by Rayne, Sara
“I wouldn’t say no play, but I keep my priorities in order.” She’d tried dating when she first got to college—even slept with a guy in her developmental psychology class after they’d dated for a semester. It’d been boring at best, and when she found herself ducking out of make-out sessions to check for texts from Voo, she’d ended things.
“What kind of play are we talking about?” He waggled his eyebrows.
It was hard to tell if he was being serious or making a joke of his earlier flirtation attempts. Maybe testing the waters again? Lex chuckled, hoping laughing it off would give him the hint in case he hadn’t taken it.
“None of your business.”
“Hmmm.” He kept staring at her, but the angle of the light hid his eyes. Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, she tried to think of anything she could say to break the silence—and then extricate herself from the vehicle—when he scooted back into the driver’s position and buckled his seatbelt.
“What do you say we get you tucked in for the night, good girl?”
Lex weighed her options. It was only a few more blocks in a straight line to her dorm, and he seemed to have sobered up. Refusing would mean going through a fifteen-minute negotiation, avoidable only by climbing across his lap and out of the working door.
“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
He was already shifting gears, so she strapped on her seatbelt and hoped for a quick, quiet ride home.
“Take it slow, okay?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” He pulled onto the empty street.
He inched along, and she’d started to relax by the time they reached the construction around the front of campus. Large pallets and stacks of steel beams surrounded by reflector-coated orange barrels loomed ahead in the gleam of the dim streetlamps.
“You should cut down the street to the left so you can use the side entrance to campus.”
“Huh, I thought there was a way through.” He kept his eyes on the road. She hoped he wasn’t seeing double. “Sure you’re not tryin’ to get me alone in a dark alley? Because all you had to do was ask.”
“Funny….” Please be joking, please be joking.
“Listen, we both know why you got in this truck with me so cut the act and tell me where you want to do me, baby.” He leered over his shoulder. “Bet we can find some cover in the construction.”
“The joke is getting old.”
“Who’s joking?” He swerved, speeding around an orange barrel. “I know what you want.”
“Believe me, you don’t.” She reached for the handle on her door, wondering if the whole “door doesn’t work” trick had been a lie. It wasn’t. The handle was gone. “Pull over. Now. I’m walking.”
“Don’t be so naïve. You told me you were leaving the party, then stuck around to see if I’d make another pass. I know the hard-to-get routine when I see it.” He zipped around a dump truck. “Why do you think I waited for you down the street?”
“What?” Her heart fluttered, and her grip on the seatbelt tightened. This was so not okay. “Grant, slow down. Let me out.”
“Not gonna happen. You’re gettin’ what you wanted.”
“Pull over. Now.” She swallowed hard, wishing her stomach felt as confident as her words had been.
“Relax, baby. I’ll make sure you enjoy it.” He pawed her knee. “Let’s go out to the park.”
“Grant, I said stop the truck!”
“Shut up. You’re about to piss me off. Unless you don’t want me to be so nice to you. You like it rough, good girl?”
In a few more minutes, he’d clear the construction. Then he could turn on any street he wanted, take her wherever. It was like a bad rape-prevention skit from orientation week. His hand slid further up her thigh, and her skin crawled.
Not happening.
Lex unclicked the seatbelt with her left hand, reaching for her keys—and her pepper spray—with the right. She scrambled for a better grip on the canister as the metal slipped against her sweaty palms. Her Horsemen protection tattoo shone in the dashboard lights, absolutely worthless this far away from Hell.
“That’s it, baby. Slide on over here. You like it when I’m mean to you?” He smirked. “Most chicks do.”
Oh, buddy, I’m gonna tell my dad on you. And unlike other schoolyard threats, this one packed a punch. Her nerves caught fire, fear thundering in her ears.
Snaking her left hand around the steering wheel, Lex yanked it with all her might as she aimed the pepper spray at his eyes. Grant roared in pain, letting go of the wheel to swipe at his eyes. She kicked at his foot on the gas pedal, sliding on the bench seat as the truck swerved.
The truck careened across the street, tires squealing as they wrestled for control of the vehicle. Terrified, Lex clawed at his hands trying to retake the wheel. Grant rammed his elbow into her cheekbone, and she flew back against the window, cracking her temple on the glass. Her vision blurred, pain spiking through her skull. Her gaze blearily focused through the windshield on the flatbed loaded with steel beams approaching too fast.
They slammed into the back of the truck. The impact snapped Lex’s head back. The sickening crunch and whine of twisting metal screeched through the air, and the windshield splintered, raining down glass shards on her face. Something hot and wet sprayed across her neck before she blacked out.
Pain shot up her spine when she came to, blooming on her cheek. Her mouth tasted like blood, and a bright light flashed in her eyes.
“Miss, can you hear me? Miss?” A man’s voice reached her, sounding distant and resonant. “I’m a paramedic, and I’m going to help you. My name’s Zach.”
Her throat closed as she tried to speak. A harsh squawking sound escaped her mouth.
“She’s conscious. Let’s cut her out, boys.”
Lex licked her lips and tried again, croaking, “W-what happened?”
“You were in a car accident. Can you tell me your name?”
“A car accident…? Grant. She jerked to the side to see if he was still in the driver’s seat, but pain shot up her neck, blinding her for a second. “He wouldn’t pull over, and I grabbed the wheel… It was my fault.”
“Hold your head still. You’re bleeding, and your neck may be injured. They’re coming with a brace in a few minutes. Slowly turn back to me, if it doesn’t hurt too much. I’m going to support your neck.”
Lex wondered why he’d risk it, when her brain finished registering the grisly scene next to her on the seat.
A steel beam had lodged in Grant’s chest. His blue lips were open, but no breath passed between them. Shattered glass surrounded them like macabre confetti from the steel beam piercing the windshield. Blood pooled in his lap and spilled across the seat beside her. His head lolled at an odd angle, and his unseeing eyes stared at her accusingly.
She’d killed him.
Chapter One
March (Three months later)
The gumbo was on fucking fire.
The ear-piercing shrill of the smoke alarm echoed through the shiny, stainless steel kitchen. Flames shot into the air above the stove, fueled by the boiling, black mass welded to the bottom of his prized gumbo pot.
Bad juju.
Voodoo slammed a lid down on the pot. Coughing, he waved away the thick smoke and acrid scent of charred shrimp. Burnt food brings sad news, his grand-mére’s voice whispered in his head. She’d been dead for a decade, but he would carry her ghost with him to the grave.
He covered his ears as the alarms continued to shriek. “Can you shut those fuckin’ things off?”
“Gimme a sec.” Coyote yanked a phone out of his pocket and punched in some info with his thumb. The alarm silenced.
The Four Horsemen MC’s resident tech guru, Coyote, had been working from one of Hades’ spare rooms since vacating Inferno Firearms. He’d offered to automate Hades in return for the space. Voo was surprised the biscuits didn’t butter themselves by now.
“Mer
ci.”
A blue northern had blown down from Canada, turning the sky crystal blue and the air tundra-crisp. The cold had given him a hankering for the bayou and a bowl of hot gumbo. While he’d had high hopes for the dish, he would never set foot in swamp again. His bayou days were done.
And sadly, so was his gumbo.
“Anytime, bro.” Coyote pocketed his super phone then carefully tucked away the new patch he’d been working on.
A few weeks ago, a rival MC had captured Coyote and chopped off two of his fingers before the Horsemen could rescue him. Sewing was part of his physical therapy, but the white symbol on the black leather gave Voo the creeps.
Climbing down from the stool he’d been parked on since sunrise, Coyote peered under the lid of the smoldering gumbo pot. “Supper’s ruined, but you made a half-decent smoke bomb. There’s a plus.”
“Voila merde.” Voo knocked a container of spatulas off the counter. The metal utensils clattered to the tile. “I burnt it like it was damned.”
“Chill, bro. It’s just fuckin’ gumbo. Not like anyone lost a finger.” Coyote’s casual teasing had taken on a sharper edge since his imprisonment. Voo was determined not to take it personally, but sometimes the remarks cut too close.
Voo glowered at the pot.
“What? This your first time screwin’ up a meal?”
“Non.” He fixed his gaze over Coyote’s shoulder. “The first time I burned something, I was nine. My parents used to drop me at my grand-mére’s whenever they went to tend their meth lab. We was makin’ couche-couche when we heard their cabin blow sky-high.”
The stench of burnt human hair and chemically melted flesh had entwined with the smell of the ruined meal. The scent haunted him to this day. He forced himself to take a deep breath of the acrid air in the now too-quiet kitchen.
Coyote cast his eyes to the ground. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.”
Voo had earned a reputation as a tight-lipped motherfucker. But Coyote’s gregarious personality had died in the godforsaken basement he’d been caged in, and Voo couldn’t bear the stony silence surrounding the young man.
The problem was, Voo’s thoughts tended to be on the dark and narrow—at least when he was sober. Coyote wouldn’t get much cheering up during his stay at Hades.
“Burning gumbo is bad juju. There’s a bad storm on the horizon, friend.”
Coyote stilled. “You believe in that stuff?”
“Would I be going with you to the rez tomorrow night if I didn’t?”
“You do a lot for me.”
Voo read the inner struggle on Coyote’s face. How could a man survive the kind of ordeal his club brother had and not have his faith shaken? Voo had learned long ago not to question the spiritual presences in his life. They had kept him safe while everyone he loved drowned.
“I believe, brother.”
The rumble of a motor in the parking lot drew their attention.
“Sounds like the breakfast crowd comin’ in.” Coyote crossed to the back window, lifting the café curtain.
“Should be Jagger and the Crows.” They usually came stumbling in for red-eye gravy and toast about this time in the morning, too high off their latest performance for even the road trip home to subdue them.
Voo hadn’t had a chance to speak to Jagger since the Apocalypse Rally. The Crows were trying to book more out-of-town gigs, and Voo was as busy as a one-handed street juggler with VP business for the Four Horsemen. He’d been looking forward to catching up with Jagger.
“Not unless they finally got a record deal. There’s a goddamn limo parking out back.”
Voo’s jaw clenched.
“You know this asshat?” Coyote shaded his eyes for a better view. “He’s in a suit… I’m guessin’, lawyer?”
“Worse. So much worse.” Voo pulled out a bottle of Jack hidden behind the spices in a cabinet. He poured himself a double, waited a second for the burn to kick in, and poured himself another.
“What could be worse than a lawyer?”
“My brother-in-law.”
Voo cursed the day Apollo Devine had tracked him down in Hell. When a man holed up in a desert and built himself a hotel and diner named after the Underworld, it meant he wanted to be left the fuck alone. Take the hint.
“And when the fuck did you get married?” Coyote squinted at him, tapping a finger on his chin.
“I didn’t. The wrong sibling died in the flood.”
“Want me to get rid of him?”
A few months ago, the question wouldn’t have come with such a deadly undertone. “Nah, I got this.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
I’ll give it some thought, bro. Schooling his features, Voo gathered up the gumbo pot and set it in the alley outside. The bitter smell of the burnt rice invaded Voo’s nose, making him gag.
The last time he’d burned gumbo would be engraved on his soul through this lifetime and into the next.
On a late August day as hot as Satan’s ball sac, the rain should’ve been welcome. But it had filled him with as much dread as the blackened pot on the stove. The sound pattered across the roof as the kitchen filled with acrid smoke. Artie hadn’t even noticed when she walked in, her face tight with worry, blonde hair soaked.
“The storm shifted. Katrina’s headed straight for us.”
Voo rubbed the tattoo on his right shoulder, a broken heart made of ocean waves—his reminder of what fate awaited a dishonest man. The last burnt gumbo had heralded the third-deadliest hurricane to hit the United States. He’d lost everything he cared about.
What would he lose this time?
He’d have Angel, the new prospect, scrub the pot later. Right now, he needed the foul scent out of his nose while he dealt with whatever bullshit Apollo had brought with him.
Coyote had opened all the windows by the time he returned, and Voo shot him a grateful look. Removing his apron, Voo pushed through the stainless steel swinging doors into his dining room. The place was quiet, the black-and-white-checkered floor shining from Angel’s fresh mop job and every red tablecloth in place.
Apollo straddled one of his red vinyl counter stools. The blond man looked more like Voo’s beloved Artemis—Bon Dieu rest her soul—than Voo could stand.
“You lost? I done told you, you ain’t welcome here.”
A shark with a Colgate smile, Apollo didn’t blink. “Is my attire inappropriate? I certainly satisfied the ‘shirt and shoes’ requirement.”
“Unless you’re wearin’ a coffin, I find you underdressed.” Voo didn’t believe in wishing a man dead. Yet he’d long-prayed the spirits would carry his fiancée’s brother to his well-deserved fate.
Apollo had wallowed in the outpouring of sympathy after Katrina, shamelessly accepting donations and fundraising. Unbeknownst to his fawning supporters, he’d also been pocketing large insurance payouts from the housing development he’d owned—the same one his sister had drowned in.
“Haven’t you seen enough of my family in coffins?” The guise of geniality slipped from the man’s symmetric features.
All of the Devines were flawless. Artemis had stepped into a beam of moonlight and stolen Voo’s heart. Possessed of gilded-blond hair and deep aquamarine eyes, the Devine siblings were poster children for perfection, right down to the strict upbringing by overbearing parents.
Apollo snagged a photo of Voodoo and Lex from the wall, studying it while Voo resisted the urge to smack it out of his slimy hands.
“Who’s the new wife?”
“She’s a friend.”
“A decent Artemis replacement. Looks a bit like her.” Apollo smirked. “In the face anyway.”
“She’s the daughter of a club member and about to be the Prez’s stepsister. Make one more comment on her appearance and kickin’ your ass will become a team sport.”
“You love to ‘climb the ladder’, don’t you?” Apollo shot back. His sister had enjoyed tweaking her family’s nose about her engagemen
t to a staff member. Voo had been happy to serve whatever purpose she had for him.
He saw no reason to stop now.
“Non, I’m simply better at it than you.” It was time for Apollo to go. “This counter’s reserved for payin’ customers.”
“I can’t find a menu. What do you serve here?”
“You can eat shit and die.”
“This is your version of customer service? No wonder you only serve bikers. I thought diners like this were built on the ‘Southern hospitality’ business model.” Voo could say one thing for Apollo, his douchebaggery knew no bounds.
“The day the devil comes to town isn’t a good time to roll out your welcome mat. Hospitable or not.”
“Fine—brass tacks it is. Sign my inheritance back over to me and I’ll never darken the door of your hovel again.” His blue-green eyes glittered, and Voo glimpsed the man behind the unaffected façade of wealth.
His smirk tasted of malice. “Never gonna happen, man.”
Fate had been nearly as merciless a bitch to Apollo as it had to Voo. Apollo was fresh out of rehab when Artie first introduced them. After spending years as the black sheep of the Devine family, he’d wormed his way back into the family will right before the storm hit. Apollo had been granted half of the hotel—one week before the hurricane shut it down.
When Mr. Devine passed away, his time of death clocked in three minutes earlier than Artemis’s death. All of her parents’ wealth and half of the rights to their grand hotel and restaurant on Bourbon Street had passed to her for those 180 seconds. And when she’d left this world, her will transferred everything into Voo’s possession. Apollo had been left with a decade of gambling debt and half of a hollowed out, condemned shell of what had been his sister’s dream.
As Coyote would say, Sorry, bro—sucks to suck.
“You may want to listen to me. I’ve got what it takes to change your mind this time.”
“I sincerely doubt it.” Voo poured himself a cup of black coffee, pointedly ignoring the upturned mug in front of Apollo.
“How does two million dollars sound?”
“Like you’re talkin’ out your ass.” Voo rolled his eyes. “And even if you had that kind of bank, I still wouldn’t sell to you.”
