Thrash (Rebel Riders MC Book 1) Read online

  “You going to tell me what you’re planning?” Riot says, breaking our awed silence.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I might be fucking rolling but this isn’t my first time and I can handle my shit. You’re not getting some Molly confessional out of me. Besides, it’s for your benefit, that way Hawk can’t get it out of you. The less you know, the better.”

  “Come on, brother, trust me a little bit, huh?” He says, giving me a sharp look.

  I pause and choose my words carefully. I understand Riot wanting to know more – and I don’t like having to keep my best friend in the dark – but I don’t want him to take any more heat from our club’s leadership.

  “How’s this: by the time this is over, we’ll have taken every bit of cash that Hammer’s drug operation has brought in. We’ll cripple them. That enough for you?”

  Riot shrugs, not the slightest bit perturbed. He gets it. I’m not exactly playing by the club’s rules here. He’s working with me out of a loyalty and brotherhood that goes deeper than the MC. We’re family, even if we don’t share blood.

  “It’s something. Can you at least let me in on the next step?”

  “Definitely. The next step is I get closer to her. And I might need your help with that at some point.”

  Riot shrugs. “I give poor relationship advice, man. You know that. The longest time I’ve spent with a chick was that time a couple years ago when we all took that long weekend trip to Sturgis. You remember Betty?”

  “Oh, man, I’d forgotten about her. How is she doing?”

  “We talk from time to time, every few months or so. She’s competing this year in Miss Sturgis XL. I’ve thought about looking her up. You know, if she wins, this would be her third year in a row.”

  “Nice. You should go for it. A good woman is hard to find.”

  “I probably will. But you still need to tell me how I can help you out. You can’t keep me totally in the dark.”

  “Fine. There’s an auto yard that Hammer runs that I need you and Creole to keep an eye on. Watch who comes, who goes, and where they go to. Can you do that incognito?”

  “Sure, man.”

  “That place is like the nexus of what they do. The drugs stop in there on their way up from Mexico, the cash goes through there, it’s the key to their operation.”

  “And while Creole and I are watching that auto yard, you’ll be…?”

  I grin. “Fucking the bartender.”

  I make a point not to say her name; I couldn’t keep the heat out of my voice if I did. There’s something about her that seizes my thoughts and makes my cock rock hard just at the thought of her. She’s got a rough lot in life right now — weighed down with family problems, money problems, and working for a drug-smuggling piece of shit like Hammer – but she’s a fighter and she’s doing her damnedest to keep it together and make a better life for herself. Sooner or later, she’s going to break out and wind up on top. There’s something about her that just screams that, whatever toughness she’s facing now, it’s just a temporary setback. She’s a fighter. I respect the hell out of her for that.

  It’s going to make using her more difficult than I planned.

  “Rough job,” he says.

  “It’s just business. That’s all.”

  I hope.

  She’s a tool. A ticket. Access. And that’s all. Because if it’s more than that, it could ruin everything.

  Chapter Eleven

  Alice

  Today is not off to the best start. It’s my day off, a day where I’m not at the bar earning money or even running errands for Hammer. Days like these — where I don’t feel productive or like I’m earning my way out of this hole that I’m in — are the worst.

  I’m not in the best mood when there’s a knock at the door that pulls me from my cup of coffee and the newspaper that’s spread out in front of me on the kitchen table. I’m doing my best to relax. And failing miserably at it.

  Then I answer the door.

  Things don’t improve.

  “What are you doing here, Thrash?”

  He’s out there, on my front porch, with a couple of paper bags in his hand and a grin on his face. Dressed in his cut, with a t-shirt on underneath that temptingly clings to every muscular inch. I wish things with him were simple and straightforward; that I could just enjoy him, how handsome and fit he is, without having to worry about ulterior motives.

  Why is he here?

  What is he up to?

  “Bringing you bagels, Ms. Alice. I’ve also got bacon, some cheeses, and there’s some smoked salmon, too. It’s from Diamante’s Bakery, that new place that opened on Main Street.”

  He holds out the two paper bags of goods, clearly marked with the Diamante’s logo. The bags are still warm and the irresistible aroma of fresh-baked bagels wafts from them. It’s enticing, but not enough to get around my suspicions.

  He’s always working an angle.

  Why the hell is he really here?

  “Ok, let me rephrase that: why are you here?” I say, frowning.

  “We went over this already: to bring you bagels.”

  I could slap him right now.

  “Stop talking in circles. You are pissing me off.”

  “This is exactly why I’m here — you’re stressed, you need a break. That’s why I’ve brought you bagels.”

  “So, some boiled and baked dough, and some smoked salmon, is supposed to help with my stress?” I say. Though the audible rumbling of my stomach doesn’t do much to bolster my argument.

  “You’re really not from around here, are you? You don’t know shit if you’re turning down Diamante’s — they always have a line out the door and sell out of most things in an hour. I nearly had to kill someone to get you these bagels. What were you going to have for breakfast otherwise?”

  “Probably toast,” I say. I can’t help casting an anxious look over my shoulder. My mom is somewhere back there tottering about, getting her day started, too, and I sure as hell do not want her to meet Thrash. Knowing her, she’d either invite him in for coffee and talk his ear off, or she’ll give me one of those ‘deeply disappointed’ looks that parents always keep in their arsenal. Neither option is that appealing.

  He takes a step closer, nudging his foot into the opening in the door. “That sounds like a shit breakfast. This is better. Open up.”

  A clattering crash and the sound of something shattering to pieces comes from behind me and I can’t help turn around and shout.

  “Mom! Are you ok?”

  “Oh, good morning, dear,” comes her reply. She sounds like nothing’s happened at all.

  “Mom, what happened?”

  “It looks like someone broke a plate. Don’t worry about it, honey, I’ll go get a broom.”

  Great. She’s having a senior moment this morning.

  Thrash pushes at the door a little. “Why don’t you let me? You’ve got enough to deal with.”

  I push back and pray he’ll take the hint. Why is he so persistent this morning?

  “No. You stay here. I’m at my wit’s end already, the last thing I need is you in my house.”

  He doesn’t take the hint.

  “You need to relax. There’s no chance they’ll be calling you in to work later, is there?”

  “What’s with all the questions?”

  “What’s with being so evasive? I thought we were partners. Or do you suddenly have regrets about making money?”

  And he hits me where it hurts.

  “Fine. No, I’m not working today. Hammer gave me the day off. I’m just waiting for Eleanor — my mom’s nurse — to come by. She should be here any minute. I was planning on just relaxing, maybe seeing a movie or something by myself.”

  He shakes his head.

  “No, you’re coming with me,” he says, like it’s a foregone conclusion.

  “Oh, I am?”

  “Yes — I have bagels. All you have are toast and shattered plates, which sounds really fucking depressing. A
nd besides, you need to do something more relaxing than sitting alone in a dark theater by yourself. Eleanor will take good care of your mom — I know her — so you should take a ride with me.”

  My eyebrows raise.

  “What are you planning?”

  “To help my business partner unwind. The last thing I want is to be in bed with someone who’s stressed and distracted and can’t even get the job done,” he says. There’s a smile on his face that is just maddening.

  “Stop talking like I’m going to sleep with you, it’s never going to happen,” I say. He knows exactly what he’s saying.

  “Again, I don’t know why your mind keeps going there. This is just business, I take no pleasure in dealing with you.”

  “What the hell? No pleasure? Are you saying I’m unpleasant?”

  “Right now? Extremely. Now, come on, I see Eleanor’s car coming down the street, so we are good to go.”

  I hesitate a moment, suspicious, but I’m also already looking around behind me for my coat. It would be good to get out of here and spend time with someone other than myself — in the mood I’m in, I wouldn’t be very good company on my own.

  “How do you know Eleanor?” I say.

  “It’s a small town. It pays to know people. Now come on.”

  I follow Thrash outside to where his Harley is parked in my mom’s driveway. He lifts open the saddlebag he’s got strapped to it, takes out a helmet, and puts the bagels and spread inside. I slip on the helmet, and he helps me adjust the helmet’s straps to get a snug fit. Then he throws one leg over the bike and pats the seat behind him.

  “Hop on,” is all he says.

  I sit up behind him and wrap my hands around his torso. He’s all muscle. Muscles on muscles. Firm and solid and comforting and warm. This feels better than I thought I’d be.

  “Ready?” He says.

  “Ready.”

  The bike rumbles like some kind of beast and he pulls us down the drive and onto the road. Wind whips at me, fluttering my hair and, as we get out of town, the green scents of the forest fill my nostrils as we roar down empty roads and around winding corners and I cling tight to Thrash as he speeds faster and faster.

  “Hold on,” he says above the roar of the wind, and he guns the engine and I lose myself in the utter joy of the experience.

  It’s freedom. And it feels so damn good that I let out an ecstatic ‘whoop’ as we go particularly fast down a straightaway — the forest sliding by us so fast it’s almost a blur.

  It’s a wonderful feeling — all of my troubles seem so far away as the world slides by in this ultra-vivid blur.

  For nearly an hour, I hold tight to him and let my heart feel lighter. It’s the shortest hour of my life and, when we come to a stretch of beach lined by bluffs, I’m almost sad to hop off. Thrash parks his bike at a stretch of trail, grabs a small backpack from the saddlebag on his bike, and, beckoning for me to follow, leads me down the trail and to the ocean.

  “Take a seat,” he says.

  Then he opens his backpack and sets out the food he bought earlier and then pulls from his bag a couple red picnic cups and two bottles. One, champagne. The other, whiskey.

  I raise an eyebrow and give him a questioning look.

  “You’re going to need to explain this to me.”

  “You don’t know how breakfast works? Are you sure you went to college?” He says, teasingly.

  “I know what breakfast is. But this-” I say, pointing at the spread he’s set out, “this is just fucking bizarre. I’m eating brunch with a biker. I feel like I’m in some kind of Twin Peaks alternate reality.”

  “I’m doing this because I care about you. As a business partner,” he says. “You’re under a lot of stress, and there’s a chance things will get more difficult the deeper this relationship goes. That light at the end of the tunnel isn’t so easy to get to, and I don’t want you forgetting to take care of yourself while we fight to get there. So, pick a drink.”

  I sit down beside him on the sand. “In that case, I’ll take the whiskey.”

  He pours me a generous amount and we start in on the food. It’s both a comfortable and unnerving experience. The scenery is beautiful, the lapping of the ocean waves and the call of shore birds. The food is delicious and I eat more than I should. That, and the whiskey Thrash brought is pretty good, too. It’s peaty and smoky in just the right amount and it definitely comes from a much higher shelf than I’d expect Thrash pick from. But the atmosphere between us is awkward. I keep thinking I should talk — that I should find out more of what he’s planning and how we’re going to get ahold of the Reaper’s Sons money — but I don’t want to disturb the peace.

  Finally, he breaks the silence.

  “Tell me something, Ms. Alice: when this is all over, where do you want to see yourself?”

  “Are we discussing five-year plans, now?” I say.

  “Just answer the question. Stop being such a smartass.”

  “When this is over, I see my mom being healthy. Fully recovered. Not nauseous every day, not so skeletal-skinny that it breaks my heart to look at her. I want my old mom back. She used to speed-walk so fast I almost had to run to keep up with her. But now…” I pause. It hurts thinking about how much she’s changed. I take a breath to steady myself before going on. “And I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder all the time because I’m worried some creditor is going to sneak up on me and literally steal my purse or try and drug me and steal a kidney to cover my debt.”

  Thrash ponders his whiskey for a long moment.

  “How is her treatment going?”

  I shrug. “She’s making progress. They think she’ll make it through this. It’s just so scary. And it’s hard. I didn’t think I’d be taking care of my mom until I was a lot older. Until I’d had the chance to make something of my self and actually have the resources to provide for her. But that’s not how it’s meant to be. My mom was so vibrant and now she can hardly eat a bowl of oatmeal because she gets so nauseous.”

  “I might know something that can help.”

  I laugh. “Is this where you try and sell me back some of that Molly?”

  “No, but that would be a good idea. I have to get rid of that shit somehow. Look, my MC is running a grow operation. With Marijuana becoming legal, it’s going to be a decent venture and it’ll bring some money into the club. Pot’s also supposed to be great for the side-effects of chemotherapy.”

  “You want to sell weed to my mom?”

  “No. But I would give you some, or some cannabis oil if that’s what she’d prefer.”

  “Look, right now, I’d prefer to just leave the talk of drugs and money and everything for another time. I want to enjoy the beach and the sun and just relax, ok? Let’s talk about something else.”

  He nods. “Fine with me, Ms. Alice. What do you want to talk about?”

  I think on my question for a while. There’s so much about Thrash that’s a mystery and, even though there are some qualities to him that I find infuriating, overall, he is the kind of man that I want to get to know more about. “Why are you in the Rebel Riders?”

  “I’m in because I joined. I told you — I wasn’t cut to play drums in a punk band, so I joined the MC. It’s pretty simple,” he says.

  “No, it’s not,” I say, giving him a hard look. “You could’ve found some regular job, you could’ve gone into construction or firefighting or something. But you didn’t. You joined the MC. And now you’re working this whole drug angle and risking a lot. I’ve heard the talk around the bar — there’s a truce between the Reaper’s Sons and the Rebel Riders — and what you’re doing — whatever it is — risks tearing that apart. So, tell me why.”

  That all comes off a lot harder than I intended it to sound, I’m just so frustrated with his dodging questions and dancing around the truth.

  Thrash looks at me for a moment, this mix of irritation and respect on his face. In one motion, he finishes his whiskey, pours himself another, and fin
ishes that before he looks ready to talk.

  Then he doesn’t say a damn thing.

  My desire to be polite completely falls away.

  “You need to talk to me. I’m not blind, I’m not stupid, I am fully aware that what I’m helping you with could turn out to be very dangerous for me. I’m risking it because I’m not content to stay stuck in this limbo, being afraid of going broke. You’ve promised a way out. Tell me the truth,” I say.

  “I joined because I’m not cut out for a regular job. I love working with my hands, I love fixing shit, and I’m sure I’d do great in construction or as a mechanic. For a while. Then I’d get fired because I have this need to get ahead in life, I have to be making something out of myself, and there’s only so far you can go when you’re flat on your back underneath someone else’s car. The MC gives me the chance to go further.”

  “So why are you trying to tear this truce apart?”

  “Our club has an ex-member, Reggie. His road name is ‘Quick’ and he’s an old-timer who hit retirement and took a step back from the club because he couldn’t hack it anymore. He lives alone, no family but the club and that’s when he bothers to come around, no income except the pity-kickbacks we throw his way every once in a while. He is miserable, and I’m certain that one of these days he’s going to off himself and the old bastard will be better off for it.”

  Another drink. Another pause. Then, he fixes me with a look with his intensely green eyes and his voice burns with honesty. “I don’t have any family. My father was a drunk, a beater, a brutal bastard, and my mother his groveling enabler. I’ve only got myself to depend on. I wake up every day with the mortal fear in the back of my mind that, if I don’t work my fucking ass off, I’m going to wind up just like him. Scraping by. Wanting to kill myself. I’m not going to let that happen.”