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Chapter Nine
Skid nervously watched Razor and Vulture’s woman leave the restaurant. Former woman, he reminded himself. The restaurant looked pricy, not to mention cozy, while Skid froze his skinny ass out here in the parking lot.
He’d also been there when Razor escorted Natalie Rivers out of the hospital two weeks ago. Skid wished he hadn’t seen them. Rat sent him there to check on Gears, another MC member who got into a road accident a week ago.
Skid thought there had been something familiar about the redhead walking with the biker wearing a cut with the Ruthless Reapers MC patch on it. Even though he was only a prospect, Skid recognized Razor on sight.
The Black Dogs MC’s sergeant-in-arms, Cal, had everyone memorize the faces of the high-ranking members of their rival MC. Cal warned the prospects and newly patched members to not confront Razor alone.
Even though the Black Dogs MC had established a so-called truce with the Ruthless Reapers, everyone knew peace was fragile. Skid’s MC liked fighting amongst themselves, but they enjoyed killing off enemies even more.
The couple didn’t get on Razor’s Harley but decided to take a walk. Despite the fact it was cold out, sweat dripped down Skid’s brow. The shirt he wore under his jacket was drenched by now. When he first saw Natalie coming out of that hospital, he kept the information to himself.
Everyone knew crossing Vulture equated to a death sentence. Skid convinced himself that it must be just another random redhead who looked like Vulture’s former toy.
Skid thought he could forget the incident ever happened. Then just yesterday, Vulture sent out a few guys to retrieve Natalie’s supposed rotting corpse and dispose of it. Those guys came out empty. Skid had been relieved to be sent out on errands.
After he ticked off all those tasks, he decided to come to Grace. He wandered around town all day, trying to figure out how to best approach his problem. He figured a possessive prick like Razor would’ve probably stashed Natalie in the Ruthless Reapers’ clubhouse.
As luck would have it, Skid spotted her working in a quaint little café in the middle of town. He couldn’t decide what to do next. Confronting her seemed like a bad idea. What should he have done? Take her by surprise and knock her down? Thinking wasn’t exactly Skid’s strong point.
By the time Razor came to pick her up, Skid remain undecided. He wasn’t worried someone from his club would call him and demand where he was. Prospects were only a little better than club whores in the Black Dogs hierarchy. Even if anything happened to Skid, he wouldn’t be missed.
That was why Skid needed to make the transition from prospect to patched member fast. How could he use this screwed-up situation to his advantage? Would Vulture believe Skid if he said he happened to chance upon Natalie looking very much alive and healthy?
It was a huge risk all right, but the reward could be great as well. Vulture might be crazy, but he also rewarded good behavior. If Skid got on Vulture’s good side, he could finally fulfill his dreams of becoming a genuine Black Dog member. It was all he ever hoped for.
Photos, Skid thought. He fumbled for his phone and winced when he saw several missed calls. Never mind that. Skid needed proof. He made his decision. He’d take a few photos of Nat. Skid would decide later if he’d show them to Vulture or not.
Hunkering behind an old farm truck, he positioned his phone. Across the street, the lovey-dovey couple held hands, talking. Skid scoffed. Razor was dangerous? Right now, he only looked like a lovesick man. He took a picture. To his shock, a flash went off.
“Shit,” he whispered to himself. What the hell? He might as well take several more. When he lowered his phone, he saw Razor pulling something out of his jacket. Metal glinted under the street lights. A gun. Skid tucked his phone away, prepared to run. Then he remembered he left his bike parked at the steak house.
“I see you,” Razor said.
Oh, hell. Razor ran across the street and was only maybe five feet from him. The other biker’s eyes narrowed. He looked mad as hell and reminded Skid of a demon. Fear started in his gut. How did Razor get to him so fast? Did he possess inhuman speed or something?
He had a gun as well, but it was only for show. Skid had never shot anyone before, although he liked to brag to friends he had killed dozens of people before. To rise up the ranks in the MC, one had to be a badass, or pretend to be one.
One look at Razor, and Skid turned tail and ran up the street.
“Come back here, you little shit,” Razor said, practically growling behind him.
He reminded Skid of some kind of wild animal. Skid could hear Natalie yelling something at Razor, but Skid didn’t catch her words. Damn that woman. This was all her fault. If she stayed good and dead, Skid wouldn’t be in this terrible mess.
He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, all the way back to the steak house. Skid patted the front pocket of his jacket. Phone check. He hoped he managed to get one clear good shot of Nat. Now he only had to make it back home safely, then everything would be gravy.
Skid could still hear Razor’s thudding footsteps behind him. He pushed himself faster although he started to pant. Skid had trouble drawing in air to his lungs. Razor must be a decade older than he was, and he seemed a lot fitter. Damn it, this was unfair.
“Razor, wait up,” Nat said from somewhere behind. She sounded out of breath, too. Good.
“There’s more of us,” Skid desperately yelled behind him.
“Oh, yeah, where? This is our town, fucker.” Razor delivered those words with eerie calmness and precision.
Skid swallowed a lump in his throat. Just a little more. He could see the steak house’s bright lights up ahead. There. His motorcycle was just a few feet away. Then Skid felt Razor’s warm breath and his cold fingers on his neck. Skid fumbled for his own gun.
He took the safety off and fired blindly into the night. Someone, a passerby, screamed. Razor cursed, and Skid fired again. Grim satisfaction filled him as his bullet drew a line of blood across Razor’s left arm. The scary biker didn’t even flinch or yell out.
