Family Ties (Ashby Crime Family)

The truth was, I had no place to go, and the money Tits gave me wouldn’t get me far. I needed more money, and I needed it quick.

“Call me, Charlie,” he said and took a step forward, frowning when I took a cautious step back. Charlie held up a lighter, and I relaxed, but just a little.

I arched a brow as I took a cigarette out of my new pack and held it to his flame. “Is Charlie your name?” I asked, exhaling smoke to the side.

“It is,” he said with another killer smile. “You got a name, Blue Eyes?”

“I do. Savannah Rhymer,” I said to test the waters of recognition. Charlie, if that was his name, did a good job of looking dumb, as if he didn’t recognize my name, but the leather vest and the President patch told me he knew exactly who I was. We didn’t do much business in Mayhem, but the President of the Reckless Bastards should know the Rhymer name.

Charlie took his time processing the information, probably calculating the amount of money he might get by selling me to some other gang or from my father, Ronan. “Get on.”

I stood there and stared hard for a long moment. I couldn’t read this man, which meant I couldn’t risk trusting him. “Why?”

He sighed and swung one long, denim-clad leg over the bike. “It’s not safe for you to be out on the streets.”

“Since when do MC presidents moonlight as knights in chrome armor?”

He shrugged. “I have no beef with you or your family, so I’d say I’m the safest bet you’re gonna come across in these parts.” His words were confident but not cocky, and I had a choice to make.

Trust him or fly on my own.

I hadn’t counted the cash Tits had shoved in my hand, but it couldn’t be more than a few hundred bucks, which might get me out of town, maybe even out of the state, but then I’d be broke. I needed a night to think, to sleep, and then I could plan my getaway.

“Fine. Thanks, I guess.”

Charlie chuckled and kicked the engine into a roaring start, nodding for me to hop on the back, which I did hesitantly. I held my ribs with one hand and wrapped the other one around his midsection. Charlie was lean and solid. As the motorcycle started to move, I hoped that this wasn’t another mistake, a worse mistake. One that would make the past few months seem like a vacation in the Mediterranean.

The motorcycle came to a stop in a wide driveway that led up to a two-story family home. I knit my brows together, trying to figure out where he’d taken me.

“What’s this?” I said as I eased myself off the back and pointed at the home, only lit by the golden bulb fixed above the porch.

Charlie’s long leg swung around the bike a moment after he killed the engine, and then he turned to me with an almost charming smile. “This is home.”

If I was still capable of being charmed, that smile would have worked. Definitely.

Chapter Eleven

Charlie

I’d stumbled upon Savannah fucking Rhymer. What were the odds? Especially since we’d just snuffed out her brother.

I hadn’t recognized her at all until she told me her name because the woman asleep in my guest room was rail thin with hollowed out cheeks and sunken eyes, but underneath the dirt and attitude, she was there. Savannah Rhymer. And she was with Tits Stepanova, the chick who managed Lucky Lopez. And Jasper owned Lucky Lopez. How were they connected?

It was too much to unravel this morning. I’d barely been able to sleep after getting Savannah settled, trying to figure it all out.

Since today was Maisie’s wedding, I’d be gone most of the day. And I needed to get some answers before I mentioned this find to anyone. Still, I wondered how Tits had Savannah and Jasper didn’t know. Was she the one who opened the back door to Lucky Lopez?

I took a quick shower, still pondering how this puzzle fit together, and then went to unlock the guest room door where Savannah was already awake.

“Thanks for letting me out of my cage,” she said, following me into the kitchen. Her voice was low and husky, still a little thick from sleep.

I laughed and shook my head with an unapologetic shrug and pointed to the tracks on her arm. “You’re a stranger and a junkie, not to mention a Rhymer. Would you give me freedom to roam your house?”

“I guess not,” she said and dropped down into one of the wooden chairs my mom had decorated with black and silver cushions. “Are you making coffee?”

“Nope.” I shook my head at her question. “Keurig. Pods are here, mugs are there, creamer’s in the fridge and sugar is beside the pot. Help yourself.” I watched her movements, slow and deliberate, as if she were trying to hide pain that went beyond withdrawals.