HANDS OFF MY BRIDE

by Claire St. Rose

  He didn’t have to ask questions. Cyril faced him, and Vince knew the answer. Eyes dancing beneath his bushy brows, Cyril told him, “Cortez called. I’m taking you, Traunch, Pound, and Dustin with me tonight. Gordo, Cortez, and three of his goons want to meet on neutral territory at eight. I think they’re taking the deal.”

  It was a lie; if Cyril really believed that, he wouldn’t be so excited. Vince pressed his lips into a thin line. “What if I’m not available?”

  “Horseshit.” Cyril didn’t even look up, too busy packing a bag with what he considered essentials – water, cigars, and a hand gun.

  “I’m serious, Cyril. I might have something important to take care of.” Vince crossed his arms.

  Cyril straightened, his brows gathering over the bridge of his nose. “You’ve got nothing more important than this club, Larson.” He poked a finger into Vince’s chest. “I’ve taken care of you for more than half your life, boy, and you’ll show respect where it’s due. Tonight, you’re riding with me and the crew, and we’re taking care of business.”

  “Take your hands off me, Cyril, or I’ll take them off for you.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Larson,” Cyril growled. “I’m almost twice your age, but it doesn’t mean I’m any less dangerous.” He shoved Vince and turned to walk away. It took all of Vince’s self-control not to go after him.

  Instead, Vince stormed outside, lit a cigarette, and grabbed his phone. He punched in Ariana’s number and cursed when he got voicemail.“Hey, Ariana, I tried to get out of it, but I’ve got obligations tonight, and I probably won’t be available. If you get a chance in the next hour or so, call me. I’d like to know that you’re okay after… whatever happened earlier. I’ll try you one more time before I leave.”

  “Whipped!” Pound called from a few feet away. Vince scowled at his friend, who ambled over. “I told you it was going to happen.”

  Vince shook his head. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Pound pointed to the phone. “You’re already letting that woman know when you can and can’t talk, checking in on her randomly, and worrying that you won’t hear from her before we go. You’re whipped, brother.”

  Not in the mood to be teased, Vince threw a punch at Pound’s arm that left his friend rubbing the spot. “I’m not whipped. I ran into her at the shop when I picked up my new ride, and she almost collapsed over some message she got. I thought it might be appropriate to ask how she was. Not that any of it is your concern.”

  “You’re not going to be distracted while this shit goes down, are you? If you don’t hear back? We need you fully alert, bro.”

  “I’ll be fine, Pound. Just make sure you’re packing.” Vince was going to grab his pistol, too. He didn’t intend to walk into a trap unprepared.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The sound of knocking broke Ariana’s concentration. Not that her mind had really been on the functionality of the pancreas—she’d been halfway dozing. She frowned; she wasn’t expecting company. She had chip bags and other junk strewn across the coffee table, so she hoped it wasn’t her mother deciding to just stop by in the hopes of embarrassing her. She peeked through the hole and blinked to be sure she wasn’t seeing things. She flung the door open. “What’s wrong, Sal?”

  He gave her a half-hearted smile. “Hello to you, too. Can I come in?”

  She moved aside. “Excuse the mess. I’ve been attempting to study, and it’s not going well.” She brushed several pieces of trash off the kitchen counter straight into the garbage. Nauseous again, she asked, “Why are you here, Sal? Is the news that bad?”

  He turned away. “It’s not really good, Ariana.”

  She braced her hands on the counter in front of her and leaned on them. “Whatever it is, just tell me. I’d rather just know.”

  “Sit down.” Sal’s voice was authoritative, and Ariana automatically did as he said. When he turned around, his face was lined, and it made him look old. “The amyloidosis is affecting multiple organs, but the liver is the worst because it was already compromised by cirrhosis. They could probably clear his lungs and kidneys with chemo, but the chemo would probably kill him because of his liver.”

  Ariana stared at him, stunned. “Isn’t there anything else that can be done?” She’d read a little about the disease when she first got home. “What about a transplant? I read that, in advanced stages, they’ll perform a transplant.”

  Sal dropped into one of her rickety kitchen chairs. “Yeah, sometimes they can. But your father…” He trailed off.

  Ariana nodded, her hopes shattering. “He’s not eligible because of the drinking.”

  “Right.” Sal sounded as disappointed as Ariana felt. “Look, I’m sorry, Ariana. I wish there was more I could do. But I don’t have the kind of pull or friends in high enough places to swing it. I wish I did.”

  “No, you’ve done everything you could, more than I expected. Thank you, Sal.” She hesitated. “What if someone in the family was a match? Could they use a piece of one of our livers?”

  He studied his hands. “Your, uh, your mother and your sister refuse to be tested.” He held up a hand, knowing she was about to blow a gasket. “It probably wouldn’t work anyway. It likely wouldn’t grow fast enough to make him a candidate for chemo, and there’s no guarantee the transplant wouldn’t fail. Or that the disease wouldn’t just spread to the new organ.”

  Ariana leapt to her feet. “It doesn’t matter. It’s a chance. It could work. Right now, he’s just going to die.” She paced the floor and tugged at her hair. “I’ll get tested, see if I’m a match.”

  “Ariana, stop.” Sal’s voice halted her, and she stared at him expectantly. He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look—I’ve got to go. My wife’s bringing dinner home, and her and my son will be there within the hour. But you don’t need to put yourself through that. Your father doesn’t want the transplant anyway.”

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t want it?”

  “He told the doc he wouldn’t accept a donation.” Sal stood and came to stand in front of her. “He’s an angry old man who drinks too much and feels he has nothing left to live for. He’s full of guilt, and he thinks he deserves to die. My grandfather was the same way, and he just let the cancer take him.” He put his arms around Ariana and drew her head to his shoulder. She didn’t hug him back, but she didn’t pull away either, her body cold and his so warm. “The only thing I’ll say is don’t leave things between you unsaid. You’ll regret it. You need to go talk to your father, even if you have to throw the rest of your family out of the room.”

  He was right, but Ariana wasn’t ready for that. “I’ll go. Not today, though.”

  He held her by the shoulders at arm’s length, locking eye with her. “Don’t wait too long, okay? He’s not going to fight it.”

  Ariana nodded. She walked him to the door and let him out, and she locked it before she went to her bedroom and lay down to cry. There was only one comfort for her right now, and she could pretty much guarantee she wouldn’t be able to reach Vince. Still, she stretched her arm out and took her phone from the bedside table.

  She sniffled and frowned when she saw a missed call and listened to his message. Dammit! He’d called about an hour and a half ago. She dialed him back in a hurry. When she got his voicemail, she just hung up and cried harder.

  Angry at Vince, at herself, and mostly, at life, she screamed and threw her phone against the wall. She watched pieces hit the ground without caring. She was tired of being alone, and she knew she was wallowing in self-pity, but she didn’t care. She just wanted someone to comfort her. Even if he was a stranger, Vince did that—with his touch, and the way he looked at her when she touched him.

  But it didn’t matter. Ariana wasn’t the top priority in Vince’s life, and she never would be. The Iron Claws would always be his main focus, and that didn’t leave much room for her. Of course, she didn’t want to be his ‘old lady’, but she wanted to feel special; she didn�
�t want to take a backseat to a group of men who would likely end up dead or in prison.

  It figured. She’d never been at the top of anyone’s list, and she didn’t expect to be. All she could do was hope that, somewhere along the way, while Vince was out doing whatever it was he did with his brothers on the road, he might at least think to call her back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Vince sat on his new ride in a remote dirt canyon off I5, just south of the Washington border, smoking a cigarette and scowling at the dust and dirt already marring his baby. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  Pound chuckled. “She really is a sexy ride, man. Sorry this had to be her first time out.”

  Vince shrugged. “I took her for a short spin earlier. I just wish I had a name for her before we both get buried.”

  “Rosa. The most beautiful woman I ever met was named Rosa. She had a talented pair of lips, giant melons, and a waist the size of my wrist. I could wrap one of my hands all the way around that waist, but I couldn’t hold her tits with both.” Pound shook his head, his eyes misty with distant memory.

  Amused, Vince asked, “So you think I should name my bike Rosa?”

  “Of course! That bike deserves the name of the most beautiful woman in the world.” Pound was dead serious, and Vince searched his brain, trying to remember Rosa. He couldn’t remember either of them ever being interested in a woman without telling the other. But he didn’t remember anyone named Rosa.

  It didn’t matter. “I can’t,” Vince said. “My grandmother’s name was Rosa. I can’t name my ride after a woman who took thirty minutes to shuffle across the living room. It would be an insult.” He patted the bike’s side lovingly. “I was thinking Michelle. It’s nice and feminine but strong, too.”

  “I guess Michelle works.” Pound’s disgruntled reply made Vince laugh out loud, though the humor was short-lived. He could hear the rumble of bikes in the distance, and he wondered if it would be his last laugh. He reached back to touch the gun at his back, and then down to his boot, where he’d hidden a Bowie knife. It was all the security he had, and he considered texting Ariana. But that was desperate, and he was out of time anyway—the group of Pale Demons had already come around the bend and pulled into the canyon.

  Vince swung off the bike, lining up with the others, shoulders squared. They could start out with all the civility in the world, but something was going to break down, and Vince was ready. He tossed the butt of his cigarette into the dirt and watched the cloud of dust fall back to the earth as the group of men came to a stop in front of them.

  Gordo was the first to dismount, followed by Cortez. The two men looked so much alike it was frightening, but Gordo’s face was round with fat, his stomach bulging over his belt, whereas Cortez gave the impression of having just stepped out of the gym. Gordo moved slowly to stand just feet in front of Cyril, and their eyes locked, each wearing a confident smile.

  “Hola, gringo. What have you for me?” Gordo grunted.

  Vince watched the line of Mexicans, but he cast a quick glance at Cyril, catching the scowl on his face as he spoke. “I got shit. You called this meeting. What do you have for me?”

  “You offer us ten percent,” Cortez said, his eyes locking on Vince’s. Vince gave a short nod. “My brother feels this is insulting. But we are not greedy, ese. We don’t ask much, you know. Only what the job is worth.”

  “I told you we weren’t going to negotiate,” Cyril argued.

  Vince cleared his throat. “What is it you want, Cortez? What do you think the job is worth?” If he left this up to Cyril, none of them were going to make it home, except in body bags.

  Gordo laughed, a deep, ugly sound. “Hey, jefe, I like your man here. He has some brains. It would be stupid not to listen and make me blow them out.”

  Cyril stepped forward, his hand at his back, and Vince grabbed his arm. “We’re listening,” he said, as much for Cyril’s benefit as for the Demons.

  Cortez nodded. “Fifteen percent. We want $75,000 per run, and we will be satisfied. That’s a bargain. We work with the Santos for deliveries down south, and we pay them twenty percent. Think of it as a peace offering.”

  “Fuck that!” Cyril exploded, a vein in his temple throbbing visibly in the dim light of sunset. “It’s ten percent or nothing, asshole!”

  “Shut up!” Vince hollered, shoving Cyril back, the sound of guns being pulled loud behind him. He rounded and faced the line of Demons, their guns in hand. His men stood in the same position. He drew his and Cyril’s, not trusting his leader to hold his temper.

  “Maybe you will reconsider your answer, jefe,” Gordo said. He raised his gun and pointed it at Cyril. “My men are fast. They will kill your men after I shoot you and before anyone can kill me for shooting you.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Vince told him. “Your request is reasonable enough to take into consideration. The problem is, we don’t have all our men here to make the decision. We gave you a chance to take our offer back to the group, Cortez. All I want is the same courtesy.”

  Cortez gave a nod of acknowledgement. “Go back to your clubhouse, talk to your men, and let us know. You have 72 hours to respond. If you agree, we will meet you back here with your first shipment. If you don’t, things will not go so smoothly for you.” He made a show of putting his gun away, and the others followed suit. Vince nodded to his men to do the same, and he tucked both pistols into his pants and shot Cyril a warning look.

  Vince waited for all the rival gang to mount their rides and drive out in a line. Traunch and Dustin started to climb on their bikes, but Vince waved them off, wanting the sound of those engines out of hearing range before they even considered leaving. He lit a cigarette; smoking should kill plenty of time. He stood there and tried to relax as he pulled out his phone and cursed at the call he’d missed from Ariana.

  He heard Pound groan and raised his gaze. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “Man, you got through this whole thing and didn’t lose your cool. Now, you’re staring at your phone looking all kinds of pathetic, and I’m guessing you want to talk to your girl.” Pound shook his head. “What is it about that woman that keeps you so interested?”

  “Nothing, Pound. Let it go.” How could he tell Pound when he wasn’t sure himself? “My head’s on straight, whether you believe it or not.”

  “Whatever.” He leaned in and spoke more quietly. “What the hell was that, anyway? You’re catching hell from Cyril as soon as we get home. I hope you know that.”

  Vince shrugged. “I can take it. He made a bad call, and he almost got us all killed. If we go to war with these guys, we at least need some sort of advantage. Numbers, bigger weapons, cover. Out here, we’re asking to die. All I did was make a call that kept us alive for another 72 hours.” He glanced around Pound’s huge frame to see Cyril kick at the dirt while he cursed and shouted. “He’s losing it, bro. Can’t you see it?”

  “He’s got a death wish or something, that’s for sure.” Pound punched his shoulder playfully. “You were there yourself not so long ago, I think. But seriously, what are we supposed to do about it? We’ve already voted, and the vote said we were going to the Kingsmen when the Demons turned down the offer. We can’t go back and vote again.”

  “Yes, we can,” Vince argued. “They didn’t refuse. They negotiated. And if you’d had the balls to vote against Cyril, we wouldn’t be considering those skinheads as an alternative. So, we go back and vote on the new deal. It’s not so much different, and I think it’ll pass. Cyril’s going to freak out, but it’s what’s best for the club.”

  Pound bared his teeth, and Vince didn’t wait for the impending fight. “Let’s ride!” he called and threw his cigarette aside before climbing on his bike and revving the engine. All he wanted right now was to get home, take a shower, and see if Ariana minded a midnight call. He had a feeling her arms – and legs – would be open to welcome him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “That’s it, I’m
cancelling cable.” Ariana spoke out loud to herself in the empty living room, where she’d been gorging on salty junk food and flipping channels for at least an hour. “Three hundred plus channels, and not a damn thing on. What a waste of two hundred dollars a month.”

  She hadn’t been able to sleep, plagued by thoughts of her father dying and Vince crashing out on some remote road where no one would find him and call for help this time. It didn’t help that she had downed a good two or three sodas and half a pot of coffee. Her body hummed with energy for which she had no outlet.

  She heaved herself off the couch in a burst of responsibility and started throwing away empty bags of food, putting away half-empty ones, and tossing cans in the trash. She put her coffee cup in the sink and then thought better of it, grabbing her sponge and cleaner to wash it and the rest of the dishes that had built up in the sink over the last couple of days.