Lily (The Regulators Biker Series Book 0)

by Carolina Mac

  “That does it,” said George. “We’re fuckin’ ready as we’ll ever be.”

  “Hope the customers stampede in here on Monday and clean you out.” I laughed.

  “If they do, it’ll be thanks to you, sweet cheeks. Let’s celebrate.”

  Saturday night at Buck’s was a biker event. It was barely seven when we arrived, and the place was filling up quickly. George’s regular booth was occupied, so we claimed the first empty one available and sat down.

  “It’s packed in here tonight,” I said.

  “I think Ol’ Buck is having a band tonight. Guys are getting here early to get a spot. Can’t see a waitress—I’ll go to the bar.”

  The decibel level of the country music was sky high and yet the words were barely audible over the rowdy crowd hollering and laughing. A blue layer of smoke hung low and thick, my lungs were protesting, and the evening had just begun. At least I wasn’t sitting at home alone.

  George returned with a pitcher of beer and two frosty glasses.

  “I ordered cheeseburgers and fries. Kitchen’s busy, so the food will be slow.”

  I took a long swallow and nodded. “That’s okay. I want to have a drink first, anyway, before the food comes. I’m turning into a biker bitch, George.”

  “That’ll be the fuckin’ day.” He grinned and lit up a fresh cigarette. “You ever smoke?”

  “No. I thought about it. Some of the girls I hung with at work smoked on their breaks, but Matthew made it crystal clear he wouldn’t tolerate me smoking. He said smoking was a dirty habit and would eventually kill me.”

  “What killed him? You never mentioned it.”

  “Not smoking.” I laughed hysterically and downed the rest of my beer.

  “You’re fuckin’ crazy.” George chuckled and filled up my glass.

  The waitress arrived with our burgers and fries. She slammed a caddy on the table filled with ketchup and condiments and turned to leave.

  “Sheila, another pitcher when you get a minute,” George said.

  She saluted him with the bird. “Get it yourself, George.”

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  “No, you won’t. I don’t want you parading around in front of these assholes. That’d cause a fuckin’ riot for sure.” He laughed and went to the bar.

  When George came back, I had devoured half of my food. “This is really good. Best burger ever.”

  George was quiet while he finished his food. He refilled our glasses and said, “Are we shootin’ tomorrow?”

  “Hell, yeah, but I have day two of my course. I won't be done until after lunch.” I tipped back my glass and giggled when the world spun a bit. “I think I’m getting drunk.”

  “You can’t be drunk yet. You’ve only had three.”

  “That’ll do it. I’m not a pro like you.”

  “Well, slow down, little girl. I want to hear this fuckin’ band before I go. Heard they had a half decent banjo picker. Hey Buck,” George yelled. “What time’s the band starting?”

  “Nine. Ten more minutes.” Buck held up ten fingers.

  While we waited for the band to finish setting up, one of George’s buddies walked by our booth and stopped to chat. “Heard Kenny’s getting out of the hospital tomorrow, thought you might want to know.” He winked at George and gave him a punch in the shoulder.

  “Appreciate the info, Donnie.” George shook his hand and nodded.

  My hand started to tremble, spilling a little beer over the side of my glass.

  “Don’t,” George said covering my hand with his. “Everything will be cool, baby girl.”

  Looking into his big ole brown eyes, my eyes welled up. “Nobody ever cared about me before, George. Nobody.” I reached over, touched his face and he kissed my hand.

  Just then the band broke into an ear-splitting rendition of ‘I Love this Bar’ and all the bikers let out a roar of approval and I had to laugh.

  “That’s better,” George said, looking relieved. I guess comforting weeping members of the opposite sex wasn’t his forte. When the band broke after their second set, I took a trip to the ladies room to test my state of sobriety. Steady as a stone. Good.

  When I returned, George was paying the tab and tipping Sheila. “I figured you’d be gettin’ ready to leave,” George said. “Can't have you tired and hung over at your course.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to go. You’re a better party animal than me, George. Stay and have some fun with your friends and enjoy the banjo dude. Angel’s been in all day, and I need to feed her and take her for a walk.”

  “I’ll walk you out. That parking lot is black as hell. Don’t want you getting kidnapped.”

  When we reached the Jeep, I opened the driver’s door and turned to say goodbye to George. His massive arms enveloped me in a hug. It surprised me how natural and uncomplicated it felt.

  I kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for everything.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE next afternoon, George was leaning on his bike having a smoke before our ride. He couldn’t light up while riding—too much wind he said—so I puttered around while he got his nicotine fix. He looked good today in his leather jacket and a bright red bandana tied around his long black hair. For a second, I thought I could smell cologne.

  Couldn’t be.

  We mounted up and gave the neighborhood their Sunday dose of noise and excitement as we roared up Hawthorne Lane. Riding was my freedom. All my worries disappeared into the wind. My broken arm was so much better now, I could wrap both around George. Just feeling his size and strength gave me comfort.

  It was getting close to four when we arrived at the range. We had a late start after I completed the remaining hours of my training course. George parked the bike and we ambled down the hill to the target area. The sun was high in the sky and the temperature was in the mid-eighties, with no discernable breeze. I left my jacket and helmet on the bike and carried my ammo box in my hand. George was watching me load the magazine with an odd look on his face.

  “What?”

  “You brought the wrong ammo again, little girl. Remember I told you to look for the little green dot on the box? I don’t have any practice 9mm with me.”

  “Does it matter if I use this?”

  “No, it doesn’t matter. It just costs more,”

  “That’s okay. It’s just one day. I’ll suck it up.”

  We didn’t practice as long as usual because of the heat. George’s hair hung wet around his neck and his black Harley shirt stuck to him.

  “I need a cold one,” he said after less than an hour of shooting.

  “Me too. I am melting.” I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. We holstered our guns and plodded uphill towards the shack. George was breathing heavily by the time we reached the top of the grade.

  I carried the nearly empty ammo boxes over to one of the picnic tables and sat down, while George fetched beer from the cooler. My arms were already red and tingling from the sun, and I was sure they would blister later. When George returned, I picked up my bottle and held it against my face then took a long drink. “Oh, I needed that.”

  George laughed and chugged his first right down. He was picking up his second bottle, when the rumble of an approaching bike ripped like a razor through the silence of the sultry afternoon. George stared at the newcomers with a puzzled look on his face. The bike was a black Electra Glide Classic with two people aboard. When the passenger took off his helmet, I gasped and looked at George. It was Kenny. He had hitched a ride with another club member.

  Kenny’s face was blended shades of purple and blue, and he had a scab covering a gash over his right eye. He was walking cautiously and favoring his left leg. He looked over at George and gave him the finger, before sitting down with his pal at a table on the other side of the driveway. A couple of girls scurried over to his table like flies to honey. What a chick magnet the guy was.

  As I looked back to George, I studied his face. He wasn’t showing any sign
of emotion, just staring in stony silence. “Should we leave?” I asked.

  “Nobody makes me leave before I’m ready,” he snarled.

  I sipped my beer and watched the girls across the way throw themselves at Kenny. They were kissing the bruises on his face and rubbing his sore leg. He was laughing and lapping up the attention. He waved his empty bottle in the air and two girls ran to the cooler like their asses were on fire. He was putting on quite a show.

  I turned my gaze back to George and he read in my eyes that I wanted to get out of there. “Had enough of that fuckin’ garbage?” he asked.

  I nodded. George wiped the sweat off his forehead and got to his feet. Grabbing the ammo boxes from the table, I followed him across the dirt driveway towards his bike. Our route took us past Kenny’s table. There was no way around it. I held my breath and didn’t look at Kenny or the girls lolling around him. We were only a few feet from the Eagle when Kenny yelled something at George that I didn’t quite catch. I was hoping against hope that he would keep walking and ignore the insult, but that was not the way George rolled.

  He turned, exhaled, slowly sauntered over to Kenny and grabbed him with one hand by the collar of his jacket. In a blur, Kenny spun out of George’s grasp, pushed back from the table, pulling a knife from his boot. Steel flashed in the sun as it ripped through George’s arm.

  “You stupid fuck,” George spat, clutching his blood-soaked arm. “I’ll kill you for that.”

  Kenny laughed and lunged again, plunged his knife deep into George’s left thigh and knocked him off balance. George hit the ground with a thud and before he could recover, Kenny straddled him. The knife was biting into George’s throat when I heard the gun shot.

  Kenny twisted off George in violent recoil and collapsed into the dirt. The area around him was spattered with a mass of flesh, blood and brains. Part of his face was missing. The bullet had ripped through the back of his head and exited though his eye socket.

  Bikers came running out of the shack with weapons drawn and pushed the girls out of the way. A couple of guys helped George get to his feet. He limped towards to me, his hand clutching his arm, blood oozing between his fingers and a dark stain radiating around the rip in his jeans. “Thanks, Annie,” he said with a grin.

  It was at that moment I realized I was frozen in my stance, still aiming the gun. I drew in a breath, as George forced my arm to bend and pried my fingers from the grip. I stood there while he holstered my Beretta.

  “We have to bandage your arm and get to a hospital,” I said blinking and trying to focus. “And Kenny . . . we should we call an ambulance.” My breath was coming in short pants.

  “No need. You finished him, baby.”

  I sucked in a big breath, tasting gun powder on my tongue while it burned the inside of my nose. “We can’t just leave him there. We have to call the cops . . . or something.” My hands shook as my lunch made an attempt at a return visit and I definitely needed a bathroom.

  “Or something, baby doll. That’s it.” George went into the shack and spoke to his boys. He came back with a towel wrapped tightly around his arm, held in place with layers of duct tape. “The boys said you’re a fuckin’ dead eye. We’re good to go. You drive.”

  “Me?” I asked wondering how in hell I could manage it. My mind was racing, my skin was crawling, and I needed to vomit. Now I had to remember how to start the bike and drive it home with a passenger on the back. George got on behind me and wrapped one arm around my waist. The heat from his body oozed through my back. The towel on his arm was soaked with blood and the smell of it caught in my throat.

  I turned the key and the big Harley answered with a deep rumble on the second try. I put it into gear and eased it out to the road. On the gravel side road, I had problems with balance because of all the weight behind me, but once I reached the paved highway, I improved.

  As we approached the first town on our route home, George directed me down a couple of back streets to a white frame house.

  “Go around the back,” he hollered over the roar of the engine.

  I veered the Harley towards the back porch and parked. George leaned heavy on me and I helped him through the rear door into a tiny emergency room fashioned in the sunroom of the old house. “Hey, doc,” George yelled.

  An old man appeared in the doorway with a drink in his hand.

  “You cut up again, you old bastard?” he growled and set his drink down on the window sill. He gathered up what he needed for the stitches before he took the towel off George’s arm and motioned for George to sit in the only chair. I turned my head while the cleanup was going on, but it wasn’t enough. The smell of blood and the trauma of earlier events ganged up on me and I stepped out into the backyard and threw up in the long grass beside the fence.

  A few minutes later, George came out of the examination room sporting a clean white bandage, grinning and dying for a smoke.

  “Let it go, Annie. It's done. Now, let's get home and forget about it.” He winked at me.

  The air was much cooler on the second half of our journey, and I was much calmer. After throwing up, I was a new person. Almost. It was early evening as I navigated the Eagle into my driveway and lowered the kickstand with the toe of my boot. George limped over and plopped down on the porch steps.

  He exhaled. “These fuckin’ stitches are hurtin’ like hell.”

  “The freezing must be wearing off,” I said. “I’ll get my pain killers and be right back.”

  I unlocked the door and punched in the code as Angel flew past me to get to George. She covered his face with kisses, then ran huge circles around the front lawn. I returned with the pills and sat down. “I’m worried about what those guys are going to do with Kenny,” I said. “And what about those girls? Are they going to go to the cops?”

  “Definitely not. Won’t happen. Best if you don’t know anything about it, sweet girl. Pretend it never happened.”

  “I don’t know if I’m that good at pretending.” I grimaced and clenched my teeth.

  “You saved my life. He would’ve cut my throat in a heartbeat, and he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Then they’d be digging a six foot hole for me.” George leaned over and kissed me on the mouth. I put my arm around his neck and kissed him back.

  “That was nice,” I said.

  “Yep.”

  “Stay here tonight and I’ll drive you to the store in the morning.”

  “Plan A.”

  George wasn’t himself. Color had drained from his face and his boisterous demeanor had become languid and silent. He’d lost a lot of blood and needed to rest. “Let’s call it a night.” I walked into the house with George and Angel on my heels.

  After George downed his pain meds, he settled on the sofa in the living room with a pillow and a blanket. Five minutes later he was snoring. I gathered his blood-stained jeans off the floor, threw them in the washer, made a cup of coffee and called the paint guy.

  “Rusty Coulter,” he answered.

  “Sorry to bother you on Sunday, Rusty. I wanted to let you know that I won’t be here in the morning when you pick up my bike. I’ll leave it in front of the garage door for you.”

  “That works for me. I’ll give you a shout when it’s done.”

  I finished my coffee, threw George’s pants in the dryer, and left him a note on the coffee table before I trudged upstairs. It had been quite a day.

  I almost lost the only glimpse of family I’d ever known.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  WHEN I emerged from the shower, George was stirring downstairs. Angel was already circling the back yard, excited that she had company outdoors so early in the morning. After pushing the button on the coffee maker, I joined George at the patio table. A little of his color had returned, but he looked exhausted. The red laceration on his neck had faded a little, but blatantly reminded me of how close he had come. “Did you get much sleep?”

  “Not much. I’m okay. Nothin’ to worry about.”

 
I reached out and touched his hand. “Why don’t you rest today and let me take over at the store?”

  “That would be the sensible fuckin’ thing to do, honey, but I’m bullheaded enough to work no matter what.” He flicked his ashes into the peonies.

  “Okay, but I’m insisting on helping. You can sit on the stool at the cash and supervise.”

  “Deal. And by the way, thanks for the clean duds.”

  I nodded.

  Before we left, I backed my bike out of the garage and left it in the driveway for Rusty, then pushed the Eagle in and locked the door.

  I squeezed the Wrangler into the tiny parking spot behind the gun shop and waited for George to limp along behind me and unlock the front door. He made his way behind the counter and readied the float for the cash. I was setting our travel mugs on the counter when the bell over the door jingled and our first two customers arrived.

  “Saw your ad in the paper,” said a small red-haired man in wire-rimmed glasses. “Need a gun for my son here to learn on.”

  “We have a good selection on sale, what gauge were you thinkin’?” asked George, butting out his smoke in the ashtray.

  “Maybe, twenty, till he gets used to the kick.” He punched his son in the shoulder.

  “I’m not a baby, Dad. I can handle a twelve gauge. I shot yours more than once.” The young man was six inches taller than his father.

  The kid looked eighteen or nineteen, but his father treated him like he was twelve.

  George smiled and tossed me the keys to unlock the glassed-in display. The son tried several makes and models, hoisting them up to his shoulder for the weight and the feel.

  “Dad, I like this Remington 870 the best,” he said.

  “That’s the Express Supermag,” George hollered. “Nice gun.”

  The father raised his brows. “That’s a twelve gauge, kiddo. Think you’re ready for it?”