Fucking current. The man was pretty solid on their runs but he was also an ambitious asshole. A legally married ambitious asshole who put his old ladies to work on their backs.
Johnnie’s nostrils flared. Kendall had laid on her back easy enough five weeks ago. If she was there at Spoon’s behest to fuck with them, then Johnnie would be expected to take her out.
Fuck him. He recoiled at the thought of killing her, although he had to do something with her. And he had to get it done before Christopher returned. If Johnnie couldn’t take care of her, Christopher would do it without blinking an eye.
Then there was Logan. It pissed the fuck out of Johnnie to have to halt their investigation of Kendall because of his grandfather. Even if it was just a temporary delay. They’d gotten most of the information on Kendall within a few hours. It shouldn’t be long before they found out about Logan and they could get back to her.
There was no time for fucking up now. No time for making Logan suffer. Boss had gone through a lot of fucking trouble to keep Logan alive. Just as Johnnie had never understood what in fuck Big Joe had on Logan that had stopped Boss from being buried years ago, Johnnie wanted to know why the fuck Big Joe had kept Logan alive.
Cursing, Johnnie headed to Val’s room and pushed open the door. Val was leaning against his headboard, snoring. On his nightstand an empty bottle of tequila and two bottles of prescription meds taunted Johnnie. Fuck. Everything was headed down the shitter all at once. Another thing he’d put on the back burner and observe—Val’s use of the fucking pills. As much as he hated the thought, in the great fucking scheme of things—Val dealing with an addiction was the least of their problems. Later, after Logan was gone…They could breathe again.
They could…forget. Forgetting worked best. That way, no matter who walked into their lives, Johnnie could bury it all so deeply into his conscience, he wouldn’t care. That’s who he was. He didn’t give one good fuck.
Johnnie headed to Val’s small desk, scowling at the framed 11x14 photo of Zoann. God, how could he have ever ignored the absolute sadness in her eyes? She’d pushed everyone away, especially him and Christopher. In turn, Johnnie had given her a great big fuck off. Not knowing what else to do and having enough of his own fucking problems to concern himself with what had crawled up her ass.
But she’d been angry, hurt, and confused. She simply hadn’t believed in them anymore and, as a result, rejected love and kindness. The million dollar question was how had she ended up in Val’s bed? More importantly, why?
Of course, there was a reason his road name was Valentine and not all of it had to do with a mass shooting reminiscent of the Capone-style St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. That bastard knew about romancing women.
Looking at Zoann’s photo now, he saw Bitsy instead of Bitchy. The girl who’d chased behind her big brother. How could their motherfucker of a grandfather come now and expect forgiveness? Because he was fucking old? Logan had sown the seeds when he was young and able-bodied, so this is what the fuck he was reaping. Not one fucking person interested in helping him to save his fucking soul.
Johnnie glowered at nothing in particular and eyed the small stack of papers in front of the photo. The unfolded ones allowed him to identify the letters from Big Joe to Logan that Val had collected for him yesterday. Too busy cultivating the hydro grows when Val had finally returned, Johnnie hadn’t been able to deal with that until today. It was all about fucking prioritizing at the moment, so that’s what he’d done.
He read through a couple of the letters, little snippets jumping out at him.
My little girl married Christopher.
Beautiful grandson.
Come visit. Straighten everything out. See your great-grandson. Christopher’s boy.
Johnnie didn’t miss the emphasis on Christopher. That hadn’t been an accident. The fucking question was who the fuck sent the letters? Not Big Joe. As far as Johnnie knew, dead motherfuckers couldn’t write or send correspondence. And, maybe, because there was no post office in hell, there wasn’t a need for envelopes. They’d materialized out of thin fucking air.
Snatching the letters, he glanced at Val one last time, then headed for the door. Before closing it, he flipped off the light and stalked into the main room. Mortician was leaning against the bar, glaring at his phone because it was beeping with a text message alert.
Johnnie didn’t need a crystal ball to know it was Bailey. Not when Mortician had that look of wistfulness and annoyance. He continued on but paused at Mortician’s call.
“John Boy!”
“I don’t have time right now,” he snapped through gritted teeth. “I have to see Logan.”
“You need to calm the fuck down, brother,” Mortician advised, blowing out a noisy breath and thrusting his fingers through his dreads.
“Who says?” Johnnie asked blandly.
“I fucking do,” Mortician barked, coming from around the bar and barreling toward him. “I know that look. It’s your sociopathic-I’m-about-to-gut-a-motherfucker look.”
He wanted to murder Logan for everything, but, mostly because he didn’t deserve to fucking live. He’d fucked with his children’s lives and he’d fucked over his grandchildren. Johnnie had no doubt Logan had also fucked with and fucked up anyone else he came across.
“I’m going talk to him, Mortician. That’s it.”
Mortician studied him, then pulled out his cigarettes and offered one to Johnnie. “Kill the motherfucker and you won’t contain the situation. I say if those letters are bogus Logan bullshit, then, yeah, slice and dice him to your fucking contentment. Satisfy all the urges you’ve been keeping under wraps. If you can’t find out for sure, you have to walk the fuck away ‘til you get to the bottom of it.”
Johnnie shoved the letters into Mortician’s hands. “You make me sound like an out-of-control maniac.”
“I didn’t say that fucking shit. You did.” Mortician puffed on his cigarette, then glanced at the top letter. “All I’m saying behind the golden pretty boy, there’s you and you ain’t always pretty. You a fucking sociopath. Outlaw a fucking psychopath. And Logan responsible for both of that shit.”
“Go fuck yourself in a corner, assfuck,” Johnnie growled and stormed outside, his mood not improving when he found the entry gate unlocked, unmanned, and opened. Yes, there were monitors inside but there was a reason men were posted at the locked gate. By the time the brother on monitor duty would see any type of infiltrations, assholes would already be on premises. Fucking Stretch. He’d deal with him later.
Twenty minutes later, Johnnie stopped his Navigator in front of a two-story, wood-framed house with a wraparound porch and a wreath of dried flowers on the dark red door. Wondering who the fuck the house belonged to—no one was supposed to know Logan was still alive—he started up the walkway, frowning when he saw eyes peeking between the blinds in one of the upstairs windows. He paused, his hand going to his side where his gun was, but the eyes widened and then disappeared, leaving nothing but a shaking blind.
Bypassing the bell, Johnnie pounded on the door. Before he knocked it from the hinges, it swung open and a girl young enough to be Logan’s granddaughter faced him. Fuck. She was almost heading into great-granddaughter territory. That’s how young she looked.
She was another redhead. Unlike Kendall’s brown eyes, hers were green, but just as sad as Kendall’s. She was short and slender with pale skin and eyes almost too big for her face. Her cheekbones were well-defined, not from bone structure but because she was so skinny.
“M-may I help you, sir?” she asked timidly, shifting from foot-to-foot and staring at his shoulder.
The silhouette of her body outlined in the thin material of her flimsy nightgown. She could be anyone, considering this wasn’t Logan’s property, but a friend’s. Knowing his grandfather, though, Johnnie doubted she had a valid reason for being there.
“Where’s Logan?” he snarled.
“Caroline!” Logan called. “Who is it?”
&nb
sp; Caroline dropped her gaze, a frown creasing her brow. She opened her mouth like she wanted to speak, then her face crumpled.
“How old are you?” Johnnie lifted her chin so he could see her face again. “When was the last time you ate? What are you doing here?”
“Caro…Johnnie.” Logan halted, looming behind the girl. “Upstairs you get, child. Your mother won’t like you being around my grandson.”
A woman played hostess to Logan? Val hadn’t reported that. Neither had he mentioned the girl. But, maybe, it was completely innocent and Johnnie was allowing what he knew about his grandfather to color his fairness.
Johnnie remained focused on Caroline. “What your mother’s name?”
“Marie,” she mumbled, her nose reddening and tears filling her eyes. “I want to talk to my sister.”
“Come in.” Logan stepped aside and clutched Caroline’s wrist. He bent and whispered in her ear. A small smile turned up her mouth. Logan knuckled her tears away in a gesture entirely too intimate for Johnnie’s peace-of-mind. Before he left, he was going to talk to her.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him, suspecting the significance to the scene escaped a surface inspection.
“I-I’m eighteen,” she said as Logan straightened. She waited for Johnnie to ask another question, so she could give another delayed answer. He’d almost forgotten he’d questioned her age. For a fleeting moment, she met his gaze before flushing and glancing away. “I…if you want to have me before you leave, I’ll be upstairs in my room.”
The moment she scampered out of view, Johnnie yanked Logan’s collar and shoved him against the wall. “There is no fucking Marie, is there? You’re pimping an eighteen-year-old girl out. Tell me really what’s going on, then you’re getting the fuck on the next plane.” He shook him. “If I have to fucking drag you there myself.”
Logan encircled his hands around Johnnie’s as they held him by the scruff of his neck. They stared at one another for long moments. Logan’s voice might’ve been strong, but his eyes were watery, one iris cloudy with an oncoming cataract.
“Go ahead, John Peter,” he said quietly. “Kill me. I deserve it.” His chin wobbled and tears rushed to his eyes. “For Zoann alone,” he admitted on a sob. “I’m sorry for it all.”
Johnnie released his grandfather, like he’d turned into a branding iron, and jumped back. Logan’s face was hardly recognizable from the anguish twisting his features and pulling ugly tears out. His body shook, his cries almost like a wounded animal’s.
And all Johnnie could do was stare, torn between loyalty to Christopher and Zoann—his own mother—and loyalty to Logan, a puppet master who cultivated Johnnie’s allegiance to him from the time Johnnie had been born. He backed away, allowing a little more distance between them and calling himself a hundred cowards. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t pull his gun out and end his grandfather’s life.
Not now. Not when he was like this, frail and fragile. Had he been the arrogant man he’d watched Big Joe send away, he would have had no problem. As twisted as the entire situation was and as perverted as his grandfather was, Johnnie couldn’t play judge, jury and executioner.
Sensing Johnnie’s weakening defenses, Logan held out his hand.
He eyed the bony knuckles made more prominent by the veiny skin and gnarled fingers and his heart banged against his chest. Instead of taking the hand, he asked, “what are you doing here, Grandda? No bullshit. I want the real story and I want Caroline.”
Dropping his hands to his sides, Logan stiffened his posture and sniffled. “We can talk after you fuck her.”
“Not like that,” he snapped, glaring at his grandfather. “I mean I want to take her with me. She’s too young to—“
“She’s here willingly.” Logan raised his hands in defense. “I swear. Go ask her.”
“Grandda—“
“Why do you think she isn’t?” he argued. “How many times girls her age come to the club and fuck everything they see?” Getting control of his emotions, the tone of his voice strengthened. “Just because she’s with me doesn’t mean she’s not here on her own free will.”
“Then why the lies? Why’d she ask for her sister? Fuck, who is her sister?”
Instead of answering, Logan stared at him a moment longer then sighed and said, “follow me.”
Ten minutes later, they were sitting in front of a toasty fireplace, in a library with dark, rich furnishings. While Johnnie smoked a cigarette, Logan dipped a cigar in the whisky then lit it; they also each had a glass of whisky.
“I didn’t lie to you,” Logan began after long moment of staring at the flames in silence and drinking in quiet contemplation. “If I confessed about Zoann—“
“Ten years after the fact.” And after he’d confessed to other damning secrets.
“You live and you learn.” Logan sipped his drink, then squinted at Johnnie. “You still hate me.”
“I feel fuck all for you.”
“Nothing?”
“No, Grandda,” Johnnie said on a sigh. “Not one thing. Not hate or love. Nothing.” That was a lie. He felt something for the man and that was…
“Pity,” Logan put in as if he were inside Johnnie’s head. “You feel pity for me. Otherwise, you would’ve killed me.”
“I tried to kill you.”
“Ten years ago. I’m an old man compared to back then. And I’m sorry.”
Johnnie gritted his teeth, tired of Logan’s apologies. He didn’t even care about the whys and wherefores anymore. Why had his grandfather returned? Where had the letters come from? Why was he staying in this house? Where had he met Caroline? Questions and answers no longer mattered. Getting Logan the fuck away was the most important thing. And, really, that had been the most important thing from the beginning. No one could undo the past. Zoann was already raped. She’d already had a ten-year-old opinion of bikers, but him, Val, and Christopher in particular. Getting answers wouldn’t take away the pain of Johnnie’s and Christopher’s relationship. Of Johnnie being Logan’s golden boy and Christopher being the symbol for everything that had gone wrong in Logan’s life.
“You have to go, Grandda. Back to Columbia.”
“One more day, John. I want to see Christopher’s son. I owe him.”
“That’ll never happen.” Johnnie drained his glass and got up to fix himself another one. “Christopher wouldn’t want you anywhere near him.”
“He won’t care.”
“I’m not fucking arguing with you. You’re not fucking seeing Little Man and that’s final.”
“I’m taking Caroline with me.”
“After I talk to her.”
Logan sucked on his cigar, then bowed his head. “I’m sorry, boy,” he said gruffly. “About Kendall. Finding out she was there to spy for Spoon must’ve been tough on your ego, but not all women are like her. And Caroline isn’t. There’s no reason for you to give her the third degree because of what that attorney woman did to you.”
White hot rage flashed into Johnnie and he stared at his grandfather, not really seeing him but hearing him. Images of Kendall danced in his head. The taste of her. The PI’s fucking report. Nothing about her had made sense. Now, everything did.
No wonder she’d been so frightened. No wonder—
“Fuck me. I’m going to fucking kill her.”
A loud thump pulled Johnnie out of the ideas running rampant through his head about Kendall. He wouldn’t hurt her, but he’d sure the fuck scare the shit out of her. He was, however, going to make Spoon wish he’d never lived.
He jumped to his feet and pulled out his gun, a nice, serviceable .38 that respectable businessmen carried. Logan’s eyes widened and he shrank back, as if the sight of the weapon frightened him. “Stay here, Grandda.”
He slanted a glance toward the door, a thoughtful expression on his face, before he nodded to the .38. “I don’t think there’s a need for that.”
“In case there is,” Johnnie said and rushed out of the room, t
rying to get his bearings. If someone was in the house, he didn’t want his ass shot off because they saw him and he didn’t see them.
Although two stories, the home didn’t have a lot of rooms. The first floor comprised of the kitchen, the library, the dining room, and a small half-bath beneath the staircase. But it had lots of built-in shelves and cabinets. Read: a lot of fucking hiding places.
Halfway up the staircase, Johnnie heard the creaking of the floor above him. Footsteps. Heavy ones. Not the light tread of a small girl like Caroline. He stopped and pressed against the wall, cursing the narrow space. He had to make a split second decision once the fuckhead upstairs came into view. As far as he knew, though, no one else but Logan was supposed to be there. And Caroline had offered him a fuck, so he doubted she had plans to entertain anyone else—
A big fuck appeared at the top of the staircase. He had a beer belly, long hair, and an unkempt beard. A Torpedo by his cut. One of Spoon’s men and he carried a fucking shotgun.
Johnnie remained motionless, took a breath, raised his gun and fired. The Torp crumpled, his massive body tumbling forward, blood spraying everywhere. The corpse barreled toward Johnnie and he braced himself for a fall. No way in fuck would he be able to halt the velocity of that blubber. When it hit, he went down with it. He banged his shoulder and head, but it didn’t take long to reach the bottom where the man’s body landed on top of him. The shotgun clanked beside them and slid to a halt.
Fuck, he was going to be bloody as hell. Annoyed as fucking hell, he shoved the body away, the scent of the blood driving him fucking insane. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
A cold sweat broke out on Johnnie and he swallowed, studying the holes in the Torpedo’s head, neck, and chest. This was a clean kill. Bloody, yes. Gory, no. He glanced at the shotgun. The shotgun would do it, blow the asshole to hell and back and blow him wide the fuck open.
He leaned down and lifted the weapon into his shaking hands. Methodical, he opened the chamber, checking for shells. They were there, all eight of them. He was going to have to fuck after this. His sick bloodlust always made him ready to fuck. Aiming the gun at the man’s head, Johnnie pumped, his heart racing, anticipating what was going to happen.
Death Dwellers Motorcycle Club:: Fifteen Bad Boy Biker Books Page 64
