Page 7 of Blue-Eyed Jacks (Destroyers MC: Skilletsville PA #1)

T he same gray sedan I’d spotted yesterday was back. Different plates this time, but the scratch on the front bumper was an exact match. “Cara, may I borrow your phone?”

“Are you calling the cops?” She’d noticed my unease.

“And tell them what? I’m being followed?”

“Yeah, that’s how it works.”

Not if there was someone on the payroll.

Not if a biker gang was out of their territory, stalking you.

I’d been privy to enough of Shock’s inner workings to know how he operated.

And I’d learned just enough from Jackson to spot cars by their distinctive marks, not their plates.

He’d proven to me that the plates could be altered, registrations forged.

Cara and I were working our shifts at the local thrift store.

I was on the floor, returning stock and sorting out constantly ransacked displays, while she worked the register.

Her ex, an alcoholic, was in jail for at least two years.

That meant she could take public-facing jobs easier.

My role had an escape route out the back, or the ability to hide in the back rooms behind any number of ex-felons or rehabilitating addicts ranging from the scrawny to linebacker size.

“You didn’t see who was in it, did you?”

“Sorry.” She pointed at the cash register.

It faced the store, not the windows. A mistake, if you ask me.

So what if someone stole from Goodwill? They obviously needed it more than we did.

Having the register face-front instead gave the workers the advantage of seeing who walked in.

One some of us desperately needed. “Are you going to call them?” She held out her phone.

“Yeah. I’ll take it in the back.”

She’d find out on the next bill that I lied. But hopefully, by then, I’d be long gone. I’d make it up to her somehow.

My hands were shaking as I dialed the business number for the junkyard.

I memorized the number after spotting a pattern of surveillance.

Call it instinct or an overactive imagination, but it started right after I filed for divorce.

The very next day, my spine itched right between my shoulder blades.

And it wasn’t from bedbugs or lice, which ran rampant through shelters.

Why did I let that stupid counselor talk me into filing?

Right, I was supposed to be moving on. Healing . Giving up the past.

That stupidity made me a target. Shock wasn’t going to give me up. He was the Rick-Roll of biker assholedom. And if I ever wanted to be truly free, someone needed to put a bullet between his eyes. Too bad I couldn’t afford a gun. I’d do it myself.

Yeah, I’d reached the anger stage of grief. That was a hell of a lot better than the other ones. At least I was doing something. And even though I knew better, I dialed anyway.

“Junk in the Trunk,” the bored voice on the other end sounded young. Probably a prospect.

I affected a breathy, singsong tone. “Hi.” I waited.

“Hey baby. What can I do for you or to you?”

“Oh, sweetheart, you sound so helpful.” I licked my lips, even though he couldn’t see it; maybe he’d “hear” it. “I need…” I trailed off, waiting for him to take the bait.

“And I’ve got anything you want.” His high-pitched voice lowered.

Donning my very best Marilyn Monroe kitten voice, I breathily said, “I want … Jackson.”

“Oh, fuck. Jack! One of your bitches is on the phone. Hang on. He’s in the shop.”

Problem solved. I’d managed to fool the gatekeeper. That was good, right?

“Babe, I’m at work. Can’t it wait?”

“Are you alone?” I dropped the breathy act and went straight to business.

“Uh, yeah. Like that. Talk my ear off and get my dick hard, babe.”

“I think you know who this is, but if not, it’s the Queen of Hearts. I’m being followed. I know I wasn’t supposed to call you, but this is my friend’s phone, not traceable, not connected. I need help getting away.”

“Fuck. Hang on.” The phone crackled as he moved from where he was to a place we could talk freely. A door snicked shut, and he spoke again. “I’m in the john. They’re going to think I’m whacking off in here. What’s going on, who’s following you?”

“I’d guess Shock or one of his people. I filed for divorce. The next day, I got a bad feeling. All this week I’ve been seeing the same gray sedan parked outside work, at the bus stop I wait at outside the shelter, and outside the grocery store when we went in the shelter van.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“Everyone who needs to know. The shelter staff have awareness. They traded out vehicles with another location. We’re escorted to work now.”

“We?”

“Cara and I work at the same place. It’s a precaution because we’re often together. They might target her.”

“It sounds like they got it covered.”

I had to impress on him how serious this was. “They don’t. They’re used to normal people not…”

“Kate, I know what you mean. I’m one of them, remember?”

“Absolutely, that’s why I need you.”

“You don’t need me,” he protested.

Which was where he was wrong. “I need someone who can outsmart Shock. I know you’re that guy.”

He exhaled a little too loudly. “Remember the nurse?”

Oh shit . “Yeah.”

“She washed up along the Ohio River a week after you disappeared.”

I let out the breath I was holding. Unfortunately, I’d expected retribution. “Did he target you?”

Jackson made a noise. “He tried. Fucking Disney came through, covered my shit, and then some. Lied his ass off to a patched member. I owe him big-time.”

“Good.”

“Naw, not good. I can’t help you. He’s probably watching me.”

Shit . I must have said it out loud.

“Kate,” his voice was soft.

“What do I do?”

His silence stretched out. “I’d say run. You got any cash?”

“Four hundred saved.”

“Jesus. That and a fucking dime would get you to exactly mother-fucking nowhere. Wait. That’s what you need. Mother-fucking nowhere. Step one, do you know anyone with a car?”

“A few people.”

“Any men you trust, big guys. The kind you don’t mess with?”

“One.” George would say yes. He was the linebacker-sized stocker here.

He’d once been a football player in high school.

College came, and his scholarship wasn’t enough to help him escape his urban plight, and he started down the path of drug abuse.

He was about five years clean and sober, and coaching middle school kids in the local Rec league.

He was a teddy bear of a human, but like most bears, you didn’t want to be on their bad side.

“Okay. Can you hold out a week?”

“I can try.”

“You can. You’re smart, brave, a fucking hurricane in little human form.

You got this. Next Tuesday morning, get up and on the road as early as you can.

I want you to get your guy to drive you to a little adult toy store just off the 309 near Wilkes Barre.

You’ll know it because there’s a hotel, a custom car place, and a bunch of discount chain stores nearby.

Maybe even a Salvation Army, if I remember correctly.

He should drop you off and watch you walk inside.

Bring nothing with you. From there, he should go to the hotel across the street and take a room for the night.

It will be reserved under the name Fred Manford. ”

“What happens at the adult store?”

“You go to the back dressing rooms.”

“And?”

“That’s all you get, babe. Some parts of this plan still need work. Just get your ass there on Tuesday, and don’t delay. Anything happens in-between then and here, I can’t cover.” He hung up almost as soon as he finished.

But I had a plan, which George was happy to help with. But I made him swear to secrecy. I made a few more calls, one to the police, to tell them about the car in front of the store.

A squad car drove past, and the car was gone within the hour. Trouble was, no one saw who got in it. That itch between my shoulders was full-out stabbing now. George made himself more than useful escorting us between vehicles and work, even going as far as driving us on more than one occasion.

Monday afternoon, I was in the back, tagging merchandise. A commotion up front sent George and a couple of the other men running to take care of it.

But it was too late. Cara was gone.

At the register, a single piece of paper was stabbed on the old memo spike we kept there.

I tugged it off and my body washed cold.

Scribbled on it was a Destroyers skull. Around it were squiggly lines.

It was so poorly drawn I didn’t understand it at first. Then I realized it resembled Shock’s back tattoo.

He had the Destroyers’ patch inked there.

Ringed around it were thunderheads and lightning.

I pocketed it. The police would want it, but what if they fingerprinted it? I’d held it. My sweaty hands were sure to leave a residue. I cursed my stupidity. Fingerprints were indisputable evidence that would get back to my husband as proof I’d been there.

He’d figure out the missing pieces and target Jackson this time. I was so dumb.

“Kate, the cops are on their way. Do you need me to take you anywhere?” George hovered, the concern making the frown lines in his forehead groove into deep mounds.

“Here.” I dug out the paper. “My ex. That’s his tattoo mark. He’s probably got someone on payroll.”

George studied the drawing. “Destroyers?”

“Yeah.”

His dark brown eyes studied me. “You don’t look like a biker chick.”

“Why do you think I ran?”

His jaw tensed. “I got friends…”

“No. Use them to help you . I want nothing to do with gangs or bikers or anyone. I just need to—” The bell rang as the other workers filed into the store, all of them excited and angry. Mostly, they were upset that Cara was gone. I was, too, but also terrified of what would happen next.

Shock knew precisely where I was. It was a matter of time before I’d be taken in broad daylight, just like Cara.

And if that happened, I was a dead woman.

There would be no normal. Ever. And Shock was the kind of man to hold grudges.

He’d keep me alive out of sheer spite as he tortured me into insanity.

George glanced at the paper again. His eyes filled with tears. He hastily swiped them away with his thumb and shoved the paper in his pocket. He blew out a breath. “I’ll make a call for Cara. ‘Cops won’t know.”

He disappeared into the back. When the police came, we all told the truth, as much of it as we could. No one had seen her. Not even the customers. It was as if everyone had amnesia or something. Which was absurd. But maybe George’s friends could help Cara. I had to believe that.

That evening, I ate dinner with George. He’d taken me out for burgers at a joint in his old neighborhood. Five of his friends sat with us in a crowded booth. I squashed between the absurdly large men, eating what felt like my last meal.

Four of them openly carried handguns.

All of them had scarification or tattoos.

Not one of them said much about the silly white girl in their midst. They joked, talked about old times, and, every sentence or two, watched the door. I was making them a target.

“You shake any harder, I’m going to take it personally.” George elbowed me.

“I’m sorry.” It spilled out of my mouth on repeat.

He wrapped his arm around me, almost smothering me with his crushing side hug. “Ain’t nothing to be sorry about. We got ya.”

I shook my head. I wasn’t safe here. That itchy knife was twisting. Like a clock countdown. Tick tick tick. My life was measured in seconds, maybe minutes. “We should get away from the windows.”

To a man, they raised their eyes to the front of the hamburger shop. There was a nod and a tip of the head. Two men peeled out of the booth and walked outside for a smoke.

George kept me pinned under his arm. I could barely breathe.

Bam! Bam! The glass of the shop spiderwebbed but didn’t break. Answering shots from the two men who’d stepped outside rang out. George dragged me from the booth toward the back door.

One of the men followed. There was a van in the alley, idling.

George and I piled in while his friend ran to the mouth of the alley, gun in hand.

He fired twice and then stood in the opening, staring down the street.

Sirens blared in the distance, which drowned out the alarm bell ringing inside the shop.

“Stay down, baby-girl. BJ’s motioning us to move.”

The van rocked, and I held onto the bare wall.

I marveled at the similarities between this van and the one Shock used to transport hookers from Pittsburgh to Skilletsville.

This one reeked of pot more than that one, but in the end, I was still a victim.

A statistic. A burden on society because a man—no.

I used to think that way. But no more. I’d look ahead.

Stay positive. I’d made friends who were helping.

There was good in this world despite the ugliness of it.

I’d be brave and smart and not let this defeat me. Ever.

We stopped outside a brick apartment building. The wings wrapped around a parking lot. I followed George from the van to a sedan.

“Gray?”

He laughed. “It blends in.”

“Ironic, no?”

We left Trenton at five in the morning. Ate donuts and drank coffee in Wilkes Barre at eight fifteen and waited for the adult toy store to open.

“Tell me what he said again.”

“He said leave early.” I didn’t like this any more than George did. I watched the traffic outside the donut shop pick up for rush hour. Customers came and went, grabbing coffee and food and not noticing the odd couple in the back booth near the bathrooms.

“Nine fifteen. It’s open. You ready?”

Hell no. I hadn’t slept a wink. I probably looked like shit again. “George?”

He looked up from his coffee. “Yeah?”

“Tell your friends, and tell yourself, thank you. I hope they find Cara.”

“I hope so, too. I won’t see you again, will I?”

I shook my head. “This time, there’s no going back.”

He frowned. “Run far, and keep running if you have to. I’m gonna say a few prayers for ya.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him no one was listening.