Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends

by MariaLisa deMora

  His palm grazed her shoulder, traveled down her fabric-covered arm until his thumb and fingers encircled her wrist. He gave a sharp tug, and she flowed with the physical demand, swaying as she took a step towards him.

  Without a word, he turned and strode into the building, pulling her along behind him.

  Time to pay the piper on his diversionary tactic. I just hope Ruger knows what he’s doing, pissing off Torment like this.

  Chapter Three

  Common Enemy Clubhouse, Baton Rouge

  Knees locked, Lyle stood in the center of what could be a makeshift fighting ring. He was lined up shoulder to shoulder with men he’d come to call brother, staring at a raggedy band of assholes who’d rolled in an hour ago. He knew the patch they so proudly wore, of course—there wasn’t a biker along the Gulf Coast who didn’t—but knowing it and then seeing it as a large contingent of the Incoherent MC lounged comfortably around his club’s house wasn’t a good thing.

  “Wildman, what you make of this shit?”

  The concerned confusion on Ruger’s face matched the rolling of Lyle’s gut. His new club name had settled on Wildman, coined following his and Monique’s exhibition months ago. Since that day, he’d reconciled himself to doing the best he could for his brothers while under Torment’s thumb.

  “Either it’s a parley request, and what the fuck we got that IMC could want is a mystery…” He grimaced. “Or we’re about to be ex-members of the club formerly known as Common Enemy.”

  “You think it’s a takeover?” Ruger caressed the butt of his favorite handgun, sitting low in an appendix holster strapped into the front of his pants. “Hostile, or amicable?”

  “Fuck, brother, your guess is good as mine. This is IMC, though, so they wouldn’t be in our house if it wasn’t an invite. If it were hostile, we’d have met them in a field or on a road—not here in our own fuckin’ house in Baton Rouge.” Staying near Ruger, Wildman surveyed the IMC members, matching faces to the names he knew in passing. “Twisted is the big man, in case you didn’t know. That’s him standin’ next to the bar cuttin’ Torment to pieces with his stare. He’s mean as a fuckin’ snake, twice as lucky, and blood to the IMC founder. But don’t let that fool you. Man earned his place in the club with blood, sweat, and tears.”

  “Yeah, way I heard it is the president patch still has the bullet hole in it that killed their previous president.” Ruger shook his head. “Takes balls to wear somethin’ like that, knowin’ the tales that patch could tell.”

  “Then you boys both heard right.”

  Wildman whirled, shocked to see a big IMC member had squeezed into the space next to him. Face battered by what looked like a thousand fights, the man grinned, that expression so light and pleasant it was at odds with the hard glare turned Wildman’s way. He flicked a glance at the man’s chest, then back up as he nodded and greeted him. “Po’Boy.” Wildman tugged off his fingerless glove, shoved it in his back pocket as he reached out a bare hand. “Good to meet you.”

  Their palms collided with a violent smack, the sound reverberating through the room and dragging several sets of eyes in their direction. That immediate scrutiny and attention included Torment and Twisted. Po’Boy’s fingers wrapped around Wildman’s thumb, and he returned the gesture, meeting every show of strength Po’Boy poured into their grip, ounce for ounce. Teeth gritted, Wildman lifted his chin, keeping his gaze fixed on Po’Boy, who was sending the same ruthless attitude back at him. They stood like that for several breaths, and neither man visibly allowed a flinch from the brutal show of force that had the bones in Wildman’s hands grinding to dust. Then Po’Boy shocked him by grinning broadly just before he yanked Wildman forwards with their joined hands, pulled him to his chest, and pounded his back as if they were long-lost brothers reunited at last.

  “Well met, Wildman. Well fuckin’ met, brother.”

  Minutes passed like hours, and the clock over the front door tracked each elongated moment. The short hand had passed the apex of the circle four times before Wildman saw any real business underway. Once it began, however, it went fast, over in a flash. One moment Torment was standing in front of Twisted, left palm lifted to rest over his own heart as if he were making a vow. The next, Torment lay crumpled at the man’s feet, and Wildman saw the tiniest puff of smoke from the old-school revolver Po’Boy held from across the room, residual effects from the shot that ended the man.

  Fighting broke out all around them, Wildman and Ruger quickly standing back-to-back in a small cleared space. His pulse pounded, threat assessments happening in split seconds, separated by blinks of time. Grab, bring a face down to an uprushing knee, release. Catfish joined them, quickly followed by Mosser, and the four men shifted into a tight formation, vulnerable backs protected as chaos surrounded them. Few IMC members came within reach. Those were mostly staggering reactions to a shove or blow, but even as infrequently as that happened, the knocked-out bodies and groaning voices accumulated around the foursome’s tiny square of safety.

  A second gunshot tore through the air, and Wildman jerked his head to the side, staring up to where Po’Boy stood on top of a table. Man needs a keeper. He’s a fuckin’ officer. Enough of a target already, shouldn’t be makin’ a spectacle out of himself if he ain’t a foot soldier. Twisted stood directly in front of Wildman, a dozen strides separating them, and Wildman’s breath froze in his throat at the banked rage in the man’s eyes. The leader of the IMC lifted his hand to his mouth, and a shrill whistle split the silence that had followed the report from the gun.

  “Stand down. My guys, stand the fuck down. IMC stand fucking down.” His repeated shouts were orders and had an immediate effect as the overwhelming numbers of IMC members disengaged and moved back from the outnumbered Common Enemy. “Stand down now.”

  Wildman stood, hands lifted in front of him, panting hard from the terror and exertion over the past minutes. Sweat rolled down his temple and he blinked as it got to his eye, stinging fiercely. He spat, not surprised to see the saliva tinged with red. For every man he’d laid out, he’d taken at least one blow.

  “Common Enemy.”

  Wildman swung his gaze to Po’Boy when Twisted spoke, noting that, like Twisted, the man didn’t seem to have so much as a hair out of place. As if the brawl started by the blindside assassination of the CEMC president hadn’t touched either of them. Everyone talked about the two, how in sync they were, the shared driven sense of purpose making them unstoppable. It was awe-inspiring to see in person.

  Twisted continued, “Listen to me. You’re going to lay your vests down, and those who want, you’ll possibly pick up a new set of cuts. Possibly. Possibly.” Wildman shook his head, and Po’Boy arrowed a scowl in his direction. “You don’t want that? You decide—given the day’s activities—this life, uncertain as it always is, is no longer a fit for you, then this right here’s your chance to get out without even a beatout. Lay down your CEMC and walk out the door, won’t a man in this room lift a hand to you. I get it, how a club isn’t the right place for every man. How something which seemed to fit so well a few years ago rides uncomfortably on your shoulders now. This is your chance.”

  “Fuck you.” Wildman lifted his chin as he shouted the words, an expected proclamation if Po’Boy’s expression was anything to judge by. “Not handin’ over my vest.” His words were echoed, but only by a few. The men who stood at his shoulders and back, and about three others who’d dragged Torment’s body to the wall and now stood watch over the lifeless form. “Not doin’ it.” Wildman shifted his focus away from Po’Boy and shook his head, ends of his sweat-sodden hair stinging as it lashed his cheeks. “Not takin’ a beatout either. You came in here and did this. IMC askin’ for war.” He stretched his neck, looking down his nose into Twisted’s face. “You got—”

  He was on the floor, the unexpected collision with the immovable boards shocking as his lungs seized, refusing to take in or expel air.

  “Now listen.” The voice came from directly over his head, an
d Wildman rolled to his back to see Po’Boy standing above him, one boot on either side of his body. “My man here was about to write a check his ass couldn’t cash, so I stifled him for a moment. You wanna see what started this, look in Torment’s hand, motherfuckers. Fuckin’ look at the asshole.”

  Wildman’s stomach and chest hitched, searching for air as he stretched out, angling so he could see. Leather-clad feet scuffed the floor as they cleared the way, men stepping back and to the side, creating a lane of visibility meant for him. Torment lay against the base of the wall, legs tangled in on themselves, one arm stretched far over his head, the other palm-up at his side. That hand, his right hand, the dominant one, had a gun dangling from his index finger. Wildman recognized the pistol. It was one Torment kept in his jeans pocket. A just-in-case sneak-attack weapon he’d crowed about never needing, but kept anyway, brought out for show and threat.

  “His check was countered, and my counter hit the bank and cleared, that deposit of lead one that won’t be swayed by any argument. Saw the gun aimed at my president, and I acted accordingly.” Po’Boy shuffled backwards until he was well out of reach and squatted, weight angled to one side as he rested a knee on the floor.

  From this closer position, Wildman could see the lines of tension surrounding the man’s eyes and mouth. This hadn’t been a death he sought, and Wildman thought the man would own it for a long time. Ending Torment’s life was going to weigh on Po’Boy.

  Po’Boy asked, “Did he tell you we’d been invited?” As their gazes locked, Wildman shook his head in a side-to-side sweep. “Did he tell you we’ve been in talks for more’n half a year?”

  “No fuckin’ way.”

  “Yeah, fuckin’ way.” Po’Boy held still, staring into Wildman’s face intently. “Half a year ago, he needed a helluva lot of money and IMC was in a position…well, I’ll let my brother explain the business if he wants, but you need to know your dicktwat of a president sold you out. Every man in this room, sold out, regardless of time spent in the club, and freely pledged loyalty.”

  Po’Boy stretched out his hand, and Wildman hesitated for only a second before grabbing it like the lifeline he knew it was. From looking at those hands, it hadn’t been Po’Boy who’d struck him down. That credit would likely fall to the prospect casually restrained nearby by Mosser, the straight armbar easily held against the struggling man flat out on the floor much like Wildman. Only Wildman was being offered a hand up by the IMC VP, while the prospect would be eating dirt for a long time.

  “I hear good things about you, Wildman.” Po’Boy stood and pulled, lifting Wildman to his feet. “You and me, we’re gonna get along just fine.”

  Once on his feet, Wildman wagged his jaw side to side and winced. He caught Po’Boy staring at him with a smile and gruffly asked, “What?”

  “You’ve got a remarkable amount of restraint.”

  Po’Boy thumbed over his shoulder to where Mosser still had the prospect on the floor. The man was lying still now, but his shoulder looked deformed. Dislocated it.

  “Just bodes well for what comes next.”

  Wildman looked back at Po’Boy, who’d turned to give Wildman his profile, now facing Twisted. Following the secondary altercation, the IMC president had hopped on the bar, sitting with thighs apart, boots on the seat of a stool. He leaned on his knees with his forearms, looking weary.

  “What comes next?” The curve of Po’Boy’s cheek lifted at Wildman’s question, corner of his mouth stretching into a smile. “What’s that grin for?”

  “Oh, it’ll be a dance. You just watch and see. Twisted’s gonna pick up where he left off before. Now, though, all of y’all know the truth of how things went down. We’ll see how many change their tune and start steppin’ to ours.” He nodded, and Wildman glanced across to where Twisted was in time to see the man’s head dip in response. “Watch and learn.”

  “Land this house sits on belongs to IMC. The house also belongs to IMC. While IMC—and make no mistake when I say IMC I mean me, because there is not a shred of difference between the two—wants to open new charters in strategic locations, Baton Rouge is already under my wing. I see no value in two charters competing for territory with all that would entail.” Twisted ran a hand down his face, stroking his beard to the point. “My understanding is prospects live on site. How many prospects are we talkin’ about?”

  Wildman searched the room, seeing a dozen gazes turned his way. Seemed the silent consensus had deferred to him to speak. Fuck. Discounting the man still on the floor, he ran through names and numbers in his head and blinked. Eight. That couldn’t be right. It was about half again as many as they’d ever held before. Not enough solid members and officers to mentor so many potential members. “Catfish, I come up with eight. That sound right to you?”

  “Yeah, brother. Was nine until a couple minutes ago, but we got a cut right here for sure.” Catfish rested his elbow on Wildman’s shoulder, propping himself up.

  Wildman dipped his chin as he spoke to Twisted, “Half live here, half in the trailer out by the road.”

  “Trailer in good condition?” Wildman’s head wasn’t the only one that shook. “No worries. I didn’t relish movin’ it anyway. If we held a vote right now, would any of the eight make it through? Be honest, men, if it’s what they want, they can roll back to hangaround status, start comin’ to IMC parties to see if we’re a fit. Not like you’re takin’ the life from them.” He rolled his shoulders as one hand came to rest on the gun strapped to his hip. “Unlike little mister no-name over there.”

  Wildman looked at Catfish, then Mosser and Ruger. He swept the gazes of the other CEMC members, seeing the same negative expressions. “None of them. There’s been so many layered on, we haven’t had a chance to get to know any of them enough to give a thumbs-up. There’s promise in a couple I’ve interacted with, like Randy there.” Wildman gestured to a prospect manning the door, not having moved during the brawl, holding his post with a dogged control. “And Mark.” He nodded at the prospect to which Mosser had given over control of the traitor on the floor. “Steady Eddie kind of guys, both of them. They’d have earned my vote in a couple of months.”

  “Noted.” Twisted’s gaze swept him up and down. “Since you’ve been elected the de facto spokesperson, any members you wanna speak up about definitely keepin’? I ain’t sure I wanna layer on—to use your words—too many new faces for IMC either. As you noted, it’s hard enough to get to know a man under normal circumstances, but under what’s looking a fuckton more like a hostile takeover than I wanted it to be, gettin’ past the coating of suspicion’s gonna be a bitch.”

  “You’re talkin’ like it’s a done deal I’m gonna drop my patch and pick up yours. Like it’s a done deal you’ll even want me.” Wildman shrugged, dislodging Catfish’s elbow as his shoulders lifted and moved back, posture straightening. “If Torment hadn’t pulled his particular brand of bullshit, what was the process you’d intended to run with us?”

  “Patch the club entire as nonvoting probates. Give Torment a downward trajectory in the officer ranks, drop a minimum of four of my guys in here twenty-four seven. Determine in thirty days who would stay and who would go.” Twisted rolled his shoulders, settling his vest on his back. “Timeline’s changed. Process changed.” He flashed a grin at Wildman. “Gotta be fluid as fuck, man. This is me goin’ with the flow of circumstances.”

  “And now, where’s that flow of change takin’ you?”

  “Men livin’ in the house and trailer got thirty days to vacate. Every man I decide to keep will be assigned a new town. They’ll enter the club as prospects without a minimum time before movin’ up. Lets me break up the burden of evaluating potentials between my houses, eases the way for some needed one-on-one time to see if you all are really IMC material.” Sweeping the inside of the house with his gaze, Twisted somehow made Wildman see every flaw through his eyes. Broken windows boarded over, broken floorboards covered in multiple layers of cardboard, and dirt and trash everywhere.
“Thirty days, we have a bonfire.”

  “When will we know who you’re takin’ on?”

  “Right the fuck now.” Twisted hopped off the bar, heels landing with a thud that shook the floorboards. “I gotta know who wants it first. Then I’ll separate the wannabes into winners and weepers.” He lifted his head, sweeping his hair over his shoulder. “Give me a thumbs-up you want to petition for the patch.” Arms relaxed at his sides, Twisted spun in a slow circle, pinning each man with a glare. “Fifteen seconds to decide which way you’re gonna throw yourself. I’ll tell you right now, if you want the life and don’t pick my playground, I’ll make fuckin’ certain you don’t patch in anywhere in southern Louisiana.” He’d made it full circle, gaze latching on Wildman with a solid weight he could feel. “And before you ask yourself if I have so much pull and sway, remember who you’re talkin’ to.” He grinned, white slash through his beard. “Or listenin’ to, as it may be. Tick tock, boys. Time starts now.”

  Wildman didn’t look away, keeping their gazes locked as he shrugged, the leather of his vest sitting uneasily on his shoulders. A second shrug told him what he wanted. CEMC was dead, and that light feeling was the sloughing of the unwanted drama and bullshit Torment always seemed to pull in around them. With a sigh, he shoved one hand deep in his jeans pocket and pulled out a pocketknife. Flicking the blade open, he held it fisted as he raised his arm shoulder height, aligning his thumb alongside the sharp edge. Only once he had declared himself did he glance around, finding his closest brothers had done the same, along with several other men he had been unsure of when Torment had patched them.

  Ignoring the others, he gave Catfish, Ruger, and Mosser a nod, then swung his attention to Po’Boy, who was grinning widely as he counted down the remaining seconds. “Three, two, one-thousand fuckin’ one. You got fuckin’ nads, man. We’ll let you take care of business quick, then do our thang.” Po’Boy gestured to the prospect still held against the floor. “Regain that center, man, and pass it over.” He held out a hand, patience seemingly unending. Flicking his fingers against his palm, Po’Boy waited silently.