by Juli Valenti
“Therein lies our newest problem; everything is going to be closed until at least Monday. So…”
“So… I’m stuck here, is basically what you’re telling me.” She sighed. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was to be stuck. And while she wasn’t living under a rock as Tonka had suggested she had, she couldn’t turn her phone on or even call AAA with her account. The minute she did, Chuck would find her, and she was vehemently trying to avoid that more than anything else.
The whole thing made her feel like a petulant runaway child, but it was so much more than that. Not that it was anyone’s business but hers, yet as the large man stood before her, she knew she was going to have to figure something out… sooner rather than later.
Think, Mercedes. Think.
Leaving her beautiful car on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere was an absolute negative, Ghost Rider. Either that car went where she went, went somewhere with a lock and a key, or neither of them moved. So, getting a tow would be what needed to happen; the next question would be how to go about that. Briefly her eyes darted toward the phone in Tonka’s pocket, her cheeks reddening when she realized the man must have assumed she was checking out his junk. She shook her head and cleared her throat.
“I’m sorry - I wasn’t —” she stopped, glancing down before swallowing hard and meeting his gaze. “Would it be possible for me to borrow your phone to call a tow truck? I have one, I just, erm, the battery is dead. And maybe if you know of a good, safe place I could actually call?”
Tonka nodded. “I know a guy,” he said, pulling out his cell from his pocket and dialing a number. “Lock, Tonka. In need of your services… yep off from the wedding site. Ah, news travels quickly. Thanks, brother. He’s gonna be hurting for awhile. No, no word yet, from either, which could be a good thing or a very bad thing.
“Oh yeah, it’s a —” he looked at Mercy expectantly and repeated her words, “a forest-green 1972 Chevelle SS 402 convertible. No, I’m not shitting you… you know it’s not mine. Need it kept safe. No, don’t take it to the club, take it to the shop. It’s not to be touched. Be there first thing Monday, cool?”
Tonka nodded, driving Mercy crazy. She didn’t like the idea of her car being towed, taken away by someone she didn’t know, arranged by the man in front of her. But what choice did she have?
“I need to get some of my things out of it,” she said softy, surprised to hear Tonka chuckling.
“You sound so sad, Mercy. Don’t worry - your car will be fine. And so long as you’re with me, so will you.”
Why does that sound so damned appealing?
2
Chapter Two
“I’m not getting on the back of that,” Mercy said, her voice almost a shriek.
When Tonka had started walking, she’d assumed he would be “escorting” her to a car, not to his motorcycle. Staring at the large piece of machinery in front of her, she couldn’t prevent her head from shaking, a very clear no, the gesture repeated over and over.
“What is wrong with that?”
Her head continued to shake. It wasn’t that the Harley wasn’t up to par, it was more. So much more than par, if she were being honest. It was fucking beautiful. A 2013 CVO Ultra Classic, a limited 110th anniversary special edition complete with a TC 110 and Screaming Eagle engine badges. One thing about the ride surprised her, though - he’d kept the original paint, the maroon-and-black-diamond shine. She’d have figured him for a matte black custom paint kind of guy.
But no, it was beautiful. And no one on the planet could pay her enough money to climb on the back and ride bitch. Not this girl.
And she told him so. “I don’t ride bitch for anyone. Not for you, not for — never mind,” she stopped before revealing personal information about herself to this stranger, anymore than she already had, at least. “I don’t ride bitch. My car isn’t that far, I’ll walk.”
“Don’t be childish. It’s a long way back to town on foot, Mercy.” Tonka’s voice had morphed somewhat. He sounded impatient, almost chastising, and it raised her hackles faster than anything else would have.
“Goddamn it!” she spun back around to face him. “What is with you biker men? It’s always your way or no way, because god forbid anyone have a fucking opinion that doesn’t match yours. I. Don’t. Ride. Bitch. Not now, not ever.”
Tonka merely remained seated on his bike, waiting for… something. Whether for her to change her mind, or to think she could possibly change his, she wan’t sure. But she wasn’t going to. She was going to stand there and stare at him; she could be childish when she wanted to be. And if that’s the game he wanted to play, that was fine with her.
How long they remained in a standoff, she wasn’t sure. She desperately didn’t want to break it but she had to pee. And she was hungry, and tired, and mountain of a guy be damned, he looked just peachy keen jelly bean on his stupid motorcycle. Sighing, she threw her hands in the air.
“Fine,” she breathed, hating herself. “But know this - I’m not riding bitch, I’m merely accepting a ride and it just so happens to be on the back of your bike. It means nothing.”
“Understood, babe. Hop on and hold on.”
Mercy harrumphed. “Not your babe. Not holding on, either. I’ll be just fine, thank you.”
The answering grin the man flashed her was blinding, taking her off guard. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to bask in the glory of his light or if she wanted to bury herself in darkness and never see the sun again. Either would be a perfectly acceptable option.
Damn your stupid stubbornness, she chastised herself as Tonka straightened from yet another gut-churning corner going only god knew how fast. She’d figured when he said to hold on it was because he thought she’d be afraid or not know how to balance on the smaller passenger seat on the bike. But nooooo.
Nope. He’d said it because the guy drove like a fucking maniac. He was reckless, bordering on fucking suicidal. The fact he was driving the way he was with her on the back only served to confuse her more about who he actually was.
He’d seemed like such a gentleman; well, as much of one he could be as a member of a motorcycle club. Not that he’d told her he was part of one, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. First there was the fact he was named after a toy truck, when no parent would honestly name their kid that, or the fact that every person he’d mentioned or talked to had a name equally as silly sounding. Throw in the fact that the minute she’d given in and started to climb on his Harley, he’d gotten up, slipping a shoulder rig on - checking to ensure his gun was ready to go, of course - and a cut over that as well. The patches on his vest read HELLS REDEMPTION, the bottom rocker proudly proclaiming New Mexico and their state ownership; that was a good sign, at least to her. If her father was to find her, at least his club would have to ask permission to even enter this territory.
Sometimes the laws that bound the two-wheeled weren’t that bad after all.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Tonka’s voice seemed loud, even over the purr of his engine. She glanced up to find her hands fisted tightly at his sides, and the bike stopped at a red light - the first she could remember coming across.
“They’re more expensive than that,” Mercy said dryly, snatching her hands away from him and rubbing at her palms like they burned. They didn’t, at least not in the usual sense of the word. Instead they felt all too at home holding on to his large body and she didn’t like that one bit.
“Money I’ve got.”
“Not enough time,” she countered.
“Have that too, Stang.”
“Did you just call me Stang?”
Tonka nodded, the rumble of his body clashing with his bike as he chuckled. “Yep.”
“Why?”
“You said you hated your name. What was it? Oh yes, a car that no one you knew would ever want or ‘waste their money on.’ Therefore, I figured it was my civic duty to help you find a new one. Mustangs are cool. People like those way more than
a Mercedes.”
Mercy stared at him incredulously, a laugh escaping her before she could stop it. He looked so expectant, which only fueled her humor and her head fell back, small giggles coming in bunches.
“What an amazing sound,” she barely heard him say as the light changed and they were off once more, driving like a bat out of hell.
It had grown dark since she’d first met the man she was riding with, the sun having long since set, along with the temperature, which, she was learning, in New Mexico meant the weather was at least now bearable. The trip to her car had taken much longer than she’d anticipated. Admittedly, as a woman, it was always a difficult process, trying to figure out what to pack for a couple days. Add on that she had essentially her entire life in the back seat of her Chevelle, and it took even longer. Money, jewels, thousands of dollars in tools - how was she supposed to choose what to take and what to leave behind?
Tonka hadn’t batted an eye when she asked for them to stay with her mechanical baby until the tow truck had gotten there. He’d merely nodded in understanding, smiling when the rumble of the bigger vehicle could be heard coming around the corner. The man, who introduced himself as “Lock,” seemed nice enough upon introductions, though she’d been skeptical. Knowing vehicles, including proper towing techniques, it had been a difficult concept to not immediately grill the man on how he was going to treat her car. Luckily, Lock was a smart guy, or at least one who appreciated beautiful, classic cars. He’d done exactly what she would have done if it hadn’t been hers - he ran his palms delicately over her hood, almost crooning as he bemoaned her current state. Needless to say, he’d won her over, at least hesitantly; he would keep it safe, as well as her remaining belongings. It helped that she could see he was carrying, an ankle holster worn comfortably just above his work boots.
Mercy was saved from any additional questions by the wind picking up, catching her hair from where it fell below the helmet Tonka had given her to wear. It also saved her from any prying, and, surprisingly sadly, any more humor for the rest of the ride as they didn’t hit any long stoplights. Instincts had set in for her as well, ones she’d long since thought she’d forgotten and she did her best to memorize the turns he’d taken. But, because Tonka had taken back roads, it proved to be more difficult than she was accustomed to. He only slowed again when they came upon a giant piece of gated property, complete with a surrounding chain link and barbwire fence.
Close your eyes, take a deep breath, she demanded of herself. She knew where she was; Tonka had taken her to the clubhouse. And, while it shouldn’t have surprised her, she’d hoped against it. Naively, Mercy’d hoped he’d simply toss her ass at the nearest Motel 8 and tell her to have a great life. Opening her mouth to protest, she froze, her entire body going cold as they entered the compound.
Static Law cuts, lined up nice and neatly, each with a large gash along the back, through their lightning bolt and scales sigil.
Death or patch-over.
Static Law. Static Law. Static Law. Static Law. The words played over and over in her mind and she squeezed her eyes tightly, demanding to keep herself from choking on her own panic. No way could he have found her or followed her. Her gut told her that none of those were her father’s. That thought, though, did nothing to ease her anxiety; would she have been happy or sad if one had?
“Mercy?”
Tonka’s voice invaded her thoughts and she shook her head before opening her eyes, half praying they’d be anywhere else when her vision cleared. They weren’t. They were exactly where they’d just been; she wasn’t dreaming, she wasn’t hallucinating. It was real.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” the man tried again, his tone soft as his hand dropped from where it was being extended to her. She shook her head.
“I can’t be here,” she murmured softly, knowing that now that she was there, she had no choice. If any of the men were patched over, which was the most humane of the scenarios running through her head, they’d know her. They had to know her… and if they went to her father, their loyalties to Tonka’s club would be in jeopardy. As well as their lives. All their lives.
Of course, the most non-humane scenario could be the correct choice, and, if so, then Mercy’s life just got ten times easier. The complete lack of emotion regarding the possible death of her father’s brothers was the first step to knowing she was going to hell… and she didn’t care.
Mercy remained seated on the back of Tonka’s bike for heartbeats longer, gathering herself. The irony in that wasn’t lost on her: the last place she’d wanted to be, the last ride she wanted to take, was on the large man’s Harley. Now, she clung to the padded seat like a lifeboat, her fingertips the only thing keeping her kicking and her face above the water.
Her gaze darted back to the cuts on display before her, and she internally yelled, though not out of fear. More, she was angry. Angry with herself for thinking she could get away from the men in her life, away from the club and every bad memory associated with it. Her freedom had led her straight back, now face to face with a whole new heap of what-the-fucks.
Inhaling deeply and holding it, Mercy forced her thoughts to re-center and focus. She needed to come up with a plan. The only downside of that plan, was she didn’t have a single clue of what route would be the best one to follow. Running wasn’t an option - it’d taken entirely too long to convince herself to leave home, the feeling of cowardice overwhelming. In that instance, she’d decided it wasn’t a pussy reaction, that she wasn’t running or fleeing; no, it was self-preservation, the exact thing that determined humans from animals. She was protecting herself - there was no shame or blame in that. So she hadn’t run then and she wouldn’t run now.
You could always spill to Tonka… maybe he would understand or help. Mercy shook her head; that was another impossible probability. Running to the biker would absolutely be an admittance of weakness. She’d die first.
No, her only real option was to walk where he led, head held high.
Decision made, Mercy glided off the Harley with the ease of a practiced dancer, the movement reminding her of the riding a bike concept - she hadn’t done it in awhile, but she hadn’t forgotten how. Ignoring the larger man still peering at her like an alien with a third head, she dug through her out-of-character pink backpack until her fingers grazed metal.
The Sig Sauer felt more like a security blanket than ever before, and Mercy gripped it tightly, removing it from the holster inside the bag. Checking the safety, she slipped the gun in her waistband, sighing in relief as she did.
“Whoa, what the hell are you —”
This time it was Mercy’s turn to cut the larger man off. She’d made the heartbeat realization that drawing the modified 9mm would spawn some questions, just as she knew she’d have to talk fast to keep her body intact and not riddled with bullets from any bikers who’d seen her.
Mercy nodded toward the cuts, counting them quickly as she did - at least half a dozen.
“Death or patch over?”
Tonka ignored her demands. “Woman, you need to explain and quickly.” The man’s words were hardened, betrayal and anger coloring his face as clearly as the adrenaline beginning to rush through her body. “I help you and you reward me with pulling iron?”
She shook her head. “This has nothing to do with you, Tonka, and, no, I’m not drawing on you. I will explain, but first I need to know: death or patch over?”
“Mercedes Sheridan? Is that you?”
God damnit, she swore, wincing slightly and refusing to turn toward the voice. Instead, she kept her eyes locked on the man she’d grown fond of in such a short time.
“Death or patch over?” she asked again, her words a mere whisper, barely heard over the rumble of motorcycles approaching the compound. She wouldn’t repeat herself a fourth time, though.
“Both,” the man answered cautiously, his eyes darting from her to the voice that had called her name. “Now explain, in as few words as humanly possible.”
�
�Static Law?” She arched an eyebrow and he nodded. “The founding president’s name is Charles ‘Chucky’ Sheridan. And he is also my father.”
Tonka’s sharp intake of air told her more than any words could have. He knew, just as she did, what sort of shit show this could lead to.
“As for these,” she waved at the destroyed cuts, “I don’t know if I know the men they belonged to, I don’t know if I’d be happier if they were dead or if they were patched over to your club. What I do know is if I stroll along in, there is going to be trouble. Trouble for me… you, your club.”
“Mercedes Sheridan!” the voice, much closer than it had been, repeated. The tone had turned demanding and, taking a deep breath, Mercy peeled her eyes away from Tonka.
“Hello, Staple,” she greeted, completely void of any emotion. She couldn’t afford to give anything away - not the way she felt, not her next move, nothing. Doing so would be more dangerous than facing off with a hungry lion in Africa. Says the girl smack dab in the middle of the most fucked-up situation imaginable.
“Do you want to tell me what the hell —”
Time seemed to stand still for Mercy, the world suddenly moving in slow motion. As quickly as Staple had reached her, grabbing her at the elbow and pulling, Tonka was there, pushing her backward and decking the other large man in the face. Though the Static Law was caught off guard, he’d grabbed his gun, aiming at Tonka, only to be met with another facing right back at him.
“You dare fucking touch what is mine,” Tonka growled through gritted teeth and Mercy swallowed the I’m not yours that threatened to escape her lips. She was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them, and having grown up around these kinds of men, she knew better than to draw attention to the fact that she was nothing more than collateral damage with a pussy in this situation.
“Yours?” the other man all but roared, shaking his head before repeating the question. “You have a lot of balls to ever assume that she is yours. What the fuck is your game here?”