by Kate Kessler
Killian’s eyebrows rose. Jesus, what had he taken before she knocked on the door? Whatever it was, it was kicking in. “Wow. You really hate women, don’t you? What are you going to do then, fuck my intestines?”
“You know it.”
“Not really into it. How about this: you tell me where Shannon is and I go easy on you.” It was a good deal, but he probably wouldn’t see that until it was too late.
He laughed. “Bitch, I’m the one with the knife.”
Killian didn’t think—she just moved. She hooked the wrist of his knife hand with the hammer and pulled, jerking him off-balance and toward her. The tip of the blade came dangerously close to her sternum, but she managed to control his momentum with a punch to the throat. As he gasped for breath, she reached across and grabbed his arm, slamming it—and him—back against the fridge. She had to smash it twice before his fingers loosened enough that she could easily take the blade from them. It was a cheap knife, but it still would have hurt if he’d shoved it between her ribs. He stood there, clutching the front of his neck, staring at her in stunned surprise, gasping for breath. Throat punches were her absolute favorites. She used them whenever she could. They were especially helpful in situations where her opponent outweighed her or was probably stronger—in other words, fights with men.
Killian closed the blade and tossed it into the sink. “Wanna try again?”
Of course he took a swing at her. They always—always—took a swing. Didn’t matter if they were young or old, thick or thin, white, black, brown, whatever. Whenever men felt challenged by her they always started throwing their fists around, or whipping out weapons.
Killian raised her arm to block the blow to her left temple. Pushing his arm away, she punched him in the throat again. Then she punched him in the face and drove her knee into his side. The kid was young and quick, but he wasn’t a fighter.
He was also all jacked up. Roaring like a bull, Cody came at her low, like a football player. He lifted her off her feet and drove her back into the wall. Killian braced herself so her head didn’t strike the dirty paneling, but she took the fist he shoved into her stomach. Air rushed out of her lungs. She grabbed a dirty plate off the counter and smashed it against the side of his face. He screamed. Glass in the eye had that effect.
His friend was back up, and came at her like a drunk. Killian hit him with a frying pan that had been left on top of the stove. Bacon grease flew into the air, and he went down again. Then she hit Cody with the same pan, the same second he punched her in the side of the head. The pan hit harder, dropping him to his knees between the kitchen and living room. A piece of fried egg slid down his cheek.
There was a baseball bat in the corner—a nice old wooden one that looked as though it had survived a lot of play. Killian smiled and wrapped her fingers around it. She hoisted it, tested the weight, then smashed it into the blaring TV screen with all her strength. Glass and sparks flew across the room. Better that than Cody’s head like she wanted.
“Jesus fuck!” Cody cried, hands up. “Okay! Okay! Fucking crazy bitch. She’s with the Sons of Bitches.”
Killian’s heart skipped a beat. “The Sons?” She couldn’t have heard him right. Not Wex…
He nodded, but his attention was on the TV, not her. He looked like he might cry.
“What the fuck’s she doing with the SOBs, Cody?”
He pushed himself back against the foot of the couch. “I owe them money. I bring them girls, and they take it off my debt. They wanted Shannon.”
Black spots danced before her eyes. Her fingers tightened around the bat. She knew all about what the SOBs did with young girls. Knew about it firsthand. And she knew why Wex would want her niece. “You used her to pay a debt?” Her voice sounded faraway, like her ears had been stuffed with cotton balls.
He started to push himself to his feet. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Killian tilted her head. “There’s always a choice, little man.”
“It’s true. Wex told me he wanted payment in full. I didn’t have that kind of money, so he said he’d take Shannon instead. I told him no, but he said he was taking her. I could consider her payment or not, but she was still going with him. He took Madallya, too.”
She stared at him for a second, weighing her options. He’d given that sweet little girl to one of the worst gangs on the East Coast. Christ only knew what they’d already done to her. What Wex would do to her.
Shannon was the only thing worth going back to prison for.
Killian lifted the bat.
And swung.
Four
Was she going soft?
Killian’s palms still itched from the vibration of the bat when she hit him. It felt good, so horribly good. Cody vomited from the pain. She’d taken the bat and left him there, lying next to a pool of his own sick. His buddy flinched back, curled into a ball as she walked by.
She should have killed him. Right? A busted kneecap was too good for the asshole who handed Shannon over to the SOBs to pay a debt. But she couldn’t afford attention from the cops—not yet. Killing Cody would bring the police, but he wasn’t about to file an assault report against her.
If she’d known that leaving Rank alive would have resulted in all of this, she would have killed him. If Shannon suffered it was because of Killian’s pride. She’d told herself she wanted to leave Rank ruined, emasculated, and a joke. She liked people talking about what she’d done to him, that he’d been destroyed by a woman. She liked that he had to live with that. Hell, she wanted to live with that. It would be a lie to say that she didn’t sometimes get off on people knowing her name.
She stumbled down the sticky stairs, knees trembling, heart pushing blood through her veins at an alarming volume. Light-headed, she got into the Impala and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel.
“Get it together,” she whispered, and sucked in a deep breath. That Mr. Hyde part of her was still amped up, still slobbering for blood. She had to calm down and think rationally. Shannon’s life depended on it.
Wex and the SOBs had Shannon. Wex, who had always been in Rank’s pocket. When Rank put the hit out on Jason, it had been Wex’s club that carried out the sentence. It didn’t matter that Killian had testified that Wex had been there—his lawyers had gotten him off. All three of them had gotten off. The driver OD’d a few months later, but Brand and Wex had gotten away with it.
She cracked her neck to ease the building tension. Wex had to have seen Shannon, even before that night in New Britain, but seeing her with Killian suddenly made her important. The girl was gorgeous and young, but her true worth wasn’t in her body; it was in her relationship to Killian. The real question was: Was Rank behind it, or had Wex acted on his own?
What she wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with either one of them. She could take them, one at a time, but she couldn’t take on the SOBs single-handedly—not without getting armed to the teeth. She needed help. There was only one person she trusted with Shannon’s life.
She couldn’t sit there any longer. The turmoil inside her had eased, so she started the engine and pulled out into traffic. Newington wasn’t far—just a few exits north on Route 9. The GPS on her phone guided her to Black Crow Builds. She pulled into the lot and sat there for a minute, just looking.
Dash had done well for himself. The place looked like a grade A establishment. There was a main office building up front with a large workshop behind. An even larger structure sat to the side. Did he store vehicles here, too? The large rolling doors of the shop were open to reveal a crew working inside. She could see a few cars, but the one that caught her attention was a late-’70s Corvette with a custom black-cherry paint job parked between the office and the shop. She’d seen it during her Google searches, and now she was pretty sure she knew whom it belonged to. Dash had a weakness for Stingrays.
Killian got out of the car and walked to the office. Her entire body was tense. Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door.
�
��Welcome to Black Crow Builds,” the girl behind the counter chirped as she glanced up. Her expertly made-up face slackened into disbelief. “Killy?”
Killian frowned. “Do I know you?”
The girl came around the desk toward her. For a second Killian could only stare; the kid had an incredible body that she obviously didn’t mind showing off in a snug top and pencil skirt. Long, dark hair curled down her back and brown eyes sparkled. “It’s me—Mystic.”
“Mystic?” Killian repeated dumbly. “Deb and Chel’s girl?”
“Yeah!” The girl laughed. “It’s so good to see you, mamacita.” She opened her arms for a hug and Killian obliged. The last time she’d seen Deb and Chel, or their daughter, had been just before she went in. Mystic had been a gawky, skinny teenager.
“You didn’t recognize me with boobs, huh?” Laughing, Mystic pulled back. “Damn, my folks are going to lose it when I tell them I saw you. You have to come for dinner.”
“Yeah, sure.” The last thing she could wrap her head around at that moment was being social. “Listen, sweetie, I really need to see Dash. Is he around?”
Mystic’s bright smile faded into an expression of concern, but she was smart enough not to ask. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get him.” She moved fast for someone wearing five-inch heels. Back behind the desk, she picked up the handset of the phone and punched in a few numbers with long, pointy nails. Ten years ago Killian might have felt inferior next to her, but prison had taught her all kinds of interesting lessons where women were concerned. The most important of which was not to compare herself with any other.
She busied herself looking at the photos on the wall while Mystic spoke into the phone behind her. Still, she heard the girl say her name while gazing at a picture of Keanu Reeves next to an amazing classic Chevelle. Jesus, Dash must have just about shit himself. He’d always been a big Reeves fan.
“You can wait in his office,” Mystic said.
Killian turned and forced a smile. “Thanks, sweetie. Give your mom and dad my love, okay? I just have some stuff to take care of before I’m social.”
The girl smiled. “Sure. Dash’s office is right through there.”
The office was empty when she stepped in. What had she expected? That he’d be sitting there like the Godfather, waiting on her? It was a nice space, though. Wood paneling, big desk, wing-back chairs—even a bar. Bookshelves full of manuals, books, and magazines took up the back wall, floor to ceiling. There were more photographs on the wall, too.
“Good for you,” she murmured to the empty room, because she sure as hell wouldn’t say it to his face.
The door on the back wall opened, revealing a glimpse of the workshop across the small patch of yard. A man stepped inside, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. As soon as she spied the tattoo on his right forearm, she knew who he was. That lone crow matched the seven on her back. They’d gotten them at the same time—well, hers had taken a couple of sessions. It had been their pact.
One crow, sorrow.
Seven crows, a secret never to be told.
He closed the door and turned to her, silent and waiting.
Dash Clark was just over six feet, with short brown hair, hazel eyes, and a mouth most people would agree was too fucking perfect to be wasted on a guy. She’d thought that the moment she met him, a stupid kid glad to be in juvy because her pervy stepfather couldn’t molest her there. There were lines around his eyes and mouth now—more than had been there the last time she’d seen him. He needed to shave and his hands were dirty, but damn if the sight of him didn’t make her want to cry.
“Dash,” she whispered.
Their eyes locked and he grabbed her in a hug so tight it hurt to breathe. Good. The pain kept her from breaking down. He was the only—the only—person other than Megan who had ever seen her cry. But it was okay, because he’d cried, too.
“Kill.” His voice was a rough sigh against her hair.
She let him hold her for a moment—until her lungs struggled to expand—then pulled back and looked him in the eye. “I need your help.”
Years ago she’d told him not to visit her in prison. That she couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t forgive herself for being weak and listening to him. She knew she had hurt him then, and that he had to remember it. She’d hurt herself, too, by turning away the only friend she had left.
Dash didn’t even blink. “Name it.”
Her muscles gave up so much tension her knees almost bowed. “The SOBs have Shannon.” He knew Shannon—had been there the day she was born. He’d driven Killian to the hospital and stayed around later with her, Megan, and Shannon. Megan always said she should have dated Dash rather than Jason. Dash had been the dependable one.
Dash had also offered to kill their stepfather, but Megan didn’t know that.
He frowned as though he hadn’t heard her correctly. “The Sons?”
Killian nodded. “They wanted her to cover a drug debt.”
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, and his frown deepened. “They wanted her.”
“I think Wex saw her with me. Cody, her weasel of a boyfriend, filled in the details.”
Dash’s gaze was serious as it met hers. “Wex wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to get back at you on Rank’s behalf.”
“I gotta get her back. You know what they do to girls.”
He nodded, his expression grim. “If they’re using her for bait they might not put her on the market.”
Killian’s stomach soured at the term. Still, it gave her a little hope. Hope that quickly faded. “Keep her for themselves.”
“Yeah.” He gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Sit down, Kill. I’m going to get you a drink.”
“I need to stay sharp.” Plus, if she put alcohol in her stomach right now she’d puke all over his floor.
Dash smiled slightly. “Not that kind of drink. And then I’m going to make some calls.”
He left the room—out into the waiting area—and then returned a few minutes later, before Killian’s thoughts could completely overtake her. What he brought her was a tall glass of something cold and thick and purplish in color.
“Smoothie,” he explained.
She took it. She was hungry, and she needed something to keep her going that was better than jerky and cola. “Thanks.”
He patted her shoulder before going behind the desk. He took his cell from his back pocket and set it on top of the desk before opening the top drawer and taking out another phone. Killian watched him as he dialed.
“I need to talk to Danny,” he said when someone picked up on the other end.
Danny Vasquez was a member of the Crows. Killian had known him when she ran with the gang. Jason had looked up to him. He believed Danny was going to run the club someday. Why had Dash called him? She was nothing to the Crows anymore. She’d been a member’s girl once upon a time, hung out with the old ladies and appreciated the fights they got her into, but she hadn’t had anything to do with them since she went in. They didn’t owe her any favors.
Killian stared out the window and drank her smoothie. She breathed and imagined what she was going to do to the bastards who had Shannon.
“Let’s go,” Dash said.
Her head jerked up. “What?”
He slipped his arms into a leather jacket and shoved both phones into the pockets. “My place. I don’t do club business here.”
Right. Of course he didn’t. Killian rose, set the empty glass on his desk, and followed him out the back door. He made for the ’Vette.
“I’ll follow you,” she said. He merely nodded and climbed into the glossy car.
He didn’t live too far away. In fact, she could probably run the distance between his place and hers. His neighborhood was better, though, and he actually had a house. It wasn’t very big, but it was red brick with a smooth driveway and a manicured lawn. Nice. Bet he didn’t have mice in the walls. Bet he hadn’t bought his furniture at Goodwill.
Dash smiled at her as sh
e got out of the car. “She still runs good?” he asked.
She nodded. “Cam took good care of her while I was away.”
Dash had found the Impala for her twelve years ago. She bought it, but he did most of the work to it, made it cherry. Made it perfect.
“Come on inside,” he invited, nodding toward the house. Killian followed him to the door. When they stepped inside, he punched a few buttons on the keypad and then whistled. Seconds later a large bulldog came running into the foyer and smashed into his legs while making happy snorting sounds.
“This is Hank,” he told her, squatting down to pet the canine. “He’s just a little over a year old, so he’s still kind of fresh.”
Smiling despite herself, Killian leaned down to stroke the dog’s head. He rubbed against her in response. “He’s beautiful.” She’d always been a sucker for a dog with any kind of “bull” in it.
“I’m going to take him outside. Make yourself at home. Danny should be here soon.” He snapped a leash onto Hank’s collar and led him out the door.
Killian walked into the living room, her boots clicking on the hardwood floor. The furniture was dark. Not leather, but something suede-like and overstuffed. There was a coffee table that looked like a slab of rock and a huge television, but that wasn’t what caught her eye. There were framed photographs on the wall, and she saw her own face in several of them. She saw another familiar face as well.
The photos were fairly old—Jason was still alive and the three of them looked so young. She smiled at a shot of Dash sitting behind her on a motorcycle, laughing. She remembered when it was taken. She’d asked Jason to teach her to ride, but he’d lost patience with her, so Dash stepped up. She’d been more relaxed with him—less intent on winning his approval. Of course he’d proven himself the better teacher. Jay never had the patience to teach. Practice, yes, but teaching was too much for his disposition.
Oh, and there was a photo of her, sweaty and her nose bleeding after her first big fight. Her first big win. God, the grin on her face was huge, even though she had bruised ribs. She looked so happy. So free. Jason had his arm around her shoulders, grinning like an idiot.
