Page 77 of Flyboy's Nightingale
“If it was, it's time to go,” Wesson says, his body language tense.
“He doesn’t travel alone, so I don’t think it was,” Smith answers as the door bangs open again.
In walks a dark headed man, again in a suit that costs more than this entire bar. As he passes, he nods and smirks at Prez, his steps never faltering. He makes it to the same door knocking in two four sharp sets with his knuckles.
“Looks like that’s the confirmation we need to get the hell out,” Smith snaps, throwing the rest of his beer down his throat. “Because that was Luca Volkov, meaning the first was Yuri. I don’t know why the Russians are here, but we don’t want to be caught in the middle of whatever is about to go down.”
Prez raises an eyebrow. “It’s almost as if you guys are running from the boogey man. We know that if those two are here, we’re good. Enjoy the food and your beers.”
The T.V. above the bar blares with a new, urgent alert, and when the report starts speaking, I’m lost for words.
The reporter begins relaying the story, announcing, “I’m standing here as a local motorcycle gang’s property has gone up in flames. Officers are saying that at this time, it appears to be a drug lab explosion has caused the blaze. Unfortunately, there are no survivors, and it’ll take time to identify all those who have lost their lives in this catastrophic event.”
We’re so engrossed in the T.V. that we don’t hear the door open again. All of a sudden, there’s a man standing at the end of the table. Finally able to tear my eyes away from the T.V., Beetlejuice himself is standing there in an expensive ass suit.
With three sharp knocks on the table, he states, “It’s funny how the trash takes itself out, isn’t it? You boys have a safe trip home.”
We sit there staring as he walks away, to the same door knocking with a different series of knocks before it’s pulled open. None of us say anything as we continue watching the screen, still in shock about the events they’re reporting.
“Well, gentleman, it’s time to get home,” Prez decides, standing and heading for the door.
Standing, we follow him to the door. Getting on our bikes to head home, letting the satisfaction seep in that the club is safe and not responsible for the take down of another club.
I’m coming home, Riley. Ready to start living our forever.
EPILOGUE
Smith
Sittingat the bar I twist the bottle around in my hand, once again, asking myself how the fuck I ended up here. Our business with the Dirty Sinners have come to an end, so I shouldn’t be here waiting and watching for her to show up. I knew the first time that I took her to the motel that it would be nothing more than that one night. The only fucking problem right now, is that one night wasn’t enough. I crave her day and night. Fucking hell, it’s been months and it still isn’t enough.
I want her. I want to give her everything that she’s never had. I don’t know her past, or even her present, yet I still want to give her every one of her heart’s desires. What I do know, is the despair that I see in hers that mirror my own calls to me like a moth to the flame. I want to peel away the veneer of the woman she shows the world to find the real woman that lies beneath. I want to be the man that she’s willing to be soft with.
The door to my right opens, and it takes every ounce of strength that I have to not turn around to see who’s coming through it.
Becca smirks as she makes her way over to me. “You know, I’ve never seen a man struggle so hard not to be obvious. So, I’m going to cut you some slack. One, it’s been almost two months since she was last here. And two, that wasn’t her coming through the door.”
Smiling at her, a chuckle breaks free. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an angel?”
“All the time, sugar. You want another one?” Becca questions.
“Nah, I think I’m going to head out. I’ll see you around.” I throw some money down on the bar as I get up and move toward the door.
I make it through the jamb when a mass of red hair slams into my chest. She doesn’t even look up or try to meet my eyes.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” she mumbles, sounding so fragile.
“Cheyenne?” I’m shocked. “What happened? Are you okay?”
She lifts her head with tears running unchecked down her cheeks. “Smith? What? Are you really here?”
“Cheyenne, tell me what's wrong,” I demand, cupping her face so she can’t look away.
“She almost died. I almost lost the only person in the world that means anything to me. She was in the room right next to me, and she almost died. I was right there, and he still got to her,” Cheyenne rambles as sobs shake her body.
I wrap her in my arms, pulling her so her face rests between my pecs. She fists my shirt at my waist, holding on to me as if I’m going to disappear. I get lost in holding her, allowing her to break in a way that I don’t believe she ever allows herself to. When the sobs finally subside, to a point that her body isn’t shaking and her breathing has evened out, I pull back so I can see her face. Taking in her tear streaked face and the pain written there, I want to hide her away from the world.
“Come with me. Let’s go for a fucking ride,” I whisper.
