Night Shift (Nightriders Motorcycle Club Book 1) Page 4

  After he called her, Jonah wouldn’t tell us his aunt’s name. Hell, we couldn’t get his mother’s name or their last names out of him. Probably just as well. It’d be pretty damn stupid for any of us to ID his mother. So far, that fuckin’ deputy who’d dropped off the kids hadn’t put two and two together and come back looking for them. Our luck wouldn’t hold indefinitely.

  I stopped and crossed my arms over my chest while I studied the woman. She didn’t seem nervous. That wasn’t too smart on her part. I glanced at the weapon on her hip. “Why don’t you put your gun away, come inside, and we’ll talk.”

  “I have a better idea. Why don’t y’all bring my nephew and niece to me and the three of us will just mosey on outta here.”

  “Not gonna happen. Not tonight. They’re already asleep.” Stupid bitch. It was pushin’ midnight. We stared at each other. I blinked first, but then I always do. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna back down. I stepped closer to the gate just as somebody up at the clubhouse hit the switch for the floodlight, spotlighting her. She didn’t move. I gave her credit for that, but I had a good look at her now. Dark circles under red, puffy eyes. The hand she had hooked in her belt shook slightly. She was exhausted and scared, but doin’ her damnedest not to show it. I inhaled, caught her scent. Damn if my dick didn’t perk right up even though she looked like death warmed over. What was up with that? I shifted my feet to give my dick a little more room in my jeans.

  “What’s your name?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her nose did this little twitchy thing as she pressed her lips together. My dick liked that a lot. It was makin’ plans to get between those lips with that cute little nose buried in my groin while I came in her mouth.

  “Y’all don’t need to know.”

  “Yeah, babe, we do. You want to see the kids, we need to know your name.”

  Her nose squiggled again. “Fine. I’m Sam Prescott.”

  “Sam?”

  “Short for Samantha, okay?” She thrust her chin at me. “Did you murder Sarah?”

  Why did she automatically assume Pretty was dead, much less murdered? Jonah only told her Pretty—Sarah—was gone and to come. Still, she was gutsy to ask that question. I answered honestly. “No.”

  “The only way she’d leave the kids is if she’s dead. If you didn’t kill her, who did?”

  “We’re not sure.” Okay, I hedged a bit. We knew. Mostly. And I wouldn’t straight up lie to her about this.

  “But you have an idea. That’s good enough for me. Tell me who the hell killed her.”

  Her right hand barely moved but her palm now cupped the butt of her pistol. Put me in mind of someone gettin’ ready to make a statement. Then another idea hit me. Maybe she was gonna turn all vigilante or some stupid shit like that. “You goin’ huntin’ for who did her?”

  “Maybe.” Her mouth twisted into something that might be a smile.

  “How long you been drivin’?”

  Her left shoulder lifted slightly. “’Bout twenty hours.”

  “Put the pistol in your Jeep. Someone’ll park it around back. Come up to the clubhouse, get something to eat. You can look in on the kids, prove to yourself they’re okay. We’ll find a place for you to bunk for tonight.”

  Digger stepped up beside me, arms loose at his sides. “Or you can sit out here ’til morning. You still won’t see the kids as long as you’re wearing that.”

  I shot Digger a look. He didn’t know when to shut up, and he had his Beretta out and hidden behind his leg. If she so much as twitched, she’d be dead. I’d seen Digger work up close and personal. He was as quick as a rattlesnake and twice as deadly.

  “Y’all put yours down, I’ll put mine away.” She called Digger’s bluff, eyes flicking down for just a second.

  Damn but she was cold. Her eyes hadn’t left me until that quick glance, but she knew he had a gun all but trained on her. For all that she looked like Pretty Woman—Sarah—she was the polar opposite. Sarah had been honeysuckle and sweet tea. Her sister was all steel magnolia. The bitch looked like she could cut off a man’s balls, roll ’em in batter, and deep fry those suckers. Hell, looking at the fire spittin’ from her eyes, she’d more likely just hit ’em with some hot sauce and eat those puppies raw.

  “Truce,” I suggested, holding my hands out. “Nobody will bother you. Or your stuff.”

  “Your word.”

  “You have my word.”

  Fuck. When did Russki sneak up on us? She must have figured out he was the man in charge because she straightened, pushed off the bumper, and walked around to the driver’s door. Digger wasn’t hiding his Beretta any longer. She took off the holster and belt, opened the door and tossed her weapon on the passenger seat. Digger’s pistol disappeared into the back waistband of his jeans.

  “Okay.” She pulled out a backpack, slung it over one shoulder and tossed her keys through the gate to one of the prospects. “You scratch her, I’ll take it out of your hide.”

  She brushed past me and I caught a hint of her scent—vanilla, cedar, and something more elusive. My wolf sat up, panting and thumping his tail. What the fuck? I wanted to bury my nose in her hair and just breathe. Hardy nailed me between the shoulder blades.

  “What’s with you?” he muttered.

  Not Sam. But she would be.

  SAM

  WHAT IN THE HELL was I thinking? Oh, wait. I wasn’t, obviously. Ever since Jonah called to tell me Sarah was gone, I’d been in a flat out panic. Did the Bastard find her? We’d taken such pains to keep her and the kids out of sight. And I wanted to know how she got messed up with another outlaw motorcycle gang. I’d never be able to ask her now. I was dead on my feet, but these assholes weren’t leaving me any options.

  The dudes at the gate were puppies. The three who’d come to meet me were the real deal but the fourth guy? He was holy-shit-I’m-gonna-die scary. If I read the crap on his cut right, he was the man in charge. El Presidente. He was foreign, but I couldn’t quite identify the accent. Eastern Europe, maybe. I damn sure didn’t want to be left alone in a room with the man. He looked all benign and maybe not too bright at first glance, but I could see it in his eyes. A predator, for sure and for certain. The same with tall-dark-and-scruffy. He’d been holding a pistol from the moment he saw I was armed. They called him Gravedigger. I did not want to know how he got his road name.

  All of them were big. Tall, broad, muscled. And tats. Why did bikers need to ink their skin? I studied the other two, who looked almost sweet in comparison to the president and the killer. Almost. These guys were deadly and no matter how hot they looked, I couldn’t forget that fact. They all wore black leather cuts, the fronts covered with small patches detailing their pedigrees. The backs showed a three-piece patch. The top rocker said NIGHTRIDERS which curved over the graphic of the front half of a leaping wolf, the back half trailing off into a stylized comet-like trail. The bottom rocker said ORIGINAL. Crud. This was their national chapter house. All I could think was “frying pan—fire.”

  The guy in the lead looked me up and down. I returned the favor. Full tattoo sleeve on one arm—colorful even in the dim light, brownish hair cropped short on the sides and longer on top. What the heck was up with that? Tall, broad-shouldered, tapered hips, and I caught a whiff of leather and motor oil. His face looked like the boy next door's until I caught the glint in his eyes. Blue. As blue as the Siberian husky who lived at the lodge where I worked ski patrol. But feral. Wild. He might look all aw-shucks, but he was a predator, too.

  Crud. He grinned and twin dimples creased his cheeks. Yeah, he was easy all right. So easy the club girls would be all over him like bar-b-que sauce on smoked ribs, and I bet he tasted just as good. He had a killer grin. I reminded myself of that adjective. Killer. He wore the patch and everything. He’d be a killer in bed too, as my libido happily informed me. I reminded said libido of our mission. Kids. Escape. No time for sexy bikers. None. Nuh-uh. I would not let him into my happy place. That’s what batteries were for.

 
I walked through the gap they opened in the gates and wondered if I’d stepped into hell. I’d heard about the crap that went on inside places like this. Sarah and I used to watch motorcycle gang movies and joke about secret handshakes and clubhouses. The operative words being used to. Then she got involved with The Bastard. No more jokes after that.

  “I’m Easy.” The guy with the cropped hair and full sleeve of tattoos once again offered me his name and that aw-shucks grin.

  “I’m still not.”

  He laughed—an honest chuckle and those freaking dimples winked at me. A biker with a sense of humor. And dimples. Who knew?

  “This is Hardass and that’s Gravedigger.” Like Easy, Hardass was easy on the eyes. His hair was lighter, and he had a scruffy groove going on. Gravedigger was just freaking scary, but in a tall, dark, and sexy way. I’d bet my paycheck he didn’t ever sleep alone. The club girls would line up around the block to take a walk on the wild side with him.

  Easy didn’t introduce me to the president. I didn’t really want to know his name because my chances of getting out alive, in one piece, and with the kids were probably better by not knowing. Easy led the way, I followed, and the others brought up the rear—checking mine out the whole way. I resorted to a stupid taunt.

  “Why don’t y’all take a picture? It’ll last longer.”

  Easy chuckled and slowed down until I stepped up beside him. “I’ll make sure to get a good look once we get inside.”

  “Pig.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

  The dude winked at me and damn if my libido didn’t start doing cartwheels. I reminded myself he was a killer. With a capital K. These people were not like the boys I’d grown up with. And they weren’t like the guys I worked with. These people were criminals. I had no way of knowin’ what kind of bad shit they were into, but I could guess from what little I knew about the Bastard and his Hell Dogs.

  The spotlight snuffed out as soon as I stepped through the gate. Even though a few security lights were on, I couldn’t tell much about the building. It was big. And built with what was probably granite or concrete. Maybe a warehouse or something. It sat on the outskirts of town and had a big-ass wall surrounding it. Not a fence. A wall made of concrete blocks and topped with concertina wire. Like a prison. Hell, with my luck, that’s probably what this place had been in a former life. Talk about irony.

  The guy with the president’s patch pushed ahead of us and went through the door first. I stopped when he stopped, and the room went silent. “This is Samantha Prescott. She is my guest,” he announced.

  Without giving any of us a second glance, he walked across the room and disappeared through a door tucked in a little alcove along the back wall. As soon as the door closed, the sound cranked back up. I took my time looking around. A long, wooden bar stretched across the wall to my left, but I didn’t think it was original to the building, even though it looked old. Just past the end closest to me, heavy, wooden double doors hid another room. I spotted an open door toward the other end of the bar and glimpsed what looked like a kitchen through it. In the main room, couches, chairs, tables, a pool table, big screen—scratch that—a giant screen TV, and about twenty guys occupied the space. I counted ten women, all sluts judging by their dress and their sexual activities with some of the bikers.

  I took it all in with a glance and proceeded to ignore it. The architecture of this place blew me away. Soaring ceilings, marble floors, and a curving staircase to a balcony filled with arches. Now I really wanted to get a look at the outside. I couldn’t decide which architectural school the place belonged to. It was a cross between Art Deco and Art Nouveau in style, not that any of these jerks would know the difference. This place had probably been a train station back in the day.

  The ratty furniture, pool table, and giant screen seemed so incongruous in what had been the lobby. Then I noticed the dark splotch on the wall behind the pool table. What the hell was that? A pelt of some kind? It looked like silver-tipped black fur and there were massive paws and a head. Oh, holy hell. It was a wolf skin. Bolted to the wall. Literally. I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for the dead wolf or get pissed that these idiots had defaced the wall by screwing spikes into it.

  “You hungry?”

  I glanced at Easy and I’m pretty sure my expression looked as skeptical as I felt.

  “C’mon. I’ll find you something to eat in the kitchen.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I glanced down. If that wasn’t a rolled-up sock in his pants, I was in serious trouble. When I looked up, he wore a darn good poker face, but his eyes twinkled. Still, I was curious—and hungry—so I followed him. Dang if that kitchen wasn’t industrial strength. All stainless steel and a fridge that’d make Wolfgang Puck jealous. Two women sat at a long table in the back of the kitchen. They looked halfway normal, except for the leather vests and black Harley tee shirts they wore. I stiffened as I read the back of one—Property of Radar. My inner feminist got pissed off. The one facing the door looked up and blanched when she saw me. Easy saw her reaction too, and spoke to her.

  “Sunny? You okay, hon?”

  “Wow. You look just like Pretty Woman.”

  Pretty Woman? What the hell? I don’t look anything like Julia Roberts. I started to say just that but she cut me off.

  “You’re her sister. Jonah and Noni’s aunt.” She looked me up and down again. “Twins?” She bounced out of her chair and trotted over. “I’m Sunny. I’ve been looking after the kids.” Tears pooled in her eyes, surprising the heck outta me. “I’m really sorry for your loss. Russki called you Samantha, right?”

  Russki must be the president and by his nickname, I’d guess his accent to be Russian now. I didn’t want to think about him or any of these guys. This woman had just reminded me why I was here. I bit down on my lip to hold my own tears back. I took a couple of breaths to beat back my emotions. “Yeah. Sarah is—was my twin.”

  Metal clattered on metal, and I twisted my head to look at Easy. He’d dropped a big ol’ cast iron fryin’ pan on the massive commercial stove, but picked it back up as he said, “I wondered when I saw you.”

  I tried to laugh, but darn if the noise coming out of my mouth didn’t sound and feel more like a sob. “She was the oldest by about ten minutes. Momma said Sarah came into the world all soft and pretty while I had to fight my way out.” I blinked a couple of times, and felt my face heat up. What in the heck possessed me to start jabbering like that? “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

  Easy tossed a huge slice of ham in the frying pan and snatched a carton of eggs from the fridge. He held it up and asked, “How do you like yours?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll eat just about anything.”

  His dimples came out to play, and he shifted as if his pants were too tight. I knew exactly what he was thinking, but he took the high road, even though those blue Husky eyes of his glittered with way too much cockiness. “Why don’t you check out the…” He glanced down, and his expression turned sly. So much for the high road. Then he cleared his throat and continued, “…fridge for something to drink then go sit down. I’ll bring your food over when it’s done.”

  Sunny pulled me toward the table and the other woman. “Samantha—”

  “Sam. Not even my momma called me by my full name.”

  She gave me a funny look with a tinge of pity hiding behind it, but then she smiled. “This is Ginger. She belongs to Radar. And I’m Repo’s old lady.”

  I saw a flash of diamond on her hand, along with a silver band on her finger. Wedding rings. Go figure. She pushed me down in an empty chair and asked what I wanted to drink. What I really wanted was a bottle of tequila, a salt shaker, and about a pound of limes. I asked for a Diet Coke.

  “Do you mind drinking out of the can?”

  Feeling a bit more like Alice in Wonderland than was comfortable, I tried to smile. “Can’s fine.”

  The hair on the nape of my neck lifted, and I felt heat at my back. Easy. He lea
ned over my shoulder and slid a plate in front of me. I caught my breath at the scent of his cologne—no, not cologne, him. His scent filled my nose, and things low in my belly clenched. This guy was sex on a stick, and I wanted to eat him for breakfast like he was a deep-fried corn dog. Or would that be horn dog? Whoa! What was I thinking? Yeah, I still didn’t have an answer for that because even as exhausted as I was, I’d do this dude in a heartbeat. He chuckled in my ear, and I couldn’t breathe for a minute.

  “Feeling’s mutual, babe.”

  Chapter 7

  EASY

  I WAS SO FUCKING PISSED. One day. Sam had been here one gawddamn day and I was ready to kill her. Right after I ripped the heads off the two prospects sitting on the merry-go-round looking beat all to hell. I’d get right on that after I reamed out Sam Prescott. Ms. Hell on Wheels had convinced the prospects to let her take the kids to the playground. At least the men had gone along as guards. Thank fuck one of the prospects left on the gate was a Wolf. He sounded the alarm, but not before all hell broke loose in the park.

  I toed the nearest body with my boot, glancing toward the Russian. Noni was wrapped around his thigh like a little monkey. He stared at the three dead Hell Dogs, ignoring the toddler peeking around his leg.

  Jonah shook loose of his aunt’s grip and came over. He spit on the nearest body. “It’s what they deserve.”

  Not hardly. These fuckers helped torture and murder Pretty Woman. They deserved a much harder death than they got.

  “The next one will die slow.” Russki made that a promise.

  “Fuckin’ A.” I dropped my hand to Jonah’s shoulder, squeezed. The kid’d make a hellava Nightrider when he grew up, even if he wasn’t a Wolf. Sam’s face blanched as she watched the two kids. As tough as she acted, she still wasn’t thrilled with the whole MC thing, especially where her sister’s kids were concerned. Fuck that. She’d been spoutin’ off about justice and an eye for an eye. Was all fuckin’ gung ho until faced with the cold reality of dead bodies from our rival club. Digger, Hardy, and I would dump the remains at the nearest Hell Dogs’ clubhouse, sending the message that the kids belonged to us now.