Riot (Rebel Riders MC Book 2)

by Zahra Girard

Church starts and, after an hour of numbers, figures, and projects that makes me feel like I’m back in high school flunking algebra all over again, I’m pretty sure I’m right. This is torture.

  “For fuck’s sake, Riot, at least show a little fucking interest, will ya?” Bull glares at me from across the table. There’s a sheet of paper on the table in front of him, it’s loaded down with figures and projections.

  “Sorry, Bull,” I say, shifting in my seat and forcing myself to look more interested.

  Truth is, I don’t give a damn beyond hearing that my club — my family — is doing well. I leave it to others like Thrash or Micro or Wrench to parse the numbers.

  At least this time Bull’s just reading the facts off a damn sheet of paper. A few months ago, when he was going over his plan for our grow op, he had a whole PowerPoint presentation.

  I don’t think I’ve ever slept better than that meeting.

  “Alright, back to business,” Bull begins, before launching back into his dollars and cents sermon.

  “Don’t worry, brother,” Thrash says, leaning over to whisper to me. “I’ll fill you in later if there’s anything important.”

  “Thanks, brother,” I reply. “I thought I’d left this math shit behind once I’d got my GED.”

  “Don’t fall asleep, Riot,” Duke says, leaning over from my other side. There’s an eager tone in his voice that a makes me perk up in my seat. Duke was in line for the enforcer’s position in our club, just like I was, and it was even odds between us about who would’ve gotten it… if we’d been up against anyone other than Creole. “There’s more than fucking math on the agenda for church tonight. You heard the rumors out of Redwood City?”

  Thrash frowns. “No. What’s up?”

  “Murders. Plural. Shady shit, too.”

  That’s got my attention. Action. Maybe a shot to redeem myself to the club and ease my guilty conscience. “Why would Bull make us sit through this algebra shit first?”

  “Because, Riot, if I covered the exciting shit first, there’s no way in hell you’d pay attention to anything else,” Bull practically bellows from the other end of the room. “This grow op is our most significant venture. More important than the strip club, more important than our bar, more important than the auto shop. The grow op brings in cash — a lot of fucking cash — and it’s money we can’t directly put into the banking system because pot is still against federal fucking law. So no banks will touch it. But we can put that cash towards other shit, like guns, ammo, military hardware, you fucking name it, and that shit is stuff we can sell. Even overseas. Or at least, we could until a couple days ago.”

  “What happened?” Duke says. He’s leaning forward, just like I am.

  But while I’m eager for the chance to do something good for my club, Duke is always in for action of any kind.

  Hawk gestures for Bull to take a seat and then he stands, slapping his two meaty fists on the table and leaning forward. “Two days ago, someone killed the guys we keep on payroll at the port in Redwood City. Bob Richardson and Dan Scaravino. Dan was found in his home with his throat cut. Bob was found in the parking lot at the Port’s offices with half a dozen bullets in his head. This was a fucking hit. They were killed within hours of each other.”

  “Shit. Who the hell did we piss off in Redwood?” Thrash says.

  “No one. Reaper’s Sons don’t have a chapter in Redwood. Bob and Dan were both a bunch of middle-managing fuckheads who lived lives blander than fucking oatmeal. Most exciting event in Bob’s month is probably the night he gets his wife drunk enough on boxed wine to give him a half-hearted handjob. Which is why they were on our fucking payroll, because boring doesn’t arouse suspicion.”

  “Boring don’t arouse their wives, either, apparently,” Thrash says.

  Hawk chuckles, then continues on. “Dan falsified cargo manifests for our shipments, and Bob kept the records in the head office clear — and they’ve been working for us for nearly ten years. And now they’re both dead, which puts our business on the back foot. We need to figure this shit out.”

  “Looks like we need to set a few fires, yeah? See what kind of rats we can flush out?” Creole says. He sounds like he could do shit like this in his sleep and with his hands tied. And maybe he does. I don’t think there’s anyone at the table, except for maybe Hawk, who knows Creole’s full story. The man is a mystery and a half and he never talks about his past. Out of everyone at the table, Creole looks the most relaxed. The world could be ending around him and he’d treat it as just another Sunday.

  But I’m on the edge of my seat.

  Whoever killed these two men has something in for my club and I don’t let threats slide when it comes to my brothers. I’ll leave the business side of things to someone else, but when it comes to busting heads, that’s my forte.

  Hell, that’s my fucking life.

  This is the chance I’ve been waiting for.

  My hands ball into fists and I know, one way or another, I have to get in on this mission. A shot at a good brawl and the chance to prove myself to the club without dealing with fucking math and shit? Fuck yeah, sign me the fuck up.

  “Our man inside Redwood City PD, Officer Fischer, says they think they have a witness,” Bull says, pulling another sheet of paper out of a manila folder he’s got on the table in front of him. He passes it around. “This little number made a 9-1-1 call from her desk around the time our old friend Bob ate a bunch of fucking bullets. Then she hung up. The bitch knows something. She’s our best shot at finding out who has it in for us. Creole, Duke, I want the two of you to go talk to her, find out what she knows. And, if she knows too much, you know what to do.”

  The paper makes its way to me and Jesus fucking Christ. Wild red hair, pale skin, freckles, full ‘fuck me’ lips set in a tense expression, and a set of scared green eyes that has me torn between wanting to protect whoever the hell this Emma Harper woman is and wanting to fuck her until those green eyes roll back in her head.

  It’s her fucking driver’s license photo and it’s hotter than any porn I’ve ever seen.

  I have to get in on this.

  “I want in,” I blurt out.

  Bull turns to look at me.

  Hawk turns to look at me, too.

  Hell, the whole fucking club is staring at me.

  “You what?” Bull says.

  I’d stand up — it’s probably the right thing to do to drive home just how serious I am — except I’m sporting the biggest fucking hard-on I’ve had in my life.

  All from a fucking driver’s license picture.

  “I want in,” I repeat.

  “Why?” Bull replies.

  Think, Riot.

  I yank my eyes away from the photo of this Emma chick and look over at Creole and Duke, and the answer hits me. “Look, this chick looks spooked. I mean, this picture was taken at the fucking DMV, the most boring place on earth, and she looks like she’s staring down the barrel of a gun. Duke doesn’t have the patience to deal with someone like that and Creole would probably scare the shit out of her. No offense, Creole.”

  “None taken, brother,” he answers. “You’re speaking’ the truth.”

  “So, what, Riot, you want me to send you because she’s more likely to want to share her feelings with you?” Hawk retorts.

  I shake my head. “Not that, Hawk. But I guarantee you she’ll feel more safe with me. We want her to talk, not run away.” I can tell he’s wavering, but I need to give him a little bit more of a push before he’ll really give in. “It’ll be better for our business if she cooperates quick. Think of all the time and money we’ll lose if we have to chase some crazy chick all over Redwood City.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Thrash give me an approving nod.

  “Fine. You’re in. The three of you ride out as soon as church is over.”

  I sit back down and put my focus back on the paper. There’s a story in those scared eyes and I’m going to get every word of it from those full lips.<
br />
  And then I’ll see just what else she can do with that mouth of hers.

  When this is all over, she’s going to be mine.

  Chapter Three

  Emma

  “Ma’am, it’s Redwood City Police, would you open the door, please?”

  It’s the third time they’ve asked and I haven’t moved from my spot at the kitchen counter of my tiny, bottom-floor duplex apartment. I’ve got a glass of red wine — my third of the night — clutched in my shaky hand and the wheels in my head are spinning and going nowhere.

  Somehow, and I don’t care how, I just want to make them go away. I don’t want to be involved. I just want to go into work Monday like nothing happened, do my job like I do every day, and come back to my apartment that, even though it is a dump, is all mine.

  I don’t care about that dead asshole Bob Richardson or that other guy the news mentioned, Dan Scaravino, whose name was on all those messed-up cargo manifests.

  “We know you’re in there. The best thing to do, if you want to get this over quick, is to just talk to us.”

  It’s a different guys voice this time.

  Nearest I can tell, there’s two of them out there and they sound like they’re already working the good cop bad cop routine.

  That or one of them really is just a colossal asshole.

  Probably the latter.

  “We’ll come back here with a warrant if we have to, and then we’ll break your fucking door down,” the asshole one calls out. “Stop fucking around and answer the damned door.”

  And I know he’ll do it, too, just based on how he sounds. It’ll be a power-trip for him. He probably has a hero-cop fantasy.

  “Fine, I’m coming, you don’t have to be a dick about it,” I yell.

  I pound my wine and pray that I’m drunk enough to have a little patience.

  I throw the door open.

  They’re standing out there. Officer Brodeur and Officer Fischer, judging by the little nameplates they’re wearing under their badges. Officer Brodeur looks kinder, like he’s still got a bit of idealism in him. He even hands me a little card with his name and phone number on it. Meanwhile, Officer Fischer definitely looks the part of the asshole, with his goatee and his three-donut gut and the scowl on his face.

  When he opens his mouth, he proves me right.

  “About time. Really wasn’t looking forward to breaking your door down, ma’am. Now, are you going to let us in so we can have a conversation about the murder you witnessed?”

  “Wait here,” I say, leaving the door open as I turn around and head back to my kitchen.

  I was wrong about having enough wine in me to deal with these two.

  I pour a glass to the brim and walk back to my open front door.

  “Ma’am, please, we have some questions we need to ask you,” Officer Brodeur says.

  I just hold up one finger for him to wait while I take a long drink of wine.

  When the glass is empty, I take a deep breath.

  “How can I help you, officers?”

  “Can we come inside?” Officer Fischer says impatiently.

  “How about no?” I answer. “You can talk to me from outside.”

  Officer Fischer’s nostrils flare and he looks like he’s about to say something that’ll get my door slammed in his face when Officer Brodeur puts a calming hand on his shoulder.

  “We have reason to believe you might’ve witnessed a murder that took place at the offices of the Port of Redwood City,” he starts.

  I cut him off. “What gives you reason to believe that?”

  “You hadn’t punched out on the time clock when the murder took place. Additionally, there was a 9-1-1 call placed from your desk line,” Officer Brodeur says. He’s got a calming voice, like he could be the DJ for a radio station that played elevator music and smooth jazz.

  “So why don’t you tell us what you saw and save us all this fucking around?” Officer Fischer adds.

  I give him a cutting look.

  Officer Brodeur gives him a cutting look, too. I like him.

  Then, I turn from the door and head back to the kitchen. I need a refill on patience.

  I take my time.

  I take a long time.

  First, I call my friend, Hannah. She doesn’t pick up — which isn’t a surprise, given it’s late on a Sunday evening and she’s got work tomorrow — but I leave her a message anyway. She’s probably still up, at least.

  “Hey, it’s me. I have a bit of an emergency and I need to talk to you and sort of get your advice. Can you meet me at The Bluestone Room for drinks? It won’t take long, I just sort of need someone right now. Call me back when you get this, okay?”

  Then, important business taken care of, I fill my glass and stroll slowly back to the front door. The look on Officer Fischer’s face is almost delicious.

  I position myself carefully at the front door and take another nice long drink, watching Officer Fischer grow redder every second. There’s a vein on his forehead that is bulging so hard I think he’s about to have a coronary.

  When my glass is empty, I put my free hand on the door and give the two of them my smarmiest smile. “Sorry gentlemen, I can’t help you.”

  Then I slam the door in their faces.

  There’s no way in hell I’m getting involved.

  * * * * *

  “Do you have a lawyer?” Hannah looks at me pointedly and her voice is no-nonsense serious.

  I shake my head. “No, not yet.”

  The Bluestone room is a loud, rollicking mess around us. Sunday night — just like every other night — is live music night. Tonight’s act is a classic rock act in the style of Queen, except they don’t really have the talent to even wear the crown at a homecoming football game.

  Still, the noise is perfect cover to conceal our conversation from eavesdropping, if nothing else.

  “You need a lawyer. If you aren’t careful, the police will be like the worst boyfriend you’ve ever had. They’ll ignore everything you say while fucking you dry and expecting you to salute them for the effort. They’re not your friends, Em.”

  “I know that,” I say.

  I know all about how little cops can actually give a shit about a person.

  “So, first thing first, you get a lawyer. They’re going to give a shit about you because you’re paying them. Then you have your lawyer talk to the cops for you.”

  “You know I can’t afford a lawyer.”

  “My cousin Janet works as an assistant at a law firm. She can help you find someone. And if you need help covering it, I’ll take care of that.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I have no doubt she will and I don’t feel the least bit guilty about accepting Hannah’s help. Hannah’s my closest friend and she has a job at some Silicon Valley firm that comes along with a nebulous job title and an obscene paycheck.

  Talking to her always helps put things in perspective and makes me feel empowered when the world seems like it wants to fuck me over.

  “You still have that officer’s card, right? That Brodeur guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And he’s the one who isn’t the asshole?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What you should do is call him, tell him that you’ll consider giving a statement, but you need to consult with your lawyer first.”

  “Tonight?”

  She nods. “Tonight.”

  “Are you sure about this?” I say, hesitating. I’m at that where I’ve had enough wine to be open to bad decisions, but not enough that I’m able to ignore consequences.

  Hannah gestures to my empty glass and then to the half-empty carafe of wine on our table. “Have another drink, first. Then call. The sooner you let them know what’s up, the sooner they’ll get off your back. I mean, what can it hurt?”

  I start to pour, only stopping when the wine hits the rim.

  “Sure, what can it hurt?”

  Turns out, it can hurt quite a lot.

  Chapter Four


  Riot

  “You sure this is the place?”

  I look over at Creole questioningly. We’ve been here for a few hours already, staked out a fair distance from a shitty duplex in a shitty neighborhood in the shit town of Redwood City, and there hasn’t been a single bit of motion or sign of life in the place we’re supposed to be watching.

  Creole shrugs. “Our boy Officer Fischer was pretty specific. This woman got him all worked up, even slammed the door in his face. So it stands to reason he’d remember the place, you know?”

  “She shut a door in Fischer’s face? I like this bitch already,” Duke says.

  I grunt something in agreement and keep my eyes glued to Emma’s duplex.

  “You know, if we have to talk to Fischer, I’m going to vote ‘yes’ this time,” Creole says, lounging against his bike while he smokes a cigarette.

  Officer Fischer’s been a club asset for years, though everyone in the MC hates him because he’s a gigantic asshole. It seems like at least once a year, anytime someone from the club actually has to get close to him to deal with some business, there’s a vote that comes up about whether or not we should just kill him. It usually fails by a single vote.

  “Same here,” Duke adds.

  “Yeah, me too,” I add.

  “She’s been out a long fucking time,” Duke says, checking the clock on his phone and then looking over at Creole. It’s well past one in the morning. “You think it’s necessary for all three of us to watch for this bitch? We should split it into shifts so the rest of us can get some fucking shuteye.”

  “You guys go. I’ll handle this,” I say, not even turning away from looking at Emma’s place. “Find some hotel to crash, text me the address. I’ll call you guys if anything comes up.”

  “You sure about that, Riot?” Creole says.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Fair enough. Duke, let’s roll,” he says.

  The two of them leave and soon enough I’m there all alone, lurking in the bushes on a dead-quiet street watching an empty duplex.

  Not the best way to spend a night.