Coal (Regulators MC Book 3)

by Chelsea Camaron

  “What!” I can’t believe my ears. “What am I supposed to take from that?”

  “He doesn’t have a woman. He only has sex with prostitutes,” Morgan explains honestly with sadness in her eyes. “He’s a really good guy. Something had to happen to make him so jaded. I don’t know what. Brett doesn’t say anything, except to accept the men as they are, so I do.”

  My mind races, wondering what scarred the man so deeply that he feels he can’t have real love and commitment in his life.

  All thoughts of cookies and soaps disappear as I decide the best way I can fix the karmic power between us is to find out what changed Coal and how to reverse his stance on life and love.

  It will take some time, but for him, I somehow think it will be worth every second.

  Chapter Four

  ~Coal~

  I sit in Ice’s office so we can go over the club’s business reports together. It’s our once a week meeting where we go over the financials and any issues there might be between the different strip joints we own.

  We are halfway into what needs to be looked over when Screech pops his head into Ice’s office.

  “I know you’re busy, Prez, but you’re gonna want to hear this shit that just came across the police channel.”

  I look from Screech to Ice and raise my eyebrows. It’s unlike Screech to interrupt one of our meetings, so it must be important.

  Ice waves him into the room, and we watch as Screech walks in. I note that his baggy clothes seem looser than they normally are. Has the man lost weight?

  I don’t have time to ask because our intel man launches right in on his information.

  “About thirty minutes ago, a body was found over in Highland Oaks Park.”

  “Isn’t that a dog park?” I interrupt.

  Screech nods. “Thing is, they couldn’t exactly tell it was a body at first.”

  Looking confused, Ice asks, “Why the hell not? You would think the easy part of homicide’s job is to tell if a body is dead or not.”

  Screech shakes his head. “It’s not like that, boss. They had a hard time identifying it as a body, because it’s not a fucking body anymore.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I ask. Really, my tolerance for beating around the bush is non-existent on a good day. Today is not a good day. I’m ready to shake Screech to just break down what’s going on so we can figure out what the fuck any of this has to do with the Regulators.

  Crossing his arms, Screech leans forward and says in a low tone so only we can hear, “What the police actually found was a pile of what looked like fresh canned dog food and a separate pile of bones.”

  “Holy fuck. Tell me you’re kidding,” I demand, completely disgusted with the ramifications.

  He shakes his head again. “Sure as shit ain’t a laughing matter, man. The only reason they figured out it was the remains of the human body is because somebody’s dog choked on one of the victim’s teeth and coughed it up. Little old lady damn near had a heart attack when she saw her precious little Shih Tzu do that. Her grandson heard her screaming and called the cops.”

  “Who would do something like that?” Ice asks, looking a little queasy.

  “That’s the part that scares me the most, Prez. There’s only one man I’ve heard about who does some seriously fucked-up shit like that here in the States. They call him Cook, and he’s a hired killer for the mob … usually. But he has been known to take on outside jobs, including the domestic kind where a wife wants her man killed and shit. The man has a fucked-up moral compass in how he takes on jobs. Thought you should know since now he might be in our territory.”

  “What I want to know is why he’s called Cook,” I tell Screech.

  He unfolds one of his arms so he can run his hand over his chin. “That motherfucker is crazy, Coal. He was dubbed Cook because, get this shit, he cooks his victims. At least, that’s what I heard through the grapevine.”

  Ice suddenly says, “Enough about gossip. I don’t want this psycho in our area. Screech, I want you to give me all the information you can dig up on him. Then I want you to use your contact at the police department to get us photos and reports about the crime scene. We can’t show up on sight while the cops are still in play, but we can get started here. We need to tell the guys to be on the lookout for wacked-out shit like this. Time to put our ears to the ground and our asses to work.”

  This is what we do. We run a few legit businesses in Alibi and After Midnight, our strip clubs. We are even equal opportunity employers, making sure we have a male and female strip club. Then there is the underbelly to what we really do. The Regulators MC is a front, sort of.

  See, we are a band of brothers, like any other motorcycle club. We have a hierarchy. Ice is our prez, and I am the VP. I will take these men’s backs at any given time, as they will do for me. Then again, I would do it without the patches on our cuts or the titles we carry.

  Ice, Hammer, and I were in the Army together. Green Berets, we were part of a Special Forces team. Shooter, another man from our team, along with Boomer, they settled in North Carolina and ride with the club they found home in with the Hellions. They handle club life their way, while Ice, Hammer, and I formed the Regulators as our Black Ops cover.

  Uncle Sam, the government, they have different segments throughout the world where they need to have people of a certain skill set step in and do jobs they can’t do while remaining under the radar. Lucas Young, another man from our team in the Army, works in another government agency similar to ours under the command of Jaxon Wall. His Ex Ops team typically takes jobs wherever and whenever they are needed, whereas we keep to the South Beach area as much as possible since there is so much cartel and drug activity here.

  The Regulators, we have a certain pass in life, a get out of jail free card, as long as the missions we take are either issued by the higher ups that be or something we deem to be a safety issue in our territory. A trained killer, yes, that’s most definitely a safety issue.

  A man with a reputation for killing. A man who goes by the name “Cook.” My stomach churns thinking about it. Sick fuck.

  ~Paisley~

  “Do you want help out with this, Mrs. Martinez? I can call someone to help ya,” I ask the little old lady who comes in on the third of every month to get her groceries. She takes a cab here, and instead of letting the cab wait, she will stand out front with her cartful of groceries and wait for another one.

  “No, sweet Paisley, I can get it, sugar.” She smiles at me while her hand trembles around the grip of her cane.

  I let out a small huff when I glance back to see I have a line of four more customers behind her. I’m the only register open, so I can’t send them away. Usually, if I’m not busy, I take my break and wait out front with her. Then, when the cab comes, I give a twenty to the driver and ask them to help her unload the groceries when she gets home. Today, I can’t. This means, if the wrong driver comes, they will make this eighty-year-old woman toss her own groceries in the trunk, and then not help her when they arrive at her home. Anxiety fills me that Mrs. Martinez will have to struggle in this Florida heat.

  Slowly, she gets her things together after paying and pushes her cart outside. I begin to ring up my next customer, only paying attention to their belongings.

  Deodorant.

  Beep.

  While deodorant is necessary, the plastic packaging and the harsh chemicals in this brand are hardly mild on Mother Earth. I won’t tell him that.

  Bar soap. Irish Spring.

  Beep, it scans into the register.

  This is a great choice. The cardboard packaging is recyclable, and the soap simply disintegrates in the water. Although this is a problem in smaller countries where water filtration systems aren’t up to par, here in America, this a solid choice for a consumer.

  I continue scanning items, even choking down my need to vomit while handling the package containing a T-bone steak.

  While I remember the taste of a well-done steak being mou
th-watering delicious, I can’t let my mind ponder the cow who had to die for this man to have his meat. Add in the hormones since this is not a grass-fed variety but a chemical concoction dyed red to look like healthy meat, it’s an artery killer.

  “Your total today is fifty-four dollars and twelve cents.” I smile and look up, right into his eyes.

  Yes, I lift my head, my eyes meet those dark depths, and I get lost for a moment.

  Standing directly in front of me, swiping his credit card, is none other than the man on the motorcycle known as Coal. Half of me wants to crawl into the cabinet under my register, and the other half screams at me to tell him he’s killing himself with the foods he is ingesting. Karmically, I have to make things right.

  He doesn’t speak; he just scribbles with the plastic pen thing on the credit card machine.

  I pull the receipt and his coupons off the printers and hand them to him as the machine prints my copy.

  “Have a good day, Pixie,” he says in a deep baritone that has my girl parts coming alive.

  When was the last time I was turned on by the sound of a man’s voice?

  This pull between us is only growing every second that passes that I haven’t set things right.

  He strolls by while the next customer shoves a bag of dog food in my face for me to start ringing up. Since this person is impatient, I slide my register drawer closed while tucking Coal’s receipt under my keyboard.

  When I finish my line, I look outside to see Coal standing with Mrs. Martinez, helping her load the groceries. In an instant, my heart melts. This man, who says he’s black as coal, darkest of dark, is helping this little old lady he doesn’t even know.

  I see through him.

  Oh yes, I see through his exterior.

  He deserves something good to be given back to him. His dark aura comes from an inability to let go of something deep. Underneath the murky shades lies a man with passion, determination, and strength. He just doesn’t feel it yet.

  Finishing up my shift, I get my paperwork together to cash out, when I see his receipt. I take a glance, knowing I shouldn’t. Committing his name to memory, I then count my till and clock out.

  On the car ride home, I can’t help thinking, I’m going to be his light, his sunshine. I’m going to figure out what makes him tick. Watch out, Trevor “Coal” Blake, I’m on a mission.

  Chapter Five

  ~Coal~

  Ice walks into the room and throws a file onto the conference table. “The powers that be have told us to find Cook and take him out.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I ask, “What made them take notice?”

  Sitting in his own chair at the head of the table, Ice answers, “Apparently, they don’t like it when the governor ends up on Cook’s menu.”

  We were already on the trail since the murders were happening in our area. Executive orders … Well, that makes this priority one.

  With that said, Ice pulls out a couple of pictures and pushes them toward the middle of the table for Hammer, Big Jim, Screech, and I to see. Once I get a good look at them, I really wish I hadn’t.

  The pictures depict what is left of a human body, tied hand and foot to a large, horizontal pole that is propped up by two saw horses. On the ground underneath the body is the ash remains of what was a fire.

  Somebody was cooked like a goddamn pig barbeque over an open flame. And I know for a fact that is the comparison because the body has an apple in its mouth. The piece of fruit almost looks rotten it’s so charred. The seriously sick part is the way the apple was secured by a skewer going through the sides of the victim’s mouth and through the apple to keep it in place. The only thing fucking missing from a traditional southern pig roasting is the fucking Carolina vinegar-based barbeque sauce.

  Looking back at Ice, I ask the obvious just to make sure. “That’s the missing politician that’s been all over the news?”

  He nods before pointing to another photo. “Check the other crime scene out that they sent over. No wonder they call this asshole Cook.”

  Hammer pushes a picture over to my side of the table, and after getting a good look at it, all I want to do is push it away.

  All it takes is that quick glimpse to know what happened. Some poor soul had been pushed into a regular kitchen oven and cooked. The body was practically curled in a fetal position, with its head almost touching the top of the oven. What is even more disturbing is the fact that there is a chain and padlock hanging off the oven door’s bar. It’s cut now, but the significance of seeing it isn’t lost on me. For fuck’s sake, the body is so deteriorated that you can’t even tell if it was male or female from the picture.

  Sick doesn’t even begin to cover what these photos make me feel.

  I once thought my soul was as black as they came. This motherfucker just might give me a run for my money.

  I turn my attention back to Ice. “What next? Because the sooner we take this asshole down, the better I’ll feel.”

  Prez leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “There has to be a link between the victims. Rarely does a serial killer pick his victims randomly. Even a hired hitman will have some pattern alongside his signature. There’s always some reason in their head why the person is the perfect victim. David Berkowitz killed because he was obeying the orders of a demon through his neighbor, Sam’s, dog. We need to figure out this nutcase’s reason. Maybe if we can figure out what his trigger is, then we can figure out who he is and where to find him.”

  “How are we going about that?” Hammer asks, closing the file in front of him, apparently not wanting to see anymore, either.

  Ice leans back in his chair with a determined look on his face. “I’ve got Screech combing through every record he can get his hands on when it comes to these murders and the victims. Until he can give us something to go on, we’re on hold. That being said, be ready to hit the ground running, boys. I want this Cook caught so we can put him on the fucking chopping block.”

  While Screech does his work to get us a lead or two to follow on Cook, Hammer, Big Jim, and I head to the club.

  Walking into the club’s main room, we head to the bar and order beers.

  Hammer and I look over at Big Jim just in time to see his ol’ lady Lisa walking up to give him a kiss. One simple kiss turns into a make-out session until Hammer laughingly tells them, “Take that show on the road and go find a damn room, you two. You’re making everybody horny, and some of us don’t have women here to get us off.”

  Lisa laughs at Hammer and says, “So call your woman. I bet she would come down here and take care of you.”

  I point toward the back rooms and nod my head for them to go. “I might like fuckin’, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch a live show.”

  Lisa playfully pouts until Big Jim picks her up and throws her over his shoulder. Giving her a slap on the ass, he orders, “Stop givin’ my brothers a hard time, woman.”

  He walks off back toward the hallway where the private rooms are located as Lisa looks up from her upside-down position and gives us a huge smile and a finger wave.

  It’s then I hear Hammer say, “He’s a lucky bastard. I bet she can suck the chrome off a hubcap with that mouth of hers.”

  Looking back over at Hammer, I cock an eyebrow at him. “And you’re not a lucky bastard? What’s wrong? Is Des not giving you any head lately?”

  My brother smiles so big I can see all his teeth. “Yeah, I’m a lucky bastard, too. Which reminds me; I’ve been thinking about something.”

  Taking a sip of my beer, I then ask, “Thinkin’ about what?”

  Hammer shrugs as he leans back against the bar. “I’m thinkin’ about askin’ Des to marry me.”

  “It not enough that she’s your ol’ lady?”

  He shakes his head. “Fuck no. You don’t understand, man. I want to own every part of her, including her last name. Part of me wants the whole fuckin’ world to know she’s mine.”

  Tapping my beer against his in a casual salut
e, I tell him, “You two have had a nice, long ride together. You want to ball and chain your shit to her, I wish you the best, man. I’m sure the two of you will have one hell of a life ahead of you.”

  Hammer cocks his head to the side and gives me a considering look. “You ever think about gettin’ married one day, Coal?”

  I almost spew the beer in my mouth all over the bar. Giving Hammer an utter ‘what the fuck’ look, I tell him the first thing that pops into my head. “Man, are you high? I fuckin’ pay for pussy just to get my rocks off. Why in the hell would I ever tie myself to a woman like that?”

  My brother seems to look right through me. As if he sees the deep, dark black pit where my soul used to be. “What are you so afraid of?”

  Denying his words, I shake my head. “Not afraid of a motherfuckin’ thing, brother. Just don’t want to get married. You so big on it all of a sudden, why don’t you give me one good reason I should.”

  A certain mischievous look crosses over Hammer’s face, and I know he’s about to say something I might want to punch him for.

  “In your case, brother, it might be cheaper to get married and keep a wife than continuing to pay to get your rocks off.”

  ~Paisley~

  Two days have passed since I got his name. I have been so busy with my yoga classes and job at the grocery store that I haven’t had the chance to go to the library.

  Lame.

  I know that’s what most people think when they come to my apartment and find out I don’t have cable, a computer, or internet service. In fact, I didn’t have a television until Morgan, Des, and I started rotating girls’ night.

  They both live with bikers, so girls’ night is our time to watch some sappy movie they can’t watch with their men. I felt bad that it was always at Desirae’s or Morgan’s house, so I decided to get a television. It impacts my environmental footprint, but not by much since it’s only used when they are over. That’s why I’m sitting behind the computer at the local library.