“Pick your own weed,” Raine laughed, a manic look in his eyes. “That should be a business somewhere.”
Coyle ignored his brother, and continued talking:
“Old Bill Grundy, up in Bakerfield, has agreed to buy the weed,” he explained. “We just need to get it up there without any police interference.”
That was where the bikers not driving or assigned a job would ‘run defense’ en route.
Running defense meant accompanying the van on their Harleys – and if any cops or state troopers decided to try and pull the van over, the bikers would get in between and start swerving, or flipping them the bird.
Not enough to get shot at – but just enough to turn the cop’s attention from the van onto them, instead.
Having outlined the plan, Coyle and Raine fell silent – and Rooker spoke up:
“I know the six boys I’d recommend to drive the vans,” he suggested, and listed off six bikers I’d at least grown to be on nodding terms with.
“Get Big Mac to run the loading teams,” Coyle nodded. “Two men per van. Don’t let him pick any dipshits.”
Rooker nodded – and that left me.
Coyle turned his intense eyes in my direction, and growled: “…and you, Recon. I need your special skills.”
“Oh, yeah?” I leaned back in my seat, trying to look casual. “And what skills are those?”
“I need you to ride down there - tonight,” the big biker pointed his finger at me. “Do what you do best. Scope the place out. I want you to call me with every detail by morning. Cameras. Guards. Gateways.”
Coyle reached into his leather jacket, and pulled out a cell-phone – one of those cheap, pay-as-you-go numbers you can buy from the convenience store.
“That’s a burner phone. My number’s the only one in it. As soon as you get there, fill me in.”
The biker’s brow knotted.
“This whole operation sounds too good to be true – and that normally means it is. So, no disrespect to my brother, here,” he punched Raine in the shoulder, “but I need you to let me know if it’s a set-up or not.”
I nodded, slipping the phone into my own jacket.
My ‘special skills.’ I should have guessed that’s why Coyle would recruit me.
After all, that’s why they called me ‘Recon.’ Back in the Rangers, I was the guy they sent in to reconnoiter all the joints before we raided them – and that was how I’d earned my place in the Knuckleheads – doing the same gig, just for robberies, raids and hell-raising.
And, apparently, I’d done a good enough job so far that Coyle trusted me.
“I won’t let you down,” I nodded, wordlessly accepting his assignment.
With a satisfied nod, Coyle scribbled something down on a scrap of paper and slid it across the table towards me.
I took it, and looked at his scrawled handwriting. It was the address of the farm he needed me to recon that night.
As I read the address, my suspicions were confirmed.
Bandy Canyon Cannabis, near Escondido.
That was Christi’s place.
I struggled to hold my shit together as the revelation hit me. I couldn’t let anybody at that table know what I knew…
…or find out about Christi.
Because as I stared at the paper in my hand, I realized something terrifying…
To those crooked cops, there was only one thing more valuable to them than that cannabis…
…and that was the girl who’d witnessed them shooting her father, and could blow their little racket wide open.
That was Christi.
I gulped dryly, and tried to look casual as I clambered up from the cramped little table.
“I’m going to grab my stuff and roll out,” I jerked my thumb behind me. “I’ll give you the word when I get there.”
If Coyle spotted my nervousness, he didn’t comment on it. In fact, he didn’t even look up, as the big man grunted: “Sounds good. Stay out of trouble.”
I backed off, towards the door. As I did so, Rooker, Coyle and Raine started discussing the details of their plan – as if I’d already left the trailer.
I pushed open the door, and staggered down the steps into the warm, evening air. I had to find Christi – and fast.
Chapter Seventeen
Christi
I staggered out into the night air in a daze, dragging my feet through the gravel.
I couldn’t believe it.
The biker gang I’d run away with, to desperately try and escape the two cops who’d threatened to kill me…
…they were inadvertently taking me back!
Wrapping my arms around myself, I lumbered away from the thumping music of the roadhouse bar, trying to get my head around it all.
All I knew was that I needed to get out of there.
I didn’t know where I was planning to go… Only that I needed to go somewhere.
Anywhere.
And I almost made it, too – well, across to the street at least. From there on, I didn’t have much of a plan; but as it turned out, I didn’t even have the opportunity to make one.
“Christi!”
A sharp, feminine voice cut through the night air like a gunshot.
I froze, recognizing the gruff tone as soon as I heard it…
Bertha.
Heart racing, I wheeled around, and saw the towering, muscular blond striding across the parking lot towards me.
“Where do you think you’re sneaking off too, you little slut?”
Bertha’s eyes narrowed, as she bore down on me. A moment later, she was looming over me, eyes flashing angrily. “We’re not in Fresno to sight-see – and I’ve got a job for you.”
“I-I was just getting some air,” I stammered, trying to step away from her.
Suddenly, as fast as a striking cobra, Bertha had reached out and grabbed my arm – her wiry hands digging into me like a steel vice.
“There’s plenty of air right here,” she snapped. “Now get your fill and come with me.” Narrowing her eyes, Bertha hissed: “Coyle’s been telling his brother what a pretty piece of ass you are – and now Raine wants a test-drive.”
I shuddered when I heard that.
‘Test-drive’ meant what I thought it meant – just like Coyle had tossed me off to Rooker and Bowser the night before, he was going to pass me off to his brother like a prime piece of steak.
A day earlier, I might have been okay with that. I’d spent so many weeks disassociated with what I had to do to remain with the Knuckleheads, I felt like I could perform the part expected of me without question.
I was a good little biker slut. I’d suck, and fuck, and coax myself to orgasm by focusing on the sensations, not the situation…
But that was before.
Before I’d found out about how Coyle’s brother had made a deal with the crooked cops who’d murdered my father.
Before I’d learned that the Knuckleheads, instead of keeping me safe, were inadvertently dragging me right back into the lion’s den…
But more than that.
It was before Mason.
It was before that handsome, brooding biker had spent the night staring out at the stars with me… Before I’d wrapped my arms around his waist, and driven half-way across the state with his manly scent filling my nostrils.
It was before I’d poured my heart out to him, on some lonely stretch of highway.
Goddammit!
I could have endured anything before meeting Mason – and I wish I still could.
But despite myself, there was something about him which had cracked open the vault I’d locked my heart inside…
Somehow, against every impulse I had, I could feel again…
And that meant, instead of numb acceptance, I was literally repulsed at the idea of fucking Coyle’s brother.
I shivered at the very thought – and that’s when Bertha slapped me.
Crack!
Her palm left a stinging imprint on my cheek.
&nb
sp; For a second I was stunned. In all the time I’d ridden with the Knuckleheads, I’d never been physically hurt by any of them…
…any of them except Bertha, that was.
But while she’d insulted me… Sneered at me… Sometimes even threatened to leave me in some deserted truckstop if I didn’t keep in line…
…she’d never struck me like that. Hard enough to leave my head ringing.
But as I reached my hand up, to rub my stinging cheek, I realized it wasn’t just with me that things had changed.
“Now listen here,” Bertha was shaking me now, leaning in uncomfortably close. “I know Coyle’s kind of sweet for your pert little ass – but don’t let that go to your head, y’hear?”
I looked up at her, and blinked.
Bertha’s face was inches from mine – her tanned skin like leather, the crow’s feet at the corners of her icy blue eyes.
She’d been beautiful once – fifteen years and a million highway miles ago. But now she kept a hold on her position through other means – and I realized, as I stood cowering beneath her, that she was threatened by me.
I laughed.
I couldn’t help myself. Standing there, terrified and stunned, I let out a single bark of bemused laughter, and it was like I’d thrown battery acid into Bertha’s face.
Oh, the irony. I was laughing because of how ridiculous it was for her to be threatened by me. She ruled this place – the Queen Bee, or Lioness…
…and I was just some frightened little girl, hiding out, trying not to be noticed.
But she took my laughter totally the wrong way.
“You conceited little whore,” Bertha growled, and hefted me across the parking lot towards one of the nearby outbuildings.
Out of sight of the bar, she threw me against the wall so hard the breath was knocked from my lungs.
“Oh, I know your racket, you little bitch,” Bertha growled, getting right up in my face – until I could smell the menthol cigarettes and whiskey on her breath.
“No, no,” I squirmed in her grip. “I didn’t mean anything…”
“You don’t think I’ve seen your type before?” She was squeezing my arm painfully tight now. “Some pretty piece of ass who thinks they can replace me?”
“N-no,” I stammered – but Bertha wasn’t listening.
“Twenty years I’ve been riding with Coyle,” Bertha hissed – reaching her other hand up to curl around my throat.
Her fist tightened – and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
“Twenty years,” she repeated. “And you don’t think I’ve seen your type come and go?”
She laughed mockingly.
“You’re nothing. You don’t have Coyle’s trust. His respect.” She narrowed her eyes. “Once his fascination with you ends, he’ll dump your ass at a truckstop bathroom like all the rest. Leave you to suck cock to pay for your bus fare home.”
I was seeing stars now, and my legs were getting weak.
But Bertha didn’t seem to care.
“Now you be a good little slut, and do what you’re told to – understood?”
With that, she released her fingers from around my throat, and I let in a whooping gasp of air.
For a second, I thought I was going to be okay – but then Bertha used that free hand to grab my hair, and haul me off balance.
I don’t know how – she was a strong old bitch – Bertha managed to wheel me around, and then slam me face-first back against that wall.
Once again, the wind was knocked out of me, and I hung there gasping for breath, as she pinned me to the wall.
“I’ll drag your ass back to that Airstream if I have to…” With one hand, Bertha had me pinned against the wall. With the other, I suddenly felt her reach around and fumble with the buttons of my jeans.
I struggled, squirming against her powerful grip.
“This little ass?” With a sharp pull, Bertha pulled open my jeans, and wrenched them half-way down around the curve of my butt. Then she yanked again, and my jeans and panties were pulled down around my thighs.
I felt the night air on my bare skin.
Slap!
Bertha had spanked one of my bare ass cheeks, leaving a red handprint on my pale skin.
“This little ass,” she repeated, “belongs to the Knuckleheads – and don’t you forget it!”
I sobbed, fighting desperately to break free.
But it was getting worse. As Bertha kept me pinned to the wall, I felt her calloused fingers press between the cheeks of my ass – and one finger press against my asshole.
“O-ow,” I sobbed, trying to break free. “Please…”
Bertha laughed at my pitiful sobbing.
Pulling her hand away, she pressed it against my mouth – jabbing her finger between my lips.
“Suck it,” she ordered, tightening her grip on the back of my throat. “Suck it! Get it good and wet!”
Hot tears sprang from my eyes.
Reluctantly, I sucked her finger, coating it with saliva.
Satisfied, Bertha pulled her hand away, and a moment later it was back at my ass.
This time, her finger wet with my own saliva, I couldn’t stop her.
I cried, as she forced her finger into my ass.
“When this job in San Diego’s done,” Bertha hissed into my ear, as she skewered me up to her second knuckle, “I’m going to enjoy watching Coyle bust open this virginal little ass of yours...”
I squeezed shut my eyes, sobbing as I felt her sink her finger even deeper inside me.
“…and then I’m going to convince him to let every son-of-a-bitch who wants to take their turn…”
Oh, God… I couldn’t take this anymore…
Bertha licked my ear, and squirmed that finger inside of my ass.
“Now let’s get you up to that Airstream, and you show me what a good little girl you can be…”
As the towering blonde pressed me against the wall, I reached out blindly on either side of me, trying to find something to pull myself free with.
My fingers curled around a moldy length of 2” x 4”, leaning up against the wall.
“…now come on,” Bertha was still hissing in my ear, wiggling that finger in my ass. “Coyle’s waiting to share his favorite little slu….”
Clonk!
The meaty thud echoed across the parking lot, as I blindly swung the length of wood behind me, and the old timber broke across the top of Bertha’s skull.
We were both showered with splinters of moldy wood – and Bertha stumbled backwards from me.
I yanked her hand out from between my ass cheeks, and gave her a shove backwards.
Spinning around, pulling up my jeans as I did so, I found Bertha staggering backwards. Her eyes were wide and glazed, and splinters of moldy wood were entangled in her tousled blonde hair.
“W-why you little slut,” she said woozily, and then reached out to claw at me with those big hands of hers…
Clonk!
I broke the remaining length of timber across the side of her head.
This time, Bertha went down like a felled timber, her eyes wide open and mouth hanging in a silent ‘O’ shape.
As she landed in the dirt, I stood looking down at her, absolutely stunned.
The broken length of timber slipped from my fingers onto the ground.
Oh, fuck. What had I done?
Bertha lay lifelessly on the ground.
Was she dead? Was she just unconscious?
I didn’t know – and I couldn’t figure out which would be a worse scenario for me.
If she was dead… Well, I’d just committed murder. And if she was alive?
Bertha hadn’t been the most forgiving of souls even when I was in her good graces.
I’d be finished now.
I stood there, jeans hanging open, too stunned to move.
Oh God, I kept thinking to myself. Oh, God. At any second, one of those drunken bikers was going to come stumbling out of the Broke Spoke and see what I’
d done…
“Christi?”
A voice cut through the night’s silence like a knife.
I looked up, and saw Mason staring at me from across the parking lot.
I nearly sobbed when I saw him.
“Christi?” With a nervous glance at the roadhouse bar, Mason came running across the gravel parking lot towards me.
As soon as he arrived, he bundled me into his big, strong arms and pressed my head against his enormous chest.
I sobbed, breathing in his manly scent like it was oxygen.
“Christi,” Mason repeated, as he stroked me hair. “What did you do?”
He looked down, at Bertha’s lifeless body, lying on the ground.
“S-she… She was…” I tried to mouth the words, but I couldn’t bring myself to utter them.
“It’s okay,” Mason stroked my hair. “You don’t need to explain.” He laughed bitterly. “I’ve no doubt she deserved it.”
But then the handsome biker pulled me away from the comforting warmth of his chest, and stared intently into my eyes.
“Christi,” Mason repeated for the third time, fingers digging into my shoulders, “we’ve got to get you out of here. If any of the Knuckleheads see this…”
He nodded his head towards Bertha’s limp body.
“B-but where?” I sobbed. “Where do I go?”
Mason pulled me back into the warm safety of his burly arms.
“It’s okay,” he promised me, stroking my hair. “You’re coming with me.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mason
From across the parking lot, the thumping base of the jukebox continued like a relentless heartbeat, urging me into action.
Reluctantly, I released Christi from my arms, and turned to look at Bertha’s limp body, lying on the ground.
“Is she… is she dead?” Christi wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and shuddered.
Bending down, I brushed a tousled lock of blonde hair from Bertha’s temple, and examined her.
“No,” I wasn’t sure if I was horrified, or relieved. “She’s alive.” I brushed my finger over a bloody welt on the side of her head. “But you cracked her a good one.”
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