4. Didnt Need to Know
Chapter 4
Didn't Need to Know
Mensa
“Two glasses of red wine,” Riley ordered with a huge grin on her face.
Mensa arched a brow. “Both of those for you… or did you bring your newest, former-FBI friend?”
“She brought her oldest friend, not that it should matter to you,” Aurora said, her straight dark hair draped over her shoulder.
Mensa dipped his chin, turned, and poured two glasses of Merlot.
Once he set the glasses on cocktail napkins, Aurora put a twenty on the bar. “You can keep the change because if I have anything to do with it, I’m getting her newest friend to sing tonight.”
“Aurora! I told you Whitney isn’t coming out,” Riley said.
Aurora tipped her head toward Mensa. “Yeah, because he doesn’t want to see her.”
Riley shook her head and grabbed her glass. “She has a lot going on right now.”
Aurora stared at him, but nodded a couple times. “Yeah, all the more reason to come out for karaoke.”
Mensa lifted both hands in surrender. “You want her here, have at it. I’ve done what Cynic asked of me since I got the sound system set up, and I’ve trained Finn on how to handle any snafus. It’s slow tonight. I’m out of here in forty-five minutes, if not sooner.”
“You’re no fun,” Riley complained.
He shook his head. “I’m just glad to know my instincts were right about her being in law enforcement. I'm done with the drama. Have fun, and get your name on the list now.”
He jinxed himself. His plan to cut out early imploded when their three latest prospects arrived. Cynic had neglected to tell Mensa that he and Finn would be training these men during Open-Mic night.
The unexpected training meant he had a full view of Whitney strutting her fine ass inside Twisted Talons. Between her tight, dark-wash jeans and the fire-engine red sleeveless blouse, she commanded attention.
Four men tracked Whitney’s progress to where Aurora and Riley sat, and Mensa ground his molars together. One of those men watching her wore a cut. Mensa hadn’t caught which club the man was with, but he’d noticed the name patch said ‘Rod’ and right below his name was a Vice President patch.
Whitney showed up exactly forty-five minutes after Aurora and Riley had been at the bar giving him shit. He never should have said a damned thing to them.
He’d jinxed himself all right.
Finn sidled up to him. “I got the prospects in the back. This might be the only lull we get for a while, go get your dinner. I ate about an hour ago.”
The smartest thing he’d done that evening was order a gyro from DeeLight’s to be delivered. The food at Twisted Talons was great…or so Mensa had heard. Too much of the menu contained cheese for him to know for sure. And even the items without cheese were off limits because the batter contained whey, which was a milk by-product.
This didn’t bother Mensa most of the time. He’d long become accustomed to limited options at restaurants. If anything it made him more grateful for the local restaurants that made food he could eat without wondering if he’d need to grab his EpiPen.
Gyros were one of his favorite foods, but unless he made it himself, he had to be careful. Not every place left off the tzatziki sauce, and some places had dairy in the pita bread. Two years ago, he’d found DeeLight’s, a locally-owned restaurant that made great fucking gyros. When he explained his predicament, they bent over backward to accommodate him.
Dontrell, the owner of the restaurant, came inside with his order.
“Surprised you brought this yourself, man,” Mensa said.
Dontrell put the bag on the bar. “Sometimes it’s good to get away. See how the staff does when the cat’s away and all that. For Open Mic night, this place seems slow.”
“It’s only eight-thirty. Give it time. You want a drink?”
Dontrell declined, but didn’t move to leave. Instead, he shared with Mensa his opinion on the NBA playoffs. Mid-conversation, Dontrell grinned as his focus shifted down the bar. “Houston! Been a long time since I saw you.”
Thinking of a man he went to high school with named Houston, Mensa turned his head, but his expression dimmed when he saw Whitney striding toward them. He’d done his best to ignore her being in the bar. Whitney’s eyes were locked on Dontrell, and she appeared to be oblivious to Mensa’s presence. The way she smiled at Dontrell, she had a girl-next-door quality about her. Her smile was so friendly, it filled her eyes with a brightness he didn’t get to see from her.
“My last name isn’t Houston, Donny, but thanks for the crazy compliment.”
He turned his head back to Dontrell with a questioning eyebrow arch. “Donny?”
Dontrell shrugged. “Only the pretty ladies can call me that.”
“What are you doing here?” Whitney asked, her eyes pinned on Mensa, the friendly light snuffed out.
“I work here, Blume. What happened to your quiet night?”
She stepped up to the bar. “I changed my mind when I heard you wouldn’t be here.”
For some bizarre reason, that stung. He shifted his eyes toward Dontrell and back to her. “How do you know Dontrell?”
A coy grin twisted her ruby-red lips. “Finding the best gyro is one of the top ten things I do when I move to a new city. DeeLight’s is my favorite place in town.”
He didn’t want to know that about her.
“You gonna swing by for lunch soon, Houston? Been too long since I saw you,” Dontrell said.
“Absolutely. Might bring Aunt Nadia by to see you.”
Dontrell laughed. “You do that, but I won’t hold my breath. Until she retires, that woman’s gonna work through lunch.”
No matter the night or the customers on the other side of the bar, Mensa scanned the room routinely. He watched Aurora hurry to the doors with her keys dangling from her fingers. His eyes slid to the right, and he saw Rod sat at a low-top table, nursing his beer, and staring intently at Whitney. For the first time, Mensa wished the brothers had insisted on no club colors being worn inside Twisted Talons. He didn’t like this guy, but he didn’t have any rational basis for it.
The occasional whiff of Whitney’s gardenia scent hit Mensa and it drove him crazy. Any other patron, he’d let her carry on this conversation with Dontrell. Instead, he leaned forward an inch. “You need another drink, Blume?”
She turned to him with an annoyed expression she tried to hide from Dontrell. “No. Finn brought us another round. I’m actually on my way to my car. I need to give something to Riley.”
Dontrell swung his arm toward the doors. “Don’t let us hold you up, Houston. Get back to your girls.”
She grinned. “Thanks, Donny, and you should stick around. I’m supposed to sing in ten minutes.”
Mensa wiped down the bar intending to hit the break room during her song. He’d forced himself to deal with watching her in the bar, and catching her enticing scent, but listening to her sing again would push him over the edge.
“I’m gonna hit the john. Tell Whitney that I’m sticking around to hear her sing,” Dontrell said.
Less than a minute later, Mensa jerked his head up to see Whitney storming to the bar, her cell phone in hand.
“Can you pull your security feeds, Mensa? Somebody stole my car that was parked right out front. It looks like there’s a camera trained on that parking space, so—”
Her volume had risen and Mensa held up a hand. “If it’s the camera along the fence line, it was struck by lightning during a thunderstorm on Saturday.”
Her head tilted at a perfect angle and he struggled against the urge to kiss her.
Shit. This was not the time and she wasn’t the woman for him.
Rod, the biker sitting alone, sauntered to the bar. He appeared to be stockier now that he was standing. As he came closer Mensa noted the Corrupt Chrome MC patch. Rod’s eyes were on Whitney. That wasn’t surprising. A gorgeous woman like her… any red-blooded man would fixate on her presence. Something about Rod moving to the bar struck Mensa strange.
“And you haven’t fixed it?” Whitney asked, drawing Mensa’s gaze.
“Repairs are scheduled for tomorrow,” Mensa said in a low voice, then turned to Rod. “You need another Coor’s?”
Rod ignored Mensa and caught Whitney’s gaze. “You remember me? We met at that gyro joint.”
Whitney quickly hid her trepidation. “Um…sorry, I can’t say that I remember you.”
She turned back to Mensa, but Rod stepped closer. “How about I jog your memory. You drive that tricked-out Hyundai… or was it a Toyota? I remember talking to you about it while we waited on our gyros.”
Whitney shook her head. “Sorry, I’m in the middle of something.”
Undeterred, Rod kept talking. “Did I hear you say your car was stolen? I can help you.”
He practically leered at Whitney.
Whitney paused, nodded, then spoke in a neutral tone. “Thanks. We’re going to let the police handle it.”
Rod glanced at Mensa and back to Whitney. “He ain’t gonna be able to help you. He’s working behind the bar.”
Whitney gave a circular nod. “I’m still going to call the police.”
Rod’s eyes narrowed. “The cops are always stretched thin. And the Riot MC brothers aren’t going to be able to help you, sweet thing. Let’s go outside. We’ll call some friends of mine.”
Finn lifted the bar flap and moved behind the bar. Before Finn lowered the heavy piece of wood back into place, Mensa moved out onto the floor.
He didn’t get toe-to-toe with Rod since that would have garnered unwanted attention. He positioned himself close to the line of barstools, and within arm’s reach of Whitney. “You heard her. She wants the authorities involved. If you aren’t ordering another round, you should leave before you really insult my club.”
Dontrell rounded the corner and sidled up to Whitney. “You singing soon—”
Rod’s eyes zeroed in on Dontrell. “Barlow? What the fuck are you doing here?”
Dontrell squinted one eye at Rod. “It’s none of your damned business what I’m doing here.”
Rod leaned toward Dontrell. “Your time’s up, Barlow.”
Mensa and Whitney looked back at Rod.
“I ain’t paying a bunch of thugs to protect my business,” Dontrell said, standing straighter.
Rod glanced at Mensa and back to Dontrell. “You pay up now, or you’re gonna pay an even higher price.”
“I pay you, and what then? You aren’t protecting me from shit. You’ll just raise the damn price, and for what?” Dontrell demanded.
In a smooth motion, Rod pulled a gun from behind his back and aimed at Dontrell.
“Oh shit,” Finn muttered from behind the bar.
Whitney stood between the two men. Rod pulled back the safety. Instinct kicked in and Mensa tackled Whitney to the floor, his animosity toward her forgotten. The sound of gun shots filled the small space before they hit the ground.
The karaoke song ended abruptly and screams filled the bar.
Whitney squirmed beneath him and he tightened his grip. He moved them both toward the exit. Two more shots rent the air, but at least one of them came from a different direction. Either Finn had his gun on him, or another brother had stepped into the fray.
“Don’t move,” Rod yelled.
Mensa looked over his shoulder realizing the asshole was yelling at them. A second later, Rod shot at them.
Mensa wasn’t sure what kind of gun Rod had, but by his math, there were at least three more bullets, which were three too many.
“Put your fuckin’ gun down,” Two-Times yelled.
Mensa glanced back and saw Two-Times behind the bar, holding a Glock.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Whitney whispered.
Mensa fought a perverse grin since he had the very same thought. He rolled off Whitney and pulled her to her feet. Another shot rang out. He looked over his shoulder and saw Two-Times aiming at Rod, who had dropped to his belly.
“Run!” Mensa shouted, then felt a rush of humid air hit him. He whirled and followed Whitney out.
She was three feet ahead of him, and half a dozen other patrons were running out of bar.
Mensa sprinted, caught up, grabbed Whitney’s hand, and yanked her toward his bike.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“You’re coming with me and we’re on my bike. Hurry.”
“We need to call 911 and wait for the police.”
His eyes widened. “There isn’t anywhere to take cover, Blume. Rod’s shooting at us now . His club isn’t far from here, so twenty other bikers could be here any second. We’re leaving.”
She opened her mouth then closed it, and kept pace with Mensa to his Harley. The faint sound of sirens filled the air, but they weren’t very close.
He swung on his bike, put the key in the ignition, and Whitney hauled herself up behind him like she’d done it fifty times before.
Something else he didn’t need to know about her.
Rod barged out of Twisted Talons. He hollered something, and in the side mirror, Mensa saw two other bikers in the parking lot. Even over the pipes of his Harley, he heard one of the bikes roar to life.
“Hang on,” Mensa yelled, and they shot forward.
He tore through the parking lot and hung a left onto the main thoroughfare.
Whitney tapped his shoulder. “Head toward the interstate, you can drop me at my apartment.”
He shook his head. “No. There’s another Corrupt Chrome member behind us.”
From the side mirror, he saw her whip her head around and turn back, scowling.
A car ahead turned right, and Mensa accelerated to get away from the biker behind them. It was the one time he didn’t like his loud pipes because it gave away the fact he’d twisted the throttle.
“Are we going to the clubhouse?” Whitney yelled.
The entire situation was fucked up. He’d prefer to lead this asshole to Har’s body shop and have it out with him. The clubhouse would be his second choice, but he couldn’t do either with a law enforcement officer on his bike. (Even if Riley had shared that Whitney had resigned from the FBI, Mensa didn’t care. Once a cop, always a cop, as far as he was concerned.)
His options were limited.
He considered a casino, but the rider was too close for Mensa to lose him.
Roman had a mother-in-law suite, but he actually had his mother living there.
“You got an extra gun?” Whitney asked, pressing forward.
He heaved out an exhale. He’d just sold his spare gun to Tiny, who wanted Sierra to have a small gun in her purse.
“No,” he yelled, and forced himself not to think about her tits against his back.
“You sure? I won’t report it.”
“It was registered, and I sold it.”
Mensa steered the bike onto I-10 westbound. The Corrupt Chrome rider was forced to stop for oncoming traffic. That was the first break they’d had.
Through this stretch, the interstate was two lanes. It wasn’t a problem typically, but they were approaching a bottleneck with a minivan ever-so-slowly passing two semis.
If it were just him being chased, he’d split the lanes.
“Take the shoulder,” Whitney called.
“No.”
“He’s going to catch up!”
The minivan finally moved to the right lane and the Honda Civic in front of them gunned it. Mensa followed, passed the minivan, took one of the last exits for Gulfport, and headed south. He intended to catch US-90 and go back to Biloxi, but something told him the Corrupt Chrome MC member expected that.
Mensa’s bike needed gas soon. He spotted a busy truck stop, hung a right, and parked as far from the entrance as possible.
“Are we hiding?” Whitney asked.
“Let’s just give it a moment,” he said, shutting down the engine.
“He might expect you to try something like this,” she muttered, swinging off the bike.
He dismounted. “Where are you going?”
Her expression held a hint of cockiness. “To the front doors to watch for the Corrupt Chrome MC. I’d invite you, but you’re a little conspicuous in your cut.”
He wanted to argue, but she was right.
“And what are you gonna do if he shows up?”
Her lips tipped up. “Tell Mary, because while I’m waiting, I’ll be talking to an agent I used to work with about this. Hopefully Donny is all right.”
She turned away, and Mensa grabbed her bicep. “Donny’s weathered far worse than Corrupt Chrome MC. You don’t need to worry about him. Calling your FBI contact won’t help here.”
Her eyes glinted in the harsh outdoor lights. “I have to, Mensa.”
He sighed. “Do you really? I heard you resigned. I don’t care if you call in the situation at Twisted Talons, but don’t mention the asshole following us.”
“It doesn’t work that way. You haven’t broken any laws, Kenneth.”
He clenched his jaw at her using his given name. From the road, he heard a motorcycle engine. He crept closer to the corner of the building. An older man in a pastel blue crew neck shirt put down the kickstand of his Triumph.
Mensa turned and Whitney was in his space. It took all of his self-control to ignore her closeness, her scent, and her sheer sexiness. Once he had a lock on it, he glanced down at her. “Not him.”
“Cool, but unless you want the bastard to see you…I’m thinking you shouldn’t stand in the light at the front here.”
He stared at her for a beat. “Don’t call anyone.”
Her lips pursed and she glared at him. “Or what? You’re gonna leave me here?”
His lips tipped up. “It crossed my mind.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I’ll Uber it back to the bar… and send you the bill.”
His brows drew together a fraction. “Why the bar? If your car’s been stolen, you won’t be able to get home.”
She blinked and her eyes skated to the side as she contemplated it. “I hate how much sense you’re making right now.”
He chuckled. “Didn’t get much of that in your government job?”
Her eyes burned with the glare she aimed at him. “No, I’m surprised you’re capable of making sense, Mensa.”
Roaring pipes filled the air and Mensa’s body tensed. He paid close attention to the sound and realized it was coming from the Interstate… and had quickly trailed off as the motorcycle kept speeding away. That might have been the person following them, or it might have been coincidence.
“So, what’s your plan biker-genius? We aren’t hanging out here at a truck stop all night.”
He considered something for a moment – a question had come to mind earlier, but Whitney giving him guff threw him off track. He focused on her when it came back to him. “You keep your registration in your car?”
“Yes,” she drawled.
“Does it list where you live in town? Or some other address? Now that I know your background, I’m assuming you have a place back in Jackson where the FBI field office is located.”
The light in her eyes dimmed. “It has my apartment here listed.” She turned her head and hissed, “Shit.”