HWY 550 (Rock Point Book 3)

by Freya Barker

  “Well, maybe it’s about fucking time you did. Loosen up, Luna. The world won’t fall apart if you let go a little.”

  I don’t get a chance to respond because he’s already hung up.

  I’m still sitting on the edge of the bed when Ouray walks in with a mug of coffee for me. I don’t even flinch when he bends down to press a kiss on my forehead.

  “You done in the bathroom? I’m just gonna hop in the shower, we’re riding out in fifteen. Momma’s got waffles this morning, you may wanna go grab some before they’re all gone.”

  He’s right, by the time I get dressed and make my way to the kitchen, slipping by a scowling Rowtag to find the big platter on the table is empty. Damn.

  “Saved you some,” Momma says with a grin, as she pulls a plate from the oven.

  I sit down across from Cody who is wolfing down the last of his waffles, with half an eye on mine. Not a chance, I sign before digging in, and I notice him looking at my hand with curiosity.

  What happened?

  I look at my bandaged hand and flex it a few times. Got it caught on a nail. That seems to appease him, although Momma—who’s been paying attention—seems less convinced, throwing me a raised eyebrow.

  Ignoring her scrutiny, I return to my plate, eating my first waffle with relish.

  Can you teach me again today? Cody asks when I look up.

  Not sure if there will be time today. Tomorrow?

  Cody just nods, getting up to deposit his plate and milk glass in the sink. I hate the look of disappointment on his face, so I grab his arm when he passes by my chair on his way out of the kitchen.

  I promise. You practice that bag hard today, and I’ll teach you some self-defense moves tomorrow after breakfast.

  This time I get a lopsided smile—my first one—and it spreads an unfamiliar warmth through my chest. He has a dimple. I hadn’t noticed that before.

  “Gonna be a charmer, that one,” Momma notes, staring after the kid. “Still skittish around my boys. I don’t even wanna imagine what that baby’s been through. It’s a damn shame.” The warm feeling disappears, replaced by a pang of nausea at her words.

  No longer hungry, I manage two more bites before setting my fork down on my plate, just as Ouray saunters in.

  “You done with that?” I nod, and he wastes no time shoveling the leftover waffle in his mouth, before dumping the plate in the sink. “Let’s go.”

  WE’RE FORTUNATE WITH the weather. A little chilly this morning though, so he insisted I wear my new leather jacket.

  It must’ve rained at some point during the night, because Ouray had to wipe down the seat of his bike, but the skies are clear when we ride out.

  The sound of motorcycle engines is deafening as the parade snakes through Durango. Hundreds of them. Curious onlookers line the streets, and I can’t help but wave back at some of the excited kids taking in the spectacle, and their smiles are contagious. By the time we get to the end, my cheeks are aching.

  From there we head to the Sky Ute Casino where we park the bikes, and everyone goes their own way. Ouray and I grab a burger from one of the vendors before wandering over to have a look at the motorcycle stunt show.

  “Your first rally?” Wheels, the president of the Shiprock MC, asks me when he joins us at the protective barrier, giving Ouray a barely there chin lift. I’d noticed him toting a large American flag, riding a three-wheeler in the parade. Wouldn’t mind trying one of those myself.

  “It is.”

  “You guys heading out on the poker run?”

  “I don’t know what that is, so I can’t tell you,” I admit, looking over my shoulder at Ouray.

  “Like a road rally, or a treasure hunt,” he explains before turning to Wheels. “A few of my guys like that stuff. I prefer the poker cards they have in here.” He tilts his head toward the casino. “When are you guys rollin’ out?”

  “Depends on how drunk my guys get.” He looks toward the beer tent at a group of bikers wearing the Shiprock colors and shakes his head. “Fuckin’ looks like it’ll be tomorrow morning,” he grumbles before turning back to Ouray. “What day you gonna head out to Ruidoso?”

  “Monday, I think. Seventeenth. We’ll hit it in one day. Momma booked us in at Canyon Cabins. You stayin’ there again this year?”

  “That’s the plan. We can ride together? Meet up in Bloomfield in the morning?”

  “I’m good with that. Salinas will likely hook up as well.”

  “You tagging along, little one?” the old man asks me, and despite his cocky grin, the eyes are gentle in his scraggly face.

  “Sure as fuck is,” Ouray answers for me, throwing a possessive arm around my shoulders. “On the back of my bike, ya dirty old man.”

  Wheels bursts out laughing, a deep raspy sound, soon replaced by a nasty cough that sounds like he’s trying to dislodge a lung. When I put a concerned hand on his arm, he brushes me off and walks away, still hacking.

  “Is he okay?”

  “Emphysema, but the motherfucker refuses to use his oxygen in public. Come on,” he steers me toward the casino. “Got a poker table I’d like you to meet.”

  OURAY

  “I won!”

  I grin at a very giddy Luna, flapping her ticket in my face.

  She got annoyed losing at the poker table earlier, abandoned me, and for the past forty minutes has been trying out the slots. Apparently with success, judging by the neat four digit number on her ticket.

  I’d left her in my bed this morning, purposely creating some distance after spending half the night with her limbs wrapped around me, trusting me more in sleep than she does awake. Don’t get me wrong, I got a kick out of watching her come undone with my mouth on her pussy, but it was torture not burying myself balls deep inside, with her warm body plastered against mine. I took my breakfast into my office and spent the next hour staring at the goddamn wall, wondering what the fuck I was doing with a woman who clearly comes with a shitload of baggage.

  Still, the moment I heard the water turn on in the bathroom, I couldn’t think of anything but her hot as fuck naked body in my shower, and any reservations flew right out the damn window.

  Seeing her now, she looks so different from the buttoned-up, straightlaced public servant I first met a few months ago. With a blush high on her cheeks, eyes shining with excitement, and that wide-mouthed grin, she looks almost carefree and full of life. I can’t resist pressing a hard kiss on her lips.

  “Congrats, Sprite.”

  “I’ve never won a single thing in my life,” she whispers, her arms wrapping around my neck, smiling up in my face. Fuck, she’s beautiful when she lets go.

  “Happy for ya.”

  “Thirty-four hundred dollars. That’s more than I take home at the end of the month. I don’t even know what to do with it,” she continues to babble as we make our way over to the cashier. “Wait! I know, I can buy you dinner.”

  “Not buying me dinner, Sprite.”

  “Why not?” A frown forms between her eyebrows as she looks at me. “This isn’t gonna be much fun if you won’t let me share.”

  I roll my eyes at her attempt at emotional blackmail, but apparently it’s working because I find myself saying, “Fine.” When she proposes the swankiest restaurant in town, I put my foot down, though. “Have a hankering for Chinese. Been a while. Let’s do pick up and take it home.”

  “Should we bring enough for everyone else?” she asks, doing up her helmet on her own.

  “Fuck no. Most of the guys will be out ‘til all hours and you’d just insult Momma. Besides, I wasn’t planning on heading to the club. Thinking more along the lines of your place or mine.”

  “You have a place? I thought—”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a place. I may stay at the club when there’s stuff going on, but most of the time I go home.”

  I can almost hear her thinking, but she doesn’t say anything as she climbs on the back of my bike. Not until we walk out of May Palace on Main with enough food to la
st a week. She insisted ordering everything she liked off the menu.

  “My place,” she says with a determined look.

  I open my mouth to object, thinking I’d like to get a taste of her in my house, but I end up closing it again. She’ll feel more comfortable in her own digs, which means I may be able to pry a bit further into that pretty little head of hers.

  Luna’s cabin is basically one large rectangular room, housing a small kitchen, a table with four chairs, and a sitting area around the old stone fireplace. On the other side of the entrance is one bedroom and the bathroom. Very basic. Very Spartan. Very fitting the way Luna would like the outside world to see her, but not at all representative of the warm-blooded woman I’ve glimpsed underneath.

  “Shit,” she swears from the kitchen.

  “What’s up?”

  “I only have two beers left.”

  “Plenty. I’m happy with water.” She looks at me with a disbelieving smirk on her lips. “I am,” I confirm, sitting down at the table. “Don’t get me wrong, I drink, on occasion, but never more than two or three. Won’t catch me rolling into bed hammered anymore.”

  “Anymore?”

  “Did plenty of that when I was younger.” This time I have to grin myself. Fuck, it’s a miracle I can remember anything of my twenties and thirties. Most of those years were spent drunk, high, and buried into some willing chick. Not that I’m about to share this fact.

  “Isn’t that what they say? Wisdom comes with age?” She pulls out some plates and cutlery and sets them, along with the two beers, on the table.

  I snort. “Yeah, that wasn’t it. More like doctor’s orders. At thirty-seven my liver was already good ’n pickled, and I like life too much to piss it away.”

  “Yikes.” She starts sitting down, but immediately straightens up again. “You’re gonna have to excuse me, there won’t be room for food if I don’t get these damn jeans off.”

  I’m scooping some food on our plates and when she returns, she’s wearing an old pair of flannel pajama pants. I watch as she sits down across from me, folding one leg under her on the seat. Clearly much more at ease at home than sitting in the clubhouse kitchen. She doesn’t seem as hyperaware of her surroundings either.

  “Better?”

  “Much,” she mumbles, already attacking her dinner. The next few minutes we eat in silence when she suddenly says, “My therapist says I use alcohol as a numbing agent.” The moment the words leave her lips, her shocked eyes shoot up and her hand clamps over her mouth. I try not to let my surprise show at her unexpected revelation, and shove another forkful of Hunan beef in my mouth. “I don’t know why I said that.” She plays with a piece of sesame chicken with her chopsticks before tossing them on her plate. “That’s a lie—I know.”

  I follow suit and put my fork down, folding my hands under my chin as I catch her eyes. “Talk to me.”

  “Last night...” she starts, hesitantly. I wait her out. “I don’t do that.”

  “What? Sitting on a guy’s face?”

  “Jesus, Ouray—do you have to be so blunt?” She rolls her eyes and I give myself an internal pat on the back for getting her riled up. Truths tend to fly when a little temper is involved. “Yes, that. Letting a guy touch me, period. I’m...”

  “Come on, darlin’, you came this far—don’t chicken out now.” If looks could kill, I’d be blowing out my last breath.

  “Fuck you. I haven’t had anyone touch me in years,” she spits out.

  “Years? Like two years? More?” She nods, so I push a little harder. “Five? Ten?”

  “Since college, okay?” she finally snaps.

  Well, fuck.

  I don’t get a chance to respond before she jumps up, snatches the plates off the table, and stalks over to the sink.

  “Sprite—”

  Almost relieved at the sudden peal of her phone, I snap my mouth closed. Not like I had any fucking clue what to say.

  CHAPTER 10

  LUNA

  The small shopping plaza parking lot is jam-packed with emergency vehicles by the time I get there. Local PD, fire and rescue, and an ambulance. Damian mentioned one of the depository’s employees was injured when he called, but the fact the rig is still here does not bode well.

  I spot Dylan with one of the Durango detectives, Ramirez, standing in front of the store window.

  “Give me the scoop.” Both men look up when I approach.

  “Two armed suspects forced their way into the store, just as the female employee was locking up,” Ramirez reports. “From what she tells us, one held her at gunpoint while the other stuffed their backpacks with merchandise. Her manager, who’d been in the back office preparing the bank deposit, came out carrying a shotgun when one of the suspects turned and fired.”

  “Injuries?” I already know the answer when Ramirez solemnly shakes his head.

  “Victim expired from a single gunshot wound to the chest by the time we got here. The girl’s physically okay but distraught, so we put her in the back of the ambulance for now to get cleaned up.”

  “Did you talk to her, Barnes?”

  Dylan shakes his head. “Was leaving that for you.”

  “Mind if I go talk to her?” I ask Ramirez.

  “Have at it,” he says, gesturing to the back of the ambulance. “Her name is Amber Jensen.

  When I open the back of the rig, I find the young woman sitting on the stretcher, drinking from a bottle of water. Her hands still stained with what I assume is her manager’s blood. The EMT with her is Bella, whose newly pregnant belly is starting to show under her uniform.

  “I’m surprised Jas still lets you work the nightshift,” I observe jokingly.

  “Not his call to make,” she bites off, apparently not finding my comment amusing.

  “Good point,” I mumble, climbing in and turning my attention to the girl. “Hi, Amber, my name is Luna Roosberg, I’m an agent for the FBI. I know you’ve already spoken with the detective, but if you don’t mind, I have a few more questions to ask. Do you feel up to it?”

  Her face is blotchy, and her eyes weary, when she looks at me. Still, she nods in agreement.

  “I’ll be right outside,” Bella assures the girl, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

  There isn’t a whole lot more Amber tells me, than what she’d already mentioned to Ramirez. Two armed suspects, their faces covered with bandanas and beanies pulled down low over their eyes. She only heard one of their voices and believes that guy to be the leader. The other one never spoke and was the one who kept a gun aimed at her. The leader was the one who shot her boss.

  “What color were the bandanas?” I ask, having learned this past weekend that some MCs use a specific color. Some guys will tie them around their head, others will walk around with them tucked in their back pocket. When I commented on it, Ouray explained they likely had a heavy padlock tied to the other side. Makes for a handy weapon, you could make a serious dent in someone’s skull swinging one of those around. With that bit of information, I spent a lot of time checking out backsides.

  “Black, I think. Although it may have been navy.”

  Arrow’s Edge uses navy bandanas, as does Shiprock. Mesa Riders have black, red for the Moab Reds, and the Amontinados don’t seem to favor a specific color. I’m not sure if there is anything I should read into that, but it’s interesting enough to make note of.

  “Did you happen to see them leave?”

  “I...Ed, he was bleeding. I was crawling over to him. Tried to stop it, but there...there was just so much of it.” She starts sobbing at the memories. I’m sure they will haunt her the rest of her life.

  “You did all you humanly could,” I reassure her, feeling awful to have to push, but it would go a long way if we could identify a vehicle. “So you didn’t see anything, but maybe you can recall hearing a car or maybe motorcycles?”

  “Not motorcycles. We’ve had enough come by this weekend to recognize the sound. Although I did hear an engine start up at some point. Lik
e I said, I wasn’t really paying attention, the only thing I can tell you is that it had a weird whining sound.”

  Again, not sure how helpful that information is by itself, but this is worth noting too.

  “One last question, and then I’ll leave you be—you mentioned the suspects we both armed—can you recall the skin color of their hands?”

  She seems to think on that for a minute before turning to me. “They were wearing gloves.”

  So much for potential fingerprints.

  I leave her in Bella’s good care and walk inside the dispensary, making sure to stay away from the body still lying in a large pool of blood on the far side of the counter.

  “Edward Linden. Thirty-four,” Dylan recites from the driver’s license on the inside of the wallet in his hand. He points to a snapshot of the victim with his arm around a pretty brunette, a toddler wedged between them. Shit.

  It’s close to two in the morning when I finally get home. After leaving the scene, Dylan and I went back to the office to type up a report with everything still fresh in our minds. The only one there was Jasper, who seems to prefer being there to staying home alone while his wife is on shift.

  I can smell the Chinese we had earlier tonight the moment I open my door, and my thoughts immediately go to Ouray, who I all but kicked out when Damian called. At the time it was a welcome reprieve. I’d already said more than I wanted, and knowing Ouray, he wouldn’t have left it alone. He’s the kind of guy who will dig until he gets to the bottom, no matter how deep I keep that shit buried. Even Keith, who was there at the time, doesn’t know the full story.

  He kissed me hard on the lips when I tried to shove him out the door. “Call me when you get in, so I know you’re safe.”

  “I’m a trained FBI agent,” I’d snapped at him. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Humor me,” had been his short reply.

  I resist as long as it takes me to throw the leftover Chinese in the fridge, wash up the dirty dishes, and turn off the lights, before I sink down on the side of my bed, tapping out a quick text.

  Me: I’m home. Night.