Existential (Fallen Aces MC Book 4)

by Max Henry

  I nod, stepping back as King leads Dog out of the barn. The engines fade into the distance, the sound lasting long after I’ve lost sight of the trio. A deep-seated dread settles in my gut at the unknown path before me.

  Mel’s right—it could be months to years. I killed a cop, and if the investigation at the trailer goes how I think it will, they’ll pin the murder of the fed on me too.

  The only person who can bury the truth now, is the one guy who started all this mess.

  Donovan fucking Jessup.

  Time for a house call.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Dagne

  Hooch has been gone for a little over a week without contact. Life with the Fallen Aces, Lincoln, is comfortable, but I still feel as though I’m the square peg in the round hole. I’m not a true biker chick, and the whores love to remind me of that daily. According to some I’ve attracted the attention of their favorite men, but what can I do about that? I have Scandinavian heritage from my father, and a gorgeous mother—it was bound to produce something pleasing on the eye.

  Doesn’t mean I aim to use it to my advantage at every turn.

  “I’m heading out to get the boss lunch. You wanna come for a ride?” Dog hesitates beside the sofa I’m curled up on.

  We’ve become pretty good friends over the last week. He’s not as cocky as he’d like everyone to think under that brusque exterior. He’s just a lost soul, a lot like me. Difference is, he’s found his niche.

  “Sure. Give me five?”

  “I’ll meet you out front.”

  He gets it; being here twenty-four-seven drives me insane. I need the change of scenery to feel as though I’m still wandering, still looking, still have hope.

  King, the Lincoln chapter’s president, told me the second day I was here that they’d cleared any chance of me being on the police’s radar. Sure enough, an APB had been put out for Hooch—suspect wanted for two counts of murder—but nobody was looking for me.

  And especially not for his “dead” sister.

  Mel is an anomaly of the system. She was reported murdered a year ago, her body supposedly found in the woods outside Kansas City. She was wiped from the records and given a free pass through the rest of her life, provided she didn’t screw it up.

  Kind of makes me wish I’d thought to do that myself. Maybe it would have been easier to live life as a ghost rather than unwanted? Maybe then Mom would have forgiven me in death, possibly believed the things I said.

  I freshen up in the bathroom, tying my auburn hair back into a thick, bushy pony at the base of my head. Makeup was never my thing travelling, especially since I never had much money to pay for it. But Digits procured a few basics for me, and the last few days I’ve at least had mascara and a thin line of eyeliner on. I’ve got to say, my hazel eyes have never looked so sharp.

  Dog is seated in the truck when I step out the clubhouse door, engine running and some mix of southern rock playing loud on the stereo. He pats his hand against the outside of the door, singing along as I climb in my side.

  “You’ve got a good voice, you know.”

  He smirks. “Doubt it.”

  “You do.”

  He eyes me skeptically. “How you likin’ it here?”

  “It’s a roof over my head that I’m grateful for.” I stare out the side window, wondering what Hooch is doing right now. Is he warm, safe, and fed?

  Is he alive?

  “I’ve heard that there’s questions comin’ from down south about how you are.”

  “Hooch has made contact?” I ask hopefully.

  Dog shakes his head, turning us onto the road that leads toward town. “Nope. You make any other friends while you were there?”

  I rack my brain. “Beth?” She was the only person I can think of that I really bonded with for any length of time.

  “Try again.” I don’t miss the curl to his lips. He’s enjoying this.

  Oh, God. “Digits,” I moan.

  “Bingo, sweet lady.” He casts me a curious glance. “What’s the story there?”

  “No story,” I state a little too loud. “He was the one who gave me the lift back to the clubhouse. He’s the reason I ended up tangled up with you bunch. He helped me out at the start when Hooch was doing everything he could to make me feel unwanted. Digits bought me toiletries, loaned me spare clothes to use when I was doing work around the place. He was just helpful.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I twist my body to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Brothers don’t normally ask after a woman outside the club unless it’s serious.”

  “Is that so?” I cock an eyebrow at him.

  “Yep. If it’s totally platonic, then best you make that clear next time you see him.”

  “Yeah, well,” I say, “the likelihood of me returning to Fort Worth is pretty darn slim. Even if I could, I don’t think I’d want to.”

  He brings the truck to a stop at an intersection, checking both ways before he continues. “You’re a real mystery, Dagne, you know?”

  “I get that feeling, yeah.”

  He shrugs. “So open up a little, loosen up and let us in. We ain’t all that bad.”

  Why? It’s obvious that I don’t belong. “Even if I wanted to, Dog, it’s been made real clear to me that I’m not welcome in your club long term.”

  “Yeah?” he scoffs. “By who? The property?”

  “I still don’t get why you call the single women that.” The boy’s club mentality still gets me.

  “They ain’t exactly single. They’re just not claimed.”

  “Claimed? What the fuck is this? The eighteen hundreds?”

  He laughs, a full on raucous belly rumble. “No, lady. It’s just the way it is; the way it’s always been.”

  Goes to show how much I have to learn if I really do want to hang around. Therein lies the problem though? Can I stick it out? One week without Hooch and I’ve already got itchy feet.

  The only thing that’s kept me rooted, is that kiss.

  My fingers linger near my mouth as I turn back to the window, the memory as fresh as if it were yesterday. I can’t pinpoint what it is about the man that has me so captivated, other than the definite feeling he wasn’t always this way.

  “How much do you know about Hooch?” I ask, turning my head to catch Dog’s reaction.

  “A little.” He eyes me cautiously. “What did he say to you?”

  “That he used to be the joker. What changed?”

  “Family did.”

  I nod, pulling my legs up onto the seat beside me. “He mentioned something about problems growing up.”

  “No way, lady. That wasn’t the problem. Losing his old man, and sister last year almost killed him.”

  “Both of them? He only told me about the hit on Mel.”

  “Happened the same day,” he levels. “Look, I don’t feel comfortable tellin’ you everything, so I’ll just tell you what you can find in the papers anyway. His oldest sister, the middle child of the family, supposedly got murdered.” He glances across as though to make sure I’m catching on.

  “Mel.”

  “Right. But you know what happened there; she was put into hiding. Anyway, some shit went down with the guy who took credit for it, Carlos Redmond, and Hooch’s old man and baby sister met the reaper before the week was out. They held a service for Judas, that’s his dad, and Dana, his sister, but without bodies it was a bit weird.” He sighs, hands gripping the wheel tight. “From what I overheard, he didn’t take that too well. Went on a bender and spent the better part of a month wasted off his face on coke and booze.”

  “I can see how that would be hard.” Makes my problems trivial in comparison, and yet he didn’t chastise me in the slightest when I let him get a peek at my history. “What about his mom?”

  “Nobody’s seen that bitch for years. I ain’t ever met her, but the stories about her from the old boys aren’t all that high in the praise department.”

  “He didn�
�t say much about her, really.”

  “He doesn’t say much about anything.”

  It’s usually the ones who need to, that don’t. Dog and I ride in silence for the rest of the trip. I opt to sit in the truck while Dog collects King’s favorite for lunch—nachos with everything—and run through the pros and cons of staying in my head as I people watch.

  On the plus side, I’m fed. All they’ve asked for in return so far is to help out around the place where I can. But how long that hospitality lasts, I don’t know. The “property” as Dog called them, made it pretty clear that women who don’t belong to anyone don’t usually stick around long if they aren’t prepared to shake what their mamma gave them for the men’s enjoyment.

  Also on the negative side is the glaringly obvious: I’ve got no interest in becoming a biker’s woman. And let’s face it; Hooch is the only reason I’d stick around.

  Still, it’s enough to keep me curious, and the niggle of never knowing if I don’t try has me ready to stick out the hell that is feeling as though I’ve over-stayed my welcome for a little longer.

  Dog climbs into the cab with me, handing the cardboard container over. “What’d you decide?”

  “Huh?” I settle the package on my lap, buckled up and ready to go.

  “You coming back, then?” He gives me a knowing smile.

  “What made you think I wouldn’t?”

  He indicates to my feet as I rearrange my legs over top of my bag. “You bought all your worldly possessions with you.”

  Busted. “I wasn’t sure, okay?”

  “But you’re settled now?”

  “Settled, no. Made peace for now, yes.” I offer him a wane smile. “Take me home, Dog.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Hooch

  Fuck this shit. My arm burns where I’ve been itching it incessantly for the past twenty minutes. I’ve scratched the skin red raw, but it’s better to focus on than the garbage swirling in my head.

  I’d kill for a hit right now, yet cold turkey is the only way to go. When I can’t trust our sources on the street, I can’t be sure my location won’t be sold to the highest bidder if I reach out.

  What better way for the Wingmen or our new opponent to get at me than getting the police to do the dirty work for them?

  Gentle rain has fallen on my position for the better part of an hour now. My clothes are soaked, my boots making a slight squelch as I move. Wet leather is nobody’s friend. Yet I persevere in the hope that the fucking snake in the grass will slither home on its yellow belly any time now.

  Was I surprised when I arrived at the address I’d scored through a few favors of my Lincoln brother, Mighty’s? Fuck yeah, I was. Our friend, Agent Jessup, doesn’t hold back when it comes back to fancy digs. His house—or should I say fortress—is an architectural work of art strategically placed on a hillside to make the most of the valley views. I guess government jobs must be well paying when you’re single and reach his level.

  Do I have a plan? Shit no. Am I full of determination and misplaced frustration? Sure.

  This fucker is the reason I’m running to begin with. All I wanted was to track down Mel and bring her home, make my fucking miserable non-existent family at least partially complete again. But no, this fucker had to swoop in on the coattails of a promotional opportunity and reopen old files, dig around where he wasn’t welcome.

  This fucker had to have been the one who connected me to those kills considering I cleared all the prints. Who else would have got dirty cops to follow Dagne, and who else would have realized that an address on a piece of paper meant so much?

  He’s the only one who knew it was me there, and why.

  And all because he stumbled across the truth: I staged Mel’s murder to protect her should Carlos do some digging around of his own. I gave her a grave, and a body to fill it. And now, Jessup’s collecting the evidence that’ll tie it all together with a neat fucking bow.

  Clearly, the body in the grave wasn’t Mel’s—and this is the part that fucks me off the most. I followed that drunken whore for hours, listening in on her conversations and watching her interactions before I offered her a job for the night, making sure to cover my ass. She operated alone, didn’t talk about anyone special, and even when she started chatting post-sex like all women do, she never mentioned family or anyone who would miss her. I was certain she had no attachments, no strings, but what does that matter when the feds are going to stumble across an unmarked grave by accident?

  What kind of luck was that any way? My luck, is what.

  I set aside my morals for my loyalty. To ensure my sister’s life, I took that of another. It wasn’t pretty in the slightest, and now I’m not the only one who knows that.

  Carlos had specifics on how he wanted Mel gone: decapitated, body mutilated, and a clear message etched into her flesh. I followed the directions to a T, the directions set out to me by the guy Jessup hasn’t found—Carlos’ goon.

  You’d have to be pretty darn talented to track that body down. Especially since it’s mostly been devoured and digested by a few hungry stray dogs in the greater Kansas region.

  What can I say? I took an E that night to help me come up with the idea. As if I’d be able to carry it out straight. I’m not that sick in the head.

  A lonely vehicle turns up the curved driveway, drawing me out of the unpleasant memories of a night I wish I could go back and redo. As I watch Jessup park his pretentious Volvo in the garage, I wonder, what would have happened if I hadn’t staged Mel’s death? Would Carlos have still been hot on our tail? Would I have jeopardized things? My gut says no, considering Dana and Dad died anyway. When I look at the past in that light, then what I did in the name of protecting my own seems so pointless.

  It merely triples my guilt at who I became once threatened.

  I’m not that guy. I’m not a fucking killer. I’m the joker, the funny guy. I’m the big brother who always had his little sisters’ interests at heart. The son who wanted to trace a path different to his father’s.

  Yet, look at me now: a fugitive, planning on blackmailing a federal agent into silence, having killed another officer for the right to remain free. The quintessential outlaw.

  Wouldn’t Dad be proud?

  Jesus—there’s got to be a better way than this. So I go in there, threaten the fucker as he downs a hot cup of Joe, and most likely kill him anyway to eliminate the risk. And then what?

  When does the cycle end?

  This isn’t who I am. It’s not who I want to be. I don’t murder people as casually as flipping eggs for breakfast, and I sure as hell don’t take it upon myself to sort things that affect the club; I take it to the table. No wonder Crackers is up my goat about everything and Digits has been getting around like he’s on his rag half the time—I’ve lost touch.

  Lights flick on upstairs, illuminating the huge glass panel walls. Jessup’s house is one of those modern types that have no blinds or curtains, everything he does on display for the world to see. I track him as he walks through the living area to a bar and pours himself a drink. For a fleeting moment I’m certain he knows I’m out here; his eyes shift to the windows, hovering in my direction a little too long. But then, just as quick, he’s back to paying attention to what’s inside his house.

  The TV. A frozen dinner. Kicking his shoes off and then pulling files from a folio. He leans over the low table in front of his sofa, hands in his hair as he dissects the contents. Watching him like this, you could almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost.

  He’s living to breathe another day, not because he deserves to, but because if I cross this line, then I jump down the slippery slope to believing I have all the power. One kill leads to two, and then before you know it the tally is in double digits, triple. You stop giving a fuck what butterfly effect your murders have, and instead use them like currency: settle a debt here, bribe an official there.

  I’ve seen what that kind of power did to a man. He believed he was invincible for a while, destroyi
ng everyone and everything around him. Until a close call shook him up. Then he operated purely out of fear, conscious that even his own flesh and blood wanted him dead. Carlos died a scared and bitter man, and like hell do I want to end up that way: alone, and loathed by everyone.

  Jessup kicks back, beer in hand, oblivious to the fact I’m walking down his driveway as the rain sets in for the night. Water runs in rivulets down my face, dripping from my eyelashes, my nose, and chin. I turn my arms up to the sweet water, relishing the relief it brings my heated flesh.

  I look down at the lines I’ve scoured into my arms, at the reminder of what I made myself, and before long the water that runs down my face comes from not only the sky.

  Who am I, anymore?

  I sold my soul for the safety of those I love, and I traded my principles for a promise of no more pain. I loved and I lost, and it damn near killed me.

  What’s worse, is I wake every morning wishing it had.

  If this is life, I’m done living it.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Dagne

  Three weeks later

  The air-conditioning unit mounted high in the wall rattles as I stand with notepad in hand, making a list for the grocery store as Sonya calls the items out. Apparently she’s been the mother hen for one clubhouse or another over the years, taking it as her responsibility to make sure the men are looked after in every way.

  And they love her for it. I’ve never seen a bunch of such rough and rowdy men treat a woman with such dignity and respect before. They all address her as “Ma’am” or “Darlin’”, cleaning up their conversation when she’s near, or offering to help if she seems to need it.

  It’s nice, certainly more than I ever witnessed growing up. It’s how, in my mind, a doting mother should be treated.

  “Did you get the beans?” she asks, bent at the waist to peruse one of the lower shelves in the pantry. “I can’t remember if I said that already or not.”

  I move the pen in my hand down the page, hovering it over the paper as I check. “Yeah, I got them. Five, right?”