Joker by Andi Rhodes
Chapter Three
I think I could use a friend after all.
Riley
Iwish it would storm.
I let the curtain to the hotel window fall into place and crawl back into the bed, pulling the scratchy blanket over me.
It’s been so fucking dreary for the last hundred miles I’ve driven along this coastline, I would’ve thought I’d get to sleep through a few rainy nights by now. Isn’t that what they say about Oregon? That it always rains? Or maybe that’s Washington. I don’t know. I’ve never been this far north.
Footsteps scrape on concrete outside my hotel window, and I grip the gun underneath my pillow tighter, my sweaty palm making my grasp slippery.
My eyes bug as I watch the shadowy figure pass by without stopping at my door, and when I can hear their footsteps farther down the walkway, I let out a breath and loosen my hold on the gun.
This is why I want the storm. Maybe if there was thunder and rain, not every noise outside would be so audible. Every time a car door slams, I wouldn’t walk to the window and watch until the person enters a different room. I wouldn’t be wide the fuck awake at one in the morning with the green light from the alarm clock on the nightstand mocking me. Or maybe I’d hate the storms even more. Who the hell knows? Where I come from, it’s always sunny and loud.
Crowded.
Dangerous.
Home.
I sigh and throw the covers off before sitting up in bed. I flip on the dingy lamp and pull the gun from under the pillow and tuck it into the purse I’ve started carrying since leaving Cali. It’s a purple, beat up, Coach knock-off I picked up for a few bucks at a thrift store and not at all my style, but it conceals my gun better than tucking it in my waistband.
An image of the man who ran into me at the diner earlier today pops into my head and I silently thank God, again, for having zipped my purse up so my gun wouldn’t fall out.
I’ve been sleeping fully dressed just in case I have to move quickly, so all I have to do before leaving is snatch my car keys and pull on my shoes before heading out the door. There’s no point in trying to sleep anymore. It’s a useless endeavor. Just like it has been for the week and a half since I left.
And to think, I thought leaving would make me feel safer. More in control. Instead, I only feel vulnerable and alone.
At least my friends are safe.
I let that knowledge comfort me as I walk to my car with my hood pulled over my head and my eyes darting around. I can’t say for sure that my stalker knows where I am, but I can say for sure he knows where I’ve been. A few days ago he left me a typed note on my windshield, right outside my motel window.
You can’t hide from me, Black Bird.
That’s what it said. I recognized the Comic Sans font immediately and haven’t stayed in the same town more than one night since. I even changed directions, going northwest instead of east.
I climb into the beat up Saturn I traded my three-year-old Camry for the same day I got the note, and I check the back seat. Empty.
I start up the car and pull out of the hotel lot, feeling safer with every block of distance I put between me and it. I consider just driving away for good, not bothering with check out or the rest of my things in the room, but a neon sign just up ahead catches my attention, and I pull in the little dive bar called Chuggies.
When I get inside, I grab an empty stool at the end of the bar. A man and woman sit on the other side, and by the way the woman twirls her hair and laughs loud enough to be heard over the blaring Def Leppard, it’s pretty clear they’ll be going home together soon. The only other people here are a few burly-looking guys and a strange-looking woman being loud at a table behind me. A couple of them are playing darts. I don’t glance their way long, but curiosity begs me to stare. This is the second group of people with a fascination for leather vests that I’ve seen today. Is this a style around here?
I face the bartender and raise my hand.
He saunters over to me and leans on the bartop. “What’ll it be?”
“Whiskey, neat.”
“What kind?”
I eye the bottles on the wall and mentally add up how long the money in my wallet will last me. Not long.
“Just whatever’s cheapest.”
I meet his eyes again and notice he’s now staring at me weird. Shit, I forgot to touch up my makeup before leaving the hotel. The bruises from my last fight have been healing nicely, but I still look a little like a battered woman. I’ve been dealing with the stares for years now, though, so I’m able to look away and ignore it for the most part.
The bartender waits another few moments but then grabs a glass and turns his back to retrieve one of the bottles. He pours me a glass and gives me a sympathetic look. “It’s on the house.”
“No, you don’t have to—” I cut myself off when I remember how broke I’m about to be. I sigh and smile politely. “Thank you.”
With a nod, he goes off to wipe something on the other side of the bar. He’s probably just avoiding me now, but I don’t much feel like having company anyway. I sip my drink and stare into the mirror behind the rows of liquor bottles. Shit, maybe it isn’t the bruised face he’s seeing. Maybe it’s the bags under my eyes.
I lift my hand up to my face and graze the loose skin. What the hell are you doing to yourself, Riley?
“Damn,” a man says, coming up beside me and leaning an elbow on the bar. “Aren’t you a beautiful sight.”
I turn toward him, but my words stick in my throat before I can tell him to take a hike. He’s different than the other men he’s with, and up close I can see it better. For one thing, he’s young. Too young to be in this bar probably, and the peach fuzz on his chin doesn’t help him like I’m sure he thinks it does. He’s got on jeans and a leather jacket, but it’s too big for him and too shiny, too fake-looking. He looks like he’s trying too hard.
“Fuck off, Trainwreck,” the strange-looking woman says to him. She comes up beside him and pats him on the back as if to tell him to scram, and he pouts as he walks away.
Bizarre.
“Sorry about him. He hasn’t been house-broken yet.” She laughs and sits on the stool beside me while I try to figure out if that was a joke or not. I don't know what these people are into.
“I’m Widow,” she extends her tattoo-covered hand to me. It isn’t just the tattoos that make her appear strange to me, although the black spider that wraps all the way around her wrist certainly doesn’t seem normal. It’s the… everything. Her black hair with the red streak in front looks like a statement, and the leather pants and knee-high boots she’s wearing only add to her intimidating look. I glance over my shoulder at the others and take in their burly appearance some more. ‘Trainwreck’ seems to have gotten over his fit and is now laughing with one of the older men. It appears in this town, or at least in this bar, I’m the strange one.
“Riley,” I say, shaking her hand awkwardly.
“Boss, can I get one of whatever she’s having?”
“You betcha,” the bartender replies, already grabbing another glass. He fills it a quarter of the way, and then halfway when she snickers at him. She brings it to her lips and downs some of the liquid before addressing me again.
“So, what’s your story?”
“My story?” I ask, taking another sip of whiskey and wishing I’d picked a different bar. And a different town.
“Honey, don’t take offense, but I’ve got a nose for tragedy, and I could smell you the second you pulled into the lot. You in some kinda trouble?”
“Look, I’m just here to get a drink. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not looking for a friend.”
She snorts and takes another pull of whiskey. She downs it like it’s water, and my nose crinkles watching her.
Who the hell is this woman?
When she crashes the glass back to the table, it’s empty. “All right, suit yourself.” She hops off the bar and turns to her friends. “Buzz, I got next.”
“Jesus, do any of you have a real name?” I mutter under my breath.
The woman pauses like she heard me, and I regret saying anything. I’m a trained boxer who’s held plenty of titles in my career and taken down some pretty tough bitches, but something tells me this woman wouldn’t be an easy fight. And neither would her friends.
She turns to me and arches an eyebrow.
“Sorry,” I mumble, shifting my gaze to her friends like they’ll attack at any moment. It’s irrational, though. None of them are even looking my way.
“You ain’t from around here, are ya, honey?”
I consider downing the rest of my whiskey and leaving, but I eye the woman a moment and shake my head. “Just passing through.”
She smiles and climbs on the stool beside me again. She lifts her hand and signals to the bartender. He comes and pours her another and she tells him to top me off as well.
I nod my gratitude and he walks away.
I glance at Widow, who’s eyeing me carefully. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“I know you didn’t, hon. But now you’ve got me curious, and like I said, I can smell tragedy a mile away.”
“I’m not here to talk about my sorrows to a stranger. I’m here to drown them.”
She rests her hand on my shoulder and leans in close. “That’s fine and all, but can I give you a piece of advice?”
My shoulder tenses, but I nod.
“I don’t know where you’ve been, but I can tell you I’ve been in bad places too. Places where I’ve been scared all the time. Always lookin’ over my shoulder just like I see you doing. And do you know what I’ve found to be the best medicine for any shit situation like that?”
I shake my head, and she smiles.
“Friends. Big ones.” She gives me a wink. “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for you to make some when you get settled wherever you’re goin’.”
I feel like laughing. Not a humorless laugh, but a bitter one. I don’t feel safer with friends. I feel like I have more to lose. And that’s exactly what this son of a bitch stalker has taught me. It’s more dangerous to be surrounded by people I care about than to be on my own. The worst he can take from me now is my life, and that’s only if he can catch me off guard.
But I can’t have my guard up all the time, can I? Otherwise I wind up with bags under my eyes sipping whiskey at one thirty in the morning.
My eyes drift to the men playing darts. The fucking huge, imposing men. I roam my gaze to one of their ankles and notice a bulge I’m certain is a gun holster.
An idea starts to form.
“I’m not really goin’ anywhere, to tell you the truth.” I frown and let my glassy, tired gaze meet hers. My heart races, but I do my best to hide any sign that I’m getting wound up. The men from earlier today fill my mind, and I wonder if she’s friends with them too.
“So you and your friends… Do you live near each other? What would you do if your ‘trouble’ came back to you?”
She chuckles like I’ve said something funny. “Oh, honey. There’s not a damn thing that could get to me and my friends.” She leans in close like she’s about to tell a secret. “Since you’re not from around here, I’m going to assume you’ve never heard of the Soulless Kings.”
I shake my head, but my heart pumps faster.
“It’s a motorcycle club. My late husband was a member, and I’ve been with them ever since we got married. We live in a compound outside of town and keep the property secured. It’s a members only type of thing, but the boys don’t usually mind a new pretty face hangin’ around for a day or two.”
Her eyes roam my face. “If you want a break running from whoever gave you that shiner, you can crash for a few days. As long as you can keep your mouth shut about whatever you see.” She lifts her lips in a joking smile, but I have no doubt she’s deadly serious. I don’t give a single fuck about whatever debauchery goes on with this ‘club’. Just as long as the property is as secure as Widow is suggesting.
I picture myself, surrounded by leather-wearing, gun-toting, northern badasses, and I can’t help it when my lips lift. The best part is, I don’t care about any of these people. I don’t even know them, and my stalker will know that. He’ll know he can’t hurt these people to get to me, and judging by the look of these guys, I’m not sure the fucker would even try. It’s perfect. I’ll play the beaten wife for a few days and finally get some sleep. Then I’ll figure out my next move.
“You know, Widow, I think I could use a friend after all.”
