Piston by Andi Rhodes

Chapter Four

_{I need to figure out how to make Holland fear me, not fantasize about all the wicked things I want to do to her.}

Piston

The voice coming through the line isn’t at all what I was expecting.

“Are you still there?”

No fucking way.

There is no way H. Tibideaux is a chick. He—she?—can’t be. How the hell am I supposed to fix this problem in a way that will bring me immense satisfaction if H. Tibideaux is female?

A sigh comes through the line. “Look, I’ve gotta be somewhere so if you don’t want something, I’m going to hang up.”

My muscles tense at her tone. She’s got balls, I’ll give her that.

“Lady, you don’t get to call the shots here.” I flip her business card over and over in my hand. “You left your card telling me to call. I’m calling.”

“No, I didn’t tell you to call,” she retorts. Her voice is slightly shaky, telling me she’s wary of me and how I’ll react. Good, she should be. “I left my card on a Harley that doesn’t belong to you. I made sure of that.”

Confusion settles in my brain. “Huh?”

“You made yourself very clear last week, at the tournament,” she says. “Or did you forget threatening to ‘make me regret’ chasing that particular story?”

Everything clicks into place in my mind.

Well, shit.

“How did you know the Harley wasn’t mine?”

“Because I do my research.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I pride myself on facts and getting things right.” Holland clears her throat. “It means, I took your threat to heart.”

“No, you didn’t,” I snap. “If you had, this conversation wouldn’t be happening.”

“I don’t have time for this.” She heaves a sigh. “Are you going to give me my story or not?”

“You seriously have to ask that?” I don’t give her the chance to answer. “There is no fucking story. What about that don’t you understand?”

I hear an engine turn over through the line.

“Listen, Mr.…”

“Piston,” I spit out when she pauses.

“Fine… Piston.” She sighs. “I hear what you’re saying, but you need to understand something.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s always a story.”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, the line goes silent. I pull the phone away from my ear to stare at the screen and see that she ended the call.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I shove my cell into the pocket of my cut and force myself to relax before heading out to the main room in the clubhouse. I glance around me at the room I’m standing in and take in the sparse furnishings. There’s a full-size bed and a lamp setting on an upside-down crate. This room is only used by brother’s who overindulge during parties or to entertain a Bangin’ Betty.

I thrust my fingers through my hair. It’s been a while since I’ve used this particular room. I much prefer my own place, but that often leads to bitches expecting more than I’m willing to give. Maybe that’s what I need. A little natural stress relief that leads to nowhere other than a satisfied goodbye in the wee hours of the morning.

With that in mind, I open the door and am instantly greeted by the skunky smell of weed. Or maybe that’s what I need. Smoke a joint and then worry about getting laid. It’s a temporary fix, but it’s better than sitting with my nose stuck in a drink and Holland Tibideaux on my mind.

“Yo, P, how’d it go?” Fender calls out to me when I step into the main room.

I make my way toward the bar where he’s sitting. Margo is behind the bar, as she is most evenings, but she sidles down to the opposite end to give us some privacy.

I sit on the stool next to Fender. “It’s handled.”

Fender quirks a brow at me and shakes his head. “No, it’s not.” When my own brows shoot up, he grins. “Dude, you suck at lying. Always have.”

“I’m not ly—”

“Don’t,” he barks. “Don’t even try to lie again.”

Annoyance courses through me. Fender is my best friend, but he’s also my president. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which one is asking the questions and making the demands.

I stand on the rungs of the stool and lean across the bar to grab the bottle of Jack Daniels that I know is on the shelf just under the bartop. When I sit back down, I tip the bottle to my lips and gulp down a healthy dose of the brown liquor.

We sit there in silence for a few minutes, but I can feel Fender’s questioning eyes boring a hole into the side of my skull. I finally twist so I’m facing him.

“Who am I talking to? My prez or my friend?”

“Both.”

I shake my head. “See, that’s the problem. I don’t know how to answer your question in a way that’s satisfying to both of those people.”

“Just tell me the fucking truth,” he snaps.

I take a deep breath. “I’m working on the problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I need some time. This reporter isn’t as intimidated by me as I’d like. But she will be.”

“She?”

I nod. “Yep.”

Fender gulps down the last of his beer and slides off the stool. He slaps me on the back. “Good luck with that.”

He turns and walks away. Before he makes it to the door, Charlie enters and launches herself at him. I watch as he scoops her up and her legs wrap around his waist. As they kiss, I begin to wonder if I should turn away. Those two always act like they’re the only people in a room.

Normally I wouldn’t care but right now, all it’s doing is conjuring up images of a certain reporter and the way her eyes were illuminated by the streetlight in the warehouse parking lot. I adjust my growing boner and turn back toward the bar.

This is ridiculous. I need to figure out how to make Holland fear me, not fantasize about all the wicked things I want to do to her.

Margo returns to stand across from me. “What crawled up your ass?”

I glare at her. “Excuse me?”

“Piston, I’ve known you since you were a little boy. I know when you’ve got something on your mind.” I open my mouth to contradict her, but she lifts her hand to stop me. “Do you really think I’d be asking you about it if I thought it had anything to do with club business?” She shakes her head. “Trust me, I can tell when I need to butt out. This isn’t one of those times.”

“You see too much,” I grumble and down the shot she slides in front of me.

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Or maybe I see just enough.”

I avert my gaze. She’s right. Margo has this keen ability to know when someone needs to talk, even if they don’t realize it.

“Okay, point taken,” she says when I remain silent. “A word of advice before I back off?”

I nod.

“If she’s got you this twisted up, maybe she’s someone worth exploring.” Margo reaches under the bar and pulls out a joint. “Here.” She thrusts it at me. “Smoke this and think on it for a bit. You may be surprised at what you come up with.”

I light the joint and puff on it to get it to catch. I inhale deeply and hold it for a few seconds, allowing the high to take hold. The weed is from our own grow so I know it’s potent and won’t take much. Once the joint is half gone, I lick my fingers and pinch it off.

Both Margo and I were wrong. Weed didn’t help me relax any. Or at least, not enough. I still have no idea how I’m going to ensure little miss Holland Tibideaux backs off. And worse than that, after all my musings, I’m not sure I want to.