Rev (8 page)

THE FIRST THING
I notice as I pull myself from sleep is how rank my breath is. My teeth and tongue are covered in a layer of fuzz that would offend most bums. I let out a stinky, frustrated breath. Waking up, no matter the time, always sucks. But this morning sucks even worse, because I’m cramping all over. My back aches, and so do my legs and arms. I move slightly and cringe from the stiffness that’s set into my entire body. I lift my head from my pillow and open my eyes, finding that I’m shrouded in near total darkness.

Across the small room is a wide, single-pane window that’s mostly covered by thick blinds, but slivers of pale light shine through. It’s just barely enough to confirm the fear that’s been creeping up since taking that first rank breath of alertness. I’m not at home.

I’m not the kind of girl who can assume that she tied one on the night before and let a stranger take her home. And I’m
really
not the kind of girl who wakes up, achy all over, in a room she doesn’t recognize. At least not anymore.

“Mindy,” I rasp out and swing my head from one side of the room to the other. Everything around me blurs, and I slow myself down so I don’t pass out. I call for Mindy again, only to find that she’s not answering. Surely, if I’m in a strange place, there must be an explanation for it. And Mindy and I do just about everything together now that I’ve moved home, so if I’m here, that must mean she is, too.

The door on the far side of the room swings open. An imposing body, too large to be a woman, stands in the doorway, blocking the light hanging overhead behind him. His shadow casts into the room, disappearing in the darkness, and a brief spark of recognition ignites somewhere in me.
A huge bulking frame leans over me with his hand on my lower abdomen, above my hip.

Grady.

I move back toward the headboard, but dull pains emanate from just above my right hip and I let my arms fall to my sides as I sink back into the mattress. It reminds me of everything that happened, and I groan. The last person I want to rely on is Sterling Grady.

He lifts his arm and flicks the light on, temporarily blinding me. When my vision returns I see that my surroundings are sparsely decorated, with only the basics present. This space is clearly impersonal.

Grady stares at me from his position in the doorway. He looks so cold and calculating. Something feels different about him now, not that he’s ever been particularly friendly in the past. He strides into the room, and it’s like he’s brought an arctic blast with him. He’s all hulking muscle and wide strides and penetrating gaze.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. He clears his throat and eyes my belly. It’s likely the first kind thing he’s said to me.

“I’m sore,” I say. “Shouldn’t I be at the hospital?”

“What do you remember?” he asks, totally ignoring my question. Just like always, he redirects the conversation to where he wants it to go. Control freak.

“Pardon?” I say, trying to stall. My women’s intuition is on high alert, telling me that something isn’t right here. I’ve spent most of my life with the club at arms’ length, and have gone to school with a few of the members of the club—and some of their wives and girlfriends. I’m not naïve enough to think that the club doesn’t run this town. Uncle Harry is always complaining about how the club members can get away with murder—and he’s quite convinced they have—as long as they continue to fund new playgrounds and keep the drug deals beyond the town’s border.

“You’re bruised up pretty good. It wasn’t much more than a flesh wound, but you are one dramatic bitch. You’re going to be sore for a little while, but you’re fine. Now, tell me—what do you remember?”

“I,” I say and then shut it down. Calling me a bitch time and time again is a cheap way to throw his weight around. I only wish it didn’t bother me. His demeanor is off-putting and makes me think twice about telling him the truth. I remember everything, I think, but he doesn’t need to know that. I want to yell at him that I’ve never been shot before and that I don’t do well with the sight of blood. Even the suggestion of dripping blood freaks me out, but I suppose a man in his position is used to seeing bullet wounds and he wouldn’t understand.

“I don’t know.”

Three long strides and two frustrated breaths later, he’s in my space, looming over me. His eyes narrow and he places his hands on his hips. “You lying to me?” he asks.

Even though I lived in the Bay Area for years, there are some things I never could forget. Like the rumbling of the engines as the Forsaken Motorcycle Club makes its way through town. So loud and powerful that the bikes shake the earth beneath them. And the men—mostly young, and all built like brick houses—all have these badass “I can do what I want” attitudes. Even the memories of the sticky sweet air when you’re even within a few blocks of the ocean faded in time, but the few club memories I have never did. The mugginess of the air and the Pacific, and even the people here—it’s nothing compared to the club and all that it means.

My Uncle Harry would have everyone believe that the club is the epitome of evil—that they’re good for nothing—and he tells everyone who stands to listen how he wishes to rid the town of the club for once and for all. So even admiring the deep roar of the engines and the chaotic presence of the club, I never ventured to even so much as smile at any of them. Sure, when they did things to help the community, like putting a new roof on the library, the town gathered ’round the ribbon cutting ceremony and thanked the club—most especially the president, Jim Stone, and his wife, Ruby—but beyond attending those events in the back and without personally thanking them for anything, I’ve done well to stay away from them.

And now…

Oh, Uncle Harry would be so angry right now. And my father—he would have a fit and demand that Uncle Harry swoop in with his boys and the captain of the force to get me out of here before Grady does something awful. Because Uncle Harry has Dad convinced that the club is full of a bunch of rapists and drug dealers who pride themselves on being cruel to those around them. I can’t say much for Grady, but the club president never struck me as particularly awful. I’ve seen Jim Stone with his wife and their sons, Ryan and Ian. The way Ruby looks and talks about Jim—according to Mindy—she absolutely adores him and doesn’t take crap from anybody. So I’m thinking that maybe Uncle Harry is a bit misguided and that he just doesn’t like the fact that the club has more control and influence over his town than he and his fellow officers do—even if Grady is no better than road kill in my opinion.

“No,” I say. I really do hate to lie, but I don’t know what kind of situation I’m in here. There’s no telling what he’s going to do with me. I’m an injured witness to a shooting incident in town. I’m also the
bitch
who has the audacity to be concerned about his daughter’s future. If he knows that I remember everything, I could be in a whole mess of trouble.

He leans over me, his large frame blocking out all light, and all I can see and sense is him. Tilting his face toward me, and catching my eyes, he shakes his head. “I don’t believe you,” he says.

I shouldn’t lie. It’s not so much a morality thing as it is a “I’m bad at it” thing. I really am absolutely horrid at lying to just about anyone regarding anything. Even to save my own skin, apparently.

“I’m not asking you to believe me,” I say.

“Are you scared of me?” he asks in a dry tone. His lips twitch upward and his eyes practically dance with amusement.

“You wish,” I say, and force myself not to purse my lips. It’s my tell—or the one that everyone close to me says always gives me away. Grady doesn’t need, nor does he deserve, to know this about me.

“You’re awful mouthy for someone who’s laid up in
my
house,” he seethes.

“You should have taken me to a hospital,” I say, and drag myself up onto the stack of pillows behind me, ignoring my discomfort.

“What do you remember?” he says, irritation evident in his voice.

“Nothing really,” I say and try to think how to word what I’m going to say to him. “I was going for lunch. I wanted a burger.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” I say. My lips purse against my will, but when I catch it, I stop myself.

“Listen, I can’t help you if you don’t let me. Bad shit went down, and you got hurt. I’m sorry for that.”

“I don’t remember anything else, but this has to go two ways. I just remember really wanting a burger. Now, answer my question—why am I not in a hospital?” Even though I know the words come out of my mouth, I’m still surprised to hear them aloud. In the back of my head I can hear my conscious screaming at me to shut up. The more I keep asking questions, the more obvious it’s going to be that I remember something.

“Holly Mercer, age twenty-six, cousin Mindy Mercer, Uncle Harry is a sergeant for the Fort Bragg P.D. Dad is an electrician, mom stays home, and older brother, Theo just got married. Pretty wife,” he says with a slight smile on his face. It’s not a kind smile—it’s more like he’s happy to have the upper-hand. I gulp and steel my jaw to keep my fear from showing too much. He already knew who I was, but him knowing my family as well as he does is disconcerting.

“How do you know all of that?” I ask, stumbling over my own words.

“It’s my job to know,” he says. “Now, I’m going to ask you a few questions, and do keep in mind that I already know some of the answers, so it’s in your best interest to be honest.”

“Why do you need to ask me anything if you already know the answers?” I can only explain my attitude by saying that I’m in pain. Because any other explanation involves admitting my own stupidity. Pissing him off when I’m mobile and we’re in public is one thing, but alone in his house when I’m unsure how quick I can actually move is quite another.

“Do you know what this cut means?” he asks and points at his leather vest.

“Yes,” I say, barely able to hold back the comment that’s on the tip of my tongue. My stomach aches, and my back is practically throbbing from the soreness of lying in bed for what I assume to be hours on end. It’s unwise, but more than almost anything, I want to tell him it makes him look like a member of the village people.

“Then you know what I am,” he says. It’s not a question; it’s confirmation. I nod.

“I figured out what you are a long time ago,” I say and let the insults fly in my head. Asshole. Jerk. Idiot. Criminal. ”I want to go home.”

“That can be accomplished a few different ways. It’s up to you.”

“Okay,” I mutter. “Lay it out for me.”

“Now we’re talking.” His stoic face relaxes some. “You saw something you shouldn’t have, and you're smart enough to know that I can't let you leave here and run your mouth about it. I can’t keep this town clean if you won’t let me.”

“The club helps the town, and the town helps the club. I get it.” I say the words, but I don’t buy them. Towns across the globe survive just fine without this kind of extortion ring working.

“Good girl,” he says with a nod. I shouldn’t find the slick way the words fall off his tongue to be attractive, but I do.

“You came back to town a few months ago—broke off your ass. Lived with mom until this past week. You don’t make shit, and you got some debt. Bet you could use some cash.”

It’s true, I do have debts that are long overdue to be paid. I hate that I can’t pay them, but I don’t think taking money from this man is the right answer.

“I don’t want your money. I won’t say anything.”

He doesn’t say a word. He just straightens his back and walks across the room then leans against the wall. Everything about the way he moves and talks exudes a sort of confidence I don’t think I’ve seen in anyone else. He’s definitely been here before. I wonder how many people he’s been able to intimidate into doing his bidding.

“That’s generous, but that’s not how this works. You’re giving us your silence, and we need to give you something in return—and 25k is nothing to turn your pretty little nose up at. Anything else means we owe you, and make no mistake about it, babe—Forsaken don’t owe anybody any favors.”

Grady crosses his arms over his chest and stares at me thoughtfully. I give it a moment to think the situation over. I don’t have any options, really. I’ve heard enough from Uncle Harry how this works. People don’t say no to the club—not drug dealers, or addicts, not the police, and certainly not the rest of us. Uncle Harry won’t give details, but he’s said enough. The people who do say no to the club end up paying for it in some way they don’t like. I don’t want to be one of those people, but maybe there’s another option.