Gypsy King

by Devney Perry

  Her eyes lifted from her laptop, her gaze narrowing as I strode down the aisle. She leaned deep into her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. Then she quirked an eyebrow, all but daring me to unleash hell.

  “Sorry, Bryce.” The man from the front caught up to me, his heavy steps thudding on the floor.

  “It’s okay, Art.” She waved him off. “I’ll deal with our guest.”

  The moment he was gone, she recrossed her arms, the movement pushing her breasts higher.

  My eyes involuntarily dropped to her cleavage. The woman had a great rack. When I met her eyes again, that smirk was even stronger. Busted.

  “Mind if I sit?” I slid a chair away from the empty desk in front of hers, straddling it backward.

  “What can I do for you today, King?”

  King. I’d hated that fucking nickname ever since kindergarten, when little Vanessa Tom had called me King every time she snuck up on me at recess and pinched me. But there was no way I’d let my annoyance show in front of this woman. She already had the upper hand.

  She knew it too.

  Goddamn it, she was a piece of work. Bryce sat there, looking bored as she waited for me to answer her question. I chose silence, studying her face for a few long moments.

  Her full lips were irritating, mostly because I couldn’t stop wondering how they’d feel when I licked them. Her beautiful eyes drove me mad because they saw too much. I hated that her dark hair was my favorite length, not too long to get in the way and blow in my face when she was behind me on my bike.

  Everything about her pissed me off because of my body’s reaction.

  “Read your story.” I plucked a copy of today’s paper off the desk. “Looks like Cody was more forthcoming with you than he was with me.”

  “I never reveal my sources.”

  I tossed the paper aside and met her gaze. The silence settled and I counted to ten. Then twenty. Then thirty. Most people cracked by fifteen, but not her. Bryce kept that arrogant smirk on her face like she’d been born with it. Her eyes were bright and they held my stare without so much as a hint of fear.

  Damn this woman. I liked her. That was my real problem. I liked her. Which was going to make threatening her a hell of a lot harder. That, and she didn’t seem to be intimidated by me one bit.

  “You don’t scare easily, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s your game here?”

  “My game?” she repeated. “I’m not playing a game. I’m doing my job.”

  “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You’re after more than just the details of this murder.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”

  “Why? What did we do to piss you off?”

  “This isn’t personal.”

  Yeah, right. No one worked this hard when it wasn’t personal. This entire thing went deeper than her need to do her job. She wasn’t reporting a murder investigation for the good of the populace. Everything about this was personal.

  Why? What was driving her to push so hard? From what I’d found out about her, she’d been successful on TV in Seattle. Had they fired her? Was she trying to prove herself to an old employer? Or her father?

  Or herself?

  “What do you really want?” I asked, going for broke. Sometimes the best way to get answers to your questions was to toss them out there.

  She quirked an eyebrow. “You expect me to just lay all my cards out?”

  “Worth asking.”

  Bryce leaned forward on her desk, her eyes finally showing that addictive spark. “I want to know why the Tin Gypsies shut down.”

  “That’s it?”

  Bryce nodded. “That’s it.”

  I’d been expecting something more. Maybe that she wanted to see all the former Gypsies rotting in prison. “Why?”

  “You were the leader of one of the most powerful motorcycle gangs in the region. I’m sure that meant money. And power. Yet you shut it down without any explanation. For what? A life as a grease monkey? No way. It’s too easy. It’s too clean. You’re hiding something.”

  “We’re not,” I lied. We were hiding so much that if she knew the truth, she’d never look at me the same way again. There’d be no more hints of attraction, no checking me out when she thought I wasn’t noticing. She’d look at me like the criminal I’d been.

  Like the criminals we’d all been.

  “Ah, yes. The standard deflection.” Bryce rolled her eyes. “Sorry. I’m not buying it.”

  “There’s no big story here.” Another lie that she wasn’t going to believe.

  “If that’s the truth, then why did you break apart?”

  “Off the record?” I asked.

  “No way.”

  “Of course not.” I chuckled. And of course, she wasn’t cutting me any breaks. I’d always liked the feisty ones. “Then I guess we’re at a stalemate.”

  “A stalemate?” She scoffed. “This is no stalemate. I’m twenty steps ahead of you and we both know it. Why exactly did you come in here today?”

  “My dad is innocent. If you give the cops some time, they’ll prove it too. You doing your best to prove to the world he’s guilty is only going to make you look like a fool.”

  “I’m not scared to look like a fool.” She’d called my bluff—like always—but I wasn’t buying it. Something flashed in those eyes that looked a lot like the first sign of weakness.

  “You sure about that? New reporter in a new town, going balls-out on a murder investigation like she’s some wannabe fucking gumshoe. She sticks her neck out there to try and slime a well-known citizen. A business owner who gives back to his community. When he comes out clean, you’ll be the one who looks dirty. You’re part owner here, right?”

  “Yes. Your point?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “My point is . . . my family has lived in Clifton Forge for generations. We’re well-known. And well liked. In their day, so were the Gypsies.”

  “So you’re saying if I don’t take your side that people in town will hate me? I can live with that.”

  “Can you? Small-town newspaper, can’t be making a ton of money. It only takes one rumor that you’re printing false information for people to stop reading.”

  The color rose in her cheeks, the fire flaring in her eyes. “I don’t like being threatened.”

  “And I don’t like repeating myself. You had your warning. Stay out of this.”

  “No.” She looked me dead in the eye. “Not until I get the truth.”

  My temper spiked and I stood, shoving the chair from out of between my legs so I could lean over the desk with my arms planted wide on its surface. “You want the truth? Here’s the truth. I’ve seen and done things that would give you nightmares. The truth would make your stomach curl. You’d go running from this town and never look back. Be glad you don’t know the truth. Back the fuck off. Now.”

  “Screw you.” She shot out of her seat, leaning in to stand nose to nose so the only thing separating us was the desk. “I’m not backing down.”

  “You will.”

  “Never.”

  The sound of her teeth grinding drew my attention to her lips. The urge to kiss her was stronger than it had ever been with her, or with any other woman for that matter. With the desk between us, I probably wouldn’t get kneed in the nuts.

  I leaned in an inch and her breath hitched. When I tore my eyes away from her lips, her gaze was locked on my mouth. Her chest was heaving, her breasts rising and falling underneath her V-neck blouse. My threat to her livelihood hadn’t done a goddamn thing except turn us both on. Was she ever going to back down? Son of a bitch.

  I was one second away from saying to hell with it all and smashing my lips on hers when the door behind her flew open. Lane Ryan walked in, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He took one look at me and his daughter and the smile fell from his face. “Everything okay?”

  “Great.” Bryce dropped into her chair, combing a lock of hair behind her ear with her fi
ngers. “Dash and I were just discussing today’s paper.”

  I leaned back from the desk and took a deep breath, my cock swollen and painful in my jeans. I turned away from Bryce and her father, taking a moment to let it calm down as I righted the chair I’d shoved away.

  Then, I stepped up to Lane and held out my hand. “Good to see you, Lane.”

  “You too, Dash.” He shook my hand, giving me the side-eye, no doubt worried about his infuriating daughter.

  “I think we’re done here,” Bryce said, standing from her desk and swiping up her laptop. “If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

  We were not done with this conversation, not by a long shot, but until I got my dick under control, there wasn’t anything more to say. “Yeah. Same.”

  I nodded to Lane, shot Bryce a glare, then turned and marched out of the Tribune.

  Goddamn it. She wasn’t going to back down, no matter how often I threatened her. If anything, my visit had just spurred her on.

  Which meant I was going to have to get creative.

  Chapter Six

  Bryce

  “Smug bastard,” I muttered, shuffling papers on my desk as I looked for my notepad. “How dare he come in here and threaten me? How dare he—ahh! Where is it?”

  The notepad I’d been searching for was nowhere. Not in my car. Not at home in a basketful of unfolded laundry. Not on my desk, which was now a total mess.

  I kept different notepads for each of my stories, a place where I could make notes so I didn’t forget anything. Pink was for birth announcements. Black for obituaries. Red was for the Fourth of July rodeo and festivities. And the yellow one was for Amina Daylee’s murder.

  The last time I’d seen it had been yesterday morning. I remembered making a note against the steering wheel in my car that Amina’s middle name was Louise. Her daughter lived in Denver. I’d written it all down so I wouldn’t forget, then tucked the notepad into my purse with the others.

  Retracing my steps, I’d come right into the newspaper after that. I’d dumped everything from my purse onto my desk to organize it as I worked through my various stories in progress. I’d been in the middle of wrapping up a piece for Sunday’s paper. It was a no-brainer—the schedule for Clifton Forge’s Independence Day weekend celebrations. I’d had all of my notepads right here by my keyboard, the red one open as I’d typed, when—

  I shot out of my chair. “That asshole!”

  Dash had to have taken it. The thing couldn’t have just disappeared, and I’d looked everywhere. But how had he known it was the right one? Shit. He must have seen it at the motel when I’d been talking to Cody.

  Luckily, the notebook held nothing I couldn’t remember. The act of writing down my notes was usually enough to commit them to memory. And most of the information in those pages had already been printed.

  Still. I was mad. “Gah. I can’t believe he did this.”

  “Who did what?” Sue looked over her shoulder at my outburst.

  I huffed and sat down. “An asshole thief stole my notepad right out from under my nose.”

  All because I was so distracted. Distracted by the danger that surrounded him and the allure of discovering all his secrets.

  “Sorry, dear.”

  “It’s my own fault,” I muttered, giving her a nod to return to her work.

  It was definitely my fault.

  Dash had leaned in close and his smell . . . God, he smelled good. The spice of his cologne mixed with the summer breeze was a heady combination. Under the spell of that scent and his unwavering hazel glare, I’d feared for a split second that he’d kiss me. That I’d kiss him back.

  Then I’d feared he wouldn’t.

  He’d probably swiped my notepad when I’d been staring at his mouth.

  Damn him. I’d dropped my guard and he hadn’t hesitated to take advantage. Dash must be feeling the pressure if he’d resorted to petty theft.

  We both knew I was winning. I held more aces than he had kings at the moment, but the game was about to take a turn.

  Tomorrow was Draven’s arraignment, and unless the judge decided the sixty-year-old man was a flight risk, he’d be out on bond tomorrow. As soon as Draven was free, Dash would have an inside source.

  So to keep my edge, I’d need to push harder and dig deeper. What I needed was another scoop, to find another person like Cody Pruitt who’d spill because he had a personal grudge against the Slater family.

  But who?

  The door from reception opened and Willy walked inside, heading straight for his desk across the aisle from Sue. He pushed his sunglasses into his thinning blond hair, revealing dark circles under his eyes. It was nearly noon but with his rumpled clothes, he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed.

  “Hi, Willy.”

  He lifted a hand as he sat, leaning deep into his chair. “Morning. Hey, Sue.”

  “Hi, Willy. Rough night?”

  “Might have had one too many beers.”

  At that, the door opened again and George rushed through, his arms overloaded with loose papers and the briefcase trapped underneath an elbow about to slip free. He made it to his desk just in time to dump everything on top as his case crashed to the floor. “Hey, guys.”

  “Hi, George.”

  Everyone else exchanged greetings as I sat back and watched, me the newcomer to the team. For once, the room was full. Everyone was here except for Dad because, per Mom’s demand that his twenty-day work streak come to an end, he was taking the day off.

  “I don’t think we’ve all been in the same room since last month’s staff meeting,” I joked.

  Willy sat upright, his shoulders tense. “Lane said I didn’t have to keep regular hours.”

  “That’s fine by me. I was just making an observation. Work when you want.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He slumped again. “Thanks. I don’t like mornings much.”

  “What are you working on?” I asked.

  He rifled through the shoulder bag he’d brought, hauling out a notepad. “I haven’t typed it up yet but you can read it.”

  “Yes, please. I’d love to.” I stood and went to his desk, taking the pad from his hand.

  It didn’t take me long to read the article, even in Willy’s scratchy handwriting. The words sucked me in and by the end, I had a smile on my face.

  “This series is going to be incredible,” I told him, handing back his pad. “Nice work.”

  A blush crept up his cheeks. “Thanks, Bryce.”

  Willy was doing a five-week piece on the life of railroad transients. He’d spent the better part of a month this past spring getting to know a handful of individuals who’d passed through Clifton Forge courtesy of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railway line that ran along the edge of town.

  This week’s column was about a woman who’d been a railroad hitchhiker for seven years. Willy’s words had painted her nomadic life in vivid detail. Hard because there were no luxuries like daily showers. Brutal at times when food became difficult to come by. Wistful with its ultimate freedom. Happy because she lived the life of her choosing.

  The story was intriguing, the writing flawless. Willy’s talent was the reason Dad gave him free rein when it came to pitching ideas. Whatever he wrote, our customers devoured.

  Willy knew his audience well, maybe because he’d lived in Clifton Forge his entire life and there wasn’t a soul in town he didn’t know.

  An idea slammed into my head. Maybe Willy could help me keep my lead against Dash.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I perched on the edge of his desk.

  “Shoot.”

  “I was hoping to get an early look at an autopsy report, the report for the woman who was murdered at the Evergreen. But when I stopped by the county coroner’s office this morning, they had a note on the door that they were closed. If I wanted to get ahold of the medical examiner, who would that be?”

  “Mike,” Willy said. “Just give him a call. He’ll help you out.”

&n
bsp; “Even for an ongoing investigation?”

  Autopsies were public record, but when an investigation was involved, they weren’t released until the prosecutor permitted it.

  “He might not let you read the whole report, but he’s given me rundowns before just so I could include some details in a story. Besides, never hurts to ask.”

  I grinned. “Exactly.”

  One thing Dad had taught me early on was that asking for information was free. The worst-case scenario was you’d get shot down with a no. I already knew that would be Chief Wagner’s answer.

  But maybe this Mike would be a bit more open to sharing.

  “I’d love to ask Mike.” I stood from Willy’s desk. “Except I don’t know Mike.” Nor did I have his phone number.

  Willy whipped out the phone in his pocket without a word, punched at it for a second, then held it to his ear. Five minutes later, the two of us were in my car, driving to the coroner’s office.

  “Thanks for coming along,” I told Willy as he lazed in the passenger seat.

  “It’s all good. Kinda curious to see you in action. The stuff you’ve been writing about the murder is good. Damn good. Best work I’ve seen since your dad’s.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled over the steering wheel at maybe the best compliment I’d had in a decade. “Your work is impressive too.”

  “Glad you think so. I, uh . . . I really love my job. I can come in more . . . to the office. If I have to.” His fingers fidgeted on his lap.

  Willy had always been jumpy and skittish in the office. I’d just assumed he was like that all the time. Maybe he was to a degree. But he was also nervous about his job. That with me on staff, Dad wouldn’t need an additional reporter.

  “I don’t care when you come into the office, Willy. As long as you keep writing the great stories you’ve been writing and handing them in on time, you’ll always have a spot at the Tribune.”

  He nodded, keeping his eyes out the window on the buildings that streaked past. In the reflection, I saw a faint smile.

  It didn’t take us long to get to the medical examiner’s office, which was located across the street from the small hospital in town. Willy led the way to a locked door, knocking on the wire mesh that covered a square glass window in its face. We waited for a few minutes, longer than I would have stood there alone, until finally the door pushed open and a man waved us inside.