Expose

by C. D. Breadner

  His smile slipped and something fell in his expression. It was crushing disappointment. That really made her feel like shit.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m so fucking confused.”

  “I know,” he said gently, smiling again. “It’s okay, Rose. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  She smiled back. Something about his feelings for her just felt so … good. It made her very happy, even if she had no idea who he was. “Me too,” she said, knowing it sounded lame. “And thank you for being here.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tank drummed his fingers on his handlebars, the heat of the sun cooking him under his unmarked leather jacket. It was fucking hot, and this full leather thing was going to kill him. But they had to blend, this was work.

  The Sachettis had left the club to set up a plan to transport their two dozen RPGs; they just wanted to red-stamp it before they put it into play. Approval came fast, in less than a day, and then the club was up for their first test.

  It was pretty damn simple. Tiny had his trucker’s license, owned his own rig and hired it out on contract. Sometimes he even hired a driver and then just collected an administration fee for the trips. The Sachetti contact in San Diego hired Tiny’s truck for a shipment of stuffed animals, large carnival-sized ones, destined for Japan. The weight and shape of the crates were no good, but the description of the goods came from Sachetti himself so maybe he had someone on the take at the port, for all they knew.

  Fritter and Spaz would be at the front of the convoy, a safe distance ahead of the truck. As for the truck, it would have to go pick up the load on its own so as not to arouse suspicion. They didn’t like that part, but they had no room to argue about it. The drop-off team were trusted associates of Michael Sachetti, so it was ill advised to be questioning their trustworthiness.

  The van was waiting down the street from the depot, and they’d alert Tank, Buck, Knuckles, and Rusty when the truck was on the move. The rest of them would follow on their bikes, no colors, again at a safe distance. Tiny’s rig would be flanked front and back the whole way from Hazeldale up to L.A. Not a long trip, but given the cargo it was still plenty dangerous and stupid. And they had no friends to call on in L.A. whatsoever. They were totally without backup.

  He heard a phone go off, then realized it was his. He dug it out of his pocket, then checked the little screen. “They’re heading this way,” he informed his brothers, tucking the cell away as they all started up their bikes with a collective roar. He followed suit, rolling the throttle mostly out of nerves.

  Good money, he reminded himself. Really fucking good money.

  The van rolled past first, then after a pause Tiny’s rig followed. They peeled off in two-abreast formation, already in the industrial part of Hazeldale, so there were no residential streets to worry about. Within minutes they were on the open highway, fresh air trying to cool him off but having a hell of a time getting into the zipped jacket.

  He kept his mind off the discomfort by keeping his eyes on Rusty’s back ahead of him. Focus was key in this situation.

  Hazeldale to L.A. was a five-hour trip. At the halfway mark, north of Bakersfield, Tiny would stop for lunch. That was another thing to focus on: the chance to shed this coat and get some air on his greasy carcass.

  The diner was an old, peeling Sixties-style building that was squatting behind a new, gleaming truck stop. Inside the diner they assembled with Tiny to check on how the pick-up had gone.

  They ordered their meals; then, when the waitress was out of earshot, Tiny filled them all in.

  “Went smooth,” Tiny said with a nod. “I was on edge, not gonna lie. But they loaded it all, barely said a word, then let me drive out of there. Fast, too. Efficient. They had six guys loading. All Mexicans.”

  Tank frowned. “Mexicans, huh?”

  “San Diego,” Rusty pointed out gruffly. “Close to the border. That’s what’s available and they don’t ask questions.”

  Tank had to admit that made sense. Not every Mexican meant that the cartel was hovering around, after all.

  “I’ll do a sweep for tracking devices after lunch,” Spaz offered, taking a long gulp of his water. Looked like Tank wasn’t the only one suffering in the heat.

  “We’re halfway through this, guys,” Tank reminded them, trying to keep the mood light. And positive. “Few more hours, and we head home that much richer.”

  The grumbles around the table weren’t enthusiastic, but he couldn’t blame them for being begrudging. Until they’d done this a few times, got the feel for the guys they were working with, it was going to be a stressful period of adjustment. The Sachettis had no reason to foul them, but Tank was reluctant to put all their trust into someone blindly. When it came down to being blindsided and not taking a sucker punch, he’d always choose what left him with some kind of defense. And he knew the guys on this run felt exactly the same way.

  “I know what I’m buying first,” Tiny muttered, fingertips drumming on the table. “New ink. I got a hankering for something, I don’t know what.”

  “Who’s gonna do it?” Fritter asked.

  “I was thinking of Gertie’s shop there. What’s that guy’s name?”

  “Brady?” Buck answered. “Yeah, he’s pretty damn good, actually.”

  “Think he’d work on us?”

  Buck chuckled. “I think he’s been waiting to be asked. Gertie said something about him wanting to do club ink. Which was weird, considering he’s … well.” Buck swiveled his head back and forth.

  “What the fuck is that?” Fritter asked as the rest of them cut up.

  “He’s gay, all right? He likes guys.”

  “Wow, that’s really biased of you, Buck,” Spaz said, straight-faced and disappointed. “To suggest he might not be good at his job because he likes cock?”

  Buck made a face. “Fuck you. I didn’t mean that. I just expected him to think the worst of us, all right?” Then he shook his head. “I know we’re equal opportunity assholes. We scare everyone equally.”

  They chuckled at that as their food arrived, and some of the heaviness that had been on Tank’s shoulders since they left Hazeldale eased up. As long as they could bullshit like this, everything was fine.

  -oOo-

  The sun would not fucking let up. Standing on the concrete pier, Tank felt exactly like someone had parked his body in a steel bucket and set it on a fucking campfire. There were no trees here, just the hot breeze coming off the ocean and sunbaked cement.

  They all kept their basic leather bomber jackets on, trying to look like nothing was affecting them, hopefully keeping the security detail on this shipment from getting antsy. There were guys standing on the gangplank leading to the shitty, old-looking tugboat their cargo was being loaded onto. Tiny was standing next to the back of the truck, talking and laughing with the big Mexican-looking guy that seemed to be in charge. Or maybe he was Italian, just with a good tan. Who the hell knew?

  Once the crates were loaded, Tiny and his new bestest buddy sauntered over to Tank. He was surprised, then realized with Jayce staying behind he was the highest ranking officer here. He tossed the toothpick he’d been worrying at down on the ground and met them halfway down the pier, extending his hand.

  “Tank Williams,” he offered his name first.

  “Anthony Guidinger,” the man returned smoothly, no trace of a faraway accent. “I take care of Mr. Sachetti’s affairs here in Southern Cali.” He chewed his lip for a minute, looking amused. “Tank Williams?”

  Tank shrugged one shoulder. “My size. Plus I like country music. These assholes aren’t really creative.”

  That made the guy laugh, showing off pearl-white horse teeth. Jesus, the guy looked like a nutcracker. “Your deliveries are very timely. Mr. Sachetti will be pleased.” Now he looked from Tank to Tiny, eyes twinkling. “You really didn’t look at the shipment?”

  Tiny shook his head. “Nah, none of my business.”

  Now the guy turned back to the deck crew.
“Reno! Crack one of those open, show our friends what they brought us.”

  Tank had the urge to punch the guy in the face. What the fuck was he doing? Inviting the whole dock to take a look at their illegal cargo?

  The Mexican deck hand was already prying the side open with a crowbar, removing a board and holding up … something purple and fluffy.

  “What the fuck?” Tank muttered as Tiny shot him a look of panic. Like somehow their load had gotten switched and now they were in deep shit.

  But Anthony Guidinger was still laughing, now at the expression on their faces. “Gentlemen, in this instance RPG stands for royal purple gorilla. One of Mr. Sachetti’s mistresses designed these fucking toys, and they were all made in a factory in Mexico before it collapsed and killed a bunch of kids that were working there.” He rolled his hand over and over, an indifferent yadda yadda motion. “Anyway, no one’s buying anything from that region and they’re losing cash on this stupid shit.” He looked over his shoulder where Reno was stuffing the ugly stuffed toy back into the crate. “China’s going nuts for them. I can’t believe we’re selling shitty toys to the Chinese.” The back of his hand slapped Tiny’s stomach like they were buddies sharing a laugh.

  Tiny, for his part, still looked like he couldn’t catch up with what was happening. Tank was following, though, and he was livid.

  “You hired us to transport fucking toys?” he growled, taking a dangerous step close to this Guidinger clown.

  Instantly there were safety clicks around him as the Sachetti security detail circled him. Tank likely had five guns pointed at his head, but his eyes were on Guidinger and his smart-ass grin.

  Yeah, he may have been grinning, but his tone dropped cold and low. “You think we’re going to give military-grade weapons to an untested group of bikers right out of the gate? Give your heads a fucking shake.” Keeping his eyes locked on Tank he reached into his sportcoat and withdrew a fat envelope. “Still getting your bankroll, don’t worry about it. Mr. Sachetti pointed out that he’s still a million bucks richer thanks to the generosity of the club.” The envelope smacked Tank in the gut but he refused to so much as grunt. “You can count it if you want.”

  He wanted to, just to waste this asshole’s time, but he wanted out of there more. “Nah,” he relented with a grin, taking the cash. “I trust you implicitly. Unless this turns out to be Monopoly money.”

  Guidinger set off with that boisterous laughter, which Tank realized was likely as fake as a three-dollar coin. Then he turned on one loafered heel and strode away from them. His armed men followed, not so much as looking back.

  “What the hell?” Tiny muttered, scrubbing a hand down his chin.

  Tank looked down at the wad in his hand, shrugging. “I guess we passed the test.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “The graft took amazingly well,” Doctor Webber was prattling on, removing the gauze wrapped around Rose’s forearm, her smile warm and genuine. “You’re happy with it, right?”

  Rose eyed up her new skin as it was revealed, swallowing involuntarily and fighting the tears that welled up. With all the movie-star-worship talk the doc had given to this expert, Rose couldn’t see what there was to be excited about. The edges were rough, almost puckered. All she could be happy for was the fact it was the right color. Just, those scars …

  But Tracey Webber was grinning, clearly pleased, so Rose smiled back. “It’s amazing,” she assured the woman, nodding. “I was scared I’d have gaping craters all over me.” That was true. Sure, this skin sunk in slightly, but she could hope that it would plump up once it had time to adapt. No one had told her otherwise.

  “It’s healing nicely. And I’m so glad you didn’t have any severe nerve damage. I know it’s hard to believe, but really Rose, this could have been so much worse.” Doctor Webber cupped her hand on Rose’s shoulder. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Rose smiled her thanks, then the doctor left. Every morning they opened up her bandages for a while to let the scars breathe, heal. That meant she was sitting there, bare to the world from the waist up, just a paper curtain hiding her from prying eyes.

  Rose focused her eyes upward, head back. That was ideal since the tears couldn’t roll down her face that way. She could hide it better in this position.

  She was done. Unemployable now. She had no formal education, no savings. What the hell was she going to do to live? And what was her mother going to do? Without the extra money from Rose, she could never afford that home. And it really was the best place for her. It would kill Rose to move her mother to a lesser institution.

  The panic of all this was a crushing weight on her chest. It was squeezing her heart, making it hard to breathe—

  “Oh, shit, sorry.”

  She jolted upright, stitches tearing painfully on her breast, yanking the hospital blanket up to her chin, sputtering out a clumsy “What the hell are you doing here?”

  The embarrassment was ridiculous. Tank had seen her in absolutely nothing, seeing her now shouldn’t matter one bit.

  He was even chuckling a bit, the asshole. He moved between the curtains and pulled them tight behind him, coming forward and putting flowers on her side table.

  Rose softened immediately. They weren’t big ridiculous roses. They were cheerful daisies and Gerberas of all colors, wrapped in cellophane. Beautiful and happy, exactly what she liked.

  “I was coming to see how you were,” he explained, running his hands through his hair and searching for the chair. It was on the other side of the curtain, though, so he just stayed standing. “Didn’t expect you to be nude in here.”

  “I wasn’t,” she snapped back, hearing the urge to laugh in her own tone. Must have been the flowers getting to her. “I’m supposed to let the stitches breathe so it all heals faster.”

  “Well why are you yanking that dirty blanket over them?” he returned with a sarcastic lilt to his tone, very much like a child. He reached out for the top of the blanket. “Let it all hang out, English. I’ve seen it before.”

  “You only get to see it when I decide you can,” she said, chin up, clutching at the blankets tighter.

  Tank lifted an eyebrow, looming over her with both hands planted on the mattress. He was big, imposing, and there was a sparkle to his eye that had her quivering in a most pleasant way. Then his gaze dropped down to her arm. “Hey, the grafts. They look good, English.”

  She yanked her arm away as he was about to take her hand, shoving it under the blanket, too. Now he looked startled, backing away.

  “Sorry,” he said immediately, hands up. “I don’t mean to push. I’m just glad to see they’re healing, that’s it.”

  Now she felt like a bitch. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m not happy with them.”

  His head tilted at that. “What? Why?”

  She frowned, looking away. “I don’t know. It’s … it’s going to scar.”

  Tank’s face softened and he leaned on her bed again. “Rose, I was having all kinds of nightmares about how this was going to go for you. Not how it would affect me, but what it would do to you if it didn’t turn out well. From what I saw there it looks good. Your cheek looks great, too.”

  Shit, she’d forgotten about her face. It was right out there, for everyone to notice and wonder about. She wanted to cover it since he was looking at it so closely, but she couldn’t touch it. She didn’t want to muck it up.

  “You’re so … beautiful, Rose.” That had been hard for him to get out, but she wasn’t sure why. So she just took it to mean he wasn’t pulling her leg.

  “Tank—” she began, in no state to get all heavy.

  “I just wanted you to know that,” he insisted. “To me you’re beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone so perfect.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not perfect.”

  “Actually, you are,” he corrected, moving closer to the head of the hospital bed. “These pricks wanted to cause you as much hurt as they could. Don’t give them the power to
change your opinion of yourself. You’re exactly the same. I promise.”

  Rose inhaled. “Why would they choose me?”

  He shook his head. “They didn’t. They just chose us, they want to make the people we’re associated with scared to be on our side. It’s standard tactics for war.”

  Rose frowned. “War? Right. That does make sense. Men piss each other off and women and children get hurt.”

  Now his face got stony. “It’s not going to come to that, English.”

  She scoffed. “Sure. I’ll blindly sit here and believe that for the moment because I have to. But once I’m out of here … I can’t.”

  Tank’s tone took an edge she hadn’t heard before, and it was chilling. “What does that mean?”

  Just say it. “I can’t stay in Markham. I … I have to go home.”

  There was a long pause while she stared at his hands, clenched at his sides as they were. “Don’t,” he said softly, and it was shocking to her. She looked up, startled, to find that Tank Williams was a few seconds from tearing up.

  “Tank—”

  “Just don’t go,” he asked, so simply it hurt. “I’m not saying that we’re destined to be the next great love story. Hell knows I’m no Prince Charming, but … I just want to be with you, Rose. One night, sure, that’s what we had but …” he shook his head, strengthening his resolve. “It meant a lot. Like I told you.”

  Now she was lost. “When did you tell me?”

  He speared a hand into his long tangle of hair. “Shit. When you were still out of it after surgery.”

  Rose was more than lost. “I don’t remember this. Why don’t I remember?”

  “You were coming off whatever they gave you to put you out. You …” he chuckled. “You were actually pretty fucking cute.”

  She had to shake her head. “I don’t remember it. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll say it again then.” He pressed one hand into the mattress next to her hip, resting his weight on his arm next to her head where the bed was elevated. She had no chance but to stare at his face, absorb his concern and desperation and try not to melt because of it. “It meant a lot to me. You’re starting to mean a lot to me. And I can’t lose that now. Please … please don’t leave.”