Page 18 of StoryTeller's Tale

But what if they’re already waiting for me?

Oh, for goodness’ sake, why should they be?Maybe I’m worthy of a few minutes’ entertainment, but not of a lot more of their time. Haven’t they got club bunnies or sweet butts to satisfy their needs?

They won’t be waiting for me. And if they are, I’ll just have to bring on my inner badass just like the women I read about in books. A few lashes of my sharp tongue will soon have them under control.Who am I kidding?I snort to myself.

My internal arguments are getting me nowhere, unlike the glances of a few women who’ve entered and left, giving me strange looks at me taking so long washing my hands. The recommended twenty seconds turning more like twenty minutes.

It must be the signing getting to me.Having spent a few hours immersed in a fictional world, I’m now unable to separate fact from stories in the novels I’ve read. Nothing is going to happen, and those bikers certainly won’t be waiting for me.

Shaking my head at my silliness, I pull my back straight, again settle my pack on my shoulder, and open the door.

I needn’t have worried about anything. As I pass the restaurant, the bikers are long gone. While I peer gingerly into the parking lot, my way is unimpeded between me and my car. With a final huff directed at myself, I step outside into the evening sun, and walk boldly toward my vehicle, with my eyes fixed straight ahead.

There are four yards between me and my car, now three. When I’m reaching into my pocket to bleep my key, a van suddenly screams up the lane between the parked rows of cars. Before I can blink, men jump out and grab hold of me.

I have time to give a startled scream before I’m thrown in the back and the doors are slammed closed. Then two other doors slam and the van speeds away.

I tumble and fall with the speed they set off, and try to jam myself in.

I’d only gotten a brief look at my kidnappers, but enough to confirm I was right to be wary of real-life bikers. One, at least, was one of those who’d accosted me in the restaurant.

CHAPTERSIX

STORYTELLER

Chaz had pointed out how ridiculous it was for me to want to send my club into war, to rescue a woman I’d never met or knew anything about, other than that she had good taste in books.

That should have been the end of it. His pep talk should have brought me to my senses. I’ve far more important things to worry about, like going through the logistics of moving the guns the cartel will soon have coming our way. But, as I leave his office, instead of having my head straight, Sheri’s predicament plays on my mind.

I try to tell myself I know nothing about her, her likes and dislikes, whether she’s got family she’s close to, or even if she’s a good person. Maybe if I knew more about her, I’d know whether she deserves to be rescued. Of course, being trafficked and sold isn’t a fate anyone should be subjected to, but if Sheri’s a cruel, horrible person, then maybe it’s karma come knocking at the door.

My problem is, although I know nothing about her, my imagination is conjuring up the very opposite of a person deserving of punishment.

I stop in the corridor, gently knocking my head against the wall.Why the fuck can’t I just give this up?

What choice have I got, though? I might be a nomad and used to fighting battles for myself, but if I were to try to get Sheri out of the hands of the Dominators singlehanded, I might as well be committing suicide. I like my life too much to throw it away on a mission that has no chance of success.

But damn it. Why do I feel so much like a failure? And why, when I think about the book lying on the table beside my bed, do I feel guilty about picking it up to finish reading it.

“Hey.” Skunk holds up his hands in a submissive gesture as I approach. “Whatever you think, I ain’t done it.”

What?As I watch him nervously take a step back, I realise my features are composed into a scowl. I shake my head, as much to dislodge it, as to refute his assumption.

“Nothing to do with you, Bro. Just got a lot on my mind.”

Claw kicks out a chair at the table he’s sitting at. The noise gets my attention, and at the jerk of his head, I accept the invitation he’s offered to me.

“So, what’s on your mind, ST?”

He’s barely waited for me to get my ass on the seat before asking. I consider carefully before answering. This is my home chapter, but I’m away more often than I’m here. I’ve not really got rights to criticise my brothers. Instead of telling the enforcer that Prez has got shit wrong, I sigh, lean back in my chair, and link my hands behind my head.

“Prez handed my ass to me.” I shrug. “He’s probably right.” Deep down, I know he is. What’s inexplainable is my wish that I could say he was wrong.

Claw starts shuffling a pack of cards he brings out of his cut. It’s not like he wants to start a game, but it’s an ingrained habit to keep his hands busy. “Wanna tell me what it’s about?”

For the second time today, I find myself sticking to just giving the highlights of the sorry story. When I finish, I take my cigarettes out, offer him one, then light both. Shitface appears with an ashtray.

Claw shakes his head. “I’d love to beat some fuckin’ Dominators’ heads together. I hate the fuckin’ skin trade they’re all up in. But, Bro, Prez is right. That’s one of their biggest businesses. We go for that, then it’s all-out war.”

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