Gypsy King

by Devney Perry

  GYPSY KING

  Copyright © 2019 by Devney Perry LLC

  All rights reserved.

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  ISBN: 978-1-950692-00-2

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  Editing & Proofreading:

  Elizabeth Nover, Razor Sharp Editing

  www.razorsharpediting.com

  Marion Archer, Making Manuscripts

  www.makingmanuscripts.com

  Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services

  www.facebook.com/jdproofs

  Karen Lawson, The Proof is in the Reading

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  Cover:

  Hang Le

  www.byhangle.com

  Also by Devney Perry

  Jamison Valley Series

  The Coppersmith Farmhouse

  The Clover Chapel

  The Lucky Heart

  The Outpost

  The Bitterroot Inn

  The Candle Palace

  Maysen Jar Series

  The Birthday List

  Letters to Molly

  Lark Cove Series

  Tattered

  Timid

  Tragic

  Tinsel

  Tin Gypsy Series

  Gypsy King

  Riven Knight

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Preview to Riven Knight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Bryce

  “Morning, Art.” I saluted him with my coffee as I walked through the glass front door.

  He returned the gesture with his own mug. “Hiya, girlie. How are you today?”

  At the Clifton Forge Tribune, I was girlie, dear and the occasional sweetheart, because at thirty-five, I was the youngest employee by thirteen years. Even as part owner, I was still seen as the boss’s kid.

  “Fantastic.” I shimmied my shoulders, still feeling the dance party I’d had in my car on my way in to work. “The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming. It’s going to be a great day. I can feel it.”

  “I hope you’re right. All I can feel at the moment is heartburn.” Art chuckled and his protruding belly jiggled. Even in a pair of cargo pants and a light blue button-up, he reminded me of Santa Claus.

  “Is Dad here?”

  He nodded. “Been here since before I showed up at six. I think he’s trying to fix one of the presses.”

  “Damn. I’d better go make sure he hasn’t gotten pissed and dismantled the whole thing. See ya, Art.”

  “See ya, Bryce.”

  I cruised past Art at the reception desk and pushed through the interior door that opened to the office’s bullpen. The smell of fresh coffee and newspaper filled my nose. Paradise. I’d fallen in love with this smell as a five-year-old girl when I’d gone to work with Dad on a bring-your-daughter-to-work day, and nothing had topped it since.

  I walked the length of the empty bullpen, past the desks on each side of the center aisle to the door at the back that opened to the pressroom.

  “Dad?” My voice echoed in the open room, bouncing off the cinder-block walls.

  “Under the Goss!”

  The ceilings extended high above me, the ductwork and pipes exposed. The unique, musky smell of newspaper was stronger in here, where we kept the giant paper rolls and drums of black ink. I savored the walk across the room, inhaling the mix of paper and solvents and machinery oil as my wedge heels clicked on the cement floor.

  My childhood crush hadn’t been on a boy, it had been on the feel of a freshly printed newspaper in my hands. It was a mystery to my parents why I’d gone into TV and not newspaper after college. There’d been a lot of reasons, none of which mattered now.

  Because here I was, working at my dad’s newspaper, returning to my roots.

  The Goss printer was our largest and main press. Positioned along the far wall, it extended from one side of the building to the other. Dad’s jean-clad legs and brown boots were sticking out from beneath the first of four towers.

  “What’s wrong today?” I asked.

  He scooted himself free and stood, swatting at his jeans and leaving black streaks of grease and ink on his thighs. “Damn thing. There’s something wrong with the paper feed. It hitches about every tenth rotation and screws up whatever page it’s on. But it all looks fine under there so I don’t know what the hell I’m trying to fix.”

  “Sorry. Anything I can do?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. We’ll have to call in a specialist to get it fixed. God knows how long that will take and how much it’ll cost. For right now, all we can do is print extra to make up for it.”

  “At least it still works and we’re not using the manual press.” I shot a glare at the ancient machine in the far corner. I’d only used it once, just to learn how it worked, and my arm had hurt for a week afterward from all the cranking.

  “You’d better budget for a new press, or a serious mechanical overhaul on this one, in the near future.”

  I tapped my temple. “Got it.”

  Dad had been talking about future budgets and future plans since I’d moved to Clifton Forge six months ago. At the moment, we shared ownership equally—I’d bought half the business when I’d moved to town. Eventually I’d buy the rest of the Tribune from my parents, but we had no firm transition date in mind, which was fine by me. I wasn’t ready to take over and Dad wasn’t ready to let it go.

  I was perfectly happy having Bryce Ryan, Journalist stamped after my stories. Dad could keep the editor in chief title for a few more years.

  “What are you up to today?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing much.” Besides investigating the former motorcycle gang in town.

  Dad’s eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing.” I’d forgotten how easily he could spot a lie. I held up a hand and snuck another behind my back, crossing my fingers. “I swear.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “You can fool most people, but not me. I know that smirk. You’re about to cause some trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Trouble sounds so juvenile and malicious. I’m just going to pop down to the police station and say hello to Chief Wagner. I haven’t talked to him in a couple weeks. Then I’m going to get the oil changed in my car.”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “First of all, Marcus is no idiot. He isn’t going to buy your innocent act either. The paper can’t afford to be at odds with the chief, so be nice. He’ll never throw us a bone if he’s pissed. And second, I know exactly why you’re getting your
‘oil changed.’ Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been digging up old articles about the Tin Gypsies.”

  “I, uh . . .” Shit. I’d asked Art to pull some from the archives, and I guess he’d told Dad, even though I’d brought him Tums and homemade cinnamon rolls to keep quiet. Traitor.

  “Stay away from them, Bryce.”

  “But there’s a story there. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it. This could be huge for us.”

  “Huge?” He shook his head. “If you want huge, you’d better go back to Seattle. I thought you came here to slow down. To enjoy life. Weren’t those your words?”

  “Yes, they were. And I am slowing down.” I wasn’t waking up at three a.m. to make it to the TV station for the morning show. I wasn’t cutting my hair to appease my producer or constantly watching my diet. I wasn’t reporting someone else’s stories on camera. Instead, I was writing my own.

  It was wonderful, but after two months of small-town Montana life, I was going a bit stir-crazy. Calling the hospital for birth announcements and the funeral home for obituaries wasn’t enough of a mental challenge. I needed some excitement. I needed a decent story.

  And the Clifton Forge Garage had story written all over it.

  About a year ago, the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club had disbanded. They’d been one of the more prominent and lucrative gangs in Montana and had closed down without an explanation.

  The former members claimed they were focusing on running the garage here in town. Their shop had become renowned in certain wealthy and celebrity circles for classic car restorations and custom motorcycle builds.

  But men like them—men like Kingston “Dash” Slater with his striking good looks, cocky swagger and devilish grin—thrived on power. They craved danger and a life on the edge, without limits. As a gang, the Gypsies had power and money in spades.

  So why had they given it up?

  No one knew. And if they did, they weren’t talking.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that in the past year, there hasn’t been any news about them? And no explanation as to why they shut down their ‘club’? They went from notorious gang members to upstanding citizens overnight. I don’t buy it. It’s too quiet. Too clean.”

  “That’s because they are clean,” Dad said.

  “Sure. Squeaky,” I deadpanned.

  “You make it sound like we’re all covering things up for them.” He frowned. “Come on. Don’t you think if there were a story there, I’d tell it? Or do you think so little of me as a reporter?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Of course you’d tell the story.”

  But would he dig for it? I didn’t doubt Dad’s ability to investigate. He’d been a star reporter in his prime. But since he and Mom had moved to Clifton Forge and bought the Tribune years ago, he’d slowed down. He wasn’t as eager as he’d once been. He wasn’t as hungry.

  Me? I was starved.

  “If there’s no story, there’s no story,” I said. “The only thing I’m out is my time, right?”

  “I’m going on the record as your father and your partner: I don’t like it. They might not be a gang anymore, but those guys have an edge. I don’t want you crossing them.”

  “Understood. I’ll ask my questions and stay away.” Or away-ish.

  “Bryce,” he warned.

  I held up my hands, feigning innocence. “What?”

  “Be. Careful.”

  “I’m careful. Always.” Okay, sometimes. Dad’s definition of careful was a little different than mine.

  I stood on my toes to kiss his cheek, then I waved and hurried out of the pressroom before he assigned me something that would keep me trapped at my desk all day.

  The police station was on the opposite end of town from the newspaper. It sat on the banks of the Missouri River along a busy street crowded with restaurants and offices. The river was running fast and high from the melting mountain snow. The June sun reflected off the water’s rippled surface in golden flickers. The Montana air was clean and fresh, a close second to my beloved newspaper scent.

  It was another smell from my youth, one I’d missed in Seattle.

  I parked my car and went inside the station, making small talk with the officer up front. Then I thanked my lucky stars when she waved me through without any hassle. The first three times I’d come here to visit the chief, I’d been put through the paces. Fingerprints. Background check. A photo.

  Maybe it was protocol.

  Or maybe they didn’t like reporters.

  The station was quiet this morning. A few officers sat at their desks, heads bent over keyboards and ballpoint pens as they did paperwork while the others on shift were patrolling the streets. The chief’s office was along the rear wall of the building. The window behind his desk had a beautiful view of the river.

  “Knock, knock.” I rapped on the open door and stepped inside. “Morning, Chief.”

  “Morning, Bryce.” He set down the document he’d been reading.

  “You know, I never can tell if that’s a happy smile or an irritated smile when I come here.”

  “That depends.” His eyes narrowed on my purse, his bushy gray eyebrows coming together.

  I reached inside the handbag and retrieved a pack of licorice. “How’d I do?”

  He shrugged, staring at the Twizzlers as I set them on his desk and took one of the guest chairs. In my previous visits, I’d brought along Twix, Snickers and M&M’s. He’d been lukewarm toward my treats at best. So today, I’d gone out on a limb at the Town Pump and picked up something fruity.

  “It looks like a happy smile, but with the mustache, it’s hard to tell.”

  He chuckled and ripped the package open while I did an inner fist pump. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

  “You could have just told me.”

  “What’s the fun in that?” Chief Wagner stuck the candy in his mouth and chomped a huge bite.

  “Are you going to make me work this hard for all my information?”

  “Nope,” he said. “We put out a weekly press sheet. All you have to do is download it. Easy peasy.”

  “Ah, yes. The weekly press sheet. As truly riveting as those reports are, I was talking about information a bit more . . . in-depth.”

  The chief steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “I don’t have anything for you. Just like I didn’t have anything for you two weeks ago. Or the week before that. Or the week before that.”

  “Nothing? Not even a tiny morsel you may have forgotten to put in the press sheet?”

  “I’ve got nothing. Clifton Forge is a fairly boring place these days. Sorry.”

  I frowned. “No, you’re not.”

  He chuckled and took another piece of licorice. “You’re right. I’m not sorry. I’m too busy enjoying the peace.”

  Chief Wagner was overjoyed that his press sheets only included infrequent 911 calls, random Saturday night drunk and disorderlies and the occasional petty theft from a misguided teenager. This town had seen more than its share of murder and mayhem over the years—thanks to the Tin Gypsies. The motorcycle club was likely responsible for the streaks of gray in Marcus’s hair.

  Yet from what I’d been able to dig up in the news archives, the former Tin Gypsy members had spent little to no time in jail cells. Either the chief had overlooked their crimes or the Gypsies were damn good at covering their tracks.

  In their glory days, the Tin Gypsies had been led by Draven Slater. I’d seen him around town, and he carried himself with the same air of ruthless confidence he’d passed down to his son, Dash. And neither man struck me as a fool.

  My theory was that Police Chief Marcus Wagner was a damn good cop. But Draven, Dash and their Gypsies were always one step ahead.

  If I was going to get a story, I’d have to be at the top of my game. Draven had taken a backseat at the garage, which meant I’d be up against Dash. I’d seen the man—I’d been watching.

  Dash rode his black motorcycle along Central Avenue like he owned
Clifton Forge, flashing a straight, white smile that was blinding. He was the quintessential bad boy. His sexy smirk, chiseled jaw and day-old stubble made all the ladies swoon.

  Every lady except me.

  The other women in town could have fun with his amazing body. What I wanted from Dash were his secrets.

  And I’d need the chief’s help to get them.

  In my previous visits here, I hadn’t uttered a word about the Gypsies. I’d only come in to meet the chief and build a rapport. But if I was going to start my investigation, then it was time to go for broke.

  “Do you know why the Tin Gypsies closed down so suddenly?”

  His jaw stopped midchew and he narrowed his gaze. “No.”

  Wrong move. He was going to clam up.

  “Okay.” I held up my hands. “I was just curious.”

  “Why?”

  “The truth? My gut says they are a story.”

  The chief swallowed and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Listen, Bryce. I like you. I like your dad. It’s nice to have decent reporters running the paper for once. But you’re new here, so let me give you a history lesson.”

  I scooted to the edge of my seat. “Okay.”

  “Our town has had more trouble over the last twenty-something years than most have in a hundred. The Gypsies brought a lot of shit here. They know it and they’re trying to make up for it. They’ve been nothing but law-abiding men for over a year. They follow the law to the letter and the town’s changing. I’ve got citizens who feel safe walking down the streets at night. They leave their car doors unlocked when they run into the grocery store. This is a good town.”