Taming Crow (Hells Saints Motorcycle Club) (7 page)

Crow spat out the nail that he had placed in the corner of his mouth and jumped off the aluminum folding ladder. He grabbed the ringing cell off the floor.

“Hey man,” he said into the phone. Then Crow reached for the pack of smokes he had placed on the saw horse.

“Got that information for you,” Jules responded. .

“Yeah?” Crow lit up the smoke and drew deep. “Let’s hear it.”

“Chick is straight up, Brother. Melissa Pignatelli Raymoor. Married at twenty, widowed at twenty-six. Had a kid somewhere in between there. Not running from anything that I could dig up. Couldn't find anything on that massage gig you say she's got going on, but she's probably keeping that under the radar. I'm guessing tax-free money or some bullshit. Her license to practice is legit. Got it when she was still living in Mass. So yeah, everything you got on her checks out.”

“Got anything I don’t?”

“Not much. Like I said, bitch is clean,” Jules responded.

“Her old man?”

“Captain Jesse Raymoor. Air Force Academy graduate. Fighter pilot killed when his F-16 hit a goddamn mountain in Afghanistan after coming back from a recon mission. The body was recovered.”

“She been with anyone since?”

“No. Nobody. Raymoor and her were high school sweethearts. First love kind of shit. Didn’t come up with anyone else. Except for this one guy.”

“You gonna make me ask?” Crow shot out.

“Relax man. Just trying to remember the name. Shit. I got to lay off the weed. Anyway, there was this guy used to come around when her man was out of town. He was Air Force too. I got the take that the three of them were tight from way back. Nothing there but a friendly check-in once in a while. Probably at the request of her old man.”

“Family?” Crow prodded.

“Raised by her father and grandfather. Grandpa was a pretty big deal bookie at one time, well-known on the horse racing circuit. Daddy and Gramps both did a little time, but who the fuck hasn’t? No problems out of the ordinary there. They're still running the books, but it's been scaled back a lot and more small time now. From what I can tell, the business is clean and the payouts are all good. They have some muscle working for them, but rarely use it. I checked in with Gianni, he's heard of them. You know those goddamn wops all know each other one way or another, but they ain’t connected in a way that matters.”

Then Jules paused. “I pulled up her DMV pic too. The bitch is hot.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Crow growled into the phone.

“What the fuck are
you
talking about? You told me she's got this uptight vibe going on. Really, Brother? If that's true, then you got a hell of a surprise waiting for you when you unwrap that package. That wild hair, that gorgeous smile, eyes lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree in the photo and that's just the crappy registry pic. Everyone looks bad in those.”

“You're looking at the wrong chick, man. The woman's wound tight.” Crow knew Jules was screwing with him.

“Melissa Raymoor right? Ninety-five Primrose?”

Crow stomped out the smoke on the unfinished floor.

“Yeah, that’s her,” he answered.

“Well, I’m looking at her picture right now. And I’m telling you the bitch is smoking. I ain’t messing with you,” Jules shouted into the room. “Riker, get the fuck over here.”

Another minute brought Riker to the phone to give an enthusiastic description of what he’d like to do to the woman in the photo.

“When was the picture taken?” Crow scowled into the cell.

“Hold on. The writing is so fucking sm…there it is. Almost three years ago now,” Jules said.

“When did you say her man died?” Crow asked.

“Let me switch screens again.” Silence and when Jules came back on none of the smug mirth was left in his voice. “Damn, it was taken just a couple of weeks before her man bought it.”

“Forward me that pic, Brother?” Crow asked quietly.

“Done,” Jules said. “How’s everything else going? The house and shit? You want me to send a few of the boys down to help with?”

“No, man. I got this. Hey, that marker you took out for the info on the woman? That’s on me.”

“No worries. Just take care of your shit and get your ass back to the damn fold, Brother. I got this and anything else you need.”

“Christmas come early this year?” Crow snorted.

“Yeah. Ho-Ho-Ho motherfucker.”

Crow could hear the smile in Jules’s voice as he hung up and went back to work. But he found himself watching the phone every few minutes waiting for that picture of a smoking hot, smiling Melissa to come through.

The chiming sound signaling a message split the air and had Crow flying off the ladder to retrieve it. He accessed the file and knew that he was right. Jules was a moron.

Wrong woman.

Definitely the wrong woman.

He went to shut off his phone, but the little Marilyn Monroe beauty mark she had going on at the side of her cheek made his eyes hit the photo again.

Jesus.

That was her.

That pretty girl with loads of tumbling ringlets cascading wildly around a pixie face. Golden flecks danced in amber eyes as they smiled at him from behind long, thick lashes. Two dimples made deep grooves in her cheeks while soft full lips were curved upward and covered in peachy gloss. Her neck was long and graceful and showed no sign of the thin gold chain that her fingers were automatically drawn to. Long delicate gold swirls dangled prettily from her ears and a soft pink sweater hung slightly off her shoulders.

And there she was.

The woman who was hiding under all that sad shit.

There was absolutely no sign of the beaten down look Crow had gotten used to seeing on Melissa’s face. This chick looked like she was ready to take on the world.

The Melissa he knew looked like she was lost in it.

And, for a reason he didn’t care to explore, that pissed Crow off.

Jesse Raymoor. Lucky sonofabitch. Dead and gone before he reached his thirtieth birthday, but still leaving behind more than Crow could ever hope to have.

He wondered what kind of man Jesse had been to make that light shine out from Melissa's eyes.

Then Crow found himself wondering what kind of man it would take to put it back in.

Melissa had just finished checking the dinner in the oven when she glanced out the window. Her smile of satisfaction turned to a frown when she saw Crow seated next to Jett on the picnic table. Both of their heads were bent over in concentration. She craned her neck further to see Crow’s strong fingers hold a large nail while her son pounded away at it with a heavy hammer.. Melissa watched on as Crow muttered and righted the nail when Jett missed the mark. He pointed and spoke quietly to Jett, sometimes taking the hammer from him or placing his big hands over her son’s small ones. Jett’s brow was knit in concentration.

Oh boy
.

Watching Jett’s interest in all things Crow Mathison  had really begun to worry her.

Last week Jett had dressed for school wearing one of Melissa’s bandanas tied across his forehead.

Yesterday at the grocery store he had begged her to buy him a package of little temporary tattoos.

And just this afternoon Melissa had caught her son getting ready to pee in the bushes.

Perfect.

The last thing Jett needed was to get attached to a man like
him
. Melissa’s spine had stiffened when she had first seen the Saints insignia inked onto the big man’s forearm. It wasn’t the club affiliation per se that bothered her. She didn’t buy into the
all bikers are bad
stereotype. But having been raised in a family who placed bets for a living, she had seen enough—she was no stranger to Sunday visiting days at County Correction.

And when it came to men like Crow, the danger didn’t come from the kind of man he was, but from where his priorities would lie. She knew first-hand what being a part of a brotherhood meant for guys like Crow.

And for guys like Jesse.

And what being a part of it meant for women like her, too.

Military wife or biker babe…love the man…love the life.

And pay the cost.

She had an American flag folded thirteen times and offered to her “by a grateful nation” to prove it.

No. Nothing good could come of getting attached.

Biker babe? Are we still talking about Jett here?
Melissa blushed uncomfortably at the implication of her own thoughts.

***

“Hey, Mom. Look what I made,” Jett pushed through the door with Crow following closely behind him. He placed a wooden block into her hand.

Melissa felt her heart skip a beat when she saw an imperfect “M” had been created with nail heads on the board.

“I made it all by myself!” Jett beamed. Then he twisted his head around to look at Crow for approval.

Crow nodded to Jett then turned his eyes to Melissa. Though he didn't move and his expression didn't change, the air in the room suddenly crackled with heat so intense that Melissa had to resist the urge to fan herself.

She turned her attention to the little gift in her hand and inspected it thoroughly.

“What’s the M for?” she asked her son with a hint of mischief in her voice.

“Guess!” Jett played along.

“Marvelous? Monsters? Mud pies? Marvelous monsters making mud pies?”

Jett giggled and shook his head.

“No? Hmm.” Melissa turned the board over again.

“Marvelous monsters making mud pies in the middle of the Mississippi?” She asked with a thoughtful frown on her face. “Could that be it?”

Jett put his arms around her and shouted out gleefully. “It’s for Mom!”

“Well! How about that? Thank you, Jett. I'm going to put it right here on the windowsill.” Melissa smiled and caressed her son's hair.

Then Jett pulled away from her and looked at Crow, who was still standing in the doorway. The little boy pulled his mother down and whispered loudly into Melissa's ear, “Mom, you should thank Crow too because he helped me.”

Melissa threw a hesitant look in Crow’s general direction. “Thank you.”

“I need to do an inspection of the house at some point. Probably this week.” Crow spoke suddenly as he shifted his weight towards her.

“Inspection?”

The timer went off on the stove.

Crow watched her.

“Of the house?” Melissa grabbed the potholder off the counter and placed the hot dish on the stove.

Crow remained silent.

“This week?” she was sure she had squeaked out that last part.

“Lasagna?” Jett shouted out happily. “You made lasagna? You want to eat dinner with us? That’s okay right, Mom? If Crow eats dinner with us?”

“Jett, I am sure Mr. Mathison…”

“Name’s still Crow,” he interrupted. He leaned in closely, brushing against her side as he examined the noodle dish.

“
Crow
…
has plans.” Melissa moved away from the counter and from him.

“I can’t remember the last time I had a plan.” He eyed her sardonically.

Before she could respond, Jett chimed in, “There's hamburger
and
sausage in it. Mom makes the sauce herself.”

“I’ll stay,” Crow said.

“You’ll stay?” Melissa repeated.

Crow’s gaze trailed over her face. Then he arched his brow and whispered in an amused conspiratorial tone to Jett, “Does your mom ever come up with her own words or does she just go around repeating everything everyone else says?”

Jett looked at his mother with thought and whispered back to Crow, “She ain’t much of a talker.”

“Isn’t.” Melissa corrected him automatically under her breath. Then she gave a small frown because her son’s words had hurt.

Jett read that look in her face and was immediately at his mother's side. He put his little hand in hers.

“It’s okay, Mamma.” Then he looked at Crow and said “She talks to me all the time, just not so much to other people.”

“I talk to Toni, and Mrs. Murphy, Jett. I talk…” Her voice trailed off and she wanted to disappear with it.

“But Toni’s your friend, Mom. And mostly she does all the talking anyway. And Mrs. Murphy’s your customer. You kind of have to talk to her.” Jett pointed out.

Melissa realized then just how small Jett must see their world. And she wondered when her six-year-old son had begun to feel like he had to make excuses for her.

“Jett, go wash up for dinner.”

She frowned as she saw her son look at Crow instead of her before he headed down the hallway. Crow responded to him with a reassuring wink.

“Smells good.” Crow turned to her.

“It… uh…uh… it’s my husband’s favorite.” Melissa answered. Then because it needed to be said, she added, “I should probably apologize for showing up at your house the other day unannounced and giving you the finger.”

“Probably?” Crow lifted an eyebrow.

“No, that’s pretty much a definite I guess.” Melissa sighed.

“And for what else?” Crow crossed his big arms across his chest.

Really
?

“And… for calling you a
n
…
”
she hesitated.

“Asshole," Crow offered.

“Yeah and that,” she added uncomfortably. “I don’t usually say those things out loud.”

The corners of his mouth lifted just a little and Melissa felt adrenaline shoot through her body. She needed to move him along.

“I hope Jett hasn’t been bothering you. School will be out soon. I’m going to send him to day camp. Just a few hours a week. He wants to play summer soccer. My dad and grandfather are probably going to take him on a fishing trip, too, for a week or so. He’ll be busy.” Melissa stopped to catch her breath.

Why was he still here?

She let out a small sound of alarm as the heat of Crow's calloused palm penetrated through the thin cotton of her T-shirt, pressing against the area right under her breasts.

“Stop.” Crow commanded her.

“Stop?” She moved back and he moved in, cornering her.

“Yeah, Melissa. Stop. Stop being so skittish, stop thinking so much, stop looking so damn lost all the time that even a six-year-old kid can tell.” Then his voice gentled, “Baby, just stop.”

Baby

“I don’t do that,” she defended herself even as she had to look away.

“You do,” he said in a soft tone.

When Melissa looked back at Crow she saw something fleeting cross his face.

Pity.

He was looking at her with pity.

Oh god. First her son, and now this guy.

“When was the last time you went out?” He leaned back away from her then and against the door jamb.

“Went out?” Melissa shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“Went. Out. When was the last time you pulled your hair down from that goddamn ridiculous bun, wore something other those ratty, dark, depressing clothes, put on a smile and stepped out?”

Ridiculous bun? Ratty, dark, depressing clothes? Who does that? Who barges into someone else’s house, invites themselves for dinner and throw insults at a person all in the span of a few minutes?

“Let make me something real clear here. You having a few conversations with my son doesn’t even come close to giving you the right to comment on the way we live. You don’t know us. You don’t know
me
,
”
Melissa shot back angrily. “We’re fine.”

Now Crow’s eyes glittered hard in response and assessed her in the most demeaning and thorough way possible. He took a slow sweep from the top of her messy head to the bottom of her scuffed sneakers.

“Fine? Yeah I can see that.” Crow’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Guess that pity-party look you got going on probably still has some play. Me? I like to keep my shit a little more private, but you’re right. What the fuck do I know?”

Melissa’s mouth rounded to form a stunned O.

“Get out,” she said in quiet rage.

Crow held her eyes for a long minute before he pulled himself away from the door.

“This isn’t over, Melissa. Not even close.” Then he pinned her with another bold look. “Oh and, by the way, the word you were looking for is
was
.”

“What?” Melissa’s voice shook with anger.

“It
was
your husband’s favorite, not
is
. Past tense, baby. Your man’s dead, sweetheart. Gone for good. And you hiding from that is gonna fuck you up and, even worse, it’s gonna fuck up your kid.”

And then with a loud slam of the screen door, he was gone.

***

Now Melissa sat alone on a bench in the garden breathing in the cool darkness. She wondered what else life had in store for her besides a dead husband, a foul-mouthed landlord who presumed too much, and a son who seemed to think she had lost her ability to connect with the outside world.

Melissa unwound her hair and released a sigh as the heavy curls cascaded through her fingertips

That goddamn ridiculous bun…

Although she had tried to dismiss the mean, insulting and extremely hurtful things Crow had said to her, Melissa knew that his words held some truth. That whole thing about Jesse being dead and her needing to move on…nothing new there. She had heard that same refrain sung over and over again by people who had a hell of a lot more right to sing it than Crow. She wasn't going to let that keep her up at night.

However, the personal attack on her appearance was another matter.

That had hurt.

Melissa's mind wandered through her wardrobe and she realized that except for that damn black dress she had worn to the funeral, she had not bought herself anything new since Jesse had died. Without even consciously being aware of it, she’d been wearing the same three dark, dreary outfits over and over again—faded black, or gray or olive green T-shirts and jeans that she didn't quite fill out like she used to. Her version of widow's weeds she supposed.

Is that what I’m doing? Closing up and martyring myself? Would Jesse have wanted that?
  But then Melissa knew if she was going to open that door, the next question would have to be,

Would he have even noticed?

Because sometimes, despite his reassurances to the contrary, it had seemed to her that Jesse’s trips home had begun to be nothing more than an obligation. Melissa knew that she and Jesse had stopped being what they had once been long before their story ended.

But she had held fast to the dream.

When it all began they had loved each other so damn much that she simply couldn’t believe that it was gone for good. Over the years in order to maintain peace in the house and keep Jesse's mind clear to do his duty, Melissa had learned to hold her temper and her tongue.

Until the last time.

Melissa and Jesse had argued bitterly and continually during that last leave until the angry words were all that remained.

And then he had died.

That last argument haunted her. She relived those condemning words over and over and over again until they festered in her mind.