His expression changed instantly—the look of feral, trapped animal left his eyes, supplanted by concern. “We did hurt you, didn’t we? I did—wanting to come here. You weren’t just making a joke earlier.”
Feeling the impending return of Isaac at her back, she said what she could with her eyes.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” Isaac. Still holding Len’s eyes, Tasha shook her head as subtly as she could. She saw Len understand and return her shake with an equally subtle nod, and then a flare in his eyes that said, But we are talking, and soon. With a little smile of acknowledgement, she turned to Isaac.
“He’s trying to make a break for it. Don’t you let him. I’m serious, Isaac. That’s a life or death thing. You keep him here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay. I’m gonna head out. I’ll check in on you tomorrow, okay?” She bent over his bed and kissed his cheek. She knew he was only a couple of years from fifty, but he looked good for his age. Not even that—he just looked good. Even tired and pale.
He grabbed her hand where it pressed into the bed as she leaned over. “Tomorrow, Doc. Right?”
“Yep.” She kissed his cheek again and, with a light pat to Isaac’s arm, she left.
Heading home. To figure out where things went next.
~oOo~
She didn’t go back to check on Len. Not the next day, or the next, or the next. She kept up with his progress from a distance. And when, just over a week after she’d last seen him, he was released, she went up to Randall’s office with a copy of a letter she’d written the day he’d told her the plan, and she resigned from her position on the medical staff of Greene County Hospital.
Resigning without a reference effectively ended her chances of ever getting on staff at any other hospital or medical practice. Resigning also meant no unemployment benefits or severance. She was on her own. She’d saved, but she’d also lived to her means. She had a great loft condo—a rare property in provincial Springfield, Missouri. She had nice things. And savings enough to keep herself afloat in this life for only about six months. But what the fuck a disgraced but still licensed physician was supposed to do to earn money, Tasha had no idea.
So the first thing she did was nothing at all. She locked herself in her loft and wallowed. For two weeks, she didn’t leave. She didn’t shower or change out of her pajamas. She allowed herself a complete and total collapse. She certainly didn’t answer her phone. In fact, on the second day, she muted it and shoved it in a drawer.
If she’d really wanted to be alone, she probably should have answered her phone. At least once. Because even though she didn’t have any one particular significant other in her life, she did have people with whom she often spent time, and two weeks was long enough to get those people worried.
Nadia was the first to come pounding on her door. Tasha ignored her until she screamed through the door that she was calling the cops unless Tasha opened the door in five…four…three…
Tasha pulled the metal door open. “WHAT?”
“Good God, woman. You had me in a fright! I thought you were decomposing in here or something.” Nadia wrinkled her pert little nose. “And maybe you were. Damn, you stink. Did you zombify or something? Gross!”
Pert and little was a good way to describe Nadia. She was slim and short, with long, dark hair she always wore up in a messy mass, clipped to the back of her head. She had almost as much visible ink as Len had—and lots of piercings, too. A few very special piercings of which Tasha was especially fond.
One of the things Tasha had learned about herself in the years after Isaac was that she was not particular about gender or even looks. Her interests in sexual partners ran quite a gamut—a wide variety of people appealed to her. What she found hot was personality. And expertise. She liked people who knew what they were doing, whatever they did, and people who were comfortable in their own skin.
She did like body art. In terms of physical features, body art—piercings, ink, implants, brands, whatever—could tip a scale for her. She appreciated that kind of self-expression and saw aesthetics in all of it. But otherwise, she liked big, small, fat, thin, male, female, differently-gendered. Whoever could bring a party in and out of the bedroom, she was interested.
And Nadia, though she was young—not even thirty—could definitely bring a party. She was a performance poet. Not an easy gig in a little burg like Springfield. She lived here so she could take care of her grandparents, who spoke very little English and were getting on in years. To make money, she did hair. That’s how she and Tasha had met—and she was good. Funny, then, that she never took more than about thirty seconds with her own.
Nadia pushed her way into the loft. “Okay, this? Is shit. I don’t know what the fuck is up your ass, but I know it ain’t anything fun. So. You and I are taking a shower—because, babe, I can barely stand to be in the same room with you. And then I’m calling in the troops and we are cleaning this place up and straightening your ass out. You’re our grownup, Natasha Jean. What the fuck is the malfunction?”
Feeling invaded and belligerent and also more sorry for herself than she had in decades, Tasha grumbled, “I lost my job.”
Nadia’s eyes went wide. “What? They canned Marie Curie? How is that even possible?”
“Long story. Not telling it. And Marie Curie was a scientist, not a physician. Get out.”
“No can do, babe. I am here to get you out of this dark place. So first, I’m gonna get you clean, then I’m gonna get you fucked, then I’m gonna get you socialized and fed. And you are not alone until we turn that frown upside down.”
~oOo~
As good as her word, Nadia showered with Tasha, standing in her big, stainless steel tub, washing her with her sea sponge and organic body wash, then going down on her while the wide showerhead rained hot water over their bodies. At first, Tasha tried to push her off, but Nadia just grinned and dragged a finger lightly over Tasha’s belly, from her side to the center, stopping just below her navel. For whatever reason, that touch, the way it made her belly twitch, was like an ‘on’ switch for Tasha. She went from resentful to wet—and not from the shower—in about two seconds. And then Nadia pressed her mouth between Tasha’s legs and flicked her pierced tongue over her clit until Tasha came, hard and frantically. Afterward, Nadia dried her and took her to bed, and they fucked again, reciprocally this time.
And she did feel better. Whether it was the loving attention of a good friend, or simply the sex itself, Tasha felt more in control of herself—no more hopeful, no brighter, but more in control.
By the end of the day, her loft was clean, her pantry was full, and there were five people in her home with her, laughing and drinking. As was she. She never told them why she’d lost her job, and she never would. But she didn’t need to share the secret to take solace from the love of friends.
It had been something similar that had pulled her from her last tailspin. Right down to the unexpected, blazing hot sex.
CHAPTER THREE
Len felt his age more than he ever had before. He couldn’t believe how long it was taking him to get right after the shooting. Six weeks now, and though he was up and functioning, finally back to living his normal life—back on the bike, working his role as Isaac’s SAA, checking in at the hardware store, taking care of his horses—he still felt wrong. Different. Slower. He hated it. He’d never felt age coming on him before, despite the hard way he’d lived his life. He’d felt young and virile and generally badass. Now, though, he felt old.
He hated it.
He was leaning on the fence of the roadside pasture, the stable at his back. He had his four mares loose in the largest, wooded pasture out back, and they were roaming off in the trees somewhere. Mabel he had up here, and she was not happy—galloping, rearing, and whinnying as if she were in agony.
Every distraught whinny answered one coming from inside the barn, where Mabel’s colt, Spirit, was barricaded in the stallion sta
ll. If Delia Borden didn’t get here soon, Len was going to pull his blade out and cut Spirit his damn self. The colt was not quite a year yet, but he was getting some high-minded ideas about who was in charge, so it was time to take his balls and show him exactly who was.
He was a beautiful boy, just about fifteen hands, a black and white pinto. He wasn’t Len’s—if he were, he probably would have sold him. Len liked his mares. But Mabel and Spirit, mother and son, had been Sophie Mariano’s babies. Sophie, Havoc’s little sister, had been killed the very same day Havoc had given her the horses. For Christmas, about six months ago. Her death had been an awful harbinger of another time of real trouble for the Horde, and they were still in the thick of that.
Havoc couldn’t bring himself to sell either Mabel or Spirit, which Len understood. He intended to give them to the B&B, add them to the trail stable, but until Spirit was cut, they weren’t even going try to begin the training that would eventually get him under saddle. Mabel and Spirit were still tightly bonded, too. Len and Havoc had talked about separating them—sometimes a bond that tight was a major obstacle to training—but in the end, Havoc just couldn’t do it. He had a big soft spot for babies, like Len himself did, and with Cory, Havoc’s old lady, pregnant, that spot had only gotten softer.
Delia’s truck pulled down his drive, and Len pushed off the fence. Time to take Spirit’s jewels.
~oOo~
Sitting in the Keep that Friday afternoon, Len listened to Isaac explain the situation as it stood. Len had missed a lot in the week and a half or so he’d been in the hospital, and in the weeks thereafter when he’d been laid up. Even though he’d stayed in the clubhouse for a couple of weeks, where the girls were around to bring him food and fluff his pillow—and then, soon as he was able, to fluff him—he’d still felt oddly out of the loop. Until he could ride, he was out of the loop. He’d had to ride bitch with Lilli, in her SUV, to the cemetery when they buried their dead. And he’d missed the first run after that goddamn bloodbath—that had driven him about insane. He was the SAA. His very job was to protect his brothers, his President, and he’d been laid up in the dorm. He’d known Havoc had the task in hand, but it didn’t make him feel any better to be a fucking invalid.
He didn’t know how Isaac had kept his head straight for fifteen fucking months away from the club. Most of those without his legs, in a damn wheelchair. He was sure he didn’t have the psychological fortitude to survive something like that. He’d barely survived with his sanity intact the few weeks’ recovery he’d been subjected to.
“I feel like we’d be fools to rest too easy on Sam’s word. I know it’s been two and a half years or more since our faceoff with the Scorpions, but that shit wore hard. And we’re in this fix, working for a goddamn drug cartel, because the Scorpions LA—on Sam’s word—kept that connection back from us.” Isaac glanced at Dom then—Dom, their Intelligence Officer since they’d lost Bart to the Scorpions, had not found the cartel connection or their association with Martin Halyard, not even after Bart, blocked from sharing it outright, had planted intel about it for him to find. Sophie Mariano was dead because of that.
The Horde had approved a weed run and then found themselves dangling from the fist of the Perro Blanco cartel—and Martin Halyard, an old enemy, with them.
Dom took the heat of Isaac’s look without turning away. Then Isaac continued, “I’d say we don’t have a choice but to trust them. We won’t find a way out of this job unless we’re all working together: Scorpions—both the LA crew and Sam’s crew—the Brazen Bulls, and the Wayfarers. By far, the Scorpions have the manpower and the firepower. Without them, we’ve got no chance. But we would be fucking idiots if we didn’t keep a three-sixty degree lookout. We are working together, but we know well that the Scorps will put a knife in a friend’s back if it gives their own an edge.”
He sighed. “Again we find ourselves in the position of trusting the lesser of two evils. And we’re in an…inconvenient legal situation, though Dom has something for us on that.” Isaac nodded across the table at Dom.
The kid had been a member since Isaac had been shot, two and a half years ago, but he was still a kid. Not yet thirty, skinny and gawky. As an intelligence officer, he was adequate. Or, no. That wasn’t the right word. He was mediocre. He didn’t have the instinct and initiative that Bart had. Len wasn’t into tech shit, so he didn’t understand a lot of what Bart had done, or what Dom was supposed to do, but it seemed to him that Bart often made connections that weren’t obvious until he’d made them. He knew how to look for things he didn’t know he was looking for. Dom could find the thing he was specifically asked to find. Most of the time.
They needed a new Intelligence Officer. Dom was a ferocious little terrier in a fight, but he wasn’t bright enough to do the work they needed him to do. He was the best they had, though. Havoc, Len knew, had a hankering for Nolan, his stepson, to take on that role, but the kid was only sixteen. Not even old enough for a Prospect kutte, and not for two more years at the earliest. If he even wanted it.
In the meantime, both working with and trying to fight against the Perros, they were stuck with mediocre, half-blind intel.
But Dom had the floor now. “Might not be enough, but I came across something in Seaver’s email. It was his private account, and he was talking to a friend—looks like another Sheriff, but one in Texas. There’s a long thread where they’re exchanging some pretty intense jokes. I mean, some of ‘em you’d probably hear any Saturday night at Tuck’s, but still. It’s real racist shit, and some rape jokes, and these guys are real class acts. Thread starts when Seaver writes about a collar with connections to the Texas guy’s county. So even that’s weird, doing business on his personal account.”
Show sat forward. “What’s the damage it can do? There’s a lot of racists in Seaver’s jurisdiction. Like you said, you can hear that shit at Tuck’s—anyplace else, for that matter. I don’t see that costing him an election—and he’s not up for three more years, anyway.”
At that, Dom grinned, and Len got interested. Maybe the kid had found something good. Badger chimed in, though, instead of Dom. “There was that thing on the news, though, a week or so ago. About Seaver putting together a…thing…a committee or whatever. He’s thinking about running for a House seat. That’s national.”
“Yeah,” Dom added, “and I want to look deeper into what he’s doing talking about arrests on his personal email, especially with other Sheriffs. If there’s some kind of, I don’t know, collusion, maybe that could be big.”
Havoc laughed. “Colluding against perps? You think people will give a fuck about that?”
Dom got serious. “I don’t know. But if he wants national office, he might give a fuck. Enough to keep his nose pointed someplace besides our business.”
“Nah, brother.” Len was thinking about that oily asshole standing next to his bed, his uniform so crisp the creases could cut steak, rooting around for holes in Len’s story. Threatening him, and Tasha—Tasha!—and all of them. Moving the pain pump and call button off the bed, out of his reach, and pushing his hand, with its fucking manicured nails, into his gut—not enough to bust his sutures and fuck him up again, just enough to hurt like fire. “We’re his trophy kill. He wants to ride to that national office on our back.” And the Horde could not lie low, because the Perros were on their back, too.
Looking derailed and disconcerted, Dom just stared at him. Len knew that he’d been proud of what he’d found—it was the first chink in Seaver’s armor they’d come across—and he was disappointed at the reception he was getting. But they couldn’t go to the Sheriff with anything he might brush off. Extortion was a risk, too, after all. And Seaver was looking for them.
Isaac sighed. “It’s good work, Dom. It’s not enough, not on its own, but it’s something. Keep digging. At least what we know is he’s not as sparkly clean as everybody thinks. So keep looking. Let’s motivate this S.O.B.”
~oOo~
Len pulled Dom aside after
the meeting. “Hey, brother. I need Tasha Westby’s address. Can you get it for me?”
Dom nodded. “No sweat. When do you need it?”
“Now would be good.”
Dom gave him a look that said he disagreed that now, Friday evening, with the taps full and the girls bringing out food, would be good, but he nodded and turned down the hallway. Len went over and told the shiny new Prospect—currently known as David, but Len was working on improving that—to pour him a beer. He wanted to keep his head tonight. He was going to figure out what the fuck was up with Tasha.
He hadn’t heard from her in six weeks, not since that day she’d indicated, with no kind of clarity, that they’d caused her trouble. She had not come back to his room, and she hadn’t called—she always called to check when one of them was released. Often, she came by to check in person. She wasn’t returning calls. At first, Len, feeling sworn to secrecy because of that pointed, unspoken exchange they’d had that day, and because he was naturally inclined to aloneness himself, thought it was best to leave her to herself. But then, earlier today, chasing a hunch, he’d called the hospital and asked to talk to her.
And was informed that she was no longer on staff. That hadn’t been the hunch he was chasing, but it was in the ballpark, and he knew immediately what had happened. The Horde had lost her job for her.
He’d sat at that damn table knowing he needed to say something but unable to do it. Not until he checked on her, talked to her. But they had to make this right. He didn’t know how they could, but he knew they had to.
Show the Fire (Signal Bend Series) Page 3
