Only Witness, The

The Only Witness: The Center City Series: Book One

Shannon Flagg

Shannon Flagg (2014)

Tags: Literature & Fiction, Romance, Contemporary, Paranormal, Werewolves & Shifters

Vera Warren liked her life just the way it was, quiet and uncomplicated. In the blink of an eye both go out the window when she sees something no one was intended to see. When Deacon “Deke” Hawke, President of the The Vikings MC and her secret crush, shows up at her door, she can't be certain that he's there for the reason he says or because he knows what she saw.

Deacon “Deke” Hawke had everything that he ever wanted. He sat at the head of his table, ran a successful business and was never at a loss for female company. The last thing he wanted was to get involved with anyone. Without warning, everything changes and he finds himself thrust into a life and death battle with Vera at his side.

Lives will be lost. Secrets will be revealed and the only thing that's certain is that nothing is certain.

The Only Witness

The Center City Series

Book One

By: Shannon Flagg

THE FREAK CIRCLE PRESS

The Only Witness © Shannon Flagg

All rights reserved

Shannon Flagg has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Susan Fanetti

Dedication:

Thanks goes to Piper P. and Malia G. who always believed in my ability as a writer, even when I didn't. Love you Ladies. Thanks also go to my lovely Freaks, you know who you are and that I adore you all beyond reason.

And to Susan Fanetti, I couldn't have done this without you and more importantly, I wouldn't have wanted to. I love you.

The Only Witness

Chapter ONE

              The best thing about Vera Warren's day was that it was over, and now there was wine. It was her own fault, really; she'd gone out for lunch and chose to go to Rose's, where she would have a great view of the main office of Valhalla Trucking, because she wanted to catch a glimpse of Deacon Hawke—or Deke, as he was better known to friends and enemies alike. Vera preferred to think of him as Deacon when she did think of him, which was quite often since they'd been properly introduced by Adelaide, his sister, at a party.

              Sure, she'd known who he was because she'd grown up in Center City, but she'd never felt any sort of pull towards him. Since they'd had a five minute conversation, she did. It was becoming the bane of her existence, because Deacon Hawke was not the sort of man who looked twice at a woman like her, especially not when there were women who looked like the brunette he'd been kissing hanging all over him.

              It wasn't that she was jealous, which admittedly she was; it was more that she was disappointed, because somewhere inside she kept harboring the hope that he'd look at her one day and something would just click for him. She'd been reading too many damn romance novels, that was for sure.

              Vera flipped the sign on the front door of her shop, New to You, from “open” to “closed.” This was her favorite time of night; the quiet time when she'd count out her register, prepare her deposit, straighten the stock and not have to deal with the customers. A few weeks ago, after she'd completed her tasks she'd have grabbed her things, set the alarm and left for home. Now this was home. Rent had been eating up too much of her income, so she'd done the responsible thing when her lease ended and moved into the small apartment over the shop.

              It was a tiny one bedroom with barely any closet space and slanted walls, which were actually her favorite part of the space. Vera had ideas of painting them a light, bright color to give the illusion of more space, but she hadn't gotten around to it just yet. The lack of space had been an adjustment but had also bolstered her stock. Her things, the ones that she could bear to part with at least, were mingled in with items she'd procured from garage and estate sales and storage locker auctions. All things considered, the shop was doing well; people were more inclined to buy gently used when they were keeping a tight hold on their purse strings, and her products were all in superior condition or she wouldn't even consider them.

              One glass of wine turned into two as she finished up and shut off all but the lighting directly in front of the door before heading up to her new home. A smile crossed her face when she was finally able to get out of her clothes, toss them into the hamper and slip on a silky pair of pajama bottoms with a matching tank top.

              Dinner was easy to decide. It was a diet week, so into the microwave went one essentially tasteless frozen entree that wouldn't cancel out too many of the calories she'd burned on her predawn run that morning. A third glass of wine accompanied the meal, along with an erotic romance novel on her tablet.

              Vera's life was a quiet one, just how she liked it. Quiet was easy. Quiet was simple, simple was good. She didn't want or need complications. Everything that she could possibly need was right at her fingertips. Out of habit she washed her wine glass, straightened up the kitchen before heading to her bedroom and small bath. The window was open; the soft sounds of the night filtered in, but the quiet was shattered. Her heart began to work harder as the motorcycle engine drew closer. From the sound of it she realized it was a single bike. Hope roared to life inside her that it was Deacon, that he was coming to see her, even as the more logical part of her brain said it was someone taking a shortcut.

              Vera finished washing off her face, applied lotion and picked up her tablet. She probably should pick a murder mystery or thriller instead of the steady diet of romance, which was obviously turning her delusional. There was no reason why Deacon Hawke would come see her.

              “What the fuck is this? This is not our deal!”

              An angry male voice shouted the words, and Vera recognized it before she even reached the window. Grant Caldwell was well known around town for his temper and for generally being a fuck-up. His parents had retired to Florida several years before, and he'd gone from being an affable fun drunk to someone who could fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. The last time that Vera had gone to the bar down the street, aptly named The Bar, for a cold drink, Grant had flipped over two tables, shattering a bunch of glasses, because he claimed to have given the bartender a twenty and she’d only given him change for a ten.

              Vera laid the tablet down, eased out of bed and was glad that she had the lights off. It would have been impossible to be nosy if her shadow would be on display. Her heart was pounding a little hard as she shifted the bedroom curtain slightly, just enough so that she could look out and be sure that anyone who looked back wouldn't notice.

              There were two men, Grant and a tall man wearing a ball cap and a dark leather jacket. A tingle of recognition slid through her. Even without his cut and his back to her, she knew that she was looking at Deacon Hawke. She couldn't name everything that The Vikings were involved in; she was sure the protection money that they collected from her and other shopkeepers weekly was only the tip of the iceberg.

              The scene just screamed tension to her. Deacon took a step forward, and Grant dropped to his knees. She was sure that he'd said something, but his voice didn't carry far enough for her to hear. Whatever was said, Grant was obviously frightened by it.

              “Please. No, you don't have to do this. We can...”

              The plea was cut off by a backhand to the face. It struck her as odd; Deacon seemed more a punch straight to the face type of guy, but maybe he was trying to prove a point to Grant. It was pretty damn humiliating to be bitch smacked when you had balls. It was also a bad sign, for Graham, that Deacon wasn't wearing his cut. She'd read a little about MC culture online and knew that the distinctive colors would sometimes be left off for things they didn't want linked back to the club. Graham continued to beg and plead, his motions becoming more animated as Deacon reached beneath his jacket.

              Vera felt her stomach clench tightly. The barely-there light of the moon illuminated what he had reached for; even at the distance she could see that it was a gun. “Holy fucking shit!” Vera clapped her hand over her mouth as if they would hear her if she spoke. She kept it there even as her stomach churned sickly. A man was about to be murdered right before her eyes.

              She should do something! What kind of person just stood by and watched another human being die? It wasn't the way that her parents had raised her. She'd come from a good home, been taught right from wrong, but she didn't reach for the phone on the side of her bed. No, calling the police was not an option, because it was a direct move against The Vikings.

              In her line of work she'd had to deal with them for years, knew most by name. Some of their wives, or Old Ladies as they called them, liked to shop in the store, and they were as nice as any of her other customers, just like the men who came in weekly to collect their protection money were always nice. The thing was, as nice as they were, they'd proven to have deserved the reputation they carried as being outside of the law badasses.

              Rumors ran rampant, whispered from person to person, of their involvement in drugs, guns, murder for hire and even human trafficking. Vera didn't deal in rumors. Her personal experience told her all that she needed to know. If you wanted to stay breathing you stayed out of The Vikings’ way.

              She remained on her knees, which were beginning to ache from the pressure, next to the window and watched, even though her mind screamed for her to look away as Deacon leveled the gun at Grant's face. There was no loud shot; her mind registered that the gun must have been silenced, because Grant was on the ground without the loud boom that she'd expected.

              It might have been a trick of the light or of her eyes, but she was certain she could see a pool of blood flooding around his now prone body. He hadn't stood a chance. Vera's stomach lunged and lurched, she managed to keep down her diet friendly meal and kept her eyes on the scene.

              “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” And just in case she wasn't clear she repeated the curse over and over like a mantra. She stayed as still as a statue, sure that he couldn't see her because of the lack of light but terrified to move and give away her position. So she sat there, eyes trained on the scene, as an SUV pulled in a few moments later. A second man, one she didn't recognize, got out of the truck and stood over the body with Deacon. After a few minutes the two men began to move. A tarp was taken from the back and the body rolled and wrapped in it before being placed into the SUV. It all happened quickly, and then the motorcycle was following the SUV out of the lot, and for all intents and purposes it was like nothing had even happened.

              It was now safe for her to move, but Vera couldn't. One fact kept repeating over and over through her head: she was the only witness to a crime that would put the most powerful man in Center City in jail for a very long time if the truth ever came out. That truth wouldn't come from her, she knew that much. First of all because it was tantamount to suicide; there would be no place far enough for her to hide from the wrath of The Vikings. And second, as much as she didn't want to admit it, she would miss seeing Deacon around town, even if it meant seeing him with someone who wasn't her.