Gypsy king

“After that, we unraveled the rest of the illegal activities too,” he said. “The fights. The payouts from businesses in town. All of it. Just wasn’t worth the risk we’d end up in jail. Wound it all down in about six years.”

“And then you disbanded.”

He nodded. “Then we called it quits. We could have stayed a legal club but too much had changed. And the Gypsies would always have a reputation. No matter what we did, people would have been afraid. Expected the worst.”

It made sense. Though I couldn’t imagine how hard it had been to say goodbye to something that had been his life. The club had been ingrained in every aspect of his world, his career. His family. It must have been like cutting off a limb, but he’d done it.

They all had.

We stood across from one another, the only sound coming from the breeze and a few birds flying overhead. I processed everything he’d told me, hoping it was true.

It seemed true. Was it? Had he trusted me with his story? It was hard not to be moved with his gesture of faith.

My gut was telling me Dash hadn’t lied. And for now, that was good enough, especially because nearly everything had been off the record. I could see it now, why he’d want to keep his secrets. If all this got out, it would ruin the reputations they’d been trying to repair. It could mean a deeper investigation from the police.

“Hold on.” My head cocked to the side. “If you came to a truce, why would the Warriors set up Draven for Amina’s murder?”

“Good question. Could be one of their members is acting without permission of the president. Could be one of our old members who joined the Warriors.”

Wait, what? “You had members who left the Gypsies and joined the Warriors even after they killed your”—what did they call each other?—“brothers?”

He scoffed. “Yeah. The life of an honest, hardworking mechanic isn’t for everyone. These guys were all in their early twenties. Drawn to the club life. It wasn’t that big a surprise.”

“You think a former member is framing Draven?”

“At this point, anything is possible. But there are five men who went to the Warriors. Right now, they’re my top suspects.”

If I were in his position, I’d be wary of them too. I wanted their names, but I doubted Dash would give them to me. I had a feeling I wouldn’t get invited to a club-to-club meeting.

The silence returned, the birds having found a tree in the distance to land and sing. The information rolled over and over in my mind but I was out of questions for the moment.

“What now?” I asked.

“Now?” He stood from the bike and walked closer. “Now you make a decision. You take all this and decide how deep you want to go. You believe me or you don’t. You trust me or you don’t. You keep it quiet or you don’t. But now you know what kind of men you’re dealing with. Ones who hold grudges for years. Ones who have no boundaries. Ones who aren’t afraid to come after a woman just because she’s fucking a man with the last name Slater.”

“Fucked. Singular. Past tense.”

Dash stepped closer, the heat from his body chasing away the chill from the breeze. Goose bumps broke out on my forearms and I clutched them tight around my waist.

He raised an eyebrow. “Past tense?”

“You got me arrested. I have to go to court tomorrow. Definitely past tense.”

“Hmm.” He brought a hand up to my face but didn’t touch my cheek. Instead, he took the end of an errant lock of hair and tucked it behind my ear. His fingers skimmed the shell, but the slight brush was enough to send shivers all the way to my toes.

I was pathetic. I’d spent hours in a jail cell, yet here I was, panting over him again.

“Is that why you told me all of this?” I asked. “So I’d fuck you again?”

Dash shook his head, taking a step back. “You want the truth?”

“You know I do.”

“Then help me. Help me find it.”

Was I really going to do this? Was I going to trust him? There was no doubt if we worked together, whatever story I told would be better. Deeper. Fuller. And damn it, we both knew how badly I wanted that story.

“If you hide something from me, something that makes a difference or puts me in danger, I’ll print it,” I warned. “All of it. Whether or not it’s on the record. Whether or not it ruins your life and those of your friends, I’ll tell the world.”

It could cost me my newspaper. I would have to violate my journalistic ethics and no source would likely trust me again. And it might even cost me my life if this former motorcycle club decided to retaliate. I was putting myself, my integrity and my job on the line. But it was the only leverage I had over Dash.

In the meantime, I’d print the superficial. I’d print the things he gave me on the record. And I’d hold the rest.

“I mean it.” I shoved a finger in his face. “No hiding things. I won’t do this if I can’t trust you.”

He hesitated, his hand going to his pocket, but then he nodded. With a turn, Dash walked over to his motorcycle, throwing a long leg over to straddle the machine.

“Do we have a deal?” I called before he started up the engine.

He shot me a sexy grin. “Deal.”

GOING through old newspaper articles was not exciting on a normal day, but today, it was akin to torture. Not only was the Clifton Forge news from decades ago exceptionally boring, it was also incredibly incomplete.

I’d gone back thirty years in search of information on Dash’s mother. When I’d done my previous digging into the Tin Gypsies, I’d been focused on club references and those associated with the prominent members, like Draven and Dash. I hadn’t kept an eye out for Chrissy Slater’s name.

When I’d come across the obituary stating she’d died in a tragic accident, I’d read it and moved on. But last night’s conversation had stirred my curiosity.

How had she died? What exactly was the tragedy? Dash had said it was a story for another day, and given the look on his face, it wasn’t a happy tale.

So I’d gone looking this morning. Maybe I’d save him from having to relive her death if I could read about it instead. Except all I’d found during that time was her obituary, which I’d already seen, and a picture of Draven and his two young boys at the funeral.

Draven’s grief consumed the photo, his hands resting on the shoulders of his sons. Draven looked nothing like the confident man I’d watched be arrested. His frame bore the weight of a thousand boulders, his face ashen. The photo was black and white but I swore his eyes were red from crying.

Dash and Nick had looked so alike as kids. I wasn’t sure how old Dash was, maybe middle school, but he looked lost. Nick was the opposite. While his little brother and father wore their grief outwardly, his face gave away nothing. Nick wasn’t only lost, he was angry. And now it made sense why he hadn’t joined the club.

Nick’s punishment for Draven was turning his back on his father’s lifestyle, but how had his relationship been with Dash? I pushed that thought away, drawing a firm line there. Dash’s family dynamics were none of my business. That was too personal. Too intimate. That was his problem, not mine.

Was I curious? Absolutely. But if I let myself cross over, if I cared too much, the person who’d suffer most would be me.

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

I can’t care.

My task was to obtain information to write the best story possible. I’d fail if I allowed myself to get wrapped up in feelings.