Page 3 of Being Lost

I echo his sentiment. Shark had fucked up good throwing in his lot with Snake and Poke. He wasn’t going to get a second chance.

“One other thing, Prez. You mind me shadowing Grumbler?” Niran asks. “I seem to be doing that a lot.”

“Long as you make sure he stays shiny side up,” I chuckle. But really, it’s no laughing matter. Grumbler had hit his head pretty hard when he’d come off. Although we envy our brothers in other states who can get away without wearing one, in California, helmets are mandatory. None of us doubt wearing one had saved his life. He’d had a nasty concussion, as well as breaking his leg and wrist. He’s well on the mend now but while he was out, Niran was one of the few who’d put up with him moaning and complaining, and the two had formed a bond. Grumbler still leans on Niran, but I can’t complain. We get two sergeant-at-arms for the same price.

“Yeah, two legs are better than one.” Dart winks to soften his words as I bark a laugh.

Sometimes I think joining the MC had saved Niran in many ways, by once again making him part of a team. Over time I’ve watched his bitterness fade. He was a Marine and one who was going to make it his career for life until he’d been home on leave and a woman had crashed into him, knocking him off his bike and he lost his leg as a result. In Grumbler’s case his injury means one of his isn’t as straight as it was. Doesn’t seem to slow either of them down.

True to form, Niran grins to himself. “Better than none,” he remarks, flexing his leg with the prosthetic limb. “Anyway, I better get gone. I need to take a run past that house where the woman from Colorado is staying with her son.”

“Anyone seen anything of concern?” I haven’t been there myself, but every few days one of the brothers rides past the home we shouldn’t know about where a middle-aged woman from Colorado and her son have been housed as part of the WitSec program. I doubt if she’s had any trouble, officially, no one knows where she is. But Demon, prez of the Pueblo chapter, had managed to get the information and asked us to keep an eye out. They’re the mother and brother of one of his member’s old ladies. Doesn’t seem much of a burden doing a simple enough favour for another chapter.

“Nah,” Niran tells me. “Kink rode past a few days ago. House was looking fine, yard kept tidy. Hard to know what’s going on inside, but outwardly, nothing to worry about.”

We can’t do much looking from the outside, and obviously can’t draw attention to ourselves by stopping and trying to get closer. We need to keep trouble away, not bring it to their door. Luckily, they’ve been housed not far from the VP’s place, so throaty sounding Harleys taking a shortcut along their road aren’t out of place.

I honestly don’t expect trouble. People who the feds give protection to are normally in no danger unless they bring it upon themselves. As long as they keep their mouths shut and make no contact with anyone who shouldn’t know where they are, they’ll stay out of danger. As long as the son keeps his nose clean, too. Hopefully he’s learned the lessons of his past which had gotten him into trouble in the first place.

As Niran fastens his helmet on to his head, Dart tells him, “Drop in at my house. Alex will be pleased to see you. Isla’s got the sniffles, so she’s keeping her home.”

“Going stir crazy, is she?” Niran chuckles.

Dart raises his chin. After giving the VP a thumbs up, Niran starts his bike and takes off.

“You did fuckin’ good bringing him on board.” It’s not the first time I’ve told him that.

He raises his chin in acknowledgement, then observes, “Need to keep an eye out for new prospects. Wrangler’s getting close to getting his patch, and we need to keep up our strength.”

He’s right. We do. But after what happened with Snake, it’s not easy for us to trust. It takes a special man to wear a Satan’s Devils’ patch in any of our chapters, and even harder to gain one in San Diego.

Chapter Two

Patsy

“No luck?” Connor, no, Dan—I’m mainly used to using his new identity as I should be after three months, but sometimes mentally I slip up—looks at me with an eyebrow raised.

I let out a harrumph of disappointment. “The tallest I can find is five foot nine, and that’s the wrong shape.”

“Couldn’t you make do with that?”

Sighing, I explain, “The proportions are all wrong. If I could get a female mannequin that’s six foot or more, it would make the photos so much more realistic.”

He purses his lips. “Isn’t there a way you could get stuff shipped to Beth, then get her to photograph herself wearing it?”

No. The whole reason for moving to San Diego is that no one, not even my beloved daughter, could know where we are. Dan would be dead for real if anyone ever found out.

Beth, now twenty-seven, is nearing six foot two, and was shooting up even before she entered her teens. Growing up, none of the off-the-rack clothes would fit. Tops long enough to drape below her waist would be far too wide, as people saw girls with height as also being wide, whereas she was slender. Either my daughter would have nothing fashionable to wear, or I’d have to step in and help. It was bad enough her being mocked for towering above everyone else including the boys, but ill-fitting clothing made everything worse. At first, I’d adapted chain-store clothing, taking it in when needed, restyling dresses so she could wear them as tops, and then I branched out and started designing clothes for her myself. I hadn’t stopped as she’d grown older and had become quite adept.

One day she’d posted my designs on an Instagram account, and to my surprise, and hers, I started to get a following. While I wasn’t interested in making clothes in large quantities myself, my eye for a style that suited taller women had come to the attention of a company that did clothing for the woman who didn’t fit in with the definition of ‘normal’.

While, technically, I could design on paper, I still prefer making a prototype first so I can see whether the ideas in my head translate to something wearable. Beth used to model for me, but she’s unable to do that now.

I push away the laptop I’d been using to Google mannequins and lower my head into my hands. It’s been twelve long weeks since I’ve last seen her, and the pain of missing her hasn’t eased. God, I miss talking to her, let alone using her as my muse.

Bethany and I had had an amazing relationship, not just as mother and daughter, but as best friends. Getting on so well meant she’d still been living with me, not thinking of moving out until she met Ink, a member of the Colorado chapter of the Satan’s Devils MC. She’d found him while Dan was neck deep in trouble. Funnily enough, Dan had been indirectly responsible for making them realise their feelings for each other, as well as being the reason I’m now facing the possibility of never seeing her again.

I’d had to make a choice no mother should be asked to, which was whether to stay with her twenty-seven-year-old daughter, watch her get married and maybe start a family, or to make a new life with a son five years younger.

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