by Dahlia West
“There is no out,” Shooter argued. “No one gets out.”
Adam held up his hands in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture. “That’s what he said.”
Shooter considered this news for a long moment before he said quietly, “I don’t know anyone named Hook and I haven’t heard of anything happening to Prior.”
Tex cleared his throat loudly. “Maybe the… trouble… Izzy warned him about.”
Adam looked back and forth between the two men. “What trouble?”
There was a pause, then Shooter replied, “Doesn’t matter. How long did they give you?”
“Three days. That was yesterday. I’ve got the money. Or I do if you’ll buy the bike,” he amended. “I have to deliver it to their clubhouse.”
“Well, you’re not going alone,” Shooter declared and to Adam’s relief no one in the garage argued with the man.
“That’s one less favor I’ve got to ask for,” Adam replied.
“I can give you the full ten for the bike,” Shooter told him.
Adam nodded solemnly. “I think owing you is going to be less painful. But I won’t forget that I do.”
“So you have the rest of the money?”
Adam sighed. “It’s at the bank. Just have to make a withdrawal.”
To Adam’s relief, Shooter didn’t take any time to think it over. “Be here tomorrow morning. Same time. I’ll have your ten for the bike and we’ll pay the Buzzards a visit.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Adam rode his Harley back across town. He didn’t want to think about that fact that it was probably the last time he’d ever do so. He’d owned the bike his entire adult life. The thought of giving it up made him sick to his stomach. At every stoplight, he checked for a tail, but didn’t see one. He hadn’t noticed anyone following him lately, but he hadn’t known he was anyone’s target, either.
If the Buzzards were keeping tabs on him, it hadn’t been obvious. He might have put Calla on their radar. They hadn’t mentioned her at the shop, but she’d been there just hours before they’d broken in. Who knew if they were aware of her? If she’d stayed that night, she would’ve been in his bed when they’d tossed his place looking for cash. His fingers tightened on the handlebars’ grips at the thought.
He circled her block twice, just to be certain he hadn’t been followed before pulling in behind her Mustang. There were no Buzzards in Calla’s middle-class neighborhood. No one would happen to recognize and report him. He hopped off and strode purposefully to her door. Logic said to stay away, to keep her out of this, but he knew he couldn’t do it. No fucking way. He needed to see her, right now, and set his mind at ease. He knocked sharply at her front door feeling caught between being close enough to protect her and distancing himself to keep her safe. He’d half convinced himself to walk away and simply call her on the phone when Calla opened the door. Her smile quickly faded as she took in the sight of him. “Oh my God!”
Adam smiled. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
She reached out to touch his face but then stopped herself as though she was afraid to cause him pain. “What happened?”
He sighed. He’d debated all the way over here what to tell her. “I had a break-in at the shop,” he told her, which was technically true and therefore he didn’t feel quite so guilty about any lies of omission.
“Oh my God,” Calla repeated and yanked him inside. “Are you alright? Did you call the police? When did it happen?”
“I’m fine,” he repeated.
Calla frowned though. She didn’t look like she believed him. He couldn’t blame her. He had half a dozen small cuts on his face. He’d definitely looked better. He tried to hide the limp, though, as he entered her living room. “Seriously,” he half-joked, “you should see the other guy.”
She continued to frown and he scowled.
“They didn’t get anything. There’s nothing really worth stealing. They did bust the place up a little,” he admitted.
“And you walked in on them? You’re lucky they didn’t kill you!”
He sighed. “Nah. Just some punk-ass kids. Not a big deal.” It was the first outright lie he’d told her and he felt like shit about it, but what could he do? He didn’t want to panic her. She might transfer her concern to Ava, and Adam couldn’t risk losing his little sister.
He’d get the money, he’d pay, and whatever this misunderstanding was would go away.
“Oh, God. Come here.” She shut the door behind them. Adam resisted the urge to lock it, just to be safe. She eyed him skeptically. “Did you even clean this?” She reached toward his forehead.
He shrugged. He had, a little, but in truth he’d had more important things on his mind. Calla touched the skin just beside the cut above his eye. It wasn’t, in his estimation, deep enough to need stitches. Calla must have agreed with his assessment because she didn’t insist they go to a hospital or a doc-in-the-box. “Come on,” she ordered and tugged his hand. He dutifully followed her through her cozy living room to a closed door that lay beyond. She opened it to reveal her bedroom. Her curtains were yellow, not frilly but pretty, and her bedspread matched. She pushed at his chest and he took the hint, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“What am I going to do with you?” she sighed.
Adam grinned at her. “I can think of a few things.” He patted the mattress. She scowled at him, though, and walked away. He heard her rummage through the cabinet in the adjacent bathroom. He sighed as he felt the tension seep out of his body for the first time in several days. He could fall asleep right here, he thought. Stretch out on Calla Winslow’s padded comforter and plump pillows and not wake up for an age.
She returned with a small first-aid kit and stood in front of him.
“Has this ever happened before?” she asked as she ripped off the top of a gauze package.
“No,” he said truthfully. “Just a fluke.” He hoped so, at least. He’d pay the money and be done with the MC and Calla never had to know.
She dabbed carefully at the spot above his eye. “You should have taken care of this.”
“You’re doing a fine job,” he replied. “Maybe I left it this way so you could fix it.”
She smirked at him and kept cleaning the wound. She crowded him as she stood between his spread knees. Her scent was flowery and clean and he lowered his eyelids as he breathed her in. His hand brushed her knee.
“Hold still,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Calla carefully applied some antibiotic ointment and replaced the cap. “Does this happen a lot with you?” she asked.
Adam tried to shake his head.
She grabbed his chin. “Hold still.”
“Believe it or not, shit like this never happens to me.”
“Never?”
“Nope. For a guy in an underground profession, I know criminally little about the actual underground. I only care about two things. And my art is the other one.” He slid his hands up her hips, closed his eyes, and groaned.
“I can’t believe you’re thinking about that right now,” she scolded.
“Unfortunately, seems like thinking about it is all I can do at the moment.”
“Hmm. That is unfortunate,” she teased.
“Let me rest for a while, baby,” he told her softly. “Then I’ll be ready. I promise.” He tugged at the waistband of her pants playfully. Calla swatted his hand away.
“I think you’ll live,” she announced.
“Good to hear.”
She tossed the tube of ointment into the open kit and took hold of his shirt. Her nimble fingers started on the buttons.
“I’m alright, Calla,” he told her. “It was just my head they tried to crack open.”
She shot him a sour look but kept undressing him. As she stood in front of him, she held his shirt in her hands. “There’s blood on it. I’ll wash it.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
He lifted his arms and she removed the offending garment, tossing it onto a n
earby chair. Then she sank to her knees in front of him and reached for his fly. He caught her hands in his. “There’s no blood on my jeans.”
She looked up at him from underneath her wild hair. “I told you to hold still.” Once again she reached for him.
Adam watched, simultaneously too fascinated and too tired to do anything more than that.
Calla unzipped his Levi’s and reached into his briefs. She released his cock, already half-hard just from being so close to her. That wild, untamed hair tickled his lower stomach as she leaned in and touched her tongue to the head. She swirled and sucked, licked and laved with maddening precision. Adam watched as she parted her lips and slid him in deep.
Body aching from both pain and pleasure, Adam finally leaned back and collapsed onto Calla’s bed. Her mouth was warm, her sheets were cool. This was all he needed in the world right now.
Calla made love to him with her mouth. It was the only way he could describe it. This was no sloppy slurp from a slut at Maria’s bar, a quick lick to get him hard then abandoned for her own pleasure. Instead, Calla trailed kisses down his shaft and back up again. Her tongue dragged over the slit to catch the bead of cum she’d brought to the surface.
Adam briefly considered destroying her bed, tearing at her sheets in an effort to make this last as long as possible. But he was tired and sapped of his energy. He reached down and took her head in his hands. With one thrust of his hips, he was nearly balls deep in her mouth again. A few quick pumps was all it took to bring him to the edge. He held her away from him then, lifting her hair gently in deference to the mess he was about to make. Thick jets of cum pulsed out over his taut stomach but managed to keep her clean.
She stood up slowly and wiped her swollen lips. “I’ll get a towel. Hold still.”
He closed his eyes and grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
As he awaited her return, perfectly still as ordered, he briefly considered never leaving this bed. It was not out of the realm of possibility to lie here forever, go to sleep and never wake up. Well, perhaps he’d wake up occasionally. It seemed like a better fate to remain in Calla Winslow’s soft bed than face the more unpleasant things that lay ahead. He could steal a few precious moments, though. The calm before the storm.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Shooter Sullivan’s idea of a visit was anything but friendly. As they’d rolled up a block away from the Buzzard’s clubhouse, Shooter pulled to the curb, took a hand cannon out of his saddlebag and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. Adam noticed that every man there had a similar piece of heavy firepower. Since they were all double-checking their weapons, Adam pulled out his 9mm and checked the clip.
Easy laughed as he palmed his Desert Eagle. “We should’ve borrowed Izzy’s shotgun for Adam,” he said to Doc who had joined them after a brief phone call from Shooter before they’d left for the bank.
Adam frowned down at his semi-automatic. “I feel woefully inadequate.” He glanced over at Doc who also had a .45. Adam was leery of having an ex-cop in the group. Surely this was out of the man’s wheelhouse, being the law and order type. But Doc asked no questions, carried one very large gun, and a lot of bullets. Adam was suddenly less surprised that the man wasn’t a cop anymore.
Once they were all loaded for bear, or Buzzards as the case seemed to be, they rolled up to the razor-wire topped fence that surrounded the Buzzards clubhouse. More a warehouse than a true clubhouse, whatever that was, it was located, unsurprisingly, in the warehouse district just over the railroad tracks from Maria’s bar.
During their previous arrangement, Adam had brought in monthly payments to the bar where he’d originally hit Prior up for the loan in the first place. Adam had never been to the clubhouse before, but could see that he hadn’t missed out on anything special. There were a lot of bikes parked on the property, which was to be expected, but there were a few junker cars and a van as well. Adam didn’t let himself think about corpse transport as he followed Shooter and his crew through the open gates. They all parked in front of the warehouse’s large double doors.
“Keep your piece in your pants,” Shooter ordered Adam quietly as the doors opened and Hook sidled out. “You hand over the money. We’ll back you up.”
As Adam got off his Harley, he realized that this would be his last ride. He didn’t have time to properly mourn the loss of the relationship. Dipping into his own saddlebags, he pulled out two satchels of cash. He hoisted them up, one under each arm and walked toward the warehouse. He stopped just in front of Shooter, though, not wanting to venture inside alone.
“Someone called in reinforcements,” Hook said to Haze who was bringing up the rear. Hook frowned at the men behind Adam.
Haze laughed.
Adam ignored the implication that he was a pussy for not coming alone. “Here’s everything,” he said to them, tossing one bag at Hook and one at Haze. “We’re square now.”
“Where’s Prior?” Shooter demanded over Adam’s shoulder.
“Prior?” asked Hook, barely looking up from the bag he was inspecting. “Prior took a long walk off a short pier.”
Haze laughed again. He was missing a few teeth and he sounded a bit like a braying donkey, though Adam wouldn’t say it out loud. “Ain’t no water where we dumped him,” he declared gleefully.
Adam now understood the nature of Jack Prior’s ‘trouble’ and it didn’t make him feel any better.
“Adam’s a friend of mine,” Shooter announced to anyone within earshot.
“I could give a shit,” Hook replied.
“Hook. Is that your name?” Shooter asked. “I didn’t recognize it, but I recognize you. You’re Pete’s kid, right?”
Hook stiffened a bit.
“Pete was pretty smart and hopefully you are, too. Prior was real smart.”
“Wasn’t that smart,” Haze muttered. “Done in by a piece of pussy.”
Shooter ignored him. “Pete knew enough not to fuck with my old man. And Prior knew enough not to fuck with me. I suggest you keep the status quo.”
From behind all of them, Easy said, “That means—”
Hook spat onto the dirt. “I know what it fucking means.”
“You and Adam are square,” Shooter said. “He won’t hear from you again.”
It looked like Hook might actually be smart enough to pick up what Shooter Sullivan was putting down. He grunted, nodded, then turned and walked away. Shooter waited until they were back inside the clubhouse before starting up his bike and turning back for the garage.
On the clean, gravel lot of Burnout, Adam thanked Shooter and handed over the keys to his Harley.
Easy appeared beside Adam as Tex walked the Harley into the garage. “Daisy’s staying away from your place for a while,” he said in a New Orleans drawl. “Just until things calm down.”
Adam nodded. “I’m not arguing. I got a girl myself that I’m going to have to keep away from my shop. She could have been there when they came to collect.”
Shooter turned from the garage and back to Adam and Easy. “Doc’s still got some ins with RCPD. He’ll get them to drive by your place for a few days.”
Adam might be overstepping but he asked, “My family’s place, too? I’ve got an elderly Pop and two young teenagers living there.” Shooter, though, had a reputation for being a stand-up guy and Adam felt fairly confident he wouldn’t leave Adam’s family exposed.
“Not a problem,” the man said then he looked at Adam’s Harley. “You need a ride?”
Adam frowned and shook his head. He was done asking for favors from the ex-Ranger. “Nah. I’ll call a cab.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Shooter,” Adam said and held out his hand. “If there’s anything I can ever do for you…” Adam didn’t know what he could offer to a man like this, but it seemed only right to say it anyway.
“I know where to find you,” Shooter told him before he let go of his hand.
Adam walked to the curb and called a cab to take him hom
e. He willed himself not to turn around and look at the Harley one last time. It had made sense to sell it instead of the Charger. Fall and winter would be here soon enough and between Mom’s funeral expenses and Pop’s medical bills who knew when he would scrape together enough cash to buy another one?
He squinted at the sun blazing overhead, hanging in a bright blue sky. Yet another mismatch between his personal circumstances and the South Dakota weather. The yellow cab pulled up and he slid inside. At least it was air-conditioned. He gave the address and leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes to shut out the offending sun. As much as he didn’t want to think about it, he couldn’t help but feel just a little sorry for himself. Every day for the last three weeks seemed to get just a bit harder than the last one. Rock bottom was apparently the cracked pleather seat of a yellow cab that smelled like pine air freshener and stale cigarette smoke.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Adam pulled out his cellphone at the same time he dug out his wallet. He paid the driver and stepped out of the cab.
Standing in front of the shop, he couldn’t help but frown. The place looked like a shithole in the harsh light of day. The sickly yellow of the plywood he’d nailed over the front door irritated him. The broken glass was off the stoop but the place was a still a mess. Stark white dots peppered the door’s black frame where the paint had chipped off when they’d broken it. He scowled and stalked around to the back of the building, dialing with his thumb. As the phone rang, he held his breath. He needed people he could rely on. Now more than ever. On the third ring, Dalton answered.
“Hey,” Adam said lamely into the phone. He was hardly sure where to start, things between them had been strained lately, to say the least. The last thing Adam needed was to have to wade through that bullshit right now, though. However, he also didn’t relish the idea of having to re-hash this story. In the best interests of his own short-temper, and in deference to Dalton’s, Adam got right to the point. “Look, my place got broken into.”
