The Devil's Russian Beauty

by Ana Lee Kennedy

  The back door flew open and Frank jogged across the lawn. Phil motioned for Erica to come to him. She snuggled against his side. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he walked with her into the light.

  “What the hell is going on out here?” Frank barked.

  “Tell Frank what happened,” Phil said. “It’s okay.”

  “I found Tony,” Erica said, grabbing Frank’s attention. She shivered in Phil’s embrace as he walked her closer to his MC president. “We’d made plans to meet in his tent after midnight, but when I crawled into Tony’s tent”—she shut her eyes and more tears leaked from under them—“it was dark and he felt…strange.”

  “Strange how?” Frank asked.

  “Hard, papery.”

  The chapter members murmured and whispered among themselves.

  “What?” Frank frowned at Erica.

  She nodded. “Hard and papery. He said he’d leave a flashlight by the tent flap, so I flicked it on and…”

  She buried her face in Phil’s shirt and burst into tears. Phil rubbed her back up and down, wishing he could take away the image she’d seen.

  “What the fuck did you see?” Frank growled.

  Erica kept her face against Phil’s chest but pointed at the tent. “Tony is all dried up like… like a mummy!”

  “Bullshit!” Frank stared hard at Phil.

  “It’s true,” he said. “Why else would everyone here be scared shitless? Go see for yourself.”

  They waited while Frank kneeled, then poked his head inside where the flashlight still glowed. “Holy fuck!” He backed out of the tent and hauled himself to his feet where he swayed slightly. “How am I supposed to explain this to the authorities?” he asked no one in particular. He raked his fingers through his tousled hair and stood quietly for a couple minutes, his eyes wide and illuminated to show his disbelief.

  “Boss,” Phil prompted, still rubbing Erica’s back, “what do you want to do about this?”

  “First, everyone get moved into the house. Double up in beds, sleep on the floor…just make sure everyone has a spot to sleep tonight. I don’t want to take the chance of this—whatever the fuck it is—happening again tonight.” He looked at the tent and seemed to realize Tony was still in there, jerked in obvious repulsion and moved closer to Phil. “Make sure everyone takes their personals inside with them, because the sheriff’s department won’t release anything until their investigation is finished. I’ll call Officer Williamscot’s personal number first, then we’ll proceed from there.”

  “You heard him, people. Get your shit and move into the MC for the night,” Phil hollered.

  “Can I go home?” Erica looked up into Phil’s face, her baby blues watery and full of fear.

  “No,” Frank answered. “The authorities will want to question you, so you better stay in the MC too.”

  Luella had been standing near the edge of the carport taking it all in. “Come with me, honey,” she said. “We’ll put on some coffee and hang out in the kitchen.”

  “Go on,” Phil told the young woman. “Luella will take good care of you.”

  Erica offered him a sad expression, flicked her gaze up at Frank, then nodded and walked over to Luella, who placed an arm around Erica’s shoulders. She escorted Erica around the corner of the house to the sunporch.

  “Fuck me sideways,” Frank grumbled and ran his hand through his hair again.

  “This doesn’t look good so soon after Hudson’s Claiming and Maiming.” Phil sucked in a big breath as the enormity of the situation struck him. “Although Bloodbath was a sociopath, he was still killed here. Tony’s death is too close to Bloodbath’s demise—it’s been what? Three months ago now?—and both deaths happened right here on the same lawn.”

  “I’m not so much worried about the sheriff’s department as I am Tony’s family and the fact the other chapter members were here when this happened.”

  “What do you mean?” Phil asked. His inner voice was yammering that things were about to go tits up for the Werewolves of Rebellion.

  “What if Tony’s family somehow tries to sue us, or worse”—he leaned close so only Phil would hear him—“the chapter decides to abdicate, then come after us?”

  Startled, Phil pulled back and stared hard at his president and friend. “Would they really do that?”

  Frank lifted a shoulder. “They could. Our lycanthrope rules govern all clans, not just the MCs.”

  “Shit.”

  “Exactly,” Frank replied.

  Chapter Four

  Monday, Phil parked his coal truck in the company lot, finished the paperwork, then headed to McDonald’s for his usual large black coffee. As he rode his Harley into Rebellion, he reflected on the pandemonium-filled weekend. Poor Bernadette looked exhausted, and since he’d stayed by Frank’s side while the authorities roamed the surrounding lawns, barns, outbuildings, and in and out of the MC, he knew Frank had had no time with his mate. Everyone knew Bernadette was a natural witch. However, he hadn’t missed a few fearful looks tossed her way during the investigation.

  Tony’s body had been sent to Columbus for a thorough autopsy, but Phil suspected the results would come back with more questions than answers. Folks deep in the Appalachians knew there were things that went bump in the night—hell, he was one of them—but whatever had drained Tony down to mummified skin and tissue stretched over his bones had left the two clans scared shitless.

  He waited for the light to turn green, then drove through the square to the McDonald’s half a block down. The MC was still touchy over the Claiming and Maiming last July. It had taken them all summer to repair the damage to homes, and there were still things that needed to be fixed or rebuilt such as Carol’s little greenhouse and Tractor’s tool shed. Anytime now, Frank would have the money from the property’s mineral and energy rights. Hopefully the money would help everyone relax. Frank was giving each family and mated couple ten grand, which was another example of the big heart the guy had, and each single person would get a chunk of change, too, so once the funds paid past-due bills, stocked up cupboards and pantries, and covered much-needed things such as some college expenses for the youngsters entering higher schooling, everyone would chill out and feel they had a grip on their lives again.

  But Tony’s death had thrown a wrench into everything, frightening the women and rattling the men. What on earth could’ve sucked Tony dry like that? Hell, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Phil pulled into a parking space, shut his baby down, then strolled inside, where the girl who usually worked the late shift spotted him and began pouring him a big cup full of his evening nectar.

  “Here you go,” she announced as he reached the counter.

  “Thanks, Kadie. You’re a doll.” He paid the girl, not missing the way she looked at him. She was cute, but way too young for him. Accepting his change and picking up his coffee, he said, “Have a nice evening.”

  “How about a movie?” she asked.

  He froze, never dreaming she’d have the guts to ask him out. “How old are you, honey?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “I’m 33.”

  “So?” She grinned wider.

  “So, I like my women a little older, that’s all.”

  She pouted. “Well, I like my men a little older.”

  “Kadie, get back to work,” the manager groused as he walked through.

  She wiggled her fingers at Phil in farewell, then focused on the next customer.

  He sat on one side of a partition wall and sipped on his coffee as he flipped through the Enterprise newspaper someone had left on the table. A flash of bright blue caught the corner of his eye, and he looked up in time to see a blue Ford Fusion pull into one of the parking spots. A leggy blonde stepped out of it, the same blonde he’d seen here the other day, the one with the River Rebels brand on her shoulder. Again, fury ripped through him at the knowledge someone had burned their mark on her like she was no more than a cow or a horse.

  She entered t
he main dining room. Phil kept the newspaper at a level where he could see over it and not draw attention to himself should she look his way. The sounds of people talking, the cries of a baby in the side dining room, the pings and beeps in the kitchen and the chatter of employees faded as Phil concentrated on the blonde with the longest damn legs he’d ever seen. Beautiful legs. Legs that reminded him of a foal’s but with all the right dips and curves without being too skinny or too muscled. He could imagine those legs wrapped around his hips as he thrust into her, he could—he snapped back to himself. What the hell am I thinking? He didn’t dare tangle with a sweetbutt who belonged to another MC unless he had permission.

  That thought struck him with force. The woman was seven kinds of fine and he could never ask her out, never steal a kiss. Shit, he couldn’t even hold her hand without permission from the current River Rebels president.

  She paid for her purchase, which looked like a dollar sandwich and a smoothie, and strode in his direction. Quickly, he raised the paper and waited with bated breath, convinced she’d seen him ogling her. Instead, she sat on the other side of the partition where he couldn’t see her, but he could hear her talking with another woman.

  “You look tired,” the other woman said. “Did Ezra get hold of you again?”

  “Yeah, Friday after work. He thought that since I had my paycheck signed and ready for him that I deserved a reward.” A sigh followed, one that told Phil she was utterly disgusted. “Every time he”—she lowered her voice, and Phil strained his ears to her—“fucks me, I feel like I’m half-dead for two or three days afterward.”

  “Yeah, we all feel the same way, but he’ll never leave us alone.”

  “Do you ever wish things could be different, Jess?”

  “What do you mean?” the other woman asked.

  “Well, do you ever wonder if it’s possible to get away from the club, meet a great guy, get married and maybe have a kid or two?”

  Jess giggled. “Yeah, right. Like a good man would want MC whores.”

  Silence followed.

  “Oh, Daffi. I’m sorry. You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  He lowered the newspaper. Daffi! That was her name. But when she replied to her friend, he wanted to rip the table, bolts and all, up out of the floor and kill someone with it. What was this Ezra dude doing to her and the other women that made them feel this way?

  “I’ve been passed from one owner to another so often that I find myself wondering what could have been if my mom hadn’t been killed. Lately, I’ve thought a lot about what it would be like to escape the club and start a new life somewhere else, but without any money, without anyone to turn to—”

  “It’s pointless,” Jess said.

  “Yeah,” Daffi said softly. “Worse, no one cares. No one knows what it’s like to be a sweetbutt or someone’s property.”

  A sniff reached Phil and he struggled not to jump up, grab both women and take them to the Werewolves of Rebellion where they’d be safe and cared for. If he did, he’d start a war of epic proportions between the MCs.

  “We can’t chill long, Jess. Another shipment is coming in tonight.”

  Phil perked up, expecting to hear information about meth or some other drug being trafficked through the area. Their contacts in the county sheriff’s department had been working for two years to nail the supplier.

  “Fuck, I hate it when they bring in the ones who can’t speak English,” Jess stated. “It’s ten times harder to calm them when they can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  The sip of coffee Phil had just taken suddenly turned foul in his mouth. He straightened and set his cup down. Can’t speak English? They were talking about people. The River Rebels were involved in human trafficking! Everyone in Rebellion and the surrounding areas had heard the rumors over the past several months, but that was all they’d seemed to be—rumors.

  “I know what you mean,” Daffi replied. “When my mom and I were sold into human trafficking, we were scared shitless. Mom knew a little English, so she caught on quickly, but it took me longer to learn the language.”

  “Wait, you were sold?”

  “Yeah, when I was eight. Mom thought she was leaving Russia for the States to start a new life, but she didn’t realize she’d fallen for a big lie. She thought she was paying for ship fare, a room for me and her, and a few English lessons, but it was just assholes who were stealing her money and selling both of us into the sex trade.”

  “So that’s why you have a little accent from time to time,” Jess said.

  “I’m told it’s sexy, but when it mixes with the Appalachian twang, I just sound weird.” She laughed sadly.

  The sounds of someone shifting in a chair penetrated the partition, and Jess stepped into view. Phil raised his newspaper and made a display of turning to the next page. The woman barely spared him a glance.

  “I’ll meet you at the MC,” she told Daffi. “If Ezra asks, I’ll tell him you got out of work a little late, but that you were right behind me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jess, a short, compact, black girl, strode out of the dining room in a white skort and bright pink peasant blouse, her pale pink, strappy heels giving her an extra three inches. She walked away as if she owned the place. Phil studied her as she crossed the lot to a silver Kia that was well maintained from the looks of it, but still showed its age through its model and year. The young woman acted like she had plenty of attitude, but Phil would bet his last dollar it was all a façade to protect herself from the harsh reality she lived in.

  More movement on the other side of the wall had him jerking the newspaper up in front of him again.

  Daffi rose, catching her purse strap in one hand and the rest of her smoothie in the other. She stepped back, caught her heel, and stumbled, nearly sprawling out on the floor as her stiletto broke cleanly off the shoe.

  “Shit!”

  “You okay?”

  She looked over at a man who was pure sex on legs. She’d seen the same guy last week when she’d stopped for her usual.

  “I caught and broke my heel on the table leg.” She looked wistfully at the damage. “And these were my best pair of stilettos too.”

  “There’s a cobbler over on Marietta Street.”

  His voice inspired images of dark chocolate, a crackling fire and thoughts she knew better than to entertain. She shook herself. “A what?”

  “A person who fixes shoes.”

  “Oh. I thought that place closed?” Why was she even talking to him? If the wrong person saw her, Ezra would hand her ass to her before she could blink.

  He shrugged. “I have no idea. Just noticed it one day a while back and thought I’d mention it.”

  Lord, he had such pretty eyes. Deep brown with amber flecks. She’d bet $20 she didn’t have that they turned darker when he was having sex.

  She took off her other shoe and tucked the pair under one arm. “Well, see you round.”

  “I’m Phil,” he said, folding the paper and shooting her a sidelong glance. “Phillip Andrews.”

  “Daffodil Anastasia Moscosky,” she said, suddenly shy. Me? Shy? When the fuck did that happen? She let her gaze wander over his strong features from his high forehead where a few stray curls lay, to a strong nose with a slight arch in it, to his wide cheekbones and firm jawline. His goatee gave him an air of sophistication despite his work attire and heavy biker boots. “But everyone calls me Daffi.”

  “Nice to meet you, Daffodil.”

  She liked how he used her given name instead of the shortened version. Phil seemed to genuinely like talking with her, instead of flattering or talking dirty to her to get sex. Or just demanding she bend over or spread her legs. With a fast look around the dining rooms, she decided a couple more minutes with him wouldn’t hurt anything.

  “I remember you,” she said finally. “You were at Crow’s MC to”—she lowered her voice—“swap that sweetbutt for that…crate.”

  “Yep.” He nodded to one side of her.
“When were you sold?”

  Shit. He’d seen the brand. So much for keeping his interest. Who was she kidding? He was just being nice. Everyone knew the Werewolves of Rebellion was a good MC. They didn’t buy, make or sell drugs, guns…or people. They took care of their own, even had a community established that was part of their MC. She tipped her head to one side as she gave him another once-over. Phil sure was handsome, tall and lanky but not in a gangly way. More like a big-framed way, as if hidden strength lurked in that body. Sadly, she’d never know.

  “I go where I have to so I can survive,” she said so low she wasn’t sure he’d hear her. “It was nice talking to you, Phil.” With that, she turned and walked away. Hot tears stung her eyes, and by the time she reached her Focus, she could barely see to dig her keys out of her purse and unlock the driver’s door.

  A sob wrenched free as she finally managed to stick the key in the lock and open the door. As she was about to throw herself down into the seat, someone’s warm, firm hand landed on her upper arm and turned her around.

  “Hey,” Phil said, looking down into her face. “Are you okay?”

  “Go away,” she snapped. If there was a God, she wished he would send Phil back into the building. If one of Ezra’s men saw her with him, Phil would get hurt and Ezra would punish her—severely.

  “I’m not letting go until you tell me what’s wrong,” he stated.

  From the way he spoke, Daffi knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Look,” she began, “you seem like a cool guy and you’re really nice, but I’m one of Ezra’s sheep now. As long as I do my job well and without complaint, he takes care of me. If someone sees us together, even just talking, we’ll both pay for it—and you know it.”