Roadhouse (Sons of Sanctuary MC, Austin, Texas Book 5)

by Victoria Danann

  He set the steaming cup and a box of sugar cubes on the table. She smiled. “What?”

  “Oh. Sugar cubes. I haven’t seen any since I was a kid. My mom got them for tea parties.”

  Raze grunted at that. “Where was that?”

  “Upstate New York.”

  He turned his head to look at her more closely. “You’re a long way from home.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged quietly, without encouraging follow-up questions. “I like your dog.”

  He glanced over at Bless. “She was a gift from a friend. Well, with some strings attached. She’s a breeder. Once a year we have puppies around here.”

  Clover grinned in a way that let Raze know she approved of puppies. “Puppies! Wow. How many?”

  “I understand it varies. This past winter we had six.”

  “Six,” she repeated. Then sighed as if to say she would have liked to have seen that and took a sip of coffee.

  He shoved the white paper sack in her direction. “How’d you do last night?”

  “Well,” she opened the top and looked inside. Whatever was wrapped up in paper smelled inviting. As she reached for it, she said, “It was pretty confusing at first. Trying to figure out the code of tables. What to take where. I’m more about the Manhattans than the draft beer, but after about four hours it started to make sense. My feet hurt.” She smiled and took a nibble of burrito. “Hmmm. Good.”

  “Yeah. I really meant, did you make bank?”

  Confusion cleared after a few blinks. “Oh. Tips! I had no idea people who wait tables make so much.”

  “They don’t. Well, not usually. For a lot of reasons. And, o’course, weekend nights are busy. Busy means more hustle. More tips.” He watched her reactions as he talked. She was definitely not the kind of girl you’d expect to be in her situation. “Don’t guess you want to tell me your story.”

  He saw her entire body tense at the same time the little smile disappeared from her face. “My story?” She was already looking at the door and setting the burrito down.

  “You don’t have to…”

  Standing up, she said, “Thank you so much for…” she looked around, “everything. The bed. The shower. The burrito.” She took hold of the handle of her rolling duffel. “The tips.” She laughed nervously. “But it’s already afternoon and I need to, um, hit the road?”

  “Hold on there, stray girl. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “A half-eaten burrito and halfway to the door says otherwise.”

  “No. Really. I just, um, you know.”

  “No. I don’t know. But that’s okay. I don’t have to know what’s not my business.” She looked unsure. “At least finish this burrito. I don’t give Bless leftovers and I’ve already had mine. Some pig gave his life for your breakfast.”

  She smiled. “If I’m not in your way…”

  “You are not in my way.” He grimaced, realizing that he sounded almost eager for her to stay. And Raze Rouen was not a man who was eager for women to want to stay. Not at all. Still, he had to admit that he was glad when she turned loose of the duffel handle and sat back down. Probably because his uncle had raised him to be polite.

  She smiled hesitantly when she picked up the discarded burrito.

  “Last night you did okay for somebody with no experience and not lookin’ for a job.”

  There were too many qualifications attached to that comment for it to be called an actual compliment, but she said, “Thanks,” bringing her free hand up to cover her mouth so that he wasn’t looking at carnitas and scrambled eggs in the first stage of digestion.

  “I need help. If you need a job, it’s yours.” She looked uncomfortable again. “You can’t have my house, but you could use the studio. For a while.” He sat back, the table hiding the fact that his knee juddered up and down nervously. “I could get a better lock for the door. Maybe put in a security system.”

  Bless turned and left through the dog door, almost like she was embarrassed for him.

  “That’s incredibly generous of you, but I don’t think I’m, um, what you need.” Realizing how that sounded, she amended. “At the roadhouse, I mean.” She took a drink of room temperature coffee. “Why’d you call it Raze and Ruin?”

  “Friend suggested it. My last name is Rouen.” He spelled it out. “I think my great-greats gave up on the French pronunciation. Everyone says ‘Ruin’.”

  “Oh.” Her gaze locked with his. “It’s your name!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your parents named you Raze?”

  “Not exactly. It’s the name that stuck after I started raisin’ hell.”

  “Oh.” She looked around for the trash to throw away the wrapper and, not seeing it, put it inside the white paper bag. “Well, then. Gotta go.”

  He stood quickly and nodded. “If you change your mind, I can always use a rookie server.”

  “You’ve been more than nice. Really. Thank you. And I like your dog.”

  “Yeah.” He looked down at the duffel. “I’ll get that.”

  Before she could protest, he’d picked it up and started toward the door.

  When she was behind the wheel, he said, “Where are you headed?” The second he said it, he realized he’d violated his promise to avoid personal questions. “Never mind. Wherever it is, safe trip.”

  “Thanks, again,” she smiled and turned the key.

  Nothing.

  Not even a plaintive grinding.

  She leaned forward and put her forehead on the steering wheel.

  Raze opened the door. “Want me to try?”

  She nodded and got out.

  After adjusting the seat, he slid behind the wheel, turned the key, and the car started without protest. “Huh,” he said. “Starts for me. Wonder what you’re doing wrong.”

  That caused her blood to shoot straight to boiling range. “I’m not doing anything wrong. How many ways are there to start a car?”

  “Well,” he said, “apparently there’s more than one.”

  She clenched her teeth and pressed her lips together. “It’s probably air in the line.”

  He looked at her sideways and almost laughed. “What line would that be?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you have a better explanation.”

  “You want to try again?”

  “Of course I want to try again. It’s my car!”

  Twice more they played out the folly. The car started for Raze. Refused to make a sound for Clover.

  “I guess it’s a sign,” he said.

  “A sign of what?”

  “That you’re where you ought to be for now.”

  “You believe in signs,” she said drily.

  “Not generally, but this is a bona fide mystery.”

  She cocked her head. “You know Henry Boyd?”

  “I might. Why?”

  “He’s the gentleman who sold me this piece of shit. I want my money back.”

  “Thing is, I’m guessin’ that even if we track him down and get him over here, car’s gonna start for him and not for you.”

  “That’s what you’re guessing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, it’s not like you’re an expert on car mechanics, is it!” He almost laughed, but somehow managed to keep a straight face. She leaned against the car. “I can’t drive a car that won’t start.” Then she added, “For me.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  She wondered if Raze was going out of his way to be deliberately aggravating or if she was just flustered by the series of events. She hung her head.

  I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  “Look. I know some people who are ‘experts at car mechanics’. I’ll have them come get it and take it back to the shop for a look.”

  “I don’t have money for expensive car repairs.”

  “First, you don’t know it’s gonna be expensive. Second, you could work at the roadhouse tonight. Put some more cushion together. I gues
s I could let you stay at my place for another night.”

  “Why would you do that? I mean, I’m not trying to be ungrateful, but that’s really generous.”

  “Just so happens we can be of use to each other. I need help. And you’re in a fix.”

  “Indentured servitude.”

  “Look…”

  “Strike that. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just, um…”

  “Out of sorts.”

  “Right.”

  He opened the back door of the Toyota and pulled the duffel out. “Come back in. I’ll give my friends a call.”

  “Why aren’t you fixin’ it yourself?” Press asked.

  Raze held the phone closer to his ear and glanced up at his guest. “No tools.”

  “Uh-huh. You know what you’re describin’ makes no sense.”

  “Do know that. And yet I saw it for myself. I’ll drive it over there and you can keep it for, you know, a few days.”

  “A few days? What are you talkin’ about? I could build a new car in a few days.”

  “No more than a few days. The car’s owner can’t hang around here forever. She has places to go.”

  After a moment of silence, Press said, “She does, does she? Okay. I get it. You want me to spend a few days lookin’ for a ghost in the machine that causes the car to refuse to turn over, but only when she’s behind the wheel.”

  “Yeah. That’s right. ‘Cause, like she said, I don’t know anything about auto mechanics.”

  Press chuckled. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doin’. Bring it on over.”

  “Be there shortly.” He hung up and looked at Clover. “You can drive my truck. Bless’ll ride with you.”

  “Wait. I can’t… A few days?”

  “Somethin’ pressin?”

  She looked down. “Um, no. I just…” He saw her shoulders slump in defeat and had mixed feelings. On the one hand, he didn’t like to see her disappointed. On the other hand, he needed somebody who could carry trays and smile at customers. That, he told himself, was his only interest in the matter.

  Clover and Bless followed Raze to the SSMC compound. Though only forty-five minutes had passed since the phone call, Press had managed to spread gossip throughout the club so that nine members, including Brant and Brash, happened to be hanging out in the maintenance hangar when they arrived. They were made devilishly giddy by the glares he shot them, each and every one.

  She was taken aback by all the men who appeared to be possibly dangerous and underemployed.

  “You’re not going to introduce us to the lady?” Brash teased Raze.

  “She’s not interested in gettin’ to know you, Brash,” he growled in reply.

  Brash shrugged, but the broad smile on his face stayed in place. He was enjoying himself way too much. Raze gave him a long look that promised epic retribution at the earliest opportunity.

  “Just so I understand the problem,” Press said. “Could you show me what happens when you try to start the car? Miss?” He nodded at Clover.

  Press had been smirking because he was positive that Raze was making the whole thing up. He cocked his head as she was getting out.

  She got in and turned the key.

  Nothing.

  Press leaned into the open window, face an inch from Clover’s and said, “Try it again.”

  Raze felt a tiny twinge of resentment about that liberty, but reassured himself that he had no reason to care if Press got close to the stray. She was just a random woman he needed to fill in for Marjorie.

  “Here. Let me try.” He slid in and the car started without hesitation. “Huh.” The club members gave each other looks. He nodded at Raze. “Okay. Let me keep it for a few days. I’ll give you a call.”

  Raze gave the slightest chin dip in return and shot everybody a lethal look in parting, but their smirks had turned to puzzled looks laced with a renewed respect.

  “Christ,” Brant said under his breath to Brash. “What if there really is a ghost in the machine?”

  Brash looked at the car and decided he needed to get back to the other things he had on his plate for the day. “Maybe what we need is a priest. Not a grease monkey.”

  Brant laughed and walked off.

  Brash watched Raze and Clover get in the pickup. Bless was in the seat behind the cab with her head out the open window. “You takin’ care of my dog?” he shouted.

  “Fuck you,” Raze said as he climbed in and closed the door.

  Brash laughed as he threw a leg over his bike and called the thunder.

  Both back windows were down, but Bless seemed to prefer to hang her head out the window on the passenger side. That meant Clover had a perfect view of the dog’s windy joy in the side mirror and found herself thinking that Bless had it good. She never had to worry about a single thing in life except doing her job, which was to love and protect frowny guy.

  They drove in silence for a while. No radio. Just wind noise from having the back windows down. Raze was first to speak.

  “It is strange.”

  She turned and stared at his chiseled profile and admired the masculine planes a few seconds too long. There was something uncomfortably intimate about being in a vehicle with a man who was a stranger. Even if she had slept in his bed the night before.

  “That the car won’t start for me?” She turned to face the road ahead. “Yes. I’d say so.”

  “I’m not a believer in supernatural shit. But… I’m just sayin’ it’s strange.”

  “I thought you were saying it’s a sign that I’m supposed to wait tables at the roadhouse.”

  His lips moved just enough to qualify as a smile. “You buyin’ that?”

  She sighed. “I might not have a choice.” After letting that hang in the air for a minute, she said, “I don’t want you to think I’m being ungrateful. I mean, I’m glad to have an option that includes food and shelter.”

  “You hungry?” he said.

  “No. We just had breakfast burritos.”

  “That was an hour and a half ago.”

  She laughed. “I know. But I’m not a hobbit.” He squinted like he didn’t understand the reference. “Lord of the Rings?”

  “Oh. Uh-huh.”

  “Hobbits eat a lot and eat often.”

  “So you like kids’ movies?”

  Clover gaped. “Lord of the Rings is not a kids’ movie.”

  “If you say so.”

  “First, it was a trilogy of very well-written books based on Germanic sagas before it became an incredibly well-crafted trilogy of movies. For everybody. Not just kids.”

  He looked over at Clover. What he said was, “This important to you?” What he was thinking was that something wasn’t adding up. The woman didn’t talk like a road stray who’d buy a broke down beater in a borderline rural town like Dripping Springs.

  Her answer to the question was a huff.

  He had a list of questions he was itching to rapid fire at her and knew she’d close off if he did. Maybe even leave without her car. He wasn’t getting any direct answers, but he was collecting puzzle pieces.

  He pulled into McAlister’s Market and parked.

  “What are we doing?” she asked.

  He looked over at her as he undid his seatbelt. “They have these places where people get food…”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to be a smart guy boss, don’t be surprised if you find you have a smart mouth server.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged as if to say that would not be a problem for him.

  “So you’re getting groceries.” He just gave her a look. “I’ll stay with the car?”

  “Truck. And no. You will not stay with the truck. How am I gonna know what you want for the house if you stay in the truck?”

  “You’re going to get what I want for the house?”

  “Thought I would.”

  She grinned. “I’m coming.”

  “Thought you might. We need to make it snappy. Saturday’s always busy, but we got a pop
ular band comin’ in tonight.”

  “So you basically work all the time.”

  “I’d rather work a lot for myself than work a little bit for somebody else.”

  She didn’t say so, but thought that rang true, regardless of the folksy delivery. Raze had a certain Texas kind of charm that made her lower her guard because she felt very, very far away from New Jersey.

  She jumped down from the truck, closed the heavy door, and rushed to keep up with his long strides.

  He didn’t slow or look to see if she was keeping up, but he did say, “What do you like?”

  “Um, Cheetos?”

  He came to an abrupt, dead stop before turning to look at her. “No. I meant what do you like to eat! Cheetos are not food. It’s cardboard with orange chemicals sprayed on top.”

  Clover started giggling in spite of herself because she wasn’t sure Raze was wrong about that. After giving her a look that said he doubted her sanity, he resumed his march toward the entrance.

  “Howdy, Raze,” said an old guy in passing.

  Raze didn’t change expression or pace or even turn his head. “Howdy, Mr. Baird.”

  Inside Raze grabbed a grocery cart. “You like bananas?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he put a bunch of bananas in the cart. The rest of the shopping went pretty much like that. He gathered up bacon, eggs, cheese, milk, syrup, and orange juice.

  “I like cranberry juice,” she said. “And it’s good for urinary tract health.”

  “Too much information,” he said, but he pulled a quart of cranberry juice off the shelf.

  When they came to pancakes, he reached for whole wheat, but his hand stopped when she made a grunting sound. “Somethin’ wrong with whole wheat?”

  “No.” She pointed to the blueberry pancake mix. “I just love blueberry.”

  “But the whole wheat is better for you.”

  “I’ll take vitamins?” she offered.

  He didn’t think much of that as a compensatory measure, but conceded because he figured that, whatever the reason stray girl didn’t want to talk about herself, or even give her last name, she probably deserved a few empty calories and comfort carbs. And she probably wasn’t going to keel over before he hired a permanent replacement for Marjorie. So why not?

  “Here you go.” He handed her the box and she smiled like it was a diamond bracelet. “Don’t ever say I never did anything for you.”