SLY: Kings of Carnage MC

by Nicole James

  Arthur pulls the chair out for me, and then sits across the table. He orders us wine, and after we both have a glass, I gaze out the window. In the distance, a large home sits on a slight hill overlooking the green. I place my chin on my hand and imagine what it would be like to live there.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  I smile. “What it would be like to live in a place like that. They’ve got a perfect view of—”

  “The ninth hole. And I don’t have to imagine. I live there.”

  My lips part. “You do?”

  “Mm-hmm. I could show it to you sometime, if your interested.”

  I blink.

  He leans closer. “Do you know how beautiful you are, Michaela? I remember you from years ago. You were a pretty child, but you’ve grown into a stunning woman.”

  Oh, my God. He’s hitting on me. I fidget with the napkin in my lap. I don’t know what to say or do. Should I rebuff him? Will there be blowback to the bar, my family?

  “I—I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

  He looks at his wine glass. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I suppose it’s the age difference, right? I’d hoped perhaps we shared some similar interests. I remember your father saying how much you longed to travel. I’m a bit of a travel buff myself. Since my wife passed away several years ago, I’ve found it’s not the same traveling alone.” He looks over at me.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know about your wife.”

  He nods. “She suffered a long illness. We’d been together what seemed like forever. I met her on a train from Paris to Lisbon. It was my first trip to the City of Light after I’d graduated college, and she was backpacking across Europe. God, she could light up a room with her smile.” He grins, but it fades quickly. “I miss her. Death is never easy, whether it’s expected or not.”

  I feel my eyes sting. His story is touching me in a way I hadn’t expected. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “I didn’t take you out to make you sad or talk of death. I hoped to make a connection, but I suppose I see the folly in it now.”

  “Don’t say that. I do like to travel. Tell me, where have you been? What’s your favorite place?”

  He smiles again, pleased, I suppose, that I’ve given him a reprieve of sorts.

  “That’s easy. The Amalfi coast of Italy.”

  We spend a wonderful hour eating good food and talking about all the places we’d both love to see. He tells me some amazing stories, some funny, some incredible, of places he’s been. I tell him about my dreams.

  It’s an enjoyable evening. Arthur drops me back at the bar but makes no move to kiss me. I thank him and insist he doesn’t need to walk me in.

  Several motorcycles ride past, heading out of town. We both watch them.

  “I’ve heard stories of them shaking down businesses for money,” he says. “You’d tell me if they were harassing you, wouldn’t you?”

  I swallow, unsure if I should expose that problem. It puts the bar in a weakened spot if I try to sell it. “I’ve heard those rumors too.”

  “Michaela, I could help you.” He cups my chin. “Perhaps we could help each other.”

  I know what he means. “I should get back inside.”

  He releases me, nodding, and I climb out.

  He leans toward my open door. “May I see you again, Michaela?”

  I’m actually torn. I don’t want to encourage him, romantically, but I did enjoy his company. “Can we play it by ear?”

  He nods. “Of course. Goodnight, Michaela.”

  I walk up to the apartment and watch him drive away. Resting my hand on the window frame, I think about what he offered. Arthur could make everything easier for me; he practically spelled it out. But there’d be major strings attached.

  It would be all too easy to let a man like him swoop in and take care of me and make all my problems disappear. With the kind of money he has, he could help me, my family, and the bar ...

  But for that, I’d have to marry him. That is, if he’s even offering marriage. Perhaps he just wants an arrangement, like a girlfriend or mistress. Could I do that? Sell myself into a loveless marriage or be some man’s mistress just to make things easier for myself? Then again, it wouldn’t be just for me, would it? No, it’d be for my family.

  I think about the balloon payment due on the mortgage, the much-needed repairs in the bar, and the money owed to Sly by Good Friday.

  After changing back into my jeans, I head downstairs to help for the last few hours we’re open. Since it’s a Tuesday, we close at eleven p.m., sometimes earlier if it’s dead.

  While I was gone it did get busier, though, so we end up staying open. Even with last call and turning on the lights, we’ve still got some patrons taking their sweet time leaving.

  I recognize a guy at the bar as the one who gave me trouble the night Sly showed up. I’ve tried to steer clear of him, and Phil’s waited on him most of the night. Finally, he’s the last one remaining.

  I run the last report on the register and tear off the tape. I just need to count out the drawer for the night. I’m hesitant to do it until we get this guy out the door.

  “Kevin and I will take care of him, Michaela,” Phil says. “Just take the drawer to the back.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Yeah, go on. We all want to get out of here, and the quicker you get it totaled up and in the safe, the faster we can leave.”

  I nod and pull the till from the drawer, then retreat to the office, leaving him to deal with the man.

  Eleven

  Sly—

  I walk out of the clubhouse and stop to light a joint; exhaling, I stare up at the full moon, taking a minute before I climb on the bike and head home.

  Bash walks out behind me. “We need new fucking prospects.”

  I look over at him and cock a brow. “Why?”

  “’Cause the ones we got suck. Give me a few minutes and they’re gonna be dead.”

  “What’d they do now?” I pass him the joint, and he takes a long drag off it before slowly blowing it out.

  “Not they, just the little punk. I asked for a beer and he brought me a fucking light beer. Who the fuck drinks that shit? Why do we even stock the crap?”

  I grin. “The chicks like it.”

  “Whatever.”

  “So the little punk pissed in your Cheerios, and your gonna take it out on all of ’em?”

  “You know me, I go from zero to fuck everybody real quick.”

  I chuckle.

  He takes another toke and passes it back to me. I wave it off. “I’m headin’ out. You keep it.”

  “You goin’ home?” Bash asks.

  “Yeah.” I move to my bike.

  “You got that shit with Mooney’s sorted out yet?”

  “Workin’ on it.” I strap on my helmet and swing my leg over the seat.

  “Let me know if you need any help with that. I hear she’s a real looker.”

  I shake my head, laughing. “Piss off.”

  “Later, brother.” He turns to head back inside.

  I look back. “Hey, Bash.”

  “Yeah?” He pauses.

  “Leave us at least one prospect alive, will ya? I need my bike washed.”

  He grins and flips me off.

  I fire the bike up and roar off.

  Rolling through town, heading home, the route takes me past Mooney’s Pub. It’s got to be almost half past eleven when I cruise by, expecting to see the lights off. It’s rare on a Tuesday for them not to be closed up and gone before eleven, but tonight’s game was part of opening day for baseball, so maybe that’s what’s kept them crowded later.

  Winning big on the earlier game has me in a good mood, except for the thoughts that’ve been nagging at me since I saw Michaela out with that jerk earlier tonight.

  Climbing out of Stanfield’s fucking Mercedes was the last place I expected to see her. I can’t help but wonder when he made a move on her.

  I r
emember seeing him at the cemetery the day of the funeral but never gave it more than a passing thought. Hell, half the town came out for Cullen’s funeral.

  Now I’m beginning to wonder if he wasn’t there for more than to simply pay his respects. Man like him, there’s always an ulterior motive. I just don’t trust that guy.

  I notice the front door open and two employees hustle a customer out of the bar. As he jerks out of their grasp and spins to curse at them, I slow down and recognize his face. It’s the dude Michaela threatened with a bat.

  They both walk back inside, lock the door, and turn off the neon bar signs. When I roll to the curb and stop, the only car I see is the one around the corner. I’m sure it’s this guy’s.

  He stalks to it as I dismount my bike and step up on the sidewalk.

  That’s when I hear him grumble, “That fucking bitch,” before he gets in his car and slams his hand against the wheel. I can see his face is a mask of anger, and he’s yelling shit, but I can’t decipher any of it.

  I lean against the building in the shadows and watch him. There’s no movement to start the car or back out of the spot, so I continue to wait. He’s sitting there a long time, and just when I’m beginning to wonder if he’s passed out, I can finally make out that his eyes are wide open, that he’s clearly awake.

  Eventually the other employees leave, and I watch their vehicles pull out of the alley onto the side street and drive off. If any of them notice the jerk in the car, they don’t slow or stop.

  I light up a smoke and catch the lights come on in the window of the upstairs apartment.

  I think about my options: I could wait until a patrol car comes by to see if he checks out the car; I could stick around and make sure this guy takes off, or I could go over there and take care of it myself. One thing I’m not doing for certain is leaving, knowing Michaela is upstairs alone.

  It didn’t take me long to realize she was living above the bar. I’ve seen her through the window as we’ve ridden past a few times late at night.

  I drop my cigarette and grind it beneath my boot, deciding to handle it myself. Just as I do, his door opens and he steps out.

  I still, keeping an eye on him. He’s got something long in his hand, possibly a tire iron.

  He moves toward the alley, and I know he’s only got two destinations: either the back door of the bar or the apartment. I follow him, not caring what his target is, because he’s not gonna get near either one.

  When I round the corner of the alley, he’s moving toward Michaela’s car. Of course—her car—that’s one target I overlooked.

  He lifts his arm and swings before I can make it to him. The side window explodes under the force, which immediately sets off the car alarm.

  I reach him in time to jerk the tire iron from his hand as he tries to take another swing. He whirls around, and as I shove him against her car, I toss the tire iron and it clatters on the pavement. If I’m going to jail for assault, it’s gonna be with my fists, not a deadly weapon. Learned that the last time around.

  He gets one good punch in before I go to work on him.

  I slam my fist into his face, repeatedly, until he slides to the ground, unconscious.

  I glance up and see Michaela at the window of her back door. She opens it when she recognizes me.

  “Oh, my God. What are you doing?”

  My chest is heaving as I stare up at her. “He was vandalizing your car.”

  She meets me half way on the stair landing. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Is he? You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “Nah, he’s just unconscious.” I wipe the dripping blood from my lip.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Asshole got in one good punch before I decked him.”

  She frowns. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was riding past. Saw your employees taking him out the door, and he wasn’t happy about it, so I stopped to make sure he left without causing trouble. He got in his car but never drove off, so I hung around, waiting for him to leave. Lucky I did. He had other plans. He smashed out your car window with a tire iron. Sorry, I didn’t get to him in time to stop him.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “You tell me. Something happen tonight?”

  “He was being a jerk about leaving. Phil told me that he banned him from the bar when he got unruly. Tonight’s not the first time he’s caused trouble up here.”

  “I can run him off or you can call the sheriff to deal with him. How you want to play it, babe?”

  “I’ll call the sheriff. I’ll need to make a report about the damage to my car for insurance.”

  “I think I better stay with you until he gets here. I don’t want this dude coming to and attacking you.”

  I wait while she calls, making sure the asshole doesn’t move. He’s actually been unconscious a while now, and I’m beginning to wonder if I did more damage than I thought.

  It takes the sheriff about three minutes to arrive. We hear his sirens in the distance.

  I explain the situation, and the sheriff takes one David Armstrong into custody.

  After they leave, I stand outside with Michaela.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs. “Are you sure you don’t want any ice or something for your lip?”

  I brush at it with my flannel sleeve. “It’s fine.” I study her eyes. “Saw you up at Martinelli’s earlier.”

  She nods. “I saw you too.”

  My jaw clenches. I want to bite back the words, but I can’t stop them. “You can’t possibly be interested in that loser?”

  She pulls back like I’ve struck her. “And what exactly makes him a loser? The Mercedes he drives? The expensive home on the golf course? The platinum credit cards? Tell me, just so I get this straight.”

  There’s my little spitfire. She’s got her back up and throwin’ sass. I huff out a laugh. “I see. Maybe you think he’s gonna solve all your problems, but I wouldn’t count on it, kitten. You can’t trust him as far as you can throw him. If you think you can, you’re a bad judge of character.”

  “Character? Look who’s talking about character? He’s an upstanding citizen. What are you?”

  Her barb hits home and I have to remind myself how young and naïve she is.

  “What do you think would have happened tonight if I hadn’t been here, if he’d have broken into the bar while you were down there alone?”

  She lifts her chin. “What’s your point? I should hide away and stop living? Are you trying to scare me into giving up?”

  “I’m being realistic. You’ve got to be careful what enemies you make, and what friends you make. Could be snakes where you least expect ’em.”

  “Thanks for what you did tonight, but I think it’s time you leave.”

  I cup the back of her neck and pull her close. “Regardless of what you think, I’m just lookin’ out for you, Michaela.”

  “I can’t pay my debt to the club if I’m dead, is that it?”

  “This ain’t about the damn money,” I snap and take a breath. I let her go before I do something stupid like pull her in for a kiss. Right now, I want nothing more than to fuse that mouth of hers with mine, but I know better. This isn’t the time. I jerk my chin at her door. “Make sure you lock up. You got my number. Something happens and you need help, don’t hesitate to make that call.”

  I turn and tromp down the stairs, my boots heavy on the steps. I walk around front to my bike, throw my leg over, and yank on my gloves. I throw on my helmet and tilt my head up to buckle the chin strap; when my eyes hit Michaela’s window, I see her standing there, watching me. I start the bike and pop up the kickstand. I already know it’s gonna take more than the two-mile ride to my house to cool the fuck down. I hit the throttle and roar down the street, wondering if she’s still at the window.

  Twelve

  Michaela—

  The following Sunday, I drag a ladder through the front door and out to the street. Moon
ey’s is closed, and I’m taking the opportunity to make some repairs. I need to replace one of the bulbs in the gooseneck lamps out front, as well as put a new bolt in the sagging sign to replace the one that rusted through and broke off. Last thing I need is a lawsuit because the sign fell on a customer.

  I lean the wooden ladder against the brick above the window and shake it. It seems secure, but I’ve never been crazy about heights. Maybe I should have asked Phil or Kevin to do the work, but that feels like a cop out. I need to be able to do these things myself.

  It’s almost dinnertime, and there’s no business downtown this time on a Sunday, so I shouldn’t have to worry about foot traffic on the sidewalk. I’ve put this off and now I’m racing against losing daylight and cursing myself for not having gotten up and done it first thing this morning.

  Wearing a sweat jacket against the evening chill, I shove the bolt in one pocket and the bulb in another, then jam the screwdriver in the back pocket of my jeans and start to climb the ladder. I make it up and am able to unscrew the light bulb, but I’m shaking as I try to tuck it in my pocket.

  I hear the rumble of a motorcycle and it slips from my hand, crashing to the pavement below and shattering into a million pieces. I clutch the ladder, feeling dizzy.

  The motorcycle slows and comes to a stop, and my gaze darts over my shoulder. Sly. Drat. Of course, it’s him, and now I’m frozen on this ladder, afraid to move.

  A stiff breeze blows over me, and the ladder sways against the building. Oh shit.

  I hear the bike shut off and then he’s standing next to the ladder.

  “You okay, babe?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Come on down, and let me do that.”

  “No, I’ve got it.”

  His boots crunch on the splintered glass, and I feel his hand on my leg. “Michaela, your hands are white from gripping that ladder. Now, come down.”

  I look down, just a quick glance before I’m staring at the brick again. “I don’t think I can.”