Chapter Three #3
“Questions about club activities. Where we go, who we associate with, whether we’ve seen any ‘suspicious behavior’ from other members.
” Atilla’s expression hardened. “They’re building something.
Or trying to. Which means we keep our heads down and our noses clean until they get bored and move on to easier targets. ”
“How long’s that supposed to take?” someone asked.
“However long the wait requires.” The President’s tone allowed no argument.
“I don’t care if the order feels inconvenient.
I don’t care if you consider the rule unfair.
You ride careful, follow every traffic law like gospel, and avoid giving anyone a single reason to look our way harder than they already do. ”
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table, though I could see the frustration in the set of shoulders, the tightness of jaws. Nobody liked being watched. Nobody liked knowing every ride, every stop, every interaction could be an excuse for some cop to make your life difficult.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored the buzz.
Club meetings required phones to stay silent, and whoever called could wait fifteen minutes until we wrapped up.
If there was an emergency, they’d either keep calling, or they’d come knock on the doors.
Another vibration followed, more insistent, and Atilla’s gaze shifted toward me.
I pulled out the phone. Kane’s name glowed on the screen.
“Take the call,” Atilla said before any apology left my mouth.
I stood, the chair scraping against concrete, and moved toward the door as I answered. “Yeah?”
“Kinda messy situation brewing.” Kane’s voice carried a terse edge. “Nothing urgent, though I figured you’d want a heads-up.”
I stepped outside into cooler air and let the door fall shut behind me. The parking lot stretched empty except for rows of motorcycles, chrome reflecting the weak glow from a single bulb above the entrance. “Talk to me.”
“Stopped by Lucky’s Diner around six in the morning. Some guy walked in asking questions. Plainclothes, though every detail screamed cop. Clean-cut, cheap cologne, and that look they get when every object becomes part of their mental catalog.”
My grip tightened on the phone. “What kind of questions?”
“Sounded like they were talking about your new girl at The Spoke. They didn’t come right out and say her name, but the description fits.
Asked if anyone knew her, where she was from, if she’d mentioned having family in the area.
” Kane paused, and I wasn’t sure if he had more to say or was waiting for my response.
Everything went cold. “He say why he was asking?”
“Claimed he was an old friend trying to get in touch. But Angela was working the counter, and she said something felt off about him. Said he was too intense, too focused. Left her his card and told her to call if she saw the woman around.”
“He still there?”
“No. Left about twenty minutes ago. Headed east toward town in a silver sedan, Texas plates. I got the number if you want it.”
I did. I memorized the digits as Kane rattled them off, my mind already racing through possibilities, none of them good. Marci’s words from earlier echoed in my head. The way she described her ex, I had no doubt he was going to cause trouble.
“Thanks for the heads-up. You tell anyone else about this?”
“Just you. Figured you’d want to handle the situation yourself.”
“I do. Keep this quiet for now.”
I ended the call and stood there for a moment, phone still in my hand, working through what I knew.
Someone asking about Marci. Someone who felt wrong to Angela, who’d been working at Lucky’s long enough to know when someone was lying.
Someone heading east -- straight toward the stretch of town where Marci lived in the apartment above the hardware store.
I’d dropped her off a few hours ago. Watched her go inside.
But she’d been shaken, exhausted from the panic attack and the ride and everything she’d told me.
If someone knocked on her door right now, would she answer without looking through the peephole?
Would she assume I had come back to check on her?
My hands moved on autopilot, pulling up her number and hitting call. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Four. Then voicemail -- her voice sounding distant and formal as she asked me to leave a message.
I hung up and tried again. Same result. Straight to voicemail after four rings.
The door behind me opened and Knuckles stuck his head out. “Everything all right?”
“No.” I was already moving toward my bike, keys in hand. “Meeting over?”
“Close enough. Atilla’s wrapping up. What’s going on?”
“Someone’s asking questions about Marci. Need to make sure she’s safe.”
Knuckles’ expression shifted, humor vanishing. “You need backup?”
“Not yet. I’ll call if I do.”
I threw my leg over the bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me. I used my Bluetooth to call Marci for the third time as I pulled out of the parking lot. The warm air rushed past, carrying the scent of approaching rain.
The call went to voicemail again. Her voice came through calm and professional, asking me to leave a message.
No calm lived in my chest now, no professional distance.
Only a cold certainty something was wrong, a certainty she wasn’t answering for a reason, and every second spent away from her apartment counted as a second too many.
I ended the call and twisted the throttle, the bike leaping forward.
Roads stayed mostly empty at this hour, with all the early morning workers already at their destinations.
Streetlights streaked past. I hit the turn onto Main Street faster than I should have, the bike leaning hard into the curve, tires gripping pavement.
Her apartment sat another ten minutes away. Ten minutes stretching into hours, time bending out of shape and refusing to move at a normal pace. I called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.
My knuckles had gone white on the handlebars, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The fragments she’d given me played on repeat. He tracked her credit card. Showed up at her work. Made everyone’s lives difficult. Two years of running. Two years of looking over her shoulder.
And now someone was asking about her. Moving east toward where she lived.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t get involved.
Wouldn’t let whatever surrounded her twist into my responsibility.
The Spoke needed a bartender, she needed work, and the arrangement should have ended there.
Clean. Simple. Yet somewhere between finding her behind the bar last night and hearing the raw fear in her voice while she described a man who refused to release his hold, simplicity slipped away.
The bike screamed through the streets, eating up distance, and I prayed I wasn’t already too late.