Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  We traded stares for a moment, then she asked, “Is she okay?”

  “Ashley?”

  “Yes. Was she hurt?”

  I hesitated for a moment, and then finally said, “No. He didn’t get a chance.” That time.

  Shelly nodded, like this news was a relief and I hid my discomfort by taking a bite of my burger.

  Darrell had hurt Ashley—and me, and my momma, and all my siblings—on more than one occasion. Despite Shelly’s bravery, this fact stuck in my throat and I couldn’t speak it. I wasn’t used to talking about my father, or what he’d done to us, and I recognized in that moment I wasn’t likely to share it willingly.

  And I wasn’t ever going to be brave about it.

  “What happened? Why’d he do it? How old was she?”

  After I swallowed my bite of food, I answered her questions in reverse. “It was just last year, the day of our momma’s funeral. He did it ’cause he was hoping to leverage my sister for money. Our momma comes from an old family in these parts called the Olivers. That was her maiden name. She owned our family home, and he didn’t own a stick of it. The house used to be called The Oliver House. And, along with property, Momma had money. Not a whole lot, but enough that Darrell—that’s my daddy—had been plotting for years to get his hands on it. As for what happened . . .”

  I moved my gaze beyond Shelly once more. It was now dark and I could see my reflection in the window. When I spoke next, I spoke to this reflection.

  “He and two of his motorcycle brothers—my father is a captain in a local motorcycle club called the Iron Wraiths—jumped Ashley and Billy in the library parking lot, where the reception was. The rest of us were inside. It was just after the funeral at the cemetery and it felt like the entire town had come to say goodbye to my mother. Darrell took advantage, catching them unawares, knocking out Billy first. But my sister, she’s fierce. She got away, flagged down a sheriff’s deputy, and Darrell was caught.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. They were stuffing Billy into the back of a car, he was out cold.” I shivered a little at the memory, bringing my eyes back to Shelly’s.

  She was watching me with an open expression, open and curious, like I was reading her a tale instead of relating a true story.

  “Your brother Billy is okay?”

  “He didn’t suffer any long-term damage from being knocked out, we were able to revive him immediately.”

  “Good. That is good.” Shelly slanted her head to the side, studying me, and then her pancakes. “I’m glad your father doesn’t like you.”

  “Pardon?” I’d been in the process of lifting my hamburger when she’d spoken. Now I held it suspended, halfway to my mouth, certain I’d misheard her.

  She took a bite of pancake, chewed, swallowed a gulp of water, and repeated, “I’m glad your father doesn’t like you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “He sounds like a tool. If he liked you, I would think there’s something wrong with you.”

  I gave her a sideways look. “That . . . sorta makes sense.” I tilted my head back and forth, considering and ultimately seeing her point. “He likes Ashley, but I think that’s because he thinks she’s weak, he thinks he can manipulate her like he did to our momma, because she’s a woman. And Ashley looks a lot like him. The rest of us, he could take or leave.”

  “He thinks she’s weak because she’s a woman?” Shelly made a face, her nose scrunching, her brow furrowing. The level of expression looked foreign on her face. Even so, I liked her expressiveness. It felt rarely bestowed and consequently more valuable.

  “Yes.”

  “Tool.”

  “Yes.” I chuckled, taking another bite of burger.

  “My dad always told me how strong I was. Capable. He’s quiet, like Quinn, but when he speaks it’s always something worth hearing.”

  “Like you?”

  Shelly considered the question, taking an expansive breath before responding, “No. I’m not quiet, not in my natural state. When I’m at home, I talk to my dogs all day.”

  “And Oliver?”

  “Yes, Oliver too.”

  “Just not humans?” I teased.

  The side of her mouth threatened a grin again. That’s eight. “I talk to you, do I not?”

  “Yes, you do. So why don’t you talk to other people?”

  “I guess. . .” she paused, like she was giving the question real thought, “I don’t want to bother anyone.”

  “You think you’re a bother?”

  “I notice things. I can’t help it. And when I notice things, I say them. It can be bothersome.”

  “What do you mean? Notice what?”

  “Patterns.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded once.

  “You’ve never said anything to me about it.”

  “I think that’s because when I’m with you, I notice only you.” Again, she said these words thoughtfully, like she was working through a problem out loud.

  So by the time she’d realized what she’d said, I was already wearing a giant smile meant just for her. “Is that so?”

  Shelly pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes into slits. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Okay, fine. Let’s talk about all the things you notice about me.”

  That made her laugh, which made me laugh. Her laugh also gave me the distinct sensation of being weightless and warm, unbound by time or worries.

  In other words, she had a great laugh.

  Movement in the window behind her—in the reflection—caught my attention, as did new voices. My smile slipped gradually as my eyes focused on the scene there, on the image of several huge, leather-clad bikers walking into the diner.

  And the redheaded woman with them.

  I winced. “Oh . . . shit.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t look up.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t look up, instead becoming eerily still.

  I squinted at the window and slid lower in the booth so my head wouldn’t be visible. But I could see the rest of the diner just fine.

  “Behind me, a few fellas and a woman just entered.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t look up to confirm, instead keeping her attention fixed on me.

  “They’re members of the Iron Wraiths.” I counted their number—six total—and tried to add names to faces. Drill was there, his shiny bald head and burly build gave him away. “The woman is Christine St. Claire, the president’s old lady.”

  Dammit. I reprimanded myself for my foolishness. I should have called Drill back. Instead of avoiding his calls, I should’ve just told him I wasn’t interested.

  “Old lady? She’s his mother?”

  “No.” I grinned at Shelly despite the situation. “His woman.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  I winced, because I saw three of them—at least—were carrying guns. They weren’t holding the guns, just carrying them out in the open over their T-shirts but under their jackets, being real obvious about it.

  “Something like that.”

  She gave me a face, like she found my response irritating. “These people are a part of your dad’s motorcycle club?”

  “Yes.”

  “The ones who tried to kidnap your brother and sister?”

  “Yeah, but those two guys—the ones who helped Darrell—they’re in prison.” Still tracking the group’s progress in the reflection of the window, I watched as Drill approached the counter, a younger guy with a beard trailing behind him. If I wasn’t mistaken, the younger guy was Isaac Sylvester, Jennifer Sylvester’s brother. He was a recruit, not a full member. But he was also big and tall, muscular, retired Army.

  “They must’ve seen my car out front,” I mumbled to myself.

  “So these guys, these Wraiths, they don’t like you?”

  “Something like that.” My response was distracted, because I needed to extract Shelly from this situation as quickly as possible.

  I wa
s under no illusions. This is exactly what Drill had meant in his text. Christine was here to see me, likely to take me someplace of her choosing whether I wanted to go or not.

  If they saw Shelly and I together, they’d take us both, because that’s how they operated. They’d use her for leverage to get what they wanted and there was no way in hell I’d let that happen.

  “Stop saying ‘something like that.’ Vague statements confuse me. Yes or no, they like you or they don’t.”

  “It’s complicated. We need to get you out of here. I’ll distract them and you sneak out the back.”

  Drill was moving his head from side to side, scanning the restaurant while the rest of them tried to appear nonchalant, lining up against the diner counter. They blended in about as much as a keg stand at a tea party.

  I spotted movement from the entrance to the kitchen—Simone poking her head out—and I heard her say something like, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Crap.” I reached for my wallet, pulling out a few twenties and dropping them on the table. “Shelly, you need to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re here for me. And if they see you, they’ll take you, too.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  My eyes cut to hers and I glared at the obstinate set of her features. “Shelly.”

  “No. We leave together.” Her expression and tone were fierce.

  “You don’t know them, what they’re like. They’re bad people.”

  “Stop wasting time. How do we get out of here together?”

  Chewing on the inside of my bottom lip, I considered this stubborn woman and the likelihood that I would be able to talk her into leaving before the shit hit the fan. I decided the probability of success was zero.

  “I wish Duane were here.” I thought about quickly sending him a text, but decided against it. My brother was as good as gone. I needed to figure out how to get out of these messes without him.

  Shelly’s gaze flickered to a spot behind me, then back to mine. “Why?”

  I gave her an apologetic look. “We gotta disappear.”

  “Obviously. But what does us disappearing have to do with Duane?” Her voice lowered to a whisper.

  “Because we could use a getaway driver and he’s the best.” No need to beat around the bush, especially since I was just about to tell her to make a run for the back door. “Sorry about this.”

  Shelly’s eyes widened and she sat up a bit straighter in her seat, angling her chin. “I’ll do it.”

  “What?” I was splitting my attention between her and the reflection of the Wraiths in the window.

  “I’ll do it. I’ll be our getaway driver.”

  “Shelly.” I’m sure my dismay and confusion were apparent, because her eyes narrowed on me in challenge.

  “I’m a great driver. I’ve been spending my free time driving the back roads. I like to drive fast around curves and corners. And you have a fast car. Give me your keys.”

  Unsure what to do, I licked my lips, my fingers digging into my front pocket for the keys but moving no further.

  She must’ve sensed my hesitation, because she gave me a small smile. “Trust me, Beau.”

  Shelly placed her hand on the table, palm up, and extended it toward me. Her hand was steady and her expression was as cool and collected as I’ve ever seen her.

  But . . . it’s my GTO.

  Oh good Lord. Just give the woman your keys.

  Fine. But if she wrecks it, I’m buying that Plymouth Fury from the shop.

  Heart galloping, I withdrew my keys and placed them in her hand, closing her fingers around them. “This is what we’re going to do. You get up and make like you’re going to the bathroom. The back door is in the same alcove, leave through there. Go around the north side of the building, behind the kitchens, so they don’t see you through the windows. Get to my car, watch for me, and get ready.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “There’s no way I can sneak out. They’ll see my hair a mile off.” I scanned the scene in the window. “I’ll have to talk to them and leave through the front door, act like I’m going without complaint. Then I’ll say I need to get something from my car, but I’ll get in the passenger side instead. And then you take off, got it?”

  “Got it.” She nodded, the smile still hovering around her lips.

  I lifted an eyebrow at her expression. “You look like you’re looking forward to this.”

  “I’ve been hoping you’d let me drive your car.” Her lips quirked, giving me a saucy smile.

  I shook my head at this crazy—but in the best way—woman as she slid from the booth and strolled to the bathroom alcove, cool as a cucumber.

  As soon as she was out of sight, I sent a silent prayer upward that she emerged from this situation unscathed and that Drill didn’t spot her.

  If anything happens to her, I swear to God—

  Whoa there, feisty britches.

  —they won’t find the bodies.

  Okay. Settle down. No need to pull the Rambo card.

  I gathered a deep breath, counting to five before straightening in my seat to ensure she had enough time to make it around the building.

  And then, because I really did love the GTO, I said a quick prayer for my car.

  19

  “People in their right minds never take pride in their talents.”

  ― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

  * * *

  *Beau*

  As soon as I saw Simone leave the kitchen, I stood from the booth. I suspected her momma didn’t like the Wraiths being in the diner, and I knew without a doubt Daisy didn’t want her daughter interacting with their kind.

  So before Simone reached them, I called out, “Can I help y’all with something?”

  Seven sets of eyes—the Wraiths’ plus Simone’s—turned in my direction, but I was careful to keep my stare on Christine St. Claire. She would be the one calling the shots, which meant she expected to be the sole recipient of my focus.

  Growing up, going to picnics with the other club members and their families, visiting the club with my daddy, fishing with Isaac and Drill and Catfish, I had no problem navigating their sub-culture and norms. It was a respect thing with these people. Club business had a strict order even as they spread chaos elsewhere.

  But just because I could navigate their world didn’t mean I wanted to be a part of it.

  “Beau.” Drill stepped forward, wearing a smile like a grimace, and extended his hand for me to shake.

  I accepted the handshake, studying his expression, and reading something like, I tried to warn you.

  “You know the fellas,” he gestured to the other members of his group, none of which gave me even so much as a nod of the head.

  “Sure.”

  “And Razor’s old lady, Christine.”

  My attention moved back to the woman. She was watching me closely, like she was waiting for me to react in a certain way.

  “Ma’am.” I tipped my head but made no move to extend a hand. Club members were particular about their old ladies. A guy could get a broken nose for glancing at another man’s woman without asking permission first. However, sometimes these fellas lent out their woman like a bicycle.

  Regardless, Razor was a psycho. That tire fire of volatility didn’t require any additional fuel.

  “You’re coming with us.” Christine’s voice was softer than I’d expected, and the way she searched my eyes struck me as peculiar. “We need to have a chat.”

  I shrugged, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Sure thing. Lead the way.”

  If my willingness surprised her, she didn’t show it.

  But Drill was giving me a dirty look. My guess, he was irritated I’d caused him a heap of trouble over the past month just to acquiesce so easily now. The other fellas seemed to relax, clearly assuming their job was essentially done.

  Truth be told, I was tempted to leave with them.

  Shelly was safe
in my car. I doubted their plans included keeping me indefinitely. My absence would be noticed. If they kept me for any length of time, Billy would throw a raging fit, as was his habit when situations involved the motorcycle club. And Billy was friends with people in high places.

  Yeah, I was pretty well convinced to go with them, get it over with. The old lady wanted to have a word, and clearly she wasn’t going to leave me in peace until she had her say. Hopefully, it would be a quick conversation.

  Sure, Shelly would be pissed.

  She’d also be safe.

  But then, as soon as we were out the door, Drill lifted his chin toward a bike I recognized as Razor’s and said, “You’ll ride with Christine.”

  Other than a slight widening of my eyes, I was able to keep my expression clear despite the sinking sense of doom in the pit of my stomach.

  Ride with Christine? On Razor’s bike? Uh, that’ll be a hard pass.

  My plans took a real sharp U-turn. There was no way I was getting on Razor’s bike with Razor’s old lady. Seeing how things were going to be, I was hugely grateful to Shelly that she’d insisted we leave together.

  “Ah, jeez. I left my wallet in the glove compartment. Let me grab it.” I walked backward away from them.

  Isaac and another of the bikers stiffened, but then relaxed as I moved along the hood of my car toward the passenger side. I kept my eyes trained on them as I reached the door, opening it and bending into the car.

  Only Christine was watching me, the rest were mounting their bikes and must’ve decided I couldn’t escape without sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Then Shelly turned the engine.

  The sound of my GTO coming to life cut through the night and the Wraiths looked up, visibly dumbfounded. I’d just shut my door as Shelly reversed out of the space, twisting the wheel and taking off quick as lightning.

  “Seatbelt,” she said, not pausing at the edge of the lot before pulling onto the main road and speeding like a demon outta hell.

  She shifted fast, much faster than I’d ever managed. Instead of using the brakes, she downshifted just as we approached the first turn. The engine roared as we flew around the curve, but the lower gear gave her the control she needed to clear it.