Devil's Disciples MC (Box Set)
Page 95
She extended the deck toward me. “Pick one.”
Everyone was watching eagerly. I reached for the cards and paused. “Any of them?”
She nodded toward the deck. “Any one you want.”
Nervously, I pulled out a card and cupped it in my hands. I took a quick look, being careful not to let Ally see it. “Now what?”
She extended the deck. “Slide it in there without me seeing it.”
I did as she asked.
With her eyes locked on mine and a slight smile on her face, she closed the deck. Then, she shuffled the cards. After a moment, she handed me the deck.
“Here, you shuffle them,” she said. “I want to make sure they’re mixed up really good, and I don’t want you to think I’m doing something slick.”
I accepted the deck and shuffled them thoroughly.
“When you think they’re shuffled really well, give them back,” she said.
I handed her the cards.
She grinned and gave them to Peyton. Then, she arched her eyebrow playfully.
“Are you going to guess my card?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“That wasn’t much of a trick.”
“It wasn’t?”
I laughed. “Not really.”
She gestured toward me. “Why don’t you look under your shirt.”
I snatched my shirt up. Much to my surprise, there was a card stuck in the waistband of my skirt. I pulled it out and looked at Ally with an open mouth.
“Is it your card?” she asked.
I turned it over. Sure enough, it was the three of hearts.
Not only had she guessed my card, she somehow slipped it beneath my skirt without me knowing it. I was flabbergasted.
I looked at Peyton. “Can I see that deck of cards?”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
I flipped through the cards only to find out that it was, in fact, a normal deck of cards. It was missing one card, the one in my hand. I handed Peyton the cards and shook my head. Ally’s display was much more than a card trick, it was truly magic.
“That was amazing,” I said.
“She’s a slickster,” Cash said.
Ally rolled her eyes. “He’s not impressed with anything I do.”
“Well,” I said with a smile. “I am.”
She curtsied. “Thank you.”
I’d quickly gone from not wanting to be there to enjoying myself immensely. I felt bad for expressing an attitude when Reno asked me to come with him. Although I didn’t know what the emergency was that he was involved in, I felt comfortable knowing that while he was gone, I was going to be in good company.
The door that led to the garage opened. Pee Bee and Reno came into the kitchen. Upon seeing me, Reno smiled. “Having fun?”
“I am, thank you.”
He stepped right in front of me and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “I’m leaving now.”
I was shocked that he was touching me in front of everyone. It wasn’t where he touched me that seemed strange. It was how he did it.
It was intimate.
“Okay,” I said, looking him in the eyes while trying to hide my excitement. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
In complete contrast to the agreement we’d made, he leaned forward and kissed me. Not a friendly I’m leaving kiss, but a full-on you’re mine, and I don’t want you to forget it kiss.
With my margarita in one hand, I stumbled backward until I slammed against the countertop. Unsure of what to do with my hands, I returned the kiss with a drink dangling from one hand and my other fanning the air like I was guiding an F-16 to land on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier.
The kiss was everything that I imagined a kiss could one day be. Sensual. Powerful, yet kind. Pleasurable.
Oh, so pleasurable.
Our lips parted.
I stared back at him in sheer disbelief. He looked me in the eyes and smirked.
He peered into my eyes and grinned his signature sly grin. “See you in a bit.”
“Okay,” I murmured. “See you in a bit.”
With Pee Bee at his side, he turned toward the garage door. Still in shock, I gulped down half my margarita and looked around the room.
Ally chuckled. “Do you always do that when he kisses you?”
“Do what?”
“Flap your arms like you’re trying to fly?”
“I don’t know,” I said with a laugh. “That’s the first time he kissed me.”
“Oh. Wow. That was quite a kiss.”
Slightly embarrassed, I wiped my lips with the back side of my finger. “It’s not like that. We’re uhhm. We’re just friends.”
She spit out a laugh. “That wasn’t a friendly kiss.”
I had very little experience at kissing, but she was right. It wasn’t friendly. It was as passionate as a kiss could ever be.
The resonance from their motorcycle’s exhaust shook the walls. I gulped what remained of my margarita. I had no idea what was going on in Reno’s mind, but whatever it was, I liked it.
180
RENO
Manos’ insistence that Rex and I attend an unannounced late-night meeting was either a good thing, or a bad thing. I had no experience with drug dealers but had a feeling Alacrán wanted to satisfy himself that we were who we said we were, and that we had the financial resources to follow through with our promise before he committed to ship 15,000,000 dollars’ worth of drugs over the border.
That was my hope, anyway. Knowing Alacrán’s propensity for violence left me feeling uneasy, regardless of what my thoughts—or hopes—were.
With Goose leading us by five minutes, we rolled to a stop at the traffic light a few blocks away from Manos’ home. Wearing the yellow-lensed glasses he typically wore at night, Crip looked at me and shook his head.
“What?”
“I’m not liking this,” he said.
“There’s nothing about it I like,” I admitted. “But shit’s going to do nothing but get worse if we don’t do this.”
“I know.” He checked the traffic light. “You don’t think he’s going to have a problem with us being armed?”
“If he does, I’ll put a bullet between his eyes. What right-minded drug dealer wouldn’t be carrying a fucking gun?”
He laughed. “We’re not drug dealers.”
“As far as he’s concerned, we are.”
“We’re drug buyers,” he insisted.
“Po-ta-to, Po-fucking-tah-to. We’re two men with fifteen fucking million to spend on dope. We carry guns. If he’s got a problem with that, I’ll let the prick know what I think about it.”
“Keep your wits about you, Brother,” he warned. “Nothing crazy.”
Crazy very well could have been my middle name. I often made choices that were questionable by most sane-thinking individuals. To me, it always seemed right at the time.
“I’m not making any promises,” I said.
“Not asking for an assurance.” He released his clutch and crept forward. “Just reminding you there’s consequences for your actions.”
“I say we run up in there like we own the place. It’ll earn us some respect.”
He nodded toward the unpopulated street ahead. “Lead the way.”
I twisted the throttle and shot up the block like I was headed to a time-sensitive free blowjob convention. The cackle from my exhaust would warn Goose of our arrival from a mile away. With Crip hot on my tail I flew into Manos’ driveway so fast that I barely stopped without hitting the truck that was parked by the front door.
Crip screeched to a stop beside me. He pulled off his helmet and grinned like the event was an everyday occurrence.
He popped his neck. “Let’s do this.”
I hung my helmet on the handlebars and lifted my leg over the tank. After getting my pistol from the saddlebag, I gestured toward the door. “Follow me.”
Wearing an ear-to-ear smirk, Manos answered the door wearing clothes id
entical to the ones he wore on the day we met. Khakis and a wife beater were standard-issue cartel attire, I decided.
“Meester Wood. Rex.” He stepped aside and waved his hand toward the open floor plan of his home. “Come een, come een.”
I stepped past him and looked around. The living room was vast and decorated with pale-colored contemporary furniture that I doubted Manos chose on his own. The stark-white walls were sprinkled with abstract paintings that certainly didn’t come from Home Depot. The wide slats of dark wood flooring went on forever. Gray and blue throw rugs were littered about in the trafficways.
The odor of cheap aftershave hung in the air like a dense fog.
The smell sent a chill down my spine. I had no idea why, but I felt like I was on the verge of an episode. Nearly blinded as to my surroundings, I glanced around the room and shook my head. “Smells like a fucking whorehouse in here.”
Crip cleared his throat. “He’s in a foul mood. He needs a drink.”
“Primo can feex that, Amigo.” Manos slapped his hand against my back. “Jew want a michelada?”
“What the fuck’s a michelada?” I asked.
“Jew like spice?” he asked.
“Hot shit?”
He nodded. “Hot chit.”
“Love it.”
“Primo!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Tres micheladas, por favor y gracias”
I gave a mental nod. At least he said please and thank you.
The foul odor of the Old Spice cologne was distant, but recognizable to whatever bank of receptors in my brain was telling me run like hell.
I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard, hoping the spicy drink Primo was making would allow me to get through the night without wadding up into an emotional ball.
“Who called this meeting?” I asked with a laugh.
Manos laughed. “Eet wasn’t jew?”
“I was hip-deep in a tight-pussied San Diego State cheerleader when you called. This wasn’t my idea.”
He seemed unamused. He looked at Crip.
“I’m just along for the ride,” Crip said.
Manos giggled. “Jer the muscle, Meester Rex.”
“I like thinking I’m the brains.”
Manos shook his head. “Meester Teedlewood is the brains.”
Crip shrugged one shoulder. “If you insist.”
Wearing a blue Hawaiian-print short-sleeved shirt and a pair of slacks, Cousin strolled into the room with three drinks squeezed between his massive hands. Manos accepted one of them and handed it to me. Then, he handed one to Crip. After taking the last one, he raised it into the air.
“Salud!”
We each raised our glasses in toast. “Salud!”
“Salud!”
The beer was iced, infused with lime, and just as Manos said it would be, spicy. A hint of Worchester tickled my taste buds after I lowered the glass, leaving me immediately wanting another sip.
I raised my glass. “This is good shit.”
Manos grinned. “Good chit for sure.”
“Why are we here?” I sipped my drink. “Is there going to be a problem with our request?”
“Jer all beezness, Meester Wood.”
“My time’s valuable.”
Manos gave a nod. “Jew can buy cars. Big homes on the beach. Women.” He raised both brows just a little. “Even buy a jounger face. But jew can’t buy time.”
“My point, exactly,” I said in agreement.
He nodded toward my waist. “Jew have a pistola, no?”
“I sure do.”
He looked at Crip. “And jew?”
Crip gave a crisp nod. “Locked and loaded.”
Manos tilted his head toward the door. “Jew want to take them back to your scooters?”
I didn’t ride a scooter, but I wasn’t going to get in an argument about semantics with a man who didn’t fully understand the English language. For the time being, my firearm was my worry, and relinquishing it wasn’t high on my list of desires.
I shook my head. “Not interested in that.”
“We’re Amigos,” he said. “No need for pistolas.”
“Do you have one?” I asked.
He raised his arms in the air and did a slow-motion pirouette. “No, Señor.”
“What about Primo?”
He shook his head. “No, Señor.”
“El Alacrán?” I asked.
He shrugged. “He carries a pistola everywhere he goes.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Puts him at a distinct advantage, doesn’t it?”
“It geeves him comfort.”
“Mine gives me peace of mind,” I argued.
He gestured toward the portion of the home Goose was monitoring from the edge of the cliff. “I can’t let jew go in there with a pistola, Meester Wood.”
Having a one-sided pissing match about my pistol wasn’t a good way to start the night. So far, Manos’ demeanor was such that I was comfortable. I hoped Alacrán’s was similar.
I looked at Crip. “Well?”
“Up to you, Boss.”
With reluctance, I pulled my pistol from the waist of my pants and handed it to him. “Put it in the saddlebag. Left side. Zippered pouch.”
Upon seeing the pistol, Manos whistled through his teeth. “La hostia!”
He said, the host. It was Spanish slang for Holy Shit!
I preferred he have no knowledge that I spoke Spanish fluently. Knowing what they were saying without him realizing I understood them could prove useful.
“What?” I asked, acting surprised by his tone.
“That’s a beeg fahking pistola, Meester Wood.”
“Big pistols get big results.”
“I need one like that,” he said, giving the pistol an admiring look.
“That one’s registered to me,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you one like it.”
While Crip carried the guns to the motorcycles, I stepped beside Manos, into the opening that led to the back of the home. On the other side of the kitchen, in a room that overlooked the ocean, El Alacrán sat cross-legged with a drink in his hand, gazing blankly at darkness beyond the glass wall.
He was dressed in dark jeans, snakeskin boots, and a very busy powder-blue pearl snap western style shirt. Combined with the musky odor of his cologne, the paisley design of his shirt made my head swim.
Tall and lean, he was a handsome man of roughly forty years old. His hair was cut short on the sides, and swept back on the top, held in place with a slathering of gel.
He looked like a poorly dressed business professional, not a drug dealer or psychopath.
I could see how Carma would find him attractive. Knowing he once claimed her as a lover made my skin crawl with anger.
“Do jew mind?” Manos asked, bringing me out of the daze I was in.
I shot him a glare. “Do I mind what?”
He gestured toward my waist. “I need to check for pistolas.”
“So much for trust, huh?” I asked in a sarcastic tone.
I was wearing jeans, an untucked white tee shirt, and a leather vest. I could easily conceal another pistol beneath my vest, unnoticed.
Frustrated at the entire situation, I unsnapped my vest and raised my hands. “Be my guest.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d patted anyone down, that much I was sure of. After a very thorough check of my person, he looked at me and grinned.
“Jer clean.”
“No shit.”
“When Rex comes back een, I’ll check heem,” he said. “Maybe he’s clean, too.”
I gave a nod. “Clean as that pretty little head of yours. DO you shave that fucker yourself?”
He wiped his hand across the smooth skin. “Todos los dias, Amigo. Every fahking day.”
I smirked. “Sounds fun.”
Crip returned, and was promptly patted down. After satisfying himself that Crip was unarmed, he waved his hand toward the rear of the home. “Follow me, Amigos.”
“Meet my amigo, Angel,” Manos said.
Alacrán stood.
“Pleasure to meet you.” I held my breath and extended my hand. “Tyrone Tiddlewood.”
“Angel Ramirez,” he said, his tone free of any hints of his ancestry.
“Theese is Rex Ramirez,” Manos said, patting Crip on the shoulder.
“Rasmussen,” Crip said, correcting him. “Rex Rasmussen.”
Alacrán gave Crip a lengthy handshake, looking him up and down the entire time. “Angel Ramirez.”
Manos seemed uneasy with the awkward handshake. Nervously, he waved his hand toward the many pieces of vacant furniture. “Have a seat.”
I wasn’t about to sit anywhere near Alacrán. I didn’t want to smell him any more than I had to, and I sure didn’t want to risk being killed by a wayward bullet if things went awry.
The furniture was situated in a “U” shape, with everything giving a view of the glass wall. I took a seat on a white leather loveseat positioned at a ninety-degree angle of the sofa Alacrán was seated at.
Crip sat beside me, and Manos flopped down next to Alacrán.
Despite the 65-degree outside temperature, a fireplace on the far side of the room was ablaze.
Alacrán crossed his legs and cocked his head to face me. On the coffee table in front of him, a pistol and cell phone sat. I glanced at the pistol and recognized it as a .45 caliber Colt. His taste in weaponry was much better than his taste in cologne, that much was certain.
“Is funding in place for the business transaction you speak of?” he asked.
His failure to mention “the transaction” as being a drug deal warned me to use caution to do the same. “Funding is one hundred percent secured if the price is agreeable.”
“The price you spoke leaves little margin for profit.”
I shrugged. “I make up for it in volume.”
He uncrossed his legs, studied Crip, and then crossed them again. “I must be honest,” he said, making eye contact with me as he spoke. “I don’t trust your friend.”