His worn leather cut proclaimed him a member of the Four Horsemen MC. During her travels, she’d come across a biker or two and since she’d blown into town, she’d gotten an earful from the townies about the Horsemen.
Dammit. When she’d discovered she’d inadvertently chosen an outlaw motorcycle club’s hotel and diner to squat in, she should have moved on. Unfortunately, it was the only hotel in Hell, and she needed to keep in close proximity to the police department. Charlie expected a call from Detective Frost in an hour or so. With any luck, she’d be out of this mess by then.
But she didn’t have time to ogle Axel. Charlie needed to talk herself out of this problem.
She addressed Axel’s accusation. “I picked your pocket, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t tell you the truth. And you’re one to talk about fake names. I doubt your parents named you Axel.”
He ignored her dig. “You also said you were an excellent liar.” He turned to the other biker. “Look through her bag and see if you can find a wallet that actually belongs to her.”
Voodoo started pawing through her duffel bag and she barely resisted the urge to bawl him out. But getting into a scuffle with them wouldn’t work. Charlie wasn’t a fighter and never carried a weapon. She didn’t have a prayer against two guys who could bench press her one-handed.
So she shut her mouth and tried to think of a way out of this mess. Usually, that meant using her powers of persuasion. Her father, Scott Nash, had taught her everything she knew about grifting. He’d been an incredible con man and thief. Until he’d abruptly disappeared one night while doing a “big job”.
The first rule he’d taught her was profile your target. She had to get under Axel’s skin, somehow establish a rapport with him so she could talk him into letting her go. Scott had trained her how to ‘smell’ people, his term for intuiting information about potential targets. He’d taken her to crowded public places as a kid and had her study people. She’d made informed hunches based on age, gender, clothing, demeanor, or any other visible characteristics.
For example, Charlie paid attention to what a person wore. Athletic types wore tennis shoes or running shoes. The fitness vibe would be echoed in their clothing–yoga or sweat pants, shirts that wicked moisture from the body. Business types dressed to impress and the wealthier the person, the higher-end their clothing. It wasn’t a fool-proof system, by any means, but it gave her a cheat sheet. From there, she’d adjust her approach with a mark according to behavioral cues.
Since Axel was the man in charge, Charlie focused on him first. He struck her as a do-gooder type, which was strange given his affiliation with a motorcycle gang. But life is pretty damn strange. He’d gotten into her stalker boyfriend sob story. Maybe he tried to make up for illegal activities with good deeds.
And Voodoo? He was a difficult one. Obviously from New Orleans, but he played his cards close to his chest. Charlie couldn’t smell a damn thing useful when it came to him. She’d never want to take him on in a hand of poker.
Voodoo pulled out several wallets she’d painstakingly pickpocketed these past few nights. She knew she should have discarded the wallets sooner. She usually flung them into a dumpster after she’d removed all the greenbacks. Very sloppy. Scott would’ve said she deserved to be caught, and he was right.
Voodoo found her wallet eventually. It was a pink and black quilted Vera Bradley one. Like everything else she owned, it was stolen. Charlie hadn’t been able to part with it. It was too damn cute.
“What do you know?” Voo said as he scanned her Illinois driver’s license. “It says Charlene Nash.”
“Told you,” Charlie said, glaring at Axel.
“Could be a fake ID.” Axel took it from Voodoo and stared at it real hard.
“It isn’t.” Look at that. She’d told the truth. Again.
Charlie shifted in her seat uncomfortably. The ties on her hands were tight, and her arms were in an awkward position.
Axel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as though she’d stomped on his very last nerve. “What brings you to Hell? You know, besides thieven’ and lyin’.”
Charlie didn’t discuss her private business with anyone. Yet another lesson from Scott. It would leave her vulnerable. If someone knew her habits, her personal data—
they’d make a great police witness. So, Charlie was friendly, but never made friends with anyone.
“I can’t tell you, but I steal for a good cause.”
“And what cause might that be? Hmm?” He raised a brow.
Charlie remained silent.
“Don’t tell me, Princess of Thieves, you’re stealing to pay your brother’s medical bills. Or maybe to feed some poor, starving orphans?”
She let the Robin Hood quip go. “No, I steal to live.” She’d been getting a five-finger discount for as long as she could remember. Scott had taught her how to pick pockets at age seven, and she’d been doing it ever since. Although lately, she’d barely been scraping together enough cash to keep gas in the tank and food in her belly.
“Uh-huh. And why are you in Hell?”
Because I’m talking to you. “I’ve been sight-seeing,” she said, plucking an idea out of the air. “Pretty town you’ve got here.”
“Oh yeah? I ain’t buyin’ it. What sights are you seeing?” he said, all sarcastic. “The stinky sulfur springs? Maybe the tea room. It ain’t like we got the Alamo here.”
“It has a lot of small-town charm.” She’d been to a lot of towns over the years and she preferred them over big cities. While she’d been born in Chicago, Scott liked to stay on the road. They bounced around the country, a few months here, a few months there. She’d lived in thirteen states by the time he’d disappeared.
“Yeah, and I detect the distinct odor of bullshit.” Axel glanced at his watch. “Much as I’d love to listen to more of your lies, I’m gonna have to cut it short.” He laughed without humor. “I got a meeting with another liar.”
“Beauregard?” Voo asked.
Axel nodded, his brows together and his lips thinned.
“Bikers have meetings?” she asked. That sounded so straight-laced and corporate. She wondered if they had agendas, too. Maybe with a little tire track logo on the top or something.
Axel pushed a hand through his hair. “Trust me on this one, bikers have a shitload of meetings. It feels like I spend all goddamn day with a gavel in my hand.” He stood up and glanced at his compatriot. “Keep an eye on her.”
“Sorry, Prez, I can’t,” Voo said, glancing at his cell phone. “I have the morning rush coming.”
Axel whipped out his mobile and hit a few buttons. After a minute or so, his phone beeped in reply. “Justice is coming over to babysit. Watch Robin Hood for me until he gets here.”
With that, he took off, and she was left staring at Voodoo, who smirked at her.
Great, left with the enigmatic one she’d been stealing from. Dammit.
Voodoo sat down across from her. “Well, bebette, looks like you’re going to be our guest for a good long while.”
“Bebette?” she asked.
His grin was tinged with a fierce sort of amusement. “It means ‘bug’ or ‘critter’ in Creole.”
“Well, that’s rude.” Charlie had a few names for him, too. Douchebag vaulted to the top of the list.
“So is stealing from someone.”
Charlie shrugged. He had a point, so she slumped back in her chair and waited for the newest biker to arrive.
What felt like hours later, another man strode into the room. Like Voodoo and Axel, he was good-looking. So, the Horsemen exclusively recruited hotties. And because Charlie was in a pissy mood, it annoyed her. Somehow, she reasoned it would be easier to talk her way out of this situation if they were all ugly. It didn’t make sense, but that’s how she felt.
While the latest Chippendale made small talk with Voodoo, she scoped him out. He stood about six feet tall with light brown hair and blue eyes. His skin was almost golden. She’d bet he’d spent a
lot of time in the sun. Stubble hovered over his lips and across his cheeks. He wore a pair of tight jeans, along with a red t-shirt which peeked from beneath a black hoodie. The hoodie had Think on your Sins stitched on the back.
Voo headed out and Justice kept the door open. Charlie glanced at the parking lot longingly. The new biker sat down in the chair across from her. He looked her up and down, but there was nothing sexual in his gaze. He seemed to be sizing her up, deciding how much of a threat she was. “I’m Justice. And it looks like you fucked up real good, Charlie.”
“You don’t say.”
“You got both Voo and the prez riled up. Doesn’t pay to provoke the men in charge.”
“Voo’s in charge?” she asked.
“He’s the vice president.” Justice dug around in his pocket and pulled out a Zippo and what looked like either a hand-rolled cigarette or a joint. He lit it up and Charlie smelled the sweet, smoky scent of pot.
Good to know. She raised a brow.
“I have cancer,” he said, deadpan. “Now, be quiet.”
Charlie couldn’t tell if it was some sort of gallows-humor joke. Maybe the weed would dull his senses.
If she could find a distraction…
Justice took another hit, inhaling deeply. “Don’t get any ideas. Pot doesn’t affect my reflexes, cuz I toke every fucking day. Do yourself a favor and stay on my good side.”
“And if I don’t?” she asked.
“Then you and me are gonna have a problem,” he said very deliberately. He smiled afterwards, like he hadn’t issued a threat.
Most people didn’t look so casual when they threatened someone. And hey, she should know. Charlie had been on the receiving end of a few over the years. If it was an idle one, there’d be some nervousness, some hesitation. People who didn’t mean it blustered and thumped their chests when they issued threats. But when someone said it matter-of-factly, it gave her pause.
Justice locked eyes with her. They engaged in a bit of a stare-off, until she finally dropped her gaze.
He grunted. “Settle in and we’ll wait this out. With any luck, no one needs to get hurt.” He unzipped his hoodie to reveal the red t-shirt. It read: The Only Easy Day was Yesterday. Beneath it, she saw an eagle clutching a trident, an anchor, and a rifle.
Charlie recognized it instantly. It was a special warfare insignia. Crap balls. “You were a SEAL?”
He glanced down at his shirt and frowned. She got the impression he’d dressed in a hurry and he hadn’t even realized what shirt he’d picked up. “No, I am a SEAL,” he corrected with a shake of his head. “And I’ll be one ‘til the day I die.” He chuckled darkly.
There was a finality about that statement, an apathy she didn’t quite understand. But she knew better than to bring it up. People didn’t respond well when she pulled back their layers. Charlie tried to make people comfortable with her.
Once again, she focused on getting out of this place. If she had any hope of escape, she needed a distraction. Something to split his focus. Due to his training, she doubted it would work, but she had to try. “You know, I haven’t had any coffee yet this morning. What about you?”
“No? You mean you didn’t steal any from the diner yet?”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from making a smart remark. “Okay, I deserved that. But I need caffeine and you could use some too, right? We’re both stuck here and the diner is a few hundred feet away.” The use of ‘we’ had been deliberate on her part. It created a sense of camaraderie with the mark, making the person feel as if they were friends.
Justice snorted. “Nice try, sweetheart, but I ain’t leavin’ you alone, even if you are trussed up like a turkey. I don’t trust your ass.”
Hmph. Smart man.
He ran a palm down his face and she noted the dark circles beneath his eyes. He could use a good night’s sleep. And maybe a whole pot of coffee to himself. Good. Sleepy people are easier to run from. “Although, I hustled over here before I could have some coffee. I’ll call the diner and have a hellion bring over a couple of cups.”
Crapola. She’d hoped he’d leave to get them, but the caffeine might do her some good anyway. Make it easier to think. “Thank you,” she said. “I take mine with two sugars. And maybe something to eat?”
“Don’t push it.” He dialed from his cell and didn’t take his eyes off her while he ordered. After asking for the coffees, with sugar in hers and cream in his, and two donuts, he settled back in his chair.
Things were looking up. A caffeine fix and a sugar high were bound to help with her escape plan.
***
Axel hit the kickstand on his Harley Sportster Seventy-Two and ran a hand along the clean lines. It helped to focus on something real, something he could touch.
He absently wiped away some of the road dust as he mentally prepared himself. He’d gone with the black quartz finish, and it had a faint metallic sheen beneath the glossy black. The motorcycle was gorgeous, but also a bitch to keep clean. And they were fresh out of bike-washin’ prospects, too. Yet another item for his to-do list. He had a hangaround or two in mind, but that’d have to wait.
Right now, he had to deal with Beauregard.
A few weeks ago, the Horsemen had been forced into a partnership with Beauregard. So far, he hadn’t asked them for anything, but Axel had a feeling that was about to change.
Axel tipped his head to glance up at Beauregard Manor. It was an antebellum-style mansion with long Corinthian columns which dotted the length of the white veranda. The house was painted white with black shutters around the windows. The manor was surrounded by lush, manicured green lawns and with the Texas climate, the landscaping bill must be gigantic, but the Beauregards could afford it. They were rich as Croesus, funded by bootlegging and their connections with the Dixie Mafia.
With a sigh, he trudged up the stairs, passing a row of guards in dark suits. The fucker had a serious security detail, probably because a lot of people were gunning for him. Byron had worked his way up the mafia food chain as a hit man. Most of his family were connected to the mob, but they all had to earn their own positions. The Dixie Mafia weren’t known for nepotism.
Axel walked down the hallway, past even more guards, and finally ended up in the study. It looked like it should belong to a businessman or a lawyer—fireplace, antique furnishings, a couple of ornate bookcases, and the vault. Axel stared at it a moment, so very close to the gun he wanted, yet so very far away.
Byron Beauregard sat behind his massive walnut desk with a China cup in hand. He wore a black suit with a gray silk paisley tie, which probably cost more than Axel paid in rent each month. Beauregard was shorter than Axel, around six-foot with blond hair and blue eyes. By all rights, he should be ugly as sin, to match that tarnished soul of his. Yet there something downright angelic about Beauregard.
“Good morning, Axel. Care for some coffee?” Beauregard greeted him, as if they were old friends. He had a matching porcelain carafe on his desk, along with a pitcher of cream and a bowl filled with sugar cubes.
The Beauregards weren’t shy about showing off their wealth, hence the Tara-like estate. They acted like all the money came from legit means, but Axel bet he had a lot of nooses in his family tree. It was a sad state of affairs that filthy lucre had gotten them into state politics. It wouldn’t be long before a Beauregard got himself into the statehouse. Hell, they might even go after the presidency.
“Well?” Beauregard prompted.
As his mother would say, if Beauregard had that coffee stuffed up his ass and Axel had a feather up his nose, they’d both be tickled. Axel glanced down at his rough hands with a smirk. Motor oil rimmed his fingernails, he had too many calluses to count, plus skinned knuckles from a stubborn carburetor. He’d break the damn thing if he handled it. The thought made him smile, but he shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“Are you sure? It’s Kona coffee. I get it shipped in from Hawaii every few months. Expensive as hell, but worth every drop.”
He sighed and tried to keep his voice civil as he spoke. “It smells real good, but I’ve already had my morning coffee, thanks.”
Beauregard shrugged as he set down his own cup. “Your loss.”
“Am I here to talk about our Raptor problem?” Axel sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk. The Raptors had worked as Beauregard’s henchmen until he’d engineered an arrangement with the Horsemen. Beauregard had promised to help them get rid of the Raptors, but so far they’d seen zero action towards that goal.
Beauregard stilled in his chair. “Have they made a move yet?”
A few weeks ago, the Horsemen raided a rival club’s whorehouse/porn studio. The Raptors had been trafficking in young women, using them for profit. The Horsemen had freed everyone, destroyed the studio, and made off with the cash and closed circuit camera footage. They’d done it in a bid to shut down the Raptor’s operation. It worked, since they were no longer using the facility.
“No. We haven’t heard a fucking peep out of them.” The Raptors hadn’t evened the score yet, which was a red flag. Axel and the rest of the brothers had been bracing themselves for a war since it had happened.
Beauregard placed his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair, letting it swivel back and forth. “Now that’s a bad sign.”
“No shit,” Axel muttered. “We should do something before they come after us.”
“We will, but I have something more pressing at the moment.”
Axel prayed for fucking patience. “Like that?” He nodded to a couple of black and red HELP WANTED signs lying on the desk.
Hell on Wheels (Four Horsemen MC Book 6) Page 2
