Long Ride: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Black Sparks MC) (Whiskey Bad Boys Book 1)

by Kathryn Thomas

  Nick stared out the window, a flycatcher alighting on a beech bough. “I’ll find a way.”

  “News flash, pretty boy: this is the way.” His hand clenched on the side of the brick, as if he had the urge to grab the younger man, but was restraining himself. Nick could almost sense an undercurrent of anger under Jack’s smooth, measured tone. Good; he could use that against him. “You know what was in that shipment, didn’t you?”

  “Pig iron. That’s what it always was. That’s what they manufacture at Chillicothe.”

  Jack reached for the handle of the Mercury. “Get in and I’ll show you.”

  Nick crossed his arms and took a step back. “How much of a dumbass do you think I am?”

  “Dumb enough not to know there’s CCTVs all over this place. Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean nobody’s watching.”

  “I’m not going to hesitate to blow your head off if you try anything,” said Nick, taking a step closer. “And that goes for pulling any cop shit. The handcuffs stay in the trunk,” he added. “And the door stays open.”

  “Relax, kid,” said Jack. “I know the cuffs make you jumpy. They should, after what you went through.”

  Nick opened his mouth, feeling stripped of what little armor he had. “How did you know that? Did Liana—”

  “No. Not for lack of trying on my part. I knew there was a story there, but trying to pry it out of her was like giving her a root canal. Luckily, it wasn’t hard to figure out the rest on my own, after a little digging.”

  The car was as neat as a pin, smelling as if it had been sold yesterday. As Nick perched gingerly on the edge of the plush leather passenger seat, Jack reached down to turn on his satellite radio to a classical music station, some string-heavy orchestral piece that was jarring in its incongruity. Did he really listen to this stuff?

  “That was a juvenile conviction. It should have been sealed,” he insisted.

  Jack tipped his head back. “I don’t know who’s cuter, her or you. I’m a sergeant, Nick. If your great-grandma was arrested in 1923 for showing too much leg on the boardwalk, I can find out. Anyway, I’m not holding it against you. I’m sure it was an honest mistake.” He wasn’t laughing, but Nick was sure there was an element of scorn in it. “Far be it from me, as an officer of the law, to prevent an upright citizen from trying to put his life back together.”

  “That’s what you call this?” Nick demanded, gesturing around the car.

  “There are many ways of building a life.”

  “The shipment,” Nick said, desperate to try to take control of the situation again. “What was in it?”

  “Eager now, are we?” Jack said with a throaty laugh. “That’s what I like to see. Anyway, the pig iron was a cover, what he told you until he could be sure he could trust you.”

  Jack reached under the seat and pulled up the carpet lining the floor, then, with one of his keys, pried up an ingenious false panel built into the car’s chassis, as seamlessly as if the factory had included it specially. His hand emerged holding a duct-taped wrapped package. He unwrapped the plastic and swiped it with his index finger and held it to his lips. “Go ahead. Have a taste.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Heroin. Fresh in from Tora Bora; this is al-Qaeda’s hobby when they’re not blowing up jetliners. There are seventy kilos more where this came from. One-point-two million all told.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the Vipers have it, and I can get it back for you.” Nick stared into Jack’s smooth, flawless face. “Now, Nick, you can’t sit there straight-faced and tell me you don’t want the chance to get back in Tryg Ryan’s good graces.”

  “Since when do you care about the Black Sparks?”

  “I don’t. I don’t care about the Vipers, either. They were convenient and they were there. Whatever I’ve done for them, I’ll gladly do the same for you gentlemen if it can get me what I really want.”

  Nick opened his mouth. Behind him familiar the sound of a Harley Dyna Glide, its pipes customized to be loud enough to rattle windowpanes, roaring up the curved road toward Helena’s neighborhood, jerking him back into reality. “Shit,” Nick muttered. He choked, the new car leather smell flooding into his lungs suddenly, reminding him where he was. He had to get out of here before one of the Sparks spotted him and assumed the worst. He wouldn’t even know how to begin explaining how or why he had sat in the car with a man who was not only a leader of the Vipers, but a cop, no less, calmly discussing deals as if he’d been in a corporate boardroom. As if he would ever consider it. How could he?

  Still, the figure flashed before his face: $1.2 million. The very thought of it was like sex. Finally having money, finally being able to relax for more than seconds at a time. He could buy a proper home; he could buy Tryg’s everlasting esteem by getting the Vipers off his back; he wouldn’t have to look at Martin Malone’s sniveling little weasel face ever again. But Liana. One glimpse of her face in his mind’s eye, her rich honey-colored eyes alternating terror and wonder, looking at him as if he were the only protector she’d ever been able to count on, and it was all he could see. He wanted to punch himself, punch Jack, punch a tree, for the unfairness of being put in this position. He had to end it.

  “Don’t touch me, scumbag. Stay the fuck away from Liana and the fuck away from me.” He kicked the door of the Mercury all the way open. His bike was parked a few lengths down. If he were quick, he might be able to get out of sight and back to the house before anybody was able to take into account where’d gone.

  “Stone.” Jack grabbed his arm, jerking him back, and, for the first time, Nick felt a lightning strike of fear go through him at the glint off Jack’s white teeth, his icy eyes, ravenous with hunger for the woman who slept upstairs in the house just a quarter-mile beyond the tree line. He tried again to pull away, but it was as if he were frozen there, suspended, helpless, in the strength of the Jack’s gaze.

  “I’m getting that bitch one of two ways. I just told you the easy way. You do not want to see the hard way.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Now, in the living room, Liana’s lower lip quivered; she froze again, the same solid block of ice she’d been when Nick had tried to kiss her at the Ryans’: unfeeling, unseeing. As if she’d been hurt too many times to care, she had curled in on herself. This was not the Liana he remembered; it was certainly not the girl he wanted to be responsible for bringing out. He wanted to eliminate that quality in her, to be the one she knew she could trust. And now, by trying to defend her, he had fucked it up all over again. And he knew he had to try to explain, though he knew there wasn’t much chance of her listening.

  “Li, it’s not what you think. I went to see Jack to—”

  “You went to see him?” she sputtered, her eyes suddenly huge and full of grief. Needless to say, he’d said the wrong thing. “You were sitting in his car? Having some friendly chat? I can’t fucking believe you. You hook up with her,” she pointed to Helena, concern flashing in her eyes as she gazed up to Nick, fingers creeping up on his arm. Angrily, Nick shoved them away. This was none of Helena’s concern. “You lie to me about it, then you plot to sell me out to Jack Camus? Maybe they’re right. They’re not right about me, but they were right about you all along. I’m sorry I ever came here.” She looked frantic, hysterical, as if the walls were closing in on her, looking from the faces of the Sparks, lined up before her like a phalanx of leather, to willowy Helena, who held out her arms in what resembled a gesture of peace. But Liana wasn’t having it; she sped past everybody like a blur, racing up the spiral staircase.

  “Liana!” Nick called, darting after her, trying to catch her hair streaming behind her like a dark-golden flag.

  Helena stood in front of the stairs, and grabbed for him. “Nick, no. Not now.

  “Lady, what game are you playing?” Nick exploded at her, grabbing her expensive sleeveless blouse and pulling her toward him. Her face remained expertly made-up, her blue eyes fluttering in the semblanc
e of innocence. “Last night, you were talking as much shit about Liana as anybody. As if it weren’t bad enough that you’re spreading around some bullshit about you and me being together.” Nick turned to Tryg, “This whole thing is bullshit, in fact,” he said. “Did you see how Liana reacted? That guy is dangerous. Whenever she talks about him, she closes up like she can’t breathe.”

  “Did you see him or didn’t you, Nick?” Tryg demanded.

  Nick took a deep breath. It wouldn’t do to do anything else now but tell the truth, and hope it wouldn’t be damning beyond repair. “Yes. I went to see him. Okay? I did. But only to tell him to stay the fuck away from us,” he added. It was wiser to come clean that he’d been there rather than risk the chance of opening up about the “deal” Jack had offered—especially if there were any chance of it getting back to Liana. “It wasn’t something I had planned. And Liana didn’t know anything about me going to see Jack; she would have killed me if she did know. Do whatever you want to me, but leave Liana out of it. You’ve got her totally wrong.”

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on,” Tryg growled, pulling Nick away by the front of his jacket in an alcove behind the stairs, stealing a glance at the men standing behind. “But I’m going to find out and, above all, there’s one thing I do know: you, Nick, getting sucked into the girl’s mind games again. I can tell. You told me you were over her, but it’s clear you aren’t, and you’re letting it affect your judgment.”

  Nick looked at the floor, then up, gazing from Tryg to Helena to the rest of the Sparks, faces all impassible, all against him, all with completely the wrong picture. His shoulders felt as heavy as lead. Tryg snorted like a bull, drew himself up to his full height; the textbook biker with his jet-black knotted beard and tree-trunk arms, the don’t-fuck-with-me-tattoos. Nick didn’t stand a chance. “I—”

  “Shut up. I don’t want to hear another word from you. I can’t even look at you right now. Get out of my sight. When I want you, you’ll know.”

  Nick didn’t miss a beat. “No.”

  “No?” Martin burst out from behind Tryg. “What do you think you’re—”

  “I have to see her. Li—?” Nick called up the stairs.

  But Helena was still standing in front of the stairs when he tried to pass. “Shhh.” She grabbed him, pressed herself to him, stroking his back.

  “Helena—” he struggled. He squirmed as she massaged his wrist under his shirt. He could hear his own breathing moderate, as the adrenaline looked for a way to release.

  “It’s okay, Nicholas. Take a deep breath.”

  He looked away from her, stared at a spot on the carpet, near where her coral-polished toes in their Louboutin peep-toe sandals pressed into the thick pile of the carpet. Even her feet were groomed and perfect and, for a second, Nick wondered what it would be like to submit to her. She certainly knew how to make it easy. He glanced up and swallowed as he met Helena’s eyes.

  She crinkled her eyes and turned up her plump lips into a smile. “Let her go. Let her be alone for a while. She needs space.” She reached up a hand and stroked his face, and he felt his mouth part, even as he squirmed. “Now go. Take it easy. Go for a ride. I’ll watch over her.” There was something hypnotizing in her eyes, despite the fact that he still didn’t quite trust her. He still thought fleetingly of pushing past her, of darting upstairs to Liana, of explaining everything in one breath, before she had a chance to object, to dismiss him.

  But at last, he turned away in disgust, breaking away from Helena. He threw open the front door, kicking open the storm door violently and slamming it behind him, imagining Martin’s head caught between the hinges. If that weren’t bad enough, he’d left his bike parked a half a mile away.

  “Hey, man, wait—” Tomahawk puffed up behind him.

  As much Nick was tempted to let his friend offer some words of comfort, lame as they may be, he couldn’t stomach it right now. He just wanted to go home and shut out the world for a while. If he couldn’t see Liana, he didn’t want to see anyone. “Not now, Tom. Leave me alone,” Nick growled.

  “But—”

  Nick spun around like an enraged wolf. “I said Fuck. Off.”

  Tomahawk swallowed and was quick to scamper away, but another pair of motorcycle boots sounded behind him. It was Martin, sidling up to him like the slick little vermin he was. Nick walked faster toward where his bike waited. All he wanted to do was straddle it, hit the motor, and drive, drowning out the skinny man’s irritating tone of voice, and all the other voices, shouting and judging and condemning. It was the only thing that might possibly work; the only peace he knew.

  But Martin’s mouth was moving before he was at Nick’s side. “Hey-

  “Shouldn’t you be having a celebratory scotch right now?” Nick growled as he spun around. “You got what you wanted by telling Tryg everything.”

  “Trust me, dude, I didn’t have to tell him anything. Anybody can tell from the way you were looking at her in there, holding her hand and shit. What was that, man?”

  “If I turn around, I’m going to throttle you,” muttered Nick. “So excuse me while I keep walking.”

  “Hey man, it’s not all bad, at least you got some pussy, right? Martin said, practically licking his lips as he harked back to the scene he’d walked in on. “A week from now, she’s still going to be wiping the sawdust out of her—”

  Nick reacted like a provoked animal. It only took a second for him to have the shorter man shoved up against a nearby oak tree. “If I didn’t have so much respect for the colors you’re wearing, I’d rip your balls off and shove them down your throat,” said Nick.

  All Martin’s semblance of friendship had fallen away. He gathered saliva in his mouth and aimed it at Nick’s face. But by the time it left it mouth, it only reached the space where Nick had been standing.

  And if he had the opportunity to confront Jack again, he wouldn’t let him get off so easily.

  The hard way. Nick felt a sourness in his stomach whenever he paused to consider Jack’s parting words; he didn’t want to even imagine it—and the worst part was, he’d been banished from Liana’s presence, so even if Jack did try something, Nick wouldn’t be around to protect her.

  He used to enjoy riding alone; when he’d gotten his first bike at eighteen, a junked Super Glide he’d helped Tryg to fix up and customize in the garage, he loved the level of freedom he’d felt when he’d first jumped behind the handlebars and kicked those pipes into gear – the idea that, if he really wanted to, he could drive toward the horizon and not stop until he hit an ocean. He’d never gone farther than Ohio, but the knowledge that someday he could—and would, if his dream ever came true—was enough. Sure the sound of the pipes, and the patch on the Sparks jacket that came with it, gave him power, respect, and the wide-eyed attention of the teenage girls who shoved at each other to hitch a ride on the back—but all of those were bonuses. It was the freedom he wanted, and it was indescribable for a kid who, for a year, had only seen that horizon through the barbed wire of the Circleville exercise yard. It seemed to give his soul wings.

  But even that freedom seemed hollow now, as he rode toward home, alone, whipping along the curving roads around Helena’s neighborhood. Nick felt like a ten-year-old who’d been sent to his room to think about what he’d done. And when he was called back, an insincere apology wouldn’t be enough to make things right. Besides, he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t sorry he’d confronted the man who’d replaced the light in Liana’s eyes with sheer terror whenever she thought about him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  The roof of the garage was one of Nick’s favorite spots in the world, but with the overcast sky and chilling breeze, it seemed lonely and more than a bit desolate. It was only two stories, but he could still see all of Prudence from where sat perched on the edge of the tattered lawn chair. He wished he could see beyond, out to the country, so he would know he wasn’t stuck there forever, that there was still a way out of this mess. He leaned forward and f
elt the evening breeze through his hair, taking a few deep breaths. He could do this, he reassured himself. There was a reason he wore the Vice President patch on his jacket: Tryg trusted him, and believed him. Nothing had changed.

  Nick spun around guiltily when he heard Tryg’s heavy footsteps approach. He’d heard the bike and knew the confrontation was coming, though it didn’t make it any easier. He should have waited for the older man to speak, but there was too much he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to get out if he waited too long.

  “Where’s Liana?”

  “Still at Helena’s. Tomahawk’s there with her. He’ll keep her safe.”

  “Martin?”

  “On an errand.”

  Nick knew he’d have to be content with that for now. Above all of his fellow Sparks, he trusted Tomahawk. Her safety assured, he could move onto thornier matters. “Jack knows where the shipment is,” Nick said, careful to speak exactly as he’d rehearsed earlier. “He said he could get it back.” He would have to be careful with this; if Tryg got the idea that Nick, in any way, intended to go behind the President’s back, there would be a serious price to pay—and Nick’s pockets were already empty.

  “That’s too much for you to deal with on your own,” Tryg said after a beat.

  “But I told you I’d get it back,” Nick protested, already feeling like he was losing his cool. “And you have no problem sending Martin to take care of Chillicothe,” Nick remarked bitterly.

  “Enough,” Tryg growled. “I realize Martin fucked up a lot during his time in the Cleveland charter, but that’s behind him. He’s proved himself time and again. Which is more than I can say for you lately.”

  “I told you, I—”