CHAPTER ONE
EIGHTEEN DAYS EARLIER
LONDON
My back was killing me.
It was nearly two in the morning, and I’d just finished up the late-night cleaning shift at the pawn shop. I’d been letting myself get soft the past couple of months. Too much time spent managing the business, not enough time scouring bathrooms, because I’d forgotten just how much work scrubbing a toilet really is.
Well, scrubbing toilets, floors, dusting, vacuuming. London’s Cleaning Service did it all, and while we might not be the cheapest crew in town, we were the best. I knew this because I turned down more accounts than I took these days. Thanks to my hard-earned reputation, finding new clients was easy. Workers? Not so much. Most people aren’t fans of spending their nights wiping up after others, and even with my higher-than-average starting pay, people flaked on me.
Tonight, for example.
I’d gotten a call from Anna—one of my crew leads—to say she had two no-shows. Because the life of a cleaning lady is nonstop glamour, that meant I got to spend my Friday evening scraping dried pee off the floor in a men’s bathroom.
Charmed existence, I know.
At least my aching back and I could crawl into bed soon.
I pulled up to the house and noticed a blue Honda Civic parked in front. Mellie’s car—my young cousin’s best friend. She must be spending the night with Jessie, I realized. I bit back the surge of annoyance. On the one hand, I really preferred it when Jess cleared stuff like this with me ahead of time.
On the other, there were worse things than having the girl home on a Friday. Most of them were worse, actually. God, I loved her so much, but Jessica was impossible. I reminded myself yet again that it wasn’t entirely her fault—the counselors told me over and over that I needed to help her learn to cope with her limitations, because it’s not like she’d grow out of them.
Decision making wasn’t Jessica’s strong suit.
According to the experts, that part of her brain just hadn’t developed quite right, thanks to her mother’s ongoing chemical romance. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I knew she wasn’t like other kids. But you know what? We all have to learn to get along in this world. Nobody’s born with a clean slate, and she wasn’t a little girl anymore.
I unlocked the front door to find Mellie sitting on the couch. Her knees were drawn up, her eyes were huge, and she clutched a can of Diet Coke like a shield.
My parent radar crackled to life.
“What did she do now?”
“We were at a party,” Mel whispered. “It was around ten o’clock. She ran into some girls who graduated a couple years ago—Terry Fratelli and her friends—and they invited us out to the Armory for a party with the Reapers motorcycle club.”
I swayed, grabbing the back of my old, green wing-backed chair to catch myself.
“F*ck.”
Mellie’s eyes got even wider. I didn’t cuss. She knew I didn’t cuss. Ever.
“What’s the rest of it?”
The girl looked away, biting her lip.
“I’m so sorry for leaving her,” she said, guilt written all over her face. “But there was no way I’d go out there and she didn’t listen to me. She actually got kind of …”
Her voice trailed off and I filled in the gaps. Jessica liked to make fun of Mel when she wouldn’t follow along like a well-trained puppy. Classic Jess. Such an idiot child—I wasn’t quite sure how she managed to keep a friend like Melanie around, given the shit she pulled.
“Anyway, she promised me she’d text, and I told her I wouldn’t say anything as long as she stayed in touch. But she stopped texting me around midnight and I could tell she was really drunk. Her messages weren’t even making sense. I’m really scared for her, London.”
This last was said with a sniffle, and I realized the poor girl was terrified. I came over and sat down next to her, giving her a hug. Mel spent so much time over here that she felt like my own sometimes.
“She’s gonna be so pissed I told you.”
“You did the right thing, baby,” I said, running a hand across her hair. “She’s being a selfish brat, putting you into this position.”
“Well, on the bright side she’ll forgive me,” Mel muttered. She sniffed and pulled back, looking up at me with a wavering smile. “She always does.”
I smiled back, but my thoughts were grim. Mel was too nice. Sometimes I wished she’d ditch Jessie and find a new best friend. Then I felt guilty, because even with her issues, Jess was my heart.
“I need to go find her,” I said. “Do you want to stay here or head home?”
“I was thinking I could sleep here tonight?” she asked. I nodded, already knowing the rest of the story. Friday nights at Mel’s house weren’t pretty, especially on paydays. Her dad liked to celebrate the end of the week a little too much.
“Sounds good.”
I tried calling Bolt Harrison from my van so Mellie wouldn’t hear me. He managed Pawns, the same store I’d been cleaning that night. It happened to be owned by the Reapers MC. Bolt was their vice president.
I’d had the cleaning contract there for about six months now. They were becoming one of my most valuable accounts and had dropped hints about offering a second contract for The Line, their strip club. We’d already come in a few times when they needed extra help, and I had high hopes it would grow into something bigger. I originally ran the Pawns crew myself, but two months ago I’d turned it over to Jason, an older guy who’d been with me for almost five years. He was reliable, worked hard, and did a great job managing the people under him.
The MC paid well, and they paid in cash, which was convenient. In return, we kept our mouths shut about anything we might see, which honestly wasn’t as much as you’d think. I thought there might be some prostitution happening in the back rooms out at The Line, but I’d never seen any sign of women being forced.
Not my job to tell consenting adults what to do with their bodies.
Even so, I made sure that none of the younger girls ever came out with me. Just because I didn’t call the cops doesn’t mean I wanted my people getting sucked into anything.
Anyway, I figured Bolt was the first place to start if I wanted to extract Jess from whatever trouble she’d gotten herself into this time. I liked Bolt and felt relatively comfortable around him—and he was my only choice, really. My other contact was Reese Hayes, the club’s president. That man scared the heck out of me and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Something about him … The way his eyes followed me. Like he wanted to eat me, and not in a nice flowers and candlelit dinner kind of way. A hint of gray at his temples said he was probably just a little older than me, but his body was built like a man in his twenties. I don’t know what bothered me more, his inherent scariness or the fact that his scariness sort of secretly turned me on. (Pathetic, I know.)
There was no way on earth I’d talk to him if I didn’t have to.
“Yeah?” Bolt answered. I heard music in the background, loud music.
“Hi, Mr. Harrison.”
“Is there any point in telling you to call me Bolt?”
I would’ve smiled if I hadn’t been so stressed—we’d been dancing this same dance since I’d started. None of the club members understood why I insisted on being so formal, but I had my reasons. Just because the MC paid well wasn’t any reason to cozy up to them. I liked my boundaries.
“Not really,” I said, my voice betraying my worry.
“What’s going on?” he asked, picking up on my tone. That was Bolt—he saw and heard everything, whether you wanted him to or not.
“I have a personal problem I’m hoping you can help me with.”
Silence.
I’d probably startled him. I’d never come asking for help before. In fact, I rarely saw him these days. The first few months he’d watched us like hawks, but lately we’d started to blend into the background. Nobody pays attention to the cleaners, something I’ve always found fascinating. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen or the secrets I hold.
Of course, that might be why I found Reese so unsettling—six months into the job and I still hadn’t disappeared yet.
“You probably don’t know this, but I’m my cousin’s guardian,” I said, pushing forward. “One of her friends just told me that she went to a party out at your clubhouse tonight. I’m worried about her—she’s a great kid, but not the best at making good decisions. Is there any chance you can help me track her down?”
More silence, and I cringed. I’d insulted him, I realized. Implied things about the parties at his clubhouse that we all knew were true but nobody liked to talk about or admit. That they weren’t safe for young women. That the club couldn’t be trusted.
“Is she an adult?”
“She’s eighteen, but she just graduated two weeks ago and she’s young for her age.”
Bolt snorted.
“Hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but she’s old enough to make her own decisions about where to party.”
Now it was my turn to fall silent. I could say plenty—that she might be old enough to party, but she wasn’t old enough to drink legally. That they could find themselves in a heap of trouble for providing her with booze. Of course, for all I knew the cops were out there partying with them … But I kept my mouth shut, because I’d learned a long time ago that if you give someone enough silence, eventually they’ll fill it.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I get where you’re coming from. I’m not out there tonight, but Pic is.”
Darn. “Pic” was short for “Picnic,” and that was Reese’s nickname. I had no idea why they called him that and I sure as heck hadn’t asked. He was the least picnicky person I’d ever met in my life.
“Go out to the Armory and ask for him. Tell him I sent you, tell him it’s a personal favor. Maybe he’ll track her down for you, maybe not. Like I said, the girl’s an adult. You know how to get there?”
“Of course.”
He laughed. Everyone in Coeur d’Alene knew where the Armory was.
“Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” I said quickly, hanging up before he could change his mind. Then I turned the keys in the ignition and my van roared to life, along with the check engine light that had been haunting me for the last week. I chose to ignore it, because even if I had someone look at it for me, I couldn’t afford to fix the stupid thing.
If it could still drive places, it wasn’t really broken. At least, that was the theory.
I shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway. Oh, Jessie was going to hate this. Auntie London riding to the rescue in a minivan with the cleaning service logo on the side.
Ha. Not like it was the first time.
The Reapers clubhouse was about ten miles northeast of Coeur d’Alene, back on a private road twisting through the heavily forested hills. I’d never been there, although they’d invited me to a couple of parties when I first started cleaning Pawns.
I’d politely refused, preferring to maintain my wall of privacy. I’d cut back on socializing after my ex-husband, Joe, left. Not that I blamed him for ending it—he’d been clear from the start that he didn’t want kids in the house. When Amber OD’d and nearly died six years ago it came down to him or Jessie, because I couldn’t stand the situation any longer. The choice had been clear and the divorce had been amicable enough.
Still, I’d needed to lick my wounds for a while. Between building my business and raising my cousin, I hadn’t even tried dating until I met Nate a few months back. On nights like this, I wondered if those years alone had been worth it. It wasn’t that Jess was bad. It’s just that she never quite figured out the whole cause-and-effect thing, and probably never would.
By the time I pulled up to the Armory it was nearly three in the morning. I don’t know what I’d expected from the Reapers clubhouse. I knew it was an old National Guard building, but somehow that hadn’t translated into “fort” in my head. But that’s essentially what this was. Big, solid building, at least three stories tall. Narrow windows, parapets on the roof. There was a gate through a side wall leading to what looked like a courtyard behind the building.
Directly in front of the building was a line of bikes, watched over by a couple of younger men wearing the signature leather vests I’d seen around town over the years. Off to the right was a gravel parking lot with a good number of cars in it. I pulled into the end of the line and turned off the ignition.
It occurred to me that I’d be crashing a party right after cleaning for six hours. Great. I probably looked like an escapee from an insane asylum. I flipped down my mirror—sure enough, my blonde hair was ratty and my makeup had long since disappeared. Oh well … Wouldn’t be the first time chasing down Jess had dragged me out when I needed a shower and bed.
Although she’d never dragged me anywhere quite as intimidating at this place.
I got out of the car and started toward the main door. One of the men walked across the gravel to meet me. I looked him over, feeling old. He had to be twenty at the most, and the scraggly beard he wore with obvious pride had hardly filled in. He wasn’t muscular like his friend manning the door, but all wiry and pointing bones.
“You here for the party?” he asked, studying me skeptically. I couldn’t blame him—my ratty jeans might not stand out too much, but my tank top had seen better days and the bandanna holding back my hair was stained with sweat. I probably had dirt streaks on my face, too. The light in the car had been so poor they wouldn’t have shown up.
Oh, and did I mention the feeling-old part? At thirty-eight, I was pretty sure I could’ve been this kid’s mom.
I decided I didn’t like him.
“No, I’m here to speak with Mr. Hayes,” I said politely. “Mr. Harrison suggested I come here to see him.”
He looked at me blankly.
“I got no idea who you’re talkin’ about,” he said finally. The oversized infant masquerading as an adult turned and hollered at his friend. “BB, you got any idea who ‘Mr. Hayes’ is?”
BB lumbered over toward us like a bear, dark hair hanging down his back in a braid. He seemed to be older than this one, but not much. I sighed. Good lord, they were just babies. Dangerous babies, I reminded myself, eyeing the chains hanging from their pants and the bulky rings decorating their hands.
Those were essentially brass knuckles.
“That’s Picnic, dumbf*ck,” BB said, looking at me critically. “Why you callin’ him Mr. Hayes? You got papers to serve? He’s not here.”
I shook my head. I wished it were something that simple.
“I call him that because I work for him,” I said, keeping my voice matter-of-fact and composed. “I own London’s Cleaning Service—several of your businesses are our accounts. Mr. Harrison sent me out here to find Mr. Hayes.”
“Bolt sent her,” BB told the little one. He nodded at me. “I’ll walk you in. See if we can find him.”
“Thank you.”
I took a deep breath and steeled myself to follow. I’d heard so many stories about this place that I wasn’t sure what to expect. If you believed the rumors, the Armory was a combination whore-house/underground fighting pit, with piles of stolen goods packing every room to the ceiling. Fifty percent pirate cave, fifty percent drug den, one hundred percent dangerous.
BB opened the door and I followed him in, getting my first good look at the clubhouse.
Well.
The rumors were certainly wrong about the stolen goods. I’d like to think if they furnished the place with stuff they’d taken, they would’ve picked out things that were a little nicer than what I saw before me.
The room was large, and from the central location of the door it seemed to span the entire front half of the building. On the far right was a bar. Ancient couches and cast-off chairs lined the walls, and several battered, mismatched tables filled the center. To the left was a pool table, darts, and a jukebox that was either forty years old or a damned good replica. The place wasn’t dirty … just very well worn.
It’s funny, but looking around, my very first thought was that I was overdressed—and by overdressed, I meant there was literally too much fabric covering my body.
Wayyy too much.
The women ranged from full-on naked to dressed casually in tight jeans and low-cut tank tops. I stuck out like a … well, like a cleaning lady at a biker party. Half the guys had women on their laps, partially clothed and otherwise, and off in the corner I was pretty sure was a couple having full-on sex.
I snuck another quick look out of the corner of my eye.
Make that definitely having sex. Disgusting … yet strangely mesmerizing … I had to force myself to look away, hoping to hell I wasn’t blushing like a little girl.
You’re thirty-eight and you know where babies come from, I reminded myself firmly. Just because you’re not getting any doesn’t mean they shouldn’t.
People started to notice me—big guys covered in tattoos, wearing leather vests with the Reaper colors on them. Their gazes ranged from curious to outright suspicious. Shit. This was a mistake. So Bolt sent me out there. That didn’t mean it was safe, or a good idea. Bolt wasn’t my friend. Sure, he probably valued me as a worker, but the club valued their strippers, too. Certainly didn’t stop them from firing their asses right and left when their personal drama got out of hand.
Snap out of it.
I took another deep breath and smiled brightly at BB. He’d been watching me expectantly, almost like he thought I’d run away or something. I’m no wimp, though. I might choose not to cuss, but I know what the words mean.
I looked up to see a tall man with shoulder-length, wavy hair and so much scruff on his face he’d entered beard territory. He wore another of those vests. The name on his was “Gage,” and below it was a smaller patch that said “Sgt at Arms.” I’d never seen him at the shop, but that wasn’t saying much—we came in after hours for a reason.
“Says she’s here to see Pic,” BB said. “Bolt sent her.”
“That right?” he asked, eyes speculative. He swept them down my figure and I forced myself to smile at him.
“I’m looking for my cousin’s daughter,” I said. “She came out here for the party with some friends, apparently. Mr. Harrison suggested that Mr. Hayes might be able to help me.”
The man smirked.
“Did he? Imagine that.”
I wasn’t sure how to interpret his words, so I chose to take them at face value, forcing myself to wait for him to continue.
“Back outside, BB,” the man said. “I’ve got her from here. You’re the cleaner, aren’t you?”
I glanced down at my filthy clothing.
“How could you tell?” I asked, my tone dry. He laughed, and I felt some of my tension break.
“I’m Gage,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find Pic.”
“I hate to bother him,” I said quickly. “I mean, if he’s busy right now. I see you’re one of the club officers. Maybe you can help me?”
He raised a brow.
“Bolt sent you to talk to Picnic, right?”
I nodded, wondering if I’d made a mistake. Well played, London. Alienate the one guy who stepped up to help you.
“Then you should talk to Picnic.”
I offered another smile, wondering if he could see how close my face was to cracking from the effort. He turned and I followed him across the room, avoiding catching anyone’s eyes. Some seemed interested in me, but most were too busy drinking, talking, and doing more intimate things to pay attention to one grubby woman. In the center of the back wall was an open hallway leading farther into the building. He passed through it and I followed, growing even more nervous. Walking into the building had been bad enough, but somehow this felt worse. Like I’d hit the point of no return.
Certainly the point of no witnesses.
A door opened up ahead and two girls stumbled out, giggling. Jessica? No, but I recognized one.
“Kimberly Jordan, does your mother know where you are right now?” I asked, my voice cracking like a whip.
Everyone in the hallway froze, including Gage.
Kim stared at me, her eyes wide.
“N-no,” she said. She peered around me, as if wondering if her mother might jump out at her next. Good. Maybe that would make her think.
“You wanna talk to the prez or not?” Gage asked, his voice cool. “Pick your battles, babe. You want this one or your cousin’s kid?”
I swallowed, realizing that the Parental Voice of Authority might not be so welcome here. Oops.
“I’m here for Jessica,” I told him. He smiled at me, his teeth bright and shiny in the dim light.
“Great, so let’s leave them alone, all right? Girls, get out of here.”
They brushed past us quickly, whispering with thrilled and excited eyes.
“Do you always have underage girls out here drinking?” I asked him, unable to just let it go completely.
“We’re not serving anyone underage,” he said flatly. I raised a brow, wordlessly calling him on his bullshit. He grinned. “You wanna look me in the eye and tell me you never had a drink until after you were twenty-one?”
I sighed. Of course I had. Not only that, I’d had lots of them and I hadn’t turned into an alcoholic or gotten pregnant or anything horrible.
Nancy Reagan had been wrong—at least in my case. Amber probably should’ve just said no.
“Can we just get on with it?”
Gage shook his head, not even bothering to hide his amusement, then stepped forward and knocked on the unmarked door to our left.
“Pic? You busy?”
REESE
I sat on my office couch, wondering why the hell I didn’t give a shit that a beautiful girl was currently sucking my cock. Sure, I enjoy a good blow job as much as the next guy. But tonight I wasn’t engaged, just couldn’t bring myself to care. This was unfortunate, because the babe kneeling between my legs had a mouth like a Hoover and a very loose sense of morals. She was the new headliner over at The Line—the boys had brought her out tonight just for me.
Birthday present.
Forty-three f*cking years old.
Her fingers dropped low, running under my balls with a light touch as her tongue swirled around my dickhead. I reached over and grabbed my beer, taking a long, slow pull. The cold liquid slid down my throat and I decided I didn’t give a f*ck if she finished or not.
I want you happy, baby, but you can do better … Heather seemed to whisper in my ear.
I’d been hearing her voice since the day she died. Christ, I missed that woman, and I wished to hell those little whispers were more than my own sick subconscious. But I knew they weren’t, because if Heather’s spirit was really beside me offering advice, I wouldn’t have f*cked up so bad with my daughters.
I glanced across the room to the black metal filing cabinet. A picture sat on top of it, in a tarnished silver frame. My old lady. The shot was from one of the last family parties we’d had—right after she recovered from the mastectomy, but before that final round of chemo. Her arms wrapped tight around our two beautiful girls, all three of them laughing at something just out of the frame.
Hoover chose that moment to suck me in deep down into her throat and I closed my eyes. Damn, Bolt had told me she sucked cock like a pro, but he hadn’t given her full credit. The woman had a gift. Every inch squeezed tight and I wasn’t small. I groaned, letting my head fall back.
Why did it still feel like I was cheating on Heather?
Hoover popped back up, giggling at me annoyingly. I opened my mouth to tell her to shut up, but she sucked me back in before I had the chance. Shit, that was good. My boredom disappeared, leaving the clarity I only got during sex or a good fight. My body felt incredible, but my mind floated, blessedly detached. No guilt over Heather, no worry about the club, not even thoughts of my girls could touch me here.
I was like a machine, powerful and free.
My phone buzzed next to me on the couch and I glanced down to see a text.
BOLT: Enjoying your party? I sent you another present. Try not to break it.
I glanced down at the brown-haired head bobbing in my lap and decided that my life might not be perfect, but damned if my friends didn’t take care of me. If there was a God in heaven, I was about to meet this bitch’s twin sister.
A loud knock came from the door.
“Pic? You busy?” Gage called. “You got company. Bolt sent her.”
Reaching down, I caught the stripper’s hair and gripped it, slowing her down.
“Send her in.”
The door opened and a short, curvy blonde dressed in a dirty T-shirt and ragged jeans stumbled into the room, her eyes going wide as she took in the scene. Generous tits filled out the design on the front of her shirt, which read “London’s Cleaning Service.”
F*ck. F*ck.
That cocksucking bastard. Bolt was gonna pay for this, because London Armstrong was the last woman who should be in this building. This bitch and her gorgeous rack had been making my life a living hell for the past six months, because she was the last thing I needed in my life and I’d never wanted to f*ck anyone more.
Not even Heather.
And that was a problem.
It didn’t matter how nice London’s tits would look squeezing my dick until I came all over that pretty face of hers. She was too nice, too clean, and way the f*ck too grown up. Ms. Armstrong was a regular citizen walking the straight and narrow, and she had no place in my world. She’d run off screaming in the darkness if I cut loose with her …
To make things worse, I sort of liked her as a person, too.
Hoover made a sudden choking noise, and I realized I’d trapped her head, cutting off her air. I let her go and she jerked back, looking up at me in confusion as she panted, mouth red and wet. I patted her head, reassuring her.
Like a dog. Christ.
What the hell was Bolt thinking, sending London here? I sucked in a deep breath, because the woman—who was staring at me across my office as if I was an ax murderer—looked like she was about to turn and run for the hills.
I wanted to chase her when she did it … run her down, rip off her jeans, and shove deep inside while she screamed at me. Yeah, nothin’ wrong with that scenario.
F*ck it.
Six months I’d jerked off picturing her boobs, but I’d done the right thing and left her alone. Not my fault she walked into my damned office and not my responsibility to save her now that she’d come here. Clarity washed through me again and I decided there was only one way to end this.
I offered her a predatory smile and raised a hand, waving her toward the couch.
Happy birthday to me.