by Stacia Leigh
A guitar-riff blared from the front seat…Greer’s ringtone.
“Yep? Well, hello there, Val.” Greer’s voice glided like Chiffon silk as he spoke into his phone.
Did he say Val as in Just Val? As in the Valentina who declared she’d been climbing all over Dad for six straight weeks? She looked at Will, and they frowned at each other. Why the hell was Val calling Greer?
“Uh-huh. I like where this is going…but tonight? I thought I told you I’m with the guys. I’m busy. No, no, no. Listen, how ‘bout I meet you at Knotty Knolls later…no, it’s like I said, just busy. Uh-huh. Later, Val.” Greer dropped his smooth phone voice in exchange for his usual surly one. “I got one of those feelings again.”
“It’s your beer gut talking,” Pitty said from somewhere above Miki’s head.
“No doubt.” Greer sighed heavily. “I was sweatin’ bullets out in those trees. Thought I was gonna have a coronary.”
“Eat in moderation. It isn’t rocket science,” Pitty muttered.
“Let’s see…” The elf guy paused like he was doing mental math. “I’m guessing you need to lose about fifty—”
“My feelings aren’t about my spare tire. Got it, wise guy? It’s about Val. I like my women loyal. Not ones I have to wonder about, and lately, I’ve been thinking she’s up to no good.”
“You saw her whispering in Smiley’s ear. So? He’s a kid. She was probably giving him his first hard-on. I could use one of those myself. Right, Michelle?”
Miki gnawed on the inside of her lip and kept her wide eyes trained on Will. His brows lowered, and he shook his head slightly, Never gonna happen.
“Shut your clap trap, McCord,” Greer grumbled. “And before you say I’m jealous, I’m not. I’m only wondering.”
So Honey Bunny had a real name, McCord, a name she wasn’t likely to forget any time soon. To calm her nerves, she envisioned the toe of her boot finding its mark. Revenge served cold and right in the junk. But it was quickly clouded by how disappointed her dad would be. She closed her eyes and could hear his voice bellowing, “Miki-Lou! What do I always tell you? Communicate your destination, never get in a car with strangers, and know when to say ‘no.’ But most importantly, keep the bad guys guessing.”
Self-defense. It was a lecture he’d drilled into her and Owen’s heads at a young age. Now look at her…zip tied.
“So what’s the plan for tonight?” Pitty asked when the van lurched to a stop.
The driver cut the engine, and all went silent. Greer sighed heavily followed by an unpleasant creak as the passenger door opened.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he said. “I hate beating on kids.”
CHAPTER 15: Picnic Time
Miki blinked against the sudden head rush after being jerked out of the van and planted upright. The sun glinted brightly off the chrome bumper and was warm enough to dry the morning dew. Birds chirped in the trees, and normally, this would be the start of a gorgeous summer day.
Miki’s heart thumped heavily in her chest as Greer frog-marched her across a beautifully manicured lawn bordered with yellow flowers. Without any words exchanged, the Pulver Skulls acted in unison. They were a choreographed trio, all on the same page, most likely from kidnapping people many times before.
Don’t talk. Poke and shove your victims past someone’s home, a peaceful-looking log cabin with a broad deck and a rocking chair. Then, whip open a metal side door to a large shop and rush the little prisoners down a narrow flight of stairs. Don’t give them a chance to focus on the motorcycle parts, the gasoline cans, and the tools littering the concrete floor. Nope. Don’t let them get any bright ideas.
In the basement, things were even more bleak. It was cold and dusky.
The ten-foot cement walls formed a spacious room cut in half by a chain-link fence, which spanned from the bare floor to the ceiling. The fence was held taut by steel pipes that were dropped into holes in the floor. Probably, so it could be put up easily for “guests” or taken down for parties. More likely, if Miki knew her bikers, it was for the quick take-down in case the cops came snooping around.
The metal cage rattled as Greer opened the fence door and shoved her into the cell. With her hands bound behind her back, she lurched forward to keep her balance. Pitty pushed Will inside, pulled the door shut, and secured it with a padlock. He handed the key to Greer, who poked it into the little watch pocket on the front of his dirty jeans. Greer gave it a comforting pat.
“You two look after the kids. I need to head over to Ham’s cabin,” he murmured, and the hair on Miki’s arms prickled at the name—Ham, the man in charge, the biker hunting Bill and Liam.
Will stepped farther into the dark cell as the three Pulver Skulls formed a loose huddle. They stood in front of her, talking, like she didn’t exist or wasn’t considered a threat.
Typical. In the backs of their minds, they probably thought she was some bubblegum chewing high schooler who only cared about the state of her blue hair and the chips in her pink nails. The less they focused on her, the better. Miki took her cue from Will and slowly drifted back into the shadows until her hands met solid concrete.
“I’ll order us a couple of Knotty pizzas for later. Remember, no news is good news, which means, as far as I’m concerned, the deed is done.” Greer wiped a palm across his sweaty brow while sucking tobacco juice hard against his lower lip. “Ham’ll be on his way back, and then…then, it’s show time. Got it?”
“What deed?” Will asked hoarsely from his post near the wall. “What’s going on with my family?”
“The Sullivans are toast, boy.” Greer bashed the chain-link fence with the side of his fist. “Soon, you will be, too, because you tangled with a Pulver Skull, and we’re going to see you live just long enough to regret it. Capiche?” Greer pulled his narrow shoulders back and expanded his chest while he glared between the wire links, trying for fierce. Miki narrowed her eyes at him and noticed he relaxed too soon. His machismo ebbed away and left only a hygiene-challenged fatso in a leather vest.
Was this the best the Pulver Skulls could do? She stood by, only imagining the pleasure of rolling her eyes at Greer’s pathetic show of force. It was obvious he didn’t have the energy or the talent for the big bad biker routine. Seriously, low-rent.
“Greer…” McCord started, his eyes searching out Miki’s. A tense breath caught in her throat.
As she struggled to keep her cool, Will lunged past her. He was lit up by the beam of light pouring in from a basement window as well as his anger. His leg kicked out and rattled the chain-link fence, sending the P-skulls back a step.
Will’s dark bangs flew forward, and amazingly enough, he didn’t fall on his butt, even though his arms were banded behind his back with duct tape. His feet were planted wide, and he snarled, “You murdering bastards killed my mom!”
“Now, you listen here…” Greer trembled with anger. He stabbed a finger in Will’s direction. “Your guys killed my boy, Barrel, and cut the patch off his dead body. He was a brother, and I won’t live in a world where you sons of—”
“Boo hoo.” Will sneered. “Your dead brother was drunk driving and killed an innocent woman, Cindy Sullivan! She loved animals and old people and cared about life—”
“Barrel was an innocent man!” Greer thundered and spittle flung from his lips. “…sitting in the passenger seat.”
“Passenger seat? I call bullshit,” Will whispered vehemently, his chest heaving with exertion.
“Come on, kid. You know as well as I do the driver took off. Nobody knows where she went, but believe me…” His voice trailed off, and it seemed to take a moment for Greer’s brain to engage, telling him to shut his own clap-trap.
“She?” Will straightened.
A woman was driving? Miki’s general rule was to keep her ears open at all times, and because of it, she knew things a lot of other people didn’t. But apparently, the full story had alluded even her. Good job provoking Greer, Will.
“Who?”
Will demanded.
Pitty closed his eyes and snorted with disgust. He seemed jaded, but he might be the only smart one around. Maybe she could sway him to the Hides of Hell way of thinking…offer him money or a chance to talk to her dad. Maybe he’d consider changing sides.
Greer would leave soon to get pizza and meet up with the two-timer, Valentina. Miki’s only real worry was McCord. She could feel him watching her even though she avoided his gaze. He was a loose cannon with a gun and green eyes that shone with perversion. How could she fight him off without taking a bullet in the chest?
“Uh-huh. I hate beating on kids, but I’m sure going to like beating on you.” Greer nodded his whiskered chin at Will, then turned to his cohorts. “Who’s got the backpack? Let’s check the goods and see what we’re dealing with here.”
“Greer,” McCord said again, peeling Will’s bag off his shoulder. He walked to the opposite corner of the room and with a thud, dropped it on a thick coffee table. “While you’re handling the kid, I’ll handle the girl, okay?” McCord’s eyes sought hers again, and they crinkled warmly while putting the chill on her insides. Handle her? His words sent a skittering wave of creepy critters up her spine. He was on the small side, yet wiry and strong like a ranch hand. Behind the mutton-chop whiskers, he had a young, fresh face, and behind that squirmed something sinister and twisted. McCord was dangerous.
Will turned to face her, blocking McCord’s line of vision. His brown eyes were intense as he glanced up at the hopper window near the ceiling. He mouthed silently, Our way out of here, then nodded as if asking, You with me?
It was narrow, probably nine feet off the floor, and their arms were tied, not to mention they had an audience. Hell, yeah—she was with him. He stepped to the wall, and she followed, inching down beside him, cross-legged on the cold cement. Her shoulder touching his… his knee touching hers. Two points of connection that kept her secure and hopeful.
A ray of sunlight filled with dust motes filtered down through the narrow window. It was brightest where the P-skulls stood, hovering over Will’s backpack. Pitty sat on an orange burlap couch covered in burn holes, and what Miki hoped were beer stains.
Interior decorating at its finest. What a dump.
“Nothing happens to these two…” Greer sliced the air with both hands. “Not until I see the whites of Ham’s eyes. Got it? This thing could go sideways at any—” He stopped to rub the back of his neck and gave a labored sigh. “I don’t want any problems. Just…leave it for now, and let’s take a look in the bag.”
“Right. Leave it,” McCord muttered sourly and ripped the zipper open with one smooth jerk. He reached in and pulled out a brown bottle. “Twenty-two ounces of stale beer,” he said and plunked it down on the scarred wood.
“Kids.” Greer scoffed.
“Mook’s home brew,” Will called out. “It shouldn’t be flat, but if it is, I don’t mind. I’d still drink it. In fact, we’re kinda thirsty over here.”
“Oh, I care. I really do,” Greer said. “I bet you’d like a cloth napkin with your grilled swordfish, too.” He raised his black eyebrow. “No? Good…because you’re gettin’ nothing. Now, shut up.”
“I know what I’m hungry for…” McCord pulled out the container of apple pie and tossed it on the table beside the beer. “Now, we’re ready for a picnic. Look here, our friend even packed a spork.”
Pitty held the container up to the light and chuckled. “It’s all yours. Pie looks like it took a pounding.”
Will moaned softly beside her and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he panted like his breath caught. Was he in pain? Miki nudged him with her knee, but he only stared across the room at the trio. They laughed at their running commentary about pounding pie and limp suds. They continued to make jokes as they unpacked a rain jacket, dirty socks, pain meds, and a tube of ointment. When they pulled out the plastic wrapped brick—what they thought was powder—the room went quiet. The only thing Miki could hear was Will swearing under his breath.
McCord broke the silence by popping the lid off the pie container. He worked the spork back and forth, then tilted the container up to his mouth and raked in a ginormous bite. His cheeks were rounded while his jaw worked up and down. “Hmm.” He nodded with a thoughtful frown, then swallowed. “Hmm. Tastes…different,” he said. He scooped in a more civilized piece and chewed. “Like apples and dirt,” he said around a mouthful. “…and cheese with a hint of freezer burn. I thought he meant homemade pie, but I’m guessing store-bought.”
“Sounds delicious,” Pitty muttered and slid the beer to his side of the table.
“It sure isn’t how my mama makes it.” McCord inhaled the last bit and forced out a gurgling belch like an amateur comedian.
“Dude’s a monster,” Will whispered unevenly.
While McCord brushed crumbs off his black t-shirt, Greer fished a switchblade out of his front pocket and stabbed it through the clear packaging tape. Using the tip of his knife as a spoon, he dipped it into the powder and brought it up to his tongue.
“Wait!” Will scrambled to his feet. He crossed the cell and leaned his face on the chain-link fence. His fingers were rolled up tight behind his back. “Those are my mom’s ashes.”
“Christ!” Greer sputtered, shaking the dust off his knife. He spat on the floor, then wiped his arm across his mouth, his neck blooming with red heat. Pitty tried to smother a laugh behind his large hand, and McCord grinned.
“Wait’ll the guys hear how Greer sucked ash,” he said and tossed the empty pie container onto the coffee table.
“Sometimes, I wish—” Greer’s lips pulled back tight, and he shook his fist at eye level, so everyone got the gist. But the lack of reaction told Miki all she needed to know: Greer was an inflated inner tube. No traction…just a pocket of hot air. “I’m headin’ to the cabin. You guys have first watch. I’ll let you know when Ham rolls in.”
“Ham rolls,” McCord tittered.
“I’m so done,” Greer muttered and strode to the door. His heavy boots thudded against the wooden stairs as he slowly trudged up each one to ground level.
“What should we do now, Pitty?”
Pitty grabbed the beer bottle off the table with one hand and pulled his phone out of his pocket with the other. “I’m going to savor Mr. Mook’s home brew while I sext with my lady friend. You can do whatever the hell you want…just don’t bug me.”
McCord grunted and busied himself by reading the label on Will’s prescription drugs. He snapped his fingers. “Idea. How about I get us a couple frosted mugs from the party fridge, huh?” He disappeared behind the corner of the stairwell where an unseen door squeaked and glassware clanked.
Miki sat quietly next to Will, who rested his head on his raised knees. It was either a gesture of defeat, a pain induced fold-over, or a cat nap. She hoped it was the latter. Miki sighed. It must be late afternoon by now. She hadn’t seen her dad or her brother in nearly—she tapped her fingers against the cement floor, counting. They’d left camp thirteen hours ago.
Pitty lounged quietly on the couch, making intermittent happy noises while tapping and swiping at his phone screen. After a while, McCord returned with a small box in one hand, two glasses pinched in the other, and a bottle of beer tucked under his arm.
“Wanna play Exploding Kittens?” he asked, tossing the game box on the table. “I found it in the backroom.” He slid the glass across the table to Pitty before popping the top on his own beer. He filled the mug and took a sip. Pitty picked up Mook’s home brew and followed suit while they got down to the business of divvying out cards, but instead of playing, they took turns reading them to each other.
“Here’s a good one…” Pitty murmured. “Beard Cat.”
“Nope Ninja.” McCord laughed.
Will shifted. “I have a knife,” he whispered into his knees, and Miki jerked her eyes away from the bumbling duo to study Will’s hair. So he was awake and prepared. He’d had the knife all along.
“I thi
nk I love you,” she murmured.
Will leaned back against the wall and studied her as if he thought she were serious. She squelched the need to explain it as a joke, and left the words to hang out there, nice and awkward-like. One side of her psyche enjoyed the personal torment; the other side enjoyed his.
She gazed into his brown eyes and let the time pass. He looked back into hers, and a sense of comfort washed over her. His guard was down, and he seemed open and lost and approachable and ready. If she ever wanted to know anything, reach out to him, now was the time. This was the closest she’d ever been to the “real” Will. She moved her leg to touch his.
“Will,” she said quietly.
“You’re killing my zen,” Pitty griped from across the room, setting his drink on the table with a clunk.
“What’s a little silent-but-deadly between friends?” McCord tilted in his chair to cut another one loose. “I blame the pie. It tasted like shit.”
“Here.” Pitty tossed the cards into the center of the table. “I’m done.”
“Oh, no.” McCord stood abruptly, and the dining chair he’d been lounging on scraped back loudly. He clutched at his guts and groaned through his teeth. “I gotta hit the head.”
“Your departure would be my pleasure,” Pitty murmured as his interest returned to the phone in his hand. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” He picked up the beer glass and took a long swig.
“Will…” Miki tried again, keeping her voice low and soft. “Whatever happened with us?”
His eyes left hers to watch McCord hobble through a door on the other side of the couch. A fan clicked on and a muffled whirring noise filled the basement. Will looked back at her.
“Us?” He shifted forward and squirmed like he was trying to pull his arms out of a pair of coat sleeves. “What do you mean?”
Pitty took another swig of beer and grinned at his phone.
“Remember the ‘spicy dice’ from last summer? I picked you, and I thought…”
Will rolled up onto his knees, gyrating his elbows and shoulders with a furrowed brow. He struggled, pausing only to check on Pitty’s progress with Mook’s beer.
