If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel

by Kimber S. Dawn

  Then he holds the paper up. “Plus, there’s this shit.” And folds it before sliding it into my hand. “Your Uncle Chase was found shot in New Orleans, outside of a little cafe called Cafe Du Monde. Only they were a little slow when he was found at two am yesterday morning. With two slugs in the front of his mug. And they weren’t nearly as busy as they are when they start serving those yummy beignets. Anyway, Slim says O’Malley is written all over it. As in 'King'—not...Eve.” He nods towards the note in my hand. “That’s...brother, I don’t know what to tell you that is. I know we need to figure out who the fuck is behind this. Fast. I’ve got nothing. And from what’s on that note, I wish I had even less...especially now. But even more for you, brother. Goddamn, I feel sorry for you.” He shakes his head before turning and leaving.

  I stand there, in the middle of my office for damn near five minutes, staring at the folded piece of paper in my hand. I slowly make it back to my desk, still staring at the note like it’s the end of a damn double barrel. And when I’m behind my chair, I sit down and stretch my long legs out in front of me before leaning back. After resting my elbows on the armrests of my chair, I unfold the note and read it word for word:

  A mother for a daughter. One’s already on her way to see the grim reaper. And we’ve let the stupid whore of a mother go—with a warning, of course. Sans a finger or two. The bottom line is this. Stay away from the oldest daughter of Ilsa’s. It’s time these bitches stop procreating, all the way around. We may unexpectedly start prematurely...I do hope you find the rhyme to the riddle even we don’t know how we want solved yet…

  ~No Name No Color

  No Name No Color? What in the Sam’s hell of fuck? No Color?

  I try slowly spelling it out in my head. Is it race affiliated?

  And how are you gonna leave a note? When you don’t know your ransom? My mind screeches to a bloody halt as my eyes shoot back to the letter in my hand. It’s a fucking ransom note! That’s what the fuck this is. It’s ransom!

  I snatch the phone from the cradle and dial the one behind the bar. When Slim picks up, I bark out orders. “Call Philip, 'King's nephew. He knows about Eve being his uncle’s kid, he just hasn’t said anything yet because he wants her inheritance. That’s some inside shit, Slim. You hear me?”

  “Gotcha, brother,” he replies.

  “Tell Philip to fucking call me. ASAP. I need to know if our girl’s okay.” Our girl? Where the hell did that come from?

  “What, like you think 'King' is behind this shit with the no colors, too? Why would he be taking out his own kid and killing your uncle?” Slim asks.

  I grit my teeth before slowly speaking through them. “Brother...what the fuck did I say to do?”

  “You got it.” The line goes dead and I replace the phone in its cradle before staring at it. Thinking…

  That makes absolutely no fucking horse shit sense. None! Why would O’Malley be taking out his own lineage? Why kidnap his own kid and kill my Uncle Chase? What’s Ilsa got to do with this? And who the fuck from DDDs would claim to be from an unknown club? And want my Unc dead? Why? That makes even less sense. Plus it eliminates Philip; he wouldn’t be coming after Chase. Or us. Not in the current circumstances the MC is in. We’ve got no beef. And hell, my club’s hardly profitable these days I been running it so thin.

  I need answers. Like old timer answers.

  Clutch!

  “Fuck, yeah! Clutch!” I spring from my seat, pulling my iPhone from my back pocket, and find the contact for the oldest motherfucker I know still kicking it in this club: The longest running Sgt. At Arms, and Roxy Bell’s father, Jake ‘Clutch’ Smith.

  “This is Clutch,” he answers.

  “Hey, brother. Run upstairs to the steeple’s office. Got some questions, a history lesson I need brushing up on. And if what they say is true, and history does repeat itself—I’d like to fucking be a little more prepared if there’s a next time, old man, yeah?”

  “Yup. Be up in five.” The phone goes dead before I can slide my thumb across end.

  Clutch is a few years older than Pops was, and he’ll let you know it too. Funny thing about Clutch is that until five years ago, the man’s mind was sharp as a tack. But these days, it’s like the poor bastard can’t remember what he ate for breakfast some mornings… however, he remembers 1994 like it was yesterday—and right now that’s about the decade I’m looking for.

  I glance at the clock four minutes and fifty-seven seconds later when I hear who I can only assume is Clutch climbing the stairs. And I let him know I hear him coming. “Right on time, my brother.” I stand from behind my desk as he makes it around the corner, and show respect for him by making room for him to sit. “Come on in. Have a seat.”

  After I clear some shit off one of the chairs sitting opposite mine on the other side of the desk, I nod to it. “Gotcha a spot cleaned off, old man. How goes it?”

  “Fuck if I know. I can’t remember if I still gotta take a piss, son. What’d ya need? Got some questions?” he mutters as he slowly sits in the seat I cleared off for him.

  “Yes, sir. I do.” I lean back against the front of my desk, crossing my boots at my ankles, and after my weight’s comfortably distributed, I narrow my eyes on his. “Ilsa. Start there. How’d she run into Pops? When’d that happen?” I cut straight to the point. Slice right at the root.

  I’ve learned a lot in this life, and I’ll be the first to tell you, my pops had a lot of great brothers, who were great men and led by even better example. They were the men lighting the path for me as a man when I was young boy. And the one thing they all taught me that was important was knowing the right questions to ask. Well, I don’t have the right questions—not yet. So I’ll go back as far in the beginning as possible. Because that’s where all the best stories start.

  “Ilsa?” the man who’s aged thirty years in the last five asks, and I nod. “Your old man’s second old lady? Oh, she ain’t nothing but a bet.” He chuckles to himself and I quirk an eyebrow.

  “Bet? As in a wager?”

  “Yup. A crooked one at that. Your pops kinda stole the poor girl. But that was, gosh—he got her while your ma was still alive, but everyone knows that. That’s not anything worth remembering.”

  True. Pops never kept Ilsa a hidden matter. As soon as the rest of the club knew about Mom’s illness, and that it was terminal, it was well known who and what Ilsa Blakeney was at the club for. She was just waiting on my ma to die. Hence the reason I’ve always hated the bitch. And her bitch-ass kids. Okay, well...not one of them. I don’t hate her oldest daughter.

  “So how was she a wager?” I ask the only question I can think to ask.

  “Poker hand. Your pops was in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, he and ‘King’ ran into each other, of course. It’s his town. Your dad was cleaning up some of Chase’s shit. And after some drinks, your pops had had just enough to feel confident enough and pull it off, and ‘King’ had had just enough so he missed it. He didn’t see the ace your pops decided to use on that hand. But to hear your pops tell it, he never had any choice. As soon as the cards and stars lined up, and Ilsa Blakeney, ‘King’s brand new purchased bride, was tossed on the table, so to speak, and your father saw her...it was done. He said he knew he wasn’t leaving that table without her. And ‘King’ was already tapped out on funds for the night.” The old man shrugs before smirking. “He said it was just a matter of time. Your daddy’s only problem was, no one knew she was pregnant at the time but her. And as soon as he found out, he and Ilsa decided they wanted to keep it that way. And for two entirely opposing yet similar reasons, they did.”

  My eyebrows shoot up after the old man stops talking. Like the story is done being told or something. I gesture for him to continue. “Okay, and? Who the fuck was the kid?”

  He glances at me, confused. “The oldest one. Ilsa didn’t have any kids when she came on with us. Your pops didn’t want ‘King’ to know about the kid—he didn’t want him to take her and the baby back. And Ilsa d
idn’t want him to know for the same reason, but hers was always about spite. She stayed pissed with her panties in a bunch after realizing she was nothing more than a bet on a hand in a poker game to 'King'.”

  I continue gesturing. “Right, and the youngest one? Who the fuck’s kid is she? And why don’t I know any of this shit?” I growl, pissed that I can’t place if I’ve ever seen or heard Pops or Ilsa give a name…

  But I never paid attention to any of this shit. Ma was sick as hell when Ilsa popped into my life; I wasn’t paying attention to her. And if you think my pops and ma had a fucked up relationship, it was nothing compared to his and Ilsa’s ‘relationship’; if that’s what you wanna call it. That shit was—toxic. I wince at the direction of my own thoughts mimicking Dreads’ words. No, this was different. Pops and Ilsa had always danced to a beat of their own drum. Hell, Pops and every woman in his life danced to a beat of their own drum. Pops was an odd bird. He was romantic as hell, but you couldn’t tell it with Ilsa. They were a weird odd. She was toxic. Gone a whole hell of a lot more than she was around, which kept Pops pissed off. Especially after ma died. He hated when she’d fly off to Miami to her mom’s. And hell, Pops didn’t even know she was pregnant until she came back from Florida two years later with a baby. Err...toddler. She was just supposed to go down there and spend the summer with her mom. But she parked it for a while. And I can’t remember her coming back...

  I guess the kid had to have been Eden. But I don’t remember; it’s like there’s holes in my memory. The first memory I have of Ilsa’s kid is one of her at walking age, but that’s all I can really recall from that time of my life. I just remember my ma being sick. For so long.

  “Oh, she’d done left the first one with her ma down in Florida. Remember? I think she tried to play off the second one as your pops’, but he never would claim it. Said it was too blonde. Blonde like your Uncle Chase, blonde. If you catch my drift…”

  Blonde like your Uncle Chase, blonde. If you catch my— “Shut the fuck up!” My hand clasps over my mouth as my head falls into my other hand. Then I mutter, “Why the fuck hasn’t anybody fucking said anything? Clutch?” I glance back up to him “You know he’s been fucking her? Eden? Ilsa’s youngest kid? It’s been going on. For forever!”

  Holy shit. And I thought I was the bad seed, sleeping with the oldest. This motherfucker done gone off and slept with his—

  The blood from my face drains and my stomach sinks before hitting the floor alongside my jaw. I pull my phone out and start thumbing through my contacts, looking for Ben’s number, only to stop, click my phone off and shove it back into my pocket.

  What the fuck am I thinking? I’mma call him up? Let him know real quick? ‘Ay, man—you been fucking yo sista!’ Shit, it’s been happening! Whatever I do now won’t change that!

  I eye the old man. “Spell. It. Out. Stop with the riddles, old man. My patience.” I hold my hand up and pinch my pointer finger and thumb together. “Running thin as fuck. Gotta tell ya. And with all these bullets, brother?” I point to the club outside my office window above the Church in the steeple. I point to our club.

  I need this old bastard with me. I know he’s old. I know dementia is setting in, hard and fast. But goddamn it, I need these answers. “Clutch—tell me, brother. You understand what’s going on here, don’t you? Ilsa has two kids, one we’ve recently come into intel informing us what you’ve known all this time? Which is she’s ‘King’ O’Malley’s kid, that he doesn’t even know exists. And another…” I start snapping, hoping he’s still with me, “…who could possibly be my cousin.” I gag, thinking of Ben’s predicament. “But we don’t know that for certain? Am I following you? Are you following me? We on the same page, Clutch?”

  He nods. “Right, and now you’re falling in your Pops’ footsteps with another goddamn Blakeney girl, and now you don’t know how to stop it.” He stands before heading towards the open stairway leading downstairs. When he gets to the corner, he turns and answers a question I wasn’t expecting from what was left of this conversation. “I forget the guy's name, but he’s listed. Hell, Jackie boy, Eden’s been living with him on and off since she was a kid. Where’d you think she was always going? She’s been living with her dad. In Jersey.”

  But he doesn’t wait for an answer, he just slowly starts making his way back down the stairs.

  His phone, though—his phone does stop him. I hear him mumble on like the third or fourth step. “Goddamn, Daytona?” Then the stairs creak again under his weight. “Jackie boy, I thought we’d all made it in from Daytona?”

  And before I can even fully sit back behind my desk in the chair, it’s sliding back and connecting with the bookcase full of ledgers. “Answer it and give it to me. Fuck, Clutch.” I come around my desk and reach to snatch it from him. “Answer it.”

  “Hello?” I hear my little vagabond say over the speakerphone.

  And I can’t help it. For reasons unknown, I chuckle.

  “Pipsqueak, I knew you’d be calling. Just couldn’t wait to hear my voice again, huh?” I keep chuckling. Then she says what I’ve known, but haven’t been able to verify, since Dreads walked in with the letter Clutch found.

  “I need to know where Ben’s at. He’s the last person I know who was with my sister the last time I talked to her. Clearwater? Does that ring a bell? Because I don’t have a solid address to go off of for my sister. Other than the two on the letter she wrote. And my mother’s just been found. Raped, beaten within an inch of her life, and missing both ring fingers.”

  I hand Clutch my phone, mouthing, “Call Dreads” to him, then I clear my throat. “Vagabond, the last I heard Ben’s not been around Eden. He left her in Jersey some time back. Back before the club took the first hit, when Pops died. He’s been going through some shit with Rox. Who’s been going through some shit with me. I don’t think Ben knows where Eden is, baby,” I tell her truthfully, while trying, and probably horribly failing at comforting her with my words.

  Actually, I’m pretty sure all I do is piss her the hell off.

  Ty keeps glancing over his shoulder at me at the hospital as I continue to pace the hall. We’ve just come out of the triage room my mom was admitted to in the ER at Florida Hospital Memorial Medical Center after being found outside a bar in Tallahassee by authorities, raped, beaten and nearly strangled to death.

  They had to fly her in because of the extensive damage around her windpipe from the trauma of them trying to choke her to death. I’m hardly able to hold my phone to my ear as I shudder in another breath, trying desperately to pull in air around my need for answers while calmly voicing my questions. He doesn’t know jack shit. Not about me, not about my family. So, he knew who my father was before I did? I don’t give a damn. He doesn’t know me! All he knows is he feels sorry for me. And the shit he knows about who my father is hasn’t been verified. Yet.

  ‘I’m leaving you with my ma’s crucifix, and in case you try to get it twisted and make it into something it’s not, I’ll stop you with this: It’s not because of any other reason than I feel sorry for you.’

  I hate that his words sting, even in this mess. Even when this is going on. And my mom is in the hospital, and my sister is freaking missing. And this time, it’s to the point where the authorities have actually filed a missing person's report, which is a first. Believe me, with Eden’s history, I’ve tried. Many times. So have L and Ty.

  “I know, and as much as it grates on your nerves to admit it, I’ll remind you,” I go right back at him, hitting below the belt the best I can. “You don’t know shit. You don’t know shit about me, you don’t know shit about my sister, or my mother. You don’t know shit!” I whisper scream to him over the phone. I wasn’t expecting to talk to him so fucking soon, either, despite what he fucking thinks. I was trying to speak to Clutch. Hence me calling his damn number, not Jacques’. “And if you think Ben doesn’t know where Eden is, then you, sir, are high! Or lying to yourself. Where is he?” I demand.

  “Hon
estly, I don’t know.” I hear the phone shuffle on his end. “He was supposed to meet us in Daytona for Bike Week, and he didn’t. There’s a lot of shit going on here, Pipsqueak. Who’s with you? Ty with you?” he asks as I hear a door slam, before a chorus of men talking takes precedence over our conversation before another door slams, shutting the noise off. “Ty with you?” he repeats the last part of his question.

  “No. Yeah.” I don’t know. Don’t ask why my first reaction was to lie to Jacques. But my second was to tell the truth. Surely that counts. “I’m with Ty. We’re at the hospital. With Mom,” I whisper, feeling my hackles begin to lower a bit. “Why?”

  “What do you know about your father? Anything? I tried to question you, but even with the shit I gave you...I still think you would’ve told me, had you known. Especially with as much Versed as Dreads used. I wasn’t counting on you being such a lightweight, though. But still, when I questioned you later at the hotel, there would have been enough in your system for it to still work as a truth serum. Do you know anything about him? Anything that can’t already be found on Google?” His questions are clear, and the intentions behind them are even clearer. He knows what the fuck I did with the information he provided after he left.

  “No,” I mutter, before glancing up at Ty. I pull my cigarettes from my purse and point towards the hospital’s entrance. “I’m going outside,” I mouth to him, then head in the direction of the double sliding doors. “No. Other than what I could find on Google, I don’t know anything,” I tell him truthfully as I step off the curb and towards the smoking hut twenty-five feet away from the entrance of the hospital. “Besides what you riddled off. Not a single fucking thing,” I say around lighting my cigarette. “Does that make you feel all warm and fuzzy? Knowing that? Now, if you could— I’m looking for my sister. And for reasons, believe it or not, I don’t care if you think are valid, I think Ben knows where she is, or at least can tell me the last place he saw her. ‘Cause the address on the last letter I received from her, I think you recall the one, that address is a damn laundry mat in Clearwater! So, any information you could grant me would be great, your freaking highness!” Immature? A little, maybe. Warranted? Abso-fucking-lutely.