Hard Time (Hard as Nails #1)

by Hope Conrad

  I hesitate briefly, caught off guard by feelings of relief and homecoming, before I squeeze him back. Then I grab his shoulder and hold him at arm’s length. “Jesus, you’re huge.” Jericho had always been fit, but now his shoulders are wide with muscles. His arms ripple with strength. The black t-shirt he wears under his cut hugs his defined chest and stomach.

  He smiles behind the stubble on his face. “I’ve been working out.”

  Working out? Right. Jericho isn’t a gym rat. Years of running Nailed Garage by himself, on the other hand, has obviously done him well.

  “The place looks good.” I nod to the building.

  “Yeah, we keep it clean.” He pats me on the back and walks me into the shop.

  It looks the same. The floor is nearly spotless. The wall still sports logos of the manufacturers and parts companies we’d scored contracts with when we opened the place. The back wall is still lined with workbenches and toolboxes. There are a few more toolboxes out on the floor than I remember, and he obviously has plenty of people working for him now.

  I suck in a breath when I see my bike parked in the corner. I stride up to it, running my fingers across the seat. It’s a custom chopper, a T-5 Blackie by Zero Engineering with everything blacked out and taller bars. It looks bad ass and is a sweet ride, and I fight the urge to hop on and take it for a spin.

  Again, not why I’m here.

  “You’ve kept it in great shape,” I say, my voice harsh with the emotion I’m trying to keep in check.

  Jericho snorts. “Like I wouldn’t. Knew you’d be back for it one day. I’m hoping it’s today.”

  It’s not. “Jericho, I—”

  “Street.”

  I turn to see Slate and Davis now standing next to Jericho. Slate, a successful defense attorney, is wearing a smooth black suit with his dark hair slicked back. Davis, a wizard with money and computers, is in a bright blue button-down shirt and gray pants, his hair closely cropped with blonde waves.

  I’m a little disappointed to see them dressed in their professional attire. They look as far from garage owners or motorcycle riders as one can get, and they’re passing up a perfectly good opportunity to take a walk down memory lane.

  I hold out my hand to Slate first, wondering if he’ll leave me hanging.

  Instead, he smiles his usual cunning smile and grabs me around the shoulders.

  “Family doesn’t shake hands.”

  We embrace.

  “It’s good to see you,” I say as I pull back.

  “Good to see you, Brother,” Davis says with a quick, one-armed embrace, keeping his other hand in his pocket.

  I’m not surprised they greet me with ease—of all of us, Jericho has always been the hothead. Axel came in a close second, something he apparently got under control when he joined the Marines six months before I’d been arrested.

  “How’s Axel?”

  “Up to speed. Doing great. Wishes he could be here. Wants to catch up when he can get some leave.”

  I nod, even though I doubt that will happen.

  Jericho frowns as if he can read my mind. “Let’s head back to the meeting room,” he says.

  We walk through the office to a little hallway that leads to the back room, which is warmly lit with floor lamps in the corners. A long boardroom table sits in the middle of the room with four chairs around it. Pictures of the MC hang on the walls. We’d taken a picture in front of the garage every year that it was open. I see the three on the wall in which I’m absent, and it stings like a motherfucker.

  “Beer?” Jericho offers.

  I shake my head, reminding myself I’m here for information only. Not to be brought back in to the fold. “I can’t stay long.”

  “Got someone special to see?”

  The way Davis says this makes me narrow my eyes. And, of course, I instantly think of Katie.

  “I just need to know if what Trevor told me is true. Did you indenture yourselves to King again because of me?”

  They exchange looks and and I know the truth even before Jericho says, “Yes.

  I close my eyes. Clench my fists. Grit my teeth. I’d prepared, but the blow still kills. “God damn it. Why?”

  “You know why. You’re our brother. You shook us off, but we were going to help you no matter what.”

  Opening my eyes, I stare at them all, and guilt swamps me for dragging them back into the shit with me. “You shouldn’t have—”

  “We survived our fucked up childhoods together at Thornbridge,” Davis says. “We’re going to survive our fucked up adulthoods together.”

  “Whether you like it or not,” Slate adds.

  “You went to prison for Trevor,” Jericho snapped. “You really think we’d leave you hanging in the wind?”

  “That was my choice,” I shout.

  “And this was ours,” Jericho says. “And we did it because, unlike Trevor, we know you’d ride a sinking ship for any of us if we needed you.”

  “What I want to know is why Trevor told you this shit now? After all this time?” Slate interjects.

  “He needed my help again.”

  “And of course you gave it,” Davis murmurs with a shake of his head.

  “Not this time.”

  They all look shocked.

  All except Slate, who nods. “Because you’ve got someone to fight for now. The girl who works in the book store. The girl you had me look up.”

  By the looks of understanding on Jericho and Davis’s faces, I know Slate shared the favor he did for me. “I’m not going there.”

  “Why? You fuck things up?” Davis taunts.

  I did. And because I’m pissed at myself more than Davis, I punch my fist into my palm, then whirl around, heading for the door.

  “Don’t leave me here with these suits, Brother,” Jericho pleads.

  I whirl around. “I didn’t ask for your help!”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “We didn’t have a choice,” Slate said. “You were going away for a decade. King could stop that. End of story.”

  “You’re one of us.”

  “I’m fucked up. I fucked up and got myself sent off to prison. And I fucked up again. Katie, the woman from the bookstore? She put herself out for me, too. And I fucked her over. But she’s better off without me. So are you.”

  I turn to leave again, but this time Slate steps in front of me.

  “You fucked things up?” he says. “Then un-fuck them, Street.”

  “I can’t. I don’t even know where to begin.” I glance around the room. Each one of my friends looks ready to run after me if I try to leave.

  Davis has unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and rolled them back, revealing the gold watch he wore on his wrist. He stands with his fingertips touching the table, as if that tiny connection to the furniture is all that is holding him back from tackling me.

  Slate stands with his hands loosely by his side, ready for anything.

  Jericho’s arms are crossed in front of his chest in a commanding gesture.

  “Look,” Jericho says. “The work we do, we keep it under control. A lot of it’s illegal, but King knows better than to ask us to do anything violent or to hurt the innocent. Slate’s been defending his associates. Davis hides funds. And King’s been running stolen cars through Nailed for their parts. But now that you’re out, we’re nearing the end of our arrangement with the Boss.”

  “You’re deluding yourselves. King will extend your contracts.”

  “He’ll try,” Slate says. “We know that. We’ll figure things out. All that matters is your back.”

  “I’m back. Big-fucking-whoop-de-do.” I pace the room. Run my hands through my hair.

  “You remember how good it felt to pay King off for the garage?” Jericho asks.

  I stop pacing and nod, remembering how free we’d felt at that point. Our lives had been straight for a moment. A brief moment.

  “It felt great, didn’t it? We didn’t have to worry about King calling and trying
to pull us back in,” Jericho continues. “We did it ourselves, together.”

  “And we’ll do it again. Together,” Davis says.

  Those are bold words, I think, but I feel them settle inside me. Calming me. They sound so certain… My eyes meet Slate’s.

  Slate and I had been a team working for King. We knew exactly what he’d asked from each of us.

  “The point is,” Slate says, “we’ve done what we had to in order to get you out. And we’re going to keep doing what we have to do so that you can focus on that beautiful woman you’ve got.” He claps a hand on my shoulder.

  “Guys, I’m not a charity case,” I said, shrugging Davis’s hand off my shoulder.

  “It’s not charity,” Slate argues. “It’s family. We’re all family, and we’re not going anywhere. If you need us, we’re here.”

  I remain quiet for several seconds. Struggle with my determination to stay isolated. Then say what I really want to say. After all, what’s done is done. I can’t change what they did no matter how much I wish I could. All I can do is look to the future. “I’m here, too,” I tell them. “If there’s anything I can do to repay you, or if you need me for anything, you guys obviously know where to find me.”

  Jericho laughs. “You can repay us by getting out of here and fixing things with your woman.”

  Slate and Davis make similar comments.

  And I know they’re right.

  Seeing my friends again? Knowing that all this time they’ve had my back?

  It makes me feel clean in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

  But not anywhere as clean as I feel when I’m with Katie.

  I have to find a way to fix things with her. And maybe talking with my friends will help me sort my head out and come up with some kind of plan.

  “How about we share that beer before I go?”

  We all grin at each other.

  By the time I leave, it’s dark out, and the golden glow of the lights hanging from the rafters under the metal roof follow me out to the lot. I refused to take my bike—not yet. Because freedom on the road will be elusive so long as I don’t have Katie to come home to. My head’s down, and I’m still racking my brain trying to come up with a plan to get Katie back (because apologizing and then fucking her until she gets how much I care, like the guys joked I should do, isn’t going to cut it) when I hear a shout behind me.

  “Street. Street!”

  It’s Jericho. He’s out of breath from running after me.

  I immediately jog toward him. “What is it?”

  Jericho looks grim. And part of me knows what he’s going to say before he says it.

  “It’s Trevor. He’s dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Katie

  I stand with my body propped against the bookshelves, lost in a daze as I stare out the front window of the store. The sun shines bright and hot as it begins to set in the early evening sky. Blue clouds fade into the pink sky as I wait for I don’t even know what.

  After Street’s outburst, he didn’t come to work the next day or the day after that. Today is the third day he’s missed. I’ve been able to cover for him, but George’s patience is wearing thin. I told him Street was sick, too sick to show up for work. I told him that if Street came in here with the flu, I’d catch it too, and then George himself would be forced to work.

  That seemed to do the trick the first two days, but like I said, his patience is running out fast. Tomorrow will be a new day, and if Street doesn’t show, then I can’t see him having a job any longer. I tried to text him to tell him as much, and even left a few voicemails pleading that he talk to me. That he help me understand what scared him so much that he ran.

  I had hoped he would go home, get over whatever the hell it was that was bothering him, and return to me, because that seems to be his MO. He gets over things quickly. That’s not the case here, and as the monotonous hours tick by, I lose more and more faith.

  It’s a soul-crushing blow.

  At first I was hurt, but soon enough that hurt faded into anger. Street could make this all go away just by coming back to me and explaining. But he doesn’t.

  I don’t trust men in general, but I’d forced myself to believe Street was different. I’d been fooling myself. Dee had been right, and now he’s left me standing alone looking like an idiot. The more I think about it, the angrier I get.

  I shake my head and turn to walk down the long aisle of the bookstore. I need to get to work, to do something productive to take my mind off of Street. It won’t be an easy task, but I can’t stand here and do nothing. I pass by the row of books where he had first propositioned me. The memories race through my mind. I remember how I felt back then, and how I feel right now—powerless. But back then, the lack of power I felt was freeing; after Street left me, I just feel weak.

  But I am not weak.

  I won’t be weak.

  And I’m not going to let him end things like this.

  He’s being the clown in the moon again, shutting out his past so completely that he can’t even remember us and all the good we’ve shared.

  If he truly wants things to be over, he’s going to sit down and talk to me until I’m convinced and I decide to let him go.

  I take risks and so does he. He’s not going to change that.

  I’m not going to let him.

  * * *

  I pace back and forth down the hall of Street’s apartment. I’m torn between knocking on his door and running away. The prelude to a confrontation is a funny thing—I had pumped myself up and prepared for the fallout. As the confrontation draws closer, however, I find myself second guessing and feeling afraid.

  But I need answers. He’s the first man I ever considered taking home to meet my family after Brett. He made me fall for him. I didn’t have a choice, and the second I gave him what we both had been wanting, he turns and bolts?

  Fuck that.

  It wasn’t like I’d asked him to marry me. And I understood being scared of commitment. Who isn’t? Still, you don’t treat someone you claim to love like this.

  You don’t run and give them the silent treatment.

  That’s for cowards.

  Street isn’t a coward and neither am I.

  I pound my fist against the door in a series of knocks. After about twenty seconds of him not answering the door, I knock again.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Abruptly, he opens the door, and I take a step back in alarm.

  I barely recognize him.

  He’s unshaven and his hair is tussled like he hasn’t showered in days. There’s a combination of liquor and beer on his breath. He looks dangerous, but I know better.

  He’d never hurt me.

  “Just go away, Katie,” he says.

  “No.” I move to enter his apartment, but he blocks my path with his arm. No problem. I duck under his arm and rush inside. He spins to face me with a disapproving glare.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m getting answers.”

  “I didn’t realize there were any questions.”

  “You’re an asshole. You’re also wrong. You left me with a whole lot of questions. Starting with, What the hell? And proceeding to, Why haven’t you been to work? Aren’t you concerned about losing your job?”

  “No, not really. It was boring anyway.”

  He’s trying to piss me off, and it’s working, but I won’t let him see me sweat. He’s playing a twisted, devious game, but I’m going to play it right back at him. At least that was my plan. Then he walks to the counter and picks up a beer bottle and calmly takes a sip.

  I’m not even sure why, but I lose it. I lunge at him and rip the bottle from his hand. When he tries to steal it back from me, I throw it against the floor hard enough so it shatters on the kitchen linoleum.

  “Damn it, you’re out of control,” he growls.

  “And what else is new, Thomas?” I step toward him, showing him that I’m not afraid of him. “I’ve been
out of control since I first saw you in that prison. And you know what? I’m glad.”

  “Yeah?” He smirks before his palms level at my hips and he twists my body so that he’s behind me, with his mouth pressed against my neck. It’s his preferred position for dominating me. “Why did you come here, Princess?”

  “You know why,” I seethe back at him and try to pull away.

  But he’s too strong, and he pushes me forward and against the wall. He’s tight against me, his body on mine. His breath quickens, and warm air lands against my ear. “Is this what you came here for?” he growls and begins to run his palm underneath my shirt. “Admit it. You came here because you missed my cock.”

  “You’re wrong—”

  He bites into my neck as one hand gropes my breast from beneath my shirt. “Stop,” I command him, but there’s no conviction in my voice. I don’t want him to stop.

  He’s right. I’ve missed this. Missed the feel of him inside me.

  “Stop…” I repeat, trying to keep things on track.

  “Really now?” He nibbles against my ear.

  “That’s what I said,” I grunt against the wall.

  “Fine.” He pulls his hand from beneath my shirt and steps away. I twist to face him. He takes a measured step back and points to the door. “Then leave, because that’s all you’ll get from me.”

  “Street, let’s talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” He reaches for my arm and pulls me to the door, but I break away from him.

  “Stop this!” I scream. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I know you. You’re scared and you’re running, but you have to let me in.”

  He bows his head. “You need to leave.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I say, holding firm to my resolve.

  When he still doesn’t look at me, just continues to stare at the floor with a devastatingly blank expression on his face, I start ripping at my clothes.

  His head snaps up.

  “What are you—”

  “You said this is all I’ll get from you? Then fine. Because you once told me you’d take anything you could get from me. I feel the same way. If fucking is all I can get from you, then do it.”