by Lane Hart
“Looked like an accidental drowning?” I repeat in concern.
“These MC guys are smart. They’re careful not to leave any evidence. Besides, rumors surfaced after the trooper’s death. No one likes to paint a dead officer in a bad light, so we didn’t investigate for his family’s sake, but I’ve heard the trooper also had ties to Hector Cruz…”
“Three separate deaths—eight, if you count Hector and the four other men found dead at his crime scene—all with Cruz connections and signs pointing at the Savage Kings having motive?”
“Sounds like more than a coincidence, doesn’t it?” the chief asks. “But only two out of those four incidents occurred in my jurisdiction. The rest were in Carteret, where the Kings allegedly control the law enforcement.”
“The sheriff is the stepsister of the Savage Kings’ president and VP.”
“Exactly,” he agrees. “Maybe you’ll have more luck than we did putting the puzzle pieces all together with the federal jurisdiction. But between you and me, I have to live here, and I have a family. The Savage Kings MC is not the group of men I want to piss off personally.”
“Right,” I agree.
Should I be worried about the MC doing something to me if I keep investigating? Dalton seemed a little concerned about someone in the club “fucking with me” while I was in town. I feel certain that Dalton would never harm me in any way, but could I say the same for his friends that are more than likely connected to not one, but eight deaths in the area in a little over a year?
No, I can’t.
These guys live by their own code, one where brotherhood is more important than any other relationship.
So, if it came down to it, and Dalton had to choose sides, I have no doubt he would choose the MC over me.
Chapter Sixteen
Dalton
All day today, ever since I left Peyton’s hotel room, I’ve had this sense of impending doom, like there’s a guillotine blade hanging over my head, ready to fall at any second.
I’m sure it’s just my concern about what Peyton found out when she met with the Wilmington PD, and whether or not she’ll try to convince the U.S. Attorney to drop the investigation against the Savage Kings.
But when she opens her hotel room door, I know right away it’s not good news, based on the way her eyes immediately lower from mine.
“Hey,” I say in greeting.
“Hey,” she replies.
“Can I come in?” I ask when she doesn’t step aside to allow me entry.
“Yeah,” she agrees, but it’s definitely not the enthusiastic welcome I usually get from her when I show up to her house every night. Most of the time, she practically jumps on me before I get her to her bedroom.
“You okay?” I ask after she shuts the hotel door.
“Those are the files the Wilmington PD gave me today,” Peyton says with a nod toward the stack of documents on the small round hotel table near the kitchen.
Shit.
“Mind if I take a look?” I ask her.
“Go for it.”
Heading over, I sit down in one of the two chairs and start reading the first page. It takes me an hour to get through all of the various documents, none of which paint the MC in a very favorable light.
“Have you read it all yet?” I lean back in my chair and ask Peyton, who has been quietly watching the television from her seat on the foot of the bed while I was reading.
“Yes,” she answers without looking at me.
“And?”
“And that’s a lot of dead bodies, Dalton,” she replies.
“It’s not as bad as it looks…”
“Oh really?” she asks, now turning her sad eyes to me. “Eight people died in the span of a few months, and the only suspects were the Savage Kings.”
“If that were true, then why haven’t any of us been arrested?” I ask.
“Because the sheriff doesn’t give a shit and the police chief is scared of you!”
“Did you ever consider that the people who died were horrible human beings?”
“No, you don’t get to pull the whole world is a better place bullshit. If they were the bad guys, then they deserved to be locked up, not dead!”
“Why are you yelling at me?” I ask. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“But the people you know, the ones you call brothers, did kill people, didn’t they?”
“That’s not a question I can answer, and you know it,” I point out.
“Will they kill me if I don’t drop the investigation?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” I scoff. “The Savage Kings don’t go around hurting women.”
“Maybe not,” Peyton replies. “But I don’t feel comfortable letting anyone get away with killing men without any consequences.”
“And who do you think killed someone?”
“I don’t know! But if I keep digging, I think I could figure it out!” she throws her hands up and exclaims.
“Look.” I get up and go over to kneel between her legs, grabbing her hands. “I’m not asking you to give the Savage Kings a break because you and I are sleeping together. But I wish you would give us the benefit of the doubt and let the shit in the past go because you know how important the MC is to me.”
My plea doesn’t work. That much is obvious when Peyton refuses to meet my eyes.
“Maybe…maybe I should go home tomorrow, and we should stop seeing each other.”
Fuck.
Part of me wants to yell and scream at her that we should just end things fucking now, and then storm right out the door.
But that’s only a knee-jerk reaction for feeling hurt because she doesn’t think I’m worth the risks associated with having a relationship with an outlaw. Sure, it would temporarily feel like I have the upper hand to run out on her, but it’ll suck to not get to spend one last night with her.
So instead of raising hell, I simply say, “Okay. I’ll stay tonight and then you can leave tomorrow, and hopefully never think about the Savage Kings again.”
“Yeah,” she agrees with a nod.
Knowing this is it, a few more hours with Peyton is all I’ll get, I don’t want to waste any more time. I need to hold her and kiss her, and be inside of her as many times as she’ll let me. Getting to my feet, I lean down and press my lips to hers several times until she parts them to let my tongue ease inside. I want to show her just how much I’m gonna miss her. Hell, maybe all she’ll miss of me is the sex, and if so, then I want to give her a lot of great memories tonight.
Too bad that right after I’ve managed to ride her down to the mattress, my fucking phone starts ringing.
“Do you need to get that?” Peyton pulls back from our kiss to ask.
I yank the personal phone out of my pocket, intending to ignore the caller until I see the name of the contact on the screen. “Shit,” I mutter. “Sorry, but I should probably answer…”
“Yeah, sure,” she agrees with a nod.
“Hello?” I say after I press the button to answer and sit up, straddling Peyton’s waist.
“This is Anita from Morningview Nursing Home. I hate to bother you so late, but your number is listed as the emergency contact for Rubin Brady.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m his son. What’s wrong?” I ask in concern since they don’t usually call at night when it’s about his basic routine care.
“Well, Mr. Brady is suddenly very intent on leaving the premises. Our night staff is doing all they can to restrain him but he’s persistent. We thought perhaps a familiar face may help to get him back to his room.”
“Okay, yeah, I’m on my way,” I say before I end the call.
“Everything okay?” Peyton asks.
“No,” I reply with a heavy exhale when I climb off of her. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.” And fuck, I wanted to stay here with her every second of her last night. Now I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.
“Go where?” she questions.
“This is not how I
wanted our last night to go,” I assure her. “But I don’t know how long it’ll take…”
“Dalton, what is it?” she asks again, getting to her feet and resting her hand on my bicep reassuringly. “Where are you going? I’ll come with you.”
“No, you should stay here,” I say with a shake of my head as I start toward the door.
“Is it…is it club business?” she questions.
“No,” I answer. “It’s nothing to do with the club.”
“Then I’m coming with you,” she declares.
I look at her for several long seconds, before I eventually cave because I don’t want to lose a second with her tonight. “Are you sure? This isn’t gonna be fun.”
“I can handle it.”
“Fine,” I reply. “But we need to hurry.”
Peyton
I’m riding on the back of Dalton’s bike with my arms around his waist for only the second time. Unlike the trip to the docks, this ride is much faster and a little scary as he races to get to wherever we’re going. Since I only heard his side of the phone conversation, I have no idea where that is, only that it must have something to do with his father.
Pulling into the Morningview Nursing Home was the last place I imagined we were headed. Before we even get off the bike, I spot the tall, white-haired man with a long, Santa beard at the gate. He’s wearing what looks like a black Savage Kings leather cut with his jeans and is heading our way despite the fact that there’s a woman hanging off each of his thick arms, trying to slow him down. They’re obviously not having any luck since he’s built like a linebacker.
“Fuck,” Dalton mutters as we take off and hang our helmets on the bike’s handlebars. “Meet my father, Rubin,” he says to me, his jaw clenched tight. “He has advanced Alzheimer’s and the ankle bracelet they put on him only notifies them when he leaves the building, but they can’t actually stop him once he gets something on his mind.”
“Jeez. I’m so sorry,” I tell him, taking his hand and linking our fingers together as we start heading toward the group.
“Where do you think you’re going, Pop?” Dalton asks when we’re only a few feet away. “You need to get back inside.”
Finally, the white-haired man pulls up short, looking from his son to the motorcycle and back again, his handsome face scrunched in confusion.
“Who the hell are you?” he roars. “What the fuck are you doing on my bike? That’s my goddamn Knucklehead!” He then lurches for Dalton, his arm arching like he’s going to punch him. The women are, of course, unable to stop his momentum. Luckily though, his movements are slow, so Dalton releases my hand, pushes me behind him, and is still able to dodge his fist. He then wraps his arms around his father’s shoulders in a restraining hug to prevent him from taking another swing, even though the older man continues to flail, trying to get away.
“Calm down! It’s okay,” Dalton assures him in a rush. “You’re right. That is your bike. It needed a new carburetor, so I took it to my shop to repair it for you.”
“Oh,” his father says, and finally stops fighting him. “You fixed it?”
“Yeah, old man. I fixed it.”
Since he seems to be calming down, Dalton releases his hold on him and takes a step back.
His father squints his eyes down at him and says, “Deacon? Deacon, is that you? Where have you been, you son of a bitch?” He wraps Dalton in a crushing hug and calls him someone else’s name like he’s a long-lost friend. My heart breaks knowing that because of the dementia, he doesn’t even recognize his own son. I can’t imagine how difficult that must be for Dalton…
Gaze zeroing in on me, his father, Rubin, asks, “And who is this pretty young thing?” Dalton looks over his shoulder at me, and before he can reply, his dad chuckles and says, “You old dog! You finally went and got yourself an old lady, huh?”
“No, P—” Dalton catches himself before he calls him Pop. “No, Rubin. She’s not my old lady. This is my…friend, Peyton.”
“Peyton?” Rubin repeats my name several times. “I don’t know any Peytons. I think…I think I may know a…a Dalton, though.”
“Yeah, you do,” Dalton replies with a sigh. “He’s your son.”
“Son? No, I don’t have any kids,” he responds swiftly, like he’s certain of that fact.
God, I feel so bad for Dalton. He told me yesterday that he doesn’t have a relationship with his mother, but it sounded like he grew close to his father after he moved down here to North Carolina. Now, though, he doesn’t even have that relationship since his father doesn’t remember him.
“Why don’t we go back inside so we can sit down and catch up,” Dalton suggests, taking Rubin’s elbow and spinning him back around toward the nursing home.
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he eventually agrees. “But I can’t wait to go for a ride on my bike again. It’s been too long. So long…well, I don’t even remember.”
“Maybe another day. A thunderstorm’s coming up tonight,” Dalton tells him as he ushers him into the building and down a hall, past a nurse’s station.
“Is it now?” Rubin asks. “Guess we better hunker down here for a while.”
His living area is larger than a standard hospital room and holds more comforts, like a sitting area with a loveseat and recliner, and personal belongings consisting of photographs of motorcycles, some with scantily-dressed women in bikinis.
“Take a load off and catch me up,” Rubin tells us, so Dalton and I sit next to each other on the little sofa while Rubin lounges in his chair. “How’s the MC project going? You got any charters going in Virginia or South Carolina?”
“Yeah,” Dalton answers. “Four in South and five in Virginia.”
“No shit? Nine new ones?” Rubin responds, sounding impressed. “You’ve come a long way from our one little shithole bar.”
“Every man who owns a Harley on the East Coast wants to be a Savage King,” Dalton says with a smile.
“Damn right they do,” his father says with a thumb of his right fist to the patch on the left side of his vest. “I told you they would. You’re giving them something they need in their life, just like you gave me when I was down on my luck without a penny to my name—a sense of pride and a place to call home; brothers who are there through thick and thin, no matter what.”
“What was it you called the clubhouse again? A halfway house for crooks and vets with one foot in the black and another in the grave?” Dalton prompts him.
“You can save them all by getting both of their feet on the footpegs of a Harley. Once they start riding, they’ll never want to get off.”
“Yeah, you can,” Dalton agrees before he reaches over and covers the hand that’s resting on my thigh with his to give it a squeeze.
And I know that his touch isn’t just for comfort, even though I’m guessing he needs a little of that too right now, dealing with his sick father. But I also understand that he wants me to listen and understand what the MC is all about. It’s not the crimes that define them but the cohesiveness of the brotherhood.
Chapter Seventeen
Dalton
“I’m really sorry he got out of control tonight,” I tell the two women at the nurses’ station a few hours later, when Peyton and I are finally able to get my dad in bed for the night.
“No, we’re sorry we had to call you in so late,” one of them replies. “We can usually talk the dementia patients down, but Rubin’s a big man and we don’t have any male attendings working tonight.”
“Yeah, he’s big and stubborn,” I agree with a smile.
“As soon as he has another good day, we’re gonna move him upstairs to the second floor, where the stairways and elevators have a code,” she assures me.
“That would be great, thanks,” I tell her. “Have a good night.”
“You too,” they say before Peyton and I walk out the nursing home’s front door.
“Sorry our last night got ruined,” I tell her on the way back to my bike.
“It�
��s okay,” she says to me, linking her hands in the crook of my arm. “That must be tough to handle when he doesn’t recognize you...”
“Half the time when I visit, he thinks I’m Deacon, his best friend who died six years ago from lung cancer. Apparently, I look like Chase and Torin’s uncle when he was younger,” I tell her. “When the dementia first started, I would argue until I was blue in the face that I was Dalton, his goddamn son. But then I realized it was futile. Trying to convince him made the bad days even worse. And how can I be mad at him because his mind is deteriorating? It’s not like he did this on purpose.”
Stabbing my fingers through my hair and blowing out a breath of frustration, I say, “Now I always just roll with being Deacon because mistaking me as an old friend is better than him not recognizing me at all and yelling at me to get the fuck out of his room.”
“Yeah,” Peyton agrees, and I can feel her sympathetic gaze. “And it’s pretty cool to hear about those stories from the MC. Did he tell you them before?”
“Nope,” I answer. “I like hearing about him and all their friends. But once he starts talking about the good ole days, he doesn’t stop for a long time.” Since she may not know the club’s history, I tell her, “Deacon started the Savage Kings MC for military vets and convicts down on their luck on the fringes of society. He wanted them to form a brotherhood to help keep each other out of trouble and out of the ground. And it worked. Mostly.”
“Sounds like he and your father had really good intentions,” she replies.
“Well, they also wanted the town to become a biker’s paradise, like Bike Week at Myrtle Beach, only all Harleys and babes in bikinis all summer long,” I tell her with a grin.
“So what if they were not completely altruistic,” she teases when we reach my bike. “And after meeting your father, I’m starting to see that the handsome, big talker thing must be genetic.”