Riven Knight

by Devney Perry

  The men parked in a long row, stretching the distance of all four shop doors and effectively blockading us into the shop. The only way to our own bikes, parked along the fence, was past them. Genevieve’s car and Presley’s Jeep, both parked in front of the office, weren’t an option either.

  My skin crawled.

  We were trapped.

  The roar of the bikes was deafening. It echoed off the walls and floors, bouncing off concrete and metal. None of the men shut them down. They sat on them, their legs planted wide on the asphalt for balance, and stared at us, a wall of dark eyes and noise.

  It was intimidating. Was that what this was about? Intimidation and fear? If the other guys were nervous, they didn’t let on. Dash and Emmett had their arms crossed over their chests. Leo had a hand in his pocket, casual like this happened every day. Draven looked bored.

  I held perfectly still, every muscle in my body locked. The weak man in a group fidgeted. The weak man avoided eye contact and let his nerves get the better of his control. Which was why the weak man suffered first—a lesson I’d learned my first week in prison.

  The standoff continued and my ears throbbed until, finally, the man astride the center bike held up his hand and the engines were turned off. Silence descended as the rumbling floated into the clouds.

  The same man swung off his bike, rolling his shades into his hair. Only three other men dismounted as the others remained on their seats. Those four walked to Draven, offering no smile or friendly greeting. Their guns weren’t tucked behind their backs or hidden under clothing. They were holstered on hips and against ribs, the weapons on display for the world to see.

  “Tucker.” Draven didn’t extend his hand to the leader. “You guys need some work done on your bikes? We’ll cut you a group discount for all thirteen.”

  “Got some questions for you, Draven.”

  “Did you lose my phone number?”

  “Me and the guys wanted to get out. Pretty summer day. Haven’t been to Clifton Forge in a while. Forgot how nice it is this time of year.”

  Draven cocked an eyebrow. One subtle gesture and Draven had control. Show up with thirteen men, he didn’t care. This was his territory. “Your questions?”

  “A couple weekends back, we had some trouble at our property on Castle Creek. Asked around, put some feelers out and heard a rumor that some of your bikes were spotted heading in that direction at the time of the trouble.”

  “A rumor?” Dash scoffed.

  One of the other men lifted a shoulder. “Or traffic cameras.”

  My heart stopped. If they knew we’d gone up there, what else did they know? When the fuck was I going to catch a break? I hadn’t thought much about who owned that cabin. I tried my best not to think about that cabin, period. Just my luck it had belonged to another motorcycle club.

  “Heard you had a fire. Lightning, was it?” Draven asked.

  “Investigator called this morning. Arson.”

  “Bad luck.” Dash whistled. “Any idea who’d light it up?”

  Sweat dripped down my coveralls.

  Tucker leveled his gaze on Dash. “The Gypsies used to love lighting fires. Was it you?”

  “Nope.”

  “We have no reason to burn down an old cabin, Tucker,” Emmett said, his voice calm and steady.

  “You sure?” Tucker shot back. “We’ve seen each other more in the past month than we have in a year. You guys keep asking questions about that woman’s murder. Maybe you didn’t believe me when I said we didn’t have shit to do with it.”

  “We didn’t burn down your cabin,” Draven said. “We went up there because someone wearing your Warrior patch took my daughter and future daughter-in-law. Traced him up there. Went to get the girls. Didn’t set foot in that cabin. Sure as fuck didn’t burn it down.”

  Tucker stepped closer to Draven. “One of my men was in that cabin. Now he’s dead and I want to know who killed him.”

  Draven stood an inch taller than Tucker and he rose to his full height. “It wasn’t us. We got the girls and got them the fuck out of there. We tried to find the guy who took them but he vanished. Like Emmett said, we have no reason to burn down your cabin or kill one of your men. Because, after all, the guy who took the girls wasn’t your man, right? Just like it wasn’t your man who killed that woman in the motel?”

  Damn, Draven was good. He’d pinned Tucker into a corner and the only way out was to back down or admit one of his men had kidnapped Bryce and Genevieve.

  “I want answers,” Tucker demanded.

  Leo scoffed. “Join the fucking club.”

  “Listen, Tucker.” Dash held up his hands. “We don’t want trouble. But someone took my pregnant fiancée from her home. If it was one of your men, we’ll find out. And he’ll pay. But burning down your cabin doesn’t do anything for us. We’re not at war here.”

  “We got history, Dash. Not a good one.”

  “I get it.” Dash nodded. “You don’t trust us, and we don’t trust you. Do what you have to do to find out who killed your man, but I’m telling you, whatever trail you find won’t lead back here.”

  Yes, it would.

  Had we left a trail?

  Tucker shot Draven and Dash a scowl, then turned and strode back to his bike. He started his first, the signal for the others to follow suit. Then as quickly as they’d come in, they were gone.

  When the rumble from their pipes was no longer in the distance, I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  “Fuck.” Dash growled, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s just what we need, Tucker and his men thinking we’re out to get them.”

  “What did he mean you used to love lighting fires?” I asked.

  Emmett sighed. “We—the Gypsies—burned down their clubhouse a while back.”

  Shit. No wonder they’d come here first after learning it was arson.

  “I’m going to go check on Bryce and Presley.” Dash marched to the office door, banging on it and calling Bryce’s name. She opened it, wide-eyed, and slammed into his arms.

  Dash tucked her into his side and they rejoined our huddle. Presley followed close behind. He gave Bryce and Pres a recap of what had happened, not sparing them any details even though it was so closely linked to old club business. Maybe Dash figured arming them with information was the best way to keep them safe. Tucker and his men had only been here for about three minutes, but it had felt like hours. And if they’d come once, they could come again.

  “Everyone is careful,” Draven said, looking at Presley. “Everyone.”

  “We thought there was a chance that the guy in that cabin was the kidnapper,” Dash said. “But if Tucker is telling the truth . . .”

  “It wasn’t him,” Bryce answered, looking to Dash. “The man in that cabin wasn’t the one who kidnapped us.”

  Relief coursed through my veins. Now that they knew the kidnapper was out there, they’d be careful. And Genevieve and I didn’t have to explain ourselves.

  Yet.

  “Tucker has sworn all along that it wasn’t the Warriors who killed Amina,” Emmett said. “It feels like the truth.”

  “Agreed,” Draven muttered.

  “This isn’t good.” Dash let loose an angry growl. “Things would have been easier if the guy in the cabin was our killer. But he’s still out there. Now we’ve got the Warriors sniffing around. Just what we don’t fucking need. Goddamn it, I’m mad I missed that bastard.”

  When we’d gone to rescue Bryce and Genevieve, Dash had taken a shot at the man who’d been holding Genevieve captive. At the time, he’d been under the impression Genevieve was going to kill Bryce. Yeah, he’d missed the man in black.

  But he’d also missed Genevieve.

  “The fire.” Leo’s forehead furrowed. “Our guy must have gone back to the cabin and killed the Warrior. Burned the place down. Which means we and the Warriors have the same enemy.”

  “No. It means”—Draven returned his pistol to his boot—“that this guy is setting u
s up. Again. He’s positioning us to take the fall for killing a Warrior. It means he’s hoping Tucker will solve his problem and take us out before we discover his identity.”

  Dash pinched the bridge of his nose. “This actually might work to our advantage. Let’s see what kind of traction the Warriors get finding him. Because right now, we’re stuck.”

  “Be careful,” Draven repeated. “Let’s get back to work.”

  We all nodded, then broke apart. But I didn’t go back to my oil change. I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, to check on Genevieve.

  The door was locked. “Genevieve, it’s me.”

  Footsteps came running. The door flew open and she peered over my shoulder to the parking lot. “Are they gone?”

  “Yeah.” I nudged her into the apartment, closing the door behind me.

  It didn’t take more than two minutes for me to rattle off everything that had happened.

  “So everyone knows the kidnapper and Mom’s killer is still out there?” She closed her eyes. “Thank God. I’ve been worried about Bryce.”

  “No more grocery store trips alone, okay?” Dash wouldn’t let Bryce out of his sight. I’d be sticking close to Genevieve too.

  “Okay—no, wait. Shit. I got a job today.”

  “You did?”

  She nodded. “Jim, Draven’s lawyer, called me. I don’t know what Draven told him but he offered me a job without an interview or anything. I start Monday.”

  “Great news.”

  “It’s going to make it harder to not be alone. I won’t have Bryce’s flexibility on office hours.”

  Bryce was part owner of the newspaper and worked with her father, the editor in chief. She didn’t have to be at the paper to write. And Dash, unlike me, wasn’t tied to a punch card. Those two could come and go as they needed.

  “It would be easier if I could stay here all day, but I need this job,” she said. “Until I sell my condo in Denver, I can’t afford not to work.”

  At some point, we’d have to discuss how we were going to handle money, not that I had much to share. But today wasn’t the day to divide utility and grocery bills. “We’ll figure it out,” I promised.

  Maybe I’d follow her to and from work every day. I could check in with her more often. Whatever it takes.

  I’d do everything in my power to keep her safe until we woke from this nightmare.

  But damn, it would help if we knew who we were fighting.

  The night after the Warriors visited the garage, I barely slept. Too many worst-case scenarios plagued my mind. I woke up stiff, sore and restless.

  The couch was comfortable enough for an hour or two watching TV, but after seven hours of tossing and turning, I could pinpoint where the frame’s boards had worn down the cushion stuffing and where the seats sagged from use.

  Genevieve had the bed and I wouldn’t take it from her, but the floor was mighty tempting.

  Normally, my Saturday mornings were spent lazing around. I’d spend the morning in bed, catching up on sleep. I’d drink an entire pot of coffee while channel surfing. I wouldn’t bother getting dressed.

  Except Genevieve was in my bed, and she probably wouldn’t appreciate me walking around in only my boxers.

  So what the hell was I supposed to do on Saturdays now? Were we supposed to spend the day together?

  We’d done okay in short bursts of conversation this week, but tension was rife in the apartment. We ate dinner together, both of us doing our best to chew without noise. I’d stifled numerous moans of pleasure as I’d devoured a few of her cookies. We danced around who would use the bathroom first. And when the lights were off, neither of us dared make a move in our beds.

  That was only for a few hours each evening.

  An entire day was daunting, and the shop downstairs called my name.

  I stood from the couch, stretching my aching back, then walked to the bathroom for a shower. When I came out, Genevieve was pretending to be asleep like she did each morning.

  Her breathing was faster than it was at night. Her face muscles were taut. And her eyes stirred behind her eyelids. Still, I was grateful when she nuzzled deeper into the pillow.

  It gave me a chance to escape the apartment without the fear of making eye contact or accidentally brushing up against her in the kitchen.

  Come Monday morning, there’d be no escape. We’d have to figure out a morning routine to get us both to work on time.

  But not today.

  I wouldn’t leave Genevieve alone, but that didn’t mean I had to stay in the apartment.

  While I’d been in the shower, I’d brewed a pot of coffee. With a steaming mug in hand, I went to the garage and unlocked the shop door with my key. I hit the code to deactivate the alarm, then flipped on all the lights.

  The smell of grease and metal filled my nose. The air was stale from the night, so I walked to a panel on the wall to open up the first bay door, letting in some fresh air.

  The natural light glinted off the tools hanging on the wall. I inhaled a deep breath of the morning breeze, closing my eyes and letting it spread through my lungs. Most people in Montana took for granted the abundance of clean air. Then again, most people in Montana hadn’t spent three years in prison.

  I set my coffee mug on a workbench and walked to my bike parked outside. I released the kickstand and pushed it into the garage.

  I’d been fixing up this Harley since I’d bought it over a month ago. It was ten years old and the previous owner hadn’t treated it with much respect, more like a dirt bike than road bike. But the price had been reasonable, and the machine had potential.

  After weeks of tinkering on it in my spare time, it was almost good as new. A few more adjustments and it would fit me perfectly. Leo had promised me one of his famous paint jobs once everything was as I wanted it.

  Since I had an entire Saturday to burn, I got to work.

  Lost in the machine, I didn’t hear Genevieve enter the garage until she cleared her throat behind me.

  I glanced over my shoulder, and my eyes forgot their manners. They tracked her from top to bottom in a perusal that stirred feelings—and body parts—that had been dormant for a long, long time.

  It was her legs. My God, she had sexy legs. She was wearing white shorts cut close to the apex of her thighs. The bright cotton was a stark contrast to what seemed like miles of tan skin. Her tee was a pale sage green with a neckline that dipped low enough to make my mouth water. Her hair, floating over her shoulders in chocolate waves, didn’t do a good job at hiding her nipples, which were peaking through her bra and shirt.

  “Um . . . hi.” She pulled her hair over her breasts.

  My eyes snapped to hers, catching the flush of her cheeks, before I turned to the bike and hung my head. Fuck. The tension between us was only going to get worse if I drooled over her every day. “Sorry.”

  “No apologies, remember?”

  I nodded and stood, and this time when I gave her my attention, I kept my eyes on her face. It wasn’t much easier to keep my body’s reaction to her in check with the glossy sheen she’d swiped on her lips. “What’s up?”

  “The moving truck is almost here with my boxes.” She waved her phone. “They just called.”

  Not almost. They were here. A large delivery van pulled into the parking lot. I waved them in as they backed up toward the stairs. Then we spent the next two hours hauling boxes into the apartment.

  When we’d first opened the van, I’d made the mistake of thinking Genevieve hadn’t sent much stuff from Colorado. But now that the boxes were piled and crammed into the apartment, I realized just how small the space was.

  “Thank you.” She swiped a bead of sweat from her brow. “That would have taken me forever alone.”

  The van drivers hadn’t lifted a damn finger as she’d hauled box after box upstairs. Or as I’d hefted two at a time. They’d been hired to drive, not move. That hadn’t stopped them from gawking at her legs each time she’d come down the stairs. Fuc
kers.

  “I’m going to go down and lock up the shop. Then I’ll help you unpack.” Though there was no way all that stuff would fit. We’d be tripping over boxes for a year.

  “Oh, that’s okay. I can do it myself.”

  She’d given me an out. I could get the hell out of here and avoid her for a few more hours, but there was no way I’d be able to focus on my bike knowing she was working her ass off alone.

  “We’re going to have to learn to stay in the same space at some point. Maybe even get comfortable with one another to the point where we don’t pretend to be asleep when the other one is awake.”

  She winced. “Noticed that, did you?”

  “We’re married. Or pretending to be. We expect people to treat us like a married couple, so . . .”

  She sighed. “I guess we’d better learn to act like it.”

  “Yeah.” Starting with a Saturday of unboxing.

  It took me a few minutes to lock the shop. When I returned, Genevieve had a chocolate chip cookie in her mouth and one on a napkin she’d set aside for me.

  I ate it in two bites. “Good cookie.”

  “Thanks.” She went to the plate where they were stacked, taking out two more from underneath the plastic wrap.

  “Where do we start?” I asked before inhaling the second cookie.

  “Most of these are clothes. How about the closet?”

  “Let me clear some space.” I didn’t have much, just a few button-down shirts and my nice pair of jeans. I hauled them off the hanging rod so she could have the entire thing.

  “What about you?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll fold these and put them in a drawer. You take the closet.”

  Today, we’d get her moved in so she wasn’t living out of the suitcases in the corner. And after today, maybe it would sink in.

  This wasn’t temporary. I lived with Genevieve. I was married to Genevieve. There was no sense mourning a single life or my own space. The reality was, we were in this together.

  I finished another cookie, then dug out a pair of scissors from a drawer in the kitchen. I picked one box marked shoes—safe enough—and cut open the tape. The box was full of Genevieve’s bras and panties.