The Evil That Men Do Read Online Free

left the apartment, Steven calling after her in half-amused disappointment. The bartender’s rooms turned out to be right on top of O’Malley’s bar, accessible by a steel fire escape which was roughly painted a deep green in accordance with the faux-Irish theme of the bar. At least they were consistent in their commitment to the cause even this far south. Riley and her biker friends would often frequent O’Malley’s after a race meet, whether she raced or not, and there was without fail a never ending rotation of old Irish men, or old Irish men with bad accents, collecting coins for the ‘cause’ back home. The joke that Boston was roughly that-a-way never got tired, especially after the fourth round of drinks. The heels of her leather biker boots were reinforced with steel and clanged as she made her way down from the rooftop apartment. A passer-by spotted her and gave a curt nod. Great. No doubt a local who knew all about Steven’s night time proclivities and predilections. It was an elderly woman, which was unusual for Savannah at midday. Usually the geriatric sorts stayed in and caught up on their shows, waiting for the summer temperature to drop so that they might sit on the veranda instead come evening time.
    Having completely forgotten about her motorcycle, Riley had the familiar swell of disappointment to realize that the motorcycle she walked past that was propped up on the side of the bar’s south wall was the one which she currently had the keys for. The bike itself wasn’t terrible, a 500cc Suzuki T500. The problem was that it wasn’t really hers; it was a replacement for the beautiful British racing green Triumph she had lost in a not quite legal street race a month previously. The Suzuki wasn’t in bad shape considering it was after all, nearly twenty years old, but it still didn’t quite suit her as well as the Triumph had. Damn that Darren Harper taking her on the last corner, forcing her into second place and missing out on a cool grand. Not having the cash to pay into the winner’s pot herself, she had to give up her pink slip.
    She swung her leg over the seat of the Suzuki, and fished her key from the zippered pocket in her leather jacket. O’Malley’s, Steven and her regrets were soon left behind as the Savannah air flowed through her short hair and over her skull, and even on this hopefully temporary motorbike, the joy of freedom, the speed, the easy way she darted through lunchtime traffic always managed to improve Riley’s mood to no end. She weaved her way across town, heading for home—or, more accurately, her place of work which doubled as her home these days.
    She slowed the bike gently as she passed Forsyth Park, taking in the verdant green park lands, then sped on quickly, doubling the speed limit for most of the route to East 49th Street, and the welcome sight of the decaying building that housed R3 Recovery. As she pulled up outside, a familiar pickup truck arrived, honking its horn. Riley dismounted as her sister Roberta opened the door and stepped from her vehicle.
    “Sis, you look like hell. Rough night?” she asked.
    “You might say that, but I’d rather not talk about it, ever, if you don’t mind,” Riley said, but despite her words she no longer felt embarrassed or glum about her indiscretions of the night before. Roberta smiled at her, kindly.
    “Come on Riley, I’ll get the coffee on. I just got done taking in that jumper; Terry had to bring the police van out to collect him; I had the guy handcuffed to my own ride!” Roberta laughed as she relayed the tale of Mike Lewis, embellishing her own dramatic outsmarting of the criminal only a little.
    “Nice work, we need all the cash we can get, huh? Hey, can’t your cop boyfriend help out a bit?” Riley said, accentuating the word ‘cop’ with a dash more venom than she had intended.
    “I wish you wouldn’t call him that. He’s a good guy, and we’ve been together six months since yesterday, so get used to