Chapter 8
EIGHT
RAE
My phone starts ringing before my coffee even finishes brewing. I groan and squint at the screen. It’s Wayne. That alone makes my stomach tighten. Wayne does not call this early unless something is wrong.
“Morning,” I say, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear while I reach for a mug.
Wayne skips right past the polite part. “Rae, I need you to take a few days off.”
My hand freezes halfway through pouring coffee. That sentence does not belong in the same universe as Wayne. Wayne runs The Rust Nail like it’s a second home and a family heirloom rolled into one. “…That’s a weird way to say good morning.”
“The bar’s closed.”
Now I set the coffee pot down completely. Closed. My brain immediately starts flipping through possibilities. Broken freezer. Burst pipe. Maybe someone drove through the parking lot fence again. “What do you mean the bar’s closed?”
“There was some trouble overnight,” Wayne says. His voice sounds calm, but there’s a tight edge under it that I don’t like. “The place needs some repairs. I’ve got people handling it.”
My stomach sinks. “What kind of trouble?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Wayne has known me long enough to know that sentence has the exact opposite effect. “Wayne.”
“Rae,” Wayne says sharply.
I let out a slow breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. “You know that tone doesn’t work on me.”
“I’m not trying to make it work,” he says. “I’m telling you to stay home for a couple days while I get things settled.”
I straighten a little, irritation creeping in. “Wayne.”
“Stay away from the bar,” he cuts in firmly. “I mean it.”
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone and stare at it for a second.
That lasted exactly as long as I expected it to.
“Yeah,” I mutter, grabbing my keys off the counter. “That’s not happening.”
The Rust Nail parking lot looks wrong the second I pull in. My hands tighten on the steering wheel. There are trucks parked near the entrance that I don’t recognize, and a glass company van sits crooked by the curb. Someone has a ladder propped against the side of the building.
My stomach drops. Repair crews this early never mean anything minor. Then I see the windows. “Son of a bitch!”
Plywood sheets cover the big front windows where the neon usually glows out into the parking lot. One board still shows spiderweb cracks in the glass behind it.
I slam the car door harder than necessary, anger flaring up immediately.
If someone trashed my bar, they’re going to regret it.
When I step inside, the place looks worse than I expected, and my steps slow as I take it all in.
A couple tables are tipped sideways and chairs are stacked against the wall like someone shoved them there out of pure spite.
The big front windows are boarded up, sunlight leaking around the plywood in thin strips that cut across the floor.
The Rust Nail usually feels warm and alive, loud with music and voices and the smell of fried food.
Right now it looks like it got punched in the face.
Wayne stands behind the bar talking to a guy with a clipboard. His eyes land on me immediately and he sighs. “I told you to stay away.”
I walk straight up to the counter knowing he expected me to come. “You also told me there was nothing to worry about,” I say. “This doesn’t look like nothing.”
Wayne rubs a hand down his face. “I knew you’d show up.”
“Obviously.”
He studies me for a second. “You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”
I roll my eyes. “You say that like it’s new information.”
Wayne reaches into his back pocket. Whatever he’s about to show me is the part he didn’t want me seeing. “Someone left this.”
He slides a folded piece of paper across the bar. My fingers tighten around it as I unfold it.
The message is written in thick black marker.
LOOKS LIKE YOU NEED SECURITY AFTER ALL.
Heat rushes up the back of my neck. “Well,” I say slowly, “that’s subtle.”
Wayne doesn’t smile. “I don’t want you anywhere near this, Rae.”
I glance up at him. That’s not a suggestion. That’s him trying to protect me. “You know I can’t do that.”
“I mean it,” he says. “You’ll get some crazy idea in your head and go off half-cocked and do something that gets you hurt, killed, or thrown in jail.”
“That seems a bit dramatic,” I say, glancing back at him.
“That seems accurate,” Wayne replies dryly, folding his arms across his chest.
I look around the bar again, taking in the broken glass and boarded windows. Someone kicked in the back door too.My fingers curl tighter around the note.
Wayne notices. “Rae,” he says, his voice turning a little sharper.
I look back at him. “What?”
“You are not going after whoever did this,” he says firmly.
I lift an eyebrow. “Define ‘going after.’”
Wayne drags a hand down his face and groans. “See?” he mutters, pointing at me. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”
Wayne is standing behind the bar, watching me as I take in the damage.
I turn toward him, still holding the folded note in my hand.
“Did you call the police?” I ask, gesturing toward the windows and the broken glass.
“Because this feels like the kind of situation where the police might want to know about it.”
Wayne rolls his eyes immediately, like the idea alone annoys him. “I called someone,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.
“That sounds shady,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at him.
“It means I handled it,” he says calmly.
I lean my hip against the bar and cross my arms. “Wayne, the windows are smashed and the back door looks like it lost a fight with a battering ram. Someone clearly came in here with a bad attitude and a plan. That seems like police territory to me.”
He exhales slowly, clearly losing patience with me. “They’re on their way.”
“They?” I repeat, tilting my head.
Before he can answer, I hear it. The sound starts low and distant, barely noticeable at first, but then it builds quickly until the whole building seems to hum with it.
Engines. A lot of them. The rumble grows louder until it fills the parking lot, vibrating through the walls and floor.
I glance toward the boarded windows and then back at Wayne. “…That’s not the police.”
“No,” he says simply.
A moment later the door opens, and several large men in dark cuts walk inside like they’ve done it a thousand times before. The room somehow feels smaller the second they step through the doorway. The Iron Reapers.
Cole steps inside, his gaze moving slowly across the room as he takes in the damage.
His eyes pass over the broken glass, the boards over the windows, the overturned tables.
His jaw tightens slightly before his gaze lifts and lands on me.
He pauses for half a second, then walks toward the bar like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Morning,” he says.
I stare at him, then gesture around the bar. “Morning?” I repeat. “You walked into a bar that looks like it lost a fight with a wrecking ball and you went with ‘morning.’ That’s an odd greeting choice.”
Something flickers at the corner of his mouth, like he almost smiles.
Wayne taps the note on the bar. “Someone left this,” he says.
Cole picks up the paper and reads it once, his expression flattening immediately. One of the other bikers leans over slightly to look at it too.
“Well that’s friendly,” the guy mutters.
Cole folds the paper slowly and sets it back on the bar before glancing at Wayne. “Back door?”
“Kicked in,” Wayne says, nodding toward the hallway.
Cole turns and disappears down the hall to check it out. The other bikers follow him, spreading out through the bar as they look over the damage.
I glance back at Wayne. “You called them,” I say, realization settling in.
Wayne shrugs like it’s obvious. “You think I’d call the cops?”
I look toward the hallway where Cole disappeared. “Your biker friends seem… invested.”
Wayne snorts quietly. “You have no idea.”
A moment later Cole comes back, and whatever he saw in the back clearly didn’t improve his mood. His expression is darker now, his shoulders set tight. “Has to be Voss,” he says.
Wayne nods once. “That’s what I figured.”
I blink between the two of them. “Okay, I feel like I missed a meeting somewhere. Who’s Voss, and why is he wrecking my bar?”
Cole looks at me, his expression steady but serious. “It means someone thinks they can lean on this place,” he says. “They break a few windows, make a mess, leave a note, and expect you to panic and pay them to stop.”
I glance around the bar again, taking in the broken glass and boarded windows. My fingers tighten against the edge of the counter. “Well,” I say slowly, “that seems like a stupid plan.”
Cole studies me for a moment, then nods once. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It really does.”
Wayne glares at me from behind the bar like he’s deciding whether to throw the broom or me out the door.
“Rae, so help me God,” he says, pointing a finger at me, “this isn’t your fucking bar. It’s mine. Now get out of here before I fire you.”
I press a hand to my chest like he just stabbed me in the heart. “You wound me, old man.”
Then I promptly ignore him and turn back to the biker boys.
One of them is still standing near the hallway where the back door got kicked in, looking over the splintered frame. Another one is crouched near the window boards, studying the cracks in the glass behind them.
“So,” I say, leaning a hip against the bar like the place isn’t currently half-destroyed. “You guys just ride around solving problems for local businesses, or did Wayne put out a bat signal I didn’t know about?”
The guy by the window snorts.
Cole is still watching me.
His eyes move from the broom in my hand to Wayne behind the bar and back again like he’s trying to decide which of us is the bigger problem.
Wayne throws his hands in the air. “You see what I’m dealing with?”
Cole’s mouth twitches slightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m getting the picture.”