Page 10 of Burning Ember

Dread falls like a heavy weight to the pit of my stomach. “What does that have to do with me?”

“I need you to get me something I can use to put these guys away for good.”

It sinks in. What he’s asking me to do. “How—”

“You make nice. Do what you gotta do. Get them to let you stay at the clubhouse, then you keep your ears open and you supply me with anything and everything you hear that I can use.”

Do what you gotta do?Aka . . . let one of them, or all of them, fuck me? Become his snitch? On. A. Motorcycle. Club.

Is he insane?

No. No freaking way.

“I have no doubt those dirty fuckers are going to love you.” He brushes his fingers over my arm and I pull away.

“What if they don’t want me there?”

“Then I guess we’ll be seeing a whole lot more of each other while we wait for the San Diego PD to come collect you. But don’t you worry. I can think of so many things we can do to pass the time. I’d hate to see a pretty thing like you get locked away though. And you know arson’s a pretty fucking serious crime. What do you think that will get you? Ten, fifteen, twenty years?”

If I hadn’t already thrown up, I’d be doing so now.

I’m not a stranger to motorcycle clubs. I mean, I’m not an expert either. I don’t know the ins and outs of what they’re all about, but I know enough. I know to keep my distance. I know they’re trouble, the worst kind of trouble. I know most of the guys are scary as hell and revel in riding on two wheels, banging massive amounts of women, alcohol, drugs, partying, and pretty much anything and everything that allows them to partake in those things as much as possible.

They’re like the poster boys for the seven deadly sins.

However, I’ve only had an up close and personal experience with one particular biker. Needless to say, he left a lasting impression. Left me with a healthy dose of fear too. It’s the second time today I’ve thought about him.

“The Crow,” as my sister dubbed him, had visited our house around the time I was seven and then stopped around four years later. He had long, black hair, which he wore in a braid that went to the middle of his back. He was dark-skinned and had strong features. Features I only later realized were Native American. Usually, I was sent to the neighbor’s during his visits, or hurriedly stashed in a closet, so I only caught small glimpses of him through the crack of the closet door. But I was a curious child, and he was an interesting character. Not like my mother’s other fly by, tree hugging boyfriends. Even as little as I was, it seemed to me The Crow was more interested in my sister than my strawberry blonde-haired mother. His presence in our home had always been somewhat of a puzzle. Not only because Sundown withdrew into herself for days after his visits, but also because he had a habit of leaving an envelope full of money on the table.

I learned not to ask Sunny about him. It never went well. It wasn’t until later that I came to my own conclusions and thought it best to act as if he didn’t exist.

The only other interactions I’ve had since then with bikers were with members of a notorious motorcycle club who had a clubhouse a few blocks from the apartment complex I grew up in. Nothing crazy, just run-in’s at the grocery store, or walking on the sidewalk. Passed while on the highway. For the most part, they did their thing and let me do mine.

My mother’s advice, “If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you. A lot like a nest of killer bees.”

What I do know for a fact is they’re not a group of individuals you trifle with.

I want to tell Officer Davis to go screw himself. I’m not going to make an enemy out of a group of thugs. I’m on the verge of doing just that. But I hold my tongue. If I do, I have no doubt that he’ll handcuff me right here and take me away. If I go along with his plan, or at least act like I am for now, maybe I can buy myself some time to figure out a way out of this.

His hand grips my shoulder. “What’s it going to be?”

I sigh out, “They’re not just going to spill their secrets because I’m putting out.”

His hand moves to the left and he grips the back of my neck, pushes me forward until my face is pressed against the mirror. He growls, “Suck it, or fuck it out of them if you have to. I don’t give a fuck. But you had better find a way to get me what I need, or you’ll be the one behind bars, not those filthy sons of bitches, you hear me? And I want something good. Not some shit gossip about them cheating on their wives, or old ladies, or whatever the fuck they call them these days. I want to know about their business dealings, their runs, their business contacts, the other clubs they’re involved with, shipments, the drugs. You got it?

“Don’t even think of trying to cross me. You fill them in on our little deal, I’ll lock you up so fast your head will spin. You try to skip town, I’ll tell some tales that’ll have your face plastered in every police station, every TV and every newspaper. There won’t be a place you can go where someone won’t recognize you and turn you in.”

Son of a . . .Heat spirals up my neck and face. Rage boils up inside me.

“Is twenty years of your life not worth screwing some biker’s brains out?”

Between clenched teeth, I grate out, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

He smashes my face to the glass harder. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“I said, ‘I’ll do it.’”

His hand immediately falls away.