The downtown apartment building we were remodeling stood a few blocks away from the preschool I volunteered at and a few more blocks from the club headquarters. Parking in the garage, I grabbed my tools and went right to work on the kitchen floors I’d been assigned to installing. I finished two floors before taking my morning break. Breaks were only ten minutes, so I usually stuck around the site. But since Miguel needed to take the second work truck home tonight, I decided to jog the few blocks to the club and retrieve my other form of transportation.
When I wasn’t driving around in one of two company trucks, I was riding my 2012 black Harley-Davidson Road King. The 2012 bikes weren’t exactly known for their reliability, and when I’d bought mine used, it was in limp mode with an oil leak and burned out voltage regulators. Wasp, the club’s vice president and resident motorcycle mechanic, took one look at it and said, “Why the fuck didn’t you call me before you bought this piece of shit?”
But the price was right, and I’d needed a bike to prospect with the club. That was almost two years ago. In the time since, I’d put over five thousand dollars into the sled, and the piece of shit still had more performance issues than a narcoleptic ninety-year-old man with one nut and a bad hip.
Wasp’s professional advice remained the same. “Buy a different fucking bike.”
I could afford to, but it was about the principal, now. I’d sunk so much scratch into this Road King, it owed me a couple hundred more miles. Besides, I’d been banking my checks with the hopes of someday buying a house. Living at the fire station was fun for a while, but after growing up in a crowded house, joining the military, and then moving in with a shit-ton of bachelors, I was ready for my own space and privacy.
Like usual, my cut was resting on the seat. Link didn’t like us to ride without representing, so I tugged the leather vest on and kicked my bike to life. It roared and then sputtered out. The carburetors probably needed to be cleaned out. And it was stupid that I’d had enough problems with the bike to know what it probably needed. Since I had to get back to work, the problem would have to wait. Threatening to take a chainsaw to the piece of shit if it didn’t run, I kicked it to life again. This time it kept its ass going.
By the time I parked in front of the construction site, my phone was beeping with an incoming message from Wasp. I took off my helmet and thumbed open the message.
Wasp: 911. Carly’s roommate is in trouble. Need anyone available there NOW.
Carly was Wasp’s girlfriend and one of my favorite bartenders at the Copper Penny. Her son attended the preschool where a bunch of us volunteered, and I liked that little squirt, too. I didn’t know what was going on with her roommate, but details were unimportant. Wasp was my brother, and he was asking for help. The apartment floor installations could wait. I texted him back.
Me: I’m on it. Send me the loc.
The address popped up on my screen. It was an apartment building, only a block and a half from my current location. Slipping my helmet back on, I started up my bike and headed that direction, wondering what was going on and hoping I wasn’t too late.
Jessica
THE INTRUDER IN the sleeveless flannel—who’d literally just busted down my door—glared daggers at me. He whipped his arm around so I could see the gun in his hand and stalked over. Poking his pistol into my side he leaned against me, and the sour stench of sweat, whiskey, and cigarette smoke invaded my nostrils.
“Where the fuck is Carly?” Nate shouted again.
Still in shock, I couldn’t form a response.
“Ohmigod, Nate? He’s there with you?” Carly screeched in my ear, reminding me that my phone was still pressed against the side of my head.
Nate must have heard her, because he ripped the phone out of my hand and put it to his ear. “Carly?”
Her response came out in a gasp and a curse.
Nate blew out a breath and relaxed his shoulders. “You left me.” He sounded crushed. Devastated. More like an abandoned little boy than a terrifying outlaw who was breaking and entering with deadly force. “You said you’d think about it, but you left. All your shit was cleaned out of your house. I tried to call you, but you turned your phone off. You know I love you. Why would you do that to me?”
“I’m sorry, Nate,” Carly replied.
I could hear her clear as day, and the panic in her voice was palpable. I absorbed it, making it my own. My heart was beating so quickly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it jumped out of my chest and took off down the hall. She was terrified of Nate, and the gun digging into my ribs said her fears were justified.
“I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry, but I needed some time to get away and think. I should have told you where I was going so you wouldn’t worry, but that has nothing to do with Jessica. She’s my friend and I won’t ever forgive you if something happens to her. Do you understand?”
He looked me over, and his eyes filled with contempt. “Then you need to get your ass here. Right now.”
“Okay. I’m coming. I’m like ten minutes out, but I’ll be there. Just don’t do anything until I get there, okay? Promise me?”
He made no such promise. “Hurry.” He ended the call and tossed my phone on the sofa. Looking around, he homed in on the broken door. Tugging me with him, he slammed it, but it hit the lopsided frame and bounced back. He gave it one final kick before dragging me down the hall toward the bedrooms.
“Is the gun really necessary?” I asked. “It’s digging into my ribs.”
He shoved me into my room and followed, closing the door behind us as he repositioned the pistol in my side. “Quit your bitchin’, Carly’s coming.”
I didn’t know which one of us he was trying to reassure, but he clearly didn’t know Wasp. Carly’s boyfriend wouldn’t let her anywhere near our building or this whack job. Wasp and company would show up and handle him. All I had to do was stall and try not to get shot.
Piece of cake.
Minutes stretched out, feeling like hours. Nerves made me feel like I had to pee. I asked to use the restroom, but Nate told me to hold it. For some bizarre reason, I considered my underwear. My bra was old and ratty, and I’d sewn the underwires back into it a couple of times. It was comfortable, but definitely not what I wanted a mortician to bury me in. I couldn’t even remember which panties I’d chosen. Hopefully they were hole-free and at least somewhat cute. They weren’t riding up my butt, so they were probably the cotton ones that only little girls and old ladies should own.
