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  “So, I’m your mistake,” he seethed in anger, pain and defiance. “Now everything makes a hell of a lot more sense.” He drew back and hurled one of the chips down the length of the dark, empty road in frustration. “Fine. If that’s all I am to you, Layla, I’ll be the best damn mistake you ever made.”

  Chapter 9

  Blake threw open the door to Larry’s Lounge and strutted in, while the squeaky screen banged behind him. Something made him pause just inside.

  Indistinguishable warning thickened the air with an unseen threat. It hovered in the barroom like the smoky layers that wouldn’t dissipate.

  Instinctively, he scanned the room that resembled a thousand other dive bars. ‘70s wood paneling was home to sports team flags and a sprawling Budweiser promotional. Peppermint schnapps stung his nose as the bartender poured shots for a couple at the counter who sagged dully on red leather stools. Four guys cluttered one corner, exchanging seedy looks, their conversation muttered in low tones.

  One man sat at the bar’s far end. His cigarette polluted the air, surrounding him in a haze. The shadow cast by the brim of a cowboy hat concealed his face.

  Blake wondered why he got a chill bordering on recognition. He knew no one around here. Then again, he was in no condition to interpret anything. He ached for Layla so bad he could barely see straight.

  Behind the bar, a shelf spread beneath a mirrored backsplash reflecting rows of liquor. Four beers were on tap. A pool table set toward the back beckoned him. Exactly what he needed—a distraction.

  Except for one problem. The song hurling at him from the barroom speakers was Nickelback’s “Figure You Out.” Great band, wrong song. Although Blake did recall liking it at the concert he’d taken Rob to last summer, when he wound up with an extra ticket he offered to Layla. The night he finally got to know her in a personal way, her thoughts, the way her mind worked, her tastes in music, and how she looked in the setting sunlight, her face soft, open, so incredibly beautiful. Her blue eyes glowing…

  Yep, this music had to change, this song about hating to love her mixed with suggestive verses about the good times that she wrecked and the white stains on her dress. He needed to think about something other than Layla and sex.

  As if by command, the tune ended with a few guitar-crunching chords. Then, Them Bones , a hard-hitting song by Alice in Chains off the Dirt album, cranked through the sound system. Much better.

  He strode to the counter and ordered a shot of Black Velvet and a Budweiser from the bartender, who sported an untamed beard and a brown leather vest as vintage as the wall paneling. His eyes looked beer-glazed. Blake envied the man’s state.

  Tossing a ten on the bar, he opened his throat, drained the shot, felt the slow burn of whisky spread through him, and asked for change in quarters. Then he picked up his beer and headed for the pool table. He needed to smack some balls around, work out his tension, take his mind off what he wished he were doing and delve into geometric precision, the mental challenge that inspired his love of the game.

  The table looked like it had been abandoned mid-game. Blake stood at a corner pocket, took a chug from the cold longneck slick with condensation in his hand, and scanned the layout. He picked a strategy for stripes, then solids, anticipated what English or spin to put on each shot, calculating the perfect leave, until he’d mentally sunk every ball on the table.

  Now he was ready to shoot.

  “Hey, buddy,” someone said behind him. “We’re shootin’ here.”

  Blake turned at the waist. “Not since I walked in the door.”

  The guy with the gaunt face, shifty eyes and overlapping teeth stuck set his hands at his waist, where an Iron Maiden shirt was tucked into dusty jeans. “Don’t matter. I said we’re playing.”

  “Then finish.”

  Heavy Metal looked to his pals, a smirk scuttling across his lips beneath a mangy blond mustache. “Hear this guy? Walks in and thinks he owns the place.”

  “Looks like we’re gonna have to show him different,” said another. A black vest covered with pins and patches spread to reveal a barrel chest. His Harley-Davidson T-shirt sported an American flag that matched the bandana around his head.

  Blake couldn’t help noticing one patch that stood out, thorny vines twisted around skull-and-crossbones. Blake swallowed. Above it were the words “one-percenter.” Only one-percent of motorcycle riders belonged to gangs, the Hell’s Angels or the Outlaws, as far as he knew. That’s what they called themselves—one-percenters.

  Great, Desanto. Walk into a random bar and offend the one guy you never want to piss off.

  Blake’s martial arts training kicked in. With his peripheral vision, he took stock of every exit, what in his vicinity could be used as a weapon, how quickly he could reach it, and how fast he could take down an opponent with the least amount of bodily harm.

  His gaze flicked to their hands, checking for weapons. Then he located a pool stick propped against a nearby table. The reaction time would take seconds. His aim, impeccable—deadly, if it had to be. But he preferred to contain the situation before it got that far.

  He gave one chance, his tone laced with warning. “Don’t start something I’ll have to finish. I just want to shoot.”

  “What you got to put on a game?” asked Heavy Metal.

  “Play for a beer.”

  “There’s gotta be more at stake,” the guy scoffed.

  “Make it worth our while,” said the patriotic one, the one-percenter.

  “There’s a hundred in my back pocket that says none of you have the skill to play me for it,” Blake instigated.

  The gangster’s dark eyes hardened to match the skull on his patch. “I’d have more fun kicking your ass and then taking your hundred.”

  Blake swiped the cue ball off the table, tossed it in the air, and tested his grip. “You can try.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Blake caught the motion of the bar door swinging open. Layla breezed into the bar, looking stunning as ever. Blake completely ignored her. Although every sense he possessed hummed in recognition of her presence, as if the whole world had faded to black with a single spotlight of awareness devoted to her.

  Don’t come over. Don’t come over , he warned silently, as if he could will her to hear the words that thrashed through his mind.

  But she came right to him after buying two beers, one stretched out like a peace offering. A blush covered her cheeks. The way she met his eyes told him she didn’t regret what happened at the motel. Her lips lifted in a vulnerable smile that pierced his chest.

  Blake wondered if he had died and gone to purgatory.

  Why now? Why make peace after they’d been doing this push-me-pull-you dance for the past year? And why did this random miracle have to happen when he couldn’t do a thing about it?

  Blake accepted the drink with a stiff nod and heard his patriotic pal say snidely, “Now that’s what I call worthwhile.”

  “Better think again.” Blake chugged his peace offering, preparing to use the bottle as his next weapon of choice, if necessary. He glared at the biker, his gaze settling on the patch that spelled fear for anyone who knew the language.

  Then Blake paused mid-gulp. His eyes fixed on another patch. The bands of color held meaning relegated to certain sects. These colors, he recognized as local—from Cleveland. The dude might know Rob.

  This night could end in his favor. He set his beer down, relaxed his grip on the cue ball and dropped it on the pool table. The corner of his mouth curled with his revelation. “I just changed my mind,” he told them. “I’ll play your game. But here’s what happens when you lose—”

  “ If we lose.” Another gaudy laugh passed between the men.

  “ When I sink that eight ball, you’ll answer me one question.”

  Heavy Metal scratched his head. “You ask a lousy question, or we walk away with a hot chick?”

  Blake nodded, ignoring Layla’s outraged gasp. She threw him a glacial glare, but he was already numbed
by what felt like a block of ice in the pit of his stomach.

  If he made one slip…

  He shoved away any thought of failure, flicked four quarters on the table and announced, “Rack ‘em, boys. Money breaks.”

  “This is some kind of joke, right?” Layla asked.

  “I’m offended, darling,’” said the patriot in a voice that ran roughshod over the nerves. “I take winning you real serious.”

  The man’s smirk revealed a grimy row of teeth. Layla cringed.

  Standing at the head of the table, Blake faced the neat triangle of balls awaiting him. He turned to Layla with a penetrating gaze. “Do you trust me?”

  “Trust you.” Her eyes met his, indecision tightening her throat. She had to force the words out. “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “I-I don’t know.” It echoed what she’d told him in the motel room. She thought she’d have a better answer. But now, given this sudden test—at her expense—she felt awkward, on display, no more than a bargaining chip to him. After everything they just shared, this was his idea of proving his trustworthiness? Her brows pulled together with disbelief. “My God, Blake. What do you expect me to think? I’m the one at stake!”

  “For that reason, you shouldn’t have a single doubt.”

  He hunched over, lined up for his break…drew back… At the last second, he tilted his head, winked at Layla and made the shot blind.

  Layla gasped.

  Blake listened to the crack of the cue ball hitting home, the thunk-thunk-thunk of balls diving into pockets. He straightened, laid the stick down, and walked away. No confirmation was necessary.

  “Son of a—he sank the eight on the break!”

  The color died in Layla’s cheeks. She stumbled backward. “That…that’s bad. Isn’t it? You can’t make the eight ball before all the others…”

  “You still don’t trust me,” he said, disappointment hardening his tone.

  “But you weren’t even looking! How do you know? You sank the eight ball. How could you?” Tears threatened.

  “Baby, I won.”

  “No, you didn’t. Did you?” She looked from him, to the table, to the sore losers, and back to Blake. She flung a hand toward the competition. “But—what if you’d lost?”

  “I didn’t.”

  She threw her hands up. “That’s beside the point! You used me to leverage your bet. What sort of person does that to another? How do you sleep at night?”

  His eyes narrowed. “If I’m that abominable, maybe you’d rather leave with them. We could call a rematch. I’ll try not to be so lucky.”

  “You are completely impossible.” She whipped around and stormed out.

  “Glad everything’s back to normal again,” he muttered. “And where do you think you’re going?” Blake’s arm shot out to block the patriot from trailing Layla. “We had a deal. I won. I want my answer.”

  “Not after that trick shot.”

  Blake stared at him, offended. “How was that a trick shot?”

  “Nobody walks up to a random table and makes the eight on the break.”

  His gaze narrowed. “I just did. Time to pay up.”

  “Ask,” the patriot growled. “It don’t mean I’ll answer.”

  “I know that patch,” Blake said. The man’s chin tipped up in wary confirmation. “And your colors are with the division out of Cleveland.” Blake found his second confirmation when the man’s eyes turned to slits in his wind-worn face. “I need to know if you picked up a kid, five-eleven, with his lip pierced, dark curly hair, blue eyes, riding a metallic green Sportster with an alligator airbrushed on the tank.”

  The man hawked a huge wad of tar-colored phlegm, and launched it. It missed Blake’s boot by an inch. He answered, “Yeah, I seen a kid like that. Been riding with us a month, maybe two.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “He in some kind of trouble?”

  “No.” Blake tried to mask the turbulent surge of relief and anxiety that flooded through him. “Just satisfying a curiosity. Thanks, man.”

  The guy lingered in front of Blake, his gaze going to the door as though envisioning Layla within its frame. “Fine piece of ass you brought with you.”

  A muscle tightened in Blake’s jaw. “She’s a lot more than that.”

  His gaze refocused on Blake. “No one outside the Mad Dogs knows who rides with us. If we see a problem, we take care of it. I see a problem. And you’re it.”

  Now it starts . Blake took one step back pacifistically. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Between your pretty girl’s thighs.”

  His retreat stopped. “Excuse me?”

  “I always get what I want, even if I have to take it.”

  Blake took a step forward. “You think you can take my woman?”

  “We don’t have to take what you hand over.”

  “Did you know there are thirty eight bones in the human hand? I will break them all one by one if you try to take what belongs to me.”

  “When you wake up in the hospital— if you wake up—remember this was the day you crossed a Mad Dog.” The biker hauled back and launched a fist at Blake, who fielded the punch with his palm.

  On impact, a jolt seared through his arm. But that was nothing compared to the agony contorting the biker’s face as Blake brought him to his knees.

  The man howled for help. Blake knew exactly how much pressure it took to snap a wrist, and stopped just short of it. The others lunged toward him.

  “Come any closer, and you’ll hear what thirty eight bones sound like when they break at the same time.”

  The biker spluttered and groaned. The men shrank back.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Blake didn’t have time to issue any more threats. The sound of a police siren wailed in the distance. He shot a glance at the bar and saw the bartender drop the phone in the cradle and wipe sweaty hands down his leather vest.

  Three curses rose up from the gang members. Strangely, all three stared at the man in the cowboy hat at the end of the counter, as if waiting for a set of orders. When they went unacknowledged, the gangsters tore out of the bar, leaped on their Harleys and roared off.

  *

  No, no, no! Damn their worthless hides. D idn’t the idiots know with one look that Desanto wasn’t the kind of guy you take down barehanded? A man had to be more cunning. More vicious. More like Jack.

  He tilted his head down, put his hand to his cowboy hat, and crushed the smooth, worn-in brim with his fist. Smoke from his cigarette curled up and stung his eyes. He let the sting fuel him, let his mind run until he came up with another plan.

  Obviously he couldn’t count on a couple of pissants to do the work for him. He needed to step it up. Get Blake out of his way for a good long while.

  Jack plucked the cigarette from his mouth, where the beginnings of a smile curled his upper lip. The sweet deal about fake busts wasn’t just about the cash he siphoned—he always carried a decent stash of his own blow. Whatever he had left over from the last bust, he’d use it to frame Desanto. Jack believed had enough on him to get someone in serious trouble. Someone like Blake, who’d never see this coming.

  Keeping his head down, he slowly raised his sights to peer beyond the brim of his hat. Vengeance spewed like poison from his hateful gaze. Nobody took his girl to a filthy motel room. Nobody messed around with Layla and then put her on the end of a bet like some cheap whore.

  Desanto was about to find that out. The hard way. Jack would put a call into the local force, plant the suspicion in their minds. They’d confront Blake on his motorcycle, check Blake’s saddlebags for suspicious contents, and haul him away in handcuffs for possession of cocaine.

  He could almost taste the sweetness of that long-awaited moment.

  Victory, at last.

  *

  Blake didn’t wait around to see the fallout. He followed the bikers out the door of Larry’s Lounge and raced across the street. He almost
caught up with Layla, before she slipped behind a block of motel rooms. Theirs sat on the other side, hidden from view of the bar. It would hopefully prevent another run-in. Unless those bikers felt like tasting Blake’s fist if they tried to attack him again. Or Layla.

  He slowed his pace after he ducked behind the first row of buildings. He crossed the newly paved blacktop, the scent of tar still pungent. The surface shone like a still, black lake, reflecting the neon-lit palm tree and parrot motif above the check-in window of the Paradise Motel. He scanned the area to make sure they weren’t followed, and that the grounds were secure, before he met her outside their motel room door.

  She fumbled with the key as the sound of his boots signaled his approach. Tone dripping with disdain, she asked, “Here so soon?”

  “Aw, you missed me?” A derisive scoff came in reply. “If you care to know, I was defending your honor.”

  “How can someone defend honor who has none?”

  “Okay, hold up.”

  She whirled to him. “What do you want, my gratitude?”

  “Layla, you’re trying to put the key in upside down. Here, give it to me.”

  An irritated noise rose from her throat. She thrust the key into his hand. His fingers closed around hers. When she tried to tug free, his grip firmed.

  She went still. His thumb stroked her hand, an intimate, soothing gesture that heightened her confusion.

  “You were trying to get rid of me back there,” she accused. Cutting deeper than abandonment, it hacked at her self-worth. She was better than a stupid bet.

  He shook his head. “I was doing no such thing.”

  “You made me feel like I was no better than a stupid game, the kind you play for one night and then trade up at the end once you’re tired of me.” She folded an arm across her stomach, holding a queasy feeling at bay.

  “Is that really what you think?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “Yes—no. I don’t know what to think. The more time I spend with you, the more confusing everything gets.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Don’t mock me.”

  “Want me to prove how serious I am?” His eyelids lowered halfway, enshrouding her in his smoky stare.