GRIT: A Spartan Riders Novel

by J.C. Valentine

  Aside from a cursory glance, the other students paid him no mind, but Gabby wasn’t about to turn a blind eye. She was of the mind that a child’s future was shaped by his childhood, and if this kid was already on the wrong track, what did that say about the rest of his life?

  “Mr. Mahone,” she said sternly as she pushed to her feet and caught his eye, “meet me at my desk please.”

  With quiet confidence, he strode to the front of the room and looked her straight in the eyes when she spoke.

  “Do you have a reason for being late?”

  “My dad was taking care of some business,” he said in such a straightforward manner that Gabby was stunned. What kind of kid his age spoke like that?

  “Business? What kind of business?”

  “That’s not really your business. Ma’am,” he tacked on.

  She should have been upset, but he spoke without an ounce of attitude. No, he was just blunt…and insanely mature for his age. It struck Gabby that of all the students in the room, this one was the one she’d have to keep a close eye on. For a brief moment, they stared each other down, though not with contempt. More like they were trying to figure each other out. Or more like, she was trying to figure him out. Ash just looked as if he was bored and wanted nothing more than to return to his seat.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Gabby reminded herself that she was in charge here. She also reminded herself that she was speaking to a six-year-old. Snapping a tissue from the box on her desk, she extended it out to him. “Well, Ash, since this is the first day of school, I’ll let it slide. But school is for learning, so I expect you to be here on time from now on. Deal?”

  Scrubbing the smudge from his cheek, he nodded once, sharply. “Deal.” Then, without waiting to be dismissed, he returned to his seat and opened a fresh packet of crayons.

  TWO

  “Ain’t tryin’ to piss you off—”

  “Then don’t,” Blake “Quick” Mahone, president of the Spartan Riders Club, replied flatly from behind his desk where he was systematically working through a pile of bullshit paperwork that required so many signatures his hand was beginning to cramp, not to mention the horrendous headache that was setting in. Corporate red tape was a pain in his ass.

  “But,” Tucker, also known as Country and the Spartan Riders Sergeant at Arms, pressed on, “I think we both know this little problem isn’t gonna just go away.”

  Fuck, he did know. Dropping his pen, Blake slumped back in his chair, dragging a heavy hand through his hair. “What’s the word on the street?”

  “Straight up? Cruiz is movin’ in. He’s securin’ himself a few miles east and already has his men on the street.”

  “Merch?”

  “Alla it. Guns, drugs, women. Drove up myself this morning.” This earned a look from Blake that had Country patting the air. “Calm down, Prez, I was quiet about it. No one knew I was there. But shit’s heavy. Whatever Cruiz is planning, he ain’t tryin’ to hide it.”

  “Which means whatever he’s up to, it’s big.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Fuck. Back in the day, when Blake was patching in, he’d heard stories about the guy. Years back, before either of them were old enough to be full-fledged club members, Cruiz was already known for the way he handled business. There was mean. There was vicious. And there was Cruiz. He was a loose cannon, unpredictable.

  Word was, in order to secure his seat at the head of the table, he jumped the gun and, instead of inheriting his club’s presidency, he’d done the unthinkable. Two bullets to the back of the head and buried in a shallow grave somewhere in the Nevada desert. At least that’s what the grapevine whispered. The world was a better place without Alejandro Cruiz in it, but it was a wonder the gates of hell didn’t open wide when his son, Ricky, stepped up to fill his papa’s shoes.

  It wasn’t that patricide was an approved act among the MC. The problem was that no one was brave enough to stand up to the bastard.

  Now, it seemed, Cruiz and his lackeys were about to become his problem. And Blake Mahone backed down to no man.

  His crew. His family. His turf. He oversaw everything, and he’d vowed to protect it till his dying breath.

  But how the hell was he going to tackle this bastard without wiping them all out? “Church Sunday. Let the boys weigh in. We’ll move forward from there.”

  With a sharp nod, Country stood and made to move for the door, when he paused. “Hey, isn’t it Ash’s first day in kindergarten?”

  “Yeah,” Blake said with a slight twitch of the lips, remembering the rough start to the morning for both of them, starting when Blake set the alarm clock for the wrong time, and ending with a phone call that had him running to the office for a permit that made Ash even later than he already was.

  “What time’s he get out? I was thinking I’d take him down to Deb’s for a double scoop.”

  Man, it fuckin’ warmed his stone cold heart the way his brothers stepped up to help him raise the kid. He was still trying to figure out how the whole single dad role worked.

  “Quarter after twelve.”

  “Dude, it’s after one.”

  Panic jolted through his limbs and had Blake spinning around in his chair to look up at the digital clock. It took him a minute before he saw that his brother was right. He’d twisted the numbers around.

  “Dammit, must have read it wrong,” he muttered to himself, knowing full-well that Country would take it as an honest mistake. Leaving the paperwork where it was, he shrugged on his leather jacket and grabbed his keys.

  “Everything on your mind lately? Easy to do.”

  Country stepped out of his way as Blake strode past him and out the door, trudging down the trailer’s steps hard enough to make them dance over the loose gravel.

  “Lock up on your way out,” he called over his shoulder. Slinging his leg over the bike, Blake fired up the engine on his Fat Boy and tore out of the lot like a man possessed. Another mark to add to a long list of ever-growing fuck-ups when it came to him and fatherhood. If he didn’t love his son so goddamn much, he’d have beat Jodi to the punch and thrown in the towel ages ago.

  But just like his brothers and his club, he’d lay his life down for that kid.

  ***

  Apparently, running late was pathological in the Mahone household.

  It was well past noon and all the children had gone home…all except for one. Gabby sat on the top step of Roosevelt Elementary with her purse in her lap and Ash Mahone by her side. She’d already called his home twice with no answer and, since he was her charge to look after, she brushed off the suggestion that he stay inside the office until someone picked him up and decided to wait it out with him.

  Hell, she’d have driven him home already if it wasn’t against policy and if it meant getting on with her day.

  “I can just walk,” Ash said, his voice unwavering, though Gabby thought she might have detected a hint of despair in there somewhere. “I know the way.”

  If she were in his shoes, she’d definitely be despairing. What kind of parent forgot their kid? While Ash just sat there, completely stoic, she was growing more and more upset by the minute. She may not have kids of her own, but she couldn’t imagine an instance where she could forget them if she did. He deserved better than to be forgotten, and when his father finally decided to show his face, she had a few choice words for him.

  “You’re not walking,” she said firmly. She knew better than most that the world wasn’t safe. Small children like Ash needed protection.

  His dark eyes lifted to hers. “Why, because I’m just a kid?”

  She barely caught herself from jerking her head back in surprise. This kid…

  Maintaining a firm upper lip, she stared right back. “Yes, because you’re just a kid. It’s not safe to go walking the streets alone.”

  “But Sara and Max do it,” he grumbled, clearly annoyed with her insistence that he stay put.

  “Well, Sara and Max live across the street,” she r
eminded him. They’d stood on the very step they were now sitting on not an hour ago and watched them go inside their homes, both greeted by a parent. So the situation, as much as Ash might have wanted it to be the same, couldn’t be more different.

  Still, Gabby was frustrated. Both because sitting here, babysitting after hours, was cutting into her own plans for the day, and because Ash was just a kid who should, at the very least, rank high enough on his parents’ to-do list to warrant a ride home.

  Hopefully, they’d arrive before dark.

  “Do you know your mom’s number? Maybe we can give her a try.”

  “My dad told me I’m not allowed to talk to her anymore.”

  Well, if that didn’t spark her curiosity. The question was right on the tip of her tongue when Gabby heard a deep rumble of thunder in the distance.

  Only it wasn’t thunder. She’d grown up in this town, so she was very familiar with the sound of a dual header system. The deep, aggressive growl grew steadily louder the closer it got, stirring up a mixture of excitement and dread deep in her stomach. Sucking in a sharp breath and sitting up tall, she hoped she appeared fiercer than she felt.

  Together, she and Ash focused down the long stretch of road, watching and waiting for the motorcycle to reveal itself. When it did, Gabby couldn’t help admiring the piece of machinery—shiny, sleek, and black with chrome accents that glinted in the filtered sunlight. The sound alone boosted her heart rate up a notch, but when her gaze drifted to the rider, it felt as if a jackhammer had taken root in her chest cavity.

  Hot damn, but a man dressed in head-to-toe leather was a heart-stopper, even if everything about him screamed Danger, Will Robinson! Gabby had always been intrigued by the misfits that called themselves the Spartan Riders, but her parents had done a good job warning her off rebels like them. Bikers and good girls didn’t mix. Not at all. Not that it’d ever stopped her from accumulating a fair share of bad boyfriends. But hell and blast, she wasn’t up for another broken heart. And a man like that had broken heart written all over him.

  Listen to her. As if she actually had a chance in hell of catching the eye of a Spartan. Not that she wanted to. Everyone in town knew the only women they were interested in were of the scantily clad, loose morals, pole dancing variety. And by pole, she didn’t necessarily mean a stripper pole. Although she’d heard a lot of them did that too.

  As the bike began to slow as it reached the school parking lot, Gabby grew concerned. Men like that were trouble with a capital T. Normally, she wouldn’t bat an eyelash, confident in her ability to hold her own, but bikers weren’t known for frequenting elementary schools, and with a child’s welfare to consider, she wasn’t about to take any chances.

  She was just about to reach for Ash’s sleeve and tug him back inside when the boy rose to his feet and skipped excitedly down the stairs.

  “Ash!” she shouted, fear taking root in her gut even as her mind struggled to process the picture playing out in front of her.

  The bike rolled to a complete stop, the driver placing both heavily boot-clad feet on the ground and, with a creak of leather, lifted his helmet.

  Her. Heart. Stopped.

  Gabby had never seen anything like him. Short, inky black hair, a strong, square-cut jaw covered in thick beard growth, defined cheekbones, and heavy brows. A set of eyes that shown silver in the sunlight met hers briefly, just long enough to steal what was left of her breath. He gave her a sharp jerk of his head, as if in hello, and then returned his attention to Ash, who plunked a child-sized bright blue helmet on his head. The man she assumed was his father spoke in low tones that rumbled nearly as deep as the bike’s pipes as he reached down and began fastening it under his chin.

  Gabby took one look at the two of them and the bike, and marched down to meet them, catching the tail end of their conversation.

  “Sorry I was late, buddy.”

  “It’s okay, Daddy.”

  “Nah, it’s no—”

  “Hi,” she said, her voice bright but razor sharp. She was not at all happy, and she wanted him to know it. Thrusting out her hand she said, “I’m Gabby Morgan, Ash’s teacher. I missed you at this morning’s meet and greet.”

  Straightening on his seat, those gray eyes swept over her in open appreciation that sent tingles all the way down to her toes. While the danger held a smidgeon of appeal at a distance, Gabby could now see why women all but melted in the face of men like him. With one look, this one made her warm all over. But she wasn’t about to let that little detail cloud her judgment.

  He extended his hand, clasping hers in a rough but delicate hold, and held. “Blake Mahone, Ash’s dad. We were running behind this morning.”

  She’d gathered as much. “Yes, Ash mentioned you had some business to tend to.” Withdrawing her hand from his, Gabby crossed her arms over her chest, an action that drew Mr. Mahone’s eyes. Another rush of heat climbed into her cheeks when she realized that, rather than make her appear mean and scary, the move pushed her breasts up and out, but Gabby ignored that too.

  “Mr. Mahone, you do realize that, in addition to this morning, you’re over an hour late. Today was a half-day.”

  Lifting his arm, he scratched the back of his neck, appearing almost shameful. Yet Gabby suspected that the man had probably never felt a moment’s shame in his life. “Yeah, time got away from me. It won’t happen again.”

  It damn well better hadn’t. That’s what she wanted to say, but she held her tongue, determined to be nice and give the man a chance. Everyone was entitled to one screw-up. “We tried calling several times, but no one answered. There’s no other number on file besides yours either. You might consider informing the office of a backup in case anything like this happens again.”

  Blake Mahone’s eyes narrowed a fraction, his impression of her obviously shifting to something more unfavorable. A muscle in his jaw flexed and, with a curt nod, he reached back to assist Ash onto the bike.

  “Duly noted, Miss Morgan.” Then he pulled his helmet back on and acted as if she wasn’t even there. “Ready to fly, buddy?”

  “Wait, you’re not seriously driving your son home on this…thing, are you?”

  The dark, reflective visor turned toward her, gifting her a vision of herself. A deep, dark scowl pinched her lips and scorn-filled eyes she normally thought were fairly attractive stared back at her. Man, did she really look that bitchy?

  His rough voice followed, muffled behind the helmet, reclaiming her attention. “That’s the plan.”

  She opened her mouth to protest once more, intent on informing him of all the possible dangers, when he revved his engine, canceling her out. She waited for the engine to die down to a low rumble before her lips parted, but once more, he twisted the handle, filling the air with the bike’s angry roar.

  Oh, wow. What an ass. Clearly the man didn’t care to hear it. But what else should she expect from someone who couldn’t even bother to be on time. A scowl twisted her face and she pursed her lips, backing up a step and making a motion with her arm for him to proceed.

  Mr. Mahone revved the bike one more time, then with a wave of Ash’s little hand, they shot off, leaving Gabby shaking her head and promising herself she wouldn’t get involved.

  THREE

  That’s it. She was getting involved. Blake Mahone had forced her hand.

  Sitting, once again, at the top of the elementary school steps, Gabby clenched the concrete until her fingertips turned white. Late again. It was the second time that week, and she’d had enough. Was it a biker thing, or did Ash’s father just not care, or was he just that inconsiderate? Did he think she didn’t have a life, responsibilities of her own? Gabby might be single, she might be living in her parents’ basement, but that didn’t mean she had all the time in the world to sit around babysitting his kid until whenever the hell he decided to show up and be a father.

  To bide their time, Gabby helped Ash with his homework. As his teacher, she was well aware of the conflict of interest, but she
was bored, and clearly the boy wasn’t getting the kind of attention he needed at home. So, she was helping.

  “It’s too hard,” Ash complained, his tiny fist balling into his hair as he hung his head in defeat.

  “It only seems that way because it’s new. Once you get the hang of it, it’ll be a piece of cake,” she assured, trying to cheer him up. Placing a hand on his arm, she urged him to sit up, then leaned in to take another look at the math problem that had him stumped. “Hmm, five plus four. What do you think the answer is?”

  “I don’t know,” he grumbled, “ten?”

  “No,” she said with a shake of her head. “Let’s use our fingers again. Start with the biggest number, which is…”

  “Five.”

  “Right. Start with five and count four more.” While he did as she instructed, Gabby studied his profile. It was no surprise that he resembled his father so strongly, right down to the way he scowled, causing his eyes to turn into slits of consternation that, even for a six-year-old, made him look fierce. A man like Blake Mahone would definitely have strong genes. There was no doubt in her mind that Ash Mahone was going to be a lady killer when he grew up.

  Ash’s head popped up, his expression hopeful. “Nine?”

  “Yes!” Gabby nearly shouted. “Great job, Ash.”

  His smile was so wide and so bright, so full of pride that Gabby’s heart twisted. This moment was precisely why she chose to teach. There was nothing quite like witnessing a child’s personal growth develop and knowing you had a hand in it. She was so glad she’d finally taken the plunge and set her worries on the back burner to pursue her dreams.

  She guided him through the rest of the problems and couldn’t resist giving Ash a little side hug when he was finished. “You’ve really gotten the hang of it, and fast too. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” he said, tipping his head to hide the faint blush that stained his cheeks. “My dad says I’m a smart cookie.”