In Bed With The Outlaw (9 page)

I wasn’t done crying.

Whimpering into Red’s pillow, when I smothered it with tears, his distinct musk permeated my senses. I had to throw it against the wall and sleep solely on the mattress.

Eventually I stilled my racing thoughts and passed out. The next morning, I woke alarmed that I had slept late in Red’s bed.

Dehydrated, groggy, with a heavy head, I crawled out and waded my way downstairs, unsure of how to leave. True to his word, Red arranged a ride for me in the morning. He was nice enough for that much.

His younger brother, Jackal, short, slick hair with a wicked grin, waited for me on his bike. They both had strong, firm jaws, the same streaked auburn hair, and the same defined noses, but other than that, they bore little in common. His brother was much more energetic, always smiling, and he wasn’t as bulky, built more like an assassin than a tank.

“Hop on, I’ll take you back.” He tipped his head to me good morning.

I squinted at the early morning sun burning my eyeballs. I tossed an arm to shield myself as I slowly headed for the back of the bike.

“This isn’t like my brother at all. You must’ve really pissed him off.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.”

Jackal shrugged. “He’ll get over it,” he said, trying to be nice, but it was an empty gesture. He didn’t really know what was wrong. The rest of the drive back we were silent. Not even the vibrating beneath me nor the adrenaline-pumping speed could lift my spirits.

Red would never contact me again. He wasn’t the type to get over it. He was one stubborn ass.

As the exit to my apartment drew near, I grew more relieved, still with a heaviness of regret, but there was some relief that I wouldn’t have to continue this charade. I could go back to my life before, solve the case, and try something else. This could be left behind for something more familiar. I wasn’t really supposed to live here, to breathe this foreign air, to be riding on the back of a motorcycle with an outlaw.

It was a nice vacation, but nothing more. I understood that as Jackal dropped me off. It seemed like Red knew as well, because he was effectively dropping me off forever without another word.

“Thanks,” I told Jackal.

He gave me a goodbye nod, revved his engine, and took off.

Glass still covered my living room. A flowery breeze brushed by gently, confusing me how nice it felt, since it was coming out of the broken sliding door. Would Red attempt to fix it now? I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. He helped enough by throwing my ex through it.

There was no use in trying it myself right now. I locked my bedroom door and crashed in my bed. I didn’t get much sleep the night before and my mind was swept up in turbulent emotions, changing from one extreme to the next. In my own bed, I succumbed to exhaustion.

My cell phoned rumbled next to my head, jostling me awake. I grabbed it with one finger and pulled it to my buried eyes, peeling them from the cushion.

Work? I’d forgotten all about my cover story. I would need to get ready for work in an hour. Damn, damn, damn.

There was no time to call off. I’d feel bad leaving Francis short a waitress in such a short amount of time. Besides, I wasn’t sure if the photos I took of the compound the night before would be enough for Wyatt, who I really needed to call sometime soon.

Wyatt could wait. Francis couldn’t. Having two jobs really sucked. This was beginning to all really suck.

Getting dressed into my wholesome black and white outfit complete with my apron, my eyes kept darting to the busted-up mess in my living room. Since I was going to be away from The Bastards for a while, I grabbed my concealed carry revolver and strapped it to a holster wrapped around my lower back. With the apron, and the poofy white shirt, it would never be noticed.

The Taurus .357 magnum is a fine weapon, one that I knew most women, and men, couldn’t handle. The first time I picked it out, I thought smaller would be easier to shoot, but boy, was I wrong. Having a smaller gun with such a powerful round like a .357 meant there would be a lot of kick back, enough to send the gun flying out of my hands. The first shot almost ripped my arms off.

I kept training with bigger guns with easier bullets to handle, like .22s, then moved myself up gradually. When someone tells me I can’t do something, I do it. Now it was mine. A great accomplishment to wear it, to know that I could handle such a powerful gun after a year of intense training. I spent a lot of time at the shooting range, a jolt of excitement after long days in an office.

I had to snicker when a bunch of guys from work would see me with the gun and tell me that I wanted something different. Maybe when I first started out that would be wise advice, but then I would place myself in front of the targets and fire, and they would see my form, see my steady rate of fire, and see the target blasted in the center. That would shut them right up.

Too bad the shooting range wasn’t an option. No one could know I wasn’t the damsel in distress, the helpless female that I was supposed to portray myself as. Shooting a magnum and blowing away targets could always relieve some stress.

I headed for The Long Road Diner to serve a bunch of starving and impatient customers, sure to add to my stress. When I pulled into the parking lot, there was no sign of motorcycles. It would still be a busy shift.

Halfway across the parking lot, a car door closed behind me. I glanced behind me. I didn’t see anyone pull in and I was on my toes from the day before. There was a tall, bald stranger with sunglasses and a business suit nodding at me.

Dust whipping at my ankles. I turned to him.

“Got something for you,” he said.

With caution, I approached. He remained at his driver side door. I looked behind me to check if anyone else was watching.

“Wyatt says to call him,” the man said, pulling something out of his pocket then placing it in my open palm. A burner.

“I think you know what to do with that.”

“Have you been following me?” I studied him carefully.

“No, I’ve got my own business in California. I had to drive a long ways to give you this. I’m too busy for this crap.” Impatiently he grabbed the handle of the door to close it. “Have a nice day,” he yelled, then backed out in a hurry and drove off.

Dropping back into my car, I dialed Wyatt’s number from the burner. He picked up on the second ring.

“What the hell was that?” I yelled.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Are you safe? I haven’t heard from you in days. There better be a good reason.”

Getting ready to try to conceal my outburst, I hunched over in the driver side, managing to withhold my anger.

“You had someone tailing me? He could’ve busted my cover. You might’ve gotten me killed.”

“I thought you might be dead already. And no, he’s not tailing you. He’s handing you the burner and telling your irresponsible ass to give me a call. What’s going on? Please, tell me, because right now I’m ready to pull you out of there myself.”

Like he could.

I was too deep now.

Besides, I had good news for Wyatt. News he would like to hear. “Cool it, Wyatt. I’ve got something. “

“Got something? Go on.”

I flipped through the pictures on my own cell. Roxy showed me around the place, not a long tour, but long enough. After she left me in Red’s place, I snuck out to the equipment room that she mentioned. Being in Red’s room, it was easy to find the keys since he was Sergeant at Arms. He probably didn’t think he needed to hide it, since anyone in the compound would be a brother. They were right on his desk.

Using the key, I granted myself access to the equipment room, a long, wide vault for guns. As soon as the door opened, and the automatic lights flicked on, I knew what I was looking at was highly illegal. The weapons these guys had stockpiled were incredible. They had more weapons than a small country. The ATF would be rubbing their hands with glee if they saw what I stumbled onto.

Automatic rifles, grenades, submachine guns, and what even looked like a rocket launcher and a flamethrower presented themselves to me in that vault. I wondered what more I would find if I went digging. Maybe they had a tank out back. But what I saw was enough to get them put away for a very long time. I snapped the pictures of the most exposed and incriminating evidence.

I flipped through the pictures, over thirty of them as I continued talking to Wyatt. It was a difficult decision. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about erasing the album as I got back to my apartment. With Red gone and Wyatt on the line, it became much clearer. It was time to do my job.

“I have pictures of their arsenal. These guys are stockpiling enough for World War Three.”

“Like what?”

“Automatic assault rifles, grenades, rocket launchers, explosives, whatever else you can think of.”

“You’ve got pictures? How many?”

“Around thirty.”

“I’m guessing they’re on your phone.”

“Yes.”

“All right, good work, Ash. It doesn’t make up for leaving me stressed and on the verge of writing my resignation letter, but it’s a good start.”

“You want more?”

He cleared his throat. I could hear footsteps. I could hear his blinds rattling. Wyatt had an impressive view in D.C., a coveted window office, which he liked to pace in.

“If this is what you’ve got in a week, imagine what other dirt you can dig up if you’re there longer.”

“But isn’t this enough?” I hunkered down again, afraid someone would see me obviously upset. So far, there was no one else in the parking lot, so I was safe, but I couldn’t talk to Wyatt for long before I was late for my shift.

“It’s a good start. A really good start, but it’s not enough, no. It’ll put a couple of them away. We want this whole place to go down. If you can get some documents, maybe something to pin them for trading the weapons, murder, anything like that—”

“I see,” I interrupted while wondering how I could explain that my infiltration seemed over. Red was my ticket and he’d just cast me off.

“You keep up the good work. You keep up your line of communication back home too. I want reports on this daily if possible.”

“Right,” I said. I wanted the call to end so I could go to my job at the diner. I wanted to be on my feet. All of these complicated moral dilemmas were too difficult at the moment.

“So I’ll hear from you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“That doesn’t leave me feeling confident. Please, Ash. Can you please do that for me?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ll fill you in. I got busy. I’ve got to go get busy again. My other job is calling.”

“You’re still doing that?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, take care, Ash. You know what to do with the phone my guy gave you.”

“I know,” I said. I tucked it in my glove compartment to destroy later, then I headed into the diner to start my shift, coming in a few minutes late, but nothing Francis would care about as long as I busted my ass on the floor.

Kim worked the shift with me, which was fine, but I noticed a change in my reactions toward her. Kim wasn’t like the old ladies—cool, confident, independent. No, Kim was deeply unhappy with her station in life. There was another thing that bothered me too, something more important. She thought Red was hot.

Taking a break at the waitressing counter, Kim leaned back, smiled at me, and looked like she wanted to say something.

“Busy day,” I said, breaking the ice. Kim wasn’t bad. I should give her more credit. She was a hard worker. A little meek, got pushed around, but a good worker.

“Yeah, those biker guys aren’t even here. Speaking of that, are you still hanging out with them?”

“Why do you care?”

I watched the customers, seeing if anyone needed anything tended to, but nobody did.

“Are you like one of them now?” She startled herself and tossed her hands on her hips. “Oh, can I even ask that? Are you allowed to say?”

“No, I’m not one of them. And yes, you can say that to me.”

“I saw you riding with him. Red?”

I shot her an angry glare. She was speaking too loud.

“Yeah, Red. Once again, why does it matter?”

She frowned but didn’t answer. She bobbed on her toes to see over the booths. “I think there’s only one of them here today. You know him?” She asked, pointing in his direction, which was clearly a wrong move. Good thing he was sitting with his back turned to us.

He was only a few booths away in Kim’s section.

From the back, I didn’t recognize him. I would need to take a closer look.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said, trying to keep my voice low.

“He's
one of them,
” she said, like he was an alien. I decided to leave her for my tables, only one needing a refill. After pouring and hearing their thanks, I made my way down the aisle to Kim's section.

The man sitting alone in the diner wasn't a Blessed Bastard. He had the look of a skinhead without the Nazi tattoos. Still, lots of other ink, snaking all over his pasty white skin from his ankles to the top of his bald head.

He looked at me and raised his cup. He kept his pitted black eyes on me, and his cup still, wanting me to pour it in the air. I came closer and began to pour. The bold aroma of coffee wasn't enough to stop the queasiness crawling up my throat.

Underneath his neck, scarred and warped like Frankenstein's monster, I tried to see his tat, but he wore a collar that obscured me from seeing. He pulled his arms underneath the table to hide the tats covering his arms. After I was done pouring, he kept the coffee still in the air, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Thanks, babe,” he said.

I’m not your babe. I’m only one man’s babe. Or used to be. I’m no one’s babe now.

“I heard you and your friend talking over there.”

Pursing my lips, I brought the coffee pot close to my chest. Swing it at his head and run? No, that would never work. Francis would be pissed. We didn’t swing coffee pots at customers.

“You ride with The Bastards?”

“No.”

He nudged his elbow toward Kim. A brazen smile crept across his lips.

“You sure about that? That’s not what I heard your girlfriend over there say.”