Chapter 1 NOVA #2
Dad had asked me for the specifics during my visit today, but I’d kept them to myself.
The prison’s meeting rooms where lawyers could meet with clients were allegedly private.
It was illegal to record conversations between a lawyer and her client, but I also knew that the FBI was ruthlessly pursuing the Warriors.
I didn’t trust the feds not to bend the rules and create a convenient loophole.
Besides, discussing how I was planning to seduce my way into the Tin King fold wasn’t exactly something I wanted to delve into with my dad. A bonus of him missing out on most major life events had been the absence of those awkward father-daughter discussions regarding sex and boyfriends.
I wasn’t sure exactly how he’d feel about me sleeping with the enemy. I wasn’t exactly sure how I felt about it either, but this plan of mine had been spinning around in my head for months. There was no other way to infiltrate their circle.
My body was the price I was willing to pay.
The drive to Clifton Forge passed in a blur. As my tires rolled, so did my plan, over and over in my mind until it felt as solid as the road beneath my wheels. Really, it was simple—infiltrate and discover.
My father had been a master of secrets, but even he hadn’t been able to protect them all. I doubted the Tin Kings had guarded theirs perfectly either. They were criminals, or they had been before disbanding their club.
All I had to do was find the truth.
I’d be lying through my teeth to pull this off. But lying was something I’d been doing my entire life. My very existence was a secret and not once had I slipped, not even after TJ had died and I’d been devastated by his death.
I reached for the five dice resting in the car’s ashtray and plucked one out, holding it in a fist. TJ used to carry these dice around with him.
Years ago, when we were kids, Dad had taught us how to play liar’s dice and from that moment on, TJ had declared it his game.
After he’d died, Dad had brought me these dice.
They were the five TJ had always kept in a pocket.
“Wish me luck, little brother.”
A ray of sunshine streamed through the window, warming my face. I hoped TJ, from wherever he was watching, knew how much we missed him. Me. Mom. Even Shelby, in her own way. They’d had a falling out the day he’d joined the Arrowhead Warriors, and he’d died before they’d spoken again.
The day we’d found out that TJ had died, Shelby had held me while I’d cried. She’d been . . . numb. When I’d asked her where she was hiding her tears, she’d told me that she’d already shed them the day TJ had joined Dad’s club.
She blamed the Warriors.
I blamed the Tin Kings. They were the ones who’d pulled the trigger.
A speed limit sign approached, and I slowed the Nova, my pulse racing as I passed a green sign.
Welcome to Clifton Forge.
Central Avenue was lined with businesses and offices. I passed a coffee shop and a diner. Then came a small movie theater and a hardware store.
Clifton Forge served as the hub for this county and was large enough to support a number of businesses as well as the farmers and ranchers who tended the land sprawling past the town limits.
There was a hospital and a handful of banks.
Like most small Montana towns, there were an equal number of bars and churches.
Unlike Missoula and the larger cities in Montana, this was a community. A place where neighbors were friends and new faces didn’t go unnoticed. I’d have to remember that and be careful where I spent my time.
I lingered on the roads as I drove in circles, getting my bearings and a layout of the town.
I found the high school and grocery store.
The Dairy Queen and the Burger King. I passed the police station that sat on the banks of the Missouri River and a park where a woman tossed a frisbee for her labradoodle.
Clifton Forge was surprisingly charming. Quaint, even. I’d expected a rural, rough-around-the-edges town, which it was, especially when compared to a college town like Missoula. But it had a Western vibe and a wholesome flair that welcomed its visitors.
Montana was irresistible in the summer and Missoula had been flocked with out-of-state tourists lately, but as I drove, most of the license plates were Montanan.
That was how I’d explain my being here. I was in Clifton Forge for the rest of the summer to escape the bustle and growing popularity of Missoula.
The afternoon was nearly over. The clock on the car’s dash showed four thirty, which meant my time exploring for today was over. I needed to scope out the Clifton Forge Garage before they closed. With the route punched into my phone, it didn’t take me long to make my way across town.
To the heart of the Tin King Motorcycle Club.
My heart was hammering as the garage came into view. Before I got too close, I eased the Nova off the road and parked next to the sidewalk. My car was all flash and given that the Clifton Forge Garage was renowned for their work on restoring classics, there was no way it would go unnoticed.
Today was about stealth, like driving down a dark highway with no headlights.
Tonight, I’d flip on the brights.
I climbed out of the car, shoving my sunglasses into the dark strands of my hair. I tucked my keys into a pocket of my slacks and then I walked, my Louboutins loud on the concrete.
The garage sprawled on the long and wide lot. The property itself was bordered by a tall chain-link fence that reminded me of the one at the prison. A row of Harleys sat adjacent to the fence and each one included custom modifications like those on Dad’s and TJ’s bikes—I’d expected nothing less.
At the end of the long parking lot was a dark building tucked beside a grove of trees. The windows had been boarded up. A thick chain, complete with a heavy-duty padlock, hung from the front door’s handle.
The Tin King clubhouse.
Was that where they kept their secrets? I guess I’d find out.
Under the hot August sun, the steel siding of the garage radiated heat waves that floated into the sky.
The office sat closest to the street and above its door a large mural had been painted in place of a sign.
The words Clifton Forge Garage had been airbrushed onto the building’s face with perfect strokes of red, black, yellow and green.
All four of the garage’s bay doors were open and the sounds of tools clinking and music playing drifted in my direction.
A man with dark hair appeared in a center bay. He strolled around the hood of a car—a Camaro, if my guess was correct. He leaned against the gray, unpainted, raw metal and smiled, stretching out his long legs.
Dash Slater. Owner of the garage. Former president of the Tin King club. Son of Draven Slater, one of the club’s founders.
A blond man emerged from the same bay and walked across the lot for a bike painted orange and red.
He had a similar build to Dash. The same cocky swagger.
He raised a hand to wave as he straddled his bike, then he was gone, a streak on the road flying in the opposite direction without so much as a glance my way.
But why would he look? Leo Winter was probably racing home to his young wife and their baby girl. He’d pay no attention to a woman strolling along the sidewalk, her face shielded by a drape of dark hair and her attention fixed on her phone.
I waited until he was out of sight to look up and take another step closer.
Then there he was, my target, striding toward Dash.
Emmett Stone.
His legs were covered in denim-blue coveralls. The cuffs pooled at his thick-soled boots. The coveralls were tied at his waist, revealing a white T-shirt marred with a few grease streaks. His chocolate-brown hair was tied into a knot at the crown of his head. His face was covered in a short beard.
Emmett’s tattooed biceps strained at the sleeves of his tee as the cotton stretched over his broad chest. He was bulkier than I’d expected. Taller too. The pictures of him on the garage’s website didn’t do his build justice. And he was more attractive than I’d let myself hope.
Good. A handsome face would make this easier.
Because Emmett Stone would be the key to the Tin Kings’ downfall. Oh, I’d ruin Dash and Leo too. But it would start with Emmett.
I unlocked my phone and pulled up my boss’s number.
“Hi, June,” Brendon answered on the second ring.
I’d graduated from law school and immediately gone to work for Brendon’s firm.
We specialized in probate, estate, banking and real estate law.
Mostly, my clients were families and local businesses.
It was easy. Boring. But I cranked through a lot of work because I hated sitting idle, and though I didn’t mind, Brendon was under the impression I was reaching maximum burnout.
An impression I’d purposefully let him assume.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you today,” he said. “Most people don’t call their boss on a vacation day.”
“Noted.” I laughed. “Got a minute?”
“For you, I’ve got fifteen.”
“I’ve been considering what we talked about last week, and if the offer still stands, I’d love to take you up on it and work remotely for a couple of months.”
“Absolutely.”
I smiled. “I think you’re right. Some time away from the office, where I can catch up and have a little space, will do my stress levels good.”
“Whatever you need. You’re an asset to our team and we just want you to be happy.”
“I appreciate it.” I wouldn’t exactly be working from home, but those were just semantics. “Thanks, Brendon. I’ll check in later this week.”
“Talk soon.”
I tucked the phone into my pocket and stared at the garage, watching Emmett and Dash talk over the car.
Emmett smiled. It came easy. It was entirely sexy. And I liked that he could smile.
I also liked that one day, I’d be the woman to wipe that fucking smile off his face.