Page 38 of The Price of Love

SHADOW

Today’s the day, and it hasn’t started out well. I woke up to several texts from Margot. By the last one, she was furious that I hadn’t responded. She dropped a not-so-veiled threat that this was another legal strike against me. Her exact words were, What kind of mother doesn’t have her phone with her twenty-four/seven when her children don’t live with her?

There was a lot buried in that. It landed exactly where it hurts most, which is what Margot does best. Keep me off balance and hurting. It’s always been her method. And I do keep my goddamn phone with me, but I don’t always hear text messages. I’ve told her a thousand times to call because I’ll always hear it. I don’t tell her it’s because her ringtone is cheesy carnival music. Whenever she calls, it’s bound to be a circus.

Of course she hadn’t reached out about the kids. Her mother had fallen last night, and Margot wanted advice on walkers. Damn it. Who texts about that at midnight? And just because I work in a nursing home doesn’t mean I’m an expert on walkers. Besides, her mom is barely in her sixties and was likely drunk when she fell, so a walker seems like overkill.

To keep the peace, I did some quick research and sent her a few links. Of course she greeted my help with more scorn.

Now I’m riding through Saratoga Springs to our clubhouse. I’m five minutes out, and with my nerves already on edge, I can’t calm my racing heartbeat. All week, I unsuccessfully tried to block out my assignment to shadow Storm today.

It’s my favorite event of the year, especially since it’s near and dear to my heart. I understand the need for women to seek shelter. My mom and I stayed in one when I was five. I don’t remember much. Other than how well I slept since I didn’t have to keep one eye open.

I push the thoughts from my head. This isn’t helpful, and it’s telling that it feels safer to think about my childhood than Storm. Despite the Iron Thorns’ reputation, nobody I asked had anything negative to say about Storm, other than her reputation with the ladies, so why can’t I shake this uneasy feeling?

When I pull into the lot, several Graces’ bikes are already there. With all the visiting clubs coming in for the ride, we’re expecting nearly two hundred bikes.

We’d set up last night, so there’s little to do, but Wiz will find something that suits me fine. Registration begins at ten thirty, with kickstands up at eleven, but early birds usually roll in by ten. That suits me fine, too. More to distract me, so long as the Iron Thorns don’t arrive early.

I’ve barely parked my bike before Sloth, our sergeant-at-arms, lumbers toward me. I don’t like the concerned expression on her face.

“We can’t get the coffee machine to work,” she says in greeting.

I want to laugh, but Sloth can be sensitive, so I match her serious expression and refrain from asking if she plugged it in. They don’t expect my sarcastic sense of humor, so I keep it to myself.

“Do you want me to go buy another one?” I point at my bike. “It’ll be hard to carry.” With my 1979 Harley Shovelhead, I can’t transport much like some of the girls with much newer models.

Sloth shakes her head. “No, we sent a prospect, but I doubt she’ll return in time to get a good brew. We thought you could fix it.”

I chuckle to myself. If I’m the most mechanically inclined, it’s pretty telling how different the Graces are from the Thorns. Hell, they operate a garage. My guess is they could disassemble the coffee machine and have it purring like a kitten in under ten minutes.

Sloth slaps her hand against her chest. “Everything is starting out all wrong. This event is gonna be a bust.”

“Why?” Worry courses through me. Have the Thorns already started trouble? “What happened?”

Her expression turns from upset to puzzled. “I just told you.”

Got it. Sloth is overreacting, and I just need to go along with it. “Yeah, right? Let me look at it.”

For the past hour, I’ve been busy, which is good. I was right. The coffee machine was unplugged. In the girls’ defense, the extension cord was plugged into the outlet, but the coffee machine wasn’t plugged into the extension cord. Now Sloth is on a mission to determine who’s trying to sabotage our run. I tried convincing her it was an accident, but she’s hell-bent, and I don’t have the energy to argue with her.

It’s quarter till eleven, and most of the bikers are here and registered, but the Thorns haven’t arrived. I’m sticking close to the registration table, so I can connect with Storm when she comes to the table. Even though I don’t want the job, I’ll do my best.

I gaze out over the steel and chrome in the lot, and my chest fills. My eyes threaten to fill, as well. It’s hard to keep my tears at bay when I glance at the heap of donations piled beside the registration table.

Bikers are generous, and they know a good cause. We always get plenty of cash donations, but most women don’t want to show up empty-handed. I doubt an outlawish club like the Thorns will have the same generosity.

With the festive mood, I don’t hear the low rumble at first. But like a storm gathering in the distance, the sound becomes louder. My pulse quickens as the growl grows. The prospect next to me raises an eyebrow in question, and many in the gathered crowd glance toward the driveway.

As the roar moves closer, the vibration rattles in my chest. While they should throttle down, the metallic sound of revving engines pulses off the brick walls. Finally, I hear the sharp crackles and pops as they let off their throttles.

It’s still too loud for conversation, but the prospect leans toward my ear. “I bet that’s the Thorns.”

No shit. I keep that thought to myself.

Of course they’ll make a grand entrance. Their pipes snap like gunshots, and the thump of their engines rolls in between the buildings. The first bike appears. Storm, I presume, on a Harley Bob with Dimples to her right. Their straight pipes, which were probably gutted, rattle the registration table. The ground trembles and rises up through my shoes.

The line of bikes keeps coming. Looks like more than the twenty Wiz said would be attending, but I fix my gaze on Storm instead of counting. Storm idles to a stop in the corner of the lot. One by one, the Thorns kill their engines. The silence that follows is jarring.