Man Made Murder (Blood Road Trilogy Book 1) Read Free

wishing he’d made another choice though. Eventually he’d gotten his car. That was Shawn: put up with discomfort in the near-term to get to what you wanted in the end.
    Once they’d done this thing, doing their best to fuck up their contract—however it turned out, he expected Shawn would never say a word about how they could have done it differently.
    Ashes swirled in his face as he took one last good pull before flicking it out the window. A trail of sparks skittered in his side mirror.
    Another two miles out, the bike slowed, its turn signal beating like a heart. When the bike banked onto a dark narrow road with no sign, Dean followed. His guitar case jostled as the truck’s tires bumped over ruts and rocks. The bike crept ahead, dodging the worst parts of the road, the path curving through tall, dead pines with sharp black branches and winding through moonlight. He followed the beacon of the bike’s taillight to a crooked one-story house that leaned on its foundation. The truck’s headlights picked out weeds growing up through the porch boards, pickets in the railing hanging free, a few disappearing into the undergrowth edging the porch’s posts.
    The biker cut his engine.
    A dog’s bark came from out back, like he was happy someone finally stopped by.
    The house’s windows were dark, the wooden frames sun-faded and paint-peeled so they looked like old bones.
    “You got the cash?” the biker asked as Dean let himself down from the pickup, onto the dirt drive.
    “How much?”
    “Twenty for a lid.”
    “What is it, skunk?” He followed the biker onto the porch, his calf brushing a spiny weed growing where a chunk of step was missing.
    “It might not be what you rock stars are used to, but it’ll get the job done.” The biker glanced over his shoulder, catching Dean’s eyes. “Saw the guitar cases.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Anything I would have heard of?” the biker asked as he pushed on the front door, unsticking it from its frame—no lock, just a shaky collection of wood, one of its lower panels cracked. The door scraped the floor as it swung open, and the biker held out an arm.
    Dean stepped through to the dark room, thin moonlight playing through the windows to hit against the back wall. No bulky shapes of furniture, no pictures hanging.
    The biker pushed the door closed and flipped the switch nearby. It made a firm click , but nothing happened. “Sorry. Power’s out again.”
    Dean swept his gaze toward the ceiling. Exposed wires dangled from a fixture. An uneasy sensation prickled, but what was the worst that was going to happen—the biker robs him and steals his guitar? That’d be a sight, the bike racing away with the beat-up Sears special strapped to his back. Teddy’d already come by the house earlier to pick up the good guitars so he could inspect and restring them before they got loaded for the tour.
    The place reminded him of a flop he’d visited in San Francisco, except that place had had bodies curled and sprawled and slumped on the floor. Maybe everyone was out.
    The dog had shut up for a minute, but it started up again, as though now that they were in the house, it knew they’d surely be coming out the back to see him.
    “Don’t mind the fucking mutt. Made the mistake of feeding him once, now he’s always around.”
    The floor sloped toward them, a few floorboards rucking against each other. “You live here?” Dean asked.
    “I don’t live anywhere. Come in. Relax.” He clapped Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve got the stuff in the bedroom.”
    There was a smell, among the earthy must and mildew, underneath the untended aging wood and plaster. Something almost sharp. It made him think of steel, a blade. It made his hand move to his pocket, but he didn’t have his buck knife with him. He’d only been going to do the radio show. He didn’t generally feel the need to carry a knife in Podunk, New Hampshire.
    The biker’s boots echoed down the hall.
    Dean walked farther into the