Gypsy king

CHAPTER THREE

DASH

WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?

As Bryce’s white Audi streaked off the lot, I shook my head and replayed the last five minutes.

After a hot cup of coffee with Dad in the office, I’d come out to the garage, ready to get to work on the red ’68 Mustang GT I’d been restoring. My morning had been shaping up pretty damn great when a hot, leggy brunette with a nice rack came in for an oil change. Got even better when she flirted back and flashed me that showstopper smile. Then I hit the jackpot because she turned out to be witty too, and the heat between us was practically blue flame.

I should have known something was up. Women too good to be true were always out for trouble. This one was only baiting me for a story.

And damn, I’d taken that bait. Hook, line and sinker.

How the hell had Bryce known Dad was going to be arrested for murder even before the cops had shown up? Better question. How the hell hadn’t I?

Because I was out of touch.

Not long ago, when the club was still going strong, I would have been the first to know if the cops were moving in my or my family’s direction. Sure, living on the right side of the law had its advantages. Mostly, it was nice to live a life without the gnawing, constant fear I’d wake up and be either killed or sent to prison for the rest of my life.

I’d become content. Lazy. Ignorant. I’d let my guard down.

And now Dad was headed for a jail cell. Fuck.

“Dash.” Presley punched me in the arm, getting my attention.

I shook myself and looked down at her, squinting as her white hair reflected the sunlight. “What?”

“What?” she mimicked. “What are you going to do about your dad? Did you know about this?”

“Yeah. I let him go about drinking his morning coffee, bullshitting with you, knowing he’d get arrested soon,” I barked. “No, I didn’t know about this.”

Presley scowled but stayed quiet.

“She said murder.” Emmett swept a long strand of hair out of his face. “Did I hear that right?”

Yeah. “She said murder.”

Murder, spoken in Bryce’s sultry voice I’d thought was so smooth when it had first hit my ears. Dad had been arrested and I’d been bested by a goddamn nosy reporter. My lip curled. I avoided the press nearly as much as I avoided cops and lawyers. Until we got this shit figured out, I’d be stuck dealing with all three.

“Call Jim,” I ordered Emmett. “Tell him what happened.”

He nodded, walking to the garage with his phone pressed to his ear as he called our lawyer.

Emmett had been my vice president, and though the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club might be extinct, he was still by my side. Always had been.

We’d grown up in the club together. As kids, we’d played at family functions. He was three years younger, but we’d been friends all through school. Then brothers in the club, like our fathers had been.

The pair of us had broken countless laws. We’d done things that would never see the light of day. We’d joked last week over a beer at The Betsy about how quiet our lives had become.

Guess we should have knocked on wood.

“Isaiah, back to work,” I ordered. “Act like it’s any other day. If someone comes around and asks a question about Dad, you don’t know shit.”

He nodded. “Got it. Anything else?”

“You’ll probably be covering for the rest of us. You good with that?”

“I’m good.” Isaiah turned and went in the garage, a wrench still in his hand. We’d only hired him a couple of weeks ago, but my gut said he’d handle the extra work just fine.

Isaiah was quiet—friendly enough. He wasn’t social. He didn’t join us for beers after work or bullshit with me and the guys for hours in the garage. But he was a good mechanic and showed up on time. Whatever demons he was battling, he kept them to himself.

I’d taken Dad’s title as manager of the garage when he’d retired years ago, but since I hated anything to do with human resources or accounting and Dad hated to sit home alone all day, he came in and helped often. When I’d tasked him with finding me another mechanic, he’d found Isaiah.

I hadn’t even bothered interviewing Isaiah because when Draven Slater approved of someone, you trusted his instincts.

“What do you want me to do?” Presley asked.

“Where the fuck is Leo?”

“My guess?” She rolled her eyes. “His bed.”

“Call him and wake his ass up. Go to his house if you have to. When I get back from the police station, I expect to see him working. Then we’ll all talk.”

She nodded and headed for the office.

“Pres,” I called, stopping her. “Make some other calls too. See if anyone in town has heard anything. Discreetly.”

“Okay.” With another nod, she hurried to the office as I strode to my bike.

Along the way to the police station, a white car streaked past going the opposite direction, and my mind immediately jumped to Bryce.

Emmett had told me there was a new reporter in town. But his name was Bryce Ryan. I hadn’t been expecting a woman, certainly not one with full, rosy lips and thick chocolate hair.

Any person besides Emmett would have suffered a broken nose for letting me think the reporter was a man. Though based on the shock on his own face, Emmett hadn’t expected a woman either.

Served me right for disappearing any time Presley wanted to dish small-town gossip in the office. Being out of the loop, that was my fault. Not to mention Bryce . . . well, she was good.

She’d played me for the fool I’d become. Hell, I’d even told her my real name and she’d been at the garage for all of five minutes. Isaiah didn’t even know my real name, and we worked side by side every day.

One flash of her white smile, those pretty brown eyes sparkling, and I’d loosened my tongue. I’d acted like a horny teenager desperate to get into her pants instead of a thirty-five-year-old man who had plenty of women to call if he needed to get off.

Fucking reporters. I hadn’t worried about the newspaper or their reporters for decades. But Bryce, she was a game changer.

The previous owners of the newspaper had been too dumb to be a nuisance. The new owner, who had to be Bryce’s father, had come into Clifton Forge years ago, but Lane Ryan missed all the newsworthy stuff.

He’d come to town when the Tin Gypsies were no longer in the drug trade. When our underground fighting ring had become more of a boxing club. When all the bodies we’d buried had long since cooled.

Lane had left us alone. The times he’d brought his wife’s rig in for a tune-up, he hadn’t once asked about the club. He was content to let the past stay there.

But Bryce was hungry. The look on her face when she’d delivered her parting shot was fierce. She’d go for broke and never back down. On a normal day, she’d be a pain in my ass. But if Dad really was a suspect for murder, things were only going to get worse.

Who’d been killed? How had I not heard about a murder in town? Forget my old co

As a club, we’d justified murder because the men we’d killed would have done the same to us. Or our families. We’d rid the world of evil men, even though we’d been devils in our own right. We were guilty—no doubt. But that didn’t mean we all wanted to spend the rest of our lives in the state penitentiary.