Blood & Bones: Deacon (Blood Fury MC Book 4)

by Jeanne St. James

  Chapter Two

  He knew this wouldn’t be an easy job. Not after reading all the documents Bianchi emailed him about William Warren. Then he did some online searches of his own. Turns out, the man was nothing but a menace to women.

  Hell, he couldn’t even call Warren a man. A real man didn’t do what he did to women. How he kept getting sprung from the slammer to do it again baffled Deacon.

  Warren had to be one slick fucker. Charm the women, be real sweet to suck them in, then slowly drain them financially dry. He did it in several ways. Borrow, beg or steal a credit card, a debit card, or get access to a bank account. Steal any hidden cash from purses, sock drawers or jugs full of change. Any way he could put his hands on a woman’s snatch to get access to her scratch, he did it.

  He was good at coming up with excuses to get them to “loan” him money. He was also good at making them feel guilty. He was even better at getting them to fall for him, so he had access to “pick their pockets” right in front of their face.

  A master manipulator and a crafty con artist. He was the kind who worked harder on his con simply to avoid getting an actual job.

  From what Deacon could tell, Warren picked women who were younger, maybe newly on their own, and much more impressionable. Not women who were more seasoned against assholes like him, but who would more than likely buy into his bullshit without a lot of hassle.

  Warren was also the type of man who ended up being a “hard lesson learned” for those ladies. One they would vow never to make again. He took pleasure out of teaching women that lesson, both financially and physically.

  From the rap sheet Deacon read, the man was always on the move. Once he hit a victim in one area, he moved to the next. He had no roots, no hometown. No base to go back to. He could move anywhere to find his next target. Deacon couldn’t find any close relatives, except a father who was in a federal prison out in Oregon. And the man had been there for a long time, since Warren was a kid. Deacon found out Warren’s father had murdered his mother. Afterward, no one came forward to claim the four-year-old and he ended up in foster home after foster home.

  Having a shitty home life wasn’t any excuse for what the man did to women.

  Deacon saw pictures of Warren’s latest victim, which were taken at the hospital. Reilly Porter’s beat-down had been brutal. Clicking through the evidence photos attached to the email Bianchi sent had made him grind his molars until they almost cracked. His hands clenched so tightly into fists, his fingers had locked up.

  He only needed a few minutes alone with Warren to teach him a lesson.

  The only picture of Reilly where her face wasn’t distorted from bruising and swelling, possibly even broken bones, was a driver’s license photo. He did a few social media searches and couldn’t come up with anything online. It seemed she had deleted all her public profiles. Deacon didn’t blame her if the crazy motherfucker was looking for her.

  The victim was smart to leave where she’d been living and working to disappear. Online and offline. However, it wasn’t fair to Reilly that she had to hide because of this asshole.

  So, Deacon was determined to snag the fucker. Plus, twenty-five percent was a nice chunk of change. How that fucker came up with the ten percent plus fees Bianchi charged Warren to bail him out on a million-dollar bond, Deacon needed only one guess.

  Another woman Warren conned.

  Because he doubted Warren had that kind of cash lying around, nor did he have any assets for collateral. No, this was the type of guy who always used someone else’s money. Another unsuspecting victim, who would eventually find herself financially devastated.

  He had to assume for a man to do this on a regular basis, Warren had mommy issues.

  As Deacon glanced up the paved driveway that disappeared up the mountain and into the woods, a chill shot down his spine. He knew in his head the driveway did not lead up to the Shirley compound, but it still felt too much like déjà vu.

  That night up on that mountain last November was a night he did not want to relive any time soon. Or ever. It left invisible scars on most of them.

  His problem right now was that he couldn’t simply head up to the address Bianchi gave him. Only one mailbox stood where the road met the driveway, which meant only one residence was at the top.

  That also meant he couldn’t watch the house from a distance, which was his original plan. Now he had to come up with another tactic, other than setting up camp in the woods. Because that was not happening for twenty-five percent.

  And, as it was early April, the weather could go either way. A snow storm one day and a warm spring day the next. During this time of the year, Mother Nature tended to be bipolar. Which was one reason he was parked along the road in his Ford F250 pickup instead of sitting on his sweet Harley Low Rider S.

  He rolled down the driver’s side window, put his binoculars to his eyes and peered up through the trees, which had already started to bud.

  “Christ,” he grumbled. He still couldn’t see shit. Whoever owned the house at the top wanted privacy. Which was also evident by the two stone pillars at the bottom that were connected with an electric gate.

  Not to mention, the nice “no trespassing” sign. Not the plastic red and white one purchased at the local hardware store for about a buck. This sign was carved out of wood and expertly stained. A high-class way to say “keep the fuck out.”

  Whoever lived up there had some scratch because he doubted a double-wide was parked at the top. Simply paving the length of that driveway alone would cost more than one of those tornado traps.

  It seemed Reilly had some sort of “connection.” And not of the broke-ass kind of association like Warren.

  After getting the address, Deacon had done some digging and the property appeared to be owned by a company. R. Ackerson, LLC.

  Sounded like Reilly had friends in high places. If so, maybe she could afford a bodyguard to keep her safe. Because Deacon’s sole purpose of being parked at the bottom of a mountain outside of Mansfield, Pennsylvania, was to find and capture Warren, then deliver him to Bianchi.

  That was it.

  Nothing more. Nothing less.

  He was not a bodyguard. He was not a babysitter. He was not a hero.

  Well, the last one could be debatable.

  He’d been known to be like Superman in bed.

  He grinned.

  Right now, he needed to reevaluate his plan. He’d go into town, casually ask questions, possibly show pics of Warren, and find a motel to set up his “base.” And maybe he could find a woman to warm his bed and help him keep an eye out. It always helped to create some networks in town.

  He was hungry. He was thirsty. Even a bit horny.

  It was quite possible he could scratch all those itches in the bar he just walked into.

  Not exactly a dive, but it wasn’t some kind of stuffy martini bar, either. It was casual, served good homemade grub and cold beers. At least, that was what the cashier said at the local dollar store after Deacon showed her the picture of Warren and got an answering shrug. Then he’d asked her where the locals went to unwind.

  Turned out to be a locally-owned sports bar, the Mill Creek Bar & Grill. It wasn’t the type of establishment that would need to hang a sign stating, “No Colors Allowed,” but he left his cut in the Ford anyway. But then, he never wore his Fury colors while hunting a skip.

  Potentially, doing so could make his club a target. Instead, he wore a pair of worn Levi’s, his BFMC belt buckle, his boots and a plain off-white thermal since the night had gotten a bit nippy.

  Conveniently located a couple of blocks down from his motel, he left his truck there and walked.

  He kept his head on a swivel while he hoofed it down the sidewalk, on the off chance he’d spot Warren. He had burned that fucker’s face into his memory. He also made sure to wear his black paracord bracelet since he had nowhere to hide cuffs or zip strips on him to secure a fugitive. Like a Boy Scout, being a bounty hunter, it paid to be prepared
.

  Most fugitives weren’t going to stand there and wait for their captor to find something to secure them with. They would go into fight or flight mode. Not simply get on their knees and interlock their hands behind their heads like a good little boy or girl.

  And Deacon sure as fuck wasn’t running after anyone and preferred not to get into a damn scuffle, if he could avoid it. His face was too pretty to risk getting fucked up like that.

  When he walked inside the bar, the building was bigger than what it appeared since it was a lot deeper than it looked on the outside. An oval-shaped, double-sided bar sat lengthwise in the middle of the space. Along the sides in that front area were high tables. The back was more of a dining area, which was pretty full for the time of night. But then, there were different types of sports being shown on big screen TVs hanging along the walls. Whether those games were live or taped, Deacon had no clue. He wasn’t into sports except for the NFL. He was a Steelers fan since he’d grown up watching all the games with his dad. However, at the beginning of April, football was a distant memory.

  He spotted an empty stool down at the other end of the bar and made his way to it, scanning the patrons sitting around the bar and surrounding high tables as he went.

  None of the patrons looked like Warren.

  He doubted the fugitive would just be chilling in a bar, drinking a beer and eating fried mozzarella sticks, anyway. But, hey, the dude could be so whacked that he didn’t care who saw him.

  He settled on the stool, ignored the male bartender three customers down and caught the eye of the female one across from him. He gave her a crooked smile and a chin lift. She immediately broke away from the woman she was talking with and hurried over, throwing a cardboard coaster onto the bar top in front of him.

  She leaned over just enough to give him a nice peek at the top curves of her tits, which were stuffed into a bra a size too small. Her tight tank top, which advertised the bar and grill, also did nothing to hide her assets.

  The redhead—definitely not a natural red like Autumn—knew how to make good tips.

  “Hey.” Her husky voice swept over him.

  “Hey.” He took his time scanning the overflowing flesh to let her know he appreciated what she was generously sharing.

  Her tongue swept over her bottom lip. “What are you in the mood for?”

  Heh. “What’s worth havin’?”

  Her lips curled up at both ends. “Depends. Are you hungry... or thirsty?”

  He raked his gaze over her face, then continued down her chest. “Both.” She wasn’t bad. About a strong seven on a scale of one to ten.

  Her blue eyes sparkled at his answer. She fingered the drink coaster, circling it with the pointed tip of her long, red-painted fingernail.

  “Well,” she said softly, “got a good local IPA on tap. We also serve a mean anus burger.”

  Deacon blinked. “What?”

  The bartender smiled. “What? Are you asking what’s on the Angus burger besides cheese?”

  That was not what he was asking, but he would go with that. “Sorry, didn’t catch your name.”

  She shoved out her chest and her hand at the same time. “Oh, I’m Bambi.”

  Bambi. He shook her extended hand. She scraped her nails along his fingers when she released it.

  Deacon glanced around for a pole. Nope. No pole. No stage. He was still sitting in a local bar and grill. “Well, hey, Bambi, I’m Nick.” The name he always used when he was out hunting.

  “Well, Nick,” she purred. “You can have whatever you want on that burger.”

  “Can I now?” he purred back.

  “Bambi!” came a bellow from the male bartender.

  Bambi made a face and shrugged. “So, a beer and a burger?”

  “Yeah, sure. I like my burger warm and pink in the center.”

  “I’ll get that order in for you and be back in a sex with your beer... sec. Oops.” She put her fingertips over her mouth and giggled.

  Deacon checked out her ass as she moved down the bar. Yep. Definitely a solid seven, maybe teetering on a seven and a half.

  It looked like his thirsty, hungry and horny problem might all be solved in one shot.

  His gaze raked over the patrons eating at the tables toward the back. No Warren, of course. No surprise.

  Bambi was back in a flash, setting a pint glass filled to the brim in front of him. “I started a tab for you, Nick.” She tilted her head. “I don’t meet too many guys up here with a pierced nose. Besides your left nostril and right ear, what else do you have pierced?”

  He lifted his beer to his lips, “That’s a secret I only share with a select few,” and took a long sip.

  “I have a feeling it’s more than a select few,” Bambi answered. “But how does one get on that list?”

  “It’s a rigorous process.” He hid his grin behind the beer.

  Bambi rolled her eyes. “I doubt that. I’ll go check on your burger.”

  As she went to move away, he reached over the bar and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back. “Hey, before you do that, got somethin’ to show you.”

  Her eyes lit up. “One of those secret piercings?”

  “Not yet.” He slipped the picture of Warren out of his back pocket and placed it on the bar, tapping the photo with his finger. “Seen him in here recently? Or even around town?”

  She picked the photo up to study it and pursed her dark red lips. “He doesn’t look familiar.”

  “You sure?”

  “He’s pretty cute. I’d remember him.”

  Fuck yeah, she’d remember him. He left a lasting impression with women. And not a good one.

  She lifted her gaze back to him and tilted her head. “Why are you looking for him?”

  The lie—the one he used in most circumstances—slipped easily off his tongue. “He’s an old high school teammate of mine. Another buddy told me he was back in the area, but I can’t find him.”

  She squinted at him. “Teammate?”

  He puffed his chest out a little. “Yeah, football. Star quarterback of my alma mater.” The only time he’d ever touched a football was when him and Judge had tossed one around in the backyard as kids.

  With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she stared at him for a moment, her eyes raking over his chest and shoulders. She glanced at the picture again. “I can ask Danny. And some of the staff in the back.”

  Deacon shot her a mega-watt smile. “That would be great. And really appreciated.”

  “There are ways to show that appreciation,” she whispered, tucking the picture into the front pocket of the black apron wrapped around her waist. She gave him another smile and a wink as she turned. “I’ll bring your burger and make sure it has a warm, pink and juicy center just like you asked.”

  Normally, with a woman dropping sexual innuendos like that, his dick would be starting to pay attention. Surprisingly, his wasn’t. Which meant, he needed to decide whether Bambi was worth pursuing or not for tonight.

  Not even ten minutes later, she returned. A plate containing a burger and fries in one hand, a squeeze bottle of ketchup in the other. She placed it in front of him and then slipped the photo and silverware wrapped in a napkin out of her pocket, putting them next to his plate.

  “Danny hasn’t seen him. Neither has anyone who works in the back.”

  “Thanks for checkin’.” Deke unwrapped the napkin. “You know what? Give me another napkin. And a pen.”

  One of her dark eyebrows lifted, but she snagged another napkin from under the bar and pulled a pen from her apron.

  When she put the napkin down on the bar top, she kept a tight grip on the pen. Did she want him to wrestle it from her?

  He grinned. “If I give you my number, can you call me if you see him?”

  Those fingers loosened up quickly. “Sure.”

  He accepted the pen from her. “But promise not to say anythin’ to him. Wanna surprise him.” He scribbled down the number to a burner phone he bought ea
rlier in the day and handed her the napkin.

  Her eyes flipped from the number to him. “Can I call you for anything else?”

  “Depends on what you got in mind.” He popped a fry into his mouth.

  Her voice got low and husky. “I have a lot of things in mind.”

  His dick might have twitched the tiniest bit on that. Maybe he should get her number, too. “What time do you get off?”

  “Depends.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “On?”

  “Well, my shift ends at midnight. But how soon I get off will depend on you.”

  Heh.

  Too bad she didn’t have any good info... Getting an invite to her bed would only take care of one need, not the need for information.

  And it was only the first night in town, too. He had no idea how long he’d need to stay. He didn’t want to hook up with some chick who might get bent if he didn’t want to spend a second or third night with her. That could get messy.

  He needed to weigh the pros and cons on boning Bambi.

  As she waited for his answer, her attention was pulled toward the front of the bar when the door opened.

  He glanced in that direction, too, just in case it was Warren.

  It was not.

  Fuck no, it wasn’t.

  It was someone much better looking than Warren. The blonde walking in was teetering on a ten, unlike Bambi.

  Suddenly the bartender was off his radar and the newcomer landed right in the center of it.

  The woman wore a gray pantsuit with pinstripes and a light pink V-neck blouse under the jacket. The pants fit so they accentuated her long legs. The spiked heels made her appear taller than what she was, but, from what he could tell when she took long strides around the bar, she wasn’t short. Those long legs could wrap around his waist and hold him hostage.