Edge Of Darkness (Arrow's Edge MC #2) - Freya Barker
CHAPTER 1
Lissie
I LISTEN TO the conversation at the table with half an ear, but my attention is captured by the man sitting at the bar.
A biker: too-long, dirty blond hair tied back at the nape of his solid neck, slightly darker beard, worn jeans, and an old T-shirt covering his large frame. He’s playing with a full shot glass, but only drinking from the tall glass.
Yuma.
He told me his name when I followed an investigative lead straight to the apartment building his motorcycle club owns and he manages. A stroke of luck, on more than one count, since it turned out to be a hot lead, but also had a vacancy sign on one of the apartment units. Since I was in dire need of some better digs than the trailer I’ve been renting month-to-month once I moved here, I inquired about it.
After jumping through some hoops to qualify, I finally signed the one-year lease yesterday. It was a bit of a momentous occasion; my first real place on my own. Odd, for a thirty-seven-year-old woman, I know. I moved into one of the cabins dotting my family’s ranch outside Albuquerque at twenty-four, and that’s where I stayed until a few months ago when life took a left turn.
When the conversation at the table turns to one of my colleagues, Tony Ramirez, moving his girlfriend, Blue, into his home, my ears perk up. Coincidentally I’m supposed to move this weekend as well, but when Blackfoot asks me if I’m in for Blue’s move, I tell him I’ll be there. It’s not like I have a ton to move myself. I can always bow out early and transfer my stuff in the afternoon or on Sunday.
When I look back to the bar, Yuma is gone, but the shot glass is still sitting there, untouched.
_______________
“Need a hand?”
My precarious hold on the queen-sized mattress I bought only two months ago slips, and it starts sliding back down the stairs. Given that the skies broke open in a late-afternoon summer downpour, I really don’t want my new mattress to end up in a puddle in the parking lot.
“I’ve got it.”
I still haven’t seen who’s attached to the deep voice, but I recognize it all the same. Yuma doesn’t talk much, but every time he does it has impact. I’ve been trying to find excuses to get a little friendlier with him, and this is the perfect opportunity.
“Thank you.” The bottom half of the mattress is suddenly lifted high and I can barely grab on to guide it through my front door.
“Keep going,” he grunts, when I go to set it down. In the bedroom, I drop my end on the hardwood floor. “Where’s the bed frame?”
“Haven’t gotten around to that yet. Just drop it on the floor for now.”
“You don’t have a bed?”
He drops the mattress and I finally get a look at him. He’s wet. As in, caught in the downpour kind of wet. It’s a good look on him, even though he’s making a puddle on my wood floors.
“Sure I do.” I point at the mattress.
He pulls up a dubious eyebrow, but then drops the subject.
“Where’s the rest of your shit?” he asks, already walking out of the apartment.
“Back of my truck.”
I motion in the general direction and he takes off down the stairs, calling over his shoulder.
“Stay there.”
“Yes, sir.” I almost salute his barked order but he’s not even looking at me.
It takes him half an hour to finish unloading the bed of the truck I had loaded high and covered with a tarp. When he walks up with the last of my boxes, he hands it to me but stays outside on the walkway, leaning against the door opening.
“Nice truck.”
“Thanks.”
I grin. I love my black, heavy-duty GMC Sierra. I bought that truck early this year when the old Ford pickup I’d been driving since high school finally gave up the ghost. My family thought it was ridiculous for a girl to buy a man’s truck, which only served as an incentive. Peter, the younger of my two older brothers, said some nasty shit, but what else is new? I can’t help he blows through his money like water and can’t afford one.
“Your friends couldn’t give you a hand?”
“I’m new to town. Haven’t made that many,” I confess with a shrug.
“Saw you at The Irish the other day, looked like a group of friends to me. They couldn’t help?” He pulls a do-rag from his back pocket and mops at his face,