Page 1 of Savage Lust

one

Riley

You don’t belong here.

I circled the funeral home without stopping. A legion of terrifying Harley Davidsons filled the substantial parking lot, sometimes two or three to a space.

Mom had told me about the Desert Kings. These men were the stuff of nightmares, the boogeymen that hid in the shadows, and now my only lifeline. What would Mom think of me coming here?

She’d be furious.

Butshehadn’t left me any other options. I glanced at the large white envelope emblazoned with a courier’s bright yellow logo that sat in my passenger seat. It mocked me with cheerily curved lettering.

I’d not fully investigated its contents, hadn’t opened the sealed letters from my father. Sperm donor. Whatever you wanted to call him because he certainlyhadn’tbeen a part of my life. Whichwas amusing since Mom had thought she’d done so well to hide us.

A lawyer had sent cash and a written summons. The gist:come to Nevadaandthere is more where that came from.

All it would take was a trip to the desert. The money in the envelope might be enough to keep the debt collectors at bay if I didn’t spend too much of it. But nowhere near enough to give me a roof over my head, go back to college, and get the hell out of California.

Well, ithadbeen enough for the last.

My father was a Desert King Motorcycle Club member that my mom said she barely escaped from. She blamed him for everything wrong in her life—and mine.

And still, showing up at his viewing unannounced seemed disrespectful. So would being at the funeral, but…

The lawyer will be there tomorrow and he says I have to go.

With the address the lawyer had given me keyed up on my GPS, I drove instead to my dad’s home. Not like I could afford a hotel, anyway. I was clinging to what little cash I now had, like it was the last of it. As one did when you’d spent the better part of a year near to starving without a dime to your name.

It was a pretty house, painted a pale blue in defiance against the earth tones of his neighbors. The cool colors were a surprise from a man in his fifties, with no family, that ran an outlaw biker gang.

The clay tiled roof and an assortment of decorative succulents dotting the pebbled sidewalk were downright cozy.

There were worse places to spend a few days.

The keys jangled as I shook them from the envelope and made a note of the alarm code. I unlocked the door, silenced said alarm, and let myself in. I flicked on a lamp and wrestled with the feeling of wrongness, of being in someone’s home unannounced.

Once my nerves settled, I ducked from room to room to ensure I was alone.

I’d wondered if he’d had a live-in girlfriend, or something…but the place was empty. Only one bedroom in use and only a man’s jacket on the rack by the door.

The letter said he would leave most everything to me, including his house. I just needed to be present for the funeral and in a few weeks, for the reading of the will. In a twisted sort of way, this was mine. Who else would be here?

The place was tidy but masculine. The walls were light and the furniture dark. Political thriller paperbacks and motorcycle magazines littered the coffee table. Coffee cups displaying motorcycle logos hung on a rack by the coffeepot in the kitchen. A well-used set of socket wrenches lay open on the counter by the back door with several missing. I ran my fingers over them, as if they might somehow tell me who he was.

In the hallway, I flicked on a light to see a trail of framed images dotting the walls. Some of bikes, glossy and chrome, others of men with beards and leather vests, most smiling or joking. Even faded family photos of grandparents and others I’d never met. I recognized young Rick Bowman from some of Mom’s old pictures she’d kept hidden in a drawer. That’s how I’d always imagined my dad, young and vibrant, the romantic product of childhood nosiness.

I closed my eyes against the last memories of Mom, frail and dying, the exact opposite.

Several newer frames, those same men but older…but this, this would have been the man I’d known. Long hair, going gray, lean face with the same angular shape as mine. Crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Something inside me ached, wondering briefly if Mom had been wrong about him.

One of him with a teenager, a gangly boy that was more arms and legs, than anything else, caught my attention. The sameyoung man was in several more. A warm sort of jealousy lit low in my belly for a kid I’d never met—but why?

Because he knew him and you didn’t.

I shoved the unwanted emotion aside. This had never been about me. Whatever issues had been Rick’s. Or Mom’s. Or both.

I stalked toward the master bedroom and flicked on a light. There were other bedrooms, I’d seen them as I’d sneaked around to see if anyone was home. But something drew me here. I picked up a pillow and inhaled. The scent of spicy aftershave and mint triggered an unfamiliar ache of longing. At least when he’d been alive, I’d known he was out there somewhere. It had made losing Mom easier to stomach. I hadn’t truly been alone, even if he was a stranger to me.

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