Here we go...
Bullshit like this always happened in Lake Elsinore. Motorcycle clubs—specifically Wheels of Ash—were targeted constantly. It wasn't unusual for our club to be raided weekly by SWAT team. We had grown accustomed to getting flat on our stomachs with our hands behind our backs.
They never found anything. We weren't stupid enough to keep our guns or drugs at the club. But that didn't stop the police department from checking in on us. They were the good guys and we were the bad guys; some things never change.
I flicked my wrist and the Harley roared as it accelerated. The wind blasted through my shoulder-length hair and a grin stretched across my face. The police cruiser wasn't far behind.
I lived for this.
Even if they caught me, the only thing I had on me was a concealed weapon—my nine millimeter. Never leave home without it. I'd been caught on a weapons charge before but they couldn't make it stick. The county was looking for drugs—lots of drugs; something they could use to take down the entire MC.
I sped up, taking turns hard and fast. My bike swerved in and out of traffic, almost tapping cars as I passed by. The cop was having trouble following me. The two-lane highway didn't leave much room for passing. I looked behind me and raised my middle finger. I gained distance and when I made it around a corner, I quickly went off road and hid in some bushes.
My heart was pumping hard as the police cruiser flashed by, his sirens still blasting. I waited in the bushes for another minute as the other cop car came speeding by. The police around here were pretty stupid.
They weren't going to catch me today.
I pulled out of the bushes and began riding in the opposite direction. The heat would be on for the next couple of hours until the cops gave up their pursuit. I was on my way to the MC for a vote and now I was going to be late.
John was going to give me a lot of shit for this.
Chapter Three
Charlotte
The Wheels of Ash Motorcycle Club was situated in an abandoned business district in the middle of town. They probably scared away the other businesses until they were the only ones left. Twenty motorcycles stood in the front of the building in a nice and neat line, leaning to the side on their kickstands. A cheap big sign that said: WOA was plastered above the door.
I parked my dingy Honda Civic and checked myself in the rear-view mirror. You can do this, Charlotte. These guys are no different than anyone else. I darkened my makeup and let my hair down from a ponytail. I inhaled deeply and walked to the club.
A guy in a leather jacket was bent over working on his bike. His red hair and beard stood out. On the back of his jacket was a big white patch that said Wheels of Ash. The symbol below it was the front wheel of a motorcycle grinding a skull, spewing fiery ashes behind it.
“Excuse me,” I said.
The guy didn't pay any attention to me.
My ankles were shaking. I wanted to run away. I hardened my lips and stood my ground. “Excuse me,” I said louder.
The man turned around and his eyes gazed up and down my body. Maybe wearing a low-cut top was a bad choice. He wiped his hands with an oily rag. “What can I help you with?”
I pulled out the paper that I got from Mr. Capshaw. “I'm looking for John.”
“And what business do you have with him?”
I gulped. This guy was big and strong. His muscles were bigger than my waist—he could probably squeeze my neck until my head popped off. He ate girls like me for breakfast. “Well, I'm doing an anthropology paper and I was assigned this club.”
The man cocked his head. He probably didn't even know what anthropology was.
I steeled myself. “I need to speak with John, please.”
He smiled at me. “No need to get your panties all bunched up. Follow me.”
We walked into a grand hall that was floor-to-ceiling wood. Pool tables stood in one corner and a large bar dominated a whole half of the room. “Holy Diver” by Dio played on an outdated boombox behind the bar. What was this place? Guys in leather jackets sat on couches while others hunched over the bar. A few scantily-clad girls walked around wearing the shortest skirts and tightest tops. How could they go out in public wearing that?
“Hey Bryce, go get me the boss.”
A young-looking kid with a hint of facial hair nodded and went into the back room.
I stood at the front and waited, not knowing if I should go further in.
The kid came back and an older man followed him out. Gray hairs covered his beard and was peppered throughout his hair. His leather jacket had a patch on the left breast that said President.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, rubbing his scruff.