by Violet Blaze
I take it from his outstretched fingers and stay where I am for a moment, breathing in the misty night air and holding it tight in my lungs for several long seconds as I listen to Smoky and Mug climb off their bikes, boots loud against the wet gravel beneath their feet. In the distance, a frog croaks, but those are the only sounds out here, at Glacier's abandoned house next to the cemetery. While the rest of my boys spent the night dumping bodies in the ocean and digging shallow graves in the forest, we'll get to spend it babysitting Clayton Moore.
“Nah,” I say as I swing my leg over my bike and stand up, pausing next to the club's enforcer as I finish up my cig and toss it to the ground, grinding it out with my boot. “I'm not near sentimental enough for that shite.”
Glacier grins white in the darkness, the rictus expression taking over his face and sending a shiver down my spine. Fucking creeper.
“Let's do this thing then,” he says as he ruffles his blond hair up with his fingers, the sight of him downing men with a crossbow still nice and fresh in the forefront of my mind. I'm bloody glad to have this bastard on my side.
Mug and Smoky follow us as far as the sagging porch; I mostly brought the bastards to make sure I didn't get jumped on my way over here. For now, they can hang out and play watchdogs. God only knows who might be interested in following us out here tonight: the FBI or the cartel. Not sure at this point which would be worse. Far as I could tell, the two rozzers who questioned me at the clubhouse tonight didn't know shit, but then, those were local guys. What happens if the feds decide to send a few more reinforcements this way?
What a goddamn mess.
I curse under my breath as I follow behind Glacier into the house, moving across floors covered in leaves towards the kitchen with its cracked linoleum counters and the empty holes where appliances used to sit. He cracks open the pantry and bends down to shove the dirty rug aside, grabbing the metal handle for the basement door and pulling hard.
It comes up with a creak as Glacier stands and holds his hand out.
“After you, Boss,” he says, still smiling as I start down the narrow steps and pause in the old wine cellar, looking for the panel with the hidden door. It takes me a second before I figure it out, pushing in the faded wood with a single hand and pausing as I stare down the president of Mile Wide MC.
“Mr. Moore,” I say with a false sense of cheer as I move into the room and grab the only other chair, sitting down in front of the man as Glacier locks the two doors behind us and I stare Clayton down. I shot this fucker in the leg, but he doesn't look all the worse for wear, lifting his head to gaze at me with bright blue eyes. “How are you doing down here? You comfortable then?”
“Don't you people have an entire island to yourselves? Now why you gotta come back here and stink up the place? Far as I know we sent the redcoats packing a long time ago.”
“Real cute,” I tell him as I lean back and thread my hands together behind my head. “I've only heard that one twice a day from this asshole over here.” I jerk my thumb at Glacier and his grin gets even wider. “You're not half as clever as you think you are, Clayton. If you were, you wouldn't be a guest at Saint's little bed and breakfast.” I hold out a hand to indicate the damp, cool room around us, lit with a few bare bulbs in the ceiling. Glacier leaves the electricity and water on here to keep up appearances. He's also started renovating the upstairs bedrooms in case somebody starts sniffing around. “So, you ready to start talking?”
“Talking? Naw, I've never much been one for jaw flappin', Mr. McBride. Do what you're gonna do to me, but keep in mind that I'm as much a victim in all this as you are. If you think the Saldañas will pull back because you put a few of my boys in the ground, you're wrong.”
“Tell me about Rebecca,” I say as I run my tongue along my teeth and try not to let the violence brewing in my belly overwhelm me. “When did you start having an affair?”
“That's what you want to know about when you got me locked up down here?” he asks, pausing to lean forward in his restraints and spit blood to the dirty floor. Clayton's dirty blond hair hangs wet and muddy in his face, fresh purple and yellow bruises blooming across his skin like the mold in the corners of the room. “A woman? Damn, and here I was sweatin' like a whore in church. Well, if that's all you want to know then you've got your priorities even more twisted than I thought.”
I grit my teeth and glance over at Glacier; he's not smiling anymore. Guess the news of Rebecca's infidelity is bothering him, too. How could we have misread someone so goddamn badly?
A slight nod of my chin and he's moving over to the table in the back and reappearing with one of our club's signature hammers in his hand.
“Rebecca,” I say as Clayton glances over and eyes the hammer warily. Or more likely he's eyeing Glacier, as the man uses his tattooed hands to caress the weapon like a lover. Hell, who am I kidding? Glacier's never touched a woman with that level of care and reverence. The leather lovers back at the clubhouse are scared shitless of him. “Tell me when you met her, when you started fucking.”
“Shoot, son,” Clayton says as he smiles with swollen, bruised lips. “I met Rebecca after Landon threw in his towel with us. If you're looking to blame that little bitch for all your troubles, you'd best start looking elsewhere. That cunt is nothing but an expensive whore.”
“Yeah?” I raise a brow and feel a smile come over my face. “Then why the hell do you look so goddamn terrified? Think you'd mind if we dragged Rebecca in here with you? Got her to talk with a few of Glacier's favorite tricks?”
Clayton gives me nothing, but I saw it written all over his face when we were fighting in the woods. He's got a thing for Rebecca, something that I can use to my advantage here.
“Tell me where to hit the Saldañas, and I'll see what I can do to help her out, give her a little warning before we drive our asses down south and pick her up.”
Nothing.
Clayton keeps his blue eyes locked on my face, his lips pursed tight with silence.
But that's okay—Glacier loves doing things the hard way.
When he moves forward and reaches down to straighten out the man's fingers, I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Mick's been tracking her debit card purchases, Clay—can I call you Clay?—so at any given moment, my boys know exactly where she is.”
There it is.
Clayton's jaw gets tight and he bares his teeth at me.
“What the fuck do you think I know, boy? You think I have any say in this shit? The Saldañas took us over like a tidal wave. You think you're any better off? You don't have half the resources they do.”
“Maybe not,” I say as I stand up and nod my chin at Glacier. He resumes straightening Clay's fingers out. “Not our chapter, but we're not alone in this.” I slide my phone from my pocket and breathe out a long sigh. “Not by a long shot.”
This is going to be long night, isn't it?
I turn away before the first blow makes contact and the entire room fills with Clayton's screams.
I should find some fucked-up pleasure in it, shouldn't I? Listening to my enemy suffer?
Instead, all I feel is sick inside.
What a perfect ending to a shitty night.
Putting up with my family's shit was worth heading to the compound to see Royal.
I take a deep breath and blink several times to clear the arguments from my head, doing my best to refocus on my surroundings. When I said I could handle anything, I meant it. Even my crazy family. I reach a hand up and rub my fingers against my temple.
My parents were furious, but you know what? I'm twenty-eight years old, and I have a right to do what I want. Maybe my dad will fire me? I can't decide if that thought's comforting or terrifying. It's either one or the other, nothing in between. It scares me that I can't figure out which.
I make sure the door is closed and locked behind me—wouldn't put it past my mother to crack the door and eavesdrop—before I lean against it, surveying the double bed, the wooden desk my gra
ndfather built, and the thin wet panes of the window across from me. Rain sleets against the glass in a driving wave as I try to slow the pounding of my heart and remind myself that at least for the moment, I'm safe.
Alive.
And in love.
And a murderer.
Remember how I said lucky people were the only ones who got to be worried and depressed about their own morality? I don't feel quite so lucky now.
But what I am is determined. And stubborn. And resolute.
I exhale sharply and stand up, my clothes still damp and reeking of blood—even after my little detour to see Royal McBride. I shrug my wet purse up my shoulder and move over to toss it onto the bed. Between avoiding an unnecessary trip to the hospital (I had to practically beat the EMTs off with a stick), giving my statement to the sheriff, stealing my sister's car to see my outlaw biker/fiancé, and enduring a screaming match with my parents, I'm beat.
Let's just say, it was a long ride into town in the back of a police cruiser. The grow house where Clayton Moore took me might've only been an hour away, but it may as well have been in another country. I feel like I'm in a different world here, in the safe little haven of my parents' Victorian.
For the first time in my life though, I can truly appreciate my mother's sentimentality. My childhood room is completely intact—from the comforter I got for Christmas my senior year of high school to the phone charger I left plugged into the wall the day I graduated. Okay, now that is a little creepy. I grab the end of the cord and yank it out, tucking it neatly into an empty nightstand drawer. I realize as I do that my hands are shaking.
So many dead bodies.
I blink and shove the drawer closed, shutting my eyes and leaning over, palm splayed open and supporting my weight on the wooden nightstand my grandfather also made for me.
Breathe in, and breathe out.
If I can remember those two things, I'll be okay. Eventually.
My phone buzzes inside my purse and I flick my eyes open, diving over to grab it and answer the incoming call.
“Hello?”
“Hello? Hello?! What the bloody fuck, Pint-Size? I've been sitting on pins and needles over here waiting for your call. I told you if you forgot to call me, I was coming over there to get your ass.”
“No, no, no.” I sit heavy on the edge of the bed and run my fingers through my hair. Some of the strands are crusted together with … I draw my hand away and stare at the rusty stains on my fingers. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. “Please don't. You have no idea the shit I've already had to deal with over here. If my dad sees you …” I start, holding my hand away from me like it's got the plague. I need a shower like, yesterday. I try really hard not to think about why I have blood crusted in my hair. How many men did I kill? Maybe I'm lucky and the dried blood I'm feeling is mine from that blow to the back of the head? Hah. If only … “Everything's okay. Your boys made sure I arrived safely.”
“No shit. You're lucky they called to let me know or I'd already be over there. I'm not above kicking your father's ass, you know.”
I groan and drop my head into my hand. The one crusted with blood. Fuck. See, still my word of the week. The month. The year.
“Maybe I'll just head on over there anyway …”
“Like hell you are,” I say as I stand up and start unbuttoning my jeans. It's as I'm doing that that I remember Mia's face again, streaked with rain and tears and mascara. My little visit to Royal was nice, a temporary reprieve against reality, but at some point, I'm going to have to deal with what I've done.
My stomach churns and I clamp a hand over my mouth.
“I killed Mia,” I whisper through my fingers and Royal makes a growling sound in the back of his throat, one that would normally have my panties twisting in a knot. But not right now. “I shot her. More than once.”
I drop my hand to my side and stare at the polished surface of the old wood floors. The cartel members, I can learn to live with. But Mia? That girl was all desperation and dead ends; I can't help but wonder how much of that was my fault.
“Pint-Size …” he starts, and I get the feeling this is not helping either of us deal. I need to keep my head, compartmentalize the pain and push it away until later. “None of this is your fault, you know that, right?”
I let out a long sigh and close my eyes for a moment, determined to change the subject. How the hell does he get me so damn well?
“You'll be safe tonight?” I ask, wondering if I made the right choice in coming over here. Listening to Royal's rough voice over the phone, his accent thick and unmistakable even with the patter of rain against the window, and all I want is to curl up in the warm circle of his arms.
“Me? You're worried about me?” Royal asks with a snort, breathing long and hard against the receiver. “You have a gun with you?”
“My dad has about sixty of them in his study,” I whisper back, a sudden feeling of fatigue washing over me. It feels like this should all be over, but it's not, is it?
It's only just begun.
The Alpha Wolves, the city of Trinidad, and little old me against a powerful drug cartel.
We are so screwed.
My eyes open back up and I'm left staring at an old poster of Albert Einstein. I know, I know, what a dork, right? I had pictures of politicians and scientists on my wall instead of pop stars. I understand how strange that is. Maybe I should've added a few burly bikers into the mix of my teenage fantasies? Never could've predicted this one coming.
“Lyric?” I stare at the black and white photo for a long moment as I listen to Royal cursing under his breath. “That's fucking it. Screw this. I'm on my way.” The sound of a motorcycle blares through the phone, breaking me out of my funk.
“Royal,” I snap, using all of that power and authority I put into my voice at our first meeting. “There's a cop car stationed outside to watch the house—all night. Not to mention the two guys you sent over here with me. Look … I'm alright. I'll take a shower, grab a gun, and get some sleep. You do the same and I'll call you in the morning, okay?”
“Reverse the order of the shower and the gun and you have a deal,” he says grudgingly, the motorcycle engine dying away as somebody—not Royal—speeds off into the night. It's not like him to give up so easily; the business he's dealing with must be serious. I try not to think about what exactly that business might entail. “Pint-Size, you hear me?”
I lift an eyebrow, but he isn't there to see it, so I sigh instead.
“Fine.”
I button my jeans back up and tuck the phone against my ear as I step into the attached bathroom to wash my hands. My mother's put a fresh roll of TP in here and folded the end in a triangle, the way housekeeping does at a hotel. Hmm.
I realize latently that I might be in shock. Who notices things like toilet paper after a shoot-out with Mexican drug cartel thugs?
“Fine? This is a big fucking compromise right here, leaving my woman alone for the night after all that shit that went down? I must be insane.”
“Don't be weird,” I tell him as I rinse my hands and then soap them up again, paying special attention to the reddish-brown color under my fingernails. I wonder if this is why that psycho guy, Glacier, paints his nails black? Maybe it's to hide the blood? I shiver. “Get some sleep and trust that I can take care of myself.”
“Clearly,” Royal snaps, but he's not angry with me. “Can you ever forgive me, love?” It's himself he's pissed at. I can't imagine why he would be though. Neither of us could've seen this coming. They got Mia to do their dirty work for fuck's sake. Mia. Again I wonder if her turning rogue is at least partially my fault. “If I don't get a call bright and early, then you're gonna wake to my arse climbing into bed with you; your asshole dad and brother can listen at the door while you scream and I ravage the hell out of you. It'll take more than a few cops to keep me out of there.”
“Like my mother with a shotgun?”
“Not even close to enough. Pint-Size, there's nothing in this godd
amn world that could keep me away from you.”
Morning comes more quickly than I want it to, sneaking through the flimsy sheers in my room in a golden wave that makes my eyes hurt as I blink awake and check the time.
Six fifty-seven in the morning.
Great. At least my internal alarm clock is still up and running.
I sit up and stretch, feeling the soreness in the back of my head where Clayton's man hit me, in my wrists and ankles where I was bound … between my thighs where Royal rode me into the mattress last night.
“Jesus,” I whisper as I throw my feet out of bed and stand up, letting a brief wave of dizziness wash over me. I slide a hand down my face and shake my head, digging around in the drawers for something appropriate to wear. What I really want right now is one of my skirt suits. I need that today, that shield of professionalism against the harshness of the world—especially if the media's going to be all over me like they were last night.
But no.
I get an old t-shirt with my high school logo on it, and some ill fitting jeans.
I slip out of the old flannel pj's that smell like mothballs and pull on the clothes, heading into the hallway as quietly as I can. My plan to call a cab and sneak out of here is trashed almost immediately when I find my brother standing in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest.
“What?” I snap as I run my fingers through the short strands of my bob, and stare at him. His green eyes sweep over me from head to toe as he continues to frown. “Can I help you with something? I'm not really in the mood for more crap today, Sully. Not sure if you heard, but I had it out with Mom and Dad already last night.”
“Where do you think you're running off to this early in the morning?” he asks and I cock an eyebrow as I take in his blue and white striped flannel pj's. How old is Sully again? Twelve? Oh. That's right: he's thirty-four. As if he can read my thoughts, Sully presses his lips together and gestures at his outfit. “Mom made me wear these. I usually sleep in the nude.”
