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TURBO
STEEL MC - MONTANA STEEL CHARTER BOOK ELEVEN
MICHEL PRINCE
WREN MCCABE
 CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue

Playlist for the Roadhouse Revue

Books by Michel Prince
About Michel Prince
Books by Wren McCabe
About Wren McCabe
 1

M ichael Hanover pulled up to the white split entry house which sat in a quiet neighborhood
in the town of Freemont, California. Suburban bliss abounded with perfectly trimmed
lawns. A mix of flags, some decorative showing the season, others patriotic and of course the few
signs that the neighborhood was slightly divided. Familiar symbols on both competing flags, only one
had a bridge in the center while the other had mountains lined up perfectly as if it were a crown. Both
the Golden State Warriors and the Sacramento Kings weren’t more than a stone’s throw in either
direction pulling into the rivalry brought on by the two teams’ current high standings in the Western
Conference.
Everything was serene as Michael walked up the brick walkway to the red door. Taking the two
steps that needed a little bit of cement to fix the chipped spots had him front and center as he rang the
doorbell.
The home belonged to what he supposed people would call his ex-girlfriend Sassy and her
husband Mitch. Sassy had been a weekend leave fuck that, through poor planning and fucking amazing
execution, had him strapped for a lifetime. They’d tried being more than passing ships once the docs
said he was the father, with less gusto than if he’d gone on daytime TV, then again he was praying the
little bundle he’d met at the doctor’s office was his. Five seconds, a finger grab and big blue eyes
blinking stole the heart he’d thought was under lock and key. A feat her mother never accomplished.
Now the man she made a family with had not only taken on Sassy as a wife, but his eight year old
daughter Sydney had spent half her life in this home.
With spring break just kicking off he’d asked for an extended leave, he was ready to pick her up
and couldn’t wait to get his vacation time started with her. They always had fun and he did his best to
hold up his part of the deal when it came to the custody agreement. Although he got in less fights with
Sassy than before as she adjusted to his life as a SEAL. Joint custody didn’t really matter when shit
went south and his ass was called up. Best he could do was get his duty station set in Coronado down
in San Diego so he was at least in the same state.
Only on his last few weekends he noticed a subtle change in his daughter and he was going to ask
his ex what the deal was. Could be school since the area was redistricted and Sydney had to start a
new one last fall. He’d written it off as that, but by now she should have adapted. Lord knows what
she would have gone through if they’d gone full military family switching station to station on a whim.
With his busy military schedule as a Navy Seal he just hadn’t gotten around to bringing the changes
up, but today he would.
Knocking on the door he waited for what seemed an eternity but in reality, was only a few minutes
before Mitch opened the door.
“Oh right,” Mitch said as he invited him by stepping back, the twang he tried to tamp down at
work slipped up when he was at home. “Sorry, Sass ain’t home yet, but come in.”
“She close? I had a few things I wanted to ask her about,” Michael said as the man in a short
sleeve button down and older tie began tugging loose at the knot since the work week was over.
The guy had a stable job, working in insurance or siding, not exactly the square type Michael
thought fit Sassy’s wild ass. Then again, she had been close to the base trying to lasso a man. Maybe
Mitch had a four O one K or a pension that lured her with security.
“Sydney is almost ready,” he said, dropping his cell phone on the counter he went to the fridge
and set a six pack of icy Silver Bullets next to electronic. “Want one?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“I only got ‘em out since we’ll be kid free in a few,” he said with a shrug as he closed the door.
“Guess road sodas aren’t a good idea since you’ve got the angel in the car.”
“Probably not,” Michael replied, hoping the man was speaking the truth when it came to drinking
around Sydney. Not that he’d begrudge them alcohol, but he never wanted his daughter to have to see
what happens when her mother is six shots in and Stroker starts playing.
“She just finished getting her backpack ready. Let me go and help her.” The heavy footsteps of the
man going down the hallway had Mike moving toward the kitchen next to the counter.
Leaning on the faux granite top Mitch’s phone lit up from a message, the first of which was
beaming from the screen. ‘I’ll speak with Sydney and explain exactly what she’s doing wrong.’
Torn between not wanting to snoop and seeing his daughter’s name in the mix of words that
seemed disciplinary he swiped, opening the phone with not even a four digit passcode. Glancing
down the hallway, he saw a little light from Sydney’s room, but no dark shadow coming out.
‘She loves you baby, she doesn’t understand how much she’s hurting you when she cries like
that.’ The rest of the message had Michael scrolling up to see what Mitch was so pissed off about.
Who the fuck cared if his feelings were hurt by a little girl crying. The messages before. The one sent
by the man steps away alone with his daughter had his knees buckling.
‘Why would she cry? She’s never cried before, does she not love me, do you not? If you love me
prove it. Prove she loves me too. She knows how to suck a dick, now make her do it right and when
I’m inside her tight cunt I expect you to teach her how to move to show her daddy she loves him.’
The text message swam in front of Michael’s eyes. What the fuck was he reading? This wasn’t
right, was it? Swiping further up in a backward manipulation that was months old. He didn’t have the
stomach or time to read more. Words splashing in front of him. Spelling out how they’d brought his
daughter into their marital bed to help strengthen their family. Taking a few screen shots he went old
school, pocketing the phone and making sure he’d lock in all the messages. Sassy wasn’t going to
delete this away. Act as if she hadn’t permanently destroyed their daughter.
This bastard and ex-girlfriend had been more than molesting his daughter. They’d been raping her.
Taking the innocence in a mix of manipulation and horror no child should have to endure. He saw red.
His mind tripping over all the ways he’d been trained to deal with enemies and all the torture
scenarios they’d been warned and partially prepped for. This would end now.
In the SEALs they say the only easy day was yesterday and if he could go back months he would.
Years, if possible, but that was not the case. The creed he’d pledged, that was drilled into him echoed
in a mind pushed beyond any assignment. Character, honor, the final words butted up against the
reality of a man, less than thirty feet away who’d done the unthinkable to his little girl. The princess
he treasured more than anyone in this world.
 ‘The ability to control my emotions and my actions, regardless of circumstance, sets me apart
from others.’
Echoes of his training. The men and women that washed out. Unable to handle the rigors of what
was before them. He’d seen the breakdown in others. The mental block cracking and tumbling to the
side. Each test, harder. Exhaustion, hunger, pain all adding to the breakdown in mental fortitude. For
Michael a cold iced over all the questions in his head. He separated himself from what was in front
of him. Broke down the barriers. Bravery was not the absence of fear, it was the ability to push past
it.
Only this wasn’t fear, this was rage. An emotion he hadn’t been faced with. Anger at times, but
only fleetingly. Cold butting up against searing heat when a voice shook him out of the rabbit hole
from hell and the sick images of Mitch being strung up and field stripped alive. All of it he needed to
lock away for at least three minutes. His mind calculating a plan as adrenaline rushed through his
body and he did all he could to fall into the control he’d mastered.
“Daddy,” the sweet sing song voice of his baby girl called out and the message lit up in his mind
‘to teach her how to move to show her daddy she loves him ‘.
Biting on his inner cheek he dropped to one knee and wrapped his arms around the little girl.
Emotional exhaustion taking a toll on the little girl who allowed him to hold her but didn’t hug him
like she used to. Michael cradled the back of her head in his hand and wondered how anyone could
see a child this small and think of sex. All he could think of was protecting her from the evils of the
world. Keeping her safe from dangers outside the home, but he never once thought Sassy would allow
her to be hurt inside it. For some reason he now saw all he’d done, the years of service as wasted
time and effort. It didn’t matter how many people he’d saved from foreign enemies if his daughter was
being hurt because he wasn’t there to save her.
He pulled slightly away as his daughter looked at the floor with downcast eyes. Lifting her chin,
he could see her eyes struggling to find happiness with heavy bags underneath them. The distance and
change in her of the past few months slammed into him like a spear through the chest. Why had he
written off the change in her behavior? Figured her begging to stay with him normal kid stuff that
happens with every child having to live in two spaces at once.
At the time it made sense for Sassy to take on most of the custody. She was her mother. Mothers
protected their children ahead of even themselves. Only he’d misjudged not only his ex, but the man
who’d looked him in the eye five years ago and pledged to love his daughter as his own.
“Hey angel,” he said as he stood and fished his keys from his pocket and tightened the straps of
her backpack. “You think you can get your stuff all in my truck by yourself and wait for me? I’m gonna
have a little talk with your stepfather.”
“Okay,” she said, taking the key fob from him and dragging the dented and scratched rolling
luggage with cartoon characters on it. Tucked in the crook of her arm was a teddy bear and her pink
blanket which he had given her when she was a baby. The girl wouldn’t sleep without it and it
showed the years of wash cycles and bad nights in the wear on the fading fabric.
“Make sure you’re all buckled in by the time I get out there,” he said.
“No hug goodbye for Daddy Mitch?” Mitch called out and it took everything inside Mike to not
clock the guy in front of his daughter.
“No,” he said, his voice cold and firm as he stepped between his daughter and her abuser. “No
hug goodbye this time.”
“I think that should be up to Sydney,” he said. “Like it or not we’re a pretty happy family.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the posts,” he countered and gave Sydney a nod to leave. They’d made him
jealous. The smiling faces on family outings. How blessed they all were to have Mitch in their lives.
Sassy touting how much they were all enjoying an impromptu day of fun. Was it a reward for Sydney
complying?
The cover of perfection on the perfect street, in the perfect home with the perfect—the click of the
latch when Sydney had closed the door was a trigger. The façade fading away as his hand encircled
Mitch’s throat and slammed him into the wall so hard the drywall made a perfect indent from his
head.
“You touched my daughter,” he howled, fingers tightening around the man’s throat as he pressed
his Adam’s apple to the point of suffocation. “You touched my daughter.”
Mitch squirmed, his hands clutching Mike’s wrist and straining to pull the force made stronger by
the man’s rage from his neck.
“I trusted you. You looked me in my eyes and said you’d protect her. Care for her.”
Pulling him from the wall, Mike spun the abuser around and thrust him toward the counter with
enough force a gash broke open as his temple bounced off the corner. Mitch stumbled back. Hard
gasps of air as fear of what he knew was about to happen washed over him. The man knew what Mike
could do. The fact he knew how to kill in ways painful or quick. Piss spread across the front of the
perfectly pleated khakis of the man who knew the length of his life was completely in the hands of a
trained killer.
“Sassy started it,” he coughed, hand out, as he scanned the room as if there were potential
weapons in the area. “She offered her to me.”
“I don’t care if she offered you a million dollars, you knew what you were doing and you did it.”
Mike took one step then two as the man stumbled away. “Much like right now, I know the options
open to me and I’m more than aware of what I am doing.”
“What are you going to do?” the man who took such a tone with Sassy she gave over their
daughter’s innocence to appease him now sniveled.
“Sadly, not all that I want and nowhere near what you deserve.”
The move was quick and decisive as he caught the man, spun him around and snapped his neck. A
crack echoed in the empty house as the man’s legs gave way and Mike had to tighten his grip around
the fucker to lower him and drag him behind the counter. Tossing the useless pile of flesh on the
ground, snagging a towel, then heading to the back door. Using the towel since he didn’t have any
gloves to make sure it was locked as he stood in the backyard. Scanning the area mostly blocked by a
tree line he slammed his booted foot into the lock. The door swung open as the bits of wood
splintered at the jamb.
Tossing items around with the towel to cover his fingerprints. He could have some there. It only
made sense, he’d been there to get his daughter for the weekend. What happened after he left was
outside of his control. With the evidence in his pocket, he glanced one last time at the lifeless body on
the kitchen floor and prayed Sassy did what she always did, stopped to get herself a treat so he had a
good half hour before the body was discovered.
With his own phone out, he sent her a quick text to cover his trail. ‘Couldn’t wait any longer,
need to get on the road. Taking Syd camping and will probably have crap coverage. See you in a
week.’
Normal co-parenting bullshit as he got in the truck and reached back for the keys from his
daughter buckled into her booster seat. The image alone setting his mind at ease as he turned his
phone off and the engine over with a clear conscious and drove away.
P orsche DeGrassa sat across the office from Doc. She had first started seeing the therapist on
video chat when Doc had lived down in New Mexico. Personally, it was nice to have her in
Turnabout Creek, Montana, the place she now called home. She and the prospect she was engaged to
were a great addition to the town and Lord knows people in rural areas rarely have access to mental
health resources. Seeing her face to face had a different vibe to it. An intimacy you couldn’t achieve
through a screen and one that made Porsche less willing to break down walls, as if the anonymity of
the internet had rescued her from being her true self.
“The hair is a bright change for spring,” Doc said, trying to spark any conversation since Porsche
wasn’t in a place to start a topic. “Did you just do that?”
“Ruby had a dialysis appointment up in Billings yesterday,” she explained. “I wanted to shed the
dark hair and go blonde again. Figured I could help out and get a little me time.”
“They did a good job,” Doc said as Porsche used a pair of sunglasses she’d been fidgeting with
as a headband to keep the hair from her eyes. The chemical smell of the harsh dye needed to strip her
old color would linger for days until she could shower without a cap to protect her hair. “I’m glad
you got some time to think.”
“That whole dialysis thing is horrible, you know,” Porsche said thinking of the row of people set
up with giant machines cleaning their blood as they zone out in chairs. “Have you heard if Ruby has
been pushed up on the list?”
“Ruby’s not my patient,” Doc said.
“Yeah, but you hear things.”
“Even if I did, I would never divulge a patient’s personal information, that’s a question for Ruby
to answer.” Porsche couldn’t discern if Doc’s dulcet tone was supposed to be soothing or assuring.
As if Porsche feared the world knowing about her past. She only came to Doc because Red insisted
she get help and wasn’t about to dole out the medicine that kept her on an even keel without talk
therapy.
Twisting a lock of hair around her finger she examined the bright color, sure to fade in a few days
and sighed. “I probably should have had them put a pop of pink or purple. I’m not bold enough to do a
whole mermaid look. You know the one that’s bright blue at the top and slowly fades into purple.
Then again, it’s not like I can go running to Billings for touch ups. This I can maintain myself with an
at home kit or some bleach.”
“Porsche, can you tell me more about your time in New Mexico?” Doc asked, the woman, who’s
skin was pale in contrast to the features she’d inherited from her mother sat back in the office chair
she’d moved from behind her desk so there wasn’t a barrier between them.
“I would say Dreamer is working hard to get the school where she wants it.” Porsche avoided the
question and looked down at her hands. She didn’t want to talk about New Mexico. While there was
good once she got with the Steel MC, the rest of the time had a lot of trauma. even though the question
was vague enough she could have talked about the fun she had with Dell and Sal and the others, that
wasn’t what Doc was eluding to and they both knew it.
“Yes, Dreamer, is working hard to get the school where she wants it. Now tell me about your time
in New Mexico.” Doc wouldn’t let up, her tone shifting since the woman did know how to deal with
the difficult and stubborn.
Military trained, the psychiatrist had gone through residency with their Prez Red. While he was
all about being a surgeon and putting people back together, Doc had chosen the mind. Sealing cracks
with talk therapy and quieting the voices with drugs that allowed one to process trauma. Drugs
Porsche was currently trying to remember if she’d taken recently.
The wandering nature of her thoughts hinted toward her not taking it, but then again she wasn’t
completely distracted by shining objects and the ambient noises in the room. Even with it being new
above the clinic she was still acutely aware of every part of her trying to avoid the topic that had her
skin raising and bits of burning trickling down her spine as if each question was a poker stabbing into
a smoldering log. The embers sending stings of pain making her twitch in the overstuffed chair.
While Red pushed for those with a past to reach out to Doc, to the point she would be shorted
shifts at the Roadside Bar where she danced if she didn’t, somehow their sessions had hit the main
problem. The time in her life she didn’t want to talk about. Couldn’t Doc just reup her meds and let
her be on her way. They’d danced around the subject a few times, flippant comments she’d been able
to write off and avoid. Only Doc had more than her as a client and when Dreamer joined the patient
list Porsche knew the ex they both shared, Clive, could no longer be a dark figure tucked away in the
shadow of her closet. The man who had abused her for a time, moved on once he was released from
the charge, she put on him and into the arms of the unsuspecting Dreamer. Until she found the Steel
MC and Dell it was a really dark time.
“Nightingale’s kids are sure cute. I just love that little Maisie. The other day she was—”
“Porsche, stop talking about everybody else, but yourself. While I appreciate the insights you
have to the gossip and goings on of the club, this isn’t why you come to my office,” she said, the strict
tone laced with caring made Porsche’s palms itch. “You always have when you find the time to come
see me, but that tends to coincide with your med refill.”
“About that,” she said, Doc raised her hand, palm out to stop her.
“We need to work through some of your stuff.” Doc’s jaw tightened and Porsche turned her head
to the side to avoid the eye contact. “I’m not going to prescribe you meds if you don’t use them the
way I intend. To be in concert with breaking down the root cause of your bi-polar issues.”
Porsche bristled at the diagnosis. Tears pinpricking the corner of her eyes with salty stings. Her
chest seized a bit as if putting a label on why she went from high to low, manic to calm, fun to
inconsolable could no longer be written off because it had a name. She should be happy there was a
cause, an imbalance of chemicals she needed to manage only it was never that simple. Free was a
perfect example. That woman had to be bi-polar or something worse. Sure the hormones she had to
inject in an attempt to have a kid weren’t helping, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have her own manic
issues.
Right as Porsche was about to redirect and question about Free’s recent dip into the crazy pool a
digital glow gave her an out.
“Oh, times up. I can’t believe an hour already went by. Let’s chat again soon.” Porsche grabbed
her purse and stood. “It was great seeing you again Doc.”
“Porsche,” Doc warned, not getting up from her desk. “How many pills do you have left?”
“I’m good Doc, really,” she lied, settling the crossbody strap of her purse in place and digging for
her keys.
“They are daily, not as you feel like it,” she stated. “How many?”
“Like six, seven.”
“Then I expect you back here and ready to talk within a week. I’ll have your prescription here for
you to pick up.”
Going cold turkey wasn’t the same with SSRI’s as it was with alcohol or crack. Not that she’d
ever done crack, but she knew the withdrawals were a bitch to deal with and so did Doc. There was
no cozying up to Red anymore to get her refill because Doc was local now. Local and trapping her
into a place she didn’t want to be. Dangling her mental health and ability to function at the end of a
stick. Rock; hard place; she was right there with no chance of getting out without giving a bit of
herself.
Bits at a time. Like when she danced only Doc wasn’t looking for a flash of nipple, she wanted
something deeper, more invasive and exposing. The thought alone had Porsche’s heart racing and
mouth becoming arid.
“I’ll set an appointment up at the front desk,” she said, hoping she’d find the strength by the time
she made her way downstairs into the clinic proper.
Stepping out of the new office which was set up where an apartment had been above the clinic. A
mix of offices and an outpatient surgical suite at the far end the place was a mishmash of one stop
care growing with the needs of the community. Triggered by necessity and a mix of insanity from the
two doctors, Red and Doc. The therapy part was separated off a bit with its own waiting room.
Sharing the space with a holistic professional in the second office. Out in the waiting area Topaz and
Zoe sat in the brightly colored chairs making it impossible for anyone to just slip from a session
without being noticed. Then again, they were here for either brain shrinking or some sort of chanting
she supposed in the other office.
“Hey Porsche, I need to talk to you about your schedule.” Topaz stood.
“Do you have time now?” Porsche questioned.
“No, I’m here for a massage, Brenda should be out in a minute to get me.” Topaz glanced at her
wrist watch.
“Right, you weren’t just stalking me in the waiting room,” Porsche said, Topaz gave her a
confused look. “More shifts or less?”
Had Doc already put the word out she wasn’t allowed to dance? That would be fucked up if she
had. Paranoia, maybe she hadn’t taken her meds.
“Swaps,” Topaz said. “Free’s gotta take Ruby to Billings for dialysis and is going to be seeing her
own specialist I guess. It’s an overnight deal.”
“Text me once your balanced and gooey from the witch doctor over there,” Porsche said as she
flicked her hand toward the second office. “How the hell do we have an acupuncturist and masseuse
in Turnabout?”
“Don’t worry,” Zoe said arching her back to stretch a bit in her chair. “Pretty sure Brenda’s not
giving happy endings so you don’t have to worry about losing those customers.”
“Aren’t you a fucking comedian,” Porsche jibed. “Can’t wait to see your act on stage.”
“Wanna join me,” she teased.
The whole girl on girl thing did increase tips and lord knows Porsche and Zoe had tag teamed
more than one guy out of his check. Hoez had a shorthand way of making it from day to day and if
laying up with one of them could buy Porsche a day without meds to extend the time before she ran
out it might be worth the experience. Zoe did know how to coax an orgasm with the best of them and
let serotine spill through her body.
“Zoe,” Doc said poking her head out of the office and looking right past Porsche as if she didn’t
exist. As if the action alone was enough to block out who was and wasn’t getting therapy.
“Time to have my mind shrunk and my heart warm,” Zoe said getting up with a big stretch.
Porsche caught her fingers slightly as she passed, the gesture small, but telling between the two
women before she turned back to Topaz. “Your lady is late.”
 “Guess so, but hey, it is what it is.”
Maybe Porsche needed to see what Topaz was taking beyond daily doses of vitamin D from her
husband Onyx. Free wasn’t the only one working on making babies. But unlike Free who had lost two
so far, Topaz hadn’t spoken of a positive test yet. Something was in the water with all the women of
the club. Periods were supposed to link up not pregnancies, but baby fever ran rampant among them
all. If a claimed woman wasn’t already pregnant, she seemed to be working on getting there.
With a quick sigh she realized she had to get home, shower, dress, do makeup and get to work in
under two hours. Porsche glanced at her phone and was frustrated she didn’t pay much attention to the
time. “I got to scoot. Let’s talk about it later.” She headed out to the street parking and sat down in her
car.
Flipping on her playlist to try to find a happy place. Why she came to therapy was a question she
asked herself often. Going ninety-five while listing to Pink was as cathartic most days. Though
making her way to the interstate and pretending she had a destination so she could blast her radio
wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Not that she was a prisoner, beyond the time clock at the Roadside, it
was motivating herself to get out and not get distracted by any and everything. Did seeing Doc help at
all? Beyond refilling a med she probably should give up on, no. She had a few days to decide if she
wanted to return or let the chips fall where they may.
A half-drunk bottle of water was in her cup holder and she shook out a pill into her open palm.
Noticing there was less than her guestimate of six or seven. Four round bits of chemical compound
balanced in the palm of her hand. Tossing them back in the bottle she went for old faithful, Ativan.
Those were as needed for panic attacks and the sight of the low supply of daily pills had her anxiety
spiking as she downed three pills. Tiny, speck like things and yet by the time she was pulling up at the
ranch where they’d finally put full apartments in for members that wanted to stay close her mind was
numbing out.
Skin smooth and no longer goose pimpled, her head light and heart beating in a steady thrum as
she smiled, her hand dragging across Ax’s chest as she passed him in the entry way.
“You dancing tonight,” he asked, catching her hand and giving a gentle tug to stop her.
“If I can get upstairs and get ready.”
“And if you can’t?” the newly demoted prospect asked.
The man was working his way back to member after making errors the club couldn’t abide, but
she knew he’d be back to wearing a member patch in no time. He hadn’t been kicked out and his back
hadn’t been stripped of the patch inked into his skin. All of which she’d seen in New Mexico in the
past. Montana was a newer charter and hadn’t torn a patch off anything higher than a prospect before.
That patch was on a cut, not a body, but she knew the Sarge at Arms was aware of the procedure.
Gruesome as it was and she was happy Ax only dropped down a level for more reasons than his
shameless flirting..
“Then you won’t be able to stick those bills in that one spot you like so much,” she teased,
slipping her hand from his and disappearing into the stairwell.
 2

M ichael folded the cash he’d syphoned from the ATM and stuffed it in his front pocket.
Luckily his mother lived close in Sacramento and he was able to drop Sydney at his mom’s
house while he made the run. Flipping on his phone it seemed Sassy wasn’t just a few minutes away.
No message came through beyond the letter K in reply to his. Telling him she was probably at work or
running errands. Even though he made it look like a robbery, his ex would call him before the cops.
Like most in his squad he had go bags at not only his home, his mother’s and one small one in the
truck with a t-shirt, socks, weapon and a few bucks. With a bigger one with a few day’s worth of
clothes in it he was free to head out of California because he could hide in the Sierra’s long term, but
not with Syd leaving him few options.
Once he crossed the state line with Sydney there was no turning back. Even if he hadn’t sent Mitch
to the great beyond, it was custodial interference. The paperwork his lawyer had to file so he could
take Syd to the Grand Canyon last year had been beyond ridiculous, but right now he needed to
process the dangers as if he were in country on a mission and needing to find assets to remove the
rescue.
The word rescue bounced around his head a few times, emails, texts and phone calls made to a
brother in arms. Thomas Creek had gone home after discharge to a little town in Montana. There were
a few conversations as the computer genius from his SEAL team told about an organization he’d been
helping with, rescuing domestic violence and sexual assault victims and their families. Moving them
around and giving them a new life.
His daughter had to qualify and starting over meant little to him since he’d probably be doing it
anyway at the end of the month. Only this time he’d be minus some VA bennies, but his daughter
would be safe. There was no price on that.
He knew what he had to do. Leave town, get his ass to Montana with a friend he trusted. The
military wouldn’t be looking for him since he was on leave and the world was somewhat silent at the
moment. Even then he’d been coming up to putting in his papers. He had his proof and he made sure to
lock Mitch’s phone, shut it off and remove the sim card. A sliver of plastic held his daughter’s torture
and locked it away in an old case that used to have mints, tucking it in the zippered pocket of his
backpack. Hack would help him, the man had a moral compass that pointed north. For a few hundred
miles Michael could drive his truck. A few modifications and he would have covered his tracks, but
he needed to set up a life which included Sydney where she could find safety and heal.
“Michael?” his mother said in the hushed whisper she used as worry furrowed her brow. “What is
going on?”
 “Nothing mama,” he assured, doing his best to cover his lies. “I’m gonna take Syd for the week
and we’ll see what happens after that.”
“She needs a doctor,” she pointed into the living room where his daughter was curled up, holding
her teddy and blanket as if she were two. Eyes fixed on the cartoon for babies not big girls. “She
hasn’t sucked her thumb for three years. Not since she started school. I can’t even get her to eat an ice
cream sandwich.”
“I know mom,” he admitted. “I’ve been seeing it for the last few times I had her and… Let me tell
you it’s gonna be okay now.”
“You’re not thinking of doing something stupid are you?”
“First off, my eyebrows grew back and secondly you never liked that hedge anyway.”
“Don’t mess with me and don’t joke,” she admonished, as he pulled the mother who’d raised him
mostly on her own into his arms. She was full figured because she was full of love. At least that’s the
way she told it. Being raised by a single mother he knew the work it took and had given Sassy too
much lee-way on raising Sydney. His daughter didn’t need his dependent card and money, she needed
a valiant protector and he wasn’t going to let her down now.
“If Sassy calls looking for me, anyone else, tell them I took Syd over to the Sierra’s.”
“Why would anyone come looking?”
Her eyes implored him and if he had one weakness it came from those eyes. The ones that told
him with honesty ‘I have no time for forgiveness when permission could have been granted.’
Opposite of the rest of the world.
“I found out some things about Mitch and Sassy and I handled the problem,” he said. “I can’t say
more because you can’t say what you don’t know, but if Sassy pushes tell her, in no uncertain terms,
that Sydney loves her daddy very much and never has to prove it.”
“I don’t understand Michael.”
“Repeat it back, word for word,” he commanded as his mother’s eyebrows knitted together.
“Sydney loves her daddy very much,” she said her mind searching for the words.
“And never has to prove it.”
“And never has to prove it. Michael what does that mean?”
“Trust me, she’ll know and if she doesn’t, apologies mom, but fuck her,” he said unwilling at this
time to hold his tongue like he usually did with his mother. “I have to go, there’s only so much time
before...”
“Before what, son. You’re in your mode and you shouldn’t be when you’re at home.”
Her eyes blinked rapidly at him and he pulled her into his arms. Needing the comfort from his
mother he may never get again because there was a very good chance for Sydney’s sake, this could be
the last time he saw her.
“Come on baby,” he said snagging his bag and rations his mother put together in an old cooler.
“Give Nana a hug—” he stopped himself, the truth of his daughter’s life hitting him like a two by four
across his back.
Sydney had been forced to touch and worse family members. Probably strangers. The way we all
were raised to be polite and hug that uncle or aunt we didn’t like. No, he wouldn’t do that to his
daughter. A simple gesture, but one society needed to stop. It wasn’t a salute to a higher-ranking
officer made at a distance with no physical contact. While he knew his daughter cared and loved him,
the way she hugged him hello told him the last thing she wanted right now was to be touched.
“Tell Nana goodbye,” he said shifting his stance.
Crawling off the couch, her comfort items clutched tight she came and stood by his hip. “Bye
Nana,” she meekly said.
“Please call me when you’re safe,” his mother said as tears pooled in her eyes, the stoic woman
not about to let them fall as he gave her a kiss to her cheek. “And you sweet child, you keep daddy in
line and make him eat his vegetables.”
A slight smile hit the corners of Sydney’s mouth as he led her out of the house and to the truck.
Having taken the GPS out, he’d have to go old school and use a map. There had to be an atlas up at
the truck stop a few exits up on the interstate. He could top off, get a couple five gallon containers just
in case and hit the road. If he could get out of the state he’d feel better. At some point he’d have to
send his mother back the license plates he’d swapped out. He doubted she’d even notice before tab
renewal.
Backing out of the driveway with Sydney secured he put on a kid’s music channel and hit the
interstate. The message was clear if Sassy wanted to see it, he’d put enough of the text message from
Mitch into the words he spoke to his mother to let her know he knew it all. Every bit of the damage
she’d done.
Running his hand over his hair he tried to not do the guilty drive. The one where you keep just
under the speed limit. Any car he saw made him nervous and as much as he wanted to tune into a
local radio station he couldn’t risk it. Every bit of his movement could be tracked and if an Amber
alert was issued for Sydney, he’d have to rely on the electronic billboards flashing the warning
because there wouldn’t be a blaring sound coming from his phone. Strange how those sirens triggered
him to be hyper vigilant if he was out and about. Now if one blasted he’d hit the side roads and see
how well he could make his way based on the compass on his watch.
Pulling off at the truck stop he knew he couldn’t leave Sydney alone in the truck, but at the same
time he feared her unease was going to make people question his motives with her.
“Hey little soldier,” he said, making sure the vacant blue eyes his daughter now sported were at
least looking at him in the rearview mirror. Heart pounding he didn’t know how to explain things to
her. The shift in her world so sharp it could slice through metal. “You and daddy are going—”
He didn’t want to say they were going to play a game. While he hadn’t read the text messages
thoroughly, there were enough good touch bad touch after school specials he knew the grooming
words spouted by the freaks.
“You’re never going to see Mitch again,” he stated, the line firm and hard and exactly what his
daughter needed to know. “And Syd, we need to go into this place and get a few more things because
we have a long drive ahead.”
“To da mountains?” she asked.
“We’re gonna go a little further than that. Daddy’s got a friend I want to—”
Her body shivered and lip trembled, setting off a round of horrors he didn’t want to envision and
yet they tumbled in like drunk soldiers after a week of R and R.
“He just had a baby and I’d like to visit him and well, Syd, you know Daddy would never touch
you in any way you didn’t—” goddamn it why did every assuring thing he said come out like a
manipulation and twisting of words making his daughter fear he’d be doing the same shit Mitch did. “I
know some of what Mitch did to you. That will never happen, ever again in your life.”
Her grip on the blankie loosened a bit.
“I know you didn’t want it and if I’d have known sooner I would have taken you then. You’re not
going back to mommy or Mitch ever again.”
Tears were streaming down his daughter’s cheeks, reddening them as she used her sleeve to wipe
snot from her nose. Shit this could be worse than her being dead eyed as they went into the place.
 “I need my soldier now,” he said. “It’s not fair, it’s not right, but I need ten minutes max so we can
get a couple things and then you can have your tears. If you want hugs from daddy I’ll give them, but
I’m not going to ask for them. Not because I don’t want them, but because from this day forward
nothing that makes you feel icky is going to happen to you.”
“K, Daddy,” she said, wiping at her cheeks and swallowing back her pain. “I’s gots to go potty
anyway.”
“Alright, that’s first,” he said and as they walked into the truck stop her hand slipped into his.
Instead of letting her go alone into the women’s he commandeered the family one, but stood outside so
she had the whole place to herself as he stood sentry.
A man passed him heading to the men’s and the two exchanged knowing glances. While he’d
served beside the man for at least six years, Connell had retired. There should have been an
exchange, more than a quick look telling him his old brother in arms was on a job. One he’d
considered stepping into when he left the service in the half assed way SEALs did. SEALs didn’t
exactly retire as much as they went inactive. Needing only one text or phone call to pull them out and
send them into the shit if truly needed. Serving his country wasn’t a stint, it was a life choice.
Many former Rangers and SEALs and the like got hired on as semi drivers. The kind that didn’t
need to stop at weigh stations because what they were hauling didn’t technically exist. A way of
hauling sensitive material, weapons and the like with not only stealth, but a fighting force protecting
the item. While they needed to fuel up, something told him his copilot wasn’t getting coffee and
donuts. The man was fueling up and sitting watch on an item that might need to be going east.
“Connell,” he said as the man exited the restroom and kept walking. “Connell, call is live.”
The man stopped, his shoulders broadening and chin lifting as he turned toward Michael.
Obsidian eyes stood out from the tanned skin as the squared jaw man fought against dictate and
calling. The words, said only among those in his unit weren’t for mission status. They weren’t what
was used when the commander was activating them. Call is live was theirs and theirs alone. It was
for the side issues. The silent bell that tolled only for those trained to hear it. One they promised to
never ignore.
“Hanover,” he replied.
“I need to get to Creek,” he said as his daughter came out of the restroom and stood by his side.
“We, need to get to Creek.”
The man’s eyes cut down to the little girl with her hair pushed back with a headband. Syd’s eyes
stared up at the man as she bit her bottom lip, blanket tight to her chest.
“Those baby blues look familiar.”
“Genes make their way,” he said.
“Why would your eyes be searching out Creek for help?” the man asked. “You know we don’t
exist on the road.”
“I do,” Mike replied. “And we know what Creek and his friends do.”
“That’s why I’m asking,” he replied. “Because I know no one would be stupid enough—”
“We both know stupidity has no bounds.”
Connell’s jaw ticked and face twisted in disgust.
“We also know lessons can stick with a man for a lifetime.” Sydney’s hand once again slipped
around Mike’s, gently holding his fingers as if she feared gripping him too tightly. “And I’m a
thorough teacher, even when I’m on leave.”
“How much space?”
“We have a few items, nothing big.”
 “Creek’s in Montana, right?”
“Got the coordinates.”
“You’ll need them,” he said. “We can’t pull off, but we will be passing close.”
“You have room?” he asked and the man motioned toward the door with a quick nod of his head.
“We have a sleeper cab,” he said as they made their way out of the building and walked toward
the diesel pumps. “I’m with Buchanan, you know how he is.”
“Yeah,” Mike replied. “Doesn’t mean he won’t answer my call.”
“True, what’s the alternative? Something tells me you two haven’t been hanging around truck
stops looking for ghosts to take you for a ride.”
“No, I’ve got my truck, minus my plates and the GPS.”
“You remember how to double clutch?” the man joked since they both knew the truth. “The timer
is almost out on this stop.”
“Then I guess I better be charming.”
“Be truthful,” he said. “No code, no bullshit.”

I t was a slow night at the Roadhouse when Chief wandered up to the bar. The man was earning
his keep, but had been claimed before he even received a prospect patch. Doc’s man had
become the Swiss Army knife around the place since he’d shown up. Working on reserve with
Hollywood, the county sheriff, helping out with the men flipping houses and now petitioning the town
to set up a volunteer fire station. There was a building, now in major decline that had been the fire
station back when Turnabout Creek had more people. But beyond allowing the club to fix it up and
offering a pittance it would be up to Chief to raise money for the basics.
“What can I get you?” she asked the man, his brown eyes tired as he flipped his baseball cap
backward and let out a little sigh. “Something tells me tequila.”
“That would be nice,” he said. “But you know how the song goes, tequila makes my clothes fall
off.”
“Tell me about it,” Porsche joked, locking her thumbs around the straps of her bra and running
them up and down since she was only wearing a bra and a short skirt. “Beer then?”
“Might as well,” he said. “Then I gotta head back to the Ol’ Lady.”
“You back from that run to Nevada?”
He kept his mouth shut on that one. There were many things allowed to be discussed, the gun
running men did was more of a side hustle no one discussed. Especially since old Wendell ‘Chief’
Washington had spent most of his life on the straight and very narrow path of a goodie-to-shoes.
“Why are you drowning your sorrows in stale beer?” she said, making sure to give a good head to
the chilled mug before setting in front of him.
“I’m practically married to a therapist.”
“Yeah, but who really talks to them,” she replied. “I bet I’ve learned deeper secrets in the back
rooms than she’ll ever learn from her chair.”
“Maybe she should serve drinks,” he said, taking a sip then fishing a few pretzels out of the bowl
next to him. “I grew up in a shit small town and have been a part of more fundraisers than most.”
“But you grew up there and know the culture.”
“Exactly. Outside of this being a hard working community there’s only one church, not seven. The
school is forty-five minutes away and half the businesses downtown are the club’s.”
“True, but this town is growing and not just from all the babies being popped out like Pez
dispensers around the club. And there are actually five churches, the smaller ones aren’t exactly
packing them in, but a few loyalists remain.”
“I can’t just run a spaghetti supper or a boyah to raise money.”
“Food is always good,” she said.
“Yeah, but we’re pulling money from a community that can only give so much before their pockets
are empty.”
“Better an empty pocket than a burned down house.”
“Is that what you want me to put on the posters?” He laughed and took a drink.
“Then we need to pull people from further out. Our Fourth of July party is starting to bring people
from all over.”
“Future planning is good, but that’s three months away and I can only get the guy to hold the truck I
found for maybe half that time.”
“Okay, so how short are you?” she asked and could see the numbers rolling in his mind.
“Signing over my salary for two years, plus the money the city pledged, parts cost minus labor
Baldy’s donating. A few hundred—”
“That’s not so bad.”
“Thousand, a few hundred thousand. As in I need over a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Not really something you could get a car loan for,” she surmised as he shook his head no.
“There are a few grants out there I’m waiting to hear back from, but even with all that I could see
me coming up twenty k short at least.”
“A good night at the Roadside combined we make forty,” she said. “But something tells me the
truckers with money from a long haul aren’t going to want to pay to see your sweetness shaking it.”
“Don’t hate, I have some moves, but I’m assuming none of you would be up for tip sharing.”
“Doubtful, but you’re the one who wants the money,” she reasoned as an idea that would call most
women from the tri-county area to little old Turnabout. On rides, she’d seen other women spying the
men in leather cuts and she had to admit it was more than the leather that women wanted to ride. They
might even be able to pull in from Billings or Red Lake. “Dance for it.”
“I’m not dancing for—”
She crossed her arms, not about to be shamed for her profession.
“You’re serious.”
“Trust me, even if I’ve seen more than my fair share out of leathers, I’d still stick a few bills in
the G-strings.”
“But women wouldn’t want that would they?”
“Yo, Michele,” she called out to one of the waitresses that wasn’t a dancer on the side who was
working on tallying up her ticket. “Settle a debate between Chief and me.”
“Okay,” she said a bit wary as she stepped over to them. “Hit me.”
“How many women do you think would come to the Roadside for an all male revue.”
“As in the club members strip?” She questioned, her face flushing bright from the idea of it all.
“Man boob and ass cheeks. Pole work optional.”
“Um, I’m not sure, if they just walk out and drop trou, not many,” she said.
“See,” Chief pointed out and Porsche held a finger up to silence him.
“But if they dance, do that hip thing, pull a girl up on stage and flip her, shit I’d put my tips in that
little pocket pouch.”
 Porsche beamed as she turned to face Chief.
“What the fuck is the pocket pouch?” he questioned with fear butting up against curiosity.
“Unlike tighty-whities that are supposed to secure the package, men who strip wear g- string
speedos that have extra room for bills.”
“Oh shit.” Chief shifted on his barstool and guzzled down the last of his beer. “Y’all stick your
hand there?”
“Not usually, although exceptions can be made. But the men tend to stuff for the ladies after they
snap the bill to their string.”
“Realistically? This is something women would pay money for?” he questioned as both women
nodded feverously.
“Yes, and lord knows outside of heading to Vegas we aren’t going to find one a few miles from
the exit. Worse yet we don’t get stops in Montana for the traveling ones very often. Preacher Girl’s
bachelorette party was a fluke of timing.”
“Have Dreamer oil you down, hang your pants low and take some pictures for promo. Seriously,
we could advertise and sell tickets on top of you making money shaking your ass.”
“Fine, me sure, three or four shots of tequila and the clothes break away like the seams were
stitched with dissolving thread, but you need more than me,” he reasoned.
“I talked you into it,” she said. “I’ll get you a crew, but you have to dance. It’s a job, it’s
entertainment and of course we’ll be more than happy to help you with the moves.”
“Give me a shot of courage,” he said shaking his head. “Because I need to talk to the Ol’ Lady.”
Porsche poured a shot of whiskey and Chief did a full body shiver after he downed it, but she had
a feeling it wasn’t from the alcohol burn. Turning on his stool he gathered himself then headed out the
door.
“You think she’ll let him do it?” Michele asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Porsche said, a warmth seeping up into her bones. “Even if she doesn’t we can
make him be a waiter and I’ll get the other guys to do it.”
Porsche finished her night at the Roadhouse and headed home. In the morning she would meet up
with Nightingale. Sure the woman would help her with the fundraiser because her fiancé would have
to be a highlighted act. Her man, road name Mountain, was nearly seven feet tall and tapped into his
Norse roots well. Him in a Viking outfit or dressed as a lumberjack. Fuck that he’d be a lumber
snack. With Dreamer’s help getting promo pics they could really bring in money.
Driving home she knew it was going to be a long night. She didn’t feel tired because her mind
was slightly going off the rails with a million ideas spinning at top speed. Walking into her apartment
she threw her keys and purse on the counter then opened the fridge. Grabbing out a mixed berry
flavored sports drink, she cracked it open and took a long swallow from the bottle. Recapping it she
pressed the cold plastic to the side of her face.
Settling in at her little dinette table she snagged her phone and decided to go through her social
media accounts. This was her life. When she had moods like today then the night which sent her down
a planning path it was really hard for her to sleep. She’d been like this since she was a teenager.
Grabbing onto an idea and hoping she could hold on through the end. Only endings were hard.
Planning, plotting, dreaming, that she could do it was the follow through where she had and issue.
It was why she was still dancing a decade later. Money first for the basics, then necessity, each
paying and being wasted on fly by night ideas that were good in theory, but never in practice. Ju-Co
classes one or two at time that she’d drop before it would stay on her record that she actually
attended a class.
 Wandering through her apartment she scanned her phone with videos on auto play as she washed
her face after tying the blonde hair she was sporting this week up into a bun. Plopping in her recliner
she found the remote and turned on the TV. Flipping the footrest out she leaned back in the recliner,
finally able to close her eyes only to be assaulted with memories of her life before Montana.
Dreamer had come from New Mexico after being removed from her abusive boyfriend Clive’s
life. Only Porsche had been there first. Ironically saved by the same woman who’d found Dreamer.
Dell, who is married to the Vice Prez and founder of the Steel MC, Titan ‘Steel’ Malone. While the
woman had held her hand as she gave her story to the cops that eventually arrested Clive having him
resurface because he was tracking down Dreamer had caused nightmares to return. The fear creeping
up her spine as the man, now dead, stared accusingly across from her with hard eyes bent on getting
his pound of flesh.
Who said ghosts can’t hurt you never had Clive giving them the death glare until the lights were
flipped back on and his image vaporized into the shadows again. In New Mexico she started working
for the club, but a call came for Hoez to help establish a new charter in Montana. While she rarely
left the compound in New Mexico because Clive was alive, well, and on probation nearby. In
Montana she had space, freedom to roam without worrying about seeing the man who pledged
undying love to her.
After Clive was killed, her life suddenly didn’t look so bleak. She checked out schools that
weren’t online, went in search of apprenticeships and even looked into franchise opportunities. He
was gone so why was she still worried? The weight lifting from her shoulders only to return if a man
came around too much. While she had her men that beelined to her the moment they landed in
Turnabout from Albuquerque, they knew it was for the weekend. Her mother used to say that she had a
broken picker and she probably gave Porsche one too. Only Porsche had more than a handful of
examples of men that weren’t fuckers, who treated their women right and with reverence. That didn’t
make them responsible for the air they breathe. Maybe Doc is right, she should work through the
trauma she suffered, but it was hard to speak the words aloud. As if verbalizing them gave them life
instead of freeing them to escape her mind.
With an aching back because she never made it to her bed, Porsche was greeted by the rising sun.
Three long stretches and a hard yawn later she was ready to take on the day and her latest project.
Taking a quick shower, she dressed and got ready to leave.
Driving back into town she walked up the steps of Amber’s house. She knocked on the door only
to be quickly greeted by Maisie, the woman’s nine-year-old daughter, who opened the door without
fear or questions.
“Porsche!” The little girl’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist before she could even try to
protest the contact. “You’re blonde!”
“Maisie it’s good to see you.” Ruffling the girl’s dark blonde hair that was a mess of snarls from a
mean case of bedhead. “Heard blondes have more fun and wanted to be part of the club. Where is
your mom?”
Nightingale walked to the top of the stairs of the split level home they were renting from the club
and shook her head.
“Maisie, do you have to hug everyone?” Amber laughed.
“Porsche’s my friend, that’s why I hug her.” Maisie led Porsche and her mother into the kitchen,
before sitting down at the table to finish her breakfast.
“I thought the kids had school today?” Porsche asked.
“It’s Saturday,” Nightingale pointed out and Porsche shook her head at the way the days melded
and mixed to the point that for her one night might as well be another. “That being said, Dreamer’s
trying to stick close to the other schools in the state’s schedules and so spring break is upon us all.”
Dreamer had a classroom, one room style with kids spanning from kindergarten to fifth grade.
More of a home school collective than a traditional school, but as she worked on getting full
accreditation she’d been sure to line up as much as she could with state standards. Even with the free
thinking school that wondered out of what had been the school back decades ago, now a community
center, and holding class out in the elements so the kids could learn about nature. Last week they’d
gone in search of sugar maples around town with a baggie full of silver dollar pancakes so the kids
could tap the tree and render down the syrup while members of the club read them stories between
her lessons.
“Come in and sit down.” Amber grabbed the coffee pot and held it up. “Porsche do you want
some coffee?”
“No, thank you. I just wanted to talk to you about a fundraiser I thought about.” She took a seat at
the table and waited for Amber to join her. “I know you’ve helped out with the smaller one for
Maisie’s soccer team in the past and we did that one for Barth Syndrome research last fall.”
“Which would have yielded little without Mountain’s contribution.”
“True,” she said tucking her hands under the table so she could fidget in peace because it suddenly
hit her that Mountain was the richest man in the state technically. Showing up claiming to be doing a
fundraiser might be taken the wrong way. Sure, Chief could have asked Mountain to buy the rig
outright, but it would be wrong for him to be expected to fund everything in Turnabout Creek. While
the man didn’t live that way, he came from some rich ass family on the east coast which meant she
may have chosen the wrong partner in crime.
“So, what’s this about Porsche?” Amber sat down and joined her at the table.
“You know what, this might have been a mistake,” she admitted shaking her head.
“Give me the bullet points.”
Glancing over to Maisie the second inappropriate part of her coming here on a Saturday not
weekday morning reared its ugly head. Sensing her unease Nightingale tapped on the table a few
times.
“Maisie, how about I give you a spring break pass to eat your cereal in the family room
downstairs.”
“Really?” the bright eyed girl gushed. “Sweet, I’ll be careful I promise and if I spill, I’ll get Spot
to lick it up.”
“How about you don’t spill the milk at all?” her mother suggested. “And you can put whatever is
left down for Spot when you’re done.”
“Promise,” the little girl beamed as she left the kitchen trying her best to keep the spoon and bowl
balanced.
“Now, what about your fundraiser are you afraid to have Maisie hear?” she prodded. “Because
she knows the truth about the Easter Bunny, but if you want Mountain to dress up as one I think he’d
be cool with it.”
“Let’s put a pin in that idea,” Porsche said as she tried to shove the visual of Mountain with bunny
ears and a tail on the back of a G-string from her mind. A girl could get more than lost imagining him
swinging around a pole with a basket. “You know this town needs a new fire truck and Chief’s been
all up in the town meetings lately trying to get funding. I thought it would be a good idea if some of the
guys put on a show at the Roadhouse. With your help because I plan for shit and I need Mountains’
help with convincing the men.”
 “As in stripping?” she questioned.
“Yeah,” Porsche replied then under her breath said. “Maybe being a showcase dancer.”
“I’m sorry, what was the second part?”
“You know the man you got, and trust me even from a distance women know the man is yours, but
think about him dressing up as a lumberjack and now the thought of him with bunny ears—” she
waved her hands to clear her mind. “Look if you and Doc both approve the other Ol’ Ladies will say
yes and well… We need him to shake his money maker and be on the poster to bring all the ladies in
from miles around.”
“Okay, let me process your request because it’s a bit much all at one time.” Nightingale, one of
two nurses at the clinic, was now making Porsche nervous as if she was ready to have her committed
for going off the deep end. “Side note, you need a refill?”
“I didn’t get any coffee,” Porsche said.
“Yeah, not coffee, you’re spiraling a bit, while that’s actually great when planning big projects, I
want people to take you seriously.”
“Doc wouldn’t give me a refill so I’m rationing.”
Nightingale pulled in a bit on her lips and nodded. “Let me guess, you weren’t being compliant.”
“I should leave.” Porsche stood and Nightingale used one pointed finger with the don’t fuck with
the nurse look to get her to sit.
“The hell you should, it’s actually a great idea.”
“Really?”
“My man dressed as a lumber snack, hell yeah,” she said. “But I worry about the poster. You keep
him au natural and you’re gonna have a few gay bears wandering in under the cloak of darkness.”
“Do they tip well?” Porsche laughed.
“Probably,” Nightingale joined in. “I think with all of us we can do it. The club I’m sure will help
too I’ll talk to Mountain and maybe test out his moves. I’ll leave you to audition the single ones.”
“You don’t think Red would have to say yes before they could do it do you?”
“It’s possible, I try to stay out of club business, that being said, if there’s an issue I’m sure
Roadkill will help us.”
“I’ll work on the singles.”
“And I’ll talk to Mountain and I think he could get the guys to help.” Amber smiled softly, then got
a devilish grin. “Wonder if he’d let me be the oil girl for the photoshoot.”
 3

T raveling through the night Mike didn’t get much rest even stretched out in the sleeper cab.
Watching his daughter’s fitful sleep had his spine on fire. There was little in his mind when
it came to having done the right thing. He’d saved his daughter and the state a trial and rid the world
of a man wasting oxygen. Turnabout Creek would be the last place anyone would think to look for
him. Even though he was with two men he could trust, talking wasn’t the way those in his platoon
passed the time. Radio chatter and an audio book were both on low from the front of the cab. The
level where it was an irritant as if he were in a warzone trying to overhear a set of distant men on a
patrol.
The miles from California had been eaten up and they were nearly through Nevada when the semi
slowed he looked through the curtains a light ahead told him they were pulling into a truck stop.
While it was a decent size one, beyond the bright beacon of lights desert, mountains and a few homes
were all he could see letting him know they were in nowheresville.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Just stopping to top off fuel, snagging some fresh coffee and swapping out,” Connell said with a
yawn as he shifted down and made the wide turn toward the bay of diesel fuel pumps.
Buchanan fidgeted around, propped up with a pillow against the window trying to capture a few
final precious minutes of sleep. A trick they all knew well, power naps from SEALs had to be the
prototype for rapid cell phone chargers. Staying up for seventy-two hours wasn’t technically advised,
but thanks to modern medicine and training, with a few strategically gauged crash times, one could
stay fresh as a daisy.
“Okay I need to hit the head anyway.” Mike situated himself to get out of the truck. He didn’t want
to wake Sydney, but leaving her alone wasn’t an option.
While trust was there for the two men that took him in, the last thing Syd needed was to wake with
virtual strangers. The get togethers the men had with family had never really included Syd once she
was walking. By then he’d given up on Sassy being anything more than a baby momma which meant
she didn’t mix with the men he called brothers.
“Come on honey.” His hand was massive as he placed it gently on her shoulder and shook her
slightly.
“Daddy?” Sydney panicked voice cried out in search for him. Her eyes wild as she tried to get
her bearings in the dark, tiny mobile room.
“I’m right here Syd,” he assured as she crawled over to him and wrapped her arms around his
neck. Rubbing between her shoulder blades he tried to calm the trembling child as she clung to him.
“I’m right here baby, no more monsters I promise.”
“I’ll be good, I promise,” she assured and bile rose in his throat making him want to head back to
Cali and snap Sassy’s neck too.
“You’re always good, Syd,” he assured as he unconsciously rocked her in his arms grateful the
child was able to let him hold and comfort her, trembling or not part of her understood his arms were
safe.
“How long ‘til we gets to the mountains?”
“A bit longer,” he lied because at this point he didn’t know if Hack’s home was in the mountains
or on ranch land. “Syd, I have to use the bathroom. I think you better try too. It’s a long ride to
Montana.”
“Can I go like last time?” she asked and he released his hold on her, confused by her request.
“What happened last time?” he questioned, a cool chill sliding up his back and not from the night
air when Buchanan got out.
“By myself,” she asked.
“Of course, I’ll be outside the restroom door, but I would never go in the bathroom with you
unless you were sick,” he said. “Did your mommy or Mitch go in with you?”
“Yeah, at home too, Daddy Mitch said I don’t wipe right, like I’m a baby, but I’m not and I know
how,” she protested, her eyes blinking away a fury of tears threatening to break.
Cradling her head in his hands his thumb stroked clear the few teardrops because he couldn’t have
her crying as they walked in together. “I need my little soldier,” he said. “Remember, like when you
fell at the park and we had to get stitches?’
“K, I can try, but sometimes Daddy, tears come and I can’t stop them.”
Mike had lost men in warzones, watched them gulp their last breath as the medic worked to save
their lives and thought his heart had been shattered. Here he was asking his little girl to do the
impossible because others had demanded it from her for reasons beyond stealth.
“How about you get them all out and then we go in?” he offered. “I’ll help my friends and gas
their truck up and you get all the tears out.”
“K,” she said with a hard gulp as he got out of the cab and approached Connell who was pumping
diesel.
“Syd needs a minute,” he said. “Want to head in, I’m pretty sure I can monitor a pump and the
cargo until Buchanan comes back.”
“Stupid question,” Connell began.
“Desert Eagle in the shoulder, forty-four on my back and I even got a little twenty-two on my
ankle,” Mike answered before being asked.
“A little light,” Connell joked. “When do you walk around with only one shoulder holster.”
“You didn’t ask what I had in my bag,” he offered.
“We got another shift at least before we’re near Hack’s, we’re rolling by the exit, but can’t take
it.”
“Will you at least slow down? Or can I sweet-talk you into pulling over?”
“You know I can’t resist your sweet nothings whispered in my ear,” Connell mocked. “For the kid
I’ll pull over. I’m not asking for details, but a quick I swear would make me feel better.”
“I swear.” The two words pledging his honor to the man were a short hand for things people
didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to know the ins and outs on why they were hitching a ride. The
pledge was deeper than that, orders were given and taken every day from commanders. Those who
knew more than the men being issued directives. Blindly accepting what they were doing as positive,
for the greater good butted up against a compass of morality and at times they needed that little extra.
“Good, you got about an eight hour drive, Buchanan will try to push to the closest truck stop only
so he doesn’t have to pull from a highway shoulder. That being said, if he does, it’s about a five mile
trek to Hack’s as the crow flies.”
“Understood,” he replied, having cataloged all the small appliances in the sleeper cab. There was
a small fridge, microwave and a tiny TV. It was a micro sized motel with everything one needed, but a
bathroom. “Any room in that little fridge?”
“A bit, enough for two frozen dinners if you want it,” Connell said. “No time to order a pizza or a
burger here.”
Less than five minutes later, Sydney crawled out of the cab and he helped her hop down as
Buchanan approached with two filled thermoses a jumbo plastic cup with the sound of ice sloshing in
soda. Mike would be keeping the curtain closed because there was no way these men weren’t pissing
in bottles to avoid stopping.
Walking with Syd into the truck stop he immediately took stock of the area. A handful of truckers
sat at the counter of the restaurant, probably just waking up and getting a bit of breakfast before hitting
their own routes. While they took stock of the little girl at Mike’s hip, none of them paid much mind to
the interloper. The time of year meant there were probably a few other kids out on the road with their
parents due to school breaks.
Mike rushed to use the restroom and make sure he was outside before Sydney was done. While he
wanted to have Connell on sentry duty the man was probably wandering in search of his own supplies
for the next eight hours. Thankfully, he was mere seconds faster than Sydney who came out wiping her
wet hands on her pants before reaching out one to him.
“Pick out some snacks for later,” he said. “And do you want mac and cheese or beef stew for
lunch?”
“Whatever,” she said with a sigh as she reached for a bag of chips and eyed the candy bars.
“Grab a couple,” he said and she snagged two king sized Snickers.
With frozen breakfast dishes and a few shelf stable meals the two of them headed toward the
cashier, meeting up with Connell finishing his transaction. When Connell’s phone went off with a
blaring horn used for natural disasters and national security threats. Considering the cargo the men
were transporting this could derail their plans.
Connell glanced at his phone right as every phone in the place started alerting people. At least this
wasn’t a reroute for the crew which had been Mike’s first inclination. Instead, Connell flipped the
phone around to show an amber alert. On the screen a mix of Mike’s now abandoned truck info and
Sydney’s face staring back at him. The two men exchanged glances, words shared with no more than
an eyebrow twitch as their minds locked into a plan. Rushing out would alert everyone and have them
questioning the two men rushing out with a little girl. Playing it cool and calm, meant they weren’t
drawing extra attention to themselves.
The casher was glancing around, triggered by the sound of phones blurting. “Dang sirens will be
going off next,” she reasoned. “Seems a bit early for tornados, but heck, the way the weather’s been
lately I wouldn’t be surprised if three feet of snow dropped on us one day and a heatwave melted the
asphalt the next.”
“Right,” Mike said, glancing at the total and trying to fish out as close as he could before she rang
up the last item, tucking it in the bag.
“Probably a smoke warning, we had a handful of those last fall,” she said with a shrug as her hand
moved to where her phone was flipped upside down.
 “Total,” Mike said right as she was about to flip it over.
“Right, thirty-two sixty,” she said as he tossed two twenties on the counter.
“Let’s go.” Mike gathered the bags and rushed Sydney to the truck before people could open the
alert and scan the place trying to be a hero.
“Sir, that’s way more—”
“Keep the change, night shift sucks,” he said as the swoosh of the door gave them an extra push of
air.
Buchanan already had the truck running with his phone in hand. Connell double timed it across the
parking lot spreading out for miles in front of them. As the concrete and gravel was being stretched
like taffy.
“Come on let’s get you in the truck munchkin.” Connell said, catching Sydney by the waist and
tossing her over his shoulder like a ruck sack. Sydney’s body went limp as a noodle, only her head
lifted as fear crossed her face. Eyes locked on each other the father triggered by the strain in her eyes
had Mike catching up right as the passenger door flew open and Connell flipped her back and tossed
the child into the cab.
“We got to move now,” Buchanan hollered from the driver’s seat, the truck in gear and rolling.
“Get in the back baby.” Mike jumped in, tossing the plastic bag in the cab, causing half the
contents to scatter throughout the confined space as Connell clung to the exterior oh shit grab handle
by the door.
The space tight he shoved the psychologically paralyzed Sydney in the sleeper section and
climbed in next to her as fast as he could. Cupping her head in his hands he stared into empty eyes.
“Syd, Sydney Ann, I know that was scary, but we had to move. Connell wasn’t trying to hurt you. I’m
not going to let anyone hurt you.”
A few rapid blinks had her slowly coming back to him. A year ago being flipped like a sack of
potatoes would have sent his daughter into a fit of laughter. Now he was once again wiping clear
tears from her cheeks and searching out her blankie from the far corner of the space.
“I’ll let them know, Sydney isn’t a sack of potatoes.”
“It’s fine Daddy,” she said, gulping back with a bit of pain cracking her voice. “I’m okay.”
Running his hand over her static fueled hair as the sound of gears shifting and bits of gravel from
the edges of the parking lot kicking up pinged the trailer.
“We got a small audience,” Buchanan warned. “Not exactly your cleanest escape there Major.”
“What can I say,” Mike called back as Connell slid into the passenger seat while the truck rolled
out of the parking lot and onto the on ramp with little regard for the stop sign as he did. “I needed to
make sure you were awake for the ride.”
“Next time spike my coffee with an eight ball of coke, I’d probably be less wired.”
Heart thundering in his chest he buried his face in his hands and prayed none of the truckers
decided to play vigilante and give chase. While the unmarked, unregistered truck got passes from the
highway patrol, that didn’t mean a Big Wheeler wouldn’t give chase. Try to block them in and force
either a crash or submission.
Unlike most trucks that have a governor that caps their top speed, the US Military complex wasn’t
as safety conscious as the others. If people were trying to take down or over these trucks the last thing
they wanted was to lose in a footrace. All eighteen wheels were run flats, the engine may appear
standard, but there were a few bells and whistles. The Bandit had nothing on what this bad boy could
do if necessary.
Connell was messing with the CB, listening for chatter from an escape that was too close for
comfort. The Amber alert was blaring across most channels and it would be for days unless he got
Sassy to call it off, which would give her access to his location.
They were a few miles down the road before Mike remembered the whole breathing part of
living. Good thing about right before dawn, traffic was light and most people weren’t awake even
with the harsh tone blasting from their phones in the ever expanding search for Sydney. If only Sassy
had cared about her well-being more than the twisted relationship with Mitch.
“Come on Sydney let's get you comfy and watching movies,” he said, flipping on the TV in the
sleeper cab and passing her a set of headphones. A few beeps from the microwave signaled breakfast
was ready as he passed her a serving of scrambled eggs and sausage.
“That was too close for comfort.” Connell glanced over his shoulder once Mike returned to the
curtain. “We can’t stop until we get you to Montana.”
Mike nodded, making sure Sydney was lost in cartoons as an eight-year-old should be.
“I checked the news,” Connell said. “Tracked back on the Amber alert, says there was a body left
at the house.”
“Couldn’t exactly toss him in the bed of the pick-up and find a pit to toss him in.”
“How bad?” Buchanan asked and Mike’s gut clenched.
They were on the hook, government protection or not, they already crossed a line by allowing him
in the vehicle, the least he owed them was the truth. For Sydney’s sake he had to set a boundary he
knew the men would never cross.

W ith Amber on board now Porsche needed to talk to Topaz and the other girls. While the
idea of having their men strip wouldn’t upset them in the least, teaching the men the basics
would range between annoying, irritating and hilarious.
On Sunday morning she woke after finally finding sleep thanks to the melatonin laced ZzzQuil.
Nowhere near the recommended eight hours, but for her a few hours was equal to a two week
vacation for most. At some point she would have to get her meds refilled, but it could wait. With a ton
of other things to do today, the optional suppressor of her overdrive loving brain would be a
hindrance not a blessing.
Besides, when it came down to it she had to get Red’s approval. No man with a patch would get
on stage without Red’s approval. Not even Chief who would spearhead the project. Like most men
there was always a weakness. Porsche’s plan was to go to the wife, Roadkill, and get her on board to
help with Red. After eating a bagel with cream cheese in the smallish kitchen the apartments had, she
snagged her purse and walked to her car.
On a nicer day she might have walked. The ranch was huge, over a thousand acres at least, what
did she know about acreage, but since they weren’t raising sheep Red was creating a smaller
community. Homes, apartments and the clubhouse. Allowing rescues to crash in a safe environment
and those from the club who weren’t going back and forth between town. Steel had set up a similar
situation down in New Mexico only there Porsche shared a space instead of having her own area.
Driving the short distance to Roadkill and Red’s house she found the contact in her phone and called
up her friend.
“Hey, sorry to bum rush you, but I’m outside in the car and I was wondering if I can run an idea by
you? You are home, right?”
 “Sure am, I’m just hanging out with Harlow and doing my best to not topple over.”
The woman was sporting the cutest baby bump on the ranch now since Preacher Girl popped a
few weeks ago. A second surprise both mom and dad were refusing to share the sex of, not that it
mattered, the next prince or princess of the Luke home was sure to be spoiled just like the first one.
“Okay coming in.” Throwing the phone first in the cup holder, she put the car in park and gathered
her purse. Scanning the area she wondered if Red was home. Hoping to have Roadkill to herself she
couldn’t locate Red’s bike which meant there was a good chance this would be like her stop the day
before, productive, with little to no push back.
Scanning the car her mental checklist might as well be scrabble tiles tossed on the floor to distract
vampires due to their incessant need to count objects. At least that’s what it said in a book she’d put
down months ago only to move on to the next. This was a project she needed to finish she told herself,
retrieving her phone from the cupholder and trying to center on the project at hand. This wasn’t a
singular task she could get done. It would take patience because it couldn’t be done in a few hours.
Manic episodes could be productive or could send her into a ball of overwhelming tasks making her
come to a hard stop.
Cataloging the appointments with Doc she spun out, the soft, steady tone of Doc Olsen walking
her through calming techniques. Spinning out, pushing through, letting the world overtake her was
easy. Sitting calmly and allowing the world to go silent, wasn’t. Even when she did her best there
was always a voice chasing her. Telling her it wasn’t done, there was more to do even if she didn’t
know what it was. In her mind she knew she was never finished.
Knocking on the door, warning barks from Creature would have sent anyone back a few steps, but
Porsche wasn’t a stranger to the beastly pit who went from attacker to demander of belly rubs when
she saw Porsche on the other side of the screen door. Rolling on her back, the eighty pound mutt
whined and twisted herself from side to side. Setting off a round of toddler giggles from Harlow, the
near three year old standing by her mother’s side.
“Hi Porsche. Come on in.”
“Porsche wanna see my babies?” Harlow beamed. Her bright red hair no longer a flop of baby
curls, instead what they’d hoped would be ringlets had become stick straight and was in a set of
pigtails.
“Sure, Harlow, let’s go.” Porsche extended her hand and was soon encircled by pillowy soft
fingers on the silken skin of a child. Between the force of her tugs and Creature head butting her ass
for not getting the customary belly rub Porsche was nearly set off balance as she followed the toddler
into the living room where Harlow had a whole bunch of dolls spread out over the room in various
poses. “Wow, that’s lots of babies. Don’t suppose you have names for all of them.”
“Half are named Baby,” Roadkill said under her breath as her hands soothed circles around her
round belly. “We could be here all day, Harlow, pick your favorite and show Porsche okay.”
“Um,” the little girl spun in circles trying to find her favorite among the plastic and cloth toys.
This got Creature even more excited as she dropped her head to the floor, extending her arms in the
international dog request for play.
“Hey Creature,” Porsche said dropping to one knee. “I still need to give belly scratches.”
With a loud thump, the big dog rolled on her side and stuck her paws in the air. A round of
scratches, rubs and a few hard pats on the side had the dog sated just in time for Harlow to thrust a
rag doll with yellow yarn for hair in Porsche’s face.
“Dolly,” she proudly proclaimed. “It’s hers name.”
“I like it,” Porsche said, smoothing the few strands of yarn as if she were taming a head of hair.
 “Gamma makes it for me,” Harlow said.
“She’s pretty.”
“I know,” Harlow said clutching the doll to her chest and returning her focus on whatever game
the babies were playing.
“Let’s go in the kitchen.” Roadkill headed towards the kitchen area in the open concept house
with Porsche following her. “What got you up and moving around this early in the day?”
“Is it early?” she questioned.
“Almost eleven,” Roadkill said. “Lord knows I wasn’t moving around before noon when I
worked a swing evening shift until three.”
Having been, at one point, a nurse in Vegas, Roadkill was in the middle of a long process of
recovering memories. The woman was found half dead on the side of a dirt road by Red. In many
ways Porsche owed her current life to the woman. While Dell in New Mexico had rescued Porsche,
Roadkill had been open to the New Mexico Hoez coming to Montana once Red decided to open a
charter in his home town. At first, the woman with a moral compass and unease around bikers wasn’t
sure how to deal with the women brought in as entertainment for the men of the club. In the years that
followed Roadkill stepped up as the leader of the women, more the Ol’ Ladies than the Hoez, but
when push came to shove Roadkill was the de facto mother of the Steels in Montana.
“Do you want anything to drink, Porsche?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks for the offer, I’m pretty sure coffee might trip me over the edge.” Porsche
took a seat and waited for Roadkill to join her, doing her best to not start drumming on the table top
with the bundle of nervous energy charging through her body. “Where’s the hubby?”
“Red went to the later service with his mom and Camille this morning.” Roadkill poured herself a
tall glass of orange juice, then headed to the table and took a seat.
“I have a plan and need your help.” Porsche thought to herself this was perfect, they had a good
hour maybe more before he’d be back. “Then I’m talking sin while Red’s probably taking
communion.”
“More like accepting a palm leaf if the first service mirrors the second,” Roadkill said. “Crazy
they have two services in a town this size.”
“At Maggie’s church,” she reasoned. “The fact we have five churches in a town this size is more
amazing.”
“True,” Roadkill said, taking a sip of her orange juice then opening two bananas. “Harlow, come
get a nana.”
Two feet followed by four heavy paws bounded into the kitchen and Roadkill split one of the
bananas in half. Giving Harlow one half and Creature sat patiently for the second. Gobbling the fruit
in one massive gulp after delicately nipping the end and taking care to not touch Roadkill. Once
Harlow toddled away Porsche continued while Roadkill ate her banana as Creature gave her the
saddest puppy dog eyes.
“Aren’t you supposed to be watching Harlow,” Roadkill scolded, snapping a small bit of her
banana off and tossing it to Creature as a reward for returning to babysitting duties. “Sorry, I swear
I’m eating for five right now.”
“No problem, Chief was in the bar the other night after his run and was grumbling about not
getting a grant or having to put in for a grant—” waving her hands in front of her like she was clearing
a chalkboard Porsche settled in. “Basically, he’s a lot short for the cost of a fire truck.”
“Oh, yeah, I don’t deal with the clubs finances,” Roadkill said. “That’s something he’d have to
bring up in church if they let the prospects into church.”
 “No, that’s not why I’m here, I was thinking, Montana doesn’t exactly get the Thunder from Down
Under here and well… we have a bar, a stage and a pole.” Gathering herself she closed her eyes not
wanting to see the look on Roadkill’s face when she spoke the words out loud. “I want the men to put
on a show to raise the money. Like Pony on repeat and using hoses not meant for the fires.”
“You want the men to strip!” Roadkill exclaimed, then covered her mouth for a moment. “You
want my man to strip?”
“Well, that would be a coup if we could, but basically, if I can convince all the men, but without
Red making the sign of the cross and blessing the venture… well they won’t.”
Roadkill took a long sip of juice and probably wished it was a screwdriver and not the straight
stuff.
“We can advertise, sell tickets, plus their tips,” she said. “Get a couple guys wandering around
with fireman’s boots for tips.”
“How many shows?” Roadkill questioned. “Because you know it’s going to sell out immediately.”
“No,” Porsche scoffed, then realized how many months in advanced they had to buy Preacher
Girl’s Bachelorette party tickets. “Jesus, it would, it’s been years since a crew came through here.”
“Yeah, babies have been born and started walking since then.”
“So, you agree, it’s a good idea.”
“Oh, I do,” she said with a sigh. “Red would never get on stage, but I’ll make the points necessary
to convince him to support the venture.”
“Any chance we could get him shirtless and carrying a boot?” Porsche questioned and got a hard
look usually reserved for Lyna’s line crossing ass. “Or carrying a boot.”
“He can carry a boot.” Roadkill gave her a patented glare, then relaxed a bit. “But I’ll make him
wear a tight t-shirt. Lord knows y’all walk around half naked carrying drinks, the least he could do
was wear a shirt two sizes too small.”
“Perfect.”
“How many shows?”
“What?” Porsche questioned.
“Look, the Roadside can pack them in, but it would be poor form to break the fire codes to raise
money for a fire truck.” Roadkill took another sip. “One night isn’t enough.”
“Three, we’ll need three shows.” Porsche nodded her head over and over as the steps needed to
pull this off were flipping through her mind like a beehive buzzing in heavy production.
“Yes, scarcity, but still accessible.” Roadkill reached across the table and covered Porsche’s
hand with her own. “Hey girl, you good?”
“Of course,” she lied and then wondered why she was going through the people who could smell
bullshit a mile away from a patient. “Haven’t taken my meds today.”
“Take it now,” Roadkill said, cracking the last banana open and passing it to her as she grabbed a
water bottle from the fridge and set it in front of her.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.” Roadkill crossed her arms, eyeing her like a psych nurse with those eyes that tell a person
they have two choices. Take the pill or have it given to you.
Digging in her purse she found the bottle and shook out small white tablets. Both of them.
Dropping one back in the bottle she placed the other on her tongue to show Roadkill before
swallowing with a glass of water. “Happy?”
“Eat the banana so you don’t upset your stomach.”
“Ugh, you’re such a mom,” Porsche mock whined before taking a bite of the perfectly ripe banana.
 “Where’s your refill?”
“On Doc’s prescription pad.”
Roadkill nodded and pursed her lips a moment. “I know better than to force an issue when it
comes to her and her patients.” Folding her hands together she smiled, but it didn’t hit her eyes. “That
being said, we have a different relationship.”
The Prez’s Ol’ Lady technically was in charge of all the women, which meant those eyes were
telling her she wouldn’t push Doc. Even with Doc’s Ol’ Lady status when it came to medical
decisions Roadkill stepped back. But making Porsche fetch and do was a hundred percent under her
control. Which meant that on Monday Porsche had to have her ass in a chair or Roadkill would hunt
her down and strap her there.
After meeting with Roadkill she was sure Red would say yes and allow the men to participate
with the club’s blessing. Porsche decided to go to the Roadhouse for the after church crowd and try
and meet up with Topaz who usually did paperwork on the quiet morning.
Behind the bar Ax was bartending when Porsche walked in. A few customers were finding their
places in the booths since dancing wasn’t really popular at this time of day. The smell of hot grease,
burgers and what she believed was probably a hearty stew were comingling with the ever present
hoppy beer.
“Hey, is Topaz in the office?” she said as she slid slowly along the bar top.
“Yeah, she’s back there. You didn’t stay late last night what’s up with that?” Ax grabbed a bottle
of her favorite beer and held it up.
“Not today Ax I have stuff to do besides it’s too early in the morning to start drinking.” She
drummed a bit on the wooden bar top. “Slow night, mind in a thousand other places. Why? Were you
cold and lonely at the end of the night.”
“Maybe,” he said leaning in a bit so they were practically nose to nose.
“Sad face, I wouldn’t have needed my melatonin if you would have knocked on my door,” she
offered. They lived in the same building it wasn’t like anyone was a stranger. The flirt mode was
harder for her when the drugs help shut down the seventy five million synapses at once. There was
more focus involved instead of letting the inner monster take over. “I gotta go have a little talk with
Tope, so, maybe find me when you’re off.”
She walked away from the prospect and headed for Topaz’s office.
“Topaz, can we talk?” Porsche knocked as she entered the office.
“Um, yeah, sure,” Topaz said tapping a file full of papers together and setting them to the side.
Spinning around in her office chair she slapped her hands on her knees and let out a sigh. “Schedule’s
posted for the next two weeks and I’ll warn you now, if you’re mad at it I don’t care.”
“I guess it does involve the schedule, but I’m thinking more about Mother’s Day weekend, or
Memorial Day, no Mother’s Day weekend.”
“So a month or so out, okay, you heading back to see your mom or something?” she asked leaning
back in her chair.
“Perish the thought,” Porsche replied with a full body shiver. “No, but question, what if we make
Mother’s Day weekend for the ladies.”
“I don’t follow.”
Explaining the plan for the third time and with the added benefit of chemicals balancing out made
it so she could take a notebook and start making a checklist with Topaz.
Topaz agreed to talk to the other strippers about helping train the men, the event was finally falling
into place. The two got lost in planning a show, looking up websites to create tickets at and rolls of
laughter that had people thinking they were crazy when they moved out to the restaurant.
When Porsche checked her phone for the time she saw a missed call from Roadkill. Calling back
she was greeted with amazing news.
“Hey Porsche, I talked to Red while he’s willing to run front door security and may hold a boot he
won’t be in the lineup. That being said, if the other men want to shake their money makers, the club
will let them do it in their name.”
 4

M ike and Sydney had finally made it to the exit for Turnabout. Lifting his daughter from the
truck he set her down then turned to give a quick dap up to the men who’d helped him so
far. A dispatcher was already noticing they’d stopped and was checking on the reasoning.
“What can I say, Connell can piss in a jar, but he demands at least a place to squat and a leaf to
wipe with,” Buchanan replied. “Shouldn’t have reheated those burritos. No one on the horizon. A few
squirts and we’ll be rolling again.”
“Thank you, brothers, I know how closely you’re watched.”
“There’s close,” Connell said moving to the driver’s door so he could take over. “Then there’s a
microchip shot in your ass that can hear your thoughts. We’re not that close yet. Tell Creek he’s an
asshole, we love him and thanks for that ice cream.”
“Will do.”
Neither men acknowledged Sydney allowing her to watch, but not engage as she clung to the pink
blankie. Her backpack was firmly on her shoulders and the little roller bag by her side. His go bag
weighed practically nothing, Buchanan passed him two bungie straps and he gave him a sideways tilt
to his head.
“Bondage fetish I need to know about?”
“That roller luggage isn’t fun when you have to drag it for a few miles.”
Unlike most people that gave an address, Thomas Creek gave a geo-tag location. Now that he was
in the nothing town he understood. From the interstate exit he couldn’t see life beyond a few glowing
streetlights at least a mile into town. Taking a chance, he turned on his phone and put in the location.
Screen shotting the directions before turning it to airplane mode to hide himself again but have the
directions available.
Making his way he watched for small flaps of ribbon in the breeze to point out the barbed fences
of the ranchers. Any sound from a car approaching had him rushing Sydney into the ditches to keep
them hidden. Cutting through pastures would only work if he could find breaks in the electrical wires.
The hum barely audible buzzed in his ears as Sydney blindly followed next to him. Distant sounds
from coyotes had him slowing up to check the horizon, then his phone.
“Did you bring the tent?” Sydney asked, breaking the silence as their feet crunched along the
gravel road. “I don’t have a sleeping bag.”
“We’re not staying in a tent, Syd,” he said. “My friend lives out here and we’re going to stay with
him and his family.”
“Does he have a little girl like me?” she asked, her innocent eyes imploring him.
 “No,” he said. “But he has a new baby that I bet you’ll be a big help with.”
“Boy or girl?”
“A little boy,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t like boys,” she said, a harshness to her tone had him squeezing her hand tighter.
“Baby boys aren’t too bad,” he said. “Big ones, you can hate.”
The moon was lighting their way as he came around a curve and saw a home. Older style, two
story, but meant for a rancher’s family. Only when he returned to the map, he had the geo-location was
beyond the home. Near it, an area had been cleared away, there may have been a fire of some sort.
Crouching down in the far ditch two men sat sentry by the entrance. Each resting on a Harley.
Glancing at the fencing it wasn’t the hum of electrical current he heard. It was the click of a camera
being triggered by movement. Thankfully, not his. Nothing better than a little exercise in find the
security holes to get ones heart pumping. Only he knew Creek and if there was a hole it was pencil
thin.
Moving not only himself, but his daughter with stealth would require a bit of work. Nearly a day
in the truck made the freedom of movement worth it. Doing his best to make it a game he scoped the
perimeter and moved along the tree line. Hearing voices and music from a place very alive even at a
late hour. Other sentries were running the perimeter causing them to have to duck and hide a half
dozen times. This was a compound. A place of gathering with apartments and a party barn it seemed.
Hardly the place he’d ever expect the quiet Lieutenant Creek to end up living. Cresting a ridge he
found a ring of houses and one of them matched Creek’s geo tracker exactly.
Under the cover of trees he held Sydney’s arms by either side.
“I need to go to that house and let my friend know we’re here,” he said.
“Then knock on the door,” she offered.
Unhooking the makeshift backpack luggage and setting it by her. “I’m not a hundred percent sure
which of those houses is his. Plus, this is like a surprise party, so let me go over there and when I
whistle you come, okay?”
Her voice trembled as she said, “Okay.”
“You’ll be able to see me the whole time,” he assured. “And you know Daddy can get to you in
less than ten seconds from that distance.”
Sydney nodded a few times and he wished he’d showed her how to use a gun. The twenty-two on
his ankle would have been perfectly safe for her.
Crouching low he moved to the closest house in the circle of homes and walked along the side of
the place. Hoping to see a sign it was Creek’s as he glanced into the darkened room. It was late, the
walk from the interstate out there had been over an hour at least. Scanning what could only be
described as domestic bliss in the perfectly curated home, no signs of a newborn stuck out to him.
Ducking under the window he crawled then stood, flush to the wall when a sudden press of cold
steel to the back of his head was followed by an echoing click he only heard because of the deafening
silence of where they were. Sweat froze to his body as he could hear his heart thundering in his chest.
“It took me a good two hours to get this little man to settle.” Creek’s voice was a low growl. “I’m
saddened your death will wake him, but unless you give me a reason sacrifices will have to be
made.”
“Call is live, Creek,” Mike said, not lifting his hands or trying to move. Until the man understood
his purpose and that he wasn’t a threat. This wasn’t the time or place to hope his reflexes were faster
than his old brother in arms. No chance or time to try to snatch the gun pointed at his head away. “My
daughter, Sydney, has a visual on me in the trees, she’s had a shit time and seeing daddy’s brains
spraying out might be the nail in her coffin.”
“Hanover? What the ever loving fuck?” Creek questioned, the click of the safety back in place
followed by the cold pressure no longer on the base of his skull.
“Can I turn?”
“I don’t know, I’m starting to feel a certain way about you and it ain’t good,” he replied. “You
know they have these things called phones.”
“About that,” Mike said, turning slowly and faced the man who had saved his ass more than once
standing with his gun at the side and infant in his left arm. “What the hell? Have you never heard of a
bassinette?”
“I was rocking him on the back porch,” the man with dark eyes and tanned skin was leather clad,
the visual a mix of death’s companion and new daddy. “Hoping the fresh air would help.”
Mike peered at the swaddled baby to see a full head of jet black hair, bow lips and a sated baby.
“He’s cute, must take after his mother.”
“Phone?”
“I said the call is live,” Mike said, using the short hand for being in the middle of a shit storm.
“Right, you left that toddler of yours in the woods?” he questioned.
“She’s eight now.” Mike turned, put his index finger and thumb in his mouth to send a sharp
whistle out toward Syd.
“You know I haven’t holstered my gun yet,” Creek groaned as the baby started fussing and he
began rocking his arms.
“My bad,” Mike said, keeping his eye on the tree line as Sydney emerged meekly. Dragging her
rolling luggage as she approached. “He looked milk drunk, I wasn’t thinking.”
“There a reason you didn’t use the front door?” Creek finally holstered his gun but was still on
guard.
“It was more fun this way, don’t you think?” Mike joked as he helped Syd with the luggage.
“Nada, that would be a negative Ghost Rider.”
“Something tells me you’re more upset that I slipped past your security,” he countered.
“Uh, huh,” he said, his right eye squinting a bit before he glanced toward Sydney as she curled
next to Mike’s hip. “You still like goldfish crackers munchkin?”
“Why do all your friends call me munchkin?” Sydney’s soft voice was barely audible as she
brought her thumb back to her mouth.
“Habit,” Creek replied. “Your Dad was the first to have a kid in our unit. You were our mascot
for a few years.”
“I do like goldfish,” Syd replied. “You have a boy baby don’t you?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said kneeling to let Sydney peek into the bundle he held. “A grumpy, sleepy boy,
kinda like his Daddy. How about we head inside and I see if Matthew can sleep in his cradle.”
Walking into the home, only a few dim lights were lit. Over the stove, a lamp in the corner and
another down a far hall. There was a small pack and play style bassinette in the living room and
Creek softly laid the baby down and stepped back. Slipping off his leather coat and laying it across
the back of the sofa.
“Hack?” Sydney questioned as her finger ran over a white patch with black writing by the left
side of the chest.
“What’s up kiddo?” he said.
“What’s Hack?”
“Oh, me, you can be munchkin and you can call me Hack.”
 “Daddy calls me Syd.”
“You like that better?”
Sydney nodded a few times as her finger ran over the other patch saying Treasurer. “Even though
it kinda sounds like a boy.”
“You tired Syd?” Mike asked.
“Hack, what’s going on?” A young woman stood at the edge of the room. Her long brown hair
pulled back into a braid.
“Michael Hanover meet my wife,” Creek said. “They call her Preacher Girl.”
“What kind of name is that?” Mike laughed.
“Well, her real name is Hannah, but we tend to use road names around here.” Creek walked over
to Preacher Girl and their fingers intertwined. “It’s okay baby this is an old friend.”
“Well if it’s all the same, I’ll probably stick with Creek for you.” Mike said as Sydney moved to
stand by him.
“Hack’ll get you a faster response, but Creek will work too.”
“It’s late, bring your daughter, she can crash in Rose’s room.” Hack led the way down a hallway
into a bedroom. “Preacher Girl’s sister is on a spring break trip, she’ll be back in two days. We can
do more shifting in the morning.”
“You need to brush your teeth? Want a shower? Or maybe take one in the morning?”
Sydney shrugged, opening her suitcase and finding her toothbrush. “Just brush.”
“Okay,” he said. “You want a tuck after you’re in your pajamas or have you outgrown that?”
Her face paled and he took a knee in front of her.
“You know how daddy tucks you,” he said, hoping his tucks brought back fond memories and not
nightmares. “I’m not going to do that if you don’t want it.”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding a bit. “I’m getting too big for tucks.”
“Alright, you okay in a strange room?” he asked.
“Can I close the door?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Where are you going to sleep?” she asked.
“Couch if I’m lucky,” he said tweaking her nose a bit. “Worst case scenario Creek makes me
sleep in the bathtub.”
“The bathtub.” Syd smiled for the first time, but didn’t laugh.
“I probably smell huh?” he teased and for a few minutes they were back to being who they’d been
before. Before this nightmare began, before she started acting different, before her life was being
destroyed in secret from him.
With Sydney settling in Mike walked toward the voices in the main part of the home. His friend
and wife were seated at the kitchen table. The tell-tale signs of new parents on their exhausted faces.
Preacher Girl’s eyes had swaths of purple bags underneath them and had a long distant stare.
“Our home is open to all answering a call, but at some point I need to know why the phone rang,”
Creek said.
“I’m on leave for a while, up against reenlistment or retirement. Thought it would be a good time
to see an old friend.”
“So I haven’t seen you in a few years and you thought Montana in spring would be a good
vacation spot. I’m not buying it. There’s no vehicle by the woods, did you walk here?” Hack was
looking out the kitchen window.
Mike wasn’t ready to lay it all out to the man. Protection would be guaranteed either way and at
this point he needed to fully sort out the last thirty six hours.
“Hitched a ride with Connell and Buchanan.”
“You’re the fucking package?” Hack groaned. “I should have known.”
“Package?”
“Yeah, Connell texted me to be on the lookout for a package in a few days.” Creek shook his head.
“I thought he was sending a baby present.”
“Connell?” Mike said, sitting down at the table, his face contorting a bit at the idea of the man
who didn’t even send his mother a Mother’s Day text actually sending a gift to Creek.
“I should have known better,” Creek said with a yawn.
“Connell did say thanks for the ice cream and you’re an asshole.”
“So this call that’s live,” Creek said. “I’m assuming tracking is an issue.”
“Yes sir,” he replied.
“Last I checked, you out rank me,” he replied.
“Not on this compound.”
“True. Well, it’s late, maybe we can get some sleep and you’ll be willing to debrief in the
morning?” Hack tapped his wife’s hand and she got up to get Matthew from the bassinette. “Let’s go
to bed. Hanover you can have the guest bed across the hall unless there’s a reason you might want to
stay with your girl?”
“I’ll sleep in the other bed if that’s okay with you?”
Hack nodded then led the way to the guest room. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
 5

P orsche came up to Hack’s and Preacher Girl’s house. There were members who carried
weight and the silent ones, Hack, had a following he probably didn’t even know about. Hero
worship isn’t always about crazed fans running around asking for autographs. Talking Bounty or
Freaky into stripping would turn quickly into discussions on exactly how much they had to keep
covered for legal purposes and would cause few to want to follow suit. If Hack was willing to step
on stage others would see the value.
Problem being, he was the same one who stormed into the Roadside when Preacher Girl was
trying to find her place in the town and literally pulled her from the stage. The girl was rough and they
were only practicing, but that woman was his and his alone from the moment he found her cowering in
a closet in little more than a slip. Every man knew it before the man realized the truth himself. That
didn’t mean he was against stripping, just not for his woman.
Knocking on their door she glanced down at her phone and saw that it was after ten in the
morning. They should be up. Little Matty was barely a month old and both mom and dad were
recovering and bonding with the newborn. Unless Preacher Girl was doing the whole sleep when the
baby sleeps she shouldn’t be disturbing them.
Preacher Girl answered the door with her patented sweet smile. Her stick straight brown hair
held back by a pair of sunglasses. Normally waif thin she appeared unbothered by the new curves
staying with her as she stood in yoga pants and a t-shirt with capped sleeves.
“Hey, Porsche, you wanna come in?” she asked, the questioning look not surprising since they
weren’t exactly the best of friends. While the Steels were a family for the most part, the two of them
might as well be distant cousins that may say hi at a family reunion while dishing up food before
falling back into their own safe spaces.
“Thanks, yes,” Porsche said as she followed her to the kitchen. “This place turned out really
nice.”
“You haven’t been by since we got it finished have you?” she said. “All I have to offer you is tap
water or hours old coffee.”
“Hack made that?” Porsche questioned, while she’d had some coffee that morning a boost would
be nice. Only Hack didn’t make gently boosting coffee.
“Um, I’m not sure who made it,” she said, her face contorting a bit. “But I’d guess that it would be
Hack level.”
“Yeah, I’ll pass, the last thing I need today is the ability to smell numbers and taste colors.”
“Probably for the best,” she replied. “It’s evil I can’t have caffeine at the one time in life when I
need it more than ever.”
A text made Porsche’s phone vibrate and she checked it quickly. Roadkill sent a not so gentle
reminder. Clinic’s been open for two hours. Doc is willing to make room for you around lunch time.
This wasn’t an offer to make an appointment. It was a not subtle, one time offer to show up and make
it easy on yourself or she’d send men to fetch.
“Anything wrong?” Preacher Girl questioned and Porsche tucked away the phone.
“No, just Roadkill letting me know they got my medication in so I won’t have to hoof it to
Berrington for a refill.”
“Okay, what do you need from me?”
“I have something to run by you,” she said since any claimed man would need approval from their
Ol’ Lady, much like Hollywood and Onyx both allow Free and Topaz to dance. “And Hack too, is he
home?”
“Yeah he’s on the back porch.” Opening the back door she poked her head out. “Baby, Porsche
needs us for something.”
Holding the door open, Hack came in, giving Preacher Girl a light kiss on the corner of her mouth.
Behind him a stranger wandered in with a mug in hand. Wearing BDU pants and a skintight khaki
colored t-shirt she was half ready to ask him to take to the pole. Thick muscular arms stretched the
cotton fabric as he made his way to refill his mug. His hair was a sandy brown in the same shorn
short style Hack used to sport. But it was his eyes as they scanned the area, a dark blue or maybe they
were dark because of the way he was scanning the room like the Terminator.
“Who is this?” Porsche asked as she waited for everyone to settle back into the room and they
could sit at the table.
“This is an old brother in arms of mine from the SEALs, Michael Hanover. Mike, this is
Porsche.”
“Pleasure to meet you ma’am, you can call me Mike.” Mike held out his hand in greeting and she
wasn’t sure when it happened, the moment their palms touched.
Or maybe it was as his hand surrounded hers electricity fizzed and popped along her arm. It had
been a long while since a man set heat rushing through her whole body. Especially when she took her
medication. To break through the hazy barrier of calming drugs was hard, yet somehow he achieved
just that. She was in trouble if this man stayed for very long.
“Looks like you’re dressed for a mission now, soldier,” she said and got a bit of a scowl from the
man. “Sorry, do I have to call you SEAL instead?”
“Sailor works, it could have been worse, you could have called me Marine.”
“Hey,” Hack bit, pointing at the man with as much bite as Creature when upside down begging for
belly scratches.
“Well, don’t keep us all in suspense,” Preacher Girl said as the three of them sat while Mike
positioned himself in the corner and leaned on the counter next to the coffee maker.
“Hack, you know Chief has been trying to find inventive ways to raise funds to create the fire
department.”
“The town approved a budget for him to be the Chief and run a volunteer brigade.”
“Exactly, but unless it’s a bucket brigade it’s not really a functioning fire department.”
“Are you here to solicit funds from the club?” he questioned and for the second time in only a few
days she hadn’t considered who she was talking to. First the wealthy, now the man who helps control
the purse strings of the club.
“No, Chief said he found a truck, but even with the grants he found he needs a little bit more and I
came up with an idea. We put on a show to help raise funds for a new fire truck. I have most of the
girls on board I just need some of the members to agree.”
“Agree to what?” Hack asked. “If the girls want to donate their earnings what does the club have
to do with that?”
“Well, it would be a male revue,” Porsche said nervously, her skin was tingling and belly
becoming a tight fist of anxiety as Mike choked a bit on his coffee and had to turn around to tamp
down the mix of laughter and coughing.
“Sorry,” he said holding his hand out toward them. “The visual is too good.”
“Again? Why are you talking to me about this?” Hack questioned.
“I am doing my best to get all the single men and maybe if a few of the claimed ones with
influence—”
“Whew, oh my god, sorry, I’m trying,” Mike said as another peel of laughter had him snapping his
lips together and trying his best to not blurt out.
“To participate in the fund raiser,” she continued, trying to not have actual daggers shoot from her
eyes. “Honestly, I think we can raise enough money for that new truck, Roadkill figures three shows
since the Roadside has capacity limits.”
“Claimed? As in my tan ass in a thong shaking it to Pour Some Sugar on Me?”
“I’m out,” Mike said holding two hands up and wiping at tears, his face flushed. “Thank you,
Porsche you have no idea how much I needed this today. Whew, I’m gonna go check on Syd.”
He turned the corner and headed down the hallway.
“Well, that right there tells you how good it would go,” Hack said. “Besides, I’m sure Preacher
Girl here wouldn’t let me strip at a show.”
Hack turned to Preacher Girl who was hiding a smile.
“Three years and it’s like you don’t even know me baby,” she cooed, her eyes darkening as she
scanned and probably stripped her man down as he sat beside her at the table. “I think it’s a great
idea. Porsche you can count my husband in.”
“Um, I’m sorry, did you just pimp me out?” he snapped, holding his hand to his chest. “Next you’ll
have me on the street corner cat calling the women walking down the street.”
“Oh, stop being a baby,” she said slapping his shoulder. “It’ll be good for you, besides, I think I
know why Porsche is asking you.”
“Enlighten me?” he said.
“Fifty bucks says Red said he only shakes his money maker for Roadkill and more guys will sign
up if you’re willing to take to the pole.”
“Seriously, what do you think about this Hack?” Porsche said.
“It is a good cause. Let me do some thinking.”
“Hebrews thirteen sixteen, and do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such
sacrifices God is pleased.”
The girl earned her name honestly with her Bible quoting ways as Hack narrowed his eyes at the
woman he loved.
“God, God wants me to share my body, it would please him.”
“It’ll please me, besides, we almost lost Doc from a fire,” Preacher Girl said. “What if we had
one here? We need a fire department.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Hack said blowing a hard gust.
“Don’t blaspheme,” Preacher Girl warned.
“From the woman who two seconds ago quoted Hebrews to explain why I should strip for bills.”
 “What’s your point?” Preacher Girl blinked a few times then stood and kissed the end of his nose.
“Hey, Creek,” Mike called from down the hall as he came back in the kitchen. “Little man is
fussing.”
“I got it,” Preacher Girl said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have a feeling someone is
hungry.”
Porsche stood, “How long are you going to be in town?”
“I’m still active in the Navy, but I’m on leave right now, spring break and all so I’ll be here for a
while.”
“Spring break in Montana where there’s a seventy percent chance of snow. You know we’re in
fake spring right now. By next week we could be knee deep in the second winter.”
“Eighty and sunny gets old,” he teased. “It’s good to have a little variety.”
“Okay then, I guess I will see you around. Too bad you won’t be able to stay long enough for the
fundraiser.” Porsche wanted every delectable man available to help. “Hack might need back up for
his Mother’s Day debut.”
“Well, aren’t you all sorts of temptation and thoughts of a good time.”
“It’s been rumored before,” she said, wanting to go tit for tat with the man.
“There’s always a chance to extend my visit. I’ll have to see, my daughter’s here.” As if on cue a
blonde haired, blue eyed little girl no more than eight or nine walked into the kitchen and stood just
behind Mike with a blankie tucked in tight and her thumb in her mouth.
“Daddy, where did you go?” she said around the digit.
“Just coming to find that snack you wanted,” he said as if he were ready to rush her off and make
her disappear.
“Hi there. I’m Porsche what is your name?”
“Sydney.” Having pulled her thumb long enough to say her name before returning to the self-
soothing security.
“Nice to meet you, we have a few kids about your age here. A little girl named Maisie and her
brother Callum.”
On the mention of the boy Sydney clung closer to her father and turned her face into his hip so she
no longer had to face anyone. The action one Porsche knew too well, the trauma response. One she
perfected over the years and one she was probably going to have to divulge with Doc in the next fifty
minutes.

M ike put together a plate with green grapes, Colby jack cheese and crackers before he left
Syd in the bedroom with a tablet playing a cartoon. Whether he wanted to or not he needed
to talk to Creek because cover required a reason and he’d rather not spell it out with his daughter in
ear shot. The girl had reverted back to thumb sucking and woobie snuggling. Less than a year ago
she’d be doing cartwheels, laughing and demanding they explore the vast wilderness that was
Montana. It would be all he could do to keep her out of Matthew’s room because she’d want to care
for the baby. Instead she barely glanced at the infant.
He found Creek and Preacher Girl standing at the counter rinsing a few dishes from the morning
and putting them in the dishwasher. Strange how the domestic bliss of the young father played out with
the man who had at one time sworn off anything beyond a good fuck. The man’s past haunted him as
he feared the abuse that killed his mother would surface in him. Nature verses nurture, either way his
own father had fucked him into believing the cycle couldn’t be stopped. Instead he stood side by side
his young wife as they cleaned up together.
“Can I talk to you Creek?” he said, and the man glanced down at his woman who pushed up on her
toes to get a quick kiss as she returned to the chore of dishes.
“Let’s go outside on the deck. Do you want a pop?” Creek dried his hands off on a dish towel that
hung on the handle to the fridge before opening and grabbing a couple of bottles of coke in one hand.
Flipping one, it extended toward Mike.
“Sure, I’ll take one. You guys go old school here huh?” He snagged the cold, clear glass bottle
and twisted the top off. Holding his palm out Creek placed his own cap off and Mike tossed the two
away in the trash as they headed outside to the deck.
“Dreamer wanted to do some craft project with the kids at school a while ago so we were all
drinking our way through glass bottles, just a handful leftover.”
Tugging down the sleeves of his waffle Henley Creek took a seat on the built in bench that was
flush to the house. Giving a perfect view of the land. For his wife, Mike assumed this was a cozy
place to watch the sunset at night, but he knew his friend and the tactical advantage he saw from this
vantage point. There would be no eye contact, the man would be surveying the landscape and who
probably spent half the night reviewing footage trying to see how Mike slipped through his perimeter.
“How many more cameras you think I need?” Creek asked, his hands locked together with his
forearms resting on his knees as he leaned forward.
Mike took a seat beside his friend and brother. “Didn’t walk the full perimeter. Syd was already
exhausted coming from the interstate exit.”
“That little thing made it near three miles,” he replied with a note of aw.
“Even with the luggage I’m pretty sure she weighs less than a standard pack.”
“She is a tiny thing.”
“Preacher Girl doesn’t seem much bigger,” Mike said before he could stop himself.
There was a part of him finding a bit of unease around the man he called brother and his wife.
Probably the reason he didn’t blurt out about the situation the moment he came in the home. While the
man had passed word around about rescuing women and children he’d never shared images of his
wife with the group.
“She’s twenty one and yes I met her when she was eighteen,” Creek snarled a bit. “Trust me, the
last thing I ever expected was to fall in love with a woman like her. And she is a woman.”
“I’m assuming this isn’t the first time this issue has come up.”
“She was a rescue,” he admitted. “Which made her persona non grata to begin with. Being barely
legal added to me fighting with myself for a time.”
“Don’t say she seduced you,” Mike warned with a bit of a harsh tone.
“She wouldn’t even know how,” Creek admitted, running his hand through the thick black hair he
sported. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t fall hard for her and doesn’t mean I didn’t question our relationship
from a thousand angles. Everything led me back to her.”
“A week ago I wouldn’t even question,” Mike admitted.
“I will say this, don’t let her sweet face fool you,” he warned. “Crossing her is like crossing me
without the buffer of years of combat and training having created a bond.”
“Basically she’ll pull a death by a thousand cuts,” he reasoned.
“Nah, she’ll just shoot you.”
“You’re supposed to marry your other half, not your twin,” Mike joked and got a half smirk from
the man as the two settled back into a silence as distant sounds amplified in the open space.
A mix of engines, scurrying animals and random sounds of children laughing. He assumed from
the other homes in the circle. There was a peace here he wasn’t expecting, the cold wind blowing
past them from time to time reminded him of the blonde from earlier. Someone he shouldn’t even be
thinking about with all that was going on in his world, but she’d stuck all the same.
“Speak?” Creek said as he finished the last of his soda. “We didn’t come out here for you to
question my life choices and you are being tightlipped on my security breaches, so, at this point you
have no purpose.”
“No reason to kick a man when he’s down.” Mike took his own swallow and wished it was
stronger, a hard liquor with a proof level high enough to keep a car running or strip furniture.
He needed the burn going down his throat to set off other pain receptors in his body and allow for
truths to flow. Training in torture techniques helped him learn his weaknesses so he could either fight
them or exploit them. Use them to trip down the path of least resistance so he could share the truths he
kept bottled up and locked away. Instead, of Coke he needed a damn beer to help him break through
defenses and loosen his tongue. But he’d probably need more than one, yeah, twelve might get him
talking, but one merely quenched his thirst.
“I need to stay here for a little while,” he finally said, hating the fact Creek had the ability to stay
quiet as a hooker in church when he was waiting for a reply. There was no deep interrogation when it
came to the man. He’d wait you out in a way that could drive a person crazy. Silence, staring, or
completely ignoring you to the point you wondered if the man was a hallucination.
“Define a while?”
“A few weeks I guess. I’m working shit out.” He took the last swig of beer and set the bottle down
by his foot. “If not, give me a few days to find a ride and I’ll make my own way.”
“When do you need to report back to base?” he questioned.
“Two weeks basically,” he said. “Eight A.M. Monday, a week after Easter.”
“Two Monday’s from now,” Hack clarified and Mike nodded.
“It’s nut cutting time,” he said. “I have the paperwork, just need to decide if I’m pushing for my
twenty or cutting out while the bone spurs are under triple digits and my vertebrae aren’t fused
together.”
“And you wouldn’t be stupid enough to go AWOL, would you?”
“The temptation is there,” he admitted. “But probably because orange is my signature color and
breaking bricks will get me views on Tocker.”
The unamused glare set Mike back a bit. It was his own fault for falling into the comfort and
peace he knew when among his brothers. Creek had no patience for his bullshit. The last thing this
compound needed were overzealous MP’s rolling in thinking they were doing something as they storm
the place looking for a wayward sailor.
“For my daughter I’d risk it, but if I can find a way to safely turn in my papers I’m thinking that’s
what I’ll need to do.”
“Kids usually have two people looking out for them,” he said, not saying out loud the truth of it
all. “Exceptions have been made over the years. There an exception I don’t know about? I remember
a woman at a few parties years ago.”
“Sassy has no vote in this.”
“Says you or the law?” Creek asked, cutting his eyes toward him as his head shifted slightly to the
side. Sadly, Creek wasn’t someone you could fast talk, few in his unit could. “What’s this about
Hanover?”
 “I need somewhere to stay, but the less you know—”
“The more believable my response of ‘I have no idea’ can be.” Creek once again leaned forward,
his head dropping a bit as if he we were checking the toe of his boots before inspection. “Hanover, is
this something to do with the scared little girl hiding away in my sister-in-law’s room?”
Creek’s thumb hitched toward the house.
“What if I tell you it does? Would that make a difference?”
When it came down to it he knew at some point he might have to tell the man everything, but he
wanted to hold out as long as he could. In business people strategized, came together and brain
stormed. But this wasn’t a thing he could crowd source for the best idea. He needed a plan of action
to take to Creek, that the man understood. There hadn’t been time for him to fully process what had
happened. At this point he was coming out of flight mode and getting to a rally point to regroup.
“No. Again, Hanover what’s going on?” Creek gave a hard sigh. “Why call me out here for a
private discussion if you’re not going to let me assess the threat to you and yours?”
“As far as you’re concerned I took a little vacation. I need that place to be safe, recharge and
regroup for Syd and myself that’s all.” His left eye ticked, sharp stabs of pain rippled through his gut
and he could feel the flight mode engaging through every inch of himself. Once the truth was out his
daughter would be a target for inquiry, one he isn’t sure she’s ready for. Or maybe it was him that
wasn’t ready to hear the story she was holding inside. One she hadn’t trusted him with on previous
visits meaning he had to do more for her. “All I need to know is if we can stay, you said your sister-
in-law was on some trip so I’m assuming at some point she’s going to return.”
“I can guarantee you a safe place for now, as long as that is all you got to say,” Creek said. “But if
you need more, I’m going to need more. We clear?”
“Crystal,” he said with a sigh. “It is all I can do for now.”
Creek nodded. The silence that followed told Mike that Creek would stop questioning him for
now, but when push came to shove everything would need to be laid out before him.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 “At the worst Mr Graves is schoolboyish and impertinent. He, we
think, suffers at present from not having realized that the province
he has deliberately chosen for himself, though small, is very hard to
subdue. It is not enough to be simple yourself in order to achieve
simplicity.”

+ − Ath p472 Ap 9 ’20 1050w

Reviewed by R. M. Weaver

Bookm 52:65 S ’20 50w

“The verse of Robert Graves charms you with a whimsical

tenderness that is appealing but you feel all the time a hidden sense
of something for which the whimsey is protection. That something is
the stern reality of life.” W. S. B.

+ Boston Transcript p7 Je 26 ’20 600w

“Lacks the full richness of ‘Fairies and fusiliers,’ but remains a

delicious collection of ballads and lyrics.”

+ Dial 69:434 O ’20 80w

“In ‘Country sentiment’ Robert Graves discloses a vein of poetry as

fine as a line of mercury. But there is no singing heart in him to go
with his singing throat. The music of his verse falters and falls into
little echoes of other poets or quarrels line by line with its meaning.”

+ − Freeman 1:430 Jl 14 ’20 90w

 Reviewed by Mark Van Doren

+ Nation 111:sup415 O 13 ’20 70w

“No better title could have been selected for the book; it is country
sentiment at its sweetest and most auspicious. Mr Graves is
indubitably a poet, and animating his verse is a fiery sense of right
and wrong. He is always musical, his lines flowing with that
unaffected charm that is so hard to capture.” H. S. Gorman

+ N Y Times 25:10 Jl 4 ’20 450w

“Mr Graves plays upon a short keyboard, but he contrives some

perfectly new melodies within his self-ordained limits. Perhaps it is
in the love poetry that Mr Graves is at his most original, though
many of the poems in the other categories are just as charming.”

+ Spec 124:494 Ap 10 ’20 500w

“He writes his poems like songs—very good songs, too—and their
supreme merit is that they are always absolutely genuine in feeling.
His new volume shows him to be acquiring the technique which he
used not to possess. Mr Graves should certainly be taken seriously as
a poet with a future before him.”

+ The Times [London] Lit Sup p191 Mr

18 ’20 220w

GRAY, A. HERBERT. Christian adventure.

*$1.25 (3c) Assn. press 230
 20–8352

“There are no arguments about the truth of Christianity in this

book. It is wholly concerned with the preliminary question, ‘What is
Christianity?’... I have confined myself to an effort to present the
message of Jesus as He gave it to the world.” (Preface) The author
considers churches, creeds and theologies to be secondary affairs,
never more than partially successful attempts at stating truths.
Christianity stands or falls by mankind’s judgment of Jesus as the
embodiment of the essential secret of life. Contents: Jesus; What was
Jesus doing? Further features of the kingdom; Methods in the
kingdom; Was that all?—the King; What does he want you to do?
What about human nature? The resources of the disciple.

“This book is one of the freshest, clearest, and most stimulating

statements of the Christian faith and program that we have seen in a
long time.”

+ Bib World 54:552 S ’20 320w

+ Booklist 16:326 Jl ’20
+ The Times [London] Lit Sup p243 Ap
15 ’20 120w

GRAY, JOSLYN. Rosemary Greenaway. il *$1.50

Scribner

19–15554
 “The heroine is the daughter of a poet, who is also a bank clerk—
and not very successful in either calling, though some of his verse is
delicate and graceful. Rosemary adores her father, and is with him as
much as possible, to the neglect not only of her schoolmates but also
of her mother, and his sudden death is a great grief to her. But worse
is to come, for only a year after her father’s death her mother marries
again, marries Mr Anstruther, the homely, shrewd, and kindly
schoolmaster, who makes her far more happy than the poet ever did.
Rosemary bitterly resents this marriage as a slight to the memory of
her father, and it is this resentment of hers and the way in which it is
gradually and completely overcome which forms the theme of the
story. She has many trials and many tribulations before she learns to
love the stepfather, who at last gives her the thing she most wants
and has almost despaired of obtaining.”—N Y Times

“A simple, pleasant little story for girls just entering upon their
teens.”

+ N Y Times 25:33 Ja 18 ’20 270w

“It is the sort of story to be read with enjoyment by girls in their

teens.” R. D. Moore

+ Pub W 97:179 Ja 17 ’20 90w

GREENBERG, DAVID SOLON. Cockpit of

Santiago Key. (Open road ser.) *$1.50 (3c) Boni &
Liveright

20–775
 A Porto Rican story for boys and girls. Young Felipe lives with an
uncle on Santiago Key, a rocky island off the coast. His uncle’s sole
duty is to keep the light burning and the island is seldom visited.
From the point of view of Don Enrique and Don Alejandro it is an
ideal place for a cockpit, since the Americanos, who had forbidden
cockfighting in Porto Rico, would be little likely to find it. Felipe
enters into the sport and it is only after he goes to the American
school and comes under American influence that he begins to see
what his old grandfather had meant by the “curse of the cockpit.” A
hurricane sweeps over the island, and leaves Felipe homeless, but his
American teacher adopts him and takes him away to the United
States.

“Much information about customs and country.”

+ Booklist 17:122 D ’20

“Morals and local color are not, however, the only requisites for a
good juvenile story. Plot is the first essential, and it is in this
particular that ‘The cockpit of Santiago’ is somewhat weak.” G. H. C.

+ − Boston Transcript p6 F 14 ’20 480w

+ Cath World 111:412 Je ’20 90w

GREENBIE, SIDNEY. Japan real and

imaginary. il *$4 (2½c) Harper 915.2

20–9726
 It is the author’s claim for his book that he has given due regard to
both the pleasant and the unpleasant sides of Japan, to the fine
sights and the bad odors. Japan is in a state of transition, with
resultant discords everywhere between the old and the new Japan,
and the impression the reader takes away from the book is that in its
present state it is an unhappy country. “To save Japan from itself we
must stop exalting it; to save ourselves from Japan we must stop
condemning it.” The contents are in four parts: 1, Impressionistic; 2.
The communal phase; 3. The spokes of modern Japan; 4, Critical.
There are many illustrations and an index.

+ Booklist 17:67 N ’20

“His book is of conspicuous value for the shrewdly observed wealth

of detail it gives of the everyday life of contemporary Japan. The
faults of the book are patent enough. With so much matter, it is to be
regretted there is not more perfect art.” R. M. Weaver

+ − Bookm 51:633 Ag ’20 400w

“It is the best book on actual Japan, by an American, in some time;

best from the viewpoint of fact, not poesy nor romantic charm. No
one interested in the far East as related to America should miss it.”

+ Dial 69:323 S ’20 90w

“His writing is worth while because he writes as he really sees and

thinks. His descriptions are like untouched photographs and his
judgments square and fair. He is the calm and unafraid
commentator, the patient and constant observer and recorder, and
the caustic critic. The book weighs more than ten ordinary American
books on Japan. It is vital.” F: O’Brien

+ N Y Times 25:5 Jl 18 ’20 1050w

“Mr Greenbie’s frank, lively, imaginative account of Japan may

properly be called ‘a real book.’ It is entitled to this popular but
expressive characterization because, by reason of its intimate
realism, its sensitive perception, and, above all, its common sense, it
stands out conspicuously from the great mass of variously interesting
literature upon the subject with which it deals.”

+ No Am 212:719 N ’20 480w

“A very readable and beautiful book.” G. D.

+ St Louis 18:250 O ’20 40w

“The people whom he met he actually studied and classified and he

has endeavored to interpret what he has seen for the benefit of other
Americans, the result being a book which inspires confidence.”

+ Springf’d Republican p9a N 14 ’20 360w

“He writes from experience gained from close contact with the
people; and it is evident throughout that he is concerned to tell the
truth without partiality or prejudice, and that he is by temperament
qualified to recognize it in matters of every-day intercourse. But with
the best will in the world he would have difficulty in appreciating the
point of view of the Japanese, for it is a point of view that he—an
American of the Americans—cannot conceive a sensible person
adopting. It should be made clear that Mr Greenbie writes without
malice.”

+ − The Times [London] Lit Sup p681 O 21

’20 900w
+ Yale R n s 10:431 Ja ’21 340w

GREENWOOD, HAROLD CECIL. Industrial

gases. il *$5 Van Nostrand 655.8

(Eng ed Agr20–1194)

This volume belongs to the series on Industrial chemistry of which

Samuel Rideal is general editor. The aims of the book as stated in the
author’s preface are “to give a general account of the manufacture
and technical manipulation of gases, to describe briefly the
development and general principles of industrial gas technology and
to present a collection of data likely to be useful in connection with
such technology.” The first part of the book is devoted to The gases of
the atmosphere; Part 2 to Hydrogen, carbon monoxide, carbon
dioxide, sulphur dioxide, nitrous oxide, asphyxiating gases; Part 3 to
Gaseous fuels. There are indexes to subjects and to authors’ names.
The foreword by Dr J. A. Harker is a brief tribute to the author, who
died shortly before the publication of his book.

“Notably thorough and authoritative account.”

+ N Y P L New Tech Bks p49 Jl ’20 170w

+ Pratt p18 O ’20 30w
 The Times [London] Lit Sup p23 Ja 8
’20 110w

GREGG, FRANK MOODY. Founding of a

nation. *$2.25 (1c) Doran

This is “the story of the Pilgrim fathers, their voyage on the

Mayflower, their early struggles, hardships and dangers, and the
beginnings of American democracy.” (Sub-title) It is the narrative
and romance of Francis Beaumont, which, the author states, is fact
where it concerns the colony, and fiction where it concerns himself.
In the foreword the author distinguishes sharply between the
Pilgrims and the Puritans and points out in what the difference
consists. As to the romance: Beaumont, a young English nobleman,
was forced to leave England on account of a duel; joined the Pilgrims
at Leyden, accompanies them to America on the Mayflower and
describes all their trials and hardships along with his own personal
experiences.

“Mr Gregg has woven a story which faithfully follows authentic

history, enables the reader to visualize the life as only fiction can, and
at the same time holds the interest through sheer excellence as a tale
of love and adventure. It deserves a wide audience.” W. A. Dyer

+ Bookm 52:125 O ’20 110w

Boston Transcript p4 O 6 ’20 560w

“At fifteen, especially if feminine, one is apt to be partial to history

in this form.”
 + Ind 104:242 N 13 ’20 40w

“‘The founding of a nation,’ with its romance of early American

days set in precise historical background, is particularly well adapted
for adolescent study.”

+ N Y Times p22 N 14 ’20 600w

+ Outlook 126:238 O 6 ’20 70w

“To the readers of this book, the first two winters at Plymouth will
remain as vividly in memory as Crusoe’s stay on the island.”

+ Review 3:539 D 1 ’20 170w

GREGORY, ISABELLA AUGUSTA (PERSSE)

lady. Dragon; a wonder play in three acts. *$1.75
Putnam 822

20–13121

An obese king of Ireland and his second wife are in a quandary

about the Princess Nuala who, according to a prophecy, is to be
devoured by a dragon. The princess is a wild and wilful child who will
not submit to a speedy marriage as her only safety from the dragon,
and the king in a rage finally vows that he will wed her to the first
man that enters the castle. The Prince of the Marshes had already
come to woo, accompanied by two of his seven aunts anxious for his
safety, but is sent away by the scorn of the princess. After the vow,
the King of Sorcha comes, disguised as a cook, and claims her. The
approach of the dragon concentrates attention upon himself. The
would-be cook subdues the dragon and wins the princess. The play is
a rollicking comedy from start to finish.

“It is highly entertaining and actable, readable too.”

+ Ind 104:244 N 13 ’20 40w

“Neither the literary nor the dramatic reputation of Lady Gregory

will be greatly enhanced by the publication of this somewhat childish
little piece. The piece might not be ineffective in the theatre if given
as burlesque or pantomime, for it is not deficient in the robust
humor which has won popularity for some of Lady Gregory’s farces.”

− + N Y Evening Post p19 O 23 ’20 240w

“Lady Gregory’s ‘The dragon’ can not be classed with her best
plays.”

+ − Review 3:321 O 13 ’20 230w

“A pleasant enough entertainment for children; it is amusing,

imaginative, and exciting. The queen is undoubtedly an
anachronism.”

+ − Spec 125:341 S 11 ’20 340w

 “The play abounds with humor, and yet the plot is strong enough
to carry the interest from beginning to end.”

+ Springf’d Republican p8 O 19 ’20 330w

“What real Irish fun there is in it, reminding one a bit of James
Stephens’s ‘Pot of gold,’ with a good deal of human character for all
that; why it might ‘act’ well if well acted—all this you can best find
out for yourself by just reading this bit of excellent fooling. it opens a
pleasant escape into the realm of fantasy in these super-serious
times.”

+ Theatre Arts Magazine 5:84 Ja ’21 270w

GREGORY, ISABELLA AUGUSTA (PERSSE)

lady, comp. and ed. Visions and beliefs in the west of
Ireland. 1st and 2d ser. 2v il *$4.50 Putnam 398.2
 20–26541

These various superstitions, beliefs, fancies and fairy lore of the

Irish peasants are given in the versions of the people, as they told
them to Lady Gregory. She has classified them into groups under
appropriate titles, introducing each group with an explanatory note
or quotation. In the preface of volume 1 she tells about the “Sidhe,”
the invisible host, some sort of fallen angels, who still swarm about
the country side, in turn helping, teasing and interfering with the
country folk. The contents of volume 1 are: Sea-stories; Seers and
healers; The evil eye—the touch—the penalty; Away; and an essay
and notes by W. B. Yeats. The essay is: Witches and wizards and Irish
folklore. Volume 2 contains: Herbs, charms, and wise women;
Astray, and treasure; Banshees and warnings; In the way; The
fighting of the friends; The unquiet dead; Appearances; Butter; The
fool of the forth; Forths and sheoguey places; Blacksmiths; Monsters
and sheoguey beasts; Friars and priest cures; Essay on Swedenborg,
mediums, and the desolate places, and notes by W. B. Yeats.

“Almost every kind of reader will find these volumes deeply

interesting. Taken down with patience and extraordinary skill from
the lips of living men and women, they make audible the very voice
of the Irish people. They form a valuable contribution to the
literature of folk-lore, while Mr Yeats’ highly characteristic essays
and notes add greatly to their curious charm.” F. R.

+ Ath p550 O 22 ’20 1250w

Booklist 16:299 Je ’20

“Bacon said that some books are to be tasted, others to be chewed

and digested: Visions and beliefs’ belongs to the former class; folk-
lorists will use it as a work of reference (although scholars would find
it more valuable were it supplied with a good index), while those
seeking only entertainment will enjoy chiefly Lady Gregory’s
interpretative passages.” N. J. O’C.

+ − Boston Transcript p6 Je 16 ’20 1100w

“It is well to read the essays for they are learned and enlightening,
but it is well, too, to read them without reference to the visions and
beliefs that make up this collection. One should read these for their
atmosphere, their picture, their phrase.” Padraic Colum

+ Dial 69:300 S ’20 1400w

+ Ind 104:244 N 13 ’20 100w

“All those who pursue the great Celtic legend and all those who are
interested in the curious imaginative adventures of the human race
must have this book.” B: de Casseres

+ N Y Times 25:270 My 23 ’20 1200w

“The first and most striking impression derived from the book is a
renewed conviction of the faithfulness and the essential realism with
which Lady Gregory, in her creative writing, has rendered the spirit
and the atmosphere of life in the western counties. ‘Visions and
beliefs in the west of Ireland’ is a notable contribution to folk poetry
and a valuable revelation of the mood of the Irish mind.”

+ Outlook 125:222 Je 2 ’20 1650w

 “One must welcome such a book as of immense interest to the
general psychologist.” H. L. Stewart

+ Review 3:320 O 13 ’20 1600w

“A large number of these tales, we imagine, have their origin in

ignorance and an almost incredible superstitiousness; others
obviously are barefaced lies—the sort of lies that ‘come true’ when
told three times; others, again, are merely impudent fabrications told
on the spur of the moment for the particular person, the particular
person in this case being Lady Gregory with her pencil and copybook.
As literature, these pages are worthless. But there will be few to tell
that cruel truth to Lady Gregory.”

− Sat R 130:280 O 2 ’20 1000W

+ The Times [London] Lit Sup p613 S 23
’20 1700w

GREGORY, JACKSON. Ladyfingers. il *$1.75

(1½c) Scribner

20–8277

Robert Ashe, alias Ladyfingers, expert “on life, lyric poetry and ...
burglar proof safes,” had been left a pennyless orphan at the age of
six, had grown up without guidance—except the memory of the fairy
tales his mother used to tell him—and without morals; had become a
newsboy, a pickpocket, a thief, and lastly a safe-cracker, and through
it all remained a poet and an innocent boy at heart. His career is
thrilling and romantic, for one day he finds himself the grandson of a
multi-millionairess, a crabbed old witch of a woman, and in love with
a sweet country girl. Then the awakening comes. His past has been
hushed up, smothered in his grandmother’s millions. But the girl will
have none of him for all her love. She fears a criminal inheritance for
her children-to-be. Then Robert realizes that he has not yet paid for
his misdeeds and that to pay is a law of nature. He gives himself up
voluntarily to the police and serves a two-years sentence in the
penitentiary. In the meanwhile Enid repents and prepares a home for
him on his return. In due time the grandmother also repents and all
ends happily.

Booklist 16:312 Je ’20

“All the world loves a crook if he is also an artist and a gentleman

and Ladyfingers is a very charming specimen, but, alas, he begins to
reform far too near the beginning of the story and becomes so noble
that he is a little hard to bear.”

+ − Ind 103:323 S 11 ’20 70w

“Although there is a good deal too much description, the story is

agreeably told. At first it moves quickly, then seems steadily to lose
momentum, very much as though it had been started with a vigorous
shove and then been allowed to slow down as it would.”

+ − NY Times 25:272 My 23 ’20 450w

“Mr Gregory has a fresh and vigorous way of writing.”

 + Outlook 125:431 Je 30 ’20 80w

“While he tells a very entertaining and often amusing tale, it lacks

much of the probability in his previous stories.”

+ − Springf’d Republican p11a Je 27 ’20

120w

GREGORY, JACKSON. Man to man. il *$2

(2½c) Scribner

20–19919

When Steve Packard comes home after twelve years of roaming,

his father is dead and the ranch that should have been his is heavily
mortgaged to his fiery old grandfather, “Hell-Fire Packard.” The old
man gives him no odds on account of relationship, and Steve soon
finds he’ll have to fight for his rights and his property. His first act is
to discharge the ranch foreman Blenham, who has been running the
place in his grandfather’s interests and his own. Blenham tries to
annoy him in every possible way, and by deceit and treachery sets
grandfather against grandson in more bitter hatred than ever. But
Steve is capable and handles the ranch problems skilfully. In the
meantime he has been falling in love with a little spitfire neighbor,
Terry Temple. His suit does not go well, and finally Terry goes away
and Steve does not care what happens. It even looks as if he might
forfeit his ranch to his grandfather after all, and it doesn’t seem to
matter much. Then—she comes back! He takes up the game with zest
again, and in the last round of their battle, Blenham is defeated.
Steve and his grandfather are reconciled, and he wins his girl.
 “If one can hazard criticism of such a breakneck story, it is simply
to say that Mr Gregory writes with both his eyes fixed on the film
royalties. His prose style, left unsupervised, moves ahead with a sort
of blind, blundering vigor.”

+ − N Y Evening Post p22 O 23 ’20 120w

“A sufficiently lively if entirely commonplace story.”

+ − N Y Times p26 D 26 ’20 380w

GREGORY, ODIN. Caius Gracchus, a tragedy;

with an introd. by Theodore Dreiser. *$2 Boni &
Liveright 812

20–13984

“A five-act historical tragedy in blank verse.” (Freeman) “Caius

Gracchus, idealist and statesman, had stirred the Roman plebs to a
consciousness of their own existence, not as servile beasts, but as
human beings. His success had disturbed the patricians, who,
forthwith, plotted his downfall in true Roman fashion, couching their
scheme in religion, and thus outwitting a less guileful populace.... In
the end, when the plebs find themselves disbursed and outwitted,
when, in the slow process of reasoning, they discover in the dead
Gracchus a martyr to their cause, the few among them rally their
mental energies and press forward toward the ideal.” (Springf’d
Republican)
 “Ambitious as this work is, however, and interesting in detail it is
hardly likely to kindle beacons on Olympus. As a play, ‘Caius
Gracchus’ sticks too close to polemics ever to achieve the heights of
tragedy. Occasionally, one encounters felicitous phrases, but these
have to be sought for, like bright pebbles scattered along a dry, sandy
beach.” L. B.

+ − Freeman 2:261 N 24 ’20 210w

“A drama of the excellence of ‘Caius Gracchus’ is a solid

achievement of which any modern writer might well be proud. The
constant declaration of their lofty sentiments by the chief characters
is an accepted convention of the English and French classical
tradition which Odin Gregory follows, but modern realistic drama
has made it difficult to accept this convention unmodified, even
under the shelter of the old forms.” C. M. S.

+ − Grinnell R 16:330 Ja ’21 480w

“Mr Gregory produces blank verse of vigor and suppleness, but

hardly comparable to Shakespeare’s in poetic content.”

+ − Springf’d Republican p6 D 6 ’20 720w

“‘Caius Gracchus’ is a tremendously ambitious work in the most

difficult and aspiring genre of literature, and perhaps it is better to
try and fail than not to try at all. One finds fault not so much with the
author, who at least lets his work speak for itself, as with the critics
who profess to find in it qualities that so obviously are not there.”

− + Theatre Arts Magazine 5:84 Ja ’21 480w

 GRENFELL, ANNE ELIZABETH
(MACCLANAHAN) (MRS WILFRED
THOMASON GRENFELL), and SPALDING,
KATIE. Le petit Nord; or, Annals of a Labrador
harbour. il *$1.50 (4½c) Houghton 917.19

20–5733

In the form of letters this amusing volume by the wife or Dr

Grenfell, and the nurse who accompanied them to their northern
abode, makes a good accompaniment to the autobiography of “A
Labrador doctor.” It relates the experiences and hardships of their
mission home in the far north in a humorous vein and with the
feminine touch. The unique illustrations tell a story of their own.

“These bright brave little letters have the power of transporting

one into the heart of the Labrador country by their charm of
description and humor. Crude little sketches by the doctor make just
the right illustrations.”

+ Booklist 16:309 Je ’20

“The book is delightful reading and adds interesting sidelights to

her husband’s accounts.”

+ Ind 104:249 N 13 ’20 50w

“They present a very vivid, unpretending picture of things as they

really are in this work, viewed by a capable, energetic, and humorous
temperament.” Archibald MacMechan