Page 39 of Cole

I pulled my laptop from my bag and opened it. I navigated to the document where I’d started to keep my preliminary research into the Hounds. I’d hit a dead end in my research. It was going exactly nowhere, and now my father was upping the pressure. “Call Grant and set up that date, or I’ll do it for you.” If that wasn’t a fire under my butt to make something happen in my life, nothing was. If I wasn’t careful, I’d turn around and be my mother by this time next year.

I tapped my lip, staring at my meager research. I needed a new angle, because looking into Cole was going nowhere.

I pulled up a browser and instead typed in: Rosie Collins, Hade Harbor.

Bingo.

A small obituary in the local newspaper for a man named Beatie Collins. It said he was a lifelong motorcycle enthusiast. There were a few lines about the only family he left behind, a son named Finn, and of course, Rosie, his wife. My heart squeezed at the thought of Finn being left completely alone. No wonder he was tangled up with the club. It wasn’t just a desperate act to look cool or get attention. It was his legacy, and an open wound. The last line was a quote: “Beatie was a good man and a good father. I have always seen Finn as a little brother. That won’t patch his loss, though.” -C. Bailey.

I leaned back in my chair, fingers still hovering over the keys, my heart beating a little faster. This fit into what I’d seen the night before. Finn didn’t seem to be a part of the crew, at least not officially, but Cole had let him stay. He slapped his back like a warning instead of a threat. Brotherly. That meant that Finn was close enough to Cole that he might know something. From the way he talked to me last night, I knew he was naive enough to let more slip with the right encouragement. I felt bad about potentially using Rosie’s son for info, but I was also doing it for his own good. His mother was worried sick about him.

I scanned through the next few articles and found another one describing a fight gone wrong, leading to a man getting shot: Beatie Collins. There were no leads and no charges filed. Just a dead man and the son he left behind.

I quickly pulled out my notebook and wrote down all the new information I had found, plus everything I remembered Finn telling me the night we’d met. I felt like an undercover cop writing a profile for a suspect. Later, I’d copy them onto my laptop. Something about a pen and paper got my wheels turning.

The sum of my info so far was barely anything, but it was more than I’d had before.

A nagging weight sat on my conscience when I thought of continuing a story about Cole, given what had happened last night. Wasn’t that an ethical breach? I’d gotten too close to my subject…. But then his casual dismissal filled my head. He wasn’t the kind of guy to take one BJ and a little dry humping very seriously. I’d heard all about how promiscuous bikers could be. Cole would barely remember our encounter by the time my article came out. Right? I packed up my things, knowing I was about to be late for a class if I didn’t get a move on, and headed in the direction of my car.

“Isabelle?” a voice asked, shaking me from my thoughts. I turned to see who had spoken.

Grant Elwick stood on the street, a proper old-fashioned newspaper folded under his arm. He gave me a warm smile.

“Getting a coffee on the way to class?”

I nodded, not sure what to say to the guy my father thought I should marry. A guy in his forties, no less. I supposed that tracked with the kind of age difference my own father preferred with his girlfriends at the office. Truly vomit-worthy stuff.

“It really was great to meet you earlier. Your father has really talked you up, and I’m surprised to say he might have undersold you, now that I’ve met you in person.”

His eyes scanned over me, and I bristled.

“Undersold?” I gave a hollow laugh. “I’m not a product for him to sell. I’m not sure that he’s aware of that yet, but he will be.”

Grant’s eyebrow rose at my cool tone.

“Understood,” he smiled. “I can see he has his hands full with you.”

“Not really. I’m an adult, and I don’t need his guidance, or control,” I muttered, a movement over Grant’s shoulder catching my eye.

Now that I thought of it, wasn’t it odd that Grant had appeared, seemingly out of a random backstreet? It was little more than an alley, with back access to a few restaurants.

The movement that had caught my eye was someone leaving out the back of one of the restaurants. A man in a black, scarred-up leather vest. A cut. A cut with a Harbor Hounds patch on it. The man was old, grizzled. I hadn’t seen him before. He pushed past us without a backward glance. Grant didn’t look at him either, and yet, there was an awkward feeling in the air. My reporter senses tingling, I turned to watch the biker getting on his ride.

“Who’s that?”

Grant followed my gaze and shrugged.

“No idea.”

“Weren’t you just talking to him?” I peered down the alleyway behind Grant. What else was there to do down there but meet someone?

“Why would I be doing that?” Grant sounded amused. “I know playing reporter is fun, Isabelle, but you shouldn’t let it go to your head. A man might get annoyed at being asked silly questions, even by a beautiful girl.”

My revulsion at his wording and condescension must have shown on my face for a moment, because Grant laughed and patted me on the shoulder. I shrank back. Dickhead.

“Don’t take it personally, I’ve just seen many a beautiful young woman get caught up in their degrees and professional dreams, just to be embarrassed by that gauche ambition later, when they’re married and settled with kids to look after.”

I laughed; what else could I do? I could hardly slap my father’s old friend’s son.