by Sophia Gray
Amelia hurried over to Lauren and glanced around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “What are you looking so excited about?”
“I’ve invited a few people back to my hotel for a party,” Lauren said in a quick whisper. “Want to come with us?”
Amelia glanced around. She could stay here and watch as stodgy people sipped champagne while her father funneled money into a meaningless buzzword of a cause. She could keep struggling through a conversation with a guy she barely remembered while she tried her best to garner support for her father’s flagging Taylorpaign. Or she could go to one of Lauren’s lavish, impromptu parties. She knew what she should do. She also knew what she wanted to do.
“I’m in,” she said excitedly.
Lauren flung her arms around Amelia with a squeal. “I knew I could count on you. Come on, the waiter showed me a side entrance. We can sneak out right now.”
Amelia wasted no time in following the impulsive socialite down the hall and out of the side entrance. They walked down a short alley, past some garbage bins, laughing as they left the fundraiser behind them. It felt just like skipping school and Amelia knew she’d probably catch hell for it later, but she couldn’t take one more second of polite conversation.
# # #
Amelia stumbled into the foyer of her house at three in the morning. She tried to close the door quietly, but she misjudged the distance between her hand and the doorknob. It was much closer than it had looked. The slam reverberated through the hall and she giggled.
Her head was swimming from the alcohol she’d consumed steadily for the past few hours. It hadn’t been just champagne that Lauren was serving and Amelia hadn’t had any shortage of guys bringing her shots. She’d downed so many that the cab ride back had felt more like a rollercoaster. Now it was feeling more like a dream or a long forgotten memory. Had she paid? She probably had...otherwise, she wouldn’t be in the house. She giggled again.
“You’re finally home.”
She whirled around, slipped in her stocking feet, and sat down hard on the marble floor. Muted pain buzzed up her backbone, but she had to choke back another drunken giggle. She’d just remembered that her shoes, her horribly uncomfortable black stilettos, were at the bottom of the hotel pool. Lauren had thrown hers in, as well, and soon all the women had.
Her father flicked a switch and the chandelier seemed to beam directly into her eye sockets. Amelia gasped and smacked a hand over her eyes.
“Where were you?” he demanded tightly.
“Out,” Amelia answered. “Making political connections.” She peeked through her fingers and glanced up at him. “Just like you.”
“Out destroying my career!” Gregory shouted, hauling her to her feet as his strong voice echoed off the walls and made her wince. “Do you realize you stood the governor’s son up tonight?”
She pulled her arm away quickly and nearly lost her balance. “How? We didn’t have a date! Or...” She reached out and steadied herself against the mahogany bannister. “Was that why he was talking to me? It’s not enough that you control everything else about my life? Now you’re trying to marry me off?”
“He was interested in you,” Gregory said, looking her over from her messy hair to her bare feet. “I didn’t see the harm in the two of you talking to each other. Though, if he could see you like this...”
“What?” Amelia challenged. “Then he wouldn’t want me anymore? I had no idea that you were so eager to sell your only child!”
“Sell you?” Her father’s shoulders rose and fell as he tried to catch his breath. “I’m tired of you acting this way, Amelia May Stratton! Your drinking, your partying, your whining, your determination to run away from all your responsibilities to me, even at the expense of my career!”
“What?” Amelia began indignantly. “I--”
He held up his hand. “I’m not going to pay for you to behave this way anymore. And I’m certainly not going to fund you while you drag my name through the mud. This election has been hard enough!”
“Dad, I’m not--”
He cut her off brutally. “Get yourself together or pay your own way, Amelia. I’m done.”
She laughed, trying not to show the fear that was rising inside her. “And what exactly should I do, Dad? How do I prove I’ve gotten myself together?”
“Find a good man, marry him, and have some kids. Maybe help him with his career when you can. Keep your mind off of the stupid things you do when you’re alone.”
“Stupid things like enjoy myself with my friends?” she asked, furious that her voice was wavering.
Tears were beginning to sting her eyes. None of the people at the party were really her friends and her stomach was already beginning to twist from drinking too much. She didn’t enjoy herself away from home any more than she enjoyed herself when she was safe in the confines of her gated community.
“Or start paying your own bills,” he repeated. “I won’t pay you to flush your life, or my career, away.”
She opened her mouth to respond, then clapped her hand over it and ran up the stairs to the sanctuary of her ensuite bathroom. Showed what her father knew. She, Amelia Stratton, didn’t have a life of her own to flush away. She never had.
Chapter 2
Ethan
Ethan eyed the bike with a grin of pride and satisfaction that most people would have reserved for a wedding day or the birth of a child. Most people wouldn’t have directed it at the 1936 Flathead Harley Davidson in front of him. Surface rust covered the dilapidated bike from handlebars to tailpipe and it was missing a few pieces. The paint, which had been army green, was flaking off.
He loved it. He’d seen it on the poker run The Angel’s Keepers had done two weeks ago and he just had to have it. In his head, it was sleek and the chrome shone. In his head, it purred like a kitten and rode like a dream. In reality, it was going to take a shit ton of work.
He’d just started taking her apart when the garage door slid up and Taylor and Ryan walked in.
“Hey,” Ethan said, looking up quickly to acknowledge his road captain and his treasurer and then putting all his effort back into loosening rusted bolts. “Glad you stopped by, actually. Been meaning to talk to you about that ride out to the canyon and back.” It was getting close, but he hadn’t heard any final confirmations and that wasn’t like either of them. The wrench slipped from the pressure he was putting on the stubborn bolt and he skinned his knuckles on the engine. He switched hands and wiped the blood on his jeans.
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “We need to talk to you about that, too.”
Ethan finally pried his eyes away from his new bike long enough to notice how serious his road captain looked. His eyes flashed to Taylor, who was the treasurer for The Angel’s Keepers, and he saw pretty much the same expression. That wasn’t good.
Taylor laid a folder down on the sheet Ethan had spread out under the bike and opened it to find a long column of numbers. “The numbers are shit,” Taylor said bluntly. “And the ride ain’t happening. There’s no way we can afford it.”
Ethan leafed through the paperwork. There was a big withdrawal just a few days ago.
“What’s this?” he asked, indicating it with a greasy finger. “I don’t remember anything that should have cost that much from the last meeting.”
“Building taxes,” Taylor answered, his voice tight with anger.
Ethan’s brows drew together as he looked at the spreadsheet. Numbers weren’t exactly his strong suit, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen the prices that high before. “They aren’t usually like this, are they?”
Taylor shook his head. “No, not by a long shot. When I went down to pay it, I asked. It’s part of Stratton’s new safety act.”
“Right, because how much I pay in taxes makes me safer,” Ethan said sarcastically.
A shadow fell over the spreadsheet and Ethan glanced up to see his Sergeant at Arms standing in the garage doorway, blocking out the late afternoon sun. William’s massive arms were
crossed over his chest and he was scowling hard. “It ain’t your safety he’s worried about, dumbass.”
“Who pissed in your cornflakes?” Ethan asked, going back to the numbers. There had to be some way to finagle them so they could still take the ride. Although, if there was, Taylor would have been the best man to find it.
“State Representative Gregory Stratton,” William growled. He stomped into the room and gestured for Taylor to get up off of the rolling stool he was currently occupying. Taylor stood quickly and without complaining. The Sergeant took no shit on a good day. No one in his right mind would argue with him when he looked like a thunderstorm.
“The taxes guy?” Ethan asked, turning away from the bike completely now. “Ryan, turn down the radio.” It looked like he wasn’t going to get any work done, and it looked like he had a damn good reason.
“Yeah,” William said, getting comfortable on the stool and lighting a cigarette. “This is gettin’ to be a serious problem.”
“How serious could building taxes be?” Ethan asked, looking at William questioningly. It seemed like a small thing for everyone to be so concerned about. Expensive, sure. But the only thing more certain than taxes was death, and they’d find a way to pay for it. “I mean, it sucks, but we can--”
“Nah, it’s more than that now.” William took a deep drag and exhaled smoke, looking like a pissed off dragon. “Ran into Rogers. Guy’s this close to gettin’ his colors.” He held up his thumb and forefinger a scant millimeter apart. “Tells me today that he’s backin’ out.”
“What?” Ryan demanded, standing up straight from his leaning position and looking surprised. “He sure as hell didn’t say anything to me when I asked him about the ride last week.”
William nodded. “Yeah. Asked him about that. He said his wife’s gettin’ real antsy about the bad spin in the press. They’ve got a kid on the way. I ask him what spin and he hands me this.” William lifted himself up, pulled a folded and creased newspaper out of his back pocket and handed it to Ethan.
“Motorcycle Club or Biker Gang? Nevada State Representative Gregory Stratton Questions the Difference.”
Ethan snorted. “Are you kidding me?” He tossed the clipping down onto the sheet beside the folder. “This isn’t exactly news anyway. We’ve never had a totally clean reputation.”
“No,” Taylor agreed. “The reputation might not be new, but the fees are. It’s not just the building taxes, Ethan. He’s upping the taxes on our dues and our colors.”
“And he’s pushing like hell to limit where and when we can all ride,” Ryan added, his face darkening with anger. “Something about us being a danger to responsible motorists.”
Ethan stood up, anger flooding him with sudden adrenaline. “What?”
“Have you had your head up your ass these past few months?” William demanded. “This has been everywhere.”
Ryan and Taylor took a few steps back, eyeing the two of them warily. Ethan felt his jaw clench and he had to resist the urge to step forward. He stopped himself though. He respected William too much to say any of the things that ran through his mind. William had been his father’s best friend. He’d been an honorary uncle from the time that Ethan had arrived in Nevada at the age of fifteen. He was a founding member of The Angel’s Keepers and he knew the club inside and out. Because of those things, Ethan counted to ten before he spoke again.
“Okay,” Ethan said when he’d stopped seeing red.
He pushed his hands down into his pockets and glanced at the Flathead. Getting it had taken up a lot of his time. And he’d gone on the poker run out to Lovelock. His schedule at the mechanic shop he worked at had been tight since two guys had quit right when the summer rush started. He’d been working a lot of overtime.
And then there’d been Rachel. And Carey. And Brittany. Too bad she’d moved on to someone else; he could have used some stress relief right about now. He had to admit that he hadn’t put as much into being the president as he should have lately.
“Get me up to speed.”
“Things are shit,” William said, lighting another cigarette.
“Specifics,” Ethan snapped. He liked William, but if he was going to give respect, he was damn well going to get it back in return.
“Anything related to motorcycle clubs that Representative Stratton can tax, he’s taxing,” Ryan said with a shrug. “It’s pretty much that simple.”
“So what are you gonna do?” William asked.
Ethan was momentarily at a loss. Then something that had been at the back of his mind for a while rose to the front. “What if we got a tax-exempt status?”
“Not sure we could.” Taylor answered readily. So his treasurer had already thought of it. It didn’t surprise Ethan, but it was disheartening. If Taylor couldn’t work it out, there probably wasn’t anyone who could. “It’s part of the umbrella we fall under,” the treasurer went on. “We fall under social and recreational clubs. He argues that we’re gangs and not a social club, the idiots higher up believe him, and there you go. No tax breaks for gang members.”
Ethan rubbed his chin. “Okay. So we just have to be a more charitable group of bikers, I guess.” Everyone looked at him suspiciously. “Hell, I’m not planning force you guys to make cupcakes,” he said with a grin. “The ride’s cancelled. We’ll have plenty of time to get something good and charitable together.”
“Not talking about any charities ’til I’ve had some beer,” William said gruffly, pushing himself up from the stool and looking just as pissed off as he had when he’d walked in. Well, Ethan thought, looking at Taylor and Ryan’s more hopeful expressions. You can’t please all of the people all of the time. “Get up with Kenny and Jimmy and tell them to meet us at The Hole. We’ll have a real meeting.”
Ethan didn’t think they were likely to get anything done at the bar, or even be able to hear each other clearly, but William was clearly not going to be talked out of this. He nodded in reply to the other man’s request. “Sure thing.”
“This shit was a lot easier when your old man was in charge,” William muttered as he turned to the door.
Ethan didn’t answer that. It had been easier. Easier on him, too. He’d only been a Road Captain then. Organizing the rides and poker runs and keeping the members’ bikes maintained had been a hell of a lot more fun than running the whole damn club. And Marcus Billings hadn’t had a State Rep with a pointless vendetta breathing down his neck.
He watched them leave and then sent a text to Kenny, his Vice President, and to Jimmy, the club secretary and most organized man on the face of the earth. While he waited for their answers, he started packing up his tools. There wasn’t going to be time to work on the Flathead today after all.
Chapter 3
Amelia
Amelia woke up with her head pounding. She’d forgotten to close the blinds and the bright morning sun that poured into her room from her large balcony window felt like an insult. She sat up slowly, putting one hand over her eyes and rubbing her temple with the other. Then she began to piece last night together. Lauren’s party, about a thousand shots, a blur of a cab ride and then...her father threatening to cut her off? One of those things was not like the other, but it felt right.
She replayed the evening again, adding details slowly but surely. Yep. He’d definitely accused her of trying to flush his career away. There had been tension between them since she’d graduated from college the year before, but nothing like this. He’d never been so obviously ashamed of her. Sure, coming home stumbling drunk wasn’t something any parent would really love to see their child do, but he’d been harsher on her for ditching Anthony than he had been for the drinking.
They would have to talk. Maybe today he would be calmer, more rational. Amelia vowed to do her best to be as logical as she could. There was no way she could keep living this way. She needed to find a way out of the walls that closed in around her every day. If he would help her with an apartment and a car, she could find work and slowly distance her
self from him. If she presented it the right way, surely he’d say yes. She didn’t want anything crazy. Just a life of her own.
Amelia got up slowly, testing her balance. She wanted to take a shower, but she knew her father would be leaving soon, so she settled for brushing her hair and putting it up in a tight bun. Then she dressed in clothes that were casual, but that at least didn’t smell like cigarettes, spilled alcohol, and chlorine.
When she was satisfied that she looked fairly respectable, she walked downstairs. The smell of breakfast greeted her and twisted her stomach, but she sat down at the table beside her father. He was reading over some papers with a pen in one hand, his coffee going cold in front of him. It was his usual pose. The word relax wasn’t found in Gregory Stratton’s vocabulary.
Amelia poured a glass of juice and looked at the bacon thoughtfully. It smelled pretty good. Maybe she could eat something after all. A rumble from her stomach contradicted her and she took a cautious sip of juice instead. When it stayed where it was supposed to, she took a longer one.
