Kristen Ashley - Law Man

And I’d been talking to Mitch when it all happened.

“Oh no,” I whispered, staring at Tack’s neck.

“Hop off, chestnut.”

I blinked and looked up at him to see his shadowed face looking down at me.

“What?”

“Can’t get off until you let me go and get off so hop off, chestnut.”

“Chestnut?”

“Your hair,” he grunted. “Now hop…off.”

And it was then I noticed that I still had my arms tight around him. Considering his tone was becoming impatient, I felt it prudent at that juncture to let him go and hop off. So I did that and stood unsteadily beside his bike while his brethren closed ranks.

He threw his leg off, grabbed my hand and started walking with wide strides toward the rectangular building taking me with him.

“Um…Mr., uh…Tack –”

“Just Tack,” he interrupted, not breaking stride and dragging me toward the door to the building.

“Right, uh…Tack. I lost my phone. I was on a call to my boyfriend, um –”

He pushed open the door at the same time he twisted his neck and ordered, “Dog, call Lawson. Tell him we got his woman at the compound and she’s safe.”

He knew who I was?

“You know who I am?” I asked as he dragged me into what looked kind of like the rec room of a house except a lot bigger and decorated in shades of seedy bar.

“Make it my business to know everything worth knowin’ in Denver,” he muttered, stopped and stopped me with a tug on my hand.

And since the lights were on I saw him.

Wow.

I’d had a lifetime of rough, gruff men like him visiting my Mom’s trailer and even some of them coming in to visit me in my room. Therefore, I was not big on rough, gruff men who required haircuts and needed to carve out some time to trim their facial hair.

But he was different.

He had some silver in his unruly black hair. He also had visible tattoos and lots of them. Further, he had fabulous bone structure, a dominant brow, a strong jaw. His goatee was long at the chin but for some reason I liked it and I figured this reason was because he wore it well. He had lines radiating from the sides of his eyes and they were extremely attractive.

And he had very, very blue eyes.

“You’re dangerous hot too but a different kind,” I blurted, unfortunately still drunk regardless of the drama I found myself involved in.

His eyes narrowed on me, his head tilted to the side then his goatee moved as both ends of his mouth tipped up slightly.

Oh yes. Dangerous hot.

He turned his head to the boys who followed us in and ordered, “Lockdown Ride. Eyes on the perimeter. No one gets in except Delgado and Lawson.”

On that, he started walking while dragging me behind him again. He took me around a bar to a hallway that had lots of doors off of it.

“Do you know what’s going on?” I asked as he dragged me.

“You know Grigori Lescheva?” he asked back.

Russian mob.

I felt my stomach clench.

Oh boy.

This could not be good.

“I know of him,” I answered as he pushed open a door.

Then he turned on a light and I saw it was a bedroom, a very untidy one.

He pulled me in, stopped us and looked down at me. “Well, he knows you.”

Fantastic.

Tack wasn’t done.

“He also knows your cousin was talkin’ with the DA.”

Damn.

Tack kept going.

“And he also knows you recently had a sit down with him.”

Shit.

“Uh…” I mumbled, unable to wrap my head around this.

“And last, he knows you got a connection with that shit for brains Otis Pierson.”

Shit!

“I barely know Otis,” I told Tack. “I just kind of work with him. And I think he’s creepy.”

“Might be so but Lescheva’s got a problem, he’s comprehensive about solvin’ it.”

That really didn’t sound good.

“Are you saying that he thinks I’m part of his problem?” I asked.

“I’m sayin’ that you got a connection with two people who are bein’ serious pains in his ass. He’s made note ‘a that and when he sweeps up a mess, he’s thorough.”

I stared up at him and whispered, “That’s insane.”

“Chestnut, this guy’s Russian mob. Not one of them is right in the head.”

This was probably true.

“How are you involved in this?” I asked.

“Your cousin and Pierson are bein’ a pain in Lescheva’s ass, he’s a pain in mine,” Tack answered but didn’t elucidate further.

I left it at that as my drunken, stunned brain chugged through this information and when it did, my body locked. All except my hand which shot out to Tack, my fingers curling tight into his black tee.

“My kids,” I whispered.

His head was tipped down to stare at my fist in his tee. I was unfortunately familiar with biker guys so I knew they weren’t big on you touching them unless this was invited but I didn’t remove my hand. Instead, I pulled his shirt out and then pushed it back in, taking a step toward him and his eyes came to me.

“My kids. Bud and Billie. They’re Bill’s kids but they’re mine. If this guy is comprehensive, will he –?”

“Fuck,” he clipped, cutting me off then he roared, “Brick!”

Oh God.

Oh God!

I pushed in closer, my heart tripping over itself, I added my other fist in his shirt and whispered, “Tack.”

“We’re on it,” he muttered, the door opened and a big biker with a small beer gut and a lot of russet brown hair held back in a man-bun swung in with the door. “Winchell’s kids,” Tack said to the big guy.

The big guy’s face went hard and he muttered, “Fuck.”

“They’re at Mitch’s sister’s house. Her name is Penny,” I told them, adding her address then a thought occurred to me and my fists tightened in his tee. “Oh God, Tack. She has kids too!”

“Call Lawson,” Tack ordered the guy in the door. “Get on that.”

The big guy nodded then he was gone.

“Oh God,” I whispered.

“We’re on it,” Tack repeated.

“Oh God!” I cried.

His hands came to my shoulders and squeezed.

“Babe, we’re…on it.”

I stared up into his very, very blue eyes.

“Trust me,” he said softly.

I just kept staring up into his very, very blue eyes.

I didn’t trust bikers. Again unfortunately, I’d known a lot of them and the ones I knew were not trustworthy.

But staring into his eyes, standing there still drunk, totally alive, with bikers going out to take care of my kids, a call being made to my man and not being in a car whisked to the unknown but definitely unsafe with the Russian mob, I trusted him.

So I nodded.

He squeezed my shoulders.

Then he said quietly, “I’ll be back. Stay here.”

I nodded again.

Then he was gone and I was staring at a closed door.

What was probably fifteen minutes later but felt like fifteen days, the door opened and I turned to see another rough, gruff biker, this one younger, standing in it, hand to the doorknob, eyes on me.

“You come with me,” he ordered then he was no longer in the doorway.

I hurried out of the room after him then hustled down the hall. He turned and I turned with him to see Gwen and LaTanya were standing at the bar in the biker rec room. I also distractedly noted my purse was sitting on the bar.

LaTanya immediately broke away from Gwen and came to me, her face awash with relief at seeing me alive and unharmed. This was quickly followed by concern when she got a good look at my face.

“Honey, are you okay?” she asked, arriving at me and grabbing my upper arms.

“No,” I whispered.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“Bill,” I answered, still whispering.

Her face scrunched, indicating she got me and was still worried but now also pissed off.

“We got your purse,” she told me softly, her hands giving my arms a squeeze. “But the bad news is, about seven motorcycles rode over your phone. It’s dust.”

Fabulous.

“Yo!” We heard and we both jumped, LaTanya letting me go and turning toward the bar and my eyes going there to see Elvira had popped up from behind it. She had her gaze trained on the young biker who was with us. “You got any vodka?” she asked him.

I stared.

Only Elvira would make herself at home in a motorcycle club’s rec room.

“You don’t find it back there, we don’t got it,” young biker replied.

“You good to do a liquor store run?” Elvira asked and I blinked. “While you’re out, we’ll need Cointreau, cranberry juice and limes too.”

Young biker stared at her like she’d been beamed behind his brothers’ bar straight from Venus.

“Uh…negative,” he eventually replied.

“I don’t do bourbon or tequila,” she informed him.

“I don’t care,” he informed her and she planted a hand on her hip.

Oh boy.

The Attitude.

“We’re in crisis mode and little black dresses. Crisis plus LBDs equals alcohol consumption. Strike that, crisis at all equals alcohol consumption. I gotta keep my girls steady in the face of the unknown and we’re your guests,” she educated him.

“Work with what you got,” he returned and she glared.

Then she muttered, “Tequila shots it is,” and turned to the shelves behind the bar that held a variety of glasses.

I looked at young biker and stated, “I don’t need tequila. I need to know what’s going on.”