by Ella Goode
He takes my hand and we creep up the carpeted stairs. We move silently from one room to another. At the end of the upstairs hall are two double doors. One of them is ajar. Wrecker sidles up to the door and pushes me to the side. He toes the door open and it swings in. Not a sound is made but our heavy breathing.
He darts around the corner and then calls for me in a soft tone. “All clear.”
Inside I see the four poster bed, pale linens and stains on the bed and the carpet.
“She gets shot on the bed and then collapses on the floor? Or maybe it’s the other way around. She’s shot on the carpet and stumbles backward and lands on the bed?” I try to make sense of the blood stains. I’m no forensic analyst but the trail is from the edge of the bed to about four feet beyond.
“Looks like it. Confirms what they said when I was spending the night in lockup. Shot twice. First in her heart and then in her head.”
“That’s very precise.” I frown. Too precise for a crime of passion. Two shots and both of them hit the body? Unless the shooter used handguns on a regular basis, it’s unlikely that both shots would have connected. When Judge first took me to the shooting range I had a hard time hitting the target from ten feet away. He told me not to feel bad because most folks are terrible shots even at close distance. New gun owners aren’t prepared for the recoil, or the trigger pressure surprises them. Unless a shooter is going to the range on a regular basis, hitting both bullets into a target is really, really good luck.
“No shit.” He circles around the room. “No other bullet holes that I can see. Whoever did shoot her knew his way around a gun. Let's go downstairs.”
As we walk down the stairs, I can’t shake the weird feeling that has set in. A big city executive whose favorite thing to do is play golf doesn’t seem the type to be able to shoot a person in the head and the chest. That takes some marksmanship even at close distance.
Wrecker finds the basement stairs by the kitchen. It doesn’t look like a basement. There’s a pool table, a bar, and a big screen set in front of a leather sectional that looks like it could fit the entire Death Lords club. Along the exterior walls are sliding glass doors that lead out to the patio we saw earlier.
“Does this area seem small to you?” Wrecker says. He starts counting off long strides as he walks from one end of the space to the other. I turn in a circle.
It is smaller down here. “Maybe there’s a missing storage area.”
Other than a bathroom, though, we don’t find any doors. Wrecker pulls a small penlight out of his pocket and starts shining it along the baseboards.
“What are you looking for?”
“False wall. This basement space is too small for the structure.”
The walls all have a fancy wood trim that makes it look like big picture frames decorating the sheetrock only it’s just paint and wood.
“You smell that?” Wrecker asks. He kneels down and runs his fingers up part of the wood trim.
“No, what is it?” I sniff but smell nothing.
“It smells like smoke and look here.” He points the light at the edge of a piece of painted trim. “This is smoke damage.”
Wrecker pushes on the wall but nothing happens. He rises slowly putting pressure along the trim piece and half way up, we hear a slight snick as if a latch has been released. Even though it’s dark, I can see his eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up.
“What’s in there?” I ask in a hushed whisper.
He shakes his head and presses an ear to the hidden door. “Oh shit!” he says abruptly tugging me toward the basement’s glass sliders.
“What is it?” I ask running behind him. He fumbles with the latch and then throws open the door. He doesn’t even take the time to latch it shut. “What about the garbage.”
“No time. Keep running,” he hisses and moves forward, nearly dragging me behind him. There’s a whooshing sound behind me. I don’t recognize it but I know it’s not good. I put my head down and run. We make it to the cart path before the whole world turns bright orange and a boom reverberates all around us. The ground shakes and debris starts flying. I stumble but Wrecker pulls me upright and keeps running. I can’t help but look back. The Trainor house is one big ball of smoke and fire.
“What was that?”
“Meth lab,” he pants out. We run past the security car, the maintenance building, and all the way to the back gate of the country club where the service vehicles enter. Sirens are blaring and lights are turning on everywhere. “Climb,” he orders. The fence is about ten feet high but there isn’t any barbed wire at the top. I hook my hands into the open links and start climbing. Wrecker is up and over the fence before I reach the top. He grabs my waist and helps me down the last few feet and then we’re off and running again.
When we’re about a quarter mile from the golf course, Wrecker stops and pulls out his phone. He texts something and then turns to me. “You up for another mile?”
“No,” I shake my head but start running anyway because while I’m exhausted from our scamper from the Trainor’s house, I don’t want to get caught by the police.
He pats me on the ass and we silently run down a gravel country road for what seems like two more miles before a dark truck appears out of nowhere. It’s Michigan. He throws the passenger door open and Wrecker shoves me inside. Michigan has the truck speeding away before the door is closed.
“When the hell happened?”
“Trainors had a meth lab in their basement. I must have triggered a booby trap when I tried to open a hidden door. The whole thing exploded.”
“You two okay?”
I nod, but I’m having a hard time catching my breath and I feel really cold despite having run all that distance and the heaters inside the truck being on full blast.
“She’s getting shocky,” Michigan says. His voice sounds like it’s at the end of a long tunnel.
“Shh, baby. You’re going to be fine. We’re both fine.” Wrecker pulls me onto his lap and hugs me close. “Drop us off at the apartment. I’ll swing by tomorrow and give Judge the rundown.”
“Don’t wait too long,” Michigan warns.
“We won’t.”
12
WRECKER
By the time we arrive home, Chelsea feels like a block of ice. I ignore the ringing of my cellphone and hustle her into the bathroom. While the water heats up, I help her shed her jeans, her sweater, socks and boots.
“Why am I so cold?” She clutches her arms and shivers. Her legs are trembling so much I wonder if I should have hit the stopper on the tub but the water’s hot and it should warm her up soon enough.
“Adrenal fatigue. Your body increased its hormonal levels during your flight from the Trainors’ and now it’s adjusting.” She frowns. I raise my hands. “I read while I was in prison.”
That generates a small smile from her. “What about you?”
“I’m still feeling the rush.” I shove my own jeans to the floor. “And I have a different reaction.”
A lone eyebrow arches up as she takes in my obvious hard on.
“You coming in?” She pushes the curtain aside and I whip the rest of my clothes off.
“Yup. Gotta make sure you’re warm from the inside out. Which one of these is soap?” I point to the multiple bottles in a small basket in the corner. I have one bottle—shampoo—and I use that to wash myself from top to bottom. Chelsea has seven. She hands me a pink bottle. I open it and it smells like Chelsea—fruity and delicious. Maybe I should start using her shit more often.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warns.
“What?” I ask innocently but she knows me too well.
“You cannot use my strawberry kiwi dessert body wash in your hair.”
“How about on my smelly arm pits?”
She leans into me, wet, plump and warm. “I like your man smell. Don’t ruin it. Stinky armpits and all.”
“Turn around,” I order gruffly. “Or this shower thing will be over before it starts.”<
br />
The way her stomach presses against my dick sends a flood of heat through my frame that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water. Instead of doing as I asked, she wraps her slippery arms around my shoulders and hooks a leg around my hip. If I dipped my knees, I could slide right between her legs and I know she’d be wet inside, too.
“Stop it,” I growl.
She rubs her tits against me, the hard points of her nipples scraping against my chest wall. Fuck. “I’m clean,” she says. It feels like a taunt and shit the water’s going to get cold any minute. I drop the fruit salad bottle onto the tub floor, crank the water to the off position and pick up my girl. Laughing, she presses kisses around my forehead.
Her legs wrap around my waist and my cock unerringly finds its target. With each step my dick rubs against her damp flesh and by the time we reach the bed, I’m about two seconds from blowing all over her.
“Baby, I’m not going to last long.”
She bites her lower lip. “Me either.”
Her glittery eyes tell me she’s just as far gone. Thank Christ.
I throw her onto the bed and drop a hand between her legs. The slick evidence of her arousal coats my fingers. I slide a single finger inside her and lean forward to capture her lips. She tastes of desire, smells of fruit, and feels like the only woman I’ll ever want.
“Every night I was away from you, every minute we spent apart, I imagined standing between your legs, kissing these lips, stroking your skin. Fucking you.” I shake my head. “No, fuck. Making love to you. Because I love you, Chels. You’re number one in my life. You’re more important to me than the Club, the cut. Judge. All of it.”
“Oh, honey.” She curls up and kisses me softly. It is less of a kiss and more of a blessing. “You don’t have to choose. You were born a Death Lord and you’ll die with your leathers on. And I’ll be there with you, every step of the way.”
And with that said, Chels reaches between us and takes my stiff rod in her hands and guides me to her opening. I watch as the crown of my dick disappears between her plush lips. We share a groan as I inch inside her. Silently I start reciting the alphabet backward so I don’t blow my wad before I make it all the way in.
“Can’t get enough of you, baby.” I clutch her ample hips and pull her up as I thrust all the way to the root. Her hands claw at the mattress as I set a furious pace. I can feel the orgasm rolling up from my toes but I’m not leaving her behind. “Come with me baby.” I lick my thumb and press it against her little clit.
“Yes, right there,” she pants. “Right fucking there.”
Rubbing her furiously, I hammer my hips forward hard and fast. Her tight cunt squeezes me as I thrust. I conjure pictures of the blue hairs in her salon, the shitty football play of the Vikings for the last decade, the inside of the MKII GT40. My thumb rubs against her clit in tiny circles until she’s writhing on the bed. Her hips thrust up, begging for her release. I bend down and capture her mouth, fucking her with my tongue, my fingers, my cock. Everything I’ve got I pour into her until her body tenses like a strung bow.
“Come for me. Right now,” I demand against her lips.
Her cry of release fills the air. She’s more intoxicating than any beer, more addicting than any drug. The orgasm I’ve been holding off overtakes me. I jet hot streams of come inside her. In fact, I come so hard and long, my legs turn to jelly and I collapse on top of her.
Her sweaty arms come around me to stroke softly down my back until my breathing evens out and I no longer feel like a spent wreck.
I roll off of her, replete and exhausted. I can feel the crash coming but Chelsea is still wired.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’m thinking about the garbage bags. What do you think Shelby saw? Do you think she’s in on the meth cooking?”
“Nah.” I drag a limp arm over my sweaty face. “I think one of the Trainors asked her to get rid of the trash and she looked inside and saw empty containers of formaldehyde and fertilizer. The Trainors live on the golf course and not a farm so the likelihood of them needing that kind of shit in big quantities was low. It spelled trouble and she knew better than to get rid of it.”
“How’d you know?”
“Smell and don’t ask me how I know the smell. I just do.” While we don’t traffic in meth or other drugs, I’ve been around enough clubs that do to be familiar with the smell and even the look of labs. A club with meth users isn’t one that lasts very long. Drug addicts would sell their own mothers for a hit. Brotherhood and loyalty aren’t compatible with the hardcore users.
“You know what else stinks?” Chelsea harrumphs. “Mr. Trainor. Where the hell is he? His wife gets shot, his house has a meth lab, we blow it up but he’s in the wind. One of the customers said that he works at the IDS Tower.”
“And you want us to follow him.”
“Yeah. Let’s find him and figure out what he knows.”
I roll on my side and prop myself up on my elbow. Chelsea is staring at the ceiling no doubt envisioning us catching Mr. Trainor making some sale on a street corner in downtown Minneapolis which isn’t going to happen but I also know that if I don’t go with her, she’ll go by herself. Also not happening.
“You ever do surveillance work?”
She turns her head toward me and a cute little wrinkle appears between her brows. “No, when would I have done that?”
“I have. It’s boring as fuck.”
“So?” she shrugs. “We’ll be bored together.”
I flop onto my back. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’m getting cold,” Chelsea moans. I hand her the thermos we refilled with hot water at the coffee shop a block down. With a grateful smile, she takes it and swallows half the bottle. “You know when you said it was going to be boring, I figured that it’s because you’d done it before and so all the newness has worn off, but no, it is excruciatingly dull.”
I wash down my I told you sos with a healthy swig from the thermos. After a half day’s work and a lame ass excuse to Judge that I know he didn’t buy, we drove up to Minneapolis and are now sitting outside the building where Mr. Trainor works. We’ve been sitting here, on and off, for the last two hours, hoping to see him leave. We know he’s inside because Chelsea spent the morning calling nearly every business in the fifty-seven story building that sounded like it may have an accountant. She hit pay dirt on the fourteenth call. Stage Coach Financial Services confirmed that Mr. Trainor was in his office but was away from his desk.
So now we wait. I gulp down more water even though I know that I’ll have to piss it out in a half hour but Chels is right. It’s damn cold just sitting here, across from the building. We’ve taken turns going inside and walking through the skywalk to warm up but it’s better when we’re together, even if all we’re doing is staring at a set of revolving doors. Plus we have to keep plugging the meter where the truck is parked. This time we’ve brought Abel’s vehicle. It’s a black Ford, pretty common around here.
“He’s leaving!” She tugs on my jacket.
My head snaps up and I spot a guy walking out of the doors wearing a dark wool coat over a suit. From what I can tell, it does look like the Facebook photos we creeped off Mrs. Trainor’s page. His shoulders are hunched and he runs an agitated hand through his already messy hair. When he reaches the sidewalk, he looks around—almost furtively. His gaze lands on us but bounces off. He doesn’t recognize us and there’s no reason why he should.
We don’t run in the same circles and frankly, even if we did, Chelsea and I are bundled up in heavy parkas, hats and gloves.
Mr. Trainor is no taller than five ten and, even with the overcoat, he looks small. I think Chelsea could take him. Trainor turns left and starts walking to the parking garage. We wait until he disappears inside before we hop into the truck. Abel’s vehicle smells new even though I think he’s had it for a year. He must never drive it. Some bikers are like that—wanting to ride the hog all the time, no matter the weath
er.
“God, I don’t know if I’m more orgasmic now having the heat on than I was last night when your tongue was between my legs.”
“I’d be insulted if I didn’t agree with you.” The heat feels great after standing outside in the sub-freezing temperature. At least it wasn’t windy. It takes ten minutes for Trainor to pull out of the garage in a high end Mercedes. “Either he makes a lot of money at his accounting firm or his meth production pays well. That’s a two hundred thousand dollar Benz.”
“Really?” she presses her face against the window trying to see exactly why the sedate dark four door sedan cost so much money. We follow him over to Lake Street, near the U of M, not too far from the Misery MC. The area is a little run down and the place he parks his Benz in front of is surrounded by cheap cars and junkers. He leaves it with confidence though, because he doesn't even look back when he climbs out of the car. He’s certainly comfortable here.
“Ready?” She nods and pulls her knit cap tighter over her ears. She's wearing a shapeless puffy coat and loose fitting jeans. I've left my leathers at home. We don’t want to be noticed. I take her hand and we enter the bar. There are no bouncers here and the interior looks about as worn out as the exterior. The floor is sticky and the mirror behind the bar is cracked. I order two beers which the bartender serves without asking for identification. As soon as we pay, he turns his attention back to the television.
Trainor slides into a booth across from a white male with long hair and an even longer beard. Chelsea sucks in a breath and turns away from the pair. “He’s wearing a cut.”
I nod and stare hard at the mirror trying to see if I can make out any of the patches on the front of his leather vest. We’re going to have to wait until their business is concluded and the biker leaves. The patches on the back will tell us all we need to know. Chels nurses her one bear and I’m half way into my second when the two are done talking. Trainor leaves first and the biker dawdles for a few minutes, tapping something out on his phone before he gets up and exits as well.
