O Come, All Ye Sinners

by Amo Jones

  Davis Mason was her brother, and the founder of a notorious one-percent club based out of the northern half of the states. That blood paired with her job? It meant no matter how it had felt like coming home to be underneath Wildman last night, this wasn’t something he’d continue. Justine allowed herself a single final sniff, then shook her head and prepared to pull away. His arms tightened around her and she froze.

  His voice was quiet, pitched for her ears only when he said, “See, here’s the thing. I don’t give a fuck who you’re kin to, or whatever you’ve done. Your job, that’s gonna be a sticker, but if you want it, we figure out a way to get over that, too. You just gotta want it.”

  Bikes rumbled outside, engines revving high and loud, the multitude of exhaust pipes setting up echoes through the house. She looked through the window and was stunned to find even more bikes, seeing back patches from several clubs.

  Making mental notes, she made out IMC, to be expected since it was their war against the cartel. CoBos were next, and that could have been plotted, too, given the way the two clubs had become intertwined over the past years and their involvement along the way. Bama Bastards held part of the line, and when the rider carefully studying the house flipped his trademark long hair, she knew it had to be Retro, their president. Next was Sparks, the president of the Jailbreakers, out of her hometown in Florida. Goose bumps made her shiver when she recognized the final patch, one she hadn’t expected to see in Louisiana. Even with that, she was still shocked to her core that the man seated on that bike, one who shared her grey eyes and dark hair, wasn’t in here tearing her a new asshole. That was Davy Mason, the brother who made her life far more complicated because he was bossy and straddled the line of legal more than she liked, but she was glad to see him nonetheless. Five clubs had ridden to her rescue, called by the man standing in front of her.

  She turned to look at him and waited, because something in her said Wildman wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. “I’m going to have to leave you here, Justine. Have to.” The look on his face said he wasn’t happy about it, but she understood. “There’s going to be a phone left outside. It’s clean. Use that to make your calls. If you—” He stopped for a moment when his voice cracked and she pressed closer to him. “If you want to find me, I suspect you can.”

  She held her tongue, because in that moment there wasn’t anything else she could do. No pretty promises, no assurances. Just his offer, neither accepted nor rejected, and she knew leaving him in that limbo was shitty, but just as he had to leave her here, she couldn’t give him anything more. He pushed her away, hands on her arms until she was steady on her feet, his gaze never leaving hers. “Be well, Justine.”

  Wildman

  A herd of kids ran past him headed towards the kitchen, and Wildman gave a hip twist to avoid running smack-dab into at least two of the little cretins. Lights were strung off every available surface, and a tree stood in the farthest corner, presents still piled high underneath. The effect was blindingly festive, something he would normally enjoy.

  Today was the club’s annual friends and family Christmas blowout, and the excitement of being allowed inside the clubhouse still hadn’t worn off the smallest IMC family members. “Fuckin’ kids,” he chuckled, not upset in the least to have the clubhouse full of the next generation of IMC. Sure, theirs was a club that had grown by absorbing members from organizations they’d taken over—including him—but the core of their club were second and, in some cases, third generation, with patches handed down through families.

  I didn’t do so bad for myself. After being dealt a shitty hand years ago, he’d managed to find a good home, finally. He untucked a beer from under his arm and offered it to Twisted, handing a second to Po’Boy, and finally popping the top on his own. They looked at each other and laughed, Po’Boy smirking a little. Wildman shook his head with a grin and gave his piece of their conversation, as they knew he would, this little tradition having been in play for a while now. “Quack, quack.”

  “Heard me a tale,” Po’Boy started after he’d taken a long drink and leaned back in his chair. His gaze was trained on an IMC member by the bar, watching him blow a stream of sweet smoke towards the ceiling.

  “Do tell. What story is that?” Wildman reclaimed his seat, shooing Wrench’s feet off it. The CoBos new president was an honored guest, seeing as he was not only a favored friend of Twisted’s old lady, Penny, but was also in a poly relationship with Po’Boy. So many fuckin’ changes. Not all bad. He scowled at the man when he threatened to put his feet in Wildman’s lap, holding the expression even when Wrench broke up laughing. Not all good, either. “Fucker.”

  “Man, you were right. He’s in a piss-poor mood.” Wrench shook his finger at Wildman. “You need to get you a better attitude goin’, man. It’s Christmas fuckin’ Eve.”

  “Yup,” he drawled, tipping up the can for a drink. If they knew just how bad his attitude was, they’d have chased him out of the house before now. He forced a smile as the herd of kids ran past again.

  It had been a long seven days since he’d ridden away from a run-down shack on the edge of a bayou outside of Sun. Well beyond the IMC normal haunts, the old meth cook house was hidden in CoBos territory, and it was only due to Po’Boy’s history with informants in the region that they’d known of it at all.

  The three clues given by the kidnapper who’d stolen into their clubhouse to take Justine had held everything they’d needed to find her, but tangled politics had taken up nearly too much time. Because she was missing, there had been three clubs roll into town just as the IMC and their closest allies had been about to pull out. By the time the higher-ups had sorted out that it was a friendly—if unannounced—visit and not an attempted takeover, there’d been a dozen men on their bellies on the lot, and a dozen more exchanging threatening words chest to chest. No matter the metal pinned to every man’s chest, an old-school tell of a blameless pass-through, them coming to the IMC clubhouse begged explanation.

  It had taken him and Twisted to wade in, pulling their members back one at a time, leaving the cadre of foreigners in the middle of a ring of bikes. Retro had been known and trusted, of course, but the other two were shockers. Po’Boy and Wrench had offered steady voices, calming the furor, and Wildman had quickly retreated to the fringes to keep from killing anyone because waiting another second to roll felt like a betrayal in his fear.

  Long after Wildman had stopped giving a shit about what he felt was unnecessary protocol, Twisted had come to where he stood, shoulders propped up on the outside wall, checking the time on his phone over and over again.

  “She ain’t ours, but she was taken from our house. Makes us responsible.” Wildman nodded at Twisted, making a “hurry up” gesture that earned him a dark scowl. “CoBos are the only ones riding who don’t have a dog in this hunt, but they’re deep partners, and I can’t find it in myself to deny them. We got a history and this honors that somewhat.” Lips pressed tightly together, Wildman held his peace. “Rebels, Jailbreakers, and Bastards are my call, too. For various reasons I suspect you understand, each of those men over there have a stake in the outcome today. You will be respectful.” Wildman turned his glare back on Twisted, pulling it away from the group that had stymied him for far too long. “Or I’ll fuckin’ own you.”

  “Didn’t have to be said, Prez.” Pulling himself to his full height, he stared into Twisted’s eyes. “Now that the cock measurin’ is done and over with, you think we could possibly get this goddamned show on the motherfuckin’ road? Because I been standing around too damn long, and with every minute that ticks past on the clock, I run the risk that they’ll move her. Or worse, give up on us and just erase their liability.” He shook his head. “It’s what I’d do, if I was a shiteater like they are.”

  “We run the risk.” Twisted thumped his chest and then Wildman’s, the blow stinging. “Every single one of us runs the risk. Not just you, brother. That’s a ‘we’ in there, not an ‘I.’”

  “She�
��s mine. Not yours.” He shook his head to force his thoughts straight. “Or she could be. She’s not, but dammit, Twisted, she could be, and standin’ here even talking to you like this is fuckin’ with me bad, man. I gotta go.”

  “Then we ride.”

  And they had, arrow true to where Po’Boy had said she’d be, unexpected hostage to an old IMC war with a drug dealer and manufacturer, pure bad luck she’d been the one taken. Ten men had peeled off the column to deal with the lookout, the rest of them riding straight to the cook shack. Seeing the man in the window had curdled his stomach, but when Justine appeared like a ghost behind him his blood had run like ice. By the time the man went down—and it was only later he’d learned how she’d done it, proud as fuck of her taking her own out on the asshole—Wildman was crouched beside her, finally believing in luck. The relief at holding her and knowing she was safe had been bolstered by the understanding that she was strong and wily, and far too smart for her own good. Too good for the likes of me.

  Then had come the moment he had known was coming at the end of the ride. They’d talked about it, talked it to death, and the outcome was set in stone before they rolled off the IMC lot in Mandeville.

  Get there, deal with whatever threats there were, ensure her well-being, leave her a method of rescue, and leave.

  The herd was back, kids chattering loudly and clattering up and down the stairs. It was so noisy in the room he could see Po’Boy’s lips move, but couldn’t make out the words. Wildman leaned close and shouted, “What?”

  “Turn around.”

  Justine

  She stood, hands clasped at her waist, nervously waiting for Wildman to turn and look at her.

  When she’d finally managed a phone call to Twisted, via about three recommendations and call transfers from Mason to Sparks to Retro, she’d asked the IMC national president for a time when she could talk to Wildman privately.

  She cut her eyes side to side and suppressed a snort of amusement.

  About the furthest thing from private she could imagine was this clubhouse during their holiday party. And with Twisted’s reputation of being a canny plotter, she suspected it was purposeful. He’d played it cool on their phone call, and played her in the process.

  Twisted made a rude sound far back in his throat. “The fuck you think you want to talk to him about?”

  His question wasn’t unkind. No, it was entirely reasonable, and one she’d prepared for. But right now, in the moment, with a cold phone pressed tightly to her ear, Justine couldn’t give him the answer she’d rehearsed. It was true, by the definition of the word, but telling this man she wanted to thank Wildman was like saying you wanted a sip when everything inside you wanted to upend the glass and bathe in the water.

  “I need him to know that what he got from me was real. Wasn’t the job, wasn’t relief, wasn’t a misplaced gratitude for a rescue. I’d like to tell him that he matters. To me.”

  Silence on the line for the longest time, and she waited, breaths coming shallow as her lungs seized up from the terror that held her in its grip. Never had she wanted anything this badly.

  “You got the time to put it on the line like that, I’ll make it happen.” Soft and soothing, Twisted said without words that he understood what it had taken for her to make the call, to reach out, and what she was risking with this. “You ready for this, gal?”

  “You know who I am?” He made a sound she took for a yes, and she laughed. “Then trust me when I say I was born ready.”

  Her debriefing had taken about three days longer than it should have, but she’d understood. The last her staff had known, she’d been investigating the disappearance of two women in the panhandle of Florida in conjunction with reports of increased activity by a Mexican drug family. Then she’d been missing herself, car parked in her own garage, identification and service weapon in the bedside safe at her home in Adkins.

  Through the days of questions, the sideways glances at her, suppressed conversations, all she could think about was Wildman. She knew his government name, but that wasn’t who he was. That man had been fed to the flame of anger and betrayal years ago, and Wildman was who had risen like a phoenix from the ashes.

  She couldn’t escape him, even in her dreams, and Justine shivered at the memories.

  Outside the trailer was war, shouts and shots, followed by cries of pain, the grunts driven from lungs by powerful blows. Inside the trailer was chaos, and Justine did her best to keep the women calm, telling them what she’d seen through the vent. “We don’t know who it is,” she hissed, using the dim light that seeped in around the ill-sealing rear doors to catch every gaze she could. “Until we know, we stay quiet.”

  She’d been the final acquisition for the shipment. That’s how the men had talked about the humans they had penned inside a metal box that did nothing to retain heat after the sun went down. Chattel, possessions where ownership could be transferred as easy as a phone call. Goods provided to men with an appetite for pain and fighting, and the leader had boasted how much she’d bring for his pockets, given how she’d brawled with his men.

  At least in the two days she’d been held imprisoned, she’d been able to keep the men from raping the captives. What happened before had been spoken of in whispers and tears, and the women had all looked at her with awe when she negotiated and bartered for a halt to the physical abuse. It had cost her, of course—that’s the way these things went—but a few blows were a small price for the relief she’d seen on their faces.

  Things quietened outside as Justine listened intently, shushing the women again when one would have called out. A sound at the doors had her cocking her head, trying to infer what was happening through scant clues. The door swung open, and an instant later a man appeared as if by magic, not there and then there, and he was huge, blocking out the light with his body. Hands bloody, his shirt had a tear along one arm, as if a blade had come too close for comfort.

  He took a step inside and Justine marshalled every ounce of courage. Without a word to the women behind her, she stepped forwards and held out her arms, creating a barrier with her body. Fingers clutched at her shirt from behind and she shook them off, taking another step, and another. The man’s gaze danced around the trailer, and she watched him catalog every detail before he locked on her.

  Trembling now, because he was so much larger up close, she hoped if she could distract him enough the women could escape. I’ve got to make myself vulnerable. Justine’s arms shook with the strain, but she settled to her knees in front of him.

  He lifted her to her feet and kissed her, lips soft and warm against hers. No, that’s not right. “Jesus, Justine, you make me insane.” No, how could he know my name? His fingers touched her gently, reverently. No…

  Even her dreams had romanticized every moment they’d had together. No wonder I made the call. Justine shivered and glanced around the room again. It wouldn’t do to get caught up in her own mind here, not now, surrounded by so many strangers.

  Wildman’s shoulders heaved with breath, tension running through his muscles. He shook his head once, then leaned forwards towards the man with the wild blond hair, and the vibration of whatever he’d said rumbled through the air. Then he turned, and she was lost. His gaze ran down and then up her body, finally landing on her face, and she offered him a smile she knew trembled.

  Any bravado that had bolstered her through the intervening days had fled the moment she drove onto the lot with her car and saw the hundred or more motorcycles parked in orderly rows. Fear had taken its place when she was ushered inside, hard stares turned her way, the murmur of “Fed” following every step. Now, standing in front of him, the controlled expression on Wildman’s face drove out fear and ushered in despair. This was not something he’d wanted. I didn’t listen. Even with three men she trusted and respected telling her the plan was a bad one, she’d persisted, and now she’d wrecked any chance she could have had at what he’d offered. God. Any chances to be with him.

  Just
ine lifted her chin and deliberately squared her shoulders as she stuck out her hand. “I wanted to introduce myself properly.”

  He ignored her gesture, his head tipping to one side. Silent, he maintained his composure, breathing slowly and giving every indication that he could do this all day long. Okay then. She let her hand fall to her side.

  “I’m Justine LaPorte—”

  He cut her off, words brusque as he clipped out, “I know who the fuck you are.”

  “I work for the—”

  “Shut up.” He shook his head as she stared at him. “Jesus fucking Christ on a goddamned stick. Next thing you’re going to tell me you’re”—he made air quotes around his next words—“thankful we rescued you.” He bent at the waist, shoving his face next to hers, and Justine fought the instinct to back away. “You wanted this, tonight, with these folks? You wanted to do whatever this fucking is here? With my brothers and family?” She shook her head. “Goddammit.” He huffed out an irritated sigh. “What’d you want?”

  Swallowing hard, she steadied her voice and said, “To talk to you.” She paused, then added, “In private.”

  “Fucking shit, people always getting up in my goddamned shit all the motherfucking goddamned time.” His hand closed over hers with a viselike grip and he whirled, yanking her along as he stomped through the crowd, his glare parting the people like a hot knife through butter. He stopped short and she ran into his back as he allowed a gaggle of kids to run past, then jerked at her hand again, pulling her along in his wake. Up the stairs that rattled loudly with every angry stomp, then she was inside his room.

  Wildman used his grip on her hand to whirl her around, then dropped it as if her skin burned him. “Strip,” he ordered, backing up a step. His hands lifted his shirt off, sending the discarded piece of clothing sailing across the room. “Goddamned strip.”