That was the moment, he thought now, that had broken him. He had accepted that fate, that life, and that acceptance had exploded any chance he’d had to return to the life he had before.
A hand settled on his shoulder from behind, and he jumped enough to jostle his glass and slosh orange juice over his hand and the leg of his jeans. Shaking his hand, he looked over his shoulder and found Hoosier standing there.
“Come talk to me, son.”
The thought of having a heart to heart with his President filled Trick with weariness. Everybody wanted to ‘check in’ with him, every fucking day. It wore him out. So he just stared up at Hoosier, too tired even to answer.
“Now, Trick. Come on.” He turned and walked off, expecting Trick to follow.
Trick did, finishing his orange juice and setting the glass on a nearby table before he stood. Hoosier led him into his office, and when they were both inside, he closed the door.
Hoosier’s office was considerably more modest than Bart’s. The size of a normal bedroom, it had a bay window that looked out over the rolling lawn of their back yard, but otherwise, it was nothing special, furnished only with a plain desk and an ‘executive’-style desk chair, and a couple of matching upholstered armchairs. A large gun safe and a smaller regular safe were the only things that would seem out of place in any middle-class homeowner’s home office.
Hoosier nodded at the armchairs, and they sat.
“I’m worried about you, son. I can see it in your eyes—you haven’t left that place. Your body’s here with us, but your head is still there. You need to come back.”
Trick dropped his eyes and stared at the hardwood floor between his boots. His hand felt sticky from the spilled orange juice.
“Trick, talk to me.”
He shook his head. There would be no talking. Not ever. What he had to say was beyond human understanding.
And then he knew the truth of it. He looked up and met Hoosier’s eyes, shaded by heavy grey brows. “I want out. I need out. This isn’t my life anymore.”
Hoosier eyes flared slightly, but his only other reaction was to lean back in his upholstered chair. Then he nodded—not in agreement, but as if he were considering Trick’s declaration.
“I understand why you might feel that way. I don’t think you’re in a place yet to make big…decisions like this, though, son.”
Trick opened his mouth to argue that point, but Hoosier raised his hand. “You don’t want to talk, so listen instead. You are loved here. This is your family, and as alone as you feel right now, it’s not true. The only thing making you alone is the…wall you’re building yourself.”
“You can’t know what’s in here.” He struck his head with the heel of his hand.
“I said…listen, Trick. There’s nothing about what happened that you can’t share with your brothers. Me, Connor, whoever—we’re here, and we…owe you. Even if love wasn’t enough, we owe you. Think of Demon, son. He tried to keep his shit…locked up, too. We don’t have to…experience what you went through to stand with you.”
Trick looked away, out the big bay window. The kids were playing outside—tag or something like that, running and squealing. It seemed so shockingly normal.
“You know…I-I turned in my…kutte once. Went without it for a year.”
Trick turned back to Hoosier; he hadn’t known that.
Hoosier nodded. “Yeah. Beebs was going through a…a…bad time, and the fault was on me and the club, and I walked away from it. But it didn’t leave me. I felt the pull in my gut every…second I was away. And you know—leaving didn’t make what was wrong better. It just took something of me away. And that club wasn’t like us. We are a family. First thing—we’re a family. We’re your family, son. Let us help you.”
For the first time since he’d been back, Trick felt like he had something to say. But when he tried, his voice failed him. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Hooj, I think it’s more than what just happened. I think it’s more than Cartwright. I think things have been fraying for me since we went outlaw. I can’t get right with it. Cartwright was just the thing that made it clear to me. I love the club. I would die for any one of you. But I can’t kill for you anymore. I have to stop killing. Where I was—that was hell. I earned that. There’s too much death on my soul.” His eyes itched and his vision blurred. “Too fucking much. My whole goddamn life.”
Hoosier reached out and laid a scarred hand over Trick’s. “Then step back, don’t…step out. If you don’t want in on the dark work, then do what Deme did when he was…trying to get Tuck back. Work the shop. Stay straight. But sit at the table. That seat is yours, Trick. We need your heart and…mind more than we need your muscle. And you don’t spend the dark money, anyway. You don’t need it, and we don’t need you to earn it.”
It hadn’t occurred to him that he could stay in and stay out, both, and he wasn’t convinced that he could. “It’s not like Deme. It’s not temporary. I can’t go back. Never. I can’t…I just can’t.”
“That’s your call. You ever…change your mind, there’s room for you in that work, too. But either way, you stay in. Make your pretty bikes. I’ll hand over…management of the shop to you—bump your take up a bit. And you sit at the table and…y-you give us your insight, like always. But you don’t…pick up a weapon unless you want to do it. And your family is ours—protected, no matter what.”
“I don’t have a family.”
“I know that’s not true. I got to know your…lady and her girl while you were…away. You have a family. Don’t stand outside, son. There’s no relief out there.”
Trick’s head hurt, almost as much as his heart did. The sliver of an idea stabbed at him, dug deep and made him bleed: he might not have lost everything, and if hadn’t, then he still had it all to lose.
He turned away from Hoosier, back to the bay window. “I don’t know, Hooj.”
Hoosier gripped his hand. A lot of strength flowed through that old hunk of scarred skin. “Well, I do. I’m not…losing you, son. No…fucking way.”
Trick turned back and stared at Hoosier’s hand—the scars from flesh melted by fire; the old ink on his wrist, blurred and faded into a kind of blue; the dark spots of years in the sun; the rough knuckles beginning to swell from age and wear. It was a wise hand, a father’s hand. And it was strong.
“Okay,” Trick whispered. “Okay.”
~oOo~
He had one more thing to do as an outlaw, and he did it the week after Thanksgiving, early in December.
La Zorra wanted to see him again. He owed her his freedom. So he was riding south with Hoosier, Bart, and Connor.
He’d decided he’d give her what she wanted. He owed her, and, anyway, it didn’t matter.
On his back he still wore a kutte, and he’d committed to staying in the club, but there had been no miraculous recovery of his sense of family and belonging, no end to the brutal torment of his nightmares, no return of his strength of body, mind, or spirit.
He’d sat at his station in the shop a couple of times, but he wasn’t able to work, not on a build. He’d occupied his time with repair jobs. The rest of his time he spent in the clubhouse, usually alone in his room, reading the few books he’d tossed in his pack, because the girls had apparently decided to take him on as a project. They fussed over him constantly, offering every kind of comfort, but he wasn’t interested and couldn’t tolerate their attentions. He wanted only one woman, but a life with her was impossible.
Connor had told him that Juliana had stopped calling to check on him; that, he thought, was for the best. She needed to make a better life for Lucie than he could give them. They both needed to find someone better to fill their lives. Someone whole.
So whatever Dora Vega wanted didn’t matter.
~oOo~
They met in one of her favorite hotels, on the San Diego coast. She’d greeted them all warmly, welcomed them to partake of a gourmet spread, and then they’d sat at discussed business.
&nbs
p; Trick held himself apart from that, listening but not speaking. He heard that she was still buying guns and ammunition, and that she’d placed an order for bigger ordnance while he was away. To him, it seemed she was arming herself for a real war, but she’d been buying weapons for more than a year, and so far there had been no large-scale violence in Mexico—or in the US, for that matter, not related to her empire.
She was also increasing her product delivery and had arranged for her associates at the different destination points to move the greater quantities. Trick wondered where the product was coming from; to the extent he knew, she’d have had to strip her Central and South American growers of everything to move the weights she wanted moved. That, to him, was her first poor business move. Raping the land of all it had to give was short-sighted and risky. And she controlled so much territory that wearing out all those crops could cripple the whole business. It didn’t make sense.
But he kept his mouth shut. He’d offer his perspective in the Keep, if he were asked. Otherwise, it didn’t—couldn’t—matter. That life was gone. Now it was up to him to build a new one.
After the business meeting finished, Dora sat back. Usually, she drank gin and tonics, but today she was sipping martinis. Gin was definitely her libation of choice. She tipped the martini glass up and finished her latest drink and then pulled the spear of olives from the empty glass.
“Now, gentlemen, I’d like to speak to Mr. Stavros alone. Luis, Mattias, please show our guests to the other room.”
Connor turned to him, his brows up in a question, but Trick nodded. It didn’t matter. His stomach leaden, Trick watched his brothers and Dora’s lieutenants leave the room.
When they were alone, she chewed the last olive from the spear, swallowed, and then asked, “Are you sure you don’t want a stronger drink than water?”
“I’m sure. Thanks.”
She nodded and poured herself another martini, plucking a new spear of olives from a small bowl of them. “Thank you for indulging me by joining your officers in this meeting.”
“You got me out of there. I owe you.”
Sipping at her new drink, she regarded him with clear brown eyes. “What do you think you owe me?”
He swallowed and sighed. “Whatever you think I do.”
She was quiet for a moment, studying him. “The woman at Connor’s wedding? She is still yours?”
“No.” The knife of loss sank more deeply into his chest. He felt like Judas, but it was true. Juliana wasn’t his.
Dora nodded. “I believe you know I…admire you.”
He didn’t respond. Fuck.
“Do you admire me as well?”
Now, for the first time, Trick really met her gaze. He should have said yes—it was what she wanted to hear, and if he was here to give her what she wanted, then he should have said yes. But the word wouldn’t come. “I—not in the same way. No.”
She set her glass down, and Trick took a deep breath.
“Then why would you agree to such a thing? You think you owe me that much? Or is it because you fear what I would do if you rejected me?”
Again, Trick was quiet, but this time because he truly had no words to say. She had surprised him.
“I find you admirable not because you are handsome, but because you are forthright and thoughtful. I watch you and see you thinking. But you disappoint me now. And insult me. You think I would abase myself to force myself on a man who doesn’t want me, simply because I have the power to do so? You think I would put all I have worked for at risk over a romantic rejection?”
“I-I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat and sought a way to explain. “You are powerful. And you’ve taken terrible revenge before.”
“Ah, yes. I’m bloodthirsty and vicious. I am La Zorra. Do you know what that word means?”
He did, in all of its connotations. He spoke the safest: “The Fox.”
“A female fox. In English, a female fox is a vixen, yes? Which has the meaning of a promiscuous, conniving woman. In Spanish, the word has similar meanings, even more. It’s deeply offensive. My enemies named me that, trying to dismiss me, thinking they could take my power away by calling me a whore. They were wrong. I took the name from them and wear it proudly. I made it mean what I wanted it to mean. I am more than my sex, Trick. I am a great deal more than that. I don’t take revenge. I exact payment. There is no emotion in the things I do. To be personally offended is to allow someone else to take strength from me. Your lack of admiration for me is disappointing, but nothing more.”
He thought about Juliana’s assertion that fear gave away one’s power. That idea wasn’t much different from what Dora had just said. “Dora, I apologize. I’m ashamed.” He was ashamed, and it was the first true emotion, clear of the taint of the past, he’d felt in weeks—months, now. He felt almost invigorated by that clarity of feeling.
“Yes. I accept your apology. I have gone far because men can’t see me without dismissing me as a woman, believing I am ruled by my emotions, and perhaps even the moon. Even now they underestimate me. I am used to it, and I use it. This is not why I wanted to talk to you alone, however.”
“No?”
“No. I feel I owe you. Your ordeal was a consequence of work you did for me. I owed it to you to do what I could to free you, and I owe you a better explanation. I’ll ask for your discretion regarding what I tell you now—I would rather you not share it with your club, but I understand that you will, and I understand why. I’m not prepared to lay bare my plans, but I want you to know that my plans are long-term and far-reaching. I have powerful allies. Very powerful. Politically powerful. Not all agencies have fancy badges and seals imbedded in marble floors. And not all agencies work toward the same purpose.”
Trick felt his eyes bulge. “Agencies? Government agencies? You’re working with the government—ours?”
She shook her head, not denying the truth of his question, but refusing to answer. “I say only that I have allies everywhere. People who share my vision. I know that you are leaving the outlaw life, and I respect that. But I owe you this assurance: you have my eternal respect for remaining stalwart, and you have my gratitude. I learned things in my quest to find and free you, and that information will be helpful to me.”
After a pause, during which Trick was quiet, sorting through his shock at all she’d said, Dora added, “I do have one concern. Mark Stiles.”
A chill coiled around the base of Trick’s skull. If she knew about Stiles, then it wasn’t only Trick she’d dug into during her quest. He realized that she probably knew everything about Juliana and Lucie, too. “What about him?”
“He is a variable I’m not comfortable with. He is situated to cause you trouble. You feared that a spurned woman would be a threat, but I know that an emasculated man is one. That trouble could ripple in inconvenient ways. I don’t understand why the threat hasn’t been dealt with.”
“It has been. He’s been neutralized.”
She shook her head. “There are only two ways to neutralize a threat: eradicate it or assimilate it.”
“He has a little girl. She loves him. I love her. I don’t want her hurt.”
“Your concerns have been noted. In any event, neither the decision nor the responsibility is yours.”
“Dora…” He stopped, not sure why he was fighting for Mark Stiles’ life.
She stood and held out her hand. Understanding that their meeting was over, Trick stood and wrapped his hand around hers.
Smiling, she shook his hand briskly. “I will say my goodbyes to you with this last thought: La Zorra is not a drug lord. She is a warlord.”
Knife & Flesh (The Night Horde SoCal Book 4) Page 32
