Outlaw's Hope by Lena Bourne PREVIEW

CHAPTER ONE

The sun has almost set, and a cold wind blowing in from the ocean hits me directly in the face as I exit the women's shelter I've been working at for the past two years. I'd planned to leave early today, go for a swim before I went home, but I ended up staying all day, like I always do. But at least I got a lead on where Samantha might be. Unless the stripper was lying.

Samantha never stopped making fun of me for getting a degree in social services, and for taking a job here in this shelter for former sex workers and abused women. But it's the only place where I ever felt like I matter, like I can do some good. I can help these poor women heal, which helps me in return. And despite her insistence that I should have more fun, worry less, get a job that didn't dredge up old pain daily, I think Samantha understood that, even admired me a little for it. I can almost hear Samantha's harsh laugh as I think that last thought. She lost her laugh too. But if I think really hard, I still remember it from back when we were kids, building sand castles in the playground on my father's huge estate.

"And if I didn't work here, I'd never find you," I mutter to myself, as though talking to her. The stripper who told me isn't the kind of girl who'd give information to the cops. Yet she told me.

A bike engine roars near me, and my heart starts racing again. A group of five bearded bikers are parked near the curb, their eyes fixed on the shelter behind me. They come here almost every evening looking for stragglers from the shelter, trying to lure them away, back to a life of prostitution and drugs. A few of them are checking me out, and their leers feel like grubby, dirty fingers touching my flesh.

I shudder and pick up the pace, get in my car and lock the doors right after. I dial the detective's number to tell him what I found out, while trying to ignore the bikers. But he doesn't pick up.

Through the rearview mirror I see one of the women come out of the shelter behind me, stumbling as she twists her ankle in her crazy high heels. It's Tanya, a former meth addict who's been coming to the shelter on and off since I started working here.

I'm out of the car waving her back inside before I even think about it. Too many women have been pulled back into their old lives by the bikers camping out here, and I have to at least try and stop Tanya from going with them.

"Go back inside, Tanya!" I shout at her.

She eyes the bikers warily, but keeps coming. "I have to talk to you."

I jog over to her and grab her arm, start to pull her back toward the building. "Don't go outside tonight."

She shakes off my arm once we reach the door, rubbing the spot where I grabbed her. "I won't, sheesh. I just wanted to catch you before you left. I'm really glad you finally got some information about your sister."

Her eyes mist as she says it like she's about to start crying, and she's nodding her head fiercely, though I don't think she realizes it.

"Honestly, I have no idea what to do with the information," I admit. I want the cops to go look for her at the club tonight, but I'm sure they won't.

She grabs my hand in both of hers, squeezing hard. "Whatever you do, don't just go there asking for her."

"I..." But I let my voice trail off, because that was my plan B so far.

"The Vipers are bad, and they don't treat their women well," she says. My heart's racing again, so hard my whole chest is cramping up. What if Samantha is still there, held captive, being forced into prostitution. I'd cry if I could. But as it is, my eyes are just burning painfully.

"But they do have some legit businesses too. Crystal's Lounge is one of them. It's a strip joint, with no extras. You could ask there. Crystal is a nice old lady, maybe she saw your sister there. I stayed with her for a couple of weeks after Tony roughed me up. She wanted me to stay on and strip, but the money's not as good as..." she stops talking, blinking at me like she's afraid I'll reprimand her. "Anyway, maybe you can go there, pretend you're looking for a job, ask around for your sister like you've been doing here."

Me work as a stripper? The mere idea makes me nauseous, but I ignore it, as I smile at Tanya, who's still nodding frantically.

"You gave this some serious thought," I say.

She smiles too, revealing her meth-ruined teeth. "I hope you find your sister. I really do. And my plan would work. Crystal's real protective of her girls from what I hear, wouldn't make you do anything you don't want to do."

I still sometimes get stomach cramps just from a guy looking at me too lewdly when I'm fully clothed. If I had to strip for them, I'd probably pass out. Or just die.

Tanya is looking at me with wide, hopeful eyes, nodding again.

"OK, I'll give it a shot," I mutter, since I don't want to kill the hope in her eyes. I so rarely see it in the women here.

She throws her arms around me and pulls me into a tight bear hug, my nose scrunching painfully against her bony shoulder. "You'll find her, I know you will. Just ask for Crystal when you get there. You can't miss her, she only has one good eye."

I stand there in front of the door for a long time after Tanya goes back inside. The cold wind's beating against me, and it feels like someone's shaking me, screaming at me to make the right choice.

I should call the detective working Samantha's case and tell him all this. But he's given me nothing but promises so far. My dad could maybe intervene, get them to raid the place faster. But from what I learned about biker clubs in the area from the women at the shelter, most of them have law enforcement on the payroll. Besides, my Dad is the last person I want to speak to. I'd actually rather get a job as a stripper.

And Tanya's idea has merit. I've gotten good at trying to get information from women who'd rather not give it. Yet the mere thought of taking my clothes off in front of men is an ice-cold stone in the pit of my stomach. When I think of it, all I see is that group of bikers grabbing me, dragging me to some dingy room and chaining me to the wall.

Stop drama-queening, Tara.

But I've heard too many horror stories about just such treatment at the hands of outlaw bike gangs by the women at the shelter who survived it. Though "survived" is not really the right word here. Even "lived" might be an exaggeration.

A vicious gust of wind sends a strand of my hair right into my eye, the stinging pain finally bringing me back to reality.

Samantha might be chained to a wall right now.

Besides, what's one more nightmare to live through?

No one will miss me, just like no one except me actually misses Samantha. We only ever had each other. And I'll never really live, if I don't know where she is.