by Devney Perry
“I’m not trying to impede progress.”
“Great. Then leave the Gypsies alone. I’ve gone head-to-head with them more times than I can count. What I could punish them for, I have. And I’m watching. If they do anything illegal, I’ll be the first one there to make them pay. Trust me on that.”
The chief didn’t sound like a fan of the former club. Good to know. But if he thought his warning was going to scare me away, he was mistaken. Now I was more curious than ever what had caused the Gypsies to shut their clubhouse doors.
If they were even closed. Maybe this was all a ruse.
“Uh, Chief?” A uniformed officer poked his head inside the door. “We’ve got an issue that needs your attention.”
Chief Wagner took another licorice stick and stood. “Thanks for the candy.”
“You’re welcome.” I stood too. “Starbursts or Skittles next time?”
“You keep bringing me licorice, and we’ll get along just fine.” He escorted me to the door. “Take care. And remember what I said. Some things and some people are better left alone.”
“Gotcha.” Probably best not to mention that my next stop was for an oil change at Dash Slater’s garage.
I waved goodbye to the chief and the other officer, then headed down the hallway. The sign for the ladies’ room lured me inside after too much coffee. I used the bathroom and washed my hands, my anticipation growing for my first interaction with the Tin Gypsies, but as I went to open the door, a word from two men standing in the hallway outside caught my attention.
Murder.
I froze and hovered, listening through the crack. The men were close, their voices no more than a whisper.
“Riley took the call. Said he’s never seen blood like that before. The chief is debriefing him right now. Then we’ll all need to be ready to roll out.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“Draven? Hell yeah. Maybe we’ll finally have something to pin on that slick bastard.”
Oh. My. God. If my ears weren’t betraying me, I’d just overheard two cops talking about a murder and Draven Slater was the key suspect. I needed to get out of this bathroom. Now.
I eased the door closed and took three quiet steps backward. Then I coughed, loud, and let my heels click on the tile floor. I whipped open the door in a fury and pretended to be shocked at the men right outside.
“Oh, hell.” I threw a hand over my heart. “You guys scared me. I didn’t think anyone was out here.”
They shared a look with one another, then stepped apart.
“Sorry about that, ma’am.”
“No problem.” I smiled and walked by, doing my best to keep the urgency out of my footsteps.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, using the gesture to sneak a glance over my shoulder at the bullpen. Three male officers were standing at the far corner desk; none had noticed me walking toward the exit. Two of the men were practically buzzing. Mouths moved fast as one talked over the other. Hand gestures flew. The third officer stood with his arms wrapped around his chest, his face pale as he shifted from foot to foot.
My heart raced as I found the nearest exit door and pushed outside. When the sunshine hit my face, I flew into motion, running for my car.
“Shit.” My fingers fumbled to hit the ignition button and put the car in reverse. “I knew it!”
My hands shook as I gunned the engine for the street, checking my rearview mirror to make sure the cops weren’t behind me.
“Think, Bryce. What’s the plan?” I had no idea where the murder had happened so I couldn’t show up at the scene of the crime. I could wait around and follow the cops, but they’d shut me out before I saw a thing. So what else was there?
Be an eyewitness to Draven’s arrest. Bingo.
It was a risk, going to the garage and not waiting around to follow the cops to the murder scene. Hell, Draven might not even be at the garage. But if I was going to gamble, it was my best chance at a scoop. I could learn more about the murder itself from those blessed press sheets.
Yes, if my luck held, I’d be standing front and center when Draven got hauled off to jail. Hopefully Dash would be there too. Maybe he’d be caught by surprise just enough that I’d get a glimpse at him during a moment of weakness. I’d learn something that would help me uncover the secrets hidden behind his ridiculously handsome face.
I smiled over the steering wheel.
Time for that oil change.
Chapter Two
Bryce
My heart was pounding as the Clifton Forge Garage came into view. My fingers were shaking. This thrill—this one-of-a-kind exhilaration that only came with the hunt—was why I’d become a reporter. Not to sit in front of a camera and read someone else’s story.
Regret was the driving force behind this Tin Gypsy story. Remorse was the reason it was so, so important.
I’d chosen a television career with such promise. I’d changed direction, moving away from the newspaper job I’d always planned to take. The job everyone had expected me to take. But after college, I hadn’t wanted to follow in Dad’s footsteps, at least not right away. A fresh-faced woman in her early twenties, I’d been inspired to forge a path of my own. So I’d moved to Seattle from Montana and taken up TV.
Along the way, I’d made choices. None of them had seemed wrong in the moment. Until one day, a decade later, I’d woken up in my Seattle apartment and realized the collection of those good choices had accumulated into a bad life.
My job was unfulfilling. I slept alone most nights. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a woman in her early thirties who wasn’t happy.
The TV station owned my life. Every action was done to their bidding. Because my hours were so odd, I didn’t even bother trying to date. What man wanted to have dinner at four and be in bed by seven? It wasn’t a big deal when I was in my twenties. I’d always figured the right guy would come around eventually. Things would fall into place when it was time. I’d get married. Have a family.
Well, things hadn’t fallen into place. And if I stayed in Seattle, they never would.
Clifton Forge was my fresh start. I’d rechecked my expectations for the future. The chances I’d meet a man and have kids while I was bodily able to were dwindling. So if becoming an old maid was my path, then at least I’d enjoy my damn job.
My career in Seattle had turned out to be a dud. Network executives had made me promise after promise that eventually I’d have more freedom. They’d assured me I’d get the opportunity to tell my own stories instead of interviewing other journalists and reading from approved cue cards.
Either they’d lied, or they hadn’t thought I had the talent.
Regardless, I moved home feeling like a failure. Was I?
Maybe. Or maybe when I wasn’t on camera, when people needed me for my brain and not my face, I’d finally stand out. I’d prove to myself I was good enough.
I’d dedicated my life to journalism. To finding hidden truths and exposing buried lies. It was more than a job, it was my passion. If there was an epic story lurking under the surface of this quaint small town, I was telling it.
A murder investigation involving Draven Slater? Sign me up.
My foot hovered over the gas pedal as I idled at the intersection across the street from the garage, checking my rearview again for red and blue lights. If the chief was coming this way to arrest Draven, I didn’t have much of a lead.
That was, if I was even heading in the right direction.
There was the chance Draven wasn’t at the garage but at home and the cops were headed there. I stayed the course. Whether I managed to track down Draven or not, I was heading to the garage.
Today was the day I was meeting Dash Slater. Today I’d get to size up my opponent.
I used my knee to steer as I whipped off the sweater I’d pulled on this morning. Luckily, my black tank top underneath had a plunging neckline and was free of deodorant streaks. I drove one handed, grabbing the small can of emergency-situation dr
y shampoo from my purse to spray and fluff my hair. Then I swiped on a coat of my dark-rose lipstick seconds before pulling into the parking lot.
The garage itself was huge. I’d driven by a few times but had never actually stopped. It was more intimidating now, being parked in front of the four open bay doors that towered above my Audi.
At the end of the long asphalt parking lot, a building was tucked next to a small grove of trees. The windows were dark and there was a thick chain looped around the front door’s handle. The attached padlock glinted in the sunlight.
That had to be the Tin Gypsies’ former headquarters. A clubhouse—that’s what these gangs called them, right? There were no cars or motorcycles parked by the clubhouse. The grass around it was overgrown.
At a glance, the building seemed closed down. Abandoned. But how many men had a key to that padlock? How many men went inside after the sun went down? How many men entered through a hidden back door?
I refused to take that building at face value. Sure, it looked derelict from the outside. Was it thriving behind those closed doors?
In my mirrors, there was a row of motorcycles parked against the tall chain-link fence that bordered the property of the garage. Down the fence, there were cars, some covered in tarps as they waited to be repaired or restored. All four of the garage bays in front of me were full of vehicles—three trucks and a red classic car.
The steel siding on the garage was bright in the morning sun. The office was closest to the street, the sign above its door not really a sign. The large words Clifton Forge Garage had been airbrushed onto the steel building with pristine strokes of red, black, green and yellow paint.
Past the vehicles in the garage, the place was immaculate. Not the greasy, dingy place I’d expected. The florescent lights illuminated what looked like a mostly spotless concrete floor. The red tool benches along the walls were clean and new. This place screamed money. More money than a small-town garage could make doing routine oil changes and tire rotations.
I checked my hair and lipstick in the rearview mirror one last time, then stepped outside. The moment my door slammed closed, two mechanics appeared from underneath the truck hoods where they’d been working.
“Morning.” One of them waved before giving me a full-body appraisal. A grin tugged at his mouth. He liked what he saw.
Score one for the tank top.
“Good morning.” I waved as both men strode my way.
Each wore denim-blue coveralls and thick-soled boots. The leaner of the two had his hair cut short, revealing a black tattoo that trailed down his neck only to disappear beneath the collar of his coveralls. The bulkier man had his dark hair tied back and his coveralls unzipped, tied around his waist. His chest was covered with a white tank, his two beefy arms bare except for the mass of colorful tattoos.
Maybe this was why the garage was raking in the cash. Single women from half the state would drive here to have their oil changed by these hot mechanics. Though neither of these handsome men was the one I was after.
Where was Draven? I hoped he was in the office drinking coffee.
“What can we do for you, ma’am?” the short-haired man asked as he cleaned his black-stained hands on a red rag.
“I’m really overdue for an oil change.” I gave them an exaggerated frown. “I’m not great about making car stuff a priority. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could fit me in this morning?”
The men shared a look and a nod, but before either could answer, a deep voice came from behind them. “Mornin’.”
The mechanics stepped apart, revealing none other than Dash Slater stalking my way. His strides were purposeful. Potent, even. I’d expected to meet him here, hoped for it even, but I hadn’t been mentally or physically prepared.
Our eyes met and my heart boomed, stealing my breath. My mind went blank, unable to concentrate on anything except the way his dark jeans draped over his long legs and those thick, bulging thighs.
I’d never seen a man move like Dash, with confidence and charisma in every step. His hazel eyes, a vibrant swirl of green and gold and brown, threatened to lure me under his spell.
My body betrayed me, the quiver in my core irritating my rational senses. I was here for a story. I was here to steal this man’s secrets one by one, then plaster them across the headlines. This raw, animalistic response was asinine.
But damn, he was hot.
Dash’s black T-shirt strained across the muscles of his chest. It pulled tight around the swells of his biceps. The skin exposed on his arms was tan and smooth, except for the array of tattoos that snaked up both forearms.
Scorching. Smoking. There was another s word somewhere in my mind but as he stepped into our huddle, I lost my advanced vocabulary.
Seriously . . . damn.
I’d always preferred the clean-cut look. Day-old scruff wasn’t my thing. He wasn’t my thing. I liked blue eyes, not hazel. I liked short hair, and Dash’s brown mop had been overdue for a cut weeks ago.
This reaction was purely chemical, likely because I hadn’t been with a man since, well . . . I’d stopped counting the months when they’d hit double digits.
“What can we help you with, miss?” Dash asked, planting his legs wide as he took up the space between the other two men.
“My car.” I rolled a wrist toward the Audi. “It needs an oil change.”
The sun must have inched closer to Earth because it was sweltering. Sweat beaded in my cleavage as his gaze dropped momentarily to my breasts. He didn’t stare at them for more than a fraction of a second, but they’d caught his attention.
Score two for the tank top.
Dash looked to the long-haired man and jerked his chin toward the garage. The man nodded, gave the short-haired man a grunt and the pair left, returning to work without a word.
Was that how they communicated around here? Chin lifts and grunts? That would make an interview difficult. And short.
Dash glanced over his shoulder to make sure we were alone, then he gave me that famous sexy smirk I’d seen from afar. In person, it was dizzying. “We’ll take care of the oil change. Do a full work-up too. On the house.”
“That would be great.” I tried to keep my voice even and cheerful. “But I’ll pay for it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Dash stepped closer, his six-foot-something frame blocking some of the sunlight.
My natural urge was to scoot back and maintain my space, but I didn’t move an inch.
Maybe he only wanted to stand closer. But I’d learned years ago that arrogant men often tested the strength of their presence over a woman. They’d make little gestures to see how far they could push her around, especially when that woman was a reporter.
They’d touch a lock of my hair to see if I’d flinch. They’d stand tall to see if I’d cower. And they’d move in too close to see if I’d step away.
Either Dash knew exactly who I was and wanted to see if I’d tuck tail and run, or he was so cocky that he thought a grin and an oil change would make me drop to my knees and undo his belt to pay for my on the house services.
“You new around here?” he asked.
“I am.”
He hummed. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before.”
“I don’t get out much.” The air was heavy around us, like a brick wall had gone up in place of my personal bubble and the spring breeze couldn’t get through.
“That’s a shame. You feel like getting out, stop by The Betsy. Maybe I’ll buy you a beer sometime.”
“Maybe.” Or maybe not.
The Betsy was Clifton Forge’s infamous dive bar and definitely not my scene.
“You guys must all be into motorcycles.” I turned and pointed at the row of them behind me.
“You could say that. Most of us here ride.”
“I’ve never been on one before.”
“Yeah?” He grinned. “There’s nothing like it. Maybe before I buy you that beer, I’ll take you for a ride first.”
“Which bike is yours?” I asked, shoving the sexual thoughts away.
He raised an arm, his wrist brushing against my elbow in a movement that seemed accidental but had definitely been done on purpose. “The black one in the middle.”
“Dash.” I read the name emblazoned with flames on one panel. “Is that your name?”
“Yep.” He held out a hand between us. “Dash Slater.”
I slipped my hand into his, refusing to let my heart flutter at the way his long fingers engulfed my own. “Dash. That’s an interesting name.”
“Nickname.”
“And what’s your real name?”
He smiled, dropping my hand. “That’s a secret I only tell a woman after she’s let me buy her a beer.”
“Pity. I only drink beer with a man after I know his real name.”
Dash chuckled. “Kingston.”
“Kingston Slater. But your nickname is Dash. Does anyone ever call you King?”
“Not anyone who lived to say it twice,” he teased.
“Good to know.” I laughed, carefully slipping my phone from my pocket in case a photo opportunity came up. Then I fanned my face. “Is it hot out here? Do you have a waiting room or someplace cool I could sit?”
Maybe a place where your soon-to-be-incarcerated Dad is hanging out? If the cops ever showed up. What was taking them so long?
“Come on.” He nodded to the office door. “You can wait in my office.”
We made it three steps when a police car came racing into the parking lot, lights flashing but no siren blaring. Yes! I resisted the urge to victoriously throw my arms in the air.
