I’m Swift. I can cope with anything. But the loss of my soulmate? Would I even have a reason to live anymore? Of course I would, but I’d be half a woman doing it. I’d end up as bitter as Stormy. It makes me wonder whether Stormy lost someone close. That would explain his behaviour. That teammate of his, Pooh? Surely that couldn’t be it.
Road presents his keycard to the lock, and when it flashes green, he pushes open the door. As soon as I enter, shutting the rest of the world out, he pushes me back against the wood, his mouth crashing down on mine.
I give in to the temptation of ravishing his mouth, of our lips, tongues and teeth melding together, trying to get a sufficient amount of his taste to tide me over the days when he’ll be gone.
Eventually, he pulls back, his eyes darkened with desire, focused on mine. As if he can read what’s going through my head, his hand smooths down my face.
“I’ll be back,” he promises. “I won’t take risks. Preach, Piston and Rascal are all good brothers, babe. They’ll have my six, and I’ll have theirs. I’ll be back.” His tone firms on the final words.
“I know you will,” I tell him, injecting confidence in my voice.
“Unless the fuckin’ plane crashes,” he adds, contradicting what he said before.
His words make me grin. “Arse.” I punch his arm. “Preacher knows how to fly.” Road’s not a fan of being in the air, preferring to keep his feet firmly on the ground.
“Swift,” he starts, then stops. His hair flies almost whipping me in the face as he shakes his head.
“Go on.”
“I’m worried about you. Worried about what might be coming for the club.”
For a split second, I wonder whether being a couple is worth it. Both partners concerned about the other when they’re apart. But the benefits outweigh the risks.
“I’ll be fine, Road. You worry about yourself.”
His face splits into a smile. “You do the same. At least you’ve got App.”
This won’t be the first time we’ve been separated, but now I’ve got App, my hearing dog. I can remove my hearing aids at night without being worried. App would wake me should there be an alarm going off or an intruder invading our house.
“Do you need to get anything from home?”
“Nah.” He glances around. “A spare pair of jeans, a couple of t-shirts and I’ll be good. I’ve got those here.” As he speaks, he turns and picks up his duffel, throwing in the items he’d mentioned, then going to the bathroom and getting some of his shit from there.
“Time for a quickie?” I bat my eyelashes, my unlikely feminine gesture making him snort.
“Sorry, babe. But hold that thought. I’ll be back before you know it.” He does, however, have time for another kiss. Finally, he opens the door, and leaves.
I don’t go to see him off or make a big thing of him going. That’s not who I am. My worry I’ll keep to myself and not let it show.
Straightening my shoulders, I walk to the closet. Selecting some appropriate hospital visiting clothes, I put my cut neatly on the back of a chair and change out of my fatigues. It’s then I notice App sitting, looking longingly toward the closed door.
Going to him, I sink to my knees and bury my face in his fur. “He’ll be back,” I tell my dog firmly, wondering whether I’m trying to convince him or myself.
Picking up App’s lead, I go to the elevator and descend to the ground floor. Brute’s seated behind the reception desk today. Clipping the leash onto App’s collar, I hand it to the prospect. The hospital is one place they prefer me not to take my service dog, and the prospects are used to watching him for me. He already has a bed and toys set up under the desk.
Taking the keys to one of the club’s SUV off the board, I get on my way. I’ve foregone the bike, wanting to appear as the concerned wife, and not a member of an MC.
I know my way to ICU by heart now and am greeted like an old friend by the nurses.
“How is he today?” It’s my usual question, and I get the usual response. No change.
“Mrs Briggs? The doc says he’ll be round to speak to you later.”
I thank the nurse, knowing there’s no point in questioning her further. I head for Stormy’s room.
With an expert eye, I view the machines monitoring his vitals. As the nurse said, there appears to be no change. The ventilator moves up and down as it forces air into his lungs. His heart is still beating in an even rhythm, and his blood pressure is slightly high but looks steady.
I take my normal seat by the side of the bed and draw my Kindle out of the deep pocket of my coat. I settle down for an engaging read about modern warfare. It might not be to everyone’s taste, but it’s right up my alley.
“Karen?”
The doctor’s voice catches me unawares. Christ, I’m losing my touch. Annoyed with myself, I look up to the medic with whom I’m now on first-name terms, or him with me at least.
“How is he, Doc?”
“Good news. The bleed on the brain has ceased, and the swelling is going down.”
“He’s still in a coma.”
He nods at my observation. “He is. I know you’re going to ask me for how long, but to that I can’t give an answer.”
I frown. “So it could be hours, days, weeks or years?”
He glances at me sympathetically. But he’s seen me here enough and knows he doesn’t need to mince his words. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks I’m hovering around just to pick up money that may have been left to me.
“I really can’t say when.”
Or if, I think to myself, knowing there’s a chance that Stormy will never wake up.
When I return to the club, there’s a buzz about it. Has something happened to Road?
“Swift?” My name is called almost immediately.
“Prez.” I approach him cautiously, fear rolling in my gut.
“Something’s come up. San Diego has a problem. Nasty shit. A porn ring involving kids.”
Glaring, I spit out, “We going to help?” Porn and kids are two words which should never go together. Shit like that needs to be stopped.
“Yeah. You and Bolt head down there, okay? Honor and Duty will be working the back end.”
There’s nothing I want more than to break up that type of shit. “What about Stormy?”
“Tell the doc you’ve got to go out of town. Give him my number for emergencies. Tell him I’m your big brother or something and get him to keep me in the loop if Stormy wakes up.”
“Want me to feel out Lost about Stormy?” I refer back to the decision in church.
Prez presses his finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. “Not outright. If they’ve nothing to hide, or even if they want to pull the wool over our eyes, they’ll be the ones to mention him. They’ll be fuckin’ cocky as hell if they think they’ve solved our problem. Just see how it goes, okay? Listen and learn.” His look shoots a warning at me. “Whatever you gleam, report it back. Don’t go acting on your own initiative. Can’t see it putting us in Drummer’s good books if you use thumb screws on one of the San Diego members.”
I stab at him with my finger. “You spoil all my fun, Prez.”
“We’re flying commercial.” Bolt strides up. “We’ve got tickets booked. Red-eye flight.”
Of course we are. Preacher’s taken the plane. Just my luck.
As I listen to Bolt giving me the details, I get my head in gear for our visit to San Diego. At least it’s a change from sitting by a near-dead man’s side, and a chance to find out if his condition has anything to do with our Californian brothers.
7
Seven years ago
Stormy…
Friday only gives me two days. Checking Google, I see I’ll have a five-hundred-mile journey to reach Utah, and luckily, being summer, good weather is expected most of the way.
I’d been so focused on achieving my dream lifetime career that now it’s been cut short, and in such an ignominious way, my head’s still trying to catch up with
what is my new reality. Disgraced, shamed, a man for whom the world has no place. Maybe a long ride, wind therapy and seeing the pavement disappearing beneath my wheels might go some way to getting shit in my head straighter. Give me some time to work out whether I’ll be able to move forward, and what direction my life could take. Up until now, I’ve found it impossible to think of a future that holds anything worthwhile. Up until now, I’ve spent most of the time drunk, I remind myself.
I drive to Tailor’s house and after speaking to his girlfriend, leave my car in the parking lot, and get my bike out of his storage. There’s nothing to keep me here, so I decide I might as well get on the road and take my time with the journey. Decision made, I stop only to top off my oil and gas, and then take one last look back at San Diego. Snorting to myself when I realise I’ve no goodbyes to say. I’ve no ties, no loving family and not even friends to wish me good luck. The ones I have are back overseas. I feel empty, lost. Could Utah have something to fill this hole inside me?
I doubt it. Nevertheless, I press start, kick down into first and head out of the city.
I’d like to say that a burden is gradually lifted from me as I put miles between myself and the naval base, but I’d be lying. Each mile that passes makes me more homesick, and resentful of all that I lost.
Should I have spoken up? Put blame where it was warranted? No, that wouldn’t have saved me. I disobeyed a direct order, nothing to absolve me from that. Sifting through maybes and what-ifs isn’t going to do anything to alter the position I’m in now. I’m like a piece of driftwood, with no direction to head in, and no idea where I’m going to end up. Except almost certainly washed up.
After about four hours of riding, I stop, dismount the bike and stretch. It’s been more than a minute since I rode so long in one go, so my ass is definitely feeling it.
After booking into a cheap motel, I find somewhere to eat, shoving food into my mouth mechanically, with no more pleasure than when I topped off my tank. Like my bike, it’s just fuel for the journey ahead.
I sleep, well, no I don’t. I lie on the bed trying to stop my overactive brain from thinking about what my ex-teammates are doing. Eventually, with the thought that I’ve never felt so lonely in my life rattling around my brain, I force myself to switch off and finally sleep.
Waking early, I get on with the final stage of my journey. When I near the city I’m headed to, I pull off, checking the directions.
Eventually I find the address. It’s a steel and glass three-storey building on the outskirts of an industrial estate with nothing to tell me about the kind of business they’re about. Apart from a street number, there’s no name on the door. Curious, I bring my bike to a halt and park up in a visitor bay. Putting my aviators away, I swing my leg over the seat and take the key from the engine, studying the building in front of me for a moment. There’s nothing about the exterior which gives away what goes on inside.
Some secret organisation?
I snort.
Oh well, I haven’t ridden more than six hours just to turn back without finding out. Best go inside and see what this is about.
The doors are the revolving type, so I step inside and they automatically begin to move, depositing me in a reception area with a man seated behind a desk. He comes as a surprise. Not that I’m sexist and think a woman should be sitting there, but it’s the fact that though he’s smartly dressed, he can’t quite hide the tats which go up to his neck and cover his hands. He’s got a beard, his hair hits his shoulders, and he’s well built. My first thought is that he’s an ex-serviceman who’s been given a pity role.
If they take on vets, that might explain why I’m here. But if that’s the case, then I hope there’s something better planned for me. With my moods, a good receptionist is something I’ll never be and not what anybody would want.
Although I’ve clocked he knows I’ve arrived, he continues to tap at his computer for a few seconds before looking up, a quizzical expression on his face.
“I’m here to see Philip Hound.”
A raise of his chin confirms I’m in the right place. “And you are?”
“Finn Palmer.”
He consults his screen, then stands. “I need to pat you down.”
I grit my teeth, wondering why he’d assume I’m armed. I hold out my arms and am subjected to a thorough pat down, not amateurish at all. Ex-military police? Quite possible. He easily finds my knife in my boot. Then, to my disgust, he confiscates my phone.
“I might need that.” I hold out my hand to take it back.
His face is set and determined. “If you want to meet Pip, then your phone stays here. You can get it when you go. Or, you can take your phone and leave now.” His manner suggests whichever I decide wouldn’t bother him.
For a moment, I’m considering saying fuck it and going back home. Two things stop me. I haven’t got a fucking home, and while I can spare the time wasted on the journey, I’ve come all this way and don’t want to back out now. I think I’ve already decided there’s unlikely to be anything here for me, but do I really want to walk away for the sake of the loss of my phone for half an hour?
“It better be here when I get back,” I growl.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to steal your phone, man.” After he puts it pointedly into a drawer and turns a key, he straightens again. “Follow me.”
I don’t have any other option, so I trail in his wake as I’m led on down a hallway with industrial carpet underfoot, passing and ignoring an elevator that obviously would go to the upper floors—more offices, perhaps? I wait as he knocks on a door, pausing for the permission to enter, then one pace behind him, I step inside.
“Finn Palmer to see you.”
Looking around the receptionist’s shoulder, I see a man seated behind a large desk.
“Show him in.” The man gets to his feet and stretches out his hand. “Stormy, it’s good to meet you.”
I’d be remiss to avoid his greeting, so I reach out my hand to take his, clasping it hard enough to be a test which he passes—his grip is as firm as my own. “Philip Hound, I presume?” He hadn’t introduced himself. When he nods, I correct him, “I just go by Finn, or Palmer now.”
His eyes narrow. “I’m Philip Hound. And as for who you are, that’s for me to decide,” comes his puzzling statement. “Take a seat.”
He waves me to the chair placed in front of the desk. It’s at this point I realise, as the receptionist is being thanked and dismissed, that he’s not the only one there. When he sees I’ve spied the man leaning against the wall, this time he does perform the introduction.
“This is Snatcher. My VP.”
So Hound is the president of whatever this company is. I nod toward Snatcher, then, as I’m automatically turning to face Hound again, my eyes snap back to what they’d registered before my brain had a chance to analyse what they’d seen. Snatcher, a weather-worn, battle-scarred man, is wearing a leather vest. On it, there’s a patch reading VP. It’s not something a company executive would wear. I start to get a bad feeling.
Halfway through seating myself, I reverse my action and straighten. “What is this?” I demand. “Who are you?”
Hound’s lips curve, but only slightly. “We’re the Utah chapter of the Satan’s Devils MC.”
The Satan’s Devils MC? Hell, to the no. Most people have heard of that infamous gang. There’s even a chapter based in San Diego—thugs riding around on motorbikes scaring women and kids. Even I, a man who can look after myself, tended to keep well clear. If I was out for a ride on my own bike, I didn’t usually stop, however desperate I was for refreshment, if there were multiple Harleys being guarded by a man with a prospect patch. They’re one-percenters, that I know. San Diego has long had a reputation for running guns and drugs, and probably any other racket they can extort money from. I wouldn’t put murder beyond them.
“I’m wasting your time.” I turn to go.
The click of a gun cocking draws my eye, it’s pointed straight
at me. No wonder the prospect checked to see if I was armed.
I was a SEAL. I begin to prepare, readying myself to call all my unarmed combat skills into play. Working out angles and how fast I could get the drop on the man holding the gun, I’ve no doubt I can take him.
“Why don’t you sit and hear what we have to say?” Hound seems totally unconcerned, either at my reaction or the fact his VP literally has me in his sights.
Without removing my eyes from the threat, I refuse, “You’ve got nothing to offer me.”
“Well now, that’s a fuckin’ shame. You see, you’re exactly what I need.”
Ignoring him, I make a subtle move toward the VP, but he’s watching me carefully and fractionally adjusts his stance. This is no untrained man. I assess him, wondering what skills he’ll betray that I’ll need to be wary of.
“Sit,” the VP commands. “There’s no danger to you here. All we’re asking is a few moments of your time.”
“You stopped being friendly when you pulled your weapon on me.” I’m in no mood to have a conversation at gunpoint.
Hound heaves a sigh. “You’re a sniper, Stormy. A fuckin’ good one at that. Studied computer science, and you’re an explosives expert. You’ve done numerous tours in Afghanistan and other countries, and before your discharge, you were on rotation for SEAL Team Six.”
What the fuck? “I was never on Team Six.” Is it true I was actually considered? Fuck, what a chance I’d blown. To be called up for that elite team is any SEAL’s dream. I shove the idea back down. If I was, there’s no way this man could have known. He’s blowing smoke up my ass for some reason.
“No,” Hound agrees with a grimace. “Your career was fucked up too soon.”
I snort. I can’t argue with that. “So I’m a fuckup. Doesn’t mean I’m like the rest of the dropouts who run with an MC.”
Now Hound laughs. “If you were, I certainly wouldn’t be interested in you.”
He might not be truthful about SEAL Team Six, but his previous statements echo through my head. He’s sure got a rundown of the things in which I specialised. “Who gave you the information about me?” If my voice snaps, I won’t apologise for it.
Stormy's Thunder: Satan's Devils MC Utah Page 8
