Velvet Ivy (The Nighthawks MC Book 1)

by Bella Knight

  Table of Contents

  Sweet Revenge Book 2

  Gift to my readers

  Introduction

  Leaving Las Vegas

  Arsenal and Blacksnakes

  Girls and Rides

  Confrontation

  Vegas Grief

  About the Author

  Velvet Ivy

  book 1

  Bella Knight

  Edited by

  NATASHA LIND

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  Contents

  Gift to my readers

  Introduction

  1. Leaving Las Vegas

  2. Arsenal and Blacksnakes

  3. Girls and Rides

  4. Confrontation

  5. Vegas Grief

  Sweet Revenge Book 2

  About the Author

  Gift to my readers

  Click Here or Type in the Link on your search browser

  Introduction

  Ivy graduates from school and returns to the Palomino Roadhouse to her other job—being a legal prostitute at a brothel in the Nevada desert. Thankfully, she earns enough money at the Palomino to keep her daughter in school. She has plans to get out of her twilight life and into the light of the Vegas sun, but she may lose everything to a violent, vengeful biker. Can she hold it together long enough to make her dreams come true?

  1

  Leaving Las Vegas

  “Yes, life’s one big road trip.”

  Ivy swung her maroon-and-silver duffel on her back, a discard by a former roommate. Inside were three separate bags—toiletries, clothes, and assorted stuff, (like her hair dryer). It bounced against the slow-but-working laptop in her bag. Staci ran over and hugged her, nearly toppling her.

  “Why won’t you stay for the parties?” she groaned, as her lower lip stuck out in childish pique.

  Staci stood back and flipped her sandy blonde hair out of her eyes. Ivy had received her business management associate’s degree that morning, and was eager to be on her way.

  “The road calls,” she said, smiling, “good luck on getting your surgical degree! Hang in there. Only one more semester!”

  “I have summer school!” Staci wailed, “lab!”

  “And a job in data entry at the Urgent Care,” said Ivy, “and yummy weekends at the beach.”

  “And a new roommate!” Staci pouted again.

  “Maybe you can get some help with the glass,” said Ivy.

  There were five of them in a two-bedroom-plus-loft. Cleaning duties rotated; cleaning the glass wall next to the spiral staircase was the trickiest job.

  Ivy tried to make light of the situation, “Pick someone tall with excellent balance!”

  Staci laughed, “Will do.”

  They hugged again awkwardly, and Staci opened the door for her. Ivy knew that once the door closed, Staci would be on to her next roommate, her next class, her next boyfriend, and lose all memory of Ivy within a week or two. That was just the way she was.

  Ivy made it down the stairs without incident. She opened the duffel and spread the bags around her saddlebags, then stuffed in the now-empty duffel. Then, she pulled the twists of her platinum blonde hair into a larger twist and held it in place with an elastic band, as she settled the helmet on her head. She got onto the Harley and headed off to the ranch.

  Desert Equine was almost all the way to Tonopah, a long ride on a bike. She stopped for some dried fruit and water partway in, walking around to get the kinks out of her legs. Two men on big-ass Harleys drove up to the gas pumps with the Nighthawks emblems on their backs. One had gray hair, obviously Amerindian. The other was taller, with short-cropped black hair, a beard, and the movements of a panther. Ex-military, she guessed. She finished her apple and mango combo and her water. She threw them into their receptacles. Josephine, who owned the Desert Stop, recycled.

  The black-haired man approached Ivy as she finished the last of her water, “That your Harley?” he said, pointing to her Softail in maroon.

  “Yeah,” she said, “had a bitch of a time rebuilding her. Some joker got drunk and ditched her, and his wife made him sell. Seeing his road rash, I got her drift.”

  “Bet you got a good price,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said, “but the parts aren’t cheap.”

  “Arsenal,” said the man gassing his bike, he had a Harley-Davidson touring bike. The black-haired guy had a black Softail, like hers, only with a lot more leather on it.

  “Are you going to get us food, or shoot the shit all day?”

  “On it,” said Arsenal.

  He held out his hand to Ivy, “Arsenal,” he said.

  “Ivy,” she said, taking his hand. Her gloves had protected knuckles; his didn’t. His touch was firm. He smiled, looking down into her blue eyes with his own brown ones.

  “Gorgeous lady, may the road rise to meet you.”

  “May the wind always be at your back,” said Ivy. She smiled, let go, and made her way to her bike as he made the door jingle going in.

  “Sorry about that,” said the gray-haired man, “Arsenal likes the ladies.”

  Ivy smiled and put on her helmet, “Not a problem.”

  “Henry,” said the man, as he put away the gas pump and wiped his hands on a rag.

  “Ivy,” she said, “you Nighthawks sure do get around.”

  He laughed, “Arsenal needed a break. He’s been wound a little too tight lately.”

  “Good luck,” said Ivy, mounting her bike. She took off, and in an instant, she was gone.

  Desert Equine was set in a little valley. There were horses, (very tame ones), and ponies as well, mostly rescues. There were goats and sheep and two dogs, —one with legs and one with wheels for legs. There were trails snaking into the low mountains and it was a beautiful place.

  Ivy parked the bike and locked up her helmet. She stepped forward, and Bandit, (the border collie), and Jasper, (the black mutt puppy whose missing black l
egs were replaced by wheels), both came rushing over to meet her. She bent down, scratching on ears and, in Bandit’s case, a long-haired tummy.

  She pulled her running shoes out of her bag, took off her riding boots, and put the sneakers on, while the dogs tried to ‘help’ her. She stowed the boots in her least-bulging saddlebag, —a tight fit.

  She entered the long, low, adobe ranch house and smiled at Jannie, Director Hiot’s assistant. Jannie was short, with the bandy legs of a horse rider.

  “The doctor is with the colts in the dayroom,” said Jannie, “Damia is with the mustangs in the classroom.”

  “Building time, right?” asked Ivy eagerly.

  “Yes. Damia’s getting good at helping Yan construct a wall.”

  Ivy smiled. “I know the way.”

  She remembered to walk in a way where her shoes didn’t squeak. She also took her cell phone out of her pocket, put it on vibrate, and put it back.

  As advertised, Damia was constructing a wall of cardboard bricks with Yan, her friend. Leah, the occupational therapist watched them, as well as Nico and Don who were building another wall close by. Nico wore a helmet because of his frequent seizures. Ivy crept in, pulling the low barn-style door in behind her. She sat and watched her daughter, face crinkled with focus, as she reached for each block and piled it next to each one of Yan’s. Ivy’s jaw dropped when she realized they were working in tandem, each one putting in a block, followed by the other.

  Very, very slowly, Ivy gave a thumb’s-up to Leah. She got a slow one back in return.

  Before Leah called clean-up, Yan and Damia began deconstructing the wall. They did it in segments, —first tearing down the wall, then putting the bricks back in the large plastic box. Yan put them in, and Damia lined them up. Ivy fought back tears of joy. Tears meant upset and upset was not good.

  Ivy very slowly stood up and stepped to the side, as she was blocking the door. She looked down at her daughter’s pixie cut, ears poking out, and hair as silver-blonde as her own. Topping it off she had perfect blue eyes that were huge and were well-aligned in her face. She wore blue shorts and a pink, cotton top, both in solid colors so the patterns didn’t hurt the eyes, (or brain), of her child. Her legs, arms, and face were browned from being in the sun. She had put on weight, her cheeks healthy and pink.

  Leah sang, in a very low voice, “Clean up, clean up, now it’s time to clean up. Clean up, clean up, clean up now.”

  She had to help Nico and Don, and she left the bottom part of the wall up as Damia and Yan finished their tasks.

  “Snack time, snack time, we all like the snack time,” sang Leah. All four children filed past Ivy towards the door. Damia didn’t acknowledge her mother. Ivy smiled down at her daughter, holding herself back from touching her daughter. Damia didn’t like to be touched.

  Leah led the way to snack time, into the classroom next door. Kim, the special education teacher, had little plates and sippy cups of juice ready at a low table. The food was soft and very easy to handle, —string cheese, dried apples cut into chunks, and sandwiches cut up in the shapes each child liked. There were diamonds for Yan, circles for Damia, and half-moons for Nico and Don. Ivy watched her child carefully maneuver her food into her mouth.

  Leah came up and whispered into her ear, “Damia’s progress has been stunning. She knows Yan is there and tries to help him, and he does the same. I think they’ve progressed because of each other.”

  “I am so happy,” whispered Ivy into Leah’s ear, “I am amazed. Don’t worry. I won’t cry.”

  She spent the day with her daughter, watching her do her chores, feeding carrots to the pony named Star, and learning how to curry Star. Damia rode a much larger horse named Desiree when it was time for her therapy. She obviously loved being on the horse and Ivy enjoyed watching them all ride before lunch time. At lunch, her daughter was learning how to sip soup out of a cup. Once again, Ivy had to struggle not to cry.

  When they had class, it was learning signs, as well as touching letters and making words like “dog” and “horse” with cut-outs. Numbers class involved handling magnetic blocks and putting them on a large board on a table. Ivy almost cried again when Damia correctly pointed out the numbers on a line chart.

  Dinner was extremely quiet, with all four kids eating silently. Ivy was stunned even more when her daughter began using sign language to ask for “more”— tortillas wrapped around shredded vegetables, cut into tiny bites.

  Ivy read, almost in a whisper, a story about a hungry horse to the four Mustang-group children. Then, the children watched Sesame Street, with the sound so low it was almost on mute. Damia signed the letter “B” when she saw it on the screen. Ivy had to stop herself from rushing over and hugging her child.

  Damia let her mother give her a sponge bath; she hated both baths and showers. She also let her mother help her put on her pajamas, some solid-colored blue shorts, and a red top. Ivy watched her daughter carefully fold down her covers and get into bed. She kissed her fingertips and touched them to the tips of her daughter’s hair. She signed, “I love you,” and watched as her daughter faded into sleep after another busy day. She stood a while, watching her sleep, and then silently turned to go.

  Doctor. Hiot met her at the end of the hall, “Let’s chat,” she said.

  They went to the office, one oddly devoid of much. There was a computer on the desk, but no pictures or diplomas on the wall, just cheery colors and some large toys on a low shelf.

  “I am so happy you were able to come up and see Damia’s progress,” said Dr. Hoit, “she’s coming along very well.”

  “Amazing progress,” said Ivy, “she is starting to put on weight, and she looks very healthy. I love that you’re teaching sign. And her work with Yan!”

  “Yan’s father is beyond happy. He says if we separate those two, he’ll sue the school for malpractice!”

  “I agree,” said Ivy.

  Dr. Hoit leaned forward, “She is as happy and healthy as an autistic seven-year-old can be. Now, I’m about to do something stupid and unprofessional. I’m about to level with you. She will progress, a little at a time. But, it will be slow. And, her autism won’t magically go away. We think we are making progress understanding these children, but we have been living in the dark ages of the brain. Only now can we do scans and find out that these kids have different brains! We can move forward, but, Ivy…” she said as she reached over to clasp Ivy’s hands, “you can’t stop your own life. Your daughter is living hers, and she’s doing very well. Go and do something you enjoy with your life. Find happiness.”

  “I just got my associate’s degree…”

  “Which was as dry and boring for you as a life outside neuroscience would be for me. You did that for Damia, not for you. Now, use that degree to get something for you. Something just yours.”

  “I… okay, I can do that.”

  “Yes, you can, Ivy. I realize this is very unprofessional, and opposite to what I normally tell parents. So many people are so shocked and stunned that they shut down. You were the opposite. You aggressively sought out treatment for your daughter. You did it. You succeeded. Now, enjoy that success and live. For you, not for Damia. Damia’s been taken care of. Take care of you.”

  Now Ivy did cry, large tears flowed out of her eyes and down her face,“You are the only person that has ever called me ‘successful,’ especially when it comes to Damia. They told me to warehouse her. But, you’re not a warehouse. You’re not the hellhole of Vegas, sucking people dry. Just…” she said, taking an offered tissue, “keep doing what you’re doing. Keep making my daughter happy.”

  “We will Ivy, I know we can.”

  She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, “I’ve got to get on the road,” she said, standing.

  “Safe travels,” said Dr. Hoit with a kind smile, “and good luck finding your path.”

  Ivy smiled, threw away the tissues, and silently rushed out of the building. She changed again, from shoes to riding boots, and she fled into the
night.

  Palomino Roadhouse

  Ivy cried more on the road, letting her tears fly out into a thirsty desert. Maybe they would water a cactus or something, she thought. The desert air was warm on her face.

  She turned, leaned, and flowed with the curves. Then, she flicked them away as she started to see the signs come at her for the Palomino Roadhouse. The Palomino on the sign glistened in golden neon in the dark, lit up from behind. She had made good time.

  She rode past the parking lot. There were some motorcycles there and several trucks. She went past the staff parking lot on the side and winded her way along what was really a trail to the back of the building. She stopped and dismounted her bike before she came to her own private covered parking. She had bought and assembled the two-by-fours and the metal roof bent to make a curved roof that let the sand and rain slide off. She walked in her Harley and dropped the side tarps to keep it safe. She unloaded her bulging saddlebags into the duffel and went into a door on the side of the trailer, just in front of the end that was shoved directly into a cave.

  The cave was wide but low, and it didn’t take too much hacking it out with a pickaxe to make room for the butt end of Ivy’s trailer. She had Di buy the trailer for almost nothing and ripped it out herself. She covered the walls and the ceiling in shimmering gold, silver, and maroon fabrics she bought on sale at fabric stores and yard sales and used more fabric to cover pillows in plush, with a velvety goodness in blue and gold. The floor was covered by a soft, nubby carpet in maroon. The bed took up the entire center of the room, round and huge and covered with soft sheets and blankets in maroon and gold.