He’d do it himself as a favor, but he didn’t feel like expending the energy. Luciana had him running errands for her left and right like he was her personal whipping boy. He’d complain, but hell, she was loco. Crazy bitches were something he didn’t fuck with.
Except he did fuck her. Crazy pussy was the best, and that puta knew some tricks in the bedroom that got his balls tight just thinking about it.
The way she’d taken out that white boy made him smile. Zero hesitation. Just lethal efficiency. Exactly how he would have done it. Except he would have stared the man in the eyes and watched his soul bleed out of him.
So maybe he was a little crazy, too.
As the cleaner collected all of Frank’s personal effects and stuffed them into a heavy duty black garbage bag, Manuel thought about the way Luciana rode his cock after she’d killed the poor bastard. Right there in the middle of that room, not ten feet away from his lifeless body, and with her personal guards standing watch.
Damn, she was wild. Completely untamed. He enjoyed that quality about her. Sure, she was dangerous, like a viper, but he’d always found it thrilling to fly close to the sun.
“I think I got everything.”
Manuel blinked and looked up at the cleaner. The man was older than him by at least twenty years. He was of Spanish descent, but he couldn’t place from where exactly, had graying hair and sunlines around his eyes, cheeks, and mouth. And he had eyes that were flat, lifeless. He’d seen things, and it didn’t faze him. He was a good worker, stuck to the script, and did a good job.
Manuel didn’t know any more about him than that, and he didn’t want to.
“You think or you know?” Manuel uttered. In this line of work, it was critical that everything was done just so. Any small detail was overlooked? The ship would sink. Manual was there to make sure that didn’t happen. The Glock in his waistband was his backup.
“I know,” the old man grunted as he heaved the bag over his shoulder.
Manuel moved aside to let him pass through the door and haul the bag down to the waiting car. He never got his hands dirty. Menial labor was below his paygrade—another perk of the job.
He stepped deeper into the apartment, his Ferragamos out of place against the matted and stained orange carpet that’d been installed sometime back in the sixties. Way before Manuel was even a twinkle in his father’s eye.
His dark eyes scanned the room, checking for anything that might have been missed, but the old man had done his job well. The place appeared untouched as if it’d been empty for a while.
Even the sink and shower had been wiped dry, leaving behind only the brown stains of age and filth.
Satisfied, Manuel passed back through the way he came and, with a cloth in his hand, pulled the door closed behind him.
He hadn’t taken a step when the door to the apartment next door opened and that Spartan bitch stepped out. She was carrying a suitcase and had a deep look of sorrow on her pretty face like she’d just gotten bad news.
Manuel smirked, an idea forming.
He was about to deliver even more bad news. Luck had just fallen into his lap, but her night was about to take a turn for the worse.
THIRTY-FOUR
“Why is Daddy mad at you?”
Gabby looked down at Ash’s handsome little face and wanted to cry. She’d been so self-involved that she hadn’t even realized she’d failed to mask her upset.
Laying down the dishtowel she’d been using to dry her hands, she waddled over to the breakfast table and ruffled his hair. “He’s not mad at me, sweetie,” she assured him. “Daddy and I just had a disagreement, that’s all.”
“Are you going to get divorced?” Ash’s expression was tight, the emotion he was trying desperately to hide showing in his eyes—eyes that perfectly matched Blake’s.
“No, no,” she insisted. Pulling out a chair, she took a seat next to him. “Ash, your dad and I love each other very much. Sometimes we might not agree with each other, but we’ll never stop loving each other.”
“But Mommy and Daddy used to fight all the time. They’re not together anymore.”
“That’s different, honey.” She sat forward in her chair, taking his hand in hers and holding it tight. “Sometimes grownups don’t get along because they’re too different. And sometimes they care about each other, but they don’t love each other.”
“And you and Daddy love each other?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes, we do,” she said with a bright smile. “We love each other very much.” She sat back, rubbing her free hand over her stomach. “We love each other so much, we made your brother or sister.”
Ash’s eyes widened, and he beamed. “That’s a lot of love.”
“Yes, it is. So, don’t you worry. Nothing bad is going to happen.” Well, she hoped not. The way things had been going, she was worried. It was natural, she kept telling herself, to worry. If she didn’t, it would be a sign that she didn’t care enough about their relationship, and she did. So much.
Blake was everything to her. She’d never have guessed that she’d fall in love with the rough, sharp-around-the-edges man who’d pulled up in front of the elementary school all those months ago because he’d forgotten his little boy, but she had.
Boy had she ever.
Blake wasn’t perfect—far from it—but he was a good man. He’d hurt her feelings when he’d laid down the law about her going to that bar, and she understood—somewhat—where he was coming from. But she wished he’d understand where she was coming from too, instead of over overreacting so much. She’d been with two other badass women, and they were all more than capable of handling themselves. Hell, they’d more than proven it. The men were just flexing their muscles, and that’s what she didn’t like.
But they would get past this. It was just a little bump in the road.
Which was why she’d decided her days of giving him the silent treatment ended tonight. She was planning a nice dinner for the three of them when he got home. He always loved when she cooked, and she hadn’t been doing much of that lately because of the baby. So tonight, she planned to treat him like a king—her king. She wanted him to know that even if they were having trouble, he was still her number one.
Gabby watched the clock for the next hour, working tirelessly to cook the meal to perfection and time it just right. When it was all done, and he still wasn’t home, she covered everything with foil and kept it warm.
Then she waited.
And waited.
And waited.
When bedtime rolled around, she ushered Ash into the bathroom to get washed up and changed, thinking he could eat and head to bed directly after, opening up the rest of the evening for her and Blake to have some time alone.
But he still wasn’t home by the time Ash had finished his task. So, she let him eat while texting Blake to see where he was.
No answer.
She wasn’t sure whether to be worried for his safety or because he was deliberately ignoring her. That was the problem with being married to a biker: women weren’t allowed to know the details.
That’s what she and Talia and Ginger were protesting. And she knew they weren’t the only women in the club who felt that way. She just didn’t think it was too much to ask to be kept in the loop.
The worry of not knowing was the worst. She was tempted to call the clubhouse, see if anyone knew where he was, but she didn’t want to appear like the hysterical housewife. Or worse, the controlling one.
So, she just sat on the couch watching the news until there was no news left to watch, and then with a heavy heart, she wrote a note letting Blake know his dinner was in the oven and placed it on the table for him to find. She was on her way to bed when she heard the lock click and the front door glide open.
With a hopeful smile, she turned back around and went to greet her husband.
***
“You’re here late,” Repo observed.
Blake was sitting behind his desk, staring at the books li
ke what was written on the page was a complicated math problem instead of simple sentences.
Hell, it probably looked that way to him. Repo didn’t get into personal shit, but he knew that Blake had trouble reading. It was obvious, no matter how hard he tried to cover it up. And he’d taken great pains over the years to do so. Even had Country acting as the middle man in his construction business. Anything that needed a signature, Country reviewed first and then told him where to sign.
It was a good system, for a guy who wanted to put shade on any kind of weakness.
Couldn’t really blame him. Repo preferred not to show any weaknesses either. It was a man thing. Stay strong, no fallacies, even though everyone in the world had at least one. Maybe it was part of the life they lived that required it, or maybe they required it, and that’s why they lead the lives they did.
It was a chicken or egg problem, and he didn’t like to think much about it because it gave him a headache.
“I don’t feel like going home just yet,” Blake confided, never looking up from what he was doing.
Repo didn’t comment. He wasn’t going to get into the trials and tribulations of married life. Especially when it was none of his damn business, which was exactly what Blake’s tone suggested. He changed the subject.
“You think Country is going to go AWOL?” Repo asked Blake. They were in his office at the clubhouse rather than the one at Blake’s construction site—a kind of bare bones trailer that wasn’t much to look at.
“No.” Blake dropped his pen on a stack of papers that had little colored sticky tabs telling him where to put his John Hancock and leaned back in his chair. He looked exhausted. Repo understood. He was currently trying to avoid going back to an empty house that would only remind him of his latest and greatest fuckup.
“Yeah,” Repo agreed, “I’m sure he’ll come around once he’s stopped PMSing.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Blake huffed a tired laugh. “Is it just me or do we need to start buying some Kotex for these assholes? I swear they’re going soft.”
“They’re young and dumb,” Repo commiserated. “They don’t know the struggles we had to go through to get here. They don’t understand what real brotherhood means.”
“They’d better understand. The idea of some pansy asses covering my back when shit gets real is a fucking nightmare.”
Damn, if that wasn’t the truth. “Maybe this shit going down is just what we need to whip them into shape,” Repo suggested.
“A good war to solidify our defenses?” Blake thought on that for a moment. “You might be right on that. A blessing in disguise.” He smirked. “Way to look for the silver lining, my brother.”
“Well, you know me. I’m a regular ray of fucking sunshine. Always looking for the good in every situation.”
They were sharing a laugh when the office door opened, and Taco stuck his head inside. He extended an envelope to Repo and addressed Blake directly. “Country says to pass this along. Some intel I think. He said you’d want to look at it.”
Blake nodded. “Thanks, man. Tell him I ‘preciate it.”
Taco nodded to both of them before ducking out again. Repo sat silently and watched Blake open the mystery envelope with little interest, even though he was eager to find out just what, if anything, Country managed to find. He was always good at digging up a needle in a haystack—the benefit of having connections.
Blake’s expression gave nothing away as he flipped through what appeared to be a stack of photographs.
“Anything useful?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” He held out his arm, and Repo reached out to take what was indeed a bunch of pictures.
The second Repo looked at them, or more specifically the man in them, his brows drew together, and his heart began to sprint. “Who is this?” He recognized that face, but he didn’t have a name to go with it…and he wanted that name.
“That’s Frank Kellerman, Talia’s contact and former partner with the FBI.”
“The one who’s been feeding information,” Repo said, studying the weathered face. Even in black and white, he couldn’t mistake him.
“Yes, that’s the one. Real piece of work, thinking he could play both sides like that. He’d better pray he’s already dead. Otherwise he’s going to wish he was.”
“You got that right.”
Blake frowned, picking up on his tone. “Everything all right?”
All right? Repo was dancing a razor’s edge of sanity at the moment, barely holding onto his calm. It took everything in him not to leap out of his chair. Instead, he lifted to his feet and placed the pictures down in front of his president. “I have something I need to take care of.”
“And what’s that?” Blake asked, standing and following Repo out the door. He wasn’t going to just let him walk away from this.
“It’s my business,” Repo told him, knowing full well that excuse wasn’t going to fly. Blake had always been like a dog with a juicy bone.
“If that look on your face has anything to do with Frank Kellerman, then no, this is club business,” Blake informed him. “Fill me in.”
Repo stopped dead in his tracks, and Blake was right there with him, watching him expectantly. Repo glanced around, noting that several members—including Taco, Moose, and a couple prospects—were watching with interest.
He combed his fingers through his hair, looked around again, then gave up any pretense of a fight. It just wasn’t worth it. He was wasting time standing here.
“Fine, you really wanna know?” He met Blake’s determined stare with his own. “I know that guy. He’s the peeping Tom living next door to Red.”
It took a moment for Blake to clue in, then his eyes widened. “You mean the one watching when we—”
“Replaced her stove? Yeah,” Repo finished for him. “That piece of shit has been watching her the whole time.”
“And now she’s there alone,” Blake said, echoing Repo’s thoughts. Lifting his hand, he waved the brothers forward. “Everyone on their bike. We’re riding out.”
“What are we walking into, Prez?” Moose asked as he fell in line.
The men were climbing onto their bikes, revving engines, no questions asked. Repo looked them over briefly, pride filling him. They might not be a perfect bunch, but they were good men, perfectly suited for the job at hand. Any shortcomings and they’d fix it up quickly, he had no doubt.
“I don’t know,” Blake told him honestly. “Be ready for anything.”
With that, Repo and Blake climbed on and started their own motorcycles then took the lead, riding out as one leather clad unit ready to draw blood.
THIRTY-FIVE
Country wasn’t feeling his best, but he wasn’t salty anymore. He understood what Blake was trying to say, and through him, he was finally able to see what Talia had been telling him all along—he was too close to the case. It was consuming him.
He was man enough to admit when he was wrong, and he’d allowed himself to get too emotionally involved in all of this. He couldn’t help it, though. It was his club, his brothers, his family they were talking about here. Put anyone he cared about in danger, and shit was going to go down, someone was going to answer for it.
He was still pissed, still determined to exact justice, but he was level now. He could see clearly and was ready to get back in there with a more balanced mind.
That’s why he was sitting outside the place he and Talia shared, typing out a text.
Tucker: Sugar…are you still mad at me?
Talia: What do you think
Tucker:
Tucker: Sorry. I’ve been a jerk
Talia: …
Tucker: Forgive me?
Talia: You’ll have to do better than a texted apology if you expect anything like that from me
Tucker: Come outside sugar
He smiled and put his phone away. He didn’t need to see what or if she texted back. She’d come outside eventually. Curiosity was a weakness no one could res
ist.
Even at this hour, just before dawn. At least the sky was light enough now that she could see his surprise well enough to garner the excitement he hoped she’d have.
When the door opened, he was watching, waiting. Talia’s scowl was apparent even at a distance, but when she spotted him below sitting on his motorcycle…and what was right beside him, her whole face lit up like the damn Fourth of July.
Tucker’s chest swelled seeing that kind of excitement on her pretty face as she squealed and rushed down to meet him. He’d done that. He’d made her happy.
Finally, he was doing something right.
“Oh my God,” Talia said as she slowed her approach and inspected the brand-new Harley Davidson Sport sitting beside him. It was trimmed out in chrome and had fine pink pinstripes running down its body—the perfect feminine touch if he did say so himself.
Hands covering her mouth, Talia looked up at him. “Can I touch it?” she breathed.
Tucker smirked. “Sugar, you can stroke it, manhandle it, rub your tits all over it. Whatever you like. It’s yours to do with as you please.”
“Really?” Her eyes were misting over, showing him just how touched she was by the gesture.
Tucker’s gaze softened. “Really, baby. It’s my way of apologizing for being such a dick these past few weeks. You were right, I got in over my head, and I’m sorry.”
Instead of throwing herself at the bike, Talia lunged at him, slinging her arms around Tucker’s shoulders and squeezing as she buried her face in the side of his neck. “I love you so much,” she cried. “You’re right, you’re a dick, but you’re my dick, and I love you. Thank you for this.”
Tucker was laughing as he hugged her back. “I’m your dick, huh?”
Drawing back, Talia wiped her wet eyes and grinned. “Is that all you got from what I just said? Seriously?”
“Sugar,” he said, pushing her short hair behind her ear, “you know you can’t say stuff like that without making me horny.”
Vigor: A Spartan Riders Novel Page 24
