by Dahlia West
He’d heard it whispered that the more booze and weed it took to get him high, the more nasty shit he needed to get him off, too. Why such a fresh-faced young girl would offer herself to him was beyond him. She had to know who and what he was.
Diamond was used but maybe that was a good thing. She’d give him what he liked, with no fuss and no tears, and she wouldn’t try to wheedle her way into wearing his patch as a reward for services rendered.
The older woman had long-since understood that Preacher would never take an old lady.
Why would he? He didn’t want kids. And he could get all the ass he wanted at the snap of his fingers.
Jack set the bong on the table and reached for the offered bottle of amber liquid in Diamond’s hand. He twisted off the cap and took a long pull. It burned pleasantly on the way down.
Diamond unbuttoned her top.
As he looked at her, he figured she was almost the same age he was, thirty-eight, or thereabouts. She’d been around since Jack’s father had run the club and she’d stayed even after Scratch had drunk himself to death in a rundown trailer on the outskirts of town.
Ol’ Scratch was so magnetic that even the whores stayed.
Jack wasn’t surprised by that. Whether in church or in “church,” John “Scratch” Prior had apparently had a knack for leadership. John had started out as a minister, in Jack’s early days. Jack’s mother had been enamored with the man who could command huge audiences with a word or a look. They’d married young and traveled often, with little Jack in tow.
Tents went up and sinning went down, for a little while anyway, in every town they visited. But as the years went on, and people turned away from religion in larger and larger numbers, John Prior had grown ever more despondent about losing his flock. He’d taken up drinking, which Jack’s mother had hated with a fiery passion.
John had spent more and more time with his nose in a glass than in the Bible. Bar patrons became his new flock until eventually John had abandoned God altogether. Having long since decided that the devil had more power in this world and a stronger sway over men, John became “Scratch,” after Old Scratch himself.
When Scratch and Hap Sullivan had first formed the Badlands Buzzards, Jack still knew every one of his father’s sermons by heart. The men had taken to calling Jack “Preacher,” long before Jack had ever officially joined the club and required a nickname.
They’d been amused at his ability to quote full passages of the Bible and often got drunk, very drunk, then demanded he deliver sermons as they passed around yet more booze, drugs, and women.
Watching club whores being sodomized while recounting the tale of Sodom and Gomorrah had, undoubtedly, had certain…long-lasting effects…on young Jack Prior’s psyche, he was sure.
Looking at the bottle of rye whiskey in his hand now, he couldn’t quite recall any of the old verses. The words swam in his head just as they did on the label before his own eyes, hovering just beyond understanding.
Jack squinted at the bong on the table and then at the bottle in his hand. He hadn’t drunk much…yet. And he’d only taken one hit. Ordinarily it took much more than that to get him good and fucked up. He frowned, puzzled.
Diamond moved forward, snatched the bottle from his hand, and brought it to her own lips. She looked at him over the glass lip as she sipped.
He shrugged to himself and closed his eyes for just a moment. It had been an off day. She handed back the bottle and he took another slug. It still burned, but less than before. He leaned to the side and set it down on the nightstand beside the bed and then stood up to kick off his boots. He stumbled, though, and placed a palm on the bed for support.
“Preacher?” came Diamond’s voice from somewhere behind him. But she sounded far away, her voice strangely tinny.
He turned and narrowed his eyes, trying to ascertain which one of them had called his name.
There were, after all, two of them swimming before him.
Somewhere underneath the shimmering haze, Jack understood that this was all wrong. Very wrong.
The two Diamonds came toward him, reaching out their hands. Jack lifted his own, to brace himself on her and keep himself from falling. But her hands pushed on his chest instead of embracing him. He spun away from the bed and tumbled to the floor. His head cracked on the chipped wooden floor.
Somewhere above him, the two Diamonds laughed.
He felt hands on him, tugging at the waistband of his jeans. Diamond rolled him from his side to his back and let his head loll to one side. She leaned over him, hovering above his face with her lips pursed. For one crazy moment he thought she was going to kiss him. She spit on him, instead. “You should have made me your old lady,” she hissed. “Then it wouldn’t be like this.”
She slapped him. Once. Twice. Hard and sharp. The sound echoed in his ears. The sting cut through the hazy swirl of his brain but only for a moment. Jack reached up to try and shove her away, but he missed entirely. Her face loomed closer and he thought she was going to spit on him again. But she grabbed his hair, yanked his head up, and whispered, “Ride or die. Right?”
Then she slammed his head down onto the floor and blackness finally took him.
Chapter Four
‡
Erin parked her rickety truck in the only open space in the feed store’s tiny parking lot and killed the engine.
Hank was sitting next to her, angrily wiping his forehead with his handkerchief and shooting her the occasional dirty look.
Erin was tempted to tell him she could fix the ancient vehicle’s air conditioner so that it actually worked at capacity, but that it would have to come out of his weekly pay.
Somehow she didn’t think he’d agree to that.
They both swung out of the cab and headed into the store, which thankfully was air-conditioned. Halfway down the main aisle, she turned to Hank and said, “We’ll need to double the grain order and tell Flynn to cut back a bit on the molasses.”
Bee wouldn’t like that much, because she loved her sweets (even though her grain was already low in sugar), but King wasn’t nearly as physically active as the palomino and Erin couldn’t exactly give Tucker DelRay back an overweight stallion.
“Yeah, I got it,” Hank replied gruffly, then turned and headed to the ordering counter at the rear of the store.
Erin sighed as she watched him go. He was always working on a foul mood these days and he never really liked taking orders, especially not from her, it seemed. He’d take her money, though, which annoyed her.
She saw him sidle up to the counter and speak to Flynn Doherty. A smug part of her enjoyed the way the man’s eyebrows rose at Erin’s foreman as he repeated the new standing order for grain.
Saul Peterson was standing nearby and edged just a little closer so he could listen unobtrusively.
Erin was certain it would set their tongues wagging down at Darcy’s diner tonight. There would be talk that she was upping her order, that she was taking on a serious client. Let them talk. It was good for her, good for business. Snagging King as a rehab patient was going to do wonders for Thunder Ridge.
She turned down the tack aisle and found a pocketed saddle blanket and a set of weights to go with it. She had everything else she needed, at least for the first few weeks. As she looked at the rows upon rows of equipment, she pictured it (eventually) hanging on her own barn walls. She had the feeling that it was the beginning of something great, but the smile on her face died as she exited the aisle and saw Hank—talking with her father in hushed tones just a few feet away.
A spark of anger lit inside Erin and she stomped over to the two men, not even trying to hide her displeasure.
Hank pressed his lips together firmly and stood up straight, squaring his shoulders. He took a step back from Buck, looking every bit as though he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He did look truly contrite, though, and Erin found she couldn’t blame her foreman too much.
It was impossible to be too angry, actually.
Buck was like a planet that sucked in any passing body and wouldn’t let you go until you acknowledged his greatness.
“Well, hey, honey!” Buck said a little too loudly. Erin’s father did everything loudly—dressing, speaking…breathing. He was beaming brightly at her, as though she hadn’t just caught him pumping her foreman for information.
She shot a quick look at Hank who ducked his head and shuffled away.
Erin inclined her head at Dad and shifted the saddle pad and weights in her arms. “Buck,” she replied noncommittally.
The old man frowned as he glanced over his shoulder, checking to see who was within earshot. He didn’t like it when Erin called him by his first name in public. It highlighted all too well the struggles in their relationship, and Buck Walker only wanted to be known as the champ of the Cheyenne Rodeo Circuit. Not so much as the asshole who’d cheated on his wife so many times on the road that she’d finally up and left him.
Erin had been eighteen, newly graduated from high school, and only just settled into her college dorm room when her mother had called her from Saint Louis. A visit with Erin’s Aunt Helen, her mother’s older sister, had apparently turned into an extended stay. Permanent seemed to be a more fitting word.
Audra Walker was never coming back to South Dakota, that much Erin understood.
The feed store wasn’t the place to get into another screaming fight about it, though, and Buck was eyeing the saddle pad in her arms, anyway.
“Heard Tucker DelRay brought you that busted up stallion of his. He told me he was getting desperate to save him.”
Erin’s jaw tightened. King was hardly on his last legs, nor did she appreciate being essentially referred to as a last resort. “Yeah, I’ve got to get back,” she said quickly. “To get started.” She wasn’t about to let Buck needle her until she felt deflated. She’d made it this far without him (well, mostly without him) and she would be fine.
She turned on her boot heel without waiting for him to say goodbye. She made it a few steps before Buck called after her, “See you next week!”
Erin cringed a little but kept moving toward the front checkout line. It still irritated the hell out of her, though. He’d said it as though they were getting together for BBQ. If Erin had her way, she’d never see her father again for the foreseeable future. But not everything was up to her. And leave it to Buck to subtly remind her that he still had the upper hand.
Chapter Five
‡
“Wakey wakey, asshole.”
The words didn’t rouse Jack so much as the exploding pain in his belly. His eyes squeezed shut, trying to somehow will it away. Dragging air into his lungs was not just difficult, it seemed impossible. His ears rang with the rush of blood.
Jack hoped that was the only part of him pumping the precious red stuff.
When he finally opened his eyes, he saw three men looming over him. Hook, Haze, and Red. Hook was choking up on a tire iron.
Jack wanted to take it from him and beat him over the fucking head with it.
Red laughed. “More like wake and bake.” He leaned down, peering at Jack. “You still high, bro?”
Jack took in a deep breath, shot through with pain in his lungs, and wished like hell he was. Whatever they’d given him had worn off. His body and his head howled, though, and Jack wished he had some Trainwreck instead of being one.
Hook took another swing at him and Jack tried to lift his arms to ward off the blow, but he wasn’t fast enough. It ricocheted off his ribs and the explosion of stars behind his eyes told him that this time, there would be broken bones.
“You don’t protect the club,” Hook spat.
From his position on the ground, Jack recognized the same look on Hook’s face from earlier, from Maria’s bar.
Protect the club? From whom? From Chris Sullivan? From the one guy in the world who didn’t fucking want the club in the first goddamn place?
Jack opened his mouth to point out how fucking stupid Hook was when Hook brought down the tire iron and stopped the voice in Jack’s throat. Pain radiated out from the point of impact through Jack’s entire torso.
Red agreed. “We’re losing this town. And you’re not fighting for it. You’re just giving it away to any asshole with a Special Forces tattoo!”
“Where’s the money?!” Hook demanded, changing subjects quick as lightning.
Even through the fog of excruciating pain, Jack’s mind latched onto the question and the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Money. Ah. There was the rub. It was about the club for Red maybe, but not for Hook. Hook didn’t give a shit about the Buzzards. Jack could see that much now and it grated on his nerves.
Jack grabbed his side and rolled onto his hip, spitting blood into the hard-packed dirt. “What money?” he growled when he could finally breathe again.
“Don’t fucking play with me!” Hook shouted. “The money! All the money! We do deal after deal, but our pockets ain’t no fatter and I’m wondering why the hell that is!”
Jack tried to laugh but the pain made it come out more like a wheeze. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he snapped, glaring up at his vice president.
His ex-vice president.
Christ, Jack didn’t seem to be able to keep one for long, did he?
“What do you think?” Jack pressed on. “You think I’ve got side-deals? Shit you don’t know about? How the fuck could that be? You’re always around! And you see the money handed over. You count it yourself. It’s all there, Hook. Every last fucking dime. Last time I checked, we were doing pretty goddamn good for goddamn South Dakota!”
Hook let loose a cry that was half-bellow, half-snarled scream and brought the tire iron down again, this time on Jack’s arm.
Not enough to break it, but goddamn it hurt.
Instead of screaming, Jack dug his fingers into the earth as he fell back to the ground. “You’re from a motherfucking trailer park!” he shouted. “That flat screen at the clubhouse not good enough for you?”
Hook brought up the weapon again and Jack looked him dead in the eye. “There is no goddamn money,” he declared.
Red stepped forward, looking grave and unsure. “Jack,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “You can walk away,” he offered. “Just give us the money and leave South Dakota. We get the money. You get to live. It’s the deal of a lifetime.”
Jack kept his gaze on Hook and shook his head. “Go ahead. Swing that bastard as much as you like, with that pussy-limp wrist of yours. There is no money, Hook.”
Red snorted. “He probably smokes it,” he declared.
Hook sneered as well, but he didn’t look convinced. The man was certain Jack had money squirreled away somewhere, money he wasn’t sharing with the club. “Last chance,” he said menacingly while tightening his fingers on the iron.
Christ, thought Jack. Hook was such an amateur. He didn’t have the balls for torture, which is what Jack would’ve done if he’d thought someone was holding out on him. And all this bullshit about trading the money for his life was just that…bullshit.
Jack wasn’t making it out of this canyon alive and everyone knew it. That didn’t bother Jack nearly so much as the fact that he’d brought in men like these (again!), men who would not only turn on their club leader, but didn’t have the fucking balls to do the job right.
But that was the trouble with being in charge—exactly the trouble—you couldn’t bring in guys who were harder than you, not if you wanted to hang onto the reins.
“Fuck you,” Jack growled and hawked a wad of bloody spit at Hook’s feet. It missed, but not by much.
“Asshole,” Hook hissed and moved forward, raising the iron.
Jack finally sighed. “The bus station.”
Hook froze, tire iron in mid-air.
“Bus station,” Jack repeated and tucked his fingers into his boot. He felt the small patch of duct tape there, peeled it, and produced a small, silver key.
Red snatched it up, inspected it, and finally passed it t
o Hook.
“Holy shit,” Hook breathed as it glittered in his dirty palm. It was a minute, or felt like it, before he finally tightened his fist over it and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “End of the road,” he told Jack, raising the tire iron one last time.
“No!” Haze objected suddenly. “No.”
Hook and Red turned to stare at him.
Jack saw Hook’s eyes narrow sharply and wondered if Haze, that dumb fuck, was going to end up lying in the dirt beside him.
But Haze said, “I’ll do it,” loudly, surprising them all.
Hook’s eyes narrowed. “You?”
Haze nodded. “You said I had to be all in. You said I had to show you something.” He pointed the crowbar at Jack menacingly. “So…let me show you something.” He reached into his waistband and pulled out a Glock. “I’ll do him. And for that, you patch me in.” Haze’s face broke into a wicked grin. “Mr. President.”
Hook returned the grin, passed his flask to Red, and drew out a blade that gleamed in the moonlight when he flicked it open.
Jack steadied his hands, ready to disarm him as he came ever closer. But Red, not drunk enough to be lulled into a false sense of security, stepped up and slammed a heavy booted foot down on Jack’s wrist, pinning him to the ground.
Hook waved the knife, making the sharp edge dance like a moth, then he leaned down and shoved the tip between Jack’s leather jacket and the patch he’d worked so hard to get.
The leather split along with the stitches—any harder and it would’ve gone straight into Jack’s chest. After fisting the patch, Hook raised the blade, level with Jack’s throat, seemingly forgetting about his deal with Haze.
A dark moment hung between the two men before Haze reached down and grabbed at Jack’s free arm, breaking the tension. “I’ll take him,” the hang-around declared. “Out there,” Haze amended himself, gesturing to the canyons out there in the dark. “So no one sees the body from the road, when the animals come for him.”
Hook laughed wickedly and drained the rest of his flask. “A Buzzard eaten by a buzzard!” His eyes glinted with disturbing glee at the thought. He was still fingering the silver key in his palm, clearly anxious to get on the road. He turned away from Jack and Haze, having tasted victory and wanting more of it.
