Warlord (Anathema Book 1)

by Grayson, Lana

  “Hey.” Keep sprawled on a wooden bench. He ignored his cigarette in the ashtray and the laptop copying trucking schedules into Excel. He rubbed his bare head. “Lyn’s here. She wants you.”

  “Fuck me.”

  Keep smirked. “She’s too pissed for that. Been there, got slapped, my friend.”

  “What’s she want?”

  “Wouldn’t say. She looks ready to torch the place.”

  “Great. Where is she?”

  “Where do you think?”

  Displaced from his own damn office. Just like Lyn. Good thing Keep didn’t have his old man’s temper. Or his older brother’s wrath.

  Fortunately for the MC, Keep did have a natural aptitude for business. The bar stayed clean, financially and literally. Every bill, every receipt, every W-fucking-4 for the last decade filed away in his office. He kept the bar stocked, the tables clear, and every indigo pulsing light-blub humming with pure, unsullied profit.

  Unfortunately, that meant the bar was the only place Jocelyn “Lyn” Hart would grace her sweet ass when she traded favors. She might have started out dancing on one of the pool tables, but Lyn’s principles prevented her from entering the chapel locked inside the warehouse. Claimed she could stay out of prison and enjoy a shot on the house that way.

  She was probably right.

  And a hell of a lot smarter than me.

  “You look like shit.” Lyn greeted me with an insult as soon as I shut the door. “Do I want to ask why you’re bleeding?”

  “Take a guess.”

  Lyn tilted Keep’s executive chair back, settling within the thick leather like a court concubine inheriting her rightful place as queen. The blonde ruled with a bump of her hips or a strike of her fangs, and each carried enough poison to cripple a man if he wasn’t careful. Lyn thrived best when underestimated. Learned that lesson a long time ago.

  “Not a lover’s scratch,” Lyn winked.

  “I prefer a tender touch.”

  She crossed her legs over the desk. The black leather pants might have seemed like an invitation to less informed men. Jocelyn displayed the goods—might have let the corset dip low to expose the swell of her tits—but looking was free. Besides, she didn’t deal in money. Lyn came at a far more expensive price. Also learned that lesson long ago.

  “Sit,” she said. “You’re a hard man to pin down, Thorne.”

  “Maybe I have the common sense to avoid you.”

  “Avoiding me isn’t fun.” She stretched her arms over her head. Her chest arched up. “You haven’t been to the club in a while.”

  Flirting was free. I took a seat across from her. “You miss me?”

  “Parts of you.”

  “Which part?”

  She didn’t break my gaze. “The muscle.”

  “So this isn’t a friendly visit.”

  “All my visits are friendly.” Lyn frowned, though even a scowl looked good on her lips. “You’re about the one friend I still trust.”

  The club joked Lyn’s eyes got greener the more cash she made. Wrong. They brightened when she needed something. When she knew something.

  “Likewise.”

  “You’re still bleeding.”

  Lyn stood, snapping the chair upright. She rooted through a drawer until she found a first-aid kit.

  I touched the cut on my cheek. “I’ve been through worse.”

  “Yeah. I remember. But something tells me you aren’t keeping out of trouble.”

  I clenched my jaw as she came at me with a cotton ball dipped in alcohol. She scoured my face like she meant to clean the scratch with steel wool. I knocked her hand away.

  “Christ, Lyn. I didn’t get shot. Leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Yet. You didn’t get shot yet.”

  “Your optimism is appreciated.”

  “The girls at the club have an over/under on you. Odds are three to one you’ll get a bullet in the head within a month.”

  “Great.”

  “I gave you six months.” She slapped a piece of gauze over my cheek. “How’s that for optimism?”

  “We better be getting part of that Vig.”

  “What happened?”

  “Found out what our buddy Priest has been up to since shacking up with Exorcist.”

  Lyn raised her eyebrow, as much a threat as cocking a gun. “You mean he does something besides molest my dancers?”

  “Well, he was up my ass today. Maybe he’s not into your girls anymore.”

  “I’m not that lucky.” She crossed her arms. “Was he making a move?”

  “Gotta talk to my guys about it. He won’t shed any tears if I dump my bike on the 9.”

  “This can’t keep happening. More people are going to get killed.”

  “Oh, a stripper and a prophet now?”

  Lyn hopped onto the desk. She crossed her legs and nearly took out my chin with a high heel. Probably her intent. At least it’d be a good view before I got knocked unconscious.

  “Fine. I’ll take my five grand and find someone else to stick their elderly, decrepit brothers at our door.” Lyn snorted. “The last bouncer couldn’t even get it up with a girl straddling his face. Did nothing for her self-esteem.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I want my money back if you won’t hold up your end of the bargain.”

  “You wanted a presence there. I gave you a presence.”

  “Viper? He’s one chili dog from a quadruple bypass. I need someone else.”

  I held my arms out. “Who? I’m stretched fucking thin as it is.”

  “Find someone.”

  “There is no one else, and you don’t need another guard. No one will cause any trouble with your girls. They know you’re in my territory.”

  “Am I?”

  “Are you what?”

  “In your territory?”

  I exhaled. “Your mouth is more useful when it isn’t being smart.”

  “And if you ever want to put it to use again, you’ll listen.”

  Lyn tapped her nails on the desk. The rat-a-tat-tat drumming wasn’t a stall. She tensed. Nervous. Ready to snap. I didn’t need her wrath going nuclear in my MC. She was hard enough to keep alive as it was. Lyn had a tendency to forget she only had a dick when she jerked someone off. I didn’t need her pissing off the wrong guys. Again.

  “What the hell is going on?” I said. “No bullshit.”

  “What’s going on? Exorcist. The Coup. Anathema. Everything is going on.”

  “Think I don’t know that?”

  “No. But I don’t think you realize where the battle lines will be drawn. The Coup won’t hunker down for long.”

  No shit. I didn’t need a high speed chase through a goddamned farmer’s market to figure that out. I shrugged.

  “My club is the center of the territory,” Lyn said. “Dead-fucking-center. And when this war breaks open, someone there will get hurt.”

  “Your club is neutral ground.”

  “For how much longer? Exorcist came by two days ago. Wanted to talk to me.” Lyn’s smile bared her teeth. “Wanted more than that actually. I told him it wasn’t going to happen.”

  I leaned forward. “What’d he say?”

  “He said the lines changed. He wants five grand a month too. Same as you.”

  “For what?”

  “Fire insurance.”

  “Christ.”

  “He wants a partnership. Part of my profits or part of me. And you know the only thing tighter than my pussy is my wallet. That prick isn’t getting anything.”

  “Exorcist has no claim over your club. Even when he was part of the MC, Sorceress was my deal.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I’ll take care of Exorcist.”

  Lyn sighed. “Pull your guys out. Just for now. Let me get my own security.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I need to protect my girls.”

  “Di
d I say we wouldn’t protect them?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing!” Lyn shrugged. “Or what you will do. Or what Exorcist wants to do. But I have women at that club, and, more often than not, I have their kids too. I can’t risk something happening, and Exorcist is going to make something happen. Nothing would piss you off more. He knows that. You know that.” She paused. “I’m asking as a friend, Thorne.”

  I didn’t answer. Lyn swore. She reached into her corset and pulled out a small baggie, twisted tight against the reddish crystals tucked in the center. The drugs slapped against the desk.

  “Pulled that from one of my girls,” Lyn said. “Tracie.”

  I didn’t need to touch it to see. “Meth.”

  “Not just any meth.”

  “Temple’s meth.” I gritted my teeth. “Where’d she get it?”

  “Your turn to guess.”

  “They’re selling in the city?”

  Lyn laughed. I didn’t share her sense of humor.

  “Of course not. Temple’s dealers don’t get close to the limits.” She leaned onto her elbows. Suggestive. A copperhead waiting to strike. “But Tracie is Bounty’s girl. And Bounty and Exorcist always wanted to expand.”

  “You think Exorcist made a deal with Temple MC?”

  Lyn pushed the baggie toward me. “Looks like it. Or they’re closer to a deal than we thought.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Not yet. But you better start lubing up.”

  I rubbed my face, grunting over the sting from the wound. “What do you want for the info?”

  “Another guard at my door.”

  “Done.”

  “What do you want for the trouble?” She asked.

  I glanced down. Lyn rolled her eyes.

  “You keep calling in favors for your cock, and you’ll never get anywhere.”

  “What would I do with favors if I only have a month to live?”

  Lyn hopped off the desk. She leaned over my chair, knowing full well how good a view I had down her corset.

  “You start listening to me, you might have more than a month.”

  Her hand tickled over my chest. She brushed aside my vest and tugged at the black shirt underneath.

  “There’s a rat in Anathema.”

  Her hand stilled. Those green eyes went radioactive.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Serious enough to tell you.”

  “Who?”

  “I have my suspicions. But I don’t know yet.”

  Lyn pulled away. I resisted the urge to grab her hair and push her back between my legs. But she was classier than that, even if a run-in with Priest and the chase on the highway ached me in places that hadn’t needed to wait for relief in years.

  “God damn it.” Lyn paced the room.

  “Your girls say anything?”

  “Tracie and Shannon are involved with some of Exorcist’s men. But they know not to say anything. And Molly’s been strung out with Keep lately.” She pointed at me. “You better get Keep’s shit together.”

  “Might not have to.”

  The implication struck like a back-hand. Lyn stepped away.

  “Not Keep. The rat isn’t Keep.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I fucking do.” Her voice hardened. “I thought I did. Holy shit, Thorne. This city can’t take another war. Not unless you all want to be hauled off for murder.”

  “I’m trying to avoid that.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll find the rat.”

  “How?”

  I hadn’t figured that out yet. Didn’t matter. I curled my finger and beckoned Lyn closer.

  “I’ll start by calling in that favor.”

  Lyn shook her head but knelt before me. Her eyes darkened. “And then what?”

  “I’ll set my traps.”

  I swore I bombed the audition before I made it off the stage, but a few frayed nerves never stopped me before. Not when plenty of scarier things existed in the world—like what would happen if I couldn’t find a gig.

  At first, I sang sharp. My fingers tangled in the key change, and the vibrato in my voice wasn’t intentional. I turned Adele into Bob Dylan, and God I hoped they hadn’t recorded it.

  But the recovery was worth it. When the song’s melody melted like chocolate and my last tremble rocketed up from my pink toenails and escaped in the flick of my curls behind my shoulders. No sample of Cream ever rocked so hard and sounded beautiful.

  “Thank you...Rose?” The cafe manager looked up from counting his receipt to glance at the packet of business cards, photos, and resumes I handed him. “Rose Darnell?”

  “I can play piano too.”

  “Yes...” The manager nodded. Even in the dim light cast by the bar, his face paled a sickly green. “Rose, thank you for your time...but I don’t think you’re what we’re looking for at the moment.”

  My smile cracked but didn’t shatter. “Oh. I can do contemporary too. Or classical. Or whatever you want. Really. What kind of music would you prefer?”

  “The kind...” He rubbed the sweat from his brow. “The kind that gives us the least amount of trouble. I’m sorry, we just can’t afford any...incidents now. Thank you for your time.”

  I stuttered when I introduced myself but only because I worried about the acoustics of the cramped cafe. I never considered taking a stage name. Now it only seemed logical. As long as I stayed in the city, it was possible everybody knew who I was.

  Who my brothers were.

  What my father did.

  My stomach twisted. I prayed no one would ever find out what my father did.

  I packed my guitar and muttered a polite thank you, though my face flushed with more than just insult. Shame. A mortification my brothers never would have tolerated.

  But I wasn’t my brothers. The manager didn’t care. He locked the cafe door behind me with a frightened click. I might have pounded on the door and shouted to the manager that it wasn’t like my wool jacket and rusted, ten year old Honda Accord raged like Anathema in the streets of the valley.

  It didn’t matter.

  My first real shot in months. Not a one-time show. Not a silly little fundraiser where I’d be stuffed in the corner. A real gig. A paying job. Something that could finance a new guitar if mine broke or get my car the oil change Brew demanded.

  The cafe’s parking lot wasn’t the greatest place for existential crisis.

  It also wasn’t the best place to cry.

  I did both.

  It wasn’t worth heading home. When I called the diner to request the day off, Steve gave me as many days as I needed. I doubted he wanted me to return, even to hand in my apron.

  Keep always said if I visualized what I wanted, and imagined the outcome I desired, I could make it happen. Dreaming wasn’t much of a help now. The lovely vision in my head fizzled away. The intimate stage, the quiet audience, the record producer offering me a latte and presenting me with a contract.

  Now the only thing I could imagine was how far half a tank of gas could drive me. I visualized eking out another two blocks of my normal commute, but optimism was easier when a switchblade earned the desired result.

  That would change. I had two choices. Head home, scoop out a bowl of ice cream, and queue up Pink Floyd with a desperately needed bubble bath. Or, I could do what I needed to do.

  My beautiful guitar played sour in my ears, and the thousand dollars sitting in my purse ticked away like a time-bomb, just waiting to explode and impale me with Anathema’s shrapnel.

  I would never, ever touch the money. It was stupid to ask for it. Stupid to let my brothers back into my life. Stupid to let what happened in the diner...happen.

  It was my fault. My boss went to the hospital, and he swore to me on every holy book that he didn’t tell the doctors or police who pummeled him. He apologized to me for getting hurt.

  For Keep and Brew, violence solved everything. When life gave them lemons, they pulverized the fruit, chopped
down the tree, and salted the earth where it once grew.

  But that wasn’t me. No matter how many auditions I could book with a functioning instrument, I couldn’t be a part of it. Not anymore.

  So I didn’t go home. And I didn’t mourn the audition. First I had to take care of myself, and the only way to do that was to yank the thorn out of my paw.

  The pawn shop on Washington and Third was almost as old as the town. Dad knew the owner, but no one wore a cut. I hauled the guitar inside. My heart ached with the musty, wooden smell permeating the store. Not much sold here. The clutter grew like mold on the walls—anything from cracked rocking horses to fishing poles. My guitar was the newest and best item in the store. I hoped that meant it wouldn’t be here for long. The poor instrument didn’t need to suffer because I had a bout of nobleness. Or guilt.

  Whiny punk music screeched from a tinny radio behind the counter. I filled out the receipt and handed it to the tattooed clerk drumming out of sync with the beat. Facial tattoos weren’t the counterculture statement I chose, but ink ran in the blood of most club members. The clerk scarred his face with reds and yellows. I offered a polite smile as he shifted onto a chair.

  “I’ll give you eight hundred,” he said.

  The smile cracked. “It’s a fifteen hundred dollar guitar.”

  “Eight fifty.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not going lower than twelve hundred.”

  “Nine twenty-five.”

  I patted the case. “You don’t understand. This is a Gibson. It’s a brand-new guitar. I only played it three times.”

  Tattoo shrugged. “Then what? Is it defective?”

  “No! It’s a great guitar.”

  “The why you gettin’ rid of it?”

  I wasn’t about to share my life story and recent emotional catharsis with a man who inked the naked Virgin Mary on his cheek.

  “The music store doesn’t do refunds,” I said. “Can you be fair? My dad used to come here all the time.”

  “Who’s your old man?”

  “Blade Darnell.”

  The tattooed man stilled. Apparently everyone reacted the same way when confronted with my father. I thought I was the only one who cowered.