Tin Queen

by Devney Perry

  “Do you really want to know?” I asked, knowing her answer.

  “Probably not.” She leaned in and drew in the fragrant scent of the bouquet.

  Mom had always kept her distance from Dad’s business with the Warriors.

  They’d met at one of the club’s ruckus parties. Mom had been young and had gone to Ashton with a friend, the two of them somehow finding themselves at the clubhouse. But that had been the one and only time Mom had been around the Warriors. Once had been enough.

  She’d gotten pregnant with Shelby that night and Dad had insisted that Mom and his unborn child be completely removed from the club scene. Mom had always gone along with Dad’s wishes because she would do anything to keep us kids safe, even if that meant loving him in secret.

  Mom didn’t talk about Dad with her friends, just like we didn’t discuss our father. She still lived in my childhood home and if our neighbors had asked questions about the man who visited infrequently, she hadn’t answered.

  Their marriage had been by vow only. Their love had been confined to the walls of her home.

  I suspected the reason she turned a blind eye to Dad’s club wasn’t just to protect her children, but also to guard her heart.

  If she’d talked about the Warriors with Dad, it had never been in my presence. I was sure she knew more than she let on but she didn’t push for every detail. She trusted Dad.

  We’d all trusted Dad, even Shelby.

  Besides, Mom had no need for questions, because she had the life she wanted. Not once had she complained about raising three children on her own. She ran the show. She’d been the captain of our ship. Yes, she’d missed Dad and had cried whenever he’d left after his short visits, but the sad days had never lasted.

  Until TJ.

  After his death, Mom had changed. There was a bone-deep pain in her eyes now and that ghost showed no signs of disappearing.

  I wouldn’t burden her with more worry. She didn’t need to know I was tangling with the very men who’d killed her child. I would make the Tin Gypsies pay for his death, and maybe then, with vengeance delivered, would I share.

  “I spoke to your sister.” She kept her gaze locked on the roses. “Did you see him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how is he?”

  “He’s okay.” As best he could be in prison. “I gave him your letter.”

  I was the conduit for their communication because even though he was spending his life in prison, he still didn’t want Mom making contact. He didn’t want to risk his enemies discovering her identity, especially now that he would be helpless to protect her.

  So she wrote letters and when I made my infrequent visits, I passed them along.

  “You gave him the pictures of Christian?” she asked.

  “Yes, the letter and the pictures of Christian.”

  It wasn’t Shelby who made sure that Dad knew what his grandson looked like, it was Mom. With each of my visits, I’d bring a letter of Mom’s for Dad to read. She’d always tuck in a picture or two of Christian that she’d taken on one of their many grandmother-grandson playdates.

  The letters never stayed with Dad, but he’d keep the pictures. Those photos and my visits were his only connection to his family. Even I only visited with an expensive wig, reading glasses and a false identity.

  Maybe once the Tin Gypsies were gone, maybe after enough time had passed that Dad’s other enemies had forgotten about an old man living in a cell, she’d be able to visit. Maybe we could drop this ruse and be a family.

  No more hiding.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  It would be easier to lie and tell her Bozeman or Billings, but if something happened to me, which was a real possibility, I wanted her to know where I was. “Clifton Forge.”

  Her face whipped to mine, her eyes widening. “Nova.”

  I loved my name. Even spoken in Mom’s stern mom voice, I loved my name. But she called me June more often than not.

  And I just wanted to be Nova.

  “Trust me,” I whispered.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you?”

  “You just said that you didn’t want to know.”

  She scowled. “Now I’ve changed my mind.”

  And yet I still wouldn’t tell her the whole truth. Mom didn’t need to know the lengths I was going to or that I’d spent the night in a Tin Gypsy’s bed. She didn’t need to know that her youngest daughter was fucking the enemy—literally and figuratively.

  Or that it had been . . . unexpected. Even after two days, I hadn’t quite figured out how I felt about my night with Emmett. Not that it mattered. I’d have years to dwell on it once this was over.

  “Trust me, Mom.”

  “I can’t visit another grave, Nova.”

  “You won’t have to.”

  She looked to me, her eyes pleading. “You’re playing with fire. I know who lives in Clifton Forge.”

  “They have to pay.” And my revenge would be the lasting kind.

  The three remaining Tin Gypsies deserved a lifetime in prison. If my father was destined to live his days without freedom, those men deserved it too.

  Dash Slater.

  Leo Winter.

  Emmett Stone.

  According to Dad, he’d brokered a truce with the Tin Gypsies long ago, a truce to save the lives of men in both clubs. Dad had honored that truce for years, and he’d ensured that the members of his club had honored it too.

  When the Tin Gypsy club had disbanded, Dad had believed their rivalry was truly over. But those snakes had been biding their time. For years they’d waited to strike.

  I hated that they’d won.

  But I would balance the scales. I wouldn’t rest until they’d lost everything. Until their wives had divorced them and their children had forgotten their names.

  Maybe Mom thought I was seeking death, but death was not the goal here.

  Too much blood had already been spilled.

  “Nova . . .” Mom sighed.

  “Trust me.” I could—would—do this.

  Not just for Dad, but for me too. I craved vengeance.

  After Dad’s arrest, for the first time in my life, he’d confided in me about his club. He’d told me story after story about the Warriors. He’d told me story after story about the Tin Gypsies.

  He’d told me how they’d murdered my brother.

  We’d always known that TJ had died because of a rival club, but Dad had spared Mom, Shelby and me the details. Now that I had them, there was a newfound rage in my blood. A fury that wouldn’t ebb until the Tin Gypsies suffered too.

  Months ago, I’d asked Dad to let me go after the Tin Gypsies. He’d refused.

  Except Dad was running out of options and people he could trust. Fifty-seven Warriors had been arrested in the FBI raid of their clubhouse in Ashton. Most were looking at a minimum of five years. Senior members, like Dad, would never walk free again.

  As time went on, fewer and fewer people would remain loyal to Tucker Talbot. As it was, some of the video footage he’d kept from the clubhouse was the reason his members were facing prison sentences.

  Dad’s allies were dwindling and those still loyal were being closely watched.

  So Dad had been forced to be creative in his quest for vengeance. He’d been forced to enlist outsiders, like my cousin Doug Hamilton.

  A cousin who I’d never met—who had no idea I existed—but who I knew was an idiot. Doug had lacked both the brains and the motivation to wipe out the Tin Gypsies. He’d concocted a harebrained plan that had not only failed but landed him in a cell too.

  Doug’s failure was fresh, and I’d capitalized on it during my visit to the prison on Monday. This time when I’d asked Dad to let me have a chance, he’d agreed.

  Revenge didn’t have to be some complicated ordeal. The Tin Gypsies were far from innocent and all I had to do was find proof of their crimes. Their murders.
All I had to do was earn one man’s trust.

  Emmett.

  It had been so easy to get into his bed. His arrogance was astounding.

  He’d walked up to me at the bar, held out his hand and expected me to drop my panties. Probably because countless women before me had done just that. He knew how to use that handsome face and sexy swagger. I’d been just another easy score.

  I only hoped that by refusing to give him my name, by playing aloof, he’d be game for another round. Hell, he’d even brought me to his home. I’d thought it would take a few nights before he’d let me in to his bed. Either he had no intention of seeing me again or I’d snared his interest.

  I guess I’d find out soon enough.

  The Nova was packed with enough clothes to last me through the fall. Yesterday, I’d spent the day working at the office to finish a few tasks and touch base with Brendon before working remotely for two months. Then today, I’d cleaned my condo and made sure the fridge was empty before calling Mom to come over. Once she left, I was driving to Clifton Forge.

  “Does May know where you’re going?” Mom asked.

  “No. She knows I’m leaving town for a couple of months but I told her it was a work assignment in Bozeman.”

  Mom frowned. She was okay with us lying about our identities, but she didn’t like us lying to each other. I didn’t like it either.

  But I knew my sister, and Shelby would not understand. If she knew what I was actually doing, she’d flip out and I wouldn’t put it past her to come to Clifton Forge and blow the whistle. So this morning, when I’d taken a latte over as a peace offering, I’d looked her in the face and lied.

  Shelby had been testing a new cake recipe—strawberry with buttercream frosting—and I’d shoved an entire cupcake in my mouth the moment after the lie had passed my lips. The cake had kept the truth from slipping out.

  The guilt of lying to my sister was gnawing at me already. But I’d tell her the truth when this was over. Two months would go by in a flash, and if I was lucky, I’d find evidence against the Tin Gypsies even sooner.

  “Where are you staying?” Mom asked.

  “A vacation rental.” It wasn’t the fanciest place in the world, but it would do for now. All I really needed was a bed, a table where I could set up a temporary office and high-speed internet. I hadn’t seen the place in person but based on the photos and description, it checked the required boxes.

  I was meeting the host at six tonight. It was about time for me to head out if I was going to make it in time.

  “I’d better get going,” I said, motioning to the flowers. “These are for TJ.”

  She smiled and picked up the vase. “Thank you.”

  It was Wednesday. Mom went to his grave every Wednesday.

  Maybe someday, when this was over, we could get a new tombstone made for TJ. One with his real name.

  Tucker Talbot Junior. Though he’d always been TJ, it would be nice to include his real name.

  “Please be careful.” Mom closed the distance between us and wrapped her arms around me.

  I was in heels today—every day—and they made me a few inches taller. Otherwise, we were the same five nine. We had the same rich, brown hair and coffee-colored eyes. TJ had taken after Mom too, with her high cheekbones, heart-shaped face and full lips. Only Shelby resembled our dad. A fact that made her resent him more.

  “I love you, Mom.” I hugged her tight.

  “I love you too. If you go there again . . .” To prison. Mom struggled with that word.

  “I’ll tell him you love him.”

  “Thank you.” Mom would always love Tucker Talbot. For better or worse, he was the love of her life.

  Mom held me for a long moment, then let me go and picked up the vase of roses. She buried her nose in the blooms and smiled. “It’s a pretty day to sit with your brother.”

  “It sure is.” And it was a beautiful day to drive in Montana.

  I walked her out, giving her one last hug before handing over the spare keys to my condo. Lingering beside the door, I waited until she reversed out of the driveway before hustling through the house for one last check that the lights were off and the doors were locked. Then I climbed in my car and hit the road.

  The Nova soared down the interstate for the first half of my trip. I turned up the volume on the radio and let it soothe any fears that I was diving into the vipers’ pit.

  I could do this.

  I had to do this.

  For Dad. For TJ. For Shelby. For Mom.

  For me.

  They’d stolen my father before he’d had a chance to become my father. Dad had always promised Mom that when he quit the club, he’d move home. They’d live a simple life like normal retirees. Dad could be a grandfather to Christian. And we could get to know him. Finally, after only glimpses of him in our life, we could become a real family.

  That had seemed even more important after we’d lost TJ. Especially for Mom.

  But it was just another dream lost.

  I hated the Tin Gypsies for stealing that future. Almost as much as I hated them for stealing my brother’s life.

  I could do this.

  I had to do this.

  For my family.

  Halfway through my drive, I exited the interstate and navigated the two-lane highway that led to Clifton Forge. Once in town, my vacation rental host was waiting by the front door when I pulled into the driveway at six.

  Assuming my role as June Johnson, the persona I’d perfected after thirty-two years, I smiled brightly and thanked him profusely for arranging the rental on such short notice.

  I’d left Emmett’s bed on Monday and driven straight through the night for Missoula. Adrenaline and a huge cup of coffee had fueled the trip home. I’d crashed for a few hours, then woken for work yesterday. After arriving at the office, my first task had been to book a rental online.

  My host handed over the keys after a brief tour, then left me alone to settle in. Unloading the car took three trips and unpacking took just an hour. I killed the next ninety minutes by checking emails and social media on my phone. Finally, when the clock ticked past eight, I swiped on a fresh coat of lipstick, combed my hair and headed out the door.

  The Nova purred as I rolled down the streets of Clifton Forge. It took exactly seven minutes to reach The Betsy. And a shiny black Harley was parked outside the bar’s door.

  Emmett’s Harley.

  I smiled. Finding him here was better than having to call his number.

  I slid out of the car and smoothed down my dress. It was a favorite, the design simple. The straps were thicker than those Emmett had shredded from my lace top. It was the color of sunflowers in bloom and the fabric skimmed my curves. The square neckline plunged low to reveal a hint of cleavage—just enough to draw attention. And then there were my heels, a strappy pair I couldn’t wait to sink into the dimples above Emmett’s squeezable ass.

  It had been surprisingly easy to sleep with him.

  Some night, years from now, I’d take the time to dissect my plan and the ease with which I’d orgasmed beneath his touch. Some night, I’d let myself replay it from different angles and wonder if there had been a different way to gain entry into his life besides using my body. Some night, I’d likely feel guilty and ashamed that vengeance and cold, calculating anger had pushed me this far.

  Those worries were for some other night.

  Tonight, I was marching into the bar wearing my favorite pair of two-thousand-dollar heels.

  The Betsy smelled like beer and sweat and a gallon of industrial cleaner that would never erase the stale scent of cigarettes. It was even busier than it had been on Monday night. The tables were full of people who’d come for one drink after work but had stayed for four or five.

  A country hit blared from the jukebox. The thunk of balls sinking into pockets at the pool table cut through the music but I didn’t glance in that direction. I walked straight to the bar, slow and steady, then slid into a stool dead center. I chose o
ne with an empty seat at my side.

  The bartender walked over, bracing his hands on the bar and giving me a lazy grin. “Martini, right?”

  I touched my temple. “You remember.”

  “You’re hard to forget.” His eyes flicked over my shoulder and his grin faltered. I didn’t need to turn to know who was standing behind me.

  Emmett took the empty seat, his movements deliberate and fluid, especially for a man of his size. He stood at least six four. Maybe six five. I’d always had a thing for tall men. Add in the longer hair and short beard, he was rugged sex appeal with that bad-boy edge.

  His body was honed for pleasure and sin. He exuded confidence and control. His ego didn’t need the boost so I’d be keeping it to myself, but he was the only man who’d ever made me orgasm. I’d even tried to fight it. But Emmett had a talented cock and wicked fingers, both of which he knew how to use.

  My vibrator was in Missoula, safely tucked into the drawer of my nightstand, because I wasn’t going to need it in Clifton Forge.

  He was the type of man I didn’t let myself date because June went out with clean-cut businessmen. Men like those were seated throughout the room, the ones who’d shed their suit coats and tried their best not to blatantly stare at my ass as I’d crossed to the bar.

  Emmett had most definitely been staring at my ass and he wasn’t the kind of man to hide it. I liked that.

  He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, jerking up his chin at the bartender in a silent command to get lost. I liked that too.

  Maybe I liked the entire package just a little too much. But again, that was a worry for some other night.

  “Why the queen, Ace?” I asked.

  “Ace?” He looked over and the corner of his delicious mouth turned up.

  I dragged a fingernail over the forearm that rested between us, pressing hard enough to leave a white streak in the ink on his skin.

  The tattoo I touched was of two cards. A queen. And an ace.

  There’d be no calling him Emmett, not only because he didn’t know I knew his name but because names meant attachment. Names were personal. And for my own sanity, keeping some boundaries was necessary.

  Ace was the perfect nickname. There was no way in hell I was calling him babe or sweetie or honey. Besides, Ace fit.