Gypsy King

by Devney Perry

  In the meantime, I’d print the superficial. I’d print the things he gave me on the record. And I’d hold the rest.

  “I mean it.” I shoved a finger in his face. “No hiding things. I won’t do this if I can’t trust you.”

  He hesitated, his hand going to his pocket, but then he nodded. With a turn, Dash walked over to his motorcycle, throwing a long leg over to straddle the machine.

  “Do we have a deal?” I called before he started up the engine.

  He shot me a sexy grin. “Deal.”

  Going through old newspaper articles was not exciting on a normal day, but today, it was akin to torture. Not only was the Clifton Forge news from decades ago exceptionally boring, it was also incredibly incomplete.

  I’d gone back thirty years in search of information on Dash’s mother. When I’d done my previous digging into the Tin Gypsies, I’d been focused on club references and those associated with the prominent members, like Draven and Dash. I hadn’t kept an eye out for Chrissy Slater’s name.

  When I’d come across the obituary stating she’d died in a tragic accident, I’d read it and moved on. But last night’s conversation had stirred my curiosity.

  How had she died? What exactly was the tragedy? Dash had said it was a story for another day, and given the look on his face, it wasn’t a happy tale.

  So I’d gone looking this morning. Maybe I’d save him from having to relive her death if I could read about it instead. Except all I’d found during that time was her obituary, which I’d already seen, and a picture of Draven and his two young boys at the funeral.

  Draven’s grief consumed the photo, his hands resting on the shoulders of his sons. Draven looked nothing like the confident man I’d watched be arrested. His frame bore the weight of a thousand boulders, his face ashen. The photo was black and white but I swore his eyes were red from crying.

  Dash and Nick had looked so alike as kids. I wasn’t sure how old Dash was, maybe middle school, but he looked lost. Nick was the opposite. While his little brother and father wore their grief outwardly, his face gave away nothing. Nick wasn’t only lost, he was angry. And now it made sense why he hadn’t joined the club.

  Nick’s punishment for Draven was turning his back on his father’s lifestyle, but how had his relationship been with Dash? I pushed that thought away, drawing a firm line there. Dash’s family dynamics were none of my business. That was too personal. Too intimate. That was his problem, not mine.

  Was I curious? Absolutely. But if I let myself cross over, if I cared too much, the person who’d suffer most would be me.

  I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

  I can’t care.

  My task was to obtain information to write the best story possible. I’d fail if I allowed myself to get wrapped up in feelings.

  This wasn’t about Dash. This was about facts. This was about Amina and finding her killer.

  Dash was so certain of his father’s innocence. Me? I wasn’t sure. Not yet. But Dash’s conviction was hard to ignore. He’d planted doubts in my mind that popped up constantly.

  How would Dash react if Draven was, in truth, the murderer? My stomach knotted at the idea of Dash’s heart breaking.

  Damn it.

  I cared.

  Logging out of our archive system, I jotted down a few more notes in my notepad. As I’d been searching for information on Chrissy Slater, I’d come across most of the articles I’d read before on the Tin Gypsies.

  It was interesting reading them again, this time knowing more about their history. The stories were all superficial, which hadn’t come as a shock. Unless one of the club members betrayed their secrecy, no one from the outside would ever know the truth.

  But I knew.

  Even shallow news articles fell into place with what Dash had told me last night. Maybe he really had told me the truth.

  Maybe it was a test to see if I’d betray him. I wouldn’t. He’d get to keep his secrets. I’d take them all to the grave because I’d given him my word.

  Unless.

  Unless he deceived me. Then I would do exactly as promised. I’d tell the world every sordid detail and he could rot.

  Last night when I’d arrived home, I’d spent hours writing up everything he’d told me. All of the information was safe on my computer and backed up to an encrypted cloud file.

  If anything happened to me, Dad would get access to that cloud drive per my will.

  My brain was overloaded with information and I dropped my head into my hands, massaging my temples. I couldn’t stop thinking about everything Dash had told me.

  Was it strange that I believed him? That I believed every word?

  Why? Because we’d had sex? I should have been able to maintain my distance. But the arrogant bastard had snuck his way under my skin. I couldn’t write him off completely, even after the stunt he’d pulled at the high school.

  I groaned. God, I was pathetic.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I sat up straight, spinning around at Dad’s voice as he came through the pressroom door and took a seat at his desk. “Nothing.”

  “Hmm. I thought you might be upset because you have to go to court in an hour.”

  “You heard?” I winced. I hadn’t planned on telling my parents about my arrest, but I should have known they’d find out. This was Clifton Forge, not Seattle. “How?”

  “You’re not the only one who talks to Marcus Wagner on a regular basis.” Dad shook his head, the same slow shake he’d given me growing up whenever I’d disappointed him. That disappointment was ten times worse than any spanking I’d ever received from Mom’s wooden spoon. “What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t,” I admitted. “It was stupid.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Does Mom know?”

  He shot me a look that said what do you think? My parents didn’t believe in keeping things from one another, especially when it came to their only daughter.

  “Damn it.”

  “Be ready for an ass chewing.” While Dad was the one to give me the disappointed look—it was his specialty—he’d always left the lectures to Mom because those were hers. “What’s happening on the murder investigation? What can I expect for the paper on Sunday?”

  “Right now, it won’t be much. The police haven’t released anything new.”

  “And what have you found?”

  “Nothing solid. Yet.” As soon as I had a story to tell, Dad would be the first to know. “I’d better get to the courthouse. I don’t want to be late.”

  He chuckled. “Tell Judge Harvey I said hello.”

  I did not tell the judge hello. Instead, I stood in front of him and received a lecture that put thirty-five years’ worth of Mom’s lectures to utter shame.

  Luckily, the lecture about my responsibility as an adult and member of the press was the worst of it. Judge Harvey made me swear to always obey school hours and ask for permission before entering a library, to which I promptly agreed. My punishment for trespassing at the high school was time served—plus the lecture. It was arguably the worse of the two.

  Wiped and ready for an evening alone, I didn’t go back to work after leaving the courthouse. I swung by the grocery store and bought ingredients to make homemade enchiladas. Then I skipped the gym and went home.

  I’d just convinced myself to double the cheese in my enchilada recipe—screw the calories, I needed cheese—when I turned onto my street. All thoughts of dinner went out the window. A gleaming black Harley was parked in front of my house.

  Its owner was sitting on my porch.

  I pulled into the driveway and got out of my car. Then I loaded up my arms with the grocery bags and walked to the front door. “What are you doing here?”

  “What’s in the bags?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Enough for two?” Dash stood and took the plastic sacks from my hands, his biceps flexing. The bags weren’t heavy but a lickable vein popped on his forearm, making my mo
uth water.

  Pathetic. I was pathetic.

  Sex with him two nights ago had turned me into a hormonal mess. I was achy. Squirmy. I couldn’t stop thinking about those long fingers digging into my curves. Those soft lips on my bare skin. And his eyes, those vibrant hazel eyes that saw way beneath the surface. I couldn’t be around him and not think about what had happened in the garage. Had I not been so furious with him last night, that ride on his motorcycle would have brought me close to an orgasm.

  “Did you just invite yourself over for dinner?” I slid the key into the lock, hoping to hide my flushed cheeks.

  “What are you making?”

  “Enchiladas with extra cheese.”

  “Then yes, I did.” He trailed behind me into the kitchen, depositing the bags on the counter. As I put the groceries away, he showed himself around my living room. “Nice place.”

  “Thanks. What are you doing here? Besides encroaching on my meal.”

  “You said something I didn’t like last night.”

  “Really?” I tossed a bag of shredded cheese onto the counter. “And what was that?”

  “You said, ‘Fucked. Singular. Past tense.’”

  “I did.” Impressive he remembered it word for word. “Your point?”

  “I didn’t like it.”

  “Too bad. I don’t like you.”

  “Huh.” He stared out the window from the living room for a long moment, his hands planted on his hips. Then he gave the glass a single nod, turned and stalked my way. The temperature in the kitchen went up twenty degrees as he approached. He didn’t stop walking until he was right there, the heat from his chest hitting mine like a wave. His hands framed my face with those rough, calloused palms. “Grammar isn’t my thing.”

  “No?” My breath hitched as his mouth dropped to hover above mine. “I love grammar.”

  Dash’s breath whispered against my lips. “Did you mean it?”

  “Mean what?” The proximity to him made my brain short-circuit.

  “Singular.” He placed a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Because we were explosive in that garage. Aren’t you a little curious what we’d be like in a bedroom?”

  “No,” I lied.

  I wanted to say yes, but my pride was on the line here. My heart. He’d treated me horribly after the hookup in the garage. But it was only sex, right? Casual sex. It didn’t need to mean anything. Because I didn’t care.

  I don’t care.

  My body, on the other hand, cared a lot about having a decent, non-self-induced orgasm.

  Screw it. Yes, I wanted to know what sex would be like in a bed. My hand stretched for the counter’s edge, bracing for Dash to take a deeper kiss. To let him. But a whoosh of air forced my eyes open as Dash spun away and sauntered out of the kitchen.

  He reached behind his head, tearing off his black T-shirt as he headed for the hallway that led to my bedroom.

  He knew I’d follow.

  Bastard.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dash

  “Dash.” Tucker Talbot shook my hand. “Take it easy.”

  “Have a good one, Tucker.” I waved at the Arrowhead Warrior president and climbed on my bike.

  Dad gave Tucker one last nod goodbye, followed by the same for the five men he’d brought along to this meeting.

  All the men who’d once been in the Tin Gypsy MC.

  The six of them stood next to their own bikes, each wearing their cut. On the back of the vests, the patch for the Warriors was stitched into the black leather. The design was an arrowhead framed by their club’s name and year they were founded. It was all in white, simple and plain compared to the artwork of the Tin Gypsy patch.

  It had taken me almost a year to stop looking for my cut to pull on before walking out the door. That leather vest had been the most important article of clothing I’d ever owned. It was strange to come to a meeting with another club and not have it on my back.

  I missed its power. Its status.

  Instead, I was wearing a black leather jacket I’d bought the first month after we’d put our cuts away for good. It was too hot for a jacket, but I’d needed something to cover the Glock holstered at my side.

  Dad and I rode away from the Warriors and down the highway. About fifty miles away from the bar where we’d met with Tucker and his crew, Dad pulled off the road at a little turnout next to an open meadow. We got off our bikes and walked where asphalt met grass, staring at the trees and mountains in the distance.

  “Do you think Tucker’s telling the truth?” I asked.

  Dad sighed. “Don’t know.”

  “Smart of him to bring the guys.” I’d expected Tucker to show up with his vice president and sergeant at arms. Instead, he’d brought the men previously loyal to the Gypsies.

  Tucker had let us ask them point-blank if they’d had anything to do with Amina’s murder. We knew them. Spent time riding alongside them. And when each had promised they had nothing to do with setting up Dad, we believed them.

  Those five were off the list.

  Tucker still had a question mark behind his name.

  Since the Warriors were at the top of the list of people who’d want revenge against Dad for past crimes, he’d arranged this meeting with Tucker.

  The Warriors were located in Ashton, a town about three hours away from Clifton Forge. Dad couldn’t go there without violating his bond, so we’d all met at a country bar on the edge of our county. It was far enough away from town that the Warriors saw it as neutral ground.

  All Dad had asked for was a meeting. No explanation. No reason. Not that Tucker needed one. He’d been keeping better tabs on us than we had on him.

  “Tough to say if Tucker was lying,” Dad said. “But he made a good point. What reason would they have to set me up?”

  The Warriors were making more money now with our former drug connections than they ever had before. We weren’t killing one another off anymore. They were happy the Gypsies were gone. Tucker had said so himself today.

  “I don’t think he’d risk pissing us off, having us start the club back up again,” I told Dad.

  “Me neither.”

  “How tight a hold do you think he’s got on his members these days?”

  Dad scoffed. “Considering how much control he had back in the day? Not much.”

  If Tucker wasn’t the one to set Dad up, it could have been one of his members. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had gone against orders.

  The Warriors who’d tried to kidnap Emmeline had been acting of their own stupid fucking accord. They’d hoped to get some attention from their president by walking back into their clubhouse as heroes, dragging Emmeline behind them. Except they’d failed to get her. And instead of patting them on their backs, Tucker had sent a message to his members.

  No one went against his orders.

  Tucker delivered the men who’d tried to kidnap Emmeline to Dad’s front door. The Gypsies had dealt with them for good. Those two were buried in the mountains where their bodies would never be found.

  We didn’t know if Tucker’s message had been received. Maybe another idiot looking to make a name for himself had gone rogue too.

  “If it was a Warrior, we’ll probably never know,” Dad said. “Tucker won’t admit one of his brothers disobeyed his orders. Not again.”

  “Then where does that leave us?”

  “Hell if I know.” Dad stared out at the meadow’s grass rolling in easy waves under the gentle wind. “What’s going on with the reporter? She still a problem?”

  Yeah, she was a problem. I couldn’t get the woman off my damn mind.

  “Yes and no,” I answered. “Think I’ve got her convinced to work with us and not against. But it cost me.”

  “How much?” Dad had paid off the previous newspaper owners for years to only print the minimum.

  “Not money. A story. She wanted to know more about the club. Why we quit. What we did. Some was on the record. Most was off.”


  Dad turned from the view and planted his hands on his hips. “And you trust her to keep quiet?”

  “She’ll stay quiet. She’s honest.”

  It was the best way to describe Bryce. When she said something was off the record, it wouldn’t make the print. It was part of her code as a journalist. As long as I held up my end of the bargain and told her the truth, our relationship would stay mutually beneficial.

  It wouldn’t be hard to do. Those deep brown eyes looked at me and the truth was easy to see. Besides, if I tried to lie, she’d see through my bullshit. Those eyes were beautiful. And cunning.

  After I’d fucked her twice last night, Bryce had fallen asleep exhausted and spent, naked under her sheets, her silky hair spilled over her white pillows. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly when she slept, and that little grin had made it nearly impossible to leave.

  But I didn’t spend the night with women. Waking up with them gave them ideas about commitment. Rings. Babies. None of which was for me.

  I left Bryce smiling on her pillow, even though there was temptation there. The urge to pull her into my arms and hold her until sunrise.

  It was a damn good thing I went home. Fuck temptation. I rode home, fell into my own bed and stared at the ceiling for a few hours wondering when exactly I’d been cast under her spell. The hell of it was, it always came back to the first day.

  To her in the sunshine, walking up to me at the garage.

  “How long have you been fucking her?” Dad asked.

  “Not long.” Am I that obvious? “How’d you know?”

  “I didn’t. But I do now. Is that smart?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted.

  It would be much safer to keep my hookups with easy women who stopped into The Betsy searching for a one-night distraction. Bryce was not easy by any stretch. She was tough. She made me laugh with her wit and sass. She challenged me. And when she wasn’t pissing me off, she was turning me on.

  “Truth. She caught my eye and I’m having a hard time turning away.”