Page 72 of Devil's Own: Roughneck

In barely a whisper, I reply, “I know he’s got you. Where you heading?”

“Hey,” she says. “I had a photo of Waite as a newborn in a frame hanging in my house. We got everything when we packed it up, right?”

Florida. They’re heading to Florida.

Then, completely off-topic she says, “I have this rash on my leg from when that raccoon ran out in front of your bike.”

Racoon? No raccoon ran out in front of my bike.

“I thought it was okay; it’s not like I left any skin on the road. But it’s bothering me now.”

Skin on the road?

“What’s the name of that ointment you use? The one in the blue bottle. Remember, it has that sharp, plastic ridge?”

For a split second, I wonder if she’s hit her head, but I know my Gee. She’s telling me everything I need to know. I just need to be smart enough to figure it out.

“Oh,” she says last. “We’re at the store. I’m getting a drink, so I have to let you go. But don’t forget to make the appointment to get my car detailed when you get home.” She pauses, then adds, “Love you, Rough.”

And she’s gone.

My gut clenches and I’m about to descend into full-on panic mode, but I check myself. She’s dead if I don’t get this right.Think, goddammit. A rash on her leg. Skin on the road. Blue bottle. Sharp, plastic ridge. Getting a drink… “Fuck!”

I press Vlad’s contact on my phone.

“Talk to me,” he answers.

“She’s on her way to Backwoods.”

“The fuck?” he shouts.

“Get Old Man on the line. Get the Thunder Gods. Let them know. Pointing my bike in that direction now.” That’s the last I say before hanging up and turning my bike toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Road Rash is a bar in a small town that hosts a huge biker rally in the summer. Everyone who knows anything about bikers or the biker life knows about Backwoods.

Horace and Jack Dunham fucked with the wrong man’s woman.

Hold on, Gee… I’m coming for you.

22

Rough is smart. I only hope he’s smart enough to figure out the clues I dropped. Lord knows Horace isn’t smart enough to pick up that I dropped them. It's a good thing he knows nothing about my life with Rough or how often we go out ridingandthat I have jeans on. Does Gia have road rash? He’ll never know.

“You did good back there,” he says. “Smart.” But then, “Fuck, Gee!” explodes from his mouth. “Why’d you have to whore yourself out to Rough?”

“Whore…myself—who was I supposed to whore myself out to instead?” I ask, and I’m completely confused. Did Horace want me for himself?

“No one. You’re a good woman. You raised Waite alone when your husband ran off with another bitch. He’s always talking about what a good mom you are.”

“I love my son very much,” I reply, trying to remain calm. The calmer I stay, the less agitated he becomes, right?

“I wish to God you hadn’t come down those stairs. Hedidn’t wantyou. Not you. And then—” Horace stops his thought, pounding on the steering wheel.

He? He who?

For a hot second, I worry that he’d picked up on me dropping clues when I’d asked Rough about the blue bottle with the sharp ridge. The man’s so dense he’d never even blinked at the comment. We just need to make it to Backwoods.

After he shot out my son’s tire, he ordered me to head for the Blue Ridge Mountains. I knew where we were heading the minute Blue Ridge came out of his mouth. Unless he has property up in those parts, there’s one place—a small town in the middle of nowhere—where all bikers are welcome, no matter their club affiliations. Backwoods. That’s the name of the town. We won't look out of place as long as I keep my cool–just a biker and his old lady passing through.

Like I’d ever be his old lady. The thought sickens me. And then there’s my boy. I watched in the rearview mirror as he crashed—no,Waite is fine. He is. I have to believe that, or he and I will both be dead, and something awful will happen to Greer. I can’t let anything bad happen to Greer. She’s a mom. Two beautiful children and a third on the way. Waite is alive, and Greer will be fine.

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