Joker by Andi Rhodes

Chapter Eight

^{I’m so fucked.}

Joker

“I’ll wait here.”

I glance over my shoulder into the cab of the truck and narrow my eyes at Riley. “I don’t fucking think so.” I walk around the front of the vehicle to her door, feeling her glare on me the entire time, and wrench it open. “Let’s go.”

She stares at me for a moment before climbing down and brushing past me to stomp to the shop door. I stifle a groan and follow her, unable to keep my eyes off of her ass as I do. She’s an enigma, for sure, but a hot one. When I step inside, Riley’s leaning against the counter chatting with Fox, and he must say something funny because she throws her head back and laughs.

My shoulders tense up and instantly, an emotion I don’t recognize slams into me. I stalk toward them and lean my elbows to the right of Riley, on the worn black laminate. When they don’t acknowledge my presence, anger surfaces and I clear my throat.

“Where are my damn parts, Fox?”

Fox looks at me and smirks. “It’s in the back.” His gaze darts back and forth between Riley and me, and his smirk morphs into a giant shit-eating grin. “Be right back.”

Fox turns on his heel and walks through the door to the back of the shop. When he’s out of sight, Riley whirls on me and braces her fists on her hips.

“What the hell was that?” she demands.

“What was what?”

Before she has a chance to answer, my cell phone rings and I answer without looking to see who it is. That is a decision I will regret for a long while.

“Brian, it’s been days,” the voice on the other end whines. “I need an answer.”

I turn so my back is to Riley and furiously whisper into the phone, “You don’t get to call and make demands, Cheryl.”

“I’m your mother,” Cheryl snaps. “I’ll call you any damn time I want.”

I can’t stop the snort that comes. This woman is fucking crazy. “You lost the right to call yourself that years ago. I don’t fucking have a mother.”

“Don’t say that, baby. You’re my little boy. I lo—”

“Stop!” I snap. “Don’t you dare say you love me.” I glance over my shoulder and see Riley staring at me with curiosity. “I gotta go.”

I stab a finger at the end button and hang up on the woman who gave birth to me. I take several deep breaths before turning around and facing Riley. Fortunately, Fox walks through the door at the same time, saving me from any questions that are bound to be plaguing her.

“Here ya go,” Fox says as he hands me the box with the carburetor.

“Thanks.” I grab the box from his hands and set it on the countertop. “What do I owe you?”

I settle up with Fox and promise to stay a bit longer next time so we can grab a drink and catch up. Fox and I have done so much business together that we’ve gotten to be friends. He’s a good guy… well, other than when he’s hitting on my girl.

Your girl? What the actual fuck? Riley is a job, nothing more.

I wrap my fingers around Riley’s bicep, anger at myself overriding any need to be gentle, and haul her out the door and to the truck. I shove her in the direction of the passenger side. She stumbles and instinctively, I reach out to steady her. She stiffens at my touch but doesn’t say a word.

As we round the hood, with me behind her urging her toward her door, Riley freezes and her sharp intake of breath reaches my ears. Unsure what spooked her, I step around her and see a pair of what looks like boxing gloves dangling from the side mirror.

“What the fuck?”

I yank the gloves off the mirror and stare at them, as if expecting them to talk and explain how they got there. I turn in circles, the gloves clenched in my fingers, trying to see if there’s anyone around, anything that looks out of place.

When I finally stop turning and look at Riley, her face is white and then it hits me. The gloves aren’t meant for me, aren’t meant for the Soulless Kings. They’re meant for her.

“Who left these?” I shake the gloves in front of her.

“I-I don’t know.” She swallows and crosses her arms over her chest. It doesn’t appear to be out of anger but out of a need to protect herself.

“You must have some fucking clue,” I counter. No way she has zero idea of what they mean or why they were left. I’m not buying it. “Boxing gloves aren’t exactly common things to leave on someone’s vehicle.”

Riley’s control snaps and she steps toward me. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know where they came from.” She’s shouting and her arms are spread wide at her sides.

I narrow my eyes and study her. Color is beginning to return to her cheeks, and she no longer looks petrified. I’m not saying I believe her, but I won’t push. At least not right this minute.

“Okay, Black Bird. Calm down.”

I open the passenger door and step aside so she can climb in. I toss the gloves over the headrest and into the back seat of the truck. We spend the next forty-five minutes in silence. Every once in a while I catch Riley glancing around like she’s expecting something to pop out of the trees and attack the truck, but I choose to ignore it. For now.

“So, who’s Cheryl?”

My fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly at her question that the knuckles turn white.

“None of your damn business.”

I chance a glance in her direction just in time to see her roll her eyes.

“I don’t get you,” she says. “You have no problem asking me questions and demanding answers, but I ask a question and you practically rip my head off.”

“Listen, Black Bird. You don’t have to get me. Shit, you don’t even have to like me. But I’ll ask any goddamn question I want because you’ve made yourself my family’s problem. You don’t like it then fucking leave.”

The second the words are out, I want to recall them and that fires up my blood. I don’t owe her an explanation. And I sure as hell don’t need to be responsible for her. But for some reason, the thought of her taking off unsettles me.

Maybe it’s because there’s so many unanswered questions. Maybe it’s because she poses a challenge. She’s certainly not like most chicks who’d jump at the chance to ride my dick. It most certainly isn’t because there’s something about her that pisses me off while simultaneously making me burn.

“Whatever,” she mumbles.

Riley puts her seat back and twists to face the door. With her arm under her head and her knees drawn up, she effectively cuts off any communication.

Good… we’ve got nothing to talk about. Unless, of course, she’s going to start telling me the truth.

* * *

I stifle a yawn when I pull onto Soulless Kings’ property. The remainder of the trip was uneventful, unless you count the barrage of texts from Cheryl. Riley slept most of the way, and I ignored my phone. That is until I got a text from Greaser letting me know that Fender called an emergency church as soon as we returned.

I pull the truck in front of the clubhouse and see Widow and Charlie on the porch. Before I even have the chance to shift into park, they’re bounding down the steps and going to the passenger side. Riley looks at me with wide eyes, and I decide to temporarily end her suffering.

“I’ve got church. They’re just gonna keep you company.” I smirk at her and enjoy the crimson that flushes from her neck to her cheeks. “Don’t worry, Black Bird. I’ll be back and then we can do all kinds of wicked things.”

I don’t bother to wait for a response. The way her mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water tells me all I need to know. I’ve rattled her. I wink as I turn the engine off and then make my way inside the clubhouse.

Widow’s voice carries, and while I can’t make out her words, her tone tells me that she’s throwing me under the bus with Riley. Widow can do or say whatever she wants. It’s no skin off my back.

“Jesus, Joker, hurry it up.” I look at Greaser and see the tension in his face. He’s fucking pissed about something. “We’re all waiting on you.”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad. I just got here.”

Greaser shakes his head and strides toward the room where we have church. I follow and we both deposit our guns in the designated box. When we take our seats, Piston bangs the gavel and church is called to order.

“Thank you all for coming,” Fender begins. “I know we all have things we’d rather be do—”

“I’ve got a few girls in mind,” Riker jokes.

“Enough,” Piston snaps. “Your president called this meeting for a reason. I suggest you fucking listen.”

“Damn, P. No need to flip shit. I was just joking around.” Riker crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair.

“Both of you, shut it,” Fender demands. He glances around the table, making eye contact with each one of us. “We’ve got a problem.”

Fender bends and picks a box up off the floor at his feet, setting it on the table in front of him. He opens the lid and pulls out the contents, one by one. First is a jar full of what appears to be nails, pieces of glass, and other small sharp objects. Makeshift bomb?

That alone has my blood boiling and my body itching for a fight. I clench and unclench my fists as I watch him pull out the next item, and when he sets it on the table, I see red. A pair of white boxing gloves covered in what I can only assume is blood based on the color and the way it seems to have dribbled over the leather.

“Holy fucking shit.”

I bang the table with my fists as I stand, causing everything to rattle. Without an explanation, I rush out to the truck and grab the boxing gloves from earlier. When I return to the room, all eyes are focused on me as I slam them on the table next to the other pair.

“What the hell is this?” Fender demands as he picks them up.

“I dunno,” I reply. “These were on the truck when we came out of the shop up in Washington. I assumed they were a message to Riley because they were left on the passenger side mirror, but now…” I shrug because I have no clue what all of it could mean.

“This box was left on the clubhouse porch.” Fender nods at the one he emptied. “They were put there sometime in the middle of the night. The Raptor is club property, so I’m inclined to think it’s related to us and not Riley.”

“There was nothing on the security feed,” Squirrel speaks up. “There’s a four-minute span of time where the cameras were down and that was right around one in the morning. Whoever did it would have had time to haul ass to Washington and put the other set on the truck, but they’d have been cutting it close.”

“I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but we need to figure it out and fast.” Fender picks up the jar of shrapnel. “This is a clear threat. Nothing was rigged this time, but I’m not willing to take a chance that we’ll be as lucky a second time.”

“Have we checked with Donovan? Could this be some blowback from what went down with Leal and Charlie? It would make sense if the Black Savages are behind this.”

I know I’m grasping at straws. Donovan’s a good dude, and I don’t really think they had anything to do with it.

But if not them and if it’s not connected to Riley, then who?

“Charlie called her sister and Sylvia asked around. It’s not the Black Savages. Donovan called and gave me shit for not going straight to him.” Fender smirks. “Fucker wouldn’t answer his phone, and I wasn’t inclined to wait.”

“It could be anybody. We’ve made our fair share of enemies over the years. Especially in the drug trade.” Piston rubs the back of his neck, a sure sign that he’s frustrated at the lack of information.

“Joker, I want you to be on Riley like white on rice,” Fender instructs and the rest of my brothers snicker at the double meaning. “I doubt it’s tied to her, but we can’t rule it out just yet. Find out everything you can about her, about her ex and her situation.”

“Sure thing, Prez. It’s not going to be easy.” I smile as I remember the last twenty-four hours. “She’s about as stubborn as Charlie and doesn’t give up info easily. I could use the Nightmare Room if it comes to that.”

Fender sighs, his shoulders deflating. “I don’t want to traumatize her if she really is a victim. The Nightmare Room is the last resort. Anyone have a problem with that?”

A chorus of ‘no’s echo in the room.

“All due respect, Prez, but if we need answers, I don’t see why we shouldn’t use whatever tools we have at our disposal to get them.”

“Last. Resort.” Fender’s eyes narrow at me. “Understood?”

“Understood,” I reply but it’s clear I’m not happy about it.

Riley’s hiding something. I’d bet my life on it. And if she’s responsible for the threat to the Soulless Kings, she needs to be dealt with.

“As for the rest of you, keep your eyes and ears open. Talk to any contacts you have, see if we can’t find who’s responsible.” Fender tosses the jar and white gloves back into the box. “No one gets on or off Soulless Kings’ property without showing ID at the gate. Every single person must be escorted past the gate by a patched member. We take no chances, but we sure as hell take prisoners if it comes to that. All in favor?”

Two thumps from each of us.

“Good. We’ll have church again in forty-eight hours and see what we’ve learned.”

“We’re adjourned,” Piston says as he bangs the gavel, effectively dismissing all of us.

I grab my gun from the designated box and head out to the truck. Greaser follows close behind but remains silent until I open the door to get the bags out of the back.

“What happened to your hand?” he asks as he nods at the cuts and bruises.

“Mirror got in my way.”

“Hmmm.”

I whirl on him and grip his cut. “You got something you wanna say to me, spit it out.”

“Chill the fuck out,” he says as he raises his hands in surrender.

I let him go and hang my head. I’m so fucked in the head that I’m taking it out on my best friend, my brother. I need to get a grip.

“I know how you can get rid of some of that pent-up rage.”

I look at him and he’s wearing a sly grin.

“And how’s that?” I’m pretty sure I know what he’s going to say, but I can’t quite bring myself to get pissed about it.

“Get your dick wet,” he suggests casually. “I hear there’s a pretty girl you’ve been spending a lot of time with. Fuck her. Get your shit out of your system and then get answers.”

Something about the way he refers to Riley, the way he makes her seem like every Bangin’ Betty that hangs around, causes my hackles to rise. Unsure of why that is or how to deal with it, I laugh and it comes out sounding uncomfortable.

“Not happenin’, bro.”

“Whatever you say.”

Greaser starts to walk backward, and when he’s a few feet from me, he turns around and strides back to the clubhouse. Just before he steps through the door, he calls over her shoulder, “You’d feel so much better.”

“Not happening,” I shout back, but even I hear the uncertainty in my tone.

I’m so fucked.