Chapter 7
KNOX
The storm warning has been playing on repeat all goddamn day. The radio goes from Lynyrd Skynyrd to a meteorologist who sounds way to peppy about the fact the wall of wind and water currently battering the Florida coast is only going to get stronger.
I half listen as Vandal and Reaper bicker about lugging sandbags, while North and Sunny unload the last of the supplies they went to pick up in Sunny’s truck.
I doubt this storm is gonna be big enough to cause real problems, but anyone who lives in Florida is a little bit weird about them.
Adults will throw hurricane parties and eat potluck dinners and down alcohol while playing games as it passes.
Heck, I’ve been known to step out in a hurricane for shits and giggles, trying to time it when the eye is right above me, so I don’t get swept off.
“Hey, Prez,” Vandal says. “Remember that time you and I got caught out in that Cat Four, Hurricane Ian.”
Can’t help but chuckle. “I remember your whole truck getting lifted off the ground by the wind and then dropped again. And while we were getting bounced along, you were belting out the lyrics to Whitesnake’s ‘Here I Go Again’ at ear-splitting decibels.”
“Nailed the song choice.” Vandal throws his sandbag down. “I remember you checked your seatbelt about fifty times.”
Reaper slaps Vandal on the shoulder. “The way you drive, brother, I’d be checking my seatbelt fifty times too.”
Vandal flips him the bird and grins as he goes to get the next sandbag.
Havoc and Ridge roll in, having been out to secure the strip club, pulling into the garage space beneath the club.
“We should think of locking everything down and getting inside,” Havoc says. “Shit’s getting hairy out there.”
Ridge agrees. “Roads are nasty, Prez. No way is this bad boy gonna wait until eight to land.”
I glance up at the sky, wishing we could all stay out for just a little longer. “Call in Lock.” He and Wyatt, one of our top prospects, have gone to check on some of our other businesses. “Tell them to get back here.”
Vandal hauls four more sandbags out of the garage and stacks them up at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the clubhouse. “It’s going to be chaotic if everyone brings their families in.”
I nod. “It will, but it’s thankfully not a big one.
Hopefully, damage will be cosmetic and not structural.
” A Category Two can be powerful enough to bring down tree branches, tear down power lines, and decimate roofs, shingles, and vinyl siding.
It picks up water and dumps it on roads, disrupting aid and supplies.
It starts to become a real concern if it turns into a Category Three before it hits us.
But the clubhouse is solid. It’s built to last on a solid concrete foundation and has steel shutters to keep the worst of the wind and damage out.
If Gator Flats floods, this place will be dry.
Out of nowhere, I think about Maren and how she shutters down the bait shop that looks like it was built for the prairies. I don’t remember if the windows of the apartment she lives in above the store have shutters.
Who is helping her board everything up? I’m guessing it’s not that piece-of-shit father of hers.
Fuck me. It doesn’t matter what Maren is doing. Not my circus, not my monkeys.
But she’s alone.
I give my head a good shake to clear thoughts of her, but I remember the look on her face as her father insinuated she was acting like a club bitch. All I saw was a daughter hurt by the man who was meant to protect her, and that kicked at something inside my chest.
Reaper nods. “I know a bunch of folks who are just gonna stay home and ride it out there, given it’s only a two.”
That makes me itch a little. I worry about them being home with their families when it’s difficult for anyone to ride in support if trouble comes their way.
“Can’t help but think this is gonna force our mystery men to hole up somewhere too,” Vandal says, looking up as the sky gets darker. It’s only two in the afternoon, but it looks like dusk.
I don’t need to ask which men he’s referring to. We’ve been looking all over town for the two strangers who came to talk to Maren.
“A few well-placed phone calls to people we know might lead us to them,” Reaper says. “And we’ve ridden in this kind of shit when we’ve had to. If they’re from out of town, they’re probably storm dodgers. Don’t like to dance in nature’s chaos.”
I huff at that. “‘Don’t like to dance in nature’s chaos’? That’s poetic.”
Reaper grins. “Yeah, but you understand exactly what I meant by it, though.”
He’s right. I do.
Our conversation is drowned out by Vandal, who starts yelling the chorus of Scorpions’ classic, “Rock You Like A Hurricane” after the woman on the radio mentions it again. I roll my eyes. At least the guy can carry a tune.
Sleep was slow to come last night because I was having those half-awake, half-asleep dreams. A part of me wanted to push both Maren and her father into the water and hold them underneath.
And a part of me wanted to move Maren behind me, because I’ve seen fear in a person’s face before, and that’s what I saw on Maren’s face when she realized her father was heading toward her on that dock.
A few of the remaining chairs that haven’t been carried inside start to blow across the deck.
“We need to get our asses in gear,” I say, and help Vandal with the sandbags.
But as I do, I start to think about what Vandal said. That it might lead the two men to hole up. But it might also give them opportunity. Let’s say they are from out of town, but not out of state. Maybe they’re as comfortable in this weather as we are. Maybe they have plans to go back to see Maren.
And if those men return, who the fuck will protect her?
“I got to go out for an hour,” I say suddenly, and start walking to my bike. “I’ll be back.”
“You still riding it out here, Prez?” Reaper asks, surprise lining his face.
“Said I’ll be fucking back, didn’t I?” And I storm, much like the weather, to my bike.
The first heavy drops of rain hit halfway down the road.
They’re fat and warm and smack up against my skin like gravel as my bike eats up the deserted road.
Within seconds, it’s torrential and soaks through my clothes.
The wind’s already building, gusts pushing sideways across the asphalt hard enough that I have to lean into them to keep the bike straight.
Palms and cypress trees along the roadside bend and shudder.
The sky has turned that ugly blend of gray, purple, and green.
A landscape that swallows sound.
I should turn back. But I want to know if the storm brings the two men out of their hiding hole.
I need to know Maren is safe.
The bait shop comes into view, and from the road, I can see the store lights are still on. It’s unusual to not see the airboats on the dock. The furniture on the dock, where you could sit and enjoy a coffee, is gone too.
Some window shutters are closed. Some are not. For a moment, I almost convince myself that I’m losing my mind. I slow down, ready to turn around, until I see the truck.
It’s parked crooked in the lot, like whoever was driving it didn’t care they’d be an obstruction. It’s big and dark and lifted. Easy to identify.
My gaze shifts back to the shop windows as I approach the store. A roll of thunder grumbles in the distance, but I miss the lightning that preceded it because I’m too busy looking at the truck.
Then, the door bursts open, and it happens so fast, it takes a second for my brain to catch up with what I’m seeing.
Maren stumbles out, blood on her face. Her feet tangle in the threshold, and she falls hard on the wooden boards of the deck, catching herself on one hand before collapsing onto her side.
Even from this distance I can feel the wrongness of her movements, the panic in her actions. She rolls over and lifts her hands to protect herself from whoever is in the doorway.
A stranger emerges out of the shadows. A tall asshole I don’t know, followed by a second.
Fuck, they must be the two men.
Accelerating the bike revs the engine, but not louder than the storm. I manage to get closer to the store before the second man looks up.
Maren is still down. Another ten seconds and I’ll be there.
The tall one fists his hands into Maren’s shirt and lifts her from the ground, but the shorter one tugs at his arm, gesturing to my bike, and they’re in the truck and tearing out of the lot before I get there.
The roar of the storm vibrates through my chest, and I have a decision to make. Follow them and see where they go. Or help Maren, who’s lying on the ground.
Fuck.
I rev like I’m going to ride by because Maren Caldwell doesn’t matter to me, but find myself fishtailing as I brake hard, pull into the bait shop lot, and abandon my bike.
Maren is trying to sit up. Her hands shake as she braces them against the floor.
One sleeve of her shirt is ripped at the shoulder, and I cross the lot in five strides to get to her.
“Where are you hurt most?” I ask.
Surprise and relief flood her eyes when she sees me. “I’m fine.”
I touch her cheek. “Sweetheart, the blood on your face tells me something different.” The endearment slips out before I can stop it.
I reach for her arms and she flinches, just slightly, but she lets me reach beneath her arms and legs. “Let’s get you inside.”
“I can walk,” she says as I lift her, but she lets her head rest against my chest.
Gently, I move her back into the shop, then sit her down on the counter. “Just tell me what to do to secure everything, and then we can talk about what just happened.”
She points to a series of switches on the wall. “All of those need to be down.”
Four clicks later, they are; the rumble of shutters coming down echoes through the shop. “What else?”
“Those sandbags need to be put in front of the door when we leave. I should go into the boathouse to be safe. But I need to lock up.”
It takes a minute to drag all the sandbags outside, and then I come back for Maren. She’s already dropped off the counter and is moving slowly.
“I’m gonna kill the motherfuckers who did this to you.”
She takes in a deep breath. “You won’t need to, because the next time I see them, I’ll be putting…a bullet through each of their chests with the gun I’m gonna get.”
“Easy there, Annie Oakley. Let’s get you through this storm, first.”
One of Maren’s eyebrows rises in amusement. “It’s only a Category Two.”
“Might be a three by now.” I scoop her back into my arms, and now that the immediate danger is gone, I appreciate holding her a little more deeply. Her body is warm and soft against mine.
“I’m only letting you carry me because I can’t run to the boathouse.”
“I’m only carrying you because I know you can’t,” I lie.
When I enter the side door to the boathouse, I see it’s nicer inside than I ever knew. The three airboats are floating in water, but a large shutter door has been brought down to seal the boats inside.
“Just leave me here,” Maren says, wiggling out of my arms. I’m sad to let her go, even as I want to run and save my bike by rolling it in here. “This building is poured concrete. Hurricane proof. And up there is a small studio. I’ll be fine. You can go.”
Out over the dock, things look treacherous. Trees bend at funny angles that nature did not intend. “I missed my window to get home five minutes ago. I’ll be back.”
And with that, I go to save my bike and try not to think how I’m gonna pass the next however many hours in a tiny space with Maren Caldwell.