Logan: New Crusaders MC (2 page)

Logan had lost track of time.  That afternoon he’d driven his bike to the outskirts of the city, where the highway opened up into the desert, and rode for miles.  Now it was nearly midnight.

He couldn’t help it.  He thought better when he was on his bike, the wind in his face, the roar of the engine filling his head.

And he had a lot of thinking to do.

Zeke was dead.

Dead
.

Memories were still jumbled up in his head, fighting for attention.

Two nights ago, their prospect had come stumbling into the Crusaders’ garage, face white as a sheet, mumbling incoherently about Zeke.

“Hang on, kid, you’re not making any sense,” Logan said, reaching out to steady the prospect.

Logan took a moment to realize just how young this kid was, sitting there shaking, too scared to even smoke the cigarette Logan had put in his hand.

“What happened?” Logan asked.

“It’s Zeke,” the prospect – Danny – had whispered.  “I… I was at the Rust Bucket… out back… with… with Aimee.”

Danny paused here to glance apologetically at Logan, but he only smiled.

“Aimee and I are ancient history, kid.  We were never a thing.  Keep talking.”

Danny nodded.  Cork emerged from the office with a cup of water, which he silently offered the prospect.  He stayed where he was, standing behind Logan, knowing he was welcome to hear the story as well.  Logan trusted Cork completely.  He and Logan’s dad had been prospects together way back when.

“So, we were out back kinda… you know… making out,” Danny said, his cheeks reddening.  “When she kinda gags and says, ‘What’s that smell’?  Soon as she says it, I notice it, too.  Thing is, it was coming from the Dumpster, but I never smelled no trash smell like that.”

It was at this point that the bad feeling in Logan’s gut turned into an all-out riot of negativity.

“So I look in the Dumpster.  Just a peek.  First thing I see is Zeke’s kutte.  All… all covered in blood.  Aimee freaked and got out of there, but I stayed to make sure it was him.”  He looked up at Logan and Cork, his eyes wider than saucers.  “He’s dead, Logan.  Bullet went in the back of his head and exploded out the front.  If it wasn’t for the tattoos, don’t know if I would’ve recognized him.”

Danny fell silent, finally taking a drag off his half-burnt cigarette.

“Is he still there in the Dumpster?” Logan asked.

Danny nodded, his hand clenching around the empty cup.  “I didn’t… I didn’t try to move him.  I’m sorry, Logan.  I panicked.”

Logan clapped the prospect on the shoulder.  “You did good, kid.  We’ll take it from here.  Why don’t you go home and try to get some sleep?”

As soon as Danny was gone, Logan stood up straight and looked at Cork.  They exchanged an entire conversation without saying one word.

The Rust Bucket was a Crusader bar.  If Zeke had been killed there, it was more or less an act of war.  Unless a fellow Crusader had killed their president, but… that couldn’t be possible.  Logan didn’t even want to consider it.  Cork’s eyes said they couldn’t throw out the possibility that it was an inside job, but that it was more likely a message from one of the other MCs.

They had to figure out who did this and quick, before another club came knocking on their door, ready to kick the Crusaders out of their own home.

So they rode.

Cork and Logan, without calling anyone else, had driven out to the Rust Bucket to inspect the Dumpster.  There Zeke was, flies crawling over his open, staring eyes. Skull burst open.

“They shoulda fought him face-to-face,” Logan growled.  “What coward shoots a man in the back of the head?”

“They left him here,” Cork grunted.

“Yeah.  But if they wanted to send a message, why hide him in the Dumpster?  Why not drive his corpse to our front steps?”

Cork let out a noncommittal noise.  He didn’t know yet, but he’d speak up when he had answers.

The next couple of days had been a blur.  Logan hadn’t been Zeke’s friend, but they understood one another.  That’s why Zeke had made Logan vice president.  But as he sat with the club and gazed around the table just that morning, he saw a lot of angry eyes glance at the patch on his shoulder that named him VP.  As if he were about to rip it off any second and replace it with the president’s patch.  Or worse, take off his kutte and put on Zeke’s.  As if he’d do that.  He thought he’d earned some trust and respect among the Crusaders, especially since most of them had known his father.  But he soon learned otherwise.

Too young, probably
.  Logan thought. 
Vice president at twenty-four, looking at taking over as president at twenty-eight.  They don’t trust me.

“I need to talk to Wiseman,” he’d announced finally.  “Take his temperature on this.”

“What if he did it?” asked Sam.

Logan shook his head uncertainly.  “I guess I’ll find out, but my gut says the Iconoclasts weren’t behind this.  I’m thinking Devil Kings.  We know something’s been up with them lately.  I think it’s time to find out what they’re up to.”

“And if Wiseman
did
do it?”

Logan shrugged.  “Then you’ll probably end up looking for a new VP soon, too.  But at least you’ll know where we stand with the other MCs.”

There were some grumbles at the table, but as acting president, Logan got to call the meeting to a close. 

Cork had immediately moved to go with him when Logan had made for his bike, but Logan shook his head.

“I’ve gotta ride solo for a while.  Get my head on straight.  I need you here to… to keep an eye on things.  Watch my back.”

Cork nodded.  “Hamilton’s Diner,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ll head out there.  At least you know I’ll be safe enough from whoever killed Zeke.  At least for a few hours.”

“Watch your six,” Cork said.

“Always.”

So Logan had put on his helmet, kicked his bike to life, and sped off.

He knew where Hamilton’s was, even if he hadn’t been there in a couple years.  The diner was neutral, but he still felt weird ordering eggs and coffee two tables down from the Devil Kings’ sergeant at arms.

As he drew close to the small restaurant, he recognized the familiar color scheme of black and red – incongruous for a diner – and the flickering neon Open sign.  What he didn’t recognize was the waitress who turned to greet him as he walked through the door.  Had she been there the last time he’d come by?  He was sure he would’ve remembered her.  Short, but curvy, her auburn hair was tied into a messy braid.  Her amber eyes held a fire that scorched him the second she met his gaze.  He could tell she’d sized him up the moment she saw him, and she definitely didn’t like him.

Too bad.

If she’d been up for it, he would have made her night.

Logan pushed the thought away.  He had more important things to attend to at the moment.  But he couldn’t entirely shake the idea of taking this fiery woman to bed with him.  Once this mess had blown over, he thought maybe he’d be back, and it wouldn’t be for the lunch special.

“Been a long time, Logan,” someone said from a nearby booth.

He turned to see a lanky blonde smiling at him, one long leg crossed over the other, her shirt open to expose her cleavage.  She knew his name, but he couldn’t think of hers to save his life.

He knew it wasn’t Aimee, obviously.

Not Carlie, because she had black hair.

Danielle had ear gauges.

“Rachel,” Logan said, showing her his warmest smile.  “I haven’t had the pleasure of your company in quite some time.”

“We should fix that,” Rachel purred.

“Can I help you?” the waitress snapped, drawing Logan’s attention back to her.

She certainly had a way about her.  She carried herself proudly.  In a contest of looks, she beat Rachel in every way.  He promptly forgot about the blonde and strode over to the waitress, matching her glare for glare.

“I hope so,” he said.  “I need to get in contact with Wiseman.  The Iconoclasts’ president.  He been around?”

“You boys don’t all swap phone numbers at your sleepovers?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He wanted to kiss that wry smile right off of her.

“Wiseman’s mom wouldn’t let him go to the last sleepover,” he told her.  “Too afraid the other girls would pressure him into getting his ears pierced.”

She smiled at that, revealing a single dimple in her right cheek.  The expression quickly faded, to be replaced by something darker.  Logan knew that look, like a lifetime of misery had been crammed into one person.  The world was on her shoulders.  She licked her lips, drawing his attention to that particular feature.  Full and dark, her lips begged him to take a taste.

“You need to have a sit-down with the president of the Iconoclasts,” the waitress said slowly, drawing his attention back to the moment at hand.

“That would be ideal.”

The waitress glanced around the restaurant, then nodded toward a booth at the back.

“You wanna sit?” she asked.  “You can have a burger on the house.  Gotta pay for your soda, though.”

“What if I order water?”

“Then water will suddenly cost as much as a soda.”

She was fearless, this one.  She didn’t back down.  Not when he was glaring at her, and not when he was joking at her.  Logan did all he could to avoid thinking about what this woman would feel like pressed against him in bed.  He longed to kiss that smart mouth of hers.  Instead, he took a seat in the booth she indicated.  She left to order him a burger, and returned a moment later with a glass of soda and a roll of silverware.

“You want something from me,” Logan observed.

“Yes,” she said plainly, sliding into the booth across from him.

“I don’t usually do favors for strangers.  I barely do favors for my friends.”

“It’ll be worth your while,” she said.  “It’s about the Iconoclasts.  My father…”

She kept glancing over her shoulder, like she was looking for someone in particular.  Someone she was afraid of.

In this diner, with this clientele, that could’ve been almost anyone.

“What about your father?” he asked, drawing her attention back to him.

He didn’t like the fear in her eyes.  A part of him wanted to beat the teeth out of whoever it was that was scaring her.  When she looked back at him, he realized she might be just as scared of him as anyone else.  She had good reason to be, but he wished she wouldn’t see him as a threat.  He’d never hurt a woman.  Use her and leave her, yes.  But they got over that quick enough.  One day after he’d left Aimee, he’d heard rumors of her wrapping her mouth around another Crusader’s dick.  And now she was flirting with the prospect. 

“Chuck Hamilton?” the waitress asked.  “My father.  Have you met him?”

Logan tried to remember if he’d ever met the owner of the diner.

“Big guy?  Red hair, tattoo of a flaming knife on his arm?”

“That’s him,” she confirmed, her mouth twitching up in a quick, fond smile.

“What about him?” Logan asked.

The waitress began fiddling with a napkin.  Logan noticed that her hands were shaking.  Again, that protective urge swelled up within him.  Who was hurting her?