Coal (Regulators MC Book 3)

by Chelsea Camaron

  Immediately, he goes into the kitchen area as if he wants to get this over with.

  “Trevor, I know you’re here under duress, but it doesn’t have to be like you’re eating your last meal.”

  He laughs, and I swear it’s like angels in heaven playing the harps to my ears.

  “Pixie, I’m a man. I’m a big man. I like to eat. You said you wanted to do dinner. I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

  “Oh yeah, I suppose you would want to eat,” I reply, feeling stupid. Of course he wants to eat. He’s here to eat his meal and move on in his life. “Take a seat, and I’ll get our salads out.”

  He does as instructed while I roll a lemon on the counter top, then cut it to squeeze the juice over the leafy greens.

  I set a plate in front of him then take my seat while the lasagna sits on the stove, ready to be served.

  “Got ranch, Pixie?” he asks without tasting even a single bite.

  I frown.

  He studies me. “Look, Pixie, you invited me here. I was good. We are good. You want me to eat, well, I don’t count calories. I like ranch, Italian, French—something, anything to smother these veggies and choke them down.”

  I gasp. “I don’t count calories, Trevor.”

  He blinks at my continued use of his name, but again, he doesn’t correct me.

  “I don’t have any of those dressings. I grew every bit of this in my garden and hand-picked the lemons to ‘dress’ the greens. You see, the natural citric acid enhances the flavors of your blends in a way that compliments it. As long as the preparer doesn’t pick too many bitters and not enough sweets, your salad should have a perfect balance to the blend, allowing for a flavor explosion in your mouth.”

  He looks at me like I’m an alien. Maybe I am. Whatever the case, I take seriously anything and everything I put in my mouth.

  Just when I think he will ask to skip the salad, he sticks his fork in it and begins to eat. He doesn’t complain, he doesn’t compliment, but he eats every bite.

  Drinking his water, he looks at the glass then looks at me.

  “Infused with limes. It’s a good balance to the lemon spritz on the salad. We’ll have berry infused with dinner.”

  After finishing my salad, I go to the kitchen and plate his lasagna and my own. Then I change out our glasses to a new set, something I normally wouldn’t do. A little extra water to wash them won’t hurt too badly. In the end, it’s all about cleaning the slate between us.

  “I got the clean glasses so your pallet will be ready for the sweet burst of the strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry infusion.”

  He studies the lasagna while taking a drink of the water.

  “No sugar, nothing added. It’s infused using a sun tea pitcher and fresh fruits. Occasionally, I will puree the fruits and make ice cubes out of that to then let melt into my water. Both ways are delicious.”

  Sitting down, I begin to cut into my lasagna while Coal sits across from me like he’s looking for something.

  “Bread?” he asks.

  “Oops.” I smile. I really am messing this up. I don’t have company often. When I do, it’s Des and Morgan who know about my lifestyle. “I, um … Well, I don’t actually eat processed foods such as bread.”

  He leans back in his chair like I just whipped him. Then he looks at the lasagna like it’s committed a crime against him.

  “Pasta is processed,” he tries to rationalize.

  “I made it from scratch with my own oats.” I point to my small mill on the counter. “Grinding the oats myself, it makes things a little coarser than processed foods, but we are ingesting no preservatives or artificial ingredients.”

  “You butcher the cow yourself, too?” he asks in all seriousness, making me laugh.

  “I don’t eat meat.”

  “What!”

  “Well, Trevor, I was able to make the red sauce with stewed and canned tomatoes I grew myself. Even Des came over and learned to can by helping me.”

  “Where’s the meat in the lasagna?”

  “There isn’t any. I used tomatoes, zucchini, carrots, and peppers. They all give the consistency of meat.”

  “You’re saying you’re trying to feed me a dinner with no dressing, no bread, and no meat?”

  I nod, not understanding why he seems to be getting upset.

  He scoots his chair back and stands.

  “Okay, Pixie, some things we need to get clear. I’m a man. A red-blooded, all-American man. I eat meat. I eat bread. I eat just about anything that doesn’t eat me. I appreciate you trying to make good on the little bump, but sugar, it’s done. I’m trying really hard to be nice here. I wasn’t hurt, you weren’t hurt, there wasn’t a single bit of damage. I don’t think I even have a scratch on my bike.”

  I gasp, wondering if I really did scratch his motorcycle.

  “We’re even. Now, stop looking into me. Stop following me. And please, stop trying to feed me. I’m gonna leave and have the biggest, greasiest cheeseburger I can find. Not trying to be a dick and not trying to hurt your feelings, but I can’t eat like this.”

  He makes his way to my door as I jump up and rush to follow him. Once he opens it and gets ready to exit, he looks down at me.

  “We’re even, Pixie. Let this go. Enjoy your meal.” He walks out, closing the door behind him.

  I can’t help letting the tears fall.

  I messed up.

  Again.

  Chapter Seven

  ~Coal~

  I follow Ice into the black hole that is Screech’s office. I call it a black hole because, once you step in there, it’s like you get sucked into a different time or place. He’s got shit everywhere—monitors, desktops, laptops, surveillance equipment. Every inch of surface area is covered in something, even if it’s just his fucking candy wrappers. How the man lives like this, I will never know.

  Ice gets straight to the point. “Tell me you have something on this sick fuck.”

  Screech looks at both of us then lays it out. “I finally got my hands on the autopsy reports. There’s only one thing all of the victims had in common: their stomach contents.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “All the victims ate from the same restaurant before they died.”

  Seeming surprised, Ice asks, “How the hell did you figure that out?”

  Shrugging as if it was no big deal, Screech answers, “Through their financials. Every victim had a charge from Billy Bob’s Barbeque at least seventy-two hours prior to their death. But there’s more, boss man. I went to the place and did some investigating. I found out through one of the waitresses that all the victims were regulars there.”

  “What are we going to do, track down every regular the place has ever had and ask them if someone is tryin’ to kill them?”

  Screech snorts. “I think I have a better idea. There was one more thing the waitress told me.” Pointing at the computer screen where all the victims’ pictures and names are listed, he says, “Every single one of these customers complained about their food.”

  The weight of what his words imply seem too ridiculous to be true. In all the years, we have seen many sick fucks. I can’t imagine someone would be this sensitive over a food complaint. Then again, not much surprises me anymore.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re trying to tell us that these people were killed because they didn’t like their food and said something about it?”

  Nodding somberly, Screech adds, “The reason I called you back here is because I’m afraid there’s about to be another murder.” Reaching over to a pile of papers on his desk, he hands the sheet to Ice, who takes a quick look at it then hands it over to me. It’s the driver’s license of a man. “That’s Tom Johnson. From what the waitress told me, he complained about his food yesterday.”

  “Fuck!” Ice explodes. “Do we know if the address on that license is up to date?”

  “Yes, sir.” Screech reaches over and picks up another piece of paper, handing it to Ice. “And this
is where he works just in case he’s not home.”

  Ice hands me the second piece of paper as he turns to walk out of Screech’s office. “Good work, Screech. We’re out of here.”

  I follow Ice out the door and down the hallway as I look at the second piece of paper with the address on it. “Want me to call Hammer in?”

  He shakes his head. “He’s over at Alibi, talking to his brother about something. You and I will check out the house first, then go to the workplace if necessary. We’ll call in backup if we feel something is screwy.”

  Quickly, we make our way through the club, ignoring those who call out to us. Once outside, we climb on our motorcycles and haul ass out of the parking lot and onto the road that will lead us to this guy’s house.

  Before I know it, we are pulling up at the residential address to a small shotgun house in what looks like a decent neighborhood. We both take notice that there are no cars here, and no garage to put one in.

  Ice nods his head in a silent command for me to go check it out, so I turn off my bike and put the kickstand down.

  “Check the temperature,” Ice clips before pulling out his phone, no doubt giving Screech an update on our location and if we are hot or cold here.

  Striding up to the front door, I see the blinds next door move and know I have eyes on me. This means I can’t go sneaking around the outside of the house, looking through windows and shit for a sign of life. With my luck, whoever is spying on me will call the cops, thinking I’m trying to rob the place. Therefore, I knock on the front door, hoping that someone will answer. Three knocks and five minutes later, nothing.

  Turning around, I give Ice a shake of my head. We need to head to the workplace.

  The two of us leave the home address and hit the road again, this time to a place fifteen minutes away.

  Anthony works at Recycled Containers Inc., where they take used and dirty industrial containers of all sizes, cleaning and sanitizing them so they can be recycled and put back out for use. It doesn’t appear to be one of those all-night operations, though, because it’s six-thirty in the afternoon and there’s only one car in the parking lot. Anthony’s.

  We park our bikes behind the building so hopefully no one notices us. Then Ice approaches the back of the warehouse, gun drawn and ready for anything. As always, I’m at my brother’s back, watching his six, as we step through the double doors and into the building.

  The first thing I notice as the doors close behind us is the most godawful smell I have ever smelt. There is no doubt that it’s the smell of death, but worse. It’s dark and tainted.

  Immediately, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, telling me whatever we are about to find is not going to be good.

  Keeping our guns drawn and ready, we make our way through the large space, with machinery and containers of all sizes blocking our view. Clearing it section by section, rows of machines and industrial-sized drums, we end up toward the front of the warehouse.

  The smell grows stronger the closer we come to the front, yet there’s not a dead body in sight. I look around the space as Ice shakes his head, no doubt fighting his own need to vomit, like me.

  At the front entrance, there is a fifty-five-gallon steel drum. However, this drum isn’t just sitting around the way all the others are—lined up on shelves and ready for distribution. No, it is positioned on top of a brace that is holding it up over a small portable gas fueled fire pit.

  I look over at my prez to see the man staring at the barrel, a look of dread on his face. There is no lid, but I’m not close enough to see whatever it is that Ice is looking at.

  Inching closer, the contents come into view, and I almost throw up at the sight.

  Inside the barrel is red, murky water with chunks of meat floating on top. Problem is, this isn’t a fucking beef stew. There’s a head floating on top, with blisters covering the face that is frozen with its mouth open in a silent scream for help. I’m pretty sure that’s Anthony’s head, but the blisters are so bad it’s hard to tell. It doesn’t take long for me to realize the rest of him has been cut up into pieces, submerged beneath the boiling surface.

  Bile rises up my throat. I barely keep myself from puking. This has to be, by far, the most fucked-up thing I have ever seen, and that’s saying something because I have seen some seriously fucked-up things in my life.

  Ice secures his weapon and pulls out his phone.

  “Confirmation,” he clips to me as I put my back to his with my own gun at the ready.

  I begin taking mental notes of the crime scene, making sure to keep my eyes and ears open for any movement while Ice takes pics of the sight in front of him.

  “Gonna send this to the brain?” I ask for verification, knowing he’s going to send the pics to Screech before we make another move.

  We came too late, and now there is nothing we can do but get the hell out of here and cover our tracks as we go.

  Ice and I start backing out, guns still drawn in case the psycho who did this is still in the building. Ice leads the way, with me at his back, walking backward so we have the front and back entrances covered. Once we are outside, we double-time it to our machines, get on, and ride away as if nothing is wrong inside that place. We can’t draw attention to ourselves in case someone happens to be watching the area.

  Once we are about ten miles away from the warehouse, Ice pulls over on the side of the road and signals for me to cut my engine. Pulling out his cell phone, he dials a number. Seconds later, he’s talking to Screech.

  “Need you to watch the movie, brother,” he orders Screech to check all cameras in the area.. “Then we get word to let the pigs fly.”

  The hard part about our jobs is staying in the know, yet out of the way unless absolutely necessary. The local police are the pigs in this situation, and it will be time for them to fly in to at least provide some closure for Tom Johnson’s family.

  Clicking off the phone, Ice looks at me. “Looking a little green there, Coal.”

  I nod. “Shit is whack, Ice.”

  “I don’t think anyone will be eating donuts on that crime scene,” he jokes before raising his hand up for us to ride home.

  I don’t think I will be eating dinner tonight. In fact, Pixie’s unprocessed lasagna suddenly sounds like the best meal I could ever devour.

  ~Paisley~

  Closing shift at the grocery store is the worst since time drags on and on after nine o’clock. Once I clean up all the registers, I start stocking the candy. My mind wanders to the mystery that is Trevor Blake.

  He’s straightforward. I have never met anyone who says what is on their minds as frankly as him.

  Our interactions haven’t been good. No, from the moment my bumper brushed the rubber of his tire, we have been off. He tells me to go away, and I explain I want to make it right. Therefore, we have come to a standoff.

  After that dinner, I let him be. There is no need to chase my tail. He was clear in his reasons, and I was stupid for not taking into consideration that my lifestyle isn’t for everyone.

  Only, I can’t stop thinking about him. For instance, why does this Amber person want to contact him? Why does he have no social media and doesn’t want me looking into him?

  The problem with my personality is that I’m curious to the point that I can sometimes be, oh dare I say, nosey. Now I have all these questions, and I can’t help wanting to know the answers.

  Liquid goo coats my hand, drawing my attention to the busted sugary candy. It takes time, but I can get all of it cleaned off and disposed of, as well as marked on the product losses.

  My shift is coming to a close, so I count down my till before heading to the breakroom to clock out. However, when I get just outside the door, I hear a crash behind me. Turning, I sigh when I see two bottles of sparkling water have busted, leaving water and glass all over the floor.

  Cleaning up the mess and putting out the “wet floor” sign, I’m over forty minutes late clocking out.

  I’m exhausted and f
rustrated by the time I get home and into bed, and sleep comes all too quickly because I am mentally done in.

  “Paisley Charmaine Asher, I can’t believe you!” my mother screeches into the phone. “Your father and I are working two jobs each to send you to school and we get your grades,” she huffs impatiently through the phone.

  I’m too drunk to care. “Mom, it’s fun. It’s art. I’m passing; that’s what matters.”

  “Are you even going to classes?”

  “The ones I like,” I slur.

  “I am so disappointed in your behavior!”

  She’s disappointed in me? For what? I’m a college kid; isn’t this supposed to be about learning who I am and who I want to be? Really, this is when she ran off with my dad to live free from her controlling parents’ religion and follow love. She went to Bible college, and then on a weekend retreat, where she met my dad and everything changed. I thought if anyone would want me to take time to live it up before I have to be responsible in life, it would be her.

  “I’m so disappointed in you and Dad!” I roar back. “Once, you guys believed in freedom, be one’s self. You named me Paisley, for crying out loud! You always told me to believe in my art. Be a free spirit. Now I go to school and suddenly I’m a burden and a disappointment? Really, Mom, why don’t you guys make up your minds!”

  “I never said you were a burden! This school costs money, Paisley. We have to work for you to have this, and you don’t even care! What has happened to you? It’s like you’re lost.”

  “No, Mom, I’m just not found yet,” I simply reply before hanging up.

  I wake up in a cold sweat. That was the last conversation I ever had with my mother, the woman who gave birth to me, loved me unconditionally, and believed in my art. No, she believed in me. Young, drunk, and stupid, I took everything they worked to give me and threw it all away.

  No one knows that. Nope, I never told a single soul about the fight before it all ended. Everyone who was willing to show their support during their services and the cleanup process from the house was so kind. I didn’t have the heart to tell them I was this horrible daughter who hung up on her mom just hours before she died. No, I took their sympathy, and then I got the heck out of town as soon as I could.