Chapter 1
Here to Thank You
Victoria
As I approached the courthouse security checkpoint, Officer Remy greeted me with his signature grin. “Miss Victoria, how are you doing this fine morning?”
I smiled. “Pretty good, for a Monday.”
He nodded. “I hear that. Looking forward to watching New Orleans basketball tonight. That’s the only good thing about Mondays this time of the year.”
I put my large attaché case on the conveyor belt along with my purse and nodded before I walked through the metal detector.
“Don’t stay up too late for the game, it’s a school night,” I chided.
He chuckled, but it died as he turned to the person behind me. I glanced that way and my smile fell.
Behind me stood one of the best-looking men I’d seen in all of Biloxi. His brown hair was cropped short. He had mesmerizing blue eyes. With a friendly look, those eyes probably made panties melt. Since he was looking at me, they weren’t the least bit friendly.
Best of all, he was tall. Taller than me, which was a rare thing since I stood at five-foot-ten, and my love of high heels meant I was a towering six feet right now. Unlike most other tall men I encountered, who were gangly and lanky, this man had bulk that made him burly.
But he was a biker, and he didn’t like me. I knew he was a biker because of the leather he wore. I knew he didn’t like me because of our first meeting a few weeks ago, which had left a lasting impression on me.
As a woman, I’d endured my fair share of mansplaining and condescension. But the way this man had spoken to me, it went way beyond anything I’d experienced.
Since it had been the end of the day, I hadn’t kept my cool. I’d told him he had things all wrong. I wasn’t representing his friend. He didn’t listen until his friend confirmed what I’d said. After a long day and his inability to listen to me, I’d huffed out a breath and stalked away from them. It wasn’t my best moment by a long shot.
So, yeah. Definitely a bad first impression.
Such was my life.
The moment that thought vanished, a staggeringly more cynical thought struck me. He’d probably be in the same courtroom as me.
Nope, I needed to be positive and not entertain such defeatist thoughts.
I worked as a public defender. As in, ‘if you can’t afford an attorney one will be provided.’ Problem was, I loved the law, but this side of the law didn’t love me. So I desperately needed a firm to schedule an interview… a job offer would be better, because my student loans had to be paid. I had more resumes out now than when I graduated from law school.
As Dad said, “Any port in a storm, pumpkin.”
Mom never said anything. Probably because I never told her anything. But Dad could read me like a book, and he’d given me his stellar piece of advice. I knew that was mainly so I wouldn’t quit my job and waste my education.
But, until an interview led to an offer, I was stuck.
The elevator doors opened. Three people stepped out before the five people waiting before me stepped on.
A court reporter I knew by face, but not by name, preceded me. “Going to the third floor, Vic?”
“Yes, thank you,” I murmured, surprised she knew my name.
When I turned around, I watched her punch the three button and then the four. The doors were sliding shut when a large masculine hand waved between the doors.
The biker, whose name was Gamble, if his vest was to be believed, stepped inside the crowded car. The only space left for him to stand happened to be right next to me. I tried to move back, but realized there was nowhere to go.
No matter how much effort I put into it, I couldn’t ignore his scent. It was soapy with only a trace of cologne and leather. Even though there was only a trace of the cologne, it was strong enough it didn’t just fill my nostrils, it filled my head. Like, I could think about this potent scent for an hour, it was that delicious and that mysterious. It wasn’t woodsy, but it made me think of Christmas. It wasn’t musky, but it had sticking power.
I shook my head because I didn’t need to be examining or dwelling on his cologne-soap scent.
I saw his eyes slide toward me for a moment, then they went to the panel of buttons. He didn’t push any of them, so he was headed to either the third, fourth, or fifth floor. For the next two minutes, I prayed he wouldn’t get off on three.
The doors slid open, and he didn’t move. Relief swept through me.
“Excuse me,” I murmured and stepped past him. I heard other high heels following me on the linoleum floor and didn’t bother to look back.
Twenty minutes later, he sat five rows behind the Assistant District Attorney. That surprised me. It was an assumption on my part, but a man like him, I totally expected him to be seated on the defendant side of the courtroom. Since the room wasn’t crowded, I knew he’d sat there on purpose.
The judge entered, and I forced myself to ignore Gamble’s presence. I needed to do the best job I possibly could.
***
Four hours later, I wove around cars in the parking garage toward mine. The temperature had to be approaching ninety degrees, and with the high humidity I lamented parking at the farthest end of the aisle. It was noon, I was starving, and I wished I could go home to forget all about this horrible morning.
Aruba would be better. Though hurricane season was starting in a few days, so maybe the coast of Brazil.
My client could have argued his case better than I did, such was my epic fail. Then again, he was guilty.
I heard footsteps behind me. That wasn’t unusual, since numerous court sessions had let out, but these steps were gaining on me. With female precision, I shifted my keys so my car key fit between my index and middle finger before I turned around.
Gamble stood behind me. He stopped, spied the key in my hand, and held his hands up low in front of his abdomen. “You can retract the claw, lady.”
“Why are you following me? To tell me I better do my job, again?”
At my reference to the first time he spoke to me, one side of his plump lips tipped up. “No. I’m here to thank you.”
“Thank me?” Then I shook my head. I didn’t care about his nonsensical statement.
He grinned. I blinked against the power of it. Since when did I lose my self-control because some tall, bad boy grinned at me?
“Yeah. Never thought I’d see the day, but thank you for failing to get that scum-bag asshole a shot at freedom.”
I should have been insulted, but I didn’t have time for that.
“Whatever. I shouldn’t be seen with you.”
“Why?”
My eyes widened. “You can’t be that thick. Because someone catches you talking to me, it raises questions. I could face an ethics committee. That’s a pain in the ass I don’t need these days.”
A look of disgust flashed through his eyes before he hid it. “You want to defend assholes like him?”
I rolled my eyes. “Like most people, I want a lot of things, but I don’t need to face an ethics board because you wanted to thank me for being such a failure.”
Like the disgust that had flashed through his eyes, a look of amusement flitted across his handsome face. Then he frowned. “Word of advice, Ms. Carlton. Learn to take a compliment.”
On that note, he turned and walked away. Watching him walk away was torturous because it gave me plenty of time to study his picture-perfect ass as he left. It also gave me time to take in the fullness of his Riot MC patch.
Being a public defender, I had a certain familiarity with gangs and other routine offenders. Yet the Riot MC members’ cases never came through our office. Not because they didn’t get arrested or arraigned.
No, they had a lawyer on retainer, and no need for public defenders like me.
I memorized the shape of his ass so I could imagine my fingers sinking into it when I got busy with my vibrator later tonight. To my shame and chagrin, he looked over his shoulder and arched a brow. I felt heat in my cheeks and whirled to my car.
When would I learn? If things could go bad for me, they damn sure did. Every single time.
***
“Vic…Tor…Eee-ah! Oh, oh, oooh!” Mick bellowed from behind the extensive counter.
I smiled even as I debated what was more mangled, the melody of “Volare” or my name as he sang it when I entered Bayou Moon Pizza. I’d stopped telling him my four-syllable name wasn’t made to fit the tune for a three-syllable word. Not only would he not hear it, but my reminder also served as a special challenge to him. Such was his stubbornness.
Besides, it was far and away better than when he tried to fit my name into Laura Brannigan’s “Gloria.” That was atrocious all around.
Not that he’d hear me say it, but the singing was a brilliant idea on his part. When he did that to his servers, (who only worked the dinner rush, lunch customers had to grab their food from the counter) it got every patron’s attention. Back when I had worked here, it was rare my tables didn’t know my name. It might have been why my tips were better, but he always said it was my work ethic.
I put my elbows on the counter and leaned toward Uncle Mick for a cheek-kiss. He wasn’t really my uncle, but my godfather, and Dad’s best friend, who I’d known all my life.
“What’ll it be, gorgeous?”
“I’m so hungry, I want to say a large Dean-o, but I know better. I’ll have my usual, a slice with artichoke, shrimp, and green olives.”
He shouted my order over his shoulder, then shook his head with his eyes closed. “You are the only reason I keep green olives on hand. Not even working here anymore and you cost me money, girlie.”
I chuckled. “You lie. I know better because I used to work here.”
A college-aged guy behind Uncle Mick put a pizza on the counter and bellowed out the order number. I glanced at the pie and saw it was a chicken, spinach, and mushroom pizza. Then I focused on Mick, who was watching the customer approach from behind me.
“Jesus. Are you following me or something?” a vaguely-familiar voice asked.
“Watch the tone, bub. Nobody talks to my Vickie that way,” Mick grumbled.
I turned to the side.
Gamble stared down at me, those blue irises dancing over my stunned expression. I glanced past him at the three tables pulled together near the far wall. Six bikers and four women sat around the table watching Gamble.
I pulled myself together and focused. “I’m not following you.” I shook my head and turned back to Mick. “Make my order to-go.”
“Anybody’s got to go, Vic, it’s this bozo.”
I fought laughter mainly because Gamble was anything but a bozo, not to mention every time Mick used the term it made me giggle.
I leaned over the counter to pat Mick’s bicep. “It’s all right. I got a busy afternoon anyway. You need all the large groups you can get, Uncle Mick.”
He gave me a chin lift, but his eyes were on Gamble. “Stop starin’ at her ass. Biker or not, regular or not, I’ll fuck you up for starin’ at her like that.”
I made big eyes and opened my mouth to tell Uncle Mick it was okay, but Gamble spoke.
“My apologies, sir. You’re right. I shouldn’t stare at her like that. Thanks for the pizza.”
I came down from my tiptoes and watched as Gamble took the pizza to his table.
“What’s the story?” Uncle Mick asked.
I shook my head. “No story. Won’t be a story. We don’t like each other. He was at a hearing of mine today. He took the time to approach me and ‘thank’ me for not doing my job very well.”
Mick balled up the rag in his hand. “I oughta kick his—”
I held up a hand. “No. It’s fine.”
***
I liked to run. And not the way some people claim they ‘run’ to the liquor store. No. I had long legs and sitting behind a desk for ten or twelve hours every day made me feel cramped and squished like I’d taken a five-day car-trip. That meant every weekday, except Fridays, I ran after work.
Today being Monday, I had pavement to pound. Unfortunately, I was running late. But it was late May, and the sun was setting later and later. I threw on my running gear. Then, I put in my ear buds, cued up some music on my phone, which was attached to my armband, and headed out.
Midway through my run “Block Rockin’ Beats” by The Chemical Brothers began and I really hit my stride. My mind cleared and I felt nothing but the beat of the music and the air rushing past my face.
I ran on the sidewalk as much as I could, but certain parts of my route forced me to run street-side. As I jogged my way to the side of the street, I looked over my shoulder. No cars appeared to be around, and I faced forward. A low-riding car was approaching from the opposite direction, but I paid it little mind since I was on the other side of the road.
Just before the spot I would veer back onto the sidewalk, the car accelerated. Then I realized it was barreling toward me. I darted to the side, around a telephone pole, and onto the sidewalk. A man got out of the car and came after me.
Here’s the thing about being a runner. People who run for exercise, don’t necessarily run fast. Or at least, I didn’t run fast. Which boggled the mind of my best friend, Heidi, since she pointed out I had the long-lost legs of a gazelle. Nevertheless, I knew I wasn’t fast.
This meant that as I ran, I threw over every garbage can or recycling bin I came across.
It didn’t work, though.
The man gained on me.
I yanked my phone out of the arm band, and fumbled to get the numeric keypad up to dial 911.
Except it was too late.
A heavy weight hit me, and I went down to the ground.
Face-first.
The last thing I remembered was the vision of concrete rushing toward my face before my head hit.
Then it was lights out.
***
Gamble
The brothers were gearing up for a party. It promised to be a blow-out since Cynic had put a cut on his woman Fiona. From inside the clubhouse, Gamble had heard his name being called and the urgency in the prospect’s voice had him on edge.
Har, Cynic, Blood, and Brute were huddled around something. As he came closer, he saw Stephanie, Abby, and Fiona were hunched over a… woman’s body.
Fiona looked at Cynic. “She needs an ambulance. I know that’s not y’all’s style, but—”
Dread filled him.
“I’m with her,” Abby said. “Way she’s bound up, there’s no way they didn’t sexually assault her. She needs care the two of us aren’t equipped to provide.”
At Abby’s words, anger quickly replaced the dread. He forced himself to get a grip on his temper. While his brothers stared at Fiona and Abby, Gamble trudged forward, his eyes not leaving the woman on the ground. Tightness invaded his chest. It couldn’t be who he thought it was.
Absently, he heard Abby speaking. “Or your private doc either.”
“Why’d you call for Gamble?” Sandy asked.
The prospect sighed. “There’s a note on her.”
Fiona leaned over, but he saw the ugly handwriting on notebook paper.
For Gamble. Stop fucking with Juan.
He leaned down grabbing the note, but Fiona called out, “Wait! There’s more on the back.”
Gamble made brief eye contact with her before looking at the backside of the paper.
Your sister is next.
He let go of the paper and straightened. A primal roar exploded from him. In two quick strides, he threw a vicious fist at the door to the clubhouse. Pain radiated up his arm, but it did nothing to calm his rage.
“Is he trying to break his goddamn hand?” Abby asked.
“I think he knows her,” Fiona muttered.
He heard others talking about seeing Victoria at Bayou Moon Pizza. She deserved better than to be peered at and talked about like that. He strode back to the huddle and wedged between Har and Cynic.
Har knew his intentions, and muttered to Stephanie, “Move, Miss Priss.”
As soon as Stephanie got out of the way, he scooped up Victoria, taking her straight to his room. It took effort to ignore the blood caked around her swollen nose. He despised her suffering such a reprehensible crime. Overwhelming guilt ate at him, and he vowed he’d do anything he could to help her.
From behind him, Cynic said, “Dr. Silverman’s on his way, Prez.”
She stirred in his arms. As he sidled into his room, she whimpered.
He lowered her to his bed. “You’re safe, kitten. Doctor’s on the way.”
Fiona and Abby bustled inside. As much as he didn’t want to, he moved aside.
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