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“What are you doing here?” I instantly bite. “Where’s Bodie?”
Jason’s watery gaze lingers on me, full of regret, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out why they’re all here.
“Miss Blake,” Dan kindly says, escorting me inside.
My head fills with a foggy cloud of despair as he leads me to the cramped sitting room where most of my parents’ stuff is all boxed up ready to be shipped to their beachside cabin. The words “gang shooting” and “dead” ring through my ears like a grenade going off, the shockwaves blasting throughout. Everything else is a blur. The cops leave me sobbing in Jason’s arms, hoping and praying this is all one huge mistake. Which doesn’t turn out to be the case. Not as the weeks drag by and the severity kicks in. My parents came home long enough to take care of the formalities, then stayed for the funeral. Dad refused to put the auto shop on the market and said it was mine if I wanted it. I’m keeping it all. The garage. The house. My whole life is here. My brother’s essence resides in these walls. Leaving Mountview would feel like we’ve abandoned him. I’ll never do it. I’m going to stay and find the bastard who killed him. Jason knows. He saw who pulled the trigger. He claims it was the rival gang’s president. Marcus Jackal. But the last I heard, Marcus was pulled in for questioning, and for some reason, he has a solid alibi that doesn’t correlate with Jason’s story at all. There’s a rumor floating around that Jason is responsible. People are making up their minds and filling in the gaps. I’m not sure what to believe. But maybe there’s truth in all the whispering. Jason’s monthly cash handouts could be an admission of guilt. He keeps checking in on me from time to time, and he and some of his crew members have been keeping the garage afloat in my absence. It’s difficult to distinguish the truth from lies after the seed of doubt has been planted. I don’t know what to believe. A part of me thinks I will never know the truth. But I owe it to Bodie to find out.
Getting my shit together, I focus my energy on getting justice for Bodie. This includes going through his belongings to see if I can find any signs of a dispute between him and Jason, which unsurprisingly, there aren’t. They were as tight as brothers. Nothing else makes any sense. Just because Sheriff Dan is dating Jason’s mom, it wouldn’t be enough reason to keep his ass out of jail. If he thought Jason was guilty, he would have acted on it. Dan is like Judge Dredd around here. He is the law. All I find is an old matchbox in his overall pocket from a seedy dive bar called the Rusty Chain, which is where the Knight Hawks go to blow off steam. I’ve heard them talking about it, and it’s not somewhere I personally want to go through the fear of contracting hepatitis. Bodie will blow a gasket from beyond the grave when he sees what I’m about to do. I try not to think about it as I dress in the skankiest outfit I can find in my closet. I don’t own much, but my thrift store bargains enable me to pull off a slutty rocker look. The plan is to blend in with the regulars, not stick out like a sore dick. My tight stonewashed jeans that are slashed front and back, strappy red, low-cut top, and matching red heels make me feel somewhat feminine. I finish the look by blow-drying my hair into loose waves, adding some provocative makeup, and squirting on way too much perfume, and now I’m good to go.
A lone biker crawls past the house on an old cruiser with tall handlebars. Whoever it is rides past the house every day. I can’t see his face through the visor, but the fact that he’s keeping tabs on me sets off warning bells in my head. Thankfully, he fucks off before my cab arrives.
I grab my purse and phone, then take the cab to the Rusty Chain. It’s only a ten-minute car ride from my house, but it’s amazing how fast the scenery changes on the far side of town. Mom always says it’s where all the riffraff comes from, which is funny because Jason grew up here. Obviously, she made excuses for him. Saying he’s just a good kid who was born on the wrong side of the tracks, but that remains to be seen. So, here I am, standing on the wrong side of all that’s decent, honest, and good, questioning my choices as I step out onto the dusty parking lot, casting a critical eye at my surroundings. This place is everything Bodie warned me about. He said if I ever stepped foot in a place like this, he’d slap me with a bible and toss me into the nearest convent. He was only half-joking, but really, I can see why he wouldn’t want me anywhere near this hellhole. The Rusty Chain is a rundown shack that ought to be bulldozed to the ground. The barred windows remind me of the jailhouse downtown, and the tin roof has more patches than my grandmother’s memory blanket. Several greasy bikers check me out from the roadside, so I don’t linger any longer than necessary. One of them whistles obnoxiously, so I head inside, passing the bouncer who checks out my tits rather than challenging me for ID.
Weaving between the sweaty bodies in the over-capacitated shack, I make my way to the bar. A band is playing on the tiny stage. The black pitted walls have more craters than the moon. The guy growling down the microphone like he’s demonically possessed looks like he’s about to swallow it. There’s nothing wrong with rock music so long as you can croon along to it. If I try singing along to this, I’ll get a sore throat. The drummer might as well be having an epileptic fit as he bangs on the drums, and the guitarists assault the guitar strings like they’re scrubbing the stains from their pot-burned muscle tops, their ratty hair flying at all angles. This isn’t my scene. I prefer the clubs in town where they play upbeat tracks I can dance to. But here, people are copying the band’s moves like a bunch of nodding dogs, their boots and heels shuffling through all the smashed glass on the grimy dance floor. I look around shocked to see a girl on her knees, her head bobbing above a leather-clad biker’s groin, her red curls wound tightly around his fingers as he skull-fucks her face.Nice. Could have at least taken her outside to the back of a dumpster.Nearby, another couple are frantically banging against the wall, her legs wrapped around the guy’s waist, and his jeans slack around his bouncing ass cheeks.I can’t believe my brother used to hang out here.The game area isn’t any better, with a fully naked woman sprawled on her back across the pool table taking three guys at once—one making a meal on her pussy, and the other two sucking beer off her tits. She’s clutching fistfuls of cash like she’s charging by the second. I’m not easily shocked, but today I’ve seen everything, and I’m speechless.What a shithole.The humid air smells of fifty percent body odor—the smell of sex included—forty percent tobacco smoke, and only ten percent beer. I’m reconsidering my decision to come here, not wanting my face to end up on next week’s milk cartons. But it’s too late to back out now. I was prepared to suck a dick or two in exchange for information, but judging by all the unwashed miscreants here at the Rusty Chain, I think I’ll pass. It’ll take more than a few drinks to make these guys look pretty. I’m craving hard liquor. Something to take the edge off my nerves and quell my revulsion. So, I squeeze through the hulking guys at the bar and wave at the barmaid, hoping to catch her attention, but the rocker chick looks right over my head at whoever just pushed in behind me.
“Hey,” I complain, turning around to chew the line-hopper out, my words getting snagged in my throat as I lock eyes with Jason.
The expression must melt off my face and morph into a look of pure shock.
“Peaches,” he acknowledges me with a suspicious scowl. “What the fuck are you playing at, coming to a place like this and wearing something like that?” His fist clenches as he talks like he’s fighting the urge to grab me and drag me out of here kicking and screaming.
I’ve seen Jason in his kutte plenty of times, but not when he’s pissed off at me. Acting all protective and shit. There’s just something about a big, strong man, muscled to fuck and inked from the neck down that really does it for me. Especially one who’s glaring down at me like he wants to punish me in all ways sinful. It makes me want to conform to his wily ways and bow down to suck his dick the second he snaps his fingers.
“Keira.” Jason uses my name to snap me out of my fantasy. “I’m not kidding. You shouldn’t have come here. It’s too dangerous.”
I recognize some of the Knight Hawks here in the bar. They seem anxious about something or other; I’m not sure why. Then a burly fucker with a scarred face and a mohawk glares at me as if he’s looking straight through me. He snaps his gaze at Jason, his steely eyes narrowing with contempt.
“Are you trying to set me up, Hawke? Is this what it is? A setup?” he threatens Jason, getting all up in his face like he’s about to start a fight.
Jason doesn’t flinch. Not even so much as flicker his eyelids as he holds up his palm to warn off his crew.
“Easy, boys. There’s been a misunderstanding,” Jason mentions, his voice calm and controlled. “I just need to have a stern chat with my woman, then we can get right back to business.”
His woman?
The intimidating Mohawk Guy glares at me, and I clutch onto my purse strap and shrink behind Jason.
“Look at him. Can’t even keep a leash on his bitch. What’s that say about the rest of his crew?” Mohawk Guy sneers.
That comment almost sparks a reaction from Jason, and I can tell by how his eyes darken and the way his teeth curl over his upper lip in a lethal snarl. “This is our turf, mutt. Just remember that before you keep running your mouth. My pal, Tex, is a butcher by trade. He’ll cut your tongue out and add it to his collection.” Jason motions to Tex who rolls his bulky shoulders and cracks his knuckles.
Mohawk Guy skulks off to sit with his pals, then glares at us as he sips his beer. Jason steers me back to the bar, then beckons the bartender over to serve him.
“My usual please, Maxine, and whatever Peaches is having,” Jason says to her.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” I answer, noticing her smirk as she reaches for the strongest whisky on the shelf.
Maxine pours two glasses, then slides them over to us, her finger brushing flirtatiously against Jason’s index, which he blatantly ignores. He leans down to whisper something to me, moving my hair off my shoulders.
“Can you at least try to play along? I’m trying to save your peachy little ass from getting torn apart,” he rasps waspishly.
Curling my fingers around the cool glass, I flick my eyes at him, playing my best hand at seduction. “I thought you said I had a great big juicy peach and you wanted to bite it,” I retort, puckering my lips in a sarcastic air kiss.
Jason’s eyes flare with annoyance. “Careful, Keira. We’re being watched.”
“I’ve only come here for answers,” I retaliate, looking him dead in the eye. “Maybe Mohawk Guy knows who shot my brother.”
Jason grimaces angrily, holding his hand in front of my face to silence me. “Seriously, Keira. You need to shut your mouth.” He pinches my lips together to clamp them shut.
