Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6) (6 page)

Now Fox was even clapping the cop on the shoulder in a good ol’ boy way! I hit the steering wheel in frustration, my mouth open. What in the name of a Wookie’s bush was going on back there? Exchanging business cards? Throwing back their heads and laughing like a still life of some
Police Squad
closing credits?

I was pissed, of course. Fox had obviously been following me. He was
that
desperate for some good scenery he would stalk two women in his friend’s motorcycle club? But when the cop came back and handed me my license and registration, I started having second thoughts about the fair-skinned guy.

“Never mind, Miss Lofting. Just a warning that you’d better get your car registration updated.”

“What?” I looked at the date on the registration. It had expired three weeks ago. I sincerely hadn’t thought about it. “Oh man, I can’t believe I forgot! I’ll take care of it the second I get back home.”

The surly cop was all smiles now. “You can thank Mr. Dover back there. Have a good rest of the day.”

“Mr. Dover” sort of leaned back on the saddle of his Harley with crossed arms, looking supremely arrogant while the cop tooled off. I didn’t get out of the car until the cop was safely out of view. That was when “Mr. Dover” started heading my way.

His long arms dangled at his sides. He didn’t walk, he
loped
like a graceful animal, all sinew and confidence. Who
was
this bastard, anyway? And who the fuck was Mr. Dover? My arms were folded and I was practically tapping my shoe with irritation against the asphalt.

I spoke first. “I’m supposed to thank you, and I don’t even know who you are.”

His grin was infectious. Was he a good ole boy, or a stalker? “I used my natural inborn charm to talk him out of a ticket.”

“Why am I skeptical? I saw you handing him a card of some sort. And he’s calling you Mr. Dover.”

He reached for his pocket and I flinched. After the cop had left, I’d seen Fox Isherwood take a gun from his saddlebag and stick it down the back of his pants, like thugs and bikers did. He held his hands up to indicate he wasn’t going for the gun.

“Sorry.” I apologized. “I’m a bit gun-shy.”

“I can understand that.” Now his voice was full of concern. Who the fuck
was
he?

This time, I tried not to flinch when he withdrew a wallet on a chain and flipped out a business card. I took it like it was a piece of Belgian endive, my most hated vegetable. I looked at it from a distance as though it would infect me.

Benjamin Dover

Attorney-at-Law

500 Camino De La Placita

Taos NM 87571

I kept the card for future reference. “Ben Dover, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

He shrugged. He was so fully in control of himself, his life. I envied people like that. Mine was a train wreck. “Comes in handy in situations like this.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I just told him I was the lawyer for the Bare Bones MC. I don’t know them well, but I figure they have heft. I said I was the new lawyer for the club. And I said you were the new manager over at Triple Exposure Studios.”

My mouth hung low. “Triple Exposure? Thanks a lot!”

The mirth evaporated from his face. “Why? What’s wrong with Triple Exposure? I heard the Prospect at the club tell someone he’d better get over to Triple Exposure Studios, that there was a problem with their sound board.”

Now I laughed. What else could I do? His ruse had worked, that was all that mattered. Getting a ticket might be the kind of jeopardy that could result in Randy putting an end to my Joint System employment. “You didn’t know? Triple Exposure is an adult film studio the club owns.” I’d heard as much from Maddie and June. One of their brothers, Knoxie Hammett, used to work there. I’d checked it out in my spare time at home. As Rex Havoc, Knoxie fucked his way through such gems as
A Clockwork Orgy, Ass Ventura: Smut Detective,
and my favorite,
Genital Hospital
, where he got to wear a lab coat and give women exams.

Fox looked perplexed. “Oh. Well, the thing that actually did the trick was when I told him I’m the club’s new lawyer. Then he
really
got friendly. Said it was about time some guy named Slushy got disbarred, and he welcomed me to town.”

Slushy? Why did that name sound familiar? I recalled Lytton saying he’d named a pot brownie after Slushy, and something about the archery range. “And he believed a ‘lawyer’ wearing a slouch beanie.”

Without hesitation, Fox reached up and whipped his beanie off. I expected to see some patches of male pattern baldness, but he was just hiding a head of thick, glossy, copper-colored hair.

It was a gorgeous sight to behold, especially shining in the sun like that, the close-cropped waves of coppery wine color, glittering like he was some well-built King Henry the Eighth. I was aware that I was more than a little disappointed he wasn’t my tall, dark, handsome knight come to sweep me away on his scoot. My fantasy had never involved a tall,
ginger
, handsome knight.

“I have to thank you, then.” As a gesture of goodwill, I held out my hand to shake again. Again, his hand lingered a split second too long for propriety’s sake. “But what
were
you doing up here? There isn’t much in the way of scenery.”

He took a step closer to me, still holding my hand. The thin, skin-tight T-shirt he wore did nothing to stop the heat wave emanating from him. He was on fire in more ways than one. “Someone was following you.” Again with the ice blue, pinpoint eyes.

My heart flip-flopped with sudden fear. I believed him instantly, I really did. But I had to pretend that I didn’t. So I scoffed. “Me? Who would bother following
me
?”

“That was my first question. Why would someone be following you?”

“What did he look like?”

“Mexican. Short, of course. In his twenties. I noticed him in the side lot of The Bum Steer. He was watching both of you, then took off in his Impala when you pulled onto Bargain Boulevard.”

That pretty much described everyone in the Jones cartel. But I didn’t need this lawyer knowing that. I was starting to panic, and I had to deflect his suspicion. “Maybe he was following June. Maybe he wanted to go steal some pot from her farm.”

He finally let go of my hand. “Let me go ahead now and find him. I memorized the plate of the Impala. I took a photo of him in front of the club. See?”

Of course I didn’t recognize the guy in the IPhone photo he showed me. By that time Fox was already loping back to his Harley.

“Hey!” I called out. “You’re pretty organized and daring for a lawyer.”

He’d already strapped on his brain bucket, and now he pushed the engine button. Over the rumble of his pipes, he called out jovially, “Because I’m
not
a lawyer.”

“What are you, then?” I yelled.

His jaw was set firm, and there was fire in his eyes. “I’m a
sicario
.”

And he took off past me without even glancing at me.

FOX

I
can’t remember when I decided not to bury her. Was it when she laughed at my fake lawyer name, Ben Dover? I carried those cards, which had a fake name but my old real address in case my body was found headless in a ravine, or lashed to a bridge over the Santa Cruz River. Or was it when I imagined her acting in a Triple Exposure film? It doesn’t really matter, I guess. The whole storyline of my life changed irrevocably from the moment I decided not to ice Flavia Brooks, the snitch to the Jones cartel. I was no longer just the tale of an extraordinary, scarred warrior whose measly shot at happiness was eclipsed by his own fate. No, by deciding to spare her life, I was also screwing up mine. Now our fates were intertwined.

I headed up Mormon Mountain, confident I could find the beaner. Who could miss that metallic green ’92 lowrider Impala? Whoever the hair-netted
cholo
was, whether he was Presención, Ochoa, or Jones, he’d chosen a very stupid cage for an undercover op. When I had to drive a cage, I drove a beater Toyota that blended in, or my late model Caddy. The road was straight as we climbed, but pines crowded the shoulders. The lowrider could’ve taken any one of these little turnoffs, but I felt confident as I slowed down to go through Happy Jack that he was still on the main drag.

I ruled out a Presención, coming to get me for picking off their men last night. A
sicario
for the Presencións would be following
me
, not Pippa Lofting, as Flavia Brooks was calling herself. He could be with the Ochoas, who owned a pot farm that rivaled The Bare Bones’. Or, worst of all, a Jones operative who figured out where Flavia Brooks was on his own, and was getting there before me. He’d just tooled on by when he’d seen the cop stop her.

Since my Panhead could carve these hills better than any lumbering Impala, I soon came upon the guy. I backed off a bit, not wanting to be seen. Around a few more corners, a puff of dirt told me which unpaved road he’d taken. I tailed him another five miles in this manner. Now I ruled out the Jones
sicario
possibility. He would’ve gone back to find Pippa. That left one of the pothead Ochoas.

Something about Pippa had set off long-buried triggers in me. She was tough, all right, so it was no flowery bullshit about wanting to protect her vulnerability. Her syrupy Texas drawl, the way she hooked her fingers in her back jeans pockets, her little cowboy boots, it all prodded at the back of my brain. Her full lips, how mischievously she smiled. The way she tossed her highlighted brunette hair to get the bangs from her eyes.

And then it struck me.

Lola.

Lola McShane.

I almost laid down my scoot when this reality hit me. I recovered in time to sedately pull up behind a boulder. The metallic green Impala was parked about sixty yards up the dirt road. In case of any altercation, I could get out before him.

I had to put Lola aside for a few minutes. This time, I would not be caught off guard. I strapped my assault rifle to my back and for the hundredth time made sure the magazine in my Springfield semiauto was full. I had to make a snap decision not to wear my leather jacket over the rifle. The chances of someone in this remote burg seeing a guy wandering around armed to the teeth paled compared to the odds of me fumbling with the assault rifle when I needed it most.

I’d seen where the lowrider had disappeared through the trees on foot, so I took the same path. Only then did I allow myself to think a little bit about my ex-wife. Pippa
did
remind me of Lola, but only superficially. They were both from Texas. They were both sassy and brash, full of piss and vinegar. I didn’t like that Pippa reminded me of Lola, though. I would
not
have my buttons pushed the way Lola had. Pippa was nothing like her.

Then I started wondering why it mattered so much to me. If I equated Pippa with Lola, it’d be so much easier just to pop her off, wouldn’t it? But I’d decided not to, and let the chips fall where they may. I’d worm my way out of it with Jones. Pretend I couldn’t find her, something along those lines. Not that I’d ever lost a mark I was tracking before. I’d dye my hair black if he made me go into New Mexico.

There. The hair-netted Ochoa
pendejo
had approached a tall, electrified, barbed wire fence. Floodlights and security cameras topped some of the poles. This place was secure like Fort Knox, so what was he hoping to gain? I held back behind a pine tree and watched while he cased the joint, as if he was about to make a prison break.

The
cholo
hadn’t been following Pippa at all. She was right—he’d been following June Driving Hawk, and she had led him right to her pot plantation.

On the one hand, it might be considered overkill if I buried a guy who was just scoping out whose indicas were choicest. He was probably just checking out who had headier, more cerebral selections. Or he could be eyeing the security system, figuring a way to breach it. I was a
sicario
, a paid hitman. Not someone who got a thrill out of offing random guys who were trying to figure out if someone’s sativas had been pinched or topped.

Like me, he had a piece in the waistband of his chinos, but no rifle. A South Korean fragmentation grenade was clipped to his belt. I could get the drop on him, put my barrel to his head, and demand to know his fucking business. Lytton would probably appreciate me finding out
why
the guy was here. I was just starting toward him to do that when my dilemma was answered for me.

A large caliber round went zinging past both our heads, nicking the pine I’d been hiding behind. Was the Leaves of Grass guard shooting at
me
? What the fuck? In the one point five seconds it took me to sling my rifle from my back to my side, the
cholo
turned and regarded me with wide eyes. It was hard to detect whether he was full of terror or rage, but one thing was for certain, he whipped that Glock from his waistband and leveled it at me, gangsta tilt style.

As another bullet from the plantation guard went winging past my ear—they were more like warning bullets, I gathered—I squeezed the trigger of my rifle and nailed the
pendejo
right in the chest with about four, five rounds. He jiggled around a bit like a marionette, now definitely looking surprised he’d been shot. But a strange thing happened.