In Bed With The Outlaw (10 page)

The coffee pot idea got better every second.

“What club are you from?”

He flashed his rough, yellow smile. His hands flexed, muscles rippling under his shirt. He unsqueezed, lowered the cup, like a child’s tea set in his hand, and then regarded me again, this time with some emotion showing through his icy exterior.

“No, it’s not going to work like that. I asked you first, and you lied, so you don’t get to ask me questions.”

Never taking a sip, he slid the coffee away.

“I’ve got work to do.” I hurried back to Kim, who was watching the whole time but trying to look busy by folding napkins. When she peeked up and her mouth hung open, about to ask questions, I darted away to the kitchen.

There wasn’t much to be done in the kitchen. In the dishwashing area, I moved a silverware basket into the already cramped pile near the sink. My pulse slowed to a normal level. My heart slowly dropped from my throat.

When I hit the floor again, the mysterious stranger was gone. I asked Kim about him but she didn’t help me with any information, just that he left a generous tip. Taking a look out of the window, I made sure to keep myself far back so I couldn’t be seen. No bikes.

I worked my shift and headed home, sure that I would be able to ask Red the next day when The Bastards came in for their normal hearty breakfast.

B
ut the next day
, Red didn’t show up. I wanted to ask The Bastards if they could relay a message to Red for me, but I didn’t think they would. Their eyes were everywhere but on mine.

They took their plates with a grunt.

Lee was there, which I thought would mean another ass grab coming my way, but even Lee wouldn’t look at me. Red must’ve laid down the law. I was truly banished. Was my name on a blacklist somewhere?

I wished I got his cell phone number, but it didn’t seem important at the time. He used to make it a habit of stalking me. When he stopped, I had no way of contacting him.

It got weirder. The next day, the rest of The Bastards didn’t show up.

When I asked Kim if that other creepy biker arrived, she shook her head and kept asking me questions as if I was hiding something from her. On the third day, when The Bastards didn’t show up at their usual time, Francis came to me. Like I had any answers. I was at the line, picking up my plates, when he stormed into the back room, his lower lip quivering and his moustache twitching.

“What did you do? They’re not coming,” he seethed.

“I didn’t do anything.”

That wasn’t entirely true. But I couldn’t see King ever stopping because of me. King always talked about how much he liked the diner’s food. He wouldn’t give it up over some spat between Red and me. That much was already clear.

“Bullshit. I see you riding with one of them, now they’re not showing up. You’ll have to fix this. You will have to. They brought me good business.”

“Trust me, anything I did wouldn’t stop them from coming here. They love this place.”

He curled his lip, looked back to the service door, and thought over what I said. Francis still wagged his finger at me.

“Okay, but if I find out you did this, you’ll have to fix it. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, shoulders shrugging, but not letting up, waiting for him to disappear.

He swung through the doors and headed outside. I went on with business as usual.

I kept looking out of the windows, waiting for the roar of their engines and the sight of the black motorcade falling into formation at their designated VIP parking spaces in front of the diner, but they were a no-show again.

The next day, they didn’t show up again. Francis didn’t bother me about it. He looked more worried than anything.

“I hope something didn’t happen,” he said to me, staring out at the parking lot as I waited for a single tear to roll down his cheek.

“Like what?”

“Anything. Anything could happen to those guys.”

Images of Red, busted up, riddled with bullets, left on some ditch on the side of a desert road, scarred my mind. An urgency to get into contact with him hit me. I wanted to run out of the diner to be sure that he was all right, but then reality flooded back. He didn’t want anything to do with me.

If Red was dead, I probably didn’t even deserve to be at his funeral. He wouldn’t want me there.

Renegade or not, he was a good man. He understood me where others had failed. I would need to send him a message somehow that I was sorry about what happened between us. There would be no repairing our relationship, but at least I could put the fires out on a burning bridge.

I was in quite a bind. Staying away from Red would be best for him in the long run. If I talked to him again, mended things, and I was allowed back into the club, I would technically be screwing him over in the end, but at least he would know that I actually cared about him.

At the end of my shift, I tossed my apron into my car, then with my hair snapped in a bushy ponytail, I headed into the desert, following the path that Red took me weeks ago to calm my mind. Being on the back of his ride, holding him close, was much better than being in my cramped, lonely car. They hadn’t given me a great replacement vehicle.

When I got to the spot where we parked last time, I thought about turning around, but that beautiful sight before me called me closer. Near the beginning of the trail, sticks of chalk were sprawled out under a burnt rock face. Someone drew their names, along with other childish drawings like the sun, two stick figures, and a dick.

They mustn’t have cared about the chalk, so I took a piece and carried it with me to the top. Red told me he would stop there to clear his mind. After our brief yet turbulent relationship, I thought he would need to visit. Climbing up the stone steps, I looked out at the natural bridge stretching over to the mountain lookout, wishing I had someone to share the experience with. Also, someone to hold my hand as I carefully crossed.

A terrible, hollow feeling swallowed me as I thought about dropping off the mountain to not a care from anyone. I continued onward to send him a message.

“I’m sorry. I still want to ride,” I wrote on the rock. I dropped it on the spot where he took me a week ago. If the rain didn’t wash it away, he would get the message.

I didn’t stay long. Seeing the spot where he kissed me last time brought a great heaviness to my heart. I held onto what little hope I had left, that message written in chalk on the top of the mountain, and anxiously returned to my car full of regret.

A
nother three days
without Red and I gave up. I was sure he must’ve seen my message, but he didn’t show up. Neither did the others.

The guys who came and repaired my door didn’t know Red. They said they were contracted from the club.

“Do you have their number?” I asked one, a big, burly guy that looked like a bear lugging around tools.

He laughed at me. “If I did, I wouldn’t give it out.”

I begged him as he worked on putting the new sliding door in. “Please, I need to give them a message.”

He kept working, not looking back at my pleading, puppy dog eyes. “I don’t have the number, sweetheart. I told you.”

“If you do, tell Red that I’m sorry, okay?”

“Sure thing,” he said with a gruff dismissal, turning his back to me and hammering away.

I thought about showing up at their compound, but it was too dangerous. Prospects at the gate wouldn’t recognize my car. They were likely to shoot first and ask questions later. All of those pictures of illegal weapons told me to stay far away until they invited me back.

I finally got an answer, but it wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.

As soon as I parked at the diner for the early bird shift, one of the regulars jogged up to me and asked why the diner was closed.

“Closed?” I craned my neck toward the front door. The sign
always
read open. Like the customer said, it was flipped to close.

My eyes began to cross. “Let me find out,” I told him.

“Okay, okay, come back and tell me,” I heard behind me.

I pushed open the door to see Francis sitting in a booth by himself. The lights were out while he sat with a bottle of Amaro and a cup of coffee, holding a crumpled newspaper in his hands and staring at the words like they were meaningless.

“Francis, what’s going on?”

He slid the paper over to me.

“Sit,” he said, barely moving his lips.

He poured more of the liquor into his coffee.

I took the newspaper as I sat down, a smart move, because as soon as I read the headline, “Blessed Bastard gang leader shot and killed in roadside ambush,” the world spun.

Quickly scanning, I spotted the words, “On the way to The Long Road Diner,” and stopped.

My eyes burned and I blinked fast, hoping they wouldn’t form tears.  I kept reading, trying to read fast but still trying to comprehend.

“The Blessed Bastards, a known motorcycle group, were attacked on their way to The Long Road Diner Wednesday. Early in the morning, at eight thirty a.m., they were ambushed, their caravan riddled with bullets. The President, known as King, was pronounced dead at the scene.”

There was an accompanying photo. His motorcycle resting on its side, a sin to The Bastards, a streak of blood led from the bike’s bars to jagged sprouts of yucca trees in the distance, not far from the spot of my breakdown.

Francis scratched his thinning, wispy hair. His eyes were heavy, something unseen in his diner, like the place actually transferred its bustling energy to him.

I kept reading. It was a long article, but most of it detailed The Bastards and another motorcycle gang, The Defilers, who were rumored to be involved.

Throwing down the paper, I told Francis I needed to leave.

“You’re going to them?”

I tied my apron tighter like getting into my superhero suit. Flying at the speed of light would be helpful.

“If they need anything, I’m here as always.”

“I’ll let you know,” I shouted back to him, then threw open the door, breezing past the customer who was asking why the diner wasn’t open, but I wasn’t listening. My head was dull. But my feet were fast. Getting into my car, I ripped my apron free and popped a few buttons in my long-sleeved white blouse.

Rolling up my sleeves on the highway, the bloody newspaper page kept flashing in my mind, but I kept a steady foot on the gas, a steady grip on the wheel. When I got to the compound sitting in the middle of nowhere, the gates guarded like a maximum-security prison, I slunk down in my seat, preparing for the worst. They would be on high alert from the ambush. Not wanting to get guns pulled on me, I pulled off to the side of the road about a quarter mile from the gates.

Pledges packed high firepower not fifteen feet away. If they wanted to, I was sure they could take me out from where I stood. Breath sucked from my lungs, the dullness in my head suddenly lifted. In its place came a throbbing, urgent call to duck and run. I got out of my car, threw my arms into the air, and hoped for the best.

Red would kill me for putting myself in danger. If he was safe. I hoped he wouldn’t toss me away. Those old ladies had been kind to me. They treated me like one of their own when they didn’t have to. They could’ve fed me to the wolves, but they brought me into their tight circle. Now Joy would be broken, and I needed to help her, to try to repay her back somehow.

“Stay there,” someone shouted from the gate.

“Keep your arms in the air. Don’t move,” another voice shouted.

“I’m a friend,” I yelled back, the words not sounding right at all.

They crept forward with their rifles pointed at me.

“Arms above your head. On your knees,” they barked.

Shit just got real. I dropped to my knees and threw my arms back. With a lump in my throat, I still managed to unwaveringly say, “I’m a friend. I’m here to make sure Red’s all right.”

The three grinned to one another. They wore heavy armor, looking like a SWAT team. They even had radios strapped to their hips.

“Think we should call this in?” one asked.

He elbowed his brother in the rib. I flinched. “Call it in? No. I’m not calling this in. Get her inside first.”

They grimaced. I grimaced back.

“Jesus, get her up and put those guns away,” I heard, and I quirked my head up to see Red approaching, storming through the sandy rocks in his sexy boots. His eyes were heavy, his forehead cracked with creases, wearing a permanent scowl.

Holding a hand out for me to take, he lifted me onto my feet, but that was the extent of his cordiality. I dusted off my thighs. He forced the others back with a wave of his hands to the side, like treading water.

“Why are you here?”

I dropped my hands, which instinctively clutched my sides, wanting to curl up and hide from Red’s wrath. He was quite scary when he was angry.

“Go,” he said to the pledges. They scattered.

“I’m sorry about what happened.”

His lips curved into a smug, hateful look. Did he truly hate me?

“Thanks.” Not missing a beat, he asked, “Is that it?”

I strained a step closer. “Can you give me a chance?”

“What for? You’ve already shown that you don’t want anything to do with me. The decision has already been made.”

“Don’t say that, Red. I’m sorry. I needed to make sure you were okay.”

“You’re not made for this life,” he said, a small, confident smirk growing like he was one-upping me. A part of me hated him for it, a part of me wanted to leap at him and tear him apart. But I knew if he put his hands on me, touched me again, I would instantly be tamed, so I remained there, trying my best not to be turned away.

“Don’t make me go back. I came all this way. I had guns pointed at me.”

In his jacket and thin, white t-shirt, showing off his exquisitely sculpted chest, his bronzed eyes focusing like he was drawing in a cage around me, he drew closer, winding me so tight I thought I would snap. Was there any sign of compassion behind those cruel eyes? I didn’t recognize this Red. He seemed like a different person than the one who shared his feelings on Devil’s Peak. Was this Red capable of emotion?

“I saw your message,” he said dryly.

“You did?” A smile began to grow.

“Do you think a silly little message is going to change anything? You made your choice and I made mine. I’ve determined you’re not capable of being an old lady, let alone a whore in this camp.”

The smile was stomped to mud. The blow struck me and I turned my cheek. Pain wormed its way inside me then came spilling out as he turned his back, “You can turn me away, but don’t stop me from helping the girls. They could use my help.”

He dug his heels in. “You come through these gates, I’m not going to be able to protect you. You’re not mine. You made that perfectly clear.”

“Can we start over?”

He crossed his massive arms and shook his head.

“No can do, Ash. I’m not going for that bullshit.”

“But you’ll let me in?”

Bowing, Red held his open palm toward the gates. “I’m letting you in, but like I said, it’s your decision, and I’m not going to be there to save you.”

I brushed past him, telling him, “I’ll take care of myself here on out. Where can I find the girls?”

Leaving Red behind, groaning and mumbling to himself as he stomped off through the yard, I went inside the apartment building. The front desk and lounge were empty, creating the illusion of a brand hotel that didn’t get much business.