Gypsy King

by Devney Perry

Dash halted, holding out an arm to shield me from the police. It was a protective gesture, certainly not what I’d expect from a former criminal. Shouldn’t he be using me as a shield from the authorities, not the other way around?

  The two officers in the patrol car were out of their cruiser in a flash. “We’re looking for Draven Slater.”

  Dash stood taller, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you want with him?”

  The cops didn’t answer. They marched toward the office door and disappeared inside just as another police car pulled into the parking lot—this one carrying the chief.

  Marcus got out of the passenger seat and walked over to Dash and me, lifting his sunglasses as he approached. “What are you doing here, Bryce?”

  “Getting an oil change.”

  “I thought I told you to stay away.”

  “That car is brand-new, Chief.” I smirked. “I want it to last and I’ve heard car care is key.”

  The chief’s eyes narrowed, the corners of his mustache turning down. So that’s what his annoyed face looks like. I’d never mistake it for a smile again.

  “What’s going on, Marcus?” Dash asked, looking between us.

  “We’re bringing in your dad.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t tell you that.”

  Dash grumbled something under his breath. “Then what can you tell me?”

  “With her present?” Marcus tossed a thumb my way. “Not much on the record, at the moment. I hope you didn’t tell her anything you don’t want in Sunday’s Tribune.”

  “What?” Dash’s jaw went slack.

  “She’s the new reporter in town.”

  Dash’s face whipped my way. “You are the new reporter? I thought they hired a man.”

  “Yeah, I get that sometimes. It’s my name. It always causes confusion.” I shrugged. “Bryce Ryan, Clifton Forge Tribune.”

  Dash’s nostrils flared. My invite to The Betsy for a beer had just been revoked.

  The garage’s office door flew open and the two officers came out with Draven Slater handcuffed between them.

  I fought a smile, casting up a thank you to the journalist angels who’d blessed me today.

  “Call our lawyer,” Draven ordered Dash, his jaw set in an even angrier line than his son’s.

  Dash only nodded as Draven got shoved into the back of the cop car.

  A woman with a white pixie cut came running to Dash’s side, having followed the parade outside from the office. The two mechanics from the garage were jogging our direction.

  I hurried to snap a picture with my phone before the cruiser reversed and sped away. We didn’t keep a full-time photographer on staff at the newspaper, not that we really needed one when smartphones were so convenient.

  The moment the cruiser and Draven were gone from view, Dash whirled on the chief. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Dash, I’d like you to come down to the station for questioning.”

  “No. Not until you tell me what this is about.”

  The chief shook his head. “At the station.”

  The pause that hung in the air was as stifling as the tension between the men. I didn’t expect Dash to budge, but finally he nodded.

  “The station,” Marcus repeated, shooting me another one of those frowns before walking to his cruiser.

  “What’s going on?” The woman from the office touched Dash’s arm. “Why did they arrest him?”

  “Don’t know.” Dash stared at the chief’s taillights as they disappeared down the street, then he turned his attention to me. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Your father is a suspect in a murder investigation. Do you have a comment?”

  “Murder?” The woman’s mouth dropped as the bulky mechanic cursed, “Fuck.”

  But Dash only hardened at my question, his expression turning to stone. “Get off my property.”

  “So you don’t have a comment to the fact your father might be a murderer?” The might was generous. “Or did you know that already?”

  “Screw you, lady,” the woman spat while Dash’s hands fisted at his sides. His expression remained stern, but behind his icy stare, that mind was whirling.

  “I’ll take that as no comment.” I winked and turned for my car, ignoring the angry glares that prickled my neck.

  “Bryce.” Dash’s voice boomed across the parking lot, freezing my steps.

  I looked over my shoulder, giving him only my ear.

  “I’ll give you one.” His voice was hard and unyielding, sending chills down my spine. “One warning. Stay out of this.”

  Bastard. He wasn’t going to scare me away. This was my story. I was telling it, whether he liked it or not. I spun around, meeting his level gaze with my own.

  “See you soon, King.”

  Chapter Three

  Dash

  What the fuck just happened?

  As Bryce’s white Audi streaked off the lot, I shook my head and replayed the last five minutes.

  After a hot cup of coffee with Dad in the office, I’d come out to the garage, ready to get to work on the red ’68 Mustang GT I’d been restoring. My morning had been shaping up pretty damn great when a hot, leggy brunette with a nice rack came in for an oil change. Got even better when she flirted back and flashed me that showstopper smile. Then I hit the jackpot because she turned out to be witty too, and the heat between us was practically blue flame.

  I should have known something was up. Women too good to be true were always out for trouble. This one was only baiting me for a story.

  And damn, I’d taken that bait. Hook, line and sinker.

  How the hell had Bryce known Dad was going to be arrested for murder even before the cops had shown up? Better question. How the hell hadn’t I?

  Because I was out of touch.

  Not long ago, when the club was still going strong, I would have been the first to know if the cops were moving in my or my family’s direction. Sure, living on the right side of the law had its advantages. Mostly, it was nice to live a life without the gnawing, constant fear I’d wake up and be either killed or sent to prison for the rest of my life.

  I’d become content. Lazy. Ignorant. I’d let my guard down.

  And now Dad was headed for a jail cell. Fuck.

  “Dash.” Presley punched me in the arm, getting my attention.

  I shook myself and looked down at her, squinting as her white hair reflected the sunlight. “What?”

  “What?” she mimicked. “What are you going to do about your dad? Did you know about this?”

  “Yeah. I let him go about drinking his morning coffee, bullshitting with you, knowing he’d get arrested soon,” I barked. “No, I didn’t know about this.”

  Presley scowled but stayed quiet.

  “She said murder.” Emmett swept a long strand of hair out of his face. “Did I hear that right?”

  Yeah. “She said murder.”

  Murder, spoken in Bryce’s sultry voice I’d thought was so smooth when it had first hit my ears. Dad had been arrested and I’d been bested by a goddamn nosy reporter. My lip curled. I avoided the press nearly as much as I avoided cops and lawyers. Until we got this shit figured out, I’d be stuck dealing with all three.

  “Call Jim,” I ordered Emmett. “Tell him what happened.”

  He nodded, walking to the garage with his phone pressed to his ear as he called our lawyer.

  Emmett had been my vice president, and though the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club might be extinct, he was still by my side. Always had been.

  We’d grown up in the club together. As kids, we’d played at family functions. He was three years younger, but we’d been friends all through school. Then brothers in the club, like our fathers had been.

  The pair of us had broken countless laws. We’d done things that would never see the light of day. We’d joked last week over a beer at The Betsy about how quiet our lives had become.

  Guess we should have knocked on wood.

  “Isa
iah, back to work,” I ordered. “Act like it’s any other day. If someone comes around and asks a question about Dad, you don’t know shit.”

  He nodded. “Got it. Anything else?”

  “You’ll probably be covering for the rest of us. You good with that?”

  “I’m good.” Isaiah turned and went in the garage, a wrench still in his hand. We’d only hired him a couple of weeks ago, but my gut said he’d handle the extra work just fine.

  Isaiah was quiet—friendly enough. He wasn’t social. He didn’t join us for beers after work or bullshit with me and the guys for hours in the garage. But he was a good mechanic and showed up on time. Whatever demons he was battling, he kept them to himself.

  I’d taken Dad’s title as manager of the garage when he’d retired years ago, but since I hated anything to do with human resources or accounting and Dad hated to sit home alone all day, he came in and helped often. When I’d tasked him with finding me another mechanic, he’d found Isaiah.

  I hadn’t even bothered interviewing Isaiah because when Draven Slater approved of someone, you trusted his instincts.

  “What do you want me to do?” Presley asked.

  “Where the fuck is Leo?”

  “My guess?” She rolled her eyes. “His bed.”

  “Call him and wake his ass up. Go to his house if you have to. When I get back from the police station, I expect to see him working. Then we’ll all talk.”

  She nodded and headed for the office.

  “Pres,” I called, stopping her. “Make some other calls too. See if anyone in town has heard anything. Discreetly.”

  “Okay.” With another nod, she hurried to the office as I strode to my bike.

  Along the way to the police station, a white car streaked past going the opposite direction, and my mind immediately jumped to Bryce.

  Emmett had told me there was a new reporter in town. But his name was Bryce Ryan. I hadn’t been expecting a woman, certainly not one with full, rosy lips and thick chocolate hair.

  Any person besides Emmett would have suffered a broken nose for letting me think the reporter was a man. Though based on the shock on his own face, Emmett hadn’t expected a woman either.

  Served me right for disappearing any time Presley wanted to dish small-town gossip in the office. Being out of the loop, that was my fault. Not to mention Bryce . . . well, she was good.

  She’d played me for the fool I’d become. Hell, I’d even told her my real name and she’d been at the garage for all of five minutes. Isaiah didn’t even know my real name, and we worked side by side every day.

  One flash of her white smile, those pretty brown eyes sparkling, and I’d loosened my tongue. I’d acted like a horny teenager desperate to get into her pants instead of a thirty-five-year-old man who had plenty of women to call if he needed to get off.

  Fucking reporters. I hadn’t worried about the newspaper or their reporters for decades. But Bryce, she was a game changer.

  The previous owners of the newspaper had been too dumb to be a nuisance. The new owner, who had to be Bryce’s father, had come into Clifton Forge years ago, but Lane Ryan missed all the newsworthy stuff.

  He’d come to town when the Tin Gypsies were no longer in the drug trade. When our underground fighting ring had become more of a boxing club. When all the bodies we’d buried had long since cooled.

  Lane had left us alone. The times he’d brought his wife’s rig in for a tune-up, he hadn’t once asked about the club. He was content to let the past stay there.

  But Bryce was hungry. The look on her face when she’d delivered her parting shot was fierce. She’d go for broke and never back down. On a normal day, she’d be a pain in my ass. But if Dad really was a suspect for murder, things were only going to get worse.

  Who’d been killed? How had I not heard about a murder in town? Forget my old connections, murder was big news for a small town and should have spread like wildfire minutes after the body had been found. Unless . . . had Marcus found a body from the past? Had the sins of our past caught up with us?

  As a club, we’d justified murder because the men we’d killed would have done the same to us. Or our families. We’d rid the world of evil men, even though we’d been devils in our own right. We were guilty—no doubt. But that didn’t mean we all wanted to spend the rest of our lives in the state penitentiary.

  I raced faster down the streets of Clifton Forge, not bothering to obey traffic laws. When I pulled into the station, the chief was waiting for me at the front desk.

  “Dash.” He motioned for me to follow him into his office. Once the door was closed, he took a seat behind his desk, snagging a string of licorice from an open package.

  “Where’s my dad?”

  “Take a seat,” he said as he chewed.

  I crossed my arms. “I’ll stand. Start talking.”

  “There’s not much I can tell you. We’re investigating a crime and—”

  “You mean a murder.”

  The chewing stopped. “Where’d you hear that?”

  Marcus’s shock was genuine. I guess he’d told his officers to keep it quiet, only Bryce had been one step ahead of him too. “Your new friend, the reporter, asked me if I had a comment regarding Dad’s arrest for murder. What the fuck is going on?”

  A vein in Marcus’s forehead ticked as he swallowed the bite and ripped off another. “Do you happen to know your dad’s whereabouts between the hours of five p.m. last night and six a.m. this morning?”

  “Maybe.” I held perfectly still, though a hint of relief slowed my racing heart. Marcus was asking about last night. Thank fuck. The past had to stay in the past. And since Dad hadn’t killed anyone last night, this had to be a mistake.

  “Well? Where was he?”

  “Got a feeling you already know, so why are you asking?”

  “Your father has refused questioning until his attorney arrives.”

  “Good.”

  “It would help us if you both cooperated.”

  We didn’t cooperate with anyone, certainly not the cops. If I opened my mouth and said the wrong thing, Marcus would mark me as an accessory and throw me into a cell next to Dad’s. One Slater behind bars was enough for today.

  When I remained silent, Marcus scowled. “If you’re not talking, then neither am I.”

  “Fine.” I spun for the door, slamming it so hard a picture on the wall rattled as I stormed out of the station.

  I hadn’t learned much, but what I’d learned was enough. For now.

  Straddling my bike, I slid on my shades, then dug out my phone to call my older brother.

  “Dash,” Nick answered with a smile in his voice. A smile that had been there permanently over the past seven years, ever since he’d reconnected with his wife. “What’s up?”

  “Gotta talk. You busy?”

  “Give me one sec.” He put the phone into his shoulder or something, because his voice got muffled as he yelled, “Go long, bud. Longer. Last one.”

  There was a rush of air and Nick laughed as he came back on the phone. “This kid. He’d play catch all day if I let him. And he’s getting good. I mean, he’s only six but he’s a natural.”

  “Future wide receiver.” I grinned. Draven, my nephew and Dad’s namesake, was the spitting image of Nick. And he was Nick’s constant companion. “You working today?”

  “Yeah. Draven’s hanging with me at the garage for a few hours. Emmy’s taking Nora to get her ears pierced.”

  “Uh . . . isn’t she a little young?” Nora had recently turned four.

  “Don’t get me fucking started,” Nick muttered. “But I’m not arguing with Emmy at the moment.”

  “Why not? Did she piss you off?”

  “No, she’s . . .” He blew out a long breath. “We were waiting to tell everyone but Emmy’s pregnant. Or, she was pregnant. She miscarried last week.”

  “Hell, brother.” My hand flew to my heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too. Emmy’s having a hard ti
me. So if she wants to get Nora’s ears pierced and have a mommy-daughter day in Bozeman, I’m not going to say a damn thing.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No, we’ll get through it. What’s up?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. The last thing I wanted was to add this to Nick’s burdens, but he had to know. “Got some bad news. Wish it could wait.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Someone was murdered last night. And either Dad did it, he knows who did it, or someone’s trying to frame him for it. They arrested him about thirty minutes ago.”

  “Fuck,” Nick spat. “What else do you know?”

  “Nothing. The cops aren’t talking.” I wasn’t going to admit that the only reason I knew half of what I did was because of a sexy, devious reporter. “Dad lawyered up. Once Jim meets with him, I’ll learn more.”

  “Let me call Emmy. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

  “No, don’t,” I told him. “There’s nothing you can do here. Just wanted you to be aware.”

  “Dash, we’re talking about a murder here.”

  “Exactly. You, Emmeline, the kids. You don’t need to be anywhere near this shit.” He needed to stay in Prescott, playing catch with his son, kissing his daughter and holding tight to his wife.

  “Fine.” Nick blew out a long breath. “But if you need me, I’m there.”

  “I know. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “It’s always something,” he muttered.

  “Hasn’t been for a while.”

  “True. Did he . . . do you think he did it?”

  I stared at the gray siding of the police station, picturing Dad inside those walls in an interrogation room. His hands cuffed and resting on a cheap-ass table as he sat in an uncomfortable chair.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe. If he did, there was a reason. And if he didn’t, then Clifton Forge is definitely not a place I want you bringing those kids.”

  Because if someone was after Dad, they could be after us all.

  “Watch your back,” I said.

  “You too.”

  I ended the call and started my bike. The feel of the engine, the vibration and noise, was a comfort as I sped through town. I’d spent long hours in this seat, driven hundreds of miles, thinking through club strategies.