Chapter 3
HAZEL
“Well, that went well,” I mutter to myself as the incredibly hot biker who turns out to be the moody artist storms out of the bar.
I watch his retreating ass, finding some comfort in his succulent looking butt cheeks pressed against his tight jeans as he stalks out the door. At least I got to watch his ass, even if I didn’t get the story.
“You want anything else?” the sweet but oblivious man behind the counter asks. “The kitchen will be opening in half an hour.”
“This is fine. Thank you for making it for me.”
Any self-respecting cafe in New York would have been open since five to get the early morning customers, but I guess things don’t work that way in the mountains.
I came straight to the MC headquarters in the hopes of catching Marcus, but I didn’t expect him to be so against the idea of speaking to me. Scott made it sound like all he needed was a bit of female persuasion. He didn’t tell me he flat out doesn’t want to talk.
I nibble on my fingernail, and I contemplate my next move. It’s clear Marcus feels harassed, thanks to Scott, no doubt. If I give him some space and a bit of time to think about it, he might come around.
He probably feels hijacked by me turning up at his club’s HQ. People don’t like being taken by surprise. Now that he knows I’m here, he might come around to the idea of talking. In the meantime, I can find out a little about the man.
“Is he always that moody?” I ask the guy behind the bar. He seems not to hear me as he pulls a tray of glasses out of the dishwasher. That’s when I notice the hearing aids on both his ears.
All the MC members are veterans, Scott said, and I wonder if this man is too. He doesn’t seem much older than me, in his early or mid-twenties, and I wonder if he lost his hearing in the war.
My curiosity’s buzzing with questions, and I get a tingle down my spine that lets me know I’m onto a good story. Scott was right. Veterans in a motorcycle club is good human interest angle.
I wait for the young man to turn around and try again.
“Are you a member of the MC too?” It’s obvious he is by the leather jacket he’s wearing with the Wild Rider’s emblem, but it’s a conversation starter.
He breaks into a smile and slaps the patch on the left breast of his jacket. “Yes ma’am.”
I’ve never been addressed as ma’am in my life. I like it. No one’s this polite in New York.
“Were you in the military?” I ask cautiously. I’m not sure how much he’ll want to talk, but the man only nods and taps his left hearing aid.
“Have the hearing loss to prove it.”
There’s a sudden noise from behind the bar, half yawn half snarl.
The man laughs at my startled expression as a giant dog lifts itself off the floor and stretches. “Don’t mind Hercules. He’s just woken up, haven’t you boy.”
He scratches the dog behind the ears and it rearranges itself, settling back down by the man’s feet.
We fall into an easy conversation. I ask the boy about the club and he talks eagerly, telling me it’s like one big family, how it gave him a new focus and purpose when he got released from the military.
He was a prospect for eighteen months, doing menial tasks and proving himself until he was voted in.
I downloaded some articles and did my research on the plane, reading up about MC clubs and the hierarchy within them and the activities they get up to--usually running guns or drugs. But this one seems different.
It’s feels less threatening than I thought it would, and they run a restaurant and brewery. It’s hardly dangerous stuff.
We talk for about twenty minutes before Davis, as I found out he’s called, has to get things ready for opening. I thank him for his time and head out the back to my rental car.
The smell of hops hangs in the air in the courtyard from the brewery that’s out back. There’s also a mechanic’s shop and in the far corner an art studio. It must be where Scott picked up Marcus’s pieces, and I head there now.
The art gallery is tucked into a corner of the compound. There are shelves of watercolors and local crafts as well as cute vintage drawings and memorabilia. One entire shelf is woodwork with larger pieces sitting on the floor.
There are all sorts of animals, an owl in flight and a bear on its haunches, but it’s the carved warriors that make me gasp in surprise.
They’re exquisite and lifelike, their face etched in hard lines, grim looks, and one in agony. I can see why Scott got excited, especially considering the story behind the artist: a military veteran carving effigies of his experiences at war. Showing the grim side of the American war machine.
My spine tingles but not just with the excitement of the story.
Marcus carved these. The gruff looking biker who towered over me with a thick beard and muscular arms. He looks like he’d crush a piece of wood rather than sculpt delicate art out of it.
I long to know what’s going on behind the exterior of the hard mountain man. And it’s not just for professional reasons that I’m curious. The man made me feel things. Deep, dark, delicious things that stirred my stomach and tugged at my core. Things I haven’t felt for a man before.
“Can I help you?”
I look up and blink in surprise. The woman in front of me is like something straight out of the pages of a 1950s magazine. Her polka-dot dress flares at the waist, and her hair’s half pinned back in rolls. She bounces a toddler on her hip who’s got the same dark curls as her mamma.
“What can you tell me about the artist?”
“Marcus Wild.” The toddler whines, and she sets her down on the floor. The little girl crawls over to a play area in the corner.
“He’s a local guy. His family owns the sawmill, and he’s one of the MC. He lives by himself in a cabin in the woods.”
I swallow, trying to keep my voice steady, but it goes up an octave. “By himself? He’s not married?”
She shakes her head and smiles, her eyes dancing as if she can read my thoughts. “No. No girlfriend either.”
My cheeks redden, and I set the piece down quickly. I’m an open book when it comes to the mountain man I just met.
“Thank you.”
I retreat out of the shop. I’ll come back another time for more information once I can control my blushing cheeks.
Besides, I was up at 4am to catch my flight, and I’d love a hot shower and a nap.
The woman gives me a knowing smile as she watches me go.
“Come see us again,” she calls after me.
Ten minutes later, my hybrid Kia rental turns onto the road that the GPS has given me for the Airbnb. Andreas warned me it was remote, but this is positively in the middle of nowhere. I haven’t passed another dwelling for the last five minutes, and the driveway snakes around further into the woods.
At least the GPS is still working.
The driveway is narrow and I take it slow. If anyone was coming the other way, I’d be toast. Suddenly the towering trees open up, and I slow down as a cabin comes into view.
It looks like something from a postcard.
Wooden slats perfectly joined with the second story roof, which is slanted in perfect eaves.
A porch runs around the edge, and comfortable looking outdoor furniture gives it a homely look.
I wonder who lives there and what kind of life it would be to have place like this as your permanent home.
But it’s not the main cabin I’m staying in.
To the left is a short drive that leads to a smaller cabin, and this is what I pull up in front of. It’s just as cute, a smaller version of the main house.
I cut the engine and lean over the steering wheel to admire my home for the next three days. At least if I can’t get Marcus to talk, I’ll still get a relaxing break.
I get out of the car, shivering in the cool mountain air. My heels catch on pine needles, and one spike picks up a leaf. I carry it for a few steps before pulling it off. That never happens in New York.
I’m staring at the instructions on my phone from Andreas when there’s a familiar voice behind me.
“Who gave you my address?”
I give a squeak of surprise, and my phone drops to the ground.
I spin around to find Marcus; his jacket is open, his shirt clinging relentlessly to his muscular chest. There’s a layer of perspiration that shows the outlines of his nipples.
He must have been chopping wood or some other extremely masculine, mountain man type activity.
My pulse races and my thighs clench together to contain the pull I feel down there.
My mouth drops open and closed like a fish’s before I drag my eyes up to his face.
His eyebrows are knit together, and his eyes flash dangerously.
“I’m staying here,” I manage to get out as I bend down to retrieve my phone.
The screen is cracked, which is the last thing I need. I hope like hell it still works, because I can’t afford to replace my phone anytime soon.
His brows furrow in confusion. “Then who the fuck is Andreas?”
My stomach drops to the floor. He thinks I’m stalking him, and this isn’t going to be good for my story. So much for giving him space.
“Andreas is my assistant. Well, technically Scott’s, but…”
His eyes narrow at the mention of Scott. “He found out I have an Airbnb. That son of a bitch.”
I’ve heard Scott called worse, but in this case, I don’t think it was intentional.
“No. Andreas booked this; Scott had nothing to do with it.”
He rubs his beard and looks like he doesn’t believe me. “This is harassment.”
I hold my hands up, suddenly panicked. If I come back with no story, that’s one thing, but no story and a lawsuit? I can’t let that happen.
“I didn’t know this was your place, I swear. Andreas booked it for me. He thought the cabin looked cute. Like a hallmark movie.”
I’m babbling, but it seems to work, Marcus keeps his eyebrows pushed together, but it’s more of a curious, what the heck is this babbling woman doing on my property look than anger.
“I’m really sorry. I know how it looks, but I won’t harass you anymore. I’ll go straight back to New York if that’s what you want. But I’m cold and sweaty all at once, and I’ve been up since four, and I’d really just love a hot shower before I go.”
He shakes his head slowly, and the anger’s gone out of him.
“Your boss is an asshole.”
“Yup.” I nod in agreement. Marcus isn’t the first person to say those words to me.
“I won’t do your story, so stop asking. But I won’t kick you out either. If you want to stay, you can. It looks like you need a vacation.”
He squints at me and I turn away, embarrassed. Is it that obvious that I’ve barely been sleeping? That the worry over Mom and the stress about the bills has me biting my nails down and tossing and turning all night.
“Thank you,” I say.
He hands me a key, and our fingers touch briefly. A spark leaps from his hand onto mine, and I pull back at the shock of it. My gaze darts to his, and he’s looking at me with a new intensity.
He felt it too.
Whatever it was.
Did I just experience some kind of animal attraction? My curious mind goes into overdrive, and I long to touch him again to see if it happens again.
“WiFi password’s on the fridge. One of the rooms is made up, and there are spare towels in the bathroom.”
I don’t get the opportunity to test my hypothesis about the spark because Marcus turns and strides to the main cabin, taking the last of my hopes with him. So much for using my feminine wiles to get him to talk. This story is dead in the water.
After dumping my luggage, I give Mom a call. She’s doing well, she tells me, and feeling stronger. She even went out for a walk earlier. I’m pleased to hear that. It makes me feel better about being away from her for a few days.
She wants to know all about the mountain and the artist, and I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not going well.
Instead, I tell her about the MC clubhouse and the cute cabin, leaving out the bit about the grumpy owner.
After we walk, I make the call I’ve been dreading.
Scott picks up on the first ring.
“Tell me good news, Hazel.”
I bite my lower lip.
“He’s not gonna talk, Scott. It’s a flat out no. I may as well fly back tonight.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I hold my breath.
“Not acceptable.”
I hang my head. I hate letting him down, but I don’t see how I’m going to get the story without Marcus.
“I’ve spoken to some of the other club members. It’s amazing what they’ve got going on here. There’s a young man…”
“Is he an artist?”
Scott’s words are clipped.
“No.”
“Then I’m not interested. Get Marcus to speak. It’s his story I want. The veteran artist whose tortured soul comes out in his work. It’s going front page for Memorial Day weekend. It’ll make him famous; he’ll sell a ton of pieces and makes loads of money. Have you told him that?”
“I don’t think he wants…”
“People always want something,” Scott says in what’s supposed to be a wise tone.
“I don’t think he’s going to change his mind, Scott.”
“You better hope he does, Hazel. You want to be writing up gallery reviews forever? Because that’s what you’ll be doing if you don’t get this story. And if I’ve wasted three day’s worth of expenses flying you there, it’s grounds for firing.”
His words hit me like a blow to the chest. I thought I might risk not getting a promotion, but losing my job…
“You can’t do that.” But I’m not sure that’s true. If Culture Slam wants to get rid of someone, they’ll find a way.
“I need journalists who can get me a story, Hazel. You’re no good on my team if you can’t do that.”
The thought of Mom’s bills swims in my head. The credit card debt, the medication, the pain she’ll be in if I can’t afford her meds.
“But how do I get him to talk if he doesn’t want to?” It comes out as a whisper, my throat constricted by the possibility of losing my job.
I can practically hear Scott smirk down the phone. “You’re a smart woman, Hazel. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
He hangs up, leaving me heavy with dread. I have to get this story. Mom’s depending on me. I have to get Marcus to talk.