by Naomi West
“You know him?” Katrin asked, surprised.
“I knowof him.”
She knew her father had connections in this town — he’d acquired his new general store, Pete’s Goods, through Rex — but it still surprised her that he knew Pistol.
Her dad folded his arms and leaned on the counter. “He’s a biker?”
“Yes,” she said hesitantly, unsure what her dad’s reaction to that would be.
He laughed. “So my baby’s got it bad for a bad boy, huh?”
“Dad!” She could feel herself blushing. “I’m not … all we did was talk.”
“You said he put the moves on you. That sounds like more than a friendly chat.”
She laughed too. It felt good — to find these happy moments they could share. There’d been too few of those since her mother had died. “It was just a chat. He’sreally not my type.”
“Hmm. Yes sir, I’d say my grandbaby’s finally on the way.” Leonard drummed his fingers on the counter.
“Oh my god, Dad.” There was a genuine edge of irritation in Katrin’s voice, beneath the playfulness. Her dad had wanted a grandchild for ages, but he’d become especially fixated on the idea after Katrin’s mother had died. As many times as Katrin told him she wasn’t ready yet — that she wanted to focus on her studies first — he continued to talk about the day he’d finally have a grandkid. He’d gotten really obsessive about it, to the point where Katrin no longer felt comfortable with the topic of conversation.
Leonard held up his hands, still grinning. “I’m just happy for you, that’s all. I’m glad you’re getting out, making friends.” His expression grew serious. “That’s important, you know. You’ve been too reclusive these past few months.”
“I know,” she said softly. It was true. It been hard, pulling the pieces of her life back together.
“Just be careful,” Leonard warned. “I don’t want you getting anywhere near a motorcycle.”
“Dad.”
He came to the table again and kissed the top of her head, like she was a little girl. “Those things are dangerous.” He took a step back, studied her just a moment too long. She wondered if he was seeing traces of Jess Smith in Katrin’s wide, hazel eyes, in her arched black brows. Her small, straight nose. People had always said Katrin was the spitting image of her mother.If only I had more of her personality, Katrin often thought.Her sense of adventure, her ability to make friends with anyone. People look at me, and they want to see her. Instead, they see me.
“I have to get ready,” her dad said abruptly.
“For what?” She was surprised. She’d assumed he’d want to stay in and finish unpacking. And then maybe they’d watch a movie or something.
“I have a little errand to run. Nothing too serious. I’ll be back in a little while.”
She wanted to ask what sort of errand, but Leonard was already heading down the hall to his bedroom, humming to himself. Probably he wanted to go do some more work on the store. He was determined to be open early next week.
She stayed at the table, staring at her phone, wondering if she should go out with Jenna.
What she really wanted to do was go back to Hammer and Nailed and look for Pistol — Jax Wilson — again.
But that was just silly.
Girls like her didn’t sleep with guys like Jax.
Girls like her stayed home and played nice.
Chapter Four
Ford let out a whoop as they dismounted in front of the clubhouse — an old brick building that had once been a slummy pub. It had originally been sandwiched between two drab, vinyl-sided houses, but the house on the right had been condemned and eventually bulldozed, leaving the Blackened Souls with neighbors on only one side. And the neighbors did so many drugs that the Souls had managed a pretty good live and let live arrangement with them over the past few years.
The Souls jostled one another through the door. Ford headed straight for the gun case and pulled out his black Ruger. Pistol reached past him for his Glock.
“We ain’t gonna need the big guns,” Deion said.
“No,” Pistol agreed, loading a new clip. “But they sure do look purdy.” He stuck the Glock in the back of his waistband.
Deion punched his arm.
Kong entered from the back room. “Good, you’re here,” he said brusquely.
“Man, how’d you even hear about this anyway?” Ford asked Kong. “Pistol was just about to get that girl’s drink thrown in his face. ’Rango and me was lookin’ forward to seeing it.”
“Bullshit,” Pistol said. “She was totally into me.”
Kong ignored them. “It’s the old patrol hut. I’m sending you three, plus Mica and Bones.”
Great. Bones was all right, but nineteen-year-old Mica felt like a tagalong kid brother sometimes. Kong swore Mica worshipped Pistol and Deion, but all Pistol saw when he looked at Mica was a sullen teenager, sent here to make his life hell.
“Been a while since we had to do a shakedown.” Ford shrugged into his battered brown jacket. “We takin’ any money? Am I finally getting my new bike?”
Kong glanced at him. “Stop the deal before any money changes hands. Give both parties seven kinds of hell, and then get out of there.” He turned his gaze on Pistol.
Pistol stuck a cigarette between his lips and flicked on his lighter. “Sounds easy enough.” He lit the cigarette and took a drag.
Kong gave him a long, hard look. “Be careful.”
Pistol blew a stream of smoke toward him. “I always am.”
“I’m serious, Jax. Don’t get reckless.”
Only Kong could call him by his real name and make him feel about eight years old. Pistol tried not to bristle. “Thought you said this was a simple shakedown.”
“It is. That doesn’t mean it’s okay to let your guard down.”
He didn’t answer.
“Don’t be reckless, Jax.”He’d heard that enough at age seventeen to last him a lifetime. “You’ve got potential, but you’re too brash. Learn some patience, some humility. It’ll serve you well.”
Kong thought he was some combo of Yoda and that old dude fromThe Karate Kid. And all right, maybe he’d been a better mentor to Jax than both of those combined. But Jax hadn’t heeded Kong’s words, not at that age. He’d gotten into every mess he could find — drugs, fights, petty theft. Not just to give himself a rush, but to dare Kong to get pissed, to kick him out.
He’d been so sure — so fuckin’ sure — that if he pushed hard enough, Kong would snap and beat the shit out of him. Put him out on his ass. Hell, there were a couple of times he’d half expected Kong to march him out to the bike shed and take his belt to him, the way Pistol’s mama had done all those years. But he never had. He’d lost his temper and snapped at Pistol every now and then, but he’d never raised a hand to him. And eventually Pistol had gotten it through his thick teenage skull that he wasn’t doing anyone any favors by acting like this. Especially not himself.
Maybe that was why he wasn’t a fan of Mica — too much like being followed by a shadow of his old self. A dumb, reckless kid who thought the world owed him something. Mica had been a stray like Pistol, like most of the Souls. And while Mica was his brother, and Pistol’d do whatever it took to defend him, sometimes he wished the kid would stay out of his way.
Out on the open road, Pistol tried to concentrate on the hum of the machine beneath him. The warm steel of his gun against the small of his back. But all he could think about was Katrin Smith.God, that smile…
Jesus, what was wrong with him? He’d never gotten sappy about a girl’s smile before. If he couldn’t bang her tonight, he’d bang her some other night. Simple as that.
Eventually the sense of freedom overtook him. The desert flashed past, deep purples and blues in the dusk. He loved it out here — nothing but scrub and cacti, coyotes and owls. Deion rode up beside him. The sand kicked up by his Harley stung Pistol through his jeans. Deion revved his engine, and Pistol revved back. They raced across the sa
nd, Deion pulling ahead, then Pistol, then Deion… Bones and Ford were off to the left somewhere, and Mica brought up the rear. Pistol was never happier than when he was riding with his brothers.
The Blackened Souls had run Rialto and the surrounding towns for the past twelve years. And Kong had guarded this territory even further back than that. Rialto had once been a hotbed of corruption — cocaine, weapons, massage parlor brothels… Kong and a few buddies had run the worst of the riffraff out of town, leaving behind only themselves and the other crims who might come in useful to them.
They’d formed the Blackened Souls — a close-knit group of six that had expanded quickly. At the same time the Souls worked their magic, gentrification was beginning in Rialto. Pretty soon, the Souls didn’t have much to worry about except a little shit here and there from rival gangs. Jaws’s boys were still trouble on occasion, but mostly the Blackened Souls owned this town. Over the past year or so, that had shifted again. Crime was making a comeback around Rialto, and the Souls had to work hard to ensure that they controlled the crime industry here.
They eventually reached the abandoned border control hut where Kong had said the deal was going down. Statewide budget cuts had meant a few hundred feet of border went unmonitored. This spot had been a hotbed of drug-related activity ever since someone had mowed down a section of barbed wire border fence last month. The bikers skidded to a stop. Pistol leapt off his Honda, and the others dismounted too.
They stashed the bikes in the hut and took up positions in and around the rundown building — Deion and Pistol at the front, and Ford at the back. Bones and Mica had taken up posts behind some scraggly shrubs outside.
“Ah.” Pistol stretched out on the floor of the hut, head near the tire of his cruiser, hands laced on his stomach. “Feels like home.”
Ford snorted. “Lazy bastard. Some stakeout.”
“Hey. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Ford snorted again. “You ain’t ever done what I tell you a day in your life.”
That was actually true. Ford was no Kong when it came to commanding respect and obedience. Pistol spied a small stone near his head and batted it in Ford’s direction.
“Nothin’ to do,” Deion said, flashing Pistol a grin. “Except wait for our boys.”
###
After two hours, Pistol’s ass was numb and he was about to crawl out of his own skin with boredom. “Jesus fuck,” he muttered to Deion. “You think Kong got his shit mixed up?”
“Relax,” Deion said. “Kong ain’t senile yet.”
No, he wasn’t. Kong was as sharp as the day Pistol had met him.
He had an uncomfortable memory of himself at seventeen, bristling with rage — at his father, at his teachers, at anyone who dared come between him and his carefully cultivated teenage angst.
Kong had been as quick with a cuff to the back of the head as he was with a compliment, and eventually, Pistol had settled down. Getting his first bike had helped. A beat-to-crap old Yamaha, but a bike all the same. Freedom. An escape route. Something to take care of. He’d worked his ass off at the auto shop — and part-time at McDonalds — to pay for that thing. It was still in the clubhouse garage. Still ran okay too.
“He’s just sayin’ he could be balls deep in pussy right now.” Ford’s voice. He was standing over Pistol and Deion, who were seated on the floor.
“Ford, what’re you doing here?” Deion demanded. “Get back to your post. We need a lookout in back.”
“I’m bored as fuck. And my post is only about fifty feet from yours.”
“Jesus, you’re an idiot,” Deion muttered.
“What, you wanted some space to make out?”
“Shut up,” Pistol said, whacking at Ford’s calf.
“You two, thick as thieves, and me always getting sent off to the corner to play by myself. You know it’s true.”
Deion leaned his head back on the wall. “What is this, middle school?”
“Aww, Ford, we love you.” Pistol laughed, tugging Ford’s pant leg. “C’mere and get a noogie.”
“Get off!”
“We’re definitely not inviting him on our ride next week,” Pistol said.
“Oh, for sure,” Deion agreed. “We’re not even gonna tell him about it.”
Ford shook his head. “I’m leaving you two ladies to your sleepover.”
“What’s going on?” Suddenly Mica was there too.
“Hey, kid.” Pistol’s voice was sharp. “Get back to your post.”
“Gimme a smoke.”
Ford laughed, wheezing slightly. “Listen to him. ‘Gimme a smoke.’”
Pistol handed him a Camel. “Keep it out of sight.”
“No shit.” Mica knelt. Stuck the cigarette between his lips and accepted a light off Pistol. Took a drag and choked. Ford couldn’t stop laughing.
“Aw, kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” Mica snapped, leaning back against the wall. The effect of his glare was kinda fucked up by the coughing fit. “So what, you guys are thinking about a ride?”
“Maybe,” Pistol said. “You’re too young, though.” He liked getting under the kid’s skin.
“Fuck off.”
Ford and Deion oohed.
“You need to respect your elders,” Pistol said mildly, lighting his own cigarette.
“Hey!” Deion hissed. “Someone’s coming.”
A rust-colored pickup approached. They ducked and stubbed out their cigarettes as the headlights flashed in their eyes. They slowly rose again as the lights were killed. In the moonlight, they could see several dark figures leap from the truck. The figures were speaking Spanish in low voices. They had duffel bags and guns.
Big guns.
“Shit,” Ford said. “This is serious.”
Pistol watched grimly as one of the guys opened a duffel and started counting bricks of cocaine.
“Think we should call for backup?” Ford asked.
Pistol’s answer was “no.” The more dangerous the situation, the more he loved it. But he wasn’t about to endanger his brothers unless they all agreed to it.
Deion shook his head. “No. I wanna party.” He signaled Mica to stay still.
“Yeah,” Ford agreed. “You’re right. We got this. Just gotta wait for the rest of the party to show up.”
A few minutes later, another car pulled up. A sleek black BMW. It stopped and shut off. A tall, slender white man got out. He dusted off his old but elegant suit jacket and surveyed the situation, then went over to talk to the Mexicans. He glanced inside one of the duffel bags, then the conversation continued, too low for the Souls to hear.
“All right, cowboys,” Deion adjusted his holster. “Let’s go set these amigos straight.”
Pistol yanked his weapon out of his pants. Ford had drawn his smaller Ruger, and Deion had one hand on the butt of his Smith & Wesson. Yeah, Pistol’s Glock was bigger than what the other two were packing. So sue him — he liked big toys. He felt the familiar rush of power and righteousness as he approached the group. They all turned as a unit, and a couple of them stumbled back. Others reached for their guns. “Easy fellas,” he called. “We don’t want any trouble.”
Mica and Deion fanned out behind him, weapons drawn. Deion trained his on the white man, who seemed to be in charge of this show.
Two of the guys shouted in Spanish.
Pistol went on. “This is Blackened Souls territory, and we won’t hesitate to defend it. I would suggest all of you get in your vehicles and leave before things get ugly.”
Instead of turning tail, the Mexicans became more agitated.
“C’mon!” Mica had appeared with his Colt. His voice was tense. “Get out while your kneecaps’re still intact.”
“Jesus, kid,” Pistol muttered to him. “Take it easy.”
“Whose fuckin’ side are you on anyway?” Mica shot back.
“Hey!” Ford said.
“Gentlemen,” the white man said calmly. He fixed his gaze on Pistol. “Is there a prob
lem?” He asked in a low, pleasant voice.
“Yeah,” Pistol said. “There is. This is Souls’ territory.”
“Is that so?” The man sounded more curious than anything.
“Yeah, asshole, get your hands up where I can see them.”
“Pistol,” Ford warned in a whisper. “I don’t like this.”
The white man simply cocked his head, staring at Pistol. The moonlight gave his silver hair a ghostly glow.
