Saved by the Outlaw: Motorcycle Club / Hitman Romance (6 page)

Before I can think better of it, before I can ask what will become of my rental car, before I can talk myself out of it, I do exactly as he says. I climb onto the motorcycle behind him, clinging to his hard chest as we peel out onto the road in the opposite direction of the police sirens.

M
y bike feels
unfamiliar with the weight of someone else on it. I live on my bike more than I do on my own two feet, more often than not, and my bike feels comfortable enough under me that it’s like just another appendage. So having someone hanging on behind me feels as unusual as a new arm.

“Where are we going?” I hear Cherry shout from behind me as I tear through the streets, but I don’t bother trying to answer. The wind would just take the words from me, if she isn’t used to talking on a bike.

Instead, I just nod to the alley I’m about to turn down, and I pull her hands a little tighter around my waist before taking a sharp turn around a corner.

I have to be quick. The local police are probably the only ones who know the back alleys of Bayonne as well as we do, and I don’t know which officers are tailing me. For all I know, it could be some rookie too new to town to know not to answer this call, or it could be a couple of seasoned veterans with an FBI agent right behind them. The wake of a shooting isn’t the time to take those kinds of chances.

Mickey’s isn’t far from the worse-off parts of town, but as I take us through the back alleys and narrow side-streets that make up the older parts of Bayonne, things get a little rougher pretty quickly. We pass by yards with run-down cars in them, a few of them with cinderblocks holding them up where the tires should be. There’s an old American flag waving on tarnished flagpoles over a house with a couple of boarded-up windows. There’s a family with at least ten children holding what looks like a little quinceañera outside, the father wearing tattered overalls and the mother with a tired look on her face as she herds the group around.

This is where most of the workers live, and I know it’s thoroughly our territory. The sooner we can find somewhere to hide out in a place like this, the easier it will be for the two of us to utterly vanish. As we pass by, some of the locals who happen to be in their front yard give us friendly greetings. A young man with arms stained black from working at a repair shop gives us a smile and a wave while he gets his mail as I drive by, and I nod back. An older guy with a limp who I recognize as a local school bus driver does the same as he gets out of his vehicle, just now off work.

A middle-aged woman tending her garden down the road notices us approaching, and she makes her way to the sidewalk and flags us down. I recognize her as one of the workers from the factory a few blocks off the docks; she and her wife have shared a drink with the club more than a few times.

“What’s goin’ on?” she says by way of greeting, giving both of us a curt nod. “Everything alright? Got a new face with you, Prez.” She’s not a club member, but it’s become kind of a town nickname for me. A few people have talked about making me president of the union when we get things back together, but for the time being, I know it’s just a term of endearment.

“Need a place to lay low,” I say, and she gives another sharp nod.

“Say no more. Loretta’s sick inside, otherwise I’d let you crash here, but the Lawrences across the street look like they’ve got doors open to ya.”

I turn my head, and I see the face of the elderly Gerald Lawrence poking out the door of the old brownstone. A smile and give him a nod before turning back to the woman. “‘Preciate it, Jan.”

“Is everyone in town this friendly?” Cherry asks from behind me. Jan laughs back.

“For Prez, yeah. Union boys have given us more of a leg up than all the cops in town put together, chickadee. You’re in good hands.”

Before Cherry can reply, I turn the bike towards the brownstone and pull around the residence, carefully moving my bike around the back where it’ll be at least partially out of sight. In the little strip of land that makes for a backyard, Wanda Lawrence steps out from the backdoor, leaning on her cane and giving us both a loving smile.

“Well look who it is, long time no see, Leon! Come on in, come on in, Gerald says you’d like a place to rest while things settle down outside.”

“Much obliged, Mrs. Lawrence,” I say gratefully while I help Cherry off the bike.

“Are they alright? Are you sure this is safe?” Cherry whispers to me after she takes her helmet off and shakes out her hair. I give her a boyish grin back, unable to keep myself from appreciating how good she looks.

“Relax. These two go way back with me. This is a safe place to lay low for a few hours while the cops buzz off.”

Cherry looks uncertain, but she nods, following me up to the door as Wanda holds it open for us, smiling warmly as we step into the quaint little kitchen. Gerald is standing inside, still casting glances at the front window as he makes his way to the kitchen to give my hand a firm shake.

“Thanks for this,” Cherry says, venturing to break the ice with what were total strangers to her. “We really appreciate it.”

Gerald lets out a hearty laugh. “Oh, you must be new around town — Leon here has more than earned a place here any time. When Wanda had her fall last year, his boys made sure groceries got here every week while I had to run the shop.”

“Not like Anya wouldn’t have done it herself if we didn’t know about it,” I answer with a chuckle, and Gerald nods, a hint of sadness still in his eyes at the mention of the name.

“Why don’t you two get settled in the living room while we make you all some coffee?” Wanda offers, and I give her a nod.

“Thanks, ma’am.” I lead Cherry to the cramped living room, covered in old, musty furniture, the walls invisible under all the pictures of the cute old couple’s family and life together. It’s a quaint little place.

Cherry takes a seat on one of the armchairs across from me. I can tell she looks more than a little uncomfortable, and I can’t really blame her. It’s been a hell of a day for her, to put it lightly.

As the owners head back into the kitchen to give us some privacy, Cherry finally looks me in the eye, chewing her lip a moment before speaking.

“What happened to this place, Leon?”

There it is. The question I knew would be coming from the moment I knew it was Cherry come back to town.

“That’s a big question, Cherry,” I say with a sigh. “Where do you want me to start?”

Cherry seems at a loss for a moment, but then just gestures vaguely outside. “I mean, all
this
. My school bus dropped kids off in this neighborhood when we were in high school. It wasn’t anything like this back then. I remember green grass and pretty decent houses. I know you see things differently when you’re a kid, but…”

“Things went downhill pretty fast while you were gone,” I say, and the memory of those old times takes me back to a place I hadn’t thought of for a long while. Cherry was having that effect on me in more ways than one, I was starting to realize. “I know your dad didn’t see eye-to-eye with what those of us in the union were doing during the strike, but once the bosses broke us up, it was easy for them to start driving this town into the dirt. Wages dropped, people spent less and worked more, and the only people who kept their pockets lined were the goons up top.”

I can tell Cherry looks a little skeptical. Part of that is her instinct to question, I know. She’s always had that kind of spark to her, came from her father. But I know she probably has a different predisposition to this place than us locals do.

“So what, the union dies and poverty just kind of...happens? I know everyone seems to like you pretty well around here, Leon, but I mean, how bad can they make it? Dad wasn’t big on the unions, and he seemed to do fine after the bust.”

“Lotta the folks who didn’t side with the union came out alright in the aftermath,” I agree with a nod, “but he took a pay cut just like everyone else. You don’t remember him working later nights for the time before you left?”

Cherry furrows her brow, and the pieces begin to fall together in her mind. “He said he was putting aside cash for a college fund when he started moonlighting.”

“A lot of people had to start ‘saving for a special occasion’ after the bust,” I say, a grim smile on my face. “I know your dad didn’t always love what we did, Cherry, but those of us the bosses decided to strike back at felt it hard. Nowadays, this club is the only thing keeping the place together. It’s not like it’s ideal, but until they listen to our demands, it’s what we’re forced to do to survive.”

Cherry looks like she’s starting to understand, but to drive things home, I nod my head up to one of the pictures on the wall. It shows a young man and a woman who looks like she’s got as much Russian in her as all the rest of the immigrants.

“See that? The guy in that photo is Henry Lawrence — Gerald and Wanda’s son. He was one of ours.”

“I didn’t see him at the liquor store,” Cherry says.

“No, but the lady, Anya, pushed past you there,” I point out, and I see recognition in Cherry’s face. “The two of them got hitched a few years back. Real happy couple, both of ‘em.” I smile, remembering the wedding party the two of them had, and it seemed like a lifetime ago.

“The cops brought Henry in a few years ago as a suspect in a robbery. Claimed he was an accomplice of a couple of strangers from out of town who hit a convenience store off the interstate. He just happened to be patrolling in the area, and they took him in.” I pause, my lips tight for a moment. “He died while the police had him. Official story was he was resisting, tried to jump the cops in transit. Everyone who knows Henry knew he couldn’t hurt a fly, but those fuckers…”

Cherry is paying rapt attention, and I lean forward, clasping my hands together.

“Anya was inconsolable for the longest time. She was a nurse back then, but after Henry died, she took his place in the club. Still rides his bike and wears his kutte to this day. Nowadays, she’s our medic. She’ll be making sure those workers back at the liquor store are well taken care of on their way to the hospital. I wouldn’t put it above the cops around here to try and make sure they don’t pull through so they can’t testify to anything in court. As if most of the judges aren’t bought.”

Cherry is quiet for a long time, a thoughtful expression on her features. As I watch her, I realize that while I’ve grown so hard over the years, developed such a thick skin to resist all the constant repression the people of the town face while just trying to scrape by... Cherry hasn’t lost one iota of the youthful energy she had the day she left. She’s as vigorous as she is gorgeous, like a bolt of lightning trying to surge through her old hometown and hitting resistance she wasn’t expecting to find.

I have to admit, jaded as I am, it’s a little inspiring to see. A lot inspiring, actually.

“To say Dad didn’t approve of what you all were doing is putting it lightly,” Cherry says with a small smile. “Especially after the name ‘Union Club’ started cropping up.”

“He always was a straight arrow,” I say with a laugh, shaking my head. “And to be honest, I don’t blame him. It’s a scary thing to see an MC crop up in your front yard, I can understand that.”

“These people really seem to value you, though,” Cherry admits, glancing back to the kitchen, where the smell of fresh coffee has started to waft from. “Hell, maybe…” she pauses, obviously uncomfortable getting her thought out. She opens her mouth to continue, and I suspect I know what she’s going to say, but she lets the words die in her mouth as Wanda comes shuffling into the room with a broad smile on her face.

“Here we are. I hope neither of you wanted decaf.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile, taking the coffee and feeling invigorated by the smell alone as Wanda hands Cherry her mug.

“Now let me tell you, dearie,” Wanda tells Cherry with a grandmotherly smile, “I don’t know how long you’ve been in town, but if you’re riding with Leon here, why, you couldn’t be in better hands.”

“It sounds like it,” Cherry says with a nervous laugh. I can’t help but grin. She seems a little uncomfortable around older people. I forget that living in a city like she has can let you stick to your own age group pretty exclusively.

She and Wanda exchange some brief small-talk about where she’s from and where she’s lived, and while she does, I find myself surprised by an old, familiar feeling in my chest.

I only knew Cherry for the shortest of times when she was in town, sure. But seeing her again has been like seeing the ghost of an old friend. Maybe she just reminds me of the life I used to see in Bayonne, before the bosses had a chance to really dig their claws in. But the more I watch her mannerisms, the way she unconsciously plays with a lock of her hair, the way she talks...I don’t know. I feel like I’m talking to an old sweetheart. I find a smile playing across my face involuntarily, and I’m only snapped back to reality when I feel a hand on my shoulder suddenly.

I jerk my attention up to see Gerald giving me a knowing smile, and I feel color in my face as I give a quiet scoff and focus on my coffee again. I shouldn’t get distracted like this, anyway. We may be out of the frying pan for now, but as the saying goes —

As if on cue, all four of us nearly jump as a loud pounding sound knocks at the door.

“
O
h no
,” I murmur, scooting over closer to Leon on the floral couch. The police have found us. We’ve been caught. I glance suspiciously at Gerald and Wanda standing in the kitchen, wondering if maybe they’ve turned us in. Wanda might have called the cops while we were busy talking to Gerald. I don’t want to believe any of that, as the old couple seems so warm and genuine, but in my current state of fear my brain is just searching for someone to blame.

“Who’s that there?” Wanda calls out sweetly. She hobbles into the living room, leaning on her cane. When she catches my eye she gives me a wink and a smile. As if she knows exactly what’s going on.

The pounding at the door gets louder as a second voice outside shouts, “URGENT BUSINESS ABOUT YOUR FLOWER BEDS!”

At the sound of his voice, I can feel Leon’s shoulders relax and his fists unclench. I give him a look of confusion. Why isn’t he panicking like I am? What the hell is the cop talking about? Flower beds? Is this some kind of weird, elaborate prank?

Leon stands up and pats Wanda gently on the shoulder as he makes his way to the front door. I want to run after him and pull him away, hide him from the cops. Surely he isn’t stupid enough to answer the door himself! Doesn’t he know they’re here to arrest him? That filthy slimeball Mickey Lamar probably pinned the shooting on Leon and now they’re booking him in for attempted murder or something.

“Alright, alright!” Leon says loudly as he turns the front door handle and opens it. I cautiously get up and look around the corner to see Leon facing down a pair of officers.

“What is he doing?” I hiss, biting my lip worriedly. Wanda appears at my side looking very calm and sagacious. She puts a hand on my arm and shakes her head, still smiling.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t worry. It’s all under control. They’re on our side,” she informs me quietly. Gerald comes walking around the corner with his lopsided gait to stand by Leon at the front door.

“What seems to be the matter, fellas?” he asks gruffly. But there’s a hint of sarcasm to his voice, like he’s simply reading from a script and finding it more than a little amusing.

“Routine business, sir,” responds the first officer. “May we step inside?”

“Of course, of course. Anything for the strong and just arm of the law,” the old man answers with a deep belly laugh. He stands aside and spreads one arm in a gesture of welcome, and the two officers walk in.

“Let me start a pot of tea and fetch us some sandwiches,” Wanda pipes up brightly, taking me by the hand suddenly. “I’m sure you’re all famished!” she adds as she nudges me alongside her to the kitchen.

“Thanks, ma’am,” says officer number two.

Standing at the little wooden island counter, I lean back to peer around the corner into the living room, where Gerald, Leon, and the two policemen are gathering now, talking in hushed voices. Wanda is humming some upbeat tune as she takes various items out of the cupboards and refrigerator, setting them down on the counter in front of me.

“What the hell is going on?” I whisper urgently. Wanda turns around to face me, beaming. She slides a bagged loaf of bread toward me and sets a butter knife down.

“We’re making sandwiches,” she quips lightly.

“I can see that,” I reply, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. The whole Stepford Grandmother routine is getting old. I just want to know why, after Leon and I took every precaution to avoid being caught, the men are now simply shooting the breeze with a pair of cops in the living room ten feet away.

“Turkey, swiss, lettuce, tomato, and mustard. I suppose that’ll do!”

“Why are the cops here?” I ask in an undertone.

“Sorry, dear, I’m a bit hard of hearing!” Wanda shoots back, still preparing the sandwiches as though everything is perfectly normal. This is getting ridiculous.

I drop the loaf of bread and storm into the living room despite Wanda’s feeble protests behind me. Walking straight up to circle of men, I demand, “Could someone
please
tell me what’s going on right now! Are we under arrest, or what?”

The officers blink confusedly at me, then they both start to chuckle.

“Wow, I’ve never seen someone so eager to incriminate herself,” says the first one, whose name badge reads SAMUELS.

The second one, whose lapel bears the name GREENE laughs, “I wish we were here to arrest you. It’d be an easy job.”

“Cut her some slack, gentlemen,” Leon interjects, though he’s smiling, too. “This is a new friend of mine. She’s not fully initiated yet, alright?”

“New friend, eh?” Greene says, waggling his eyebrows up and down and nudging Leon in the ribs.

“You gonna
initiate
her, or ya gonna give us the pleasure?” Samuels jokes. But Leon gives them both warning glares and their smiles fade instantly.

“Drop the innuendoes, boys,” Gerald adds, rolling his eyes. “This is serious business, if you haven’t forgotten. This is John LaBeau’s girl.”

Both officers immediately remove their hats and press them to their chests, bowing their heads slightly in deferential courtesy.

“Our apologies, miss.”

“And condolences. John was a good man.”

“Thank you. He was,” I respond, my voice sounding thick and emotional. I have to hold it together. I can’t afford to look weak in front of these guys.

“Have a seat, boys!” Wanda says, wobbling into the room carrying a silver tray stacked with turkey sandwiches and little cups of tea. Leon rushes to take it from her gently.

“Here, let me get that,” he offers, lifting it away from her with one steady hand. Something moves deep inside me at this kind, simple gesture. Maybe he isn’t the cold-blooded gangbanger I thought he was this morning in the warehouse. In fact, that first encounter seems to have happened so long ago, in another world. It’s hard to believe that in under twenty-four hours so much has transpired. So much for life moving slow in Bayonne.

“Thank you, son,” Wanda says, beaming at him as she settles into a slouchy, ancient-looking armchair.

I wonder how often Leon comes by to see them. I’m sure that the old couple sees something of their own late son in him. My heart aches for their loss. Sure, I have lost my own father, but I can’t imagine how terrible it must be to have to bury one’s own child. Especially under such suspicious circumstances.

The men all sit down, leaving a spot on the couch beside Leon, presumably for me. So I take it, shivering just so slightly when my thigh touches against his. I force myself not to look down, not to give that minuscule touch even an ounce of my attention. After all, like Gerald said, this is serious business. I’m not here to cuddle up to some hot shot bad boy.

Even if he did literally save me from otherwise certain death so many years ago. And despite the fact that he’s scorchingly, blindingly attractive. I can hardly fathom what those muscular arms and sensual lips could do to my body…

Nope!
I scream at myself internally.
Focus!

“So what exactly are you all here for, officers?” Leon asks, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward to take a sandwich from the stack.

Samuels, between gigantic bites of his sandwich, replies plainly, “We heard over the dispatcher about the shots fired at Mickey’s earlier.”

“Had a strong inklin’ you were involved,” Greene adds.

“Well, you got me. I was there. I might have inadvertently caused it to happen,” Leon admits, looking crestfallen and guilty.

“You weren’t the one holding the gun,” I interject suddenly, before I can stop myself. I can’t stand by and let Leon take the fall for what Mickey did.

“Yeah, but I provoked him,” he counters with a shrug. “I’m just as guilty as he is.”

“Don’t martyr yourself for him,” I reply, standing my ground.

Greene looks back and forth between us, a little bemused, then he simply asks, “Were there any injuries?”

Leon nods and heaves a burdened sigh. “Yes. One man outside was shot through the window when Mickey’s gun went off. He was aiming for me until one of my own men took him down and the gun misfired.”

“Is the injured civilian at Bayonne Med?” Samuels asks, changing the topic.

Leon shakes his head. “I’m gonna be honest with you here. The guy who was shot — he’s illegal. We didn’t wanna risk taking him to a hospital where he might get turned in or something. Besides, he just started working at that asshole’s store for less than minimum wage. I don’t think he could’ve handled the costs. Although,” he says, brightening up, “I’m fairly certain Mr. Lamar has been convinced to pay for any medical fees the guy will incur. But for now, Anya’s got him stashed away somewhere safe, stitching him up.”

At the mention of Anya’s name, the Lawrences perk up. Wanda clasps her hands together pridefully and says, “Oh, she’s such a hero. Our Henry would be so proud of her.”

“I knew my son picked a good one,” Gerald says, sitting up a little straighter.

“Well, we certainly don’t have any intentions of turning him over to Immigration,” Samuels says, shaking his head. “But we would like to drop in and check on him after our shift change tonight.”

“Just to make sure,” Greene says.

“Oh, do tell Anya ‘hello’ for us, will you?” Wanda pleads.

“Sure thing, Mrs. L,” Greene replies with a smile, reaching over to pat her hands.

“So how bad is this, exactly?” Leon asks, sipping his tea with a delicateness that’s almost amusing in contrast to his tough-guy looks.

Samuels leans back and sighs. “Well, so far it’s nothin’ to get too worked up about. Especially if you’re sure the injured man is gonna pull through. The FBI’s in town, yeah, but they haven’t poked their grimy noses too far into our business yet.”

“Give ‘em some time,” says Greene distastefully, rolling his eyes.

“Well, we will just have to make sure we’re ready for the
pidarasy
when they do,” says Leon, clenching his fist. I can’t help but be drawn to the musculature of his arm, the smoldering ferocity in his face. I want to smooth away the tension and see what he looks like totally relaxed, totally vulnerable…

There I go again.

“In the meantime, it’s probably still best that you lay low for awhile, Leon,” advises Samuels, fixing him with a meaningful stare.

I get the distinct impression that “laying low” is not something Leon does particularly well. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who likes working in the shadows, in the background. He’s pretty upfront about the things he does, and he clearly doesn’t have a lot of concern for his own safety and wellbeing.

“For sure,” Greene agrees. “A lowlife like Mickey is gonna blab about this to everyone he meets on the street. Luckily for us, he’s such a notorious loudmouth nobody is likely to take him too seriously, anyway.”

“You’d think a guy who runs a liquor store in a not-so-upscale part of town would be a little more careful about not pissing off every single person who comes in contact with him, but here we are,” laughs Samuels.

“What happened to the gun?” Gerald asks suddenly.

“Taken care of. My right-hand man Genn took it away somewhere out of Mickey’s reach. It’s been confiscated,” Leon concludes, smiling. I know he’s remembering Mickey’s own accusation of ‘confiscating’ the weapon earlier today at the liquor store.

“Alright. Well, I guess that just about covers it, then.”

Both officers stand up to leave. Samuels says to Wanda, “Thank you for the tea and stuff, ma’am. You’re a real treasure to the neighborhood.”

“For sure. Always a pleasure to see you,” Greene says, nodding.

“Oh, stop it, you!” she giggles, swatting at him playfully.

We walk them over to the front door, and just before the officers disappear down the steps of the brownstone, Samuels points an emphatic finger at Leon and me. “I’m serious about layin’ low, alright? Don’t show your faces until at least tomorrow. For your own good and ours.”

Leon sighs. “Got it, Officer.”

Once the cops are gone and we’re all standing awkwardly in the living room, Gerald puts his hands on his hips and announces, “Well, looks like you two are staying here tonight.”

Leon starts to protest, “Oh, that’s not necessary — ”

“Yes it is! You two will take the basement room.” Wanda insists, getting up from her chair to lay her trembling hands on his arm, a concerned and determined look on her face.

“You heard the missus,” Gerald shrugs. “You’re our guests for the night. But I promise we will stay out of your hair. Won’t we, Wanda?” he adds, giving his wife a meaningful look.

She opens her mouth as though to argue, but then simply sighs instead. “Of course.”

“We’ll start on supper,” Gerald continues, gesturing to his wife. She nods and follows him into the kitchen. Leon gives me an apologetic half-smile.

“Sorry about this,” he tells me in an undertone. “You never should’ve gotten mixed up in this. If you need to sneak out and go somewhere, check in with someone— ”

“No,” I reply quickly, shaking my head. “There’s — there’s no one.”

Leon blinks a couple times, a little taken aback by my response. I realize too late how pathetic it sounds. That there’s nobody waiting up for me. Nobody to worry over when I’m coming home. How depressing.

“Sorry about Gerry and Wanda. They don’t get a whole lot of visitors anymore these days, except for when members of the Club stop by. Wanda gets lonely, you know. She’s been a little off since Henry passed,” he explains softly.

I nod. “That’s understandable.”

“How are you holding up?” he asks, moving a little closer.

I frown at him for a moment, trying to ascertain what he’s talking about. Then it hits me. Obviously he’s asking how I’m feeling about my dad’s death. I must look cold-hearted. But it’s just the way I deal with things. I find ways to distract myself until I’m ready to face the problem head-on, and I’m just not there yet.

“Oh, I’m okay. Yeah, I’m good,” I reply, trying to strike a balance between nonchalant enough not to warrant his pity and genuine enough not to look like an emotionless drone.

“Well, if you ever wanna talk about it or — ”

“No. Not now. Thank you.”