“Guy named Crispin Marwick. I know, real douchey, stiff-upper-lip name, huh? I’ve never dealt directly with him but I’ve seen him a few times. Don’t know why a guy would come all the way from England only to get stuck in charge of a few trading posts, bars, and a bowling alley. He covers that whole Valley of Fire area up to Elgin and Caliente where the biggest problem is litter and drunks on the shoulder.” It was sort of weird. She thought she recalled that douchey name from a couple of years ago, but in connection with some Strip incidents. So why’d he get transferred to Podunk? She knew she’d never seen him in the Drawing Board, their favorite haunt out 604 and under his jurisdiction.
Bettina swiveled her torso. The outer door had banged shut like the final verdict in a serial killer’s trial, and two sets of shoes were echoing down the hall. That would be Chief Inspector Duval Smalls and their infamous, soon-to-be-renamed witness, Tim Hartley. She strode to the conference room to make sure the MOU—Memorandum of Understanding—had been laid out the night before by Skyler, the office manager.
She stood at the big table flipping through the MOU, making sure the DOJ had inserted Hartley’s name in the correct places. The MOU was a massive document that set out the rules and understandings of the Witness Security program known as WITSEC. Bettina had pretty much memorized the entire behemoth by now, and had to remind herself it was new to the witnesses. Still, her mind wandered while paging through it, and she looked up through the glass wall, curious about the biker thug Hartley.
She caught her breath. Was it her imagination, or was Hartley stunningly handsome? His long, streaky blond hair was caught in the back in a ponytail, and it was obvious he was freshly shaven and uncomfortable with it. Even in the shapeless white T-shirt and black Ben Davis pants it was easy to see that he worked out. She could tell by the veiny, tanned, powerful forearms.
His face, though, was absolutely angelic. There was no other word for it. He looked up at Park as he accepted a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the marshal. His close-set, starry blue eyes were shadowed with pain. Bettina remembered the circumstances of his original arrest in that Refugio, Texas warehouse. He’d been discovered clutching the body of his girlfriend who had been absolutely Swiss-cheesed by semiautomatic fire. Sobbing and drenched in blood, it didn’t paint the picture of the callous, hardened biker.
Lack of emotion was a key quality in Bettina’s job description, but her heart did melt a tiny bit for the outlaw biker. Was it because he was a smoking piece of man candy? If he had been plain, would she have responded the way she did? Jeez, I got laid last night, even if it was only by Ken. And naturally, Ken just plowed me without stopping to bother with my own satisfaction. And of course there was hardly any foreplay. There never is. And he took me to Mi Pueblo for dinner, but made me pay for half, because we both probably made the same amount of money, and he had child support payments, and—
“Inspector Crenshaw.” Chief Smalls stood at the conference room door. Funnily, Duval Smalls was a water buffalo of a man. He’d literally been a linebacker at Brigham Young before having his future hopes dashed by a few ACL ruptures. Duval nodded to indicate the blond moppet standing behind him. “This here is Tim Hartley. We went over the MOU on the plane and he does seem to have a good handle on it, but get him to initial in all the usual places.”
It often figured that witnesses were familiar with legal documents. Tim’s MC, the Rabid Raiders, were notorious in the annals of drug trafficking, arson, and explosives. Tim looked thirty, maybe thirty-five at the most, giving him plenty of time to become familiar with legal documents. Oddly, his record up until now was clean as a preacher’s sheets. True, he’d worked his way up to secretary of his club. But in that rowdy group, one could hardly keep meeting minutes without shedding some blood.
Bettina felt giddy as a baby on a swing shaking the outlaw’s hand. The impact of his celestial gaze was even more powerful up close, and he brought with him the scent of fresh male sweat. His pheromones mingled with hers, and suddenly Bettina just wanted to take off her leather jacket.
He didn’t let go of her hand after the polite split second shake. “I wanted Hawaii,” he stated, point-blank.
Chapter Two
“All right, just have a seat.”
“I don’t want a damned seat. I told the Attorney General’s office I wanted Hawaii. I was under the impression I could at least name the state that I wanted. It’s too cold in Montana, it’s too urban in New York, and it’s too stupid in Nevada.”
The male inspector—Park Bechtel? What was a member of the huge engineering family doing here?—stepped in between Taos and the girl marshal. He held his hands up in a “back off” gesture. “Now wait. Don’t go dissing my town, Hartley. And you’re Bettina’s witness. She doesn’t take kindly to people getting up in her grid.”
Bettina gripped Park’s bicep and bodily moved him from between them. The fiery redhead had some grit, apparently. Taos hadn’t noticed before, but her strawberry hair was satiny. She could be in a hair commercial. She jammed her hands onto her shapely hips and narrowed her eyes. “Listen, Tim.”
“I’m Taos. New name. They said to pick one that begins with the same letter and start using it, so I did.”
Bettina wasn’t fazed. “All right, Taos, or Tucson, or whatever your name is.”
“Taos. You could have at least moved me to fucking Taos, you know? Somewhere with a little bit of artistic sensibility? Hawaii is beautiful. It has scenery. I told them I wanted Hawaii. I’ve done some surfing before and they said at least we can keep some of our fucking hobbies, for chrissake, as long as it’s not anything our life revolved around. Next thing I knew, they’re moving me to Vegas, the tackiest city on earth.” Taos wasn’t really just nitpicking. His entire life had been thrown on its ass end in the past couple of months. He could have chosen just to put up and shut up and move on after what happened in Refugio. It was an accident, after all. But he’d chosen to testify against Sirius, and the least the fucking feds could’ve done was to relocate him to Hawaii. Or Taos. If he was going to completely alter his identity, he had a few things he’d like to do, things his club had frowned upon. A surfing biker would have been laughed out of town.
“All right, Picasso. You will sit down at this table and get a grip while I explain to you.”
Taos snorted and dug his hands deeper into the square pockets of his Bens while doing as he was told. He made sure to stretch his legs out and slide his chair away from the table, though. He may be under the protection of the federal government now but he was still his own man. If he just followed a few simple rules, they’d leave him alone the rest of the time.
Inspector Crenshaw—Bettina, he knew he was supposed to call her, like some friend of the family—sat around the corner from him and palmed the table. “Listen. By any chance when they did intake on you in Houston, did they ask you which state you’d prefer?”
Taos sneered at her. “Of course. And of course I answered Hawaii.”
The two marshals nodded knowingly at each other. Fucking know-it-alls. “Exactly. They ask you that because you’ve probably told some of your friends you really like Hawaii, too. That’s going to be the first place they’re going to think of looking for you.”
Taos was embarrassed. He hadn’t thought of that.
“Did they ask you where else you’d like to go?”
“Ah, yeah. I’m sure I said Southern California or Myrtle Beach. Santa Fe, Sedona, anywhere other than Vegas, man.”
Bettina closed her eyes and nodded. “Exactly. Anyone who knows you will never think to look in Vegas. Now you’re just going to have to get used to the idea of Vegas.”
Why was she now sharing an uneasy glance with Inspector Bechtel? Taos tried to wrap his head around Vegas. “Well, Lake Mead’s nearby, isn’t it?”
Bettina seemed to brighten at that. “Exactly! Lake Mead, where they have, well maybe not surfing, but water skiing for sure, and, ah, other water sports, and the high desert around there is absolutely stun
ning, Taos. Not like Texas at all.”
“Hey,” Taos said stubbornly. “Don’t diss Texas.”
“What Bettina is saying…” Park laid a hand on the table alongside Bettina’s. Park seemed like an all right guy. He definitely wasn’t square, although he probably did wear aviator shades outdoors, like Chief Inspector Duval. For people who were trying to be incognito about things, they stood out like Dick Cheney at a Burning Man festival. Park’s redeeming feature was that he resembled Robert Downey Jr., so he might slip by unnoticed. But the girl was too ravishing to be a federal agent.
Park continued. “If you’re looking for artistic sensibilities, there’s plenty of it around here. Lots of artists live in the Vegas area. The sandstone formations in the Valley of Fire draw artists from all over the world. The buff-colored sediments and alluvial deposits of Mormon Mesa have been inspirational to Georgia O’Keeffe and David Smock, and—”
“Wait.” Taos sat up erect, yanking his hands from his pockets. “Mormon Mesa—what? Why would I care about Mormon Mesa? What kind of a fucking place are you sending me to, anyway?” Taos knew he had an explosive temper. It was one of the things he planned on working on in his new life.
Park suddenly launched himself back in his chair, too. He gazed straight ahead, sightless. “Oh, boy,” he said under his breath. “Here we go.”
Bettina took over. “Look, Taos. You don’t need to worry about Vegas being too glittery and tacky because there aren’t exactly neon lights and fountains in your future.”
“What?” Taos asked softly. He looked at Park. “What does she mean?”
“Do you like UFOs?” asked Park. “Mormon Mesa is a hotbed of UFO landing stories—”
“What?” Taos really did explode now, leaping to his feet and pointing an angry arm at Park. He appealed to Bettina now. She suddenly seemed a lot more level-headed and sane than the handsome agent. “What the fuck? You’re sending me to a fucking hellhole called Mormon Mesa? Where fucking aliens have landed?”
“Not really,” said Bettina. “You’re going to a town called Rescue near the Valley of Fire State Park, about forty minutes from here. I’ve scoped it out and vetted it thoroughly, Taos. It’s a nice, clean-living sort of town and the last place anyone would suspect you of being. General Frémont mapped it when he went through in 1844. There’s a really nice main street, all sorts of cafes, a windsurfing shop, a nice farmer’s market, a flower shop—”
“And where the hell am I supposed to work?” Taos yelled. “The UFO Visitors’ Center?”
Park said coolly, “You can still work in Vegas. It’s a short commute—”
“Although we’d prefer if you found employment in Rescue,” added Bettina.
“Where?” roared Taos. “The fucking trading post selling kokopelli wind chimes?” He threw up his hands and started pacing. It was bad enough he’d had to abandon all of his friends, his brothers in the club, the only family he’d ever known. Up until now, he’d thought that he had a pretty good attitude about having to give up his house and his club. He’d even had to give up his Harley because of its custom T-bars and the club logo on the tank. Or maybe it was the little St. Andrew’s cross patch on the back of his saddle, but his ride was uniquely obvious anywhere.
He’d even agreed with that, given fair compensation for the bike so he could buy a new one. His only comfort was they’d allowed his Great Pyrenees dog, Friendly, to come to his new home. So far, Taos thought his attitude had been pretty damned good. As Raiders secretary he’d had a lot of business dealings, running a motorcycle repair shop in Refugio, and he was confident he could do something of that nature again. But this Mormon Mesa bullshit? Maybe it was the straw that broke the camel’s back, but Taos lost it just then. “Fucking blankets? Is that what I’m supposed to do? Sell blankets for minimum wage? I had a career, in case you didn’t notice. I know you think that all bikers do is meet up in dark and murky alleys and exchange guns and bodily fluids but I owned a business, a legitimate business that turned a good profit. I did all the books, filed all the tax papers, hell, I was even a member of the Better Business Bureau!”
The marshals, although probably used to such outbursts, both seemed stunned into silence. Their silence gave Taos ammo to rant on. “I’ve given up everything to testify for you guys. This is my life we’re talking about here, not just one year of it, but my entire life. Once I’m done testifying and all the excitement and conferences and briefings have died down, what’s left? No one’s going to come visit me, mollycoddle me, make sure I’m comfortable. You’re going to leave me hanging out to dry on—on fucking—” Taos was so mad he could spit.
“Out on Mormon Mesa,” Park said helpfully.
“Out on Mormon fucking Mesa just spinning in the wind once I’m not valuable to you anymore, that’s what’s going to happen! I’m only good as long as my testimony is still valuable, but I’m not kidding myself that once that’s over you’ll be as interested as a hooker in a whorehouse in what happens to me. That’s my fault, that’s my life and I accept it, but fuck! You’ve got to fucking admit, I’ve got every reason to be supremely pissed off.”
Breathing deeply as meditation had taught him, Taos threaded his fingers together at the back of his skull and paced to the wall of windows. More than anything, he loathed feeling sorry for himself, but he was really starting to. He was really starting to.
He didn’t even see the view out the windows. He could have been staring down the Yosemite Valley or the Valley of the Kings in Egypt for all it mattered. Taos huffed and puffed and tried to cool down. I am as calm as a still pond. There is not a breath of wind in the air.
His meditation must have worked, because he jumped and hissed in air when Bettina’s hand touched his shoulder. He half turned to face her, his hands automatically up in a fighter’s stance.
Bettina drew back, giving him the once-over with her fiery eyes. “Hey, cool down! You have every right to be pissed, Taos. Everything you’ve known for the past thirty—”
“Thirty-four.”
“Thirty-four years of your life has been yanked away from you. I believe you that you ran a legit business in Refugio. Lots of MC members do. It’s just those one percenters like your old friend—” Bettina snapped her fingers at Park, who jumped to attention.
“Sigmund Wolfscheim.”
“Old Ziggy there who give the rest of you a bad name. I know that. For all I know, and for all I care, you’re a lily-white Boy Scout who was helping an old lady cross the street when you were shot at in that warehouse.”
“Damn straight.” Taos didn’t like to think about the warehouse. The best he could hope for was that one day that warehouse might not terrorize him half as badly as it did now. He gave Bettina credit for at least attempting to ease some of his worries or guilt.
“All contact with anyone from your past is forbidden. Your entire life has been erased like a blackboard. You can’t fly your colors which I know were important to you. I notice you recently had some tattoos removed by laser.” Bettina nodded at Taos’s forearm. “Tribal?”
“Ah, no. The name of—someone’s name.”
Bettina’s attempt at a smile was her first genuine one. “Well, you’ve made an admirable effort to work with us, Taos. I know it’s next to impossible to remove some ink, but that one looks like you only need a few more sessions.”
“I’ve had six sessions.” Taos sighed deeply. Just that one tat would need four more sessions. “Listen, Inspector. I don’t blame you for any of this mess. I know you’re just a handler, a marshal, and it’s your job to shove witnesses around from one place to another, get them set up. You probably don’t care if you’re improving their lives as long as you get them some job at a 7-Eleven.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong, Taos. I have contacts and I make every effort to put someone where they’re challenged and comfortable and earning more than minimum wage. Taos, I know this isn’t going to be anywhere near your old lifestyle.”
Park called, “Did
you have anything in mind for a job? You had the whole plane ride with Duval to think about it.”
Taos, hands on hips, looked at Bettina. “Yeah. You mentioned that windsurfing shop. I could start there. You make up fake resumes, right?”
This appeared to please Bettina. For some reason, pleasing Bettina pleased Taos. It was inappropriate, he knew, but he wanted to check out her bosom. He couldn’t do it right now, and she had a leather jacket on, but luck was on his side as she removed it. “Good, Taos,” she said, as though he were a dog. “I can arrange that. An interview, I mean. They’re under no obligation to hire you. Now let’s get down to this MOU. I know it’s a behemoth, but it’s the most important document in the program.”
Yes. Bettina was what they were calling “curvy” these days, but what biker worth his salt didn’t like a nice layer of flesh to grab? Her shirt was a plain, clingy, almost leotard sort and Taos could tell she must have worn a supportive underwire bra, with those heavy, shapely boobs to cup. For the first time in months his prick responded, began to swell. This was a good time to change the subject, so he took off his shirt.
“What?” Bettina yelled. “Whoa, whoa!”
Park even jumped out of his chair and whipped out his Glock, as though Taos had a bomb strapped to his body. “Whoa, whoa! What’s going on here?”
Taos’s back was turned to them. He looked at them over his shoulder and finished removing the white T-shirt, dropping it harmlessly to the floor. A seductive biker striptease.
Understanding swept over Bettina’s face, but Park remained stiffly ready to shoot. Bettina nodded. “Ah. I see.” Was it Taos’s imagination or was her tone slightly softened? Perhaps with awe at the amazingly artistic tattoo that his muscular back had not yet distorted.
She came closer. He could feel her breath against the nape of his neck. He even posed, flexed his triceps and deltoids, some of the more complicated muscles of the scapula. “Now that…will be much harder to erase.”
Owner of a Lonely Heart (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 2
