Smolder: Trojans MC

by Kara Parker

  The implication was clear: Holly saw only their leather jackets and rough exteriors. No doubt they reminded her of Chester and the reason she had been in a coma.

  Rose was quick to dismiss her fears. “They’re good guys. They’ve been helping me...get through everything.” She looked back at Sparky and smiled, then turned back to her friend. “We’re getting you justice.”

  Holly’s face grew solemn. “I still can’t believe how stupid I was.” She looked over at her mom, her eyes threatening to spill over with tears. “I just don’t know what got into me.”

  Rose squeezed on her friend’s hand. “It was a mistake, but you were also manipulated into making it. Have you talked to the police? Told them what happened?”

  Holly nodded. “They came already and took a statement from me, but I’m going to have to provide a longer, more detailed statement later on.” She shook her head. “The doctors want to observe me some more, I guess, but I can go home soon.”

  Sparky walked over and put a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “We’re going to head out kid. Seems like you need some time with your friend.”

  Holly’s mom nodded at Sparky. “We can drive her home. I’m assuming you brought her here.”

  Sparky gave an affirmative jerk of his chin and removed his hand from Rose’s shoulder. She turned and gave him a parting smile, though Luke knew it would be far from the last time that Rose would made her presence felt in Trojan life.

  With all the excitement regarding Chester’s presence, Luke was halfway home before he realized that he’d forgotten to ask Sparky his opinion on the Anthony Blake problem.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Shayla woke up with a pounding headache, her temples beating in agony. She cursed and rolled onto her side, glaring at the little clock by the wall. It was still early, though if she went back to sleep she knew she wouldn’t wake much before noon. And Shayla had work to do.

  It felt odd for her life to continue on, the world still spinning, even though the night before she’d been threatened by Anthony Blake with the exposure of something that could tear her world to shreds. It didn’t make sense. Nothing felt the same now. That night with Luke had been wild and amazing, and now she felt such shame. She tried to push it off, tell herself that she didn’t deserve to feel bad about a consensual act, but Anthony’s accusation had changed everything. And then, of course, she had agreed to his blackmail. Which made her just as repugnant as he was.

  She’d been up half the night vacillating over whether to tell Luke or not. Part of her knew it was the right thing to do, and that she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for sleeping with Anthony and still seeing Luke like nothing had happened.

  The other part of her feared Luke’s rage. Not that he’d be angry with her; she was confident that he’d understand why she needed to say yes in the moment to get away from Anthony. But she wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t beat Anthony to a pulp for daring to suggest such a horrible thing. She could even imagine Luke being so enraged that Anthony died. And either way, he’d end up in prison. Being honest with herself, Anthony looked to all the world like a fine, upstanding citizen. There were no witnesses to what he’d asked of her. If she tried to – what, defend herself? She’d be crucified in the court of public opinion. She knew how these media circuses went. There was a freaking sex tape and everything. So she couldn’t tell Luke.

  So even though Shayla had spent the whole night tossing and turning, imagining scenarios and wondering what she’d done to deserve this turn of fate, she had come no closer to deciding what to do. Was she actually going to sleep with Anthony? It seemed like she had to. And maybe she could handle that, if she had any faith at all that it was a one-time thing. But a trash-fire like Anthony would use this like some kind of get-laid-free card. It would hang over her head forever. And thinking about that future, where she had nothing to look forward to and no way to get out, made her stomach twist. She’d run to the bathroom twice in the night, once throwing up dinner, then later, bringing up nothing but bile.

  What in the world was she going to do?

  Running her tongue over her chapped lips, Shayla sat up in bed and stared down at her feet, blinking until her eyes adjusted to the early morning gloom. She couldn’t believe that she was going to have to get into bed with that snake. And would that stop him, in the end? Or would he continue stacking the deck against her until she submitted to every wish and command he could dream up?

  The prospect caused the familiar feeling of nausea to wash over her for the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours. She was getting tired of constantly feeling like a bobblehead, swollen and full of regret. But today, as she reminded herself, was still a normal day. And normal days had stuff that needed to be done.

  She rose and stepped into the kitchen, her bare feet wincing at the chill of the floor. The pod from yesterday’s cup of coffee was still sitting in the machine, and her favorite coffee cup was still dirty in the sink. She put in a fresh pod, filled the water reservoir in the back of the machine, and then carefully washed her cup. She put in a fresh pod and pressed brew while she looked over her phone for messages. She’d gotten a few emails in the night, as she usually did, but nothing out of the ordinary. Just another normal day, then. With sexual assault disguised as blackmail disguised as dinner with a coworker. God, she was going to throw up again if she couldn’t stop thinking about this.

  Once the coffee was brewed, Shayla sat down at her table and drank it black, grimacing at the dark, hot flavor. It felt right, and she wasn’t sure she could handle cream and sugar in her twisting stomach anyway. She needed to go down to the station like Amy had said. She needed to meet with Mr. Putnam and Mr. Green, getting their input from last week's show. Then she would come back home and decide once and for all what the hell she was going to do about Anthony Blake.

  Once her coffee was finished, Shayla rose and walked over to her bathroom, setting the shower to the highest temperature she thought she could stand and climbing in. Her body ached in response to her restless night, but the hot water soon worked out the kinks and strains of her muscles, easing her tension and replacing it with a fuzzy warmth. She wished all things in life were so easy. How wonderful it would be to be able to get into a shower that erased all the horrid things that were happening.

  One moment she could have Anthony Blake glowering down at her, too-white teeth in a horrid grimace as he showed her the video of herself wildly rutting with Luke, and the next it could all be washed away. Insignificant. Gone. And what would be left? A feeling of well-being and general happiness.

  If only life were so easy.

  But life wasn’t easy, and as Shayla turned off the shower, she scowled and forced herself to remember just that. There were things that she had to do tomorrow that she wasn’t going to enjoy. One of them was sleeping with Anthony Blake. The other was dealing with it.

  At least she could expect her morning to be a little bit less horrible. She knew that Putnam and Green were impressed with her performance, so she could at least count on their kind encouragement to rally her up into a position of better mental well-being. Then maybe she’d have the overall strength to do what was right and tell Luke.

  If she decide that she could risk the consequences.

  She applied her makeup and did her hair, settling on a high, blown out ponytail that swung behind her merrily as she walked. She put on a pair of professional black slacks and a flowy heather gray top, keeping things drab but elegant enough that Putnam and Green wouldn’t think she’d gone off. She wanted to impress them, but she didn’t feel much like putting on a dress or a skirt. It seemed that she’d be better off in what she wore.

  The drive to the station was punctuated by ads on the radio stations and the occasional bopping pop song. Shayla didn’t feel much like singing along today. When she arrived at the station, she asked the receptionist to let Putnam and Green know she was there, and then took a seat in the waiting area.

  She wondered if her office was still
unoccupied during the day. She supposed it probably was, as that whole hallway seemed to be cordoned off specifically for people who worked the night shift, but then again KTMA never failed to surprise her with the thin stretch of their budget.

  When Putnam and Green came to get her, their faces alight with pleasure at her presence, Shayla felt only the slightest lifting of anxiety from her weary shoulders. At least she had made someone happy, and from the looks of things they were very happy.

  “Ms. Queene,” greeted Putnam. “Thank you for stopping in. Let’s go to the conference room.”

  They led her there with little chatter or fanfare, which suited her nervous mood. She glanced into the offices as they passed and wondered how many of the people there would see Anthony’s video if he decided to post it. She also wondered how many of them might have gotten in a similar situation with the slimy anchor. It hardly seemed like it was his first time blackmailing someone. He did it with such ease of conscience that Shayla found it hard to believe he hadn’t done it at least once, if not many times, before.

  In the conference room, Shayla settled down across from the two executives and put on what she hoped was a convincing smile, trying to not notice the beads of sweat beginning to gather at the base of her neck and forehead as she thought about what her future might hold if things went wrong with Anthony.

  “Well, Shayla,” said Derek Green. “You got us the ratings we wanted. You got us the viewers. As far as we’re concerned, you're a rock star.”

  Shayla smiled and inclined her head. “Just doing my job, sir.”

  “Damned fine job.” Putnam had never been so friendly to Shayla before. It made the fact that she could lose all this success in an instant even more heartbreaking. “So we want to continue running little weekly featurettes like this. We think you have great potential, and are prepared to put resources at your disposal in order to make sure that potential is met.”

  Shayla couldn’t believe her ears. They were actually going to fund her to do more of the same work. They were treating her like a valued member of staff. Things seemed too good to be true, after everything she’d gone through in her internship.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate the opportunity. What kinds of featurettes did you want to run?”

  She hoped they didn’t want her to do more exposes on bikers. She didn’t think either of them knew that the reason she’d gotten her big break into Luke’s club in the first place was because of him trying to win her back after she’d found out he was married.

  “We thought we’d leave the creative side up to you and your producer,” said Putnam. “You knocked one out of the park last time, despite those who doubted you, so we’ll just let you figure this one out on your own. Something fresh though, and hopefully as gritty and on the nose as infiltrating a biker gang.”

  Shayla thought wryly that she should try an organized crime syndicate next. Maybe the mafia were hiring. They gave her a deadline to come back and pitch a couple ideas, and Shayla was grateful that it was such a generous one timewise. She wasn’t sure she was able to work under pressure with everything she already had going on in her head.

  The drive back to her house was no lighter than her drive to the station. Rather than feeling elated by her success, as she’d thought she would, Shayla was still upset and confused about Anthony. The dark cloud of his blackmail hung tortuously low overhead, and she mentally swatted at it in an attempt to think.

  Shayla was accustomed to doing whatever it took to get to the top. It was why she’d stuck it out so long at the station, despite their treating her horribly. It was her only opportunity for a break into the business, and so had tenaciously gripped onto the complaints and dismissive comments of her superiors in order to stay on the path.

  Now she was faced with the biggest challenge of all. First, she had to decide whether she was going to actually sleep with Anthony tomorrow. She’d told him she would, though that didn’t mean she couldn’t go back on it if she had a better plan. But she didn’t have one, so going back on it meant that she would have to deal with the consequences of that.

  But then if she did sleep with him, she had to decide whether to tell Luke or not. And if she did decide to tell him, she had to decide whether to tell Luke before or after the deed in question. It seemed like there was no point to her telling him after, and if she took that route she’d be better off not telling him at all.

  So now the option was between telling Luke that she was intending to sleep with Anthony, or sleeping with Anthony and hoping that Luke was none the wiser. She couldn’t betray Luke like that, by cheating on him. So she couldn’t sleep with Anthony.

  Then what the hell was she going to do?

  Shayla was a wreck when she got home, perhaps no better than she’d been when she left earlier. She knew, however, that there was no way she’d be able to figure out this particular problem on her own. She needed Luke. She needed her man.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Luke entered the shop with some trepidation, though he tried not to let it show on his face. The Reapers clubhouse had a much different atmosphere than his, not the least because it stank of burning metal and smoke. Herman Smith and his sons were all welders by trade, though they rarely took on work anymore. Since most of the club’s money was made through illegal activities, they were free to spend their time in the shop doing their own projects.

  Dax in particular had always had a flair for metal sculpture, creating twisted and grotesque figures that the club used to adorn the bar area in the interior of the shop. It was an illegal bar, of course, but the Reapers never bothered with proper licensing or any of that. The only people who ever drank there were Reapers members, and those who knew not to mess with Herman Smith, so nobody ever informed the cops that there was an unlicensed bar operating out the back of his welding shop.

  Luke found the towering, wrought iron sculptures menacing as he entered, but looked as cool and composed as a saint on the outside. He passed through a shower of sparks from one of Herman’s employees, who was welding up a gate and didn’t spare Luke a glance. Besides the skinny kid behind the welding mask, Luke didn’t see anyone else. That meant they either weren’t there, or they were at the bar.

  When he rounded the corner and the bar shot into view, several sets of eyes snapped onto his face at once. But he was only there for one person. Dax and Klyde, always together, always frustratingly dense, shot out of their seats at his arrival, but didn’t cross the room. Herman was there too, his white beard longer and more unkempt than when Luke had last seen it. There were a couple other club members, too.

  And there was Raven.

  “What are you doing here?” bit out Dax from across the room, hands clenched into a fist at his side.

  Luke put up his hands and smiled jovially. “I’m not here to fight. I just wanted to talk to Raven.”

  Her dark eyes fixed on him, and her mouth twitched into a smile. If she thought he was there to mend the bridge between them, she was off by a long shot.

  Herman let out a gruff noise from the corner, then slowly eased onto his feet and approached Luke. Though Luke was taller than Herman, it wasn’t by much, and the other man’s barrel chest stuck out further than Luke hoped his ever would. Beneath his shaved head, his bushy eyebrows clamped down in an expression of mistrust.

  “You’ve been causing trouble for me, boy,” he growled.

  Luke’s jaw twitched. Herman always insisted on treating Luke like he was just some irresponsible child, not the very influential and tough as nails leader of his rival club. The lack of respect the older man showed was demonstrative of his club as a whole. Nobody in the place had an ounce of respect.

  “You’ve been causing trouble for me since the day I met you,” Luke replied. “But I’m not here to work things over with you. I’m here to talk to your daughter. My wife.”

  He hadn’t called Raven that in what felt like years. She broke into a grin at him saying those words, and shot up out of her chair li
ke a firework.

  “It’s okay, Daddy,” she said sweetly. “I want to talk to him too.”

  Herman gave Luke another appraising glare and then reluctantly backed off, going to sit back with Dax and Klyde and joining them in their angry assault of stares.

  Raven sashayed over to Luke, her hips swinging and black hair streaming behind her. He remembered once thinking that she was beautiful. Now all he saw was vile cunning, and a face so sharp it could cut glass. She was nothing like the soft, beautiful Shayla, whose eyes shone like diamonds in the sun. She was the physical embodiment of the acrid stench of burning metal that filled the shop. Dangerous. Sharp. And hung on to you long after you’d left and tried to move on.

  He resented her acting like this was a social call, but at least it was making it easier to get her to cooperate. She led him through a back door and out into the gravel courtyard behind the shop, littered with bits of scrap metal and rusty pieces of machinery.