by Rayne, Sara
"I got something I gotta talk to you about, VP." He emphasized the title to convey this was club business. Not personal. "Can you swing by Hades in an hour?"
"What's this about?"
He swallowed hard. Letting Shep walk in blind would put him in the wrong mood to consider Etta’s request. He had to give him a heads up. "You remember Etta Jameson?"
"Your old social worker?"
"She has a proposal for the club that could actually get us some good PR—maybe keep the FBI off our backs." Pretty Boy paced back and forth, but tried to keep his voice steady. "But she also has a favor to ask and I don't think you're going to like it."
"I appreciate the honesty."
"Just hear her out, please Shep?" He asked softly. "You know what she did for me. Help me come through for her, just a little."
Shep's exhale crackled through the phone. "Fine. One hour. You, me and her. Got it?"
"Got it." He gave a sigh of relief. "See you then."
He grabbed the cleanest clothes of his floor, hopped on his Harley and tore ass out of the trailer park. Pretty Boy's stomach stayed in knots the whole way there. When he arrived, Etta stood outside the restaurant doors, smoking a cigarette and probably keeping an eye out for him so she didn't have to face the big, bad bikers alone. Shep's bike wasn't in the parking lot. He pulled next to her and parked, flashing her a tight smile.
"Thank you for doing this," she said, eyes wide with sincerity.
"Don't even mention it." He waited while she stubbed out her smoke. "Let's get some coffee."
She nodded. In a few minutes, they were settled at a corner booth, half hidden by a thick column. Two plates piled high with fluffy, perfect scrambled eggs, dark, crispy bacon and seared wheat toast sat in front of them and Etta sighed blissfully as she took her first bite.
"I didn't order this," she said, taking a sip of her steaming coffee.
"Doesn't really matter." Pretty Boy shrugged, gripping his coffee cup just a little too tightly as he kept an eye out over her shoulder for Shep.
"Honey, why do you look more nervous than I do right now?" Etta put her fork down and covered his and with hers. "Did something happen … between you and Shep?"
Someone cleared his throat beside the table and Pretty Boy looked up. Voo's grin assured him he'd heard the question. "How's the food?"
"Amazing," Pretty Boy said, his voice an octave lower than he'd expected it to be.
Voo leaned his hip against the side of the booth closest to Pretty Boy. "So who is this delicious soufflé you've brought with you, Pretty Boy?"
"Pretty Boy?" Etta mouthed at him.
He winked at her. "Can't argue with the truth."
"I'm Etta Jameson." She held her hand out to shake Voo's, but he lifted her fingers to brush his lips across her knuckles instead.
"A pleasure, ma'am." Voo grinned. "They call me Voo. And how do you know our delinquent little heart-breaker?"
"She was my social worker before I got emancipated." He grabbed his fork, hoping if he stuffed his face, he'd get asked fewer questions. Only delaying the inevitable; Voo was a master interrogator. After you spilled your guts to him, he'd make you think it was your idea the whole time. Screw the Spanish Inquisition, they had nothing on smooth talking Creole sonofabitch.
"I introduced him to Shep," Etta added, draining the last of her coffee. Her eyes widened as she took in Pretty Boy's poorly hidden wince. Facilitating too many group therapy sessions had made Etta a little more open with the past than Pretty Boy liked. "Was I not supposed to say that?"
"No, it's fine." Pretty Boy swallowed. "She sent me to the youth center he volunteered at, when he was still in seminary school. The day we met, I got jumped by a group of guys on the way over. I was already selling weed, and they knew I was carrying drugs and money."
Voo whistled lowly.
"Shep cleaned me up and then … he just kind of kept looking out for me."
"Speak of the devil." Voo straightened up, nodding towards the corner window. "I'll grab some more coffee."
Yeah, coffee with sugar and a splash of eavesdropping.
Etta snagged Pretty Boy's hand under the table and whispered, "You were totally right. I was completely picturing having sex with him."
He grinned. "Wait 'till you try one of his desserts."
The bell over the door jangled as Shep stepped inside the diner. He strolled over to them, taking off his shades and tucking them into the inside pocket of his cut. He had on leather pants, riding boots, a faded thin gray t-shirt and his cut. He'd actually bothered to rub some kind of product in his hair, because it was sticking up more than usual. His Four Horsemen tattoo peeked from under his shirt sleeve.
Etta's mouth hung open. "Are you fracking kidding me?"
"Nope," Pretty Boy whispered.
Shep grabbed a chair from the closest table, spun it around and sat on it backwards. The scent of his aftershave wafted over Pretty Boy as Shep pulled up to the table and braced his arms on the back. Shep raised a brow, noticing her blatant appraisal and smirked. "Hello Etta. It's good to see you, too."
She blushed. "It’s been a long time. You’ve changed a lot."
The casual observer might think Shep gave two shits what people thought of him.
Most of the time, they'd be right. But Pretty Boy wasn't a casual observer.
He knew how much Shep hated talking to people who knew him pre-Horsemen. The swagger, the insolent smirk, the amused eyes—it all masked a fear of judgment Pretty Boy didn't think Shep would ever shake. Figured the only guardian angel willing to give his ass the time of day considered himself fallen.
Voo appeared with a coffee refill and a frosty Dr. Pepper for Shep, then started fucking bussing tables behind them like he hadn't made Dash pcome in at the ass-crack of dawn for that very job.
Shep's eyes flickered to Pretty Boy's face. His breath shallowed, but in the next instant, he was looking at Etta expectantly. "So, what can the fine, upstanding gentlemen of the Four Horsemen Motor Cycle club can do for you?"
She pitched her whole biker protecting abused children program, while Pretty Boy forced himself to put some toast down his gullet. Shep sipped his soda, then nodded readily. "That's … a great idea, actually. We could use some good press and it's a worthy cause. I'll call it to a vote."
Etta smiled, but worry crinkled her eyes.
"Now, the other part," Shep encouraged softly.
"Other part?" Etta squeaked, gripping her coffee cup.
"The part I'm not going to like, but should hear you out on." Shep's gaze flicked to Pretty Boy's face.
Their eyes met and Pretty Boy felt his flesh heat, his pulse speeding. For a second, he wondered if what he and Shep had done in Perdition was written on his forehead. He didn't usually mind bumping into last night's hook-up the morning after. But then, it had never mattered to him before what the person thought of him the next day. Or if the person thought of him the next day.
He shifted in his seat, heat building in his cheeks as Etta looked at him nervously. "Sorry Etta, but with Shep's its better to shoot straight."
She told him about the boy and his situation.
Pretty Boy took a hard breath. "I've got a plan. If I can get the guy in the ring, I can put him in the hospital long enough for his kid to get some space. And we can use the prize money to set him up someplace safe."
The muscle in Shep's jaw jumped. "This is why you wanted to schedule a prize fight for the Rally?"
He swallowed, ignoring Etta's curious stare. "It is, but that's not the part you're going to object to."
"The hell I'm not," he gritted out. For a second he locked eyes with Pretty Boy, throat working as he forced himself to breathe. Then he sat back. "What is the part I'm going to object to?"
"Etta, if you don't mind, Shep and I are going to step outside for a smoke while I fill him on the rest, okay darlin'?" Pretty Boy knew his fake smile wouldn't fool either of them. But he jumped up, praying Shep would follow his lead.
; Etta reached across the table and grabbed Shep's wrist. "Shepherd, you're a good man. And I know you'll help me if you can."
He swallowed hard. "I wish it was as easy as just wanting to, darlin'."
"Look, there's two things a man needs to make a difference—bravado and gravitas. And you got both in spades. Keep your chin up." She smiled kindly. "You'll get through whatever's got bags under your eyes and whiskey in your soda."
Shep stared into her eyes, his hand clinging to hers for a second. His throat worked as he stood. "Thank you for that."
Pretty Boy headed for the door. "You ok?" he asked under his breath. "Etta has a way of hitting where it really hurts when you need it most."
"How does she do that?" Shep shook his head.
"Third most popular topic at the group home. Best we came up with was – she's Etta. She does that." When he rounded the corner of the building, clinging to it's triangle of shade in the parking lot, Shep was right behind him. They each lit their cigarettes and took a hit, moving in silent synch, tuned into each other's movements as if they had always been side by side.
"Tell me," Shep said in an exhale of smoke.
"The kid's father is Manson."
Shep’s eyes widened. "The Raptor's fucking president? Are you shitting me?"
Pretty Boy shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
"This another one of those 'giving back' crusades of yours, is it?" Shep asked. “Righting the wrongs in the community through innovative gardening?”
“And solid community planning.” He crossed his arms. He watched out for the people of Hell’s Gate. Just made sure they all had enough to get along. What was wrong with that? Didn’t Shep do that every day for the MC?
"You're treating meth heads and coke addicts with booze and weed," Shep shot back derisively.
"It's an easier twelve steps to swallow than prayer and sobriety." Pretty Boy raised his eyebrows.
"I'm sure it is." Shep sighed. "You don't want to start a pissing match with the Raptors while the FBI in town."
"I surely do. Crash was right—getting into a little bit of trouble makes us look normal. I'll make it look like he dragged me into it."
"Sure—use Crash as your voice of reason. That's a great fuckin' argument." Shep shook his head. "You don't know what you're getting us into."
"I do. I just don't care. Some things are worth the price." He glared at Shep. "The handbook says nobody fucks with kids. Not 'nobody fucks with kids unless the FBI is in town.'"
"You're quoting the handbook I wrote now? Shit. You have the worst fucking timing." Shep groaned.
"How long would you have let me stay in a house like that?" Pretty Boy asked lowly. "He broke his arm, Shep. The kid's twelve years old. How many bones need broken before you're willing to do something?"
Shep inhaled sharply. "You must want this bad if you're fighting dirty so quick."
He wet his lips. "Please, Shep. You know what I owe Etta. Just try."
Shep rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "I'll bring it to vote, but that's all I'm promising."
"That's all I'm asking. Thank you!" He grinned and clapped a hand on Shep's shoulder.
They both froze. Shep's pupils ate at the blue of his eyes, his breath becoming shallow and ragged. He covered the hand on his shoulder for a second, his palm sliding over the cool silver of Pretty Boy's thumb ring. He shivered.
"Listen, I gotta go." Shep's hand dropped and he stepped away. "Tell Etta you'll call her after the vote, okay?"
He nodded and watched Shep high-tail it out of there. Apparently, they wouldn’t be acknowledging what happened any time soon.
One tiny step forward. Four fucking miles back.
Chapter Eleven
We don't kill for business; we kill to protect our own.
And that shit's personal.
~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook
* * *
Shep was already on his way to Pretty Boy's trailer when Eddie's warehouse blew like it was the fuckin' Fourth of July. The boom nearly rocked him off his bike, the ground quaking under his tires. A plume of smoke, dark as a Texas twister. stormed across the sky, streaked with fire.
He hadn't been able to shake the desperate feeling that something really fucking bad was going to happen all day. He tried to convince himself he was being paranoid. No one knew what had happened between him and Pretty Boy after hours at Perdition. So there'd be no fall out. But karma was a twisted bitch, and he'd learned the hard way she was out to get him.
He should have seen this coming. He'd been so focused on his own shit, he hadn't been thinking about the club.
He couldn't remember the last time that was true.
He pulled to a stop, letting out a low whistle as the flames climbed higher into the night sky. It had to have been that bastard, Beauregard. Taking out his competition's product stores.
Product stores.
Pretty Boy stored the packaged shine at his trailer. And he was her best salesman. If Shep was trying to put her out of business …
Fuck.
Shep had no memory of the rest of the ride to the trailer park. He could have teleported for all he knew—one second he was staring at Eddie's warehouse going up in smoke, the next he was kicking down his stand just outside the park. The air smelled like bad barbecue and a dark plume of smoke rose from the back corner. He grabbed his gun out of the saddlebag and tucked it in the back of his jeans.
As he approached the area, he heard voices. And punches.
His fists clenched. This was going to end badly.
The trailer was just bits and pieces scattered across the lot. Parts of the lawn were still on fire. Oddly, the faux picket fence remained untouched. Somebody on Beauregard's team had a way with explosives.
Good to know.
Black scorch marks streaked out from the remains of the trailer, speckled with chunks of what used to be furniture, pillows, clothes, toys—everything Pretty Boy owned in the world. Gone. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He rounded the corner and two muscled thugs came into view. Shep’s stomach clenched. They held Pretty Boy on his knees between them. Shep could smell the blood in the air over the smoke, even skulking behind the fence where he was. He clenched his fists. Beauregard—the bastard—faced Pretty Boy, wiping his knuckles on a bleached white handkerchief he'd pulled from his suit. His blond hair haloed his face, a mockery of the violence he inflicted.
He had his back to Shep.
The biker circled around behind the trailer, sneaking through the weed garden to hop the fence where he couldn't be seen. He approached carefully. The thugs were focused on their boss and Pretty Boy … was probably focusing on whether or not he still had all his teeth. Dammit. He had to come up on Beauregard slow. But that meant he wasn't going to be able to block his next shot.
"You realize we could have avoided all of this unpleasantness if you'd just agreed to sell for me." Beauregard sighed, sounding put upon. "A man with your skills? Do you know how much you could make with me? Enough to escape living in JoeBob's trailer park. Hell, you might be able to afford a home without, you know—wheels."
"Let me think about that," Pretty Boy rasped. There was a slash of blood drying on his lip. "On second thought, nah—you can still go fuck yourself."
Beauregard nodded at one of the thugs and they backhanded Pretty Boy across the jaw so hard Shep heard teeth clacking together. He couldn't have stayed put if he tried.
Pretty Boy started to shake and a low, choked laughter escaped his cracked lips.
"Never seen a fighter take a hit like you." Beauregard's tone was admiring. "Most guys start yelling, making threats and the like. Don't see a lot of them laugh when they're pissed off."
Pretty Boy rocked back on his heels, only wheezing a little bit. His eyes lit up, a wide smile curving his face.
"What's so funny?" Beauregard asked.
"For they know …" Pretty boy smirked.
Shep pressed the cold metal barrel of his gun into the back o
f Beauregard's head and whispered in his ear, "When their Shepherd is near."
Beauregard’s back stiffened. The clicking sound of guns being cocked as his men trained their guns on Shep, but he stood behind their fearless leader, careful not to give them a clear line of sight. "I don't think you want to do that, Shep."
"Like hell I don't. Nothing would please me more than splattering your brains in the dirt.”
"You shoot me and your body will hit the ground right after mine," Beauregard promised. He gestured to his thugs.
"As long as yours hits first, I can square with that. Normally I would tell you to look in my eyes to see how fucking serious I am, but as I have a gun to your head, you're not really in a position to comply." Shep dug the barrel in a little deeper. "So consider this. I'm an honorable man. And if I'm willing to shoot you in the back, shit just got real serious. You got me?"
Beauregard nodded slightly.
Shep's lips grazed the asshole's ear as he spoke. "If the next words out of your mouth aren't 'let him go', they will be your last and these will be mine."
"Let him go," Beauregard ordered, his tone clipped.
Shep eased back a bit, gun still cocked and pointed straight at Beauregard's thick skull, tracking him as he turned to face Shep. "Now, why don't you boys go on and get outta here, before I'm inclined to do somethin' stupid."
Beauregard—the jackass—smirked like he had a secret. "My, my, Shep. I expected this over what happened to Miss Eddie. But all this fuss over a prospect? Didn't realize how special this one was." He cocked his head to the side, glancing at Pretty Boy and then back at Shep. Shep could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to work out what exactly was going on between them.
Anger cramped his jaw muscle and Shep smiled. He touched the tip of his tongue to his eyetooth. Watching Pretty Boy knock some dickwad on his ass in the ring, all raw aggression and no fear got to Shep like nothing else could. His reaction to seeing Pretty Boy taking a punch while he couldn't fight back was just as visceral, but had a much darker bent. Even the 'better angels' of Shep's nature were bloodthirsty now.
"My brothers are everything to me. If you would like a demonstration of my devotion, I'll gladly oblige you."
