Last Mile

by Katie Ashley

  “Too much is riding on this case to put you in that position.” His expression grew grave. “Although we have no proof that the Raiders have ever participated in this type of initiation, some prospects for other clubs have been forced to show their allegiance to a club by gang-raping women.”

  “Jesus,” Gavin muttered.

  “There’s no way in hell we can have an ATF agent partake in such violence, and if you were to refuse, you could lose your life.” His gaze flickered to mine. “That’s why we’re sending you in with him as his girlfriend.”

  With the tension high in the air, I couldn’t help the nervous laugh that bubbled from my lips. “You’re joking.”

  “No, I’m dead serious. With you at his side or on his lap, Gavin won’t have to worry about female attention, nor will he be expected to partake in any illegal activity with women. At the same time, women can fly under the radar in MCs. If Gavin were to appear to be nosing around, he could get his ass kicked. No one suspects a woman who is just hanging around.”

  I nodded. “I understand.”

  Gavin smacked my thigh under the table. “Guess this means you’ll be expanding your slutty wardrobe to be my babe.”

  When I realized what he meant, I groaned. “I’m going to have to wear spandex with my boobs hanging out, aren’t I?”

  Peterson laughed. “I’m afraid so. Although Gavin isn’t an MC member, you will want to fit in with how the other women in the club dress.”

  “I highly doubt the president’s wife and former deb dresses like a hooker.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not a former deb. You’re just a simple mechanic’s girlfriend,” Gavin argued with a smile.

  “Lucky me,” I muttered.

  As I listened to Peterson discuss the reading material and video the bureau expected us to submerge ourselves in, I took a few moments to get my head together. There was little I feared in this world—years of law enforcement training had toughened and hardened me. But bikers were my equivalent of a childhood bogeyman and an adult Grim Reaper.

  Not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined how much my life was about to change because of a biker named Bishop Malloy.

  THREE

  SAMANTHA

  Just as I was adding an extra coat of eyeliner, the doorbell rang, causing me to jump and send a squiggly black line up my temple. “Fuck,” I muttered before grabbing a tissue and rubbing off the liner. To say that I was slightly on edge tonight about my first meeting with the Raiders would have been a mild understatement. It pissed me off that I was letting them have an effect on me. After all, I’d taken down criminals who on paper were a hell of a lot more intimidating than a bunch of small-town bikers. But tonight it all really boiled down to the merging of my past and present.

  Leaning out of the bathroom, I called, “It’s open.”

  The beep of the security system went off as Gavin opened the door and stepped inside. “I know you’ve moved up to the East Side and all with a house in this posh neighborhood, but you still need to lock your door, for fuck’s sake.”

  I grunted and stepped back in the bathroom. “I knew you were coming, dickhead.”

  He chuckled as he walked down the length of the hallway to meet me at the half bath. When I looked at his reflection in the mirror, he was doing a sweep of my attire—the practically painted-on black jeans, the skintight black top, and the knee-length leather boots. When he met my eye in the mirror, he winked at me. “Looking good, Vargas.”

  “So you won’t be ashamed to call me your old lady?”

  He waggled a finger at me. “Wrong terminology. Hang-arounds don’t have old ladies—only full-patched members.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered.

  Gavin tsked at me. “Do I need to tell Peterson you’re not doing your homework?”

  “I’ve done my homework, asshole,” I snapped, brushing past him out into the hallway. Normally, his ribbing wouldn’t have gotten to me, but tonight was a different story altogether.

  I didn’t get too far before Gavin pulled me to him. “You wanna talk about it?”

  “About what?”

  “Whatever it is about this case that has you spooked.”

  A shiver went down my spine at his words, but I quickly recovered. “There is nothing about a bunch of beer-guzzling lowlifes that has me spooked.” I wiggled out of his arms and once again started down the hall.

  Just as I reached to grab my purse, his next words froze me from head to toe. “So a man named Willie Bates means nothing to you.”

  My eyes pinched shut as my chest heaved. There is no adequate way to describe the emotional shit storm that hits you when your past and present collide. I didn’t even hear Gavin walk down the hall, but then suddenly he was at my side. “What do you know?” I questioned in a whisper so low my voice was barely audible.

  “Everything.” When I dared to look at him over my shoulder, he gave me a sad smile. “I’d never seen you react the way that you did when Peterson gave us this case, so I did a little digging.”

  “Does Peterson know?”

  “No. Only me. And it’s going to stay that way.”

  Although my heart swelled with the surge of love I had for Gavin and his loyalty, I still exhaled in defeat as I leaned back against the front door. “From what you’ve discovered, you should request that I be taken off the case.” When Gavin started to shake his head, I held my hand up to silence whatever argument he had prepared. “I’m a deficit, and you can’t afford a deficit out in the field.”

  He reached out to cup my face. “You could never be a deficit, Vargas. You’re the only one I would ever want to work with. I know that no matter what happened to you when you were eight years old, when it comes down to it, you’ll have your game face on and your shit together.”

  Although I hated myself for them, tears stung my eyes. “You really mean that?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  I swiped away some of my mascara-blackened tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  “I can understand why you didn’t. That was some horrible shit done to your father and in turn to you. It’s nobody’s business, really.”

  Trying to lighten some of the tension in the air, I grabbed both of his biceps and squeezed hard before pushing him away. “Why, why can’t you be straight?”

  Gavin laughed heartily. “You and I make a great business partnership, Vargas, but there’s no way in hell we could ever be married.”

  Cocking my head at him, I countered, “Is that right?”

  “It is, and deep down, you know I’m right.”

  I did know Gavin was right. We were too much alike to ever make any relationship besides friendship work. In the end, we were closer than friends. We were more like brother and sister.

  Waggling my eyebrows, I said, “Yeah, well, maybe I wasn’t talking about us marrying. Maybe I meant for us to have hot, sweaty sex.” At Gavin’s horrified face, I couldn’t help laughing. “Gotcha with that one.”

  “So not funny,” he muttered.

  “It’s good to know how repulsed you are by the idea of having sex with me,” I teased as I walked down the hall to the bathroom to fix my makeup.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Vargas. It’s not about having sex with you. It’s about having sex with a vagina, period, that wigs me.”

  I snorted as I reapplied some powder to cover the tracks of my tears. Gavin appeared in the doorway.

  “But regardless of all that, you’re the only woman I would ever consider going straight for.”

  I smiled at his reflection in the mirror. “Aw, you can be awfully sweet when you want to, McTavish.”

  He came over and turned me around. After bestowing a kiss on my cheek, he winked. “Come on, hot stuff. Let’s go show the bikers how it’s done.”

  While I didn’t share his confidence or enthusiasm, I nodded in agreement. After turning on the security system, I followed him out the front door. In my driveway was a motorcycle the bureau had provided for Gavin. On
a lowly mechanic’s salary, Gavin wouldn’t have been able to afford the bikes that he owned, so instead, the bureau had gotten him one that would fit in better with his persona—which he of course hated.

  “What a hunk of junk,” I teased as I grabbed my helmet off the back.

  “I fucking loathe and despise every moment on this piece of shit,” Gavin replied.

  “Looks like you could’ve lent yourself some street cred by pretending you had stolen one of your bikes.”

  As Gavin slid onto the worn leather seat, he grunted. “Don’t think I didn’t take that angle with Peterson.”

  I laughed as I climbed on behind him. My arms slid around his waist to grip him tight. Riding bitch on a motorcycle was something I hated almost as much as having to dress like a hooker. Gavin and I had spent several evenings riding together after work to make sure I looked like a natural on the back of his bike. But those had been only short trips around the neighborhood and in town. Tonight would be the farthest I had ever been on a bike.

  We sped off into the night, leaving my house, my comfortable life, and my usual .40-caliber Glock behind. The Raiders clubhouse was a good forty-five minutes north of Marietta, the Atlanta suburb where I lived. After Gavin started scaring the hell out of me as he careened in and out of the Friday evening traffic, I closed my eyes and focused on the briefing we had had earlier in the day with Peterson.

  Tonight was a huge opportunity for our case. Gavin had spent weeks slowly befriending Bishop Malloy, and it had finally culminated in Gavin—or Marley, as he was known to Bishop—being invited to a hang out at the clubhouse.

  While Gavin was to keep his eyes and ears open with all members of the Raiders, not just Bishop, I was to focus my attention solely on Bishop. As the sergeant at arms, he would be the most connected to the gun trade, not counting the president and vice president. Because of the type of man he was known to be, I was to pull out all the stops when it came to using my feminine wiles. While his two brothers, Deacon and Rev, were settled down and married, Bishop was the epitome of a womanizer. His greatest joy in life outside the club was to flirt and fuck, and my intent was to use that against him. It was the old cliché of a woman driving a man to distraction, and that distraction being used to slip him up and eventually take him down.

  When we got off the interstate, the terrain began to change. We started to wind around curvy roads and climb small hills. I could see the mountains off in the distance. It was hard to imagine an MC staking claim in the backwoods, but apparently that was where the Georgia chapter of the Raiders made their home.

  I knew where the roadhouse was long before we reached it. Far off in the distance, I saw a building ablaze with lights, and bikes lining the parking lot. Gavin surprised me by not turning in but parking away from the others. But then I remembered something I had read, that only fully patched members parked their bikes together, and in turn, those bikes were watched over by a prospect. Everyone else was on his own.

  After Gavin killed the engine, he glanced over his shoulder at me. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” I said—a lie, considering that my anxiety had spiked from zero to a hundred just from being on the Raiders’ property.

  When Gavin chuckled, I knew he saw through my line of bullshit. After he stood up and took off his helmet, he helped me. “You’re going to be fine, Vargas.”

  I held up a hand. “Please. No more pep talking. I can’t begin to tell you how thankful I am that we’re not wired up tonight, because I would die a thousand deaths before I would want Peterson or the others to see me so fucking fragile.”

  “I promise no one will ever know my ball-busting bitch turned chickenshit. Okay?”

  I laughed as I smacked his arm playfully. “Thanks.”

  “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  We started across the parking lot toward the roadhouse. As I worked to control my breathing, Gavin slid a comforting arm around my waist. To others it would look like a possessive move to show ownership over me, but I knew in his mind he was doing it to try to put me at ease.

  When we got to the front door, a burly tattooed guy with multiple piercings guarded the entrance. “Can I help you?”

  Without missing a beat, Gavin said, “Yeah, we’re here for the party.”

  Tattoo Guy smirked skeptically at Gavin. “Is that right?”

  “It sure as hell is. Just ask Bishop.”

  “You Marley?” When Gavin nodded in acknowledgment, Tattoo Guy stepped aside. “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Gavin said.

  As we walked in the door, I somewhat expected everyone to turn and stare at us—confirmation of the true outsiders we were. But no one really looked our way, and if they did, we were greeted with a nod of acknowledgment. Across the room, a house band had music pumping out of the speakers, and couples danced on a makeshift dance floor. Others hung around the bar, sipping on beers and mixed drinks.

  Gavin started to take a step forward, but I froze. Each time my gaze fell on a biker, he became my father’s murderer standing in front of me. My heartbeat accelerated wildly in my chest, and I fought to breathe. Ducking my head, I pinched my eyes shut and started counting to ten in my mind.

  “Sam, are you okay?” Gavin whispered in my ear. The fact that he called me by my first name meant he was truly worried.

  “Bathroom. I need a bathroom,” I gasped. When he started to lead me across the room, I jerked back and shook my head. “No. I do this on my own. You go on. I’ll catch up to you.”

  Gavin’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Just give me ten to get my shit together.”

  He looked as though he wanted to argue with me, so I pulled away from him and started across the floor. At the food table, I spotted the vice president’s wife, Alexandra, bouncing a dark-haired baby boy on her hip. I knew all about her from the files I had read, and just like with the president’s wife, I had been surprised that someone like her, a teacher from a respected, middle-class family, would have taken up with a biker.

  “Excuse me. Where’s the bathroom?” I asked.

  When her dark eyes met mine, a look of confusion came over her face, which wasn’t too surprising. I was sure she knew all the old ladies, girlfriends, and sweet butts of the club. The expression was quickly replaced by a smile. “Just down the hall from the kitchen,” she replied, motioning to the right.

  “Thank you.” Without a word to her or the other women, I made a beeline down the hall. I burst through the door that signified it was for women by a pair of giant carved boobs on it. It was packed full of scantily dressed women fighting for mirror time as they worked on their hair and makeup. I bypassed them and went into one of the stalls.

  Once I was safely closed inside, I placed my palms flat against the graffiti-colored walls. I tucked my head to my chest and once again began taking deep, cleansing breaths in and out. In my head, I kept repeating the mantra I had adopted many years ago. I am stronger than my fear. I am stronger than my fear. I am stronger than my fear.

  After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, the overwhelming panic began to dissipate. I started slowly feeling like myself again—my strong, courageous kick-ass self. Pulling my head up, I rolled my shoulders to ease the tension the anxiety had brought on.

  With my courage renewed, I focused on the task ahead of me. Throwing open the stall door, I made my way out of the bathroom. After entering the main room, I didn’t even falter when a hulking biker with gleaming silver piercings and arms covered in multicolored tattoos bumped into me. “Sorry, sugar,” he drawled.

  I gave him my best smile before craning my neck to search for Gavin. I found him sitting alone at a table, nursing a beer. When I started to get near the table, he jerked his gaze to mine as if he had sensed me approaching.

  After I took a seat next to him, he asked, “You okay?”

  “Never better.” Knocking his hand away, I took his beer and downed the rest in one foamy gulp. When Gavin�
�s eyebrows shot up questioningly, I shook my head. “Look, it was exactly as I said. I just needed a minute to get my shit together. You have nothing to worry about.”

  He grinned at my forceful tone. “Never said I was worried.”

  “You didn’t have to. I could tell by your face and the fact that you called me Sam.”

  Gavin took his beer back from me. “Ready?”

  “More than ready. What happened while I was gone?”

  “Bishop got me a beer on the house and told me to have a seat. I thought he was coming over to talk, but then he got called away.”

  My eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Some backdoor meeting?”

  With a chuckle, Gavin replied, “More like some hot piece of ass with her tits hanging out of her top asked him to dance.”

  I rolled my eyes in a huff. “Men. Don’t you ever think with anything besides your dicks?”

  “Nope,” Gavin replied with a wink.

  Turning away from Gavin, I focused my gaze on the dance floor. It took only a second to spot Bishop through the crowd of other bikers. Gavin had adequately described the woman Bishop was with. At the moment, they were bumping and grinding to where they might as well have been having sex on the floor. Out of nowhere a flush of warmth spread over me, the same way Bishop’s hands ran over the woman’s body. It seemed to get even hotter when I watched the expert way his hips pumped against hers.

  Leaning forward in my chair, I continued to study my target. The pictures the bureau had shown me didn’t quite do Bishop justice. Although it should have been the last thing on my mind, I couldn’t help thinking he was far more good-looking in person. He certainly appeared more built—his muscles more defined, his chest broader, and his thighs thicker. His body exuded power and strength—two things that came in handy for him as a boxer and the sergeant at arms.

  I couldn’t help snorting at how I felt like an airhead sorority girl with these lustful thoughts running through my mind.

  “He’s completely fuckable, isn’t he?” Gavin asked in a low voice.

  Oh hell yes. Very, very fuckable, I thought as I fought the urge to squirm in my seat. Needing to hide my illicit thoughts from Gavin, I said, “Just what the hell are you talking about?”