If you enjoyed Iron Goddess
by Dharma Kelleher
Read on for a sneak peek at the next thrilling adventure featuring Shea Stevens:
The Athena Sisterhood
An Alibi Original ebook
Available January 2017
Genette Abrams gasped and stumbled along the dark street. She’d been walking from the Trip Hop Lounge to the parking garage when a strange stiffness crept through her body. Her four-inch heel slipped off the curb. She tumbled to the ground and clung to a parking meter.
What the hell’s wrong with me? she wondered.
She’d been feeling so good at the club between the Long Island Ice Tea and a little bump of ecstasy mixed with heroin—known by club-goers as hex—to smooth things out.
But then her stomach turned sour and began to cramp. She’d stepped outside, hoping some fresh air would help make her feel better. It hadn’t. Soon she was heaving on the sidewalk, streaking her blouse with vomit. Now she felt like she was having a seizure.
After a few minutes, the cramps and tightness passed leaving her with a case of the chills. She pulled herself to her feet and squeezed her coat tighter against the chilly November wind howling through Ironwood’s Downtown District.
I’ll be okay once I find my car and turn on the heater, she thought. Where the hell’d I park, anyway? Up a block or down a block? Her mind was fuzzy, even as the steady bass beat of the club’s house music echoed through her mind.
A second wave of stiffness hit her, more intense this time, driving her to her knees. Hands trembled. Jaw tightened. Leg muscles seized. She struggled to inhale as her chest squeezed the air out of her lungs. Cramps twisted her stomach. Genette cried out through gritted teeth. “Grrrgh…”
What’s happening to me? Please God, don’t let me die.
The tightness and pain eased up again. She took deep, gulping breaths. A gust of icy wind blew across her bare legs. Gotta get out of the wind.
She struggled to her feet, holding on to a wall to steady herself, and pushed along the steep sidewalk into an alley. It wasn’t much warmer, but at least it cut the wind screaming down the street.
Gotta call Susan. She’ll help me.
She reached for the phone in her purse. With clumsy fingers, she dialed her roommate’s phone. Another wave of cramps and tremors hit her.
“Hello?” asked a gravelly, irritated voice.
“Su…muh…heh…” The words would not come out.
“Genette, is that you?”
“Brah…nee…” With a squeal, her jaw clamped shut and refused to open.
“Dammit, girl! I told you before—don’t be drunk dialing me this late. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Ughnnn…” Her lungs burned for air. Her chest tightened. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, like taiko drums from a horror movie soundtrack. A foamy liquid in her throat choked off her breathing. Panic and confusion gripped her as she collapsed on the ground. The phone fell from her hand and clattered to the ground next to her.
“Shut the fuck up!” came a voice further down the alley. “Some of us is trying to sleep, goddammit.”
A woman bundled up in a coat with a hoodie loomed over her, illuminated by the dim light spilling from the street. “Jesus H. Christ. Can’t you find someplace else to make noise?”
Genette reached out, her eyes bulging in their sockets.
“You damn college kids ain’t nothing but a bunch of junkies. Fucking interrupt my sleep. Shit.” The woman disappeared from view, followed by the rhythmic squeaking of a grocery cart wheel.
No, don’t leave. Please. Help.
The cold deepened. Genette’s mind went dark. Her body arched backward in icy waves of pain, twisting and contorting until she was gone.
Chapter 1
The scarred-over gunshot wound on Shea Stevens’ lower back throbbed as she tightened the leads on the motorcycle battery. Two months had passed since a couple of corrupt cops had shot her and broken her collarbone. But she was on a deadline and didn’t have time to worry about old wounds.
It was nearly midnight. Shea and her crew at Iron Goddess Custom Cycles were rushing to finish the one-off bagger, which the new owner would be picking up the next morning.
“Okay, folks, let’s bring this baby to life.” Shea inserted the key and pressed the starter button.
The engine went rurr-rurr-rurr, but didn’t catch. A series of frustrated glances passed between Shea and her three employees. She paused a moment then tried again, holding the starter a few seconds longer. It refused to turn over.
“Fuck. We did put gas in the damn tank, right?” Shea asked Lakota, a Native American woman who served as the shop’s chief engineer.
Lakota brushed her long, salt-and-pepper hair behind her back and she leaned over the bike. “Full tank. Battery’s fully charged. Oil pan’s filled. Air intake looks fine. It should start.”
“Maybe it’s the wiring,” suggested Kyle, Shea’s latest new hire. Despite being too short to ride, he had turned out to be a decent motorcycle mechanic.
Switch, a savant with electronics, stared at the bike. “It’s not the wiring,” she said firmly.
“I dunno, Switch,” said Shea, rubbing the scar on her back. “Maybe the timing’s off. Or maybe you miswired it.”
“I didn’t miswire it. I did everything right. I always do everything right.”
Shea took a deep breath and caught a cautionary look from Lakota that said, Don’t set her off.
The throaty growl of a Harley pulling into the back parking lot shook the closed garage bay doors. A moment after it stopped, someone pounded on the side door with such force it made everyone jump.
“Who the hell could that be?” asked Lakota.
Shea’s bullet wound burned more fiercely. “I’ll deal with it. You three figure out why this bike won’t start. Hook it up to the computer and check the fault codes.”
Whoever was knocking was probably not someone she wanted to talk to. A tweaker looking to rob the place. A cop looking for her or one of her team of second-chancers. As an ex-con who had grown up around the outlaw biker community, her recent injuries had only confirmed a lifelong distrust of law enforcement.
“We ain’t open yet,” Shea yelled through the closed door. “Come back at eight.”
More pounding followed by a familiar voice. “Shea-Shea? Open up. It’s Monster.”
Anger rippled up her back and into her fists. As if I ain’t got enough shit to deal with.
Shea grabbed a large dead-blow hammer from a workbench and kicked open the door, nearly knocking the heavyset biker off his feet. “Whaddya want?”
Monster sported a longish white beard tied with a rubber band and wore a leather vest that identified him as a member of the Confederate Thunder Motorcycle Club. “Easy, girl. Just want to talk is all.”
“I ain’t got nothing to say to you, old man.”
“Now, Shea…” Monster reached out to put a hand on Shea’s shoulder, but Shea backed away, warding him off with the hammer.
“Keep your fucking paws off me. What the hell you want?”
“I passed by, saw the lights were still on.”
“So? I’m busy. And I don’t want nothing to do with you or the Thunder ever again. You got me?”
“Shea, darling, I just wanna see my grandbaby.”
“Annie ain’t your grandbaby.”
“Like hell she ain’t. I raised her mama since she was seven years old. I was there when Wendy gave birth to Annie. I’m the closest thing to a grandpa Annie knows.”
“Wendy and our mama are dead because of their involvement with the Thunder. I ain’t gonna let that happen to Annie.”
“Aw, that’s horse shit and you know it. That no-good cop who kidnapped Annie is the one who shot Wendy. And she woulda still been alive if you two had stayed at the clubhouse like y’alls supposed to. As for your mama—”
“Don’t you dare fucking talk about my mama.”
“If she’d ju
st talked to one of the club’s officers instead of trying to run away like that.”
Shea took a swing at him but he grabbed the hammer’s handle and pulled her close.
“Shea, I ain’t gonna argue. I know you’re angry. Hell, I’m angry, too. It can’t be easy raising Annie by yourself. I’m here ’cause I wanna help.”
“My girlfriend and I are doing just fine without you.”
“Girlfriend? You mean that colored girl? You know Annie shouldn’t be raised by no colored girl. ’Less maybe she was the nanny.”
“Save the racist bullshit for the club.” She yanked the hammer away from him and tried to slam the door closed, but Monster held it open.
“The girl needs a father figure in her life. She ain’t getting it having two mommies.”
“Get the fuck outta here, Monster, ’fore I call the cops.”
“Shea, please. I miss my little Annie. So does Julia. She cries every night. We already lost Wendy. Least you could do is let us see our grandbaby.”
Shea studied Monster’s face. “Tell me, old man. Is the Thunder still using the old stash house to store drugs and guns? Is that where you’re keeping all the dope you stole from the Mexicans? Be a shame if the cops showed up and busted the place.”
His face changed from pleading to threatening. “Shea, talk like that could get you hurt. Your daddy may have been club president once upon a time, but that won’t protect you if you go snitchin’.”
“This conversation is over.” Shea tried again to pull the door closed, but Monster stuck his boot in the way.
“Shea, I’m gonna see my grandbaby. Ain’t no reason to be stubborn about it.”
She slammed the dead-blow hammer into Monster’s groin. He fell on his back groaning and holding his crotch. “Stay away from my family or I’ll put a bullet in your brain.” She slammed the door and locked it.
Monster pounded on the door. “This ain’t over,” he yelled in a strained voice. A moment later his bike roared to life, then disappeared into the night.
Shea trudged back to her crew and their work in progress. Kyle and Lakota were staring at her. Switch had unbolted the tank and propped it out of the way as she worked with the bike’s ignition system.
“You okay, Shea?” asked Lakota.
“I’m all right. What’s the story with the bike?”
“Ignition coil was bad out of the box. Switch is replacing it now.” Lakota approached Shea and whispered, “Who was that guy?”
“He adopted my sister after our mama was killed. Wants to see Annie. I told him to fuck off.”
“He’s a member of the Confederate Thunder?”
“Yeah.” Shea rotated her sore shoulder.
“Should we be worried? Last time they showed up here, they shot up the place.”
“Nah,” Shea said, trying to convince herself as much as anyone.
Fifteen minutes later, the four of them stood around the bike once again. Shea turned the key and pressed the starter. The bike roared to life. Shea revved the throttle a few times as Kyle and Lakota clapped.
“Good job, Switch,” said Shea, grinning from ear to ear.
“I told you, I always do everything right.”
PHOTO: EILEEN KELLEHER
DHARMA KELLEHER writes gritty tales about outlaws, renegades, and misfits. Over the years, she has worked as a radio news director, a goldsmith, a caregiver, and a Web developer. Her hobbies include riding her motorcycle, picking locks, and getting inked.
dharmakelleher.com
Facebook.com/dharmakelleherauthor
@zenpunkdharma
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