Just as he opens his mouth, my personal cell phone rings. Yanking it out of my cut, I see that it’s my closest neighbor and shake my head, wondering what the universe is throwing at me now.
“Glenn?” I hesitantly answer.
“I’m standing on your porch, but I don’t think you’re home.”
Glad he can’t see my smile, I continue. “Nope. Not at home right now. What’s up?”
“That old tree came down,” he tells me. “Right on top of your shed. Not the one with the animals, thank heavens. But I was watching for you and when I didn’t see you moving about, I came to check on you. It must have been the weight of the snow.”
I muffle the curse, knowing how he feels about swearing. “Thanks for the call. I’ll be along in a bit.”
“Say, do you want me to come by tomorrow and help you fix your mailbox?” he asks, and I know him well enough that he’s lonely and helping me fix things is one of his favorite social activities.
“Sure thing. Just not too early.” I respond before looking back up at Rage. “Man, I gotta get home and throw a tarp over my shed before it gets dark. Frost is going to head out, I want you to coordinate things here and keep me in the loop.”
“Will do. Hey, I meant to ask, have you seen the chick driving the snowplow?”
“Fucking menace,” I mumble under my breath. “No. Looking forward to it though.”
“Yeah, she’s like that girl-next-door kinda sexy,” he continues, not understanding that my intent is to wring her neck.
It’s well known that Rage lusts after anyone he puts into his famous ‘girl-next-door category’. He’d walk through a room full of strippers to hit on a woman in a hoodie. Me, I prefer to get apeek at the goods first. None of thathaving to workto unwrap what could very well be a prank gift.
Leaving the clubhouse, I brush the snow off of my pickup and head to my house. I could drive these curved roads blindfolded, but that doesn’t protect me when a deer runs out and I find myself skidding on a patch of ice.
Cursing myself for leaving the clubhouse with all the shit going on, I instantly count myself lucky that this little misadventure happened here. While I’m at an impossible angle in a shallow ditch, the front of my truck probably got off easy. Whether or not my axle did, remains to be seen.
Sensing movement in front of me, I slowly look up and see the reason that the deer jumped into the road. There’s a large black bear sitting ten feet away from me, like he’s pissed about missing a meal and assessing me as his back-up plan. A short burst of my horn gets him moving on his way.
There’s no room to open my door, so I slowly shift my weight across the seat and slide out of the passenger side. Walking around truck, I don’t see any blatant damage, but there’s sure as fuck no way it’s moving without being towed.
Chapter 2
Margo
A subtle crack tells me that I skimmed too close to the edge of the road and probably hit another mailbox.
Damn things.I think for the zillionth time as I slowly take the curve going up to Smiley Road. I have no idea who Smiley was, but would it have killed him to make this road wider? It’s the most difficult part of my job, slowly taking all the curves in this old monster—even as locals drive toward me like they’re being chased by a dozen clowns.
All I can hope is that my luck holds through the winter, because after what I’ve been through the past year it would really suck if I ended up dead in a ditch up here.
Exhaling, I swear I can see my breath. The heater in this old thing just doesn’t cut it and I’m frozen to the bone. My grandfather keeps teasing me that I’ll get used to it and I just keep using my paychecks to buy long underwear. Back home, I didn’t need anything more than a hoodie until after Christmas.
“Well, shit,” I murmur to myself, seeing the backend of a truck sticking up from the side of the road. A second later, I heavily exhale when I see a man pop into view, and I instantly recognize him.
Right after I had moved here, Granddad was giving me a tour around town, and we were stopped at a red light when a man too good looking for his own good stepped out of the bakery and took my breath away.
Doubly so at Granddad’s words. “I doubt you remember him, that’s Stryker Wells. He took over his father’s funeral home a fewyears back. For all he does with the motorcycle club, he’s a fair hand as an undertaker.”
That was a lot to process, but high praise coming from Granddad. He’s buried five wives and a child at this point. It was hard to reconcile the man straddling his bike with the tall, lanky teenager who kept me hidden and made me swear never to speak of what I saw and heard the day of my grandmother’s funeral.
For months afterward, I was terrified to go to sleep, certain the other men in, what I now know are called ‘cuts’, would come for me. Or worse, in my young mind, my dad.
I knew my parents would fight a lot, but it was when we got back from Grandma’s funeral that reality hit. My mom had moved in with my friend’s dad—my friend and her mom moving across the country in the wake of the cheating scandal that made me a pariah for the rest of my school days. When a judge asked me who I wanted to live with, I took a step closer to my dad; and that was that.
Now, my first instinct is to keep on driving.
This man is dangerous, and I don’t need any more ofthatin my life.
