Billy Daily

by Desiree Lafawn

  Billy Daily

  Desiree Lafawn

  Copyright © 2018 by Desiree Lafawn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Tracie Douglas of Dark Water Covers

  Website: www.desireelafawn.com

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  Contents

  A note from Desi

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Also by Desiree Lafawn

  A note from Desi

  Billy Daily was originally published as a short story in the Honor the Sacrifice Anthology, The Long Road Home. It has since been lengthened, re-edited, and republished as it’s own novella. I’ve thought about maybe creating a series around the AOG MC, and the Sisters of the AOG. They are some interesting characters, and I would love to explore them in more depth.

  For now, I hope you enjoy Max and Billy. There is course language, and the subject matter could be triggering for some, but Max and Billy don’t take themselves too seriously. This is a different twist on an MC read.

  Sometimes the people who look the meanest are hiding the most honorable of intentions, and sometimes the scariest monsters are hiding behind friendly smiles. I think we could all benefit by judging less on appearances, and more by a person’s actions.

  1

  There are a lot of things I’d admit proudly and without the slightest hesitation. I’d admit I fought for my country, I’d admit I fell on some hard times and got into some trouble when I left the service, and I’d admit that I pick every topping off any pizza until it is just cheese and sauce before I eat it. One thing I’d never admit out loud to anyone, though, was how scared I was to go into the gray farmhouse on Elliot Drive.

  I had driven the two hours from Detroit, Michigan to Pemberville, Ohio at the request of a good buddy from the service. It was a paying gig, but he still had to ask me to do it, so a request all the same. Kyle “King” Waters was the President of the Always On Guard MC. The AOG MC was made up entirely of men who had served in the military in some capacity, and they did a lot of good shit for their community. King had always wanted me to pledge, but I didn’t have the kind of loyalty that would be needed to stay in one place long enough to wear their colors, at least not anymore. Plus I wasn’t a follow the rules kind of guy.

  I was a nomad, a guy on a bike who wore no patch and pledged no allegiance. I was the perfect guy to hire when a club needed business taken care of and couldn’t afford to have it traced back to them. They called me a merc. I preferred the term independent contractor. I lived a simple life, moving from place to place when I felt the need, and I didn’t like to be tied down to anything. I liked my life, and I wanted to keep it, which was why I was so fucking terrified to walk up to the door of that two-story gray farmhouse out in the sticks of rural northwest Ohio.

  Billy fucking Daily was in that house, and I was not in the mood for her angsty shit. For a few brief moments, I actually considered turning around and going home, but I had an agreement with King, and the job had sounded simple enough when he had called me.

  “Max, I have a job for you,” he’d said. No “hi,” no “kiss my ass,” nothing. It was all business with King. That was okay. I could appreciate that. He didn’t waste my time with bullshit pleasantries, he’d just cut right to the chase.

  “I need you to go help my Ma with something,” he’d continued. That part made me pause for a moment because last I knew, Jean was a pro at handling her own shit and didn’t need anyone butting into her business, much less her no good, never visiting son. Her words, not mine.

  “Does she know I’m coming?” I had to ask, because if he was sending me to her house unannounced, that was the same as walking into a firefight, unarmed. I wasn’t trying to die over a favor for King, no matter how far we went back, and we went back pretty fucking far.

  “She knows, man. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Becky is going to have the baby any day now. I can’t go, so I’m trusting you with this.” He was uncommonly serious, and I took note. King couldn’t leave because his wife was, according to him, about thirteen months pregnant and ready to pop, but his mother was in some kind of predicament, and he needed someone he could trust to help her out of whatever trouble she’d gotten into. I’d take the job, I always did, but I was still suspicious.

  “I’ll have the money wired the same way I always do,” he’d added during the call. “A fifty-fifty split deposit, right? You know, they always ask who the anonymous donor is, Max. You can always stop out to say ‘hi’ to the guys. You don’t have to make it weird.”

  “Don’t worry about what your guys think of what you’re doing with club money, King.” I got tired of him saying the same thing to me every time. I did the work for the money, and I would spend it however I saw fit. King was intentionally vague about something though, and I immediately became suspicious. Another thought occurred to me and I was about to hang up the phone if he didn’t answer my next question.

  “Hey, Asshole, am I getting hazard pay?”

  I’d heard chuckling coming through the receiver right before the click sounded in my ear and the line went dead.

  Hazard pay indeed. For Billy fucking Daily. As I stood in front of the deceptively friendly looking farmhouse, I laid odds that she was in that house right now, and she knew I was coming. My balls were still sore from the last time I’d tangled with that psychopath, and I was not looking forward to another dance with the devil. She had been one of Grandma Jean’s pet projects who had somehow warped into a demon sidekick. Instead of moving on like most of Jean’s girls, Billy had become a staple at the house. She lived there, and there was no way I was going to be able to avoid her because for the length of this job I would be staying there too.

  Thinking about Billy Daily had me all wrecked again. How a woman looking that fine could have such a mean streak running through her, I had no idea, but let a man try to help her when she was stumbling and she freaked the fuck out. I mean, all I’d done was grab her arm to stop her from face-planting as she came down the stairs before when I was visiting, and she’d sent me flying backward on my ass, by way of a fist to my nuts.

  Nothing like having your nuts inverted. I’d thought I was going to die.

  Billy fucking Daily was crazy.

  2

  The memory of how I’d met Billy had me not even wanting to get off the bike, but I’d taken the job, so it was time to man up. I pulled the Harley Breakout up the wide dirt driveway and over to the right, in front of the huge double door pole barn painted the same gray as the house. It may have looked like a pole barn, but I knew what was inside. A garage full of bikes and the tools to crank on them. Grandma Jean knew how to turn a wrench—shit she’d taught me a thing or two about maintenance.

  The Breakout was an okay bike to ride. I wasn’t married to it, but it got me from place to place. I wasn’t really fond of the “washing machine on full load” shakes a Harley Davidson was known for, but at six foot five, the extra room was perfect for a long-legged fellow such as myself. The bike would be fine out there for the moment. What I needed to do was stop farting around and go to the door. God help me if Billy answered it. I didn’t know if I should cover my nuts or my eyes—either one could get me in trouble.

&n
bsp; I pulled my pack from the full saddlebags and slung it over my shoulder. Basic toiletries, a couple changes of clothes and some extra cash. Nothing fancy and no weapons – those I kept on my body. I was wired for game time at all times, and I would never pack a weapon that I might not be able to reach. Those were my rules of the road.

  My thick-soled boots made hollow thumping noises on the warped wood as I headed up the wraparound porch to the white trimmed front door. This was a farmhouse through and through, on the outside at least. The inside, I knew, was wired for security and every part of the property line was rigged with camera surveillance. Grandma Jean did not play games with strangers—she had her reasons. Even the elementary cookie peddlers knew to walk softly around Jean’s property. I rang the doorbell and heard nothing, but I knew better than to ring it again. That bell may not have made a sound to me on the outside, but I knew from experience that it created a chain reaction on the inside of the house, lighting up small blinking lights in each room like a fire alarm with no noise and switching on the security TV screen in several different places.

  “Grandma Jean, it’s Max!” She knew who I was, I hadn’t changed my look too much in the six months since I’d seen her last, but politeness dictated I announce my arrival. The crackle of an intercom signaled her response before I heard her voice come through strong and clear.

  “Well hello, Maximus! Good to see you! I see that ding dong fruit of my lady bits sent you over to help us out. Good! You’re better looking anyway!”

  I turned my head away to hide the smile that came from hearing the harsh words she had for her son. They talked to each other in ways that would get a man’s lips smacked off in other households, but I had never seen a stronger mother and son bond than I had with those two. She could call him names all she wanted, but I knew better than to do the same. Grandma Jean would have me cutting my own switch off of the tree in the backyard if I so much as tried bad-mouthing Kyle “King” Waters. The only thing scarier than the President of the AOG MC was his mama.

  Clicking and twisting noises signified multiple locks opening, and I waited patiently until the door was pulled wide and the screen door pushed out. Grandma Jean beckoned me in, and I followed her after only the slightest of hesitation. She saw me pause and turned her head toward the back of the house, but not before I saw the barest ghost of a smirk on her face.

  Her next words trailed over her shoulder. “Billy is out back training.”

  Oh great. Out back was where the gun range was. Billy was packing heat? Fuck me, now I had to worry about getting picked off by a stray .38 if I ever had the misfortune of acting chivalrous again.

  “It’s good to see you, Jean,” I said, and I meant it. Jean was wonderful, strong, and completely off her rocker.

  If I was being honest, even if King had no money on the line and wanted to pull a personal favor, I would have done it. King and I had served in the same unit together in the army. When the time came to take leave, being that I had no living family to speak of, King invited me to come to his home and stay with him and his Ma. Everyone called her Grandma, but she didn’t have grandkids yet. King had only recently gotten married, and Becky was having their first child any day now. People just called her Grandma because she was seventy-something years old. She had King later in life, and he never knew his father, which was fine because Jean always said he’d been pretty much a piece of shit anyway.

  If Jean said someone was garbage, then chances are they were exactly that. I had never met someone who was as good a judge of character as her in all my life. I was surprised she’d never given up on me, because when I’d gotten out of the service, I’d been a mess. The nightmares were so bad I hadn’t wanted to go to sleep, and being awake was enough torture that I felt like I had to be drunk to even suffer through it.

  A car backfiring would send me belly down to the ground and it’s hard to hold down a job when you are too self-medicated to get out of bed in the morning. Instead of seeing all those flaws, though, Jean opened her home to a freshly discharged vet with no family and raging PTSD. Add to that, she and King introduced me to a special group of people that helped me get back on my feet and feel normal again. Well, as normal as I would ever be, but being a motorcycle riding mercenary for hire was normal enough. The Always on Guard MC wasn’t just a motorcycle club. They were also a group that helped veterans and their families in times of need, and it didn’t matter what that need was. Hospital bills? Utilities? They would foot the bill if it meant assisting those who sacrificed their time to the service. And if it was their lives that had been forfeited, The AOG gave back in other ways by making sure the families were taken care of.

  In my case, the need was a kick in the ass and a headfirst toss into AA meetings. They showed me I couldn’t drink away the nightmares because alcohol just makes the voices louder. Those guys had saved my life with their asshole meddling ways, and I would always be grateful. I wouldn’t tell them that, but money speaks louder than words anyway. From the time I got sober until the day I parked my ride for the last time, I would give AOG half of what I earned.

  Always. Even if they were the ones paying me in the first place.

  It was my only way to give back, to possibly help someone else who might have been in the same situation. I was not a nice guy, but King’s group of ragtag assholes was full of good Samaritans hiding beneath tattoos and beards. I would leave the saving of souls to them, and I’d just fund the process whenever I could. I would always be grateful to Jean and the guys. King too, but I would never tell that fucker such a thing to his face. He knew though. He went through the same shit I did.

  She led me through the foyer and past the security cameras in the corner, sleepily blinking their red lights that signified they were watching the property. I marveled at the woman that was Jean. For her age she was as spry as a thirty-something. There may have been a slight slump to her shoulders, and she may have been dressed as a granny, but I saw the lump of the shoulder holster under that pale yellow cardigan and knew that she could pull that Ruger .38 faster than most cops. I wondered if she still carried the one with the crimson trace. I’d lay down a hundy that said she carried more than one.

  Her hair was cut short, higher in the back than the front, and completely white. Not salt and pepper, not gray, but the white of clean snow on rooftops or the white of Santa’s beard. No jewelry except for a pair of diamond earrings—which I knew for a fact King had bought for her sixtieth birthday and she had worn every day since she received them—and a slim black fitness tracker on her arm. I was willing to bet it wasn’t a simple fitness tracker, but I wasn’t going to ask her about it either. Grandma Jean liked to keep her secrets.

  She led me through the kitchen and gestured for me to sit at the table while she put a plate of oatmeal cream pies in front of me. Aw yes, I thought to myself. Grandma Jean’s oatmeal cream pies were legendary, and I was starving.

  The table in the farmhouse kitchen was huge, one of those big ass picnic tables with the long bench seats instead of chairs. It would have looked comical seeing how it was just two people in the house, but I knew from experience that this could change at any given time. Grandma Jean lived in a farmhouse that doubled as a ladies’ motorcycle club, but the only person that owned all those bikes out in the pole barn was Jean. This house was rigged to the nines with security for the same reason that Grandma Jean was strapped for battle everywhere she went. It was a sanctuary, and the motorcycle club was really just a front. They called themselves “Sisters of the AOG MC,” and the name had been King’s idea. That name was a blanket of protection to cover the real operation of the farmhouse out in the country.

  Grandma Jean ran a rescue for battered women and she was really fucking good at what she did. I knew that all the bikes out in the pole barn were small, lightweight, and easy for beginners to ride. The first thing Jean did was teach those girls how to be independent, and learning to ride was just one of the ways that she did that. Riding a motorcycle required a very co
nscious effort to be in charge of one’s self while being aware of your surroundings. There was freedom in riding, and Jean knew how important it was to feel free and in control, especially when someone had not felt that way in a very long time, if ever.

  “How come it’s just you and Billy right now?” I mumbled around a mouth full of cookie, bits of brown sugar goodness crumbling on my tongue and crunching under my teeth. Hot damn, those things were manna from heaven. She just shrugged her shoulders a little and gave me a sad, crooked smile.

  “Business is slow.”

  Yeah, fucking right, lady. There was never a shortage of people needing help and I had known Jean long enough to know that she had a personal mission to save every single one of them, but I respected the woman enough not to pry any further. There was a reason she was keeping the house empty, what in the dangerous hell had she gotten herself into?

  The door at the other end of the kitchen, the one that led to the back of the property, slapped open at the same time I asked Jean, “So what can I do to help you out, Jean? What did you need me for?”

  She didn’t look at me. She looked past me to whoever had come in the back door and said, “I didn’t ask for you. She did.”

  3

  Well fuck me sideways, that little nugget of knowledge I had not been prepared for. What tiny little nook of hell had frozen over that Billy fucking Daily needed to ask me for a blessed thing? I was frozen for a second. Did I turn around to look at her? Did I wait until she walked to the table and initiated eye contact? Holy shit was I on edge. I didn’t know why Billy asked for me. Proud, fierce Billy Daily needed good old Max to help her out of a pickle.