All the Way
Chapter 1
Layla Farrell was desperate. No sane woman would come here alone.
Flaunting stilettos, she marched up to the building that looked like a beast crouched in the night. It glared at her with its beady red eye—a neon sign that flickered in the window and threw hot pink sparks over the acreage of chrome. Rows of motorcycles packed the gravel parking lot.
She stared down the dingy exterior as nerves made her stomach clench. One working spotlight announced The Handle Bar . “Charming,” Layla muttered.
Here for one reason alone, she was in no mood to put up with bull from any motorcycle-riding, leather-wearing tough guy in this joint. Especially if that guy was Blake Desanto. Layla would hand over a year’s worth of her waitress tips if that was the price to avoid him tonight.
If it hadn’t been for Blake, Robby would never have become obsessed with building motorcycles and then belonging to the crowd that rode them.
Ignoring a flare of anxiety, she curled her hands around the hem of her leather jacket. No matter how much she tugged, it didn’t cover her backside in this short jean skirt. She never should have dragged the coat from the closet at all. It had belonged to her mother. Steeped into every worn crease in the leather was a memory of her mom Layla preferred to keep buried. She wondered why she and her younger brother, Robby, had kept it. Like they thought she might come back for it, or come back for them. She never had.
And now Robby was missing, too.
Layla yanked the door handle, strutted in and stopped short before a huge dude with a fuzzy beard and fuzzy arms crossed over his chest. “Five bucks,” he rasped, and stuck out a hand the size of a collection plate.
It sounded dubious. “This is such a hot spot you guys charge a cover?”
“For the band, sunshine.” The growl joined forces with his grimace and left no doubt why, beyond genetics, he’d been picked for the doorman.
Layla wasn’t about to argue with him. She reached for her purse.
“You came alone?” He eyed the door behind her like he expected a joiner.
“Is that a problem?”
Bushy eyebrows shrugged below his leather cap. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
The doorman tossed her five into a metal box, stamped her hand and slapped his palm against the second door. His hairy knuckles introduced her to the Handle Bar.
The door swung open and Layla walked into a wall of sound. Guitars wailed, drums pounded, and squealing feedback made her ears ring like she’d ventured into some garage band practice.
Was Robby’s band playing tonight? Would they know where he went or why he’d left? That band was the reason her little brother had disappeared a year ago. Also the reason he’d been put on probation. Which he was in violation of right now, unless she learned what he was up to and convinced him to come home.
A quick scan of the room revealed no sign of Robby, but at five-three, she lost the battle trying to peer over the swarm of leather-clad shoulders and 80s-big hair. Hoping for a better view, she pushed toward the crowded bar.
Glass crunched under her shoes. On her way through, the band played some riff the crowd went wild over. The singer belted out “Cleveland rocks!” Nothing like hometown pride .
They brought their set to a guitar-bleating, bass drum-booming close. The singer was attractive in that rugged, big-muscled, longhaired way, and looked a little familiar. But he wasn’t in Robby’s band. Her shoulders sagged.
“Shot or beer?”
Layla turned and blinked in surprise. The husky voice belonged to a female bartender. One who should lose the perm and invest in a better dye job and a tank top to cover her belly roll. Not to mention she was in dire need of a bra. Layla couldn’t understand why anyone needed to be braless here. After all, there was no shortage of them draped alongside thongs and panties on clotheslines above the bar, like flags commemorating indecent exposures of the past.
And she thought the cheap sign out front was tacky. This surpassed all expectations.
“A Cosmo martini,” Layla replied. A sticky liquid on the bar drenched her sleeve and soaked through, no bar napkins in sight. Layla reeled back in disgust.
The woman glared. “No fancy drinks in this joint, princess. Shot or beer.”
“Not even a whisky sour?” Layla was abandoned for the next customer. If she didn’t have a drink in her hand, she believed she’d be pinpointed as an outsider. She needed to survive long enough to find out about Robby. Then she would disappear.
“ Okay , I get it, shot or beer. How about tequila?”
Finally, she earned some service. The irony was not lost on her, being in the business herself. If Layla had to earn service, the bartender wasn’t earning her tip.
Layla Farrell was desperate. No sane woman would come here alone.
Flaunting stilettos, she marched up to the building that looked like a beast crouched in the night. It glared at her with its beady red eye—a neon sign that flickered in the window and threw hot pink sparks over the acreage of chrome. Rows of motorcycles packed the gravel parking lot.
She stared down the dingy exterior as nerves made her stomach clench. One working spotlight announced The Handle Bar . “Charming,” Layla muttered.
Here for one reason alone, she was in no mood to put up with bull from any motorcycle-riding, leather-wearing tough guy in this joint. Especially if that guy was Blake Desanto. Layla would hand over a year’s worth of her waitress tips if that was the price to avoid him tonight.
If it hadn’t been for Blake, Robby would never have become obsessed with building motorcycles and then belonging to the crowd that rode them.
Ignoring a flare of anxiety, she curled her hands around the hem of her leather jacket. No matter how much she tugged, it didn’t cover her backside in this short jean skirt. She never should have dragged the coat from the closet at all. It had belonged to her mother. Steeped into every worn crease in the leather was a memory of her mom Layla preferred to keep buried. She wondered why she and her younger brother, Robby, had kept it. Like they thought she might come back for it, or come back for them. She never had.
And now Robby was missing, too.
Layla yanked the door handle, strutted in and stopped short before a huge dude with a fuzzy beard and fuzzy arms crossed over his chest. “Five bucks,” he rasped, and stuck out a hand the size of a collection plate.
It sounded dubious. “This is such a hot spot you guys charge a cover?”
“For the band, sunshine.” The growl joined forces with his grimace and left no doubt why, beyond genetics, he’d been picked for the doorman.
Layla wasn’t about to argue with him. She reached for her purse.
“You came alone?” He eyed the door behind her like he expected a joiner.
“Is that a problem?”
Bushy eyebrows shrugged below his leather cap. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
The doorman tossed her five into a metal box, stamped her hand and slapped his palm against the second door. His hairy knuckles introduced her to the Handle Bar.
The door swung open and Layla walked into a wall of sound. Guitars wailed, drums pounded, and squealing feedback made her ears ring like she’d ventured into some garage band practice.
Was Robby’s band playing tonight? Would they know where he went or why he’d left? That band was the reason her little brother had disappeared a year ago. Also the reason he’d been put on probation. Which he was in violation of right now, unless she learned what he was up to and convinced him to come home.
A quick scan of the room revealed no sign of Robby, but at five-three, she lost the battle trying to peer over the swarm of leather-clad shoulders and 80s-big hair. Hoping for a better view, she pushed toward the crowded bar.
Glass crunched under her shoes. On her way through, the band played some riff the crowd went wild over. The singer belted out “Cleveland rocks!” Nothing like hometown pride .
They brought their set to a guitar-bleating, bass drum-booming close. The singer was attractive in that rugged, big-muscled, longhaired way, and looked a little familiar. But he wasn’t in Robby’s band. Her shoulders sagged.
“Shot or beer?”
Layla turned and blinked in surprise. The husky voice belonged to a female bartender. One who should lose the perm and invest in a better dye job and a tank top to cover her belly roll. Not to mention she was in dire need of a bra. Layla couldn’t understand why anyone needed to be braless here. After all, there was no shortage of them draped alongside thongs and panties on clotheslines above the bar, like flags commemorating indecent exposures of the past.
And she thought the cheap sign out front was tacky. This surpassed all expectations.
“A Cosmo martini,” Layla replied. A sticky liquid on the bar drenched her sleeve and soaked through, no bar napkins in sight. Layla reeled back in disgust.
The woman glared. “No fancy drinks in this joint, princess. Shot or beer.”
“Not even a whisky sour?” Layla was abandoned for the next customer. If she didn’t have a drink in her hand, she believed she’d be pinpointed as an outsider. She needed to survive long enough to find out about Robby. Then she would disappear.
“ Okay , I get it, shot or beer. How about tequila?”
Finally, she earned some service. The irony was not lost on her, being in the business herself. If Layla had to earn service, the bartender wasn’t earning her tip.