Roadhouse (Sons of Sanctuary MC, Austin, Texas Book 5) Read online

  Roadhouse

  Sons of Sanctuary MC

  Book 5

  Victoria Danann

  Copyright 2018 Victoria Danann

  Published by 7th House Publishing

  Imprint of Andromeda LLC

  Read more about this author and upcoming works at VictoriaDanann.com

  THE PLAY LIST

  The name of each chapter contains an embedded hyperlink to a song on youtube and a video of the lyrics. The songs either set a mood or refer to something specific in the chapter; an event or state of mind.

  The songs are almost all classic rock because that is the strong preference of bikers.

  This is the first time this feature has been used in my books and I’ll be eager to hear what you think. If you care to comment, you’re welcome to write me at vdanann @ gmail.com.

  CHAPTER One HOW’D I END UP HERE?

  How did I end up a hundred thousand dollars in credit card debt? It wasn’t as hard as it sounds.

  I went to Colombia and studied anthropology with a minor in tribal culture. The perfect background to get a great job. Right?

  Okay. It was a stupid choice. As it turns out, one of several. But I was still a teenager when I picked a major. I’ve since learned that brains aren’t fully developed until years later. A lot of good that information does me now.

  Anyway I graduated with honors and was perfectly prepared for a job at McDonalds across the river in New Jersey. That got me a two bedroom flat in a questionable neighborhood with three roommates who would make most of you run from the building screaming.

  Don’t pity me. After eight months I parlayed that experience into a job as a bank teller. Sigh. You can pity me a little if you insist.

  The point is that, during the last months before graduation, I got dozens of credit card offers in the mail. I said yes to everything. Remember, brain still not fully developed at that point. The result was a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of credit.

  My thinker may not have been firing on all cylinders yet, but I did know enough to not compound the dismal prospects for my future by adding credit card debt to my school debt, which was already enough to overwhelm Bill Gates.

  Of course I made a decision equal to my stunning track record of good choices. I married a cute loser with brown eyes and hair that fell over his forehead in a dreamy way. Six months later he left me for a skank ho. Shortly thereafter, I had a divorce that was very much wanted and a surprise that was very much unwanted. He’d left me with a hundred thousand dollar credit card debt.

  Yeah. He’d been getting to the mail first and hiding the notices. Let me tell you. Ignorance is only bliss if you’re blind to things that can’t hurt you. If you’re blind to things that can hurt you, you’re not a Pollyanna goofball. You’re an idiot.

  I may have been contemplating suicide when I opened my gym locker and found a really cute Bed Stu zip tote with two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars in it. I looked around to see if it was a joke. Or a bad spy cam TV show.

  Of course I didn’t know exactly how much money was in there at the time. I wasn’t going to count it while standing there. What I was going to do was maintain my stellar record of always picking the worst option. Because I may be well-educated, but I’m an idiot. I quietly pulled the tote straps over my shoulder and walked out.

  Well, what would you do?

  After counting out the money in the bathroom, the only place where I can find privacy these days, I lowered the toilet seat cover, sat down, and decided that if the gods had seen fit to give me a second chance, I wouldn’t be dumb with it. Again.

  I was scheduled to start work at nine. I got ready for the day and walked the two blocks to work like every other day. Except that day I had a large, alright huge, cash deposit. In a gym bag.

  If I’d tried to conduct such a transaction as a customer there would have been many questions accompanied with raised eyebrows. But I wasn’t a customer. I was an employee. I should mention that it was also an ideal day. Wednesday.

  I knew there would be sometime during the day when I would be the only person at the counter. The drive-through would be dead. The other teller would be on lunch. The manager would be in the corner office. The “personal bankers” would be at their desks in the front of the building and wouldn’t be able to see what was happening behind the glass even if they’d cared.

  Of course it would be on camera, but no one would ever see the feed unless I was unlucky enough to deposit all that money on the same day the bank was robbed. I figured my spell of unluck had just taken a major turn for the better. I had a rich secret admirer who could pick a lock and wanted absolutely nothing in return for a whole lot of cash.

  I pulled it off.

  The money was in my account for less than a couple of hours before it had paid off credit cards and student loans.

  I was free.

  Until the rightful owners of the money, who wanted it back, traced the hasty stash to my locker. I learned this during a very scary conversation in the restroom at Starbucks. Just as I was about to close and lock the unisex door behind me, two guys with dark hair, dark eyes, ill-fitting suits and eyebrows that met in the middle stepped inside, shushing me as they did.

  I took a big lungful of air to scream, but number two goon grabbed me from behind and clamped his sweaty palm over my mouth. Did I mention it smelled like week-old garlic press? Ugh.

  While I was wondering if the man was a cook masquerading as a thug, the other one said, “Where’s the money, Clover?”

  Oh, god, they know my name.

  I shook my head, meaning that I couldn’t talk with number two goon’s hand over my mouth. He thought I meant that I was refusing to tell him.

  “Don’t even think about telling me you don’t know where it is.”

  I didn’t shake my head, but tried to talk against, retch, garlic hand. Apparently he got the message. His attention flicked to my captor. When he nodded, I was released just enough to speak.

  “I do know where it is. Part of it is in the banks that sponsor my credit cards. The rest is in the U.S. Treasury Department of Student Loans.”

  Goon number one’s eyes narrowed in a way that would have been much more chilling if I hadn’t known that, just on the other side of the door down a short hallway there were twenty-five people ordering coffee and sipping such concoctions as venti cinnamon lattes with a splash of classic syrup and a dribble of caramel sauce while five baristas dashed around trying to keep up.

  “That’s not good news for you.” He waited for me to say something. I didn’t. “Here’s the thing, doll. We know who you are. Obviously. We know where you are. Obviously. And the fella I work for wants his money back.”

  After a lengthy uncomfortable stare, I said, “You want me to get the money back.”

  His mouth twitched ever so slightly.

  I suppose he was talking to goon number two when he said, “She’s quick, this one.”

  Goon number two chuckled in a way that caused fear to begin building. There was something dark in his laugh. It creeped me out in ways that required an expanded imagination and adequately conveyed the urgency of finding a way to appease.

  “I can get it.”

  “You can?” number one said slowly.

  I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. I just need, um, six years?”

  That got me another lip twitch. “Funny.” He looked over my shoulder again. “She’s funny. Right?” Goon number two repeated that low laugh that made goosebumps break out, not the good kind. “I was thinking more along the lines of six hours.”

  “Hours?” I squeaked.

&nbs
p; Goon number one studied me for a minute. “Look. You’re cute and we’re reasonable guys. We’re gonna give you three days. Till Saturday night. If you have the money, we’ll call it square even though you’ve caused some trouble.”

  “I’ve caused some trouble? I didn’t put that bag in my gym locker.”

  Goon number one lowered his chin and gave me a menacing look. “Maybe not. But you knew it wasn’t yours.”

  “Did you want me to turn it into Lost and Found?”

  He pressed his lips together. “Saturday night. No matter where you are. No matter who you’re with. If you don’t have the money, you’re going to work for our organization.” His eyes drifted up and down my body slowly as goon number two’s hands drifted up and down my body slowly. I took in a horrified breath when he grabbed private girl parts. “And I figure you’ll work it off in about sixteen years.”

  Shit!

  Goon number two released me abruptly as they both stepped toward the door. “Don’t worry about contact. We’ll find you.” Goon number two opened the door. Goon number one looked back over his shoulder. “Get the money.”

  My first thought was… I can’t get the money.

  My second thought was to go home and review my options.

  My third thought was to run.

  I went with my third thought.

  This is the story of what happened after that fateful decision.

  CHAPTER Two RESURRECTION

  Seven Months Ago

  He barely remembered his real name. He’d been called Raze since long before puberty. Partly, no doubt, because of his last name. Rouen was French but somewhere along the way his people had given up and started pronouncing it like “ruin”. The other part of the reason was based on behavior. He’d like to say he didn’t deserve it, but Raze had been the hellraising sort.

  Memory was fuzzy as to whether he’d been kicked out of school or had left on his own, but the fact was that after football season was over his senior year, there just hadn’t been a good reason to stay. It wasn’t like he’d been shiftless. He had a job at his uncle’s auto repair and his uncle appreciated him a hell of a lot more than the high school did.

  Raze’s mother had died when he was ten. His dad had moved them in with his Uncle Farrell and then just left one night. No goodbyes. No reasons. If Uncle Farrell, a dedicated bachelor, felt burdened being left with an abandoned nephew, he never let on.

  Raze got full pay on the condition that he spend two hours a day reading. So every day between twelve and two, Raze sat at the vinyl top kitchen table in his uncle’s kitchen and read the books put in front of him. He would’ve liked to cheat, but he had to answer questions about what he’d read while he was working on cars in the afternoon. Philosophy, which was useless. History, which Raze had to admit wasn’t entirely useless. A little literature, some of which was okay. Jack Kerouac yes. Tolstoy no.

  Truthfully he learned more in the months after dropping out than he had in the whole of high school to that point. And since he had the job he wanted, there was no downside.

  Later he got his GED so that he could join the National Guard.

  Long story made short. A short few years later, he found himself with a young wife who wanted more than a head mechanic’s paycheck could offer. He was young, stupid and down with doing his best to make his bride happy. So when she suggested he could generate a few extra bucks by joining the Guard, he reluctantly agreed. He figured he wouldn’t mind helping out with a natural disaster. If something like that happened, he’d help without getting paid. But life takes unexpected turns sometimes.

  He ended up deployed to Afghanistan as a driver for a med unit. In a combat zone. While he was plunged dick-deep into hell, young Mrs. Rouen moved in with the guy who took Raze’s place at the auto shop.

  And he had to learn about it from his uncle. “Sorry to lay it on you like this, but thought you had to know.”

  After two deployments, Raze came home bitter, divorced, wearing a permanent scowl between his brows and wanting nothing more to do with the auto repair. Farrell Rouen died a few weeks before Raze came home. He’d inherited the auto repair, the house that he’d more or less grown up in, and nine hundred thousand dollars. That was a shock. Nobody would have ever guessed Uncle Farrell was sitting on a bucket of cash.

  He sold everything in the auto repair, cleaned out the house except for his own bedroom furniture and keepsakes, repainted, and bought new furniture. He also cleaned out the studio apartment his uncle had built behind the garage when he and Becky had gotten married so they didn’t have to share the house with him and stored his personal things in there.

  Stuff sorted out, he settled into his mission. He planned to spend some years getting serious with a bottle. A few weeks into that plan, things were going well. At least if self-destruction was the goal.

  Sitting at the new dinette table, he heard the rumbling of a Harley. He didn’t have to look out the window to know who it was. He’d played football with Brash Fornight in high school and they’d been tight. Right up until his marriage. Looking back, he could see that Brash hadn’t enjoyed being around Becky.

  Raze didn’t have a cell phone and didn’t want one, but he hadn’t taken out the land line that had been in his uncle’s house practically since phones were invented. Brash had called twice a week and left messages, each one advising that Raze should change the greeting on the voicemail service. Raze knew what Brash said on the messages because he listened to them. Every one. He didn’t pick up the phone because he didn’t want to talk, but he was oddly compelled to listen to voicemail.

  Apparently Brash had gotten tired of waiting for a reply and decided to communicate the old school way. Face to face.

  When the bike shut off, Raze shuffled to the screen door and pushed it open. Brash walked in without a word, but absorbed a world of information as he walked by Raze and sat down at the kitchen table. Still without speaking, Raze set a glass in front of Brash and poured two fingers of the not-so-special whiskey he was drinking.

  Silence continued for about fifteen minutes. Finally Raze said, “I guess you’re bein’ nosy.”

  “If that’s what you call it when friends give a damn about you.” Raze sighed. “Heard about Becky.”

  Raze stared at his glass. “Yeah.”

  “Sorry about your uncle.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t remember this kitchen bein’ so… gray.”

  “Had it redone.”

  “Huh.” Brash wondered if his friend was color-blind because everything in the kitchen was gray. Walls, ceiling, counters, cabinets, appliances, floor. “What are you gonna do with…” Brash halfheartedly waved his glass in the direction of the auto shop, “…the place?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Alright. Well. While you’re thinkin’ on it, why don’t you come on over to the clubhouse? Say hello. Have a drink with friends. Gettin’ out could only do you good.”

  “Sure. Sometime soon.”

  In a demonstration worthy of his earned nickname, Brash slammed his palm down on the table, making the bottle rattle, and bared his teeth. “NOW!”

  Raze didn’t startle. He slowly slid his eyes to Brash. “Some. Time. Soon.”

  Brash didn’t want a confrontation with Raze, but he thought he’d been left alone long enough. “Put it this way. Come with me. Or I’ll show up with the club and we’ll all have a drink here.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be armed.”

  As Raze reached for the bottle to punctuate the idea that the conversation was over, Brash swiped it out of reach. Before Raze could form a proper objection, Brash had walked to the sink and emptied it.

  “I’m givin’ you a choice clear and simple.” He leaned back against the sink and crossed his arms. “Sons. Or rehab.”

  Raze stared dumbfounded for a few seconds, his mind trying to make sense of how those two very dissimilar things formed options in Brash’s mind. “What makes you think I won’t run your trespa
ssin’ asses off the property with a shotgun?”

  Brash’s lips twitched in amusement before lazily spreading into a smile. “I heard war changes people. But not that much.”

  Raze mulled that over and had to admit it was true. If the club showed up and stormed his little screen door, he wasn’t sure what he’d do, but he wouldn’t shoot at them. “Yeah? Maybe I’ll just call the sheriff.”

  Brash’s smile gave way to laughter. “Uh-huh. Blake would probably laugh harder than I just did if you called him up and said, ‘Help. The Sons are here to try and stop me from drinkin’ myself to death and becomin’ a waste of life’.”

  Raze sat back in his chair. “That’s harsh. Even for you.”

  Brash got quiet. “I wish it was overly critical. Sadly. It’s true.”

  “I’m just takin’ some time to think things through.”

  “Uh-huh. Well. Time’s up.” Brash looked toward the shop. “Your ride still runnin’?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “That so? ‘Cause when I peeked through the shop door window I could see that the place has been cleaned up. Everything’s been cleared out except for…”

  “I know my own goddamned inventory, Brash. Christ. What is it you’re after?”

  Brash pulled the coffee pot out, filled it with water, and started looking through the cupboards for coffee.

  “You should get one of those pod machines. We got one over at the club. Real handy for when you just need one or two cups quick.”

  It wasn’t lost on Raze that Brash had ignored his question. “Might as well stop right there ‘cause I’m not drinkin’ that stuff.”

  “I can’t let you get on your bike in a condition of advanced inebriation.”

  “Advanced inebriation? Who talks like that?”

  Brash shrugged. “My wife.” He turned to Raze, realizing he’d married while Raze was away. “You should meet her. She’s really somethin’.”