I wanted his girlfriend. Bad.
And anger. Because anger purifies. White hot rage is like fire. It burns away everything but the essential.
I used my anger to burn away the grief and guilt, like alcohol in a pan. Anger gave me focus. It helped me to move on from the other paralyzing emotions.
It let me substitute my lust for Kylie with hatred.
The anger I felt toward the whole situation surrounding Scotty’s death was fueled and stoked by the way I learned about what happened, after the fact.
Of the three of us boys, Scotty was always the most outgoing. Even as a teenager, the fucker came off as bigger than life. He could charm the pants off practically everyone he met. Scotty could get away with shit no one else could, because everyone loved him. And because of that, he wasn’t scared to take risks. He knew he could talk his way out of shit nine times out of ten.
Scotty also had big appetites, for a lot of things. He was the kid who wasn’t content with a slice of cake; he’d steal the whole goddamn thing, and then lie his way out of it later. He was the first one of us to start stealing liquor from his parents’ stock, bringing it to our hideout to share it with us when we were twelve or thirteen. Mal and I regarded Scotty’s bullshitting abilities with a mixture of awe and admiration. And of course, we were more than happy to partake of the fruits of his less-than-honest labor.
As we got older, there was a little weed smoking to go along with the alcohol, when we could get it. But Scotty was the one who always wanted more. Whenever we’d manage to get pot, he’d smoke twice as much as us. He’d get wasted enough that Mal and I would often have to figure out how to cover for him until he was sober. When we drank, he’d be the one who was convinced he was fine to get behind the wheel, and we’d have to talk him out of it.
Looking back on it now, as I stare into the bottom of my shot glass, I realize Scotty probably would have had a pretty tough adult life. He wasn’t the type who was likely to calm down, or lighten up on the booze and weed with age. He had what the shrinks now call an addictive personality. His appetites were gonna get bigger and bigger, until they’d probably end up consuming him, one way or another.
When Scotty stopped hanging out with me and Mal so much, midway through our senior year, we figured he was with Kylie instead. That wasn’t exactly right.
He started spending a lot more time over at her house, yeah.
But, it turns out, not always for the reasons we thought.
The first real clue we should have had was one day when Scotty grabbed me in the hall after first period and asked me if I’d mind driving Kylie home from school that day. I didn’t have a car of my own yet, but my older brother worked night shifts, and he let me borrow his beat up Chevy Impala sometimes, on days he didn’t need it.
I didn’t really want to drive Kylie home. I hadn’t spent much time alone with her, which was by design. Staying away from her felt like my duty as a friend to Scotty. But I couldn’t exactly tell him he needed to find someone else to drive his girlfriend home because I was dying to bone her. And my traitor brain couldn’t think quick enough to come up with a good excuse. So in the end, I agreed, against my better judgment.
I went and found Kylie at her locker and told her I’d meet her outside the front doors after school. Then I spent the rest of the day pissed off at everyone and everything, and trying to convince myself that spending fifteen minutes in a car with Kylie Sutton was not gonna kill me.
After school, Kylie was waiting right outside the front doors for me, just like we’d agreed. She walked with me to my brother’s car, and when I opened the passenger side door for her, she looked at me with wide eyes like I’d just performed some sort of mystical feat. In spite of myself, I laughed. She started laughing, too, and told me she never would have taken me for the chivalrous type.
I don’t remember a lot more of that conversation. Except that we didn’t head for her house right away. Somehow, I never managed to start the car. We sat there in the far corner of the high school parking lot, talking, while the other cars emptied out little by little. Finally, I noticed we were one of the only ones still left.
My brother’s car was one of the models that still had a front bench seat, which meant that we were both sitting facing each other as we talked, like we were on a couch. I still remember the sound of Kylie’s laughter and how it rang out in the car as I told her the few jokes I knew. She told me about feeling like most of the girls in school were jealous of her because she hung out with the three of us.
I told her that wasn’t why they were jealous.
In the end, I took Kylie home because shit was starting to get uncomfortably close inside that car. The longer we talked, the more it felt like the space between us was getting smaller. The easier it felt like it would be to just slide over and pull her to me. To do the things I’d fantasized about doing, more often than I cared to admit. So I stopped talking and turned up the radio. Then I shifted in my seat, threw the Impala into drive, and hauled ass out of there.
When we got to her dad’s property, we were both surprised to see that Scotty’s car was in the front yard. Kylie shot me a confused look, and my first thought was that Scotty had come here looking for Kylie after he got done helping his dad. It was at least two hours after school had gotten out, so we were clearly more than a little late. A cold lump of guilt formed in my stomach. I felt like I’d been caught out fucking my best friend’s girl, even though all we’d done was talk.
I couldn’t let Kylie go in there by herself, so I got out of the car and went in with her. Inside, we found Scotty and Kylie’s dad hanging out in the living room.
“Hey!” Scotty called out, in a voice too loud for the space. He stood up quickly from the worn recliner he’d been sitting in, arms flung wide open in greeting.
There was a strange smell in the air. I couldn’t place it. Like a weird mix of plastic bags and ammonia.
“What are you doing here?” Kylie asked, taking a step forward to let him curl an arm around her. “I thought you were helping your dad?”
“I was!” Scotty’s head bobbed. “But I got done early so I came here to see you!”
Kylie’s dad, Charlie, hadn’t risen from his seat. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. “Cameron, isn’t it?” he murmured, sticking out a hand to me.
I shook it, nodding.
“I gotta get going, babe,” Scotty said abruptly. He reached down to grab his backpack, which was lying at his feet by the chair he’d been sitting in. “Thanks for bringing her home, buddy.”
“No problem,” I murmured, frowning.
Something was off, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Since Scotty was leaving, I felt weird sticking around, so I followed him back outside. Kylie went with us. I watched, hormones boiling, as Scotty kissed her goodbye and climbed into his car. He waved at the two of us and took off, leaving us there alone.
I glanced over at Kylie. Her features were pale, her lips pressed together. She raised her arms and clasped them around herself, like she was suddenly cold.
At the time, I thought she was just as confused as I was.
Later, I decided it was something else. Something she knew. Something she wasn’t telling me.
I left right after Scotty did. I didn’t know what to say, and even though I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, talking about my buddy behind his back with his girlfriend seemed like a shitty thing to do. Especially after I’d just spent the last two hours battling my conscience and wishing Kylie was mine instead of his.
We never talked about that day. And then later, it was too late for talking.
I’ve nursed a fuck of a lot of anger for Kylie over the years. Over time, it’s dulled a bit, because I hadn’t seen her in so long. When I saw her at the Ironwood clubhouse, it flared again, hot as flame. Especially after I found out about her muling drugs for Ironwood.
But for the first time since Scotty’s death, a small part of me has to acknowledge that what happened to him was prob
ably always gonna happen. He was gonna get involved in bad shit, sooner or later. And he was probably gonna get in way over his head, before he even realized what was happening.
And that part, at least, wasn’t Kylie’s fault.
I slam my glass down on the bar, realizing I’ve lost count of how many shots I’ve taken. The prospect nods toward it, silently asking if I want a refill, but I shake my head and stand up. My head is already starting to pound. I thought I’d be able to drink away the thoughts chasing me, but I was wrong. Weaving slightly, I make my way through the Ironwood brothers, ignoring Tank as he hollers my name from the other side of the room.
Tonight, I’m not gonna escape my demons.
Back inside the apartment, I shrug off my cut and lay it over a chair. I sink down onto the bed in the dark and lie back. Staring up at the ceiling into the blackness, Kylie’s face appears before me, just like I knew it would. The memory of my mouth on hers, of her fast, shallow breathing as I wrapped her legs around me, makes me hard as a fuckin’ rock in a matter of seconds.
It’s almost painful as I unzip my jeans and push them down and off. Taking myself in my hand, I imagine slipping a finger under that tight little dress, sliding it under the fabric of her panties until I feel her slick and wet, ready for me. I groan as I pump myself slowly, pulsing, as in my mind I push inside her hot, waiting pussy. I grab her hips, pulling out and then slamming into her. Her back is against the wall as she moans and begs me for more. Fuck, I must have thought about doing this hundreds of times in the days before everything went to hell, thought about how maybe, just maybe one day, Scotty and Kylie would call it quits, and maybe Kylie… Fuck, maybe I…
With a loud groan, I thrust myself into my hand a final time and unload. Hot spasms of my seed flood through me as in my mind I empty myself deep inside Kylie. Marking her. Possessing her. Filling her.
Fuck.
All these years later, I thought I’d forgotten about her.
Now, I wonder if I ever fucking will.
15
Hale
I toss and turn all fucking night. The next morning is the day of the meetup with the Dos Santos cartel. And between all the whiskey in my system and the lack of sleep, I’m feeling like hell.
I get up late in the morning, and decide to wash away my hangover with half a pot of coffee and an order of bacon and eggs at one of the local diners. When I get back, I take a long, hot shower, then go outside to check that my bike’s working fine.
Tank’s out there, too. He’s looking a little worse for wear as well, but a lot more fuckin’ cheerful than I am.
“Brother, you don’t know what you’re missing with the club girls here,” he chuckles. “Jesus Christ, last night these three chicks named Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria or some shit gave me the ride of my goddamn life. It was like fuckin’ Christmas, and all the presents were for me.”
“Congratulations,” I mutter.
“Thank you,” he grins. “That chick Kylie must be something if you’re turning down the free pussy here. Granted, she is a hot piece of ass.”
“I’m not…” I growl, and then stop. Getting into this with Tank is the one thing guaranteed to make me even more fuckin’ pissed off than I already am this morning. Unfortunately, he’s not about to let it go.
“Wait, hold up.” Disbelief is clear in his voice. “You ain’t tryin’ to tell me you aren’t hittin’ that, are you? Come on, brother. I know you better than that.”
“This ain’t your business,” I shoot back.
Tank just stares at me. “What. The Fuck. Are you seriously saying you ain’t fuckin’ her? What, is she wearing a goddamn chastity belt under that clingy dress or something?”
“Fuck you, brother.”
“You disappoint me, man.” Tank clucks his tongue in disapproval.
I just barely restrain myself from punching the fucker in his smug goddamn face. Just as I’m about to tell him to shut the fuck up again, the door to the clubhouse opens and a bunch of Ironwood men start streaming out, with Axel, Rourke, and Mal in the lead. “Looks like it’s time to go,” I mutter, happy for the change of subject.
I straighten and straddle my Harley as they all head to their bikes. Axel and his road captain, Rogue, pull up into the front of the road formation. Rourke takes his place as VP behind Axel. The rest of the Ironwood brothers, move into their positions. Finally, Tank and I bring up the rear as associates of the club.
We ride south out of town. Even though I’m feeling like hell, the sounds of our engines and the wind rushing by wakes me up and gets my adrenaline pumping. We head into Kentucky, toward just north of Louisville. It’s an area that’s hotly contested between different cartels who want access to the north, to Chicago and Milwaukee, and to the east. The Dos Santos cartel is battling for power and control with the Sinaloa and Los Caballeros cartels, so there’s always some risk doing business with them that our club will get caught in the crossfire. That’s part of the reason Angel wants me and Tank here. Not just to be the ambassador between our charter and the cartel. But to make sure Dos Santos can hold up their end of the agreement — that they have the fire power and the man power to move their product on a regular schedule so we don’t run into trouble with our buyers.
The meet point is on the north end of Louisville. The address Chaco gave Axel turns out to be a run-down looking Mexican restaurant. The lack of customer cars in the parking lot gives us a clue as to why the fuck we’re meeting at this shit hole.
We walk through the double glass doors of the building, which looks like it used to be an old Hardee’s restaurant or something. Inside, the place is done up in fake adobe shit, with pink terra cotta colored walls. The smell of beans and grease meets us at the entrance.
“I fuckin’ hate Mexican food,” Rourke mutters beside me.
Axel lifts his chin at a tiny, round Mexican man who can’t be more than five-foot two. The man wordlessly turns and points to the back, toward a narrow archway covered by a curtain. As we follow Axel back, I notice the Ironwood brothers tensing as they prepare to go into an unfamiliar situation.
On the other side of the curtain is a large room with a long, narrow table in the center. Seated along it to one side are nine members of the Dos Santos cartel. In the center is Chaco Dos Santos, who stands as he sees us enter. The rest of his men immediately stand as well.
Two guards by the door motion to us to pull our guns and cell phones and put them in two baskets on either side of the doorway. I can tell Axel doesn’t like it, but he does it anyway. He nods briefly at his men and they follow suit.
Once we’ve all given up our pieces, Chaco stands. With smooth, fluid movements, he comes around the table, flanked by two large, armed bodyguards.
Chaco is probably about forty years old, though he looks younger. He’s tall, swarthy, and slim, wearing an expensive suit the color of black pearls. His shoes are black and polished to a mirror gleam. A single gold signet ring on his right pinky is his only jewelry. His dark hair is styled effortlessly, but I know his haircut probably cost more than my goddamn rent.
Chaco nods toward me first. Then, his eyes scanning the rest of us, he spies the “President” patch on Axel’s chest, and nods at him, as well.
“Hale,” he murmurs. He steps toward me and we extend hands and shake. “Good to see you.”
“Angel sends his greetings. He was sorry he couldn’t be here.”
“I understand,” Chaco says smoothly.
“This is Axel.” I turn toward the Ironwood prez. “And his VP, Rourke.”
“Gentlemen.” Chaco nods but doesn’t move to shake their hands. “It’s a pleasure. Shall we get down to business?”
Chaco moves back to his seat, and motions for Axel, Rourke, and me to sit down across from him. The rest of the Ironwood men and Tank hang back, silent but watchful.
“We were disappointed to hear from Angel that a new chapter would be handling the transfers of our product going forward,” Chaco begins. “Under the old pres
idency of Lords of Carnage, I might not have had faith that this new arrangement would be in our interests.” He shoots me a warning look, which I don’t react to. “But Angel has assured me that nothing will change except our contact. I know he expects that, and he knows I expect that.
“As a new MC,” he continues pointedly, “I need to know the Ironwood chapter has the strength in place to protect our investments.” Chaco lets his eyes drift and settle one by one on Axel’s men, like he’s inspecting them. “We have had a good relationship with the Lords of Carnage since Angel took over as president. We hope that good relationship continues with Ironwood as our contact.”
Beside me, Rourke bristles. “We’re the same club,” he grunts, an edge in his voice.
“As you know, Chaco, Angel trusts Axel and his men,” I say. “All the terms of our previous agreement have been fully explained to him.”
Axel cuts a glance at me, clearly pissed that I’m talking for him. Then, leaning back in his seat, he addresses Chaco. “You got nothing to worry about, Dos Santos. We ain’t babes in the woods. We do what’s necessary. Your product is safe with our club. There ain’t gonna be any glitches on our end.” He narrows his eyes. “If there ain’t any on yours.”
Chaco leans forward and puts his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. “As you know, competition for control of the drug trade from the south is fierce. Cutthroat. I have spent considerable energy, resources, and men to secure the Dos Santos cartel’s position. It is imperative that we have a pipeline toward the north that is reliable.” Chaco pauses, waits a beat. “If the Lords of Carnage are unable to ensure that, then the cartel would need to put in place another partner. One that can do the job as we need it to be done.”
His meaning is clear. This route is too important for them to leave anything to chance. If there are any problems with shipment transfers going forward, the cartel will move to take us out, and give another club or gang our territory.
HALE: Lords of Carnage MC Page 9
