Hell for Leather (Black Knights Inc. #6)(97)
He pushed out of the Hummer and had to lower his chin against the gust of wind that punched him in the face like an icy fist. Shoving his hands deep in his coat someone had shoveled in the thick blanket of snow.
Bill applied a gloved thumb to the buzzer, and five seconds later, a familiar noise sounded from the behind the metal door, making the hair on the back of Frank’s neck stand up.
How do you know you’ve been in the business too long? When you recognize the sound of a .45 caliber being chambered from three feet away, that’s how.
“Who is it?” a deep, wary voice inquired from within.
“I thought you said she knew we were coming,” Frank hissed over Bill’s shoulder.
“She does.” Bill grinned. “But she also knows she can never be too careful in this neighborhood.”
And that was no lie. The graffiti tagging every vertical surface for six blocks in each direction announced that they were smack dab in the middle of some very serious gang territory. The Vice Lords ruled the roost, and they wanted to make damned sure everyone knew it.
Raising his voice above the shrieking wind, Bill yelled, “Open the damned door, you big ape! We’re freezing our dicks off out here!”
And that was no lie either. Frank couldn’t even begin to explain to his family jewels why he hadn’t jumped into a pair of thermal underwear this morning and instead opted to go commando.
Big mistake. Huge.
One he sure as hell wouldn’t be making again.
The front door swung open with a resounding clang, and they were met by a giant, red-headed man who looked like he should be wearing a face mask and leotard while smashing a folding chair over some guy’s back.
Frank could almost hear Michael Buffer shouting, Arrrrre you ready to ruuumbllle?
“Manus,” Bill said, stepping over the threshold and motioning Frank through, “this is Boss. Boss, meet Manus. He and his brothers work security for my sister.”
Frank waited until Manus tucked the .45 into the waistband of his jeans before cautiously stepping into the small, tiled vestibule. The walls were covered in rusted motorcycle license plates, and as soon as the door closed behind him, the aroma of motor oil and burning metal assaulted his nostrils.
“You the guy who wants to partner with Becky? Invest some money and learn to build bikes?” Manus asked while pumping the hand he offered, a smile splitting the big man’s ruddy face and making all his freckles meld together.
Yeah, that was the story they were tossing around until he could get a look at the set-up…
“I haven’t decided yet,” he answered noncommittally, and Manus’s smile only widened.
“That’s only because you haven’t seen Becky’s bikes,” he boasted. “Once you do, you’re gonna want to give her all your savings and have her teach you everything she knows.”
Frank lifted a shoulder as if to say we’ll see and watched as Bill opened the second set of glass doors.
His ears were instantly assailed by a wall of sound.
The pounding beats of hard-driving rock music competed with the hellacious screech and whine of grinding metal. He resisted the urge to reach up and plug his ears as he followed Bill into the custom motorcycle shop, skirting a few pieces of high-tech machinery.
And then he wasn’t thinking about his bleeding eardrums at all.
Because his eyes zeroed in on the most beautiful, outlandish motorcycle he’d ever seen.
It was secured on a bike lift. The paint on the gas tank and fenders was bright, neon blue that sparkled iridescently in the harsh overhead lights. It sported a complex-looking dual exhaust, an outrageous stretch, and intricate, nearly whimsical front forks. It also had so much chrome it almost hurt to look at it.
In a word: art.
It made the work he’d done restoring his vintage 1952 Harley-Davidson FL look like amateur hour.
And just when he thought he couldn’t be any more blown away, the sound of grinding metal slowly died down and a young woman emerged from behind the bike with a grinder in one hand and a metal clamp in the other.
He nearly swallowed his own tongue.
This couldn’t be…
But obviously it was. Because the instant the woman caught sight of them she squealed, clicked off the music pouring out of the speakers of an old-fashioned boom box, and dropped both tools on the bike lift before jumping into Bill’s arms, hugging him tight and kissing his cheek with a resounding smack that sounded particularly loud in the sudden silence of the shop.
This was Rebecca “Rebel” Reichert, Wild Bill’s little sister.
Little being the operative word. If she stood two inches over five feet Frank would eat his biker boots for dinner.
He didn’t quite know what he’d expected of a woman who ran her own custom chopper shop, but it wasn’t long, blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, intense brown eyes surrounded by lush, dark lashes, and a pretty, girl-next-door face that just happened to be his own personal weakness when it came to women.
Something about that wholesome, all-American thing always managed to bring him to his knees.
Well, hell.
Bill finally lowered her to the ground, and she came to stand in front of Frank, small, grease-covered hands on slim, jean-clad hips. For some inexplicable reason, he felt the need to stand up straighter.
It was probably because she had the same unyielding look in her eye that his hard-ass drill sergeant always had back when he’d been in Basic.