King's Ransom: South Side Sinners MC

by BT Urruela

  “What you’re tellin’ me is no general, no guns, am I correct?” Preach asked.

  Jacoby nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “And what does that mean for our deal with Senator Hale?”

  Jacoby shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, boss. Maybe, if the general is ousted, Senator Hale will have ties to the new general coming in, but I don’t think we can hang our hats on that. Probably not many generals out there willing to sell government munitions to an MC for international distribution.” He smiled faintly.

  “I won’t hold my breath.” Preach sighed, his focus shifting to the walls, covered in photographs of years past. Some of the members in the older photographs had long been dead, while others sat in the room still, around the table. “Okay, I’ll call the senator in the mornin’. Robbie, can you contact General Campbell and try to set up a meeting. I wanna figure out what’s gonna happen and I wanna figure it out real fuckin’ fast.”

  Robbie’s expression still carried resentment, but he muttered, “Yeah. Guess it’s just fuck what I think, huh?”

  Preach shot him a glare but spared him no words. He continued to the room, “If the general does get forced out, we may need to figure out another option for the senator. A buyout of some sort. If it’s not weapons, it’s gonna be somethin’.”

  “He gonna play ball?” Dimitri asked with a doubtful expression on his face.

  “Perhaps. Let’s get a better idea of what we’re lookin’ at and go from there. Anybody got anything else?” Preach scanned the room.

  A few said no and the rest shook their heads.

  Preach glanced over at Robbie when he said, “Well then, meeting adjourned. Make sure you all make it out to the funeral this Sunday. No fuckin’ exceptions. Dismissed.”

  Three

  Annalise stood alone on the stage in fourth position. A single spotlight in the vast auditorium illuminated her petite frame. Arms out, head held high, she was poised, ready. A deep breath, and she dipped into a quick plié, then exploded up en pointe and turned a quadruple pirouette. Four perfect rotations and she landed again in fourth position, ready and waiting. Her body remained taut, never relaxing.

  “Again,” came the voice from the dark auditorium and so she repeated without question, without fail. Over and over the cycle continued though Annalise never once complained.

  “Good. Now, to your starting mark, for Giselle pas de deux,” Gen Horiuchi, artistic director of the St. Louis Ballet, instructed. Annalise moved to her position, awaiting the start of the music. A scattering of dancers from the company were seated throughout the auditorium watching the rehearsal. Their disgruntled voices were a chorus of whispers that nipped at her confidence like wolves from the dark recesses of the theater.

  The music began and everything else faded away. Annalise moved with precision and grace, as if she were one with the music, making even the most difficult choreography look effortless. Her body moved in ways mere mortals dared not bend and she was more like a spirit, the physical embodiment of each exquisite note.

  “Look at her move,” a young ballerina whispered dreamily from one of the back rows.

  “I could move like that too if I had all Daddy’s money for tutors and friggin’ Julliard,” a sour-faced ballerina named Kate responded. “Her father is Senator Hale. We all know he bought her way here.”

  Other begrudged ballerinas chimed in. Annalise’s addition as the principal dancer of the company had created quite a stir amongst the dancers. In the hierarchy of ballet companies, this was the pinnacle—a position a few dancers achieved after years of toil in the corps, and most never reached.

  At age nineteen, and fresh from Julliard, Annalise Hale was the lead dancer of the St. Louis Ballet. Hailed a prodigy at sixteen, she had offers from the New York City Ballet and the Royal Ballet, but instead moved back with her parents to St. Louis when her father, Ronald Hale, was running for senator of Missouri.

  “Enough.” Michel Gerdt, retired senior director from Russia, sat down amongst the cackling women and girls. “What you see on that stage, money cannot buy, lesson cannot teach. You see this girl. You see her dance and you think perfection. You are right, but, it is her passion that makes her legendary. This cannot be taught. It has to come from within the soul. A true artist has learned to harness the pain and the madness to create something breathtaking.”

  When the music finished, Annalise held her final pose until released by the director. Her heart raced with the exhilaration that only dance could give her. Her chest heaved from giving a hundred percent of her effort into each leap and turn. Her body ached but the burn was divine. She downed a bottle of Evian as they listened to the director make his final briefing for the day. The intense mood lifted the moment everyone was released to their dressing rooms. They were drawing close to opening night and the energy of true celebration filled the theatre.

  Quietly, Annalise made her way down the corridor, toward her dressing room. Groups of dancers were laughing and having a good time until she drew close and then they withered into whispering masses. They looked at her with disdain, like an outsider come to rain on their parade, then offered fake smiles and pleasantries. Once she was past them, the party began again. Annalise let out a long quiet sigh. She would never be part of their circle and she knew it.

  Finally, she reached the door with her name on it—as the principal dancer she had her own dressing room. She opened the wooden barrier to the quiet, lonely space and turned on the light. Silently, she went through all of her post-routine exercises, a ritual she did every day without fail. That was her life, a series of silent, painful rituals, that she was expected to perform day in and day out.

  Annalise began dancing when she was nine years old. For a ballerina, it was late to the game, so she spent her first three years training obsessively to play catch-up. Her mother was still very much involved at that time and took on the full-time roll of dance mom. “Thirty times while you brush your teeth.” Annalise could still hear her calling from down the hall, referring to the point and flex exercises she performed on the right and left each morning while she brushed her teeth. This was just the start of many routines that were added throughout the day.

  Annalise never minded. It made her mother happy and at that time in her life, it was all that mattered. Victoria Hale was the epitome of a perfect southern wife on the outside. Big, blonde hair and enough makeup to send Tammy Faye Baker scrambling to Ulta, Victoria carried herself with the poise of a woman who knew St. Peter would be rolling out the red carpet just for her someday. The only thing bigger than her Bible was her Cadillac, and maybe her closet alcoholism.

  Victoria had gained weight from her pregnancy with Annalise and despite every over-the-counter and prescribed medication she could get her hands on, she quite never got back to her former pageant day figure. This she blamed squarely on Annalise, and she never let the girl forget it. The cycle of anger and depression was fueled even further by her husband’s wandering eye.

  Annalise’s ballet success was the one thing that seemed to make her mother happy, so she trained like her life depended on it. After a while though, it wasn’t enough. Victoria’s drinking escalated into amphetamines to keep her going to all her meetings and dinners, Valium and Xanax to help with her anxiety, and opiates for her pain. All of this washed down with a martini or two or six. Annalise was left to pick up the pieces and keep her mother from making any kind of public blunder. Any failures were squarely the fault of Annalise. By fourteen, when Annalise was accepted to Juilliard, it was like being taken on a recess from hell directly into heaven.

  Her father had been furious. He yelled time and again that dance was a colossal waste of time and money. The more he complained, the more her mother pushed her toward it. He showed no acceptance whatsoever until her talents started to get press coverage and it increased his approval ratings. Her father had one goal—to become senator of the great state of Missouri and eventually make a bid for the presidency. Hi
s wife was the perfect compliant arm candy and his beautiful daughter paraded on the ballet stage like a tiny golden trophy of his excellent parenting.

  Annalise gagged, thinking of them both. She needed to hurry and get changed. A car would be out front to pick her up in the next fifteen minutes. Miles, her usual driver, was never late and Annalise hated to keep him waiting. He was one of her only friends in this city. The elderly man always asked about her day without any agenda. For the two-hour ride to Jefferson City, they would listen to old jazz and he told her stories of the good ole days. She finished stretching and grabbed her bag. Running down the hall, she met a group of dancers that were just heading out.

  “Would you like to have a drink with us?” Jake Nielsen, one of the male dancers, called after her.

  “I …” Annalise paused. Jake was handsome, although she wasn’t entirely sure if he fancied girls or boys yet. She had never had a boyfriend, but liked the idea of getting to know him and maybe some of the company a little better. Before she could answer, her car pulled up and the rear window lowered.

  “Annalise! Annnnnnnnaaaa Lis!” her mother slurred from inside the vehicle. Annalise just hung her head. There would be no going out tonight. She had to get her mother home before the press got a hold of this.

  “Sorry, Jake … um … I’ve got to go.” Annalise turned, face flushed with embarrassment and fled to the waiting car.

  “She never goes anywhere, I guess she’s just too good for us. Come on, Jake,” Kate called out, loud enough for Annalise to hear as she climbed in the vehicle. Anna’s shoulders slumped but she knew better than to say anything.

  As expected, two hours in the car with her skittle-popping mother proved to be one of the levels of Dante’s inferno. At first, Victoria was riding high and happy, but about twenty minutes in, her mood took a dive and she began the routine discussion about how wonderful her life had been before she gave it all up to become a mother. Ranting turned into sobs which led to hyperventilating and more skittles. By the time they reached home, Miles had to help Annalise get her mother up into bed.

  Thankfully, her father had not returned from Washington to witness the spectacle. After Miles left, Annalise brewed some tea and just sat in the dark. She should go to bed but if she did, the nightmares would be waiting for her. Sleep was vital to her performance but she refused to take any medication to help her. No matter what happened, that was a rabbit hole she did not want to go down. Her mother checked out and took that plunge years ago. Annalise was determined not to follow suit.

  It was 1:39 in the morning when Annalise heard the key in the front door. Panic instantly struck her, as if she had been doused in ice water.

  He was home.

  Without a sound, she ran on dancer’s feet through the dark house to her bedroom and locked the door. She slipped into bed and pulled the blanket over her head just before she heard footsteps in the hall.

  Silently, she prayed to God, if there was one, to let him think she was asleep. The footsteps stopped outside her door. Please God. Please! The doorknob jiggled. Silence. It jiggled again, this time a little more furiously.

  “Annalise … Annalise,” came the drunken whisper of her father. “Annalise, open this door.”

  Annalise did not move. Sheer terror had taken her over and she dared not even breathe. Her body broke out into a sweat and she clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. The doorknob jiggled again and then stopped. Annalise waited in silence. Would he go away or pick the lock and make his way in? She knew he would be furious in the morning, but he would be sober then and she could leave early to get to St. Louis.

  After several tense moments, she heard him walking on up the hall. When his own door shut, she finally breathed a sigh of relief. Annalise sank back into her pillows and closed her eyes. As she had every night since she was nine years old, she prayed for a way out. The years she was able to spend at Julliard were the happiest of her entire life.

  She told herself it would be different when she came home. She was older, stronger now. She trained eight to ten hours a day. No one would be able to hurt her anymore. But all the pep talks in the world wouldn’t have helped her. The moment she walked back through those doors, it started all over again.

  Tears streamed down Annalise’s face in the darkness. She choked back sobs as she could not risk making a sound until finally, sleep overtook her.

  There he was, waiting in the shadows of her subconscious. A hand over her mouth and once again she was nine years old, struggling to breathe and make sense of what was happening, panic paralyzing her body, and pain between her legs.

  The alarm blared at six in the morning. Holy shit! She’d slept in! Annalise sprung out of bed and showered with lightning speed. She threw on a pair of capri joggers and a tank. All of her dance clothes and gear were already at the studio. As she came downstairs, she could hear her father in his office, already on a call. With any luck, she could tiptoe out of the house and be in the car before she had to encounter anyone.

  “I’m a senator, goddammit!” he yelled into the phone. “You can’t just threaten me.”

  Annalise paused just before she passed the door. Typically, she would use this opportunity to get the heck out of Dodge but something in her father’s tone made her stop and listen.

  “How dare you call me on this line. How dare you make threats and demands. I owe you nothing, Preach! You hear me? Nothing.” He stopped abruptly and listened. Annalise couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it sounded like someone was yelling. “Don't ever call here again, old man. I surely won’t be answering, even if you do. Our deal is done. We’re fucking square,” he boomed and hung up the phone, slamming it down onto the desk.

  Annalise tried to quickly get past the office and down the hall, but it was too late.

  “Annalise, is that you?” he called out. “Annalise! Come here.”

  She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. She never should have been nosy and eavesdropped. Annalise wrung her hands as she entered his office.

  “Good morning, Father,” she greeted him politely making sure to stay close to the door. Every ounce of adrenaline poised to engage her fight or flight response, though Annalise knew she would never run or fight.

  “Close the door,” he commanded.

  No please! I need to get out of here. “I’m running late, sir. I have to be in St. Louis at eight thirty,” Annalise stammered and hoped for a miracle. Just then, the doorbell rang. Thank you, Miles! “That has to be Miles,” she offered apologetically.

  “I don’t care who the hell …” he began, but his cell rang and he paused to check it. Annalise took the opportunity to sprint down the hall and open the front door. “We will finish this discussion tonight,” he called out after her. “Come straight home, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” she responded stone-faced and let out a slow breath, quickly slinking out the door. It was time to put the mask back on and go out into the world like the perfect porcelain doll she was supposed to be. Her whole life was a facade and she was nothing more than a performer on a sadistic stage.

  When you are dead on the inside, pain is all you can feel. It becomes the rock that defines you. When everything else is gone, it remains. Annalise craved the burn. She not only worked through the pain, she channeled it into her dancing. She became the notes. Every melody was the very breath that flowed through her lungs and set her free. In that moment her body came alive and for a brief time she could fly.

  Four

  Grueling rehearsals were her saving grace over the next few days. Annalise stood in front of the full-length mirror in the studio, warming up. Despite being in peak physical condition, all she could see in her reflection were the flaws. She would cut a little off here or a little off there.

  Maintaining her physical appearance while keeping maximum strength was a delicate balance that every ballerina faced. Food was fuel and she ate just enough to keep her going. The constant fear of overeating and gaining even one ou
nce haunted her as much as the hands in the shadows. She consumed one-third of a single serve packet of oatmeal with protein powder and water. Ninety-seven calories, she noted, happy to be under the hundred max. The power over her own hunger and the ability to abstain soothed her. Some people cut themselves, but she could never mark her skin. As a ballerina, hers had to remain flawless. Except her feet, of course. The damage Annalise inflicted on herself, no one would ever see.

  Today would be exceptionally difficult but with enough work, she hoped to master a new move for the production with her dance partner, Stephen. The choreography required him to launch her into a butterfly, then catch and release her into a grand jeté, all in one sequence. The timing had to be perfect. There was no room for hesitation or error. Annalise bent forward and wrapped her arms around her right leg, lifting her left up behind her into a full standing split. This, she held for five minutes each side before finishing her stretching and wrapping her bruised feet. Most people look at dancers and only see the grace and beauty—they never see the pain or disastrous toes.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the outfit for later that night. A crimson gown and matching heels hung in the corner for her dinner later with her parents. A couple of big campaign donors were very eager to have dinner with the senator and his ballet star daughter. Annalise groaned silently; she planned to work extra hard today and could not wait to get lost in the music.

  Annalise despised the heels her mother always wanted her to wear to functions. Her mother never understood how she could wear those pointe shoes all day but act like a baby when it was time to dress presentably to go to a dinner for her father. What her mother didn’t see were the black-and-blue little piggies that looked as though they had been through a mosh pit instead of to market. Annalise would just roll her eyes and put on the heels rather than hear her mother complain.