“What the fuck you doing here?” he asks, without any welcome in his voice. Shock colors his cheeks, bringing a grin to my face.
“You said we would not be disturbed here,” Thomas Taylor barks his displeasure at Dad, whose face turns a darker shade of red. Rising to his feet, his chair screeches as it slides across the tiled floor. “I assume that you’re capable of dealing with this?”
He tips his head toward me. I thought I was arrogant but this asshole makes me look humble. My gut twists when I take in his resemblance to Brendan. The dark, wavy hair, the rangy frame, and the permanent sneer is almost too much to handle. Knowing what his son was capable of makes me sick; knowing the depths this prick has stooped to in order to cover for him is enough to turn even the strongest of stomachs.
I’ve done plenty of shit in my life that I’m not proud of, shit that could easily be labelled devious and immoral, but the evil that surrounds the Taylor family puts me to shame with ease. They make me look like a choir boy.
“Don’t rush off on my account,” I quip, forcing a nonchalant smile. Taking a seat on the opposite side of the table to Dad, directly next to Thomas, I take my time making myself comfortable. “Didn’t dear old dad tell you that I’m the vital cog in this plan?”
Unblinking piercing brown eyes meet mine, and it takes all I have not to bitch slap the smug superiority off his face. Determined not to lose this staring contest, I wait him out. Heart pounding in my chest, ignoring the feeling of Dad’s gaze as it burns a path over me, I pray like hell that he’ll sit his ass back down. My hope fades, the longer he stays standing, until it’s almost died. I’m trying to come up with a plan B when he pulls his seat to him and sits back in his original position.
“So what’s the latest?” I address Dad. He’s gawking at me like an idiot, seeming nothing like his usual indomitable self, and I take the time to really look at him. I haven’t a fucking clue when he got so old, but he’s looking his age now. Grey hair at his temples, deep lines around his eyes and mouth, and he smells like a bloody brewery. Guess Timber’s right and he’s been drinking himself stupid since he was thrown out of the Shamrocks.
His scrutiny drops to the cut I’m wearing, pausing on the barren spot on the left side of my chest. The leather is shinier than the rest because, until recently, it was covered by his President’s patch. It was a last second decision to put it on when I dropped Lacey at my house after our return from the Mavericks. I can’t wear it in my role as a spy, but I felt it would add weight to my dropping in unannounced on this meeting tonight.
I watch his wide throat work as he swallows. He seems unsure, sounding a shadow of himself when he answers me. “The latest...well that’d depend of how fucking far along you are with what I’ve told you to do?”
Slumping back in my chair, I hope like fuck that he’s far enough out of the Shamrocks loop that he doesn’t know I’m lying. “I’m on track. Prospecting like you asked and working on showing everyone how useless Mad Dog and Timber are.”
I laugh, with feigned disdain, “Not that showing them up is too hard. Everything’s gone to shit since you were outed.”
Ego is the downfall of most men. My father proves no different. His previous unease evaporates, and the bull-headed man I’ve always known comes to life.
“That was bound to fucking happen. That club is mine; I am that club—”
“Can you save your posturing until after we’re done here?” Thomas cuts in. “I have a state to run, in addition to making sure you help keep the riff-raff from your former club locked up where it should be.”
Fuck. Every single iota of my being wants to slam his head into the table in front of us, but I can’t. Paste a smile on your dial. Paste a smile on your dial. I repeat to myself, over and over. I’m so close to ending this I can taste it. The volcanic, hair-triggered temper that I inherited from the man sitting opposite me needs to stay buried until the appropriate time.
“I’d assume that’s your department being Police Commissioner?” I ask. I keep my tone strong, borderline insulting, even as I worry that this is going to backfire. “Why’re you giving us shit about the one thing you’re in charge of here?”
Bluffing. It’s something any addict worth his salt learns as a matter of survival. I’m going to need every skill I have to bluff my way through this meeting...and then some.
“I see the apple didn’t fall far from the tree with this one,” Thomas quips, shaking his head in a show of dismay.
“The fucking same could be said for you and your rapist son. Well, I’m guessing it could be,” I wave my hand at his hips. “If you’re not too old to get it up nowadays.”
I’m goading him, hoping he’ll lose his temper and start spitting out some cold hard truths. Having heard stories about him and his treatment of the Mavericks hookers, I figure this’ll get him going.
Reaching across the table, he jabs the lapel that holds my Black Shamrocks MC patch. “You might think that this makes you invincible, but it doesn’t. I hold the power here and the only reason I’m working with you is because we have a common enemy at the moment.”
Shifting in my seat, I angle my body closer to him. Out the corner of my eye, I see Dad sitting straighter in his chair, his hands tightening into fists where he rests them next to his half-finished beer on the table top.
“The enemy of an enemy is my friend is how you should look at this situation. My desire for revenge for my son’s murder overrides my wish to take down the Shamrocks. At. This. Moment.” He stresses each word, making it clear that once this is over, all bets are off.
“Once you’ve destroyed them from the inside,” he points at me. “And I’ve arranged the guilty verdict needed to keep the man responsible for my son’s death in prison, you’ll have your club back so you can both go back to being law-breaking hooligans. And I’ll be doing my damnedest to find a way to take you down.”
He stands, palms on the table and stares down at me and Dad.
“That’s how it should be. How it will be. I won’t need to slum with the likes of the Shamrocks and the Mavericks, or skinny sluts who are getting too big for their boots. My son’s death will be avenged and I can move on with my life.”
“You realize Mad Dog’s innocent?” I have to ask the question; my curiosity’s too much to handle any longer.
In front of me is a madman. He’s lost the fucking plot if he thinks that he has enough political clout to send Mad Dog to jail without evidence. He may have new laws in place to assist him and he might have the ear of the judge, but they have no actual evidence. I was the idiot who lost the body and the gun; both of which have since been found and disposed of correctly, so I’m in the best position to know this.
There’s nothing left. At all.
Thomas throws his head back and roars with laughter. Shaking my head in Dad’s direction, my gut drops like it’s going over the edge of a rollercoaster when he returns my look of disbelief with shame in his expression.
“Innocent?” Thomas asks, his skepticism clear to hear. “He’s hardly innocent. If he had kept his hands to himself, my son would never have needed to teach your twin a lesson in respect and loyalty. If he hadn’t interfered, my son would never have been sent to prison and my career affected by the never-ending rumors. If he had left your weak-willed sister alone, she would never have had the fortitude to shoot my son dead. How’s that for innocent? He’s to blame for all of this.”
“You’re insane,” I comment before I can stop myself. The delusions are strong in this cockhead. “You don’t even know if Brendan’s dead.”
“The blood-stained T-shirt your father gave me begs to differ.”
And there it is. The smoking gun we’ve been looking for. We all forgot about the T-shirt that the Mavericks had delivered to Dad’s house as a warning that they knew about Brendan’s murder and where the body was stashed.
This is the reason he’s so sure that he can keep an innocent man locked up.
“But—”
&nb
sp; “Enough of this,” the crazy fuck cuts me off. “You will make sure everything runs smoothly until the trial.”
He points at Dad when he says this, then turns to me, his expression hostile.
“You will continue doing what you’re instructed or Beast will make sure your secret comes to light in the most painful way possible.”
My top lip curls, making my nose scrunch with distaste and anger. My temper is one blatant jab away from igniting. He smirks, happy that I appear to know my place.
“And, I’ll ensure that the t-shirt stays safely hidden until the morning of the trial. It’s the gift that keeps on giving. The perfect surprise for the Shamrocks, who think their expensive lawyers stand a chance.”
Without a further word, he pushes his chair until it’s tucked precisely under the dining table. Buttoning his suit jacket, he wipes his hands down the front of his pants as if he’s trying to remove invisible dirt from them, before making his way out of the front door.
The door slams shut, breaking the silence that’s fallen since Thomas’s outburst.
“I take it that you’re here to throw a giant fucking spanner in the works,” Dad sounds resigned. Draining the last of his beer, he slams it on the table top and stares at me with one black eyebrow raised. “Didn’t take you long to find a way to fuck me over. You always looked up to Mad Dog more than me.”
I shrug, unimpressed with his guilt trip. He’s right; I just lost sight of that fact. Too busy getting fucked up to take stock of what I was losing.
“And you do it wearing my old cut. If I still gave a fuck, that might hurt.”
“If I thought you gave a fuck; I might worry about what I’m about to bring down on your fucking head. But we both know you gave up years ago. We lost you when Mom died. You might’ve put on a good front but me and you both know the truth. You threw yourself into the Shamrocks because us kids were too much like her. The Club made you happy while we made you sad. Maddi and the boys don’t agree because they’re blind to your shit, but you couldn’t fool me. She’d hate you for what you’ve done; for what you’re doing. I wish you’d died instead of her. There’s no way in hell, she would’ve put us through this.”
With those final words, I push to my feet and slide his cut from my shoulders. Throwing it on the table in front of him, I turn my back on my father and walk away.
I’m done with him.
If I end up a Shamrock, it’ll be on my own terms, and without his tainted, blood-soaked cut on my back.
I won’t utter another word to him for as long as he lives—however long that may be once the Shamrocks discover what he tried to do to regain control of the Club. I don’t care if he tells everyone that I hid Connor and Sherri when they turned rat. My need for a clean slate—a life with Lacey built on truth, not lies—overrides my need to keep my biggest sin hidden.
If I lose everything over that fuck-up, so be it. At least, I won’t be beholden to him any longer.
I’ll be free.
With that thought in mind, I pat my mobile where it sits, active and recording, inside the top pocket of my shirt and walk as fast as I can, for the front door of this house of fucking horrors.
It’s time to set the beginning of the end into motion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LACEY
Present Day
Wandering around Benji’s house, I move from the living areas to his bedroom and back. I can’t “sit tight” like he asked, I’m going to lose my mind with worry if he doesn’t get back here soon.
I rub the inside of my thigh, right on my femoral artery. My entire body is amped, looking for the rush I’d normally feed it as a way to cope with the stress I’m feeling. Pinching the webbing between my thumb and index finger, I count backward from one-hundred, concentrating on keeping my breathing even and regular.
If I had any sense of self-preservation, I’d be spending this time coming up with a cover story for this afternoon, not struggling with cravings. Cravings that are getting more intense every day.
When Cam asked me to come with him, I knew what he wanted straightaway.
Money. And lots of it.
Benji doesn’t know, and he’ll kill me if he ever finds out, but I didn’t turn down the Mavericks offer to sell ice at my university. I grabbed the opportunity with both hands, and then decided, using the infinite wisdom of an addict, to cut the product and skim money off the top. My absence for the last few months has given the Mavericks an opportunity to expand a new dealer into what was once “my turf”, and they’ve discovered what I was doing.
Cam wants his money back...with interest.
I have two weeks before he forcibly puts me to work for the Mavericks in order to pay off my debt.
Fourteen thousand dollars in fourteen days. My predicament rolls round and round in my head, feeling as if it’s ricocheting off my skull. Pain explodes behind my right eye and I lose count. The need for a hit deepens, hitting me right in the stomach, and I bend at the waist, coming to rest with my hand on my thighs. I try to breathe through it, but the pain has become too much.
I need a hit.
Now.
Running to Benji’s bedroom, I skid to a stop at the end of his bed. He hid the brick we picked up today in here. I know he did, even though he went to great pains to do it without letting me know where. Despite his precautions, I bet he never expected that I’d be searching his house looking for it so I can snort enough to take the edge off my need. The product Benji deals isn’t suitable for shooting up, which is the only reason I’m looking at snorting it. It won’t have the same effect, but it’ll alleviate my craving.
“Argh!” I scream as I take in all of the potential hiding places.
I thought I was over this.
I thought I’d be able to handle my addiction from now on.
I thought I’d be strong enough to support Benji, instead I stumble at the first real hurdle.
Thinking back to the sounds I heard when he was in here rummaging around, I remember the sound of the door to his built-in-robe slamming shut. Like a gazelle, I’m light on my feet, almost dancing, as I make my way to the robe and slide open the door. The top shelf seems the most likely candidate so using the shelves as steps, I climb to the top and swipe my hand along the flat surface, feeling the items stored up there to see if they’re what I’m looking for.
Score. My hand hits a hard, rectangular package at the far end of the shelf.
Pulling myself higher, I slide it to the front and then knock it onto the floor. My heart leaps into my throat when I look at the package. Relief—a dirty, great helping of relief—hits me and I jump off the shelf, pick up the brick, and run into the kitchen.
Grabbing a dirty steak knife from the sink, I cut open the brown paper covering it, and scoop enough crystal meth onto the end of the knife to get me high. Looking at the light brown powder, my stomach churns with a combination of need and apprehension. My common sense tells me that I’m at a crossroads, and the decision I make now is going to set the tone for my recovery.
Staring at the loaded end of the knife, I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and bite it. Tears well in my eyes and my nose tickles. I want to get high so bad. Everything will feel better and I’ll have somewhere to hide from my fears.
I can forget about Cam’s ultimatum.
I can forget that Benji’s out there risking his life to atone for our sins.
I can forget that, even though he hasn’t said the words yet, he loves me enough that if I do this—if I start using again—he’s going to give up on his efforts to get better and follow me back into the darkness.
The knife leaves my hand, landing in the kitchen sink and sending the powder flying off the pointed end, before I realize that I’ve thrown it. Decision made, an overwhelming need to get out of this house assails me. There’s too many memories here, too many reminders of the bullet I just dodged. The craving is too fresh; simply hiding at the moment, waiting like a stalking lion ready to strike the second I let my guar
d down.
Gathering my handbag and my coat, I run through the front door. Slamming it behind me, the finality in the sound scares me, and I know that I’ll never be able to set foot inside again.
Home. I need to go home.
Not to the house I shared with Connor, but to my parent’s. The only place where I have good memories left since it’s the only familiar environment I haven’t sullied with my addiction.
Crossing myself, I sprint to my car. Jabbing the key into the ignition with shaky hands, it takes me a moment to start the engine. I shift the gear lever into drive, and speed away from Benji’s house and the demons that are chasing me as fast as I can.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BENJI
Present Day
“Yoo hoo,” a familiar voice calls out as my hand meets the handle of the door that’ll let me escape from this house and my silently seething father. I rip the door open, and stepping onto the front porch I come face to face with the stuff of nightmares. Or dreams, depending on which way I want to look at this quirk of fate.
“Benji,” Sherri purrs at me. Bitch must think I’ve missed her because she takes a step closer to me and wraps her arms around my waist. “Good grief, you still feel like sex on a stick.”
Grabbing the dumb bitch by her bony shoulders, I push her away from me. Her face drops, and she pretends that I’ve just hurt her feelings.
“That’s not how you say hello to an old friend.”
Shaking my head in disbelief at her bullshit act, I shoot her down. “We were never friends. You were a hole for me to jam my cock into when I was too high to care where I stuck it.”
The true Sherri raises its ugly head, and she bares her teeth at me in a nasty version of a smile. “Excuses. Excuses. You say that now. Didn’t stop you nailing my ass three or four times a day when we were hiding in your house.”
Running a finger down my chest, she slides it inside my jeans and pops the top button. I seize hold of her hand before she opens the zipper, and squeeze her wrist until she bends her knees from the pain.
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