“Yes, thank you for checking. It was scary, but it’s over.” I wasn't going to go into details with him either.
Christy eyed me as she continued to do her nails.
“I’d like you and your friend, Mr. Green, to come to the Double-B tonight. Have some dinner. On me. I have some things to discuss.”
“Oh.” I paused, wondering why he didn’t want to just talk now. Then I realized maybe it wasn’t something to share on the phone. “That’s very kind of you. Gray is in Wyoming today visiting his father but should be back by dinner.”
“You’re alone?” He sounded concerned. “Frankie will come and stay with you, wherever you are.”
I frowned. Why would he want Frankie to stay with me? Were all the new men I met overly protective or had the ones in my past just been slackers? “I’m with my friends. I promise I’m well supervised.”
I heard his gruff laugh through the phone. “You can’t trick a mother,” he said. “Good. Glad you’re not alone. It’s not safe for you on your own right now. Have your friends come, too.”
Christy glanced my way as she screwed the top back on the nail polish bottle. I pasted a fake smile in the hopes to hide that I was worried by Quake’s words. What did he know that I didn’t? He obviously thought I was still in danger if he would send Frankie to watch over me. If a president of an MC worried about me, then I was worried.
“You’re sure it’s all right to come?” I didn’t mean about eating but about showing up at the restaurant and remaining safe, not that Christy would know that.
“Yeah, the diner’s safe. You, too, if you’re with Mr. Green or your friends. As I said, you took care of Jackson, so I take care of you.”
“Then there will be four of us. What time?”
“Whenever your man gets back from Wyoming,” he replied then hung up.
I tossed my phone back in the bag.
“What are we doing tonight?” Christy asked.
“We’re going to dinner at Double-B Diner.”
“Double-B?” She pulled the cotton balls from her toes. “That’s right, you said you met the owner.”
“Who’s going to Double-B?” Paul asked as he came in from the kitchen. He tilted his head from side to side, trying to release a crick. “I hate conference calls,” he muttered.
“We are. With Emory,” Christy told him.
Paul’s brow went up. I told him about Jackson's scraped knees and the thank you meal.
“Gray will come to dinner, too, hopefully. I should have asked if you had plans. I hope it was okay to accept,” I said. “Quake wants to talk with me about something.”
“Quake? You’re on first name basis with Quake Baker?” he asked, dropping down into an overstuffed chair that sat perpendicular to the sofa. He grabbed Christy's ankles and propped them up on his knees.
“Watch the toes!” she said, wiggling her feet.
“Um, yeah,” I replied.
“He does more than own a diner, you know,” Paul said, watching me carefully.
I frowned, and Paul leaned forward, resting his forearms over Christy's lower legs.
“Yeah, he’s president of a motorcycle club,” I replied.
“Motor— Are you serious?” Christy asked, her voice full of awe.
Paul looked to Christy, then me. “He doesn’t spend his days waiting tables and washing dishes. He keeps his nose clean, at least as far as the cops know. The diner’s one of many of the club’s successful businesses.”
“You know this because…?” I prodded.
“Because I work for the District Attorney’s office.”
That made sense. Paul would know more about Quake’s underworld affairs more than most.
“Is he dangerous?” I asked, worried I was going from one dangerous situation to another. Had I just accepted an invitation to something… bad? God, it was easy to kill someone if they showed up exactly when and where you wanted them. Quake was definitely rough around the edges, and calling him “rough” was probably me being nice. And naïve at what he was involved in. But he’d been nice to me. Courteous even. And he’d even taken the time to teach Jackson to be a gentleman. I couldn’t hate him or even be afraid of him. It didn’t mean I would stop by his clubhouse—or whatever they called it—to say hi, but I wasn’t going to turn down his offer for dinner either.
“To you?” Paul shook his head. “You helped his grandson, right?”
I nodded. “As I said, Jackson was hurt, and I gave him Band-Aids. Plus Chris’ old bike helmet. I guess he and his uncle Frankie live a few blocks away.”
“And Frankie Baker personally fixed your front lights and brought you food,” Paul added. “I’d say you’re under his protection. Quake, I mean.”
“His protection?” When his expression didn’t change, I went on. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Paul nodded.
“I had no idea there was a motorcycle club in Brant Valley. Gangs I know are creeping in but outlaw bikers?”
The ER was filled with gang bangers who’d moved from Denver or even California. They’d been shot or beat up, and I was becoming well versed in the tattoos and colors to know there was a war on the streets of the city, but I’d never once heard of the No Holds Barred MC.
Quake did have a sense of authority about him, and his son Frankie did whatever the man said, but I related that more to respect than do-as-I-say-or-you’ll-be-shot-in-the-back-of-the-head power.
“Hang on.” I remembered the matchbook Frank gave me and went back to my purse and dug through it. “Here. I was given this.”
Paul took it, flipped it over. “Jesus, you have Quake Baker’s cell phone number. You’re definitely under his protection.”
“What does that mean exactly?” I sat back down and finished tugging the cotton balls from between my toes, added them to the pile of Christy's to throw out.
“It means when you decide to get out there, you get way out there.” He patted my shoulder. “Gray’s not the only one watching out for you. What time tonight?”
I told him.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Chapter 22
GRAY
My dad wasn’t too hard to find since I knew where to look. There was nothing in Wyoming as far as the eye could see. Open grassland, undulating hills, mountains in the distance for a stretch. I loved it. That was why, as soon as I had the cash, I bought a ranch of my own. An escape. I wanted to take Emory there, get her alone. Get her beneath me again. No interruptions. For days.
There were parts of Wyoming I wanted to avoid, like where I grew up. I never wanted to step foot on that land again. I hadn’t been back since I left for the Marines and had no reason to do so now. My father, thank fuck, was at the casino. It was on the reservation only thirty miles from the ranch, and I could feel the tension creeping into my shoulders with each passing mile.
I had to deal with him, and he sure as fuck wasn’t coming to me. The only reason I was doing so now was because of Emory. No one fucked with her.