Leather and Sand

by Jayna Vixen

  It had been a long, hard road to walk, with an unclear destination. Being pregnant and alone those first few months had nearly broken Rhee until she learned to compartmentalize her emotions and ignore her memories. Her pregnancy progressed just fine until her third trimester. If it hadn’t been for Max and Manali, Rhee wasn’t sure she would be around to bask in the glow that was Sirena. She shuddered, recalling the pain, the blood, and the overwhelming fear that she was losing the only thing that really mattered to her anymore. But she survived, yet again, and she rebuilt her life around her new identity: Sabrina Jeffries, single mother, and up-and-coming artist.

  Her struggle had brought a strange sort of satisfaction as she shouldered every new challenge, feeling her sense of self-efficacy rise until she was strong enough to let her guard down more and more. Drawn into the baby’s room, Rhee gazed down at the sweet little face, so trusting and angelic in her slumber. That face, as chubby and round as it was, was still a familiar face.

  His face. God, her little girl looked and acted so much like her father that to look at Sirena was a daily reminder of Rhee’s heartache. She blinked back a tear as she crawled into her bed and pulled the covers over herself. Even if she wanted to, there was no going back.

  Chapter Four

  Dax despised airplanes. He hated being confined to his seat and he hated the food, but most of all, he hated the feeling of being completely out of control. When he was on his bike, even when he was doing ninety miles an hour, Dax was in control. He was one with his machine, mastering it as he whipped through the elements. But a plane—a plane made him feel unsettled in a very specific way. Dax Jamison did not like allowing someone else in the driver’s seat. Stiffening almost imperceptibly as they took off, Dax clenched his fists. When they were in the air, he pressed the call button for the stewardess, and checked his watch. It was 9:00 a.m.

  Never too early for that first shot of brandy.

  Several hours later, and an inappropriate number of stiff cocktails burning a hole in his gut, Dax was standing in the entryway of a large suite that boasted an epic ocean view. Even though he was slightly intoxicated, it was impossible to ignore the opulence of their accommodations. Hawk must have called in quite a few favors to get them set up here.

  “Damn! Nice place.” Wince looked around appreciatively.

  Dax didn’t want to admit it, but he was just as impressed. He wanted to dislike the island, and the mission—wanted the whole scene to suck so much that he was forced back home—to his comfort zone of jaded depression. The step-down living room, a fully stocked bar, and a flat screen television swayed him. Looking through expanse of glass at a panoramic view of the sand and sea, Dax had to wonder why anyone here would require a television. The island scenery was vastly different than the concrete jungle they had come from. The suite’s living room branched off into two separate bedrooms. He tossed his bags on the floor of the larger one and stretched out on the bed.

  Tonight, there was some high roller function at the hotel. The two grunts would want to go out on the town, but Wince and Dax had some Intel that would require them to remain at the resort to scope out the fundraiser in the main ballroom. Hawk’s connection, a shipping company owner, was reputed to make large donations at these kinds of events, probably to shelter some of his cash and to stay under the radar by masquerading as a charitable businessman.

  Hawk had his talons into a lot of things. It was one of his strengths. The man never passed up on an opportunity. Back in the day, Hawk helped one of his war buddies finance a shaky fishing boat venture. Decades later, the single boat and skeleton crew had grown into a rather formidable, international shipping operation. Hawk’s buddy now owned a fleet of container ships that routed through Russia, China, and Japan. The island port was the perfect place to stop and re-fuel before heading to the mainland.

  With finances looking grim, Hawk had apparently decided to call in his long-owed favor. Hawk’s buddy had agreed to the deal some weeks ago. Things never went smoothly, though. Not in the world of underground arms smuggling. Just a few days before their scheduled trip to the island, Hawk received word that the connection had contracted some acute illness and was bedridden. His son had taken over the day-to-day operations. When Hawk pressed for more information, there had been no response. So, things were up in the air and Dax was on the hook to secure the deal.

  It was going to be interesting to say the least. Hawk had no information on the son, but Dax hoped he was a reasonable man, like his ailing father seemed to be. The old man assured Hawk he would honor the deal they made decades ago—a favor for a favor. The Phantoms needed the connection. Running guns was easier than running drugs. But, drugs brought more cash—if you could keep your hands out of your own cookie jar. Neither Dax, nor Hawk, wanted to play watchdog over bags of white powder. One fuck up would cost more money than they could repay—and lives too.

  Because of their reluctance to get involved with that shit, the club was running on fumes.

  Pressure was mounting to take on some coke deals just to make ends meet. But, along with temptation, running hard drugs at home would bring added heat—no one wanted the DEA breathing down their necks. ATF was bad enough. Dax and Hawk were on the same page about the hard shit. They enforced a strict, chronic-only policy in the club. Dax and his current president had always worked well together, perhaps because Hawk had mentored Dax over the years. Hell, the man had given him his cut when Dax was just a teen. He was lucky to have Hawk—his president had always been there for him.

  Dax shook himself mentally to avoid a trip down another haunted memory lane. The last thing he needed was to be more distracted right now. He needed to focus, for the good of the club. Even though he battled his demons on a daily basis, Dax would always do what was best for his outlaw family. Sometimes making a deal meant making a sacrifice. Attending this fundraiser crap would mean trading his leather for a dammed suit and there was only one thing Dax hated more than a suit.

  A fucking tie.

  ***

  “Dax, what is this?”

  Looking at the kind of folks heading into the ballroom, it was easy to feel out of place. Even so, Dax knew that Wince was excited that he had been promoted. This was his first big mission wearing the club’s inner circle patch rather than the grunt label plastered all over his cut. The kid was anxious to prove himself-even if his first major deal would happen while he was dressed in a monkey suit, rather than in his leather.

  “Hawk’s connection is supposed to be here. These charities are good ways for high rollers to write off some cash. This guy owes Hawk. Shouldn’t be a big deal to take on a little heat in exchange for the increase in cash flow.”

  And then what?

  Dax wondered where his errant thought came from. He was feeling less grounded lately. The club had always been there for him—-its presence had supported him when he had no one else. Hawk, Gray, and the others, they were his family. So, why was he feeling so unfulfilled lately?

  Dax’s indoctrination into The Phantoms came at an early age, relative to the other guys. He never had a chance to be anything other than his place at the table. Shit, he wasn’t even sure who he would be if he didn’t have the club but he knew that he needed a change…a big change. Whatever he was looking for, all the pussy and liquor in the world didn’t seem to be helping him find his way. Shit, at this point, maybe he just needed to be alone for a while.

  Wince shrugged in response to Dax’s explanation, awkwardly adjusting his tie as they headed into the sea of suits and evening gowns. “Hope they have an open bar.”

  Dax nodded. “I’m sure they do. It cost me five big ones each for the damn tickets.” A grand would be considered chump change once The Phantoms secured the routing plan through the port.

  Once they entered the large ballroom, Dax cased the place. There were a few men he considered for the connection. Then, his eyes fell on the one person he prayed wasn’t the owner of Mako Shipping. While there were plenty of well-dressed donors
flanked by their sequined dates, there was only one suit flanked by a goon with an earpiece and an entourage of eager-looking women. Women like that followed money the way a hungry dog chased a juicy bone— even if the money was attached to a pompous ass who looked like he couldn’t shoot his way out of a paper bag.

  Dax narrowed his eyes as he studied the man. Spotting the logo that Hawk mentioned on the man’s tie, he felt his heart sink. This dipshit was the connection—Vance Vidal. Vance was drunk, from the looks of it. Or rolling. Dax assessed the young shipping company owner, unable to suppress his grimace as the other man sloshed half of his martini all over a slim, young blond. Dax continued his inspection, noting that despite his careless behavior, Vidal was dressed immaculately from his spiffy cravat to his polished, wing-tip shoes.

  Another petite, dark-haired woman approached on his left and the man puffed his chest out, but his eyes shone from the attention rather than with intellect. Dax groaned inwardly. He knew this kind of guy. This kind of guy liked to feel important. He would want fine wine and a private table in a prestigious restaurant to discuss any new venture. Looking at the man’s shiny, tailored tux and his gaudy, oversized Rolex, Dax knew the suit probably fancied himself a mobster.

  Fuck! Why me?

  Dax sighed, hoping he would be able to suppress his sentiment long enough to make the deal. Men who craved recognition were greedy. If they sighted something better, they couldn’t be trusted not to turn over. Maybe this kid’s just young and drunk, Dax told himself. Drunk on power and martinis. Gonna have to give him a chance. He’s our only lead, anyhow. Sighing, he ran his hand through his hair then turned to locate Wince as the lights in the place dimmed. Wince appeared with two drinks and Dax nodded at Vidal, who was making a display of rubbing a woman’s behind.

  Wince raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Let’s find a seat, man.” Dax tried to prevent the irritation from coloring his voice, and failed.

  The ballroom was packed but there were still some open spots at the tables on the periphery of the room. Perfect. He and Wince loped to the back corner, seating themselves directly behind the contact and his entourage. Dax noted rather uncomfortably that most of the women at the man’s table were petite and very young. Were they even old enough to be called women? They looked more like girls than adult females. Vidal seemed to have his type and they all looked to be barely out of puberty.

  Dax took a long swig of amber liquid, letting the fire that burned its way down his throat erase some of his discomfort. His suit itched and the tie felt like a noose around his neck. Dax shifted, trying to find a position that caused less chafing from the offensive article of clothing.

  Fucking ties.

  The place was decorated like a damned wedding, with folded napkins and little place cards on each table. Dax continued to observe the obnoxious kid who sat in front of him. Vidal inherited a load of money and a bunch of long-standing contracts along with it. Dax prayed that he would honor his father’s legacy and agree to the deal Hawk had put in motion before his old man met his untimely demise. If Vidal didn’t….well then Dax would persuade him. He never approached deals without a backup plan—a rule that had served Dax well over the years. Dax had set up this one right by taking the time to put some safeguards in place before arrived. The Natives president agreed to his conditions on a preliminary basis once he was reminded of his own debts to the Phantoms. Now that was sticking to the code.

  After a few minutes, Dax pegged Vidal’s head of security, a swarthy, older man of questionable ethnicity. Unlike his flashy boss, the other man was reserved. He stayed in the shadows, as though he preferred to be inconspicuous. The way the man stood smacked of military background. More than once, Dax thought the man’s expression flickered with distaste as he monitored the goings-on at the table.

  Interesting. Maybe he got handed down to the kid, too.

  The lights dimmed and Dax was grateful that his view of Vidal was now somewhat obscured. A man appeared on the stage and began speaking about the charity the fundraiser would benefit. Some kids thing. Made sense. The well to doers in the room needed a nice, honorable way to shelter some of their tax dollars. Dax knew he was jaded, but he didn’t give a shit. All he wanted to do was secure the shipping connection, seal the deal with the Natives, and get the hell back to Darling. At least he was slightly more comfortable there. He thought.

  There was a murmur in the crowd as someone approached the podium. Absently, Dax picked up his glass and brought it to his lips as the first speaker, the apparent organizer of the event, took the stage. He was mid-swig when the speaker’s first words floated to his ears and an explosion went off in his brain as he was assaulted by rapid-fire memories. Scents, sighs, satiny skin…the sensations wracked his body like electric shocks.

  Dax nearly choked on his brandy as he fought not to rip the speaker right off the stage. Instead, he froze, fixating on the tiny slip of a girl who stood there commanding the attention of everyone present. There could be no mistaking her, even from across the crowded room.

  It was Rhiannon. His Rhee.

  ***

  “What the fuck?!” Wince had noticed her too and had started to rise but Dax stilled his over-anxious friend by tugging his sleeve and shaking his head.

  “Now is not the time, Wince.”

  Wince looked visibly shaken. Dax watched the gamut of emotions run across the younger man’s face. Surprise, elation, confusion, and a finally little anger flickered in Wince’s eyes. Dax wondered if his own reaction had been equally as candid. He felt that part of him, the one that responded to hurt by turning inside, shrink even smaller as aversive prickles attacked what was left of his heart. His hand was actually shaking as he reached for the card on the table, and it pissed him off. He snatched the program and scanned down to find the event organizer’s name.

  Sabrina Jeffries. Cute.

  “Sabrina” was still speaking and the room hung on her every word. She sounded confident, poised, and she looked like a goddamn million bucks. Clad in a deep blue gown, he could see that the stowaway had filled out a little. Even from his vantage point at the back of the room, she seemed…older. Her passion for the work she was doing carried through in her voice, and Dax could see the patrons opening up their wallets to support her cause.

  The fact that Rhee was flourishing angered Dax for some reason. He felt his jaw tensing. His fists clenched involuntarily, rendering the helpless program into a crumpled wad, which he tossed onto the floor. He kicked back his brandy in one gulp as Rhee exited to deafening applause. Stuffing his roiling emotions deep into his guts, he forced himself to put her out of his head. He was here for a reason. Dax took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, making eye contact with Vidal’s head goon. He offered a common hand gesture that communicated that he needed an audience with the shipping tycoon. After a few minutes of back and forth between Vidal and his man, the man delivered an answering nod.

  Nope, now was not the time to deal with the stowaway. Still, Dax couldn’t keep himself from stalking her with his eyes. Rhee appeared near the front of the stage with some guy in a tux. Fuckin’ square. The guy placed his hand on the small of her back in a most familiar way. Too familiar.

  Dax felt a low, primal growl build in his gut as Rhiannon disappeared from sight on the other man’s arm. Something within him, something feral and possessive, demanded that he launch himself after her, rip out the other man’s throat, and pull Rhee into his arms, willing or no. Dax shook himself, forcing his mind to focus on the task at hand. Rhee left for a reason. She was obviously doing quite well. This was what she wanted and he had no right to mess up her life. Again.

  Dax glanced sidelong at Wince. The kid’s eyes were trained on the left exit of the stage, where Rhee had gone. Dax nudged him and Wince tore his gaze away, rubbing his eyes as if he had seen a mirage.

  “It was her. Right?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “What the fuck is she doing here?!”

  He cou
ld hear the hurt in Wince’s voice and hoped the same emotion did not leach into his own words. “Fuck if I know, man. We’re not here for her.”

  Dax forced himself to shrug, to give off an air of nonchalance. Apparently he was a better actor than he had assumed because his behavior seemed to bolster Wince’s ego.

  “You’re right. Sorry, man. It was just a shock, you know, seeing her…” Wince trailed off and Dax made eye contact again with their contact.

  “We’re in. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Five

  The fundraiser was a huge success, bringing in substantially more money than the last three events combined. After socializing with donors, calculating totals, and overseeing clean up, Rhee was beyond tired. And she was fucking annoyed. Despite her protests, her boss, Darren Shepard, had yet again insisted upon attending the function, just as he had done the last few times. Rhee felt somewhat indebted to the man. He took a chance on her when he hired her on the spot, without any references. The man even let her use the store as the setting for her first few auctions. Darren had seemed nice enough at first, and he had definitely stuck his own neck out on her behalf. In a way, she owed him. But, Darren was becoming overly attentive and increasingly persistent. Rhee recognized the signs. She had seen them before.

  Rhee hunted around for another place to work, but there were few options close enough to her hale. She needed the meager income her job provided. She settled for taking precautions, and praying that Darren wouldn’t cross the line. Rhee never worked late and she made sure never to be alone with her boss. Lately, something about the way he looked at her unnerved her, and she was finally starting to listen to her gut after all of these years.

  Rhee ticked off all of the red flags in her head. Her boss had started to invade her personal space more frequently. He made excuses to brush past her, or to look over her shoulder, and he constantly dropped hints that he found her attractive.