Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “So am I,” he argues, though I don’t agree with the statement. I polish off the protein-fueled water and toss the bottle to the trash. I hop off the desk and drop the towel to get dressed. He doesn’t hesitate to stare. “You’re getting too thin.”

  I raise a brow. “Are you saying my dick is small?”

  “No,” he replies, concerned. “I’m saying you’re looking a bit gaunt.”

  “I’ve lost twenty pounds in two weeks.”

  “You’re not eating enough,” he asserts with a scolding stare. “You need to be doing more internal work and less actual work.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? Violet won’t talk to me. My mother is on some mission to upsurge my plans.” I pull up my pants, turn off the light, and command, “Scoot over.”

  “You realize, I’m a biker, and you’re a mafia son, and we’re laying on a twin bed together in prison?”

  Stretching my hands up into the air, I say, “I’ll shoot, and you can drive the getaway bike.”

  “Deal.”

  “Dear God,” Ronnie yelps, opening the door. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Careful, my boots,” Deacon’s rough voice mumbles, “and belt are on the floor.”

  Shutting the door, she cautiously asks, “… Can I turn on the light?”

  “Ya,” I say.

  Her mouth opens and closes several times as she scans over all the skin in the room. We’re both shirtless, and I’m turned the opposite way so that my feet are by his head.

  Deacon’s jeans are undone, but he’s covered. I’m not making excuses. Nor is it anyone’s business.

  Her hands raise like she’s fallen into a religious trance. “Just don’t move.”

  “… Am I in trouble?”

  “No, I want to take this in,” she whispers, her breathing erratic. “I’ve had fantasies like this.”

  “Involving two white guys?” Deacon jokes. “… In a cell?”

  “Reverse that cookie, baby.”

  We all laugh. “Dear fuck, I love you, Ronnie.”

  “If you move, I will shoot your leg, Sal.”

  “Damn, that’s some discipline,” Deacon jokingly praises and bites my toe. “Hardcore punishment.” He winks.

  I flop back on the bed, cover my face with my hands, and shake my head.

  “You know a lot of kinky shit goes on behind the fence, but this takes the cake!” She squees. “I’m so happy you came to my prison!” I swear, she sloppily tangoes to the middle of the room. “Unfortunately, I have to take you to the infirmary before Dr. Swank leaves.”

  Deacon lays his hand on my thigh. “You want me to stay?”

  “Nah, get on the road and go get the girl out of harm’s way,” I request, sitting up and offering him a hand. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’m going to be great,” he assures, running his hand over my bruised cheek. “Are you?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I brush off, passively. “If you need help, call Dale.”

  “I will,” he whispers, laying his hand on my chest. “I will be back as soon as possible. Be safe in here.”

  I hear Ronnie sniffling. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I politely say, “You should turn away.”

  “No fucking way,” she announces like she’s waving the green flag. “Say your goodbye. Just ignore my boohooing.”

  “Keep an eye on Iris,” I ask, gripping onto his forearm. “Don’t let anything happen to my family.”

  “I will guard it like my own.” His expression contorts to one of an absolute, indescribable pain as tears crash from his blue eyes onto my arms. “I will take care of everything, Sir. Just make it out of here alive.”

  I lean in and kiss his lips ever so softly. “I love you.”

  “Goddammit, Snookums,” he says, laughing and breaking apart in my hands. There is nothing I can do to stop our separation. Nothing I can do to stop the changes. “It’s a damn good thing I’m getting on the fucking bike.”

  “Can you take me for a ride?” Ronnie interrupts, sobbing.

  Deacon smiles with his gorgeous grin. “Yeah, I’ll take you for a spin.” I start to get up when he grabs me and levels me out with the most passionate Deacon Cruz tongue lashing ever. We sway and struggle and surrender in sweet love. “Stay standing. Don’t lose your shit. Remember the bayou. Remember the nights at The Dollhouse. Remember the holy in the unholy.” He blinks with understanding at me.

  My fingers ache as I let go of his inked forearms. “I love you, Honeybear,” I tease with a grin as his eyes spark with the secret of our affair. Our private joke of calling each other Honeybear and Snookums lightens the load. “Don’t you go telling Amber.”

  “Nevah!” He smirks, trying to keep his composure as I stand. “This is between us. I’ve got your girls, I swear.”

  With my back to him, I wait by the door as Ronnie says, “Give me five minutes to get him to the infirmary.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Deacon assures as I do the second hardest thing I’ve ever done and walk away. “Whenever you’re ready, Sal.”

  We’re halfway to the exit when I hear my door open. I want to be able not to turn around. So, I keep marching forward.

  But I hiccup and stop.

  I drop the ball.

  I fail my father.

  I fail my family.

  And I forsake it all for this infinite love.

  Deacon is standing in his cut with his jeans still unbuttoned and signing I love you and peace at me. I barely make it inside the elevator before I collapse to my knees, rocking and crying hysterically. “I’ve lost so much…”

  Ronnie stops the elevator and crouches beside me. Wrapping one arm around me, she whispers, “That was one of the most beautiful goodbyes I have ever seen.” Tears drip from her eyes onto my arm. “How long have you been…involved?”

  “Since my wife died,” I confess, clutching onto her curves. My truth doesn’t help her tears. “Cruz is my rock. Sometimes I think I’d be better off with him than anyone else in the world. He understands me like no one ever will.”

  “We have to get you standing and down to the infirmary.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  She pulls a tissue from her pocket and blots my eyes. “Keep your shit together. He’ll be back. And so will you. I’ve never witnessed that much love between two…people…before.”

  “Ya, I hide my shit pretty well.”

  “When did your wife die?”

  “2011.”

  Her eyes open wide. “You’ve been with that man for four years?”

  “Correction,” I reply, lifting a finger. “I’ve been having an affair with Cruz for four years, off and on. When he is in town; when I’m in town. But it’s a thang between him and me.”

  “Forgive me for asking, and you don’t have to answer, but how did this thang start?”

  “Pretty much by accident,” I acknowledge, speaking the truth. “We were stranded one night out on the bayou in Louisiana.”

  “And you had nothing better to do?”

  “I asked him to kneel,” I reminisce, smiling. “And he did. I hit rock bottom, and he always maintains his patrol of my heart and keeps on marching strong.”

  “Maybe I need to go to Louisiana.”

  20

  The Bitch to Save Us All

  “Tell me something, Sal,” he said as we walked along Bourbon Street early one morning. “Why didn’t you join the military?”

  “You know why,” I huffed. “I killed a guy, remember? Sibyl found me because of it.”

  “Yeah, but you were old enough before the graduation party. What held you back? I know you went and talked to the Naval recruitment office.”

  “I was going to college and then joining.”

  “You should go,” Vega says.

  “To join the navy?”

  He shook his head, “No, to college.”

  “I’m too old.”

  “Your wife just died less than a year ago, you’re twenty-one years old, and i
t was part of the Sibyl compensation package.” I understood what he was saying, but I wasn’t planning past work. “Think about it. I can help you get in somewhere prestigious.”

  I brushed it off and grabbed a towel. “What am I going to do? Go study business so I can follow dear old Dad?”

  “No, you’re going to chase your truth just like you were when the airboat picked you up.”

  I tilt my head. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m twice your age, and I know a thing or two about how men communicate when they’re more than friends.”

  “… I’m not gay.”

  “I’m not saying you are,” he said, twirling his platinum band in front of my face. “I’m saying whatever you are—happiness looks good on you.”

  “You’re gay.”

  “I prefer I’m in love,” Vega asserted with a smile. “And isn’t that what Kaci always wanted. For you to be truly free?”

  I’m waiting in a hospital gown for Dr. Swank. There is only one other patient in here. According to Ronnie, he has emphysema and has requested no medical intervention. Out of courtesy and respect, they have brought him to the infirmary to either recover from his bout with pneumonia or pass on.

  “Your right hand is shattered in three places. You’ll need surgery and a cast for six to eight weeks. Your left is infected into the joints. You’ll need irrigation tubes and antibiotics intravenously.”

  Fuck.

  “Anything else?”

  “The bruising on your eye is significant, but the socket isn’t broken.”

  “I need to talk to Cody Cameron, please.”

  “The x-rays look fucking terrible,” Jack says. I asked Cody to call him. “What do you want to do?”

  “In a perfect world, I go to Sibyl and see Lani.”

  Squinting at the chart, he pulls his glasses from his pocket and scans over it. “I can tell you one thing; they cannot fix you here. So, you tell me who you want, and I’ll have you moved to the university hospital.”

  “I want Martinez and Cameron running duty to keep my cover. Dr. Elaine Johnson to do the surgery with Marla and Mori. I want Janine to do the therapy. I want Charlotte fucking Tuddle to suck my dick before it all goes down. And I want to wake up with Trudy Diaz holding my hand because Iris and Deacon are both fucking gone.”

  “Well, you certainly are getting better at barking orders…”

  I shrug it off. “You asked what I wanted. And I want two fucking burgers from Ida Mae’ s—loaded, no mayo and no onions. Tell Louise who it is for, and she’ll make sure it is right. And I want Georgia to deliver it.”

  “I’ll get us some wheels.”

  “I need a phone,” I say, feeling like a complete fuck up. My body is failing me and getting me closer to the point of aborting the mission.

  I don’t do this assignment; I lose.

  I don’t take care of my hands; I lose.

  Jack sits on the edge of the bed. “I’ll get you everything you want and more, but you have got to promise me you will stop hitting shit when we drop you back in there. Go to the gym, punch the bag. Go for a run, exert the anger. You are combusting under pressure.”

  “You do realize my father has a hit on me…”

  “Since when?” he asks, tossing the phone in my lap. “Sign in to Sibyl. If he’s got a tag on you, no one knows.”

  I don’t stop to think as I dial the number I’ve avoided. I listen to the ring and wait. “It’s after hours, what is going on?”

  “Tell me my father took the fucking bait, Dom.”

  “I wish I could,” he mutters with sorrow. “But he didn’t.”

  Gripping the phone tight with my left hand, I scream, “Fuck!”

  “What is going on?” Dom yells.

  “Here is Jack,” I mumble, unable to comprehend how shit got so bad, so fast. “He’ll tell you everything.”

  I’m fuming with a disappointed rage at myself. I hear bits and pieces of the conversation as I try and cope with the unavoidable facts.

  “Private flight...

  University hospital…

  The infection is severe, dangerously close to amputation levels. If he can’t obtain decent care, Sal will lose part or all of his hand. The other will need at least three days unless they have to put in a fixator, in which case, we will abort the mission.”

  Banging my head against the pillow, I want to scream. I can’t make my girls listen. I can’t make Violet talk. I can’t make my father issue a hit for my head. I can’t do anything right.

  Hanging up the call, Jack sets the phone on my lap. “I’m going to go speak to Cameron. Stay.”

  “Where the fuck am I going to go?”

  Staring at the phone, I do what I swore I wouldn’t. With trembling fingers, I sign into the Sibyl site and ping Iris’ tracking implant. The loc pops up. There are thousands of reasons I should not do this. I need detox, and so does she. But I, being the possessive bastard I am, click it.

  “What the fuck is she doing in California?” I quietly mumble.

  I can’t call Deacon. He is on the road. I don’t trust Dom enough to tell him. I call Nico as a last resort because I wanted to involve as few people as possible.

  “Are you aware of what time it is?” Nick asks. “It’s after hours for you, Pretty Boy.”

  “I need you and Jas to go get on the ground. Sign in to my Sibyl, ping L. Raniero.” Nico slurps something in my ear. “What are you eating?”

  “An orange,” he answers, mumbling. “And why would I ping you?”

  “Because it isn’t me.”

  “Oh, shit… Why the hell is she in San Francisco?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know, why don’t you and Jas go find out?”

  “I’m on it, Boss.”

  The flight to the university medical center takes less than an hour. We spend more time taxiing than flying.

  By morning, the crew will arrive from New York. While Martinez is fascinated by the private plane, Cameron refuses to leave my side. Of course, I take full advantage of my current medical condition and force his slavery to me. I’d be grinning if I wasn’t in so much fucking pain.

  At my request, Jack has avoided the use of any narcotics. Lani agreed with me until she could see the damage in person. Janine has been called but has yet to return Jack’s call. I’m not surprised. I called Charlotte, but she is in the Hawaiian paradise with her aunt. The plane sets down, and on the private runaway, I spot the two-door red Mercedes Benz speeding towards us.

  Someone came.

  And not the someone I expected—at least not this soon.

  “Sal,” Trudy panics, rushing to my side as soon as I land. “How are you?”

  “I hurt myself.”

  “I know, Punkin,” she says, running her hand over my hair. “You, tall police guy…”

  “Name is Malcolm Martinez.”

  Tossing the keys, she sasses, “Catch! Take my car, and I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

  “We’re to remain with the prisoner at all times, Ma’am.”

  “Look, Sonny Boy, I’ve been playing these games since before you were in diapers. Take my fucking car and follow us to the damn hospital. Where the hell are we going to go?” She shifts her head slightly. “Wait a second. You are Escobar’s son.”

  “Yes,” Martinez respectfully says. “Cinco Proud.”

  “Then you best damn well listen to me, or I will make sure your next shipment of guns is triple the price and a quarter of the load.”

  I love it when she does this.

  Deacon’s Ma wins first-place for MILF—always.

  Nervously, Cameron relays, “I’ll ride shotgun.”

  “Good idea.” She grins like the bitch I adore. “Wait. Who the hell are you?”

  “Don’t ask!” Cameron and I say in unison.

  She lifts her hands. “Wow! Okay! I won’t ask!”

  We ride the short distance to the large student hospital. Jack is on the phone, getting privileges for Lani, the nurses, and him
. Ronnie told me it would be easy because this is where all their inmates go when needing hospitalization.

  Trudy is riding my ass like a mama duck, quacking out orders, and making people listen until we get into the private suite. I’ll stay here until the surgical team arrives. It’s been quiet for a few hours, but sleep is a pointless endeavor. And I hurt—bad.

  “Are you sure we can’t give you something to ease the pain?” Trudy asks, noticing my grimace and shoveling ice chips in my mouth. She blots my head with a crisp, damp cloth, and maintains a dedicated vigil.

  “… Did you text Deacon?”

  “Yeah,” she says, biting her lip. Her hand is resting on my chest. “He’ll text back soon.” Tears fill her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “You need to tell him about Diablo, too.”

  “Great,” I huff. “You want me to be the one to destroy him.”

  “I just think he’ll handle it better if he hears it from you.”

  I glance up to the ceiling, searching for answers. There aren’t any. “If you think he will handle it well, you are fooling yourself.”

  “Oh, Sally… This is what I fear the most—losing my son.”

  I shift my body to get more comfortable, and she adjusts my pillow. I confidently remark, “You aren’t losing your son, but I will lose my lover.”

  She has no grand comeback and zero reaction other than love. “I’ve known for quite some time.”

  “How?”

  “Have you seen the two of you together?” she teases with a giggle. “My son is a Catholic/Jewish/Buddhist biker monk. He’s going to always walk in love with his big heart, Sal. Whether that’s with a girl, a guy, a guy and a girl, or hell four guys …he’s a sweetheart…unless you cross his family, then he’s remarkably unsweet.”

  “What about four girls?”

  “Lord, I fucking hope not, young untrained bitches ain’t worth much more than heartache.” We laugh, and it’s good. “How is prison?”

  “Do I have to answer that?”

  Pursing her lips together, she shakes her head. “No, you don’t. Have you talked to Iris?”

  “No,” I mutter, letting my tears fall. “She’s not going to all three schools.”