Sentinel - Devil Riders MC Book 1 (MC Romance Novel with FREE Bonus Novel!) (5 page)

Justin had some very clear ideas about how he’d want Chrissy to play along with him, the games he’d demand she play to keep her secrets safe.

This insight made him realize how little he knew about her. It surprised him that he’d never really been curious about her. He hadn’t given much thought to who she was, never bothered to learn anything at all about her personal life. He’d seen her as a smart tutor and a hot chick he wanted to spend time with. Then she was supposed to fall for his magic, but it hadn’t happened, and the tutor shit wasn’t working out. But who cared about that? What mattered was that the hot chick was putting him down, and it was time for that to change. He needed to find leverage that would convince her to spread those luscious legs for him—to do what he wanted. Anything he wanted.

He drove back to the spacious townhouse close to campus that his Dad had rented for him and sat down in front of his laptop. He opened the search engine and typed in her name. It shocked him that her name was so common. There were hundreds of listings. This pissed him off. Suddenly his investigation meant doing a lot of work. He’d have to look at all those sites. An hour later, exhausted, he’d found nothing useful. The only sites with anything about this Chrissy seemed perfectly banal and ordinary. She hadn’t posted any nude photos and no ex-boyfriend had put up any revenge porn. She didn’t even have many friends on social networks. Unlike most people her age, the bulk of her life seemed to be offline.

Frustrated, he sat back. Everyone had their secrets. You couldn’t go through life without fucking up, so it was just a matter of finding them, of knowing where to look. Having never bothered to research for anything beyond what he stole for homework assignments, Justin had no idea where to start looking.

But he wasn’t supposed to be a geek, or a drone, browsing through all this crap. He was supposed to be a leader. An executive.

What would his father do?

Suddenly he smiled to himself. He knew exactly what his father would do—what he had done, as a matter of fact, and in a situation not that different. A couple of years back he’d overheard his father talking to a private investigator. He’d hired her to look into the business dealings of a woman he had his eye on. Apparently she was being stubborn about letting him have her. His instructions had been simple. “I want to know everything about her, especially things she doesn’t want known,” his father said.

Justin had no idea what the investigator discovered about the woman, and he didn’t care. What mattered is that not long after that conversation he became aware that his Dad was screwing the woman. He’d seen them in his Dad’s home office. The woman hadn’t enjoyed herself, but she had screwed him. That was what mattered. That and the fact that Justin had stolen one of the investigator’s business cards from his Dad’s desk. At the time he hadn’t even known why.

He sighed, feeling better about himself. For a moment he’d doubted that he was up to the challenge, but he had his battle plan. It still amazed him how much you could accomplish with a phone call, if you knew who to call and had enough money. Justin Willbanks had the right number and plenty of money.

Now that he had a plan he allowed himself the luxury of picturing a contrite Chrissy standing in front of him, obediently peeling off her clothes. He imagined her compliant, willing to do what he wanted. Thinking about all the things he’d make her do sent a pleasurable shiver running through him.

He got his phone and made his call. The investigator knew the name and was happy to make an appointment for the next day. He hung up feeling rather good about himself. His father would appreciate the initiative he was showing.

He looked at the schoolwork sitting on is desk, the paper that needed to be written, and he got another idea. A spinoff. A brilliant spinoff. When he met with the investigator he’d have her investigate two people. Teachers had secrets too, and why bother paying someone to write a paper and risk getting a poor grade when you could just get something on the teacher, lock in a B (his father would be suspicious of an A) and coast for the rest of the term?

He smiled happily. A simple addition, throwing just a little more money at the problem and he’d guarantee his grade and be free to focus on Chrissy only for his initial purpose—he wouldn’t need to pretend he wanted to learn any-fucking-thing.

His own brilliance amazed him. If he could’ve reached that far, he would’ve patted himself on the back.

With the need for screwing around pretending to write a paper out of the way, Justin had lots of time for things he wanted to do. And thinking about Chrissy, about making her crawl and beg, had gotten him worked up. He picked up his phone and called a number—another one he’d stolen from his father’s desk. This one was for an escort agency. He’d seen some of the women coming and going from the house when his father thought he was out and decided that if they could please the old man, they might be okay. The women might be less exciting, but a pro you hired didn’t give you any crap and they took credit cards. They’d manage to distract him, keep him busy until he had the information he needed to humble and humiliate Chrissy.

He rubbed his hands together with delight. As the receptionist at the escort service answered he let his imagination run wild. “I need a companion this evening.”

The voice was sweet, sexy. “Have you got an account with us?”

“Under the name Willbanks.”

She paused, probably calling it up on the computer. “Yes sir. Will an hour from now be all right?”

“Fine.” Then a thought struck him. “Can you send two?”

“Certainly. Do you have any preferences for race or color?”

He smiled. “One white, one black.”

“Absolutely, Mister Willbanks.”

He hung up and nodded to himself, glad he had thought to order two. Genius like his deserved a special night.

CHAPTER THREE

CHRISSY

The next evening Chrissy found herself standing nervously in front of a fairly nondescript building, about a half-hour’s drive from her apartment. It had small, darkened windows, and in one a neon sign that had seen better days feebly declared that this was “Devil’s Hideout.”

Rafe had said six and it was six now, straight up. She knew she could go in, but she was trying to build up the courage to walk in through the door. She clutched the card that Rafe had given her in one hand, crumpled and damp from where she’d turned it over in her hands so many times. Chrissy didn’t know the first thing about bikers or biker clubs, and while they had seemed pretty friendly at the diner, this was their turf, their domain. This was where they went to cut loose.

“Fuck it,” she whispered to herself. “Either go home and cry or get your ass in there and do it.”

Two things kept her from turning tail: the memory of the look Rafe had given her, which still made her tingle, and her need for a job—her desperate need to work. She couldn’t go home. She had run away from her home and Benny, and needed to keep moving forward, further away.

Chrissy walked up to the door, ran her fingers self-consciously through her bright red hair one last time, and pushed it open. It was still light enough outside that as she went inside she blinked, getting her eyes to adjust to the relative gloom of the bar’s dim light.

The bar was nothing special. It had a high ceiling and crap Masonite tables and chairs arranged on a well-scuffed wooden floor. Against one wall were some couches. Across from the entrance was the bar, fronted with shabby retro stools. Various bottles of hard liquor lined the dusty shelf behind it. She could hear an ancient pop song playing from an old-fashioned Wurlitzer juke box that sat against the side wall. She walked over to it. The damn thing played vinyl 45s. She saw a red display that read “A17”. A little chart said the song was “I Only Want to be With You,” by Dusty Springfield. She’d never heard of the song or the singer, but it was catchy.

She looked around, puzzled and slightly annoyed. The place was empty. The door was open, the music on, and no one around. Chrissy stood shifting her weight from one foot to the other, wondering what to do.

Again, she felt the temptation to turn tail and run. She checked her watch again. It was a few minutes after six now. Where the fuck was Rafe? This job was not starting out well.

"Hello?" she called out, quietly. “Rafe? Are you here? Is anyone here? It’s Chrissy.”

No response. Chrissy stood there feeling awkward and out of place. Mostly she was unsure. Was there even a job at all? Finally, just as she was just about to give it up, a door near to the bar opened and a young woman stepped out, straightening her clothing, smoothing down her skirt. She looked to be around Chrissy’s age, maybe a couple of years older. She was short, and had dark hair cropped short in a pixie cut, with a lurid streak of red running through it.

Chrissy smiled at her, and held up the business card Rafe had given her.

"Hi, I'm Chrissy, Rafe gave me this last n-"

The woman scowled at her for a minute, then sauntered over to the bar and threw herself heavily onto a stool.

"Yeah, yeah, Chrissy. That’s what you said, right? He told me you might show up." She didn’t sound pleased.

Chrissy stood, waiting for a follow-up, an invitation to come see behind the bar, or some instructions, or something. The woman just sat there.

After a moment the door from the back opened again and a clean cut young guy came out. Clearly he was no biker. “Hello,” he said. “Hey Trish, I stacked the beer where you said.” He looked nervous.

“This is Chrissy. She’s new. Chrissy, this is Johnny. He drives the beer truck. We get a delivery every couple of days.”

Chrissy cleared her throat. “Good to meet you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well, I better get on with my deliveries.”

Trish nodded. “Later, Johnny.”

The look Johnny gave Trish struck Chrissy as not the kind a delivery man would normally have. But that was none of her business. Maybe nothing going on here was any of her business.

“So, uh…since I’m here, what do you need me to do? I was sort of under the impression that I'd be starting work tonight."

This was met with a heavy sigh, and the woman gestured at the empty clubhouse.

"Yeah, it's absolutely hopping here tonight. We
really
need your help. Maybe I should assign you to crowd control.”

Chrissy frowned and felt the first twinge of real annoyance at the woman's rudeness. She crossed her arms in front of her and met the woman's eye.

“I’m sorry you’re pissed off or having a bad night, but I'm just doing what I was told. Rafe said he wanted me to start work tonight, so that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

This was met with a shrug.

"Whatever. Rafe didn’t tell me shit, but if you see something that needs doing, help yourself. It’s no skin off my ass.”

Chrissy walked over to the bar and looked around. Behind, it was pretty messy. She saw trash littering the floor. The counter was filthy, and the shelves were so dusty that running a finger along them drew lines in it. “Well if there are no customers, maybe I can make this less of a pig sty.”

“Knock yourself out girl. No one will notice, but have at it.”

Chrissy set to work immediately, taking all of the liquor bottles from the shelf and lining them up on the bar until it was clear. She rummaged through the cabinets under the counter trying to find something to clean them with. There didn't appear to be anything to hand. She debated asking the woman if they had anything in the way of cleaning supplies, thinking there might be a closet somewhere, but a quick glance told Chrissy that she wouldn't be any help. She was hunched over her cellphone, texting, and gave no indication that she even remembered that Chrissy existed.

A cursory search of the rest of the room didn't uncover anything resembling cleaning supplies, and Chrissy was just about to leave and go buy some when a cough from the bar drew her attention. Trish was holding up a cloth and a spray bottle, eyebrows arched. After placing the objects down on the bar, she returned her attention to the phone.

Chrissy sighed. She was making a slow start to what would probably be a long shift.

* * * *

A couple of hours later Chrissy brushed dirt off her hands and studied her handiwork with satisfaction. The bar gleamed, the bottles were all polished and replaced, and there was a bulging sack of trash ready to be taken out to the dumpster. Throughout the process, Chrissy had occasionally looked up to see her companion studying her curiously. When she saw Chrissy, she looked away again. Not once did she offer to help or comment on the work.

As she put away the rudimentary cleaning supplies she heard the roar of motorcycles from out front. Then the door opened and a group of men entered, chattering and laughing raucously amongst themselves. Dressed in jeans, some with tee shirts and others wearing only denim vests, they looked like bikers. Most had tattoos and apparently didn’t consider good grooming a worthwhile expense of time.

They came in and threw themselves into ratty but comfortable-looking couches arrayed against one wall.

"Hey Trish," one of them called out. "We're seriously thirsty over here."

The short-haired woman barely glanced up at him.

“Not my problem, guys. But you’re in luck. My brother brought in outside help to deal with the beer famine on that side of the room.” She stared at Chrissy. “Time to play barmaid."

Chrissy flushed as six pairs of eyes immediately swiveled onto her as she digested the new information—Trish was Rafe’s little sister. Her attitude suddenly made more sense. Sort of.

"Hey, you're the girl from the diner last night ain't ya?" one of them asked Chrissy. She recognized him too. Trigger, Rafe’s right hand man.

“Yeah, that’s me. I sure appreciate the help.”

“And now here you are.” He grinned. “I guess Rafe took a liking to you, huh?"

The idea appealed to her. She hoped she’d interpreted the look he’d given her correctly. “Maybe he did. Enough to give me a job, at least. So, what are y'all drinking?"

They laughed. “Beer. Cold fucking beer.”

“Colder the better,” another said.

She nodded and then dug into the cooler under the bar and spent the next few minutes popping open bottles and delivering them to the bikers. They were all smiles as she handed them out. Trigger winked at her as he took his, and she went back to the bar and tried to look busy while she waited to serve another round. The evening crowd continued to filter in, most arriving on bikes. As Chrissy chatted to them and served more beer, she noticed Trish would look at her curiously for a time then shake her head and turn her attention back to her cell phone. Clearly Trish was sizing her up for some reason.

Several of the men from the group, including the scarred man who’d taken the initiative in punishing her attacker the previous night, came over to sit at the bar.

“Since you’re gonna be serving beer here, and I’m almost always here drinking the shit, it seems like we ought to know something about you. What’s your name, newbie?"

"Chrissy," she said. "I'm studying over at Bryn Mawr."

"Oh yeah? We ain't never had a university educated barmaid over here before."

He turned to face Trish.

"Hey, Trish, what sorta education have you got?"

She gave him the finger.

“Just enough to know that you're stupid as hell, Trigger. Can you even read?"

He sat for a moment or two, obviously trying to think of a witty comeback, eventually settling for: "Screw you, Trish."

Chrissy tried to suppress a giggle at the exchange.

“You think that’s funny?” he asked.

Chrissy looked at him, unable to read his face. “Actually, I do. It wasn’t nice, but it was a little funny.”

The men sat and sipped their beer in silence for a little while, before Trigger spoke again.

“I guess it was. A little funny. Trish is a little bitch and can be a little funny.”

She nodded.

“So, you spent much around bikers before, new girl?"

She shook her head. “Not much. Just the bums that came into the diner, although there were a couple of white knights in that crowd too. So I’m guessing bikers are pretty much like everyone else, except they can’t afford a car.”

His eyes lit up at her response.

"Oh, now that
is
funny!"

“Can’t afford a car,” another man said. “Fucking bike of mine cost more than most cars.”

Trigger leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“That’s kind of a sensitive point.”

She leaned forward and whispered back. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone’s feelings. I mean, I don’t like people to make fun of my teddy bear, so I understand.”

Trigger roared with laughter. “Okay, Chrissy. You got a mouth and an attitude and you’re gonna need both around here. But keep in mind that bikers ain't like those guys you hang around with on campus."

She just shrugged, trying to look unruffled.

"I don't really hang around with many guys on campus."

"Is that so? Single, are ya?"

Chrissy flushed again, cursing herself for it as she did.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Trigger guffawed, slapping his knee.

"Well, don't worry. We'll treat you nice. You ever need a hug or some comfort, you come to me first, OK?"

Chrissy raised an eyebrow.

"Thanks for the offer. I think I'll be fine though."

He sniffed.

"Suit yourself. But if you’re holding out for Rafe, you might have a long wait.”

She had to force herself to relax to avoid blushing.

For a little while, the bikers murmured among themselves, looking reasonably serious. Chrissy couldn't make out what they were saying, but it looked like they were talking shop.

"So, uh," she eventually said, once her curiosity had gotten the better of her, "What is it that you guys actually do?"

They stopped talking and stared at her.

"Work," one guy eventually said. "We work."

Trigger stood and came over to Chrissy, standing close, almost too close for comfort. He leaned in and whispered in her ear.

"Drive-bys," he breathed. "I've killed five people this week. It's dirty work and doesn’t even pay that well, but someone's gotta do it."

Chrissy took a moment to study his face. He looked deadly serious, and she gulped, wide-eyed.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?