In Bed With The Outlaw

by Adriana Jones

  Too bad the shooting range wasn’t an option. No one could know I wasn’t the damsel in distress, the helpless female that I was supposed to portray myself as. Shooting a magnum and blowing away targets could always relieve some stress.

  I headed for The Long Road Diner to serve a bunch of starving and impatient customers, sure to add to my stress. When I pulled into the parking lot, there was no sign of motorcycles. It would still be a busy shift.

  Halfway across the parking lot, a car door closed behind me. I glanced behind me. I didn’t see anyone pull in and I was on my toes from the day before. There was a tall, bald stranger with sunglasses and a business suit nodding at me.

  Dust whipping at my ankles. I turned to him.

  “Got something for you,” he said.

  With caution, I approached. He remained at his driver side door. I looked behind me to check if anyone else was watching.

  “Wyatt says to call him,” the man said, pulling something out of his pocket then placing it in my open palm. A burner.

  “I think you know what to do with that.”

  “Have you been following me?” I studied him carefully.

  “No, I’ve got my own business in California. I had to drive a long ways to give you this. I’m too busy for this crap.” Impatiently he grabbed the handle of the door to close it. “Have a nice day,” he yelled, then backed out in a hurry and drove off.

  Dropping back into my car, I dialed Wyatt’s number from the burner. He picked up on the second ring.

  “What the hell was that?” I yelled.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Are you safe? I haven’t heard from you in days. There better be a good reason.”

  Getting ready to try to conceal my outburst, I hunched over in the driver side, managing to withhold my anger.

  “You had someone tailing me? He could’ve busted my cover. You might’ve gotten me killed.”

  “I thought you might be dead already. And no, he’s not tailing you. He’s handing you the burner and telling your irresponsible ass to give me a call. What’s going on? Please, tell me, because right now I’m ready to pull you out of there myself.”

  Like he could.

  I was too deep now.

  Besides, I had good news for Wyatt. News he would like to hear. “Cool it, Wyatt. I’ve got something. “

  “Got something? Go on.”

  I flipped through the pictures on my own cell. Roxy showed me around the place, not a long tour, but long enough. After she left me in Red’s place, I snuck out to the equipment room that she mentioned. Being in Red’s room, it was easy to find the keys since he was Sergeant at Arms. He probably didn’t think he needed to hide it, since anyone in the compound would be a brother. They were right on his desk.

  Using the key, I granted myself access to the equipment room, a long, wide vault for guns. As soon as the door opened, and the automatic lights flicked on, I knew what I was looking at was highly illegal. The weapons these guys had stockpiled were incredible. They had more weapons than a small country. The ATF would be rubbing their hands with glee if they saw what I stumbled onto.

  Automatic rifles, grenades, submachine guns, and what even looked like a rocket launcher and a flamethrower presented themselves to me in that vault. I wondered what more I would find if I went digging. Maybe they had a tank out back. But what I saw was enough to get them put away for a very long time. I snapped the pictures of the most exposed and incriminating evidence.

  I flipped through the pictures, over thirty of them as I continued talking to Wyatt. It was a difficult decision. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about erasing the album as I got back to my apartment. With Red gone and Wyatt on the line, it became much clearer. It was time to do my job.

  “I have pictures of their arsenal. These guys are stockpiling enough for World War Three.”

  “Like what?”

  “Automatic assault rifles, grenades, rocket launchers, explosives, whatever else you can think of.”

  “You’ve got pictures? How many?”

  “Around thirty.”

  “I’m guessing they’re on your phone.”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, good work, Ash. It doesn’t make up for leaving me stressed and on the verge of writing my resignation letter, but it’s a good start.”

  “You want more?”

  He cleared his throat. I could hear footsteps. I could hear his blinds rattling. Wyatt had an impressive view in D.C., a coveted window office, which he liked to pace in.

  “If this is what you’ve got in a week, imagine what other dirt you can dig up if you’re there longer.”

  “But isn’t this enough?” I hunkered down again, afraid someone would see me obviously upset. So far, there was no one else in the parking lot, so I was safe, but I couldn’t talk to Wyatt for long before I was late for my shift.

  “It’s a good start. A really good start, but it’s not enough, no. It’ll put a couple of them away. We want this whole place to go down. If you can get some documents, maybe something to pin them for trading the weapons, murder, anything like that—”

  “I see,” I interrupted while wondering how I could explain that my infiltration seemed over. Red was my ticket and he’d just cast me off.

  “You keep up the good work. You keep up your line of communication back home too. I want reports on this daily if possible.”

  “Right,” I said. I wanted the call to end so I could go to my job at the diner. I wanted to be on my feet. All of these complicated moral dilemmas were too difficult at the moment.

  “So I’ll hear from you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “That doesn’t leave me feeling confident. Please, Ash. Can you please do that for me?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ll fill you in. I got busy. I’ve got to go get busy again. My other job is calling.”

  “You’re still doing that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, take care, Ash. You know what to do with the phone my guy gave you.”

  “I know,” I said. I tucked it in my glove compartment to destroy later, then I headed into the diner to start my shift, coming in a few minutes late, but nothing Francis would care about as long as I busted my ass on the floor.

  Kim worked the shift with me, which was fine, but I noticed a change in my reactions toward her. Kim wasn’t like the old ladies—cool, confident, independent. No, Kim was deeply unhappy with her station in life. There was another thing that bothered me too, something more important. She thought Red was hot.

  Taking a break at the waitressing counter, Kim leaned back, smiled at me, and looked like she wanted to say something.

  “Busy day,” I said, breaking the ice. Kim wasn’t bad. I should give her more credit. She was a hard worker. A little meek, got pushed around, but a good worker.

  “Yeah, those biker guys aren’t even here. Speaking of that, are you still hanging out with them?”

  “Why do you care?”

  I watched the customers, seeing if anyone needed anything tended to, but nobody did.

  “Are you like one of them now?” She startled herself and tossed her hands on her hips. “Oh, can I even ask that? Are you allowed to say?”

  “No, I’m not one of them. And yes, you can say that to me.”

  “I saw you riding with him. Red?”

  I shot her an angry glare. She was speaking too loud.

  “Yeah, Red. Once again, why does it matter?”

  She frowned but didn’t answer. She bobbed on her toes to see over the booths. “I think there’s only one of them here today. You know him?” She asked, pointing in his direction, which was clearly a wrong move. Good thing he was sitting with his back turned to us.

  He was only a few booths away in Kim’s section.

  From the back, I didn’t recognize him. I would need to take a closer look.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said, trying to keep my voice low.

  “He's o
ne of them,” she said, like he was an alien. I decided to leave her for my tables, only one needing a refill. After pouring and hearing their thanks, I made my way down the aisle to Kim's section.

  The man sitting alone in the diner wasn't a Blessed Bastard. He had the look of a skinhead without the Nazi tattoos. Still, lots of other ink, snaking all over his pasty white skin from his ankles to the top of his bald head.

  He looked at me and raised his cup. He kept his pitted black eyes on me, and his cup still, wanting me to pour it in the air. I came closer and began to pour. The bold aroma of coffee wasn't enough to stop the queasiness crawling up my throat.

  Underneath his neck, scarred and warped like Frankenstein's monster, I tried to see his tat, but he wore a collar that obscured me from seeing. He pulled his arms underneath the table to hide the tats covering his arms. After I was done pouring, he kept the coffee still in the air, forcing me to meet his gaze.

  “Thanks, babe,” he said.

  I’m not your babe. I’m only one man’s babe. Or used to be. I’m no one’s babe now.

  “I heard you and your friend talking over there.”

  Pursing my lips, I brought the coffee pot close to my chest. Swing it at his head and run? No, that would never work. Francis would be pissed. We didn’t swing coffee pots at customers.

  “You ride with The Bastards?”

  “No.”

  He nudged his elbow toward Kim. A brazen smile crept across his lips.

  “You sure about that? That’s not what I heard your girlfriend over there say.”

  The coffee pot idea got better every second.

  “What club are you from?”

  He flashed his rough, yellow smile. His hands flexed, muscles rippling under his shirt. He unsqueezed, lowered the cup, like a child’s tea set in his hand, and then regarded me again, this time with some emotion showing through his icy exterior.

  “No, it’s not going to work like that. I asked you first, and you lied, so you don’t get to ask me questions.”

  Never taking a sip, he slid the coffee away.

  “I’ve got work to do.” I hurried back to Kim, who was watching the whole time but trying to look busy by folding napkins. When she peeked up and her mouth hung open, about to ask questions, I darted away to the kitchen.

  There wasn’t much to be done in the kitchen. In the dishwashing area, I moved a silverware basket into the already cramped pile near the sink. My pulse slowed to a normal level. My heart slowly dropped from my throat.

  When I hit the floor again, the mysterious stranger was gone. I asked Kim about him but she didn’t help me with any information, just that he left a generous tip. Taking a look out of the window, I made sure to keep myself far back so I couldn’t be seen. No bikes.

  I worked my shift and headed home, sure that I would be able to ask Red the next day when The Bastards came in for their normal hearty breakfast.

  6

  But the next day, Red didn’t show up. I wanted to ask The Bastards if they could relay a message to Red for me, but I didn’t think they would. Their eyes were everywhere but on mine.

  They took their plates with a grunt.

  Lee was there, which I thought would mean another ass grab coming my way, but even Lee wouldn’t look at me. Red must’ve laid down the law. I was truly banished. Was my name on a blacklist somewhere?

  I wished I got his cell phone number, but it didn’t seem important at the time. He used to make it a habit of stalking me. When he stopped, I had no way of contacting him.

  It got weirder. The next day, the rest of The Bastards didn’t show up.

  When I asked Kim if that other creepy biker arrived, she shook her head and kept asking me questions as if I was hiding something from her. On the third day, when The Bastards didn’t show up at their usual time, Francis came to me. Like I had any answers. I was at the line, picking up my plates, when he stormed into the back room, his lower lip quivering and his moustache twitching.

  “What did you do? They’re not coming,” he seethed.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. But I couldn’t see King ever stopping because of me. King always talked about how much he liked the diner’s food. He wouldn’t give it up over some spat between Red and me. That much was already clear.

  “Bullshit. I see you riding with one of them, now they’re not showing up. You’ll have to fix this. You will have to. They brought me good business.”

  “Trust me, anything I did wouldn’t stop them from coming here. They love this place.”

  He curled his lip, looked back to the service door, and thought over what I said. Francis still wagged his finger at me.

  “Okay, but if I find out you did this, you’ll have to fix it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, shoulders shrugging, but not letting up, waiting for him to disappear.

  He swung through the doors and headed outside. I went on with business as usual.

  I kept looking out of the windows, waiting for the roar of their engines and the sight of the black motorcade falling into formation at their designated VIP parking spaces in front of the diner, but they were a no-show again.

  The next day, they didn’t show up again. Francis didn’t bother me about it. He looked more worried than anything.

  “I hope something didn’t happen,” he said to me, staring out at the parking lot as I waited for a single tear to roll down his cheek.

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. Anything could happen to those guys.”

  Images of Red, busted up, riddled with bullets, left on some ditch on the side of a desert road, scarred my mind. An urgency to get into contact with him hit me. I wanted to run out of the diner to be sure that he was all right, but then reality flooded back. He didn’t want anything to do with me.

  If Red was dead, I probably didn’t even deserve to be at his funeral. He wouldn’t want me there.

  Renegade or not, he was a good man. He understood me where others had failed. I would need to send him a message somehow that I was sorry about what happened between us. There would be no repairing our relationship, but at least I could put the fires out on a burning bridge.

  I was in quite a bind. Staying away from Red would be best for him in the long run. If I talked to him again, mended things, and I was allowed back into the club, I would technically be screwing him over in the end, but at least he would know that I actually cared about him.

  At the end of my shift, I tossed my apron into my car, then with my hair snapped in a bushy ponytail, I headed into the desert, following the path that Red took me weeks ago to calm my mind. Being on the back of his ride, holding him close, was much better than being in my cramped, lonely car. They hadn’t given me a great replacement vehicle.

  When I got to the spot where we parked last time, I thought about turning around, but that beautiful sight before me called me closer. Near the beginning of the trail, sticks of chalk were sprawled out under a burnt rock face. Someone drew their names, along with other childish drawings like the sun, two stick figures, and a dick.

  They mustn’t have cared about the chalk, so I took a piece and carried it with me to the top. Red told me he would stop there to clear his mind. After our brief yet turbulent relationship, I thought he would need to visit. Climbing up the stone steps, I looked out at the natural bridge stretching over to the mountain lookout, wishing I had someone to share the experience with. Also, someone to hold my hand as I carefully crossed.

  A terrible, hollow feeling swallowed me as I thought about dropping off the mountain to not a care from anyone. I continued onward to send him a message.

  “I’m sorry. I still want to ride,” I wrote on the rock. I dropped it on the spot where he took me a week ago. If the rain didn’t wash it away, he would get the message.

  I didn’t stay long. Seeing the spot where he kissed me last time brought a great heaviness to my heart. I held onto what little hope I had left, that message written in chalk on th
e top of the mountain, and anxiously returned to my car full of regret.

  * * *

  Another three days without Red and I gave up. I was sure he must’ve seen my message, but he didn’t show up. Neither did the others.

  The guys who came and repaired my door didn’t know Red. They said they were contracted from the club.

  “Do you have their number?” I asked one, a big, burly guy that looked like a bear lugging around tools.

  He laughed at me. “If I did, I wouldn’t give it out.”

  I begged him as he worked on putting the new sliding door in. “Please, I need to give them a message.”

  He kept working, not looking back at my pleading, puppy dog eyes. “I don’t have the number, sweetheart. I told you.”

  “If you do, tell Red that I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” he said with a gruff dismissal, turning his back to me and hammering away.

  I thought about showing up at their compound, but it was too dangerous. Prospects at the gate wouldn’t recognize my car. They were likely to shoot first and ask questions later. All of those pictures of illegal weapons told me to stay far away until they invited me back.

  I finally got an answer, but it wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.

  As soon as I parked at the diner for the early bird shift, one of the regulars jogged up to me and asked why the diner was closed.

  “Closed?” I craned my neck toward the front door. The sign always read open. Like the customer said, it was flipped to close.

  My eyes began to cross. “Let me find out,” I told him.

  “Okay, okay, come back and tell me,” I heard behind me.

  I pushed open the door to see Francis sitting in a booth by himself. The lights were out while he sat with a bottle of Amaro and a cup of coffee, holding a crumpled newspaper in his hands and staring at the words like they were meaningless.

  “Francis, what’s going on?”

  He slid the paper over to me.

  “Sit,” he said, barely moving his lips.