I nodded, watching as she drew her daughter to her feet, then pushed her toward the stairwell.
“Jesus, you can sure pick ’em,” Boonie said. “How old you think she is?”
“She’s still in high school,” I said, my voice grim. “Fairly certain I’m up for statutory if this goes down wrong.”
“Damn,” Painter said, coming up behind me. “That’s fast work—usually takes a little longer to violate parole, bro.”
I met his gaze, and for once his face didn’t hold even a hint of mockery. Fuck. This was really bad.
“Outside,” Picnic said sharply. “Horse, Ruger—you stay here. Make sure the girl gets out safe, okay?”
He caught my arm and pulled me toward the door. Boonie flanked us, and I sensed real danger beneath their calm expressions. We walked over to the bikes as the others scrambled to grab their shit and pack up.
“I won’t leave her,” I told them again. “I know she’s scared of me, but I don’t give a fuck. That girl’ll die if she stays here.”
“Not gonna leave her,” Pic said. “But we do need to get out fast, before they have time to figure out what happened and get pissed off. They decide to fight for her, things’ll get ugly. Not sure we can take ’em.”
“Thanks for standing with me.”
Boonie snorted.
“You’re our brother, Puck,” he said, his voice casual. “This is what we do. You went down for us, you think we aren’t prepared to do the same for you? Now pull your shit together. We can put the girl in the truck with the prospects, or you can take her on your bike. No time to fuck around.”
—
Fifteen minutes later, I watched as Horse, Becca, and her mom walked out of the house. At least thirty members of the Longnecks MC stood watching, talking quietly among themselves. I kept waiting for one of them to reach for a gun or challenge us, but they didn’t.
No sign of Teeny.
Becca had stopped crying, but her face was still covered in tear-smeared blood, and nasty bruises were popping up all over. Her breath sounded wheezy, too, and I hoped to hell she didn’t have broken ribs.
“I don’t want to go,” she whispered, catching at her mom’s arm. “I want to stay with you.”
“You’re getting out,” the woman replied, her eyes hard and calculating. “Let him cool off, then we’ll talk. Figure something out.”
Becca shook her head, but when I caught her arm gently she let me pull her away.
“You want to ride in the truck or on my bike?”
Becca glanced at the truck, eyes widening at the sight of two Reaper prospects. “I’ll stay with you.”
I nodded and climbed on my bike, eyes alert as I monitored our audience. She climbed up behind me, and then her mother gave a satisfied nod. Becca wrapped her arms around me and I felt her tits press tight against my back. My cock stirred to life. What the fucking hell was wrong with me?
“How old are you?” I asked, my voice low.
“Sixteen.”
Shit.
“Like, you’re almost seventeen?”
“No, I turned sixteen last week.”
Double shit.
Boonie kicked his bike to life, and we followed his lead, pulling away from the house in formation.
So that’s the story of how I committed statutory rape less than twenty-four hours out of prison—on my birthday, no less. In retrospect, I probably should’ve stayed inside, served out my full five-year term. Would’ve been less work for everyone.
ONE
CALLUP, IDAHO
PRESENT
BECCA
“Order up.”
I turned to the window and grabbed the ticket, looking over everything to make sure Blake had gotten it right. He was a damned good cook, but sometimes he was a little loose in his interpretation of an order . . . especially if he was hungover.
And he was definitely hungover today.
In fact, I think he might’ve still been a little drunk when he dragged his ass through the back door at five that morning. I know Danielle was, because she was all giggly and unsteady when she’d started the breakfast shift with me.
“I think I’m going to barf,” she whispered into my ear, leaning against the counter. Heh. Guess someone was finally sobering up. “Can you cover my tables for a few? I can’t let Eva catch me—she said she’d fire my ass if I fucked up again.”
“I got it,” I said, snatching up toast and throwing it onto a little plate, along with a couple of jelly packets. “Go take care of business—she’s talking to Melba and you know how they get. You’ve got fifteen minutes at least, so make the most of it.”
She nodded and ducked back through the kitchen. I heard Blake growl at her for getting in his way and had to smile. I didn’t think it was a coincidence that they’d both shown up looking like hell. There was a story behind that growl, and if I knew Danielle, it’d be a good one.
Loading my tray, I hoisted it up and over my shoulder, carrying it out past the counter and into the main dining room. The Breakfast Table was the heart and soul of Callup, at least in the mornings. Everyone came in to see and be seen, because the food was good and it was cheap. We opened at five thirty a.m. so the miners and loggers could grab a bite before work, and we closed up again by two in the afternoon, although I was only on until eleven. At that point I’d hop in my car and drive over the pass to Coeur d’Alene to spend my afternoon at the beauty school.
Only six more months and I’d be ready to take my boards.
The thought put a little smile on my face as I hauled my tray over to Regina and Earl, an older couple who owned the old building downtown that held my apartment. The smile got bigger when I saw Regina was wearing the blouse I’d made her last week . . .