward on his elbows to peer inside, groaning like an old man as his stitches reminded him they were there. As he was pushing the metal pieces around there was the smallest, cutest sneeze from the open door. His body seized, hands closing into fists and he shot to his feet, whirling on whoever had snuck up on him.
The little girl from next door. Her mop of curly red hair bounced as she jumped, eyes wide, and turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called out, feeling like absolute shit. He tried to soften his voice. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you.”
She stopped and turned back to him, hands on her backpack straps. Her eyes were still wide but it gave her the appearance of looking curious, not scared.
“You snuck up on me is all. I’m not used to visitors here.” He came forward, squinting into the light outside. “I’m Knuckles.”
Now her little nose screwed up as she frowned. He almost laughed.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you called Knuckles?”
“Umm, see these?” He held up his hands, the backs to her. He had a cartoonish bone tattooed on each section. “That’s why.”
“Did that hurt?”
He had to laugh now, and when he did she took a few steps closer. “Yeah, it kinda did. Not a lot of meat on the fingers.”
She had the cutest sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her wide hazel eyes were rimmed with the same copper as her hair, which was windblown and looked like it likely had a ton of tangles in it. Even now she pushed it out of her face like she couldn’t be bothered worrying about it.
“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning on the open garage door jamb.
She looked down at her beaten up sneakers with their discolored laces, then looked up at him with a squint of her own.
“I’m not supposed to tell strangers my name.”
“That’s a good rule,” he conceded. “Very good rule. But I’m your neighbor. And you know my name now. So...”
His explanation hadn’t convinced her. She still had a hilariously skeptical squint.
“My real name is Gregory,” he revealed, quietly like a secret. “Growing up I was just Greg.”
She chewed that over. Her shrewd little eyes were calculating. “Knuckles is better.”
Now he really laughed. “You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Now you know all my names.”
“Where are you from?”
Just like a woman, changing directions on a dime. “I grew up all over. I think we spent the longest time in Idaho, but my dad was in the Army. We’d move a lot.”
“My dad was in the Navy,” she said, sounding excited. “He was on one of the big boats they land planes on.”
“Is that right? That’s really cool. He’s not in the Navy anymore?”
Now her face fell. “No,” she said, that little-kid enthusiasm immediately gone.
Shit, she’d said too much. Maybe she’d been told not to talk about Dad? Christ, was he dead? Fuck.
“You don’t have to tell me, Curly. I was in the Army, too, you know.”
“You were?”
“Yep. But I got scared and had to leave.”
She giggled a bit at that, and he had to smile. She was so freaking cute. Then she leaned to one side. “Are you making a motorcycle?”
Well, if it was somewhat recognizable maybe it wasn’t a lost cause. “Yeah. I’m going to build a new one out of an old one.”
“You already have a motorcycle. Did it break?”
“Nope. But I bought that one. I want to try building one.”
“Oh.” She made it sound like that was understandable with one syllable. “I like motorcycles.”
“Me too.”
She took a few more steps forward, peering around him to see more of the garage. “I...um, I like how you can see them when they’re running. All the parts.”
“You want to see that bike?”
She nodded, her curls bobbing.
“Well, come on back then.”
He turned and approached the frame, smiling over his shoulder as she followed. She wasn’t scared, and maybe that was a bad sign. But he wasn’t one of the bad guys of the world. Not really.
“It’s really dirty.”
“Yeah, it is. I’m not even sure all the parts are here. It’s going to be a long labor of love, Curly.”
“My name’s Annie.”
He looked down at her, completely charmed by the serious expression on her face. Telling him her name was some kind of gift, it would appear. He’d take it as such.
“Thanks, Annie.”
“Can I help?”
“What?” Now he was taken by surprise.
“I can learn how motors work. I can help you when you’re here working. I can hand you wrenches.”
There was no way he was laughing at her, b
ut he had no idea how to process this. Surely no mother would want her little girl hanging out in a garage with a biker, getting grease on her clothes and accidentally learning a lot of salty language. But maybe that was a way to let her down; let her mother say no.
“Gotta ask your mom. But I’d love to have the help.”
“Okay,” she agreed happily, looking around the garage again.
He’d been living here awhile. She’d never stopped in for a visit before, and he was realizing she had no intention of leaving. For whatever reason, he had a guest.
“Where’s your mom, Annie?”
“Not home yet.”
“Are...are you locked out of the house?”
Teeth bit into her lower lip and she peered up at him, unsure again. She’d been warned about strangers, that much was sure. But she didn’t seem to count him as one of them. “My sister’s supposed to let me in the house. We had early dismissal today. But she’s not home.”
“Oh.” He frowned, squinting over at the side of her house, which bordered the side of his driveway. On the other side of that little fence there was only a walkway between his property and what he assumed was their kitchen. “Well, if you want to watch me try to figure out all these parts, you can. You wanna do that?”
She nodded emphatically, her curls swaying. They were too wild to bounce.
“Cool. You can help me sort this stuff out a first. Everything that matches goes in one pile, okay?”
“Okay!” She dropped her backpack where she was standing and darted past him to the filthy plastic milk crate. Just as it was dawning on him how greasy everything was, she was already reaching in the box.
“Wait!” he almost shouted, and she jumped, arms pulling back to her sides like he’d startled her. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Her eyes got wide. “That’s a bad word.”
Well, fuck. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I apologize. I just don’t want you getting any of that shi...stuff on your clothes.” He surveyed the garage then held up a hand. “Wait right here.”
Hanging on the inside of the back door was an old flannel shirt, nearly worn through in places. He wasn’t a huge guy but it would still dwarf her. Well, too bad. He didn’t have a lot of options.
He carried it back to the garage and held it out. “Put this on so we don’t get grease on you, okay?”
“Okay.” She was so agreeable, turning her back to him and shoving her arms into the shirt’s sleeves. He helped her roll the arms up to where his elbows would be, then she buttoned the front. “What about my hands?”
“I have some gloves somewhere.” More like Sharon had left a box of gardening shit behind and there were gloves in it, sitting on top, and he’d seen it once. Somewhere. “Okay, first task. Find the Miracle-Gro box. There’s gloves in there.”
They searched for about ten minutes and Annie found the box in question under a weird homemade shelf under the garage’s window that looked out to the backyard. It was a rum box, not a fertilizer box. His attention to detail was fucking horrible.
When she was gloved up he set the box in front of her and she began sorting bolts and nuts into little piles on the concrete floor. Any parts that she couldn’t find a match for went into their own “oddball” pile.
Knuckles had to admit, this little sprite charmed him. She had been wary at first, but this sudden trust in him made him nervous. Little girls shouldn’t just hang out with strangers, should they? Surely that was dangerous?
Maybe it was because he was the neighbor.
While she did that he was working the old, gummed-up parts off the bike frame so it could be sand blasted down for paint. The thing was caked in prehistoric grease and dirt.
When he next checked his watch, he realized it was after five. From the limited attention he’d given the house next door, he knew the mother was a punctual woman, and while she likely worked until five she had seemed to arrive home at that time on the days he was around.
“You think your mom got hung up?” he eventually asked.
She looked up from where she was kneeling on the floor, interrupted from her task, which she really seemed to be dedicated to. “I don’t know.”
Knuckles pushed back from the frame and rubbed his neck. “Well, I’m thirsty. I wanna go get a Coke from the store. Wanna take a break and go for a walk?”
She nodded again and pulled off her gloves then stood up. His shirt was off her little form in a wink—pulled off over her head—and she held it up to him. He folded it over the rolling stool then jerked his head to the garage door. “Cool, Curly. Let’s go.”
Chapter Four
Danielle Prince checked her wristwatch surreptitiously as Chad McTavish cleared his throat and sat behind his beat to shit desk. She liked him, she really did. But when he wanted to talk about something important he really drew it out.
Liked his drama, he did.
“You’ve done very well here in a very short time, Miss Prince.” She didn’t correct him on Miss. He knew she had daughters, was married up until a few years ago, but she was younger than he was. So therefore, she was Miss. Hard to be totally offended. “Your grades were good coming in, but I think you’re one of the brightest students we’ve ever had here.”
Her stomach fell, just a little. She didn’t need to be reminded how many students cycled through the Markham County Coroner’s Office. McTavish had been at this post since he’d finished school, and the county hardly required a team of pathologists. He’d been a one-man department all these years, happy to train interns, never taking a holiday, with no signs of retiring. She’d been happy to get this internship, with an aging coroner hopefully close to calling it quits.
Then she met him. The man couldn’t be stopped. This job was all he had. No family, no wife. He was leaving when they carried him out feet first.
Danielle had since lost hope of getting a job here. She put in her hours for school and cleaned offices in Markham and Hazeldale on weekends. The house she rented was cheap, which was good. Raising two kids was expensive enough without school on top of everything else. As much as she despised her ex, at least he sent her money on a regular basis.
“The County and the Sheriff’s Department have this bug up their ass about succession planning,” McTavish droned on, sounding plenty upset. “Unfortunately, they’re pushing me into retirement.”
Okay, that perked her up.
“Retirement?” she asked.
McTavish nodded. “Can you believe this shit?”
She tried to look apologetic, she really did. Hard to tell if he bought it.
“Anyway, they’re asking me to ease into retirement. Just work a few days a week.”
Danielle nodded. “Well, that’s good.”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it?”
The ornery scowl lifted and she saw the twinkle in his eye. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“I know.”
“Not yet, you don’t.”
Danielle frowned at that.
“I want you to start working here. I know you’ve got a family, and I know you like it here. I want you to consider taking the job.”
She knew what it paid, of course. Not a fortune, but more than part-time custodial work. And it was affordable to live in Markham. Rent and property was cheap, taxes were low, it had a decent school, and somehow still had its own Sheriff’s Department despite being so small.
Best of all, it was inconveniently located for her ex to visit. His money was welcome, he was not.
“Take the weekend to think it over,” McTavish said, getting to his feet. “Talk it over with your family.”
She didn’t need the weekend, but she nodded. Appearing too eager was bad form given the situation that was presenting this opportunity.
“Thanks,” she said warmly, taking his hand and giving a smile. “I appreciate being asked.”
“I mean it. I think you’d do well here. Usually it’s quiet. And when it’s not, well...” she shrugged. “Some
one else comes along and takes over.”
The past year there had been a lot of activity in Markham for the coroner’s office, so much so the FBI had moved in to take over some particularly bloody situations. It had been before she started, so she wasn’t sure what had been involved. There were rumors, but Danielle had never put faith in the imagination of others. Not when her job demanded certainty.
In her own time, there’d been the police shooting of Harlon Gray, and the still unsolved murder of Doctor Tracey Webber. Harlon Gray had since been cleared of the crime, after a neighbor came forward confirming he’d left that night before this witness saw Doctor Webber taking her trash to the curb, but there were also no new leads. For a town this size, she felt that was enough mystery. If someone else took over the big jobs, she could learn to hand over her office.
“Have a good weekend, Danielle.”
“You, too,” she returned, letting him lead her through his cramped office and out the door.
The coroner’s office was in the basement of the sheriff’s department. Danielle wondered if going without daylight all day was healthy, but in practice she was finding it helped divide work from home. One more way to separate death from life.
Only twenty after five. Not bad for an after-hours chat with Chad McTavish. Her ages-old Escape was waiting in the lot, and climbing in she studiously ignored the officer standing three cars down, staring at her.
Officer Paul Unger had only been in Markham as long as she had, but it was long enough to make her realize he was utterly creepy. Like he applied for the job just to get off on the authority. And he stared. Fucking creepy.
Plus, just a few weeks ago, he’d shot an unarmed man in the back. An autopsy she’d performed under McTavish’s watchful eye.
Sure, the man had been one of the bikers she’d seen around town. But being shot in the back said more about the shooter than the victim in her mind.
Today Officer Unger didn’t have his khakis on. He’d been placed on administrative leave pending investigation by the Kern County Sheriff’s Office. She had no idea why he was there that day but she didn’t stew. She had to go home and get supper going.
Shelter (Red Rebels MC Book 5) Page 3