Shifting Gears (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy Book 1)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  I laugh.

  “Valid point.”

  A moment passes and the laughter fades as I think about Wolf’s proposal. I don’t suppose there is any harm in anything he’s suggested. If prospecting for the Charon’s has taught me anything, it’s that things take time. Riggs may be eager to vouch for me and Wolf may be equally willing to have me fill the shoes of his fallen brothers, but I’d have to prove my worth to the entire club to have them unanimously vote to give me a permanent place here.

  “Besides, you didn’t look too bashful when you were eye-fucking the shit out of our bartender.”

  Deciding there is no point in denying it, I shrug my shoulders and meet his gaze.

  “I’m not going to touch that one,” I grimace.

  “Been there, done that, eh?”

  I shake my head.

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  “So, going back for seconds is still on the table,” he teases. My brows knit with confusion as I fumble with a reply.

  “What? Yes…no…are you pulling my leg?”

  Crossing his arms against his chest, he snickers.

  “Maybe, but all in good fun,” he replies, pausing for a beat as he cocks his head to the side and studies me intently. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I got my road name?”

  I wasn’t planning on it, but I can’t very well tell him that and hey, if it gets him off the topic of Lydia, I’ll ask him if prefers boxers over briefs.

  “Ok, I’ll bite. How’d you get saddled with Wolf as your road name?

  “There is this old Native American parable, it’s called ‘A Tale of Two Wolves’. It tells the story between an old Cherokee and his grandson. The Cherokee educates the boy on the battle between the two wolves that live inside each of us. He says one is evil and full of anger, sorrow, and doubt. It’s a resentful creature that thrives on self-pity, guilt, and inferiority. The other wolf is good. It symbolizes peace, hope, humility, and empathy. It practices forgiveness, thrives on compassion and flourishes from faith. The grandson asks his grandfather which of the wolves ultimately wins the battle and the wise Cherokee replies by saying the winner is the one we choose to feed.”

  He pauses to drag in a breath and looks towards the right of the room where a series of framed pictures line the wall. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it’s a shrine to Parrish considering he’s in most of the photographs.

  “When we first started this thing…” he says, pausing to sweep his hand around the room. “…I was confused like you but for different reasons. I was unhappily married to my first wife, struggling to put food on the table and toeing the line between being a law-abiding citizen and a criminal. In the end, I realized the choice was never mine to make. The only decision I needed to make was which wolf to feed.”

  “Which one did you choose?”

  “Truthfully?”

  I nod.

  “Both,” he admits. “These days I put more of an effort into starving the evil. My point is…”

  His words trail as he pushes back his chair and rises. Crossing the room, he pulls one of the framed photos off the wall, revealing a safe. Making quick work of the code, he opens it and retrieves a manila envelope before immediately closing it. Securing the photo back in place, he turns to me and continues.

  “Quit worrying what color the threads on your kutte are going to be. Whether they’re red or black and white it’s up to fate to decide. You just worry about which wolf you’re going to feed,” he says, dropping the manila envelope on the table in front of me. “We get one life, kid. Don’t make yours only stand for the patch.”

  With that, he tips his chin to the envelope and takes out his phone. Pulling up a contact, he hits send as I open the clasp on the envelope. I pull out a Satan’s Knights top rocker and a matching prospect bottom rocker. I also find a center patch of their sacred reaper nestled inside. Lastly, I pull out the three-inch name tag and run my fingers over the red embroidery that spells out my road name.

  “Lady,” he calls into the phone. “Gonna need you back in the chapel and bring a needle and some thread.”

  He ends the call and pockets his phone before meeting my gaze.

  “Welcome to New York, son. The food is good, and the people are all like you. Just a bunch of lost souls the Devil spit from the depths of Hell trying to leave their mark and find their heart at the same time. Some of us make it, some of us don’t. But in the end, we all become property of Parrish and that’s a beautiful fucking thing.”

  -Four-

  Lydia

  In case you are wondering, I am most definitely a glutton for punishment seeing as I’ve spent a good portion of the night staring at the front door expecting a certain freshly minted biker to walk through it. Not long after I made my way back behind the bar, Wolf summoned Maria back into the chapel. A half-hour later she, Wolf, and Bash emerged. Bash was wearing a reaper on his back and the signature red and black colors of the Satan’s Knight were on full display. A bottom rocker that labeled him a prospect completed the look and announced to the world Bash was sticking around.

  I didn’t have a chance to process the news because as soon as he appeared, so did the rest of the club. Our eyes locked for a split-second before he was bombarded by the men in leather and ushered out of Kate’s to celebrate his new status. As the night progressed, I found myself obsessing over him and his choice to prospect, wondering if there was more to the man than great stamina and incredible eyes. Was there truth behind Maria’s assumption that he was lost? Moving across the country only days after you bury your mother, seems like a pretty rash decision. Maybe he doesn’t know how to grieve. Maybe he’s running from something or someone.

  Pot meet kettle.

  Of course, none of that is any of my business. In fact, nothing about Bash is my business and the sooner I drum that into my head, the better off I’ll be. Repeating that over and over to myself, I reach under the bar for my “Go” bag. While most women never leave the house without a pocketbook, I never leave my shoebox of an apartment without my backpack. I suppose that’s because most women don’t have to worry about being found by their ex-husband. They don’t need to carry a change of clothes and phony I.D.’s in case there is a sudden need to flee. Bottom line, most women aren’t running for their lives.

  I’m about to hitch the bag over my shoulder and call it a night when the distinct roar of a motorcycle sounds. The glasses on the rack over the bar rattle as it draws closer and I inwardly groan, glancing at the clock.

  I was so close to getting out of here on time.

  Sighing, I glance over my shoulder as Bash stumbles through the door with Riggs following close behind. My eyes instantly widen at the sight of him. Based on his disheveled appearance and his inability to walk a straight line, I think it’s safe to say Satan’s newest Knight is three sheets to the wind.

  “That’s it, Moses, you’re almost there,” he says in between chuckles.

  “Bullshit,” Bash slurs, tripping over a chair. He goes down like a sack of potatoes and a groan rumbles from his throat. “Who put that there?”

  In case you were wondering, alcohol most definitely brings out the south in him and that drawl of his becomes even thicker, making it nearly impossible to understand a word he’s saying.

  Muttering a curse, I drop the backpack to the floor and round the bar. The little voice inside my head reminds me this isn’t my concern, but my feet have a mind of their own and before I can stop myself, I’m rushing to Bash’s aid. Riggs beats me to it and offers the fallen prospect a hand.

  “Fuck you,” Bash grunts, shooing Riggs’ away.

  Well, that I understood.

  Using the back of the chair to right himself, he stands straight…well, I mean he tries to. I give him an ‘A’ for effort and shake my head. Tearing my eyes away from him, I narrow them at Riggs instead.

  “What did you do to him?”

  As soon as the question leaves my lips, I feel the weight of Bash’s stare. My che
eks flame and it takes every ounce of willpower not to look at him. For someone who has spent the last two years as a vigilant woman, I certainly have no problem throwing caution to the wind with my sudden quest to involve myself in things that have nothing to do with me. You know, like the drunken fool trying to hold himself upright.

  Bash is not your concern.

  You got your own problems.

  Abort! Abort! Abort!

  “Now, hold your horses, I didn’t do anything to him,” Riggs defends, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “We took him to Pipe’s to pick out a pair of wheels—”

  “He rode like this?” I screech at the absurdity.

  “Aww, darlin’ you care,” Bash slurs. Naively my attention snaps back to him. I open my mouth to tell him he shouldn’t be flattered, that no one should be drinking and driving, but one look at him and I forget my train of thought. He tries to wink at me but in his current condition, he blinks several times instead. He looks ridiculous and of course I find it endearing because hey, ‘a glutton for punishment’, remember?

  “No, Cobra rode the bike here, and I drove my truck,” Riggs replies, pulling my attention back to him. “Any other questions, Mom?” Diverting my eyes away from Bash, I look back at Riggs. A smart reply sits on my lips, but his phone rings, interrupting our little standoff. He quickly fishes the phone from his pocket and accepts the call.

  “Kitten, baby, I was just thinking of you…what? No…wait…how does that happen? I just bought them. Yeah, yeah, okay…I’m on my way. Alright, but be naked when I get home….”

  I roll my eyes as he tries to sweet talk his girl and decide that’s my cue to get the hell out of here. Bash and Riggs can sort this shit out themselves. I mean they’re grown ass men…with the maturity level of a bunch of toddlers.

  “That’s not very nice,” Bash whispers over my shoulder.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  I turn at the sound of his voice and collide with his chest. The man suddenly gets a hold of his reflexes and his hands fall to my hips, steadying us both. The crisp clean scent of his cologne mixes with the Fireball on his breath and turns me into a mindless fool because the next thing I know, I’m staring at his mouth, watching his lips curl into a grin, remembering how skilled that mouth of his truly is.

  “Oh, look at the two of you,” Riggs teases from behind me. “Picking up where you left off, eh?”

  The insinuation snaps me back to reality and I quickly push Bash’s hands away from my hips before spinning around to face my boss. The tongue lashing I’m about to deliver comes to a halt as he unclips a key ring from his belt. Wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, he holds out the key for me to take.

  “I’ve gotta go,” he announces. “Diaper crisis at Casa della Tiger. Take him upstairs to the spare apartment and tuck him in.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” The question comes out as a shriek.

  He flashes me his signature grin as he pulls my hand and deposits the key inside my palm. With a quick shake of his head, he starts to walk backward, making his way towards the door.

  “Nope, not kidding,” he says. “I’m sure Needles has some condoms in his apartment. He keeps a spare key under the mat if you need to get in.” He pauses as he reaches the door and snorts out a laugh. “Ha…get it? Condoms…getting it in....no, okay then you guys have a fantastic night. Don’t break the bed. You break it, you buy it.”

  I want to scream.

  No, scratch that, I want to smack the grin off my boss’s face while I’m screaming at him, but I don’t get the chance to do either because Riggs disappears through the front door and a loud crash sounds behind me, diverting my attention from one menace to another.

  “These chairs are a hazard,” he mutters, righting the one he knocked down. Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath and close my fingers around the key. All I have to do is help him up the stairs and open the door. I don’t even have to walk in the apartment. I’ll just shut the door and leave. With any luck, he’ll pass out before I make my way to my car and we can forget tonight ever happened.

  I open my eyes and Bash is leaning close to me, studying me with a perplexed look on his face.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “You have a beauty mark.”

  “So? You’re looking at me like I have a third eye.”

  “How did I not realize that?”

  “Oh God, you need to get to bed.”

  “I memorized your face. Every feature. I don’t remember a beauty mark.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t just draw it on. The sucker has been with me thirty-two years.”

  He tears his eyes away from the beauty mark next to my mouth and meets my gaze.

  “You’re thirty-two?”

  Hmm.

  I guess we missed the mark on that one. Age is probably normally established before you get naked and screw each other’s brains out.

  “Yes, I’m thirty-two. Now that we got that out of the way, can we get you upstairs so I can go home? I have eye cream I need to apply to aid with the aging process.”

  Of course, he doesn’t move. He just stands there and gives me a lazy smile. It’s familiar and the one he wears when he’s sated.

  Christ.

  “I’m twenty-six.”

  For some reason that shocks me. Until now I didn’t give any thought to his age. Why would I? I mean, after all, he’s not supposed to be here! But now that I know I’m six years his senior, I’m a little befuddled. I’ve never been with a younger guy. In fact, it’s a big turn off for me. Or at least it was. Knowing Bash is younger doesn’t seem to bother me. I still find him incredibly attractive. Apparently, in this life, Lydia Gallo is a cougar. Too bad I’m not in the market for another orgasm marathon.

  “You don’t need any eye cream,” he says, pulling my attention back to him.

  “How would you know? You’re probably seeing two of me right now.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I moonlight as a comedian.”

  “I wouldn’t mind catching your next show.”

  “I bet,” I mutter, tipping my chin towards the stairs. “Let’s go.”

  “Are you always this cranky?”

  “Yes, it’s a talent. You. Stairs. Now.”

  “I’m starting to get the idea you want to be rid of me.”

  “You’re catching on,” I say as I walk past him. Maybe if I’m lucky, he’ll follow.

  “What happened to the girl who texted me after my mother died and offered me a hug?”

  That stops me dead in my tracks and I turn to face him. When I sent that text I genuinely felt awful for him. I imagined him alone, grieving for his mother and wished we lived closer to one another. But part of me, the logical part, believes I only had the courage to send that text knowing it wasn’t possible for him to take me up on the offer. Now here he is, barely a week later and I’m acting like an insensitive asshole.

  “It’s fine,” he says as he starts for the stairs. “I’m not really the hugging type.”

  For some reason, I don’t buy that. I bet Bash gives great hug.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I’m just really tired and—”

  I’m an emotional reject thanks to an abusive ex-husband. But, hey, that’s a story for…never.

  “Well, don’t let me keep you,” he interjects, “Give me the keys and I’ll manage.”

  It’s the out I want and yet I don’t take it. Instead, I brush past him, getting another whiff of his cologne before I climb the stairs. The floorboards creak with each step I climb and soon the sound of his boots echo behind me. Reaching the landing, I lead him to the door on the left and fumble with the key. Fitting it into the lock, I make quick work of opening the door and step inside the apartment.

  Mistake number one.

  Bash enters the apartment behind me as I flick the lights on and bumps into a table.

  “For crying out loud,” he hisses. “You people don’t believe in Feng Shui, hu
h?”

  I lift a hand to my lips, masking the smile that ticks at the corners of my mouth and close the door.

  Mistake number two.

  “Christ, I’m tired,” he moans as he continues to walk through the tiny apartment. Reaching the couch, he pauses and removes his kutte. Tossing it over the back, he then removes his hat and yawns, stretching his arms over his head. His t-shirt rides up, revealing the slightest hint of skin and a dusting of light hair. Knowing very well what that trail leads to, I start to retreat.

  “The bedrooms are in the back.”

  “Are they?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  As soon as the question leaves my lips, I regret it.

  Mistake number three.

  “Maybe you could refresh my memory,” he says with a lopsided grin and a shrug.

  Yeah, I totally walked into that one.

  “Bash.”

  “Lydia,” he teases. “I’m not asking you to climb into bed with me.”

  “What are you asking then?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t want you to go yet.”

  Maybe he’s lonely. Drunk, lonely and missing his mother. I suppose there’s no harm in keeping him company until he falls asleep. Sighing, I point towards the narrow hallway.

  “Go,” I order. “I’m right behind you.”

  He smiles slightly.

  “Cranky Lydia seems to be softening up.”

  “Not really,” I retort. “If I leave now and you fall again, you might actually hurt yourself. Riggs will blame me. Maybe even fire me.”

  “Bullshit,” he calls, grabbing my hand. He pulls me to his side and stares down at me, that playful grin of his on full display. “You know what I think?”

  “I don’t think I want to know what you think.”

  “That’s a damn shame because I’m gonna tell you anyway,” he replies, leading me down the hallway. “I think you don’t want to leave just yet either.”

  Yeah, time to pump the brakes on whatever this is and go the hell home to my humble little hideout.

  “Okay,” I say, pausing as we reach the doorway to one of the bedrooms. “Look, you’re drunk—”