by Devney Perry
The Tin Gypsies.
My father was a tall, powerful and strong man who would wither away behind the prison’s concrete walls. He’d never again take a free breath. He’d never again ride his bike under the summer sun. He’d never again hold my mother in his arms.
The same was true for my brother.
All because of those bastards in Clifton Forge.
If Dad couldn’t take his revenge personally, then I’d take it for him. He was counting on me.
I shoved off the trunk and picked up my purse and briefcase, tossing them in the passenger seat as I slid behind the wheel. I shrugged off my blazer and let the heat of the leather seat soak through my ivory lace top and black slacks.
I’d worn my favorite suit today. Mom always teased that I wore my blazers like a coat of arms, and she was right. I wore them like Dad had worn his cut before they’d ripped it off his back.
I needed this suit because today, I was going to war.
I hadn’t expected Dad to give me his nod of approval today. I’d thought it would take more than one trip to convince him that his revenge didn’t lie with a distant relative or a young Warrior prospect. If he wanted revenge, he could count on me to see it through.
But he’d given me his blessing. He’d given me his trust. And I wouldn’t let him down.
Tucker Talbot would have his vengeance by my hands.
Starting now.
Turning the key in the ignition, I let the purr of the engine seep into my bones. I let its rumble slide over my skin like the touch of a lover in the dark of night. I ran my fingertips around the wheel, taking one last moment to breathe before I dove in.
The drive home to Missoula would take a little over an hour. But in the other direction, the highway would take me to Clifton Forge.
I wasn’t going home.
My 1969 Chevy Nova Coupe soared over the road as I left the prison in my rearview mirror. The car had been a gift from my father on my twenty-first birthday and if ever there was a place where I felt most like myself, it was behind the wheel of this car.
The machine was loud and fast. It was sexy and sleek. Dad always said that the Nova was a little badass and a whole lot cool. It was the reason he’d named me Nova. It was his second favorite car—the first being the Shelby Mustang.
The whirl of the tires on the asphalt soothed my nerves and with the sun shining, the sky above me was as clear as an azure jewel. The fields streaked past in a blur of green and gold.
Dad couldn’t enjoy the open Montana road, but I’d do it for him.
I rolled down the windows, pulling off the blond wig I’d donned for my visit to the prison. It got tossed into the passenger seat along with my fake, black-framed glasses. Then I let the rush of wind whip my long hair out of its twist. The fresh air filled my lungs, and I drew it in, holding it for a long moment as I reminded myself why I was doing this.
For Dad.
For TJ.
I might not be a member of the Arrowhead Warriors, but that didn’t mean the club hadn’t been a part of my entire life. Sure, not a single living member of the Warriors knew I existed. But that didn’t mean I hadn’t been told their secrets.
I was not a Warrior.
But I was a warrior.
It was time to put my plan into action.
Dad had asked me for the specifics during my visit today, but I’d kept them to myself. The prison’s meeting rooms where lawyers could meet with clients were allegedly private. It was illegal to record conversations between a lawyer and her client, but I also knew that the FBI was ruthlessly pursuing the Warriors.
I didn’t trust the feds not to bend the rules and create a convenient loophole.
Besides, discussing how I was planning to seduce my way into the Tin Gypsy fold wasn’t exactly something I wanted to delve into with my dad. A bonus of him missing out on most major life events had been the absence of those awkward father-daughter discussions regarding sex and boyfriends.
I wasn’t sure exactly how he’d feel about me sleeping with the enemy. I wasn’t exactly sure how I felt about it either, but this plan of mine had been spinning around in my head for months. There was no other way to infiltrate their circle.
My body was the price I was willing to pay.
The drive to Clifton Forge passed in a blur. As my tires rolled, so did my plan, over and over in my mind until it felt as solid as the road beneath my wheels. Really, it was simple—infiltrate and discover.
My father had been a master of secrets, but even he hadn’t been able to protect them all. I doubted the Tin Gypsies had guarded theirs perfectly either. They were criminals, or they had been before disbanding their club.
All I had to do was find the truth.
I’d be lying through my teeth to pull this off. But lying was something I’d been doing my entire life. My very existence was a secret and not once had I slipped, not even after TJ had died and I’d been devastated by his death.
I reached for the five dice resting in the car’s ashtray and plucked one out, holding it in a fist. TJ used to carry these dice around with him. Years ago, when we were kids, Dad had taught us how to play liar’s dice and from that moment on, TJ had declared it his game. After he’d died, Dad had brought me these dice. They were the five TJ had always kept in a pocket.
“Wish me luck, little brother.”
A ray of sunshine streamed through the window, warming my face. I hoped TJ, from wherever he was watching, knew how much we missed him. Me. Mom. Even Shelby, in her own way. They’d had a falling out the day he’d joined the Arrowhead Warriors, and he’d died before they’d spoken again.
The day we’d found out that TJ had died, Shelby had held me while I’d cried. She’d been . . . numb. When I’d asked her where she was hiding her tears, she’d told me that she’d already shed them the day TJ had joined Dad’s club.
She blamed the Warriors.
I blamed the Tin Gypsies. They were the ones who’d pulled the trigger.
A speed limit sign approached, and I slowed the Nova, my pulse racing as I passed a green sign.
Welcome to Clifton Forge.
Central Avenue was lined with businesses and offices. I passed a coffee shop and a diner. Then came a small movie theater and a hardware store.
Clifton Forge served as the hub for this county and was large enough to support a number of businesses as well as the farmers and ranchers who tended the land sprawling past the town limits. There was a hospital and a handful of banks. Like most small Montana towns, there were an equal number of bars and churches.
Unlike Missoula and the larger cities in Montana, this was a community. A place where neighbors were friends and new faces didn’t go unnoticed. I’d have to remember that and be careful where I spent my time.
I lingered on the roads as I drove in circles, getting my bearings and a layout of the town. I found the high school and grocery store. The Dairy Queen and the Burger King. I passed the police station that sat on the banks of the Missouri River and a park where a woman tossed a frisbee for her labradoodle.
Clifton Forge was surprisingly charming. Quaint, even. I’d expected a rural, rough-around-the-edges town, which it was, especially when compared to a college town like Missoula. But it had a Western vibe and a wholesome flair that welcomed its visitors.
Montana was irresistible in the summer and Missoula had been flocked with out-of-state tourists lately, but as I drove, most of the license plates were Montanan. That was how I’d explain my being here. I was in Clifton Forge for the rest of the summer to escape the bustle and growing popularity of Missoula.
The afternoon was nearly over. The clock on the car’s dash showed four thirty, which meant my time exploring for today was over. I needed to scope out the Clifton Forge Garage before they closed. With the route punched into my phone, it didn’t take me long to make my way across town.
To the heart of the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club.
My heart was hammering as the garage came into view. Before
I got too close, I eased the Nova off the road and parked next to the sidewalk. My car was all flash and given that the Clifton Forge Garage was renowned for their work on restoring classics, there was no way it would go unnoticed.
Today was about stealth, like driving down a dark highway with no headlights.
Tonight, I’d flip on the brights.
I climbed out of the car, shoving my sunglasses into the dark strands of my hair. I tucked my keys into a pocket of my slacks and then I walked, my Louboutins loud on the concrete.
The garage sprawled on the long and wide lot. The property itself was bordered by a tall chain-link fence that reminded me of the one at the prison. A row of Harleys sat adjacent to the fence and each one included custom modifications like those on Dad’s and TJ’s bikes—I’d expected nothing less.
At the end of the long parking lot was a dark building tucked beside a grove of trees. The windows had been boarded up. A thick chain, complete with a heavy-duty padlock, hung from the front door’s handle.
The Tin Gypsy clubhouse.
Was that where they kept their secrets? I guess I’d find out.
Under the hot August sun, the steel siding of the garage radiated heat waves that floated into the sky. The office sat closest to the street and above its door a large mural had been painted in place of a sign. The words Clifton Forge Garage had been airbrushed onto the building’s face with perfect strokes of red, black, yellow and green.
All four of the garage’s bay doors were open and the sounds of tools clinking and music playing drifted in my direction.
A man with dark hair appeared in a center bay. He strolled around the hood of a car—a Camaro, if my guess was correct. He leaned against the gray, unpainted, raw metal and smiled, stretching out his long legs.
Dash Slater. Owner of the garage. Former president of the Tin Gypsy club. Son of Draven Slater, one of the club’s founders.
A blond man emerged from the same bay and walked across the lot for a bike painted orange and red. He had a similar build to Dash. The same cocky swagger. He raised a hand to wave as he straddled his bike, then he was gone, a streak on the road flying in the opposite direction without so much as a glance my way.
But why would he look? Leo Winter was probably racing home to his young wife and their baby girl. He’d pay no attention to a woman strolling along the sidewalk, her face shielded by a drape of dark hair and her attention fixed on her phone.
I waited until he was out of sight to look up and take another step closer.
Then there he was, my target, striding toward Dash.
Emmett Stone.
His legs were covered in denim-blue coveralls. The cuffs pooled at his thick-soled boots. The coveralls were tied at his waist, revealing a white T-shirt marred with a few grease streaks. His chocolate-brown hair was tied into a knot at the crown of his head. His face was covered in a short beard.
Emmett’s tattooed biceps strained at the sleeves of his tee as the cotton stretched over his broad chest. He was bulkier than I’d expected. Taller too. The pictures of him on the garage’s website didn’t do his build justice. And he was more attractive than I’d let myself hope.
Good. A handsome face would make this easier.
Because Emmett Stone would be the key to the Tin Gypsies’ downfall. Oh, I’d ruin Dash and Leo too. But it would start with Emmett.
I unlocked my phone and pulled up my boss’s number.
“Hi, June,” Brendon answered on the second ring.
I’d graduated from law school and immediately gone to work for Brendon’s firm. We specialized in probate, estate, banking and real estate law. Mostly, my clients were families and local businesses. It was easy. Boring. But I cranked through a lot of work because I hated sitting idle, and though I didn’t mind, Brendon was under the impression I was reaching maximum burnout.
An impression I’d purposefully let him assume.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you today,” he said. “Most people don’t call their boss on a vacation day.”
“Noted.” I laughed. “Got a minute?”
“For you, I’ve got fifteen.”
“I’ve been considering what we talked about last week, and if the offer still stands, I’d love to take you up on it and work remotely for a couple of months.”
“Absolutely.”
I smiled. “I think you’re right. Some time away from the office, where I can catch up and have a little space, will do my stress levels good.”
“Whatever you need. You’re an asset to our team and we just want you to be happy.”
“I appreciate it.” I wouldn’t exactly be working from home, but those were just semantics. “Thanks, Brendon. I’ll check in later this week.”
“Talk soon.”
I tucked the phone into my pocket and stared at the garage, watching Emmett and Dash talk over the car.
Emmett smiled. It came easy. It was entirely sexy. And I liked that he could smile.
I also liked that one day, I’d be the woman to wipe that fucking smile off his face.
Chapter Two
Emmett
“Another beer?” Paul asked.
“One more. Then go ahead and close out my tab.”
He nodded and walked the length of the bar for the register.
The Betsy was busier tonight than I’d thought it would be for a Monday. Normally it wasn’t this crowded.
I’d come down after work to have a beer and play a game of pool with the regulars—a group of guys in their seventies who’d come down daily to reminisce about the old days. Each had his own stool and heaven help any man who dared to encroach.
Part of the reason I liked to come down and bullshit with the regulars was because a lot of times their reminiscing involved memories of my father. If he were alive, he’d have been one of the regulars. I’d have been coming to The Betsy for a drink with my old man.
Instead, I came down to be with those who missed him too. It was comforting to know I wasn’t the only person who remembered him.
The regulars were gone now, most of them leaving before six to go home. They all preferred The Betsy before it got busy. Now their stools were occupied by others who’d come down for an evening drink.
August in Montana meant long days. People capitalized on their social time while the weather was warm and the sun shined until well after nine each night. Not that you could see a glimpse of sunshine from inside The Betsy.
The few windows were tinted and obscured with neon signs. More of those signs cluttered the walls next to various beer paraphernalia. The jukebox glowed on the far side of the room, its lights synchronized to the beat of the Aerosmith song someone had chosen.
The tables in the center of the room were full of men who’d discarded their suit jackets and rolled up their starched shirtsleeves. Along the bar, clusters of people stood to laugh and talk. The pool tables, which had been empty when I’d walked in the door, were now overrun and a long line of quarters was piled on its edge.
I’d had a good run at pool tonight, winning straight for the past three hours. But part of the fun in playing pool was who you played against, and during my last game, when the guys who’d been up next had only wanted to talk about rumors of my former motorcycle club, I’d taken it as a sign it was time to go home.
Paul came over with my bottle of Corona, leaving the top on and setting a lime wedge on a napkin. Then he set down my credit card and receipt with a pen. “Thanks, Emmett.”
“Have a good night, Paul.” I nodded and twisted the top off my beer.
About six months ago, a woman had slipped drugs into my friend’s drink. Dash, Leo and I had been here for a night of fun, taking tequila shots and hanging out. Dash had eventually gone home to his wife, Bryce. I’d left with a hookup. And Leo had been on his way home to his woman, Cass.
Except before Leo had made it out the door, he’d had one last shot. A shot that had been drugged, causing him to black out. The woman who’d done it had been paid by an en
emy. A man connected to the Arrowhead Warriors.
The Warriors had been a rival club back in the days of the Tin Gypsies. Now, they seemed intent on ruining our lives, even though most of them were in prison.
The man who’d drugged Leo was the nephew of the Warriors’ president. Both the nephew and his uncle were now behind bars, but that didn’t mean we weren’t still at risk.
So we didn’t let other people touch our drinks. Paul let us open our own beers and if we were drinking liquor, we kept a careful watch with every shot poured.
I tipped the bottle to my lips and scanned the room for familiar faces. Not all that long ago, Leo would have been here by my side. He used to come to The Betsy nearly every night, but now that he had married Cass and they’d had a baby daughter, he had a better place to be. Home. All of the guys from the shop had a better place to be.
Because the scene at The Betsy was wearing thin.
This had once been Clifton Forge’s dive bar, filled with bikers and men who weren’t afraid of a rough life. This had been the Tin Gypsy bar.
Now the place was packed with locals who wouldn’t have dared set foot inside ten years ago. The bar fights were fewer and fewer, something Paul was no doubt glad about. He’d just bought The Betsy from the original owner and was making it his own. It was cleaner now than it had ever been too.
The room was still dark, but the cobwebs were missing from the glass shelves behind the bar. The rack of pool cues that used to be loose and close to falling off the wall had been reattached. And Paul frowned upon couples using the storage room for a quick fuck.
The Betsy had changed.
We all had.
I took a long swallow of my beer, not feeling like finishing it, then quickly scribbled my name on the receipt, leaving Paul a decent tip. I tossed the pen down, ready to head for the door and ride home, when a glimpse of white lace molded around delicious curves caught my eye.
She sat on the opposite end of the bar, facing me, her shoulders straight and her posture perfect. Her black jacket rested on the bar in the empty place beside hers. On it sat a crocodile leather handbag.
