Riding Dirty Read online

  “Will that be a problem?” Damon had asked.

  “No,” she’d replied coolly. More of an asset, really.

  Damon claimed he had a limited budget and needed someone who would work for free. He also thought Cole would be less combative with a female psychologist. Mia didn’t really care if Damon had ulterior motives. As long as he stayed out of her way, she’d stay out of his.

  When Mia reached the Desert Breeze Assisted Living Center, she parked outside the main building. A blast of air-conditioning greeted her as she pushed open the front door. After signing in as a visitor for another resident, she continued to her mother’s room. She removed her hat and sunglasses on the way.

  Her mother was delighted to see her, as always. “What a wonderful surprise,” she said in Spanish, greeting Mia with open arms. She used a wheelchair now, though she could still get around without it. Her hands were slender and wrinkled, but strong.

  Mia released her and sat down. “How are you feeling?”

  Her mother rattled off a list of mild ailments. Nothing serious, thankfully. Her main issue, other than mobility, was Alzheimer’s.

  “I asked my daughter to bring me crema de concha. Do you know my daughter?”

  “Yes,” Mia said, making a note of the request. “I’ll remind her.”

  Her mother chatted about her day for a few minutes, and they watched her favorite telenovela together. Then Mia gave her a hug and said goodbye.

  Before Mia left the center, she used the ladies’ room. As she washed her hands, she examined her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her face looked the same as always. Her skin was still fair, her eyes brown. She had pleasant features, conveniently forgettable. The main difference in her appearance was her hair. It used to be red, falling to the middle of her back. Now it was shoulder-length and dark. She blended in easily with the crowd. Mia Richards looked more Latina than Michelle Ruiz ever had.

  Her mother’s memory had been failing for years, and her lucid days were infrequent. She hadn’t recognized Mia in a long time. Even if she did, there was no danger in visiting. No one would ever believe Mia had been there.

  It was sadly ironic. The only person Mia had left—her own mother, whom she loved with all her heart—didn’t know her anymore.

  CHAPTER THREE

  COLE PARKED HIS bike behind the motel office.

  They’d really fixed up the place while he was away. The Hidden Palms Hotel and RV Resort had been remodeled to resemble a miniature frontier town. There were two sparkling-new pools on opposite ends of the lot, one for RV campers and one for motel guests. The sign over the bar and restaurant said The Wild West Saloon, which was fitting. It was owned by his uncle, “Wild Bill” Shepherd.

  Cole’s aunt Shawnee greeted him at the back door. She’d lived here and worked at the reception desk for as long as Cole could remember. He smiled as she put her arms around him. He’d missed this kind of embrace—soft, female, motherly. But his pleasure was tinged with other emotions. Unease, because they weren’t related by blood, and some of her past actions toward him hadn’t been motherly. Shame, because he’d responded to her touch before. And guilt. Because he was here to betray his family.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she said, framing his face with her hands.

  He didn’t think he was. She looked good, though. She always did. A little older, a few more lines creasing her forehead. But she kept her brown hair long and her figure slim. His uncle said she looked like Daisy Duke.

  “You agin’ in reverse?” Cole asked.

  Shawnee laughed, releasing him. “I wish.”

  A little girl stood in the doorway, silent as a statue. She had honey-colored hair and solemn blue eyes. Shawnee scooped the girl up and propped her on one hip. “This is Skye. Skye, this is your uncle Cole.”

  “I’m her cousin,” Cole said.

  “Give him a kiss,” Shawnee prompted.

  The girl hid her face against Shawnee’s shoulder in refusal.

  “She doesn’t have to,” Cole said.

  “Why not?”

  “I have boy cooties.”

  Shawnee laughed again, letting the little girl down. At three, Skye wasn’t old enough to understand Cole’s joke. Shawnee waved him inside. “We just had dinner. You want me to fix you a plate?”

  He took a seat at the kitchen table. “Sure.”

  Skye stared at him as if he’d taken her chair. She had a grubby stuffed rabbit clutched in her tiny fist.

  “Who’s your buddy?” Cole asked, indicating the rabbit.

  The girl glanced at the rabbit but didn’t respond.

  “She doesn’t talk,” Shawnee said.

  “The rabbit?”

  “Skye. She’s speech-delayed. Her ears and vocal cords are fine. So’s her brain. She’s not slow. Just slow to talk.”

  Cole contemplated the little girl’s features. “She’s the spitting image of Courtney.”

  “I know.”

  “Except for the eyes.”

  “Those are Ace,” Shawnee agreed, putting a loaded plate down on the table. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans with bacon. His throat closed up at the familiar sight and smells. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in years. This place wasn’t home, but it was the closest thing he had.

  “You want a beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  She opened the fridge and popped the cap off a Sam Adams before setting it down. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you crying over my fried chicken, Cole?”

  He picked up the bottle and took a drink to recover. “Isn’t it worth crying over?”

  She squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry about Rylan.”

  “I’m sorry about Courtney.”

  Her eyes darkened with sorrow and she turned back to the counter. After clearing the countertop, she spoke brightly. “You want chocolate cake, baby?”

  Skye joined him at the table. Shawnee gave her a slice of cake and a glass of milk. They both dug in. Within moments, Cole’s plate was clean. Skye had a pile of crumbs, as if she’d smashed the cake to pieces without eating any. Shawnee moistened a paper towel to wipe the little girl’s hands and face.

  “I don’t think she got any of that into her mouth,” Cole said.

  “She likes the frosting. You want a slice?”

  “Maybe later,” he said, patting his belly. “I’m stuffed.”

  Shawnee took the plates to the sink.

  “Does Ace visit?” he asked.

  “Couple of times a week,” she said, nodding. “They swim at the pool or he takes her around in the stroller. She loves it.” Shawnee gave Skye a brittle smile. “You’re a real Daddy’s girl, aren’t you?”

  Skye just stared at Shawnee, mute. Cole couldn’t blame her. The question sounded like a test with no right answers.

  “He doesn’t want custody?” Cole asked.

  Shawnee shot him a sharp look. “A little girl needs a mother.”

  Cole didn’t point out that Shawnee wasn’t Skye’s mother. She was her grandmother. And Courtney, like Rylan, wasn’t coming back.

  Absentee parents and fucked-up family dynamics were common with the Shepherds. Cole and Rylan had been placed in the custody of their aunt and uncle when Cole was fifteen. Their parents had been in jail for drug possession. Uncle Bill and Aunt Shawnee had stepped in to offer them a stable home. And a life of crime.

  Sixteen years later, here they were. Rylan was dead. Cole’s cousin Courtney was dead. Cole was a twice-convicted felon with a target on his back and an ankle monitor on his leg. He was glad to be out, but he doubted his freedom would last.

  “Is Uncle Bill here?” he asked.

  “In his office.”

  He rose from the table. “Thanks, Aunt Shawnee. That was the best meal I’ve had in ages.”

  She hugged him again, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth. Sometimes she treated him like a son, but she’d also treated him like a man once. Cole w
ished he hadn’t let her, but he didn’t hate her for it. In his experience, people tended to do what had been done to them. They got hurt, and passed the hurt on before it consumed them.

  “Don’t start trouble, okay?” Shawnee said.

  Cole nodded, though he resented the request. This trouble had been passed down to him, like Shawnee’s hurt. “Nice to meet you, Skye.”

  The little girl turned around in the chair and held up her rabbit. It was missing an eye. Skye and her rabbit watched Cole leave the kitchen. He continued through the hallway and stopped at the door to the office.

  “Come in,” his uncle said.

  Cole’s pulse kicked up a notch as he walked inside. He already felt guilty, and he hadn’t even decided if he was going to cooperate with the DA yet. He’d much rather double-cross the cops than his uncle. Investigator Vargas had busted Cole for arson four years ago and stuck it to him on the arrest sheet. “Gang-related” convictions resulted in an automatic extra year in prison. It was trumped-up bullshit, in Cole’s opinion, and Vargas was a total asshole. The idea of feeding him false information was tempting. Cole might be able to string Vargas along for weeks before he got yanked from the assignment. Then he’d be back in prison, hoping the Aryan Brotherhood didn’t strangle him.

  He was between a rock and a hard place.

  Cole didn’t trust Vargas to keep him safe. He also didn’t appreciate the required shrink visits, no matter how sexy the shrink. Cole wondered if Mia was Vargas’s girlfriend, or if Vargas just wanted to fuck her. The second, probably.

  Cole couldn’t blame him. He wanted to fuck her, too.

  Uncle Bill didn’t rise from his chair or even lift his hand in greeting. He’d never been affectionate, like Shawnee. He was Cole’s true blood, his father’s older brother. In the past few years, his black hair had gone mostly silver. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and powerful. Not soft around the middle or anywhere else. But not young, either.

  The office was more of a man cave. Bill had a flat-screen TV, a pool table and a bunch of leather chairs. When Cole sat down, Bill grabbed the remote and turned off the baseball game. Relief at the cessation of noise flooded Cole. The volume had been excessive.

  Bill gave him a quick once-over. “How was Chino?”

  “How do you think it was?”

  “You look all right.”

  “That doesn’t mean I had a nice visit.”

  He made a scoffing sound. “When I was your age, we did real time. Real labor. The kind that almost breaks your back. You were lucky if you didn’t get beat up by the guards every day or butt fucked every night.”

  Cole didn’t bother to tell him that he’d done hard time and hard labor, or that the danger of sexual assault was just as pressing as it had ever been. Cole’s size and reputation had spared him from random attacks in the showers, but he bristled at Bill’s glib attitude. Cole had gone to prison for committing a crime his uncle had ordered. Cole had pleaded guilty to arson and kept his mouth shut. The least Bill could do was show him some fucking respect.

  “I’m surprised you got paroled this early,” Bill said.

  “So am I.” Cole hadn’t earned any points for good behavior.

  “What are you riding?”

  “Jigsaw hooked me up with a bike.”

  “You need money?”

  Cole shrugged. He had enough cash to get by for now. Jason “Jigsaw” Jones, the owner of the motorcycle repair shop, had owed Cole several thousand dollars. To pay off the debt, he’d given Cole five hundred bucks and an old Hornet to ride.

  “You can stay here. If you want to work, I can always use laborers.”

  Cole nodded his acceptance. Bill owned a construction business, in addition to The Hidden Palms Resort, and a dive bar across town called The Wild Boar. Cole would rather tinker with motorcycles at the shop than dig ditches in the sun, but Jigsaw didn’t need help.

  He drummed his fingertips against his thigh, wondering how to broach the next subject. “I need to talk to you about Rylan.”

  Bill’s craggy face went blank. “What makes you think I know anything?”

  “He didn’t take a piss without your approval.”

  “Maybe he grew some balls while you were away.”

  Cole didn’t believe that explanation. According to rumors, Rylan had gotten involved in a kidnapping plot with the Aryan Brotherhood. It wasn’t just ballsy; it was insane. “Did you two have a falling out?”

  “No. We were solid.”

  “Then why would he team up on a high-stakes job with those racist fucks?”

  Bill leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his lap. “Are you wearing an ankle monitor?”

  Cole lifted the hem of his pant leg to show Bill the device.

  “How long do you have to keep it on?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Bill reached for a plain white envelope on the end table and handed it to him. Cole opened it and removed the contents. It was an article about GPS tracking for correctional uses. An inmate in Florida had sued the state for installing a listening device in his ankle monitor and eavesdropping on conversations with his attorney.

  Cole swore under his breath and inspected his monitor. It was waterproof, tamper-resistant and almost indestructible. The metal band around his ankle couldn’t be cut without triggering an alarm. Attached to the band was a black box about the size of a cell phone. He’d flat out refused to wear a wire, but he wouldn’t put it past Vargas to bug him. He was a dirty, sneaky motherfucker.

  “You can’t do much while you’re on parole,” Bill said. “You have to lay low. No sitting in on meetings or hanging around at the clubhouse.”

  “Fuck laying low. I need my cut.”

  His cut—the leather vest and patches that advertised his outlaw club affiliation—was a matter of pride, not just protection. When a crew member went to jail or prison, his vest was taken for safekeeping. It was usually returned upon release. Cole’s cut sent a message to his enemies that he had powerful connections. Messing with him meant messing with everyone in Dirty Eleven.

  Bill frowned at Cole’s demanding tone. This wasn’t about club rules; it was about Cole’s ankle monitor, which made him ineligible for criminal activities. His uncle was paranoid, for good reason. The cops were definitely after him.

  Cole had debated telling his uncle about his recent conflict with the Aryan Brotherhood. It made his early release look more suspicious, but that was the chance he’d have to take. “When I heard about Rylan, I got into it with someone from AB.”

  “Got into it?”

  “I put him in the hospital.”

  “Great,” Bill muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

  Cole didn’t mention the assassination attempt in the laundry room, which had been a retaliatory strike for the previous fight. He’d been placed in a segregated cellblock after the attempt, but he didn’t trust the guards there. When Investigator Vargas visited, offering Cole the informant deal, he’d accepted. He’d spent the next three weeks in a private cell and been released two days ago, supposedly due to overcrowding.

  And now here he was. Home sweet home.

  Cole gestured to his ankle monitor. “I’ll take care of this. You get me my cut. I can’t ride unprotected.”

  Bill couldn’t deny his request. If Cole approached the other members with it, they’d return his cut and welcome him back into Dirty Eleven in a heartbeat. Cole used to be the club’s sergeant at arms. He was a popular, influential member.

  “I’ll get you your cut,” Bill said. “But I meant what I said about laying low. Keep your nose clean. I thought you’d be buried in pussy right now, not riding for trouble.”

  “I can’t keep my nose clean if it’s buried in pussy, Uncle Bill.”

  “Just don’t fuck up.”

  Cole couldn’t make any promises. He was bound to fuck up sooner or later. It was his signature move.

  His uncle gave him a measured look. “I heard you went home with
one of the girls from Vixen last night. A pretty blonde with a nice rack.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So why don’t you go play with those tits, and leave the club business to me.”

  Cole didn’t like being told what to do. He had anger issues and poor impulse control. That’s what they’d told him in high school, anyway, and he hadn’t proved them wrong. But he wasn’t the same man he used to be. His second stint in prison had changed him. Or maybe it was just the passage of time, the series of tragic events. His cousin had died of a drug overdose a year ago. Then his little brother. They’d both been in their twenties. Cole no longer saw the appeal in living fast and dying young.

  Dying young sucked.

  Cole hadn’t changed so much that he could deny his basic instincts, however. He wanted to find out who was responsible for Rylan’s death. If his uncle had been involved, which was a strong possibility, Cole would feel a lot less conflicted about ratting him out. Cole was loyal to the club, loyal to his family. But Rylan had been his little brother, his heart and soul. Cole had practically raised the kid. He had to know what happened to him. He had to make someone pay. Even if that someone was his uncle.

  “Sometimes I wonder about you, Shank,” Bill said, shaking his head. “Out two days and you’re already trying to go back. Maybe you prefer those prison boys.”

  Cole wasn’t interested in defending his heterosexuality. “Maybe I do.”

  Bill’s nostrils flared in annoyance. “If you follow my advice, you have my support and my protection. If you go off half-cocked and start a war with AB, you’re on your own. We don’t have the numbers to go against them.”

  Cole knew that. He wasn’t looking for war, just answers. “Are we done?”

  “Yeah, we’re done.”

  “What time should I be at the yard?”