| |
Rowan
“You Rowan Samuels?”
This question came from the tall biker standing in front of all the others. He wasn’t just tall either. He was pretty. If a biker could be called pretty, that is. Dark hair with a slight reddish tint, deep blue eyes, and a beard that looked like it literally belonged on his face. Like, if anyone tried to shave it off, the beard would more than likely fight back. The only thing that belied his beauty was a nasty cut over his eye. More unsettling was that it looked like he’d stitched himself up while riding in the back of a covered wagon on the Oregon trail.
“Who’s askin’?” Dusty demanded, stepping forward. She was one of the few people who knew the extent of my social anxiety and was fiercely protective of me. Mama bear in springtime kind of protective.
“I am,” the man said, his eyes never leaving mine. “You Rowan?”
“Who she is is none of your business. Now, if you’re not gonna order anything I’m gonna ask you to leave.”
The gorgeous biker didn’t so much as blink.
“Are you Rowan Samuels?” he asked again.
“Listen here, you disrespectful fu—”
“Yes, I’m Rowan,” I said, cutting Dusty off. Dusty could swear enough to make a truck driver blush, and she had a razor-sharp wit, so she could cut you up and you wouldn’t see it coming. The last thing I needed was a gaggle of pissed off bikers driving customers away.
“You got a place we can talk?” he asked. “Privately?”
“Listen here, Sons of Assholery, if you think I’m gonna let you take her somewhere—”
“It’s important, I promise,” he said, his eyes still locked onto mine.
Even though I’d never seen this man before, something about the way he said, ‘I promise,’ made me believe him.
“Lady, no one here’s gonna hurt your girl,” one of the other bikers said.
My focus went to the man who’d just spoken, whose smile alone seemed to defuse the entire situation. A smile I’d imagined he could melt a woman’s panties off with just a look.
“I’m Rocky,” the man said, nodding to my biker.
Shoot, why did I just think of him as my biker?
“My friend here is Scooby,” he continued. “And I can personally assure you, no harm will come to anyone while we’re here.”
“Oh, that makes me feel so much better,” Dusty retorted sarcastically. “Thank you so much.”
“Dusty,” I said with a sigh. “I think if they were here to rob us or something else, they’d have done it already.”
“I swear.” Rocky smiled. “We’re not here to cause trouble. Unless I could trouble you for a cup of that delicious smellin’ coffee you’ve got brewin’.”
I nodded. “Dusty, why don’t you get these gentlemen some coffee while I take... um, Scooby, is it?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed.
“I’ll take Scooby back to the office,” I said.
Dusty muttered something under her breath, and I gave her the evil eye as I led Scooby behind the breakfast bar and through the kitchen.
My heart raced as we stepped into my office, and I turned to face him. “So, what can I do for you, Scooby?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to offend you, but do you have a real name? I feel silly calling you by a cartoon dog’s name.”
He smirked. “Scooby’s my road name. It was given to me by a man I respect. I earned it and it’s not silly to me.”
“I really didn’t mean to offend you.” I bit my lip. “I’m sorry.”
Scooby shifted slightly and I found myself suddenly on alert.
“Do you know a man named Stanley Morter?” he asked.
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“How do you know him?”
“I took care of his father,” I said.
He snapped his fingers. “Ah, I get it now.”
I frowned. “Get what?”
“Stanley told me that you got a big chunk of the old man’s money. So, what was it? You agreed to knock off the old man for him, but ol’ Stan felt his cut was a little light when it came time to settle up?”
“What?” I snapped. “What are you talking about?”
“You said you took care of the old man,” he said, motioning the slitting of his throat with his thumb.
“Oh my god, no!” I cried. “I didn’t kill him. I’m a registered nurse. He was dying and I took care of him through the end of his life.”
He cocked his head. “If you’re a nurse, what the hell are you doing working at a shithole diner like this?”
“For your information, I happen to own this shithole diner,” I ground out. “And I’m in the middle of a renovation.”
His eyes scanned the room. “Lady, anyone who gave you the impression you were anywhere near the middle of this renovation doesn’t possess the gift of sight.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the guy Stanley Morter hired to kill you.”
I grabbed the red Swingline stapler from my desk, taking a step back and waving it in his direction, shouting, “You’d better not try anything!”
Scooby looked me up and down, then laughed. “Well, now that you’re armed with a deadly weapon which you clearly know how to use, I wouldn’t dare.”
I glanced down and noticed I was holding the stapler backwards, not to mention, I’d been out of staples for two weeks. I set it back down and scanned my desk for a more appropriate weapon, but unfortunately, anything useful was in the kitchen.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, Rowan,” Scooby said. “Not a hair. I promise.”
His stance relaxed, his arms uncrossed, and he leaned against the doorframe, now seeming much less formidable than before. Don’t get me wrong, the man was well over six feet tall, so he was still intimidating as hell, but he was seemingly actively making himself less scary somehow. Plus, hearing him speak my name made the ‘fairies in my tummy dance’ as my mother used to say. Although, right now I was mostly in shock.
“Why does Stanley Morter want me dead?” I asked.
“I get the impression it has to do with the money his old man left you.”
“The money?” I frowned in confusion. “But Stanley was there when the lawyer gave me the check. Acker was his name, I think. Stanley seemed happy for me. He kept smiling, saying how I deserved every penny. I remember it vividly because he was never that nice to me. In all the time I cared for his father, Stanley was nothing but critical and harsh. I would have quit after the first month if I didn’t care so much about his father.”
Scooby raised an eyebrow. “And you thought a man like Stanley Morter would just be okay with his father leaving over fifty-million dollars to his nurse instead of his only son?”
I stared at him for a few seconds before letting out a snort of laughter, which quickly turned into maniacal giggles.
“My father used to say, ‘There’s only two reasons someone laughs in the face of danger. Either they’re a badass or a dumbass.’”
“First you call my place a shithole, and now you’re insulting my intelligence... now I’m calling the police.” I grabbed my phone.
“Fine, have it your way. But I guarantee the cops are gonna be a hell of a lot more interested in where the fifty-mil is stashed than they will be in protecting you.”
“And if you think I have fifty-million dollars, I’d invite you to look at this place again.”
“I have looked into this place. And you lied to me when you said you owned it. The only thing you own is a 2003 Jetta. In fact, you’ve never made a single significant deposit into any US bank, which means either the money has been put into off-shore accounts or you have it stashed somewhere.”
“Clarence Morter left me exactly ten-thousand dollars in his will. His attorney cut me a check, which I immediately signed over to the previous owner of the diner as a good faith deposit. The business is still under his name, but we have an agreement for me to take it over fully after the renovations are completed.”
“Or, you’ve got the money stashed and you’re planning on using the diner to launder the fifty-million.”
“Okay, Scooby,” I hissed. “I’ll give you, Scrappy, and the rest of the gang exactly ten seconds to get your asses back in the Mystery Machine, drive back to your clubhouse, smoke another bong load, and solve some other mystery.”
“What the fuck did you say about my brother?” he bellowed, his eyes blazing with fire.
“I don’t know your brother, I don’t know you, nor do I want to know you. I want you out of here,” I said, beginning to dial 9-1-1.
“Fine, lady, have it your way. Get yourself killed. I may not be stupid or broke enough to take the contract, but someone will be, and I can guarantee he won’t give you the chance that I’m offering.”
I said nothing, pointing to the door, my heart in my throat.
Scooby scowled, spinning on his heel, and storming out of my office. I lowered myself into my chair and dropped my face into my hands.
* * *
Scooby
Crazy stubborn bitch. Jesus, she apparently has a death wish. Or maybe Morter was telling me the truth and she’s more dangerous than him.
I stormed through the kitchen and out to the dining room where I found my brothers spread out in booths and tables, laughing, and shoving pie into their faces.
The whole scene was absurd, and it was absurd because the diner looked like cupid had puked hearts all over the restaurant. Jesus, it was barely the end of January, there was still a shit ton of snow on the ground and this woman had decorated her diner like some kind of shrine to Saint Valentine himself.
“Time to go,” I ordered.
“But Dusty’s got a fresh pot o’ coffee on,” Gizzard said with a mouth full of pie. Gizzard was in his mid-sixties, twice divorced, and had two grown daughters he adored. He was an ex-con who didn’t take shit off anyone, and everyone knew he had a sweet tooth a mile long, but more than that, he had a notorious addiction to baked goods. Try to get between him and his favorite pastry and you might lose a finger, or a limb.
“I don’t give a fuck,” I growled.
I heard him mutter under his breath, “But it’s French roast.”
“Bring it with you,” I said.
“On my bike?” he challenged.
“Gizz,” I growled.
“I’m also gettin’ to know my pretty new friend here,” he countered, nodding to Dusty.
Rocky pushed out of his seat and made his way to me. “I think we have the time to finish our food, right?”
I dragged my hands down my face. “Do whatever the fuck you wanna do. I’m outta here.”
As I turned to walk out the front door, the local sheriff walked in, and his hand went immediately to his holstered weapon.
As did mine.
Goddamn Oren Sanders. He was as crooked as they came.
“Sheriff,” Dusty greeted. “Got your usual seat all ready for you and I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.”
“You havin’ trouble, Dusty?”
“Customers heartily enjoying my pie are never trouble, Oren,” she said with a chuckle, defusing the situation.
Dusty led the sheriff to his seat at the bar just as Rowan walked back out to the front, meeting my eyes with a glare before focusing on the sheriff. “Oh, Sheriff Sanders, I’m so glad you’re here. I could sure use your help with something.”
“Anything for you, sweetheart, you know that.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
The absolute last thing this woman needed was Sheriff Sanders in the middle of whatever this shit show was.
“Hey there, Rowan, one more thing,” I said, trying to brighten my voice enough to sound like an old friend as I forced my way behind the breakfast bar.
She let out a quiet squeak. “What are you—?”
I wrapped my arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet, carrying her backwards through the kitchen and into her office, closing the door before she had a chance to object.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, shoving at my chest, and I released her. “I’m going to scream for the sheriff.”
“Please, don’t,” I begged. “Look, I get that you don’t know me, but that man out there is a dirty cop. He’s on the take from at least three local gangs and I’m certain he’s involved with the people who murdered my brother, Scrappy. I swear to Christ, he will not help you without expecting something in return. Especially if he finds out about the money. Either way, it’ll be a price you won’t be able to afford.”
She sighed, biting her lip. “Okay, I don’t know about him being a dirty cop,” she said. “But I’ll concede he’s a little creepy.”
“He hit on you?” I asked, surprised to find myself instantly angered at the thought of that slimy pig coming anywhere near her.
“He’s asked me out a couple of times,” she admitted. “I’ve obviously declined.”
“My club can protect you from Stanley Morter,” I said. “The sheriff, on the other hand, will serve you to him on a silver platter in exchange for an envelope of cash.”
“Did your club protect your brother?” she whispered.
I ignored the direct hit to my heart and took a deep breath. “My brother was in a situation he should never have been in, and he was ambushed. That won’t happen to you, Rowan. You’ll be covered at all times.”
“This is crazy. Why does Stanley think I have his father’s money and how would killing me benefit him?”
“I don’t know, but I can find out, if you trust me and do exactly as I say.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why do you care? Why not just take the money and...?”
“Kill you?” I asked. “Because I’m not a hitman.”
“Stanley Morter apparently thinks you are,” she replied.
“Yeah, but what do you think?”
I held my breath as Rowan studied my face. “I think I’ll check to see if any of your friends need a refill.”
I wrapped my hand gently around her arm as she moved past me. “I promise, I... uh, my club and I can get to the bottom of this and keep you safe.” Sliding my thumb over the inside of her elbow, I felt her shiver. “But you gotta keep the sheriff out of this.”
She studied me for a few tense seconds.
“Trust me,” I begged.
She closed her eyes for a brief second, then nodded, and I followed her back to the dining room.
“Everything okay?” Sheriff Sanders asked as we stepped back into the dining room.
“Oh, yeah. No problem, Sheriff. I had Scooby help me with the... ah... what I needed help with,” Rowan said, nervously.
If this was her best poker face, then I was now firmly convinced she’d been telling me the truth about everything. I needed to figure out exactly what the fuck was going on around here, pronto.
