Niner: Motorcycle Club Romance (Savage Saints MC Book 11) Read online

I looked at her with scrunched eyebrows. Tension was starting to build in me, and it was only accelerating because of what I perceived as Amelia putting more on my plate that I cared to have.

  “Why?”

  “Oh, well, we invited Carrie to the party,” Fitz said.

  Immediately, my nostrils flared and my eyes widened.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’ve talked about her so much, we thought that it would be a good idea for you two to chat outside Southern Comfort,” Amelia said. “If Marcel and Fitz can get girlfriends, then surely you can too.”

  “Woah now.”

  “Just saying, babe, not every day that a banker turned car mechanic can get laid.”

  “You’re so sweet.”

  I rolled my eyes at this verbal foreplay and stood up, trying to leave the room.

  “I don’t need a matchmaker,” I said.

  “She’s coming either way,” Fitz said. “You might as well make the most of it.”

  I ignored him as I took my glass of whiskey to the edge of the garage, just within the confines of the building so as to not cause any trouble. Being a former cop had taught me many things, but most of them were the little things that people could get cited for without even realizing it. Alcohol in public should have been one of them, but it seemed to elude most people’s minds.

  As I stood on the edge, sipping the whiskey slowly, I thought of how Carrie arriving would go down. The place would be loud, far too loud. People would be drunk. It would be a shit show.

  But she wouldn’t be. If she hadn’t gotten hammered when she had shown up without knowing me, she wasn’t going to do so now. She would be dressed very well, far better than most of the girls that showed up here. She wasn’t going to dress up to get laid; she was going to dress up to look nice.

  I still didn’t believe, though, that she was absolutely coming. She’d looked so miserable before, and now I was to believe that Fitz being a wingman for me would definitely get her to come?

  Would be nice, though. Would be real nice to see her.

  Maybe you can stop treating her like fine China and just ask her on a date.

  Or maybe you can keep being a coward and pretending that she’s too precious to be touched. Don’t be a wimp.

  I sighed as I finished my whiskey.

  I guessed the night would tell me if I got the opportunity.

  But it was up to me to make the most of that opportunity.

  * * *

  It was just before ten when the first girls showed up. With me standing at the door until Carrie arrived, I had to go through the motions of making sure they had no cameras and left their cell phones at the front of the shop. We were supposed to ensure that no guests took photos of our parties, though not every doorman took the time to check everyone. A flash of some breasts was usually enough to convince the guys otherwise.

  Some of the girls tried to flirt with me, but I had zero interest in them. Unfortunately, my complete and somewhat active disdain for many of them seemed only to further encourage them to flirt with me. A couple touched me and promised to show me a good time, but I just ignored them. There was only one girl that I was even going to give a chance to, and if she didn’t show up, I’d go to my usual spot—in the back of the party, letting things unfold.

  The clock hit an hour before midnight. I started to give up hope. Carrie had shown up well before the last time she was here. I resigned myself to door duty until midnight, at which point one of the prospects would take over.

  And then she turned the corner.

  Carrie looked stunningly beautiful. She had on a purple dress that extended down to her knees, a pearl necklace, heels that accentuated her legs, and just the right amount of makeup.

  “Hello there,” I said, barely able to get those words out.

  “I guess Fitz told you that I was coming, huh?” she said. “Sorry it’s so late. I wanted to get home and get dressed before I showed up.”

  “Honestly,” I said, looking back on the crowd. “You are way overdressed for the way this party—”

  “Lane,” she said, putting a hand on my arm. “I didn’t get dressed for the party. I got dressed for you.”

  You better not pass up this chance to get her on a date now. She’s not some doll you can’t touch. She’s a woman now. The fifth-grade Carrie is in the past.

  “Prospect!” I shouted, holding up a finger, asking Carrie for one moment. “Take over for the evening. I’ve got some matters to attend to.”

  “Yes, sir,” the prospect said, saddling up.

  But instead of pulling her in, I stepped outside and began walking down the street with Carrie. I wanted to get her far, far away from the party—perhaps a continuation of my overly cautious nature with her, but I preferred to think of it as me just doing what was best for us.

  “Not one for that scene, huh?” Carrie said.

  “I hate parties.”

  “Me too!”

  We shared a laugh at that. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had made me laugh so quickly; it was pretty rare for me to be amused by something as to do anything more than give the briefest of laughs.

  “It’s just so loud—”

  “And you can’t have real conversation with anyone—”

  “And everyone wants to get drunk when you don’t—”

  “And few people truly enjoy it; they just say they enjoy it—”

  “It makes me wonder why the hell anyone ever does it!”

  We must have gone back and forth like that, trading glib statements about parties, for a long time, before we suddenly realized we’d walked a good half-mile from the shop.

  “I don’t want to keep you too far from the place,” Carrie said.

  “Nah, you’re fine,” I said, putting my hand on the small of her back. “If Fitz wanted me to spend time with you, then he would have known that this would happen.”

  Take a risk. Fitz wanted you to be in this spot. So shoot for it.

  “So, question I hope you won’t mind me asking,” I said. “Are you single?”

  It was a little more straightforward than I’d wanted to ask with Carrie. It definitely wasn’t being delicate with her. Anyone else, I probably wouldn’t have felt this way about the question.

  Carrie brushed her hair back and giggled.

  “Yeah, yeah, I am, why?”

  Well, you gotta do it now. Stop acting like a nervous eighth-grader and ask her out, Lane.

  “Well, I’d love to take you out for an evening sometime next week,” I said. “I, uh, I don’t want it to be at a party, as we’ve already established that parties suck. And, I don’t want, well—yeah, that’s it.”

  I probably sounded like an embarrassment to men in their thirties everywhere with how awkward I sounded. I really didn’t sound like this; only because of who Carrie was to me, I swore, was I this way. If the boys at the club or in the police force saw me like this, they would have wondered if Carrie had drugged me.

  As for the girl I actually asked…she just giggled.

  “I would love that, Lane,” she said. “I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to the past, what, twenty-five years?”

  “Crazy when you put it like that,” I said. “But yeah, I think you’re right. I think it really has been that long.”

  Twenty-five years. Long enough that most people would have barely remembered the incident, let alone the name of the person that had helped them. The number of years, to me, proved that I really would never forget this girl.

  Now it was just time to see if she would also stay in my life from now until, well, who knew? I didn’t want to get too carried away with myself, especially since we hadn’t even gone on a first date, but it was so hard not to think about the possibilities. To think about what we could be and where we could go.

  “Well,” I said, clearing my throat after what felt like an awkward pause to me, one that was probably completely normal. “I would love to hear what you have been up to as well. Besides the cooking and o
pening a restaurant and such. You know, that.”

  She giggled and grabbed my arm.

  “You’re so cute when you act this way,” she said. “Just relax. I’m not some big fifth grader anymore. I’m just a woman trying to make her way in the world, looking for someone else to share this journey with.”

  Sort of like me.

  “We should get you back to the party, though,” she said. “I don’t want them to think anything bad has happened to you.”

  “Nonsense,” I said, though of course, I immediately started walking back in that direction. “What’s going to happen? I’m a former cop. I know how to defend myself. If something does happen to me, it’ll be because I’ve protected you.”

  “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that!” she said with wide eyes. “I am curious about one thing, though. You said you were a former cop. But not anymore? Why’d you quit?”

  Hah. Quit. I wish it were like that.

  “Let me tell you about it later,” I said, my tone suddenly going very flat and sharp. “It’s a long story. Too long for just a five, ten-minute walk back to the shop.”

  “I have all night.”

  I sighed. I hated to have to say no to Carrie here, especially with the way things were going. But that was one of the few subjects that were so sensitive to me that not even the best thing from my past could get me to talk about it. Not even alcohol would get me to open up about it, though I imagined it would get me to hint about it more.

  “It’s just a tough thing for me to talk about, and it’ll be better if I save it for later.”

  Carrie nodded, again squeezing my arm.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to come across as someone who’s trying to pry into every little detail of your life.”

  “Nonsense,” I said, waving my head dismissively. “You have a right to ask questions about my life. I just may not answer them, that’s all. Do you want to hear the story of how I got involved with Brooklyn Repairs?”

  That was a much more palatable story to me and one that Carrie was eager to hear. Granted, she seemed like she’d be eager to hear anything from me.

  I told her how Biggie had recruited me with the promise of a brotherhood that I had not had since the NYPD. I skirted past the part about it being like the NYPD, instead focusing on how close Biggie and I were from our previous employment together. I told her how much I valued the friendships in the club—even if they went behind my back about being a wingman for me.

  “So Fitz didn’t ask you,” she said, surprised. “That’s a good friend.”

  “Really,” I said dryly.

  “Yeah. He put us together.”

  And just like that, as if she had meant to time it accordingly, we had returned to the party.

  “I take it you don’t want to go inside.”

  “Not at all,” she said with a laugh. “I just came here to see you. I’m happy that I’ll get to do it again soon.”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  I found myself at a loss for more flowery language—not that I was glib much of the time anyway. I just wanted to believe that with Carrie, I could summon majestic, romantic language to sweep her off her feet, metaphorically speaking. You don’t ever feel this way about anyone else.

  The two of us held a gaze, and for a moment, I thought we were going to kiss. The way our bodies started to come together like two magnets, the way that our gaze never left, the way that her eyes started to close…

  I pulled her in for a hug.

  A kiss would have been too much. It would have done too much to my mind. I needed to take this slow and get this image of Carrie, the angel, out of my head. Yes, she was an angel in some ways, but doing this to her wasn’t doing anyone any good.

  “I’ll come by the restaurant and let you know,” I said. “But let’s say…Tuesday for now?”

  “Tuesday sounds great.”

  She started by sounding deflated before her voice perked up by the end. Poor girl. I hoped that she didn’t have high expectations for me because this one made me some mess in the head.

  “Alright,” I said, nodding to her, walking back into the party. “Have a good rest of your night.”

  “You too.”

  I slid into the doorway, let it shut behind me, and looked at the debauchery before me. Uncle was surrounded by four girls. The prospect who was supposed to be at the door was barely able to stand up. Marcel and Fitz looked reasonably sober, but Amelia had already left. I folded my arms.

  Yeah, being with Carrie was much better and much more peaceful for me than this nonsense.

  Fitz saw me, waved, and came over. I didn’t unfold my arms.

  “How did it go, man?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Fine? Did you get a date with her?”

  “Yes.”

  Fitz gave an actual fist-pump. The whole motion looked ridiculous. The whole situation was ridiculous, honestly. How else was I to describe going from someone who could barely unravel his tongue around a beautiful woman to someone surrounded by women eager to drop panties at command who couldn’t care less about what he said?

  “Awesome, Niner, really happy for you. You’re the—”

  BANG.

  BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.

  “Hit the deck!” I roared as I dropped down.

  Everyone did so as gunshots rattled the garage door. Most of them did not break through, though a couple of holes formed in the glass higher up. I crawled on the ground to the office, grabbed a rifle, and made my way back outside. I pushed open the door just in time to see a bunch of motorcycles driving off down the road, well into the reaches of public Brooklyn.

  “Motherfucker,” I said. Looks like we got the violence aspect of being an MC now.

  I went back inside and turned the lights on.

  “Anyone hurt?”

  No one bled, and everyone moved. It looked like the strike had meant only to intimidate, not to kill.

  But we had never experienced something like this. We were about to find out what sort of a club we had. We weren’t playing around with politicians or even people that wanted to force our hand in negotiations anymore. We were dealing with real killers.

  “Niner!” Marcel shouted. “Did you see what happened?”

  “Negative,” I said. “Guys on motorcycles driving away. I’ll go outside and look to see if I find anything. Clear out the area once I confirm it’s safe.”

  No one argued with me. No one was in much of a mood for drinking or sex anymore.

  I stepped outside. On the street, in red graffiti, someone had spray-painted a crude outline of our logo with a giant red X through it. Additionally, beneath that, they had written “Bloodhounds Run Brooklyn.” Guess we got ourselves a rival club now. I headed back inside to deliver the bad news.

  “It’s all clear,” I said. “But we have some street cleanup to deal with. And Marcel. We’ve got ourselves a rival now.”

  Fear crossed his eyes.

  But that didn’t stop him from rising, taking a breath, and raising his hands.

  “Everyone, go home,” he said. “Officers. Stay behind. We’re going to clean up this mess and deal with whatever we have to. No questions. Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  I ended up spending all night trying to get rid of the spray paint outside, as well as cleaning up the bullet shells in the area. The cops never showed up, which was weirdly a blessing; we didn’t need news to spread that our shop had been hit. That would have been a disaster for business.

  I didn’t get home until about five in the morning, at which point I immediately fell asleep. As soon as I woke up, I checked my phone. Marcel had sent a message—one that I knew was not a coincidence.

  “Kyle dropped by this morning and commented on us,” he said. “Said we deserved this. I call BS.”

  He’s involved.

  I knew this would happen.

  Chapter 6: Carrie

  Tuesday couldn’t arrive quickly enough.

  Lane see
med almost obscenely cautious about how he had treated me on Friday, but that only made me more excited and more eager to see him. I couldn’t wait to see what happened when he finally let his guard down. How would he be uninhibited and unhinged?

  And for that matter, am I finally going to learn what happened during his time as a cop? That didn’t seem likely, given how quickly he had shifted from engaging, if a little awkward, to closed off. But the exciting part was getting the possibility of learning more, not the guarantee of it.

  And anyway, even if that wasn’t the detail that he revealed, there was so much to Lane that I wanted to know about. What had the rest of his childhood been like? What had his adult life been like? What had made him move to New York City?

  These were the questions that danced around my head on Saturday afternoon as I sat in the back office of Southern Comfort around two in the afternoon. Although the weekends usually made the slow hours a little busier than usual, we still had a couple of employees up front that were handling orders and cooking while I handled the administrative tasks. It felt mighty good not to have to worry about if I could pay those employees, at least for this pay cycle.

  I was about to head home for the day when a knock came at the door from my employee Sam.

  “What’s up?” I said, feeling happier than normal around the restaurant.

  “A man’s looking for you, brown eyes, shaved head—”

  “Ah, yeah, one second.”

  I stood up and brushed past Sam, practically speed walking to the front of the restaurant. Sure enough, Lane stood there, but he didn’t smile when he saw me. In fact, his eyes were darting across the room, as if investigating.

  “Hey, what’s—”

  “Can I talk to you in private?” he said.

  I gulped. If he was going to cancel the date, at this point, he could have just sent a text. Why did he—

  “It’s nothing with you,” he said. “But I need to speak to you somewhere where we won’t be eavesdropped on.”

  What is going on?

  “OK, follow me,” I said, taking him to the back.

  Caroline would be furious if she saw me with a customer in the back, but Caroline wasn’t here. And in any case, it wasn’t like I had never caught her with someone in the back either. I smiled to Sam, nodding that all was well, as Lane followed me back. It helped that Lane had a serious expression, not the expression of someone about to engage in some questionable activity.