Jane took another swig of moonshine and hiccupped.
Byron chuckled. “Good Lord, you’re three sheets to the wind.”
“Nope, I’m mostly sober.” Jane scrambled into a sitting position, mostly to prove she could still move. The room was dancing the cha cha around her, but she managed to stay upright.
“Yeah, tell me another one.” He watched her carefully. “Even though you can sympathize with criminals, I still rub you the wrong way. Why?”
She couldn’t deny it—Jane found his cavalier attitude about the law exasperating.
“Most people, like my mother, get caught up in the legal system on accident. They make bad choices, or they don’t have access to good opportunities. Sometimes drugs and poverty play a role. There are dozens of reasons, but you chose this life.”
For a long moment, he watched her with sad eyes.
“Naw, darlin’, it chose me. You think anyone in their right mind would pick this life?”
Jane hadn’t thought about it from his perspective. Sure, she’d done her homework but didn’t consider what it must’ve been like to be born into his family.
When she’d taken Byron on as a client, Jane had researched Byron, his family, and his crew. She’d pored through everything she could get her hands on—press clippings, his father’s arrest records, as well as Buckley’s criminal trial transcripts.
Jane hated being surprised in court and defended her acquittal numbers zealously. A career criminal like Byron would deliberately leave things out when she spoke to him—things which could be used against him in court.
“I was born into this family, and as the eldest, I had to live up to expectations. My daddy was a thug, and so was his, and on up the line. I guess you could say it’s my birthright and my curse.”
Byron had probably grown up thinking the mafia was normal.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think….”
“I know.” He held up a hand. “It’s okay.”
“Thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But why are you helping me?” She couldn’t figure it out. He stood to gain nothing.
“Even the devil does a good deed now and then. And maybe I need to make up for all the wicked I’ve done in this life.”
“Do you think so?” Jane wasn’t sure if she believed in any sort of afterlife. Religion hadn’t been part of her upbringing, but Jed had taught her to do good works.“I’m not so moral myself.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“I betrayed my client. Sure, I didn’t tell you anything, but I’m actively working against him. By my profession’s standards, I’m a terrible defense attorney.”
“Maybe, but you’re a good person, if my assessment of your character means anythin’.”
“You can’t be all bad.”
“I’m worse than you think.” He said it flatly.
“I should be disbarred, or at the very least sanctioned. Maybe even thrown in jail.”
“Save me a cell, darlin’. Although somethin’ tells me you’d be goin’ to one of those white collar minimum security places.”
He was probably right, assuming Valentine didn’t “punish” her.
“Do you think we’ll make it out of this mess alive?”
“I know we will.” Byron seemed so confident, it almost made her feel better.
“And are you lying?”
He placed her palm on his chest so she could feel his heartbeat. Byron felt warm and solid, real.
“As God is my witness, I’m your knight in tarnished armor, and I’m gonna get you out of this alive.” His gaze held hers. “You believe me?”
“I don’t know why, but I do.”
Chapter Ten
I’ve got the whistle belly thumps and skull cramps.
The next morning, Byron felt like shit. After he and Jane had gotten drunker than a pair of skunks last night, he’d woken up with a raging headache, which made the road trip to True Love sheer torture.
They were seated in his Escalade. She hadn’t said much on the drive over. After he’d vowed to keep her alive, he’d bid her goodnight because he’d gotten a bit farther with Jane, and he hadn’t wanted to press his luck.
Byron normally had a thing for small towns, but True Love annoyed him. He’d grown up in Hell, did a lot of business in Crimson Creek. This town reminded Byron of the Andy Griffith Show—it was a real life version of Mayberry.
Well, not quite.
Maybe if the Andy Griffith Show had a down and dirty affair with the Love Boat, their offspring would be True Love, Texas. The town got its start as a tourist destination in the fifties, and it was popular with couples looking to do a wedding on the cheap.
Old brick buildings surrounded the town square, which enclosed a heart-shaped community garden filled with all red flowers. The local businesses had a love and hearts theme—Cupid Café, The Love Nest Motel, Tough Love Gym, and the Bless Your Heart Chapel, to name a few. Even the tile sidewalks had the occasional heart-shaped one thrown in.
Basically, Cupid threw up all over the place.
“Before we do anythin’ else, we gotta check in at the Love Letter.”
“The Love Letter?”
“It’s the name of the local paper.” He searched for an empty parking space, mindful of the traffic.
“Are you serious?”
“About which? The name or the paper?”
“Both, really. I thought most local papers went out of business.”
“Yeah, well, a lot about this town is backward.”
“And they named it The Love Letter?” Her lips twisted like she’d gotten a taste of something nasty.
“Believe me, I know. They take their local identity real serious. I can’t even imagine what news they report. The bake sale on Sunday? Maybe the school spelling bee winners? There’s probably a hot off the presses story about a kitten up a tree or some such.”
“This from the man who lives in Hell.” She shook her head.
“Hey, now! At least the name Hell and the themed businesses got some swagger and class. True Love sounds so….”
“Mushy?”
“Yeah, that’s a good term for it.” Byron pulled up outside the newspaper. The front of the big building had a newsprint sign with the name scrawled on the front. The “V” in love had been replaced with a heart.
Dear sweet Lord.
“Now, we’re in my world, darlin’. I can’t walk into another group’s territory without announcin’ myself unless you’d like more trouble.”
“Which group are we talking about?”
“The Broken Hearts Motorcycle Club. They run this town, and we got a history.” Over the years, he’d racked up some bad blood.
“Meaning they don’t like you.”
“Yeah, well, they gotta stand in line. I’ve been makin’ friends all over the place.” They got out, and Byron grabbed his Glock, before buttoning his jacket.
Time for a show.
Jane focused on the unsightly bulge beneath his coat. “And what do you intend to do when we get in there? Because I won’t be an accessory to murder, and I will testify against you.”
“Easy there.” Damn, he loved her pluck. “I’m gonna say howdy and let the folks know I mean no harm.”
“You normally use your gun as a greeting?”
“You’d be surprised.”
Her face was pinched. “Byron....”
“I find it makes an impression. If you go in hard and strong, folks won’t mess with you. Enough talk, let’s do this. Stand directly behind me, we’re goin’ in.”
Byron pushed open the front door. A man in his late twenties stood behind the counter. He had wheat-colored hair combed into a pompadour and wore a pair of Mad Men horn-rimmed glasses along with a brown herringbone suit.
A hipster. Of course one of those pretentious dicks would be running this monstrosity. Good suit, though.
“I’m Byron Beauregard. Pleased to meet ya.” Jane stood b
ehind him, tapping her foot on the floor impatiently.
“Beauregard. The Byron Beauregard?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yeah, I’ve seen your picture before. You’re in the gossip rags all the time.”
“I know.” Byron swaggered further into the room.
Byron had wined and dined a passel of women over the years. No one special, of course, because he had a tendency to lose interest fast, but all of them had been entertaining. Every now and then his picture made the paper as he showed up at the opening of a new club or a restaurant in Dallas with a pretty thing on his arm.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Skeeter.”
Byron peeled back the jacket the slightest bit, to show his piece.
Skeeter gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles going white. “What the shizzle are you doin’ with a gun?”
“Whatcha think?”
“Shootin’ people?” He lifted quivering hands over his head.
“Whatever you do, don’t piss yourself. Ain’t got the stomach for bodily fluids this mornin’. Where’s your boss?” Byron scanned the room but didn’t see hide nor hair of the president.
“Ain’t here.” His lips trembled a bit. “Rooster’s on vacation.”
Aw, hell.
Byron had dealings with the president before, back when he was looking for a new biker gang to be the Dixie Mafia’s errand boys. The Four Horsemen had ultimately been recruited, but he’d made a preliminary deal with the Broken Hearts which had fallen through—though he suspected the bikers were happy it hadn’t worked out. They weren’t quite as delusional as the Four Horsemen, but they had a code of sorts and found the Dixie Mafia distasteful.
“Fair enough. And the second in command?”
“I’ll text him.” Still shaking, Skeeter pulled out a cell phone and tapped on the keyboard.
“Look, Hairdo, my date and I are in town for a romantic getaway.”
Jane had a sudden coughing fit.
Skeeter stood as still as a statue with wide eyes and a pale face.
“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Byron said. “If I were here on business, you’d be riddled with bullet holes already, so bring it down a notch.”
Jane kept fiddling with her briefcase. Like the coughing spell, it was probably a nervous tick. He’d have to work with her body language or she’d give them away.
“Okay, cool.” Skeeter’s head bobbed up and down. “And for the record, I ain’t a prospect or nothin’. Just a citizen runnin’ a paper, though I hang around the club.”
“Duly noted.” Byron doubted Skeeter had the outlaw temperament necessary for this gig.
“Date you said? What a scoop.”
Byron didn’t want Jane to get caught up in his sordid dating life. He had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the added scrutiny, and it’d probably damage her career. While her bosses defended criminals, he doubted they’d want their lawyers openly dating them.
“How’d you snag him?” Skeeter asked Jane as he pulled out a notepad. At least snapping the man into reporter mode had dialed down the fear.
I might be piss-free today.
Jane surprised him by laughing. “Believe me, it was easier than you think. But on the record? No comment.”
“Damn.” Skeeter dropped the pen.
“We ain’t here for an interview anyhow. When’s the VP comin’?”
“Scorch owns the saloon down the street. Should only be a couple of minutes.”
Byron hadn’t met the man, though he’d heard the name before. What was it with bikers and aliases? Why couldn’t they have regular names like everyone else? Then again, it also escaped him why anyone would want to barrel down the highway on a crotch rocket. Byron loved the comfort of his leather-seated SUV.
Minutes later, a tall, broad-shouldered biker with spiked black hair strutted in the door. The brown-eyed man wore a pair of jeans and a red muscle shirt, beneath a black leather vest. He had a VP patch on the front pocket. A tribal tattoo trailed down his right arm, and he had an eyebrow ring. Byron glimpsed a reddish pink scar down the length of his neck, which extended beneath his shirt.
A burn scar? Scorch, indeed.
Apparently, he’d lost what looked like a painful battle against the flames. Although Byron doubted the man had once been as handsome as himself.
And then the bastard pulled a sawed-off shotgun from behind his back.
Byron automatically pulled his weapon.
“Fuck nuggets!” Skeeter hit the floor behind the counter. “I said he came in peace, bro. No need for this to get heavy.”
“Take it easy.” Jane gasped and backed up against the wall. “Let’s not have any felonies today.”
“Hello to you too.”
Byron wasn’t a bit afraid. Wouldn’t be the first or last time someone pulled on him. He chuckled like he didn’t have a care in the world, even as he placed himself between the biker and Jane. A shotgun was all about showing off, and he doubted the biker would have the balls to pull the trigger in broad daylight in front of witnesses.
“What’s the matter, pet, you scared?” Scorch glanced past Byron to look Jane up and down. He had a cockney British accent. Byron idly wondered how a Brit ended up in the ass end of Texas, but it wasn’t his business.
“The lady’s fine.” Byron turned his body, completely blocking the man’s view. “Deal with me.”
“I’d much rather deal with her.” Scorch leered at Jane again.
“See? I came in here as a courtesy, but you’re makin’ my trigger finger twitchy. Look at her again, and we’re gonna have a problem.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Jane grumbled. “Is this a macho thing? I don’t care who has a larger penis. No one needs to get shot today.”
“Trust me, darlin’, mine is.” Byron cocked the gun. “Are we gonna talk or do you wanna finish this the hard way?”
A long, tense moment passed. They locked eyes, assessed the threat level, and then slowly nodded.
Game, set, match.
In unison, they lowered their weapons.
Skeeter stood up behind the desk, and the harsh scent of ammonia drifted over.
The fool done peed himself. Terrific.
“Skeeter, open the fuckin’ window. And what the hell are you doin’ here, mate?” Scorch asked Byron.
“Just here for the weekend. It’s Dearest Day, and my lady friend and I were lookin’ to spend some quality time alone.”
Dearest Day was a Texas tradition, sort of a low-rent, regional Valentine’s Day created to bilk more cash out of sorry suckers in relationships. Byron had never had the misfortune to be in one of those, but he’d seen others in the outfit pony up the cash from time to time.
He narrowed his eyes. “Nothin’ else?”
“We’re doing research.” Jane stood beside Byron, and he resisted the urge to wrap a proprietary arm around her.
“Research on what, pet?”
Scorch was taken with his lady lawyer, which pissed Byron the hell off.
“Um…,” Jane hesitated, and Byron wondered if she’d blow their cover.
“On murders. Have there been any in town? I’m only interested in the ones where the victims were young women.”
Scorch and Skeeter exchanged a look Byron didn’t quite understand, as though they shared some secret.
“Right, so we’re mixin’ business with pleasure.” Byron looped an arm around her waist, and she flinched at first, but then loosened up.
“That’s what I meant.” Jane smiled, big and bright. “Have there been any drownings?”
The men still gawked as if he and Jane were interesting zoo exhibits.
“What sort of business are you in, ma’am?” Skeeter asked.
“Answer the question.” She opened her briefcase and withdrew a yellow legal pad. “I need details so leave nothing out.”
“Tourists, huh?” Scorch turned to Skeeter, and they shrugged. “Whatcha gonna do with ’em?”
“You a gothic girl or someth
in’?” Skeeter scratched his chin. “’Cuz you ain’t dressed as such.”
Scorch moseyed over to the door and then turned to face Byron. “I’m keepin’ an eye on you while you’re town.”
“Like I told you, I ain’t here to cause trouble.”
“Gotta see it before I believe it. If you try anythin’, we’ll finish this the bloody way.” And then the dickhead blew a kiss to Jane before he strutted out of the place.
His jaw clenched. If Byron had been in town on business, he would’ve given the biker a lesson in respect he’d never forget.
“There’s the Spellman case,” Skeeter said. “It’s become a local legend.”
“Tell me about it.” Jane scribbled away on the pad of paper.
“Betsy Spellman was murdered on the Valentine estate.”
Jane perked up. “Valentine Estate?”
“Yeah, real bigwigs in these parts. Moved to Texas from Indiana in the late nineties. Made their money in real estate. Anyway, Betsy was murdered on their property. Her body was found by their private lake.”
“Did the girl drown?” Byron asked.
“Yeah, but the killer sliced her open too.” He shook his head. “Gives me the creeps even thinkin’ about it.”
“How long ago did it happen?” Jane asked.
“Around ten years? I was still in high school at the time. You should talk to the county coroner, Doc Wilkins, if you want the inside scoop. She handled the body and could give you more, uh…details.”
“Appreciate the info.” Byron rubbed his hands together. “What kind of accommodations have you got in town? I suppose a Hilton is too much to ask for.” A life of privilege had given him certain expectations.
“You can get a room at the Love Nest, if there’s one left.”
“What, Heartbreak Hotel was already taken?” It was a bit on the nose for Byron.
“No, Romeo runs it, and he ain’t an Elvis fan.”
Romeo? Fantastic. Byron had a history with him too. “Let me guess, his wife, Juliet, works there too.”
“Naw, his sister’s name is Juliet, and she’s the co-owner.”
“That ain’t right.” Siblings named after lovers made Byron a mite queasy.
“Tell me about it.” Skeeter pulled out a map and circled a building with a black Sharpie. “It’s the next street over. Turn at the Aphrodite statue and make the first left on Lover’s Lane. The coroner works at Sacred Heart Hospital—the morgue’s in the basement.” He circled it as well and handed the map to Jane.
Blood in the Water (Dixie Mafia Series Book 2) Page 12
