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Overview
Burdened by a deep, dark secret, Clara has to be careful because one wrong step, one wrong word, could land her and Gracie in prison. Her need to stay close to the motorcycle club members backfire when Wayne Shaw throws her heart into a tailspin. There is more to the possessive biker than she originally thought. Cornered and out of options, she can only go forward and hope Wayne protects her.
Wayne Shaw splits his time between working at Port Loaders, searching for missing persons in partnership with the local police department, and keeping Notus Motorcycle Club together in hopes a brother will come home. Skilled at finding clues normal people miss, he has no trouble telling the new owners of Vavoom's apart. He only wants Clara. When a little girl goes missing, followed by a teenager disappearing, Wayne's need to keep Clara safe while searching for a serial killer gets tested...until he's no longer sure who is the hunted and who is the hunter.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781546980001 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | CreateSpace Publishing |
| Publication date: | 05/30/2017 |
| Series: | Notus Motorcycle Club , #1 |
| Pages: | 320 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.72(d) |
About the Author
She lives with her family in the Bitterroot Mountains of beautiful North Idaho where she enjoys the outdoors, the four seasons, and small-town living.
Read an Excerpt
Hard Proof
Notus Motorcycle Club
By Debra Kayn
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Copyright © 2017 Debra KaynAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5469-8000-1
CHAPTER 1
The St. John's bridge overhead blocked the sun from heating Wayne Shaw's back. The short ride from Port Loaders, where he worked on the dock parking new cars onto the ships destined for the east coast and other countries, dried the days' worth of sweat from his T-shirt. He toed the kickstand and let his legs relax. Any minute, Glen, Chuck, and Thad would ride under the bridge and they'd all head toward Vavoom's, a local bar, for a couple of beers to relax after work.
Wayne had caught sight of his three friends slacking behind at work as he'd punched out. Too hot, too tired, too pissed off at his foreman to wait around, he'd jumped on his motorcycle and lit out. The other men knew where to find him.
There were five of them who'd run the streets of St. John's together since they were six years old. He and Thad had lived across the street from one another. Glen and Chuck lived on the back street behind his house. Rich lived next door. By third grade, they had a worn path in the grass through one backyard, over the fence, and through the next yard.
They'd grown up together, dated the same girls, got drunk for the first time on the beer they'd stolen from Thad's dad, smoked their first cigarette behind the garage, and swore they'd always be friends by spitting and shaking hands. Wayne pulled off the piece of leather tying his hair at the base of his neck and let the wind coming off the Willamette River cool him down. For two years when he was twenty years old, they'd all gone their separate ways and tested their friendship.
That was the night Thad's sister, Thalia, went missing and was later found dead down on Marine Drive. The traumatic event was more than they could handle as a group. They all had to digest the change in their lives in their own way.
Thad mourned his sister and started partying hard. Chuck went quiet, staying away from everyone. Glen got angry, blaming everyone for changing. He leaned forward and put his forearms on the handles of his motorcycle. Rich ... well, Rich had left St. John's one night without a word and never returned. Never called. Never contacted any of them, not even his parents.
The only thing Wayne could do was move on with his life, and he was the first one of them to get a job with Port Loaders. Eventually, Chuck, Thad, and Glen joined him, and for the last twenty-two years, they'd been trying to track down Rich. They had no idea if he was alive or dead.
Wayne caught sight of a band of riders headed his way and straightened his bike, started the engine, and made a U-turn underneath the bridge. He accelerated as they passed him and followed behind Glen, Chuck, and Thad through town.
Each of them had their own reasons for how they lived, and somehow, no one took responsibility for what had developed when they were only boys, they'd formed Notus Motorcycle Club.
Five members.
Five brothers.
A pledge of loyalty.
It was through an unconditional bond grown over time, they learned the true sense of brotherhood.
By obvious conclusion, Wayne became President of Notus Motorcycle Club, as the one who'd walked across the street and asked Thad if he wanted to play all those years ago. Down the chain of friendship, Thad became the vice president, Glen swore in as treasurer, Chuck pledged in as secretary. Rich, an honorary member until he decided to return.
Many men had asked to ride with Notus Motorcycle Club. None were accepted.
Their loyalty never weakened by someone with fewer years invested.
Wayne pulled into the parking lot of Vavoom's Bar. A single-story building with a faulty neon sign that blinked out more than it flashed. He cut the engine and put down the kickstand. The whole in the wall bar had been their go-to place to grab a bar whenever they wanted to tip a few drinks back.
Thad walked toward him, removing his sunglasses, and slipped the earpiece under the front of his shirt and let them hang on his chest. "What was up McCormick's ass when you clocked out at work?" Wayne removed his Notus vest from his saddle bag and shrugged his arms in the holes. "The foreman was bitchin' about me refusing to fill out the cries."
Every time he parked a car on the ship, McCormick wanted him to log on to the computer in the office, input the VIN numbers, and initial off. They expected him to complete thirty loads and undercoat the cars prior to parking each day.
He'd been on the job for over twenty years without touching a damn computer or doing paperwork, he had no plans to change when his job description stayed the same. They paid him to stack cars, not to fucking do computer work.
"Did you tell him you're dyslexic?" Thad slipped his arms into his vest and stepped toward the door.
"None of their business if I am. They hired me to drive cars onto the ship. I'm doing my job. If McCormick wants me to do a different job than they hired me on for, he can take it up with the Union." Wayne pushed through the front door.
All he wanted to do was get inside the air-conditioned building, drink a cold beer, and get off his feet. There was no sense in bringing up his problems with reading and writing to the foreman at Port Loaders because that's not what they were paying him to do.
"Damn," muttered Chuck behind him. "What the hell happened in here?"
Wayne looked around the room. The dozen or so tables that usually sat in the room were gone, and instead, there were at least ten booths hugging the walls. The old stained bar that should've been right in front of him was also missing. He looked to his left and found tall, dinky tables in front of a skinny chrome counter blocking off the liquor shelves and the taps.
"Did we walk into the wrong fucking place?" Glen walked to the middle of the room, whistled, and turned around. "Where the hell is our table?"
"New owners took over the bar on Monday." Steve Whinsell, a regular customer, stood from the booth, tugged his pants up under his beer gut, and headed to the restroom. "They've been redecorating during the week."
That would explain the changes. They hadn't been to the bar since last Friday. While the previous owners never showed their face, and in fact lived out of the state, someone should've known about the sale. St. John's wasn't that big that a transfer of ownership would go unnoticed.
"That's a hell of a change," said Thad. "How are we supposed to get a beer when nobody is around?"
"I'll find someone." Wayne walked over to the counter and knocked on the surface, hoping to draw out the help. "Can we get a beer around here?"
He leaned over the counter and peered into the dark kitchen window. Besides the six customers already seated, there appeared to be no one else around.
Chuck and Thad pulled a couple chairs over to a booth while Glen slid onto the bench. Wayne's mood went from bad to irritated. There were too many changes happening to please him. His work wanted to change a tried and true method. His bar changed the feel of the place.
He gave up waiting for someone to come out of the kitchen and slid into the booth opposite of Glen. "If this is the kind of service they'll be giving now that someone else owns the joint, I'll find somewhere else we can grab a beer."
"There's always your garage." Thad put his boot on the bottom rung of the stool.
"No air conditioning," muttered Wayne.
Glen spun the napkin holder between his hands and whistled softly. Wayne, used to the noise, understood that Glen was okay with a change of plans. It was when Glen stopped whistling that they worried because usually, Glen's anger would get the best of him and fists would start flying. They all had their ways of dealing with life.
Thad hated to be alone and kept himself busy helping everyone. If a stranger needed a ride, he'd be there. If an acquaintance needed an extra pair of hands moving, he'd pack and deliver every fucking box. He surrounded himself with others to keep the shadows away.
Chuck enjoyed women. Half the time, Wayne wondered if it wasn't so much about sex, but the comfort of a soft body that Chuck sought. Raised by his father and three older brothers, Chuck enjoyed women to the fullest.
Wayne rubbed his jaw. It was his responsibility to keep everyone together, and that's probably why he bought the house he grew up in when his mom remarried ten years ago and moved to Minneapolis with her new husband. Out of some weird nostalgia, he couldn't explain, he'd gone out and got a loan and bought the place from her before she could list the house with a realtor. Living at home beat the hell out of the rental duplex next to the railroad tracks he'd lived in at the time.
Through the years, the other members of Notus had purchased their own places four blocks away, where the old street mall used to sit. While the suburbia life with weekend garage sales and children riding their bikes up into the lawns never bothered the others, he preferred the quiet street where he'd grown up and where he only had to wave to the older neighbors when he felt like it.
"What the hell is taking so long?" Glen stood from the stool. "Maybe it's self-serve."
"There's a woman here ... somewhere," said Steve, who'd returned from the bathroom and sat back down two booths away from them.
At Steve's announcement, the door to the kitchen swung open. Wayne eyed the woman stepping into the room, having never seen her before. If he had, he'd have remembered her. She had that sexy innocent look that came naturally, which meant she'd be damn good in the sack.
Thick, blond hair hung straight down her back, shining from the ceiling lights. A natural curiosity raised her arched brows and puckered her pink lips. He found himself wanting her to look at him.
When she slowly swung her gaze to the booth, her lips formed a perfect O as if she found having customers during working hours a surprise. He leaned back against the bench. The wait to have a beer now worth his time if she stuck around for him to watch.
The woman put the box she carried behind the counter and hurried toward him. Her long, bare legs carried her forward confidently. Wayne's mood improved.
"Sorry to make you wait. We're trying to set everything up and keep the doors open to customers to make an easy adjustment for everyone who enjoys stopping in for a beer, and I'm afraid we're failing." Her pout turned into a smile. "How about four free beers on the house?"
She had a slight overbite that only enhanced her sexiness but failed to distract him from the fact she'd said 'we'. His gaze lowered to her left hand. She wore no ring.
"Yeah, beer sounds good," he said. "Appreciate it."
"My pleasure." She pivoted, and he caught himself from whistling under his breath.
Her shorts covered her ass, but the rip in the pocket gave him a peak of white panties. His breath caught in his chest and he almost choked. White.
Last time he'd seen white panties on a woman, the woman had been a sixteen years old girl, and he'd hit a home run during lunch at school when he'd been a senior.
Thad's phone vibrated, and he mumbled, "Fuck."
Wayne looked at Thad, took in his lowered brows, the tick on his upper jaw. "What?"
"There's a girl missing," said Thad. "It's been seventy-two hours. She's seven years old."
The hair on Wayne's arms prickled and he looked around the table. Glen and Chuck's face's hardened. They all understood the importance of an hour, much less three days. Notus Motorcycle Club would step in like they do every missing person's case.
"Make the calls." Wayne decided for the club. "Get the address."
"On it." Thad stepped away from the table, concentrating on his phone.
The woman returned with a tray carrying four mugs of beer. Wayne stood, and Chuck and Glen left the table.
Wayne stayed behind. "We can't stay."
The woman looked up at him with wide eyes. "I apologize. Things have been busy here, and —"
"Not your fault." The tension in his body over the phone call pushed away his irritation from his day at work and finding changes at the bar. "Something came up, and we have to go."
The woman's gaze lowered to his vest and she nodded. "Well, when you have time, stop in again. The offer is still up for a free beer."
He stepped backward toward the door, feeling the pressure of time running out. "What's your name?" She tilted her head. "Clara. Clara Nelson."
"I'll see you again, Clara." He turned and lifted his chin toward Thad who followed him outside, still talking on his phone.
Thad pocketed his phone, swung his leg over his motorcycle, and looked at Wayne. "The parents of the missing child agreed to meet with us immediately at 687 Oak Street."
"That's on the other side of Lombard Street. Let's roll out." Wayne started his bike.
His days and nights instantly became longer. Between working a forty-hour week at the port, he'd use the rest of the time to hunt down a little girl. Once he understood the details, he'd make the necessary contact with those who'd help in the search — Olson & Sons Private Investigators and AirChinook Search & Rescue. The police could only do so much, and it was important to get people on the trail before the trail went cold.
CHAPTER 2The neon light behind the bar cast the immediate area in a red hue. Clara stepped back and leaned against the counter. The light blurred.
"What's wrong, sis?" asked Gracie.
Clara sniffed and blinked hard. "Do you think Dad would be happy, knowing what we did with his money?"
"Buying the bar?" Gracie set the extra bottle of Fireball and Rum on the shelf. "I think he'd ask a lot of questions, but after Dad thought about it for a while and could see what we've accomplished, he'd be proud of us. He was always a big believer in making an honest living that would support a person through hard times, downturns with the economy, and whatever other influences affected business. Everyone knows no matter how poor a person is, people don't stop drinking."
"True." Clara inhaled deeply. "Though we wouldn't be here, owning a bar, if he were alive. He'd question us on why we wanted to move back to St. John's and probably stop us. He moved us away to protect us and let us grow up without being scared all the time."
"That's not the point anymore. Dad's dead." Gracie raised her brows. "He should've told us himself about mom."
"That's not fair."
"Is it fair that both our parents are buried together at the cemetery in town? Is it fair that we're trying to move on with our lives? Is it fair that you're feeling guilty when you should feel proud of yourself?" Gracie reached out and squeezed Clara's hand.
Clara looked into eyes that took everything in and processed it one fact at a time with no emotions fogging her thinking. Usually, Gracie's ability to separate herself from emotional decisions gave Clara confidence, made her stronger, when all she wanted to do was feel sorry for herself.
Her sister was right. The shadow that followed them after learning the truth about what happened to their mom would always darken their life. She had to look forward and keep level headed, or fear and hatred would get the best of her.
"I miss Dad." Clara wiped underneath her eyes. "You'd think after two years I could talk about him without tearing up."
"Nothing wrong with crying," said Gracie softly.
Their personalities complimented each other. Clara helped Gracie dream, laugh, and do spontaneous, crazy things like buying a bar and watching stupid movies all night long. Gracie dealt with reality and faced problems head on, and most of all, she accepted life and all the challenges that came her way with a tenacity that amazed her.
"People should be coming in soon." Clara tucked her Tee into her jeans. "Maybe now that the kitchen is open and Paxton has proven himself as a brilliant and talented cook with the lunch he made us, we'll gain more customers."
Gracie pushed away from the counter. "That reminds me. I need to go out and staple the flyers for the bar up on the light poles around the block."
"Did you check to see if that's legal?" Clara tied the apron around her waist.
"Everyone else has done it, so I'm sure it is."
Clara laughed. "If you get arrested, I'm going to let you spend the night in jail before bailing your ass out. While you're wearing orange, you can say goodbye to your pint of Blue Bunny S'mores ice cream you hid in the freezer that I'll be eating."
Two men walked in, and Gracie gulped loud enough for Clara to hear her. She studied her sister, amused to find Gracie gawking. She stepped closer. "You take care of the customers. I'll plaster the papers around the block."
"Make sure you have your pepper spray with you. I don't care if it's broad daylight," said Gracie.
"Got it in my pocket." Clara leaned closer. "Check out the guy with the Henley on."
"Uh huh. I see him," muttered Gracie walking around the end of the counter, focused entirely on the men.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Hard Proof by Debra Kayn. Copyright © 2017 Debra Kayn. Excerpted by permission of CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform.
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