Inside would be all the
civic-minded organizations from town that were helping Ben, including the
Summerbrook Ladies League. The bikers were probably at the restaurant for a
completely different reason—some ride or party they had to plan. She glanced
around at all the motorcycles again. There were so many.
Taking a deep breath, she
gingerly opened the car door. But before she got the chance to put her foot on
the asphalt, the painted flames on the motorcycle next to her pitched—almost
imperceptibly at first. Or perhaps she was simply denying what was happening.
Down it went. The mirrors tilted
and flashed the light of a distant streetlamp over the body of the beast. Stop!
Somehow, it appeared to have picked up momentum on its way to its death. And
then it crashed against the pavement, the clang grating up her spine as
it hit. No! She couldn’t have touched that bike. She had been so
careful.
As she stepped outside the car, a
shiver iced down her spine in a cold gust of March air. The motorcycle lay
there like a fallen soldier. The crash had amputated its rearview mirror, which
was now in the middle of the lane. She looked all around her.
For a brief moment, she thought
about bolting. But she’d never do that. She worked at a local insurance company
as a risk assessment manager. Assessing her own risk, she determined that she
was in real trouble.
She knew she could analyze her
way out of this. Maybe she could set the bike upright again and no one would
notice. That might work.
Fighting some awful thing inside
that wanted to paralyze her, she drew up every bit of her strength, bent down,
and grabbed the handlebars. With her eyes closed, she strained and jerked with
all her might. But the beast wouldn’t budge.
Maybe she could at least fix the
mirror. Though her hand shook—probably from the cold—she picked it up and tried
to attach the cracked piece to the bent chrome on the side of the bike. She
pushed and twisted and rocked the thing. Nothing worked. Now what was she to
do?
She could call the police. But it
wasn’t a traffic accident. She still didn’t believe that she’d touched the
bike. No matter. What could she do but try to find the owner and tell him?
Dread rose up in her. She would offer the biker her insurance information, and
she could let her company argue the claim later. And if the bike’s owner grew
angry with her here, she assumed the bystanders in the steakhouse would provide
some protection.
Glancing around the dark lot, she
noticed several other bikes with flames on their tanks. Great. Now she’d have a
band of angry bikers come after her when she would announce that she’d knocked
over a motorcycle festooned with flames.
Shaking her head, she tried to
rid herself of the images of that night so long ago. But this was very
different. No one had died. And she would accept complete responsibility,
unlike her father, who’d blamed and angered the drunken bikers from Rebel
Angels the night they’d played chicken with him.
Still holding the metal thing,
she had an idea. The mirror was a totally different shape from the others
around her, and it had a sticker with flames on the back. That would help.
She’d find Mr. Morrow and a few of the people there for the fundraiser, and
with their assistance, she’d approach the bikers with the mirror.
So she summoned all of her
courage and bravely walked toward the entrance where a giant fake cow stood
with an ominous look in his eyes. It watched her every step.
When finally inside, the scent of
old coffee and burned grease assailed her. A gap-toothed hostess greeted April.
“Welcome to Carolina Cow Steakhouse,” she said in a particularly slow Southern
dialect—the brogue of her small town.
Not immediately seeing the people
from the Summerbrook Civic Club, she turned to the waitress. “Umm, I’m supposed
to meet a group here.”
The hostess perked up and smiled.
“Are you here for Ben Evans’s Leukemia Fundraiser, too?”
April nodded and glanced around
again, still hiding the broken mirror behind her back. She spotted members of
the motorcycle crew secluded away at a couple of tables in a shadowy corner.
Oh, boy. In a few short moments, she’d have to face them and confess what she’d
done. Well, at least they weren’t going to be a part of the civic club meeting.
After she gave them the broken mirror and her insurance information, it would
all be over.
“You’ll have to wait here a
minute ’cause I’m moving everyone into the larger banquet room. Y’all have more
people than we expected,” the hostess said as she grabbed a few more menus and
walked away.
April backed up against the wall
to better hide the crooked chrome she held. Of all the stupid things that could
happen.
With her free hand, she brushed
at the pleats on her skirt to straighten them. Then she switched the mirror
into her right hand and smoothed out the other side. Everything was under
control.
“What do you have there?”
inquired a low, masculine voice from above her head.
She snapped to attention like she
was about to undergo a military inspection.
A handsome, muscular man in a
black bomber jacket towered above her, larger than life. His shoulder-length
hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. Golden streaks highlighted his
nut-brown mane. His indigo-colored eyes perused her face. “Is something wrong?”
She twisted the strand of pearls
that draped from her neck between her fingers with her free hand. “No.
Everything’s fine,” she said. It would be as soon as she could meet up with Mr.
Morrow or some of the other members from the civic organizations.
“Then what are you hiding behind
your back?”
He had seen. Oh, no. He had seen.
“Just a little mishap. I’m going
to take care of it.”
“You ride?” The left corner of
his mouth curled up. “In a skirt?”
“No.” She hoped her voice didn’t
sound strained. “No, I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before,” she said
calmly.
He narrowed his eyes. “Then why
are you walking around with a Harley dome billit mirror?”
That was a good question. Why was
she? She held out the broken piece of the bike in front of her. “I don’t know
how it happened. I was opening my car door, and then—”
He took it from her, examined it,
and gave it back. “Let me guess. It just fell.” He tilted his head, exposing a
strong, angular jawline. “All by itself.”
“That’s right. It really did
happen that way. Exactly.” He probably didn’t believe a word she said. And she
couldn’t blame him. She heard unlikely stories like hers from claimants at the
insurance company all the time.
“Ahhh, I see. Sure it did,” he
said. But the left side of his grin inched upward again. His eyes radiated
light like the mirror in her hands. “Believe I know who owns that. ’Cause of
the sticker on the back there.” He nodded at the chrome and took a step toward
her. “Won’t be too happy, though. You want me to take you to him?”
A spicy scent replaced the old
coffee and burned grease in the air. She looked around, half expecting to see
one of the men from the Summerbrook Chamber of Commerce or the hostess with a
can of air freshener. But April hadn’t ever experienced anything like that
fragrance—not on a businessman or from a can. “No, thank you. I’m meeting some
people here for a fundraiser first. They’ll help me.”
“I know where they are, too. It’s
where I’m headed.” He touched her elbow. A warm tingle ran up her arm.
“The hostess said to wait here.”
“We don’t have to wait.”
“But—” Before she could protest,
he placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her through the large,
open restaurant and around a corner. With each step she took, her pulse beat
faster.
They stopped at a door, which had
a sign on it that read Banquet Room.
“You sure you don’t want me to
handle that for you?” He arched his brow and glanced at the mirror.
“No, thank you. I’m going to ask
Mr. Morrow to walk back with me. To tell those people in the corner of the main
dining area.”
He opened the door. “Be my
guest.”
As soon as she walked into the
room, she knew she was in trouble. The large table in front was filled with
people sporting leather fringes, rivets, Harley insignias, and long hair.
Motorcycle people. But what kind of motorcycle people were they—the weekender
kind who had regular day jobs, like the safe ones they insured at her company?
Or some other kind?
A guy with a Z Z Top-looking
beard stood up and said, “Hey, that’s my mirror.”
The packed room became silent.
April wanted to sink through the
floor. “I’ll pay for it. I have insurance. I don’t really even know how it
happened.”
The whole room stared at her like
she was a liar. Trapping the mirror between her arm and side, she fumbled in
her purse to get one of the copies of her insurance card she’d made at work in
case she might ever have the need for it.
“She was probably standing there
and it just fell over,” said one of the bikers at the table.
All the people at the table
laughed. She turned to see Mr. Morrow standing silently behind the lectern,
looking at his notes. Why wasn’t he backing her up? Surely he recognized her.
She wanted to say, “It’s me. April Church.” In case he didn’t remember. But he
only stood there looking unconcerned.
The tall, handsome guy who’d
walked her back took the broken mirror from her and tossed it toward the biker
with the long beard. “Okay, let’s go, Slug. I’ll give you a hand to upright
your bike. This time. But you’d better fix that kickstand before that old
motorcycle falls over again—with the next stiff breeze.” The handsome
man looked at her. “Might accidentally hurt a pretty young lady next time.”
The group laughed more. Slug kept
his eye on April as he inched around the table. She didn’t see anything funny.
She’d known she hadn’t hit the motorcycle with her car door. But she’d been
discombobulated all the same.
The man in the bomber jacket gave
Slug a reprimanding look and then turned to her. “Slug here’s real sorry he
hasn’t fixed that old kickstand. Even though we’ve been warning him about it
for months. Right, Slug?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry and all,” said
Slug. He reached out his tattoo-covered hand and snatched the mirror.
The two men left with the twisted
chrome.
Slug didn’t sound very
sorry. Even if the broken mirror wasn’t her fault, she didn’t want to face him
alone in that dark parking lot. She was staying right where she was for the
time being.
She wanted to do this for Ben.
She’d have to stay no matter what.
Mr. Morrow said, “April, if
you’ll take a seat, we can get started.”
So now he knew who she
was.
Glancing across the room, she saw
the ladies from the group she wanted to join all decked out in their Lilly
Pulitzer sweaters and pearls, cozily talking around a couple of the round
banquet tables they’d pulled together on the other side of the room. Shoot. All
the other chairs were filled—except for two at the table with the bikers. The
evening couldn’t possibly get any worse.
An older man with long, gray hair
and a woolly beard stood up and said, “Here’s one, miss.”
Things had just gotten worse. All
she could do now was to sit. She clutched her purse tightly against her body
and eased her way between the tables to one of the two empty seats.
Nothing was going to happen.
Everything would be fine now that her little mirror emergency was over. These
people had to be good people, right? They were here to help Ben, too. And Ben
needed lots of help.
April fidgeted with the pearls at
her neck. She knew there was no good reason for her insides to be so tense.
These people weren’t the same rioters from Rebel Angels who’d burned down her
father’s old hardware store for revenge. She straightened the pleats again on
her skirt, trying to forget about the unfortunate event that had divided the
town. But how could she possibly forget with all the reminders at the table?
The earthy scent of leather hung all around her.
She wound her arms around her
purse and sat up straight. If only she could leave. But she wouldn’t know what
to tell Mr. Houseman. She had already promised him she was going to help.
She moved her seat closer to the
empty chair, but as soon as she had, the man in the bomber jacket returned.
Without Slug. And he’d spotted the empty seat.
Nothing she could do now. She
scooted her chair back to its original position and closed her eyes. Take
deep breaths. Take deep breaths. With her next inhalation, her senses were
filled with the most heavenly fragrance. Spicy and aromatic.
She opened her eyes to find the
striking stranger sitting next to her. She turned to look at the table behind
her.
The hostess closed the door.
April was simply going to have to make the best of the situation. For now.
Maybe later she could somehow wiggle her way over to the Lilly Pulitzer table.
April also had an ulterior motive to help with the fundraiser. This was going
to be her magic ticket into the Summerbrook Ladies League—something she’d
always wanted—and something her mother had always wanted for her.
Her best friend, Jenna, had
automatically joined the league years ago with all the other young debutants in
town. Right after the big ball. April wanted to be a part of it—all the
cookbook committees, the parties, and the fashion shows. She and her BFF would
do them all together. If only she could get in. But she wasn’t a debutant and
her family didn’t have the pedigree that Jenna’s did. Jenna didn’t care,
though. Never had cared that April had her…past, and she loved Jenna for that.
It wasn’t going to be so easy, however, for April to enter the cliquish league.
Mr. Morrow, president of the
Summerbrook Civic Club, tapped a butter knife on the wooden lectern at the
front of the room. “Thank you all for coming tonight. I guess you know why
we’re here.”
She heard some stirring, and she
caught a glimpse of a woman near the lectern nodding, but April didn’t move.
She stared ahead and hoped to blend in with the others at her table. But how
her pleats and pearls were going to fit in with all the rivets and leather she
didn’t know exactly.
Mr. Morrow looked down. “When Ben
Evans’s grandfather came to me and told me about Ben’s leukemia and his medical
bills at the Children’s Hospital, I knew that all the Summerbrook civic
organizations had to get involved in a big way. We’re all going to work
together like we haven’t before.”
The handsome biker with the blue
eyes and hard, angular jawline leaned in his chair and closed the space between
them. She clutched her purse even tighter to minimize her presence at the
table. She turned her attention back to Mr. Morrow.
“We’re all going to undertake
multiple projects as quickly as we can for Ben. Those medical bills aren’t
going away after only one fundraiser. Each table or team will choose a date for
their event and the type of project they want to sponsor,” Mr. Morrow
explained.
When Mr. Morrow finished, an old,
woolly-bearded man in leather chaps stood up. “Jim, most of you know that Ben
is my grandson. Oh, for those of you who don’t know, I’m Patch Evans.”
She’d had no idea who the man
was—even though she knew Ben’s family well. Ben’s dad, Purvis Evans, had
recently been laid off at the local car dealership, and his mom worked at
April’s bank as a teller. She wouldn’t have guessed that Ben had motorcycle
riders in his background. Not that that was bad or anything. It’s just that
people in small Southern towns usually shared similar interests with their
family members. Families were tightly woven units below the Mason-Dixon. Take a
family who likes country club living…well, they all usually belong to the club.
Take a family who likes NASCAR, well, mostly they’re hanging out together at
the local racetrack.
She broke away from her thoughts
when the old man choked out a few more words. “My family is terribly grateful
for all your help.”
The lean bomber-jacket guy beside
her moved again in his seat and looked into his lap. She was careful not to let
him see her glancing at him from the corner of her eye. All the emotion in the
room and at her table caught her off guard. Maybe that was why she was
so…so…twitchy.
“No problem, Patch.” Mr. Morrow
checked his watch. “In about an hour, we’ll stop and discuss what each team has
decided. In the meantime, I’ll walk around and make sure we’re talking about
different dates for each of the events.” He turned as the door behind him
opened. “Betsy here will take your drink orders if anyone’s thirsty. Her sweet
tea is so good, you’ll think your tongue will slap your brains out.”
Betsy smiled hugely at the
compliment. She didn’t seem to mind the crevice between her teeth. Or the
unusual expression of praise. April wished she could be less uptight—like
Betsy. But April worried about most everything, a trait she grew up recoiling
from because of her own overprotective mother. And old-fashioned grandmother.
Betsy leaned over to take a drink
order from the table beside her and April saw something Betsy would have
minded. She had a small split in the seam of her trousers. April’s heart ached
for her. Gapped teeth and pants.
Chairs grated on the tile floor
as people settled down in their groups to talk. April glanced at the table to
her left. No room to move her chair. She peered at the table behind her. If she
turned her seat around, it would look bad. She eyed the door. But she couldn’t
leave. For so many reasons.
At her table, a middle-aged man
with a red bandana said, “How ’bout I start. I got some ideas you guys might
like. Oh, excuse me. And ladies. I’m Crank Allman, by the way.”
What kind of ideas did these
people have? Coming up with names like Crank and Patch—not to mention Slug. In
all her twenty-six years, she’d never heard of so many odd monikers in one
place. At one table. Whatever happened to names like Bill and Bob?
She twirled the pearl ring on her
left hand and noticed how much it looked like a wedding band when the pearl was
on the palm side, so she left it that way. Wouldn’t hurt if anyone there
thought she was married.
“I’m gonna need me a secretary,
though.” Crank paused. “How ’bout you?”
She didn’t look up. He couldn’t
possibly be talking to her. She was planning to move her chair to the
sweater-and-pearls table as soon as it wouldn’t look so obvious. These people
probably didn’t want her in their group anyway. She was merely waiting for the
right moment to oblige.
The bomber-jacket guy next to her
reached for her arm. “I think he’s talking to you.”
She startled at his touch. His
strong hand was warm and almost electric. She tried to smile. “I don’t know
that I’ll be here that much longer. Maybe someone else should volunteer.”
“I’ll take over if she has to
leave early,” said the blue-eyed man sitting next to her. He smiled and
handsome lines formed parentheses on each side of his mouth. The angles of his
jawline and his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth made him look like a
male model in one of those Armani suit ads. Without the suit, of course. “The
two of us can share being secretary.”
He had to be kidding. She tried
to hide the concern from showing in her face. There wasn’t a pig’s chance at
the Miss Summerbrook Fire Queen Pageant she was going to stick around—not with
the cookbook clan merely feet away. She didn’t know a single one of the people
at her table. But she couldn’t let on to them right now that she was uneasy.
And had a completely different agenda. She had to go along for the time being.
Think, girl, think. There had to be a discreet way
out of this. If there was, she was going to figure it out. She always did.
Crank tossed a spiral notebook
onto the table. “You each need to write down your name, address, and phone
number so our secretary—excuse me—secretaries can keep a record in case
we need you for something before our next meeting.” When the good-looking man
beside her received the list, she watched as he wrote, “Bull Clayton.”
Bull? The Ladies League gals
would have boyfriends and husbands named Preston and Tillman and Hamilton.
There was just no end to the crazy things bikers called themselves. Bull looked
nothing like a thick male bovine as his name implied. A svelte stallion, maybe.
When he finished writing his phone number, he pushed the notebook in front of
her.
She couldn’t write her address
and phone number in there. Who knew where that list would end up? And even
though nothing would probably come of jotting down her number, she didn’t need
to take the chance. In fact, she’d been the one at her agency to order and
distribute the pamphlets on personal safety last month. Single women living
alone shouldn’t advertise their addresses and phone numbers. That was rule
number one. At least the accident had had one positive effect—steering her
toward a suitable career—a career at which she excelled in being careful.
She glanced up at Bull, who still
had his arm extended and hand on the spiral notebook. A feeling of fireflies
fluttering in her lower tummy warmed her in a way she’d never experienced. Her
body wasn’t being careful at all.
This was all too difficult to
absorb and she felt a twinge deep inside her head. Oh, no. Another of her
stupid headaches was trying to settle in. The whole evening had been filled
with tension. Of course, a migraine would follow.
She closed her eyes. The flashes
of light came first, and then the old crash came rushing back. The screams. The
sirens. The fire.
She opened her eyes and shook her
head. If only she could erase what the Rebels had done. But that was
impossible.
There had to be a way for her to
deal with this problem. All she had to do was analyze it and sort it out. That
might be hard to do at the table; however, all the bikers were busily talking
to one another and weren’t paying any attention to her. Thank goodness.
Just then Betsy walked toward
her. April took off her sweater, whispered in Betsy’s ear, and wrapped the
sweater around Betsy’s waist. She gave April the most beautiful smile ever.
Great. The bikers were still
debating something. No one had seen.
Her phone vibrated. Jenna. With
the phone in her lap and hidden by the table, April texted back.
Can’t talk now.
April’s head tensed more. Another
text from Jenna.
What’s wrong?
April took another deep breath,
trying to compose herself, trying to keep the headache away.
Long story. I’ll call when I’m
out of here.
She really needed to pay more
attention to what was going on at the table. Lucky for her, she was off their
radar. Her cell vibrated again.
Out of where? I thought you were
at league thing with the girls.
She wasn’t going to get rid of
Jenna without an explanation so she texted where she was and what had happened.
…but this guy named Bull helped
me out, so I’m okay.
April sucked in a deep breath.
Little lights twinkled in her vision from the headache that was trying to get a
foothold in her brain.
Maybe answering Jenna’s text
wasn’t such a good idea. She had a tendency to be overly alarmist. And
obviously April had a tendency to be overly stupid for telling Jenna anything.
No imagining what she was going to do.
Maybe April should just leave.
But what if Slug was still out there? He hadn’t come back to the banquet room,
and his motorcycle had been parked beside her car. By now, he could have
rounded up all his friends from the other corners of the restaurant.
She had to be reasonable, though.
He shouldn’t be upset at her because he hadn’t fixed his own kickstand.
There was another problem with
leaving, as well. What would she tell Mr. Houseman? And Ben? She couldn’t face
letting him slip away. Then there was the league. Too much was at stake. Whatever
it takes.
No matter what, she was going to
stay. Tonight. She could always call Mr. Morrow next week and ask to be
reassigned to another group—even if it wasn’t the league ladies—as long as she
did something to help Ben. Bull pushed the notebook back in front of her. She
stole another look at the handsome man. Humph. Nothing like Bull had
ever ridden into Summerbrook before.
She needed to get her mind on the
work at hand, though. As she read some of his words, she became confused.
With finality in his voice, Crank
said, “So, the weekend of April 28th is the best date.”
Curiosity got the best of her. It
sounded like they were planning to do something big the weekend of her
birthday. She raised her hand again. “Excuse me.” She cleared her throat. “What
exactly are you doing, and what does ‘Bikers for Ben’ and ‘Ride for a Reason’
mean?”
Crank said, “Well, we decided
that we’d do a charity bike ride, gettin’ sponsors to donate money for each
mile we ride from Summerbrook to the Charleston Battery and then on to the
Children’s Hospital.”
She lowered her head and tapped
her pencil. In a low voice she said, “What about a bake sale or a charity
auction or something?”
A burley man with a handlebar
mustache and muttonchops spoke up after everyone chuckled. “We don’t know
nothin’ ’bout no bakin’ or no auctionin’. All’s we know is bikes.”
Bull had taken off his jacket and
rolled up his sleeves, and she could see muscular definition in his forearms.
Was he ever fit. “What Chops means is that rides are what we know best to raise
money. We’ve done it before. It’s what we do well.” He smiled that same
Hollywood smile that she’d noticed before—the one that kept taking her off
guard.
He moved his arms forward on the
table and she saw a piece of a tattoo, but as quickly as she saw it, he tugged
at his shirt and it disappeared under his sleeve again.
“But I thought—” April stopped
midsentence. She’d be home soon and the whole thing could be their little
kettle of fish. “I’m sorry. A biker-rider thingy is fine. Just fine,” she said
as she leaned back in her chair.
“Good,” said Bull. “Because you
and I are in charge of permits and advertising.” He smiled again, the left side
inching up more than the right. No, it wasn’t quite a smile. It was more of a
grin.
With his perfectly straight
teeth. If someone would turn him in on one of those makeover shows and cut and
style his hair, he’d be downright dangerous. But he didn’t know what he was
talking about because she wasn’t about to help with any of their far-fetched
ideas. She couldn’t. With her aging father’s cardiac condition, it would
absolutely kill him if he ever found out.
The man named Crank explained all
about what they had decided. She sat there biding her time and tried to blend
in with the furniture. Then her cell rang. So much for trying to look
inconspicuous.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She
pressed the phone to her head as tightly as she could and bent down toward the
table. Everyone in the group grew silent as Jenna’s voice barreled through the
little cell phone.
“I called Mr. Houseman. He said
he can’t help you right now. April, I think you could be in a lot of danger. I
asked around about that Bull guy and found out he had been involved with Rebel
Angels. Those people might have chains or knives—or even guns.”
Yeah, they might. But why would
they want to use them on her? Because she was wearing pleats?
Jenna’s voice grew even louder,
if that were possible. “Be careful. Stay away from the bikers and get your butt
home.”
“Jenna, don’t be ridiculous. I’ll
talk to you later.” April quickly ended the call and looked up at Bull. He
raised his eyebrow, and a strange expression covered his handsome face. It was
almost another smile. Wait. No. It was a smirk. She knew it. He’d heard
everything Jenna had said—about the chains, the knives…and Rebel Angels.
How dare he be snarky with her?
She sat up, glanced around, and realized by the looks on their faces that the
others had heard Jenna, too.
Before, she was merely being
paranoid, but now she had a real reason to worry. That phone call would have
insulted anyone. In Jenna’s effort to be a mother hen, she’d actually made the
situation worse.
She had two options.
She could stand, run, and take her chances in the parking lot with the chains
and knives Jenna had mentioned, or she could prove them all wrong. Being the
chicken that she was, she said, “Well, people. When do we get started?” 
