Shit. Adrenaline spikes in my veins, so quickly that my scalp starts to prickle. I glance at my phone. Should I call 911? Should I just leave? Should I play dumb and act like I’m not as freaked out as I suddenly am?
Fear of making a wrong move ends up paralyzing me. The men are almost at my car before I shake myself out of my stupor. Acting on impulse, I open the door and quickly step out so they can see me.
“Can I help you?” one of the men half-snarls. He’s short and stocky, with dark hair and a mustache. He’s dressed in normal street clothes, but the backs of his hands and his forearms are covered in tattoos. His voice is low and raspy, and sends a chill of fear through me.
“I, uh, just got lost on my way to an appointment,” I say, a slight tremble in my voice. “I was just pulling in here to turn around… and I happened to see someone I know in your group over there. Dominic.”
“Is that right?”
The curl in the man’s lip as he says the words makes it clear he doesn’t believe me. I pretend I don’t notice.
“Yeah. Hey, Dominic!” I call out in a singsong voice, giving him an exaggerated wave from acros the gravel lot. He cocks his head and gives me a quizzical look as he returns the wave, uncertain.
“Everything good?” I yell. “You have car trouble, or something?” It’s the first thing that comes to my head. I guess I’ve decided that acting like a clueless idiot is my best course of action.
All the men are now gaping at me in open confusion. At least the ones across from Dominic have dropped their menacing postures somewhat. One of them says something to him, and he nods and slowly walks toward us.
“Hey. Tori, right?” Dominic calls, giving me a casual, devil-may-care grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Yep. I was just passing by and happened to see you.” I pause. “Everything okay here?”
“Oh sure, sure,” Dominic says hastily. “We’re just shooting the shit. You know. No worries.”
He’s lying. I know he is. But even so, I definitely get the idea he wants me to leave. Whatever is going on, he doesn’t want me to ask any questions.
I wonder if this has anything to do with Dante’s motorcycle club? Didn’t Dante say Dom was going to be doing some transporting for them?
My eyes slide from him to the two men glaring at me. Realistically, I can’t do anything to help Dominic, if he needs help. And if I stay here for much longer, something tells me my chances of getting away safely will diminish considerably.
“Okay, then!” I say brightly. “Well, I’m gonna be late for my appointment, so I’ll be on my way. See you later, Dominic!”
The other two men flash each other a look, as if they’re considering not letting me go. But in the end, they stand in watchful silence as I get in, turn the ignition, and drive away as calmly and carefully as I can while trying to control my trembling.
I end up finding the distillery after backtracking about three-quarters of a mile, and show up only five minutes late for my appointment. The interview goes well — except that I accept the vodka samples they offer me a little too gratefully, given that it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning.
When I’m done at the distillery, still feeling shaky, I grab lunch from my favorite local sandwich shop and then drive back to the newspaper office. At my desk, I find myself staring into space, lost in thought, for a good part of the afternoon.
If Dante and I were still talking, would I tell him what I saw today?
Probably.
Should I try to tell him now?
Maybe.
But he’d probably just think I was making up excuses to see him.
So… would I be?
I honestly don’t know.
But I do know my mind is going into journalist mode overdrive, over what just happened back there with Dominic.
I want to find out what that altercation was about. Just to satisfy my own curiosity.
And also, maybe just a little bit because he’s Dante’s brother.
I go back and forth, my mind ping-ponging all afternoon with arguments for and against letting the whole thing drop altogether.
When the work day is over, I make my decision, almost without even realizing I’m doing it. I poke my head into Frank’s office to tell him goodbye, and then head out into the late afternoon sunshine. I get out my cell phone and punch in Savannah’s number.
“Vannah,” I begin when she answers, “please don’t ask me any questions about this. But do you happen to know where the Lords of Carnage have their clubhouse?”
25
Dante
It’s been over three fucking weeks since I last saw Tori. And I still can’t get her face out of my goddamn head.
I haven’t been able to touch any of the club girls. I’ve barely slept, except for when I drink enough to pass out for a while. Yesterday, even ugly-ass Yoda told me I look like hell.
Staying away from Tori has been the hardest thing I’ve done in my goddamn life.
I mean yeah, I’m in love with her. (Fuck my life.) She’s the only woman I’ve slept with more than once or twice. I just didn’t realize how fucking attached I’d gotten to her.
But every time I think about calling her, or just showing up unannounced on her doorstep, I think about Cyndi. And how that could have been Tori, on the back of my bike. How she could have been killed because she was with me, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
As pissed as I was about her not telling me about her heart condition, I can’t put her life at risk by being with me.
Nothing else has happened to the club since Mal and Cyndi’s accident. All the Lords have been on edge, waiting for the next shoe to drop, but that’s starting to calm down a little.
Mal’s still pretty banged up, and it’s a miracle he wasn’t hurt worse. But the guilt that he wasn’t the one killed is eating at him, for sure.
“Cyndi didn’t deserve to die,” Mal mutters gloomily at me one night at the clubhouse. We’re racin’ to the bottom of a bottle of Jack. Gage and Rourke are there with us. Gage’s old lady, Bailey, is sitting on his lap.
“We’re gonna find out the exact people who did this, brother,” I promise him. “And they’re gonna pay hard for what they did.”
“Shit.” Mal barely hears me. “She died because she was hangin’ out with me. I should just stay far away from women who ain’t club girls.”
Laney, Rourke’s old lady, comes over to us from the bar, a beer in her hand. “What about if you find a woman you’re serious about, Mal?” she asks, settling into a chair next to Rourke. “You can’t tell me you’d push a woman away if you were in love with her.”
“Hell, yes, I would,” he spits out bitterly. “I’m not gonna be responsible for pulling a woman into this life.” Mal glances toward Rourke, then to Gage, suddenly realizing what he’s said. “Sorry, brothers. I don’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you do,” Bailey cuts in. Her voice is gentle as she looks at Mal. “And I understand why you’d say that. But Mal, you’re forgetting something.”
“What’s that?” he frowns.
“That we women make the choice to be in this life.”
Mal pauses, momentarily subdued.
“Some choice,” he mutters then, reaching for the bottle of Jack.
“It is!” Laney pipes up. Her dark hair swings around her face as she nods in agreement with Bailey. “Look, Mal. I understand. We’re all upset about Cyndi. She was a great person. I know you blame yourself for what happened to her, but surely you know that’s crazy, right? Would you blame Dante, if he was the one who had Cyndi on the back of his bike when you got ambushed?”
Mal stares at me. I see his eyes flicker, and he looks down. “No.”
Laney presses on. “And you shouldn’t. See, each one of you men has made the choice to be part of this club. You knew what you were getting into. And you made the decision with your eyes open.” She nods once. “Well, so did we. Rourke tried to warn me, I promise,” she continues, laying h
er head on his shoulder. Rourke reflexively wraps an arm around her. “He told me about the risks. Yes, this life is hard sometimes. Yes, we know our men are in danger. But we also know that the men of this club would lay down their lives to protect each other. And us.”
Laney looks around the room. “This club is closer to me than my own family. The love and loyalty I’ve been shown here are like nothing I’ve ever known. And I know they’re unconditional.” Laney’s voice goes soft. “That, and being with Rourke? That’s a choice I’ve never regretted making. Not for one second. No matter what.”
“What she said,” Bailey agrees. “I feel exactly the same way.” She glances lovingly at Gage. “Plus, not only does my daughter have a daddy who’s more there for her than her actual father ever has been. She also has a dozen or so Lords of Carnage ‘uncles’ who are teaching her to be a total badass.”
I’m listening to this whole exchange, my mind going in all directions. It ain’t Mal’s fault about Cyndi. And I can see what Bailey and Laney mean. I know they both chose to be old ladies, and I’ve seen the way Gage and Rourke look at them. Knowing the way they are together, it doesn’t seem like the wrong decision. And Gage and Rourke are better men for having those women in their lives.
But when I think about Tori, all I can see is something happening to her.
And as much as I miss her, I think it would kill me if she ever got hurt because of me.
“Earth to fuckin’ Dante! Jesus, man, are you in there?”
I look up to find Axel staring down at me. He snorts out a chuckle.
“Shit, you must be further into that bottle than you look.”
“Naw… I was just thinkin’ about something.” I shift in my seat. “What’s up?”
“You know where Dom is?” Axel gestures toward the door. “He was supposed to be by with the truck a while ago, to pick up a shipment for us. He hasn’t shown up yet.”
I stand up with a grunt. “You tried callin’ him?”
“Not yet.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and punch Dom’s number. He doesn’t answer.
“That’s fuckin’ weird,” I grumble. “You want me to track him down?”
Axel considers my question. “Nah, not yet. We can wait another hour or so. See if he shows. After that, I might have you go out and look for him.”
Axel goes back down the hall toward his office. I stand there for a minute in silence, pushing down my irritation at my brother.
Goddamnit, Dom. You better not be fucking up.
Suddenly I’m feeling restless as hell. Setting my shot glass down on the table, I grunt an excuse to my brothers and head downstairs to the basement gym. I need to burn off some steam, and if I stay around people right now, I’ll probably end up punching someone.
I crank up the stereo in the gym to top volume and start pounding out bench presses, curls, and pull ups until I’m bathed in sweat and breathing hard. Slipknot, Megadeth, and Rage Against the Machine power my fury and keep me from thinking about anything but my next rep. The music is so loud that I can’t hear anything else.
Which is why I almost miss the first blast. Until I realize the shaking of the basement walls isn’t my imagination.
The music is still pounding as I run up the stairs, just in time to hear the next thud, halfway between a gunshot and a sonic boom. The brothers upstairs are on their feet; the women are screaming at each other to take cover.
“It’s the garage!” Rourke roars. “It’s a b—”
The explosion cuts him off. The next one comes immediately after, striking something hard with a dull thud. then another. A millisecond later, there’s a loud roar and a flash of light.
Fuck. They hit the fuel tank.
We all bolt for the front door, just in time to see a plume of flame coming from the far side of the garage. The building itself has the bay door blown off and splintered.
After the initial boom of the gas tank blast, the explosions stop. Through the crack of the flames, I register the sound of engines moving away.
“Jesus Christ!” Axel roars. “Check the garage, see if anyone’s hurt! Rourke, with me!”
Rourke and Axel sprint off to their bikes. Seconds later, they peel out in the direction of the engines.
It’s a fuckin’ miracle no one is seriously hurt. A couple of the prospects have minor injuries, and Ranger has some glass shards lodged in his arm. But other than that, everyone’s okay.
The back of the garage, on the other hand, is pretty fucked.
Somehow, we get the gas fire under control without the fire department being called. Axel and Rourke come back, looking grim.
“No luck,” Rourke grits out. “Fuckers got away before we could catch them.”
Seconds later, Yoda comes over to us. He raises a cylindrical object.
“Fuckin’ grenade launcher.” He nods at the casing. “Forty millimeter.”
“Goddamnit,” Axel seethes. “This was a message more than anything. Got to be Los Caballeros. They know where we are. And they want us to know it.” He looks from me to Rourke. “Dante, get hold of Dom and tell him we’re gonna need to reschedule the pickup. We can’t risk that Los Caballeros have been watchin’ us enough to know he’s involved. Tell all the Lords to watch their six, and their families. This was a warning, but it ain’t gonna be the end of it.”
When I get hold of Dom a few minutes later, he picks up right away. He says he’s on his way to the clubhouse. I tell him to hold off, per Axel’s orders.
I spend a couple of hours helping the men with the beginnings of cleanup. But when we break for the day, instead of going back into the clubhouse, I decide to head home. I need to think, and to clear my head.
It takes everything I have in me not to point my bike in the direction of Tori’s place.
26
Tori
When Savannah tells me the Lords of Carnage own a garage called Ironwood Car and Truck Repair on the south side of town, I know I have my way to get a closer look at Dante’s club.
I have no idea what I’m looking for, or what I think I’m going to learn from going to where the Lords of Carnage do their business. I’d have to be stupid to think the garage is the only thing they have their hands in. But I can’t let that scene with Dom and those rough-looking strangers go, until I have at least investigated a little bit.
I’ll be honest, this is the most interesting lead I’ve worked on since I move to Ironwood — which means it’s the most interesting lead I’ve ever worked on. Too bad it’s never going to translate into a story. I’d never write anything exposing Dante or his club, no matter what I find out. We may not have ended on the best of terms, but I care about him much more than that.
I think I might even have been on the verge of falling in love with him.
I don’t know the first thing about cars, except how to open up the oil reservoir to add another quart. The first thing I do is spend about an hour on YouTube, looking for ways to create a car problem that’s serious enough to need fixing, but not so serious that I can’t drive my car to the garage — or that will cost an arm and a leg to repair.
I finally chance on the perfect scenario: a broken compressor belt on the air conditioner. Easy enough to cut the belt with a strong pair of scissors and remove it. If I’m lucky, the mechanic will probably just assume it broke on its own, and that it’s lying in the road somewhere.
I find a video that shows how to replace an air conditioner belt on my Honda Civic, and watch the beginning a couple of times, so I make sure I’m not going to cut some other belt by mistake. Then I go outside, pop my hood, and do the deed. I get in my car and turn on the ignition. The warm blast of the fan hits me through the vents and doesn’t get cooler. Success!
Still sitting in the driver’s seat, I look up the number for Ironwood Car and Truck Repair, and make an appointment for the next day.
When I get to the address, I see a chain link fence around a large compound. To the right, there’s a building that’s ob
viously the garage. The bay doors are open, and at least one car is up on a lift. Men are milling around, some holding tools. To the left of the garage, there’s an area that looks like it has been the scene of a recent fire. A pile of half-melted tires sits next to what used to be a large propane tank or something like it. The ground around the tank is scorched and black. My brows knit together, wondering what happened.
Across the cement lot on the other side is a larger building. It looks like a big warehouse, except for a small front door and more windows than warehouses usually have. I wonder if that’s the Lords of Carnage clubhouse. As I watch it, a couple of men in leather vests that look like Dante’s come out of the door and head over to a row of Harleys to their left.
I pull closer, toward a large gate in the fence, more than two car widths wide. The gate is standing wide open, but it’s guarded by a large twenty-something guy with a receding hairline, layered with tattoos. He’s got a leather vest on similar to the one Dante wears, but with fewer patches. One on his left pec is one that announces, “Prospect.”
Driving slowly, I stop my car even with him and say through my open window, “I have an appointment to get my car fixed.”
I’m weirdly nervous, even though technically I’m not lying. The guy with the prospect patch scrutinizes me for a second, and then gives me a broad grin that clashes oddly with his leather and tattoos.
“Go on in,” he tells me, motioning toward the garage. “Just pull up behind one of the bays and one of the guys will take care of you. There’s a waiting room through that door for maxin’ and relaxin’ while they’re fixin’ your car.”
“Uh, okay, thanks,” I reply, and do as he says.
Once I’ve stopped my car just outside the garage and put it in park, it occurs to me for the first time that I might easily run into Dante here. Something I frankly do not want to do. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m some sort of stalker.
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