Blaze (Twisted Devils MC Book 4)

by Zahra Girard

  “Are you sure that’s the reason you came back to me, Tiffany?”

  My back straightens. I grip the armrests of the chair and let out a slow, whistling breath. “I just told you why I’m here, David. Someone I know needs your legal help to make sure she isn’t being screwed over by the bank.”

  “And this has nothing to do with how you left me in Stanford? Even though we were engaged to be married?”

  At one time, I considered this man the next step in my life’s progression. Marry someone successful, someone smart, and get yourself a partner who’ll help push you to the next level. Now, I’m thinking that was such a fallacy of a philosophy to have. Because, as smart as he is, David Archibald never figured out how to listen.

  “Nothing.”

  “Because you left things so suddenly, I thought you might’ve come back to correct your mistake. One day, everything was great, we were engaged and on track to conquer the world together, and then, the next day, it was like you disappeared.”

  There are furrows in the wooden armrests of his chair from where my nails are.

  “That’s not how it happened, David. I told you I needed a little space, which I had to fight to get you to accept, and then, when I wanted to talk, you were only interested in giving ultimatums. But can we leave all that aside and be professional? I’m here with an actual person, with an actual problem, and she needs your help.”

  He laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that makes me feel small. If I didn’t need his help, I would be out of here in a heartbeat; hell, I wouldn’t have even showed up. But he’s a brilliant lawyer and having him on our side would throw a huge monkey wrench in Southwest Regional’s plans to take Eleanor’s house.

  “If that’s how you remember it. Fine, we’ll move on,” he says, turning to Eleanor. “Ma’am, can you tell me a little about yourself and your situation?”

  Eleanor gives David a long look. Even being in the crossfire of her gaze, my skin goes icy to the touch. “Fine, young man. My name is Eleanor Dunne. Some time ago, I received a notice in the mail. It was from the city, I believe, and they said that I owed a lot of money on my house. Something about a changed land value or back taxes or something, I don’t remember, and, before you ask, I don’t have that form anymore. I threw it out.”

  As Eleanor talks, David turns to her, leans forward in his chair, fingers stuck together in some power-teepee move, and every iota of his attention focused on Eleanor’s story. There’s a smile on his face. The smile used to mean that whoever opposed him in the courtroom was about to have a very bad day.

  I used to love that smile. It meant my man was about to strike. But now, I loathe it. And him. Because his smile has no other dimensions — it’s either conquest or absence. When I came to him, hurting, there was no warmth. There was nothing inviting me to get close to him, to share my heart, my grief, my pain. When I came to him, his face was blank. As I tried to spill the first few words of my hurt to him, there was nothing but confusion and, beneath that, disdain. He made me feel like I was trying to drag him down.

  Now, observing him as he sucks in every facet of Eleanor’s story, it makes my stomach turn to be on the receiving end of that same sharp smile.

  “What happened then, Mrs. Dunne?”

  “Well, I knew that I now owed more money than I had readily available. All I have is a monthly pension from my college and not much in the way of savings or investments or anything of the sort. So, I went in to my bank and I talked with them about a loan.”

  He nods. “What happened when you got to the bank? What was the process like in applying for this loan? Do you recall who you spoke to?”

  Eleanor sighs and rolls her eyes. “I spoke to some woman. Her name escapes me. And the process overall? It was confusing — I’m not fluent in all the terminology they use — but I got the money that I needed, I paid what I owed, and I thought that would be the end of it. Except, well, paying back the bank, of course. But then things got complicated.”

  “Back up a second, Mrs. Dunne,” says David, in the same tone of voice he’d use whenever he had a witness under cross-examination. His smile is still on his face. In fact, it’s grown larger. More rapacious. And every once in a while, his eyes dart to me with menace. “What bank was this?”

  “Southwest Regional Bank,” she says, warily. Eleanor shifts in her seat, uncomfortable beneath David’s unwavering gaze. “Why?”

  He drums his hands on his expensive desk. Hands that aren’t meant for holding, for comforting; these hands exist exclusively for taking, for climbing relentlessly the ladder of life.

  And still, there’s that smile.

  Gotcha, it says.

  “This was a mistake,” I say, rising, motioning for Blaze’s mom to do the same. She braces her hands against the armrests, readying to stand. “Eleanor, we should go.”

  “No, stay. I just have one more question and I’m certain that I can help your case,” he says. That smile is still on his face.

  Eleanor wavers. On the inside, I am screaming at her to stand and follow me to the door.

  But she doesn’t. She’s caught in the web that David’s been spinning since the second we came in here.

  “Mrs. Dunne, you mentioned Southwest Regional Bank.”

  “I did.”

  His smile widens. He leans forward.

  “Interesting. That is the same bank that your son attempted to rob, correct?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Blaze

  Tracking the van and the thugs inside it without being seen isn’t hard; I’ve never been more aware and determined to stay out of sight than I am right now, dressed in a getup straight out of of high school — a Backstreet Boys t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a denim vest with various band logos on it — and driving my mom’s old Volvo station wagon.

  At least no one from the MC is here to see me right now. I would never live this down.

  With spy-like stealth, I cruise Torreon, hunting for the thugs, and eventually track the van to an enormous construction site on the outskirts of town. It’s a mess of girders, a massive concrete foundation, rebar, and a couple dozen guys in flannel shirts, jeans, and hardhats. On one end of the site, obscured by a heavy cement truck and a backhoe, is a white portable trailer.

  I pull up to the lot in time to watch the Army guy, Howser, exit the van, don a bright orange safety vest with the words ‘Foreman’ on the back, and a yellow hardhat. He stops at the entrance to the work site, yells some orders to his big crew of thick-necked, empty-headed workers, and then makes his way to the office trailer.

  Careful to stay out of sight, I park my mom’s Volvo at a distance and settle in to do some reconnaissance.

  Five minutes in, two cars arrive.

  One’s a luxury towncar, pure black, shining with polish in the way that says the person driving it lives for the high life and loves showing it off. I’d bet anything there’s a powerful engine under the hood that’s just screaming for the tight-assed owner to open her up on the highway.

  The other car is a decades-old Toyota sedan. Boring white, badly in need of a wash, and lacking any kind of distinguishing characteristics in the way that screams the person behind the wheel is either poor or too sensible for their own good.

  Side by side, they pull up to the foreman’s trailer. I lose sight of them as they park, obscured by the big backhoe and the cement truck.

  I catch glimpses. Blurs. Impressions. Sliced views of each of the cars and their passengers. A man and woman, both in suits, get out of one car. Another man, also in a suit — though this one screams government wages — gets out of the other car.

  At this distance, I can’t hardly see shit. And what I can see? Well, that tells me that the people in these cars are just as in on what’s happening to my mom as that thug of a foreman.

  There’s no question, I need to get closer.

  I need to know who to kill for threatening my mother.

  The three newcomers shake hands with the foreman.

  I exit
the Volvo and shut the door, quietly. Keeping my head down, I circle the outskirts of the construction site.

  The construction site is a bustling hive of activity; the construction crew are all at the center of the job site, their heads down and their attention focused on the heavy machinery they’re operating. Machines whirr and scream and thunder and I sneak through the mass of concrete and steel without being seen.

  It isn’t in my nature to hide, but it is in my nature to kick ass, and I sneak to the backside of the foreman’s trailer, out of view of the construction yard. I get up close to a window and, through the sideways slats of his window shades, note the four unlucky souls that are about to be on the receiving end of the rounds in my Glock.

  There’s the foreman. Army washout, thick-necked waste of life, coward who gets off on threatening old women. He’s sitting at his desk, with blueprints out in front of him and the other three standing right over his shoulder. Two of them, the rich ones that I recognize as Anna Ebri and her too-slick father, Carl Ebri, are giving the foreman the third degree.

  Then there’s the other.

  Government suit. Unassuming posture. Slumped shoulders. Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else than in this trailer with the other three.

  But he’s here all the same.

  And I’d know his face anywhere.

  I still remember when he stood on the stage at Torreon High School’s graduation, looking so proud. While his daughter received the recognition as a valedictorian.

  Lorenzo Santos.

  Tiffany’s father.

  The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I step back from the window. Her dad is in on this? Her fucking dad? The father of the moralizing Saint Tiffany is in on some scam to kick my mother out of her home?

  My hand grips tight to my gun. In my head, I see myself breaking into the trailer and bringing my mother’s problems to an end with brutal finality — four pulls of the trigger, four dead bodies, in and out in less than thirty seconds. It’s nothing I haven’t done before, nothing I wouldn’t do again to protect my loved ones.

  But there’s something stopping me. Her. I don’t give a shit about Lorenzo Santos, but I sure as hell care about his daughter. And the promise I made to her to keep on my best behavior until this mess is over. Somehow, I don’t think she’d let me slide for murdering her father.

  Sighing, I shove my gun down the back of my pants and turn away from the trailer. At least now I have a better handle on how this whole situation and all the players involved.

  The only problem is, one of those players is the father of the only woman who’s ever made me give a damn about doing things the legal way.

  Son of a bitch is protected because he raised a daughter with a great ass, legs to die for, and a smile that makes me want to be a better man.

  I sneak back to the Volvo. I need to get back to Tiffany. We need to come up with a plan.

  I’m halfway there when a rough voice stops me short.

  “Hey you. Who the hell are you? You shouldn’t be here. Stop!”

  I turn. They’ve found me. And there’s a lot of them. Thick arms, thick necks, with rebar, crowbars, and hammers held in big gloved hands.

  I promised Tiffany I’d do things her way and stay out of trouble, but it looks like trouble’s found me.

  There’s only one way I’m leaving here.

  I reach for my gun.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tiffany

  With eyes that are icy cold, with a smile that burns with its frigidity, David looks at me like he’s won. And I wilt beneath that look.

  “What are you talking about?” Eleanor says. Her voice is a mix of confusion and frustration. A mother who once had hoped the best for her son, but has since grown used to consistent disappointment. “What are you saying about my son?”

  David stands. Looks down at the old woman who is hanging on his every word. In his mind, she’s someone I care about, and if he can hurt me by hurting her and ruining even further her relationship with her son, he’ll do it.

  “As an attorney, it’s my duty to advise you — a potential client — of any serious legal issues I see. Well, your son being a wanted felon is a colossal legal issue.”

  “David, you don’t need to do this,” I say. “I know you’re upset at me, but Eleanor’s problem has nothing to do with us. Let’s just get back on topic and behave like adults, OK?”

  Maybe somewhere beneath that icy exterior is a professional. Someone willing to listen to reason and put aside our petty differences to do the right thing and help an old woman on the verge of losing everything.

  If we just talk this out like rational adults, I’m certain we can get around our differences.

  “Like rational adults, huh? Were you behaving rationally when you ran off on me, Tiffany? When you shut me out and ignored me and threw away everything we had, all of your potential, to leave Stanford and go to some cut-rate school and work at some pathetic small-town bank?”

  I flinch. How can he be so heartless? How can he be so intent on hurting me and, even worse, hurting Eleanor? She’s done nothing to deserve this. There has to be some way to reason with him.

  “That’s not how it happened, David, and you know it,” I say. His glare frosts my skin, but I do my best to keep my back straight and meet his menacing gaze without wavering. “I realize you’re upset with how things ended between us, but it’s over now. It’s been over for a long time. Eleanor and I are here because you are a brilliant attorney and we need your professional help.”

  “Oh, you need professional help all right, Tiff,” he says, laughing.

  I clench my hands into fists. Remind myself to be rational, remind myself that I need to follow the same promise I got from Blaze — no fighting, no violence, no crime — despite the anger that rises in my throat. There has to be a way to settle this like adults.

  “Will you all just hold on for one second?” Eleanor says, raising her voice above the rising timbre of David’s verbal venom. “What is this you said about my son trying to rob a bank?”

  “Oh, I’d be happy to tell you all about your son, Mrs. Dunne,” David says. “All about his criminal record and all about the liability he is for you and any case you hope to have against Southwest Regional.”

  “Don’t listen to a word he says, Eleanor,” I say, speaking as loud as I can to drown out whatever David might say. “He’s just a jealous, vicious, petty little man. You know, when he wasn’t buried nose-first in legal books, his favorite authors were Ayn Rand and Dan Brown?”

  Eleanor’s eyes widen. “You’re serious?”

  “He thought The Da Vinci Code was a modern masterpiece. He has a signed first edition. Paid a ton for it on EBay, too.”

  “My God. Are you serious, Tiffany? And you trusted him enough to bring us here? How can anyone think that such horrid pap is good for anything except lining a gerbil’s cage? I thought my son said you were brilliant. Now, I’m starting to question that.”

  “She’s lying,” David says. “That wretched, hysterical bitch is lying.”

  My eyes flare.

  Be rational, my brain implores the angry words that are fighting to break free from mouth.

  Fuck this petty little man, my heart screams in reply.

  “What did you call me, David?” I snap.

  He sneers. “What you are: a frigid, pathetic bitch. And, Eleanor, what I’m telling you is the truth. Your son is a wanted—”

  I can’t let him finish his sentence. Don’t want to let him finish his sentence. I’m tired of his lies, his sneering malice. He won’t listen to reason.

  Fuck rationality. I’ve exhausted all my options; it’s time to solve things the way Blaze would. Maybe violence has its purpose and, if it puts some humility in David Archibald, all the better.

  “You shut your stupid fucking mouth, you heartless piece of shit,” I snap.

  He freezes. His mouth drops open wide and, when I snatch the steel-bladed letter opener off his desk and brandish it in f
ront of me, his eyes open wide enough that I can see the pathetic, hateful soul inside him.

  He’s not a man. Not really. Not even close. If he was, he wouldn’t be threatening me out of spite and I wouldn’t be brandishing a sharp object in his squint-eyed face.

  A real man would make me feel safe. Valued.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” He says.

  “I’m sick of your shit, David. Do you want to know why I left you? Because you are a soulless snake who never could have provided me the emotional support and companionship I needed. You’re just some status-obsessed, career-focused son of a bitch. And you were terrible in bed; your penis is really small and, for someone who uses his tongue all day as a lawyer, you never once made me come. You’re a pathetic piece of shit and I hate you.”

  I’m shaking with rage. And glee. And, deep inside, there is a small part of me hoping for him to escalate things and give me even more of a reason to let loose on his sorry ass.

  “You stupid cunt,” he starts.

  I shake my head and take a quick lunge toward him, the sharp letter opener held right in front of me and flashing in the daylight that shines through his big office windows.

  “Keep talking and I’ll cut your fucking balls off. Eleanor and I are leaving, and if you try any more of your shit, you will regret it.”

  “I’ll have you sent to jail for this,” he says, his voice shaking in impotent rage. “You know that, right? I will fuck your life up so bad, you’ll be begging me to take you back.”

  “Try it. I dare you. Because the second you do, I will have a dozen bikers here in a heartbeat and they will feed you your own dick in tiny little pieces.”

  His mouth nearly hits his shoes. His eyes bug in shocked fury. He is cowed, completely.

  And it feels good.

  I smile.