Strong and Steady

“We’re going to dinner at Double-B

Diner.”

“Double-B?” She pulled the cotton balls from her toes. “That’s right, you said you met the owner.”

“Who’s going to Double-B?” Paul asked as he came in from the kitchen. He tilted his head from side to side, trying to release a crick. “I hate conference calls,” he muttered.

“We are. With Emory,” Christy told him.

Paul’s brow went up. I told him about Jackson's scraped knees and the thank you meal.

“Gray will come to dinner, too, hopefully. I should have asked if you had plans. I hope it was okay to accept,” I said. “Quake wants to talk with me about something.”

“Quake? You’re on first name basis with Quake Baker?” he asked, dropping down into an overstuffed chair that sat perpendicular to the sofa. He grabbed Christy's ankles and propped them up on his knees.

“Watch the toes!” she said, wiggling her feet.

“Um, yeah,” I replied.

“He does more than own a diner, you know,” Paul said, watching me carefully.

I frowned, and Paul leaned forward, resting his forearms over Christy's lower legs.

“Yeah, he’s president of a motorcycle club,” I replied.

“Motor— Are you serious?” Christy asked, her voice full of awe.

Paul looked to Christy, then me. “He doesn’t spend his days waiting tables and washing dishes. He keeps his nose clean, at least as far as the cops know. The diner’s one of many of the club’s successful businesses.”

“You know this because…?” I prodded.

“Because I work for the District Attorney’s office.”

That made sense. Paul would know more about Quake’s underworld affairs more than most.

“Is he dangerous?” I asked, worried I was going from one dangerous situation to another. Had I just accepted an invitation to something… bad? God, it was easy to kill someone if they showed up exactly when and where you wanted them. Quake was definitely rough around the edges, and calling him “rough” was probably me being nice. And naïve at what he was involved in. But he’d been nice to me. Courteous even. And he’d even taken the time to teach Jackson to be a gentleman. I couldn’t hate him or even be afraid of him. It didn’t mean I would stop by his clubhouse—or whatever they called it—to say hi, but I wasn’t going to turn down his offer for dinner either.

“To you?” Paul shook his head. “You helped his grandson, right?”

I nodded. “As I said, Jackson was hurt, and I gave him Band-Aids. Plus Chris’ old bike helmet. I guess he and his uncle Frankie live a few blocks away.”

“And Frankie Baker personally fixed your front lights and brought you food,” Paul added. “I’d say you’re under his protection. Quake, I mean.”

“His protection?” When his expression didn’t change, I went on. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Paul nodded.

“I had no idea there was a motorcycle club in Brant Valley. Gangs I know are creeping in but outlaw bikers?”

The ER was filled with gang bangers who’d moved from Denver or even California. They’d been shot or beat up, and I was becoming well versed in the tattoos and colors to know there was a war on the streets of the city, but I’d never once heard of the No Holds Barred MC.

Quake did have a sense of authority about him, and his son Frankie did whatever the man said, but I related that more to respect than do-as-I-say-or-you’ll-be-shot-in-the-back-of-the-head power.

“Hang on.” I remembered the matchbook Frank gave me and went back to my purse and dug through it. “Here. I was given this.”

Paul took it, flipped it over. “Jesus, you have Quake Baker’s cell phone number. You’re definitely under his protection.”

“What does that mean exactly?” I sat back down and finished tugging the cotton balls from between my toes, added them to the pile of Christy's to throw out.