Flesh and Blood (Dixie Mafia Series Book 1)

by Cynthia Rayne

  “Now, why’s that name familiar?” As he spoke, he stroked his whiskers. “Lemme think. Belle.” Mosley snapped his fingers. “Dixon Wolf. You’re his Belle, aren’t ya?”

  His Belle?

  “No.” Belle frowned.

  “Aw, now, don’t be bashful, girl. Dix and I go way back, so we’re all friends here—but trust me on this one…you don’t wanna get mixed up with the likes of him.”

  “So you don’t have any jobs?” she asked crisply, ignoring his statement.

  “For you? I can’t say I do.”

  For you. Was Dix trying to sabotage her chances? Had he also spoken to Walk?

  That rat bastard.

  “What do you mean ‘for me’?”

  Mosley was about to answer when the door swung open behind her and a handsome man swaggered inside.

  Dammit. Now was not the time for interruptions.

  She placed him in his mid-twenties, but he dressed like a much older, sophisticated man. He wore a gray three-piece suit and had blond hair and bright blue eyes. With his square jaw and even, white teeth, he could be a movie star. Actually, he reminded her of someone else, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “Well, as I live and breathe, Braxton Beauregard. How ya doin’, boy?” Mosley filled in the blanks.

  Another freaking Beauregard. Belle wished she’d never heard the surname. And Braxton looked like a younger version of his older brother…?

  “Howdy, Mr. Mosley, good to see ya again. I’m doin’ mighty fine. How about you?”

  While the tone was deferential, something about it irked her. Belle saw beneath the surface of his polite banner. He was trying to butter the old man up.

  “Fine and dandy.” Mosley narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying the bullshit. He gestured to her. “This here is Belle Nunn, she’s with Dix…sort of.”

  He nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Likewise, and I’m not with Dix.”

  Both men exchanged a look—equal parts pity and amusement.

  “Belle, this here is Brax. I expect you’ve heard of the Beauregard family.”

  “I have.” And she hated them, too—almost as much as Dix.

  “Now, hold on there. Don’t go lumpin’ me in with my brother.” He grasped her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her knuckles in a show of old-world charm. “I’m one of the respectable Beauregards.”

  Somehow, she doubted there was any such thing as a respectable Beauregard.

  “How’s Stanford, Brax?” Mosley asked.

  Brax had a gleam in his eye as he leaned closer to Belle. “I’m attendin’ Stanford law, but I’m off for a month, between semesters, so I decided to come home.” He shrugged. “See the family and such, you know how it is.”

  Mosley snorted. “Then what can I do for you, boy?”

  “I’m here on business and, if Belle here doesn’t have any objections, I’d just as soon get to it.”

  “Fine by me.” The sooner he got what he came for, the sooner she’d be able to question Mosley.

  “Thought I’d sell these to you so I can have some spendin’ money while I’m in town.” Brax placed the leather satchel he’d carried in onto the counter and opened it to reveal a fortune in jewelry—necklaces, diamond rings, earrings, money clips.

  “How’d you come by the stash, boy?” Mosley sifted through the fortune in gold but didn’t look impressed.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Wouldn’t have asked if it didn’t.”

  “Are you gonna buy ’em or what?” His lips pinched together.

  “Why you sellin’?”

  “Never you mind, old man. Gimme the cash and I’ll be on my way. Unless you want me to take all this over to Nelsonville and give the boys at the pawn shop a crack at it.”

  “Let me guess, you blew through your pocket money, and you’re flat broke.” Mosley crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Ain’t your business.” Brax braced his arms on the counter.

  Mosley shook his head. “Get up on outta here, before I call your brother to sort this out the hard way.”

  Belle bet, like all the Beauregards, people didn’t disagree with him often—must be a humbling experience. If Brax were smart, he’d leave. Belle wouldn’t want to tangle with Byron Beauregard—under any circumstances.

  Brax stared him down.

  “We agreed I wouldn’t,” Mosley broke off and slanted a glance at her. “Er, buy anything more from you after the way it ended last time.”

  He said buy, but Belle thought he meant fence—as in selling stolen goods. Had Brax stolen from his rich friends at school?

  “What? Like it’s beneath you or somethin’. We both know you don’t mind sellin’ things no matter how,” he paused, “er, warm they are.”

  Belle wondered if Moss Mosley had another stock of items he only showed special customers.

  “No, I don’t, son, but I ain’t buyin’ from you—not no more. Byron wouldn’t like it.”

  “Yeah? Well, fuck him, and fuck you too.” Brax reached into the bag, and Belle doubted it was to grab a gold watch.

  “Don’t do it, son, or you’ll be regrettin’ it for the rest of your very short life.” Mosley seemed calm, but he grabbed something beneath the counter.

  Belle heard a distinct click.

  “Oh, yeah? Says who?”

  “Me and the twelve gauge I’ve got my trigger finger on.”

  Oh, God, please don’t let there be a shooting. I can’t take anymore. Belle placed in her hands in the air. Again—who are these people? Crazy Dixie Mafia men.

  “You don’t wanna play this out, son. I like your brother, and it’d be a shame to hurt one of his kin.”

  “Who says I’d be the one who’d get hurt?” Brax’s voice lowered.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice and I ain’t talkin’ about shootin’ no deer. So why don’t you march your ass home while you’re still ahead and never darken my door again?”

  A muscle worked in Brax’s jaw. He still had a hold of something in the bag.

  She wished she could follow Mosley’s advice and get out of here, but her feet seemed to be rooted to the spot.

  Brax slowly pulled his hand away. “Sorry about this, sir.”

  Mosley nodded. “Thought so. Now git on outta here, and we’ll forget this ever happened.” Brax grabbed his case and left the store in a hurry.

  Belle nearly collapsed with relief. She braced herself against the counter and swallowed, shaking.

  “You okay there, Belle?”

  “Uh, yeah, I think so. What about you?” She pushed a hand through her hair.

  “I’m good.” And he actually seemed fine—no shakes, no trace of fear, as if almost getting into a gun fight was a normal occurrence. It probably was. “Damn, I hate the little shit. He almost made me break my fuckin’ promise.” Mosley pulled three quarters from his pocket and plunked them into the curse jar.

  “What promise?”

  His smile was a touch wistful. “When my dearly departed Martha May died, I swore I’d lead a different life. I run a store these days, but I didn’t always.”

  Their eyes locked, and Belle read between the lines.

  “Which is how you know Dix and Byron Beauregard?”

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  Which made Mosley a semi-retired mobster?

  “I’m not a bad man—not anymore.” Mosley seemed to be having a crisis of conscience about the situation. “So, it pains me to turn you away.”

  “Dix told you not to hire me, huh?”

  “Got no idea why, exactly, but he surely did.”

  And another business had been crossed off her dwindling list.

  Even thinking about her predicament was exhausting. Belle longed to head home, climb into a steaming hot bath, and forget about this crappy day, but it wasn’t an option. She still had to find a job—and now her task was even harder because Dix was working against her.

  Low-down, no-good cheat. When Be
lle was pissed off, the Southern in her blood came bubbling up.

  “I wish I could help you, but it’d place my ass in a sling.”

  “I understand.” And she did. He’d gotten in deep with the Dixie Mafia, and they didn’t take no for an answer.

  “These days, I run my store, I don’t drink, and I try not to swear. I even go to church every Sunday.” He shook his head. “Although, I don’t think it’ll be enough.”

  “Enough to do what?”

  “I shouldn’t be tellin’ you all this.” His eyes were watery, rheumy with regret.

  “Go on….” People often confided in her. She supposed they felt comfortable, safe with her. Maybe because she listened and wasn’t quick to judge.

  He pulled a black and white picture from his wallet and handed it to Belle. A young woman with a backcombed hairdo beamed at her from the grainy photograph.

  “Martha May was a good woman. Her only sin was fallin’ for a bad man.”

  Martha May wasn’t the only one.

  He glanced skyward. “And I know she’s in heaven now, watchin’ over me. If I don’t straighten up and fly right, I’ll never see her again.”

  Despite herself, Belle was touched. “I hope you see her again.” She handed the picture back to him, and he tucked it into his wallet carefully, like it was the most precious thing he owned.

  “Thank ya kindly. For what it’s worth, I hope you find a way around Dix. Now come here. I won’t let you leave empty-handed.” He reached behind the counter once more, but instead of a gun, he pulled out a milk-white porcelain canister shaped like a large Mason jar. “Have some.” He popped the lid off the container and offered it to her.

  Peering inside, she found jagged, red shards of candy, like a stained glass window had shattered, and he’d scooped up the pieces.

  “It’s glass candy, made it myself,” he said proudly. “This here’s the cinnamon kind. It was my wife’s favorite, and I made it for her on Christmas and Valentine’s Day.”

  Belle snickered. A mobster who crafted homemade sweets—only in Texas.

  “Thank you.” Belle took a couple pieces.

  Even if the shopkeepers wouldn’t hire her, at least they were feeding her today. Between the candy and the cupcake, she had a sugar high going—the added energy might help.

  She popped a piece into her mouth. The candy was good; it had a hot, zingy flavor.

  “My pleasure. Don’t be a stranger now.” His phone rang, and he shuffled over to answer it.

  Squaring her shoulders, Belle headed out the door.

  Chapter Seven

  Help Wanted.

  Belle read the sign again to be sure it wasn’t some sort of unemployment-induced mirage. How-De-Do had an actual help wanted sign. Leave it to Miss Delilah to not be intimidated by Dix or his gun-toting thugs.

  Yes! Maybe her luck had turned.

  “Come on, please, hire me.” She crossed her fingers. And if she’d had a rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover, she might’ve used those too—because her luck sucked.

  Steeling herself, Belle walked into the dress shop/beauty parlor—How-De-Do was an ingenious hybrid business. Women went to the beauty parlor for special occasions like the prom or a special date and needed the outfit to go with the new hair.

  The shop had a bohemian look—brick walls with wooden floors. Out front in the waiting area, a selection of magazines had been inserted into a repurposed black shutter, the magazines’ spines hanging over each rung. One wall was decorated with a collection of kitschy, sixties hand mirrors. Near the door, a chalkboard sign read: What Happens at the Salon Stays at the Salon.

  Belle snorted. Not likely. The beauty parlor was filled with gossipy, blue-haired, old biddies.

  In an adjoining room, four steel racks sported vintage dresses Miss Delilah personally curated for the shop. Belle had perused the racks before. The dresses were expensive but beautiful.

  “Hey there, honey lamb. I ain’t seen you since Methuselah was a pup!” Miss Delilah called from behind the white and black paneled front desk. “What brings you in today?” Then she grimaced. “Good Lord. Never mind, I can see the damage from here—those split ends need to go.”

  Delilah Holloway appeared to be in her sixties, though she’d also told Belle she was a “well-preserved seventy-two” and a “party girl fifty-six” on two other occasions. Belle had no idea which age was the truth. The rumor mill loved to speculate about Miss Delilah. Some said she’d been a flight attendant, others, an escort, and some swore she’d been an actress in art films. Belle preferred the rumor about Delilah being an infamous Vegas showgirl. Of course, Miss Delilah delighted in the chatter and fed the gossip mongers a tidbit or two every now and then.

  “I know. I haven’t been taking good care of myself.” Belle touched her hair self-consciously. “But I’m stopping by on business today.”

  Miss Delilah’s striking white hair was coiled atop her head and set off by a pink pillbox hat pinned at a jaunty angle. She wore a matching pencil skirt, heels, a satin shirt, and a string of pearls which came all the way down to her upper thighs. Inexplicably, she carried a pink paper parasol indoors. Belle had given up trying to understand Delilah’s fashion choices—they were always outrageous.

  “Business?” She cocked a hip, unconsciously posing as though an invisible fashion photographer followed her around. And because she’d gone a bit dotty in her old age, Miss Delilah might even believe it. “What kind of business?”

  “I saw your help wanted sign, and I’m applying for any position you’ve got. I’ll do anything—I can answer phones, sweep up hair, shampoo, or—”

  “Hush up and come with me.” She marched into the clothing portion of the building and pulled Belle into the corner of the room. Racks of dresses surrounded them, shielding their conversation from prying eyes. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I filled my openin’ first thing this morning.”

  “Then why’s the sign still up?” Belle stood straighter, daring Miss Delilah to lie to her face.

  “I said I just filled the opening.” The tone was sweet, but steel lay beneath it.

  The spark of temper died out as quickly as it’d flared. Belle bowed her head. It wasn’t Delilah’s fault Belle had landed in this jam.

  She’d received Dix’s proposal nearly twenty-four hours ago, and with no gas money to hunt for a job in another town and no prospects, reality had begun to sink in. In fact, her options had dwindled down to two terrible choices—stripper or mistress—and there was no guarantee she’d get the pole dancer position either.

  “Thanks, anyway. I’ll try the Lone Star.”

  “I doubt it’d do you any good. My guess is Bonnie Beauregard won’t be hirin’ either. Dixon Wolf is a very powerful man in this town, and people want to be on his good side—includin’ me.”

  Tears filled her eyes once more. God, I’m pathetic.

  “Shh. None of that. You’re lookin’ at this all wrong. He’s an attractive, eligible man, and he’s taken a shine to you. Why not relax and go with it?”

  It would be so easy to admit defeat—take the easy way out. She could slink over to Dix’s place tonight with her tail between her legs and accept whatever dirty, little arrangement he had in mind—or she could go down with a fight.

  “Hush now. Dry your eyes and I’ll get you ready. His assistant called earlier and asked me to do your hair and pick out a dress for you.”

  “The bastard knew I’d come here.” He’d laid traps for her all around town. Dix is an asshole and possibly psychic. Yeah, a psychic asshole, and he needs to be taken down a peg or two. Her nails bit into her palms as she clenched her fists.

  “Come on, we’re runnin’ out of time.” Miss Delilah drifted over to a rack and sorted through dresses, holding them up to Belle, mentally trying them on her.

  “Ready for what, exactly?”

  “Dinner— from what I gather, he has a special evening planned for the two of you.”

  Oh, she bet Dix had a r
eal special night planned. One where she’d be on her knees or on her back—at his beck and call. The smug bastard expected her to capitulate.

  No way. No how. Belle was going to fight this with everything she had left, and if she went down, it’d be in a blaze of glory.

  “I’d rather starve than eat with him again.” And, as luck would have it, that might very well happen.

  Trembling with rage, Belle stomped down the street to the strip club.

  Goodbye, dinner date.

  Hello, rock bottom.

  ***

  Red, white, and blue neon lights bathed the saloon at night, but they hadn’t been turned on yet. An Amstel delivery truck was parked by the entrance, and the front door was propped wide open. There were a few cars in the parking lot, which probably belonged to employees. Belle hoped Bonnie Beauregard was inside.

  After she walked in, Belle blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dark interior. Loud music blared from the speaker system—Carrie Underwood’s “Undo It.” The club had a honky-tonk feel. Instead of standard tables and chairs, bar stools surrounded barrels branded with Jack Daniels. The stage in the center of the room had three stripper poles—thankfully empty. Belle spotted a mechanical bull in the back. One wall sported beer cans arranged in the shape of the Texas flag.

  Classy.

  The delivery man pushed a hand truck filled with cases of beer, which he dropped at the bar, paying her no mind, then walked out to get another load.

  Belle glimpsed the uniform in a group picture behind the bar. The waitresses wore red bandana halter tops, cutoffs, red cowboy boots, and matching hats. It wasn’t a conservative outfit, but it was a better option than taking off her clothes. Please let there be a waitress job available.

  Behind Belle, a door squeaked open, and a woman appeared, hauling a case of Jim Beam. As she set it down with a thunk on a nearby table, she sized Belle up.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Are you Bonnie Beauregard?”

  “Guilty as charged.” She smirked. “And what the fuck do you want?”

  Evidently, Byron had gotten the lion’s share of charm in his family.

  Bonnie’s age was difficult to suss out. She had long blonde hair with occasional strands of silver mixed in. If Belle had to guess, she’d say somewhere in her late forties. Bonnie’s skin was tan, a bit weathered. She wore a black tank top and tight, frayed jeans along with a pair of black leather cowboy boots. On her right bicep, she sported a black tribal tattoo. Bonnie seemed very rough and tumble, but Belle supposed she’d have to be tough to run a strip club.