A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  He’s careful backing up because it’s crowded with cars and people enjoying the night without much humidity. A car honks as we back into the mess of traffic.

  “Where will Reckless’ loyalty be?”

  “With you,” he states matter of factly. “No question.”

  “Lotus will be there.” He turns toward Tremé. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  “Nah,” he mutters. “Just taking the long way around.”

  I snicker and roll my eyes as we keep driving in silence until I realize we’ve crossed the Claiborne. “Where are we going?”

  “You need to meet someone.”

  My eyebrows tighten as a sense of unease rips through me. “Does this person have a name?”

  “Yep,” he mutters.

  “Can you tell it to me?”

  He stops in an abandoned area without a soul in sight. “Get out.”

  The night serves up an eerie concoction of desperation and absolution with dampness lingering in the air, reminding me of the night Cruz shot and killed Javi Neves at the old fairgrounds in Godland. I shiver despite the balmy temperature.

  “Is this where you kill my ass and leave me?”

  “You’re not dying tonight, Sal. Calm the fuck down, brother.” I’m not the type of guy who easily wavers by the environment. I’m a chameleon, and I change readily on the fly, but the jitters flourish with this trick in Cruz’s hat. “You know why they call it the Lower Ninth Ward?”

  “Because it’s lower than the rest of the city.”

  The fire illuminates from his lighter, inciting my reasonings as he lights the smoke and uses it to point. In the black leather cut, ripped jeans, and enormous sneakers, he is sculpted with an imposing machismo when he exhales, “Towards the mouth of the Mississippi. Down and below.”

  The Downbelow.

  The Downbelow was the dungeon under the Compass club in Houston. The place where I met Kaci, and we had our first scene.

  The root of it all.

  We could argue the invasive root started with my murdering Eric Henderson with a machete in a shed for raping Emily Lee Granger.

  I was seventeen.

  Or Nico Cristos sweeping me away from the plague that followed and festered the fastidious root ball. Or the boy I first kissed, touched, and loved, Bilal Amari, who was killed and thrown off a bridge into a river by the man I called my father.

  I was thirteen.

  Or when my cousin Rebecca drowned in the ocean, and my father pistol-whipped me.

  I was ten.

  Or how the bones in my hands became his fidgeting toys after a bad day at work. The snaps of marrow, cartilage, and muscle are married to my mind.

  I was four.

  I remember it all. Every break. Every bone. Every time he yelled at me for being too emotional—a pretty boy, a sissy boy, a faggot…a mezzofinook.

  Fucking call me that now, Gramps, and I’ll show you the nine and the bottom of the fucking river bed.

  “Cruz…what is going on?”

  “In the darkness, the truth breathes with life.”

  A black Escalade pulls up and stops as I recognize Rule and Notter getting out. They were there when The Preacher and Old Man agreed to align with Deacon. Iris rapped their gangsta jams, and I danced in the street with them. We connected on a wavelength deep in my core. I smile as they offer to shake my hand. I show off the gloves. “Recent fight.”

  “I hope you won,” Notter remarks. “To be in bandages.”

  “I did,” I snarl as he grins wide with his gold teeth.

  “You ready, Cruz?” Rule asks, patting him on the shoulder.

  “Yep,” he says, walking to the back of the truck. He pops the tailgate open and tosses back the truck bed lid where two boxes sit. “Forty-six are in the boxes.”

  “Good deal,” Rule replies, grinning at me. I glare at the mysterious boxes. There isn’t nearly enough room for semi-automatics, maybe pistols or stolen merch. For all I know, Cruz heisted Iris’ five-hundred-dollar a bottle perfume and is black-marketing it. “I’ll get everyone taken care of for you.”

  Notter and Rule take the boxes and place them in the back of the SUV as Deacon opens the truck’s back door. “We’re having a party when you get to Texas,” he boasts with a smile and hands over two Reckless Rebellion cuts. “A patch-in party.”

  “Will there be ho’s?” Notter asks. “Cause I like a good ho on my rod.”

  Dear God, my sister would love this guy.

  Rule pulls the cut over his enormous frame—to be honest, he needs a bigger cut—and I note the Sergeant-at-Arms patch.

  “Happy to be with you, Raniero.”

  I inquisitively tilt my head at Cruz. My adoring better half has got some explaining to do. Notter happily bounces, shifting his weight between his feet. He’s non-stop, high-energy, in motion; Cat would meet her fucking match.

  “Thank you,” I reply, offering a bump of my arm as I note a man in a regal purple suit and fedora getting out of the SUV. “Pharm…”

  “You got it.” Cruz smirks as his eyes flicker in the moonlight. “Go say hello to your new business partner in the down below.”

  Forgive me; I am a bit star-struck. That’s fucking Pharm! I’ve been hunting his ass for years.

  Pharm is about as notorious for his rare sightings as he is for his lucrative, highly profitable drug deals. Halton Hendrix steps out of the other side in all black. He is the spitting image of his father, Violet. And as if it cannot get any better, the very white unicorn, Hennessey Bindel, slips out of the car. Her long blonde hair blows in the breeze as the three-step forward in formation with the beautiful and diva-esque Pharm leading their foray.

  “You owe me,” Halton informs as he reaches to embrace me. “I want Handcock and Martinez dead.”

  “I know,” I reply with a severe clench of my jaw. “I promise to make it a priority.”

  Pharm slides a phone into my palm. “This is how you get a hold of me. One number is programmed in. Don’t use it for anything else. Don’t give it to anyone else. I will always answer.”

  “Got it,” I reply. “You want my number?”

  “I’ve already got your number,” he suggests with a glint in his eye. “Look, we have reason to believe that Cinco and Boudreaux are hooking up to go after Morpheus. If you see my brother, tell him I have it handled.”

  “Wait…Morpheus is your brother?”

  “I’m older by three years. Name is Thompson Jones, but don’t ever call me that unless you want it to be your last words.”

  Feeling a bit sideswiped, I ask, “How are we splitting this?”

  “Straight down the middle. You bring it in; I get rid of it. Easy. But I need Houston.”

  Glancing at Deacon, I sigh. “Houston is a mess.”

  “I’m well aware. Fucking Immortal and Cinco bullshit,” Pharm assesses. “I need you to clean it up and make it Raniero turf.”

  “We’ll do it,” Cruz offers as Rule nods. “When you got the right people, you don’t need forty-thousand of them.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Notter adds. “No reason for that.”

  “We’ll be back in Texas before you are,” Rule vows with a nod and a gentle fist bump to me. “We’ll need someplace to stay until we can find housing.”

  “It’s only forty-eight?” I ask, considering swiping a dormitory at Juliet for my new posse.

  “No,” Deacon corrects, shaking his head. “It’s forty-six. All of those cuts are for Presidents of different chapters. Only Rule and Notter are joining the original.”

  “… Forty-six clubs?” I almost stutter.

  “Across the South,” Rule adds as Pharm snickers. “All with RR rockers.”

  “You thought you were only getting forty-six people?” He laughs, and I run my hand through my hair in shock. Deacon licks his lips, gloating. “We’re playing big, plus I have access to Morpheus’ militia and The Brethren.”

  “Are we down?” Pharm asks. I offer my hand, and he cautiously shakes
it before kissing my knuckles. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  “And also with you,” I say, not thinking how transcendental I sound. I must miss my monk frock. “I appreciate it, Pharm.”

  “You’re welcome, Raniero.”

  Henney slowly approaches, and I extend my arms as Deacon escorts the four men back to the vehicle.

  “I need things, too,” she whispers. “And I can’t…”

  “I know,” I console, staring intently at Cruz. I want to believe all of this is real, but you can never tell with people. I’d be a fool not to watch him like a hawk or feel the Glock burning a hole against the side of my chest. “You want revenge for your parent’s murder.”

  “My whole life has been topsy turvy since that night. If you can help me…”

  “I will,” I promise, sealing the deal with a Raniero-tongue-lashing. “I will take care of you the same way you have done for me. It is my solemn vow.”

  “I have to go,” she whispers with a smile. “Pharm’s sister, Belle, is waiting for me. I’m sorry about Merritt. If you find someone else to take over legal guardianship, let me know. Take care of Iris, Sal. You’ve earned all of this.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do.”

  In her short ivory dress and glittering emerald green stiletto heels, she walks away to the men who keep her safe from the people who are my supposed associates.

  I know better now.

  And I accept that Kaci wasn’t nearly as bad as I believed. She was leaving clues, and I didn’t pick up on them because I was convinced she had it in for me. I had no reason to believe otherwise. She was the daughter of a King and a would-be Queen, and I thought I was a nobody.

  “That went well,” Cruz praises, striding up with a cigarette in his lips as they pull away. “Down below.”

  “Does he own it?”

  “Nah,” he says. “Victor Cruz’s son does because long ago before it was a club, it was a titty bar, and a woman named Gertrude Howser used to toss the bottles and mix the mayhem. She met Javier Diaz there. When it went up for sale, she was married to him, but her lover decided to buy the club just to spite the abusive asshole husband.”

  “… Trudy?”

  He lifts his brows and smirks with innocence before flicking the lighter. “Congratulations, you’re Sal Raniero!”

  “Holy fuck, man,” I mumble as it all hits. “You did all this.”

  “I had some help. Dom is infatuated with anything involving you or Iris.” He smiles as I bend over. “You can throw up if you need to,” he cackles as I realize the gravity of what he has done. “Your outfit in Texas is built, waiting, and ready when you get home.”

  “Cruz…”

  “You don’t need Boston to be you, Sal. You never did. Your legacy is what you make it. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right with proper support to withstand a fucking storm because I don’t know if you’ve met your wife, but she’s a damn double handful.”

  I grin. “Do you know how much I fucking love you?”

  “I do.” He glows with abundant joy. “I’m good at what I do, which is mostly keeping your shit straight. If I remind you of that, maybe you will give me a promotion.”

  “You’re not my hitman,” I contend as we walk to the truck. “I regret to inform you, but Rule needs a bigger cut.”

  “Believe me. My fashionista is screaming like a banshee, flailing her wicked arms up aghast, and threatening to flee the crime scene for fear of becoming the next chalk outline.”

  I boisterously laugh at his antics. “Is there a reason you brought me here?”

  “I like the irony.”

  “The levee broke,” I point out, scanning over the area ravaged by the elements. I am an element; I am a savage; I slay with cinders. “That’s not a good thing.”

  “Stop trying to control what you cannot. Dance the flames upon the waters, so you can shake your booty like the motherfucker I know you are.”

  “We’ll need some water-insoluble propellant,” I jest. “And what do I do if I get in over my head?”

  “I’ll fish you out. I got a net,” he quips as I inhale the scent of the sea. “I’ll rescue you. And I won’t allow your fires to drown in her tides.”

  69

  A Path, A Crossing, and Zero Resistance

  His Ride

  In the beam of the headlights, Sal swings open the gate to The Dollhouse before returning the truck. He stands on the running board as I ask, “Are you ready?”

  He ducks down and dismisses, “There is no way the landscape lights are going to power up from your phone.”

  “Bullshit, they’re not!” I argue. “I spent a fuckton of your money to make sure they do. If they don’t, I’m calling the electrician right the fuck now!”

  He snickers at my grandiose display of male bravado. I will do anything to put a smile on his face. “… At one in the morning?”

  “Yep,” I contend, pushing the button as the lights shine in a wave toward the house.

  “Jesus,” he mumbles. “She is boarded up.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We gotta fix that part still. You’ve clearly never gone through a hurricane in the South.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “We do things different round here, Yankee boy,” I grin as he peers in at me. “I need you not to freak.”

  “I didn’t meltdown out with Nicky, Kaci, or Pharm,” he proudly says, holding onto the door and the cab. “Drive.”

  “Ay Ay, Master.”

  He quickly ducks down again and warns, “And not like you normally do.”

  We slowly approach the house of our history, which is wrecked from Cinco’s destruction. Memories flood and tears form in my eyes as I stop, and Sal hops off the running board. “Who needs not to freak?”

  “I had the car you bought for her right here,” I mutter in disbelief. I am catapulted by the gross violation, treading on those I hold dear. It goes against every molecule in my being. “Goddamn it!” I angrily yell, losing my shit. “I swear I’m going after them when you get home!”

  “Cinco or Cas?”

  “Both!” I hiss, shaking my head. “They could’ve killed her, you, the baby… We were supposed to have a wedding here. I’m not even sure how we’re getting in.”

  “Well,” he says, examining the boarded up front door. “A key damn sure isn’t helping us.”

  He sprints over to the truck. “Are all of the windows boarded up?”

  “Ya, on the first floor,” he says, walking to the truck. From the backseat, he produces a crowbar and a bag of pretzels. “We’ve got three options. I can climb to the second story and try to find a way in. We can go to an upscale boutique hotel and hobnob like queer boys. Or I can pop that fucking board off with this.”

  “Give me that thing,” I demand, tossing my cut into his hands. He opens the pretzels and sticks one in my mouth. “And your hat.”

  “You want a hair tie?”

  “No,” I bark, twisting his ball cap on backward to keep my hair out of the way. “I do not want your hair tie. Thank you, though.”

  “You would look remarkably cute in a man bun, Cruz. Course, you look remarkably cute in a sexhat, too.”

  I wedge the tip of the crowbar under the wood and glance at him. “Now is not the time to tell me I look hot.”

  “Not hot, cute.”

  With all of the force I possess, I grimace and pry at the wood. “Who the hell did all this?”

  “Someone you hired.”

  “Not me,” I groan, straining as the board cracks. “Dom.”

  “I can climb.”

  “No, monkey,” I respond, running the crowbar down the plywood’s length and yanking hard. “You do not need any more injuries.”

  “What are we going to do for a door after you take this off?”

  I questioningly blink because we should have thought about that before I started this breaking into his house project. “Now is not the time to be th
inking about that,” I reply as the board gives way. I set it off to the side and try the front door. It’s locked and seemingly whole. “You got the keys?”

  “It’s on the F-250 keys,” he says as I reach in my pocket. “Blue one.”

  “What’s red?”

  “Swamp Shack.”

  “And green?”

  “Loft in Houston.”

  “And this girly pink one?”

  “Juliet Master key,” he informs, popping another pretzel in my mouth.

  “Fuck, it’s a mess,” I mumble, unlocking the door. We step inside. “When you said they’d done nothing but boarded it up, you were right. We have no power in the house yet. I’ll have to call the electricians and the construction crew tomorrow to replace all of the windows.”

  “Do we have water?”

  “According to Dom, we do,” I say, stepping inside the darkened house. Glass crunches under our feet. “There is no point in assessing the damage. We can’t see shit. I’ll grab our bags.”

  His voice cracks when he asks, “Why don’t we just go stay in a hotel?”

  “Are you not ready for this?”

  “Are you not ready to stay in a hotel?” he rhetorically questions, badgering me. “It’s a mess, Cruz.”

  “I’ve got you,” I whisper, touching his hand. “We can do this.”

  The Master

  I wake up the next day to the smell of coffee and bacon. “What the hell?”

  Stumbling out of bed, I step out into the hallway and head down the stairs. “Put those boots on your feet before you walk down here. I’ve been sweeping for hours, but there are still tiny shards everywhere.”

  The sunlight streams through the wrought iron and glass back doors, which are still whole. He’s been busy removing more plywood and breathing life back into the victimized home. The blue water in the pool sparkles with tranquility as I stand and stare dumbfounded. The chaos of our crime addicted world has never been so clear.

  Neither has my clarity.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Gas!” he remarks, pouring a cup of coffee from the French press and handing it to me. “It’s a wonderful thing. The electrician will be here in an hour. Window guys will be here this afternoon to take measurements. A lot of the windows will need to be special ordered. You want eggs?”