Stay A Little Longer (Kadia Club Nights Book 2)

by Nicole York

  Margaret looked back and forth between her daughter and her husband. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Information is crucial. Do you have a better idea of what your first steps are going to be?”

  Cameron grimaced. “It was informative in the sense that I was reminded that I have no idea what I’m doing. That and the women were not very nice to me. I think I’m too much of an outsider for them to trust enough to have an open conversation with.”

  “It makes sense that they would be critical,” her father said.

  “I just want to help,” Cameron said.

  “People with good intentions create issues for others all the time,” Wayne said patiently. “You are asking strangers to put a lot of trust in you. Strangers who, I might add, have good reason not to trust others. You’re going to have to prove yourself, Cameron.”

  “Recalibrate.” Cameron sighed.

  Wayne smiled while he chewed and nodded.

  “I don’t like that these women were mean to you, sweetheart,” Margaret said. “Are you sure this is the right pursuit? Perhaps these people don’t want your help.”

  Cameron shook her head. “It doesn’t matter if they want it or not. They need it and I can give it to them. Besides, I’m willing to put in the work to prove to them that I mean business and that I will follow through. If people have let them down time after time, I want to be the one who doesn’t. I want to be the one they can trust and come to. I want to make a difference in their lives.”

  Wayne had taught his daughter well. He believed that real, necessary, ethical work was not easy work. He also believed it was the only work worth doing and so did Cameron. Of course, having an obscenely full bank account made that much easier. Of that, the youngest White-family member was well aware.

  “So what was the soup kitchen like?” Margaret asked.

  “It was cold,” Cameron said. “Not temperature-wise. Just feeling-wise. There were so many people there but it still felt so isolating and lonely. People didn’t sit and talk to each other. They just… I don’t know. They did their best not to make eye contact and it was like they were afraid someone was going to come and steal their food away right from under them. It wasn’t a nice-feeling place. That’s for sure. The resources and money aren’t there to make it anything other than what it is.”

  “And what is it?” Margaret pressed.

  “The bare minimum,” Cameron said.

  That pretty much summed it up. Those people were getting by with the bare minimum—or less—while people like Cameron and her parents sat around their massive dining-room tables eating six-course dinners and sipping bottles of wine that cost roughly four-hundred dollars a pop.

  “I need to give them more,” Cameron said. “I need to create a place that feels like home. Somewhere they can always come and find a warm bed and something to eat and good company. I don’t want it to be a place where they crash land and scramble to leave. I want it to be a steppingstone toward something better.”

  “You’re going to need a lot of social workers, counselors, and rehabilitators,” Wayne said evenly.

  Cameron nodded. “All of that is in my plans. I have interested parties.”

  Wayne smiled. “I should have known.”

  “We’re proud of you,” Margaret said.

  “Quite proud,” Wayne added.

  The truth was, Cameron was kind of proud of herself, too. Sure, she hadn’t really checked much off her list yet, but she’d gotten started, taken the plunge, and all that jazz. She’d sat down with women she wanted to help who’d practically laughed her out of the building and she still felt just as passionate about this project as she had pre-humiliation.

  Heck, she might have even felt a little more motivated than before. There was something about proving people wrong that had always given Cameron that extra fire inside.

  The waitstaff cleared away the empty platters and returned five minutes later with the main course. The family enjoyed every bite and sipped more wine, and by the time the meal was done, Cameron found herself itching for some peace and quiet.

  She excused herself around nine o’clock and made her way upstairs with a third glass of red wine and heavy eyes. She went straight for her bathroom, where she began running a bubble bath. She lit all the candles on the rim of the tub, poured bath salts into the water, took off her eye makeup, and washed her face while she waited for the tub to fill. Once it had, Cameron stripped naked, tied her hair up in a loose bun, and stepped over the edge of the tub to sink into the water.

  The salts made her feel lighter than usual and she rested the nape of her neck against a cushion built into the back of the tub. She settled deep into the water, letting it kiss her chin, and inhaled a deep breath of the lavender-scented salts.

  Yes, this was exactly what she’d needed after a long day out in the field.

  What was tomorrow going to look like? And the next day?

  Carol and Bernie had ended up chatting with Cameron after they’d ridiculed her, but the conversation hadn’t been nearly as productive as she’d hoped. They wanted to complain more about the soup kitchen they had rather than talk about their ideas of what might make it better. Even when Cameron tried to lead them in the direction of constructive feedback, they held steadfast to the negative commentary about the food selection and the inconsistency.

  Cameron supposed she had learned something there.

  Bernie and Carol hated that they never knew what to expect when they showed up at the soup kitchen. Some days, there was plenty of food and standing in line for hours paid off. Sometimes, that wasn’t the case at all.

  Apparently, the soup kitchen had a lot of donors pull out over the past six months and that had created a shortage in the food supply. They didn’t have as much food, so they had to make it stretch in order for everyone to get some, or they maintained the same large servings and only about sixty percent of people ate.

  In Cameron’s mind, it seemed better that everyone ate at least a little, but apparently, that wasn’t the shared opinion of the soup kitchen, which hadn’t adjusted their ration sizes to compensate for the supply shortage.

  Cameron wondered if it came down to laziness.

  No, laziness wasn’t the right word. These were hardworking people who in some cases were spending their free time helping others. Perhaps it came down to something Cameron’s father had always told her about. People were always more susceptible to quitting or taking the easy route when unexpected obstacles cropped up. So in this particular situation, the food-supply shortage was the obstacle, and instead of managing a viable solution for all parties, the kitchen was operating as per usual, as if they could carry on and things would go back to how they were.

  Cameron understood it, but she didn’t like it.

  How many kids were going to bed hungry because they couldn’t get in line at the right time to eat a meal?

  We’ll fix that right up, she thought decisively.

  It didn’t matter if women didn’t want to talk to her. She would persevere. She was a White for crying out loud. Perseverance was her middle name.

  Cameron Perseverance White had a nice ring to it. A nice ring indeed.

  6

  Cole

  Stumbling home last night after the fight, Cole had barely managed to clean himself up before pitching face-first into his bed and passing out. When he woke on Tuesday morning, he found himself in that same position, his face buried in the sheets, his cheek marinating in a puddle of his own drool, both arms tingling and numb from poor circulation, his head spinning viciously.

  Cole groaned and peeled his cheek off the sheets. The skin on the back of his hand was ice cold as he ran it across his cheeks and lips, wiping away saliva. As he managed to sit up, he shook out his hands and began massaging at his wrists in an effort to get the blood flowing again.

  He felt like he’d been hit by a train.

  “Not a train,” he mumbled to himself. His voice was dry and crackly. “A Scotsman.”

  He sta
rted when someone pounded on his front door.

  Had that woken him up? Had someone been knocking for a while now and he’d been dead to the world?

  Grumbling, groaning, and cracking like an arthritic old man, Cole managed to get to his feet. His clothes from the fight last night clung to him. The front of his Henley shirt was stained with dried blood that had affixed itself to his chest and neck. He peeled it from his skin as he made his way to the front door, where he stopped, pressed his eye to the peephole, and checked the hallway.

  His eye narrowed at the warped silhouette of a man standing on the other side of the door.

  Zak Parence.

  What the hell was Marcus’s righthand man doing standing on his doorstep?

  “What do you want, Zak?” Cole called through the door.

  The large, dark-bearded Russian flashed a grin. “Just coming to check in on you, brother.”

  “I don’t need checking in on.”

  Zak shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

  Cole unlocked the deadbolt and jerked the door open. The lights in the hallway were nearly blinding compared to the din of his apartment, so he lifted a hand to shield his eyes.

  Zak looked Cole up and down. “Yeah, you certainly don’t look like you need checking in on. What the hell happened to you? You look like you got kicked in the face by a horse.”

  Cole lifted a hand to gingerly touch his jaw, nose, and eyes. Everything was swollen and tender. “It’s worse than it looks.”

  Zak didn’t look convinced. His lips pressed into a fine line and he nodded into the depths of the apartment. “Get cleaned up. We’re going to go get something to eat.”

  “I’m not in the mood for company.”

  “I don’t recall asking you a question. Take a shower. Get dressed. We’re going to get something to eat.”

  Begrudgingly, Cole let Zak in and he made his way down the hall to have a shower. He stripped out of his blood and sweat-stained clothes, abandoned them in the overflowing hamper, and hopped in the shower while Zak perused the labels on all the moving boxes in the living room. Zak hollered down the hall to Cole that he needed to get his shit together and unpack already. How many months had it been? Six? Eight?

  Something like that, Cole thought to himself.

  Zak nodded agreeably to everything on the menu at the diner about six blocks away from Cole’s apartment. This place was the definition of mediocre. The sausages were too salty, the bacon was never cooked all the way through, and their eggs were lackluster.

  Nevertheless, Cole ordered a breakfast platter.

  While the men waited for their food, they sipped piping-hot, bitter cups of coffee.

  Zak nodded at Cole’s busted-up face. “You going to tell me what happened to your ugly mug?”

  “Got in a fight.”

  “No shit. With who?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Marcus will want to know,” Zak said.

  “Marcus can choke on my left fucking nut,” Cole growled. “The fucker doesn’t need to know what I do in my private life. I show up for work. I get the job done. What else does he want from me?”

  Zak chuckled deep in his chest and shook his head. “You’re one of the Castaletta boys now, Cole. That ain’t just a job. That’s your life now. And Marcus is your lead. It’s on him to keep tabs on his people and keep everyone in line. If someone is out there making trouble for himself, that could come back on Marcus, the club, or even the entire Syndicate. We’re not in the business of not asking questions when it comes to our own men.”

  Cole glowered at him. “So he sends his lap dog instead of asking for himself?”

  Zak’s eyes flashed with darkness for a fleeting moment before his smile returned. “I have a role to fill just like everyone else. If you don’t like it, take it up with the boss man.”

  I will, Cole thought sourly as the food arrived.

  Zak and Cole ate quietly. He took his time where Cole practically shoveled the shit into his mouth. He was starving, probably because of the beating he’d taken last night after which he never got around to eating anything.

  By the time they finished and were waiting for the bill, Zak’s curiosity was written plainly on his face. He cleared his throat. “Did Dean send you into that underground ring again?”

  Cole frowned. How did Zak know about that? Did Dean throw Cole under the bus and tell the others the little pastime he’d found to blow off steam?

  Zak sighed and rested his elbows on the table. The tattoos all up his forearms and at the collar of his shirt attracted a lot of attention in this little diner. “Listen, I know where you’ve been spending your off nights, Cole. I don’t blame you for needing something to beat bloody. Nobody’s gonna stop you, especially not Marcus. So long as it doesn’t impede your ability to do your job at Kadia properly.”

  “Why would it?”

  “Well, if you let some asshole beat you halfway to Hell one night and you have a shift at Kadia the next where things get physical, you’re not going to be as capable as you should be.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Zak polished off the last mouthful of his coffee. “You don’t look fine.”

  “Since when do you and Marcus give a fuck anyway?”

  “Since you were added to our payroll and your actions represent us.”

  “So your concern is just good business?”

  Zak shrugged.

  Cole had no intention of putting an end to the fights. Zak and Marcus could get their panties in a bunch about it if they wanted to, but they didn’t own Cole. He could do as he pleased when he wasn’t on the clock at Kadia.

  Cole got out of the booth he and Zak shared near one of the windows, dropped a twenty on the dinner table, and moved to the door. Zak followed with heavy footfalls. Every set of eyes in the place followed them out.

  In the parking lot, Cole strode over to his midnight-blue 1967 Fastback. The door creaked when he opened it and he made a mental note to oil it when he had a chance. Zak leaned up against the hood of the car and ignored the way Cole glared at him as he crossed his legs at the ankle.

  “Where are you off to?” Zak asked.

  “I’m going to tell Marcus to keep his bloodhound out of my business.”

  Zak smirked. “You think that will work?”

  “It better.”

  Zak watched as Cole got in the car and started the engine. As the car rumbled to life, he pushed off the hood. Cole drove out of the parking lot and hooked a left. He never looked in his mirrors to check if the Russian watched him leave. Cole was sure he had. Zak and Marcus had been up his ass about every little thing since the night down in the tunnels at the underground party.

  Since Adam Cooper got away.

  Did they think Cole was made of glass? Did they think he was going to shatter at any minute simply because they’d lost the bad guy?

  No.

  Cole wouldn’t break. He’d been through a hell of a lot more shit than a run-in with a baddie that went south. He’d lost everything. His home, his identity, his job, his wife. All of it. Gone. Some other man filled those empty places now, and here he was, grasping at straws trying to figure out where the hell he served best.

  Cole drove straight to Marcus’s apartment, parked the car at the curb, and walked up the path, through the lobby, and up the winding staircase to his floor. He pounded on Marcus’s apartment door in the same manner Zak had pounded against Cole’s a couple hours earlier and hoped he was waking Marcus from a deep slumber, even though it was already eleven in the morning.

  The door opened with a snap and Marcus stood on the other side nearly buck-ass naked. The only thing between Cole and Marcus’s cock was a hand towel which Cole was sure he’d just ripped off the kitchen counter before coming to open the door. Marcus’s chest and forehead were glistening with perspiration and he was out of breath.

  Marcus arched an eyebrow at Cole as he processed how battered and purple his face was. Then he leaned backward a couple inches to hol
ler out to his woman. “Keesha, baby? Put some clothes on. We have company.” Marcus looked Cole up and down as his stare hardened. “Why the fuck are you banging on my door, Cole? Keesha and I were busy.”

  “I can see that.” Cole brushed past him and kept his chin up so he didn’t accidentally catch a glimpse of the monster hiding under the red and black checkered tea towel. Marcus closed the door and locked it behind him before excusing himself to go put on pants.

  He and Keesha emerged from the bedroom about thirty seconds later fully clothed and joined Cole in the living room, where he waited with his back to them looking out the patio doors. The last time Cole had been in this room, Marcus had a bullet in his shoulder and Cole had been the unlucky asshole fishing it out of him. Cole supposed he deserved the messy job. He’d been the one who shot him, after all.

  “I’ll ask again,” Marcus said dryly as he dropped into the corner of his brown leather sofa. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Cole turned from the patio doors. “I came to tell you I have my shit under control and you don’t have to send Zak to my place to check on me.”

  Keesha padded barefoot to the kitchen where she put the kettle on. She didn’t say a word. She knew this was business between Marcus and Cole.

  Marcus smirked. “It sure as hell doesn’t look like you have your shit under control. Who beat the ugly off your face?”

  “A Scotsman.”

  “A Scotsman?”

  “You heard me.”

  Marcus sighed as Keesha padded past them again, this time offering Cole a weak smile before disappearing down the hall to return to the bedroom. Cole wondered where her daughter was. Perhaps spending the night with her grandmother or Keesha’s brother.

  Marcus moved to the edge of the sofa and clasped his hands together as he peered up at Cole from beneath his brows. “I’m not one to talk about such things, Cole, but I have to tell you. I’m worried about you. You haven’t been the same since that night in the tunnels.”

  “This has nothing to do with Adam Cooper.”