Snake (Twisted Devils MC Book 6)

by Zahra Girard

  “Wait, hold on, Ruby, you’re on Tinder?” I say.

  She drains her martini and winks at me.

  “Why, of course I am. It’s been so long since my husband passed away and, being a fan of discretion and non-committal relationships in my old age, Tinder has been a godsend. And a magnificent way to fill my weekend. Lone Mesa has a very active community of men who’ve reached that distinguished age where they’re no longer intolerable.”

  I stare at her.

  “You’re not joking?”

  “No, I’m just a very busy woman who knows what she wants and doesn’t care to dither around with anything else. Though, I do actually talk to some of these men from time to time. Once they get old enough, they’re actually able to carry on a competent conversation. It’s refreshing, and a great way to pass the time between sessions.”

  “Sessions?”

  “Dear, you know what I’m referring to.”

  “She’s talking about sex, Addie,” Tricia says, harnessing the exceptional power that mothers have to embarrass. “Your father and I still have ‘sessions’ and often have two or three of them per night. Talking is how we pass the time while we’re resting.”

  “Please, stop talking,” I beg. “And you too, Ruby. At least about sex.”

  Her answer is an exceptionally loud sip of her martini. A sip that somehow cuts through the general raucous of the clubhouse as all the prospects behind us chatter about the meeting taking place between the patched members in church.

  I force my way through finishing the breakfast on my plate. I’m famished — and have been since I spent all that time this morning whipping up a breakfast for Snake that neither of us got to eat — and even finish the sausage after only a little hesitation.

  “Mom, do you know what’s going on? Did dad tell you anything?”

  “He doesn’t really talk about club business, Addie, you know that. He likes to keep us out of it,” she says. But, from the way she worries her lip and the exhausted rings beneath her eyes, I know there’s more to it. It only takes a moment’s look to get her to crack. “But he’s troubled by this new arrival in town. He didn’t sleep much last night. Not even after I… Well, usually there’s things I can do to help him sleep, but he stayed awake even after. You know how he gets when club business touches you and me. Plus, with the FBI coming around, it means he has to be careful in how he responds.”

  “And how is he planning to respond?”

  Ruby and my mom both give me a surprised look.

  “How does your father normally respond to these kinds of threats, dear Addie?” Ruby says.

  “By making them regret they’ve ever been born,” I answer.

  “He’s going to do the same for this one,” Tricia says. “He hasn’t come out and said it, but I can tell. If they’d just done the bomb by the warehouse, he might’ve been open to dealing, but once they threatened you and me, they crossed a line. You know how your father is.”

  Her answer makes me think of Snake and his reaction earlier. Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t take me to bed. It doesn’t surprise me; I know how my father can get. Still, Snake should know to trust me. I’d never say anything to put him in danger. I want him. I want him to be my first. I’ve wanted it for years.

  And now that I finally have a chance? There’s no way I’m going to give up that easily.

  Ruby look back across the clubhouse, narrowing her eyes.

  “I will bet you anything, Addie, that your father emerges from church within the next ten minutes, full of fire, brimstone, and fury righteous enough to make a crusading pope pop a jealous erection, and he’ll declare that he has a plan to meet with this newcomer. And that he’ll promptly decapitate them the moment they stick their neck out”

  I nod. It sounds like my father. Reasonable, businesslike, until you threaten his family. And then he becomes an animal more ferocious than a rabid grizzly.

  “Addie, it’s going to mean a few other things. For one, you will be kind of locked down for a while,” my mom says. “And it’ll be at least a week before you can do any sort of traveling.”

  I start at that.

  “A week? You know I have that photography thing in a few days. I’ve got my entrance photos picked out and everything. And, if they select me, I can display my stuff at their event in Santa Monica. This could be a new career for me.”

  My mom puts a hand on mine. “I know, dear. But club business comes first.”

  I pull my hand back. She’s been a model in more than a few of my photographs. She knows this event is important to me, a chance to branch out and establish an identity of my own, while still staying in the area and around the club that means so much to me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. There’s still the business deal in New Orleans to think about. That’s going to take more than a few of the boys from the club to see it through. And your father won’t want anyone leaving town while the club is stretched thin. I’m sorry, Addie,”

  I’ve been waiting ‘till next time’ for the last couple years. Through problems with the Makris family, through threats from the cartel, through wayward gun runs through Colorado. Every time, I’ve put establishing who I am on hold in favor of my duty to the club as the president’s daughter.

  I nod my head in agreement, but already I’m thinking, planning, plotting, looking for loopholes.

  For years, I’ve been the president’s sheltered daughter, doing my duty to the club — a duty which I’ve enjoyed — but which has put so much of my outside identity on the backburner.

  This photography event represents a chance for me to make a name for myself as Adella Garcia Stone; as a person, and not just the daughter of the president of the Twisted Devils MC.

  I can’t give that up

  All I need to do is get my qualifying photographs in the mail — photographs for the event organizers to judge and, hopefully, find me qualified to display at the event — and I can do that all without leaving Lone Mesa.

  Then I’ll just have to figure out how to get out of town.

  “Oh, here comes the Grand Poohbah now,” Ruby says.

  The doors open.

  My father emerges, along with the rest of the club.

  They’re all looking stoney-faced and ready for war. Even Snake. Though, within his piercing blue eyes there’s that same troubled look I saw last night. Something is hurting him, something he won’t talk about.

  Just as much as I want to get my name on the list for this photography event, I want to find out what’s bothering the man I care so much about.

  “Listen up, everyone,” My father’s voice booms. He’s not an especially large man — not as large as Blaze or Mack, or as hard-edged as Razor — but he has a commanding presence. Blaze and Mack and Razor all demand attention because of their size; my father commands attention because he radiates implacable authority.

  “Today, in just a few hours, we’ll be meeting with this son of a bitch who thinks he can dictate terms to my club. We’ll set him straight, and send him packing with a clear message — that if he doesn’t leave this club alone and stay the fuck out of Lone Mesa, he’s going to wind up wishing we killed him quick.”

  My father says more — mostly the kind of language that would make even the most fiery of revivalist preachers green with envy, but I stop listening. I turn to my mother.

  I have a plan.

  “We should throw a party for the boys,” I say.

  “Yes, with lots more gin,” Ruby adds. “And top shelf stuff, too.”

  “A party?” My mom says.

  “They hardly got to enjoy your steaks last night. They’re going to have a lot of stuff to deal with over the next week, we should let them know how much we appreciate them.”

  “You know, dear, that’s not a bad idea. Having some quality alcohol around here — none of this bottom-shelf dreg — and some decent food would boost morale,” Ruby adds.

  My mother is quiet for a while, thinking.

&nbs
p; Her eyes drift from me to my father, and she spends a long moment looking at him. I see the full range of her emotions play out in her eyes — concern for the weight my father carries on his shoulders, love for him and all that he’s willing to bear to take care of his family — and, even before she opens her mouth, I know I’ve got her.

  She never can resist treating my dad right.

  “Fine. You grab your things, I’ll grab a couple of the boys, and we’ll go shopping.”

  I think about saying more — about asking for her to make sure Snake comes along — but think better of it when I catch the look on her face; I’m already stretching it by getting her to step out and go shopping for the things to throw a party. If I ask for anything more, she’s likely to second-guess the whole thing.

  “I’m coming, too. Anything to get some fresh air — and some nice gin — before I’m locked down,” Ruby says.

  I grab my purse, throw on my leather jacket, and get ready while my mom grabs Razor and Trips — forcibly — and drags them towards Ruby and I.

  In moments, we’re piling in to my mom’s SUV and heading toward the store.

  “We need to stop by my place,” I say the second we leave the clubhouse parking lot. “I left something at home.”

  Tricia gives me a dirty look, but she steers the SUV toward my apartment.

  When we get there, I’m only gone a second, just long enough to run inside, grab the photographs I’ve spent weeks working on, and shove them into a large manila envelope. I take a second to seal them in, write the address on it, and now all I need is a couple stamps and a mailbox

  Ready, I race downstairs and back to the SUV.

  Soon after, we’re at the store.

  “Addie, since we did regular steaks last night, I want to change it up a bit. I’m going to make tacos. I want you to head to the butcher’s counter and get the best skirt steak you can find. Then get fifteen pounds of shrimp. The biggest shrimp you can find. I’m going to head to the produce section and get everything to make a salsa and the tortillas — we’re doing this by hand for the boys, since the next week will be rough. Ruby, you take care of getting some good alcohol. Whiskey and gin, please.”

  “I’m already ahead of you, dear,” Ruby says. “Bless the state of California and its rules allowing the sale of alcohol in grocery stores. What a true hallmark of civilization.”

  Still clutching my manila envelope, I race inside, not even looking for the butcher or seafood counter. Instead, I head right to the customer service desk and buy a whole packet of stamps, which I stick onto the envelope the second I get them.

  Now, all I need is a mailbox.

  And I’m certain that I can convince my mother to stop at one on the way home.

  Then, grinning and feeling proud that, even in the face of everything that’s going on in the club, I’m still working to establish my identity, I head to buy the kind of steak and shrimp that’ll leave every single one of the men in the club — especially Snake — satisfied and smiling.

  I pick out enough skirt steak to make the butcher’s eyes go wide.

  Then I head to pick out an equal amount of shrimp.

  But it’s at the seafood counter that things go wrong.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the lanky, older FBI agent that spoke to me at the clubhouse. His eyes are trained right on me, with an unmistakable message in them: come here.

  He’s been following me.

  “Can you hold on to this for me for a second?” I say, leaving the steak and shrimp on the counter for a very confused store worker to take care of. Then I storm over to Agent Jones. “What the heck are you doing here?”

  “Good to see you too, Ms. Stone,” he says. His greeting is too warm for my liking, and I don’t like either how he’s looking me up and down. “Glad you could come over for a chat.”

  “All I have to do is raise my voice and I could have someone from the club over here to beat you up before you know what’s hit you,” I say.

  “But you’re not going to do that, are you, Addie?”

  “You don’t get to call me that. Tell me, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “You know I’m here to ask you what you know about the man who’s been in contact with your father.”

  “I don’t talk about club business. Especially not to a damn federal agent,” I say, clenching my fists. Calling over Razor and Trips is seeming more tempting. I don’t like this man, don’t like how he looks at me, don’t like his predatory attitude toward the club, the club’s business, and, even worse, his predatory attitude toward me.

  Plain and simple, this man creeps me out.

  “You would talk to me if you knew who you were up against,” he said. “You’d be begging for my help.”

  “But I don’t. And it’s not for me to know,” I say. That last part and the obligation inherent in it — the limitations I live within because of my place in the club — makes me flinch on the inside.

  “If you care for your family, you’ll help me. Because, I can tell you now that the man your father’s going up is more dangerous than he knows. We’ve hunted him for years,. He’s a menace. For decades, he’s stayed under our radar and always one step ahead. It wasn’t until something happened in Carbon Ridge a few months back that we got close to catching him. And now this dangerous man is desperate. He won’t hesitate to come after you, your mother, or anyone else you love, just to get what he wants. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll help me.”

  I don’t care for how insistent this FBI agent is — no one talks to me like that.

  “You have five seconds to get the hell out of here.”

  He nods, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a card.

  “You change your mind, or decide you need someone who can actually keep you safe when your world falls apart, call me. That’s my personal number.”

  I take his card and watch him leave, stunned and still half-debating calling for one of the boys to teach him a lesson.

  I wish Snake were here.

  Even with how off things have been between us, I’d feel safer with him around.

  I shove the card into my pocket and turn around and head back to the seafood counter, more than ready to get the heck out of here, even though that means heading back to a likely lockdown at the clubhouse.

  In a rush, I grab my seafood order, pay for it, and hurry to find my mom.

  “You ready?” I say.

  “Almost. I just need to get some tomatillos so I can make a salsa verde to go with the steak tacos. Can you grab them for me? We’re going to have to rush to prepare everything before your father gets back from the meeting and picking up the delivery that’s supposed to be coming in.”

  “Do you think we can stop at a mailbox on the way back?”

  “Of course. There’s a post office not far from the clubhouse. We can drop it there. But only if we finish up here quick. I don’t want to your father to worry about us.”

  We finish our shopping, hurry out into the parking lot, and get back into the SUV.

  We’re a couple miles away from the grocery store, in one of the more rundown industrial parts of Lone Mesa that lies on the way to the clubhouse, when something pulls my attention out the window.

  There’s car tailing us.

  A car with a familiar face behind the wheel.

  Silas. The barrel-chested menace. And he’s not alone. Next to him in the front passenger’s seat is a face I don’t remember, and hope to never see again.

  But it’s not seeing Silas and his companion that takes my breath away in a sharp gasp.

  It’s the assault rifles in their hands.

  “Look out.”

  I barely have time to turn to my mother and scream before they open fire and all hell breaks loose.

  Chapter Eight

  Snake

  The meeting place is twenty miles outside of Lone Mesa on a highway to nowhere, at a closed convenience store that used to be the Gas & Sip, but now is nothing more than a r
at-infested, burned-out brick shell.

  It’s just Stone, Mack, Brewer, and me out here, parked behind the building, waiting for the mentally deficient son of a bitch who decided, in his infinite fucking wisdom, to cross our club.

  Every one of us is armed, and I have my pistol out, safety off, ready to bear. As does every single one of my brothers.

  When it comes to protecting our town and our families, we do not take any chances. This bastard is about to learn that the hard way.

  “Stone, I thought you said this asshole seemed like the punctual type,” Mack says.

  “He did. And the FBI doesn’t go poking around town for nothing. We’ll give him five more minutes. If he’s not here by then, any chance he has to talk his way out of this fucking mess is over. We’ll hunt him down and kill him like the rat he is.”

  We’re not kept waiting much longer.

  In moments, two black cars arrive on the flat desert horizon, speeding toward our location.

  They pull into the lot in front of us and park in a half-circle formation.

  Out of one car exits one of the men that Tricia and Adella described from earlier — the slender, creepy son of a bitch who came into the clubhouse with his muscle-brained brother — and another man that I don’t recognize from any of their descriptions. Both are armed, guns held at their side in the kind of loose-but-ready grip of experienced shooters.

  Out of the other car exits another armed man, and an older man who has to be pushing seventy. He’s got a pistol in the waist of his jeans, but he walks with the confidence of a man who knows he doesn’t have to draw his gun to get what he wants. His presence well exceeds his short height and his portly frame.

  Bowen Dale Cooper.

  Even if I didn’t recognize him, it’s obvious he’s in charge. And, though I keep my peripherals focused on the other armed men, I keep my primary attention on the old man. If it comes down to it, he’s the only target that matters.