Chaos Bound (17 page)

“Skyler.”

She followed him down the stairs, breathing hard as she tried to keep up. They had to move fast in case someone called the cops, although he doubted anyone living in a building like this would be ratting out anyone else. “Guys like that don’t work alone,” he said when they reached the street. “I’m gonna put you in a cab and pay your fare to Conundrum. When you get there, you call the Deputy Sheriff. His name is Benson. You tell him you met a Sinner and he called in a favor. He’ll look after you.”

She stumbled after him, her eyes still wide with shock. “Don’t you … I mean … if you still want … I don’t have anything to give you to thank you.”

Holt turned when they reached the front door, shook his head. “You’re a pretty girl. You got a nice body, but you don’t need to use it to get ahead. Get off the streets, or you’ll wind up on drugs and never get out. Go home. Finish school. Get a good job so you can look after yourself. Find a nice guy who’ll look after you.”

“I can’t go home,” she said. “My stepdad … I ran to get away from him. If he finds out where I am, he’ll hunt me down.”

“How old are you really?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Nineteen,” she whispered. “But I’ve been here for four years since my mom died and I was left alone with my step-dad.”

Christ. She’d been a kid when she started out. So young and all alone. If he went ahead with his plan to off his Sinner brothers, he’d leave a bunch of kids with only one parent to care for them—kids who might wind up on the street like her. How could he fuck up all those kids, most of whom he’d known since they were born? He had no grudge against them or the old ladies. Maybe he’d give the brothers with kids a pass.

“If Benson can’t help you sort something out, you tell him to take you to the Sinner’s Tribe MC. He’s in good with them. When you get there, ask for Tank. He’ll introduce you ’round and you can decide if that life is for you. You can trust him. He won’t take advantage. But don’t go to the clubhouse alone or they’ll get the wrong idea.”

Not that there would be many Sinners left after he paid them a visit. Although now that he thought about it, a lot of them had kids. Jagger, Gunner, Sparky and Shaggy were single, although if he offed Jagger, Arianne would hunt Holt down for the rest of his days. And what if those single brothers had kids they didn’t know about or kids they supported but kept secret from the club? And what about the old ladies? He’d eaten dinner at their houses, talked with them at parties. Hell, he’d even gone to a christening or two.

“Fuck.” He thudded his hand on the wall. He wasn’t cut out for revenge if it meant innocent people would get hurt—people he knew and cared about. Maybe Naiya’s suggestion was a good one. He would capture one of them and ask what the hell had happened and who was involved, give them a chance to explain. Then he wouldn’t have innocent deaths on his conscience. He would go after the right men, and leave the others to rebuild the club.

He wrote Benson’s contact details on a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Let’s find you a cab.”

“Could I stay with you?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide, pleading.

“I got a girl,” Holt said. “Left her behind. Now I gotta go back and find her.”

*   *   *

“Nice shirt.”

Naiya groaned inwardly and plastered a fake smile on her face before looking over at the man standing beside her at the bar. With Guns N’ Roses’, “Appetite for Destruction” playing in the background, and the scents of stale beer and pot filling the air, Rick’s Bar and Grill at the edge of Trenton wasn’t the kind of place she would normally go without a friend. Too many men assumed she was looking for a hook-up, and after three hours, she had a standard response down pat. However the shirt comment threw her off, and for a moment she didn’t know what to say.

“I passed through Bolton once,” he said. “I remember the beaver shirts. Never thought anyone would actually wear one, but it looks good on you. Cute.” He sat on the stool beside her and asked the bartender for a jug of water. In his dark suit, crisp white shirt, and muted blue tie he looked like a city banker or a businessman, certainly not the type of person to patronize a seedy bar in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

Pleasantly surprised, Naiya shrugged. “I didn’t buy it thinking it would be an invitation, but apparently that’s what it is when you’re in a bar full of drunk juveniles.” She mocked one of the many male voices she’d heard that evening. “Can I see your beaver? Nice beaver. Can I pet your beaver?”

He laughed, the smile softening an otherwise hard face, all sharp lines and angles. “It could be worse. My sister went to fairy tale theme park and came back with a shirt that said PUSS IN BOOTS. She only wore that one to a bar once and never again.”

Naiya’s tension eased as he talked about his sister, and she sipped her third Mai Tai of the evening. With a fierce sweet tooth and a dislike of strong alcohol, she was a cocktail girl all the way. “You don’t look like you belong here either.” She gestured to the suit, and then waved vaguely over the collection of rough drunks seated at the tables behind them. “Or at a place like Bolton.”

“My line of work takes me all over.” He poured a glass of water from the jug the bartender had left for him. “I could say the same about you. This bar isn’t the safest place for a woman alone, especially in a beaver shirt.” He offered Naiya the water and she shook her head, held up her glass.

“It’s a drown your sorrows kinda night. And I’m not here for long. Just waiting for the bus.” Although she had no idea where she was going. After Holt had driven away, she’d felt more lost and alone than she’d ever felt in her life, and the prospect of going on the run by herself made her stomach twist. But she didn’t want to put Ally and Doug or any of her friends in danger. And Maurice had found someone else. She took a bigger sip of her drink, wondered what kind of girl Maurice was with and whether he made her moan when he kissed her, the way she had done with Holt.

He sipped the water, his movements slow and deliberate. Although he seemed friendly and hadn’t overtly hit on her, something about him didn’t seem quite right. Maybe it was because he was so different from everyone else in the bar, or maybe it was the way he watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

“I’m Michael, by the way,” he said, breaking her train of thought.

Naiya shook the offered hand. His skin was soft, smooth, so unlike Holt’s calloused palms. In fact, he was almost Holt’s complete opposite. Slim where Holt was broad, with short-cropped dark hair, brown eyes so dark they were almost black, and a lean body. No visible tattoos. No cuts or bruises on his face. No character.

Holt was all character. From his scars and tattoos to his understated sense of humor, and from his biker swagger to his ability to dominate a room, he was the most intoxicating man she’d ever met.

“N—” She cut herself off. Better not to share her real name. Years of hanging around bikers had taught her to be wary of strangers. “Nora.”

“Can I buy you a drink, Nora?”

“No, thank you. I’m just about at my limit.” She gestured to the pitcher of water. “You aren’t drinking?”

He shook his head. “I’m working. I’m investigating two murders not too far away. A high-profile biker was found at Gull Lake. He was shot at close range along with his buddy.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Are you a police detective?”

Michael pulled out his wallet and flashed his ID. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives (ATF). Everyone in the biker world knew and hated the ATF. No one could take down an MC faster, and if they were in the area, looking into Leo’s death, it wasn’t just a simple shooting between rival biker gangs; it was a very big deal.

“Usually the local police would handle the case,” he said into the silence, “But they were from one of the biggest outlaw clubs in the state, and there has been a lot of unusual biker activity in the area, so they called us in.”

“Oh.” She lifted the drink to her lips and forced down the sickly sweet liquid. Her heart thudded to the bass of Black Sabbath’s, “Paranoid.” “So … do you have any leads?”

“Curiously, no.” He cocked his head, stared at her. “Whoever did it knew how to cover their tracks. All we know is that the shooter took the high-profile victim’s motorcycle. We were able to identify the make and model from the tires, and we’re trying to ID the body. Bikers wear their road name on their leather vests, but when we contacted his club, they weren’t minded to tell us his real name.”

“I guess not.” She forced a laugh. “And are you supposed to be telling me all this? Won’t people be afraid if they know there’s a killer on the loose and you have no leads?”

“Won’t be for long,” Michael said. “I have a nickname at the ATF. They call me the Bloodhound. I can sniff out clues in the most unlikely places. I haven’t had one unsolved case yet.”

“I’ll rest easy tonight then, knowing you’re on the case.” She tipped her glass to him and drank the rest of her cocktail in one gulp.

“Actually, I came over here because of your shirt.” Michael gestured to her sweatshirt. “There were reports of outlaw bikers in Bolton. They shot up a couple of rooms in a motel. One was rented out under a fake name. Just wondered if you were there at the time. Maybe you saw something…” He sipped his water, watching her over the rim of the glass and it was all she could do to stay in her seat.

“Um … no.” She curled her hand around her empty glass, her knuckles whitening. “I haven’t been there for a long time. This is an … old shirt. But it’s comfortable, so I wear it when I travel.”

“Ah.” He nodded, but his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and the skin on the back of Naiya’s neck crawled.

“I should get going.” She glanced up at the clock, desperate to get away from Michael and his searching gaze.

“Where are you headed?”

“Um … Idaho Springs.” She blurted out the name of the first Colorado town that came to mind since the bus was headed that way.

He waved to the bartender and pointed to Naiya’s glass, gesturing for a refill. “You have lots of time then. The next bus doesn’t leave for an hour. I’ll buy you another drink.”

Damn. She faked a smile and glanced over her shoulder. The bar had quieted down since Michael walked in the door, no doubt because most of the customers were the kind of people who could smell a cop a mile away. So what had happened to her well-honed senses? Probably the same thing that happened the night Viper had lured her to his office at the back of the Black Jack clubhouse. She’d let her guard down. Time to get the walls back up and go on the offensive or the next thing she knew, he’d be carting her off to jail.

“So are you on duty twenty-four seven, or do they give you time off for good behavior?” She tapped her foot to Bon Jovi’s, “Livin’ on a Prayer” and tilted her head to the side in her best imitation of Ally when she was at a bar trawling for fun. A woman with something to hide wasn’t going to hit on the man who could cuff her for real. Or so she hoped.

Michael startled at her sudden change in demeanor, and his brow creased in a frown. “Well I’m pretty much on duty all the time.” He lifted his glass. “Hence the water.”

Hence
. Who talked like that? She couldn’t imagine Holt ever saying hence. She couldn’t imagine him in a suit. Although he’d looked damn sexy in that Black Jack cut. And even more sexy without it.

She gave herself a mental shake. Holt was gone and he wouldn’t be coming back. She’d burned that bridge twice over.

“Are you going to buy yourself an Idaho Springs shirt when you get there?” He gestured to her shirt again. “Seems tourist shirts are gaining in popularity. The owner of the gas station near the crime scene saw a man and a woman wearing Bolton Beaver shirts and riding a motorcycle not long after what we estimate to be the time of death.”

Run. Run. Run.

“Popular place, I guess.” Sweat trickled down her back, but she knew better than to give into her instincts. There was nothing that excited a predator more than fleeing prey. Not that she’d done anything wrong. Well, maybe she had. She’d been an accomplice to murder, an accessory after the fact, and she’d stolen a motorcycle, money, and weapons. This entire situation had thrown her carefully ordered life into chaos, and she couldn’t see a way out. “I’m sure there are lots of people riding motorcycles around here. I can imagine bikers would like the windy roads.”

Michael sighed and rimmed his water glass with his finger. “We’ll never know. Another biker showed up after they left, held a gun to the owner’s head, and took the video surveillance tapes.”

This time her surprise was genuine. “Why would he do that?”

“I thought at first they were working together, but the couple weren’t wearing biker cuts, and I don’t know any outlaw biker who would be seen dead without his cut.” He hesitated, his smile fading. “The owner of the gas station had a good memory for details, though. I have to say, you match his description right down to the shirt.”

Naiya’s heart pounded so hard she thought she would break a rib, and not just from fear. He was toying with her. Like a cat with a mouse. Or a Viper with a fifteen-year-old girl who was flattered by his attention. Well she wasn’t fifteen any more, and she was damn tired of his game. During her internship, she’d hung around with plenty of police and detectives. She’d partied with them, listened to them talk. If he had any evidence other than the vague recollection of a gas station owner, she would be cuffed and in his car already. But since he was clearly fishing, maybe she could turn the situation to her advantage.

“You still owe me a drink.” She patted his knee. “How about you order it while I freshen up?”

He covered her hand with his, trapping it against his leg. “How about you tell me what you were doing at that gas station and where your friend with the motorcycle has gone?”

Game over.

TWELVE

TANK

“Hey, biker. I remember you.”

Tank’s head jerked up and he tried to focus his bleary eyes on the woman standing at the bar beside him. But after eight beers and too many hours drinking at Rider’s Bar alone, it took him a full minute to place the fucking hotalicious babe, her curves spilling out all over the place. In her tight suit, her blonde hair in a sleek bob, a briefcase on the floor beside her, she stood out in the rough, dimly-lit biker bar, with its worn, stained tables, polished wood bar, and bike memorabilia scattered about. If she hadn’t been on the Conundrum news every night at six p.m., and if her face hadn’t been plastered on buses and billboards all over town, he might not have recognized her at all.