Stone Cold (An Iron Tornadoes MC Romance) (3 page)

"I very much doubt that, young lady," he says.

"I need to prepare myself for what I am going to see," I insist.

He shakes his head and says, "You won't see him." My eyebrows shoot up. "What I mean is you don't have to see him. It's much better if you don't. I've identified the body, and for everyone, a closed casket is the best option."

He gets up and walks around his desk holding a large envelope. I stand as well, but he still towers over me.

"Suffice to say that his face was badly hurt, so you really don't want to see him as he is now," he says, sounding very adamant.

I understand he's not going to tell me more, so I thank him as he gives me the envelope with some paperwork I need to go through so my mother can receive some benefits. I ask him where I can retrieve my brother's belongings, and he accompanies me to the reception area and asks the young uniformed officer who had greeted me to get David's box. Big Boss shakes my hand and leaves.
 

The officer comes back with the traditional cardboard box and offers to carry it to my car for me. As we reach the car, I open the trunk.

"I'm really very sorry for your loss," he says as he puts down the box. "I really liked your brother."

"Did you work with him? Are you a member of the task force?" I ask.

"No, not exactly. My forte is more administrative work. But still, we connected when we were at the academy. I was happy to see a familiar face when I was assigned to this station."

"So, you two graduated at the same time?"

"Yes, and we often ended up in the same team because he followed me in alphabetical order. My name is Michael Mayfair so Mayfair-Mayfield, we stood and sat together often," he says, and the smile on his face leads me to believe that he must have pleasant memories of David. "Call me Mike, please."

"Mike, can I ask you a question about your time at the academy?" I ask.

"Sure. What do you want to know?"

"What happened to Brian Hatcher? What did he do to get kicked out of the academy?"

Mike's face goes somber, and he says, "Honestly, at the time I had no idea. You know your brother and he were thick as thieves. They were friends, and yet they had that incredible rivalry. It was fun to watch them compete. They both had top grades, excelled in everything from criminology to precision shooting. They were our regular rock stars, and the only question we had was which one of them was going to graduate at the top of our year."

He stays silent for a moment, staring at his shoe and frowning as if concentrating on his recollection of the events.

"It was less than two weeks before we were done. I remember because that's when the final interviews were set up for those who had applied for special divisions. David and Brian had flown through the preliminary tests for the organized crime task force. They were looking for guys who were comfortable around bikes, so of course those two made the cut. That's when Brian just stopped coming. We were all flabbergasted when he didn't make it to the interviews and then was a no-show for the final exams. I asked your brother. He just said that he would rather not talk about it."

Mike hesitates, so I prompt him with a question.

"So you didn't know then but you know now?"

"Well, I did run into Brian in town," he says. "And it didn't make any sense. One day Brian's applying to the task force, and then, the next day, he's a fully patched member of the Iron Tornadoes."

The idea that Brian joined a motorcycle gang is so preposterous that I'm about to laugh out loud, but then it hits me. Brian's father has now become the president of the Iron Tornadoes.
 

Aunt Nancy's warning is starting to make sense.

Before driving away, I thank Mike for his help and give him the information about the funeral and the wake.

In the car, I try to wrap my head around this absurdity. Brian can't be part of the Iron Tornadoes. They claim to be just another MC, but they do make the news way too often for me to really believe that. Many people claim they are a menace to society, and they may be right. I remember a few years back a young woman had asked for police protection after running away from the club. She had testified that the strip joints they run are actually whorehouses. At the time, I had even heard talk of underage sex.

This can't be. Brian, my childhood hero, the heartthrob of my teenage years, the sweet guy who rocked me when I cried last night and then held me until I fell asleep… No. He can't now be one of them.

I scold myself. As a future lawyer, I should know better than to listen to rumors. I will see him at David's funeral and I'll ask him.

After I leave the police station, I drive to Costco. If I'm going to hold the wake at my mother's house, I need to stock up. I go through the aisles mindlessly, and when I check out, I remember I have an errand to run for Aunt Nancy. I park next to the pharmacy and go pick up Uncle Tony's prescription. On the way out, I walk by the "family planning" section of the store, which is the prude name given to the condom section. Three guys are looking at the selection and making crude jokes about the flavor of the gels on the shelf. As I'm about to open the door, one of them grabs my arm.

"Hey, sweet butt," he says with what I assume is his charmer's smile. "Give me your advice. Which of those flavors would you prefer if you had to lick my dick?"

I blink, wondering if this guy's for real.

"I'm not into popsicles, so I wouldn't know," I answer before my brain registers that these guys are wearing biker jackets with the Iron Tornadoes patches.
 

Oh, me and my big mouth.

The one holding my arm strengthens his grip and looks stunned, as if I had just slapped him.

The other two turn around slowly to face me. There's a moment of silence in the store. I glance at the cashier and the regular customer by the register. They are both staring at me with wide eyes. There will be no help from them.

Then one of the bikers starts laughing and slaps his buddy's back.

"Hey, Waxer, your memory ain't what it used to be. Obviously you've done her and she was not impressed," he says.

Waxer is turning crimson. I can almost hear the wheels of his slow brain engaging. I'm not sure if he's going to hit me, hit his friend, or laugh with him. Before he's able to come to a decision, someone closes the door behind me and a hand lands heavily on my shoulder.

"Waxer, you let her go. This one's mine," says a familiar voice at my back. Waxer doesn't let go. On the contrary, his grip gets firmer, and he spins me around until I bump my nose into Brian's chest.

Brian's dressed like them, in full biker's regalia. I'm too close to have a good look at his jacket, but I'm sure he's sporting the Iron Tornadoes patches.
 

"Well, if she's yours, you'd better teach her manners," Waxer growls.

"Yeah, I know. She's got a big mouth." He sighs, and then he grins and winks at his buddies as he says, "But then again, that's one of the things I really like about her."

Seriously?

Looking down from his face to his chest, I'm about to deny being his when he gives a harsh tug on my ponytail to make me look up at his face again. His stare is so cold I barely recognize him.

"Now you apologize to my brother," he commands me.

I stare at him and blink a few times, wondering if I've fallen into another dimension.

"Come on, girl, enough wasting our time," Brian says, pulling so hard on my hair that the elastic holding it breaks. "I told you to apologize."

I realize he's dead serious, and then it dawns on me that this is could be the gang that my brother went after. They're not just loud and obnoxious; they're dangerous. I need to protect myself before things get out of hand.

I turn my head around toward Waxer, cast my gaze to the floor, and mumble, "I'm sorry."

That's obviously not enough because when I turn around again, out of the corner of my eye, I can see Waxer shaking his head.

Brian says with a chilling voice, "You turn around properly, look at him in the eyes, and tell him what you're sorry for."

I do as he asks, raise my head, and stare at Waxer as I tell him, "I'm sorry I was not respectful."

I bite my lips to keep from saying something like,
Yeah, I really am sorry for you because the only reason my stupid answer about the size of your dick got to you is that it must have hit too close to home.
Seriously, his penis has got to be the size of a tiny pencil for him to react that way.

"That's better," Brian says. He catches a new handful of my hair and almost drags me out of the store. As soon as we're in the street, he pushes me back against the wall. He's in my space, breathing hard, and when the door closes behind us, he says between clenched teeth, "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
 

He doesn't give me a chance to answer as his lips cover mine. With his hand still fisted in my hair, he tilts my head to a perfect angle for his invasion of my mouth. His kiss is violent and passionate, and there's something really wrong with me because I'm actually enjoying this. I can't believe how much I'm turned on by his caveman behavior.

I don't know if it's the adrenaline from the confrontation or just the fact that Brian's seriously improved since the last time we kissed, but my body betrays me completely and I melt against him. His free hand slides to the small of my back, and he pushes a knee against my crotch. It takes all my willpower not to grind myself against his thigh, but before I make a spectacle of myself, he pulls away.

I look in his eyes, and I can't read anything on his face. It's as though he's not the same man anymore. I catch my breath and shudder. Yep, there's something seriously wrong with me because I think Brian the badass biker is actually sexier than the sweet Brian who held me last night.
 

But then I get hit with a cold shower when he says, "Now scram, sweet butt."

I'm no expert on the biker's lifestyle, but I know that a "sweet butt" is a girl that's passed around, and I resent him calling me that. But I'm so embarrassed by the way I just behaved that he doesn't need to repeat his order. I rush to my car as if I had the devil behind me.

Just before I start the engine, I see Brian's buddies come out of the store and hear one of them say, "Hey, Ice, remember I'm interested in your firecracker—you know, if you get into a sharing mood or when you get tired of her."

I can't hear Brian's answer but think to myself that Ice is a perfectly suitable name for the stone cold son-of-a-bitch I have just met.

It’s
eight, and most of the guests have started to leave. My mother's already gone to her room. She held herself together much better than I expected. David's captain stood by her side at the cemetery, and then when we got back home, he talked to her for a very long time. Whatever he told her seems to have helped somehow.

I go to check on her and she's crying. I never thought someone could cry for so long. I give her a glass of water and one of the sleeping pills her doctor prescribed when she left the hospital. I'm keeping them hidden in my bedroom just to be on the safe side. I stay with her for five minutes until she falls into a deep slumber. I hope hers is a dreamless sleep because I've been having nightmares in which I see David killed in all kinds of horrible ways, and I can't imagine what it would be like if I was trapped in dreamland, unable to wake up when I have those dreadful dreams.

I go back downstairs and make small talk with a neighbor. She tells me things he remembers about David when he was a kid. Of course, it's a Dave-and-Brian story, since those two did everything together. The neighbor is smart enough not to ask about Brian, but I'm sure his absence has not gone unnoticed.

I half listen to the old lady's story. Through the window I see a few gruff-looking guys sitting on the porch swing. They were introduced to me as members of the task force David joined.

They're talking with the captain. His dress uniform has so many medals pinned to his chest he makes me think of a Christmas tree. He appears to be very well acquainted with everyone on David's team. I'm not surprised—the captain exudes the kind of physical power that does not sit well with a desk job. Maybe he had been part of the task force, too.

They're telling street war stories, and every so often they burst out laughing loudly. Their laughter doesn't sound natural. They throw their heads back, and it's clear what they're really doing is letting off some steam after putting up with a tense situation. Burying one of their own is probably one of the most stressful things they have to do. It makes them confront their own mortality.
 

I go to the kitchen to get some more beer out of fridge and interrupt Tony, who's calling Brian a Judas and a bastard. Nancy is sitting on a kitchen stool crying. I'm shocked because she doesn't fight back. Usually when Uncle Tony raises his voice, Nancy gives him a run for his money. Not today. Today she's defeated; her shoulders are slumped like a rag doll.

Tony storms out the kitchen door. Nancy stands up a little straighter and wipes her tears with the back of her hand. She gestures toward the sink, which is all cleaned up.

"I've cleared as much as I could…" She can't finish her sentence. Her voice is too hoarse. The sad look on her face is so unlike her it breaks my heart.

"Talk to me, Nancy," I say.

"No." She shakes her head. "I'm so ashamed," she whispers and then starts sobbing uncontrollably.

I crouch before her the way Lyv did before me a lifetime ago, and I take her hands in mine.

"What are you ashamed of? That Brian didn't come to be with us today?" I ask her.

She raises her eyes and nods. I let go of her hands to frame her face between my palms. Looking her in the eye, I tell her with all the conviction I can muster, "There's nothing for you to be ashamed about. If Brian didn't see fit to come to my brother's funeral, it's on Brian, not on you. You raised him just fine. You and Uncle Tony did a really good job, and now he's a grown man. You're not responsible for his actions, and I will
never
—you hear me?—
never
blame you for what he does or did."