by Cathryn Cade
“Have you been going to your meetings?” she asked, wrapping a lock of hair around her finger.
“Yeah,” her father said. “I am. They have ‘em twice a week, up at the Lutheran church in Kennewick. I tell you, helluva surprise to see the kinds of people who show up. Got housewives, suits, even one old gal that reminds me of your Granny Arno.”
“Any other veterans?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah. A couple. One’s all right, we talk before the meeting a little.”
“D’you have a, what do they call it, a sponsor?”
“Gonna ask Roy, he’s the veteran.”
“Oh, good. How’s your job?”
Her father made a rough sound of humorous disparagement. “Stockin’ shelves and pumpin’ gas is pretty much the same anywhere. Don’t exactly strain my brain. But I’m not complaining. It’s a job, and I been pickin’ up a little extra cash on the side, changing oil and that for folks in the trailer court.”
Lesa’s hand clenched on her phone, and she opened her mouth and then closed it.
“Now, honey,” Phil said, reading her silence. “I’m fine. I give my pay to Traci, and she puts in her account, where it’s safe. Don’t you worry about me—you just tend to your business, and do well like I know you can. Nobody to screw things up for you this time. Hell, you’ll probably be running that place before too long, like you were that fancy little place downtown Spokane.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” she said, and they both chuckled.
Even with the trashy Aysha, and the bikers, the Hangar was much better than Twist, the small, upscale bar & grill where she’d spent six horrid months not only waitressing but managing the place while the owner flitted back and forth from Portland, appearing only to upset staff with his inappropriate advances, wreak havoc with suppliers, and then disappear again, usually when he was supposed to be signing paychecks. Staff had quit right and left.
Lesa had escaped with relief to move to the Tri-Cities and take the job at Morey’s, where her father was lead transmission specialist. And for nearly two years, her life had been great. Her family was in the same area, with Traci and Billie at the local community college, and she and their dad working together.
Then it had ended with a suddenness that left Lesa floundering, the bedrock of her life shattering beneath her feet. Her father had fallen, and dragged her down with him. She wondered how long it would be before every interaction with him stopped filling her with this mix of love and betrayal.
She fake-yawned. “Okay, Dad. I need to get some sleep. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“I’d like that, baby girl. Thanks for callin’, and remember, I love ya.”
Lesa gritted her teeth. “Love you too. Night.”
She ended the call, but instead of turning off the lights in her little house, she picked up her phone, and brought up one of her favorite romances, about a young woman who discovers her dashing husband is half-man, half-cat, capable of shifting into a huge, deadly mountain lion at the twitch of a whisker.
When she realized that instead of picturing one of her favorite actors in the role of hero, she was picturing Pete Vanko, Lesa groaned. Then she grinned, and kept reading. Eh, he’d never know, so what harm would it do?
After reading a smoking hot love scene, she pulled her vibrator from the drawer and lay back in bed. With Pete still in the role of hero, she came hard and long.
It wasn’t until she rolled over and snuggled down to sleep that she realized she was going to have to face him in the morning with these naughty images in her memory. Yikes.
January 29th
Lesa loved her new job as book-keeper, really, she did.
Okay, it was a little quiet in the small office with Pete always out in the bar, and when she heard him chatting and laughing with customers, she found herself wanting to be out there where she could hear what they were saying, and see his face when he smiled, watch him move with lazy grace between the beer taps and the counter.
And she was a teensy bit jealous when Maggie, the new waitress, took over her job, and Lesa had to watch the dark-haired woman carrying drinks and plates to Lesa’s former customers. She did think Maggie could smile more, and take a moment to chat with people, instead of turning away the moment their plates hit the tables.
Also, it was a toss-up whether Maggie or Aysha’s voice was louder when the two women got into it over a spilled tray of beer when they bumped into each other. That time, Lesa shot out of her chair and stood in the office door, watching in dismay as Maggie gave Aysha a shove, and Aysha went for her with hands clawed, only to stop short when Rocker, who was playing pool with another Flyer Lesa didn’t recognize, stalked over to them and said something that made both women quiet down.
Aysha, pouting all the while, cleaned up the spill while Maggie went back for more drinks. Rocker saw Lesa watching and gave her a wink, then went back to his pool game. Lesa shook her head. She guessed there were advantages to having scary biker men around the place, especially when the boss was back in the brewery.
She walked over to the bar to check in with Maggie. “You okay?” she asked quietly, where only Streak and Maggie could hear. “Aysha can be a little … challenging to work with.”
Maggie, who was thirty-one, and part-Native American, gave her a dark look. “That bitch runs into me again because she’s ogling the men instead of doing her job, I’ll give her a challenge. One she won’t forget.”
“Yikes,” Lesa muttered as the woman walked away, drinks tray refilled.
Streak, who was behind the bar, raised a brow at Lesa. "You’re the one should be out on the floor. You're better with customers than either of those bitches. Also, you look bored out of your mind sitting in that office.”
Lesa gave him wide eyes. “I'm a bookkeeper. That’s my vocation, not waitressing.”
Streak shook his head at her. "Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that.” He moved away to take care of two of the Flyers’ at the other end of the bar, leaving Lesa gazing after him, irritated and unsettled.
Then she noted Aysha carrying the dripping mop through the bar, rolled her eyes and went to make sure the cleanup was finished properly, so no one broke their neck slipping on a wet floor. She stopped to have a friendly word with the two older men who had been her first customers, and then picked up a toy and washed it off for a toddler in a high chair.
When she turned back toward the office, Pete stood in the doorway, arms crossed and a dark look on his face. Her tummy clenched as she neared him. “Just helping out,” she said.
He gave her a strange, guarded look, but said nothing. As he walked away toward the bar, Lesa gazed after him, foreboding brushing her like an icy touch. Was he angry with her for being out of the office? He was nothing if not direct—seemed as if he would say so.
But as she walked back into the office and sat before the computer, she couldn’t help worrying.
She should have listened to that voice. Because the next thing that happened was him firing her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
February 1st - the present
As the rumble of big motorcycles penetrated the night, Pete turned away from the bottom of his stairs.
Other than the toilet flushing, his unexpected guest was quiet. Good, Lesa was accepting her situation. That was good, because by coming out here, she’d walked right into his hands.
He shook his head, almost annoyed with her for being so … so innocent. How could she think a man like him would let someone sneak into his place—that he wouldn’t have cameras and sensors everywhere on his property? Out here, he had no nosy neighbors watching his every move, which was a damn fine thing, but it also meant there wasn’t exactly a neighborhood watch. He was on his own when it came to first line defense at keeping his place safe.
The Devil’s Flyers had enemies, which meant all the brothers had security in place. Especially after Stick’s woman had been attacked right in his own drive, they all kept a watchful eye and ear out—physically, e
lectronically, and all of them kept big dogs.
The slimy little fucker who’d tried for Stick’s woman and boys was dead, but there were plenty more stupid, violent ass-wipes out there.
As for Lesa … silly mischka, now that she was here, he realized her arrival couldn’t be better if he’d planned it. She’d be pissed, no doubt, when she learned he meant to keep her here. He had his reasons, and they were good ones. He’d explain them.
Except that she was already pissed at him. He rolled his shoulders, scowling as he remembered the way she’d looked when he confronted her earlier at The Hangar with the doctored financial printout. Her pretty mouth had fallen open, her big, brown eyes full of disbelief and shock, face pale as if he’d punched her right in the gut. For a moment, he’d been afraid she was going to pass out.
He rolled his shoulders restlessly as some emotion slid through him, hot and greasy. He’d felt it earlier, too—guilt. He hated feeling it. Yeah, he could’ve handled that better. Like a quote from some movie he’d seen, ‘it had sounded so much better in his head’.
He’d known for weeks that someone was fuckin’ stealing from him. And he knew exactly who it was—who it had to be. Marta.
So, he had to do something about it. But he didn’t want to go off half-cocked, haul Marta in and ream her ass. Because he also had a very good idea she wasn’t in it alone. And he wanted to take down her partners as much as he did her. They’d been deviling the town, and a few friends of the club, for months without getting caught.
Thus, this situation called for a bit of finesse. Some maneuvering … and a decoy.
All the pieces in place, he’d made his first play. Let Marta think she was safe by accusing someone else, give her and her accomplices more rope to hang themselves with.
Lesa Boggs was too perfect not to use for this. She’d walked into his open snare just like a plump, pretty lamb.
He’d hired her because he needed a waitress after Tiny moved on. And he could tell right away Lesa knew her shit when it came to waiting tables and dealing with customers. But when he’d looked over her resume a second time, he’d noticed a big, fucking gap in her time-line. He’d asked Rocker to use his connections in the Tri to do a check on her.
Pete had gotten an earful. Seemed his new waitress had worked for two years as bookkeeper for an automotive place in the Tri, and been fired, along with her old man. And the reason they’d been fired meant that she was fucking perfect for a plan that had sprung up in his mind, so clear he could nearly touch it. It would work, he knew it. If they didn’t run too soon.
So he’d lulled their suspicions, using Lesa. And if it meant he’d never get to sample her curvy body and soft mouth, well, he could live with that. She wasn’t his type anyway.
But those big, brown eyes of her, so honest, even when she was hiding a big, fat, fucking secret. Those eyes said she treated people good because that’s who she was, a sweet woman, with a big heart. Even with her curves, and sweet lips, her gaze was what grabbed a man and would not let go.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the heavy grip of guilt. Yeah, fuck him for an asshole. He should’ve gotten her okay before springing his shit on her. But fuck if he was gonna sit around and wallow in ‘feelings’ now, like some emo little hipster from the city.
The MC life was hard, and you had to be tough to survive. If that meant walking over civilians occasionally, well, shit happened. Stick always made sure they were compensated in some way—usually one that left them grateful to the club, with a marker he could call in.
This was Pete's plan, so he'd be the one making sure she was compensated, that she could move on. Because that would be best for her. Lesa Boggs was not what anyone would call tough. She’d never last in the life—the nastier of the club women would see to that. Although, he had to admit since Sara became the club’s first old lady, the cat-fights had calmed down—at least the public ones.
But Lesa would be all right in the end. She had a little fire in her, although when it finally broke free, she let it out in crazy, fucking ways like nerving herself up to key his truck, instead of using her nails on his face, as a biker bitch would. And some of the old ladies, too, come to think of it.
For now, he’d keep her safe. Then, when it was over he’d explain, and enact that compensation. He’d even give her back her job, if she wanted it—as waitress, because she was fucking genius with customers, too good to waste behind a desk as book-keeper.
And besides, he did not need the distraction of those D-cup tits of hers in his office. He’d start imagining her kneeling by his desk, that sweet, curvy ass planted on her heels, her top and bra discarded on the floor, while he fucked her tits and shot his cum all over her creamy skin.
Pete reached down and adjusted his jeans, which were suddenly too tight in the groin. Fuck, no. He was not going there—no more fucking his employees, not after the mess he’d stepped in with Marta. Stick had warned him, and yeah, he should’ve listened. Too late now, but he wouldn’t be doing it again.
He’d laid it out for Marta when she came onto him in the office, letting her know they were over for good. She was welcome to take her old job back, but he was not part of the deal. He thought he’d been pretty calm, friendly even, but to say she hadn’t gone for it was a fucking understatement. She’d screamed loud enough to break his eardrums, then stormed out of the pub.
That was it—he was done with women, except for casual hookups. He especially wasn’t gonna fuck this woman. Not even for her ass and tits.
If he thought Marta had been clingy, wait till he tapped a wholesome, small-town girl like Lesa. She’d be expecting a ring and a double-wide along with his cock.
He shuddered at the thought. Tying himself to one woman for the rest of his life? Oh, hell no.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pete stepped out onto his back porch, waiting as his Flyer brothers pulled in, their headlights lighting the graveled sweep between the house and the carport that sheltered his truck.
His own Harley roadster was in the barn several yards behind the carport.
Many bikers hated any transportation but their bikes, but a brother like that better live in the south, where the roads were always clear. Up here, the roads were snowy and icy four to five months of the year, give or take.
This January had been cold and dry, and since the county kept the roads sanded, and he hired a neighbor with a plow to keep his road clear, Pete could ride his Harley anytime he liked. But since he’d gotten Dima, he mostly drove his truck to work. Some brothers drove a ‘cage’ as they called it for their old lady, or their kids. He was driving one for a damn dog.
His older brother, Stick rolled in first, as was his privilege as President of the Airway Heights, WA Chapter of The Devil’s Flyers.
Close behind him rode Rocker, the VP, and Bouncer, Sgt-at-arms. Behind them rode Moke, T-Bear, both of whom were solid brothers and Pete’s friends. Streak was only a prospect, but Pete trusted him, so he’d brought him in to assist.
Stick rolled to a stop at the edge of the sparse grass that made up the farmhouse lawn. With efficient movements, he set down his feet, set the kickstand and rolled to his feet, his Harley Fat Boy’s motor muttering to silence. When he sauntered into the yard to greet Pete, they were of a height, which always surprised some part of Pete, used to being the ‘little brother’, the bratishka. Now, while Ivan had the forbidding scowl of the absolute alpha, Pete was just as big, and as broad-shouldered.
Pete gave his older brother a hug in return, smiling until Stick spoke, his deep voice full of amusement and curiosity.
“There a reason why there’s a shitty old Buick parked part way down your road, loaded up with what looks like a bitch’s entire apartment?”
“Maybe the same reason there’s a light on upstairs,” Bouncer put in. The much shorter biker jerked his chin toward the second story, a sly grin on his broad, bearded face. “What’s the matter, kid, you don’t even let your latest piece of snatch park here at
your house?”
Pete quelled the urge to punch the other man right in the gut hanging over his belt. “She’s not my latest piece.”
“I seen that car at the Hangar,” T-Bear said, waggling his brows. “Bet I know who it belongs to.”
Stick grunted. “Well, pour us all some of your brew, and you can explain.”
Pete stopped Streak before he followed the others inside. He held up Lesa’s key ring. “Go get the car. Park it in my barn, make sure it’s locked up.. Then c’mon in, have a beer.”
“Sure, boss.” The prospect jogged off into the darkness, the gravel drive crunching under his boots.
Pete stepped inside, casting one glance up the shadowed stair, still quiet. In contrast, the Flyers filled his kitchen, big and boisterous. He gestured at the sturdy oak table visible through an open archway on the east side of the kitchen. “Sit. T-Bear, help me pour?”
“Sure.” The huge, ginger-haired biker moved with alacrity to open the freezer side of Pete’s refrigerator, pulling out several frosty mugs. Stick led the way to the table, and he, Bouncer and Moke pulled out chairs.
The beat of a Chris Stapleton song started up, the singer’s rough voice pouring from the speakers mounted high on the walls, singing about having only himself to blame.
Rocker returned from having turned on Pete’s sound system. “Not much furniture in your living room, Brews. How long you lived here—a year? And you’re still squatting like a kid with his first shitty apartment. Great speakers, but that’s about it.”
“I have a chair and my TV in there, speakers everywhere,” Pete shot back. “Don’t need more than that, ‘cause I’m hardly ever here anyway.”
“Truth,” T-Bear agreed, already filling the beer mugs from the two kegerators on Pete’s counter. “You practically live at The Hangar. Only boss I ever seen who works harder than his employees.”
