Shot to Hell (Four Horsemen MC #7), page 6
She pulled some clothes from her rucksack and got dressed for her run. If she didn’t exercise first thing in the morning, she’d end up skipping it.
She jumped into a pair of fleece-lined, flared-leg black yoga pants with a leopard-print band around the waist, then put on a pair of white socks and her black and gray Nike high-tops. Next came a white, stretchy sports bra and a Marine Corps T-shirt. It read: Oorah, the last word a terrorist will ever hear. Ash was a sucker for good Corps merchandise.
She ducked into the bathroom and gathered her hair into a messy bun before she shrugged on a black hoodie and slipped Abe’s dog tags over her head. They jangled, and she rubbed her fingers over the letters. After his death, the Corps had returned his tags to her family, and she’d worn them ever since. Other than memories and some photographs, it was the only thing she had left of her big brother.
She kissed them and slipped the tags beneath the collar of her shirt. They were cold as they settled next to her heart. Sighing, she placed her hand over the metal, feeling the chilly press of stainless steel against her skin—as cold as the grave.
“Oh, Abe.”
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, and she swiped them away. Dammit. It’d been nearly a decade since he’d died. Some days it felt like a century, and on others, the wound felt fresh, bloody. Every time their birthday rolled around, the pain of Abe’s passing intensified and she got more agitated. Running into Steele had only made matters worse.
Her brother deserved better than dying in pain by himself. He must’ve been so scared, so lonely….
Stop it.
Ash glared at her reflection in the mirror. She balled up a fist and barely resisted the urge to shatter it. She loved to hit things and people, as if spreading pain around would lessen hers somehow.
Instead, she examined her face and saw Abe’s more masculine features echoed in her own. They were fraternal twins, but they’d had a strong resemblance—the same eyes, the same upturned nose, and same unfortunate hair color.
“Don’t do this to yourself. Not today.”
It was definitely time to go. The run would burn off some of this rage.
Ash headed out the door and jogged around Hell. Trying to be Zen about it, she emptied her mind and focused on being in the moment. She didn’t want to think about the case, her brother, or Steele. Nothing but the open road beneath her feet.
The soles of her shoes slapped against the pavement as she propelled herself farther, faster than she’d gone before. Ash concentrated on the momentum–arms pumping, heart hammering, and the cold air slamming into her lungs. Every now and then, she got into an open headspace, but it didn’t happen often enough. She loved the peace running gave her, the cold clarity of movement.
From time to time, she wondered if she wasn’t running toward something like a goal. What if she was running away from something? Herself? Her past? Abe?
Focus.
But she couldn’t, her brain ran faster than her feet.
While she glimpsed inner peace occasionally, she’d never gotten a feeling of ecstasy. Nothing about running was euphoric. It was exhausting, dirty, and made sweat pour from her body. Unless you counted sore thighs and shin splints as bliss.
To distract herself, she fired up her iPod and hit the running playlist. Big Data’s Dangerous started up. As she listened, she took in the view. While she was in town, she planned on visiting some of the local businesses—the Bloody Hell Tea Room and Devil’s Brew, for sure. And she planned on avoiding Steele’s place, Inferno Firearms. Nostrils flaring, Ash sprinted right by the gun shop.
Twenty minutes later, she finished her run and loped back to Hades.
Now, the question was what to do about breakfast. The residents of Hell didn’t seem the kind of folks who were into health food. Southern food in general had a reputation for not being the healthiest of cuisines.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a fridge in her room. Ash made a mental note to get a dorm-sized fridge and some supplies when she went out today. Lately, her go-to breakfast was a smoothie made in her small travel blender—a handful of spinach or kale, some pomegranate juice, yogurt or almond milk, half a banana, and some berries. Sometimes, she added protein powder or powdered peanut butter. But this morning, she’d make do with something from the diner. With her luck, it’d be calorie-ific, and she’d have to run off the meal later in the day. Oh, joy.
After grabbing a quick shower, she threw on a pair of jeans, red Chucks, and a blue shirt. She added a matching flannel shirt because it was nippy this morning.
Ash strolled into Hades. An antique jukebox played Bobby Darin’s Mack the Knife. The diner had a fifties feel—black-and-white-checkered floor, red vinyl booths, and steel stools with red vinyl tops. Texas memorabilia decorated the walls. Her favorite metal sign read: Bad Cowboy! Go to my room.
Amen. She’d had the chance to meet men from all over the world, but Texans were the best.
The place was busy—several men in matching black leather vests sat on stools situated around the counter. From her research, she knew the vests were called cuts. They featured an angry-looking stallion in the center with Four Horsemen along the top. Near the bottom of the vest was a Texas patch. She heard the biker’s raucous laughter but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Some non-leather clad civilians were tucked into booths and tables around the room.
After taking a seat by herself in a booth, she noted there weren’t any menus on the table. Maybe the locals had memorized the diner’s menu and already knew what they wanted. How…quaint. After discreetly scoping out everyone’s plates, she determined eating here was definitely a bad idea. It was all gravy, biscuits, and pork products. Not a vegetable or fruit in sight, unless she counted orange juice, which she didn’t because it was loaded with sugar.
Although, she had to admit the food smelled delicious. It smelled like home, actually. Her dad used to make biscuits and sausage gravy on weekends.
“You were lookin’ good out there.”
Ash glanced up to see a handsome man swaggering toward her. He had cropped black hair and skin the color of caramel. She couldn’t place his heritage, exactly, but it seemed to be a mixture. While she couldn’t suss out the mix, he sure was a handsome devil. With a ripped body and jeans which outlined his muscled thighs in exquisite detail, she definitely noticed him. And so did the other women in the diner, who watched him walk with rapt attention. He wore a Four Horsemen leather vest over a long-sleeved black T-shirt.
Another biker. Figures.
“I’m Ace.” He extended a hand. “And who might you be, darlin’?” He grinned, showing gleaming white teeth. He had a perfect aww shucks sort of down-home smile she found herself returning.
“I’m Ashton Calhoun.” She gave his hand a good squeeze. “Call me Ash.”
His eyes widened.
Ash raised a brow. Perfecting her handshake had taken years. Working in a male-dominated profession demanded manly communication skills, and men respected a good, firm handshake because it communicated competence. She meant it to be business-like and perfunctory, but he clasped her fingers in his for a couple of extra beats, enough to convey sexual interest in her.
Uh, oh. Lord have mercy, he was going to try to pick her up. Being a woman in the military, she’d heard all sorts of come-ons. Ash had been quite the hot commodity in Afghanistan, and she’d helped herself to handsome Marines every now and then. None of those encounters had been serious. Actually, they’d all been fun as hell.
Ash had only been serious about one man.
“Mind if I sit a spell? Join you for breakfast?” He made a sweeping gesture at the opposite side of the booth.
She wanted to refuse. The less she interacted with the bikers, the better. Getting in deeper with a criminal element wouldn’t be great for her career or her temper. However, a lifetime of southern manners dictated she invite him to eat with her. Damn it, why couldn’t she have been born up north? Being rude was a lot more socially acceptable north of the Mason-Dixon line.
“Be my guest.”
Ash vowed to load up on supplies–vegetables, fruit, juice, along with some healthy snacks like nuts and rice cakes, and some drinks. She shouldn’t socialize with the bikers if she could help it.
“What brings you to Hell?” He slipped into the booth.
Evidently, word that she’d be working with the Horsemen hadn’t spread, so she decided to have some fun. “Business.”
He leaned closer. “What kind of business?”
Another handsome man hurried over to the table. He was young, mid- or early twenties with blue eyes and blond, spiky hair. “Hi, I’m Angel, and I’ll be your server today. Would you like coffee?”
“Oh, yes, please.” She allowed herself exactly one cup a day, although if she had her way, she’d drink an entire pot. Especially today.
“You’re late getting over here, prospect. We’ve been here forever.”
“Sorry, Ace.”
Prospect meant a new member. She’d done her Biker 101 homework when she’d taken this case. In the Marines, they called them grunts, and higher-ups made their lives a living hell until they got into the groove of things. Ash smirked. She missed those days.
“Got any menus, Angel?”
Ace answered the question. “Voo doesn’t let you order. Instead, he brings you something he knows you’ll enjoy.”
“No can do. I eat healthy food.”
“Oh, he makes healthy food.”
She raised a disbelieving brow.
“I’ve seen Captain eat turkey sausage and egg whites here.” He leaned back in the booth, spreading his arms wide along the back of the seat.
So she didn’t order any food, but Angel returned in a few minutes with their coffees. And she put exactly two spoonfuls of honey in hers. She didn’t use refined sugar or artificial sweeteners either. She’d broken her habit of using real cream and sugar, but it’d been painful. Ace added a couple packets of Dixie Crystals to his.
Another man sidled up to their table. He stood a couple inches over six feet tall with mocha skin and extraordinary silvery eyes. His dark hair was twisted into short dreadlocks and came down to right below his ears.
“Bonjour,” he greeted Ace.
Ace nodded. “Mornin’, Voo.”
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” He grasped her hand and brushed a kiss along the back of her knuckles. She couldn’t quite place his accent. Creole, maybe? It had a dash of French united with a bit of Southern and a trace of Spanish. “Welcome to Hades. I own and operate this fine establishment.”
“Good mornin’.” She was charmed by his demeanor, despite herself.
“You must be the famous Ashton Calhoun.” Voo studied her for a moment.
She widened her eyes.
“Axel and Steele texted me last night. I’m Voodoo, the Vice President. We don’t have many outsiders here, and I put two and two together.”
“How come I didn’t hear about this?” Ace scowled.
“You didn’t need to know.”
“Yeah, I bet.” He turned to Ash. “Word to the wise, Voodoo’s got some freaky ass intuition powers, so watch yourself.”
“Is it my problem all your thoughts are posted on your forehead just waiting for me to read them?” He glanced at Ash. “You’ll find I’m very perceptive, which ain’t my fault.”
Somehow, she found it unsettling.
“Hey, wait.” Ace frowned. “What did you say about Steele texting?”
“Ashton is a former amour of Steele’s,” Voo explained.
She rolled her eyes. “Steele’s not my boyfriend. Never has been and never will be. He’s just an old friend.” Hmph. Friend? Enemy’s more like it.
When she looked up, Voo watched her with curious eyes. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”
“You belong to Steele?” Ace eased out of the booth with a long face as though she’d come down with a sudden case of leprosy.
She gritted her teeth. “No, pay attention. I don’t belong to Steele or anyone else. Last time I checked, this was a free country.”
Voo watched the interplay with interest, his gaze flicking back and forth between them. “Steele has no claim on you?”
“Oui,” she said dryly, mocking his accent. “We’re partners, but only to solve this Raptor case. Nothin’ more.”
“The hell you say?” Ace gave her a once-over. “Is he fuckin’ blind? You’re a knockout. You’ve got this whole super-hot, kick-your-ass kinda vibe. Steele hasn’t tried to tap that?”
“How kind of you. Steele’s never touched me.”
Well, that’s not quite true.
“What an idiot.” Ace slid back into the booth.
Evidently, her sudden case of leprosy had been cured.
“I’m not disagreein’ with you.”
Voo hmphed in response but kept his thoughts to himself. Thank God.
Ash changed the topic. “I know you don’t have menus, but—”
“Don’t worry none, I’ll bring you somethin’ delicious.”
Yeah, Ash wanted something delicious, but she needed something nutritious. Eating anything other than some combination of yogurt, fruit, and/or grains would screw with her routine. All of those rituals didn’t allow for going off script—order, control, discipline.
“Thank you, but I only feed my body healthy food.”
“And what do you feed your soul?”
She stared at him, completely flummoxed. “Uh, I care about carbs and fats, and how many grams of protein.”
He stared at her as if she’d said something incredibly stupid or offensive.
Probably both.
“Non. Food is life. Food is important. It should be an event, an experience, and if it ain’t, you’re eatin’ the wrong things.”
Okayyy.
Most people praised her healthy food choices. There was this whole assumption of virtuousness built into eating well—as though people assumed you were a better person for resisting temptation. Ash thought it had to be some sort of puritanical hang-up built into society. Why else would high calorie food be assigned decadent names—Devil’s Food Cake and Death by Chocolate.
But Voodoo didn’t think so. Maybe because he was a chef, he was more concerned with how food tasted than its calorie content. Regardless, he seemed deeply offended, and Ash didn’t know what to say to him without making the situation worse.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered.
“I don’t think—”
“Close them.”
Humoring him, Ash shut her eyes.
“I want you to concentrate. Take the time to reflect before you answer. What’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten?”
Ash considered the question. The best thing she’d ever eaten was chocolate mousse at her graduation dinner. Her parents had taken her and Abe, along with Steele, to a fancy French restaurant, Délicieux. The meal had been wonderful, but the dessert was amazing.
She opened her eyes. “Chocolate mousse. I had it at my graduation dinner.”
“An excellent dish. My grandmere used to make it for me the night before an important day. She said it was good juju and would bring me luck. How was it prepared?”
“The chef made it with farm-raised eggs, heavy cream, and dark chocolate. They served it in a chilled silver goblet with curls of chocolate and real, hand-whipped cream on top.” She’d savored every single bite.
“And wouldn’t you say that dessert was an experience? That it gave you pleasure? Joy even?”
Ash felt perilously close to tears. She hadn’t felt joyous in nearly a decade and, no, she didn’t just mean the delicious dessert.
That night she’d accomplished something wonderful, and she’d spent the evening with everyone in her life who’d mattered most, including Steele, though she hated admitting it. Shortly afterward, she’d gone off to war, and life had never been the same.
“It did.”
“There’s no shame in allowin’ yourself simple pleasures. But I’ll have Angel bring you something…healthy.” He said the last word as though it should have four letters. The biker turned and stalked off majestically, his dreads whirling around his handsome face.
“Damn. You’d think you insulted his mother or somethin’.”
She shook off her sudden funk. “So it’s not my imagination?” Ash jerked a thumb at the retreating biker.
“No, ma’am. He’s mad as an old wet hen.” Ace gave her a lazy sort of smile, a bedroom look he’d probably perfected during puberty. “But enough about him. Let’s talk about you.”
Terrific. Here we go.
“You and Steele aren’t hot and heavy then?”
“Nope.” Ash didn’t want to talk about Steele. “Trust me, we’re cold and light.”
Ace’s head whipped toward the door.
Ash couldn’t help but turn in her seat to see what caught his attention so thoroughly. He wasn’t the only one engrossed either. The Horsemen at the counter turned to watch a leggy brunette stalk to the front counter. She wore a pair of tight jeans, black leather knee-high boots, and a matching jacket.
Ash preferred her Nikes and yoga pants.
The brunette had a long slim neck, and her hair fell in waves around her face. Large-framed sunglasses perched on the pert end of her nose. She had a take-charge, get-outta-my-way vibe which denoted some military or para-military training.
Angel handed the woman a white pastry box tied with string, and she made conversation with the prospect, though Ash was too far away to hear.
“Who’s that?” Ash asked Ace, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he watched the woman with rapt attention. He reminded Ash of a hungry cartoon dog presented with a juicy steak just out of his reach.
Ash snapped her fingers.
He shook his head. “What?”
“Who is she?” Ash nodded to the counter.
Ace cleared his throat. “Glory Banks. She’s a private investigator.”
Glory Banks walked out, and everyone went back to normal. The bikers returned to their breakfasts, and the locals chatted with one another.
