Slater's Claim

by Amber Morgan

  They could have been killed. Freya could have been killed.

  “That's enough,” Nash said, standing. He didn't have to raise his voice to be heard. The room fell silent as he strode through the knot of men toward Zeke.

  Zeke held his ground, but his limbs were trembling, his face chalky, like he might puke.

  The kid might have bulked up recently, but he still looked like a kid next to Nash.

  Nash folded his arms and glared down at him until Zeke lost his nerve, dropping his gaze. “Why'd you forget to lock up, Zeke?”

  “I was with one of the girls,” Zeke said, voice a strangled whisper.

  Slater's temper slipped away again. “He was with Elena. He was with Elena and the pair of them were coked up and—”

  “It's not your fucking business, Slater!” Zeke yelled.

  Nash cut him short by grabbing a handful of his t-shirt and shaking him like a dog with a bone. “Is that true? Are you fucking around with Elena? Are you screwing around taking drugs with Judge's daughter?”

  The atmosphere in the room was suddenly toxic. Slater went still in Glass's arms, his anger dying at the expression on Nash's face. He almost wished he hadn't said anything. Glass let him go, stepping back as if to take himself out of the firing line. Slater didn't blame him.

  Next to Slater, Punk whistled quietly. “Busted.”

  Zeke swallowed hard, still staring at the floor. Slater wanted to tell him to just look Nash in the eye and tell the truth. Take what was coming like a man.

  Instead, inexplicably, Zeke chose to make things worse.

  “It's not your business either,” he said, sullen and unrepentant.

  There was a collective gasp in the room. Punk grabbed Slater's forearm as if bracing himself.

  Nash landed a ferocious uppercut on Zeke, the impact echoing around the huge room. Zeke dropped like a stone, crumpling at Rattler's feet with a whimper. Nash rubbed his knuckles, face dark.

  “Get him the fuck out of my sight,” he said to nobody in particular.

  Dayo and Rigs were closest. They grabbed Zeke by the arms and legs and hustled him out of the room. Low murmuring sprang up as the door fell shut, quickly cut off when Nash raised his hand.

  “Everybody out except officers and Slater,” he said, returning to his seat. He rested his head in his hands, not bothering to watch everyone file out.

  Slater rubbed his jaw uneasily, feeling some phantom pangs of sympathy pain. He decided he never wanted to get clocked by Nash. “I'm sorry,” he said once it was just him and the officers.

  “For what?” Punk asked as he sat down again. “Ratting out Zeke or bringing the shark bait into the club?”

  Slater glowered at him. “Shark bait?”

  Nash waved them quiet. “We'd have found out about Zeke and Elena sooner or later. Nothing stays private here.” He sounded exhausted. Hopefully that meant he didn't have the energy for another uppercut. “As for Freya and Kayden...” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “This is a damn fine mess, prospect.”

  “I know.” Slater couldn't think of anything else to say. Nothing else seemed safe.

  “We can't kick them out,” Punk said, a twang of anxiety in his voice. “This Alessi asshole has made it clear now—”

  “I know,” Nash said. “I think we got passed that point a while ago, Punk.”

  Slater shot Punk a grateful look. Punk would side with him no matter what, even if everyone else in the room didn't.

  “Do we really need to make this our problem?” Rattler asked. “Nothing's changed since last night, Nash. All the same shit still applies.”

  “Nothing except someone trying to kill Slater right on our doorstep,” Tanner argued. “I mean, you're not seriously saying we just let these kids die, Rattler?”

  Rattler opened his mouth, then closed it again, frowning. “No,” he said. “Of course not. But what the fuck can we do? Seriously, someone tell me that? We can't hide them here forever.”

  “We coulda taken this Alessi asshole out under Feral,” Pigface said, surprising Slater. And everyone else too, by the looks on their faces. “Feral wouldn't have fucking let some smarmy Italian bastard push Wild Blood around.”

  An awkward silence fell. Nash tapped his fingers on the table, clearly struggling to mask his frustration.

  “You got a problem with the way I run things, Pigface?”

  Pigface shrugged and reached down to scratch Skids' ears. Slater watched the dog writhe in pleasure. It was easier than looking at Nash.

  “Slater,” Nash said, drawing his focus back. “Can you get me on the phone with Alessi?”

  “I ... sure, I guess. Benedict can probably arrange it.”

  Nash nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Okay then. Fix it.”

  Slater nodded, starting for the door. He stopped when Nash called out again.

  “We're not done yet. Everyone else can go.”

  Slater wasn't sure whether to be worried or relieved as the others filed out. Surely if Nash was going to kick his ass over this mess, he'd do it publicly, like with Zeke. So this wasn't about Freya or Alessi. That really only left one thing. Slater joined him at the table, wary.

  Nash stroked his beard, looking tired. “You got me anything on Liviana Mancuso yet?”

  “Not a location,” Slater said. “Nothing I'm guessing you don't already know.”

  Nash grimaced. “The Mancuso Massacre? Gang warfare? That shit?”

  Slater nodded, curiosity burning in him despite everything else he should be focused on. “My detective is still working. If there's something to be found, she'll find it. You know...” He paused, unsure. This probably wasn't the time to ask. There was probably never going to be a time to ask. He stashed his curiosity away. “You know I'll tell you the second I hear anything.”

  There was a glitter of dark amusement in Nash's eyes, as if he knew that wasn't what Slater had wanted to say. “Go get Roxy for me, then fix me a call with Alessi, prospect,” he said. “One mob family at a time, huh?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Heavy metal music thumped through the bar, and Freya's head pounded in time with the wild drums. There was no version of this scenario where she wouldn't feel anxious. Locked in an MC bar with a dozen strange women, with panicky adrenaline still pumping through her, her wrought imagination conjuring one horror after another... Her nerves were shredded.

  Add Kayden into the mix, and Freya felt like her life was flashing before her eyes. She had no idea what dose of methadone he'd taken last night or what the quality of the drug was. He sat across from her now, head bowed, pupils narrowed to pinpoints. He dry-heaved every now and then, causing her to lurch to her feet, then fall back into her chair when nothing happened. He snapped and sneered at her, but chatted brightly with whichever club girl came by, leaving Freya reeling.

  The mood swings and nausea were part and parcel of the methadone, she knew. And under other circumstances, she'd have a hell of a lot more patience with him. But here they were. If she closed her eyes, she could see that van hurtling toward her and Slater, hear the monstrous roar of the engine, and her whole body shook with fright. With Slater locked away in his secret boys only meeting, she was desperate for an ally, a friend to hold onto and tell her everything would be fine.

  Kayden just wasn't cutting it.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him for the hundredth time when he covered his mouth, hunching over his glass of coke.

  “Stop asking,” he said, glowering at her. “I'll be better if you stop nagging me, okay?”

  She bit her lip, fuming inwardly.

  Before she could fire back, a tiny, dark-haired woman sitting at the next table leaned across and cuffed the back of Kayden's head.

  “What's your problem?” she demanded, spinning around in her chair to tell him off properly. “Do you get what's happening here? You think we're all locked up in here for fun? No, estúpido, this is all on you, so maybe be a little nicer to the people suffering because of your shit. Like her.” She j
abbed her finger at Freya. “Come sit with us, honey. Leave the little boy on the kids' table.”

  For a second, Freya thought Kayden would explode at the woman. Instead, he flushed bright red, gaping at her with an awestruck expression. Freya found herself laughing as she dragged her chair over to the woman's table. The woman introduced herself as Sofia.

  The woman sitting with her turned out to be Tamsin, so if nothing else, at least Freya could thank her for the borrowed clothes.

  Tamsin waved it off. “You'd be amazed how often we end up sharing our wardrobes. Sofia here had literally nothing when she showed up.”

  “I had to borrow even a bra,” Sofia said with a grin.

  “Which you ruined by machine-washing it, by the way,” Tamsin said, poking her with mock-anger.

  Sofia held her hands up, letting out a string of Spanish that Freya couldn't follow but had Tamsin cracking up. Freya felt herself relaxing almost against her will. Not enough, however, that she could stop herself asking them both, “What's going to happen?”

  “Nash will fix everything,” Sofia said, breezily confident.

  Tamsin looked less sure, studying her sunny yellow nail polish with a little frown. “You guys don't have to worry,” she said, glancing at Kayden. “If there's one thing you can count on with Wild Blood boys, it's that they look after their own.”

  “But we're not your own,” Freya said, feeling a sudden chill.

  Tamsin smiled knowingly at her. “Don't tell Slater that.”

  Freya flushed, the memory of the kiss rushing back. It had been perfect. At least up until the attempted vehicular homicide, but that wasn't Slater's fault.

  Kayden pulled his chair up to their table, frowning at Freya. “You know I'm gonna need to vet this guy thoroughly if you're thinking of dating him,” he said, trying for a light tone. “I can't have anyone unsuitable hooking up with my favorite twin.”

  He was trying to apologize, she knew. He'd never been good at just saying it. He had to dance around it, shower her with praise, play the protective brother. She found she didn't have it in her to resent his moodiness right now, and she gave him a smile as their group fell into light, teasing banter.

  That lasted until the club members started filtering back into the room, bringing a palpable agitated energy with them. Sofia rose and went to man the bar without a word. Freya scanned the faces but didn't see Slater among them. Her nerves, barely settled, began to buzz again.

  When she saw Punk come in and head for the bar, she couldn't stop herself going to intercept him. “What's happening?” she asked, grabbing his arm. “Where's Slater?”

  “Locked up with the boss,” Punk said. His tone was light, but she saw a tic in his jaw and her stomach dropped.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Tough call,” Punk said, cracking his knuckles. “We'll have to check for bruises when he comes out.”

  She gaped at him, not sure how seriously to take him. “Is it common for Nash to just beat people up?”

  “It's not common, no. Hey, Sofia! How about a little action here?” he yelled across the room.

  Sofia flipped him off but came to serve him anyway. Plenty of other bikers were after drinks too, and Freya slunk back to her table, feeling a little overwhelmed by the sheer mass of men. When Slater finally did reappear, she had to resist the impulse to rush over to him. He looked distracted, running his hands through his dark hair as he scanned the room, and he wasn't looking for her. His gaze skipped over her in a way that made her heart twist, finally landing on Roxy over by the pool tables.

  Freya watched as he went over to her, pulling her away from her pool game with a blonde club girl. He whispered in her ear, one hand on her shoulder, his expression pained, as if passing along bad news. Roxy frowned at him, then nodded and took off out of the bar. Slater followed her, leaving Freya burning with curiosity and anxiety. She hesitated for a second, then slipped out of the bar after them.

  Down the hall, she saw Roxy slip into a room with a pirate flag hanging on the door, closing it gently behind her. There was no sign of Slater, but Freya heard footsteps in the kitchen and headed that way.

  She didn't intend to spy on him, but once she heard him talking, her heart stuttered, and she decided to loiter just outside the kitchen, out of his sight. She pressed her back to the wall, inhaling the scent of burnt toast and coffee, and listening, her pulse racing. Surely, surely, he wasn't really talking to...

  “I don't give a shit, Benedict. Make it happen. You really don't want me to come and make it happen, trust me.”

  His tone made her shiver, dark and glittering with malice. She hoped Benedict was pissing his pants, because that was surely Slater's intended effect, but... What was he trying to make happen?

  Freya bit her lip, stomach churning. She trusted Slater. She really did. If he was scheming against her and Kayden somehow, he'd gone for a fucking convoluted plot, and she didn't think that was his style. But still. Here he was, making secret calls to Benedict, Sammy Alessi's little pet rat. There was no way it wasn't about her and Kayden. No way.

  “You've got my number. I know you've got my fucking address after your little hit and run stunt. So you know how to find me. You tell Alessi we're waiting.”

  She heard a click, like a phone snapping shut, then heard Slater sigh, long and deep. The sound dragged her in like he was the moon and she was the tide, irresistibly drawn, and suddenly she was in front of him, snaking her arms around him.

  “What was that all about?” she asked, gazing up at him and trying to read those drowning-dark eyes. “Don't you dare tell me it's Wild Blood business.”

  He sighed again, locking his arms around her and giving her a wry smile. “I try not to lie, as a general rule. My memory isn't good enough for it.”

  “So?” She nudged his foot with her own, impatience gnawing at her. “What's Benedict fixing for you? He's not coming here, is he?” The thought sent shudders through her.

  Feeling them, Slater squeezed her hard, drawing an oof from her. “Nash wants to speak with Alessi. I think...” He hesitated, wetting his lips. “I think Nash probably knows how to handle men like him.”

  Freya's head spun, terror turning her skin icy-cold. She pushed away from Slater so hard she collided with the kitchen island. “Seriously? He's ... what, striking a deal with him? Is he bringing him here? After what just happened out there?”

  She turned her back on him, suddenly very afraid she was going to puke. The idea of Sammy here... And he could bring Bello with him too. She already knew Sammy wasn't afraid of violence, wasn't afraid of repercussions either. He'd already had Kayden beaten to a pulp once. Hell, she and Slater could easily have both been killed just today. And everyone, everyone kept saying that Wild Blood couldn't go to war with Alessi. If he came in force, who would stand in his way?

  And worse than Sammy the Asshat, was Bello. Keep dancing, princess. God, she never wanted to be in the same fucking city as him again, never mind the same building.

  She gripped the counter, her nails cracking against the wooden top, her knees shaking. Her fear was a living thing, uncoiling in her stomach and spreading through her body, turning it against her.

  “Hey.” Slater's voice was gentle but stern, pulling her out of her haze. “It's not going to be like that.” He rested his hands on her hips, turning her back to him and pulling her in against his chest. “Nobody's going to lay a finger on you or Kayden. I promise that. We're going to put an end to this whole shit-show, understand?”

  She fisted her hands in his t-shirt, gripping so tight her fingers ached. She pressed her face to his chest, hot, furious tears streaming down her face. “This isn't supposed to be my life,” she whispered. “I'm supposed to be in school. Kayden is supposed to be ... clean. Better. Something else. Not this. This is all so fucking wrong.”

  Slater stroked her hair, his body warm and solid against hers, an anchor in the tumult of her own emotions. “Everything is fixable,” he said with a confidence she des
perately wanted to share. “We'll deal with Alessi. And there some good clinics out there for people like Kayden. There's one in Wakefield—”

  She laughed miserably. “I know. I looked into it when I first found out. We can't afford it.”

  He was silent for a minute, fingers slowly caressing her hips. The motion was soothing and stirring, but he killed dead both the comfort and the arousal with his next words. “I could help—”

  Freya jerked away from him with a curse, cheeks burning. She scrubbed her eyes angrily, hating that she couldn't stop herself crying. “No. No, no, no! Do you have any idea—”

  His phone rang. Freya pressed her lips together, silencing herself. Slater gave her an agonized look as he pulled the phone from his pocket, and for a second she wanted him, so so badly, to not take the call. To ignore it and face her, talk to her, and understand exactly why offering her money was such a stupid fucking idea. And for a second, she thought he wanted to ignore it too. The conflict on his face was blindingly plain.

  “It's Benedict,” he said.

  Freya felt like a punctured balloon. “You should answer then,” she said, and stalked out of the kitchen to find somewhere private to finish her angry crying.

  ****

  Every muscle in Slater's body screamed at him to follow her. Yet somehow he found himself answering the phone instead, watching her walk away, her head high despite the obvious turmoil she was in.

  Shit. Shit. Every time he thought they were having a breakthrough...

  “What?” he snapped into the phone, expecting to hear Benedict's grating whine.

  “A little respect, please, biker boy,” Sammy said. “You wanted to talk to me, after all.”

  Slater gritted his teeth, reminding himself of the end game here. Deal with Sammy. Get him out of Freya's life. Fix everything.

  No pressure.

  “We need to talk,” he told Alessi. “A proper conversation between civilized men. No threats, no fucking hit and runs.”