Bewitching The Biker (Royal Bastards MC: Charleston, WV 7)

We both know despite how hard she’s tried I’m no lady. “I was messing around with him. A little harmless fun.”

“It’s all fun and games until one of you turns into a toad.”

She flashes me a toothy grin.

“Ribbit. Ribbit.” I roll my eyes.

“He’ll be back.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t like your Grampy much when we first met either.”

“Not this again. I don’t want to meet anyone.”

“I’m not getting any younger, puddin’ pie.”

“I don’t know why you are in such a rush to marry me off. I think you’re trying to get rid of me or something.”

“Pish posh. The stars decided not me.”

“Hmm,” I mutter and grab a broom. Not that the store needs swept, but I need to keep busy and not be thinking about that asshole biker and Gram’s visions.

“You can fight fate, deary, but she always wins in the end.”

“Right.” My mouth tightens and I bite my tongue, reminding myself to respect my elder.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, darling, but it’d make an old woman happy to see you taken care of.”

“I’m happy,” I promise. “You worry too much.” I don’t need a man to take care of me.

She stops me from sweeping, placing her thin-skinned hand over mine. “It’s my job to want nothing but the best for my girl. Your beau may surprise you.”

“He’s not my anything. Just some rando who came into the store flaunting his money and attitude. No thanks. I’ll pass.”

Gram simply pats my hand.

I finish out my shift and take the back stairs in the storage room to the apartment over the shop. Gram locked up the bottom and went to have dinner with Mr. Fred, her good friend. I think he’s sweet on her, but Gram swears there will never be another for her after my Grampy, but he’s been gone as long as my mother. They died within days of each other from the same terrible accident.

I try not to look back only forward.

Gram is right about one thing. She’s not getting any younger. I know she can’t be with me forever despite how she never seems to age. The woman is nearing eighty and doesn’t look a day over forty-five. Everyone always wants to know what she uses for skin care.

Some of it is product the rest is good genes I hope I’ve inherited.

“Meow.” Boo, my black and white Persian cat saunters across the apartment, pausing to do a stretch and arching her back before rubbing against my ankles.

“Hey, Boo.” I squat to give her a scratch behind the ears. Purrs of satisfaction rumble from her chest as she cuddles her flat face against my palm.

I had reservations of moving in and out from my room at Gram’s, but it was time. I’m twenty-two. I should be out hitting up bars or something, but truthfully, I’d rather stay in with a book and a good cup of tea. I’ve been painfully slow at remodeling my space. It’s a two-bedroom, one bath unit. With a twin on the opposite side, but we don’t currently rent it out to anyone. That apartment needs a new bathroom and kitchen. My kitchen is a work in progress, but my bathroom is complete with an old, deep clawfoot tub that Gram bought years and years ago from an estate sale. It’s how we acquire most of our furniture and other wares.

Some pieces we sell as is, but the back storage room is full of items that need refurbished or repurposed. I move to the kitchen and Boo returns to her favorite spot, the back of my couch to gaze out the window at the street below. I grab the remnants of the salad I had for lunch along with a bottle of water, ignoring the invitations to weddings and baby showers pinned to the front of my fridge, before plopping on the couch. I love my couch. It’s olive green with a quilt style pillow back.

I turn on the Tv right on time for the local news. I don’t know why I bother to watch the depressing program. More and more lately, there’s been an increase in what they call accidental overdoses of Cloud Nine. A drug that is wreaking havoc on the streets of Charleston.

I dig into my salad as Boo flicks her tail against the back of my head waiting for me to give her a nibble of the grilled chicken in my salad that doesn’t have any dressing on it. I tear her off a generous piece and extend my palm in her direction as a picture flashes on the screen of a woman who doesn’t appear much older than myself. I pause mid-chew and listen to the news anchor.

“The Granger family says Mariah was last seen leaving a local bar with an unidentified male last Tuesday.” I look back at the screen and stare at her face. I went to school with a Mariah, but she was heavier than they are saying this woman weighs.

The program cuts to her mother. “It’s not like her to not call or text to let me know she’s not coming home. Sure she’s an adult, but that’s my daughter, and I just want to know she’s okay. I’m not mad. I’m worried.”

A shiver moves through me and Boo meows.

“If anyone was at Pike’s Grill Late Monday night early Tuesday morning and remembers seeing Mariah Granger, local police ask you to call. No tip is too small.”

My cell phone rings from the kitchen counter. I place my salad bowl on the coffee table.

“You.” I point at Boo. “Behave.” I get up and grab my phone expecting it to be Gram. No one else ever calls me. The screen says Andi calling.

She came into the shop a few months back to get Gram’s perfume, but we didn’t get a chance to catch up. We promised we’d grab dinner or drinks sometime. Neither of us made good on the promise.

“Hello.”

“Binx, it’s Andi.”

I don’t tell her I got that from her name displayed on my screen.

“What’s up?”

“Did you see?”