Night Moves Read online

  NIGHT MOVES

  Nightriders MC #2

  ______

  Silver James

  NIGHT MOVES is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  NIGHT MOVES

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Silver James

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact: [email protected]

  Cover design © by Clary Carey, [email protected]

  Images: www.depositphotos.com

  Caucasian Male Face Portrait©alonesdj

  Motorcycle in flames ©3quarks

  Wolf jump illustration ©I.Petrovic

  Edited by Gregory Alan

  Published digitally in the United States of America

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Dear Reader:

  BOOKS

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  BOOK LINKS

  Chapter 1

  Hollywood

  NO BIMBO HAS ever slept in my bed. If she’s still there at dawn, she hasn’t been sleepin’ and I’ve been up all night. That was the case now as I walked the woman through the clubhouse to the front parking lot and the Mercedes convertible the same color as her clingy red dress. Two of the brothers who’d crashed in the clubhouse offered drunken thumbs up as a third offered to take her off my hands. Her fancy bra and panties were dangling from one of her hands and that dress left nothing to a man’s imagination.

  I got her installed in the driver’s seat, buckled up, car started and pointed in the right direction then I headed back inside. Once she was clear of Nightrider territory, she was no longer my problem. Her voice calling my name made me turn around.

  “Eric! Did you keep my card, darling? I’m serious about representing you if you want to model.”

  Yeah, like that was going to happen in my fucking lifetime. Why the hell I’d told her my given name was beyond me at the moment. The hulking presence at my back and his mocking laughter didn’t help my mood much.

  “Damn, dude. Fashion model?” Gravedigger Cole, Nightrider MC enforcer and all-round asshole Wolf. Just my luck. “You ain’t gonna go…”

  I waited for it, rolling my eyes.

  “…all Hollywood on us, are you?”

  I growled and threw the first punch. Two seconds later, we were whaling on each other in a friendly free-for-all. Digger had me by almost six inches and forty pounds, but I was sneakier. I wrapped my hand around his balls. First mistake. Second was letting go. I hit the side of the building face first.

  Three minutes later, Hardass Tyree, national VP and all-round medic, was cleaning me up—none too gently.

  “Dumb ass. Keep this up and that face of yours won’t be so pretty anymore.”

  I held the wadded-up gauze he handed me to my nose to help clot the blood. I was Wolf so I’d heal fast—well, faster than a human would.

  Digger slid down the wall beside me and accepted the cold pack Hardy held out to him. “You still hit like a girl, Hollywood.”

  My gaze flicked to the bruise spreading on his jaw. “Yeah, and you squeal like a teenager at a Bieber concert.”

  Hardy choked back a laugh. “Now that’s just mean, Wood.”

  “Hey, gotta get my licks in where I can.”

  “Well, take your licks and get on your bike, since you’re awake. The Russian got word that Hell Dogs have been sighted out toward Topeka. Deadhead asked for some recon help.” Hardy glanced at Digger. “You go with him.”

  Deadhead was president of the Nightriders’ Topeka chapter. The fuckin’ Hell Dogs, a rival MC, had been quiet the last few months. Before they went underground, they kidnapped two of our women—brutalized them and threatened the kids belonging to Easy Cross, another enforcer. Nightriders don’t take that shit. The Russian, our national prez, sent out the call. When we rolled, there was a blood bath. Since then, the fuckin’ Dogs nibbled around our edges but never stuck around long enough to get caught. Our national HQ was in Mission Springs, Missouri, just outside Kansas City, and Topeka was too damn close for comfort.

  Digger stood up, reached down and grabbed my hand, hauling me to my feet. “C’mon. I’ll buy you breakfast at Momma’s.”

  My stomach rumbled. Yeah. A huge stack of Momma’s buttermilk pancakes, a pound of bacon and sausage and a gallon of coffee would fix me right up.

  Thirty minutes later, we rolled up in front of Momma’s Kitchen. The place was open 24/7 and served breakfast anytime. Momma was a big black guy who’d spent 30 years in the Marine Corps serving up food in the worst corners of the world. He’d taken his retirement pay, bought a couple of derelict train cars and built this diner. Nothing fancy about the place or the food but every bite was damn tasty.

  The bleary-eyed waitress poured our coffee, took our order, and shuffled off for a cigarette break. Momma got pissy when Alice smoked around the food though I remember one night when Mom was gone four of us made bets on how long the ash on the cig jammed in the corner of Alice’s mouth would stay on. Damn if that bitch lasted more than an inch before it ashed out into Digger’s coffee cup. Digger didn’t leave a tip but the rest of us did. It was awesome.

  We didn’t talk while waiting for our food. There was nothing to say. We were brothers. We drank, we fought for and against each other, we fucked, though I wasn’t really one to share. Life was good. Except for the Hell Dogs. And some shit about scary black ops types wanting our DNA.

  Not every Nightrider is a Wolf. The majority of us are, but it seemed like all the new prospects were Wolves. And there are Wolves all over—outlaws and white hats both. Technically, we’re lupi versi pellis. Literally translated, it means the man who wears the skin of a wolf. We’re wolf shifters, not skinwalkers. There’s an animal half we carry inside us, almost like a separate entity but we’re joined at the soul with our animal. Any time we want a good laugh, we get a keg and do a werewolf movie marathon. The joke’s on Hollywood—no pun intended.

  The door slammed open and two cops walked in. Great. Could my day get any better? I’d known the big one for years. He sauntered over like he owned the place.

  “Well, as I live and breathe if it isn’t little Eric Hilton.”

  Huh. Original. I offered him the smile I save for the bar flies hoping to ride me home. The hair on the back of my neck prickled as Digger sat up and took notice. His snarled message was sub-vocal but Wolves have wolf hearing, even in human form.

  “He keeps hassling Nightriders, he won’t be living and breathing long.”

  I snorted out a laugh, coffee spewing. “This is a little outside your beat, Officer Gerald.”

  “Didn’t expect to see you scumbags out in the light of day.”

  I made big, I’m-sca
red eyes and said, “Ooooh.” Gerald didn’t look impressed so I added, “You want something or are you polluting our air just for the fun of it?”

  Gerald lunged for me but his partner grabbed his arm and hauled him back with an urgent, “Not here. Too many witnesses.”

  Huh. So the pansy-ass cop had another serious hard-on for me. I wondered what I’d done to chap his ass this time. Alice arrived with breakfast and a gimlet eye for the cops.

  “We don’t give discounts,” she drawled. “You want food or coffee, sit your butts down. You just here to hassle my customers, there’s the door. Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out.”

  Damn. Who knew the old broad had that much fire? Gerald’s partner yanked him toward the door muttering about how they couldn’t afford any more disciplinary actions. Yeah, I needed to look into those fuckers. Digger caught my eye and nodded. We’d find out what that shit was all about sooner or later. First though, Mom’s most excellent pancakes, a half dozen eggs over easy, a pile of bacon, and another cup of hot coffee. I’d hunt cop another day. Next on the agenda was hunting Hell Dogs.

  Chapter 2

  Lainey

  I HITCHED MY messenger bag higher on my shoulder and stared at the front entrance. The building, located in an industrial area on the highway from Mission Springs to Kansas City, didn’t look like much this time of day. Under the hesitant morning sun, the place looked tired and tawdry. Honestly, it hadn’t looked like much the one time I’d driven past it at night. The parking lot had been filled with guy toys—big trucks, motorcycles, hot cars, and bright lights gave the illusion of glamour.

  Glancing at the big sign wrapped in dead neon, I swallowed the bile threatening to burn my throat. Chasin’ Tail. Gentlemen’s Club. Only no gentleman would be caught dead here. It was a strip joint plain and simple. The paper taped to the front door mocked me.

  DANCERS WANTED. OPEN TRY-OUTS TODAY ONLY.

  I squared my shoulders. I had no choice. Snagging the brass handle, I managed to drag the heavy door open and slip inside before it closed. Squinting, I waited for my eyes to adjust from bright sunlight to inky club interior. A bunch of aromas assailed my nose—stale beer, body odor, smoke, both acrid from tobacco and sweet from marijuana. I couldn’t do this. I turned to run but the door opened behind me and a tall man walked in.

  He perused me in an assessing way then grinned. “Auditions are that way, babe.”

  Crud. Forget rocks and hard spots or any other stupid figures of speech. “Yes, about that. I’ve changed my mind.”

  His eyes roamed over me again and some trick of the light made them glint. “That’s too bad. A hot little bod like yours? I’m betting you could rake in three or four hundred a night.”

  Stunned, I stared at him from behind rapidly blinking eyelids I’d suddenly lost control of. “Three hundred?” My voice squeaked. “Dollars?”

  He laughed, and I was startled by the warmth and humor in it. “Yeah, babe.”

  “Well…” My brain whipped through the numbers. “Okay then.” I still had to inhale a few times to steady my nerves, but I pivoted and headed deeper into the club.

  A man built like a heavy-weight boxer cloned from a WWE wrestler stood with his back to the door, his attention on the stage. Four girls were up there shaking their stuff. One looked like she might be sixteen, two were in their twenties and the last one was probably close to forty. The older lady wore a G-string and pasties and holy freaking goodness, I swear she had those tassels going in two different directions.

  A sharp whistle from the big guy and everyone stopped. “You!” He jabbed a thick finger at the youngest. “Your fake ID didn’t cut it. Out.”

  The girl pouted and looked like she might consider a bribe using her mouth on a certain part of his anatomy, but he snapped his fingers and two guys sprang up on the stage to usher her backstage and presumably the rear exit. Both men wore black leather vests with the same patch on the back.

  The big guy turned his attention to the woman. “Babe, we both know you’re too old for this shit, no matter how much talent you got.”

  Her face fell but she didn’t say anything. Turning, she walked to a chair with a shirt draped over it. She shrugged into it. “Had to give it try. Thanks, doll.”

  “Tell ya what, you teach what you know to those two and whoever else I hire and I’ll pay ya a hundred an hour for the lessons.”

  I could see her eyes glisten for a moment then she dashed the back of one hand across them. Her smile was tremulous, but her voice solid when she said, “I can do that.”

  The two remaining women stared at each other then the guy standing below the stage.

  “Does that mean we’re hired?” one asked.

  “Yeah. You’re provisional. You learn from Cookie, I’ll hire you on full time.”

  They squealed and hugged each other. The men in the room winced and I was reminded of the one time my mother forced me to enter a beauty pageant. I still had nightmares.

  “Yo, Hoss. We got one more.”

  I’d all but forgotten the man standing beside me. He nudged me forward and walked me right up to the big man. Just like my escort, this Hoss person looked me up and down.

  “You ever dance before?”

  I stared at him. Was he the owner? Or maybe he was the manager. He was tall, wide, also wore a leather vest, and hadn't shaved in several days. He scared the heck out of me but hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

  “Um…not like this. Exactly.” And I wouldn’t be dancing like this at all if my need for money wasn’t so desperate.

  “Like this. Exactly. You mean you’ve never danced naked?

  “Wait…naked? I thought the dancers wore G-strings and…uh…bras.”

  “We’ll discuss that. Are you a dancer or not?”

  “Only recreationally. But I was a gymnast.”

  “What’s that mean? Exactly.”

  “I’m flexible.” I eyed the stage behind the man. “Watch.” Brushing past him, I placed my hands on the edge and hopped up, like I was getting out of a pool. Planting my butt on the lip of the stage, I sat for a second, getting my nerve up. My fingers brushed over the wooden surface, finding each knick and crack. Unable to stall any longer, I swung my legs around, and stood. Approaching the metal pole like it might bite me, I screwed up my mouth and considered options. I shrugged and tossed a sheepish smile at the guy. “Okay, this might be a little easier with some music.”

  “Yo, Wiz, hit the soundtrack.” The big guy bellowed like there was a crowd in the room.

  Music belched from a dozen speakers and I clapped my hands over my ears. “Can you turn it down?” I shouted over the noise. Moments later, I could actually hear the music, catch the beat. It was something slow, sensual, with a driving bass that reverberated in my chest. Not what I expected—or was used to—but yeah, I could work with this.

  I let my hips loosen and move on their own while I kicked off my cowboy boots. I made a mental note to dig out a rosin powder bag if I got the job. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I hopped, raising one knee high and then charged three steps into a front walk-over. My landing put me next to the pole.

  I walked around it—slowly. Slinky. I need to think slinky. With a side of sexy. After another hop, I grabbed the pole several feet above my outstretched hands, rolled my hips and legs until I was upside down, one knee hooked around the pole to anchor me. Too bad they didn’t have aerial silk rigged. Maybe if I got the gig I could talk them into it. Doing an act like that, I wouldn’t have to be naked because I could hide in the cloth.

  Using the pole to my advantage, I arched and slithered, twirled and snaked up and down the apparatus. When the song ended, I curved around the pole to land on my hands and did a back walk-over to stand upright.

  “Like I said, I used to be a gymnast. This isn’t exactly the balance beam, but I can work the pole.” I glanced down at the manager. Well fudgecicles. He had a woody the size of Cincinnati. “Uhm…I guess you liked it?”

  �
��Damn, babe. You do that naked and you’ll be rollin’ in twenties if not hundreds.”

  “I sure hope so.” Dang it. That came out sounding far more breathless and needy than it should have.

  “Can you start tonight? One of our regulars called in sick.”

  “Oh…I…uhm…sure. I think I can get a costume and stuff. What time?”

  “We’ll fill out the paperwork now—”

  “Paperwork?” I cut him off. “What kind of paperwork?”

  “The business kind. We need name, address, phone number, social security number—all that crap. You make an hourly wage. That’s paid by check and we take out all the applicable taxes. The tips? Those are all yours to do with as you please, though you’d be smart to give a cut to the bartenders and waitresses, especially if you do private.”

  “Private?” Yikes. Why did my voice pick now to squeak? “As in…like…alone with some guy in a room?”

  “D’uh, babe. Yeah. The real money gets made doin’ lap dances in the suites. You get them to buy one of the packages, you and the waitress make out like bandits.”

  “Uh…make out isn’t a euphemism for anything is it?”

  “We don’t whore our girls. A dancer wants to do that on her own? That’s her business and it’s done off property. We run a legitimate business here.”

  Legitimate? Yeah, right, but if I made the kind of money they were talking about without having do anything but dance, they could be mass murderers for all I cared. “Awesome blossom. Let’s do this. I need to go home and make a costume.”

  Chapter 3

  Hollywood

  DIGGER AND I met up with Deadhead and a couple of his boys at a truck stop outside of Topeka. There were three unknown bikes parked at the motel next door. When we discovered the desk clerk was female, the brothers decided I should saunter on over there to question her. I wasn’t sure I appreciated the rep but whatever. I like women. Women liked me. They went away satisfied. I left with a happy dick. Win-win, right?