A Broken Vow: Inked Angels MC

by Zoey Parker

  I can’t say for sure what will happen if I let him take what he wants. I can’t say for sure whether I could stop him even if I wanted to. But beneath those uncertainties, there is one truth: I don’t want to stop him.

  As if he can hear my thoughts, his hands resume their motion. He reaches behind my neck and unties the cord holding up my dress. It falls in a white puddle at my feet. I am naked in the desert, pinned between a rock and a man.

  Why, then, are my nipples crested into hard peaks? Why, when his eyes sweep over my body, do I feel myself growing wet between the legs? Why do I lick my lips? Why?

  He doesn’t provide an answer. Instead, he slides his hand up the back of my neck until it is nestled amongst the roots of my hair. He tugs slightly, forcing my head up to look at him. With his other broad palm, he slides down my throat, down my collarbone to the point of my shoulder, down the outside of my arm, and comes to a rest on my hip.

  We stay like that for a moment. The rock is warm on my bare skin. The flesh beneath the man’s fingertips, however, is burning. It matches the heat burgeoning in my core.

  When he moves his hand from my hip to my mound, the fire on my skin joins the fire burning deep in my hips. He slides a long finger inside me at the same time that his thumb revolves slowly around my clit. I gasp. I want to wriggle free, to let the fires cool, but he has a firm grasp on my hair and won’t let me go. There is nowhere to run even if I could break free. I squirm, but my legs part involuntarily to let him move further within me.

  He pushes a knuckle deeper and spins his thumb faster on my clit. Christ, the fire is scorching hot, it’s filled with pressure, it’s unbearable. I have only one thing to do: explode.

  I come hard, breathless. Only then can I hear what he is saying as he leans his lips to my ear and whispers a sentence that stokes the flame all over again.

  “You’re mine now, Rose.”

  Chapter 7

  Vince

  This coffee tastes like piss.

  Or maybe it’s just my mood that’s ruining everything. The lights at this diner are flickering too brightly, the waitress is hideous, and to top it all off, Cesar is late again. Even so, I guess things could be worse. It’s not so bad to have a moment to myself to process what happened this morning.

  What a coincidence that I’d chosen to take a ride at that time. I think back to when I was first mounting my motorcycle. I could easily have turned in the other direction, rode out to the desert instead of through town. Then I wouldn’t have been there to save Rose. Those fuckers would have done whatever they wanted with her.

  But I went right instead of left. I had saved Rose. I had stopped the men attacking her. And then I’d kissed her. That was a strange outcome in and of itself. Who the fuck kisses the girl they just saved from rapists? More importantly, what kind of girl kisses back? I can’t say. I still don’t know anything about her. All I have to go on is her name. Rose.

  I look down at her nametag. It’s still in my hand, worn smooth already from my thumb passing over it again and again. I chuckle. It was almost amusing how she’d pushed me away. It has been so long since a girl played hard to get with me that I practically forgot such mind games existed. Usually, they crumble under my touch and find their own way into my bed. Not this one, though. Rose is different. I don’t know how or why, but she is. I’m sure of it.

  I need to have her.

  Just then, a man slinks in through the doorway, interrupting my wandering thoughts. I know right away he’s the one I’m looking for. Cesar. He’s short, skittish, Hispanic, badly in need of a shave and a fresh set of clothes. The wispy hairs on his upper lip and chin shine with grease and sweat. He ducks inside and casts his head around nervously. When he sees me, he recoils, then wipes the perspiration from his forehead with a filthy handkerchief.

  The hostess starts to ask Cesar if she can help find him a table, but he brushes past her without even realizing she’s talking to him. She stands in his wake, momentarily annoyed, but she shrugs it off and goes back to organizing menus.

  I don’t budge or raise my eyes from my coffee as he moves down the aisle. He looks like he’s scared to even take up space, terrified to take a breath or do anything that will draw attention to himself. Every clank of silverware or slurp of orange juice from the early morning customers at the diner elicits a startled leap and sudden glare from him. The guy is a nervous wreck.

  He pauses a few feet away from my table. I see him wringing his hands out of the corner of my eye.

  “Sit,” I growl without looking. He slides into the booth across from me. I take a long sip of my coffee, then set it down and look at his face. He refuses to make eye contact, staring instead at a ring on his finger that he fiddles with constantly. It’s plain silver, unadorned except for a tiny emerald set into the surface. As he twists it around, it glints in the fluorescent lighting.

  “You—you’re, um…” he trails off, tugging at his shirt collar like he’s choking, then leans in close to me and whispers, “…you’re Vince?”

  I nod. He sits back in his seat and continues to play with the ring. “How can I be sure you are who you say you are?” he says softly.

  In all my years dealing with criminals, crooks, and con men, one thing I’ve learned is that rats like Cesar are used to being abused. A specimen like him—the lowliest scum of the underworld—responds best to brute strength and intimidation. He won’t trust niceness; he’ll exploit it. I can’t show an ounce of weakness to him. He needs to know that I am in charge here.

  “Because if you don’t start telling me what I need to know, I’m going to smash your fucking face in,” I retort.

  Cesar nearly chokes at the threat, sputtering in his seat. I hate to be aggressive when I don’t need to be, but even if I was predisposed to being courteous with vermin like him—which I most definitely am not—this motherfucker already used up all of my goodwill with back-to-back no-shows. There’s no time left for courtesy. “Okay.” He gulps, then pauses.

  “Well?”

  He casts an eye around the room before ushering me closer to him. I lean forward, close enough to smell his fetid breath oozing towards me. He’s more pathetic than disgusting, although he is certainly both of those things. He reminds me of a rat on the run from owls, constantly looking over his shoulder and expecting death to swoop down from the sky. “There are rumors,” he begins, “that they’re coming north.”

  “The Diablos?” I interject.

  He nods solemnly.

  “What about the rumors that they were all dead?” I need to be as careful and thorough as possible to make sure that all doubt is laid to rest. If war is coming, we have to be certain.

  “That’s what everyone thought. But we were wrong.”

  “Explain,” I order him.

  He hesitates before continuing. “It took them a long time to reorganize after what happened nine years ago. Most of them were killed in the fighting back then.”

  “But not all of them.”

  “No, not all of them. A few survived, ran off in different directions. It took a few years, but they eventually started to regroup. To find each other again.” The silver ring flashes between his fingers.

  I ask, “Shouldn’t the cartel council be doing something about that?”

  Cesar shrugs. “They refuse to believe it’s happening. As far as the council is concerned, the Diablos are dead. The survivors swore an oath not to rebuild in Mexico, and that’s all the council cares about.”

  “But now they’re back.”

  “Yes. And on the move. Some even say that…” He looks around before hunching even closer. His chin is millimeters from the surface of the table. “…that they’re already this far north.”

  “How far north?”

  “Here, in El Cruce.” He swallows. “There have been sightings.”

  He hisses this last word. It slithers in my ear like a rattlesnake, taking up a position in my brain and refusing to leave. Sightings. They’re real. They’re back. They’
re here.

  “What do they look like?” I ask him. I have a bubbling dismay in the pit of my stomach that he’s going to tell me something I really don’t want to hear. I think back to the men in the parking lot. As I do, I’m praying to God, the devil, and everything in between that the next thing Cesar says has nothing to do with their clothes.

  “All I know is that they wear all black.”

  All black. My worst fears are confirmed. The men in the parking lot that morning were Diablos. I’d come across them without even knowing it. My pulse is strong, the veins in my forearms bulging against my skin. I’m squeezing the cup of coffee in my hands hard enough that I won’t be surprised if it shatters. Those were the bastards coming for my brothers and me.

  Those were our enemies.

  “I’m going to say this very slowly, Cesar, and I don’t want you to interrupt me until I’m finished. All I need from you is a yes or no.” He starts to say something, but I cut him off. “In fact, why don’t you keep that mouth of yours shut? Just shake your head yes or no. Let’s practice. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  He nods furiously.

  “Good. Now listen. I want you to confirm to me everything that you’ve just said. What you are saying is that the Diablos are not only alive, but that they are re-organized and on the move. They are on their way north to find new turf—specifically, my turf. And the cartel council can’t or won’t stop them. Is all that correct?”

  Cesar licks his lips and nods again, slowly this time. I sit back.

  Looks like the Inked Angels are about to go back to war. It’s been a long time since the last one. I hope we’re ready.

  “You’re sure of all this?” I ask him.

  “As sure as I can be. It is all rumors, you know? A little here, a little there. I can only tell you what I hear.”

  I sigh. “Is there anything else?”

  “Well, I shouldn’t tell you this, but…” he trails off.

  I stare him down as I grit, “Spit it out, Cesar.”

  He tries to wave me off. “No, no, I can’t. I shouldn’t have said anything. It is a silly rumor, that’s all.”

  I reach out, grab a fistful of his shirt, and yank him towards me. His eyes bulge. I can smell the anxious sweat bubbling over his skin. He fidgets in my grasp, desperate to peel my hands away, but he knows as well as I do that he’s not going anywhere. “Apparently, you’re full of rumors. Now tell me what you’ve heard,” I say, “before you really piss me off.”

  After a pause, he says, “They have a new leader.”

  “Who is he?”

  “No one knows his real name. Or at least, the people who know it aren’t telling anyone. He came out of nowhere, just, poof—suddenly he is there, you know? And he is very dangerous. He makes the cartel council look like an, eh, how do you say it…a knitting circle, you know? Like old ladies with their needles and their yarn.”

  He tries to cackle lowly, but I don’t laugh with him. “Where did he come from?” I ask.

  “Like I said, I don’t know nothing about where he come from.”

  “You must know more than that.”

  Cesar hesitates, then clamps his mouth shut. I reach below the table, retrieve a knife from my boot, and rest it gently in front of him.

  “Cesar,” I tell him, “this is a very delicate situation. You know things that could save a lot of my brothers from getting killed. Things that could save me from getting killed, too. You want to know a funny little secret? I like being alive. If it’s up to me, I’d rather keep it that way. So when you tell me that you don’t know something, especially something important like this, it’s hard for me to just let it go. Let’s face it, you’re a rat-faced little liar, and you know far more than you’re letting on. I don’t want to hurt you, but my life and the lives of my brothers matter a hell of a lot more to me than keeping you intact and unharmed. If it comes down to it, I will use this knife. And you will regret not telling me everything. Every. Single. Detail. Comprende, amigo?”

  I finish my short speech and fall silent. Part of me is wincing inside. This bastard isn’t evil or wicked. He’s just a survivor, nothing more or less. He does what he has to do in order to get by with the limited skill set that he has. In its own way, I can understand that, even if I struggle to respect it. Bottom line, it’s a shame that he’s making me resort to threats of violence to get the information I need out of him. Oh well. Whatever it takes.

  I raise an eyebrow. “So, you were saying?”

  Cesar runs his tongue across his lips again and tucks a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “Like I said before, no one knows who he is or where he comes from. All we know is what he calls himself now.”

  “And what’s that?”

  A gulp. I can see his throat bulge and retract. His voice crackles, barely a whisper. “El Diablo Blanco.”

  El Diablo Blanco. The White Devil. I frown. It doesn’t jibe with what I expected to hear. A white man leading a cartel? That’s unheard of. The cartel council would never allow it. Then again, the cartel council doesn’t seem to give a shit about the Diablos. They’ve been acting like kids playing peek-a-boo when it comes to these rogue bastards—just closing their eyes and pretending the Diablos aren’t there. I scoff. I’m sure that’ll work out just fuckin’ peachy for everyone involved.

  “What the fuck kind of a name is that?” I say to Cesar. “El Diablo Blanco? Are you shitting me?”

  “Shh! Keep your voice down!”

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  “We don’t know who’s listening. He has people everywhere!” The panic in his voice is rising.

  “Calm down,” I instruct him. “You’re fine. Tell me more. What else do you know about him?”

  He’s even more jittery now. I can hear his foot tapping beneath the table. His eyes are spinning wildly in their sockets, never resting for a moment, just scanning, searching. His fingers keep twisting the ring on his left hand.

  “If anyone hears me talking about him…” His voice falters halfway through the sentence.

  Cesar’s head whips around back and forth, scanning the diner. He cranes his neck to glance at the entrance, right as it swings open and two burly, tanned men walk inside. Both are wearing wide-brimmed hats pulled down low over their faces.

  Cesar looks back at me. Every line on his face is drawn taught with fear. He gnaws at his lips with yellowed, crooked teeth. “He’s planning something. Something big. He’s been feeding you false information. You think you’re ready, but you’re not. No one is. He’s coming, and he won’t stop until he has everything he wants.” He looks haunted. Pure terror is coursing through his veins.

  It takes everything I have to keep my face still and unreactive. Inside, my blood is running cold. If what Cesar is saying proves true, then we’re fucked already.

  “How do you know this?” I demand. The men in the hats stroll to a table next to us and sit down, sighing. They look like factory laborers, hands knotted and scarred. Cesar is eyeing them warily.

  “I can’t say anything else. I need to go.” He lurches up from the table in a hurry, desperate to get away. This rat might be fast, but I’m faster. I pounce from my seat and grab him by the back of the collar. The men in the hats look at us oddly.

  “You can’t go,” I say. “You need to tell me everything.”

  “Not here. Too many eyes, too many ears.”

  “Tell me when and where.”

  “Tonight. Midnight. Meet me in the private booth at the strip club El Gallinero. We’ll be safe there.”

  I growl, but I can tell just by looking at him that fear of being discovered by Diablos is overpowering any threat I pose to him. Violence won’t work anymore.

  “Midnight,” I confirm. “You better be there.”

  He scurries off without a word. I watch through the window as he crosses the street. Then he is gone.

  I’m left standing alone in the diner to process the torrent of information that Cesar just unleashed on me.
A vanished cartel rising from the dead, on the prowl for a place to take root, all under the reign of a new leader? Someone nobody has ever seen or heard of before? I’m troubled by all of it.

  I need to know more. Any detail could be the difference maker for the Inked Angels’ survival. Cesar said that El Diablo Blanco has been feeding us false information. How is that possible? Mortar is too careful to be fooled.

  The club needs to know what’s happening. I step outside and find a pay phone booth on the street. Shoving a few coins in the slot, I dial Mortar’s private line. It rings and rings, the connection sounding tinny and fragile. No one answers. I hang up, frustrated, torn on whether to hurry back to Galveston to tell them what I’ve learned, or to wait and meet Cesar in case he learns anything else valuable.