by Marata Eros
“I get that a lot.” I smirk.
“I like your real name,” Vince says.
I turn to him but don't tell him Candice actually isn't my real name. “Thanks.”
“So...” Shannon says slowly, eyeballing Calem, me, and Vince, an obvious question on her face.
“Candice was hurt. Got in the middle of something.” Vince's explanation is economical. Sufficient. Not a complete lie as lies go.
“With Storm,” I add.
Vince gives me a sharp look.
Like a perfect volley, I give him one that says, Tough.
Shannon's nose scrunches. “Storm,” she says with distaste.
“Shannon,” Vince says like a warning.
Hmm.
She holds up a slim palm. “I know, I know—he's a brother.” She tacks on pointedly, “Now.”
But I can tell somebody's not loving Storm as part of the troupe.
Vince ignores the undercurrent by smoothly changing the subject. “Would you watch Calem here for a little while?” Vince touches Calem's shoulder.
Calem's too busy trying to look everywhere at once to notice.
“I'd love to.” Shannon's face lights up as she turns to Calem. “Hey,” she says to get Calem's attention, “have you read Where the Wild Things Are?”
Calem blinks up at her, shaking his head.
Probably never been read to in his short life.
“I used to work at a library and read to kids just like you. They really liked that book. Let's go read that.” Shannon doesn't take no for an answer, taking him by the hand.
Calem lets himself get hauled away.
He only looks back at me once.
I pause, give a wave.
“We'll go see Doc now.”
Viper doesn't say anything more, just turns and walks toward the back of the building.
I follow.
I've got to call Puck. I've been missing for hours now. But how can I do anything right now?
At least the handoff time hasn't been compromised yet. Though it's only hours away. If I can't get with Puck, we won't be able to swing it.
Who am I kidding, thinking I can make a sting work when we've been compromised to death? Still, I hold out hope. I wanted this guy so bad I could taste it. Or maybe it was that Puck and I wanted the closure.
Vince knocks on a door that has the name Doc on it, with a red placard directly underneath the lettering that depicts McDonald's golden arches on first glance, but really is a parody.
Classy. This is the guy who's going to fix me. Ah-huh.
Vince walks through, and Doc pushes away from a desk with an enormous computer screen on it.
He seems flustered, finger-combing a shock of white hair back from his face. “Hey, Viper.”
“Doc.”
His slightly buggy eyes take me in behind glasses too large and round for his face.
I must look worse for wear. My yoga pants are dirty, and my Jimmy Buffet tie-dyed shirt is stretched at the neck from that loser Storm.
Doc chuckles, checking out my T-shirt. “I went to that concert.” His eyes narrow on me. “That was forever ago. You don't look old enough to have been there.”
I inhale as deeply as I dare then let it out slow. “I am—I was.”
We stare at each other and Doc cocks his head. “What's wrong with her?”
“Doc, this is Candice Arlington.” Viper stumbles awkwardly over the next fact. “Think Storm broke her rib.”
Doc's bushy eyebrows sail almost to his hairline. “Why would he do that to a woman?”
Why indeed.
Viper downplays it. Or tries. Pretty hard to explain that kind of treatment. “There was a mix-up, and some reactions got away from people.” Clearly, he's not going to explain the trafficking to Doc. Must be above his security clearance.
Viper and I exchange a loaded glance.
Doc sharpens his expression for a moment then turns to me again. “You go by Candice?”
“Mostly.”
“I'm Doc,” he says, putting out his hand.
I'm careful with shaking. Rib seems to hurt worse as the day goes on. Feels like someone shredded my side.
Taking a deep inhale isn't an option.
“I can tell you're in a lot of pain just by the way you're holding yourself.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“I have some class-A narcotic action that will dull that shit. Dial it down so it's not riding you like a monkey on crack.”
I blink. He does have a way with words. But I can't have drugs and stay sharp. Not if I'm meeting a bunch of pissed-off bikers. Viper offered painkillers earlier after pancakes, and I declined.
If my inhibitions fail me, what if I let something slip? I could compromise the investigation—and Puck. “Thanks...” I hesitate, thinking about how great the pills that Viper gave me were. Just a little bit of time nearly pain-free is tempting. “But I don't think so,” I finally say.
“Candice,” Viper starts, “let him give you something.”
I state the truth. “I can't protect myself if I'm high on medicine.” And by God, I've clearly needed to “bring it” lately.
He turns me with gentle hands until we're facing each other. “Do you think any of my men are going to hurt you?”
I've never had this kind of eye contact before. Aggressive. Intense. Sincere.
Lingering like a caress.
I close my eyes against what I see, too scared to believe. I don't know if I can survive the erosion of the careful walls I've erected around the castle of my heart.
For anyone.
But he's doing it, stone block by stone block. Viper keeps doing things that make me question everything I've always been sure of.
“Let's see what we have here,” Doc interjects quietly, looking between the two of us.
“Okay.” I sound as weary as I feel.
Doc leads me to a classic exam table. Clean white paper has already been drawn over its surface and pinched at one end with a bar made for holding the paper in place.
“Can you get up there?”
I nod, carefully hiking a butt cheek up. I press my palm into the platform and heave.
Gasping through the pain, I try to do a version of the movement on the other side but can't.
Viper is suddenly there. He slides his palms underneath my ass and lifts me easily, gently scooting me back.
“There, stubborn wench.” He winks.
I smile.
“Okay, Prez.” Doc moves up beside him.
Viper reluctantly retreats, and Doc takes his place. Gentle hands work underneath my shirt. When he gets to the rib, I flinch, and his fingers still.
“Not a bad break,” he says offhandedly.
“What?” I scowl.
He harrumphs. “It's a fracture. They hurt about the same but heal up much faster. You'll feel better in about three weeks.”
Doc rifles around in a drawer next to the table and gets out a stiff, gauze-like material, which he uses to wrap my rib. “This doesn't work anymore. Only time heals ribs. But it'll feel stiffer—allow movement. Or some movement.”
Three weeks.
Closing my eyes, I sort of sway at the thought of this level of pain management for nearly a month.
“Candice,” Viper says in a low voice.
Without opening my eyes, I say, “I have to do things. I can't afford to be injured.”
“Tell me.”
My eyes open, and we stare at each other. “No.”
He slams his fist on the table, and Doc takes a couple of steps back.
Wise man.
“That's not going to be good enough for my men. They'll want to know what role you play in all this debauched bullshit.”
I lean into him, our faces nearly touching. “Then they'll have to kill me to do it.”
“Fuck!” Viper yells and spins on his heel, pacing the small room, giving me his broad back.
“Who is she, Viper?” Doc asks. “Who'd I just patch up—that Storm
lost his cool so badly he fractured her rib? I'm kind of old-school for beating on women. Doesn't sit right.”
“That's just it,” Viper says to Doc, but he looks at me, “I don't know who she is.”
Doc shakes his head, wispy hair creating a crisp halo effect around his head. “This ain't good.”
I dismount from the table very carefully. The rib squawks, but moving is easier with it taped. Maybe this will see me through the worst of the next grueling set of circumstances.
I just have to get through this last handoff—if it can be salvaged.
“Where do you think you're going?” Viper seethes, blocking my way to the door.
“You've called church, right?”
He gives a terse nod. “Let's face the music.”
A rattling sound comes from behind me. Doc is holding up an orange bottle with pills inside. “I wouldn't face that firing squad unless I was lit up like a firebug.”
There is some logic there.
But can I trust Viper not let them pound me? His eyes are steady on mine.
He was so tender with my body that I cannot envision him watching me get abused, but stranger things have happened.
Like when the one man in the entire world who should have been my champion, my protector, was my abuser.
The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get out of here, pick up a burner, and phone my brother.
Doc hands me a bottle of water and two pills.
Viper glowers.
I toss them back, swig it down, and brush past him toward the door.
His hand lands on the nape of my neck, and he's so much larger than me that his fingers almost meet at the hollow of my throat.
Our gazes collide.
“Let me get the door for you.” He opens it, sweeping it wide, and releases my neck.
“I'm old-fashioned that way, Candice,” he says to my back. “I'll always open the door for a lady.”
His voice is a slow, lazy drawl. But his words burn themselves into my brain like acid, trenching my consciousness, tears filling my eyes.
How long has it been since anyone saw me?
Got me?
Treated me like someone with value beyond serving their purposes?
A man who runs a bike club. That's who.
I swipe wetness from my cheeks and slow. When Vince makes up the few strides that separated us, he walks beside me.
Like an equal.
And I can't feel worse.
Problem is the Bureau comes first. And I must finish this. I just wish, just one time, that I could come first.
We move through the center of the club, and at this time of day, it seems to have more of a family atmosphere. I see Shannon reading to Calem, her toddler at her feet.
Other old ladies are chatting away. But when I walk by with Viper, they stop and stare.
It tells me a couple of things.
One: the president gets noticed.
Two: he must not take a lot of women through the club.
Ignoring them as best I can, I make it all the way to the other side of the building. Vince goes to a solid wood door, opens it, and strides through.
I follow him and am met by a sea of hostile eyes.
Worst thing? I'm starting to feel the effects of the drugs. It's great that the pain's receded. But my smart ass mouth has even less of a filter.
And the result of that might be more than I can recover from.
Chapter 15
Puck
My anxiety about Candi is making me rash as fuck. I know this.
If there hadn't been blood and puke at her house, I might be able to calm my tits.
So I'm sweating literal bullets as I cruise up the driveway to the new Chaos digs.
We had an old building before we got made. Cops swarmed up our ass like a hive of angry wasps, stinging and sniffing around until we had to change the profile of the club. Of course, they didn't know I was one of them.
Mover spearheaded a mess of a relocation and putting the club back together again after the flesh trader, Ned, was killed.
Because Mover's a feebie. Good for him. Well, it's time to confer on the hard facts as they sit now. We've never spoken about our mutual purpose because we haven't been granted the clearance to work together. Though the mutual purpose is different, when it comes to Candi. She—I'll break rules for. Especially with kids at stake.
It's unbelievable to me, but that's big government. Supposedly, you have two lawmen working toward the same end goal.
But can we share information?
No.
Can we team up?
Hell no.
So addressing the case directly would mean breaking all the unspoken rules in the world.
But Candi's in trouble. And there's no life for me without her in it.
I park the Camaro and slip out the door. Slapping my hand on the manual lock, I close the door then stuff the keys into my jean's pocket.
Striding to the door, I can't help but notice the similarities between the rival clubhouses of Chaos and Road Kill. Yeah, I know where Road Kill MC has their clandestine meetings—"church.”
Definitely picked the right club. Don't think Road Kill is doing much but gunrunning. And in today's world, that's almost not important enough to worry about.
Sex trafficking is the hot ticket now. It's the criminal offense that gets all the law entities spun up and engaged.
Actually, it should've always been the focus. Saving the future generation now, before they're running the country and all fucked up because we didn't give a shit when it mattered, has to be a good solution. Let's be preemptive, guys. Let's do the right fucking thing for once.
I open the solid steel door, and it swings outward slowly, revealing the beating heart of the club.
Looks like a heart attack waiting to happen from where I stand. But I'm used to the decadence of the place, where at any moment, there's a half-naked female draped over furniture or getting done by a brother.
Alcohol flows like a river. Music is so loud, it vibrates through the soles of my boots.
And secrets are guarded like a living, breathing treasure.
I wade through the bodies of people having sex or boozing and remain focused on the door at the end of the building. Easy to see despite the smoke haze, it’s also solid steel. And soundproof.
Thumbing the latch, I push it open.
Mover sits at the head of a long table.
The table doesn't have any significance like the others at some MCs. It's just a meeting table for bodies to sit around—sixteen in all.
The banquet size suits the length of the room. Made of brushed aluminum, it's light and doesn't rust, so cigarettes and booze rings don't mar the surface.
“Puck,” Mover says in partial greeting, loosening his tie.
He has a fantastic bike, but he's always meeting buyers for every illicit thing he can think of—and things he can't. Mover believes that, somehow, if he dresses formally, it makes him better.
I know the lie, though. I’ve lived it.
My father was rich. And having more money didn't mean he was more handsome or better than the rest of humanity.
It just meant he could do more harm, hiding his filth behind a polished exterior.
“Mover,” I return in clipped greeting.
There's another brother standing next to him. Figures it's got to be the one I hate the most.
A couple of bikers were taken out a few years back when a young woman escaped. What was her name? Oh yeah. Sara.
She was very resourceful. Too bad she didn’t get to this dirtbag.
Dave, aka Dagger, wasn't around to get killed. He was out scouting new female flesh at the time. He'd taken a leave of absence for almost a year after that handy debacle. But here he is, like a bad penny, just tarnishing up the whole fucking place.
Dagger had a case of acne when he was a teenager, and the pockmarks litter his face like empty craters. His hair is somewhere between true black and brown, swept
back from his face like a wash of dirty coffee. His eyes are the same mud-brown color as his hair.
Right now they're narrowed on me like two, hate-filled slits.
Feeling's mutual, douche.
“Dagger, I think Puck has some pressing items to discuss.”
Another thing I can't stand about Mover—he's a fucking four-dollar word user. It's not so much that he uses words beyond my ability to understand. It's the way he forms his sentences.
Like his shit doesn't stink. Haughty fuck.
“Yeah, that's right,” I say, neatly dismissing Douche Nozzle Dagger.
He glares, walking toward me like a swift current.
Our chests stand a hard thought away from contact.
“You got a problem?” he grits.
Fuck, so many. Beginning with my sister being MIA. “Yeah, but not enough time to deal with them all.”
“Dagger,” Mover says with a bell-like warning in that one word.
He turns, giving Mover a few seconds of attention. “Fine, Prez.”
Dagger turns back to me. We're eye-to-eye, and at over six feet, he's a tallish man.
Unlike me, he's not lean and athletic. He's just big, heading toward fat, but in the meantime, there's enough size to be a problem. And I don't fucking need another one.
My feelings are very close to the surface, like a ripple of water away from rinsing my carefully maintained exterior.
“Sometimes, there ain't gonna be anyone but you and me, Puck,” he says with such force a tiny bit of spittle beads on his lower lip, and his thick tongue swipes over the area.
My revulsion kicks into gear. “Anytime, Dagger. You name the time, the place—and we go.”
Dagger's hands ball into fists at his side.
“Children,” Mover says in a droll voice.
Dagger's eyes tighten, but he steps back, then clips my shoulder as he brushes past. He slams the door on the way out.
Dick.
Some clubs have men who are truly brothers. The camaraderie overtakes the petty differences that are always there between human beings and the testosterone-fueled MC life.
Not Chaos Riders.
Of course, because their very purpose is to go against authority and because they have rules only one percent of the population follows, biker clubs are probably the height of dysfunction. But if there's one thing I've always believed in it’s that normal is a setting on the dryer.
