Hard Proof (Notus Motorcycle Club Book 1) Read online

  "None of their business if I am. They hired me to drive cars onto the ship. I'm doing my job. If McCormick wants me to do a different job than they hired me on for, he can take it up with the Union." Wayne pushed through the front door.

  All he wanted to do was get inside the air-conditioned building, drink a cold beer, and get off his feet. There was no sense in bringing up his problems with reading and writing to the foreman at Port Loaders because that's not what they were paying him to do.

  "Damn," muttered Chuck behind him. "What the hell happened in here?"

  Wayne looked around the room. The dozen or so tables that usually sat in the room were gone, and instead, there were at least ten booths hugging the walls. The old stained bar that should've been right in front of him was also missing. He looked to his left and found tall, dinky tables in front of a skinny chrome counter blocking off the liquor shelves and the taps.

  "Did we walk into the wrong fucking place?" Glen walked to the middle of the room, whistled, and turned around. "Where the hell is our table?"

  "New owners took over the bar on Monday." Steve Whinsell, a regular customer, stood from the booth, tugged his pants up under his beer gut, and headed to the restroom. "They've been redecorating during the week."

  That would explain the changes. They hadn't been to the bar since last Friday. While the previous owners never showed their face, and in fact lived out of the state, someone should've known about the sale. St. John's wasn't that big that a transfer of ownership would go unnoticed.

  "That's a hell of a change," said Thad. "How are we supposed to get a beer when nobody is around?"

  "I'll find someone." Wayne walked over to the counter and knocked on the surface, hoping to draw out the help. "Can we get a beer around here?"

  He leaned over the counter and peered into the dark kitchen window. Besides the six customers already seated, there appeared to be no one else around.

  Chuck and Thad pulled a couple chairs over to a booth while Glen slid onto the bench. Wayne's mood went from bad to irritated. There were too many changes happening to please him. His work wanted to change a tried and true method. His bar changed the feel of the place.

  He gave up waiting for someone to come out of the kitchen and slid into the booth opposite of Glen. "If this is the kind of service they'll be giving now that someone else owns the joint, I'll find somewhere else we can grab a beer."

  "There's always your garage." Thad put his boot on the bottom rung of the stool.

  "No air conditioning," muttered Wayne.

  Glen spun the napkin holder between his hands and whistled softly. Wayne, used to the noise, understood that Glen was okay with a change of plans. It was when Glen stopped whistling that they worried because usually, Glen's anger would get the best of him and fists would start flying. They all had their ways of dealing with life.

  Thad hated to be alone and kept himself busy helping everyone. If a stranger needed a ride, he'd be there. If an acquaintance needed an extra pair of hands moving, he'd pack and deliver every fucking box. He surrounded himself with others to keep the shadows away.

  Chuck enjoyed women. Half the time, Wayne wondered if it wasn't so much about sex, but the comfort of a soft body that Chuck sought. Raised by his father and three older brothers, Chuck enjoyed women to the fullest.

  Wayne rubbed his jaw. It was his responsibility to keep everyone together, and that's probably why he bought the house he grew up in when his mom remarried ten years ago and moved to Minneapolis with her new husband. Out of some weird nostalgia, he couldn't explain, he'd gone out and got a loan and bought the place from her before she could list the house with a realtor. Living at home beat the hell out of the rental duplex next to the railroad tracks he'd lived in at the time.

  Through the years, the other members of Notus had purchased their own places four blocks away, where the old street mall used to sit. While the suburbia life with weekend garage sales and children riding their bikes up into the lawns never bothered the others, he preferred the quiet street where he'd grown up and where he only had to wave to the older neighbors when he felt like it.

  "What the hell is taking so long?" Glen stood from the stool. "Maybe it's self-serve."

  "There's a woman here...somewhere," said Steve, who'd returned from the bathroom and sat back down two booths away from them.

  At Steve's announcement, the door to the kitchen swung open. Wayne eyed the woman stepping into the room, having never seen her before. If he had, he'd have remembered her. She had that sexy innocent look that came naturally, which meant she'd be damn good in the sack.

  Thick, blond hair hung straight down her back, shining from the ceiling lights. A natural curiosity raised her arched brows and puckered her pink lips. He found himself wanting her to look at him.

  When she slowly swung her gaze to the booth, her lips formed a perfect O as if she found having customers during working hours a surprise. He leaned back against the bench. The wait to have a beer now worth his time if she stuck around for him to watch.

  The woman put the box she carried behind the counter and hurried toward him. Her long, bare legs carried her forward confidently. Wayne's mood improved.

  "Sorry to make you wait. We're trying to set everything up and keep the doors open to customers to make an easy adjustment for everyone who enjoys stopping in for a beer, and I'm afraid we're failing." Her pout turned into a smile. "How about four free beers on the house?"

  She had a slight overbite that only enhanced her sexiness but failed to distract him from the fact she'd said 'we'. His gaze lowered to her left hand. She wore no ring.

  "Yeah, beer sounds good," he said. "Appreciate it."

  "My pleasure." She pivoted, and he caught himself from whistling under his breath.

  Her shorts covered her ass, but the rip in the pocket gave him a peak of white panties. His breath caught in his chest and he almost choked. White.

  Last time he'd seen white panties on a woman, the woman had been a sixteen years old girl, and he'd hit a home run during lunch at school when he'd been a senior.

  Thad's phone vibrated, and he mumbled, "Fuck."

  Wayne looked at Thad, took in his lowered brows, the tick on his upper jaw. "What?"

  "There's a girl missing," said Thad. "It's been seventy-two hours. She's seven years old."

  The hair on Wayne's arms prickled and he looked around the table. Glen and Chuck's face's hardened. They all understood the importance of an hour, much less three days. Notus Motorcycle Club would step in like they do every missing person's case.

  "Make the calls." Wayne decided for the club. "Get the address."

  "On it." Thad stepped away from the table, concentrating on his phone.

  The woman returned with a tray carrying four mugs of beer. Wayne stood, and Chuck and Glen left the table.

  Wayne stayed behind. "We can't stay."

  The woman looked up at him with wide eyes. "I apologize. Things have been busy here, and —"

  "Not your fault." The tension in his body over the phone call pushed away his irritation from his day at work and finding changes at the bar. "Something came up, and we have to go."

  The woman's gaze lowered to his vest and she nodded. "Well, when you have time, stop in again. The offer is still up for a free beer."

  He stepped backward toward the door, feeling the pressure of time running out. "What's your name?"

  She tilted her head. "Clara. Clara Nelson."

  "I'll see you again, Clara." He turned and lifted his chin toward Thad who followed him outside, still talking on his phone.

  Thad pocketed his phone, swung his leg over his motorcycle, and looked at Wayne. "The parents of the missing child agreed to meet with us immediately at 687 Oak Street."

  "That's on the other side of Lombard Street. Let's roll out." Wayne started his bike.

  His days and nights instantly became longer. Between working a forty-hour week at the port, he'd use the rest of the time to hunt down a little girl. On
ce he understood the details, he'd make the necessary contact with those who'd help in the search—Olson & Sons Private Investigators and AirChinook Search & Rescue. The police could only do so much, and it was important to get people on the trail before the trail went cold.

  Chapter 2

  The neon light behind the bar cast the immediate area in a red hue. Clara stepped back and leaned against the counter. The light blurred.

  "What's wrong, sis?" asked Gracie.

  Clara sniffed and blinked hard. "Do you think Dad would be happy, knowing what we did with his money?"

  "Buying the bar?" Gracie set the extra bottle of Fireball and Rum on the shelf. "I think he'd ask a lot of questions, but after Dad thought about it for a while and could see what we've accomplished, he'd be proud of us. He was always a big believer in making an honest living that would support a person through hard times, downturns with the economy, and whatever other influences affected business. Everyone knows no matter how poor a person is, people don't stop drinking."

  "True." Clara inhaled deeply. "Though we wouldn't be here, owning a bar, if he were alive. He'd question us on why we wanted to move back to St. John's and probably stop us. He moved us away to protect us and let us grow up without being scared all the time."

  "That's not the point anymore. Dad's dead." Gracie raised her brows. "He should've told us himself about mom."

  "That's not fair."

  "Is it fair that both our parents are buried together at the cemetery in town? Is it fair that we're trying to move on with our lives? Is it fair that you're feeling guilty when you should feel proud of yourself?" Gracie reached out and squeezed Clara's hand.

  Clara looked into eyes that took everything in and processed it one fact at a time with no emotions fogging her thinking. Usually, Gracie's ability to separate herself from emotional decisions gave Clara confidence, made her stronger, when all she wanted to do was feel sorry for herself.

  Her sister was right. The shadow that followed them after learning the truth about what happened to their mom would always darken their life. She had to look forward and keep level headed, or fear and hatred would get the best of her.

  "I miss Dad." Clara wiped underneath her eyes. "You'd think after two years I could talk about him without tearing up."

  "Nothing wrong with crying," said Gracie softly.

  Their personalities complimented each other. Clara helped Gracie dream, laugh, and do spontaneous, crazy things like buying a bar and watching stupid movies all night long. Gracie dealt with reality and faced problems head on, and most of all, she accepted life and all the challenges that came her way with a tenacity that amazed her.

  "People should be coming in soon." Clara tucked her Tee into her jeans. "Maybe now that the kitchen is open and Paxton has proven himself as a brilliant and talented cook with the lunch he made us, we'll gain more customers."

  Gracie pushed away from the counter. "That reminds me. I need to go out and staple the flyers for the bar up on the light poles around the block."

  "Did you check to see if that's legal?" Clara tied the apron around her waist.

  "Everyone else has done it, so I'm sure it is."

  Clara laughed. "If you get arrested, I'm going to let you spend the night in jail before bailing your ass out. While you're wearing orange, you can say goodbye to your pint of Blue Bunny S'mores ice cream you hid in the freezer that I'll be eating."

  Two men walked in, and Gracie gulped loud enough for Clara to hear her. She studied her sister, amused to find Gracie gawking. She stepped closer. "You take care of the customers. I'll plaster the papers around the block."

  "Make sure you have your pepper spray with you. I don't care if it's broad daylight," said Gracie.

  "Got it in my pocket." Clara leaned closer. "Check out the guy with the Henley on."

  "Uh huh. I see him," muttered Gracie walking around the end of the counter, focused entirely on the men.

  Clara shook her head in amusement and walked to the small office in the back of the bar. She grabbed the stapler, the papers, and left out the back door that led to the alley. Since signing the closing papers on the bar and getting the keys from the previous owner, she hadn't had two seconds to enjoy being outside. She spent every waking moment at the bar, and at the end of her day—the middle of the night—she went straight to the townhouse her and Gracie bought together.

  She slowed her walk through the alley. It was good to see Gracie noticing men. Both of them hadn't had enough time in the last two years since getting the call that their dad collapsed at work to have a social life. Nothing prepared them for the loss they'd experienced.

  Stopping on the sidewalk at the first pole, she read the other advertisements already plastering the wood and picked a spot over an old garage sale sign from four months ago. She stapled the corners and moved on down the sidewalk, hoping Gracie was right and she wasn't going to get in trouble for decorating utility poles. Things were different in St. John's. More populated, more urban, faster paced than their life in Bozeman, Montana. St. John's being a hubbub of Portland, Oregon, meant more people, more stores, more nightlife.

  The busy atmosphere and enthusiasm from everyone around attracted her back to the area. Having never had the opportunity to visit clubs, go to concerts, and go out dancing, she got excited believing the bar would soon be one of the hot spots that attracted customers. From an entrepreneur's position, it would be that happening aura that kept the bar in business. It was the change she needed in her life.

  At twenty-nine years old, she'd started to feel like she'd missed out on being that reckless twenty-something year old who lived to party, meet people, and do things she'd talk about or at least think about in her old age. Or, maybe it was her dad's death that gave her a wake-up call to finally do something daring and exciting. Whatever the reason behind her new passion for life, she wanted to push forward and make a success of the bar and find her corner in the world while closing a long chapter in her past.

  Reaching the corner of the block, she stopped, looked behind her and in front of her, and quickly hung the poster on the pole. A car passed her, and the traffic noises grew. She hurried her steps and the rumbling intensified.

  Four motorcycle riders rounded the corner. She relaxed and removed another poster from the stack under her arm and stapled the paper in a vacant spot on the light pole. Looking behind her, she read the back of the bikers' vests as they rode away.

  Notus Motorcycle Club.

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. It was one thing to talk about the bikers, but to actually be in their presence both frightened her and made her feel safer at the same time. She hurried and finished the last two poles on the street and rounded the corner to head back to the bar. Her boost of energy and seeing the bikers had her almost jogging to return to the bar to see if they'd stopped in for a beer. She turned at the end of the block and found all four motorcycles parked at the curb in front of Vavoom's.

  Not wanting to enter from the front, she walked down the alley and went through the back door. Washing her hands in the kitchen, she put on an apron. A trademark toward Vavoom's that she and Gracie had created because aprons kept the male customers' eyes off their breasts and on the material tied to their waist. It helped that Gracie was a wiz at sewing and made the skimpy piece of material sexy and appealing. Today's apron was black with white lace and had a red heart strategically placed on her hip with the word Vavoom's in the center.

  They'd decided to keep the original name of the bar because it had no meaning to the previous owners who inherited the name from the sellers before them. The history of the bar went back to the early fifties, and it was important for the customers to continue their habit of stopping in while they adapted to new owners who would be on site.

  She walked into the bar and waited behind the counter for Gracie. Spotting her talking to the bikers, hands on her hips, she used the time to study each of the men.

  The one who'd talked to her before stood out among them
all. His scruffiness came off as sexy rather than laziness. A few days growth of whiskers on his face highlighted the strong jaw line. His eyes reminded her of dark ale in a dim bar, tempting her into the corner to do wicked things. He wore his thick, dark brown hair too long, but the ruffled rebel-look worked for him because he'd trained his hair to sweep back from his forehead and fall into place.

  She raked her teeth over her bottom lip. Though, seeing him sitting in the booth had her second guessing their decision to get rid of the tables when she caught sight of how little room he had between his broad upper body and the top of the table. He even sat with his leg outstretched and his boot sitting in the walkway, because his height demanded the extra room.

  Raising her gaze, she looked at his face again and found him frowning at Gracie. Clara's neck warmed, and she shifted slightly and found the biker with blond hair staring at her. She smiled having been caught looking and kneeled down below the bar, pretending to organize the supplies on the shelf. Used to others studying her when Gracie was around, she usually never let their curiosity bother her. But, the bikers were hard to read.

  After last week, she'd envisioned more of them coming and taking over the bar. Something her and Gracie didn't want to happen. Biker bars were a whole other endeavor, and they wanted the freedom to cater to everyone who stepped through the doorway while continuing to make sure Notus Motorcycle Club kept coming back.

  Gracie's legs appeared beside her. Clara looked up. "What's wrong?"

  "Those men and I use that term lightly, more like stubborn assholes who think they can pull one over on me, think I give out free beers," whispered Gracie. "What am I supposed to do? We wanted to remain friendly with them, but we also have a business to run. If we lose money, we won't have enough cash to do what we came here to do."

  Clara stood. "But, we do owe them free beer."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Remember, I told you they stopped here last Friday when I was helping you interview for a new cook. I might've forgotten to mention, I offered them a free beer because they had to wait for service. But, they left before they could take me up on my offer." Clara smoothed her apron. "I'll take them beer and try to get them to stay."