Biker B*tch Page 5

“As one does.”

  “And he followed me to the vineyard.” Something about the way he’d come after her made her blush; she couldn’t shake the almost-predatory look he’d given her.

  “Ye gods. He’s something else, isn’t he?” Skyler stayed silent, not quite sure what to say. “So, what’s been keeping you away all these years?”

  “I’m sorry.” She felt bad for leaving town without saying goodbye to the people who loved her. Like Sara.

  “No need to apologize. Just tell me what you’ve been up to so I can be the town authority on the subject. I’ll be like your publicist.” Sara winked.

  “Well, I went to school like I’d always planned to. Instead of pre-med, I went into the enology and viticulture program.” She hadn’t wanted to be anything like her father after his criminal activities had come to light.

  “Guess you could take the girl out of wine country, but not the wine country out of the girl.”

  “Yeah, but I thought I could get away forever when I moved to France after graduation.”

  Sara made a swirly gesture with her fork. “Oooh la la! France? Please tell me glorious things about all the Frenchmen.”

  Skyler blushed. She’d had her share of lovers, but no one who made her feel the way Travis had in that barn. She hadn’t fallen in love. “Overrated. Not much to tell.”

  “Please. You go over there looking like apples and hay and the boys don’t go crazy? Pull the other one.”

  “I’m a little too American for the boys over there.” And kissing and telling wasn’t her thing. Sara, on the other hand, had shared every dirty detail of losing her virginity to Isaac Travis while Skyler had listened raptly in the girls’ bathroom after second period Spanish. It was actually thanks to Sara that Skyler had known what she was in for when she lost hers freshman year at Cornell.

  Sara shook her head. “He’s come in here looking for you. A couple of times. Are you going to dance around each other like you did before? Or are you going to consummate your tortured love affair?”

  “We didn’t have a love affair. He rejected me.”

  “The nerve of him. He’s a fine piece of man meat. One of the few running around here.”

  “He’s a biker.”

  “And the president of the Heaven’s Sinners.” Sara furrowed her brow.

  “A motorcycle club. And that’s supposed to convince me he’s a catch how?”

  “Not like your dad, Sky. They aren’t one-percenters. They do charity and stuff.” Her dad’s club, the Diablos Santos, was part of the one percent of motorcycle clubs engaged in criminal activities.

  “I could never be involved with a biker. Never.” She hadn’t had any clue that her dad was running a drug ring during high school, and she didn’t trust herself to get involved with anyone who was even close to her father’s lifestyle.

  “My brother is a Sinner.”

  “He works with Travis, right? How easy would it be for an outlaw club to patch them over if they needed new mechanics?”

  “Travis is not a mechanic,” Sara said, her tone exasperated.

  “He was talking about fixing up a vintage Firebird at the feed store.”

  Skyler took a huge bite of tart before she could stick her foot in her mouth even further.

  “He and Chevy work out of the same space, but Travis is an artist—a sculptor. He takes found objects and melts them into something else. He does very well at it.”

  Travis as an artist. Skyler couldn’t see it. He seemed too rough, too hard, and too masculine for fine art. Outlaw biker Travis she believed. Sculptor Travis? Not so much.

  “Your dad wanted that life. Travis, Chevy, and the Sinners don’t.” Sara finished her coffee and spun the cup around on the saucer. “Travis wouldn’t let them do that after Isaac went down that path and never came back. They don’t tell me too much about it, but they keep that stuff—the drugs—out of town.”

  Skyler didn’t believe her friend. Sara had a long track record of only wanting to believe the best about people—even Isaac. At his funeral, she went after someone with a cheese knife when they insinuated that his death was his own fault.

  Travis must have sensed the women of Sebastopol talking about him because at that moment he rode up to the café looking like sex astride his Harley—a Dyna Glide if her knowledge of motorcycles didn’t fail her. She couldn’t help but stare through the front window, even though he could probably see her staring, slack-jawed, through the glass.

  Sara stood up, taking the empty tart plate with her. “Looks like he found you.”

  Skyler’s heart beat out of her chest just watching him walk down the sidewalk to the entrance of the bakery.

  He sauntered in like he owned the place. He didn’t ask if the seat opposite her was taken before he unzipped his jacket and sat down.

  “What do I have to do convince you?” he asked. He rubbed one callused thumb across his lower lip, a path Skyler wanted to follow with her tongue.

  “Convince me of what?” She looked away from his mouth and met his eyes. He looked like he meant business.

  He gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “I’m not. I’m just busy in the vineyards.”

  Travis barked out a laugh. He leaned back in the booth, revealing a swath of skin on his lower abdomen. Holy hell.

  “No, you sent your boyfriend to town for you.” Her mouth dropped open, and he said, “It’s still a small town, Carrots. Everyone knows everyone’s comings and goings. You know they’re busybodies.”

  “Michael’s not my boyfriend.” The words came out before she could stop them. It would be really convenient if he thought she was taken.

  One side of his mouth slanted in a self-satisfied smirk. She balled her hands in her lap to stop from reaching out and slapping him.

  “So, you’re saying the position’s open?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “We’re making bets now?” His smile spread.

  “Wipe that face off your head, Travis. Just because I don’t have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I’m going to get anywhere near a dipshit, no-account biker like you.”

  “Yes, it does,” he said, and his delicious mouth flattened out.

  Sara appeared with a piece of apple pie and backed away slowly. Wise.

  “Have dinner with me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” His persistence was such a turn-on; she wondered how far he would take it.

  “Because dinner will lead to more than dinner, and I can’t have that.”

  “I’m asking for dinner, not ‘more than dinner.’” He winked at her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh sure, now you say that. Before you have me out in some field with your mouth on me.” She stood up.

  “You think about my mouth a lot?”

  So much that her thighs were sore from how hard she was clenching them.

  “No, I haven’t. I remember what the other girls used to say about it.” She looked away from him. “I’m not a club skank. Hell, I can’t afford to be associated with your lifestyle. Wouldn’t want local law enforcement to think I’ve taken up my old hobby—”

  “It’s not like that—” He reached for her arm, but she pulled away.

  “I don’t care what it’s like. I have to keep my nose clean, and that means staying the hell away from you.”

  Skyler put on her coat and started for the door.

  “We’ll just see about that, Carrots. You’ve been thinking about my mouth. All is not lost.”

  7

  A case of wine sat on the top step of the trailer when she returned. Her wine. Some of the ten-ton weight she felt like she was constantly carrying around—despite the fact that she always had Michael taking care of her—dropped away.

  After several curt emails and a dozen voice mails, her former boss had finally given in and shipped it to her.

  Last she heard, Michael tossed around the lawyer word again. She shuddered to think what she’d cost her friend in legal
fees in the past few weeks. Skyler sniffed. Of course, he had plenty of lawyers on staff. If she wasn’t careful, they’d start sending her the bills.

  It was a good thing her old boss had finally relented.

  She sat down next to the case, eager to open it up. She wouldn’t open any of the bottles for a while. The wine needed to settle after flying internationally, and there was no guarantee it had been shipped under proper conditions. It could be ruined.

  But there was a chance it would be perfect. She’d hand-selected grapes from a couple of chateaus, designed to make the best of each microclimate for pinot noir. Some of it was adjacent to the first-growth vines that went back centuries.

  Her savings went into this wine. She knew in her bones it was good. Better than good. So fantastic, she’d let her ego blow up her life in France and land her back here.

  For some reason, that thought didn’t dampen her happiness that a piece of her old life had shown up on her doorstep. Adjusting to being back in town was more difficult than she’d thought it would be. For some reason, she’d believed she could keep herself hard and distant from the past. That enough time had gone by that her memories wouldn’t have been so visceral.

  She looked inside the case; none of the bottles were broken, and there was a note. It wasn’t going to be a note of apology, but her curiosity got the best of her. She opened the envelope and all the air left her lungs.

  Her father’s handwriting, barely legible, like it had always been on the prescription pad. “Welcome Home, Baby Girl.”

  How the fuck had he managed this from prison? It must have been one of the Diablos on the outside. Shit, there were Diablos on the outside and they were probably watching her right this second. A chill ran over her skin and crawled into the base of her spine. She shivered then crumpled the paper in her hands and threw it on the ground. It didn’t go far, and the wind made it drift back to her.

  Fuck. How had he found her? He must have known she was in Europe; he’d known exactly where she was the whole time.

  She heard an insane-sounding laugh and realized it was coming from her. She slapped a hand over her mouth and looked at the case. Hands shaking, she hefted the box into her truck’s flatbed.

  She got in the truck and drove out to the old barn. It wasn’t locked, and she put the case on the bench where she and Travis had made out a decade ago. She’d just keep all the stuff she didn’t want to think about in one place. And she’d avoid the musty, old shed and who she was back then entirely.

  She backed out of the building. Before she turned, she saw a shard of green glass in the dirt. Probably from the bottle she’d flung at the wall.

  She nudged it with the toe of her boot. It was only half-buried, sort of like the past.

  “I’m going to kill every last one of those motherfuckers.”

  “That seems a little rash,” Travis said. Chevy had a knack for hyperbole, but he’d seen the guy get violent. Not pretty. These guys were just cooking meth. “We’ll just wait for them to leave and blow the trailer up.”

  “I’d rather kill them. They’ll just cook somewhere else. Sell drugs to kids.”

  Travis grimaced. The sheriff was fine with the Heaven’s Sinners staging “accidents” wherever a meth lab popped up; he drew the line at killing the cooks.

  “Summers wants to round up the cooks and get them to snitch on their connection with the cartel.”

  “If the feds didn’t have their thumbs up their asses, they’d have made the middlemen by now.” Chevy was right; only willful ignorance could explain the DEA and FBI’s absence.

  He and Chevy had spent the better part of four hours parked on the bluff next to the trailer park between Sebastopol and Santa Rosa. Neither of them wore their cuts. This was Diablos Santos territory, and they didn’t want trouble.

  So they watched and waited until Travis’s back ached and his mind drifted back to Skyler. Over and over. Was it his fault she’d turned hard and a little mean? His ego said yes, but he knew better than to listen to that part of his brain. That was just as bad as listening to his dick.

  He pushed her out of his mind for the time being; he couldn’t afford to daydream right now.

  “You know Ginger used to live out here?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Meth-head mom. Little brothers.”

  “You still trying to tap that? She’s a little more complicated than she seems.”

  “Nah. Like I said, fish in a barrel.” Chevy looked at him. “I just wanted to see if you’d get jealous over her or Skyler.”

  “Fair.”

  “Sara said Carrots read you the riot act at the café.”

  “Be careful not to call her that to her face. She hisses and spits when I do it.”

  “That’s why you do it, right?”

  Travis just smiled in return.

  Harleys roared in the distance.

  “Any of the other guys coming out?” Chevy asked, craning over his shoulder to check the sweep of highway visible from their spot.

  “Nope.”

  They rolled their bikes behind a bank of trees that flanked the mobile home park. If the Diablos Santos were out there, it meant they had business. He didn’t think it was a coincidence the Sinners happened to run surveillance on a meth lab here and those pricks showed up.

  Two bikes pulled up to the trailer in question. They were far enough away that they shouldn’t be spotted, but the trailer park was open enough that Travis saw Deacon Rathburn and Little Jimmy. Little Jimmy was a mean sonofabitch. He got to where he was because his dad was one of the founding members.

  Deacon was more of an unknown quantity, even though he’d grown up around the Diablos. He’d been friends with Isaac and hated the club growing up. But rumor had it he was a hang-around and prospect in San Bernadino before moving up here.

  Deacon pounded on the door and shouted something they couldn’t understand. The trailer door opened and he pushed whoever opened it inside with a hand to the throat. Little Jimmy followed him and shut the door.

  Travis and Chevy couldn’t leave while the Diablos were there. The bikes were loud and they didn’t want anyone to know they were scoping the place out. Once a cook spot was compromised, they tended to move. Quick.

  So they waited. Luckily, not long. Deacon and Little Jimmy walked out a few minutes later, the latter carrying a duffel bag. Considering the source, probably full of drugs to distribute.

  “Man, those guys had stopped selling scrips and moved on to heroin. Now they’re in the meth business, too?” Chevy said.

  “They’re either trying to expand their clientele or responding to a change in demand. They might be scumbags, but they’re businessmen.”

  Deacon and Little Jimmy shared some words, which appeared to be harsh, before riding away.

  “We gonna wait those punks out?”

  “Nah, now that the Diablos are involved, I think it’s time the sheriff handle this.” Travis rolled his bike back out into the clearing. “And I’ve got shit to do.”

  “You going back to work? Or are you going to tug on Carrots’ pigtails some more?”

  Travis flipped his friend the bird before he rode off.

  It would take Skyler days to get the vines ready for the growing season on her own. Roy was beyond useless, and the workers he’d told her to expect hadn’t shown.

  “I want to leave three canes on those vines over there.” Skyler pointed at the first two rows of vines in the section they worked.

  He grimaced and shook his head. “Why the hell would you do that? I’ve been cutting them to two for five years now.”

  Since Travis’s dad died. Still, she’d studied the notes, and those vines needed three canes. Roy also needed to know who was boss.

  “Three canes.”

  Roy shook his head again, but at least this time he pulled on his gloves and picked up the pruning shears. Still, she watched him out of the corner of her eye to make sure he followed instructions.

  They worked in silence awhile before the old
vineyard manager spoke. “You know, you’re a lot like him.”

  Skyler’s stomach twisted, and it wasn’t from the second hangover she’d given herself in a week after finding the case of wine on her doorstep. She knew the him Roy referred to. She didn’t know what to say, so she just hummed low in her throat in reply.

  He had been her father’s friend since she was little. Maybe he was her dad’s prison pen pal. She sure as hell wasn’t going to be.

  That would explain how the case with the note had ended up on her doorstep, and it also made Roy a huge problem. Not as big of a problem as the Diablos watching her, but she had to figure out how to get rid of him nonetheless.

  He didn’t take her silence as a sign she didn’t want to talk about Jacob Clark.

  “He talks about you.”

  “Does he?” Despite herself, she was curious about what he could possibly have to say. Her father didn’t even know her. She’d never left him a forwarding address; she’d changed her cell number as soon as she got to Ithaca. The winery was owned by an LLC, owned by Michael, which meant she was screwed if Michael decided he didn’t want to be a vintner anymore. But it also meant she was hard to find.

  Hell, she’d moved to Europe in part because it was the easiest way to get away from him. The Diablos didn’t even have a charter in France, so the chance she’d run into a guy taking orders from her dad was greatly diminished.

  And she’d walked right back into his grasp. Despite any precautions, she couldn’t kid herself into thinking that word wouldn’t get back to the good doctor. His prodigal daughter had returned. And if he still talked to Roy, word of her return had already gotten to him.

  Fear chilled her fingers more than the foggy air or the cold metal of the pruning shears. She snapped through a cane that she’d meant to leave on one vine. “Shit.”

  Roy guffawed, and she wanted to shove the pruning shears into his temple. Now that he’d declared himself still a fan of Doc Clark, she had even less use for him. But, after the dust-up with the Winemakers’ Association and the warning from Sheriff Summers, she couldn’t afford any more badmouthing. Firing someone like Roy would make everything worse. For the time being, she’d just have to tolerate him.