Riding Dirty

by Danika Fox

  I couldn’t say I didn’t appreciate the extra safety, but the more effort I felt my father exert to keep me safe, the more closed-in I felt. It was like I would owe him for how much work he’d done just, and knowing that my father had that over me gave me a sick feeling in my stomach.

  A hard bang on the door made me jump, pulling me away from my thoughts as I heard my father’s voice once again, only this time he almost sounded worried.

  “Chrissy, honey. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, walking to the door and turning the knob, but before I could open the door all the way my father yanked it closed from the other side.

  “No, don’t come out just yet,” he said, voice tinged in paranoia. “My guys are still checkin’ the place out. Just give it a few minutes, and then we can get you home where you belong.”

  I could practically feel him on the other side of the door, worrying. Nothing about this felt normal, and I just wanted to get it over with. It only took a moment before one of my father’s men—surprisingly, not Lonnie—came back to give him the all-clear.

  “All right,” my dad said, releasing the door from his iron grip and letting it slowly swing open. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I mumbled, the humiliation of this situation hanging across my shoulders. If there was any other way I thought I’d be safe I’d have taken it in a heartbeat, but with Crush gone God knows where, I had to turn to the one person I knew could make sure there were at least ten armed men between me and anyone who wanted me dead.

  I ducked my head as I got into the car that my father had waiting. I remembered this car from when I was younger—it was the one my father drove whenever he thought someone might be after him in a serious way. The entire thing was outfitted to keep whoever was inside of it safe, kind of like the limousine the president rides around in.

  “Shit must be getting real, huh?” I asked as my father climbed into the backseat beside me. “You almost never take this thing out anymore.”

  “I’m not taking any chances,” he replied, knocking on the window separated us from the driver as a signal for him to start driving us back to the house. “Not with my little girl.”

  “Do you know who’s doing all of this?” I asked him. “Who would have wanted Tony dead?”

  My father frowned, his lip curling into a derisive sneer. “I’ve got a few ideas,” he grumbled, shaking his head as he looked across the backseat of the car at a file fold that was laying on top of the dark leather upholstery.

  I stared. “What is that?”

  “Your little biker friend brought it to me,” he said, shifting as though uncomfortable with the subject matter. “Right after he told me he was a fucking rat.”

  I blinked at him. “Wait, what’re you talking about?”

  My father gritted his teeth. “He went to the fucking authorities, Chrissy. That little fuck got nice and cozy with a couple of assholes from the CIA.”

  “I don’t understand—when did he have time? When would…”

  And then I remembered “passing out.” And how we’d been in an entirely different place when I woke up. And how much time had seemed to pass between when I “fainted” and when I came to. And the way Crush hadn’t been able to look me in the eyes…

  But why? What was his motivation? It didn’t make any sense. Was he an undercover agent? Was this some kind of setup?

  I felt as though my world had been turned upside down all over again. All my life my father had gone on and on about how the powers that be were trying to ruin our family, and while I learned later that they had every right to want to put my father in jail, the fact that Crush might have been helping them awoke that ingrained mistrust of law enforcement my father had instilled in me since I was young.

  As if I hadn’t felt betrayed enough by Crush, now I found out that he was working with the men who wanted to lock my father away.

  “So he just… turned you in?” I asked. I didn’t like the way my voice sounded—fragile. Hollow.

  “He didn’t turn me in,” my father corrected. “He brought me that file and said that the spooks want to make sure I knew who I could trust—as if I’d take their word for it. It’s all a load of horseshit. Just doctored photos and a bunch of fake transcripts of conversations. They could have just made all of it up, and I’m sure as hell not going to believe that my best man is trying to do me in.”

  Lonnie? Was that why he wasn’t here? My dad could be a hothead, sure, but he wasn’t stupid. Stubborn as a mule, but not dumb. The fact that Lonnie was conspicuously absent told me he suspected more than he was letting on. And the idea that Crush was right—that the information he got from the CIA was accurate—made me feel like my stomach was plummeting through a bottomless pit.

  “What happened to Crush?” I asked him softly. “He didn’t come back last night…”

  “He’s not dead,” my father said, rolling his eyes. “And he’d better be grateful for it. The only reason I let him scamper out of town was because of how much Don Carliogne likes that club of his.”

  For a moment, I was glad that Crush wasn’t getting driven out to the Mojave in pieces. But then I remembered that he hadn’t come back—that he’d just left me and gotten the hell out of town without so much as a goodbye. What kind of a man did that?

  But the second I asked myself that question, I was able to answer it all on my own. The truth was that I had no idea what kind of a man Jackson Monroe was to begin with—I didn’t know him at all.

  22

  Crush

  The whiskey burned as it slid down the back of my throat, filling my chest with warm pins and needles that I was more than grateful for after the shit couple of days I’d had. I had managed to find a roadhouse that doubled as a motel just outside of town where I could crash for the night, a place that was plenty used to the sight of a biker coming in at the ass crack of dawn after a long ride.

  The lady behind the bar didn’t seem too bothered by the sight of me, which was a welcome relief. She just asked how long I wanted the room for and then sent me off with a smile, calling me “hun” like we’d been friends for years. It was nice to feel welcome somewhere again, but the truth was it just made me miss being with the Hounds even more.

  That night I barely got any sleep, and when I did, I wound up starting awake with the impending sense that Chrissy was in danger. Every dream I had involved her being gunned down like the men and women back in the club, or being dragged off by Sergei, never to be seen again—a victim of his human trafficking scheme.

  She’s not your problem, I had told myself as I stood in front of the tiny bathroom mirror. And besides, what the hell could you do to help her now? Haven’t you done enough?

  Had I, though? Had I really done everything that I could have to make sure she was safe? By now she was back with Don Falcone and his men under constant guard. Yet despite knowing that, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, and the whiskey wasn’t helping.

  “Slow night,” I said, looking over at the owner, Maria, as she busied herself with wiping the bar down.

  “Yeah,” she said, her southern drawl thick as molasses. “But I don’t mind. Might manage to actually get some cleaning done without a bunch of drunk yahoos wrecking the place.”

  I couldn’t blame her. And the joint was nice and quiet, just the way I liked it. No loud noises, no crowds—no one trying to start a fight. It was a nice place to say my goodbyes to Vegas in peace.

  “You look like you could use another drink,” Maria said, gently taking the tumbler from my hand and filling it back up. “So, who was she?”

  “Sorry?” I asked, looking up from the swirls of the wood grain in the bar. Then it dawned on me that the look on my face must’ve been one Maria saw all the damn time. No use lying about it. She already knew.

  “Her name’s Chrissy,” I said.

  She nodded knowingly. “Yeah, I get enough broken hearts in here to spot them from a mile off. So, why’d she lea
ve you?”

  “Other way around,” I muttered, offering a grimace. “I had to leave her, for her own good.”

  Maria frowned, looking me up and down as though she was appraising me. “You hit her?”

  “What? No!” I said, sitting up straighter on my stool. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “How about some other kind of abuse?”

  I gaped. “Jesus, woman. I would never—”

  “Well, if you didn’t hit her, and you aren’t abusing her, then what’d you do?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “Because normally when someone says they left someone for their own good, they’re either knocking them around, tearin’ ‘em down, or are just so damn down on themselves that they’ll do anything to make themselves feel like as big of a jackass as possible. So, which one are you?”

  I stared at the bartender for a moment, my brain doing its best to process that question. “She and I just wouldn’t have been a good match. We’re too different.”

  Maria narrowed her eyes as she leaned back against the sink behind her. “Sounds like quitter talk to me,” she said, her tone bordering on casual indifference.

  “It just wouldn’t have worked, okay?” I took a long drink of my whiskey and winced as it went down. “Plus, her dad hates me.”

  “You might just be the first biker I’ve ever met who gives two shits about what some girl’s daddy thinks of him,” she laughed, shaking her head. “Sweet Jesus, maybe she is better off. You’re kind of a baby, ain’t ya?”

  I glared. “Is this supposed to be comforting?”

  “Hell no, hun, I don’t do comfort—you got to buy a bed for the night to get that shit. In this bar, we tell it how it is.”

  “Maybe I ought to find another bar, then,” I sighed, but Maria only poured me another glass.

  “Not if you want to keep getting free booze,” she said with a chuckle. “The more you talk, the more I pour. It’s a slow night, and I need the company.”

  “I’m not sure if the verbal beating is worth the liquor,” I said, taking another draught, but again, Maria just chuckled.

  “Listen, if you want my advice—and you probably don’t, but here it is—then I suggest you get up off your lazy biker ass and got back to her, tell her daddy where he can stick it, and ride off into the sunset. Hell, that’s how my husband did it—all three of them, God rest ‘em.”

  I almost snorted whiskey out of my nose. Truth be told, it was nice to have someone who gave it to my straight for once, pulled no punches… just like how Chrissy was. Or how she had been.

  “Her dad’s somethin’ else, though,” I said, but even to my own ears, it sounded like a weak excuse. “I mean… crossing him could be bad for her, bad for me. Bad for my club, if you get what I mean.”

  “Well, now, maybe I do,” Maria said. “And maybe I don’t know the half of what you’ve got goin’ on here with her and with him, and with everything else. But I want you to ask yourself a question, sad sack. At this point… what’ve you got to lose?”

  And the only answer I could come up with was… nothing. Or at least, not a whole hell of a lot.

  I wasn’t getting the money. The Hounds were already on the outs with Falcone. I could never come back to Vegas. If I took Chrissy with me, there might be some trouble, but… but I was kind of starting to feel like it would be worth it.

  Hell, I’d felt that way all along. It just took Maria basically giving me permission to acknowledge it, to trust it, that made the difference.

  “Shit. Maybe you’re right,” I conceded.

  “Ain’t been wrong yet,” she said, cleaning out and replacing a few shot glasses over the sink. “Only question is whether you’re gonna do something about it.”

  Before I could answer, my burner phone buzzed in my pocket, which reminded me that that shit Caputo still had my actual phone. I sighed and dug out my shitty replacement, motioning to Maria to wait just a second to see who the hell was calling—of the two people who actually had this number, I didn’t really want to have a conversation with either.

  But as I looked at the number on the preview window of the cheap little flip phone I realized that the number was mine.

  “What the fuck?” I whispered before opening the phone and answering. “Who the hell is this?”

  “That is not a nice way to answer the telephone,” came the thick, rich tones of a familiar Russian accent. “Especially when I am a person you are wanting to be nice to, I think.”

  I felt the bottom of my stomach drop into my feet. This was bad. “It’s Sergei, right?” I asked, trying to keep the tremble from my voice.

  “That is my name, Mr. Crush,” the mobster said, my name rolling off of his tongue with a flourish. “You have been a very slippery snake to get a hold of, but that is a coward’s way—running and hiding.”

  “I wasn’t running,” I said, clutching my glass so tight I felt it start to strain. “I was keeping someone safe.”

  “Yes, yes, little Falcone girl,” he chuckled. “It is funny, we didn’t even know who she was until you brought her to her father. I should be thanking you for this.”

  I stood up from my stool, glancing toward Maria to make sure I wasn’t being watched. I couldn’t tell whether I was angry or scared—or both.

  “Don’t hurt her,” I said, lowering my voice. “I don’t care what the hell you do to Falcone, but don’t hurt Chrissy.”

  “Sadly, Mr. Crush, I think we are past the stage where negotiations can be done. Instead, I am telling you all this out of courtesy. I am a man who believes in respect, and I respect you for evading your death, despite my best efforts.”

  “So you’re calling me just to mock me? To tell me that you’re going to kill Chrissy?” I asked, heading toward the door to the roadhouse’s bar, making my way outside. I needed air, and if Chrissy was in danger, then I needed to get to her as fast as I could.

  “No, Mr. Crush,” Sergei said as I pushed open the door. “I am calling you because you are the type of man who thinks he is the hero. And when the hero knows his princess is in danger, he will get on his shiny steed and ride to her rescue.”

  “You want me to try and save her?” I asked, stopped in my tracks, my eyes locked on my bike. He wasn’t wrong—the first thing I was going to do was ride straight to Chrissy to keep her safe. It was plain instinct.

  “You misunderstand me, Mr. Crush. I called you so that you would leave your hiding place. It is so hard for my men to take a clear shot when so many walls are in the way.”

  I had just about a split second to let that sink in.

  “...oh, fuck you—”

  The wooden support of the awning beside me exploded in a shower of splinters and smoke. I looked up and saw four men converging on me from either side, guns drawn.

  They opened fire as I dove behind a low wall that made up was could have once been an outdoor dining area. I felt a sharp, burning pain in my arm as I hit the ground, turning to look at a rather large graze across my bicep.

  This wasn’t going to be good. I was pinned down, and already I could hear their footsteps closing in on the gravel driveway. My heart hammered against my ribs as I desperately searched for something I could use as a weapon, though what good it would do me, I had no idea.

  “There is no use hiding,” one of the goons said just behind the wall. “It would be better to be dying like a man, yes? Facing us?”

  “Better for me if you’d go suck your mother’s dick,” I called back. They’d reached the porch now. It was now or never—and to my horror, I had to admit these guys were right. If this was how it was gonna end, then I would rather die fighting then hiding.

  I moved as fast as I could, scrambling to my feet as I grabbed hold of the Russian who had come creeping up to take me from the side, pulling him down onto the floor and slamming my foot into his nose.

  Another shot rang out, another sharp pain sinking deep into my other shoulder, pulling a ragged scream from my lungs as I hit the ground on my knees.

&
nbsp; I went for my target’s gun, but before I got a good grip on it, I heard the sound of a shotgun being cocked right above my head. My blood ran cold.

  A shot to the head is better than bleeding out, I thought, an odd sense of calm pragmatism flowing over me. I mean, it would be better if it happened quick, right? Would I even feel it if they just blew my brains out?

  Seconds felt like minutes as I crouched there, raising my hands in surrender. The Russian I knocked on the floor was looking up at me—no, past me—unmoving as he lay there. He almost looked confused.

  And yet all I could think of was Chrissy. How I’d just found her. How after all the drifting I’d done lately, she’d become my anchor. My thing to give a shit about. The one responsibility I actually wanted in all the world.

  It wasn’t fair that she’d just get taken away from me like this.

  But there was no more fighting left to do. Prepare for the worst, hope for nothing.

  Sometimes, that’s just the way this shit goes.

  23

  Chrissy

  Once again I was sitting in the one place on earth I swore I’d never return, and in my old room, no less.

  The last time I’d been in here, I hadn’t even bothered to turn the lights on before I sacked out on the bed. But now I had little choice but to sit there and look at what had been my old bedroom. Not a damn thing about it had changed since the day I left.

  Every little thing was exactly where I’d left it a few years ago, which to be perfectly honest, was more than a little disturbing. From the looks of it, the only thing that had been done while I was away was that my father had at least let the maid in to dust everything. It was like I’d only been gone a day, but in truth, it had been almost two years.

  “Dad, you need a serious lesson in moving on,” I muttered, examining a set of vinyl dolls that I’d started collecting before I’d bought a one-way ticket to anywhere but here—which only landed me about as far as the Strip.