Full Heat: A Brothers of Mayhem Novel (2 page)

“Okay. Let’s go talk with your friend.”

Her mouth quirked. Oh, so it’s going to be like that.

She suspected he believed Jimmy was her sugar daddy. Wrong. Jimmy treated her like a favorite granddaughter. He respected her enough to let her handle the repair shops while he played—his words—with the race team.

“I’ll drive.” She held up and rattled her keys.

“I’ll follow.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a helmet.

She shrugged and walked out. Deep inside, she wished he’d asked her to ride on his bike. To wrap her arms around his trim waist and rest her hands on such a brawny chest would set her up in fantasies for months to come.

Anyway, she couldn’t wait until Jimmy got a look at the Brothers of Mayhem’s president. The old man would be in outlaw motorcycle club heaven. Storm wearing his leather vest with patches on the front proclaiming his status in the club, and the back with its blazing skull and rude tongue warning everyone how little he cared for society would excite the old man into nearly a heart attack.

She stepped outside and the roar of five motorcycles pulling up shook the ground beneath her. Her heartbeat sped up. What normal woman could see that many men in leather and patches on large Harleys and not experience an adrenaline rush?

Of fear?

Or lust?

Storm grabbed her sleeve. “Stay here,” he said, his stare warning her to listen and do as he ordered.

He strode over to the group and spoke to one of the men. The black-haired man glanced her way and nodded. The other men indicated in various gestures their agreement to whatever Storm had said.

After a few more words, Storm returned.

“Lead the way.” He straddled a motorcycle that appeared as fast and dangerous as its owner.

She grinned at the thought. Yep. She was intrigued big time. If she didn’t know better, she would suspect Jimmy of setting her up. The other day, he’d been complaining about her being alone after he was gone. That was crazy, since her parents were still alive.

Maybe Jimmy had made her think she was volunteering. She had thought at the time he’d been acting funny. Normally, he would be the one to talk with the local chapter’s president. She couldn’t blame him. Storm was the most interesting guy she’d ever met.

Slipping into her Corvette, she adjusted her radio to the local classic rock station and turned onto the small road. The old-style music suited her mood. When she hit the interstate, she looked into the rearview mirror again. Behind her were six members of the most dangerous outlaw motorcycle club in the Southeast. And she had actually invited them into her home.

As Mary Jane eased her car down the curvy drive with the roar of bikes behind her, she imagined Jimmy standing in front of the house jumping from one foot to the other in excitement. She’d left him a voicemail. He often didn’t hear his phone ring.

Around the last hairpin turn, the front yard was empty. She pulled the Corvette around back to the large garage that housed their collection of automobiles and motorcycles. Still no Jimmy. A little concerned but not too much, she waited for the men to park their bikes.

He might be near the lake checking on the Jet Ski he’d purchased in Cullman from a fellow needing cash. Jimmy would do that, help out folks low on funds, wanting to unload big-boy toys they no longer could afford.

“Come on inside, and I’ll call Jimmy. He’s probably nearby.” She opened the sliding glass doors that led straight into the bright yellow kitchen. It was her favorite room even though she wasn’t much of a cook. As soon as she moved inside she knew something was wrong.

Everything was in place, but the house had a funny smell. One she recognized from when she was a kid. She froze.

“Wait.” A strong arm came around her waist as Storm stepped inside behind her. He pulled her back. He wore fingerless black gloves. Had he pulled them on before entering the house? “Stay here with Wolf. Me and Venom will check out the house.” He instructed the other three men to go back outside and check the perimeter.

She didn’t argue. There had to be a logical explanation. Jimmy tracked horrible-smelling gook into the house from the lake all the time.

Two of the men stepped forward. Both appeared to be about Storm’s age. She guessed late twenties. The one called Venom had frizzy hair and a full long beard.

“Fine. But if you come across a man with white hair and a handlebar mustache, don’t hurt him. That would be Jimmy.” She wanted to think positive, but that strange smell was the odor of death. After living in a commune for most her life, there was little of nature she hadn’t experienced in some form.

Once Storm and Venom left the room, Wolf headed to the refrigerator. “Want something to drink?” Making himself at home, he pulled out a beer and offered it to her.

She shook her head, not saying anything. Last thing she wanted was to act like everything was normal. Besides, she was afraid she might throw up from worry.

He sighed and popped off the top, guzzling down the brew.

Seconds later, she heard cursing.

With a deep frown on his face, Storm came back into the kitchen. He looked at her hard. “I have a hunch that you’re not the type of female to go into hysterics easily.”

“Jimmy has always said so.” Dread pulled at her shoulders.

“Follow me and prepare yourself. It’s not pretty.” He clutched her upper arm as if he wanted to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid, like faint.

Walking toward the den by way of the dining room gave her a few seconds to brace herself. The tall windows that faced the lake were smeared with a red watercolor. The white walls had writing on it with the same substance.

Pay or you next Bitch.

The tile had a stream of dark maroon color, smeared in several spots. Despite the bad grammar, the message was clear. She wished she could close her eyes and pretend she wasn’t about to see what she’d already guessed.

Jimmy Marcus was sprawled across the floor with blood pooled around his head.

The Thirty-Second gang had killed her friend and partner, and they still expected payment.

Without thinking she turned into Storm’s arms and buried her face into his shoulder. The sobs hurt, coming from deep inside.

“Mary Jane. Mary Jane. I’m sorry.” Storm’s low voice helped pull her together. Tears continued to trickle down her face when she blinked her eyes and lifted her gaze. Using a corner of his shirt, he wiped at her cheeks. “You need to call the police. Only thing is me and the boys will have to leave before they get here. Us being here will only interfere with their investigation. They’ll think we did it.”

She fought the urge to dig her nails into his shirt and hold on. Though she had only just met him, she felt his compassion. From the concerned look he gave her, she knew he didn’t want to leave her, but she understood the necessity. Besides, the Thirty-Second gang wouldn’t hurt her today. They would give her time to come up with the extortion fee.

The phone rang on the end table. Jimmy insisted on having a landline, despite the numerous marketing calls they received each day.

“Go and answer it.” Storm gently pushed her toward it.

With a shaky hand, she raised the handset to her ear. “Hello.”

“Bitch, did you get our message?”

“You bastard! Why did you kill him?” Always an even-keeled type of person, she surprised herself with the outburst.

“Give me that.” Storm snatched the phone out of her hand. “This is Storm Ryder. Get Toro on the phone now.” He nodded at someone behind her.

A heavy hand grabbed her wrist and started toward the kitchen. She allowed him to draw her away, but she kept her gaze on Storm until the walls separated them. As soon as she reached the kitchen, her stomach lurched, and she made a wrenching sound. With a jerk, he lost his grip, and she darted for the small powder room. Wolf followed but she pushed him back and slammed the door in his surprised face. Then she began to puke her guts up.

Unable to stop crying, she let her feet slip out from under her. Landing on her butt, she hung her head over the bowl. Several minutes went by and the doorknob rattled.

“Mary Jane, let me in.” Storm’s soft voice sounded apologetic.

“It’s unlocked. You have to pull. The room’s too small to push it in.” She leaned her head back and looked at the ceiling as he walked in.

“Come on. Stand up.” He waited until she stood. He had a wet washcloth. Without worrying about her makeup, he wiped her face, even dipping it down the back of her blouse, cooling her spine and the back of her neck. “I’m really sorry, but you’ve got to call the police and tell them everything.”

She snorted.

“What?” he asked.

“Some big bad motorcycle president you are.”

An insulted look crossed his handsome face. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“Hell, yeah.” She squinted her eyes up at him. Unsure of why she was picking on him, she nodded.

His glare remained on her for what felt like forever.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll stay, but everyone else will leave. They don’t need the harassment.” Storm led her to a kitchen chair and pointed. “Sit. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Zombie. That was what she felt like. Dead but alive. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Jimmy lying in his own blood. How could anyone kill a sweet old man like him? He loved fast cycles and cars. He helped people whenever he could and never asked for much in return. Damn, he gave parolees jobs, paid for rehab for addicts, and even found places for beaten women to stay.

She’d been the one to persuade him to stop paying the extortion money. Told him they could get bodyguards, and they would be safe. As her family lived in the Middle of Nowhere, Tennessee, and were considered off the information grid, they should be safe there too. She’d said that the Thirty-Second would think twice about touching her or Jimmy if they hired someone meaner.

Then the realization crashed down and her body shook. She’d killed Jimmy.

Storm sat handcuffed to the table as Detective Harris drilled him for the hundredth time about why he was at the Marcus residence. Thankfully, when he left the bar, he had enough sense not to take a gun with him. And then at the house, he’d hidden in the old man’s collection the knife he carried in his motorcycle boots.

If the old man had been stabbed, Storm would be in a jail cell by now, even without the knife. They had wiped his hands for blast residue and stripped his clothes and boots off to examine. All declaring he could be hiding a weapon. What? Up his ass?

So there he sat in a starched-stiff orange jumpsuit until they decided he wasn’t guilty of killing the man. His parole officer would shit bullets when Storm told him about it. They sure as hell wouldn’t call the man for Storm. Civil rights? Who him? They believed he gave that up when he went to prison at eighteen.

Storm opened and closed his fists beneath the table. He was beyond pissed, but he had to keep his shit together.

Why hadn’t he listened to his common sense and left the girl? He should’ve returned to the Brothers of Mayhem clubhouse. The cops wouldn’t hurt her.

But remembering her red eyes and pale face, he knew she’d been terrified. He fucking hated seeing her so upset. He hadn’t been able to do much for her but stay. People who never dealt with the police didn’t know how scary they could be during a murder investigation.

He did.

And he wanted to spare her that. At least, with them concentrating on him, they would go a little easier on her until they realized and understood what was going on. If she held herself together, the police should figure out she was innocent and start listening. He expected it to take about twenty-four to forty-eight hours. He just despised the long wait.

Of course, they’d gone through several scenarios of why the old man was dead. They had already accused him of being in on it. They asked if he was a new business associate or a hired gun or greedy lover.

One thing that Mary Jane had told him before the police showed up was the old man’s will had all his money going to charities. And the racecar team had been a financial loss for the last two seasons. Though it was a hobby Jimmy Marcus loved and could afford, it clearly was not something to kill someone over. Last year, wise old Jimmy had turned over his shares of the motorcycle business to her. He’d told her that it was to avoid extra taxes after he was dead as he was getting up there in age.

So they wouldn’t be able to pin it on her, and surely not on him.

At least, he hoped they didn’t.

Hell, there were many guilty men on the streets, plenty of innocent ones in prison.

Storm leaned forward, trying to work out the stiffness in his back. He wasn’t used to sitting so long. The links on the handcuffs jingled as he shifted, irritating the hell out of him. They believed he was a dangerous former convict and didn’t want to take any chances.

“You know, your RAP sheet isn’t that long, but you do have some pretty frightening charges on it. From what I read, you like to fight. At eighteen, it got your six-month sentence extended to three years, and you’re still on parole.” The detective leaned back in his chair as if he had all day. He crossed his arms and gave Storm a look of disdain from beneath heavy eyebrows. “Did your old man help you kill Marcus?”

Storm’s head jerked up. “What the hell does that asshole have to do with this?”

Would his whole life be colored by his kinship to the meth addict psycho who killed his mother? Everyone expected him to go crazy and start shooting. Would people ever realize he was his own person? He was nothing like his father. He had enough intelligence not to make the mistakes others around him had. Except for the extra time he’d gotten tacked onto his prison sentence. Yeah, well, they might have a point. Still pissed him off.

“I figured you got together when he was released last week. What did you two do, party it up and decide to rob Jimmy Marcus?”

“Fuck.” Storm looked away. He was so tired of shit like this. He knew he should shut his mouth, but he hated the thought of anyone associating him with the son of a bitch. Looking the detective in the eyes, he said, “The scumbag killed my mom. Do you really think I would have anything to do with him?” He didn’t bother telling them about how the old man would give a nine-year-old kid a black eye and laugh about it.

The detective only stared at him, his dispassionate face saying more than he thought. He didn’t believe a word. What had Storm expected? Fuck them.

Before the detective could ask another question, a knock brought their attention to the opening of the door.

A deputy stuck his head into the room. “The lady has a lawyer downstairs. She said we don’t have probable cause and demands that he be released.”

“We were just having a nice little talk. Weren’t we, Mr. Ryder?” The detective waved the deputy out to the hallway. He shut the door leaving him alone inside. A good length of time later the door opened again, and the detective walked around the end of the table and unlocked the handcuffs. The deputy at the door chuckled as if seeing Storm locked down was funny.

“Deputy Fields will show you to the room where you can change back into your clothes. I’m sure you feel more comfortable in the jumper, but it’s time to give it back. Like old times, right?” The older man laughed as if he’d told the funniest joke.

Storm didn’t care. He wanted out of there, fast. Rubbing his wrists, the urge to slug the smirk off the man’s face almost overtaking his good reason, he decided going home and taking a shower sounded so much better.

His clothes smelled like a chemical factory from whatever they used to look for residue and who-in-the-hell knew what else, but they were his, and he was ready to get the hell out of the place.

Dressed, including his gloves and boots, Storm followed the deputy downstairs to where Mary Jane and a well-dressed woman waited. After introductions, he knew the stranger was her lawyer.

“Are you okay?” Concern wrinkled Mary Jane’s nose.

His breath left his body. He’d forgotten how sexy her voice was. Appearing crisp and fresh—even her skirt didn’t have wrinkles from sitting—she could’ve been attending a tea party. Damn. Did her legs go all the way up to her neck?

Wearing a rumpled and stained T-shirt with scruffy jeans and his vest over an arm, he looked as if they’d literally picked him up off the streets. His fingers stroked the skull patch on his vest. The detective told him not to put his cut on until he walked outside or it would be confiscated.

“Thanks for getting me out of here.” It was the least he could say. He glanced over to the lawyer. A mixture of disgust and fascination crossed her face before she pulled herself together and looked away.

Mary Jane reached out to hug him, but he stepped back.