Gypsy King

by Devney Perry

  “You never told her,” Bryce whispered. “She never knew.”

  “She never knew.” His voice was hoarse. Thick. “Amina and I both promised to keep it quiet. She knew it would crush Chrissy, so she went home to Denver and didn’t come back. It ate at me. I’d finally decided to confess. To come clean. But then . . .”

  “She was murdered.” My voice was flat and lifeless, like my mother’s body alone in her grave.

  “I let your mother down in every way possible.” A tear fell down his face. “I’ve wished for years I’d had the courage to tell her about Amina because then she would have left me. She should have left me, then she wouldn’t have been planting flowers that day. But I was a coward, scared to lose her.”

  “You lost her anyway.”

  Another tear fell, dripping down his cheek and into the beard he’d grown since the arrest. “My silence was the biggest mistake of my life.”

  My throat burned and my heart broke. What would have happened if he’d told her the truth? Would Mom still be alive?

  “What about your daughter?” Bryce asked. “She doesn’t know about you.”

  “Because I didn’t know about her. Not until Amina called me last month and asked me to meet her at the Evergreen Motel.”

  I closed my eyes, not wanting to hear any more. But I couldn’t find the strength to stand. So I sat there, thinking of my beautiful mother and how unfair this was. All she’d done was love a selfish, cowardly man. And he’d destroyed her. He’d had a child with another woman.

  “We talked about Genevieve that night,” Dad said. “It took me a few hours to get my head wrapped around it, that I had a daughter. And I was furious that she’d kept it from me.”

  “But you fucked her?” Again. He’d fucked that bitch again.

  He lowered his eyes as I fumed. It was like he’d spit on Mom’s grave.

  Bryce’s hand on mine squeezed tight. “Did you do it, Draven? Did you kill her?”

  I opened my eyes, locking my gaze on him. It would be so much easier if he said yes. Then he’d rot in a prison cell and I’d never think about my father again.

  “No. I didn’t kill her.” It was the truth. “I calmed down and we talked for hours. Amina was sorry about keeping Genevieve away, but she was scared. She knew Chrissy had been killed. She knew being in my life could put her daughter at risk. So she stayed away.”

  “Why did she come back now?” Bryce asked.

  “She said it was time her daughter knew her father. I think she got word the Gypsies had shut down and waited to make sure it was safe.”

  Safe. I surged from my chair and walked to the window. “Has it ever been safe?”

  Both of the women who’d loved my father had died violent deaths. He hadn’t stabbed Amina, but he’d killed her all the same. Like he’d killed Mom.

  “You deserve to spend the rest of your life in prison,” I said to the glass.

  “No question,” Dad replied instantly. “I do.”

  No matter how angry I was at him, I wouldn’t let that happen. Not for Dad, but the rest of us. If someone was out to get Draven Slater, there was a very real possibility the rest of us were up next.

  Besides, Dad should have to live in this house for the rest of his life. It was the prison of his own making. He could live out his years alone here, surrounded by the ghost of his dead wife. And no judge or jury would ever punish him the way he’d been punishing himself.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Okay.” I turned and walked away from the window, straight out of the room.

  Bryce hesitated, but when I didn’t pause, she hurried to catch up.

  I was nearly to her car when Dad called my name. It wasn’t from behind at the side door. He’d walked through the front door to stand on the porch.

  Dad didn’t utter another word. Instead, he fisted his hands and took the porch steps one at a time.

  How long had it been since he’d walked those steps? On the last one, his foot hovered over the cement of the sidewalk, reluctant to put it down. When it landed, his boot was heavy and sluggish.

  Slowly, painfully, Dad walked down the path toward the place where Mom had been. The last time I’d seen him on that sidewalk had been the worst day of my life.

  Nick had rushed inside to call him. My brother’s screams had been so loud and frantic, they’d carried outside to the street. I’d knelt by Mom’s body, a scared boy crying and begging it to be a nightmare.

  Dad had raced home from the garage. When he’d jumped off his bike, he’d come right to Mom, pushing me aside. Then he’d scooped her up into his arms and wailed, his heart broken.

  Our lives broken.

  The memory snuck up on me. The pain in my chest was unbearable, making my legs weak and my head dizzy. My arm shot out, searching for something to grab.

  I found Bryce. She came right to my side, standing straight. She was my rock as Dad took one last step and dropped his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the ground, then he looked at me. “I’m sorry.”

  “You never should have started the club.” Words I never thought I’d say.

  I hadn’t blamed the club for Mom’s death. Nick had. But I hadn’t. I’d blamed the man who’d pulled the trigger, the one Dad had promised me had been dealt a cruel, slow death.

  Now? Now I wished I’d never been a Tin Gypsy.

  “You’re right.” Dad nodded. “I never should have started the club.”

  At least it’s gone now.

  I let go of Bryce, turning my back on my father for the car.

  She didn’t make me wait. She jogged to the driver’s side and got in, reversing out of the driveway and speeding down the street. Dad just stood in the same place on the sidewalk, staring at his feet like he could still see Mom’s body there.

  I leaned forward, dropping my head into my hands as I squeezed my eyes shut. My stomach churned. The pressure in my head was overpowering. White spots popped in my vision. The sharp sting in my head was like a dull dagger being pushed slowly into my temple.

  Was this a panic attack? Anxiety? I’d never had either, but I was three seconds from puking in Bryce’s car.

  “Want me to pull over?” she asked.

  “No. Drive.” I swallowed hard. “Keep driving.”

  “Okay.” Her hand came to my spine, rubbing up and down before returning it to the wheel.

  I focused on the hum of the wheels against the blacktop, breathing deep to fight the emotions. Miles later, when I wasn’t afraid I’d puke or cry or scream, I opened my mouth. “I miss Mom. She was so happy, and damn, she loved us. All of us. Even him.”

  Fuck. One tear slipped free and I swiped it away, refusing to let more fall.

  “I wish he had told her.”

  “Yeah,” I choked out.

  “But since he didn’t, I’m glad she never knew about Amina,” Bryce said gently.

  Part of me would have liked to see her kick Dad’s ass for it. To leave him and punish him for being unfaithful. But it would have broken her heart. “Me too.”

  Bryce drove through town, going nowhere as she turned down one road, then the next. Finally, when I had pulled myself together, I asked, “Would you take me to my bike?”

  “Sure. Are you feeling okay to ride?”

  “Yeah. I’m not sure what that was. Strange feeling though.”

  She gave me a sad smile. “Grief, if I had to guess.”

  “Never goes away.”

  Bryce drove a few blocks until we were on Central Avenue and headed for The Betsy. “Genevieve didn’t have a last name for Amina’s boyfriend. We’ll have to keep digging to find out who he is. If you even want to.”

  “You’re assuming I don’t want Dad to go to prison.”

  “I know you don’t,” she said. “You want the truth just as much as I do. Someone killed Amina, and that person deserves to be brought to justice.”

  “Agreed.” I wouldn’t let that person threaten m
y family. Nick and Emmeline. Their kids. Emmett and Leo. Presley. They were the only family that mattered now. “How do you want to go about finding the boyfriend?”

  “Genevieve didn’t have any pictures because I doubt Amina ever took them. Apparently, she didn’t talk about him much. All Genevieve knew was his name, Lee.”

  “Genevieve.” Her name tasted bitter.

  I hated her already.

  It wasn’t logical, but emotions were gripping the handlebars today. Genevieve was no sister of mine. She was someone I’d do my best to forget was breathing.

  “Yes, that’s her name.” Bryce frowned. “Before you condemn her for the actions of her parents, remember that she just lost her mother too. She’s a sweet person. Kind and genuine.”

  “She means nothing.”

  “She is your half sister, like it or not. Before this is over, she’s going to learn about Draven. About you. Right now, she thinks he’s responsible for killing her only parent. How do you think she’s going to feel when the man who she thinks murdered her mother is actually her father? Take it easy on Genevieve. She doesn’t deserve your anger. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Jesus,” I grumbled. “Do you always have to be so reasonable?”

  “Yes.”

  I fought a grin. “So now what? The daughter—”

  “Genevieve,” she corrected.

  “Genevieve is a dead end. What’s next?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed. “Honestly, with everything that’s happened over the last couple of days, I need some time to think. To let it breathe until it comes to me.”

  Breathing and time sounded good to me too.

  The parking lot at The Betsy was nearly empty when we arrived. My bike was parked beside the building where I’d left it last night. No one who went to The Betsy would dare touch it.

  Bryce stayed in her seat as she waited for me to get out of the car. “Bye.”

  “Call you later.”

  “You don’t have my number.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

  I’d had her phone number memorized since the day she’d come to the garage for a fake oil change. Willy had given it to me when I’d called him. I doubted Bryce knew her employee had once been a frequent guest at our underground fights. He’d always bet on me and I’d made him a lot of money, so there wasn’t much he kept to himself whenever I called.

  “Fine. Whatever. Call me later.”

  She left me at my bike and I watched her drive away.

  I waited a whole five minutes before digging my phone out of my pocket.

  “Seriously?” she answered, a smile in her voice. “Do I need to be worried that you’re turning into a clinger?”

  Yes. There was no keeping my boundaries with her. She’d stood by me these past twenty-four hours and things were different. From the beginning, everything about her had been different.

  “Got a deal for you,” I said, straddling my bike. “I’ll fold the rest of your laundry if you cook me dinner.”

  “I’m making breakfast for dinner. I feel like biscuits and gravy.”

  My mouth watered. “I could eat breakfast.”

  “I’m making the biscuits from scratch. It’s a pain in the ass and makes a mess. Toss in cleanup with the laundry and you can come over at six.”

  How was it this woman could make me smile after the afternoon we’d had?

  Sorcery.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Bryce

  “Good morning,” I said as I walked into the Clifton Forge Garage. One of the men I’d seen the first day I came here was working on a motorcycle in the first stall.

  “Hey there.” He glanced over his shoulder from his crouched position on the floor.

  This one wasn’t Emmett. Emmett was the bigger guy with long hair. “You’re Isaiah, right?”

  “Yep.” He finished tightening something—a bolt?—with a something tool—a wrench? I’d have to work on my car terms if I was going to hang around here. He put the tool down, then stood. “You’re Bryce.”

  “I am. Nice to see you again.” I walked over, my hand outstretched.

  “Sorry, I’m greasy.” He held up his hands, making me drop my own. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was looking for Dash.”

  “Haven’t seen him yet this morning. Still a little early for him to get here.”

  It was only seven thirty, but I’d woken Dash up at six. I’d left for the newspaper early to spend some time with Dad. Dash had gone home to shower and change, then I assumed he’d be on his way to work. The garage opened at eight and I didn’t feel like leaving just to come back again.

  “Would you mind if I waited?” I asked Isaiah.

  “Not at all. Would you mind if I kept working?”

  “Go for it.” There was a black stool on wheels a few feet away. I took it, letting Isaiah return to the motorcycle as I took in the space.

  For a garage, it was bright and clean. The smell of oil and metal hung in the air, mixing with the crisp morning air flowing in from the open bay door. Car signs were hung on some of the walls, tools on others. It was nearly pristine.

  That Mustang was still in its stall. Ever since Dash and I had gone at it like wild animals on that car, I’d kept my nails painted hot-sex red. I smiled to myself, thinking it was my own dirty, little secret that the owner of that car would never know.

  “Dash told me that some celebrities get their bikes and cars redone here. Is that a famous person’s motorcycle you’re fixing up?”

  “No celebrity.” Isaiah chuckled. “This is mine.”

  “Ah. Were you in the club?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head. “I just moved here. But this one was cheap so I thought I’d get it. Fix it up.”

  That explained why it looked more like a dull mishmash of scrap metal than Dash’s gleaming Harley. Isaiah’s motorcycle had a lot to improve upon if it was going to fit in here.

  “Where did you move from?” I asked, but before he could answer, I waved my hand like I was erasing the question. “Sorry. That’s the reporter in me coming out. You’re trying to work and I’m distracting you. Forget I’m here.”

  “It’s okay.” He shrugged, still not answering my question as he went back to work.

  What was his story? He was handsome. Isaiah had dark hair cut close to his scalp. A strong jaw. If he smiled, I bet he’d be devastating. Except Isaiah never smiled. And there wasn’t much light in his eyes. Had it always been like that? There were so many questions to ask, but I held my tongue. I doubted he’d answer them anyway. Isaiah had this gentle way about shutting people out. It wasn’t rude or combative. But his entire demeanor said he was a closed book.

  The rumble of an approaching engine grew louder. I stood from the chair, assuming it was Dash.

  “Have a good day, Isaiah.”

  “Thanks, Bryce.” He waved. “You too.”

  Those eyes made me want to wrap my arms around him and never let go. They were so lonely. So heartbreaking. My heart twisted. Did everyone else know about Isaiah’s past? Did Dash?

  In the parking lot, I spotted a black motorcycle, but no Dash. So I walked to the office, finding the wrong Slater.

  Damn it. I should have looked more closely at the motorcycle along the fence before coming in here—in my defense, except for Isaiah’s, they all looked alike from behind.

  Draven stood in the doorway to what I assumed was his office. He wore a blank expression on his face.

  “Uh, sorry.” I took a step backward. “I was—”

  “Dash isn’t here.”

  “Right.” My choices were to wait here or run back to Isaiah. Easy choice. I was halfway to the door when Draven stopped me.

  “Come on in.”

  Assuming a polite smile, I walked into his office, taking the chair across from his behind the desk. Next time I came here in the morning, I’d wait until nine.

  “So . . .” Draven cl
icked a pen four times. “You met her.”

  “Her?”

  “Genevieve.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  Draven kept his eyes on the pen. “What’s she like? Is she okay? Healthy and all that?”

  Well, shit. He made it hard to dislike him entirely. Especially with the guilt that laced his voice. He wasn’t making any excuses, not anymore. And there was a hint of desperation there. My heart softened. There was no questioning Draven had been an unfaithful husband. But he loved his sons.

  And wanted to know his daughter.

  “I only spent a few hours with her, but she seems healthy. She’s devastated about her mother. But she was sweet. Very kind. She looks a bit like you. She has your eyes and hair.”

  “Amina showed me pictures.” He swallowed hard. “She . . . she’s beautiful.”

  “From what I can tell, that beauty is inside and out.”

  “I want to meet her but I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he said quietly. “I failed all my children, even the one I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, you probably shouldn’t try to meet her. She, um, thinks you killed Amina.”

  He flinched, his knuckles turning white as he strangled the pen. “Oh. Right.”

  “If you want a relationship with her, we have to prove you’re innocent.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we. I want the truth.” I’d asked him point-blank yesterday if he’d killed Amina. I believed now that he hadn’t. He’d cared for her. “I want to find Amina’s killer.”

  “For your story.”

  Was this for the story? That’s how this had all started, with my drive to prove myself as a journalist. To show the executives in Seattle I wasn’t a flop.

  Except I wasn’t a failure. When I looked at Dad’s career, he’d written countless stories and there wasn’t one that stood out above the others. There wasn’t one crown jewel he touted. Yet he was my hero. He wrote because he loved to write and spread the news.

  So did I.

  I didn’t need an exposé on a former motorcycle gang to prove my worth. I needed the truth.

  This was for me. And . . .

  “For Dash.”

  This was about saving his father from a life in prison. It was about identifying a murderer. It was about finding the person who might come after Dash one day too.