Page 119 of Bronco

I shrug. “It happened.”

“You claimin’ her?”

“When I get back, yeah.”

He smirks. “Does she know that?”

“Yep, and she wants it. Nothin’ like seein’ your ol’ lady wearin’ your club colors.”

“Another one bites the dust,” Ryder laughs.

“It’ll be that much sweeter when I’m back in my ol’ lady’s arms.”

“Won’t be long now. Gonna check out that lead Jett texted over earlier, could be goin’ home sooner than we think,” he says.

“Fuckin’ hope so.”

“We good?” Rock sidles up next to us.

I nod. “Let’s ride.”

Another 24 hours pass before we get anywhere. It’s late when Jett calls and tells us to check out a motel on the outskirts of the city. It might be our lucky break. The boys have all seen the most recent headshot of Erica, so they know what she looks like.

Ryder and I step into the small reception. It’s a shit hole. The musty smell that greets us tells me this place is in dire need ofa decent clean. The curtains are raggy and barely hanging on by a thread. It stinks like smoke, too, and the carpet has probably seen more traffic than Baton Rouge itself.

There’s a tiny woman behind the desk who looks like she’s seen better days. She’s missing a few teeth, has a cigarette tucked behind her ear, and still has her hair curlers in.

“Evenin’.” I give her a curt nod.

“How can I help you boys?” Her southern twang, mixed with the hoarse smoker’s cough that follows, rattles around the room.

“Here to find someone.” I hold up a picture of Erica. “Name’s Erica Maxwell, she checked in today.”

The woman doesn’t even glance at the photo. “You lookin’ for a room?”

“Nope, just some answers,” Ryder says.

She coughs a laugh. “Well, answers cost money. You ain’t in Kansas anymore, boys.”

I glance at Ryder as his eyebrows shoot up. “You done this before, sweetheart?”

She turns her smirk over to him. “Who’s askin’, pretty boy?”

I roll my lips, dying to laugh, but instead I slide a fifty over the counter. “We’re askin’.”

She glances at the patch on my cut. “New Orleans, huh? My third ex-husband lived there, ran a strip joint. Was a goddamn fuckin’ snake pit. The asshole probably drank himself into an early grave, if the juice didn’t get him first.”

“She here?” I wave the photo again.

“Yeah, she’s here.”

Relief floods through me. “Which room?”

She glances down at the book in front of her. The motel doesn’t even have a computer. It’s like we’ve stepped back in time. “Well, that kind of information is gonna cost you pretty pair a little more. I got bills to pay, and Baton Rouge ain’t cheap these days.”

Ryder pinches the bridge of his nose. This old bird is fuckin’ fearless, I’ll give her that. She didn’t even blink at our MC cuts, or the fact she’s about four-foot-nine and we tower over her.

I slide another fifty across, but this time keep my hand on it. “Room number, darlin’.”

---