by Jc Emery
“Enough!” he says. “All this bullshit is getting us nowhere. We’re just spinning our wheels. If you assholes don’t have anything else constructive to add, go home and get your dicks sucked.”
Duke scrubs at his face and slams his hand down on the table and says, “Fuck.” I look over the empty chair beside me and find that, for once, Ryan is calm. He’s our resident hothead and the guy most likely to lose his shit or shoot someone. I can only surmise that without Ian at the table, he doesn’t have anyone to keep him in check so he’s having to watch his own ass for once. Maybe I should send Ian off on missions more often if this is how Ryan is without him here to cool him down.
Jim dismisses us. After a few words with Wyatt, I head down the hall to get home to my kid. Ryan rushes up beside me, gives me a hard look, and says, “Can we talk?”
“What about?” I ask, hoping it’s not about his bitch again. The last time we went over the shit with Alex it didn’t go so well, and now is not the time for him to be coming to me about this crap.
“Miss Priss,” Ryan says. I stop dead in my tracks and stare him down. Whatever it is, it better be good. He and I are on thin ice right now, and while I don’t think he’s going to start something, I never can be totally sure with him. Ryan’s always been a loose cannon, but he’s also always looked out for Chey. Back in the day he used to keep an eye on her when Layla would unexpectedly drop her off at the shop while I was busy. He’s barely twenty-five, and only eight years her senior, but in a way he’s like the big brother she never had. Whatever my personal feelings are about the shit with Alex, I could never totally turn my back on a guy who has done right by my kid.
“I might have a lead,” he says and looks around to make sure no one else can hear.
“And why am I just hearing about this now?” I ask.
“Not up for a lecture from the king,” he says and nods in the direction of his father. I lift my chin and raise my brows to let him know that I’m listening. “Guy who deals blow in Mendo, he’s got a cousin who’s hard-up for street cred down in Richmond. The cousin works for Homeland Security. Word is he’s been taking bribes for years, only his clientele dried up with a couple of RICO sweeps. He has access to passenger manifests for pretty much every airport nationally.”
A slow smile spreads on my face. Ryan may be a Grade-A asshole, but he’s slick, that’s for sure. The guy’s formed connections with every kind of loser you can imagine. Sometimes, like now, it pays off. Having access to a motherfucking Homeland Security employee with proper access to passenger manifests is going to come in handy. I almost don’t give a shit what we have to do to get this guy in our pocket. If he proves useful, I’ll even let the guy suck my dick as a thank you present.
“What does he need?” I ask. I was hoping to get back home soon, but that looks like it’s going to be a no-go. Getting an identity on this asshole is priority one.
“His grandma lives near the docks. Her house has been broken into twice this month. Two other women have been mugged and had the crap beat out of them. Dude needs to know his grandma is safe, but he can’t afford to pay street rent anymore. Shit started when he stopped paying.”
Typical. Places like Richmond are riddled with crime, and the cops don’t have enough staff in the county, let alone the city, to stop it all. Street gangs have taken over and made it a place nobody actually wants to live in, but they can’t afford to move out after they’ve paid protection money to the gangs. It’s total bullshit. And some people think we’re assholes.
“We’re already stretched thin, and Richmond is a five hour ride from here,” I say. “We don’t have the manpower to bust into the barrio and swing our dicks around.”
“You trust me?” Ryan asks.
I don’t even pause to think about it before saying, “Yes.”
Just because we don’t always get along doesn’t mean I don’t trust him. He’s my brother, and that shit runs deeper than any beef I’ll ever have with him.
“Then let me handle it. Go home. Tell Miss Priss I say hi,” he says and slaps me on the back as he walks away. I stand in place and watch Ryan walk away. I let myself have a single moment to consider that maybe Alex has been good for him. He’s always been a bastard, but he’s a good guy to have watch your six. All the bullshit he causes sometimes makes me forget that I actually almost like the guy.
The street is dead quiet with few lights on inside the sparsely-set homes. The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since I bought my house back when Cheyenne was a toddler. A few of my neighbors have remodeled their homes over the years, but by and large, everything looks the same. With so much changing so often in my life, this kind of steady is exactly what I need.
At the end of my street, there’s a large clearing. I bought the house that butts up to it. The closer I get to my split-level, the more at peace I feel. There’s a part of me that’s always on edge, has been for the better part of twenty years, but here—in my home—sometimes I can take a deep breath and not tense up that it’s going to be my last.
I swing my bike into the driveway and give a nod to Ian, who’s sitting on the front porch, his feet resting on the railing and his hands in his lap. I can’t see it, but I know he’s got a piece resting on his legs. I park my bike in front of the garage next Ian’s and Jeremy’s, and don’t bother covering her up. If it starts to rain, I’ll put her away later. Once my helmet is off and she’s resting on her kickstand, I set my helmet on her handlebars and give Ian a nod.
“Alarm’s on for the perimeter except here in the front. Baby Boy’s been doing sweeps of the backyard every ten minutes. So far we’re clear,” Ian says and stands from his position. In his right hand is a stun gun. In his left is a semi-automatic with a suppressor attached to the barrel.
“Good,” I say. “Thanks for hanging out, but I got it.”
“I don’t mind. I can stay, brother.”
“Your sister needs you,” I say and slap him on the back. The guy’s already going through some serious shit, and I don’t need to be adding to his plate. Ever since we brought Alex to Fort Bragg, Ian’s been having to deal with some fucked-up shit. I know it eats away at him. Knowing you have twin siblings out there somewhere is one thing. Being confronted with them face to face the way he is, is another story altogether. Ever since we found Alex, bloody and beaten, at the hands of her twin brother, Michael, Ian’s been more distant than usual.
“Yeah, she does,” he says and waves me off. As he turns, the light catches the scar that runs from his ear to his mouth. I wonder if he forgets it’s there, if it’s so much a part of him that he doesn’t feel it when he shaves. Or if every day he can feel it, the bumpy, cracked skin that never healed properly.
Inside the house, all is silent. The front room is empty, as it usually is. There’s no television in there, so we have little reason to spend time in that room. Still, the light is on. Bypassing the main hallway, I walk the perimeter rooms, starting with the kitchen. The light is on in here, too, as well as the family room before me. The kitchen is a large, open space that oversees the family room. When my mother moved in about twelve years ago, she told me to expect a lot of home-cooked meals because a kitchen like this deserves to be used. I don’t eat here much, but she and Chey make doing dinner together a regular thing. Still, despite the open space, I can’t see a single person. Reaching into the back of my jeans, I pull out my .45 and hold it down at my side.
With my eyes wide open, I walk slowly and cautiously through the dining room and into the family room. Still nothing. Movement catches my eye from the back porch. I raise my gun up and creep toward the sliding glass door. Just as I reach the glass, I lower my gun and blow out a frustrated breath.
On the back porch, leaning over, with their arms resting on the railing, are Jeremy and Cheyenne. They’re facing one another, and she’s smiling. Wide. She’s giving him the same smile she gives me when she tries to convince me she’s going to bring her grades up in time for the end of the term. It’s the same sm
ile she gives her grandma when she makes Chey’s favorite dessert. Now I raise my gun for a whole different reason. I don’t care if she is seventeen. Jeremy Whelan does not deserve her smiles, and he certainly doesn’t deserve the giggle she’s giving him. He’s not patched yet. I could shoot him, and my brothers couldn’t say much about it. Except for Duke. He’d catch hell from Jeremy’s older sister—Duke’s woman, Nic. But she’s not my bitch, so it’s not my problem. I could shoot him.
In the reflection of the glass, I can see my mother standing several feet behind me. She places her hands on her hips and says, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. They’re just talking. Put down the damn gun.”
I turn around slowly, put my gun in the waistband of my jeans, and roll my shoulders to release some of the built-up tension. She’s been giving me crap about letting Chey date for years. It’s not that I won’t let her date. She’s more than welcome to date. She just chooses not to more often than not. I guess she doesn’t like to go through the hassle of trying to ditch my tail and failing anyway. I’ll give her credit for trying, though. She’s definitely getting better at that.
“You hear about today?” I ask her.
“You’ll find him,” she says. And that’s my mother. She doesn’t answer questions if she’s certain you already have the answer. “I want to know why he targeted my granddaughter.”
“You and me both. Ryan’s working a lead right now. We got eyes and ears in town working in our favor. We’re gonna find him, Ma.”
She sighs heavily, and it’s one of those rare times that her age shows. Her mouth turns down, smile lines become more apparent, and crow’s feet spread outward as she narrows her eyes. Her dark brown hair has fewer grays in it than mine does—thanks to Violet at the salon she goes to with Ruby every six weeks. She’s not intimidating in size like Elle is, but when she gets going there’s no stopping her. Disapproval from Lisa Grady is almost worse than being on the business end of an enemy’s gun. The woman should have been born Catholic the way she throws around guilt trips like they’re fucking antacids. And I can tell, just by that single sigh, that she’s about to deliver up a doozy.
“What’s going on?” she asks. “I know Ruby’s daughter is here, and I know why. Don’t pull my leg with vague answers. Just tell me how bad it is.”
“A fucking mobster showed up at your granddaughter’s school today. How bad do you think it is, Ma?” I snap and instantly regret it. She has every right to her concern, and here I am being a dick about it.
“We’ve been over this, son. You pull that macho crap with everybody else, but need I remind you that I am your mother? I choose to be here for Cheyenne. I don’t have to be. Now, start talking.”
Ball buster. She’s a fucking ballbuster, but I’d be lost without her. Layla hasn’t spent more than a night under this roof in the last five years and no more than a few months in the last ten. Always in and out of rehab and then out drifting. I’d be fucked if my mom wasn’t here to do all the domestic shit with Chey. A guy like me has to go when he needs to and not worry about finding a babysitter.
“Ruby’s ex wants his daughter back, and he’s got his men coming to get her. He’s not too pleased that we turned his house into Swiss cheese, and he’s probably pretty ticked off that we got his son now, too, and took down a few of his men in the process. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, and I don’t know how many men he’s got coming out here. All I know is that shit is not safe. If I had the manpower to cover you, I’d send you and Chey down south to stay until it all gets sorted out, but I don’t. So I need you to do as you’re told so you don’t put yourself or anyone else in any more danger than you’re already in.”
Like the old hand that she is, my mother agrees and listens intently as I spell it out for her. No going out alone. No answering the door for anyone. No talking to or about anyone involved with this shit over the phone or outside of this house. The list is extensive, and by the time I get to the end, her eyes are glazing over. It’s not like we haven’t been through this before. It’s just that this time it’s not some petty beef about territory and clientele. This time it’s about revenge and family loyalty—two things that will always stir up dust in ways that nothing else can.
A floorboard creaks from the hallway. In a split second, I have my gun out and pointed at the noise. My mother moves behind me and curls into my back. There’s another creak and then an earth-shattering scream. Shit. Holly.
With everything going on, I’d totally forgotten that Holly would be in the house. I move in to find her sliding down the wall in the hallway. Her hands are up in front of her, waving me away. They shake just slightly in their movements. The sliding glass door rolls open and slams against the stopper, creating another commotion. From my side, Jeremy rushes into the room with a gun I didn’t know he had pointing out in front of him. With his other hand, he’s holding Chey behind him, blocking her. He’s shielding my little girl, and while his head is still on the chopping block, I think I’ll let him live for now.
“It’s okay,” my mother says, raising her hands to Jeremy and Chey. “We just scared Holly, that’s all.” Baby Boy lowers his gun and places it in the waistband of his jeans. Fucking kid didn’t even put the safety on first. Either that or he didn’t unlock the safety before he stormed in here.
“Who the fuck gave you a gun?” I ask. When we let Jeremy prospect at seventeen, he didn’t know how to drive a car, much less ride a Harley. He’s also still in high school—for now—and has zero experience handling a gun. The day he received his vest, he also received one of my old bikes to learn on. He’s been riding for a few months now and is getting pretty good at it. Still, we agreed no guns until after he turned eighteen.
“Trigger,” he says. I should have fucking known. Ryan got the name Trigger because back when he was learning to shoot, he’d shoot anything that moved. Unfortunately for his grandfather, Rage—a retired club member—Ryan’s first real shot was at the old man’s foot.
I motion for him to hand me the gun then check the safety. Sure enough, the safety isn’t on. I click it on and shake my head. “You’re gonna blow your fucking dick off.” I cast Chey a quick look to see that her eyes are on Jeremy. She’s got this look on her face like she thinks he just saved Tokyo from Godzilla or some other fucking amazing thing like that. I turn the safety back off and hand the gun over. “On second thought, go ahead and blow it off.”
When I turn back around, Holly is standing and rubbing her eyes. She looks from me to my mother to Jeremy and Cheyenne and then back to me. “I can’t handle having one more person pointing a gun at me today,” she says and blows out a shaky breath.
“What do you mean,” Chey asks. “Did that man at school have a gun?” Her voice rises with every word, and she’s growing panicked as the seconds pass. I don’t like to lie to my kid, but I can’t bring myself to tell her that all mobsters carry guns. The world hasn’t jaded her yet. She stills sees the good in people, and I don’t want to take that away from her. The rest of the world will do that for me soon enough. I don’t miss the sly admission from Holly though. She didn’t tell me the bastard pulled a gun on her earlier. We’ll have to talk about that, just not where Chey can hear.
Chapter 14
Grady
ALL IT TAKES is my mother saying the words ice cream and Chey is wondering off to the kitchen. I don’t miss the way she bites her lip and bats her eyes at Jeremy when she asks him if he wants any. And I definitely don’t fucking miss the way he says he’d like some of her ice cream. That prick isn’t eating anything of hers. He’s eating my ice cream. I don’t remind him whose house he’s in only because of the look my mother is giving me. I already know my protectiveness over Chey is, apparently, a little unhealthy. And I’ll work on that one day. Just not today.
“That asshole at the school pulled a gun on you?” I ask Holly. Her hair falls over her shoulders and stops just a few inches down her back. It’s a messy rat’s nest right now, which is sexy as fuck. The doe-e
ye blinking thing she’s doing, and the stuttering as she tries to get the story out, and the hair… I’m not twelve anymore. I shouldn’t feel like I have to go into a bathroom and rub one out just to have a conversation with a chick.
“He didn’t exactly point it at me, but it was in a holder thing on his hip. He showed it to me,” she says. In a matter of seconds she goes from scatter-brained to annoyed, and she’s scowling at me. “I want to go home.”
I had a feeling she’d get here at some point. She wants to go home, but I’m not sure that’s the best place for her right now. I doubt Mancuso’s guy has anything on her, but I can’t be so sure. He had enough on me to get to Chey, and while he didn’t actually hurt either Chey or Holly—and he certainly could have if he wanted to—it fucks me up to think about either of them out on their own. The guy’s clearly got some resources, and until I know what they are, I don’t know that I’m good with letting Holly leave.
Wyatt suggested I let her go home and have one of the guys sit on her, but I don’t think we have enough resources for that. As it is, we’re stretched to the limit. We got guys watching the roads in and out of here during high traffic times, and we got guys watching Alex at Jim and Ruby’s. We had ten patched members, but that was before. Now we’re down to nine. I can’t see pulling anyone off of Alex. If I let Holly walk, then she’s going unprotected. And I still don’t know if I can trust her to keep her mouth shut.
“Follow me,” I say and turn around. When no movement sounds behind me, I pause and turn back to find that she’s standing in the same place with her lips pursed and her arms folded over her chest. Out of all the shit I could do to this woman—shit so depraved that she probably can’t even fathom it—and how goddamn patient I’ve been, she still doesn’t trust me.
“Fine,” I say. I let my feet carry me away from the kitchen and toward the far side of the house past the guest room. It’s not until I’m already in the garage that I hear her footsteps. When she appears in the doorway, it’s just her head and hands as she grips the frame and peeks around. Layla doesn’t enter rooms like that. She just kind of floats in. Always has. Elle doesn’t just enter a room. She fucking owns it. But not Holly. She’s not a part of my world, and I try to remind myself of that for the fiftieth time. I can’t expect her to know how shit goes when she’s never been a part of anything like this.
