The Favor (Ghosttown Riders Book 1) Read online

  “Don’t move. The ambulance is on its way, okay, just try to breathe easy, help’s coming.” She recited her words twice—once for his assurance, and another for hers. She bent down, dropping to her knees, carefully avoiding contact but remaining close to him. Her hands hovered over his side, unsure of how to help him. When he shifted, she gently guided him back to the ground.

  Her breath hitched when his face came into full view. A thick stream of blood dripped down his head, over his eyes, and down his cheek. She followed the source and had to draw in a deep breath to combat her nausea. The deep gash across his temple and hairline was an open laceration displaying jagged flesh. So much blood poured out of the wound, it looked black rather than red. His body jolted forward, and she clasped his hand when he started to swing.

  “Please, just calm down, I don’t want you to get more hurt, please.” His hand squeezed hers in a very faint motion, and she pressed her free hand against his shoulder, easing him back. He didn’t resist. He could hear her. This is good, talk to him. His hand moved slightly, and one eye peered open.

  She strained a smile in hopes of calming him and leaned closer. “Just hang on, okay?”

  His lips moved, and his tongue laved his bottom lip. His words were gravelly between his coughs. “My bike.”

  He was concerned over his bike? She glanced over toward the embankment. She hadn’t seen it but didn’t need to. The drop was about a hundred feet. The chances his bike was intact were slim to none. She clamped her lips, squeezing them together tightly.

  “They’ll get your bike once they fix you up, just hang on, please.” She sighed and whispered, “Don’t die on me.” She couldn’t be sure if the plea was for the man or God. She’d never witnessed anyone die, and she didn’t want to. He groaned and moved slightly as his hand gripped tightly against hers. She moved closer, swiping her hand against his forehead. “Just breathe for me, okay? Nice and steady.” She wiped the fallen hair strands from his eyes. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise. Just need you to hang on.” She cradled their clasped hands against her chest and forced a smile. He stared back at her with a dazed glimmer, but the corner of his lip curled.

  She tightened her grip on his hand as a way to will him to stay strong.

  His lips twisted, and she leaned closer. “Cops.” It came out soft but strangled.

  Was that a request? She was sure the cops would come along with the ambulance.

  “Yeah, they’ll come, and don’t worry, I have a good memory. I can identify the car and the license plate of the driver.” Her mind drew a blank, except for the Illinois license plate. She couldn’t remember the tag number. Shit. For the first time, she realized the car never stopped. She was so focused on the biker, she didn’t even know if the car had at least slowed down. It certainly hadn’t stopped, and there was no mistake he’d hit him. Maybe the driver called nine-one-one too. How could he not stop?

  The man stared back at her, and his head shook slightly. His lips moved, but his words were mumbled. She leaned in to hear him better. With only a few inches separating them, she got a good look at the biker. She had been right about the age assessment. He was probably in his sixties, his face weathered and lined with deep wrinkles. His eyes were a soft brown and currently pleading.

  His lips moved, and she blinked. “What?”

  “Take it,” he said and then sucked in a sharp breath. His pain was so raw she could almost feel it. She waited for his breathing to settle. It didn’t. “My stomach.” He coughed, spewing up a wad of blood. She swallowed her breath and the bile threatening her throat.

  “Take it.”

  His short responses were choppy and mumbled, but she understood the gist of it. She glanced down at his tattered clothing, which had been ripped to shreds from the wreck. She lifted his leather vest. Her hand shook as she maneuvered beyond his blood-soaked T-shirt. A crumpled wad of what was she assumed was originally a manila packaging stuck out from the front his pants. The sirens caught her attention, and she looked past her car.

  She grazed her hand over his forehead and wiped away the beads of sweat. “The ambulance is here,” she whispered with a faint smile. “You’re gonna be okay.”

  A hard squeeze to her hand had her angling closer, only inches away from his bloodied face. “Take it.” He gasped a breath. “No cops.”

  This man was asking her to take and hide a package from the cops? Oh hell no.

  She shook her head and pulled away slightly, but his eyes drew her back.

  He hinged forward slightly and grimaced. She eased her hand against his shoulder.

  “Don’t move, help is coming.”

  His bottom lip trembled, and his eyes were at half mast. “Your name?”

  She blinked and drew in a breath. “Cheyenne.”

  The corner of his mouth curled as he tightened his clasp on her hand. “That’s pretty.”

  Even in the most horrific and dramatic experience, she smiled. It was a sweet compliment, especially coming from someone in such obvious pain.

  “I’m Mick.” His lips meshed together as if he was gearing up to say something but losing the battle. “Please, Cheyenne.” He gulped and struggled for breath. “Just take it.”

  Somehow, the exchange of names had changed something. He was Mick, and she was Cheyenne, and she had to do what he’d asked. Maybe it was the desperation in his tone. His last words were a plea to her. She drew in a breath and stared back at the man. If he did survive, it would be a harsh and painful recovery. It was a big if too. Her eyes teared, bracing some of the pain he must have been feeling. Without giving it another thought, she grabbed the envelope and shoved the crumpled package down the back of her jeans and untucked her shirt to cover it.

  “No cops, I promise.”

  The corner of his lip curled slightly, and she smiled back. “Ya gotta hold on, Mick, okay?” A tear streamed down her cheek, and she swiped her shoulder against her face to wipe it away.

  He slowly nodded incoherently. His lips meshed together, opening and closing. He struggled and then moaned. “Meg.” His eyes were trained on her until his lids slowly lowered, and he whispered again. “Meg.”

  She held on tight to his hand but felt his grip loosen. Oh God, no.

  The stammering from behind was what tore her gaze from him. It had all happened so fast. Two police officers, accompanied by an ambulance, raced over to them, and things got crazy. She reluctantly released his hand when she was pulled away, but her gaze never left him. There was so much chaos and loud screaming from all around. All Cheyenne could do was stand by and watch. She curled her arms around her stomach and said a silent prayer. Please, don’t let him die.

  The voice sounded from far away, even though they were a mere three feet from her.

  “We’re losing him.”

  “Pulse is faint.”

  Cheyenne stepped back, making room for the gurney rolled out in the middle of the highway. Maybe it was shock, but she felt frozen, watching the paramedics try to revive him. The man lay silent and still. No, not the man. Mick. Her eyes teared and quickly streamed down her cheeks.

  He’s not gonna make it.

  ****

  There was an accident…he didn’t make it.

  Trax had gotten the call about twenty minutes ago. It was one he wasn’t prepared to receive. A life-changing call.

  Mick was gone.

  There were few details, or maybe there were more he missed. He zoned out, trying to wrap his head around the news. He wasn’t sure how long he had stood in his garage, silently gripping the phone. Could have been minutes or hours. Grief had an odd way of making time stand still.

  Mick is dead.

  It wasn’t the first time death had knocked on his door. Trax was the only surviving member of his immediate family. His younger brother had died at the age of thirteen. He’d been hit by a car while riding his bike home from school. An accident, horrific and life-changing, but an accident. It was his first experience with loss and grief. It wouldn’t be his
last.

  A few years later, it was his mom. She’d been sick for a month or two, refused medical assistance, and continued to smoke two packs a day. By the time she gave in and saw the doctor, it was too late. Stage four lung cancer took her a few months later. His father hung on but eventually succumbed to the pain of losing his kid and wife. He drank himself to death. Trax couldn’t blame him. So much grief in such a short time was enough to make anyone throw in the towel.

  Then there was Trax, the lone survivor.

  If anyone should know the heartache and be able to grasp it, it was him. Yet, there he was, completely blindsided by Mick’s death.

  Mick. His brother. His friend. His mentor. The man who had vouched for Trax when he prospected with the Ghosttown Riders nine years ago. Gone.

  The short drive seemed longer than it had ever been. He pulled into the side lot of the clubhouse. He was one of three motorcycles pulling in. He dismounted and then hurried inside. When he’d gotten the call from Rourke, he’d had few details. Mick was on his way back from a pickup and had been hit on the highway. He died on the scene.

  It was surreal. He’d just spoken to him in the morning. They had plans. They were meeting up for drinks at the strip club. After all, Trax owed Mick. It was Trax who was supposed to make the pickup. Mick offered when Trax had mentioned being backlogged on some repairs.

  A favor, which ultimately cost Mick his life.

  The somber greeting he received when he walked in only confirmed the truth. Mick was dead, and the entire club was feeling it. Nadia, one of the club girls, walked over to him, tears streaming down her cheeks. She fell into his chest with a sharp sob. He curled his hand around the back of her neck.

  She sniffled, and her muffled voice was strained. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Trax did his best to comfort her, but he wasn’t generally good with crying women. “Where’s Meg?”

  Nadia glanced up, tears rimming her eyes. “Home. Me and a few of the girls are gonna head over now.”

  Trax nodded. Meg was Mick’s old lady. They’d been together for years, and of all the old ladies, Meg was his favorite. She was a surrogate mom to him, though she was only about twenty years his senior. Both Meg and Mick had taken him on when he started prospecting. They gave him a safe place and became his family, just as the club had.

  A sharp pain speared his chest. Meg. She was beyond devoted to her husband and the club he loved. This was going to wreck her. He closed his eyes and willed himself to pull his shit together. He’d let the guilt sink in later when he was alone. For now, the only thing he could do was be there for Meg and his club. He steadied his breathing and glanced down at Nadia.

  “You tell her I’ll be there soon. Need to check in with Kase.” He squeezed her shoulder and then released her, making his way into the back. All the brothers were gathered as he entered the room. The usual jovial crew was destroyed by this loss. It would be a hard one for the club. Mick was one of the oldest and most loyal members. He lived and breathed Ghosttown Riders. He was what most brothers strived to be. What I strive to be.

  Years ago, when Trax showed an interest in becoming a member, it was Mick who took him under his wing. A lot of men were drawn into clubs with promises of partying and women. Not Trax and not Mick. It was the brotherhood that Mick spoke of. The solidarity of the members, the unity, and the loyalty drew Trax in. The Ghosttown Riders wasn’t just an MC. It was a family of brothers who had each other’s backs and would stay true until their last breaths.

  Until Mick’s last breath. He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw. He would mourn Mick properly with his brothers. Then, when he was alone, he’d allow himself to truly grieve.

  Kase, the president of the Ghosttown Riders, stood in front of the members while Trax angled his way in the back to Rourke and Gage. Both men lifted their chins in acknowledgment and aimed their attention back to their president.

  “Details are still coming in.” Kase dropped his gaze to the table. Losing a member was always hard, but Mick had been especially close with Kase. “Officially, all we got now—” he drew in a breath “—he was coming home from the pickup, and a car sideswiped him.”

  Trax cleared his throat. “Unofficially?”

  Kase’s scowled deepened. “I had a prospect go to the scene and take pictures, knowing the fucking cops wouldn’t be sharing all their information with us.” Kase grasped his neck. “Mick was slammed with enough force to throw him off his bike and send it over the side of the road.”

  “Know the driver?”

  “No. The driver took off.” Kase paused and scowled. Trax was sure he was sharing the same suspicions as his president and the rest of his brothers. Mick was hit with deliberate force, and the driver took off. Fuck. Kase clenched his jaw, scanning the brothers. “Another car coming up from behind witnessed it, called nine-one-one and stayed with him until the ambulance showed.”

  “He able to give a description?” Rourke asked from next to him.

  Kase gazed up. “She. It was a woman.” He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands at his waist. “Waiting on Carter to get more, but for now, it’s all we got.” He eyed the room. “Officially. Unofficially, don’t think I gotta say, something doesn’t sit right with how this went down. I want everyone riding in pairs from here on out.”

  No one would argue with the logic. It was a safety measure. The club had run rough for years, dabbling in activities on the other side of the law. Mostly, drug transporting and loans with an extreme interest. The money had been great, but the risk weighed them down. Too many members, including Trax, had done time. A few years ago, they set their sights on going legit, but their past held a lot of grudges. It was a thought crossing the minds of every member in the room.

  It could possibly be a fluke accident. Maybe the car who hit him didn’t realize. Possible, but not likely. They had enemies. Trax settled in against the wall, staring down at the floor. Retribution was common among clubs. The way it played out with Mick—driving alone, quiet road, coming back from a pickup? Fuck. They should have seen it coming. He closed his eyes, trying his best to control his anger. And his regret.

  “Mick deserves a big send-off,” Kase said. “And we are gonna fucking give him one.” He glanced around the room. “We fucking clear?”

  Trax merely nodded while some of his brothers spoke up with cheers. He wasn’t there yet. He couldn’t celebrate Mick while he was still mourning the loss. Trax remained in the room as others made their way out to the bar.

  Most members had left, leaving just a few men.

  His VP, Saint, moved through the room in silence, which was usually how he moved. As he passed Trax, he gripped his shoulder in a tight squeeze, and Trax gazed up.

  “This isn’t on you.” Saint narrowed his eyes. “We’ll find out who set this up and carried it out,” he paused, “but this isn’t on you. You feel me?”

  Trax jerked his chin. The assurance did nothing to relieve any guilt he was feeling. This was on him. He was scheduled for the pickup. He should have been on that highway, not Mick. Saint lingered a second longer before slapping his shoulder and then making his way to the door.

  “I’ll make the calls.” He left the room without explanation. There wasn’t a need for it. They all knew what he meant and who’d he’d call. The chapters would want to know, show their solidarity and support, and everyone would want to pay their respects to Mick. He’d garnered a reputation as being a good guy among all the members.

  Trax started toward the door when Rourke came to his side. They left the room and made their way through the hall in silence. As they entered the bar area, the room was flooded with people, yet it was eerily quiet.

  “Driving out to Meg’s?” Rourke asked, keeping in step with Trax as he headed to the door.

  “Yeah.” Trax pushed the door open and then descended the stairs.

  “Saint’s right, man. This ain’t on you.”

  Trax halted mid-step, staring at the parking lot. He swallo
wed the knot in his throat and bowed his head. “It was my ride.” He shook his head, feeling the weight of the guilt as if it were a thousand bricks on his back. “It shoulda been me.”

  “But it wasn’t,” Rourke said, hovering over Trax. He rested his hand on his shoulder, tightening his grip in a comforting squeeze. “This is not on you,” he muttered, releasing his grasp and then making his way to his bike.

  Trax followed without saying another word.

  Chapter Two

  “Wait a minute, back up. You took it?” Macy’s eyes widened, and Cheyenne averted her gaze. This is a fucking mess.

  Cheyenne had spent the last thirty minutes rehashing the accident to her best friend, Macy. Saying it out loud and reliving it all over again left her trembling by the time she stopped talking. It all happened so fast. She’d been on autopilot when it was going down. Now, given time to actually have it all replay in her head, she was rocked to the core. Seeing the car swerve right into the motorcycle as if it were deliberate had her stomach rolling in waves. Then watching the bike fly up into the air and over the embankment. Retelling the story had the same effect as watching it firsthand. Nothing hit her as hard as seeing the poor man sliding at least thirty feet down the asphalt. All the blood and his open wounds. Her stomach churned. It was tragic.

  Mick.

  “Chey?” Macy snapped her fingers.

  Cheyenne blinked twice and turned to Macy. “What?”

  “You took the package?”

  Cheyenne nodded, biting her bottom lip. “Well, yeah.” She twisted her fingers and pulled up her knees to rest her chin. “I had to.”

  Macy’s eyes grew wide, the size of saucers. “What’s in it?”