UNDRESSED: Soul Catchers MC

by Zoey Parker

  I’m down to the last of those thirteen idiot men who let their sales files run amok. All that confidential and very important client information floating around, with very few indications as to whose file linked up to what sale. It was atrocious.

  An hour later, I have the files in better shape. I still have to go through and confirm sales with each of the reps and school them on the wonders of password-protected files, but other than that, I have something to be proud about here.

  “You did good, Lily,” I murmur, catching the blurry reflection of my fatigued smile in my computer screen. I power through, finishing up the last file, labeling it with the sales rep’s name and adding it to the other twelve I have on my USB drive.

  I take the USB drive and tuck it in my top desk drawer, locking the drawer and powering down my computer. Taking a moment to stretch my arms up, I push out of my seat and grab my emptied mug, ready to call it a night.

  Once I’m done in the small kitchen, I head past my desk, my kitten heels digging into the plush carpet before clacking onto the gray natural stone flooring of the showroom.

  Some of the backlights are on. They shouldn’t be. They’re usually turned off by one of the sales reps, but since I offered to stay later, I guess was left with that task as well. Shutting those off, I clack back in the semi-dark, passing shadowy silhouettes of our cars on the way to the office section of the dealership.

  I mentally prepare to be free from work. My desk is in sight. I need to grab my coat and purse and then I’m out. But I pause and backtrack a bit in front of the only area I’m not well acquainted with at work.

  The boss’s office.

  Translation: off-limits.

  I get the sense it’s even more of a restricted area without him being there, like snooping around someone’s house on the way to their bathroom. Only I can’t be blamed if I’m curious. There’s a light on in there, and I know I’m the only person that’s here.

  Or should be here.

  I can't recall if the light had been on earlier. My brain is coffee sludge at this point. I’ll be lucky to remember where my apartment is, let alone knowing if a thief snuck in—which, if true, I’d be more worried for the thief.

  My boss can be a frightening man. Think a slimmer Bruce Wayne only with golden blond hair, but all the wealth and animal magnetism. The man barks and everyone near him rolls over.

  Before I call the cavalry, I decide to take a peek.

  It’s going to be hard with the door shut, but as I twist the handle, turning it slowly, I find it's unlocked. Opening the door wide enough to poke my head and upper torso through, I find it empty.

  I see the light is coming from his desk lamp. The boss must have been in a hurry to leave both the light on and his door unlocked.

  Pushing into the room, I only mean to turn off the light, but I stop and take a look around the space.

  It’s small but packed with the necessities of any office. There’s a metal file cabinet with locks keeping the contents safe. There are two cushioned seats for guests across from the boss’s desk. The framed photos on the wall are of cars, perhaps laudable sales in the past, or the boss’s cars.

  I wouldn’t know. I hardly speak to the man. But I know enough to realize if I’m caught in here, it will spell trouble for me.

  As I round the desk to pull the sleek steel lamp’s chain cord, my gaze alights on a framed photo on his desk. It’s the only one that’s focused on people and not a car, though there is a car in the background.

  It’s a picture of Luke Hanley, my handsome, blond, Batman-esque boss, with an older, graying, thicker version of himself—his father, Floyd Hanley. Together, son and father co-own the family car business.

  Luke’s green eyes are sharp in the photo. His hair is cropped short, his grin wide, cheeks stretching from his happiness. Instead of his typical suit, he’s wearing a plain white tank and faded blue jeans. Dressed similarly, only instead of a tank, a white t-shirt, his father has an arm thrown over his shoulder as they pose in front of a vintage, cream-colored Cadillac.

  I don’t remember ever seeing the car on the showroom floor, but then again this photo had to have been taken at least two years ago, if not three—before I started working here. Luke’s hair isn’t that short anymore.

  I’m not sure when I’ve lifted the photo to my eyes, but I blink and there it is, in my hand, my nose and lips practically brushing the glass.

  I settle the photo frame right where I picked it up from and shut the desk lamp off before I head out of the forbidden office.

  Returning to my desk, I draw my coat off the back of my chair and shrug it on. I scoop my bulky purse from off the floor under my desk, and I take a look around the space one last time. Clicking my lamp off, I prepare to leave when I hear my phone vibrating.

  I check my caller ID, groaning and answering my friend’s call.

  “I forgot,” I say, leaping into a pitiful apology. “I got swamped with work, so, so, so, so much work, and I just—do you hate me, Kerry?”

  “I’m fighting not to.” Kerry laughs, reassuring me. “I’ll live knowing I spent an hour at a bar alone, surrounded by strangers, most of whom were alone too.”

  “That’s sounding positive.”

  “Positive are the numbers I got from two different guys. Both are very cute contenders for my lonely heart.” Kerry’s enthusiasm and her luck eases my guilt for standing her up on our girls’ date night.

  Remembering to keep moving, I head for the exit, eager to get home. Kerry keeps me company on the way out.

  “I was going to give you one of the numbers, but you’ll have to convince me now that I know you’re not coming,” she tells me. “Woo this number out of me, girlfriend.”

  “I don’t want to though.” I try not to whine.

  Kerry is wonderful and I love her not only because she’s the first friend I made when I moved to this town, but because she’s smart, sexy, and a thrill-seeker. Everything I’d want to be if I wasn’t so shy.

  But Kerry is matchmaking again, and she’s not bothering to be sneaky about it. One of the things I cringe about the most is my best friend’s desire to see me riding happily off in the arms of my very own Prince Charming. She fancies herself a godmother minus the fairy dust and singing.

  But I’m no Cinderella. Just the opposite, actually. I’m a city girl who blew a little off course and rooted down in a run-of-the-mill town.

  “You haven’t seen what these ones look like,” Kerry urges. She’s good at taking a commanding tone and forcing me into listening.

  “I promise you, Lily, they’re adorable as far as men in Potentia go: medium town, meh potential. That should be our new motto. Memo the mayor.” Kerry’s voice is weaving in and out, drowned out by the bar’s music on her end. I have the phone pressed tightly to my ear, following along with affirmative hums.

  I have to show I’m listening though I have no desire to go on a double date with these men, regardless of how she well she spins them.

  I’m passing through the scary-dark showroom, glad for the company, even if she’s on the phone.

  It’s the only way to access the side door to the building, and it’s the shorter way to the parking lot reserved for staff out back.

  My decade-old sedan should be sitting in the lot alone on the far end. No matter how early I arrive, the spaces fill up. As awful as they are at organization of their files, one thing the sales team at Hanley Auto isn’t are slackers. Each one is up early, ready to start the day, metaphorical guns blazing.

  Working here for nearly three years now has kept me on my toes. I might be the only woman working here, and the only administrator the dealership has, but I’m the best they’ve got. And they’re the best I have in Potentia.

  Like Kerry, I owe the Hanley men a lot.

  A job meant I could live here, clear my head, and pick up the pieces of my then shattered life. Luke would never know that though. I can’t imagine revealing that much to such a paradox of a man, both enigmatic and
larger-than-life.

  Putting Luke Hanley out of my mind, I dig through my cavernous purse for my car keys. It’s a cat and mouse chase as I hear them rattling around in there, banging against my compact mirror.

  “They work you hard,” Kerry is saying. “A little too hard, those Hanleys. The darlings of Potentia.”

  I snort at that, imagining Floyd and Luke in tiaras and rocking sashes with the Hanley Auto logo. “Funny. And I love that you care, Kerry, but I like working here and I get, what, once or twice a year of these late nights. Give the Hanley men a break.”

  “All right. Backing off, officially.” Kerry chuckles. “Who knew you were such a fan? You want me to call the Hanley fan club and ask for a membership form?”

  “You’re a riot. Letting you go now. I’ll call you when I get home.”

  Kerry and I click off with that promise. Dropping the phone in my purse, I hold it open wider and finally find my car keys. I zip my purse and hoist it up my shoulder. Turning the corner, I stop and stumble back, shoulder smacking the wall.

  Hanley Auto is a squat, aged red brick building occupying a vast property, much of which is vacant. Vacant like a lot of the buildings around here. Potentia might have a population of twenty-some thousand, but it was Hicksville, Missouri for someone born and raised in St. Louis.

  The side door I used forks to both the front of the building and the back, and I need the back to get to my car and drive home. That was the plan. Now I’m pressing against the wall, inching to take another look through the glass door at darkly-clothed figures in the parking lot.

  I can see my car, exactly where I left it, glass intact, no dents signaling vandalism. The men, and I figure they’re men because of their heights and bulky weight, are standing at the back of one of two other cars.

  The trunk open, they’re standing awfully still, and my ears are straining to catch whatever they might be saying. My feet begin aching in my heels, and my side strains from twisting and leaning in, a crick starting in my neck. If I keep this up, I’ll be stuck like this.

  So when one of the suspicious-looking men finally moves, I’m relieved.

  Expecting they’ll be on their way soon enough, I continue watching, on the lookout for when I can safely head to my car. One of the men lifts their arm. I switch position, turning so my belly is facing the cold, hard brick, my hand curling over the corner, head peeking around.

  Then there’s a crack through the air, much like a whip, only louder. Another whooshing bang has me moving.

  I startle from the wall from the sound of gunfire, my purse slipping down my arm and right into the glass door. The dull thud freaks me out a second time. My hands clap over each other on my mouth, squeezing and silencing the scream crawling out.

  The men turn sharply as one, like they rehearsed their reactions. Only one of them is raising his hand though, stepping closer with his gun.

  Even if the distance is far enough for me to scurry away, I can’t risk it. Running in heels for help—I don’t see that ending well.

  I’m also the kid who didn’t jaywalk in school, not when all the cool kids were doing it. And I never forged a sick note to play hooky in my life. I didn’t cut corners and I didn’t butt ahead in line, and I kept my nose clean and my head down, especially to some of the goings-on at Hanley Auto.

  A few of our wealthier clients have graced both local and national newspapers and not for being meritorious citizens. I haven’t admitted to myself, for reasons that would primarily have me wondering where my loyalty lies really, but the Hanleys are involved in criminal activity of some kind.

  It’s a hush-hush topic, but Kerry told me when I was interviewing for this office administrator position that the Hanleys are running a double business.

  The whispered word around Potentia is they’re loan sharks, and premium ones at that, and Luke is rich. Though business is good, I doubt that all his money is coming solely from the dealership. But my life hasn’t crossed his in that way, not until tonight. Not until now.

  I start backing away.

  The man holding the gun stares at me through the glass door. He lets the gun’s safety click off, the sound resonating louder than it should, like he’s standing right in front of me ready to spray me in the chest.

  Chapter 2

  Lily

  My ears are picking up all the sounds, the fear sharpening my world in a way I can’t explain and, if I survive this, I’ll never explain. I’d take it to my grave...hopefully not right then.

  The other man, slightly shorter, falls in line with his accomplice. “Put that down, fool, before you hurt someone.”

  “That’s the point,” the one holding the gun snaps. Both are wearing hoods, and once they’re a little closer to one of two lamp posts in the back lot, the orange light reveals black scarves over their mouths.

  No wonder they sound a little funny, their voices are muffled by the scarves.

  “Put it down,” the shorter one repeats. Then he pulls out his own gun, safety clicking off. It happens too fast. Like it poofs into his hand. This guy is either a magician on the side, or he’s a professional.

  Professional hitman. My mind coughs the answer up, finishing the thought I started.

  “Slowly.” The short one says, drawing the barrel of his gun from his partner’s temple once the other lowers the gun that was pointing to me. Before I get the chance to run, to seize my opportunity, the short one shouts at me through the glass. “You move and I swear to God I’ll hunt and kill you myself.”

  He doesn’t point his gun at me though. He’s tucking it away, like his taller friend. More like making it disappear. It’s there one second, menacingly warning me of the level of danger I’ve stumbled into, and the next it’s gone again.

  Crooking a finger at me, he beckons me over.

  Grabbing my purse and pushing open the door, I shuffle forward, coming to a halt far enough out of his immediate reach. But he keeps crooking that finger until I’m standing in front of him.

  His dark, wide eyes study me from under the hood. There’s something familiar about them, but I can’t imagine I’ve met this man before.

  “You’re their office girl, aren’t you?”

  I blink, bobbing my head a little belatedly. My stare darts to the other man. He’s folding his bulky arms over his barrel of a chest. The short one isn’t bad in the muscle department either. This one’s leaner though, I think, in case I have to give descriptions to the police, or Luke himself.

  Unless he sent these thugs, and doesn’t that thought freeze my blood nice and winter-like?

  “Swell.” The short one whistles then, nudging his head at his accomplice. “You take this car then. We’ll take the other.” Clapping him on the arm, he adds, “Clean up good here. Don’t mess up my ride.”

  The other one grunts, but he robotically does as he’s told, starting with shutting the trunk. But not before I catch sight of something in there…

  Is it a body?

  I gasp, staggering away from the car, from the body, and from these dangerous men.

  “This way,” the short one bruises my arm with his tight grip, and he’s dragging me along, not caring if my arm socket dislocates with his rough tugging.

  He opens the back door to the other vehicle, a black older model Acura. It’s in decent shape and the cushions I’m shoved onto don’t have any curious stains or scents. I would have expected a thug’s car to have both.

  Interrupting my mental musings with his country radio, the thug drives us sharply out of the parking lot and far from Hanley Auto.

  Having watched my fair share of action thrillers, I’m silent through the ride. Kidnappers don’t seem to like being questioned and this guy has a gun on him—a gun he had no trouble handling.

  “Awfully quiet back there,” he says at one point. He obeys traffic laws, pausing at stop signs in the quiet, quaint neighborhood he’s turned us into, taking the scenic route to my final resting place.

  Rolling down his window, he lingers at
one stop sign, lighting a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?”

  It comes off as a question, but he’s smoking already.

  I’m a little shocked when he rolls down my back window. The fresh air is appreciated. Shifting closer, I suck it in greedily, replacing the acrid, bitter smell of his cigarette fumes.

  “Almost there,” he says, lowering his radio volume.

  It’s a weekday still, and many of the homes we pass are dark and silent; the families asleep and preparing for another busy work and school day tomorrow. A tomorrow I might not have...

  I have no clue where he’s taking me, and as much as I resign myself to my death, I cling onto my share of hope and lots of crippling fear. Begging comes to mind, though that could only piss him off and hasten my death. I consider screaming. Or opening the car door and ducking and rolling out, running to one of these houses and yelling for refuge.