Beard in Hiding, page 1
Beard in Hiding
Winston Brothers Book #4.5
Penny Reid
www.pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
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Copyright © 2021 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
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Made in the United States of America
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ISBN: 978-1-942874-79-9
Contents
Beard in Hiding
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
Sneak Peek: Just Folking Around, Good Folk Series #0.5
Sneak Peek: Homecoming King, Three Kings Book #1
Other books by Penny Reid
Beard in Hiding
A Winston Brothers Story, by Penny Reid
This book is meant to be a companion novel to the Winston Brothers and Solving for Pie series and is not a standalone.
Where this book fits The *start* of this book takes place immediately after the action of ‘Beard Science’ and ‘Beard In Mind,’ but a few weeks before ‘Engagement and Espionage,’ and one year (plus a few months) prior to ‘Marriage and Murder.’
I do not suggest reading this book unless you’ve read a significant number of the Winston Brothers books and ‘Marriage and Murder’ first. This book contains serious spoilers for ‘Marriage and Murder.’ Also, you might be a little lost by the number of characters, who they are, and how they’re relevant to the story.
Warnings This book contains: divorce, discussions of violence and drugs, criminal behavior, portrayal of death / murder, discussions of domestic (mental) abuse, discussions of violence against women and men.
Since this book is very much a romantic comedy and these issues aren’t necessarily par for the course in the genre, I wanted to spell out which subjects might be difficult for readers. Had this been a murder mystery or a thriller (as examples) the potential triggers wouldn’t have been called out. Additionally, as the hero of this book is a rough guy, expect LOTS of non-ironic swearing, crude language, and “f-bomb” usage.
The Characters I never, not in a thousand years, thought I’d write a book for Diane Donner and Jason (Repo) Doe. But in the fall of 2020, while I wrote ‘Marriage and Murder,’ Diane Donner would not be silenced. She wanted to be heard. She demanded it. She wouldn’t let me sleep and she’d hijack the book I was supposed to be writing to let her wishes be known.
I wrote a first draft of this book very quicky (just to get her off my back). I thought about not publishing it, because who in their right mind would want to know about these weirdos with dubious standards and morals? Well, I guess I do. I thought perhaps some of you fine people would as well.
Chapter One
*Jason*
“The finest of pleasures are always the unexpected ones.”
Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus
“You drinking?”
I gave Burro a short nod and didn’t bother to remove my jacket; I wasn’t staying. “The usual.”
He didn’t move. When I glanced up, I found the bartender studying me. “What’s the news? Are Romeo’s boys finally going to cooperate? Did Christine get to Beau?”
I peeled off my leather gloves and stuffed them into my pocket, then reached for a napkin. “None of your business.”
“So, that’s a no.” Finally, he reached for the whiskey bottle reserved for me and filled a tumbler. He then grabbed a different bottle—his preferred brand of gin reserved for him—and filled a shot glass, clinking the two together before handing mine over. “Merry Christmas. Looks like things are about to get tight around here.”
“No,” I ground out. “We’ve known for a while Beau was a long shot. We have other leads.” Beau Winston had turned Christine down weeks ago. This was old news.
Burro tossed back his drink. “All the same, Merry Christmas.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“Yep. Christmas Eve today.” He filled his shot glass again and tucked the gin back under the counter. “Twenty-fourth of December. Comes around once a year.”
A ruckus sounded near the entrance followed by a hush. I ignored it. I’d noticed upon walking in that the bar seemed more crowded than usual for 5:00 PM, even for a Saturday. For whatever reason, the younger guys gathered in droves on holidays, preferring the Dragon to The Plank or one of the strip clubs. Christmas in particular was a hard time for recruits who came from families with traditions.
I hadn’t come from a family. I had no traditions. Holidays were just another day. But with so many boys crowded in the room seeking festivities, it’d be a good day to catch up on paperwork.
Stepping back from the bar, intent on vacating the main room before more Wraiths wandered in, I grabbed my drink and pointed at the whiskey bottle still out on the bar top. “Hide that. Don’t let Wolf see it out. He’ll drink the whole thing.”
Again, Burro didn’t move. His eyes, which had grown wide and round, appeared to be preoccupied by something behind me. Oh well. I had another bottle in my room. Time to go.
Banks were closed on Christmas and the Monday after. If I sent my emails tonight, I couldn’t expect any answers until Tuesday. But at least it would be—
“It’s you.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the feminine voice, found a hot blonde pointing an expectant look directly at my face, and then did a double take.
What the—?
The last person, the very last person I’d ever expect to be standing inside the Dragon Biker Bar, watching me like she knew me—or was looking for me?—was Diane Donner Sylvester, local businesswoman, socialite, and church-going glitterati.
What. The. Hell?
Her lips curved in a small smile, and she waited, watching, looking up at me like we knew each other. For the record, we did not know each other. Everyone knew who she was, sure. She was basically famous in these parts. It was impossible to not know who Diane Donner Sylvester—wait, no. Just Donner. She’s divorced, or is about to be.
Eventually, because Diane Donner didn’t disappear after several seconds of my confused staring, I said, “It’s me,” like a fool.
The woman blinked, rocked back on her heels, then looked at the floor. A moment later, she took a deep breath and lifted her chin, jaw set, eyes forward. I watched in complete disbelief as Diane Donner pulled off her jacket, revealing an outfit more commonly seen on teenagers going through a rebellious phase than on a pillar of polite society and mother of two adult children.
Hanging the coat and a little purse on the back of the stool nearest to me, she smiled at Burro. “Good evening. What do you serve?”
“Whatever you want, lady,” he said, openly gawking.
So was I.
I made no attempt to hide my shock. Meanwhile, a different kind of shock, one of profound interest, headed south. I stiffened, sobered by the stab of visceral attraction. Frowning, I searched the room, just to be sure she wasn’t a figment of my imagination, and this wasn’t some joke. But no. Most eyes were on her. Well, technically, most eyes were on her body and most everyone seemed just as stunned as me by her sudden presence.
Her sweet but firm voice said, “Let me think on it for a minute.”
“Take your time,” came Burro’s reply. “I got all night.”
I inhaled a deep breath, returning my attention to her, not quite sure what to make of the woman being here, at the Dragon Biker Bar. She was the implicit sovereign of Green Valley and top of the food chain, apparently out for a night with the bottom feeders. And—wait. Is that a . . . mini skirt? That’s a mini skirt.
Stifling a groan by gritting my teeth, I tore my attention away. In my bewilderment, I rubbed my eyes, but then abruptly stopped. This moment was akin to a dream I’d had too often, but we’d never been here, and she’d never been dressed . . . like that.
“I thought I might find you here,” she muttered. To me.
I slid my eyes her way, wary for obvious reasons, and then to Burro. He’d mostly recovered and was now grinning in a toothy display at the woman, placing his hands wide on the bar top and raking his eyes over her breasts with admiration.
Instinct had me snapping my fingers at him. “Hey. Burro. She’ll have a water and that’s it.”
“No, I won’t.” She said, all high and mighty, not looking at me. I studied her profile, still mired in my disbelief. Her cheeks were high in color, her lips
Burro smirked and then bowed. “Of course, m’lady.”
His slimy show of deference earned him a sweet smile, which he returned with another appreciative raking of his eyes over her breasts. That was, until his attention came to me. I placed my hand on the back of Ms. Donner’s stool.
Don’t even fucking think about it.
Burro’s gaze dropped and he mumbled something about getting clean glasses from the back. Then he left because he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. I wasn’t sure what was happening, why she was here, or what she’d meant by, There you are, or I thought I might find you here, like she’d been looking for me in particular, but I would put my boot in Burro’s face before he laid a hand on her.
“What’s your name?” she asked, pulling me out of my violent thoughts.
I worked to keep my eyes forward. I failed. “You can call me Repo.”
Damn. Damn. This had been a crap year and the last thing we needed was this woman coming in here and stirring up shit. We didn’t need the attention. No one is going to touch her. No one. But that was easier said than done. I loved these guys like most folks loved their dogs. A pack of good soldiers when it came to business. Otherwise, always dirty, mostly feral, often chaotic.
It didn’t matter if she was twenty or fifty, a socialite or a whore or both. Walking in here, looking as fine as she did and dressed to show it off, was a language my brethren interpreted as a tacit invitation to do whatever the fuck they wanted. The hour may still have been early. The party hadn’t yet officially started. But when it did, Diane Donner needed to be long gone.
“Mr. Repo,” she said, testing my club name and looking at me like the word Repo had given her the answer to a long-pondered question. “Nice to meet you. I’m Diane.” She extended her hand.
I glared at it and then at her.
Her pretty smile grew tight. She withdrew her hand, using it to tuck a few waves of blonde hair behind her ear. She had it down tonight, loose and long and wavy. She usually wore it like a helmet, stiff and big and mostly straight.
“I’ve never been inside here before, but I’ve driven past lots of times.” She glanced around us, her focus never settling. “I always wondered what it was like. I guess now I know.”
“Lady, what are you doing here?” I asked the most obvious question, not caring that I sounded hostile. She shouldn’t be here. If she stayed, she’d be mistreated. And if she was mistreated, she’d go to the police. And if she went to the police . . . well, that was a headache I didn’t have time for.
Diane Donner gave me an inscrutable once over. “Getting a drink. What are you doing here?”
“A drink.” Slowly, cautiously, I settled on the stood next to hers, staring with open antagonism, hoping to unnerve her.
I wanted to say, Leave. It’s not safe. Go. But we had too many eyes on us, too many ears listening for me to reason with her. Besides, knowing what I did about the woman, I doubted she’d listen to reason.
“Yes, a drink. That’s what I said.” She didn’t look at me this time, her voice had grown impatient, and she wore a frustrated frown. “Why? Is that hard to believe?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly, my attention shifting over her shoulder to Gears and Wolf. They—like most everyone else—were watching us, making no attempt to hide their curiosity or appreciative stares. I set my jaw, waiting until they noticed my fuck off face. A heated tightness, a discomfort, wrapped itself around my chest and squeezed.
“Why?”
“Pardon?” My eyes returned to the woman next to me and I found hers searching my features, as though looking for something.
“Why is it so hard to believe I’m here for a drink? This is a bar, isn’t it?”
“You don’t belong here.”
She didn’t like my answer. I knew this for a fact because her minor frown became a severe scowl and her lovely blue eyes burned hot and angry. Damn, but she was sexy when she was mad, flushed and agitated.
“Well, Mr. Repo. You’re kind of ruining my night. So, if you don’t mind . . .” She flicked her wrist, dismissing me. And fuck me, her dismissiveness sent another shock of interest straight south.
I didn’t leave; I couldn’t. If I did, someone would take my place. Her being here might result in a headache for me, but it would result in a hell of a lot more for someone like her. Shame. Terror. Maybe scars.
Damn. It.
I used the ensuing silence to take a second measure of the woman, this time slower, working through my options. If hostility wouldn’t drive her out, I had to find another way.
Her lips were painted bright pink, as were her fingernails, and if I could see her toes, I bet they’d match. Despite the freezing cold outside, she wore a black, low-cut tank top. The neckline plunged deep enough that the edge of her pink, lacy bra flirted with anyone looking. The tops of her tits were on display, round and pushed up like two scoops of peaches and vanilla ice cream.
I licked my lips.
“Aren’t you gone yet?” She crossed her legs, drawing my eyes there. She didn’t have long legs, but they were proportionate to her hourglass body and the black miniskirt rode high up her shapely thigh. Her shoes were also black and looked expensive, at least four inches with a pointed toe. I bet she wore them with business suits during the week and I couldn’t help but think I’d like to see that.
“Diane—”
“You can call me Ms. Donner.”
Her teasing tone had me lifting my eyes and I found her watching me watching her, her face slightly turned in my direction, her pink lips pressed together primly, but her gaze held a challenge.
A smile I couldn’t stop tugged on my lips. “You’re in my bar. I’ll call you whatever I want.”
She swiveled in the stool to face me, her calves bumping against my knees. “Oh? Is that so?”
“That is so.”
“And if you could call me anything, what would that be?” Diane Donner crossed her arms, her posture like that of a dancer, her back perfectly straight. The action pushed the swells of her breasts higher, showing me a little more of that lace bra, and my attention flicked there. Another shock of interest, this one more powerful and thus alarming, made concentrating difficult.
This was the very first time we’d spoken, but I’d seen this woman around town for years. For years. At Jess’s softball games, at the Piggly Wiggly, at the church, downtown, the community center, once or twice at the Lodge when she’d been in her element. No matter the place, Diane Donner was in full command of herself as well as whatever room she entered.
She was impressive, driven, brilliant, and assertive. And she was gorgeous. I mean, goddamn stunning. Always dolled up and dressed for the occasion in a way that screamed high maintenance, but so very worth it. Which was why her choice in husband had never made sense.
Point was, this was a quality woman. Don’t misunderstand; there are many types of quality women. It was a spectrum, I reckoned. A recipe. This town had had its fair share, from the low maintenance, sweet natured kind like Bethany Winston and Janet James to the high maintenance, ambitious, cut-throat kind like Dolly Payton and Diane Donner, with the latter being precisely my type. Very, very much my type.
I, being an intelligent man, had learned to avoid my type decades ago.
Rubbing the beard covering my chin, I considered this high-quality woman who checked all my boxes like she’d been custom ordered just for me. This was a respectable woman acting not at all respectable. Again, don’t misunderstand. I liked what she had on tonight. If we’d been alone instead of in this room with my compatriots in crime, I’d have thoroughly enjoyed the moment. But with so many eyes looking their fill (and making plans should she lose interest in my company), I would’ve preferred her in a pantsuit and wool coat.
