Possession

by Violetta Rand

  Dog Tag, Saline, and J.T. filed into his office and sat down.

  “Close the door.” Vincent motioned to J.T.

  “You’ve had a couple of days to think things over, Saline,” he said. “You know the rules. Once you commit to this club, there’s no going back.”

  Her gaze flicked from Dog Tag to J.T., then back to Vincent. “I’m already wearing your ink.”

  Vincent understood, but he still needed to toss the bone out there. Her dedication to the club mattered the most. Pussy came and went, but the Brotherhood always stood. “Have the other old ladies been treating you with respect?”

  “A couple are leery of my presence, but most sympathized with my story.”

  “I made her show them her scars,” Dog Tag added.

  Vincent leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers underneath his chin. Playing the heartstrings…brilliant move to foster support. “Pity and respect are two separate things.”

  “I’ll earn it,” Saline said.

  “How?” Vincent asked.

  “Tell me what to do.”

  Tension coiled in the room for a minute.

  “Hard work never killed anyone,” Vincent observed. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a new old lady join us. And just like everything else, there’s a pecking order with the women. Several Brothers live at the clubhouse full time and require three squares a day. Report for kitchen duty every morning at seven. Teresa and Kelly are in charge. They’ll show you what to do.”

  Dog Tag squeezed her hand.

  “We have club business to discuss now.” He dismissed Saline.

  “Thank you for giving her a chance,” Dog Tag said as soon as the office door closed.

  “Don’t think you’re getting a free pass for what you did. The rules are clear: I should confiscate your colors and walk away. But like I said before, those scars on her back change things. We’re going to invite the Man-o-Wars to a sit-down.”

  “Here?” J.T. asked, sounding surprised.

  “Fuck no. Neutral territory,” Vincent clarified. “Outside, with no civilians around. I don’t trust the assholes as far as I can spit. But we don’t have a choice. Reach out to their sergeant-at-arms. Limit the guests to five members apiece. Saline will go with us. Those scars on her back are the key evidence in this case. Unless she lied to you, Dog Tag, and did something to break their code. I’m guessing their president doesn’t know. Even those maggots have rules to follow.”

  “Security?” J.T. questioned.

  “Leave that to me,” Vincent said. “Make the meeting happen soon.”

  Dog Tag and J.T. left.

  Vincent slammed his fists on the desk, frustrated. If he could castrate Dog Tag, that would take care of any future complications with women. But the man whore had never expressed long-term interest in a woman before. So seeing Saline wearing his patch changed things. Maybe the boy was growing up a little after all. Of course, Vincent could apply the same thoughts to himself. He’d let lust cloud his judgment last night. Not that he regretted it. Tina deserved either all or none of him.

  And now that he’d tasted her, been buried so deep inside her that there were no more secrets between them, he knew what a fool he’d been all these months. Her phone number was programmed in his cell. He had her email address and they were friends on Facebook. Why had he waited so long?

  What scared him? Being with her was a pleasure, and she’d already resurrected his heart. The thought of losing her, that’s what kept him awake all night. How did a man like him keep a woman like Tina satisfied? There was never a question about their compatibility in bed—he’d fuck her five times a day if given the chance. But her education and aspirations to climb the corporate ladder meant they lived in different worlds. And now he was scheduled to meet her family on Thanksgiving.

  “Vincent Ramos!” someone screamed from the bar.

  What the hell? He opened his desk drawer and retrieved the .38-caliber revolver he kept available, then shoved it down the back of his waistband. Fights rarely broke out in the bar, but when they did, he came prepared for the worst-case scenario.

  Within seconds, he was standing at the ready near the bar. Sheila rushed over to him. “One of the tables already cleared out. Crash is on the patio now, drunk and wearing his colors. Pretty sure he’s here to start trouble—he mumbled something about stealing his old lady.”

  Vincent patted her arm. “Offer a free round to the customers and apologize for the disruption. I’ll get the asshole out of here.”

  Not wanting to cause a scene, Vincent headed for the outdoor space alone. He found Crash sitting at a high-top. “What’s going on, Crash?” He approached the table slowly, his hands in plain sight. “I’m in the process of organizing a meeting with your president.”

  Crash twisted around, a grimace on his unshaven face. “A meeting?” he slurred. “For what?”

  “To work this out peacefully.”

  “Fuck that.” Crash shot up from his stool and kicked the closest chair over. “You took something that belongs to me, and I want her back.”

  Vincent’s jaw clenched as they locked gazes. “That’s not how things work around here. This is the second time you’ve shown up unannounced and I’ve accommodated you. Didn’t I warn you last time to go home and wait? You’ve violated the code again.”

  “I want to see Saline.”

  And Vincent wanted to aim his gun dead-center on the man’s empty skull and pull the trigger. Just the sight of him made his blood boil. “Why don’t we call your president?”

  Something akin to a growl escaped Crash’s lips as he pulled a switchblade from his vest. “How about we settle this now?”

  Vincent let out an exasperated sigh. “Didn’t your mama teach you not to bring a knife to a gunfight?” He revealed the revolver, aiming it at Crash’s chest. “Throw the weapon on the ground and kick it in my direction. Then sit your drunk ass down on that stool and don’t move.”

  Crash’s bloodshot gaze zigzagged around the space. His eyes went wide when he heard footsteps from behind Vincent.

  “Want us to take the trash out?” J.T. asked.

  “No,” Vincent said. “I believe we’ve reached an understanding.” He paused and gave Crash an extra minute to think it over. “Two ways out—on your feet or in a body bag.”

  “Let me see my old lady.”

  “She’s not yours anymore.” Dog Tag exploded onto the patio, a miniature wood baseball bat in his hand. “Let me crack his brain open—maybe he’ll wake up.”

  “Back the fuck off,” Vincent warned his Brother, lowering his weapon. “Drop the knife, Crash.”

  Vincent could see Crash’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, an indication that he was nervous. “Drop it,” he repeated dispassionately. One more wrong move and his revolver would be missing a bullet. “Now.”

  Crash complied. The switchblade slid across the tile and stopped short of Vincent’s feet.

  “Good,” Vincent said. “J.T., frisk him. And you…” He leveled his gaze on Dog Tag. “Come with me.”

  They walked inside the short hallway that led to the main room of the bar. Vincent slammed Dog Tag against the sheetrock and shoved the barrel of his gun in his face. “I should end it now.”

  “W-wait.” Dog Tag swallowed hard, but didn’t struggle.

  “I’d be doing an act of kindness on your behalf.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not sorry enough.” On a sigh, Vincent returned the firearm to his waistband. “If the Man-o-Wars get ahold of you, I can’t list all the ways they’ll torture you. Think before you act.”

  “Anything you say.”

  “Then send Saline to the patio.”

  “What?” From the look on Dog Tag’s face, Vincent knew he couldn’t believe what he’d ordered.

  “I’ll be with her the whole time. If a quick conversation with Saline ends Crash’s obsession with finding her, I’m willing to give it a try. Go back to the clubhouse and wait.”

>   Ten minutes later, Saline joined them. She hesitated under the archway, staring at her ex.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” Vincent said reassuringly. “Sit down next to me.”

  Crash took a swig of beer, his eyes never leaving his woman.

  She claimed the stool next to Vincent, her hands trembling as she folded them on the table. “Why are you here, Crash?”

  “I want you to come home.”

  “I-I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  Vincent looked at J.T., who was strategically stationed a couple of feet behind Crash. If anything happened, they’d wrestle him to the ground.

  “I don’t love you anymore, Crash. Haven’t for a long time. I’m tired of feeling like a piece of shit every day of my life. Don’t you want something better? A chance to find someone who cares?”

  Crash gripped his beer bottle so tight his knuckles turned white. “Show me your ankle.”

  Saline shook her head. “No.”

  “Show me, goddamnit. I have a right to see it.”

  She eyeballed Vincent.

  “Let him see it.”

  Saline stood up and raised her pant leg in slow motion. Thor’s hammer surrounded by barbed wire, and crowned with the Sons of Odin insignia, decorated a seven-inch radius of her leg.

  “Fuck!” A demonic force seemed to take over Crash’s body as he flung himself backward and knocked J.T. off his feet.

  Saline screamed as Vincent launched across the table and scrambled to reach Crash. In one fluent motion he lifted Crash off the ground by his throat. Vincent landed a cartilage-destroying blow to his nose and Crash went limp.

  “Fuck.” Vincent let go and Crash dropped to the ground in a motionless heap. He shook his hand out. “Get him out of here, J.T. Saline, you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Vincent had seen Crash’s inner struggle as he talked to Saline, but hadn’t anticipated his reaction. He blamed himself. “Get one of the Brothers to park his bike in the shop—we’re claiming it for damages. Then grab John and drive this asshole back to Robstown.”

  It had been a long time since the Sons of Odin had delivered live cargo to the Man-o-Wars. Now the situation called for immediate action. The meeting needed to happen tomorrow.

  Chapter 17

  After spending most of the afternoon completing two discovery requests for upcoming trials, Tina slid the file containing unfinished correspondences across her desk. Focusing on details seemed impossible after what happened last night. She scrubbed her hands over her face. Concentrate. Her clients deserved her full attention. But so did her personal life. She spent more time preparing witness depositions, prepping witnesses for questioning, creating trial exhibits, and writing pretrial statements than she did on herself.

  Not that she didn’t always look well groomed and dressed impeccably for court. She neglected the smaller enjoyments: reading a favorite book, watching a sunset, or just sitting still and thinking. Vincent reminded her how important those things were. It started with the trip to Sunset Lake.

  And now they were lovers. Or friends with benefits. Either way, she’d gotten what she wanted all those months ago when he danced with her on the patio during Lang and Lily’s wedding reception. Where it went from here depended on several factors. Could she look him in the eyes again after sitting on his face? She laughed out loud, warmth pooling between her legs. Hell yes. In fact, she wanted to do it again. And again…

  The more she thought about it, the less attractive that file of letters looked. She’d already logged thirty hours for the week, often filling free time at home with work-related tasks. Ultimately the price she paid for unmitigated ambition—she wanted that junior associate label removed from her office nameplate.

  She picked up her handset and dialed her legal secretary’s extension. “Madeline, please clear my schedule for the rest of the day.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No, just need a break.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Madeline said. “In fact, why don’t you take tomorrow off, too? Mr. James stopped by earlier and suggested everyone deserved an extra personal day. He’s still in party mode after the Livingston case.”

  James and Bronte had provided a million-dollar defense for Justin Livingston, an NFL quarterback accused of assaulting his ex-wife and stabbing her fiancé. The jury deliberated for only three hours, finding their VIP client not guilty on all charges. Every associate in the office had contributed to the case, and a celebration was planned for next month.

  “Okay.” No reason for Madeline to ask twice.

  “Perfect,” the assistant said. “Now what about having a drink with me tonight at Ropers?”

  “Ropers?” Tina repeated. Country and western had never been her thing really. Oh, she appreciated the way Wranglers hugged some random cowboy’s ass and the occasional Keith Urban tune. “Okay, what time?”

  “Eight?”

  “It’s a date,” Tina confirmed.

  She gathered her files and stashed them in her briefcase, checked her lipstick in the mirror hanging on the wall near her desk, then grabbed her purse. A couple more free days to do whatever she wanted before her parents arrived for Thanksgiving would help her relax. She scanned email on her iPhone as she walked down the hallway to the elevator.

  Vincent had emailed her twice already.

  I can still taste you. Call me after work.

  Followed by Complicated situation at the club, may be here all night. I’ll call when I get a break.

  The elevator dinged and Tina moved aside to let traffic by without looking up while she scrolled through other messages.

  “Ms. Bethel?”

  She didn’t need to see who that voice came from. Just the sound of it made her stomach roil and the hairs on the back of neck stand up. Kline’s citrusy cologne nearly made her gag. She gazed at him.

  “Good afternoon, Tina.” He stepped into the corridor.

  Her mouth opened but she didn’t know what to say.

  “Happy to see I still have an effect on you. Did you enjoy your playdate with the biker last night?”

  Tina shifted uncomfortably on her heels and frowned. The audacity of this man made her sick. “If I haven’t said it enough already, stay away from me, Mr. Barnes.”

  She started to retreat, but he grabbed her wrist tight. “That’s my arm.”

  He leaned close. “Be glad it’s not your neck.”

  She swallowed past the lump in her throat, her flight instinct battling to take over. But several coworkers were within sight. In the confines of her office she couldn’t lose control. She simply yanked her arm free and growled at him. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

  The elevator doors parted again and she half jumped inside and pounded the basement button repeatedly until the doors closed. With her heart pounding in her chest it was hard to think clearly. Had he just threatened to choke her? Not in so many words. But the icy fury in his eyes translated perfectly. He wanted to hurt her. Only sociopaths could appear calm and collected, be perfectly attired and friendly, while they articulated the way they wanted to kill you at the same time.

  Overreacting? Maybe. But she didn’t care as she rushed out of the elevator and ran for her SUV parked in the underground garage. One of the things she’d learned in self-defense class was to never make herself an easy target. Parking in remote, dark places was number one on the no-no list. She’d have Madeline research street-level parking options next week.

  Safely inside her Cadillac tank, she locked the doors and gripped the steering wheel tight, still panicked. Just seeing him unwound her like a ball of yarn. Something needed to change. Maybe Kline enjoyed her reactions and didn’t really want to hurt her. Predators often liked the chase more than the kill. She’d researched cases where women were practically held prisoners in their own homes because their stalkers spent years closing them in. Making threatening phone calls, showing up wherever they went, watching them from a close distance, but never actua
lly touching them.

  Thank God laws were changing in the United States, but so much more work still needed to be done still. Tina refused to give up. If Kline persisted, she’d fight back. She started her engine and revved the gas a little, like Vincent did whenever he pulled his Harley into a parking lot. Undeniably, it made her feel good.

  Just as she was about to throw it in reverse, her cell vibrated. Another blocked call. But several of her clients had private numbers, so she had to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “I don’t like your incendiary language, Ms. Bethel.”

  Tina’s mouth went dry. “I aim to please, Mr. Barnes,” she shot back.

  He chuckled. “I stepped into the hallway after speaking with Madeline so I could call you in private. It seems the two of you are meeting up for drinks tonight, though she wouldn’t disclose where.”

  Pleased her assistant had the sense to protect their privacy, Tina let out a relieved breath. “911 is on my speed dial.”

  As she’d hoped, the line went dead.

  Chapter 18

  Time that Vincent wasted coddling prospects and errant Brothers meant less time fixing the problem with the Man-o-Wars. He’d been seated in the dining room of the clubhouse for all of five minutes when the questions started flying. Nothing about the issue at hand—stupid shit, like monthly dues and what Prospect got to go on the next beer run. The old ladies had been dismissed for the next hour so an emergency church meeting could be held while the members broke bread. He eyed the tins of lasagna and baskets of French bread on the tables, his mouth watering for a taste.

  Unable to maintain his façade of patience any longer, he slammed his hand on the table to get everyone’s attention. “Enough. Maybe I should send you bitches to the bar and bring the old ladies back—they’re making more sense lately than you.”