Free

by Kristen Ashley

  “He’s a cute little fuck,” she muttered.

  Tack decided to go back to silence hoping she’d get him, she’d know he’d heard her and got her, and this would be over.

  Naomi joined him.

  He was about to put an end to it when she spoke.

  “Only gonna spout this shit once, and I figure I’m doin’ it because I’m tripped out on drugs, so listen up, motherfucker,” she said to start. “I fucked up. You were right. We had everything. Then I blew it. Was so pissed you were right, I kept blowing it. But I learned. Boy, did I learn. Now I know. Happy?”

  “Not even a little bit,” he growled. “You are what you are and you’ve done what you’ve done, but we made two fuckin’ great kids and you’ll always be the woman who gave me that. So I don’t want you suffering. I absolutely do not want you beat to shit and violated. So right now, I’m not happy. But if you give our boy and girl something good, Naomi, I’ll be grateful. They miss you, even Tabitha. I hope you find it in you to put what happened behind you and earn your place back in their lives. I hope that like fuck, Naomi. For them and for you.”

  This time she said nothing.

  So he finished it.

  “But I reckon you’re tough as nails. Always have been, so no way a strong woman like you is gonna let a useless piece of shit like Chew best you. Make that not happen, Naomi. Heal and then find a good life.”

  With that, he hung up.

  She didn’t call back.

  Tack didn’t expect her to.

  So he put that out of his mind and kept walking across the forecourt to get to the Compound to see who was around to share a beer with while he waited for his wife to decide she was done with work.

  Beck

  One week after that . . .

  Beck tapped the fuck on his forehead with the end of the barrel of his gun.

  His eyes opened, and the man went still in his bed.

  If that was him, even with a gun in his face, the men standing at his back, the drug still coursing through his system, Beck would hope he’d at least go for his gun.

  Not that his gun was there.

  Man, Shaughnessy was something else.

  Honeytrap. Slip a little mickey.

  He didn’t even get to kiss her.

  But when the man started to get sloppy, Dryden moved in and got him into his hotel room.

  Muzzle was on the hotel security cameras. All through this they’d experienced a technical glitch.

  He had no clue Muzzle had that skill. But apparently, whereas most of the men worked as mechanics or HVAC techs or shit like that, and messed around with cars, bikes, or their trucks as a pastime, Muzzle had a garage full of wires and computer boards and tech and he fucked around with that.

  It sure as hell came in handy.

  Beck stared down at the man in bed.

  Shit, men got stupid for pussy.

  Only way to get smart was find a good woman to offer you her compass.

  “You underestimated us,” Beck told him.

  “Listen, I got money—”

  “Griller.”

  That was all he said before he pulled the trigger.

  The suppressor muffled the noise.

  The blood shot back into the pillow, not on Beck.

  Eightball snapped on gloves, moved in and took the fuck’s wrist.

  Only when he dropped it and nodded at Beck did Beck put away the gun.

  The only brothers not with them were Spiderweb, Spartan and Rainman because they had families.

  The job done, they didn’t hang around.

  They moved out.

  Time to grab a beer.

  They were in Florida. They’d take the night, soak in a little of the local flavor, then get home.

  Miami was a shit-hot place. Beck wished he could have brought Janna with him. But she was in cosmetology school. She couldn’t skip classes.

  And anyway, they were down there to assassinate someone.

  He’d bring her when she could let loose.

  Up next when they went home was gathering all they had left of club money and getting it to Mamá Nana.

  It had been worth every penny.

  Right.

  Now Sparkle was off the list.

  One more down.

  One to go.

  Then they could stitch on their patches.

  Rush

  One week later . . .

  “So there, I did it. Yes, I did it. And I don’t even care I shouldn’t do this because of why I did it,” Amy, sitting at Rebel’s kitchen table, announced before she shot her tequila.

  “I don’t know if I should say I’m proud of you that you filed for divorce and forced Paul to put your house on the market or not.” Rush, standing with his hips to her counter, his boots crossed at the ankle, arms on his chest, watched Rebel say as she sat opposite her friend and didn’t shoot her tequila, but instead studied Amy closely.

  Needless to say, Paul had not gotten his head out of his ass.

  Rush was unsurprised.

  Rebel was upset, but she was dealing.

  And apparently, Amy was dealing too.

  “Well, I’m proud of myself,” Amy declared. “Because I know my daughter. I know right now, if she hadn’t had what happened to her happen at that volleyball game, she’d be getting her PT degree. She’d be kicking PT degree butt. She’d be running 5K races and snowboarding and finding some guy who, okay, maybe he’d be older, but he’d treat her right and she wouldn’t stand for anything less.”

  “That’s the truth,” Rebel murmured.

  “And she wouldn’t expect anything less from her mother,” Amy went on. “So it’s a crutch. I’m leaning on that crutch. I’m going to think of how Diane would be, not what she became. It makes it easier. And that house of cards may fall, but I’ll deal with that if it happens. Now, it’s working. Now, I can move on. So I am.”

  “Good for you,” Rebel said, finally lifting her shot, tipping it to Amy, and drinking her tequila.

  “Okay, I can’t drink much ’cause I’m driving, so should we switch to wine?” Amy suggested when Rebel was done.

  Rebel started to get up.

  “Got it,” Rush muttered. “Red or white?”

  “White, Rush. Thanks,” Amy said.

  “Yeah, honey,” Rebel agreed.

  He got them their wine.

  Then he got the fuck out of there.

  But as he was walking out, he heard Amy whisper, “I like him, Rebel. At first he scared me a little. But the way he looks at you, you’re his world. I love that for you, doll. I really do. I just wish Diane had lived to see it.”

  This meant Rush was smiling when he hit her living room.

  Not a shock, Rebel was all about Christmas and the tall narrow tree in the corner of her living room screamed it. Stuffed full of bright decorations, you could barely see the needles. So many, there were some sticking out. Precisely little branches that had small, bright-colored pompoms at the ends.

  She had a huge wreath in the same theme on her door. Fluffy pompom garlands leading from foyer to living room through bathroom, bedroom, kitchen and back to the front door. Colored lights everywhere.

  On the other hand, Essence’s pad was decorated for what she called “Yule.”

  But it was a lot of the same shit. Just a boatload more of it.

  He snatched his phone from her coffee table that had three doves in different patterns of purples, reds, pinks, blues and oranges sitting on it. It also had a big box wrapped in silver paper and tied with a big silver ribbon that was not for Christmas, but for that weekend. Elvira’s wedding.

  He was supposed to wear a suit.

  That shit was not happening.

  He went to the bedroom and nabbed his headphones.

  He had no idea how long it was before he watched her come in from where he was on his back on her bed under her pompom garlands and Christmas lights and year-’round ornaments, his stocking feet up on the back of one of the chests that wedged in the bed.r />
  She just smiled at him as she collapsed on his chest and popped out one of his earphones, plugging in her ear.

  And then he watched the beauty of her face get even more beautiful when she heard what he was listening to.

  It was the song Hop was going to sing when she walked through the garden to him in six months.

  The wedding was hers. He’d give her whatever he wanted. He’d told her that.

  That song was the only thing he’d asked for.

  And although the words might not be what someone would want for the first day of the rest of their lives together, Rush had learned pretty much since he could cogitate with his dad as the example that every day was the first day of the rest of your life and you had to live it that way.

  But he wanted her to know, when it was all said and done, they would not live the time they had together as vampires.

  He was going to hold her hand.

  And give her every second he had to give.

  His Rebel had immediately agreed.

  When Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit ended “If We Were Vampires,” Rebel shoved her face in his neck and whispered, “I hope we have more than forty years.”

  He’d take forty minutes if Rebel was with him.

  “We will,” he whispered back.

  She snuggled closer.

  “Amy said goodbye,” she said.

  “Hope you said goodbye from me,” he replied.

  “I did.”

  He was sure she did.

  He then replayed the song.

  They didn’t get through it before her phone rang.

  She popped out her earbud, pulled the phone out of her back jeans’ pocket, looked at the screen, didn’t look at him, and because she didn’t, he knew what this was, so he turned his gaze to the ceiling and sighed.

  His Rebel, of course, took the call.

  “Hey, Naomi,” she greeted. “Unh-hunh. Unh-hunh.” Pause. Then, “Well, she has done this before. And she’s a nurse. So I’m pretty sure Tab’s taking her prenatal vitamins. But, uh, you know, you could just call her and ask.”

  Rush looked at his girl.

  She pressed her lips together, gave him big eyes, then unpressed her lips.

  “Unh-hunh. Okay. I’ll call her and ask. Are you still going to the group?”

  Within seconds, she sat up abruptly.

  Shit.

  “Naomi, we agreed you’d stick with that group,” she snapped. Paused to listen, then snapped on, “Okay, so during the sessions, all the rest of the women bitch about being raped. It’s a sexual assault support group. That’s supposed to happen. You’re supposed to be there for them and listen. And you are supposed to let your shit out.”

  Her eyes cut down to Rush and they were squinty.

  “Yes,” she bit out. “Misery loves company. That’s the point. You aren’t alone. They get you. For God’s sake, woman, let them get you.”

  Her eyes got squintier.

  Fuck.

  “That’s it, Naomi. I’m coming up next Wednesday and taking your ass myself.”

  Jesus.

  His Superwoman.

  “You don’t think I won’t track you down?” she threatened. “I’ll track you down, and if I have to sit on you to stay in that session, I fucking will. Am I understood?”

  She looked pissed another beat before her face cleared and she went on.

  “Cool. We’ll go out to dinner after. Rush can meet us. And I’ll ask Tab if she’s free to come.” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “Yeah. Mexican rocks. That’d be perfect. See you then. Later.”

  With that, she hung up, more than likely knowing that all that bullshit from his mother was to get to the end of it and what she really wanted.

  Rush coming up for dinner.

  And Tab coming too.

  But Rebel would do what she had to do to make beauty happen for the people she loved.

  Even taking on Naomi Allen.

  Doing that, giving him and his sister their mother.

  “I have to call Tab and make sure she’s taking her prenatal vitamins,” she declared.

  Rush stared at her a second.

  Then he busted out laughing.

  Doing it, he tossed his phone to the side, caught her in his arms and pulled her to him, rolling on top of her.

  “You can do it after we fuck,” he told her.

  “No. Naomi’s waiting for me to confirm Tabby’s doing something we all know Tabby’s doing. We can fuck after.”

  Rush sifted his fingers into her hair, using it to pull her to him and saying, “Baby, I think your watermark is fading. We gotta get on that.”

  She knew exactly what he was saying.

  Which was why she tossed her phone to the side and kissed him.

  Forty-five minutes later, her nail marks on his back and in the flesh of his ass, Rush hauled that ass to the bathroom to get a washcloth to clean her up.

  Half an hour later, holding her in his arms, his chill playlist Bluetoothed to her speaker playing low, she called his mother back and assured her that her daughter was taking her vitamins.

  After they talked for five minutes, she handed him her phone.

  And Rush talked with his mom for twenty.

  Valenzuela

  Two months later . . .

  Benito was not in a good mood.

  He’d selected Santa Fe because the cost of living was cheaper, and he wasn’t too far away, so he’d be ready to head right back up after he recouped his losses and strategized his reentry into Denver.

  But this city was a wasteland.

  He didn’t hike. He didn’t mountain bike. He didn’t ski. He had absolutely no interest in Native American markets, jazz festivals, river rafting, rodeos and folk art.

  Christ.

  Total wasteland.

  His plan had hit a snag almost immediately, considering Rodrigo got some muscle, and Benito had none. Before he’d even left Denver, Rodrigo had paid him a visit and strong-armed him into signing documents that gave up rights to all the films produced at Bang.

  So, Benito could understand that Rodrigo perhaps wasn’t thrilled with the low royalties he earned on his “creative endeavors.” It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made this known already. The man had complained about it bitterly over the years. It did Benito’s head in, and if he wasn’t so good at what he did and did it without taking too much time (unless he was bitching) or money, Benito would have had him shot.

  He still didn’t have to force Benito at gunpoint to sign away monies he needed to live his life as he preferred to live it and help finance his comeback.

  Rodrigo had not pushed the Luxe rights demanding claim to Tallulah’s films, mostly because Chaos had, so Benito didn’t have them to give.

  No.

  Not Tallulah’s.

  Rebel’s.

  He’d learned that from Rodrigo too.

  She was not Tallulah Monroe. She was Rebel Stapleton and she was Tack Allen’s son’s gash.

  The very thought made Benito feel nothing but frigid.

  So he had his list.

  Rodrigo first, as he’d be easy.

  Some unknown shooter had taken out Lannigan, so he didn’t have to bother with that.

  Though he could say he was delighted Chaos hadn’t gotten him. Tack Allen stood there and watched the man’s head explode and then . . . nothing. Every Chaos brother was riding hellbent to Tack so they all had alibis seeing as they arrived minutes after the cops came to the scene. And so far, the slaying had gone unsolved.

  It was small consolation Chaos did not get him, but Benito still relished it.

  Back to his list . . .

  Mamá Nana would be next, simply because she should learn to show more loyalty to her people.

  Then whoever that woman was who had come to his home and her two handsome toys. Benito had no idea where she came from, or who she was, but he suspected Mamá Nana knew and she’d certainly be moved to share before Benito was finished with her.

  After that, Daisy Sloan
because she’d been foolish enough to speak of what should not be spoken of, and regardless, even if Marcus was out of the game, the man could use being taken down a peg.

  And finally, Chaos.

  Starting with this Rebel.

  Fooled once more by a woman.

  Never again.

  Which meant the only sex he fucked (or rather, let fuck him) was male.

  He let himself in his apartment with his groceries, very much looking forward to the day when he could again afford a man to see to these menial chores for him. Including cooking. And cleaning. Benito detested cleaning. But he liked his space to be just so. So he did it.

  It would be good when he was back.

  In a number of ways.

  But at least he’d found a nice place. His liquidation had gone well, considering the real estate market in Denver and the wisdom of his investments. So it was fake adobe and even had those ridiculous beams in the ceilings. It had a good view, lots of light, quiet neighbors, a great deal of space, a fabulous pool area and he’d selected exceptional furnishings.

  He entered, flipped on the lights and stopped dead.

  This was because the place was devoid of anything, not a painting on a wall, not a stick of furniture.

  Except one of his handsome armchairs had been left.

  And in it a man was lounging, wearing jeans, a leather jacket, his dark hair overlong and tousled, his features striking barring the scar that ran along his left cheek, which only served to make him look more interesting. And even from across the room, Benito could see the fullness and length of his eyelashes.

  In other circumstances, Benito would be looking at him for different purposes.

  In this circumstance, Benito did nothing but stare.

  The man had a leg slung over one arm of the chair, his other leg with its motorcycle boot on his foot resting negligently on the floor, his back to the opposite arm of the chair.

  He lounged there like he owned that chair, that apartment, the whole luxury complex.

  Benito had never seen this man in his life.

  He still knew who he was.

  The Bounty brother who got his face sliced because his club had been foolhardy enough (though perfectly right, in Benito’s mind) to teach a Chaos woman an important lesson.

  “We got your shit,” his deep voice came at Benito. “We got your safe.”