by Nikki Ryker
Brenda hauls me to that dark, narrow corridor between buildings. I'm gratified to see that two spectacular bruises have formed beneath her eyes. I must have gotten luckier than I thought and broken her nose with my clumsy punch.
"Time for payback, you little bitch," she snarls. She withdraws another blade, this one longer and sharper than the first. "Trent says that I can take my time with you, nice and slow. Just so long as you miss your hearing."
Maybe I should be relieved that they don't want me dead--yet. But my stomach still sloshes, trying to expel the waffles Ryker had prepared for breakfast. I'm not likely to come away from this without pain. And even if I somehow escaped, I'm still in danger of being held in contempt of court.
She draws the blade along my jawline in a steel caress. "Let's start with those pretty little lips of yours. I don't think you'll be needing them once I'm through with you."
I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for pain that doesn't come. Instead, my attention is drawn by the roar of an engine and the angry shouts of Trent's men. When my eyes fly open again, I only have the vague impression of an Iron 883 and the man astride it. Ryker must have followed me at a distance. I'm grateful that he's being an overprotective bear. It might just save my life.
The bike knocks into Brenda, sending her sprawling. It probably broke her legs, but I'm far beyond caring at this point. It comes to an abrupt halt before me, and I'm scrambling onto the back of the seat before I can think. Another shot is loosed in our direction and hits the brick inches above our head.
"They're going to kill us," I say, voice near a shriek.
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Ryker snarls.
The bike picks up speed again and Ryker maneuvers through a break in the line to speed back up to Pine street. We can't return to my home or his without drawing fire onto Holly, Cruz, and Bryan. If any of them gets hurt, I'll never forgive myself.
"They're not going to stop and there are too many of them," I whimper as we whip past the gray scenery. This is a direction I've never been. It rides the line dangerously close to the divide that separates the Spades from the Calamity Kings.
"Then we'll have to go where they won't," he says grimly. He puts on another burst of speed and I realize with horror just what he's about to do.
The bike leaps over the invisible demarcation line that separates the two MCs. The line that keeps us from constantly warring with each other. Ryker's bike roars down Ash street and straight into King territory.
We've just entered a war zone.
12
Ryker
Shit, shit, shit. What the hell did you just do?
Everything inside me says this is a bad idea. Hell, I know this is a bad idea. This is the Calamity Kings’ territory. They have hammered it into me since I was a snot-nosed teen. Don't go there. Don't you dare cross the line. Stay on your own side. Cruz will kill me when he finds out. If he finds out. Cleo and I might disappear off the face of the earth if I'm not on my guard.
The Kings are just as likely to kill us, if not more so. But if it's the chance between immediate and certain death versus the potential for it, I'll take the slim chance we'll make it out alive. Trent is gunning for Cleo, whereas I'll be the King's greatest concern.
Cleo is an attractive woman with no Spade loyalty inked into her skin. Her chance of coming away from this unscathed is much better than mine. I'll take whatever price for this respite, even if it comes out of my hide. Maybe it will give Cruz enough time to mount an offensive against Trent.
Cleo's breath heaves against my back, and I wonder if she's crying or hyperventilating. Maybe it’s both. I can't hear her over the growl of the bike beneath me and the screaming wind in my ears.
The scenery that flashes by is unfamiliar. True, it's still South Hollens, so the buildings are drab and in disrepair. Most are sagging after years of being pummeled by the rain. From the brief glances I get in my periphery, this side of town seems even grungier than ours. The people here walk with hunched shoulders and barely look up as we rocket past. Some even cringe into the side of buildings as the bike rockets past. I wonder just what the Kings are doing to make them so edgy.
But we can't be inconspicuous. I'm astride a Harley, a brand the Kings don't favor. They're an eclectic bunch, but only one of the Kings rides a Harley, and that's their leader, Calamity Gardel. The man is a mean motherfucker, and it's clear to anyone with eyes that I'm not him.
Sure enough, we're barely six miles into King territory before I spot a Ducati Scrambler on our tail. And despite the seriousness of the situation, my stomach clenches with an echo of anger. The only way these show-offs can afford the stinking things is because they peddle misery everywhere they go. In Spade territory, drug dealers are quickly run off and while we didn't exactly discourage prostitution, we at least didn't allow pimps inside our zone. A working girl was safe at any Spade establishment.
Gardel runs this place like a mob boss. The structure is rigid, violent, and everyone had to pay fealty, even the citizens unfortunate enough to live there.
No one will help us here. Gardel pays off the police to turn a blind eye to his goings on. No one here got help unless Gardel was merciful enough to grant it. And drawing mercy from Gardel is less likely than drawing blood from a stone. I once again wonder just what madness made me come here.
The rider of the Ducati leans over his handlebars and speeds up to close the distance between us. I speed up as much as I dare and then take a sharp left onto a side street. It's narrow enough I can barely fit. The Ducati speeds right past, unable to follow. Sparks leap up in our wake, and I grimace. Though the damage to the paint job is the least of my worries, it's still annoying.
When we come out the other side I find still more of the Kings waiting for us. I have to swerve to avoid the nearest and pull to a complete stop when I realize there are no breaks in the line. We're hemmed in, unable to move an inch without the risk of being riddled by bullets. It's little better than the situation we faced with Trent. But once again, I'm comforted by the idea that Cleo might survive this.
There are no Harleys in the bunch, so I can tell that at least Gardel isn't here. I can't tell if that's fortunate or not.
The leader of this little band reaches up and pulls off his face, revealing the ugliest mug I think I've seen in years. His head is shaped like a lumpy potato, and the tats on his face don't do him any favors. I've got my fair share of ink, but I drew the line at the neck. Too easy for police to identify facial tats. His dark eyes narrow in dislike as he looks us up and down. His eyes flick down to my right hand, just for confirmation. It's as plain as fucking day what I am, and the snarl in his voice makes it clear even a slack-jawed thug like this one knows of it too.
"Spade."
"Ryker, actually," I drawl, trying to affect the air that I'm comfortable. "And you are?"
"Like I'm going to give you my name," Slack-jaw shoots back. "You're in our territory, Spade. We should just kill you."
I cast around wildly for any excuse that will extend our lives even a few minutes longer. There's nothing except white static, that calm that I find just before leaping into a burning building or into a wreck. It's only after the danger is over that I get the shakes.
Cleo squirms out from behind me and tries to put her tiny body before mine to shield me.
"Get behind me, Cleo," I hiss. Doesn't she know things are different here? Kings don't adhere to Spade ethics about women. She's just as vulnerable to harm as I am. The best case scenario they let her live to ransom her to Cruz. At worst, she could be beaten, addicted to drugs, and then peddled like a common whore for any King man who wants her.
Slack-jaw gives Cleo an appraising look that has my blood boiling again. Even with the horrible blazer, she's still a knockout. The breasts that strain the buttons of her blouse are evidence enough that she has an attractive body beneath all the layers. Like hell am I letting anyone else gets a look at it. I side-step to hide her from view.
She pushes at my
arm. When that fails to move me, she huffs out a breath and peeks her head around my elbow.
"We need to speak to Calamity Gardel," she says, voice sure and steady.
I crane my neck to stare at her. Is she insane? We shouldn't be in King territory at all. The original plan had been to circle back and enter Spade territory near one of our businesses. I could barricade it until I could get a message to Cruz or Penny. They'd deal with the threat while I made sure Cleo was safe. The plan had never been to stick around. It sure as hell hadn't been to march up to Calamity Gardel himself and offer ourselves up on a silver platter.
But I didn't contradict her. Doing so would be suicide at this point. So I draw myself up to my full height, gratified when a few of the Kings seemed a little leery of approaching. My voice comes out sure and steely.
"Where is Gardel? We need to speak to him."
The riders exchange glances. Whatever they were expecting us to say, this wasn't it.
"What do we do, Axel?" a voice near the front asks. The man has tugged his helmet off to reveal a tuft of thick black hair. He doesn't look to be over seventeen. Were the Kings recruiting kids straight out of high school now?
Axel shoots a poisonous glare at the speaker and he had the good grace to duck his head and mumble an apology.
"We're not taking you to the boss. For all we know, you're trying to kill him."
"Does it look like there's a piece on either of us? Take us to Gardel. If we don't return in the next two hours, they're going to send a group in after us. Maybe you beat them, maybe you don't. But you won't get this offer again, I assure you."
My heart thumps. I know full well that no one is coming. Even if Cruz finds out about the ambush, there are too few men willing to brave the King's territory to retrieve us. We're on our own. I keep my poker face in place until Axel finally blinks.
He shoves one meaty hand into his pocket and withdraws something silver. It's a simple flip phone, one that can be discarded and is hard to trace. He punches in a number and lifts the phone to his ear, never taking his eyes off me. He lets his gun hang in the other hand. I could probably take it from him, if I try hard enough. But with Cleo in the line of fire, I can't risk it.
The man switches from English to Spanish when the man on the other end of the line talks. My frustration mounts higher. My Spanish isn't very good, and I only catch about every fourth or fifth word. My name is thrown around a lot, as is the Spades'.
When the conversation ends, Axel doesn't seem pleased. He jerks his thumb toward the street they've blocked off.
"The boss says he'll see you. But if we find you with a piece on your person, we'll gut you like a fish."
"Duly noted," I drawled.
"And ditch the coat, doll," he says, leering at Cleo. I barely resist the urge to turn his face into so much hamburger. "Gardel likes his women pretty."
"I'm not his woman," she shoots back, but she does as she's told. She shrugs out of her jacket and lets it fall into one of the many muddy potholes. I know the loss won't trouble her. Her aunt was a hag and Cleo wouldn't have even worn the damn thing if she didn't have to.
The rain makes her shirt see-through in minutes, and more of the men stare at her, clear lust in their eyes. I once again side-step to put her out of their line of sight. This time, she lets me, sheltering behind the broad expanse of my back. She presses a gentle kiss between my shoulder blades and I warm by a few degrees. I'm not going to let any of these bastards hurt her.
Under careful supervision I'm allowed back onto the bike, and Cleo clambers on a few seconds later. The Kings arrange themselves around us in a formation. We're once again boxed in, unable to flee. If we try to make a break for it, we'll be shot. If I were alone, it might be worth the risk. But as I'm once again reminded, I dragged Cleo into this clusterfuck with me.
The streets grow danker and darker the further we travel inside the King's half of the city. When we reach the King's clubhouse, it's a shock to the system. It seems like someone plopped a freaking palace in the middle of a pile of shit. No other building around looks like this one. It's three stories high, new, and the owners spared no expense to make it look good. Another group of guards is waiting for us outside the gate. They look like they'd rather turn us to roadkill than let us pass, but Axel barks orders at them until the gates are opened.
Cleo's breathing is ragged again, and it's audible when we step off the bike and onto the front lawn. Though the place is well kept, it's still in South Hollens. The mud sucks at our heels as we approach. I seize Cleo's hand and give it a gentle squeeze.
"I've got you," I say in an undertone.
Then we mount the steps after Axel. The door swings open and we step into the main hall. There must be at least fifty people in the huge main room. Many of them are women, scantily clad and fawning over the King men. There must be at least three women to every man. But I draw my attention to the center of the room, to the most imposing figure of the bunch.
"Calamity Gardel."
13
Cleo
My eyes are glued to the man who sits, straight-backed and regal on what can only be described as a throne.
He's nearly as tall and muscled as Ryker, though there's cruelty in the set of his jaw and flashing deep in his eyes that Ryker could never possess. Protective and impulsive, yes, but my Ryker could never be cruel. This is the face of a man who could order executions without batting an eyelash. His eyes are a shade of blue so pale they look like chips of ice in his broad face. He's older than I expected. Forties or fifties, most likely. His features are rough-hewn, skin stretched tight over haughty cheekbones, a jaw that is heavy and masculine, under blonde hair buzzed so short it barely exists. He looks like an Aryan's wet dream.
A hush falls over the room as we enter, and Calamity Gardel regards us in that silence. His face is impossible to read, shrouded in half-shadow as it is. His eyes sweep over Ryker first, assessing the threat they all face. And then, when he's satisfied, he turns those glacial eyes to me. A small smile tugs at the edges of his thin lips, though I don't see the lust that's clear on other men's faces. He just seems to regard me with benign interest, like I'm some exotic bird that's wandered into his home.
When he speaks it's a basso rumble, laced with a hint of gravel. I had the off the wall thought that his bedroom talk had to be next level. I banished it at once. I'm not here to jump into Gardel's bed. At least, I hope it doesn't come to that. Ryker would probably kill Gardel for even suggesting it.
"Ryker Fenton," he drawls. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
The genteel nature of the question freezes me cold. This hospitality is hiding something sinister. Perhaps the prelude to a beating.
Ryker stiffens at the sound of his name from this man. He's probably wondering just how he knows it. We've never crossed the line before and, so far as I know, none of the Kings have invaded our side of the line either.
Gardel lets out a low, humorless chuckle.
"You didn't think I'd leave myself ignorant to the competition, did you? You're Ryker, Roman Cruz and Trent McNeil's second in command. Quite a bruiser I hear, too."
Ryker shakes off the compliment like a dog shrugging off water. "Not Trent's. Those days are over."
Trent cocks one eyebrow and tilts his head to the side. "No? Trouble in paradise? I always hoped that the foolish co-presidency would split you in half. Better one man rule, I say."
He would, as that man was him. Would he feel if he were deposed? I doubted it.
Ryker doesn't reply, though the rage rolling off of him is palpable. I fear at any second he's going to snap and do something that will get us both killed. So, just as before, I step out from behind the shield of Ryker's body and address a shitload of angry bikers.
"Mr. Gardel, I'm Cleo Sutton and--"
I don't have time to finish the sentence. Gardel barks a laugh that is echoed by every single biker in the room. My face heats with embarrassment, though I'm not sure what joke I'm being made the
butt of.
"No need to be so formal, Cleo," he says, purring my name. "Call me Calamity."
His eyes rove over me once again and his smirk grows more pronounced. "So you're the reason the Spades are crumbling. I've heard rumors about you. Trent's brat put you in your place."
I cringe away from his words, and tears sting my eyes. I blink, refusing to let them fall. I need to be strong, damn it. For Ryker. For the rest of the MC. But his words strike at me, confirming my worst fears. All the unrest happening in the MC is my fault. I'm the reason for all the violence. I'm the reason that Damian is dead. The reminder of my weakness, first against Damian and then against Trent mocks me.
"Calamity," I whisper, volume stolen from my voice. "You're a very smart man. You must see there are advantages to this situation."
"Indeed," he says, steepling his fingers, leaning his chin lightly on them. "I have two of the most valuable members of the Spades to do with as I please. I'm well within my rights to kill you both. I might send your bodies back to Cruz in pieces. I think that's reminder enough not to fuck with the Kings."
I search for words to compose my rebuttal. I'm surprised when my reply doesn't come out as a mousy squeak.
"Maybe, but that's short-sighted. We're more useful to you alive."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. Don't you see that there's more potential for infighting if you let us go? Trent is after me. If Ryker kills him, it creates a power vacuum in the Spades. If he kills us, same result. If you kill us, you've united the Spades in a charge against you. You see that it's stupid."
Calamity's eyes finally shift away from my face, that wry smile still on his face. "And do you have anything to say, Ryker? You're oddly silent."
"I'm thinking of ways to twist your head off," Ryker admits with a fierce baring of teeth. "Do us all a favor."
