Link'd Up Read online

  “Noted. I shall remind her that you are not to be trifled with unless she’s ready to try a new hairstyle. Any messages?”

  “Your grandma called. Last night’s windstorm knocked down part of her fence, so I’m reading reviews in search of a fence repair person who doesn’t take advantage of the elderly to put it back up for her.”

  My parents had died in a car crash when I was thirteen, and my grandparents had taken me in and raised me. Grandpa had handled everything around the house until two years ago, when he’d joined my parents in the great beyond. Grandma was all the family I had left, and she wasn’t much of a handyman. Neither was I, so now I paid people to fix anything that broke.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I told him as I stopped for a light.

  “You’d die. Clearly. Lance-hole sent flowers again. Daffodils this time. And a pretty little tennis bracelet. Note says he wants to take you out to dinner and talk things through, but I don’t know. This doesn’t say I’m-sorry-you-caught-me-banging-a-client to me. Call me crazy, but I don’t think the asshat even feels bad. I mean how hard can it be to write ‘sorry I screwed up’?”

  Gifts were as close as my ex, Lance, had ever come to admitting his role in the collapse of our relationship, but the image of him screwing another woman was permanently burned into my retinas. No gift could fix that. Turning into the King County Adult Detention Center, I parked and cut my engine. “Send the daffodils to Grandma and find a charity to donate the tennis bracelet to. Maybe something for rape victims.”

  “With pleasure. Although… why do I get the feeling there’s a reason you want to donate to rape victims? You take on a new case?”

  I had a habit of throwing money at causes relating to my cases. In January, I’d donated to a couple of small businesses while defending a store owner who shot an armed robber. Two weeks ago, I’d donated to foster kids while defending one who’d stabbed his foster brother out of self-defense.

  “Maybe. What do you know about Noah Kinlan?” I asked.

  I heard the clicks of Jayson’s keyboard.

  “He’s out of ICU, but still in the hospital. Says here that some big African-American biker jumped him outside of a bar downtown. Broke a few ribs, caused some internal bleeding. They caught the biker and locked him up on attempted murder charges. Bail’s set at five hundred thousand. Why?”

  “The president of the biker’s motorcycle club approached me today. His name is Link, and the club is called Dead Presidents. Claims Noah was raping a girl and that’s why Havoc attacked him. I need you to look into this.”

  “Havoc. Link. These guys sound hot and scary. The Dead Presidents, huh? That rings a bell for some reason.” More keyboard clicking. “Oh yeah. That’s the motorcycle club we donated to over Christmas. They were buying toys for the children of fallen soldiers. There’s a few articles about them, but everything looks positive. Lots of charity work.”

  “No trouble with the law?”

  “Just a rivalry between their softball teams. Oh, wait. What do we have here? Hello hot stuff. Why didn’t you tell me Link was yummy?”

  ‘Yummy’ didn’t even begin to describe him. Gathering up my briefcase, I thought about the jean and leather donning hottie who’d gotten me all twisted up inside. He was tall with intense, lust-filled dark eyes that both put me on edge and heated my blood. His muscular, tattooed arms stretched out the short sleeves of his T-shirt. He carried himself with an air of authority and confidence that assured me he could handle whatever, whenever, and the fact he hadn’t been the least bit intimidated by me made him all the hotter.

  “He’s very… intense.”

  “That sounds promising. Please tell me he’s currently in possession of your panties.”

  I laughed. “Nope. My panties are on my ass, right where they belong. I told you, I’m done with all that mess.”

  “Lance-hole is a cuntwaffle. Don’t let your coochie get all dry and shriveled over him.”

  “I’ll take your advice under consideration. Now, can we please get back to work?”

  “If you insist.”

  “Good. Now dig up everything you can find on Noah Kinlan. And we need to find the girl who was raped behind The Line. There has to be witnesses. Maybe the ambulance drivers? Find them. Better yet, call that PI we used last time and put him on it.”

  “Noah Kinlan. Are you sure you want to get into this, Em? I’ve seen nothing on a rape, and isn’t Mayor Kinlan the one who called out Senator Lott for sexual harassment?”

  “Yes. And I bet if his son was caught raping some girl, he’d do whatever he could to cover it up.” I pushed open my door and climbed out of the Jag.

  “Point. Okay, I’ll start digging, but you be careful out there. Oh, and be sure your gay-dar is on. If one of those strong, sexy, rough-looking bikers happens to be a big, fuzzy teddy bear, you let him know my beehive is full of honey.”

  Somber prison visitors were walking past me and I tried hard not to laugh, but am quite sure I looked and sounded like a hyena having a seizure. When I finally got myself under control, I told my ridiculous assistant goodbye and headed in to meet Havoc.

  *

  Marcus (Havoc) Wilson, did not just occupy the room, he filled it. Standing about six-foot-five and weighing in around three hundred pounds, his muscular frame demanded the full attention of all four guards who led him in and handcuffed him to the table before easing out of the room. Mouth pressed into a hard line, Havoc’s gaze drifted over me, but not hungrily like Link’s. Havoc seemed more curious and amused by me.

  Needing to break the ice, I gestured in the direction the guards had gone. “Looks like my reputation precedes me. Pussies.”

  Havoc startled.

  I needed him to feel comfortable enough to be honest with me. Shock, awe, and humor were in my wheelhouse, and I often had to whip all three out to break through to a client.

  “I’m a real badass.” I flashed him a smile. “All the guards in here are afraid of me. I’m surprised one of them didn’t stay behind out of concern for your safety.”

  A low rumble rose from his throat. Finally, he threw back his head, opened his mouth, and let it free. Laugh lines framed his lips and little crinkles created grooves around his eyes.

  When his laughter finally died down, he said, “Link said you’d come.”

  “You spoke to Link?”

  “Not directly, no. But he got word to me.”

  Glancing at the door, I wondered how. I, of all people, knew how difficult it could be to get a message to an inmate in this hole. “How?”

  “Not my place to say.”

  Tight-lipped. That would be a problem. Settling on an easier question, I asked, “How long have you known Link?”

  Havoc eyed me. “What does that have to do with the case?”

  I took a deep breath and looked him over. If you could get past the danger signals his very presence seemed to emit, he was a good-looking guy. Short dark hair, mustache, all kept clean and neat. Arms bigger around than my thighs, muscles everywhere, dark eyes sparkling with the slightest bit of crazy, he embodied my feelings on motorcycles: dark, dangerous, beautiful, and fun, though the ride would most likely kill you. I needed to proceed with caution, but I certainly wasn’t going to let him drive.

  “Look, I’m going to be honest with you. You’re big and scary and intimidating, and the jury is going to take one look at you and decide they’d feel safer with you behind bars. My job is to convince them that you’re the type of guy they’d feel comfortable babysitting their kids or fixing their grandma’s dishwasher. Before I can do that—before I will do that—I need you to convince me that you’re not some asshole who belongs in jail.”

  He seemed to mull that over for a few moments before answering. “Link and I served together. Army Special Forces. He was the captain, and I was the weapons specialist.”

  My familiarity of military lingo was limited to the Navy terms I’d heard my grandfather use. “You took care of the guns?”
I asked, taking a stab in the dark.

  “We all took care of our own guns. I blew shit up.”

  It had nothing to do with the case, but I was curious. “What kind of shit?”

  “Whatever they told me to blow up.”

  The guy was not at all forthcoming with information. “They, as in Link?” I asked.

  “Nah, man. Link was just following orders like the rest of us. You really don’t want to hear about the shit we did, and I can’t talk about it.”

  “I can respect that.” I pulled out my recorder and set it on the desk between us, hitting record. “Let’s get down to business. Wanna tell me what a guy like you is doing in a place like this?”

  “You know, Netflix and chillin’,” he deadpanned.

  I folded my arms and stared him down, waiting.

  Finally, he cracked a smile. “You’re not half bad for a skinny little white broad.”

  “Thanks, I think. Now… tell me everything. From the beginning.”

  He started in on the night he’d been arrested while I watched his features for tells. No ticks, no extra blinking, no trembling, no patterns. He did rub his head a few times, but that seemed to be more of a memory enhancer than a tell. Either he was legit, or both he and Link were incredible liars.

  He’d sat at the bar, ordered a stout, and watched a basketball game overhead. He rattled off the teams playing, their scores, details about the bartender and the guys around him, and what time it was when he went out back to smoke. Then, once he saw the girl being raped, details blurred. Noah Kinlan was wearing khakis and a black jacket. The guys who jumped in were all nondescript. He couldn’t remember a damn thing about them, which seemed to frustrate him even more than it frustrated me.

  “Sorry. I just saw red, you know? It gets like that. I just need to bust shit up. Make him hurt the way he was making that girl hurt.”

  Yep, Havoc and I were gonna get along just fine.

  “You don’t know the girl?” I asked.

  “No. I couldn’t even tell you what she looks like. White girl. She had on a short jean skirt and a white shirt with some sort of pattern. I don’t know what. Sorry. I’m usually more observant than that, but I—”

  “Lost your goddamn mind. Got it. I’m guessing that sort of behavior is what earned you the nickname Havoc?”

  He ducked his head. “Yes ma’am.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Judges tend to frown upon people nicknamed synonyms for widespread destruction. While you’re in here, I’m going to need you to bottle that temper. Be on your best behavior and don’t let anyone goad you into a fight.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I leveled my best ass-kicking stare at him. “I mean it, Havoc. I believe you. I respect and appreciate what you did for that girl, so I’m going to take a risk and help you out. You seem like a man of your word, so I’m gonna need you to promise me you won’t let me down.”

  He grinned. “Yes, ma’am, I promise.”

  “Good. When we get you out of here we’ll have to find you a hobby to channel some of that aggression. Maybe baking or gardening or knitting or something.”

  “Knitting?” he asked. “You’re fuckin’ with me, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.” About to knock on the door to call the guards back, I paused. “What are you grinning about?”

  His grin only widened.

  “Havoc…” I warned.

  “Link’s gonna have his hands full with you.”

  Before I could ask him what the hell that was supposed to mean, he pounded on the table and the guards returned to take him away.

  Link

  DERYK ROBERTS WAS going to be a problem. Standing about six feet tall and weighing in at maybe two hundred pounds with a grown-out buzz cut and an unshaven face, he waited at the curb in front of the airport, a vacant look in his eyes as he watched traffic. Wearing athletic pants, some college team sweatshirt, and sneakers he didn’t exactly fit the bill of a biker. But, since he was still months shy of twenty-one and already had a dishonorable discharge under his belt, his options were slim.

  I pulled to a stop beside him and unlocked the door of my truck. I didn’t usually drive the beast, but I wasn’t about to let the kid ride on the back of my sled like a bitch. “Hey Deryk, I’m Link. It’s good to meet you, brother.”

  He gripped my hand, then popped his bags into the extended cab and climbed in.

  “Your grandpa said you have a motorcycle endorsement on your license. When we get to the station, I’ll hook you up with a bike you can use.”

  We merged into traffic, out into the rain. Deryk eyed the fat drops and asked, “You ride bikes in this weather?”

  I nodded. “Welcome to western Washington. If we didn’t ride in the rain, we’d never ride.”

  He continued to glare at the weather. Originally from Texas, my new recruit had spent the past several months as an inmate at the Naval Consolidated Brig in Chesapeake, Virginia.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “The rain grows on you.”

  “Yeah, so does ringworm. I don’t want that shit either.”

  I chuckled. He may not be a biker, but he sure as hell had the attitude down.

  The drive to the clubhouse was uneventful, giving me a chance to think about how to handle this kid. As my Sergeant at Arms, Havoc had always had my back when we brought in new recruits. Especially recruits with baggage. I should bail Havoc’s ass out, regardless of his stupid request to leave him locked up. He had his mind set on recruiting a Marine vet staying two cells down, scheduled for release in a couple of weeks. We didn’t usually recruit from prison cells, but there were extenuating circumstances.

  Havoc was the biggest, scariest son-of-a-bitch among us, but he was hands-down the best man I ever met. Keeping him in that cell had been a real eye opener as to how much I depended on him. It wasn’t that I couldn’t break in a recruit without him, I just didn’t want to. It felt wrong, like I wasn’t giving the kid the full picture of the Dead Presidents without such a key member.

  Still, after all Deryk had been through, I couldn’t have turned him away.

  I parked in the lot beside the fire station and took Deryk through the roll up door, turning to watch him take it all in. Shortly after my dad had founded the club, he’d purchased an old fire station and turned it into our base of operations. My old man took pride in anything he owned, and he’d devoted himself to restoring the station to its former beauty, while customizing it for the biker lifestyle. The floor was concrete with a stain-resistant epoxy finish. Brick walls extended to high ceilings, and a wooden staircase to the right of the front door led up to the sleeping rooms. Hanging over the door was a giant banner with the Dead Presidents logo.

  The building was impressive, but so were the dozen or so long-haired, tatted up bikers and half-dressed women currently occupying it.

  “Hey Prez,” the club secretary, Eagle, said, a beer in one hand, a cute little redhead named Lacy in the other.

  “Hey Eagle. Meet our new recruit, Deryk,” I said.

  “Deryk?” Eagle asked, his brows rising while he shook the kid’s hand.

  “Yeah. Haven’t gotten around to giving him a road name yet.”

  “A road name?” Deryk asked.

  Eagle chuckled. “You think Eagle’s my real name?”

  The kid shrugged like he couldn’t care less.

  “Good luck,” Eagle said to both of us. “Be seein’ you.”

  Deryk gave him a nod and Eagle proceeded to finish his march to the corner, dropped his pants, and leaned back against the wall. Lacy wasted no time at all, falling to her knees and doing her damnedest to swallow his dick.

  Deryk gaped. I nudged the kid and he closed his mouth, took off his sweatshirt, and hung it on the rack beside my jacket. He followed me around the common room while I introduced him to some of the other brothers.

  “The TVs are first come, first serve,” I said, pointing out the four flat screens centered around furniture groupings. “You chan
ge a show that someone’s watchin’, and they’ll probably bust out your teeth.”

  We walked on. “Pool tables and dart boards are the same deal. In fact, everything down here is free range. Just don’t be a selfish bastard and you’ll be fine.”

  I led him to the bar, where a blonde with big fake tits busting out of her low-cut blouse was pouring drinks.

  “Hey, Link, you want the usual?” she asked, giving me a wink.

  Almost every man in the club had a “usual” when it came to Shari, but the shine of club sluts had dulled for me years ago, so my regular was just a drink. I nodded.

  She grabbed the Maker’s Mark and lemon juice and poured my signature whiskey sour as she sized up Deryk. “What about you, handsome?”

  “Just a beer,” he replied, smiling back at her.

  “But he’ll need you to hold it for two months, Shari.”

  “He’s not twenty-one yet?” she asked, licking her lips as she did her best to rape him with her gaze. “Nice. I like ’em young. I like to teach ’em a thing or two.”

  “Fuck, Shari, you don’t care what age they are as long as they’re breathin’,” my vice president, Wasp, said, leaning against the bar. “And even that’s questionable.”

  “Fuck you, Wasp,” she said with an unashamed grin.

  He looked her up and down. “Give me a sec. Let me meet the kid first.” He extended his hand to Deryk and said, “Welcome aboard, brother.”

  “Thanks.”

  Wasp turned back to Shari. “Let’s go.”

  She grabbed a couple of beers and circled the bar to join him. He bent down and buried his face in her tits, grabbing her ass and hefting her up until her legs wrapped around his waist. Then he carried her to the stairs.

  Deryk was staring again, so I nudged him and gestured for him to follow me. I showed him the kitchen. “Plenty of food in the fridge and the pantry. Sometimes club whores shop for us, sometimes the recruits do. Sometimes the old ladies organize potlucks and shit. Bottom line, nobody goes hungry around here unless they’re too stupid or lazy to fend for themselves. Got it?”