Page 4 of Dozer (Rolling Thunder MC #14)

Chapter 4

Daisy

My life was as far in the crapper as it could possibly go. I’d been so stupid , running away from home and trusting Dray could take care of me. He’d been so nice when he’d come to pick me up for dates, and he’d taken me to the nicest places. Oh, and he’d been such a gentleman!

It wasn’t until we were three states away that I found out he’s a scam artist, and he needed me because it’s easier to scam people as a couple than a single guy. By then, I’d burned all my bridges with my parents, and I had nowhere to go.

So I helped him scam people, because if I didn’t there’d be no money for hotels and food. He was nice to me as long as I did what he wanted, so it wasn’t terrible. Sometimes it was kind of fun, but I felt bad about some of the people we scammed. Not all of them, because it wasn’t so bad, scamming the assholes of the world. Unfortunately, Dray was right about nice people being easier marks.

We were into a regular schedule and doing okay until a few months later, when Dray found another girl and thought I’d be okay sharing him with her. She knew how to boost late-model cars using her phone, and she already knew how to pickpocket like it was second nature. Dray had to teach me how to pickpocket, and even after months of practice, I had to find someone with an open purse, or a loose jacket with a pocket I could see into. She could pull a cellphone out of someone’s back pocket and they never fucking knew.

I’d learned how to boost older cars, and I was good at keeping store employees busy while Dray lifted what we needed. I was also good at asking for directions and starting random conversations with people so Dray could rob them blind, but she was better. I was white and blonde though, so I was better at looking innocent, but when I’d told Dray he had to choose, he’d told me he hadn’t fucked my ass because he figured he’d eventually auction me off as an anal virgin, and if I wasn’t going to make myself useful as a team player, he could make money off me another way.

So I’d boosted a piece of shit nineteen-eighty-something Celica and driven north from Columbus, Georgia. I have a great-aunt who lives in Nashville, and maybe she’d help me, or maybe she wouldn’t, but if I didn’t ask, she certainly wouldn’t.

But now I was in the middle of nowhere, and the Celica had decided to give up the ghost after I’d bought thirty dollars’ worth of groceries. So I boosted this really nice late-seventies Dodge Ramcharger — and bonus, once I got the truck started, it had nearly a full tank of gas. Nice! I moved my groceries into it, adjusted the seat because whoever normally drove it must be fucking huge, and I was off.

Google maps had taken me off the interstate through the little podunk town of Fort Oglethorpe because there was apparently road construction happening at the 24-75 split, and this would get me onto I-24 headed towards Nashville and let me miss a major traffic jam. I still had about five miles on back roads before I made it back to the interstate, but I was going to have to stop and sleep soon. I’d hoped to make it to Nashville before I had to crash, and my original plan had been to find a cheap motel as soon as I got close to the interstate again, but with a freshly boosted car, I should probably get farther away.

I waited until I was sitting at a red light a few miles from the grocery store to open a bag of no-name chips and a bottled water, and I ate while I drove.

But I was soooo sleepy, and after only a few miles on the interstate, I saw a Cracker Barrel that practically shared a parking lot with a hotel, so I swung off the interstate, parked in a place that wasn’t clearly for either business and crawled into the back with my huge duffel bag and my bag of groceries. I pulled my blanket from the duffel bag, wadded a shirt up to use as a pillow, made half a peanut butter and banana sandwich, ate it, and crashed.

* * * *

Dozer

I had a hankering for spaghetti, so I ran in the grocery store for the ingredients, including the really good parmesan cheese, and I even bought some of the huge chunks of frozen garlic toast to put in the oven.

And then I walked out and my motherfucking truck was motherfucking gone .

I stood and stared at the empty spot, and strategized. Should I call the cops, or Brain?

No . I didn’t have to call anyone. I had a GPS dot in the glove compartment because I’d planned to put it on a prospect’s bike to see where he went when we gave him a job, but he hadn’t shown up, and the job had gone to someone I trusted. I opened my phone, pulled up the app, and there was my truck, heading north towards Rossville. Hot damn .

I was less than four miles from my house as the crow flies. I’d carried my groceries out without a buggy, but I settled them into a buggy in a corral, so it would look like someone had forgotten them, and I took off at a run towards my house.

I’d recently bought a 1969 SS350 Sprint — a really old, super-tiny Harley Davidson motorcycle. I’d look ridiculous driving it, but I’d thrown it in the back of the truck to get it home, which meant I could drive it to my truck, put it in the back, and then get both vehicles home without having to drag any of my brothers into whatever drama this ended up being.

I was planning to beat the everloving fuck out of whoever stole it, and that meant the less people involved, the better.

The bike didn’t have a mount for my phone, so I took three minutes to unscrew the one on my Roadster and screw it onto the 350’s handlebar a touch off-center. I grabbed a handful of zip-ties off my workbench, jammed them in my pocket, and I was off.

I’m six foot six, more than three hundred pounds of muscle, and I was riding a bike designed for a small woman, or maybe a teenaged boy. I hadn’t bought it to ride it, but to restore and sell it, and driving it was damned awkward. I had a full-faced helmet on, so it wasn’t like anyone would recognize me, but that wasn’t the point. My knees poked out to the side and it was beyond uncomfortable.

The dot had made it to the interstate and was going around Moccasin Bend, and I wasn’t yet to the interstate. I hoped they stayed in town and I wasn’t stuck driving this tiny little clown-motherfucking-bike all the way to Nashville. I breathed a sigh of relief when the dot exited the interstate at the Brown’s Ferry exit.

I weigh more than the bike, so it wasn’t taking me anywhere quickly. I managed sixty on the interstate, but only because there were no long-uphill stretches. My truck is brown and tan, and it stands out, so I saw it from half a mile away. My first instinct was to park on the other side of Cracker Barrel and walk by the truck, but there would be no reason to walk past the restaurant, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I’m a big guy, and people notice me. I wasn’t wearing my cut, but still, it’d be best if I could just get my truck and go.

No one seemed to be sitting up front, so I assumed it was empty. I could pull up behind it, open the back, put the bike in, close it, and then get in the front and drive away.

But that would mean I wouldn’t get to beat the fuck out of whoever had stolen it.

So did I set up surveillance, or did I just collect my truck and go?

Hell, they might not even come back to get it. I could sit here for six hours and then have to leave without satisfaction anyway.

Okay, so I’d just have to be happy getting my truck back, then.

I drove up behind it, stood, and saw a lump in the back that shouldn’t be there.

Someone was sleeping in the back.

Okay then. Plan B.

I glanced around, and no one was focused on me. Whoever had parked here had done so with the goal of not being close to any activity, and that worked for me. I opened the back, jumped in, and scented woman. Human woman.

I grabbed her forearms and told her, “Scream and I’ll have to knock you out.”