Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(101)

My childhood crush hadn’t been on a boy, it had been on the feel of a freshly printed newspaper in my hands. It was a mystery to my parents why I’d gone into TV and not newspaper after college. There’d been a lot of reasons, none of which mattered now.

Because here I was, working at my dad’s newspaper, returning to my roots.

The Goss printer was our largest and main press. Positioned along the far wall, it extended from one side of the building to the other. Dad’s jean-clad legs and brown boots were sticking out from beneath the first of four towers.

“What’s wrong today?” I asked.

He scooted himself free and stood, swatting at his jeans and leaving black streaks of grease and ink on his thighs. “Damn thing. There’s something wrong with the paper feed. It hitches about every tenth rotation and screws up whatever page it’s on. But it all looks fine under there so I don’t know what the hell I’m trying to fix.”

“Sorry. Anything I can do?”

He shook his head. “Nope. We’ll have to call in a specialist to get it fixed. God knows how long that will take and how much it’ll cost. For right now, all we can do is print extra to make up for it.”

“At least it still works and we’re not using the manual press.” I shot a glare at the ancient machine in the far corner. I’d only used it once, just to learn how it worked, and my arm had hurt for a week afterward from all the cranking.

“You’d better budget for a new press, or a serious mechanical overhaul on this one, in the near future.”

I tapped my temple. “Got it.”

Dad had been talking about future budgets and future plans since I’d moved to Clifton Forge six months ago. At the moment, we shared ownership equally—I bought half the business when I’d moved to town. Eventually I’d buy the rest of the Tribune from my parents, but we had no firm transition date in mind, which was fine by me. I wasn’t ready to take over and Dad wasn’t ready to let it go.

I was perfectly happy having Bryce Ryan, Journalist stamped after my stories. Dad could keep the Editor in Chief title for a few more years.

“What are you up to today?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much.” Besides investigating the former motorcycle gang in town.

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing.” I’d forgotten how easily he could spot a lie. I held up a hand and snuck another behind my back, crossing my fingers. “I swear.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “You can fool most people, but not me. I know that smirk. You’re about to cause some trouble, aren’t you?”

“Trouble sounds so juvenile and malicious. I’m just going to pop down to the police station and say hello to Chief Wagner. I haven’t talked to him in a couple weeks. Then I’m going to get the oil changed in my car.”

Dad rolled his eyes. “First of all, Marcus is no idiot. He isn’t going to buy your innocent act either. The paper can’t afford to be at odds with the chief, so be nice. He’ll never throw us a bone if he’s pissed. And second, I know exactly why you’re getting your ‘oil changed.’ Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been digging up old articles about the Tin Gypsies.”

“I, uh . . .” Shit. I’d asked Art to pull some from the archives, and I guess he’d told Dad, even though I’d brought him Tums and homemade cinnamon rolls to keep quiet. Traitor.

“Stay away from them, Bryce.”

“But there’s a story there. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it. This could be huge for us.”

“Huge?” He shook his head. “If you want huge, you’d better go back to Seattle. I thought you came here to slow down. To enjoy life. Weren’t those your words?”

“Yes, they were. And I am slowing down.” I wasn’t waking up at three a.m. to make it to the TV station for the morning show. I wasn’t cutting my hair to appease my producer or constantly watching my diet. I wasn’t reporting someone else’s stories on camera. Instead, I was writing my own.

It was wonderful, but after two months of small-town Montana life, I was going a bit stir-crazy. Calling the hospital for birth announcements and the funeral home for obituaries wasn’t enough of a mental challenge. I needed some excitement. I needed a decent story.

And the Clifton Forge garage had story written all over it.

About a year ago, the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club had disbanded. They’d been one of the more prominent and lucrative gangs in Montana and had closed down without an explanation.

The former members claimed they were focusing on running the garage here in town. Their shop had become renowned in certain wealthy and celebrity circles for classic car restorations and custom motorcycle builds.

But men like them—men like Kingston “Dash” Slater with his striking good looks, cocky swagger and devilish grin—thrived on power. They craved danger and a life on the edge, without limits. As a gang, the Gypsies had power and money, in spades.

So why had they given it up?

No one knew. And if they did, they weren’t talking.

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that in the past year, there hasn’t been any news about them? And no explanation as to why they shut down their ‘club’? They went from notorious gang members to upstanding citizens overnight. I don’t buy it. It’s too quiet. Too clean.”