They were going to have to fuck up another town resident this week. Putting hurt on Mac Evans wouldn’t lose Isaac any sleep, but what the holy fuck was going on?
~oOo~
Isaac had to meet with Kenyon in St. Louis that afternoon, so he left Show and Vic to deal with Mac, and brought Len, Havoc, and Wyatt on the run. If all went well, it was a turnaround run, and they should be back before midnight. Not that any fucking thing was going well lately.
When they stopped for gas, Isaac called Snow and checked in. Mac had caved, as Isaac had known he would, and, after Bart took Mac’s intel and dug deeper, they now had a name: Lawrence Ellis.
The ride into St. Louis was uneventful. As they rode into the more heavily populated areas, they spread out a bit, pulling away from the pickup with the camper top in which Darren Brown was hauling the actual product. Too tight a formation put them on law radar. Four men in kuttes got notice enough. And sure enough, five minutes after they crossed into St. Louis County, a county trooper pulled up in his cruiser, even with Isaac and Len, and sat there for a good three miles. Just making his presence known. Isaac waved when he pulled alongside, and again when he finally pulled away.
They met the Underdawgs at their usual location, behind a barbeque place on the northern edge of the city’s Central West End. Darren and his brother George handled their business while the Horde looked on. When they were done, Isaac got two envelopes, one from each end of the transaction. That was the deal. The crews were friendly and had been for years, so it was their habit for everyone to sit down to some wings and beer before the Signal Bend group set back off for home. Today, Kenyon and Isaac sat apart from the rest.
Kenyon Berry was a tall, slim man with dark brown skin and darker brown eyes. He kept his head and face shaved smooth. He dressed like a businessman spending the day in the office—sharply pressed slacks, crisp button-down shirts, well-shined shoes, but no jacket. Isaac always felt a little scrubby sitting with him. He was also considerably older than Isaac, about the age his father would have been. Isaac was taller and heavier, and no less mean, but Kenyon had a sophistication that Isaac knew he lacked. He was just keyed into the world better. Maybe it was a city/country thing. Isaac had a great deal of respect for the man sitting across the dinged Formica table from him, and was honored that he got respect in return.
Kenyon finished a wing, wiped his hands clean, and took a long drink from his beer. “Tell me your concerns, Isaac, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“The Northsiders have somebody new backing them, and it looks like they’re trying to branch out into our turf—yours and mine. He’s leaning on the cookers in Signal Bend, and now he’s leaning on a farmer, trying to get his land. I’m thinking he’s looking to mass-produce—take over the town, take over the corridor. Got a name today: Lawrence Ellis.”
Kenyon abruptly sat back in his seat at the name. “This is news to me. But I know Ellis, and if he’s the player, then things are about to get very interesting. He’s Chicago, and he’s connected all the way to DC.”
Fuck. Now Isaac sat back. “What does that mean for us?”
“Nothing good. But like I said, this is new information. Let me think this through. I am not without friends, Isaac. That means you’re not without them, either. But I need some time.”
“I don’t know how much time we’ve got, man. That kind of weight leaning on my town? These are not strong people anymore, Kenyon. They’ve taken all the lumps they can.”
The older man stood and put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “It’s a strong town, Isaac. The ones that stay? They’re the strong ones. And they’ve got you and your brothers. I’ll know something in a few days.”
~oOo~
Without illicit cargo to protect, they made good time back home, and they were at the clubhouse by 10:30. It was Friday night, and the place was pretty well packed with Horde, hangarounds, and girls. The music was loud, and the booze was flowing, and the bud was wafting. Len, Havoc, and Wyatt just about ran inside, girls already under their arms—Len had two, per his custom.
Gwen, one of Isaac’s more regular fucks—and one not looking for anything more—came up. She had a voluptuous bod and fiery red hair, and tonight she looked especially good, if fancier than was really his taste: snug black skirt made out of some shimmery material, high, red strappy things on her feet, and a tight white top leaving just about nothing at all to the imagination. He could see the rosy tops of her areolae peeking above the neckline. He put an arm around her waist and kissed her hard.
He had business to attend to first, though. So he sent Gwen off with a pat and wink, knowing if he wanted her later she’d be there, and scanned the room for Show. He found him getting head in the hallway. Show was a family man, but his wife had had some kind of medical problem after their third kid, and that had killed their sex life. So he had permission for head. He was big and built—and, by biker metrics, a gentleman—and the girls loved him. Even so, he availed himself infrequently. Isaac caught his eye and nodded toward the office. Show eased the girl off his dick and followed his boss, closing his jeans as he walked.
Isaac closed the door behind his VP. “What’s the deal with Mac?”
Show leaned against a tall metal filing cabinet. “Visibly, he’s no worse for wear, other than the fancy new stigmata you gave him, but Vic had to go at him hard. He’ll be uncomfortable for awhile.”
Isaac saw no need for further details on that score. “Get anything more out of him?”
“Tough enough to get what we got—Mac’s more scared of these guys than us, boss. Bart pulled the emails, and I had a look. There’s nothing there but a few inquiries about the property. But the trail Bart found leads to Ellis. Who is this guy?”
“Bad news. Big player from Chicago. Kenyon’s lookin’ into it. Meantime, we pay attention.”
Show stood straight and gave Isaac a concerned look. “Isaac.”
“What?” Isaac knew he was about to get some advice. Usually he took counsel well from those he’d tasked with giving it—Showdown first and foremost. But he was off his game these past few days and already feeling pissed before he’d even heard what Show had to say.
“I know how you feel about Mac. I do, too. He’s shit I scrape off my boot. But I think we need to bring him into the fold. If this Ellis guy is as big a player as you say, we can’t have Mac Evans gettin’ a friend like that. Goin’ hard like we did today, that’s the wrong play with him. We gotta work with him, make him our friend.”
“Or we could just end him.” Show huffed a laugh, but Isaac wasn’t kidding.
When Show realized it, he shook his head. “Brother, you know that’s not how we operate. That’s last resort, and it’s high profile. He’s known beyond our scope. He’s a simple little asshole, though; we can distract him with shiny things. Let’s bring him into the fold.”
Isaac knew Show was right. He was silent for a couple of minutes, brooding. Finally, he nodded.
When they went back out to the party, Gwen made her way right to him. But he didn’t want Gwen. He knew what he wanted, and he’d had his fill today of not getting what he wanted.
He left the clubhouse and mounted his bike.
~oOo~
When he pulled up to Lilli’s house, light was shining through the sliding glass door. She was awake, then. He’d expected as much; it wasn’t even 11:30 yet, and she didn’t strike him as an early sleeper. He dismounted and walked toward the deck. As he neared the steps, the door slid open, and Lilli was on the deck, wearing a pair of cotton boxers slung low across her hips and a little tank top. There was a lot of belly exposed between them. Isaac would have been distracted by all that firm, lovely skin, except that she was holding a handgun and pointing it at his head.
Shocked but calm, he stopped at the foot of the steps and raised his hands in front of his chest, palms out. “I’ve had warmer greetings, must say. From you, even.”
Even though his hands were up, she kept the gun aimed. “What the fuck ar
e you doing here now?”
Yeah, he was having a shit week, no doubt. He hadn’t thought this through, apparently. He figured he’d drop in for a fuck. He couldn’t get this woman out of his head. He was alert that she could be trouble, and he was working on the problem of her, yes, but it was more than that. She was in his head and his senses, like a phantom following him everywhere.
“Just came for a visit, Sport. I swear. Just bein’ friendly.”
She pulled the gun up, and he dropped his hands. “You come to my house this morning and threaten me, then you show up in full dark and want to be friendly? Are you drunk?”
He took one step up. When she didn’t put the gun back on him, he came the rest of the way onto the deck. “I wish I was. You got no idea. I’m just here ‘cuz I want to see you. And I didn’t threaten you this morning. I just told you the score.” He crossed the deck and stood before her. She decocked the gun—fuck, she’d really been ready to shoot that damn thing—and stepped back into the house. He followed and pulled the door closed.
“You hold that like you know what you’re doing. That’s no purse pistol.” It was a Sig Sauer P220. Show and Havoc carried the same sidearm. Another piece to the Lilli puzzle: she knew her way around a handgun. Not exactly a mark in the “harmless” column.
She set the gun on the kitchen counter. Then she opened a cabinet and pulled a bottle of good tequila and two shot glasses down. As she was pouring, she asked, “Why are you here, Isaac?” She handed him a glass.
Maybe the night was taking a turn for the better. He took it from her, and they drank together. “You don’t do the lime and salt thing, huh?”
“Not unless I’m looking for attention at a bar—and that hardly ever happens. You haven’t answered my question.” She poured two more shots.
“Yeah, I have. I’m really here just to see you.” They tossed the next shots back. Lilli regarded him steadily, then turned to the fridge and pulled two bottles of beer out. She handed him one, and gestured with hers toward the living room.
She sat on the ugly brown couch, and he sat next to her. He stretched his arm across the back, his hand near her head. She gave it a suspicious glance but didn’t make him move it.
Isaac finished his beer in three long swallows and set the bottle on the coffee table. He was feeling a little more mellow than he had for awhile. He needed a break from his busy head. There was a book open, face down, on the table. It wasn’t in English. He picked it up: La Nausée, by Jean-Paul Sartre. He didn’t know the book, but he knew the author.
“You read Sartre? In French? And Dante in Italian? How many languages do you speak?”
She considered him over her beer bottle as she drank. When she pulled the bottle from her lips, her eyes stayed locked on his. He didn’t look away. Finally, she answered, “Including English? Eight.”
That was a truth. He knew it. It just sounded true. He tried to decide whether she had a tell, or whether he was using some kind of intuition, or whether he was just fucking delusional and he had no idea when she was telling the truth.
He counted off on his fingers, thumb first: “English, Italian, and French. What are the other five?” She shook her head. He leaned toward her, vexed. She was gorgeous. He felt compelled by her somehow. He wanted her secrets out from between them. “Why is that a secret, Lilli? What is it you’re hiding?” She turned to put her own bottle down, and he reached out and grabbed her ponytail, yanking her back. He wanted a fucking answer.
The look she turned on him was pure fire. Before he could put another coherent thought together, she’d knocked his hand free of her, and she was straddling him, one hand hooked around his neck, her thumb on his carotid artery, the heel of the other hand pressing his chin back. It hurt like a sumbitch, and he realized that she was very effectively cutting off blood flow to his brain. His vision was getting dark around the edges.
“Rough in the sack is one thing, asshole. Do not think you can knock me around.” He put a hand around her wrist to pull her loose, but she increased the pressure on his neck. Finally, he put his hands up in surrender, and she released him. She stayed on his lap, though, her weight right on his cock. She had to know how turned on he was. When his vision cleared again, he saw her staring at him, her look still fiery, but the heat coming from some other place now.
Now he was sure Bart was right. Skill with a gun. Hand-to-hand self-defense. Military-grade internet security. She was ex-military. Had to be. Or current military. That made her both even more interesting and possibly less of a threat. He couldn’t see his little enterprise pulling in that kind of attention when county law wasn’t even interested. She must have some other, bigger fish on her hook.
He slid his hands up her arms and felt gooseflesh form beneath his palms. “What are you after, Sport?”
“I keep telling you it doesn’t concern you.”
“Give me a reason to trust you.” He moved his hands to her head, threading his fingers into her hair. She leaned in as he pulled her close, and their mouths met roughly. He kissed her savagely, as if he were trying to find the truth in her that way, and she matched him, grabbing his braid in her fist. She pulled away first, unbuttoning his shirt and pushing her fingers through the hair on his chest and belly. When she bent down and sucked his nipple between her teeth, he grabbed her hips and thrust up against her with a wrenching groan.
Then her hands were at his crotch, fumbling with his belt and jeans. He tugged at her tank top, and she stopped and pulled it off. Jesus, her tits were great. Remembering that she responded to rough pressure, he took a nipple between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and pulled briskly. She gasped and arched back, momentarily distracted from her efforts to free him from his denim. He did it again, and she ground on him with an earthy moan.
He needed a minute. Grabbing her hands and bringing them to his chest, he met her eyes and held them, getting control. The look she returned was heated and impatient at first, but then she settled, too. The thing that had passed between them the morning before, in her bed, was there again. He needed to think about what that was, but not now. Now she took her hands from him and reached into his jeans to pull him free. Then she stood and slid those red plaid boxers off her hips, letting them drop to the floor. She was perfectly, beautifully naked.
Before she could come back to his lap, he got out a condom and rolled it on. He grabbed his cock at the base with one hand, and reached out for her hand with the other. They linked fingers, and she straddled him, easing slowly down on him. He felt every millimeter of his rod slide into her, and she squeezed hard around him, holding him tight.
“Fuck, you have a great cock,” she whispered.
“Yeah? You like that?” He held her hips down hard as he thrust up again and again, getting as deep as he could, making her moan. “You feel fucking awesome yourself, baby.” A look crossed her face, and then she was flexing her hips hard and fast, driving him deep, really deep, and he didn’t know if it was the overstimulation of the day, or the weird thread of hostility weaving through this fuck, or just the fact that she turned him on so goddamn much, but he knew this was going to be a quick one. She was working her muscles around him, milking him, and riding him in a frenzy.
He shifted, to sit up straighter and lessen the depth she was getting a little. Wrapping her tightly in his arms, loving the soft pressure of her tits on his chest, he kissed her, nibbling at her lip and then trailing over her jaw to her ear. “We’re gonna have to go again, Sport. I don’t have much longer in this fuck. You feel too damn good.”
Pulling away a little, she smiled cockily. “Me first, though. Get me off.” She lifted her breast, and he understood. He loved a woman with really sensitive tits. He was going to have to see if he could get her off that way alone. Maybe later tonight. For now, though, he loosened his hold on her and let her grind away while he suckled her, moving back and forth between her firm, lovely globes until her hands were knotted in his hair, and she was arched back, her ponytail dancing over hi
s legs. She came with a strained, keening moan, and when he felt her spasms around his cock, he let go and joined her, pressing his face to her chest, surrounded by her tits.
She folded forward and relaxed on him, her head on his shoulder. There was something sweet in her position, and he rested his head on hers, hooking his arms around her. Her hair was slightly damp at her nape; the heady scent of her sweat and their sex overwhelmed him.
He wondered how close was too close.
INTERLUDE: 2001
Johnny sat alone among a sea of family members on the green grass of the wide university lawn. The wooden folding chairs, numbering thousands and arrayed in military-precise rows, were hardly luxurious, despite the pretty picture they made. For Johnny, his chair was a mini-torture device after the first two hours. But they were finally calling the graduates’ names.
He’d hoped they’d go alphabetically. His Lilli had been first in line for every alphabetical arrangement her entire life, with the exception of third grade, when there had been a little boy in her class with the last name of Aarons. He was anxious to see his girl cross that stage. But the first name called was Riordan. Must be some other kind of order. Johnny was going to have to wait.
He tried to see her, but all he saw were the flat planes of mortarboards, many of them decorated gaudily. Lilli had done hers up, too, though hers was much plainer than the others. She’d simply done a wide bar of gold glitter. The rank insignia of a 2nd Lieutenant in the United States Army. His little girl was following his footsteps.
Johnny wasn’t sure how he felt about that, to be honest. There were so many options that lay before her. She’d done so well in school: Dean’s List, Phi Kappa Phi, Magna Cum Laude, the list went on. She could be anything, do anything. But what she wanted was to serve.
He was proud, yes. Busting his buttons with it. She’d been through a lot, his Lillibell. Already, at 22, she’d lost more than most. But she was a strong, smart, brave girl, and she knew her mind. She would excel in the service as she’d excelled everywhere else. But he didn’t want her to know war the way he had. He wanted her to have a bright, happy life of comfort, not the squalid privation of a soldier at war.
Move the Sun (Signal Bend Series) Page 8
