Pulling off the dark and desolate two-lane mountain highway in the middle of nowhere, I turn into a gravel lot full of bikes. The weathered wood and corrugated metal shack—pretending to be a bar—sits in between miles of evergreens and dense underbrush, the perfect place to lay low and hide out. It’s been about a year and a half, and not much has changed. It’s still a shithole, but it’s the closest thing to a home I’ve got in this fucked up world.
Parking my bike at the end of the row, I cut the engine and get off. Pulling my gloves from my hands, I toss them on the seat and head toward the big metal front door, the one with the porthole styled window cut into the frame and the wide-eyed prospect staring out of it at me.
When I’m not more than a few feet away, the door swings open and a tall shadow stands inside of it. “Been a long goddamn time, asshole,” Rock greets me at the door, pulling me into a quick, backslapping hug.
I nod, shaking off my wet cut when he lets me go. “Been a while,” I acknowledge. I don’t stay in one place long. I’m a fucking nomad in every sense of the word. Always have been, and I figure I always will be.
“Here,” Rock says, gesturing at my cut, the leather wet and nearly soaked through. “El,” he turns and shouts into the club.
A little blonde with a lot of hair and big tits waltzes up, frowning. “What?” she barks out, sassy as shit with her hip cocked. The bitch is pretty, but mouthy. Not worth the trouble.
“Hang this up, yeah?” he tells her, shoving my cut at her.
She takes it and looks at him, glaring for a solid minute before her frown melts into something like a sly smile. She brushes past him and wraps her arms around my middle, hugging me while ignoring Rocky. “How’s it hangin’, King?” she asks, laughing softly. “Cut your hair and no more of that blond? I like it better this way.”
Physical affection isn’t my thing, but for Ellison I return the gesture, not interested in offending the sassy little thing. “No more blond. Ya know, undercover shit. But I’ve been good. You doin’ okay? This motherfucker treatin’ you good?” I ask her, looking at Rock over the top of her head.
El chuckles. “He’s an asshole, but I love him.”
“Yo,” Rock growls, “I’m right fucking here, woman.”
“And?” she fires back, walking off with my cut, Rock hot on her heels.
Relationships, something I don’t fucking understand. Especially not these two. Been weird for years.
“You want a beer?” Rock gestures toward the bar from over his shoulder as I walk into the room.
“And a hot meal,” I tell him, claiming a stool next to another asshole grinning at me like he missed me or something.
Buck, another brother I haven’t seen in a while. “Figured you were dead since we haven’t heard shit from your sorry ass in over a year.” He laughs, taking the beer from the hand of some dark-haired woman I don’t know. “Which wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he adds, looking me over.
“Fuck you,” I grumble, pulling the plate of piping hot fries from in front of him. “You’d miss me.”
“’Bout as much as I’d miss herpes.”
“Herpes to go with your clap,” I add.
He laughs.
“Why the fuck is everybody here?” I change the subject, looking around behind me at the crush of people milling around. The goddamn bar is packed, and that shit makes me itchy. Too many goddamn bodies in one space.
“Yearly charity run.”
“Fun.”
“Fuckloads of it,” he deadpans, annoyed. And that is why I’m a nomad. I can do brothers and I can do runs, but the whole goddamn family is too much.
Eating my fries and drinking my beer, I wait for Dan, the reason I’m here. “Your old lady?” I ask Buck, looking at the bitch he’s staring at all goofy like and shit. Little hippie chick with tats and a long skirt; she’s all flowerchild and shit.
“Yeah.”
“Grew a vagina since I’ve been gone, yeah?”
He frowns, eyes cutting to me. “You’re an asshole. Maybe if you settled down you’d be less of one, yeah?”
Stuffing a fry in my mouth, I shrug. I’m not going to argue with that. Asshole, born and raised. An old lady is the last goddamn thing I need or want.
Rock grabs the seat next to me and we bullshit a while, catch up on all the shit I’ve missed while I wait, which doesn’t last long.
“My office, King,” Dan yells out, standing in the back hall, arms crossed.
“Well fuckin’ hi to you too,” I grumble, getting off the stool and following him to the back.
In Dan’s office—an old ass storeroom in the back of the club—I sit across from his ancient beat up desk. The room is fucking drafty and dusty, with piles of boxes in the corner covered in stacks of paper. The asshole needs a secretary or something, the fucking hoarder.
“You ever throw shit away?” I ask him, eyeing a stack of papers sitting on his desk, about sixty coffee rings all over ’em.
“You here to help me get organized or talk, asshole?”
Waving my hand, I urge him on. “Why am I here then, Captain Clean?” I settle back in my seat, which is about as old as this damn bar, and a spring stabs me in the lower back.
Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, he brings his eyes up to mine, worry in his brow. “Samantha’s got a stalker.”
I think I fucking heard him wrong. “A what?” I ask him, leaning in, confused.
“A goddamn stalker.” That surprises the hell out of me. When I’m called to handle business, it’s almost always club business. This shit isn’t my normal. And a stalker? People still do that shit? “Some motherfucker’s been following her, showing up at her work and leaving shit on her car.”
“And you need me why?”
“Best tracker I know.” He’s not wrong. I am good as fuck at my job.
“Does she know him?” Because that’d make this shit a fuck of a lot easier if she did. Some cut and dry shit, quick and easy. But shit with Samantha is never fucking quick and easy. Why would this shit be any different?
He shakes his head, looking genuinely fucking concerned. “No. She thinks she showed him a house a few months ago, but she doesn’t know him. Hardly knows his face.”
“Showed him a house?” I don’t know much about the Princess, her job or her life. When I’m with her, I couldn’t care less about anything other than what’s between her thighs. “She in real estate or somethin’?”
Nodding his head, he sighs, leaning back in his own seat. I can tell this shit is stressing him out. I don’t blame him, but what I don’t understand is, “You haven’t figured out who he is and put him down?” Because the Disciples handle their business ninety-nine percent of the time. They take care of their own, and this shit shouldn’t be any damn different.
“I don’t think he’s your average motherfucking Joe, or at least he’s not working alone. Can’t find him to put a stop to it, and she only told me five fucking days ago. Not much time to do shit.”
“Is he MC?” This is taking a fucking twist I didn’t expect.
“Not sure. Maybe some sorta organized crime. The phone he’s been calling from isn’t just a burner, it’s untraceable. He’s under the fucking radar. Deep under. Or at least whoever he works for is.”
“Well fuck.” Grabbing my beer from the floor by my feet, I take a hearty pull, thinkin’. This asshole is someone or working for someone who is. Low-level organized crime? Mexican mafia maybe? Some stupid bullshit.
“Has he hurt her?” The idea makes me fucking mad. He better pray that this is a romantic kind of stalking and not a violent one, or when I catch him, it’s gonna be fucking painful.
“No, but she’s scared. He’s gettin’ a little more interested.”
“Yeah.” I don’t like that shit. The idea of her being scared of anything makes me even fucking madder. “How much more interested?”
“He’s been showin’ up more, gettin’ ballsy.”
He doesn’t have to tell me anymore. I’ll get the job done. “I’ll handle it.”
He nods, looking relieved. “Good. Knew you would.”
“Does she know I’m here?”
“No.”
Even better. “Good. Let’s keep it that way for a bit.”