by Devney Perry
Somewhere between the time he’d fixed the Goss printer and folded my towels, Dash had slipped into my heart.
Could I get over his criminal past? Could I forget that he’d done violent, vicious things I could barely fathom? Yes.
Because he wasn’t that man anymore. Not to me.
Last night, as I’d watched him scrub my cast-iron pan and wipe down the counters from the biscuit mess, I’d realized how well we fit together. He’d held my heart in his soapsuds-covered hands.
If only he wanted kids.
Did that have to be a deal breaker? Maybe we didn’t have to face that looming end.
I’d already given up on having children, so why make it a requirement to stay with Dash? Besides, I wasn’t sure if I could even bear children at this point. Maybe we’d be like the Caseys, my seventy-six-year-old neighbors who lived across the street. Mr. and Mrs. Casey didn’t have children, and every time I saw them, they seemed hopelessly happy.
Hopelessly happy sounded like a dream.
A new dream.
The office door pushed open and Dash entered, followed closely by Emmett.
“Hey.” Dash walked into Draven’s office, casting his father a brief glance before pretending he wasn’t there. Dash had shaved and showered after he’d left my house. His hair was still damp at the ends where it curled at his neck. It was a good look. A very good look. “What are you doing here? Everything okay?”
I nodded. “I’m good.”
Emmett crowded into the office, not looking at Draven either. Clearly in the time that Dash had left my house, he’d caught up Emmett on Draven’s adultery.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Draven’s shoulders fall. What had he expected? That after a day, all would be forgiven?
Dash was crushed. His mother’s memory was sacred. Chrissy wasn’t here to punish Draven, so Dash was doing it for her.
The only problem was, if we were going to find a killer, we needed to put feelings aside.
“The reason I came here this morning was because I’ve been thinking about something and wanted to run it by you,” I told Dash.
“Shoot.” He leaned against the wall, Emmett beside him.
“The police found a murder weapon at the scene and identified it as Draven’s. We’ve been operating under the assumption that the knife was Draven’s. But we also think this was a premeditated setup. Could the knife have been a fake? You said that it had your name engraved on the side. What if someone copied it to set you up?”
Draven shook his head. “They have my prints on it.”
“Can’t prints be faked?” I’d seen it on a murder-mystery movie, so the question wasn’t entirely farfetched. Maybe they’d stolen prints from the handlebars on Draven’s motorcycle.
Emmett nodded. “Possibly. Wouldn’t be easy.”
Dash rubbed a hand over his jaw. “What knife was it again?”
“Just a Buck knife,” Draven said.
“With the cherry handle,” Emmett added. “I borrowed it once a few years ago when I went hunting.”
Cherry? That wasn’t right. I dove into my purse for my yellow notepad, flipping to the page where I’d made a note about the knife’s description. It was the one thing Chief Wagner had told me weeks ago that hadn’t been in the press sheets.
“Not cherry. Black. The knife found at the scene had a black handle.”
“Your knife was cherry.” Emmett shook his head. “I’d bet my life on it.”
My heart was racing. Maybe if there was another knife, we’d find a trail that led to the person who’d faked it. How many people engraved knives in Montana? We were grasping at straws, but it was something.
Dash’s brow furrowed. “No, wait. You had a black knife, Dad.”
Before Draven could respond, the office door opened again.
“Morning.” What I assumed was Presley’s cheerful voice preceded her as she came into Draven’s office. The smile on her face fell when she spotted me in the guest chair.
“Hey, Pres? Remember that knife you had engraved for Dad?” Dash asked. “The one you got him for Christmas a few years ago?”
“Yeah. He said his other one was getting old and the engraving was wearing away. Why?”
Dash pushed off the wall. “What color was it?”
“Black, of course. You all love black.”
All eyes shot to Draven.
“Where’d that knife go, Dad?” Dash asked.
“I, um . . . I think I left it in the office at the clubhouse after Presley gave it to me. Might still be in the box too.”
“Seriously?” Presley put her hands on her hips. “That was four years ago. You never even used it?”
“Sorry, Pres, but I liked the old one. It fit my hand.”
Without a word, Dash stalked out of the office, Emmett close on his heels. I shot out of my chair, following too. Draven’s bootsteps thudded behind me.
As we walked outside, I squinted at the bright morning sunlight. Dash picked up his pace, storming for the clubhouse. His long strides required me to skip a few steps to keep up.
I hadn’t taken more than a few curious glances at the clubhouse in my trips to the garage. The building had always loomed, dangerous, shadowed by the surrounding trees. But as we got closer, details jumped out.
The wood siding was stained a brown so dark it was nearly black. It had grayed in some places where the sun had faded the boards. The charcoal tin roof had a few droplets of dew that hadn’t burned off yet. A spider’s web grew in one corner under the eaves, thankfully far away from the door.
There weren’t many windows, only two on the building’s face. They’d always been dark when I’d come here and now I saw why. Behind the dirty glass, there were plywood boards. The green stamp from the lumberyard showing in a few places.
Dash marched up the two wide steps to the concrete platform that ran the entire length of the building. It was shaded by a small overhang of the roof. He fished out his keys from his jeans pocket and we all crowded at his back as he unlocked the padlock on the door.
The smell of must and stale air wafted outside, followed by the lingering scent of booze, smoke and sweat. I gagged. Desperate for information, I shoved it aside and stepped inside behind Dash.
We’d walked into a large, open room. Draven pushed past us, flipping on a row of florescent lights before disappearing down a hallway to the left.
On my right was a long bar. The dusty shelves behind it were empty. The mirror behind the shelves was cracked in a few places. There were some tin beer signs and an old neon light. Only one stool was tucked under the bar. On my left, there was a pool table, the cues hung on a wall rack. Two flags were pinned behind the table: an American flag and the Montana state flag.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“Common area,” Dash answered at the same time Emmett said, “Party room.”
I’d take The Betsy over the Tin Gypsy party room any day.
“Knife’s gone.” Draven’s voice echoed in the room as he came rushing down the hall. “Given the fresh smudges in the dust on my desk, it was taken recently.”
“Cameras.” Emmett snapped his fingers, already moving for a door behind the bar. “Let me see if they picked anything up.”
Draven followed Emmett, leaving Dash and me alone.
I’d been so busy inspecting the room, I hadn’t noticed him. He stood frozen, staring blankly at a pair of double doors directly in front of us.
“Hey.” I walked to his side, slipping my hand in his. “Are you okay?”
“Haven’t been here in a year. It’s strange.” He squeezed my fingers tight. “It was easier to stay away. To shut it out.”
“Do you want to wait outside?”
“Had to face it sometime.” He pulled me to a hallway on the right of the party room, different than the one Draven had taken when he’d gone in search of his knife. “Come on.”
The hall was dim, with closed doors on both sides. From the outside, the building didn�
�t seem all that large, but it was deceiving. Though not as tall, it had to be at least double the size of the garage.
Dash kept hold of my hand but jerked his chin at one of the doors. “This was where some of the guys would stay if they didn’t have a house. Or if they just needed to crash.”
These were their rooms. “Did you have one?”
He stopped at the last door down the hallway, using a different key from his chain to unlock the deadbolt. Then he pushed the door aside.
The smell in here was different, still dusty but there was a hint of Dash’s natural spice clinging to the air. There was a window, boarded up like the others. And a bed covered with a simple khaki quilt stood in the middle of the room.
No pillows. No end table. No lamp. Only the bed and an old wooden dresser in the corner.
“This was your room?” I stepped in farther, letting go of his hand to flick on the light. Then I walked to the dresser, swiping my finger through the coat of dust on top.
“This was my room.” Dash leaned on the doorframe. “I thought maybe it would look different. Feel different. Thought I’d miss it.”
“You don’t?”
He shook his head. “Maybe I would have two days ago. But not now.”
Oh, Dash. I hated standing by, watching as his heart broke. I hated that something he’d held dear, something he’d once loved—the club—had been tainted.
“What’s this?” I walked over to the bed, picking up the leather square folded neatly on top of the quilt.
“My cut.”
“That’s what you call your vests, right?”
He nodded, stepping up behind me. “When you prospect the club, you get a cut. It has the club’s patch on the back and a prospect patch on the front.”
“How long did you have to prospect?”
“Six months. But Emmett and I were exceptions. Normally it’s about a year. Long enough we knew the guy was serious. That he’d fit in.”
“Then what happened?” I unfolded the vest, laying it carefully on the bed. My fingers ran over the white patch below the left shoulder, the word President stitched in black thread.
“Then you’re in the club. You’re family.”
I turned the vest over, staring at the patch on the back as Dash looked on. “This is beautiful.”
The few pictures I’d seen of the Tin Gypsy emblem had been in black and white from old newspapers. But in color, the design was stunning. Artful and menacing at the same time.
The club name was written at the top in Old English lettering. Beneath it was a detailed and carefully stitched skull.
A skull, exactly the same as the tattoo on Dash’s arm.
One half of the face was made entirely of silver thread, giving it a metallic feel. Behind it was a riot of orange, yellow and red-tipped flames. The other half of the skull was white. Simple. Except for the colorful head wrap over the skull and delicate, almost feminine stitching around the eye, mouth and nose. It was like a sugar skull with a harsh, violent edge.
Live to Ride
Wander Free
Below the skull, the words were stitched in threads grayed from years of wear.
How long had Dash worn this cut? How many days had he put it on? How hard had it been to fold it up and leave it here, collecting dust in a forsaken room?
Dash put a hand on my shoulder, turning me into his chest. His hands came to my face. His mouth dropped to mine. And he kissed me soft and sweet, like a thank-you.
When he broke away, he dropped his forehead to mine.
“I bet you’ve kissed a lot of women in this room,” I whispered.
“Some,” he admitted. “But none were you.”
My eyes drifted closed. This was not the right place or the right time for this conversation, but questions hung between us, begging to be asked. “What’s going on, Dash? With us?”
“I don’t know. It’s more than I thought it would be.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “You kind of snuck up on me.”
I smiled. “You snuck up on me too.”
The next kiss wasn’t soft or sweet. Dash crushed his lips to mine, his hands leaving my face to band around my back, pulling me tight into his firm body. He needed this, like he’d needed me last night. He’d gotten lost in my body, seeking comfort.
I looped my arms around his neck, angling my mouth so I could get a deeper taste. I’d gotten lost in him too. He made everything an adventure. Even watching him fold my laundry or do the dishes was exciting. How was I ever going to let him go? I knew right there, in that moment, I wouldn’t be able to walk away from Dash.
He’d ruined me. He’d changed the game.
We were seconds away from ripping at each other’s clothes when a throat cleared from the doorway, forcing us apart. With swollen lips, we both turned to see Emmett.
“Dash.” He nodded down the hallway. “Better come and see this.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Dash
Bryce and I followed Emmett through the clubhouse party room and to the basement. This wasn’t a place I wanted Bryce, but there was no keeping her away.
As we descended the steps, I took a look around. It was cleaner than upstairs. That, or the dust was less noticeable on the concrete floors and walls.
Dad had built this clubhouse alongside the original members. They’d made the basement into a bunker of sorts. It was a concrete labyrinth of rooms, all varying in size, but each with a drain in the center. Rivers of blood had been washed down those drains. The bleach smell still lingered in the air, even though it had been over a year since we’d cleaned up the main room from our last underground fight.
The smaller rooms had seen far worse than boxing.
It was strange being in the clubhouse, especially when it was so quiet. The nights I’d stayed here in my twenties, I’d learned to sleep with a party raging beyond my door—if I hadn’t been in the middle of the party myself.
There were good memories here. As a kid, we’d come here for family barbeques with Dad’s brothers, men who’d been like uncles until they’d become brothers of my own. Nick and I would light off fireworks in the parking lot on Independence Day. We’d each had our first beer in this clubhouse and many more after.
I’d always wanted to be a Gypsy. Other kids in school would talk about college. Fancy jobs. I’d just wanted to be in Dad’s club. Nick had been the same until Mom died. But even after he’d shunned the Gypsies and moved away after high school, my feelings hadn’t changed.
I had been a Gypsy long before earning my cut.
Yesterday, I’d told Dad that I wished he hadn’t started the club. I was angry. Hurt. A part of me did want to reject this place. It would be easy to put Mom’s death on the club and walk away for good. Burn it down and, with it, the havoc it had wreaked on my life.
Except then I’d have to forget the good memories too.
There had been good memories.
One thing was certain, I was glad Bryce moved to Clifton Forge after we’d disbanded. I wouldn’t have had a shot with her had I been leading the club. She was too good to get mixed up with a criminal. Hell, it was a stretch for me to chase after her now.
But I couldn’t look into the future and not see her face.
She dared me, called me out on my bullshit. She shared her heart, her loyalty, her honesty—all things I’d had with the club, with my brothers. She filled that hole and then some.
“In here.” Emmett ducked into one of the smaller rooms where he’d set up a surveillance station a few years back. Security and hacking had become Emmett’s specialty. He called it a hobby. I called it a gift.
Dad was leaning over a monitor, staring at a frozen image on the screen.
“What’d you find?” I asked, taking Dad’s place.
Emmett sat in the chair, clicking to rewind the video. “I guess we should have kept the sensors on after that raccoon incident. Look at this.”
He pressed play on the video and rolled out of the way to make room for
Bryce. She came right up beside me, my hand immediately finding hers. Together, we watched footage from one of the cameras hidden above each window in the clubhouse as a man approached the building.
The color on the screen was a mix of green and white and black from the night vision setting. The man’s face was covered in a black ski mask, his shirt and pants a matching shade.
He walked up to the building, taking a utility tool from his pocket. And then he jimmied open the glass window.
“Fuck. We should have boarded up the basement windows.” They were so small, not even eighteen inches wide, that we hadn’t bothered. Plus the drop from the window was at least ten feet. Our concrete bunker was not small. And up until this winter, we’d had sensors on all the windows.
The man was probably close to my size, but he managed to shimmy his way into the basement. He turned on his stomach, his legs going inside first, and that’s when we saw it.
A patch on his back.
“Fucking lying bastards.” My booming voice echoed off the walls.
I dropped Bryce’s hand, pacing the room as I rubbed my jaw. Now I understood why Dad was against the wall, fuming in a silent rage.
“What am I missing?” Bryce asked.
“That’s an Arrowhead Warrior patch,” Emmett answered, tapping the screen. He’d frozen it before the man had dropped inside.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “When was this taken?”
“The night before Amina was murdered,” Dad answered. “He must have come here, broken in while I was with her in the motel, stolen my knife, and then waited until I left to kill her.”
“Any idea who he is? How he’d know you’d be with Amina?” I asked Dad, getting a headshake in return. “Emmett, can we print that out?”
He nodded, ripping a sheet from the printer below his desk. “Already did.”
“When we leave today, turn all the sensors back on,” I ordered Emmett. “And ask Leo to come over and board up the basement windows.”
“Will do.”
“You need to call Tucker,” I told Dad.