Swing (Tidals & Anchors MC 1)

I took another swig of my beer and groaned internally when she sat down next to me.

“Sorry if I was being aggressive. I didn’t know how else to get your attention and I have something you want,” she said in a more serious tone.

“And what’s that?” I asked with a sigh.

She put a yellowed envelope down next to my basket and got to her feet.

“This is from Warner. See you around.”

With that she got to her feet again and walked out of Coasters leaving me sitting there staring at what I hoped was Harold’s letter.

But how did Warner know where I was? If he had found me, then Pardon would damn sure do the same. I got up, threw money on the bar top, grabbed the envelope, and called Dallas as I walked out of the bar.

Ten

Saylor was sitting on my Harley when I left Coasters. I didn’t notice her until I hung up with Dallas and was about to lean on it to collect my thoughts.

“Just to be sure; you’re Nero Rader, right?” she asked, glancing up at me. She used her hand to shield what was left of the afternoon sun glaring into her face.

I nodded.

“Good. Listen, I just wanted to apologize again for coming on the way I did. I actually hate when women act like that, but I had to be sure I had the right guy and I didn’t know how else to go about it.”

“We’re good,” I assured her. Saylor nodded and got off of my bike. I walked around her and threw one leg over it as I brought it to an upright position. I didn’t turn it on yet though. Something about her was still bothering me.

“How do you know Warner?” I asked.

She smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. “We go way back. If you need anything else besides what’s in there, my phone number is on the back of the envelope.”

And with that she walked away from me leaving me sitting there staring after her. There was more to Saylor than she was willing to say, and it was bothering the fuck out of me. I watched her for a while until she disappeared down the block. The black leather pants under super short denim shorts, coupled with Converse shoes made me smile for some reason. The oversized shirt she wore that gave just a glimpse of her stomach told me she didn’t take life too seriously. So, why was just the sight of her so damn haunting?

I would have to push those thoughts aside so I could read Harold’s letter with a clear head. Then once I was able to process what he wanted for Tidals & Anchors, I’d call Saylor and see if I could get anymore information out of her.

I took my time getting home. I obeyed all the posted speed limits and I made sure to stop on lights that were even just yellow. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed so I wanted to let whoever it was know, if there was anyone, that I wasn’t afraid of them. That t

hey were more than welcome to see my temporary place, because after tomorrow night, I wouldn’t be there anymore.

Make sure you’re taking notes, I thought with a chuckle.

The only thing that made sense to me was that Pardon was having me tailed. Who else would have a reason to follow me around this place? I turned down the street that my apartment was located on and backed up toward the garage door, making sure there was enough space for me to be able to pull up the door and bring the bike in.

Once that was all said and done, I walked over to the front door and fished for my keys in my pocket. I heard a car door open and close on the otherwise silent street and chose to ignore the feeling of trouble in the pit of my stomach.

I stuck the corresponding key into the keyhole and pushed it open. Mere seconds after I stepped inside, I heard someone call out my name. But whoever it was didn’t say “Swing.” I cocked my head to the side and listened as the footsteps got closer and faster.

“Hey, Nero!” the voice called out again.

I turned around in time to see someone wearing a white mask come running toward me, with a baseball bat in their hand, and cracked it across my face as hard as they could. I staggered on my feet for a few moments. Tasting the bitter iron starting to fill my mouth, before the world went black.

Eleven

Dallas

Pardon was going on and on about Swing and how he deserted the club, but I obviously knew better. I was sitting at the table in the meeting room of the clubhouse trying not to lose my shit at him. I loved my father for all his faults, but he had no reason to want Swing dead.

“Any questions?” he asked, breaking into my thoughts.

“Yeah,” I said, raising my hand. “You never told the club why you wanted another year in the chair. All you ever really said was that you had some shit you needed to take care of. What was it?”