Page 45 of The Belle and the Biker

As Crash pays our tab, a white-haired guy in a leather vest covered with biker patches walks in the door. He's the oldest biker I've ever seen, easily late seventies or eighties. He looks like Biker Santa, with a white beard and generous belly. He waves at Crash, who nods in acknowledgment.

"He's with the local chapter of a club we're affiliated with," Crash says. "The Skeleton Crew, and they're letting us stay with them."

When we get to the white-haired guy, he introduces himself as Tank. "I brought a few guys, and we already swept the parking lot. We didn't see a green Honda or anyone who looked suspicious."

We follow him to the parking lot, where a van and a car are parked side by side. Three men wearing similar vests to Tank's are waiting for us, and their vests are decorated with skulls and other patches I don't recognize.

"Thanks for coming for us, brother. So what's the plan?" Crash asks.

Tank unlocks the back of the van. He waves at the three bikers. "These guys are from our eastern chapter. They're taking your bike to their garage. It's a few hours away from here, in case it has a tracking device on it. That way, the shooter won't be able to follow you back to our clubhouse. We'll get it repaired and check it for bugs."

"Don't worry," one of the bikers assures Crash. "We'll take good care of her." He pats the bike gently.

He fishes in his pocket and pulls out two phones, handing one to each of us. Sad face. My new phone is plain, black, and ugly still; I smile brightly and thank him for it.

"You two are going to crash at a trailer on the property behind our clubhouse," Tank continues. "We're not taking any chances; nobody but us"- he waves at the men around him - "and the chapter president will know who you are. We'll have a cover story for you."

The Skeleton Crew take our bags off Crash's bike and hands them to us. They load Crash's bike into the back of the van and then take off. Crash watches the van drive away like they're taking his firstborn child from him.

"She'll be fine," I say. He always refers to his bike as "she."

"Thanks," he says glumly. "Better be."

Crash and I get in the car and drive for about an hour until we're on the coast about ninety minutes south of Charlotte. When we pull in, I see that the clubhouse is a bar called Sparky's.

There are several trailers at the far end of the parking lot, and we're staying in the middle one.

Sparky's is obviously popular. The parking lot is full of bikes, almost all of them Harleys. I'm happy to see a big streetlight next to the parking lot. Well lit, lots of people… That makes me feel safer.

We head straight to the trailer, and Crash carries in all our bags. I reluctantly give him a few "gentleman" points for that. The trailer is small, and the furniture is of the thrift store variety, but it's clean. After we get settled in, Crash invites me to hang out at the bar with him.

"You'd have to memorize your new name and put on your disguise first," he says. He's shed his leather vest, which identifies him as a member of the Iron Ride and is just wearing a plain black leather jacket.

"What disguise?" I say, stifling a yawn.

"Tank's sister put together a few outfits for you. They're in the closet; you have to change before anyone can see you. And a wig."

Disguise? No way. I'm too tired to go through that much effort. Between worrying about the assassin and having nightly wet dreams about Crash that leave me tossing and turning, it's safe to say I have not been sleeping well.

"Fine. You're going to lock the door, and I'll be sitting on the bar's back porch, watching the trailer," he says. He pauses, giving me a scowl. "Do not try to run away again."

"I already said I wouldn't. Today, anyway. Despite the fact that I've had ample provocation."

When he leaves, I change into my pajamas, grab the romance novel I brought, and crawl into bed. There's only one bed, and the sofa is love-seat sized, so he's going to have to take the floor, which would make me feel bad if it were anyone but Crash.

I try to lose myself in the book, but reading about a woman being swept off her feet by a dashing hero is depressing, so I give up after a chapter. I spend the next few hours trying to catch some shut-eye, mostly failing. I'm worried about Aunt Hepzibah. Is it possible the killer would visit her house? She does have an alarm system, motion-activated lights, and several shotguns. Carlisle was in the army when he was young, and he hunts for sport and has a gun. The groundskeeper, handyman, and other employees who live on the property are Southerners. They have guns and know how to use them. Still, is that enough?

I miss Tiddlywinks, too. Even though I still don't like dogs, she wasn't the worst. And she adored me, which is an excellent quality in a pet.

When my eyes are finally drifting closed, the door flies open, and the light blazes on. I look at the clock on the wall. It's 2 a.m., and Crash enters the room in a fog of cigarettes, beer, and perfume. Perfume?

He sits on the chair next to the bed and pulls off his boots. I hear the rustle of clothing and then look up to see him wearing only boxer shorts and climbing into bed. With me. Stinking of another woman's perfume.

"What in the blue blazes do you think you're doing?"

"Getting ready for bed."

"You can't sleep in the bed," I say huffily. "We're not married, I don't have a chaperone, and I am a lady. You're obligated to take the floor."

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