The Handler (Noir et Bleu Motorcycle Club #2)

He promised he would never be an outlaw…

While searching for a member of the outlaw motorcycle gang who murdered his dad, Cain Allen is offered a boatload of cash to "handle" the stunning teen popstar Lincoln Todd. Although he doesn't need the headache of a high-maintenance celebrity, getting out of town will help him keep a low profile until he testifies against two of the killers.

Touring Europe with Lincoln proves to be more complicated than Cain anticipated, and despite his efforts, the line between their personal and professional lives blurs. She’s sweet, smart, and totally unpredictable. And he loves it.

But Lincoln’s association with Cain puts her in more danger than anyone could have imagined. When he joins forces with the Noir et Bleu Motorcycle Club to protect her, Cain discovers the lengths he's willing to go, and the person he's willing to become to protect the people he loves…

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by D. R. Graham. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Embrace is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Vanessa Mitchell

Cover design by Heather Howland

Photography by iStock

ISBN 978-1-62266-313-2

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition April 2015

For my handler, Sean

Chapter One

The party from the night before was still technically going on in the living room, so I snuck out of my bedroom and crept down the hall toward the front door. A massive shadow closed in on me as I was bent over tying my boots. It was followed by the stench of alcohol and sweat. Since sneaking out was no longer an option, I stood up and turned to face the owner of the house, Mug.

He crossed his enormous, tattooed arms and stared me down. “Don’t you want breakfast, Cain?”

I grabbed my leather jacket off the hook and put it on. “Uh, no thanks. I have to work today.”

“Good. So, you’ll have the rent money you owe me by the end of the week?”

My throat tightened from the implied threat, and it made a weird sound when I choked out, “Yeah.”

“This month and last month.”

“I know.” I reached for the doorknob and prayed for him to be in a nonviolent mood.

He leaned over and rested his beefy palm on the door so I couldn’t open it. “I’ve let it slide this long because of who your dad was and because of what happened, but that’s only going to take you so far. I don’t give two shits how many resources the club is using to keep your ass safe, you’re not getting a free ride from me. I want it all by Friday.” His breath was stale with cigarette smoke.

“Yeah. I’ll have it.” I glanced up at his leathery face, and my heart stalled out from the probability that he would follow up the verbal warning with a physical one.

His mouth twitched under his moustache in what might have been a grin or a snarl. It was hard to tell. He reached down and opened the door for me. I stepped out onto the porch and expected to get jumped or punched in the back of the head. When the door closed behind me, I glanced over my shoulder and exhaled. The relief was temporary, though, since it was a long shot that I’d make enough money for two months’ rent by Friday.

Images of what Mug might do to me, just to amuse himself, flashed through my mind as I walked over to my bike. All of the scenarios ended painfully. The only way to avoid it was to figure out a way to get the money, and that seemed unlikely.

The fuel light stayed on after I started the engine, which meant I only had what was left in the reserve to get me to the job site. It was going to be close. Unfortunately, even though it was before seven o’clock on a Saturday morning, the Los Angeles traffic was already heavy. I attempted to conserve gas as I wove through six lanes all the way to the warehouse district.

Twenty minutes later, I coasted up to the security booth and silently thanked the gas reserve gods. The guard lazily opened the sliding window. “Name?”

“James Allen.”

He looked down at a clipboard. “It’s not here.”

I pulled out my phone to double check that I had the right day and place. “Try Cain Allen. I’m working with Tomcat.”

He scanned the names. Tomcat’s reputation held a lot of weight because he was an associate of the Noir et Bleu Motorcycle Club, so I knew the guard would find my name whether it was on the list or not. “Here it is. Warehouse 17.” He pressed a button, and the yellow arm rose to let me onto the lot.

After I parked, my phone rang. It was my girlfriend, Liv. She was still in Vancouver where my sister and family also were. The long-distance thing was not going well. We fought whenever we talked, and if she couldn’t get a hold of me, she jumped to crazy conclusions that I was cheating, or doing drugs or something. I would have rather dodged the call, but I knew she would spend the day worried and pissed, so I answered as I walked across the lot. “Hey.”

“Hi. Did I wake you?” There was the usual subtle accusation in her voice as if she thought she’d caught me in bed with someone else, which was ironic since she was the one who was reportedly being overly friendly with a guy in her class.

I ignored her tone and avoided the topic of guy friends because I didn’t have time to fight. “I’m working today.”

“Again?” she said with a doubtfulness that developed after my one month in Los Angeles had turned into six.

“I have to take all the work I can get. My bike’s running on fumes, and I’m behind on my rent. It’s not really great for my health to owe those guys money.”

“Why do you even need to pay them rent? They spend a shit load of money to keep your grandparents and Huck in a safe house, I think they could cover your damn rent.”

“It’s not about the money. It’s about respect.”

“Come home.” Her voice cracked, maybe from the strain of being apart, or maybe from the exhaustion of repeating the same argument for the thousandth time. “You know I don’t like you living with those biker assholes anyway.”

“I’d still owe them, and since they collect debts by breaking bones, I need to work.”

“Yeah? And then what?” Her tone hardened as the anger resurfaced. “After you pay it off, and the trial is over, and there is nobody left to hurt Huck, are you going to make up another excuse for why you can’t come home?”

Apparently, avoiding a fight wasn’t an option. I exhaled the tension and attempted to sound calm. “You know why I’m here.”

“Yeah, trying to get yourself killed.”

I rubbed the frustration from my neck muscles and paused long enough to make sure I didn’t raise my voice. “Could we please not fight about this again?”

“I should have never told you I saw the L.A. Boomslangs tattoo on that scumbag’s neck that night.” Her tone took another one-eighty, and she was on the verge of tears. “What if I was wrong? It was dark and chaotic. Even if I was right, that doesn’t mean he’s there now.”

On the night of my dad’s murder in Vancouver, Liv and I rode up as three men ran from my parents’ burning house. I had seen the L.A. Boomslangs tattoo, too, and the RCMP had arrested two of them at the airport trying to board a plane to L.A., so I knew she was right. “He’s going to show up here, eventually. I can feel it.” I headed to the open warehouse door and glanced around to make sure nobody was close enough to hear me.

“You’re searching for a drop of water in an ocean. It’s a waste of time.”

That was true, but all the police had to go on was a grainy image from the security camera at my parents’ house, so it was up to me to track down the third guy and ID him myself. “I really need to get to work. I’ll call you later. Okay?”

She sighed, and the bite returned to her tone. “You promised you wouldn’t become your dad.”

“I won’t,” I said adamantly enough to convince myself.

“You already have.”

I paced around for a while wondering if she was right before I said, “I have to go.”

She hung up on me, so I turned my phone off and wandered around to find Tomcat. Digger, the international president of the Noir et Bleu, had been one of my dad’s best friends since they were kids. He asked Tomcat to give me my first under the table job in L.A. as a favor to the club. After that, Tomcat kept calling me back because I was good, and I worked fast. He saw me first and whistled. “Cain! Over here.” I walked over and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming, kid. Did you find it okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks for the work. I appreciate it.”

“Well, you might not be thanking me after we’re done.” He rolled out the plans for a music video shoot and weighted the corners of the paper down with coffee mugs. “We have a quarter of the time we need to get ’er done. I need you guys to work fast.”

After skimming the plans, I glanced over my shoulder to see how much they already had done. “How many days do we have?”

Tomcat and the other guys who were huddled around the table laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

Tomcat slapped my back. “That’s why I’ve called in the reinforcements. We have until three o’clock this afternoon to get it finished.”

I examined the plans more carefully. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope. The talent will be here at noon, which hopefully means three. They’ll probably shoot until midnight.”

I must have had a skeptical look on my face, because a skinny guy with acne laughed. “Call your mommy and tell her you won’t be home for dinner.”

My jaw tensed at the mention of my mom, but since he had no way of knowing his comment would hit a nerve, I resisted the urge to punch him in the face and picked up a tool belt instead. I doubted that we’d get done on time, but I knew Tomcat would pay me either way, so it made no difference to me.

By noon, we were only half-finished, and I had worked even faster than I usually did. It was obviously a high budget music video shoot. Lines for cameras were set up at every angle, along with pyrotechnics, state of the art lighting, digital screens, rotating stages, and some weird animatronics thing. There were also at least one hundred people on set. A few were sleazy looking guys in suits with phones stuck to their ears. Five people unloaded costumes from wardrobe bags and hung them on rolling rods. Sound guys checked the equipment we wired while about twenty other people painted and decorated sets to make them look like a bedroom, a living room, and a bathroom with a fully operational tiled shower. A dance crew warmed up along the back wall while a team of assistants with clipboards hugged to their chests ran around and shouted into headsets. The rest of the people hustling around were trades and grunt workers.

“Hey, you. What’s your name?” a woman who was decorating the bedroom asked me. Her face was pulled tight like a washed up super model who overdid it on the plastic surgery.

“Cain.”

“This lamp on the bedside table isn’t working. Fix it.”

I wired it myself, so I knew it should work. After leaning over the shade, I shook my head at her air-headedness, turned, and walked away.

“Hey! Cain. Where are you going? This needs to work. That’s what you’re getting paid for,” she called. Her high heels clicked on the concrete as she chased after me. “Hey! Don’t walk away from me. I can’t waste time correcting other people’s mistakes. Every minute we waste waiting for an incompetent tradesman costs money.”

I reached into a supply box and pulled out a light bulb for her. I raised my eyebrows and took a moment to enjoy the embarrassed look on her face. “Every minute I waste helping a ditzy designer screw in a light bulb costs money.”

“Oh.” She stared at the bulb for a few seconds, then glanced at me. “Well, you should have tested it,” she said as she snatched it from me.

Irritated, but not surprised, I walked away and put my earphones in before I got back to work. I hadn’t adjusted to the whole L.A. attitude—it pissed me off—and I doubted I ever would get used to it. I didn’t want to do something stupid like call her a bitch and get myself fired, so I just tried to ignore everything that was going on around me.

A couple of hours later, Tomcat tapped my shoulder. “You can go get something to eat, kid.”

“I’m almost finished. I just need to run this to the fireplace.”

“I’ll do it. It’s almost three o’clock. You should eat lunch before you fall down.” He stepped in to take over for me. I stood and realized I was a little lightheaded. “You did good.” He nodded his approval as he examined my work. “We’ll just be standing around for the rest of the night in case anything goes wrong, or if they change their mind about something.” He pointed to the other side of the warehouse. “The craft services truck is outside the south entrance.”

I wiped the sweat off my forehead with my forearm and looked around the set. “Who’s the video shoot for?”

Tomcat swung his chin toward an entourage of people crowded around a blond girl. They applied makeup, poofed her dress, and smoothed her hair as she stood perfectly still.

“Who is she?”

“You don’t know?”

I shrugged. “No. Should I?”

“Well, if you don’t, you’re probably the only person on the planet. She’s a pop star named Lincoln Todd.” He searched my face, surprised that I wasn’t kidding. “She’s on the radio every three minutes. Do you live under a rock or something?”

I laughed. “No, I live in Orange County with a bunch of bikers who wouldn’t be caught dead listening to pop shit.”

“You must have heard her songs when you were in the car.”

“I ride a motorcycle.”

“She’s on TV every day.”

The truth was, I didn’t watch TV, but since I couldn’t tell Tomcat I spent all my free time at sleazy biker hangouts in L.A. searching for the guy who murdered my dad, I responded by saying, “I don’t have time to watch TV. When I’m not studying, I’m working, and when I’m not working, I’m sleeping.”

He laughed. “Well, this should be educational for you. Go get something to eat.”

I dropped the tool belt against the wall, checked out the Barbie doll blonde once more, and walked out the south door into the California sunshine. A dark-haired punk girl working at the craft services truck smiled when I stepped up to the window to check out the menu on the wall. “Hey,” she said before running her tongue over the piercing on her bottom lip. “Are you one of the dancers?”

I laughed at the image of me prancing around on stage. “No. I don’t dance. I’ll have the turkey wrap, an apple, and a bottle of water, please.”

She turned and put together my order, then leaned on the counter. She squeezed her arms on either side of her chest to make her cleavage pop. “Can I get you anything else?”

I averted my eyes to avoid her blatant flirtation and said, “Uh, this is good. Thanks.”

I wandered over and sat on the grass to call my sister, Huck. It rang through to voicemail, and I left a message to tell her I was working on the set of a Lincoln Todd video. She was always asking if I had met any stars in L.A., so I hoped she would know who Lincoln Todd was and be excited. She’d be more excited if I said I was coming home, but to be absolutely sure she wasn’t in danger, I couldn’t go home yet. Instead, I had to live with the guilt of disappointing her repeatedly and come up with other things to cheer her up.

After I finished eating, I leaned back on the grass and stared at the blue sky. Clouds were probably the only thing about home that I didn’t miss.

“Yo, Cain.” The skinny guy with acne stood by the door. “The hydraulics aren’t working on one of the stages. Tomcat asked for you.”

I got up and threw my garbage in the trash. The craft services girl waved at me as I walked by, but I pretended not to see her.