Chapter 5

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Clara cleared the booth, straightened the newspaper the customer left behind, and paused. The headline caught her attention.

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Seven-year-old, Annie Morgan, found dead.

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She looked at the picture and pressed a hand to her chest. A beautiful little girl smiled into the camera. The picture, an ordinary one like those taken at every school, showed the innocence of a child missing her front teeth and the crooked bangs her mother probably cut the night before having forgotten about Picture Day.

"There's a tip on booth four for you," said Gracie.

"Yeah, okay." Clara read the article. She recognized the street they found the child as the main thoroughfare through St. Johns that ran past the bar.

She'd expected crime in St. Johns, being close to Portland—a major metropolis area. There were also more low-income housing and Section 8 apartments clustered everywhere she looked that tended to bring desperate people looking to steal, do drugs, and prostitute. But, murdering a child?

When would harming a child stop? That was one crime through the years that continued. With all the high-tech surveillance, stranger danger warnings, securities at school, and fewer latch-key kids being raised by themselves. A child deserved to live in a protective community where other people watched over them, stranger or not.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Gracie stopped beside her, grabbing the edge of the paper and peering closer. "What...? A child?"

Clara shivered and set the paper back down on the table, unable to look at the little girl's face. "Wayne was looking for her. He must be devastated."

"I can't imagine." Gracie hummed, looking at the paper. "He not only looks for adults but children, too."

"Yeah, he verified the club searches for missing persons when they're not working. There's no way I could've misconstrued what he said. He was very clear about it all." Clara turned and stuck out her lower lip. "It's just that with the news of the child missing and found dead it hits close to home, you know?"

"The fact that he helped in the search..." Gracie raised her brows. "That's...decent of him."

"Don't be rude," muttered Clara walking away.

Gracie followed her. "We hoped that our information was right, and it was. That's all I’m saying. Reading about Notus Motorcycle Club being active searchers in St. John's on paper and from law enforcement is different than seeing them face to face. The bikers don't look like the type who'd spend their time doing something more serious than riding their motorcycles and scratching their bellies while surrounding a television."

Clara gasped. "This isn't even worth talking about if you're going to stereotype them. A child was killed. Doesn't that worry you?"

"Of course, it does." Gracie lowered her voice. "We both know that bad things happen every day."

She nodded, knowing her sister was right. That didn't mean she wanted to accept those bad things or lose her empathy. Sometimes her sister was too strong, and the barrier she put up to protect her from any hurts made her come across as uncaring.

She knew the opposite was true. It was the way Gracie survived from all the hurt they'd struggled through the last two years.

Wanting to get caught up on cleaning the bar before the evening crowd showed up ready to eat and drink, she carried the bin full of dirty glasses left over from the customers who stopped in for lunch into the kitchen.

The article in the paper never mentioned who found the child. That would be something they needed to find out. She sighed and hoped it wasn't Wayne and yet she needed it to be Notus to give her faith that she and Gracie were doing the right thing.

Regardless, she couldn't even imagine what he was going through. He seemed like a man who wouldn't take failure easily.

Being Friday night, she wondered if he'd come into the bar. He'd shown up the last two Friday's. Not that she could make him feel better about what she'd read in the newspaper, but she was concerned for him, as she was for the parents and everyone hurt by the travesty. She had no idea if he had someone in his life, besides his biker friends, to lean on during a trying time.

Gracie stopped beside her again. "Why do the bikers do it?"

"Do what?"

"Try to find missing persons." Gracie tore an order off her tablet. "That's not something that someone wakes up one day and decides to do. They could do so many other things like run drugs, deal with illegal guns...oh, oh, are they a club where all the members have to be port workers? They have a name for that. I know firemen have a motorcycle club, and Veteran's do, too."

Clara turned toward her sister. "You know about motorcycle clubs now?"

Gracie snorted. "Only what everyone knows. That's why I'm curious to know where Notus MC lands on the map of clubs."

Clara shrugged. "I don't know."

"Find out."

Clara laughed. "I'm a little busy working at a bar at the moment. Besides, the reason why isn't important. The fact that Wayne does search for missing persons is."

"Are you sure? Because it looks like you have a chance to find out while you work. How about that?" Gracie leaned closer. "Don't freak, but the bikers just walked into the bar and Wayne is staring holes in the back of your shorts."

Clara reached down and smoothed the material of her shorts over her ass. "Now?"

"Right. Now." Gracie stepped away, holding up her tablet. "I'll let you cover their booth. You'll get further with him than I will."

Clara's body warmed, not knowing if her sister was joking about the bikers arriving and yet excited if it was true and Wayne was looking at her.

He was a sexy man with a roughness in his mannerisms and speech that fascinated her. She typically went for clean-cut men who only wore jeans on the weekends and turned the decision on where to go out to dinner into a debate.

Wayne appeared to live in his jeans. Worn in all the right spots and long ago formed to his hard body. She'd originally stereotyped him from all the horror stories she'd read about bikers. The riots, wars, and heavily laden crime records of bikers was legendary. Instead, he'd presented her with a hardworking man, loyal to his friends, and paid close attention to her. The conflict of what he was compared to the stereotype she'd formed flustered her.

Her and Gracie needed Wayne to lean toward the illegal side of life rather than being an upstanding citizen. As soon as she thought that, she felt guilty.

She glanced over her shoulder and found Gracie had been right. Wayne was here, and he was still looking at her. She slowly turned her body without taking her gaze off him, picked up her tablet, and approached the booth.

Believing the bikers needed normalcy in their life after finding out terrible news, she smiled. "What can I get you tonight?"

"I'll take a bacon burger, baked potato—everything on it, and a beer." Wayne continued looking at her as the others put in their order.

"I'll get your drinks while your food gets cooked," she said, spotting the newspaper she'd left on the table.

She leaned over, grabbed the paper, and stuffed the news under her arm. "I'll be right back."

Hurrying away, she hid today's newspaper under the counter. Wayne and the other members of Notus didn't need to be reminded of the tragedy. They came to enjoy dinner and beer, and that's what she'd get for them.

She dropped off the order in the kitchen and filled four mugs from the tap. Other customers came in, and while she wanted to have more of a conversation with Wayne, she needed to keep everyone moving in the direction of food and drinks.

Gracie came out of the kitchen and took her half of the booths. Clara serviced the people at the bar.

"We only have one more table free." Gracie grabbed a tray. "I'm going to bring out more stools. Can you hear the music?"

Clara slid a Rum Ball down the counter. "Barely. I'll go turn it up."

She hurried down to the office and turned up the volume. Eventually, both she and Gracie hoped to have enough customers that there would be dancing. It's why they'd taken out the tables and had the booths installed, opening up the floor to have more room. So far, the customers that returned seemed more into sitting, drinking, and conversation. If the atmosphere remained more relaxed than energetic, they'd need to bring back a few tables and take up the empty space in the middle of the room.

That was the future. Today, she would worry about serving customers with a smile and keeping the Notus members happy.

Returning to the kitchen, she found three of the four plates for booth three waiting for her. She found Paxton taking the last hamburger off the grill. Since opening up the kitchen, they'd received no complaints about the cooking. Paxton worked without guidance and kept an organized workspace.

"You're doing awesome, Paxton." She carried a tray over to the warming light. "The customers are raving about the food."

"That's good to hear, Ms. Clara." Paxton cut up a head of lettuce, putting two leaves on the bun. "I've missed being back in a kitchen."

On his resume, Paxton had previously worked for a restaurant in downtown Portland, and because of a turnover in owners, he'd lost his job. At fifty-two years old, Paxton wanted fewer hours and to work closer to his home. Vavoom's fit the bill, and the quality of his menu made everyone happy.

"We're lucky to have you here." She smiled and took the last plate from him.

Returning to the floor, she carried the food to the bikers' booth and passed out the plates. Her heart fluttered every time she came close to touching Wayne's shoulder. Though Wayne never touched her. He looked, making her shiver as if he'd reached out and ran his rough hand up the back of her bare thigh.

"If you need anything else, let me know, or if you want a drink after you're done eating, I'll be happy to bring them to you." She stepped back when one of them spoke her name and then Gracie's name, stopping her exit.

She raised her brows and moved closer. "I'm Clara."

"When we're done, Clara, we'll take four Cokes and a whiskey." Glen picked up his burger.

"Four coke and whiskeys. Got it," she said.

"No." Glen paused with the burger halfway to his mouth. "Four Cokes and a bottle of whiskey. We'll mix the drinks ourselves."

"Oh. Okay. I can get that for you." She walked away, surprised at the request.

Nobody had ordered a whole bottle at a table before. But, if they wanted to do the mixing, more power to them.

Gracie stood at the register, handling a couple paying for their drinks. Clara gathered a wet rag, a tub, and went to the vacant table and cleaned the area. The door swung open, and a crowd of people walked in. With only one booth vacant, she'd need to find somewhere for them to sit. There were two unassembled tables in the back room by the office that were kept out of storage for just this kind of thing happening.

She put the dirty dishes in the rolling rack by the kitchen door and turned to go talk with the arriving customers and found them standing in front of the booth the bikers were at, shaking hands with them.

Two of the men in the group wore a police uniform. She stopped a few feet from them, listening intently to catch their conversation through the music playing. Her anxiety quickly eased knowing nobody was in trouble or going to get arrested.

She touched the arm of the man closest to her to get his attention. "I'm going to gather a couple of tables from the back and set them up out here, and you can join your friends. Your first beer is free if you don't mind the wait."

The man turned fully toward her. "Can't pass up that kind of offer."

The patch on the front of the man's jacket read AirChinook SAR. Her pulse raced. SAR? Search and Rescue? He was one of the men who worked finding missing persons. "I'll go get extra seating."

"We can help you," said the man.

She shook her head. "That's not nec—"

Wayne stood. "We got this, Clara. Point the way."

"I'll show you." She turned, caught Gracie's gaze, and raised her brows. Everything was coming together faster than they'd hoped. Notus, police, search and rescue, all sitting down at their bar.

She pushed through the kitchen door and led them out the back to the hallway, opening up the room beside the office. "The bases screw right into the table top, but it's easier to carry them out to the room before you put them together. There's more space, and you don't have to struggle through the doorway."

"One table will do." The man held out his hand. "I’m Frank."

"Clara." She shook. "I'll grab a couple chairs and come back and get more."

"Go ahead and go help everyone. We've got things covered." Wayne put his hand on her lower back.

She sucked in air at his touch and nodded, unable to argue with him as his hand took possession of her with Frank present.

"Great. I'll go get everyone's orders." She left the room sliding her hand along the wall in case her shaky legs failed her, and she fell flat on her ass. What were they going to do if she left them alone in the back? Steal tables and chairs, maybe a few napkin holders?

Out on the floor, she found Gracie talking to the large group. She scanned the room. Everyone appeared in conversation or concentrating on their dinner. Wayne and Frank carried out a stack of chairs and a table. She grabbed one of the pre-soaped towels and followed them. Once the table was set up, she wiped the surface down.

"There, you're all set." She smiled at Wayne. "Are you sure one more table wouldn't be more comfortable for everyone?"

"The officers won't be staying. They're on duty. The others can pull up a chair." Wayne lowered his voice. "Tables work better than booths."

"Point taken." She leaned closer, wanting to keep him talking. "Are they all regulars to the bar?"

"Pretty much, but not usually when they're on duty." He continued to stand by her because someone else had taken his seat in the booth.

"We thought the weekend crowd would enjoy a dance floor and made the extra room, but so far, everyone is more into relaxing and visiting with each other. Then, during the weekdays, the booths work out better for those who stop in for lunch and dinner, not so much drinking," she said, knowing she babbled and unable to stop. "Tonight's been the busiest we've been. I think we're going to have to rethink our plan and bring the tables back. Besides, I think I like the friendlier atmosphere where people are comfortable coming in and making themselves at home or just talking with their friends...like your friends came in here to see you."

He put his hand on her back again and led her to the middle of the room out of earshot of anyone else. Her breath caught with a mix of nerves and hot anticipation. Hoping he stayed unaware of her reaction to him, she leaned closer when he bent his head down near her ear.

"Two blocks down there's a little dive bar that has a live band every weekend. That's where people go if they want to dance," he said, his warm breath tickling her neck

"Ah." Clara sighed, covering the tremor in her throat. "The realtor and the previous owner failed to mention that when we talked about local competition. Of course, we noticed the bar, but there's a bar on every corner in St. John's. Each unique."

"I like what you've brought to Vavoom's." He slipped his finger under the waist of her apron and tugged. "The apron's a good look on you."

The pull brought her to his chest, and she planted a hand on his chest. "I'm glad you approve."

He growled low. "Oh, sweetheart. I more than approve."

A flutter hit her low and hard. She moistened her lips. He'd left her speechless. She had no reply, no flirty comeback, no way to tell him how much she liked his attention.

Wayne turned his head. She followed his gaze and found Gracie approaching. Her sister gave her a once over and bit back the smile. Clara stepped away from Wayne. "What's up?"

Gracie smiled at Wayne and then handed Clara three orders. "You handle the drinks. I'll handle the food. If more people come, we're going to have problems."

"The tables we put in storage go back on the floor in the morning before we open." At Gracie's frown, Clara leaned forward and talked over the music. "I'll tell you why later."

Gracie gave her a thumb up and hurried off. Clara reached out and squeezed Wayne's arm. "Thanks for interrupting your dinner to help me out. I'll knock some off your bill for the manual labor, and bring you your drinks."

He grabbed her wrist when she removed her hand from him. Wayne leaned down and put his lips on her ear. "Bring an extra bottle and shot glasses, sweetheart. Everyone in our group is going to need them. We've had a hell of a day."

She gazed up into his eyes and noted the pain dwelling behind the surface that she hadn't noticed before. Her chest tightened, and she swallowed the growing lump in her throat. The men with him had all searched for the little girl who'd been found dead.

"I'll bring everything to the table. Go relax," she said.

Wayne leaned closer again and said, "Thanks, sweetheart."

She hurried to first fill the bikers' drink order, then she filled the ones Gracie gave her for the other customers. A ball of anxious energy settled in her stomach, and she had no time to think about the feelings Wayne produced in her or why he'd singled her out.

There were other women here. Gracie was here, so if he was going for a certain type of woman, he had his choice with someone who looked exactly like her.

Over the next several hours, she served the bikers' booth more drinks. If she hadn't of been keeping an eye on Wayne, she never would've noticed that after his first coke and whiskey, he'd stopped drinking. She never would've noticed that the lines around his eyes and on his forehead had become more pronounced the more the others talked about everything but the child that was killed. She also never would've noticed that he stared at his hands, lost in his thoughts, the later in the night it became.

But, she'd noticed, and her heart hurt for the grief he went through because she'd been there. That hollow spot never filled. The guilt never left.

***

He paced in the alley behind Vavoom's Bar, counting his steps. Seven steps. Turn. Seven steps. Turn.

It'd been seven hours. Seven days. Seven months. Seven years. Seven girls. Seven deaths.

He stumbled and righted himself. No, it'd been longer. Time meant nothing because he was always searching for her.

Starting over, he counted his steps, looked up and found himself at the end of the alley. It'd been too long. He'd run out of years. So many women. Everything blended together.

He shook his arm and looked down at his watch. The hands wouldn't move because he'd taken the battery out. The constant reminder of how much time he'd wasted only irritated him. He'd spent all evening behind the bar. One of the women who looked like the other usually stepped outside with the man who wore the white apron. She never showed. Only the man came out.

His scalp crawled. He viciously scratched his head. The bikers were at fault. They were fucking up his plan. He'd noticed when they were around the bar, the women couldn't stay on schedule. They shouldn't be working at the bar, serving other men, smiling at them, talking to them.

Only he could keep them safe. He curled his fingers into his palm. Their smooth skin taunted him, and he walked straight to the door. He ran his hands over the door handle. They'd touched the knob.

He bent at the waist and licked clear around the metal. One day, he'd know how they tasted.

They'd learn what he was capable of.

He'd left them a sign. A sign they couldn't ignore.

The little girl he left in the field would show them what would happen if the two women continued ignoring him. He ran his finger over his tongue. His cock grew uncomfortable in his pants, and he slapped at his crotch. The twins would notice him now. The bikers would warn them.

He laughed. That's right. He got their attention when he left that little girl in the field.

Soon, he'd have the women.