He headed north out of Salton City, wondering what Jester wanted to talk to him about. Nothing good, he imagined.
White Lightning had taken up residence in a dive bar at the edge of a busy industrial area. The place had lost its liquor license and gone under. Now it was open to club members, their old ladies and numerous young women known as hang-arounds. White Lightning’s hang-arounds called themselves White Trash. It was fitting.
Dirty Eleven also had its share of groupies, aka the Dirty Girls, but they didn’t go to the clubhouse. Wild Bill was pretty strict about keeping the headquarters free of sexual activity. If its members wanted to get laid, they could go elsewhere.
“It’s a clubhouse, not a whorehouse,” he’d say.
Bill’s main focus was making money, not partying. He was a serious businessman. Ace admired that.
White Lightning had a different philosophy. The club reveled in chaos, prostitution, heavy drug use and violence. They treated their hang-arounds like dogs, passing them around and pouring drinks on their heads. Its members were the scum of the earth, as far as Ace was concerned. They gave outlaws a bad name.
He parked outside the clubhouse, which had blackboards nailed to the front windows. It was unmarked, and you couldn’t come uninvited or without a member. A sign above the entrance said White’s Only.
Real classy.
Ace opened the door and went in. He wished he had a weapon, but he couldn’t bring one inside without detection. Sure enough, he was patted down the instant he came in. A beefy guy with a handlebar mustache shoved Ace against the wall without even asking his name. Ace endured the indignity, having expected as much.
“I’m here to see Jester,” he said through clenched teeth.
The bouncer finished searching Ace and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him away from the wall. “Anyone know this guy?”
“He’s Dirty,” one of the men at the bar said.
“No shit,” the bouncer replied, studying Ace with interest.
Ace didn’t bother to say he wasn’t a current member of Dirty Eleven. It was kind of a lifetime gig, so his presence at the enemy’s camp could be considered traitorous. Or suicidal. “Jester invited me.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
The bouncer just stood there. Ace wondered if they were going to keep repeating the same phrase back and forth all night. He knew better than to make demands, so he stayed silent. This wasn’t his territory, and hunting had taught him the art of patience. He’d been told more than once that he had freaky eyes. Maybe it was the pale, washed-out color. Maybe they were devoid of emotion. Either way, he was good at staring contests.
Handlebars gave him a rude shove, as if Ace had been impertinent, and walked away. Presumably to get Jester.
It appeared to be a quiet night for White Lightning. There were less than a dozen people inside, and most of them sat at the bar. A couple of members were playing pool in the corner. Two women had taken over the stage. They drunkenly swayed to the music, giggling and disrobing each other.
Ace liked watching naked women as much as the next guy, but this wasn’t a stellar performance. He thought of Janelle, who danced with skill, commanded a strong presence and knew how to display her curves to perfection. It helped that she was beautiful, with a hot body. These ladies couldn’t compare. Most of the men weren’t even paying attention.
Handlebars reappeared and led Ace to a back office. Jester was inside, sitting behind a large desk that he probably thought made him look important. Two younger club members were stationed at opposite ends of a black leather couch.
Jester was about Ace’s age, and that was unusual for a president. He’d been VP when the former president was killed, so he’d assumed command. Ace wondered if there was tension between him and the older members. They might vote him out next year.
“Have a seat,” Jester said.
Ace took the chair in front of the desk. He didn’t acknowledge Jester’s associates. Handlebars left the room, closing the door behind him. Jester seemed pleased that Ace had answered his summons.
Ace wanted to smack the satisfied smirk off his mouth. There was no one in the world he hated more than Jester Arno. Ten years ago, Jester had raped Courtney Shepherd, the mother of Ace’s child. Courtney had been fifteen at the time of the attack. Ace didn’t think she’d ever fully recovered. She’d lived a short, troubled life.
Jester had spent several years in prison for statutory rape. His club brothers had welcomed him back as soon as he got out, brushing aside the crime as a youthful indiscretion. White Lightning and Dirty Eleven had been enemies ever since.
“How are you?” Jester asked.
“Fuck you.”
Jester laughed, glancing at his companions. They were poised to retaliate, and would act on his cue. Ace knew they were armed; he’d assessed both threats as he came through the door.
The man on the left side of the couch had a gun at his lower back. Ace could tell by his body positioning. He looked nervous, which wasn’t a good sign. The guy on the right had a better poker face, and a well-disguised ankle holster.
“I like your girlfriend,” Jester said.
Ace didn’t react to the provocation. If he hadn’t showed up here, Jester might have believed he wasn’t involved with Janelle. But Jester also might have continued to harass her. That was a chance Ace wasn’t willing to take.
“She works at Vixen, right? Maybe I’ll go see her in action.”
“What do you want?”
Jester leaned forward. “I want you to find out who killed my brother.”
Jester’s brother, Dwight “Dimebag” Arno, had been stabbed in the neck a couple of months ago by Gonzo Lowe, the former president of White Lightning. During the struggle, Dimebag had shot and killed Gonzo. Both men were found dead.
“Gonzo killed him,” Ace said.
“I don’t believe the police reports,” Jester said. “Riverside cops are dirty as fuck, and Dime was working for Wild Bill on the side.”
“Maybe that’s why he got stabbed.”
“No. Gonzo knew about it. He set it up.”
Ace was aware of the secret collaboration between the clubs, and he couldn’t care less. Wild Bill did a lot of behind-the-scenes deals. Cops, outlaws, Dirty Eleven, White Lightning... there were no heroes. “So what?”
“Gonzo didn’t carry a knife, and neither did Dime. Slicing and dicing is more of a Dirty Eleven thing.”
Jester had a point. Cole “Shank” Shepherd, Wild Bill’s nephew, had nearly gutted Jester with a broken bottle after the attack on Courtney. Ace wished Shank had finished him off. Instead of dying from his injuries, Jester had thrived—like a fucking cockroach.
“Funny how Shank disappeared around the same time,” Jester said.
“He didn’t disappear. He cut off his ankle monitor and got arrested again.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“No.” Ace figured he was back in prison. Either that or he’d run away with that sexy brunette he’d gotten pussy-whipped on.
“Here’s what I want you to do—”
“I don’t take orders from you, fuckface.”
A hush fell over the room. The nervous guy started reaching for his piece, but Jester held up his palm in a calming gesture. He had slender fingers, covered with ornate, silver skull rings. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me introduce you to my friend, Rex. He was cellmates with Brett Peters.”
Ace recognized the name, though they’d never met in person. Peters had been part of Shane Jackson’s crew.
“Brett told Rex that you were in charge of the desert job.”
Ace glanced at Rex, the ankle-holster guy. He was lean, but not without muscle. He had a punk-rock haircut and a steady gaze. It took a lot of balls to stare down a killer
-for-hire. Ace stared back at Rex, wondering how good he was with his gun.
Jester let out a low whistle. “What a clusterfuck.”
It had been, from start to finish. Shane and his Aryan Brotherhood buddies had kidnapped a presidential candidate’s daughter. The ransom plan had fallen apart quickly. Bill had ordered Ace to go in and clean up the mess. Now Jester was threatening to tip off the cops about Ace’s involvement.
That was the last thing Ace needed. He hadn’t wanted to get mixed up in that job in the first place. He hated the Aryan Brotherhood, he didn’t like violence against women and he preferred to keep a low profile.
“Tell Wild Bill that I want to start up the meth collaboration again, with you as my go-between,” Jester said. “See if you can find out what happened to Dimebag, and ask him where Shank is.”
“Bill doesn’t confide in me.”
Jester snapped his fingers. “How you get the information isn’t important. Just get it, and report back to me in two days.”
“What makes you think I won’t go straight to Bill with the real story?”
“You could, but I know where your girlfriend lives.”
Ace didn’t want Janelle dragged into his problems. She’d done nothing wrong. He didn’t want the police interrogating her again, either. If she called the cops on Jester, they might ask her all sorts of uncomfortable questions.
“She’s a hot little piece,” Jester said. “Does she like it rough? Courtney sure did.”
A cold fury welled up within him. Ace thought about diving across the table, grabbing Jester by the front of his cut, and pounding him into a fucking pulp. If only he’d been able to smuggle a gun into the meeting. He could see every move clearly in his mind. Rex looked like he had fast reflexes, so Ace would take him out first. Then he’d swing his left arm up to block the nervous guy and shoot Jester in the forehead.
Boom.
It wouldn’t play out so well, unarmed. So Ace schooled his features into a hard mask and rose to his feet, preparing to leave. Then the antsy guy did something stupid. He stood and reached for his weapon. Ace grabbed him by the wrist, wrenched his arm behind his back and shoved him across the desk. In the next second, Ace yanked the gun from his waistband and pressed the barrel into his fleshy nape.
Rex was even faster than Ace had figured. He had his weapon drawn in a blink. It was a nice-looking Smith & Wesson .38. The gun in Ace’s hand was a piece of shit .9mm, but at point-blank range, he couldn’t miss.
Jester stayed behind the desk, watching the scene unfold with snake eyes. “You think you can shoot your way out of here?”
Ace knew he wouldn’t get past the door. That didn’t mean he was going to let Jester treat him like his bitch. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t work for you. I won’t be your go-between or your errand boy. If you hurt anyone connected to me, I’ll come back here and paint the walls with your blood.”
Jester smiled, as if he found these theatrics amusing.
“I can look into Dimebag’s death for you, but I’ll need more than two days.”
Ace wasn’t opposed to digging up dirt on Wild Bill. The man was a liar, a cheat and a ruthless criminal. He’d never relinquish control of Skye. It didn’t matter to Ace if Jester and Wild Bill killed each other. He hoped they would.
“How long do you need?” Jester asked.
“As long as it takes,” Ace said.
Rex tightened his grip on his Wesson.
Ace engaged the safety on the .9mm and set it on the surface of the desk, backing up slowly. “Your security sucks, by the way. Next time we meet alone. I don’t want to get shot by this fucking amateur.”
“Just bring me the information,” Jester said, sounding bored. “I’ll be keeping an eye on your girl until you do.”
Ace strode out of the office, his hands clenched into fists. He could go to Bill and tell him everything Jester had said. Courtney had been Bill’s only daughter. Bill hated Jester just as much as Ace did.
But there was one thing stronger than hate, and that was love. Ace would do anything for Skye. He’d kill for her, die for her, sell his soul for her. Taking up arms against White Lightning wouldn’t help him get custody.
Because his number one enemy wasn’t Jester. It was Bill.
Chapter Five
Janelle pulled into the driveway at her mother’s house in Niland.
She let the car idle with the air conditioning on, glancing at Jamie. He had purple smudges under both eyes, and his nose was slightly swollen. He hadn’t told her what the fight was about, though he’d admitted to taking her tequila.
“How was school today?”
“Fine.”
“Did those boys bother you again?”
He stared out the window at her mother’s front lawn. There was a pair of pink flamingo statues stabbed into the snowy white gravel. “No.”
“I told your grandmother you were grounded.”
“So?”
She swallowed hard, drumming up the nerve to continue. He was angry with her, and she thought she knew why. “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About what you said when you were drunk.”
He turned toward her with a frown. Every day he looked more like Shane. They had the same blue eyes, the same belligerent expression. Jamie was only twelve, but he already had the lanky arms and legs of a teenager. He was growing up too fast. “What did I say?”
“You called me a whore.”
His guilty flinch told her he remembered. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t mean it. Can I go in now?”
She tightened her hands around the wheel, wishing for a cigarette. She never smoked with him in the car. It would be easier to let him off the hook, drive away and light up. She didn’t want to have this conversation—ever. “I had that college interview yesterday,” she said anyway. “I blew it.”
“How?”
“They asked me about my job.”
“Your job at the sports bar?”
He knew. Derision was written all over his face, and she could hear it in his caustic tone. “I was going to tell you.”
“Right.”
She raked a hand through her messy hair. “Okay, I wasn’t going to tell you. I was planning to switch jobs before you ever found out.”
“Too late.”
“Is that—is that why you were fighting?”
He stared at the flamingos again, sullen. “I shouldn’t have defended you. All those nasty things they said were true.”
She didn’t ask what they’d said. She felt awful enough. “I want a better life for us, Jamie. I don’t want to keep dancing forever. Why do you think I’ve been taking classes all day and working nights?”
“You should just give up. You’re not that smart.”
She clenched her hands around the steering wheel as he exited the vehicle and slammed the door. The dig at her intelligence stung. College had been a struggle for her. Jamie, on the other hand, was academically gifted. He had a quick mind and a surly attitude. Everything she did seemed to annoy him.
The feeling was mutual.
She got out of the car and chased him across the gravel. “Hold on a second,” she said, gripping his arm. When he tried to twist free, she held tight. She might not be a genius, but she wasn’t a weakling, either. She could still lay down the law. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that, you hear? I bust my ass to put a roof over your head and clothes on your back. Your soccer gear isn’t free. How about that goalie training camp over winter break? That was two hundred dollars for a week!”
“If I’d known what you were doing for it—”
“You’d have decided not to go?”
He scowled and didn’t answer.
; She released his arm, aware that she’d lost her temper. Her fingernails had left angry red crescents on his skin. “I dance topless for a living. I’m not ashamed of that, and I’m not a whore. Do you understand me?”
“Whatever,” he muttered, heading toward the front door. When she followed, he gave her a surprised look.
“I’m coming in.”
“You never come in.”
That was true, and he didn’t need to know why. As difficult as this conversation had been, the thought of telling him about her stepfather hurt far worse. But maybe she’d kept too many secrets in her quest to protect him.
Before he knocked, Renata Parker appeared in the doorway. She stepped aside as he edged past her, mumbling hello.
Janelle’s mother was a short, plump woman with a timeworn face and faded brown hair. She’d had rheumatoid arthritis for more than ten years, and her mobility was limited. She did a double take at the sight of Janelle on her doorstep.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Janelle said, feeling like a child again. Vulnerable and uncertain.
“Of course,” Renata said, waving her in. She shut the door and made her way into the kitchen, her gate steady but not smooth. Walking was a chore for her. She used a motorized chair at the grocery store.
Jamie had retreated to the guest bedroom. Her old bedroom. Janelle couldn’t even glance that direction without being assaulted by memories. She entered the kitchen and took a seat across from her mother, in the corner. The space looked the same as Janelle remembered. Green curtains. White tile countertops. Plastic tablecloth, wiped clean.
Renata studied her with a wary expression, as if she expected to be asked for money. Janelle knew she didn’t have any.
“Jamie found out about my job,” Janelle said. “Some boys at school told him. That’s why he was fighting.”
Her mother’s eyes softened in sympathy, though she’d never approved of Janelle’s work. It was one of the topics they avoided. They avoided a lot of topics. “Would you like some lemonade?”
“Sure.”
Renata got up with some difficulty and selected two tall glasses. Then she removed a pitcher from the fridge and filled them. Ice clinked inside the slushy mixture as she set both drinks on the table.
Shooting Dirty Page 4
