by Alyssa Breck
He downed the shot of whiskey and refilled the glass again. And again. The liquor slid down easy and warmed him inside. Maybe that’s what he liked the most. Having the usual coldness warmed up a bit.
Hem had given him Holly’s phone number and address. When he called her, he figured she might be asleep or in jail for a DUI. He’d left her a message with his phone number.
His cell phone buzzed on the counter, and he picked it up, anticipating a message from Holly. Instead, there was a text from Cora.
Busy?
That was Cora’s way of asking if he wanted to fuck her. And he did fuck her on occasion. But he’d pass, knowing that she’d make herself available pretty much whenever he wanted her. There was a lingering suspicion that Cora felt more for him than she would admit, but he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know. Cora was an uncomplicated fuck buddy, and he intended to keep it that way.
He replied to her message.
Busy. Some other time.
Sometimes he slept at the clubhouse and sometimes he slept at home. He was glad to be home that night. His bedroom was at the end of the hallway just past the bathroom. One thing the Army did for him was give him a shot at buying a house with a VA loan. It was nothing fancy, but thanks to his work at the club he now owned it free and clear.
A simple blue comforter covered the king size bed, and the sheets felt especially soft as he slid in between them. His head spun from the booze, and he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see Holly’s face, but he did. He didn’t want to imagine her twisted up in ecstasy and agony, her naked body writhing beneath him, but he did. This girl was going to be trouble.
Sleep came. Fitful, restless sleep. He dreamed of Holly running through the desert. A look of unfettered terror on her face. Her blonde hair bounced off her shoulders. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She looked over her shoulder. Then POP. A sniper’s bullet caught her in the head, and she crumbled to the ground. The sand absorbed the pool of blood that spilled from behind her ear.
Hunter woke up to the sun shining through his window. Church was in an hour. After a quick shower, he took off on the Crossbones. The industrial area of Dallas was filled with machine shops and warehouses. An old-school, white sign with red letters announced the gated entrance to Knights Welding and Fabrication. The shop was closed on Sundays, so the parking lot was empty.
To the rear of the shop was the Knights of War clubhouse. On the outside, it looked like a large metal warehouse painted black. Inside, it was more of a lodge. The clubhouse was where business took place, and private events were hosted. The bar down the road was public and for profit. Three bikes were parked along the side of the club. Hunter backed his Harley in beside Hem’s.
Church was held in the conference room, or as the club called it, the chapel. That was where they did God’s work. Sometimes decisions made in that room involved life and death. Sometimes they played God.
Hem sat at the bar, a steaming cup of coffee to his left and an open laptop in front of him. His black hair was pulled back in a ponytail that easily fell to his waist. He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “What’s up, Hunt?”
“Nada mucho.” Hunter dropped his keys on the counter and walked behind the bar. The coffee pot was more than half full. “This shit fresh?”
“Yeah. I made it about fifteen minutes ago.”
Hunter poured a cup and stood opposite Hem. “What’s new?”
Hem smiled. “Nothing. Just watching a little internet porn to start my Sunday off right.”
Hunter laughed. “Yeah. That’s what Jesus would do.”
“Right? So, your girlfriend hasn’t posted an article or anything. Did you get a hold of her last night?”
“I left her a message. She didn’t call back.”
“All right. Well, I have a Google alert set up, so I’ll get pinged if she posts anything about us publicly.”
“Cool. Where’s your brother?”
Hem pointed toward the corridor beside the bar. “Sleeping off a bender. He was shitfaced last night, and Nichole was trying to fuck him, so I brought him here.”
“You slept here, too?”
“Yeah. I think she ended up taking a prospect home.”
Hunter sipped his coffee. “She’s busier than a truck stop bathroom. She was doing Linc in the men’s room.”
Hem frowned. “She’s a skank.”
“Did you fuck her when you were prospecting?”
Hem scrunched up his nose. “Dude. No. I have standards. That’s one hit I wouldn’t take for the team.”
The roar of bike engines outside signaled the arrival of the other members. Hem walked down the hall and banged on one of the doors. “Get your ass in here!” Then he carried his coffee and computer to the chapel. The double doors were held open by rubber stoppers.
The table in the center of the room reminded Hunter of the dinner table he grew up having family meals at. His family hadn’t been supportive when he came back from his second tour in Iraq. They expected a war hero, but he didn’t feel like a hero. It was easier to disconnect than to pretend he was what they wanted him to be. His mother kept in touch when he moved to Dallas. She was the only tie that held him to his family, and when she died four years ago, he rode his bike back to Arkansas for her funeral. Then he turned around and came right back. The club was his family now.
The slam of the gavel on the table pulled Hunter out of his memory. Paul was the president and one of the founding members of the club. He sat at the head of the table. Maddox sat to his right and Hunter to his left. Hem sat at the opposite end with a red folder filled with paper. He read the minutes from the last meeting.
Kol rubbed his temples.
Hunter smiled. He knew that feeling. “You look like shit, brother.”
Kol squinted. “Thanks.”
“So, let’s address new business.” Paul looked at Hem. “What’s first on the agenda?”
Hem shuffled the papers. “We have the music and arts fundraiser next weekend in Austin. That’s all set up and ready to go. Sin and Stan will drive out on Friday. I’ll cut them a check before they leave. Membership dues will come out of everyone’s checks on the third of next month. The receptionist is pregnant.” He looked around the table. “Any of you assholes responsible for that?”
There was a flurry of no’s, and head shakes.
Kol looked up at the ceiling fan. “Which one is the receptionist? Is she the little brunette in the front office?”
Maddox grimaced. “No. The receptionist is blonde, but the brunette is my niece.”
Kol grinned. “She’s a real nice girl, Maddox.”
“She better stay that way, you fucker.”
“You’re not tapping the blonde, right?” Hem asked.
Kol shook his head. “Nope.”
There was a knock on the door, and everyone got quiet. Hunter unlocked the door.
“Sorry, I’m late.” Butch ambled into the room and plopped down in the seat beside Kol. “I overslept.”
“Speaking of little blondes. I heard you had a run-in with a reporter last night.” Paul rubbed his long, gray beard.
“It was a mistake,” Butch answered.
“Well, it could be a costly mistake. Since you seem to think with your dick, you’ll be cleaning the head for the next month.”
Butch stared at the table and nodded. “Okay.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you guys this but listen. When we’re in the bar, we’re in public view. Keep your asses in line. If there’s a private function here at the clubhouse, do what you want. Within reason. Don’t ever assume a woman in the bar is a club girl. Dipshit over there demonstrated how that can go all kinds of wrong.”
“I’m not going to lecture you, on the whole, no means no thing either. You’re not a bunch of dumb college dudes. If you’re gonna catch a charge, it better not be for a sex crime, or I’ll personally take a pound of flesh out of your ass.”
Paul looked at Hunter. “You’re handling the reporter issue?”<
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“Yeah. Hem gave me her info. I’ll talk her down. You can never make a second first impression, but maybe I can do some damage control.”
Butch straightened up in his chair. “I could talk to her and apologize—”
“No,” Hunter and Paul said in unison.
The men filtered out into the clubhouse after the meeting was adjourned. No cell phones were allowed in the chapel. Hunter picked up his from the bar. There was a missed call from Holly. “Damn it.”
Chapter FIVE
Holly
Playing phone tag was always fun. As soon as she hung up her phone rang. Holly answered. “Hello.”
“It’s Hunter.”
“I know. No one else who calls me has their number set to unknown.”
“I wanted to apologize for last night. On behalf of myself and my club.”
“How did you get my number?”
“I have sources. Just like you do. Are you writing a story about my club?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“We’re both adults here. There’s no need to bullshit. I know you’re a reporter, and I know you’re pissed about what happened last night. Add those two together and well …”
Butterflies bounced around in her stomach. It made her uncomfortable that he had her personal information.
“What can I do to make sure what happened last night doesn’t end up on the front page of the Dallas Daily News?”
Holly was uneasy, but opportunities like that didn’t drop in her lap every day. “Give me an exclusive interview … in your clubhouse.”
“Yeah. That’s not going to happen.”
“Then an unfavorable piece might happen.” She had no intention of writing about the bathroom incident, but now that she knew his angle, she’d use it. He was worried, and that put the ball squarely in her court.
“You’re blackmailing me. Surely that’s unethical.”
“You’re asking me to omit a key component from a story. That’s also unethical.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m not in the business of ethics.”
“Touché.” She smiled. “So, do we have a deal?”
“Let me call you back.”
“I’m going out for a run. Text me.” She disconnected the call. Going to the Knights of War clubhouse might not be a great idea, but after talking to Hunter, she had the impression that they weren’t a bunch of serial rapists. He had taken the initiative to track her down, even if his sole purpose was to save face. She was actually safer now. He’d be sure to not let anything bad happen lest it make the front page.
Holly laced up her shoes and stretched her legs. The street in front of her house was level and curved down into a cul-de-sac. It was a good warm up before she cut out onto the main street another block away. A half mile into her run, the sun disappeared behind a grouping of ominous clouds. Aside from the sweltering heat of summer, Texas weather could be unpredictable.
Lightning flashed in the sky, and Holly did an about face and headed back toward home. A crack of thunder sounded only a few seconds after. The storm was close. The first drop of water landed on her forehead. Then a few more drops until she was an unintentional participant in a wet T-shirt contest.
She jogged up her driveway and under the covered porch. Her luck was for shit lately. It had been sunny for days then when she ventured out, a dark cloud opened up and rained on her.
Water dripped off her nose, and she left her shoes on the porch. Cleaning house was one thing she hated, so she didn’t relish tracking in wet dirt. She checked her phone. There was a text message from Hunter.
“Meet me at Devil’s Lair at 7:00 p.m.”
The parking lot was nearly full. It was stupid that no one could buy alcohol at a store on Sunday but drinking in a bar was legal. Great business for watering holes like the Devil’s Lair. It looked more like a wooden saloon from the nineteenth century than a modern day bar.
Holly backed into a spot toward the back and cut the engine. She texted Hunter. It was still storming so she had offered to pick him up in lieu of her following him to the clubhouse from there. The bikes lined up against the wall all looked the same to her. Black steel.
Hunter strode across the lot toward her car. From his leather vest to the chain hanging from his belt loop, he was the kind of guy her mother warned her about. He slid into the passenger seat. “Do you want me to drive?” he offered.
“No. I can drive. I’m not drinking tonight.”
He laughed and stroked his beard. “Not yet.” He seemed more at ease than the night before.
She raised an eyebrow. “Planning on getting me drunk?”
The scent of worn leather and a light woodsy cologne filled the car. Letters were tattooed on his knuckles but were partly obscured by the rings he wore.
He touched his chest. “Me? Never.”
The clubhouse was only a five-minute drive from the bar. A black wrought iron gate secured the parking lot. Hunter got out and punched a code into a keypad, and the gate slid open.
“Is this part of the club? This welding business?” She pointed at the shop.
“Yeah. We’re all welders. We do pipelines.”
That was unexpected. She hadn’t given much thought to what they did in their lives outside of the club. Oil pipelines were big business. Hunter likely made more money than she did.
Holly parked in front of the clubhouse and followed him through the covered patio area. A punching bag hung from a steel beam in the center. A few picnic benches sat in a row near the door.
He pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked the deadbolt. A keypad similar to the one outside the gate was on the wall just inside. Hunter punched in another code and flipped a switch. The room lit up with fluorescent lights. A long wooden bar was to the right. Several bottles of liquor lined the mirrored shelves behind it.
“We can sit at the bar and talk.” Hunter pulled out a black leather stool for her.
A pinball machine sat in the back corner next to a pool table. The floor shined like it had been recently polished. She had expected a ratty joint with dirt on the floor.
Holly climbed onto the stool. “Nice place. Better than I expected.”
Behind the bar, he reached up for two glasses. The back of his vest bore the name of the club in white embroidery on black patches. The cracked skull in the center was offset by dark blue pistols. The attention to detail was done really nice.
He smirked and put the glasses on the counter. “What did you expect? A tree house?”
She laughed. “No. I just thought … maybe it would be dirty.”
“Common misconception. We’re not pigs. That’s not to say that all clubhouses are like this. I’ve been in some that make a college dorm room look like Caesar’s palace.”
“What’s in there?” She motioned toward the double wooden doors on the other side of the room.
“That’s the chapel. Where we do God’s work.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you all do a lot of that.”
“What can I get you to drink?”
“I don’t think I’ll drink. But thanks.”
“I can make you a virgin margarita.”
She put her hand on her purse. “That would be fine.”
He poured the green liquid into one glass and dropped a lime and a cherry into it. He slid it toward her. “You can put your pepper spray on the counter between us if it makes you more comfortable. After last night, I’m probably more afraid of you than you are of me though.” A sly smirk crept across his face. The other glass was filled with Maker’s Mark.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. You’re smart. You take care of yourself. I’m totally cool with that.” He lit a cigarette and tossed the pack on the counter. “Help yourself.”
She took one out and put it to her lips. He flipped the silver Zippo open and put the flame underneath. His eyes were the color of coffee, and his skin was smooth save for the beard. Tattoos climbed up both of hi
s arms and disappeared under the sleeves of his white T-shirt.
“So, what do you want to know about the club?” Hunter blew smoke up toward the ceiling.
“You want to make a favorable impression, correct?” A blue glass ashtray was just out of her reach, and Hunter slid it toward her. She flicked the ash off the cigarette.
“Yeah. I mean I’d rather you not write this article at all, but if you’re going to, I don’t want the headline to be about last night.”
“We don’t always get what we want, but give me a summary of what a motorcycle club is.”
“We’re a group of guys who like bikes. Most of us are vets. We do charity work. We run businesses.”
“What kind of businesses do you run?”
“We have the welding shop and the bar.”
“The club owns the bar?”
“Yes.”
“What made you think I was writing an article about the club?”
“Why else would a reporter drive an hour into a shitty neighborhood to come to the Devil’s Lair?”
“How did you know I was a reporter?”
“Next question.” He grinned. His front teeth overlapped slightly and gave his smile character.
“What kind of charity work do you do?”
“We’ll be at the music and arts fundraiser in Austin next weekend.” He swigged his whiskey. “You must have a stellar memory.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You’re not taking any notes.” He leaned over the counter. “I hate to ask this question again, but why are you here?”
He wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t writing a news article. She hit the cigarette. “For the experience.” The cherry floated in her drink, and she rubbed her thumb over the condensation on the glass. “Can you make this not virgin?”
“Sure.” He added a finger of Patron. “Good?”
“Yes.” She swirled the glass to mix it and took a big drink. “Does that pinball machine work?”
