While she and Po’Boy had their heart-to-heart, Retro worked to make good on the plans they had put into play while at Bell’s house. Ten minutes after their group went into the diner, two pickups pulling trailers showed, and on those trailers were three dozen of the bikes confiscated during the skirmishes on Saturday. In short order, they were unloaded, then her bobber, along with fifteen other bikes had been loaded up, lashed down, and the trucks disappeared in a swirl of gravel dust. Another ten minutes and a whitewashed bus pulled into the parking lot, twenty men climbing off and going directly to those bikes parked in the side lot.
Retro, she had learned, was a master of organization; for all he looked like an old-school hippy with his apehangers and waist-length hair, he could work the hell out of a call tree. It started with the three calls he'd placed before throwing a leg over his bike at Bell’s home, and then continued after they arrived at the diner. Once he’d verified things were moving, he quickly sorted other things, too. He’d reached out to various connections, and with direct questions to ask his sources, found she was right, Vicar’s Wrath was sheltering the remaining patch holders in Guanyin’s Shield. They were holed up in a remote clubhouse, and the word was they weren’t worried about the battle following them home. The Vicar’s Wrath were arrogantly preening, having been told by Leswayne they’d be absorbing the Shield in its entirety, taking in not just the members, but taking over their territory and businesses. All the intel was Shield related, filled with bubbling rage against Incoherent for what was seen as an unprovoked attack and takeover move. Bell hadn’t telegraphed the real reason, and Penny found herself glad for his discretion.
It wasn’t until five minutes before the expanded group was set to get on the road that a call came through, changing all their plans. She’d been talking to Ty. Actually, he’d been talking at her, trying to get her to back down from the decision to accompany their group. Wanting to spare her involvement with a rescue mission that might not be a rescue, but instead, could be the opening salvo in a new war, one the Incoherent MC wouldn’t face alone. They’d be standing shoulder to shoulder with their supporters, the Caddo Hobos, and the Bama Bastards, all the three clubs squaring off against Vicar’s Wrath and the remains of Guanyin’s Shield.
“You don’t understand,” Ty told her for the fifth time. “What we’re about to ride into is going to be extreme, doll. I don’t want that for you.”
Penny stared at him, trying to decide if anyone would stop her if she reached out and thumped him on his head. Hard. With the butt of one of her pistols. Repeatedly. At least until he shut the fuck up. Fortunately, before she could act on the idea, Retro whistled from across the lot and waved them over. Both of them. She couldn’t contain a small victory smile at being included.
Retro began talking as soon as they were within earshot, phone still pressed to the side of his head. “Waiting on the final word, but it sounds like one of my boys found a crash site.” At the words, Penny felt the earth underneath her boots sway sickeningly as an uproar sounded all around them, every man shouting questions. She wasn’t aware she’d staggered until Po’Boy reached out and gripped her bicep, holding her steady. “Plate on the scoot is Twisted’s. The bike is fucked-up. Totaled.”
Nothing in there was good and she felt the burning sick as it rolled up her throat at the news. Bell. There’d been an accident. That was why he hadn’t come home to her. In her head, she heard the words of Ace again, standing in the doorway to Bagger’s house, telling her something bad had happened, and she had known by the look on his face that her world had come to an end.
“Still waiting,” Retro barked into the phone, and at the force of his angry frustration, she jerked her arm out of Po’Boy’s grip, taking two steps backwards, feeling her legs wobble under her like a newborn foal. Swallowing hard, convulsively, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans, suddenly chilled all over her body, even as a hard sweat broke across her skin.
“Got it.” Retro’s words scarcely registered. She was stuck back at the moment when she heard him say, Crash site. The place where a crash happened. One bad enough to total Bell’s bike. The bike is fucked-up. She swallowed again, struggling to maintain her composure.
“Penny.” She heard Po’Boy but wasn’t listening. Nothing made sense. Crash site. “Penny.” She lifted one hand, waving as if shooing away a bothersome fly. Closer, “Dammit, bitch.” Chin down, she stared at the tips of his boots. Squared off, strap over the arch, round metal circles holding all the black leather together. Those aren’t buckles, she thought. What are they? Snapping fingers in front of her nose. “Penny Dane, wake the fuck up.” Lifting her head, she looked into his face. He looked as white as she felt, as near to losing it as she was. “Goddammit, you fuckin’ lied to me?”
She shook her head, not to tell him no, but because his question didn’t make any sense. “What?”
“You said you were ready for whatever it took.” He waited, and she stared. “This right here? This’s what’s needed. You a liar or you got your boots on? Huh? You got your boots on?”
Another question that didn’t make sense, so she offered the same confused, “What?”
“Got your goddamned boots on? Do you got your goddamned boots on? Do ya? You got those motherfuckers on?” He pointed to her feet, and she looked down, wondering absurdly if her boots had flown the coop in the past five seconds. “Fuckin’ boots on your goddamned feet?”
“Yes, I have my boots on.” She’d confirmed that first, of course. “What do you mean?”
“Got your boots on,” he confirmed. “Lift your fuckin’ leg up, bend that mother. Swing it up behind you, fast.” She stared at him. Twisted being missing knocked a few marbles loose, she decided. “Kick your own ass and get it into fuckin’ gear, bitch. Get it in gear and get going. Kick that ass, kick it hard, and get goin’. Fuckin’ listen to Retro, Jesus. Five minutes ago, you said you needed this. Now you gotta put your boots on, kick your own ass, and get it in fuckin’ gear.”
“You talk a lot. Don’t say much, but you talk…a lot.” Her mouth had moved before she realized it, blurting her unfiltered thoughts.
“Yeah, and gonna piss you off, but I’m right a lotta the fuckin’ time. So, get used to it.” He paused, studying her. “You’re ready. Knocked that loose right outta ya. You got it tight and right now, sister.” She saw Ty stiffen at the word that was nearly a title for a woman around a club. She might not be wearing Twisted’s patch, but Po’Boy had just given her status. “Now, bitch, listen the fuck to Retro.”
When she turned, Retro was studying her, the expression on his face cautious. “You with me, gel?” She nodded. He studied her for another moment and then seemed to come to a decision that she was ready, so he laid it on her. “On a road running between what went down Saturday and his house, we found a crash. Twisted’s bike is totaled. Looks like he cartwheeled off into the trees on a curve. The bike is wrapped around a trunk. He mighta hit a tree about thirty feet beyond.” She winced and felt heat at her back, knowing without looking that it was either Ty or Po’Boy.
Retro took a breath and continued. “Cage tracks show someone picked him up. Penny, they weren’t cautious about it. My boy says there’s blood everywhere, but not enough to indicate he bled out at the scene.” She bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard, swallowing back the flood of saliva accompanying a renewed nausea. “In and out, came from the same direction. I had one of my boys talk to a dispatcher he’s bangin’, she checked, nothing was called in. Blood, oil, everything supports it happenin’ Saturday. I think members from Vicar’s picked him up. Maybe forced him off the road, so they were right there with transport. Dunno why. I can’t sort that shit in my head, but that’s what I think.” He bent slightly, staring into her eyes. “I’m fuckin’ glad you done what you done, made your way here with us, because here’s what I see going down next if you’re game.”
“Anything,” she said immediately, forcing the word past clenched teeth. “Tell me what to do.”
He stared at her a moment, then his gaze focused over her shoulder. She glanced back, seeing it was Po’Boy standing behind her. He glowered at Retro in a way that said he would be demurring on her behalf if she didn’t step in immediately.
“You have a plan.” She turned back to Retro, straightening as she took a breath. “Tell me.”
***
Penny braked to a stop at the end of the road, looking left, then right and then left again before she pulled out. The heat was stifling; she could feel it through the soles of her boots even after lifting them to the pegs. Sweat plastered her tank to her body, and it tickled her skin, trickling down her spine. She was nervous. Riding an unfamiliar bike with the differences in weight, height, and basic handling were enough to make her more cautious than normal on their own. What she was riding into? So much more to fear than the possibility of dropping a bike.
Unbelievable, she thought, riding onwards. Yet here I am, willingly riding into the enemy’s camp on a dead man’s motorcycle without anyone at my back. Po’Boy and Ty were unhappy with the situation, and that was putting it mildly. Ty told her in no uncertain terms just how stupid he thought this was. He told Retro and Po’Boy this repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on everything he saw that could go wrong. She didn’t disagree. It was crazy stupid. But Retro had a plan, and she trusted him. She, as he put it, was game.
There was stealthy movement in the woods to her right. She swung her head that direction and watched as men ran, pacing the bike’s progress as she steered up the road, wheels turning slowly. It was hard to count individuals as they slipped through the shadows, but she estimated the numbers at about fifteen. Bending her neck to look to her left, there were fewer men, maybe four. Nearly twenty in total, and that was out here by the road, not even at the compound.
A wide driveway was coming up, turning off to her right and winding down through the trees. No signage, no flashing lights announcing a club lived here, no bunker or guardhouse by the road, but she knew this was her turn. The last chance to chicken out and leave Bell to the gentle mercies of Leswayne, a man who had hated Jimbo, and by extension her man, for decades.
She could do it. Could ride past. If there weren’t any Shields standing guard—and there wouldn’t be, those men wouldn’t be trusted yet—no one would recognize the bike she rode, and she could make her escape. She wouldn’t, but she knew she could.
Bell’s face flashed through her mind—the first time she’d laid eyes on him, his chin lifted, eyes fixed on her through the truck’s window, that slow smile that curled his lips, lifting his beard. She’d wanted him right then and there, the heat between her legs at that moment rivaling the sun’s efforts of today, boiling hot and wet for him, even before he said a word. Five hours later, she’d been falling in love. Now, months later, she felt the same. I love him.
Without another thought, she leaned, and the bike turned into the end of the drive, setting her course straight for Bell.
***
Penny
Squatting in place, she stared up at the large man who stood in front of her. Turning her head, without taking her eyes off him, she spat, trying to clear the sand from her mouth. Running her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip, she tasted the bright copper of blood. “You busted my lip open. Busted my mouth.” She knew he would understand the meaning of her words when she followed-up with, “That’s two.”
When she’d rolled to a stop in front of the only building visible from the driveway, the noise of the bike’s pipes had drawn an audience, which wasn’t surprising. That they at first kept their distance had been. No crowding around. No questions of her appearance. No words at all.
She’d met Leswayne only once, and that in passing more than a decade ago. Even in that small interaction she’d been shielded from the man by her association with Bagger, but still remembered him being a munt, as Bagger and the CoBos called him. It had taken half a bag of candy, but she’d finally bribed a teenaged Ty into telling her that was a man-cunt, someone who behaved in ways the brotherhood frowned on, namely being butthurt at nothing and causing a drama. That was how Ty had explained things, and she’d suspected the meaning remained about the same even a decade later.
So when the bloated and ill-kempt man had finally walked out, nearly five minutes after she’d rolled up, she’d still recognized him right away in spite of the physical changes. Something in the way he’d moved, how he’d held himself as if he were more than anyone else in the place. Munt, she’d thought again, heeling down her kickstand.
By the time he’d gotten halfway to her, she’d swung her leg over and stood, stretching, giving a show. She’d needed to buy thirty minutes. No more than forty-five. Their plan called for thirty, but she’d mentally pushed that another fifteen, and she would gain that time for the boys any way she could. If that meant she bought five minutes because some stupid motherfuckers were thinking with their dicks and looking at her breasts instead of taking her for a threat, she’d shove the girls up and out a dozen times over.
“Hello the house,” she’d called, somewhat belatedly. Standard protocol would have seen her making that appeal the moment she killed the engine, well before she made herself at home by getting off her bike. Well, shit. Daddy’d be pissed at my poor manners. She grinned, then had felt the expression die away as Leswayne had stopped ten feet away.
Ten, not fifteen. Not zero.
Zero would have meant he didn’t know her, had thought she might be a sweet-cheeked gal looking for a party.
Ten feet had said he might be aware of who she was, and that could mean one of any number of things. Bagger’s niece, Ty’s friend, Bell’s woman—in any case, it had spoken of a tad bit of respect, which she could milk and gain that extra fifteen minutes if it were needed.
Ten had meant he didn’t think she was a threat.
Fifteen would have said he wasn’t certain what her agenda was, wasn’t certain if she were about to go psycho bitch on him for something. Fifteen should have put him out of reach, even with a lunge. Fifteen could have given him the advantage.
Ten had meant he was wrong.
Walking dick. But is he a thinkin’ one, too? She’d tilted her head and used a soft, conversational tone as if sitting at a kitchen table with friends. “Hey, Leswayne. How you doin’?” Only a fraction of an inch, but she’d logged his startled reaction as his head jerked back. “I don’t know if you remember me—”
“I ‘member you, bitch.” His words were not unexpected, but the lack of heat in his words was. “The fuck ya want?”
“Yeah. I’m Penny. Hoped you’d remember me.” She’d offered a closed-mouth smile, knowing it would look as false as it felt. “Hey. I wondered if we could have a private sit-down conversation.” She’d intentionally used language she’d known he would reject. The last thing she’d wanted was to be alone in a room with him, and said this with an expectation he’d react negatively to the idea of her being an equal, which a sit-down would imply. When parties pulled out chairs on either side of a table, the playing field was level, and this wouldn’t fly for a man like Leswayne. Or any of the men, she acknowledged wryly. “I have a proposal—”
“One of y’alls, go open the cage,” he’d ordered and one of the men moved. A moment after his footsteps faded, she’d heard a metallic rattle that made her blood run cold. He had a cage for humans. “Got your proposal right here.” He’d laughed, grabbing his pants halfway down his thigh, gripping what she assumed was supposed to be the head of his dick. Before she could control her thoughts, her mouth had run loud and clear.
“Gettin’ ahead of yourself, ain’t ya?” Shaking her head, she’d finished. “Way ahead of yourself from the looks of it.”
Shit.
She’d barely had time to think the word before he took three long steps towards her, hand drawn back level with his shoulder and then he’d brought it forward in a wide, descending arc, and connected on the side of her head, hard.
“There’s your fuckin’ propo
sal, bitch,” he’d growled as she kept her feet with difficulty.
Ears ringing, she’d shaken her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Once again, her mouth had outstretched the bonds of prudence. “FooFoo, you had three chances. That’s one.”
A laugh and a muttered, “Bunny FooFoo,” from the side had made Leswayne’s face darken with anger. Penny had stepped away from the bike, realizing she and Leswayne had been surrounded by men, the leather-clad bodies formed a loose circle around their altercation.
Ignoring the pain blooming on her face, she’d kept after him. “You turning down my offer without even hearing it?” She’d swept her hand out, indicating all the men standing in the clearing. “Their lives not worth the words?”
“Who the fuck are you?” That came from the side again. It had been flat disrespectful of the man to respond to a question aimed at the president, and Leswayne’s eyes had shifted that way, revealing a wariness she hadn’t expected. He isn’t as in control as he’d like me to believe.
She hadn’t turned to look but answered all the same. “Penny you already know. Penny Dane is my full name.” Waiting, she’d heard what she expected to hear from the men surrounding them: confusion. Leswayne wasn’t big on protocol or history, not unless he was rewriting it.
“So? Who the fuck is Penny Dane, gel?”
Eyes locked on Leswayne’s face, wanting with every fiber of her being to see if he really knew it all and still pulled his shit, she’d recited her lineage. “Niece of Bagger, former veep of the CoBos. Best friend of Wrench,”—a bickering mutter had come from the men. They’d known at least one of these names, and since Bagger was dead, she’d assumed it was Ty. This had made her wonder exactly what role he played in the club—“also of the CoBos. Friend of Retro, prez of the Bastards”—more muttering, and from the corners of her eyes, she’d seen the circle expand unevenly as some of the men stepped back in respectful reaction—“and ole lady of Twisted, nat prez of Incoherent.” Leswayne’s face had paled at Retro’s name, but Bell’s had bought her a different reaction, which brought her to now, knee to the ground as she probed the split in her lip caused by a second hard, inescapable backhand swing.
Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Page 25
