“That’s cause she’s not your kid sister,” Keep said.
I spread my arms. “She’s just singing. We’re just riding.”
Keep tensed, and every vein from his jaw and over his shaved head popped out. “She’s my sister, not your whore, and not your goddamned catalyst for war with Exorcist.”
“You want to stay her brother?” I didn’t like his tone. Or his shaking hands. Or his waning loyalty. “Or you want to be some cement tombstone she can visit on holidays?”
“And her singing will keep me out of the ground?”
“It’ll delay it.”
“Or we might end up with bullets in our skulls and my little sister mopping up our fucking brains.”
“Little housework never killed anyone.”
“Fuck you.”
“Motion carries.” The gavel slammed down. “See you tonight.”
Keep ripped away from the table. Brew swore and stood, but I called him before he stormed from the chapel.
“She needs a guitar,” I said. “Might want to find her something so she’s prepared.”
Brew narrowed his eyes. “Right. Hate for her to walk into something she isn’t expecting.”
The meeting ended as Brew slammed the door against the wall. The thud reverberated through the entire warehouse. Scotch waved a hand as Gold hurried after the brothers.
“Thorne,” Scotch said. “Got a sec?”
I eyed the doorway. Rose waited. A flash of dark curls peeked inside the room, then thought better of darting inside. Smart kid.
“Keep’s got a problem,” Scotch said. “That addiction will kill him. What do we do about it?”
“Nothing.”
Scotch lit another cigarette. “He’s got it bad. Hitting him harder than it did before. We got to do something or it’ll eat him alive.”
Compassion wasn’t part of my plan, but neither was losing one of my childhood friends, partners, and brothers to an evil fucking monster.
Only I needed that monster. A strung-out Keep was more likely to make a mistake. Cause a problem. Out him as the traitor. The drugs poisoned him, but that sickness wasn’t infecting my club for much longer.
“He’ll be fine.”
“He gets worse, we can’t have him holding rank.”
And if he was the one feeding Exorcist information, I couldn’t afford him sitting in our church either. I shrugged.
“Brew will take care of him. It won’t get bad.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not removing Blade’s son from this table.” I stood. “We’re done here.”
Scotch extended his palms in surrender. Rose flinched as we filed out. I gestured for her to follow, though she searched over her shoulder for her raging brothers.
“You have a couple hours.” I didn’t wait. She hurried to match my steps. “You’re playing tonight.”
The bunny eyes were back. “I am?”
“Behave and do as I say, and you’ll be on stage tonight.”
She smiled.
My heart fucking stopped. The blood thudded straight to my cock. Zero to fucking mistake in two seconds. Not what we needed. I ignored her until I shoved her in my room at Pixie. She didn’t fight. Didn’t protest. Just...smiled. Like the greatest fucking thing in her world was the opportunity to sing at some dive bar surrounded by more beer bottles than lights.
And she considered us the psychopaths.
Her brothers handed her a guitar sometime in the afternoon. Their shouting carried from the bar. They didn’t let Rose backtalk, but I doubted they ever did. Not the way she tip-toed around her brothers. Not the way she used to avoid her old man. Twenty-five years to life was a long time for a girl to be without her daddy.
Rose didn’t seem to care.
I gave her till nightfall to strum her guitar before collecting the diva.
She wore a damned dress. Yellow. Like a sunflower or something. The folds of material just wiggled over her hips when I opened the door. She yelped and turned. The dress danced over her skin. Perfect for a picnic. I wondered if she expected to serenade a bunch of teddy bears.
“You didn’t knock.” Her hand stilled over the neckline of her dress.
“It’s my room.”
“I might have been naked.”
“A lot of women get naked in my room.”
“Charming.”
“I never had any complaints.” The dress didn’t fit tight enough over her form, but I imagined what she hid underneath. “Wearing that?”
She tossed a sweater over the sleeveless dress, covering an arm dotted with enough scars to make most of my men envious of her prior battles. She might have blushed. She turned too quick for me to see.
“Yes, I’m wearing this,” she said.
“You sure?”
“Motorcycle club president and fashion mogul?”
“I know a lot of women who perform.”
Rose perked an eyebrow. “This dress will be staying on all night, thank you very much.”
“We’ll see.”
She answered me with a frosty little huff that might have pissed me off had I not imagined the sounds she’d make on the back of my bike in that sunflower dress. She seized her guitar and marched from the room. The clip of her heels matched the swishing of her dress. Wasn’t a bad view, but I pulled her away from the door and led her outside myself. Last thing we needed was the starlet gunned down in the parking lot by some opportunistic gangbanger for Ex. She wouldn’t get a VH1 special unless she actually sang somewhere first.
I stopped her in front of my bike. Brew, Gold, and Scotch trailed behind, zipping their jackets and sliding onto their rides.
I handed her a helmet. She stared at it like a severed head tucked inside.
“Get on,” I said.
“Get on what?”
“The bike, sweetheart.”
She refused the helmet. “I don’t do motorcycles.”
I glanced over at Brew. “She’s in the wrong fucking family.”
He shrugged. “Accident when she was younger on Dad’s bike. Still haven’t gotten over that?”
Rose raised her chin. “I can drive myself.”
I lowered my voice. “Get on the bike.”
“Please?”
Something about the tremble in her words and the scars on her arm chewed through me. She jostled the guitar case.
“We need to take this anyway,” she said. “We’re not going far.”
“She’s better protected in the car.” Scotch throttled his bike. He winked at her. “She can sing on the way there. Warm up them pipes.”
She smiled at him. A headache pricked at my temple. I didn’t care if we dragged her behind the damned bikes there so long as the kid gave us reason to ride through Ex’s stolen territory.
“Fine. We’ll escort her.”
She hurried to her car. Whatever freedom she stashed in the sedan was all imagined. She was no safer in a car than she was strapped behind me. Not from Exorcist. Not from the debt she’d owe me for doing this. I started my bike and yelled for her to follow me. Brew trailed behind.
Keep hadn’t showed. And, for as much as I loved that son of a bitch, no cause on God’s green earth should have prevented him from watching his little sister sing.
Unless it wasn’t God.
Could have been the devil.
And it wouldn’t be the first time a strung-out, junkie, desperate idiot got in bed with a slick demon. The thought cut through me like a quick dagger. Someone needed to start watching Keep. Find out where he went. Who he talked to. Where he got his drugs.
If only to prove me wrong.
The ride kept quiet. No traffic after dark. No second glances from people too stupid to test their luck against a full squad in formation. If Exorcist had a lookout, he kept a low profile. But it wasn’t like Ex to work on a Friday night. Too many women, not enough alcohol, and more than one set of teeth to cut his knuckles.
The club wasn’t too much of a hole. Classier than Pi
xie but not worth Rose’s time. She burst in, little dress dancing around her, guitar in her hands, eager smile and bouncing curls. The manager didn’t look up from counting his register. He pointed her to the equipment on the stage. She bounded to get ready. The two dozen people clustered around tables or sharing a drink didn’t even watch the cute kid plug in her equipment or test the microphones. They stared at us.
And the smart ones paid their tabs and left.
Scotch and Gold watched as a group of five slithered out the door. Brew grunted.
“Not going to have much of an audience if this keeps up.” He grabbed the prospects and pushed them toward the door. “No one else leaves till she says goodnight.”
Scotch snickered and grabbed a table. “She wouldn’t be happy if she knew you were playing bouncer.”
“She doesn’t have to know.”
I sunk into the seat. A waitress bargained with the manager over who would serve us before a dolled up, forty-something with bleached hair and a kick in her panties approached the table. Scotch had her on his lap before we placed the order. Brew ignored her. I kept my eye on Rose.
She didn’t need a lot of equipment. Just a guitar and microphone. She squeezed into a dusty spotlight cast by a half-burnt out bulb. The audience didn’t quiet when she greeted them with a gentle murmur.
“Good evening. My name is Rose.” She shouldered her guitar and strummed a soft note. “I’ll be playing a few songs tonight.”
Nothing. The crowd sipped their beers. Brew checked his phone.
“Where the fuck is Keep?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Left him three messages. Haven’t seen him since this morning. He usually loves when she sings.”
Rose wasn’t discouraged by the club or the lighting or the jackass hooting and slamming his fist on the table while he entertained two disinterested women. The guitar twanged a quick melody.
And she sang like a goddamned angel.
I flinched like she smacked me with the guitar. Brew smirked.
“She’s good,” he said.
“Fucking good.”
It wasn’t my style of music or my preferred entertainment when a girl took the stage, but the soft little song and gentle voice didn’t deserve the club. Or the bikers listening to her. Or the ass slamming the table with a drunken hand and shouting out a request for her to take the dress off.
She ignored the drunk, but the next song flashed her fingers over the guitar in a rush of quick notes. I recognized the song, but not the speed she played it.
“Aw shit.” Brew sipped his beer. “Metallica.”
I frowned. “What?”
“She’s rattled.” Brew’s jaw tensed. The demand for Rose’s dress silenced, but now the man had a new death wish as he shouted over her song for the waitress. “When she gets upset, she plays the harder songs.”
“Why?”
“Who knows. Always did. I’d come over to the house, and she’d be in her room all pissed off and messing with Allman Brothers or Hendrix or something.”
“She’s good at it,” I said.
The song wasn’t written for an acoustic. She made it work. Didn’t force the song. Didn’t strain her voice. Just played like she was one heartbeat away from earning a harp and a fluffy cloud to play it on. Good thing that day was far off.
The jackass thumped on the table. His attention focused on Rose. Whistled too sharp at her.
Brew grimaced. “She better calm down. I know Freebird isn’t the third song in her set.”
Rose missed a note. Her voice trembled before she recovered. The flush of crimson on her cheeks was like flashing red before a bull. I hauled my ass out of the chair and stalked to the asshole waving a dollar bill toward the stage.
The fucker quieted when I approached. The color drained from his fat face. I leaned over the table. My cut fell away and revealed the gun tucked in my jeans. I didn’t bother hiding it. A little respect would be a good thing. If nothing else I’d finish streaking his red hair gray. I pointed to the stage.
“You’re being disrespectful to the lady.” I stared him down, surprised by the venom in my voice. The hardness encasing my chest with rage on her behalf. “Shut your fucking mouth while she sings.”
His third beer gave him the courage to scoff and poke my chest.
“Or what?” He snorted. “This ain’t the wild west. You gonna hit me or something?”
I grabbed the beer bottle from his hand and slammed the bottom against the table. The bulk of the glass shattered, and I jammed the jagged remnants to his throat.
“Yeah,” I said. “Or something.”
Now he did the right thing and kept his mouth shut. I flagged a waitress down, tossing the broken bottle onto the table and slapping his shoulder.
“Bring him another round on me.”
I returned to my table. Brew and Scotch laughed, but Rose watched with widened eyes as she ended a song and froze before choosing another. Brew hooted her name. That didn’t help.
It’d be a few seconds before I’d reach her if she passed out and fell. But she surprised me. Tucked the guitar close and had her way with a cover for a whiny pop ballad. Sweet. Soft. Not my music at all, and not the pulse pounding challenge of the thirty year old songs better suited for Pixie than her set list. But anything sounded better than what I normally listened for.
Engines.
Footsteps.
Clips slamming into guns.
Two hours, a few songs, and no interruptions later, I hadn’t taken my eyes from Rose. The damn kid sang like a diva, looked like a kindergarten teacher, and would be tucked in my bed later that night. Anathema didn’t let girls like her survive for long. Gentle. Passionate. Her voice danced with ballads as if she believed the words. And the fucking smile she offered when she played something quick? She dared to shift her hips like she wanted to dance.
And I wanted to see her dance.
Without the guitar.
And to a much different song.
But Rose wasn’t Lyn or the girls at Sorceress. I had my standards. Hers were much higher. I wasn’t about to go ruin some darling co-ed just because I hadn’t rolled my ass out of the gutter long enough to see the pretty little treats society groomed anymore.
Didn’t mean I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like. Turning a kitten into a hellcat, a singer into an entertainer, and a good girl into a biker bunny all started with the woman on her back and good intentions cast aside.
Rose finished her set to mild applause and wished everyone a good night. The manager didn’t pay any attention until she tapped him on the shoulder. He grunted and gestured for her to follow him to the offices behind the stage.
Christ, I didn’t want to imagine what I’d do if he didn’t pay her. Nothing like contemporary pop and a bloodbath to sell her songs on iTunes.
I prepared to break a nose in exchange for her dignity, but Brew and Scotch tensed as Gold dragged a bloodied prospect to the table. Brew swore, but the man tucking a knife a little too close to Gold’s neck shoved him into a seat. He twisted his ugly face to look at me. Two other members of Ex’s crew stormed through the door.
A gun cocked behind me. The cold metal pressed against my skull.
Priest grinned. He hadn’t replaced the teeth I knocked out since the last time he shoved a gun in my face.
“Prez.”
Brew and Scotch motioned to flip the table. Priest shook his head. Gold grunted as his attacker pressed the knife harder against his back. The bastard didn’t look up, but I recognized his shaved mohawk. Tommy. Some slimy ass prospect we didn’t patch in. Apparently, Ex took all kinds, including child molesting ex-cons.
“What can I do for you?” I grunted. The gun jammed harder against my head.
“You’re in our territory,” Priest said.
I frowned. “No. You’re in our territory. We donated a few streets for you to spread your filth.”
Priest practically jerked the gun off into my skull. “You owe us a little toll. Fully refun
dable, once we’re done with our sweet-ass collateral.”
Brew launched out of his seat. Gold yelled, but I silenced them both with a stare.
“You fucking touch Rose, and I will rip out your goddamned heart.”
“You make a move, and Miss Centerstage gets a curtain call as the homicide on the local news.”
“What do you want.”
“From you?” Priest’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the message. “Absolutely nothing. We got what we came for.”
The gun cracked against the side of my head. My vision fragmented black as Brew and Scotch leapt over Gold and aimed for the prospect with the knife. I collapsed on the floor. Priest slipped away. I reached for my gun, but my vision darkened, lightened, and fucked with my stomach before I could get a decent shot.
A woman’s scream tore across the club, cut abruptly short.
I surged to my feet and pushed aside a cowering waitress and fleeing people from the bar. She didn’t scream again. I kicked into the door behind the stage and aimed my gun.
Nothing.
Nothing but a thin trail of sickeningly red blood splattered from where someone cracked a head against a wall. Brew shouted from the back entrance of the club. I tossed the door open only to see the van peel away and the two bikes chase after.
Exorcist’s men were gone.
And the bastards stole Rose.
Only one person ever aimed a gun at me, but Dad wouldn’t have pulled the trigger.
I stared at the monster lining the handgun with the center of my forehead. I didn’t recognize him, but I recognized his colors. The design on his cut. The tattoos on his arm. His vest read Treasurer, but he wasn’t Anathema’s rightful officer. He held the gun with a righteous determination and spoke with the amusement of Hell’s demons set loose in a prison.
“Exorcist is requesting an encore.” His one eye clouded with a ragged scar, but he stared at me with ruthless attention. “Don’t make a sound or I’ll string your guitar with your guts.”
“Wouldn’t tune right.” I gripped the guitar’s case. I offered the envelope the bar manager stuffed in my hand without a word, thank you, or contractual offer. “Four hundred. Will it buy me a head start?”
Warlord (Anathema Book 1) Page 9
