Rage & Bullets (New York Crime Kings Book 4)

by Skyla Madi

  I gulp.

  He’s a beast. A delicious, manly beast.

  “Uh...hell..ooo.” I cringe, wrapping my arms around my body—a strange defense mechanism I didn’t know I had.

  “You’re blocking my way.” He bites out, his voice rough like gravel.

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” I slip to the side, giving him space to beat his chest and storm off. “Sorry.”

  Instead of leaving, he flicks his cigarette to the floor and stamps it into wood with his heavy, black boot, overtly looking me up and down. “Whose whore are you? Bones’s? Crow’s? That fucking piece of shit Joker’s?”

  What the fuck are they? More importantly, did he call me a whore? Why am I a whore?

  “Um...I’m no one’s whore.”

  He leans in close and the race of my heart feels like betrayal.

  “Are you sure?”

  I gulp again. “Yes.”

  “Is there a problem here?” Relief floods at the sound of a familiar voice. Stepping to the side, the Vice President of the Devil’s Cartel turns around and I see Joel at the doors, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “She’s with you?” The biker asks, folding his thick arms across the wide expanse of his chest.

  Joel steps out from the doorway and the door closes behind him, clicking shut with finality. With confidence, Joel swallows the distance between us. What is he—oh! I startle as he slides his hand around my hip—too close to the curve of my ass for my liking—and pulls me tight against his body.

  “Yeah, she’s with me.”

  My heart pounds in my ears as the stranger closely examines Joel. Please don’t recognize him. Please don’t recogni—”

  “I know you.”

  Shit.

  “You’re one of Skull’s men.”

  Joel’s body tightens, his fingers digging painfully into my hip. I shift my hips, but his grasp doesn’t let up.

  “I was. Not anymore.”

  “Hmph.” The stranger’s dark and dangerous stare pegs Joel in his spot and a small eternity passes before he retrieves a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket.

  “If you ever see that motherfucker again, tell him Stoic is looking for him.”

  He drums a thick, callused finger along the bottom of his packet.

  “No.”

  My heart stops. So does the biker’s tapping.

  “The next time I see him I’m going to beat him within an inch of his life and then put a bullet through his fucking head.”

  A staring contest breaks out, neither Joel nor the stranger backing down. I have to admire Joel for his courage. This strange man makes me want to pee everywhere, like a terrified puppy. By some miracle, the tiniest smirk tugs at Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome’s lips.

  “Good. We’re on the same page then.”

  He extends his cigarette packet to me. All of the butts are aligned. Except for one. One juts out above the others and I assume it’s for me. Without hesitation, I take it and he offers one to Joel who shakes his head. Without a word, the mysterious man walks off, stomping from the porch, down the stairs and into the parking lot.

  I suck in a large inhale and hold it until my lungs threaten to burst then I blow it out.

  “You smoke?”

  “Nope.” I toss the cigarette off the porch. “But I wasn’t about to turn him down. Who was that anyway?”

  “That was Stoic. VP of the Devil’s Cartel Motorcycle Gang from Exeter, California.”

  “California? What’s he doing here?”

  Joel drops his hand from my hip.

  “Settling some stuff with Joker, probably. They’ve got a lot of history.”

  I lean in close, so close I’m certain no one else can hear me.

  “You brought us to a biker bar? Are you nuts?”

  He grins. “This is the only place Skull’s eyes won’t see us. Besides, they’re friendlies. Relax.”

  Joel turns away and re-enters the bar.

  Awwwwooooooo! The dog howls sending tendrils of fear barreling through my stomach. I am not waiting around out here. I snatch the handle in my hand and yank the door open.

  “I need a drink.”

  The Joker and the Crow

  Jai

  “Ughhh!” The old man groans as I lower him onto the black, wooden bench under a flickering streetlight.

  Exhaling, I sit his phone down next to him.

  “All right, old man. The ambulance should be here soon.”

  “Thanks for your help, Pal. Do me a favor...” He hisses through his teeth, sliding his body on an uncomfortable angle. “Stay away from Crow’s daughter. Otherwise, you’ll end up like me.”

  I dust my hands, unable to help my smile. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

  “Speaking of women—and problems—that pretty lil’ thing you’re with. What’d you call her?”

  “Emily.” I say, flatly.

  “Emily...she yours?”

  “Is she mine?” I shift my weight onto my left leg and fold my arms across my chest.

  What kind of question is that in this day and age? Do I own her? Do I possess her?

  No.

  Women aren’t like cars or animals and they certainly don’t come with ownership papers. So, no. I don’t own her. That being said, do I want her only for myself? Would I kill to keep her for me and me only?

  Yes.

  In that sense, she is mine. I could open up that can of worms with this old man, but then I’d be wasting more of my time out here, arguing with an old man instead being of inside, enjoying my last night. So, to answer his question I tell him she’s mine.

  He nods, clenching his teeth as he pushes himself up into a seated position. “I, uh, I don’t tell a lot of people this cuz they’ll think I’m crazy, but you helped me so I’m gonna help you.”

  With a suspicious scowl, amplifying the swelling to his right eye, he glances around us, making sure no one is listening.

  This is ridiculous. He’s lucky Emily cared enough to help him. Before her, I was siding with Joel to leave this guy in the dirt. Who knows where he’s been or what he’s involved in. Being tossed from the porch of the bar that belongs to the Twisted Sons MC tells me he isn’t someone I should be helping.

  “No. It’s okay. You don’t need to return the f—”

  “I’ve got a gift.”

  I glance away, uninterested. “A gift?”

  He hisses, exhaling in sharp, short spurts. “I can feel the vibes of a person’s future—not everyone—but some.”

  Silence falls, allowing the sounds of night to be heard clearly. This man, the man who has had his face smashed in, his ribs broken, and his lung punctured, claims he can feel the future—not see it. Feel it. What kind of bullshit is that?

  “How much have you had to drink? That’ll hinder how many pain killers you’re going to get.”

  He clenches his ribs with bony fingers. “I’m telling the truth. Your girl, Emily, she’s in for a lot of trouble. I felt it.”

  I roll my eyes and turn away, stepping off the thin slab of desecrated concrete and onto the hard gravel. “Yeah. Okay. You keep yourself safe until the ambulance arrives, all right?”

  “You don’t believe me?” He calls out, his voice drowned with pain. “I’m telling the truth. When her life starts falling apart don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I stop in my tracks and swipe at my top lip. Is it a bad idea to indulge him? If he is in fact talking shit then what have I got to lose? I turn around, stuff my hands into my pockets, and step back onto the concrete. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be enabling his behavior.

  “I’ll humor you.” I say. “What’d you feel?”

  In the distance, I hear sirens. They loop, over and over, growing closer and closer.

  Suddenly in a hurry, the man shifts on the seat again, panting harshly. “I looked at her and I felt pain...an unbearable pain my belly.”

  He’s kidding, right? Perhaps I should remind him how we found him.

 
“You were beaten and thrown off a porch.” I point out.

  He shakes his head. “This is different. I felt it only when I looked at her. There was a strange ripplin’ sensation over me lips. The guy...the one who told her to ignore me...he’s your kin?”

  I nod.

  “His pain is connected to hers...I felt embarrassment...and pleasure.”

  I flinch. Pleasure? That’s not right. That can’t be right.

  “Now I know you’re talking shit, old man.”

  Joel would never betray me like that—neither would Emily. Besides, pleasure doesn’t necessarily mean it’s sexual. I get pleasure when I allow myself to eat a nice chocolate mousse after a week of disciplined eating. Still, uneasiness settles in my stomach as the seed of jealousy grows. The mere thought of them together turns my stomach.

  He shrugs his slender shoulders, his breath hitching as he does it. “Believe what ya want. I know what I felt.”

  “That’s it? You felt your insides go funny when you looked at her and now you think you know her future? Here’s a newsflash for you, I feel funny when I look at her too. She’s pretty. It’s biology.”

  The old, beaten man shakes his head. “Sure, she’s pretty, but that ain’t what I’m talking ‘bout.” He stops to catch his breath. “Fuck it hurts to speak. Her life only goes downhill from ‘ere.”

  “What about me?” I ask, determined to expose him for what he is. “What do you feel when you look at me?”

  “So now you’re a believer? Funny how that works.” He coughs and groans, causing fresh blood to spill from the cut on his eyebrow. “I told you. I don’t feel vibes from everyone. I get nothing when I look at you.”

  Well, isn’t that fucking convenient.

  I laugh once. “You’re drunk and full of shit.”

  “Maybe I am, but tell me if any of these ring a bell—bullets, chains, and skulls. Those three random objects floated into my mind from nowhere when I looked at your little lady.”

  My heart lodges itself into my throat. There’s no way that’s possible. Absolutely no way.

  “You’re fucking insane.” I turn around and leave, washing my hands of this mess.

  He laughs—no—he cackles. It’s loud and haunting as it echoes around me. “You don’t think I fucking know that? You don’t think I know?!”

  He’s talking shit. A goddamn nut job who has had too much beer. I don’t believe a word he said. Why should I? His brain drowned in malted barley and yeast a long time ago.

  But then again...if I don’t believe him, why is my heart thrumming in my ears as loud and as obnoxious as a bass drum? A cold drop of sweat falls from my hair line and rolls down the back of my neck. Why am I nervous? It’s not possible.

  I shake my head. A drunk. That’s all he is. I’m sure the feeling of pleasure he felt when he looked at Emily was nothing more than a perverse twitch of his cock—Joel too. Maybe his sexual hinge allows him to swing both ways. It makes sense. I don’t know why I entertained him as long as I did, anyway. It’s done nothing but deter me from my night and invade my thoughts. The last thing I need is some crazy old man planting what ifs in my head. I don’t need the distraction. Not tonight.

  Gravel crunches under my feet, the sound soon swallowed by the blasting of sirens. The darkness around me lights up in a flurry of reds and blues.

  At least that’s one good deed I’ve done today.

  As I enter the main parking lot, a beefy man on a Harley Davidson zooms past me, not giving a shit that rocks flick up from his tires and bounce off the others bikes and cars. Why would he give a shit? It’s not like he paid for any of them.

  Jerk.

  I pause as I approach the steps of The Cavern, suddenly weighed down by stress as it sits like a heavy bucket of concrete on my shoulders. I glance at the door. I don’t even want to go in there. I’m tired...exhausted.

  Maybe they feel the same. Maybe they want to go home too.

  Forcing myself up the steps, I reach the doors and push them open. Rock music mixes with laughter and the clashing of glasses. I stand still, marveling that this shitty little building manages to keep majority of the sounds inside. Stepping in, I glance around the room, letting the double doors slam shut behind me.

  At the bar, Joel keeps Emily busy and, judging by their expressions, they’re engaged in lighthearted conversation—embarrassing stories about my childhood, no doubt. At the end of the bar, Huss sits, sulking soberly in to his glass of water and, across the room, Ted leans over a tall table, his foot casually resting on a stool, as he chats up a petite, blonde girl. Immediately, I notice the crow tattoo on the side of her neck. It looks strange on her. How old is she anyway? She has the face of child’s doll—big eyes, a small, pointy nose, and fake, wiry hair to match. If I guessed her age on a whim I’d peg her at sixteen and no older than eighteen. Unlucky for him, Ted has never been good at establishing ages before engaging with a female. Twice I’ve saved him from going to bed with underage girls—seventeen year olds. I can’t blame him. It’s getting harder these days to pin point a woman’s age.

  I glance back to the crow tattoo on the girl’s neck.

  A crow.

  Shit.

  Is she the girl the old man was talking about? The one who had him beaten and kicked out? Of course Ted naturally found himself drawn to her. He’s always chasing women who cause him the most problems. His last girlfriend was an abusive drunk. She beat him with a led pipe while he was sleeping because he didn’t take out the cat litter like he said he would.

  I run my cool palms over my burning face. For once, just once, I’d like to relax instead of babysit a bunch of adults. Unfortunately, I’m the reason Ted is here so it’s my responsibility to look out for him. Preventing Ted getting beaten by this girl’s father will prevent me having to kick someone’s ass later on.

  I make my way over to Ted, dodging men in leathers and women in lingerie as they go back and forth from the bar, milling about like fish in a pond.

  “Ted. I need to talk—”

  BANG!

  I freeze as tiny pieces of the roof fall down around me, coating my black sweater in white dust. I snap my head in Emily’s direction. She’s off her stool. She clenches it in her hands, her knuckles white from the pressure. Her chest heaves, her wide eyes on me. That’s when I feel the cool tip of a gun pressing firmly against the back of my skull. I react quickly, based on instinct, not thought. Sidestepping, I duck under his gun, grab the barrel and twist it out of his hand. The assailant grunts as I turn my body, over his arm, and punch him square in the face. He drops to his knees and I press the gun into the side of his head. I hear the click of more guns around me and my finger twitches against the trigger.

  “Jai! Stop!” Joel shouts, his voice penetrating the sound of rushing blood in my ears.

  Panting, I glance around the room. I see barrel after barrel of ready to fire guns pointed at me.

  At Emily.

  At my brother.

  At my friends.

  I look at Joel. His dark eyebrows are furrowed and his hands are raised, exposing his palms. What the fuck is he surrendering for?

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. You think you can just waltz in here, sit at my bar, on my stools and drink my beer?”

  My finger twitches against the trigger again as the booming voice echoes around the bar. Seconds pass, seconds that feel like an eternity, before I can put a name to the voice. He looks more menacing in person than he does in the mugshots on his file. A buzz cut. Dark, tar-like irises and a scar that runs through the side of his lips. Finally, I meet the famous Cain ‘Joker’ Peterson, President of the Twisted Sons Motorcycle Club, in person.

  “Good to see you, Joker.” Joel says, sending my stomach dropping like a bag of rocks into my shoes.

  Joker waltzes further from the shadows and soon enough his entire wide, six foot two frame is exposed in the light. The heavy thud of his boots stop as he pauses by Huss. Like the soldier that he is, Huss betrays no sign of fear even th
ough he’s as weak as a child in this moment with no protection and no chance of fighting his way out. With a chuckle, Joker lifts his Remington M870 Police Magnum Shotgun and nudges Huss’s cast. Huss clenches his teeth with a hiss as his entire body tightens.

  A single laugh filled with insult and amusement flies from Joker’s thin lips. “Quite a pathetic crew you’ve brought along with you this time.”

  “I’m not here to fight you, Joker. If we can talk for one second—”

  With heavy feet, Joker presses the butt of the shotgun into his shoulder and swallows the distance between him and Joel. I slam the butt of my gun into my attacker’s head and he crashes to the floor as I swing it in Joker’s direction. The sound of hammers being pulled surrounds me, but do nothing to deter me from protecting my brother. If anyone is going to kill him, it’ll be me as soon as we get out of here.

  Temptation pulses in my index finger as it rests against the trigger, but I manage to hold out, even as Joker presses the tip of his shotgun against Joel’s forehead.

  “You don’t get to talk.” Joker snaps, his hands clenching his weapon.

  “You think your shotgun intimidates me?” Joel simpers, sealing the lid on all of our coffins. “There’s nothing scary about a quick death so do me a favor and pull the damn trigger.”

  “Don’t tempt me, boy.” Turning his head, Joker spits on the floor. “Why’d you come here?”

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  He came to ask a favor? So tonight isn’t about enjoying ourselves before we’re gunned down like fucking deer? I should have known! That selfish mother f—

  “A fucking favor? Ha! After everything you’ve done?”

  “That was then. I’m not working for Skull anymore. I want him dead just as much as you do.”

  “Bullshit!” Joker glances down the length of his gun.

  “I’ll prove it—I’ll prove it! Just give me a second of your time—in private—and I’ll tell you everything. I want to end Skull. When he’s gone, you can have New York back. It’ll be yours again. I promise you.”

  The fuck it will be. New York isn’t Joel’s to give.