“Wait. Concerned about me? How? Why do you know this?”
“Who do you think smoothed things over when his guys wanted their money back? I made it clear to him and everyone else, you were under our protection—meaning coming after you again would be a declaration of war. You’re smart enough to understand men like your father and his associates don’t appreciate that too much.”
Oh dear. I never, ever considered that Stump might have put himself or his club in that much danger because of me.
“You seem like a bit of a romantic, Mallory, so I’ll lay it out for you—we got ourselves a little Romeo and Juliet thing going on.”
“That’s a tragedy, not a romance,” I mumble.
He chuckles. “Whatever. Point is, I need you to pay your father a visit and let him know you’re okay. That you’re with Chaser willingly. You’re happy.” He runs his gaze over me, and I wrap my sweater around me tighter. “You look healthy. Tell him whatever he needs to hear to be convinced his darling princess is being taken care of properly.”
Darling princess my ass. “I can do that.”
“Good girl.” He cocks his head. “I’d leave Chaser’s coke problem out of the discussion.”
“I haven’t talked about it with anyone except him and now you.”
He raises an eyebrow as if he’s impressed with my discretion. His low opinion of me is starting to grate on my nerves.
“Stump, forgive me for asking, but do you think this little of every woman or just me?”
He lets out a loud belly laugh. “Haven’t known a lot of females who could be trusted in my life, Mallory. It’s nothing personal. If it makes you feel better, I like you.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He chuckles once more, then turns serious again. “I don’t want you to call the prison or alert them that you’re going to make a visit. I’ll set things up when you’re ready. Chaser will go in with you, but at least two of my guys are gonna tag along as escorts.”
A tremor of fear rolls through me. “Why? What are you afraid of?”
His gaze shifts to the left for just a second. Enough for me to suspect he’s lying when he says, “Nothing, sweetheart. Only a precaution.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mallory
Once we’ve finished the serious talk, Stump’s expression settles into something almost resembling friendly. “You got a few minutes?”
Wary, but unable to lie, I shrug. Other than catching up on soap operas and fretting about all the auditions I’m missing, my schedule is wide open. “Nothing but time.”
He shakes his head and mutters something about choking the fuck out of Chaser, which I pretend to ignore.
“Come on.” He motions for me to follow him. Feeling like a hound about to be banished to the doghouse, I follow Stump through the clubhouse and outside.
His boots crunch over the gravel as I hurry to keep up with his long strides.
Finally, he stops next to a blue Nissan Stanza. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key, and holds it out to me.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“What’s it look like?”
I glance at the key and back to the car. “Whose is it?”
“Yours while you’re here.”
“Mine?”
His brow creases. “You sleep-deprived or somethin’? What’s so confusing?”
“Why are you giving me a car?”
He throws his arms open wide. “We’re out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. Don’t want you to feel trapped.”
My eyes water. “You got me a car?”
“Don’t get too worked up. It’s nothing special, Mallory.” He slaps his hand on the roof. “Five years old. Got about a hundred thousand miles on it, but it’s clean and runs well.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“I’m sure you’re used to fancier vehicles.”
If by fancier he means a driver tasked with taking me everywhere when I lived at home, then, yes. My father hired someone to teach me to drive just long enough to pass the driver’s test and get my license. Then he never let me touch one of his precious cars again.
Maybe he always suspected I wanted to run away.
Stump hooks his fingers in the handle, opening the door for me. I slide into the soft velour seat and run my hands over the steering wheel.
“You know how to drive stick?” Stump leans into the open door.
My gaze lands on the shifter. “No.”
“Eh,” he grumbles. “Figured.”
He stomps around to the other side and yanks open the passenger door, throwing himself into the seat. “Came into the garage. Didn’t have a lot to choose from,” he explains.
“I love it.” I run my hand over the shiny silver knobs of the console. “Especially the tape player.”
He snorts. “You sound like Chaser when he was younger. Little shit used to bitch up a storm if he couldn’t listen to his crap in the car. His mom put up with it, I…” He stares out the window at the clubhouse, without finishing the thought.
Say something, Mallory. Anything.
I flip the visor down. “Oh, it has a mirror too. That’s handy.”
Stump chuckles and slams his door shut. “Start it up.”
“I…” Good grief, it’s not like I don’t know where the key goes. I jab the key into the ignition and twist. The engine catches. The car lurches and stalls.
Stump grins at me. “Next time, push the clutch in.”
“What?” I peer down, spying three pedals.
“Far left’s your clutch.” He fiddles with the stick. “Put it in neutral. Clutch down. Foot on the brake.”
It takes a few tries, but I get the hang of it and spend the next couple of minutes driving around the parking lot. Stump must be getting dizzy from circling the clubhouse. He points to the road.
“Let’s see if you can get it up to third.”
“What? No, I’m not ready for that.”
“It’s not a busy road. Besides, we need to test you on some hills.”
“Hills? Why?”
The corners of his mouth pull up. Not a good sign.
He directs me to the neighborhood where Chaser took me the last time we visited. I lurch and grind my way there, only stalling once. I circle the cul-de-sac, and Stump stares at his house as we pass. There’s a van in the driveway and sheets of ripped-up carpet in the yard.
“Good,” he mutters. “Should be ready for you two in a couple of days.”
“You don’t have to go to so much trouble. The house was lovely.”
“Eh.” He waves his hand in the air. “Needs freshening up.”
Who am I to tell him what to do with his house? I just hate for him to go to all this trouble when we’re not staying long.
“Turn right.” He points, in case I don’t know right from left, I guess.
The neighborhood’s full of houses similar to Stump’s. He tells me to keep going straight. Right up a steep hill. Before I crest the hill, he places his hand over mine on the shifter. “Stop.”
“Here? Why?” I jam the clutch down and press my other foot to the brake, while wiggling the shifter into neutral. “Now what?”
“Go.”
As soon as I take my foot off the brake, the car rolls back. Scared, I slam my foot on the gas and release the clutch too soon. The car stalls.
And I’m still rolling backward.
In between roars of laughter, Stump yells at me to, “Brake! Brake!”
“Shit,” I mutter, twisting the key.
Heart pounding, cheeks burning, I try again.
And again. The engine’s screaming by the time I finally get the right balance between clutch and gas.
“Drive around the block,” Stump orders.
He has me stop in the same spot.
I don’t stall the car this time, but it does roll back quite a way before I move forward.
“Again.”
I loop around the block.
A hundred an
d seventeen—give or take—tries later, Stump’s finally satisfied. “Good girl,” he praises.
“The neighbors are going to think we’re nuts.”
“Fuck ‘em.” He waves at the open road in front of us. “Drive.”
“Where?”
He guides me downtown to a shopping area and has me pull in front of a little record store. “Let’s get you some music for the car.”
“Uh, okay.”
He smiles when I remember to pull the parking brake up. “Not too bad for your first time driving stick.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He opens the door to the record store for me and waves at me to hurry.
The cassettes are in the back, and he nods for me to go ahead. “I need to speak with the owner.”
While this is certainly the strangest morning I’ve had since we came home, it’s also the best one. I find myself smiling for the first time in days as I peruse the store’s collection of cassettes. I gravitate toward the Ks in the Hard Rock section and squeal when my fingers brush over Kickstart: Throttle Down. I pull that cassette out and continue to the V section. Vicious Vandals has at least four albums in their catalog. Impressive. I slide one out of its slot and laugh at the picture on the front. The whole band’s wearing mean, scary faces and Andrew’s shirtless, of course. I check the dates and decide to buy their most recent one. The W section has one lone Wishing Well tape, and I stick out my tongue at it.
Stump’s waiting for me at the register. I’m expecting him to laugh at my choices, but he seems more sad than amused. He glares at me when I reach for my purse, so I watch as he hands the cashier a twenty.
“Thank you,” I say outside.
“Chaser used to spend hours here.” Stump turns and gives the building another look, before motioning for me to get in the car. “At least you’re decisive.”
More like heartbroken.
“Can you find your way back to the clubhouse?” Stump asks.
“Uh, I think so.”
“Show me.”
I mentally go over the streets and landmarks we passed on the way here.
“I’ll get you a map, but I want you to know how to get to the clubhouse without it.” He taps the ashtray, which I now notice is filled with quarters. “In case you ever need to stop and use a payphone.”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, I thank him.
“Go on.” A sigh follows his gruff order.
I manage to find my way to the road that leads to the clubhouse, only to almost miss the driveway. Stump grins as I shift into reverse and back up a few feet to make the turn. “Good job.”
More bikes line the side of the clubhouse than were there when we left this morning. Stump searches the lot and asks me to park next to the garage. When I shut the engine off, he takes the keys from my hand. “Listen to me, Mallory.” He waits until he’s sure he has my full attention. “What we talked about this morning stays between you and me. Anyone asks you what Chaser’s up to, tell them it’s club business and you don’t know anything about it.”
Under his intense stare, I mutter, “Of course.”
“Good girl.” He pats my arm and opens his door while I turn over his words. “Oh,” he turns and hands me the keys again. “One more thing. This car is yours. No one drives it, but you or me. Chaser asks to borrow the keys, you tell him no.”
“I—”
“Tell him no and then come tell me. Can you do that?”
“Okay.”
Done giving me orders, Stump hauls himself out of the car.
Two young guys I don’t recognize are hanging out by the front door.
“Prospect!”
Both snap to attention at Stump’s harsh voice. “Yes, pr…er, Yes, sir.”
Stump rests his hand on my shoulder. “This is my son’s old lady. She needs something, you get it for her. We clear?”
Their scared gazes only stray from Stump long enough to give me a quick scan. “Yes, sir.”
I’d protest, but I know better than to contradict Stump in front of anyone. Or at all.
A battered, green Ford pick-up truck rattles into the lot and parks next to my car. Stump’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second. The corners of his mouth curl up. Not sure I should stick around for whatever sinister business he has in mind, I open my mouth to excuse myself.
He snaps his fingers at me before I can sneak away. “Come here, Mallory. Someone I want you to meet.”
“Uh, okay.”
“What’s with the cage?” Stump calls to the man who steps out of the truck.
“Hey, Prez.” He jerks his head toward the truck. “Hauled all that old carpet and shit to the dump.”
“Good. Got another job for you.” Stump pushes me forward. “Mallory, this is Tally, the club’s Treasurer.”
Tally has a head of curly brown hair, brown eyes, and a warm smile. He holds out his hand to me. “Hey, Mallory. We’ve met in passing, I think.”
Unsure of what Stump has in mind, I shake Tally’s outstretched hand. “Yes, I think so.”
“Good.” Stump rubs his hands together. “Now that you’re acquainted, Tally, I need you take Mallory down to Abbott’s and let her pick out some furniture for the house.”
Tally opens his mouth, but I beat him to it. “I don’t—”
“Just the living room and master bedroom for now,” Stump cuts me off. His voice softens. “You can do that for me, right, sweetheart?”
“Uh, I guess.”
“Carpet too.” He lifts his chin at Tally, who’s still standing there with his mouth open. “Have them put it on my account.”
Done handing out tasks, Stump turns and marches into the clubhouse, leaving Tally and I staring after him.
Well, this is awkward.
A nervous smile twitches over my lips. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s no problem.” He stretches his arm toward the truck and bows. “My chariot awaits.”
I don’t know him well enough to decipher if that’s supposed to be comedy or sarcasm. The poor guy probably had better things to do with his afternoon than take me shopping.
Climbing into the cab of the truck in my skirt is awkward, but I think I manage not to flash my butt. Tally slams the door once I’m inside. I take in the faded dashboard, gravel dotted floor mats and cracked vinyl seats.
“Work truck,” Tally says as he hops in the other side. “You mind if we swing by the house first and get some measurements?”
“No, of course not.”
The awkwardness is thick enough to slice with a steak knife. Finally, Tally breaks the silence.
“How long you guys staying?”
“Not sure yet.”
“What’s Chaser up to?”
I shrug. “Club business, I guess.”
He hmms and nods.
“I wish Stump wouldn’t go to so much trouble. Unless he’s fixing up the house for himself.”
“Doubt it. More like Prez is hoping to fill it with some grandbabies.”
“Ugh.” I’ve never known so many men with baby fever.
He chuckles. “Not your thing?”
“Not for another ten years at least.”
He flicks his gaze over me again. “Not my business.”
“Finally,” I mutter.
“Prez can be real direct, huh?”
That’s one way to put it.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chaser
The coke I’m able to scrounge up here is so diluted, I’ve been back to the same dealer more than once. At least potency is the excuse I use for why I’m too weak to get myself under control.
Feeling marginally functional this afternoon, I step into our room, expecting to find Mallory. Not that I want to face her when I’m fucked up. Again.
My quick sigh of relief when the room’s empty is cut off by a meaty hand around my throat.
I can’t even make a sound when my back smashes into the wall. My skull makes a nice cracking thud against the wood, though.
&n
bsp; The bedroom door slams shut.
“Where ya been, son?” My father’s liverwurst and onion breath washes over me, and I try not to gag.
I cough, sputter, and attempt to pry his fingers away from my windpipe.
“That hurt?” His eyes glint with rage from about a millimeter away.
I blink once for yes.
“Tryin’ to help you out, since you seem to have a death wish.”
He finally releases me, and I slide to the floor, landing on my ass like a sad sack of rotten potatoes. Black spots dance behind my eyes while I fight to catch my breath.
“Get up,” my father barks.
Still coughing, I stumble over to the bed and drop down. “What the fuck?” I rasp.
“Well, I tried the nice dad approach. That didn’t seem to work. Now, it’s tough love time.”
“When have you ever been nice dad?”
“You’re about to find out how not nice dad I can be, you little fuck.”
“You gonna shoot me next?”
“If I have to.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have put that suggestion in his head.
“Where you been?” Before I open my mouth, he shoves his index finger about an inch from my nose. “And don’t fucking lie.”
“Out.”
He pulls his revolver free from the holster under his leather cut. “Out, huh?” he mutters as he flips open the cylinder and gives it a spin.
Russian roulette has never been my father’s game. The gun’s probably loaded. “Downtown.”
“Doing what?”
“Seems you have some suspicions.”
“Who’s supplying you?”
“I didn’t steal from the club, Dad.”
“At this point, I’d rather you did.” He stares at the gun for a few seconds before tucking it away. Thank fuck. I wouldn’t put it past the old man to fire a bullet into me. “Where?”
“Some dealer downtown.”
He stares at me.
“I didn’t ask for credentials.” I snort out a humorless laugh. “Real diluted product, though. Can’t be good for the club’s reputation.”
“You think you’re funny?”
I hold up one hand, in case he decides to go for the gun again. “Just saying.”
Blow My Fuse (Hollywood Demons Book 2) Page 17