Page 13 of Spooked
“You ride a motorcycle?”
I navigate through Tucson, heading out of the city, before I answer her. “I’m a biker.”
“A biker?” She frowns. “You say that like it’s a way of life.”
Chuckling, I inform her, “It is. I’m a member of the Satan’s Devils MC.”
I hear the “oh shit”murmured under her breath, and see the anxious look she gives to the door handle.
“Hey, you’ve no need to worry. Didn’t you get it? SD Construction? It’s the club’s company.”
“SD? Oh,” she breathes out. “No, I thought it was the owner’s initials or something.”
“Not from around here, are you, darlin’?”
“Not for some years,” she confirms.
Strange, I think to myself. The Satan’s Devils have been around for decades, and back in Bastard’s day they deserved the reputation most people associate with motorcycle clubs. Surely, she’d have heard of us growing up? Or maybe not, if she was sheltered in the huge mansion.
I continue driving, following the route I’d promised myself never to travel again. The conversation has died out with the confirmation of my lifestyle. I don’t really know what to say to her, short of suggesting that getting acquainted with my dick is a better idea than visiting her childhood home. Reminding myself that not only am I currently out of action, I’m on Satan’s Devils’ business and can’t let down the club, I keep those thoughts to myself.
Likewise, perhaps disconcerted by my admission that I’m a member of an outlaw club, she keeps quiet.
As we reach our destination, I’m thankful I hadn’t closed the gate. My heart rate speeds up as I negotiate the road, apologising for the rattling I’m giving her bones, before pulling up outside the house. I hope I do nothing to embarrass myself, like jumping at shadows. But then remind myself we’re here, chasing a ghost she thought she saw in a picture.
No way. There was no one else here. And I don’t believe in the supernatural. If I imagined anything, it was a result of my brain injury.
She peers up at the house as I put the car into park. Risking a glance at her, I see her lips are pressed tightly together.
“I warned you. It’s been abandoned for years.”
“It shouldn’t be this way,” she almost whispers. “The house should have come to me. I’d have filled it with love and family.”
“You’re married?”
A quick glance at me, then she says, “No.”
Barking a laugh, I tell her, “Then no way would you have been able to afford the upkeep and taxes, unless you’re a multi-millionaire.” She’s dressed smartly, and I might be an ignorant biker, but even I know her clothes aren’t designer labels. “Believe me, you’re better off without this burden around your neck.” Like her, I gaze at the façade. “Your aunt’s in a bind. If it’s restored, who the fuck would want to buy a property this size nowadays? It’s too far out of town, let alone big enough to be turned into a hotel. And if it’s bulldozed, then the same thing stands. It’s not the kind of area for new-build houses. I’ve no idea who originally thought it was a good idea to construct a house here.”
“My great-grandfather,” she says, as if my comment were a question. “He came from the East Coast with the idea of discovering gold. And he did. Then my grandfather inherited,but the gold had run out by then, though he was left a fortune.” She pauses, then continues, “My gramma used to tell me when she first came to the house, there were servants, maids, a cook, a gardener, and a butler. But by the time I came along, it was only Gramma here.”
I really don’t want to go back inside, but there’s no point just sitting here prolonging the agony. My pulse rate speeds up just looking at the house. Before I give myself a heart attack, I reach out and open the door. “You wanted to see it, let’s go.”
It’s then that I feel her reluctance, but don’t understand why, due to her prior insistence. But maybe, now she’s here, she’s aware of just how much deterioration has occurred since she last stepped through the front door.
“We can just go back to Tucson,” I offer.
“No,” she says sharply. “I’m here now. I want the full tour.”
Thoughts go through my head, like why didn’t I leave my debrief with Bullet until tomorrow? Then he’d have been the one to have to deal with her. Or, why did I chicken out yesterday and return to the club rather than giving him the photos straight away? But I can’t go back in time, I’m here now.
She waits while I hop on my right leg to open the back door and extract the crutches, get situated, and then start to move.
There are three steps up to the entrance. I don’t miss the pitying glance she sends toward my injured leg, before she asks, “Are you sure you can manage?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I reply, deliberately trying to make accommodating my leg and crutches look easy. Reaching the top, I twist the key in the lock, but there’s no need. The door pushes open. It’s then I remember not shutting it properly after I’d run out like the demons of hell were after me. At her incredulous look, I shrug my shoulders sheepishly, knowing she’s wondering why we’d made such a fuss about giving her the key.
Perhaps it’s because she’s so eager to go in, but she lets me off lightly when she could have complained about the unprofessionalism of SD Construction.
