Lewis startled and grabbed the remote, keying in the numbers for a local news station. He tossed the remote back to the coffee table, and his hands returned to Ty, one on his shoulder, fingers gripping, thumb rubbing circles. Lewis’ other hand settled on Ty’s head, threading through his hair over and over, sweeping it back from his face. Ty watched the screen, waiting as Lewis seemed to need him to do.
A minute passed with a weather radar on the screen showing storms to the west, headed their direction. Both men knew from experience the bulk of the storms would pass to the north, bending around the massive inland lake Slidell sheltered behind.
Another minute with local sports scores and information.
Then the talking heads were back, neutral accents in place, the woman and man staring solemnly at the camera in turn, reading their cues. “The sheriff in Tangipahoa Parish announced just moments ago baby Abigail has been found, unharmed. A local business owner claims to have found the child at the back door of Espressed Illusions, a coffee shop on East Pine Street. She immediately called the authorities, who determined the toddler was indeed baby Abigail, missing since the shootout that killed her mother earlier in the day. Little Abigail was taken to the hospital where her father was waiting. Reports indicate the child was not injured by her kidnappers.” Here the camera shifted to the man. “The sheriff’s department also reports they’ve located a vehicle matching the description of the van seen fleeing the scene. Several suspected fugitives were also found dead in what seems to be a disagreement among their outlaw band. In other news…”
With each word, Ty could feel Lewis relaxing, hear his breathing come more freely. After a moment, Ty picked up the remote and returned the TV to the game. He asked, “You good?”
Lewis didn’t answer right away, then his fingers tightened in Ty’s hair, the grip inexorable as it tilted Ty’s head back. The men stared at each other for a moment, then Lewis bent to press his lips to the corner of Ty’s jaw, the scruff on his cheek a rough scrape. Lewis pulled back with a muttered, “Yeah, I’m good.” A pause, then he kissed the edge of Ty’s mouth. “Was shit, you know? When I got here? But now, I’m good.” A gliding touch was followed by the hot tracing along Ty’s bottom lip with the tip of Lewis’ tongue. “So fuckin’ good.” The next kiss didn’t start slow, the combination of Lewis’ grip in Ty’s hair and the way he possessed Ty’s mouth a heady acknowledgment of why he’d come to Ty’s condo.
That’s what Crissy had seen when she walked in the door, her appearance in response to Ty’s earlier texted plea. That second night the three of them slept together had been as hot and sensual as the first, culminating with breakfast sex on Ty’s dining room table this morning. Crissy laid across a corner of the wooden surface, Ty between her legs, buried deep while Lewis fed his dick into her eager mouth. The erotic sight of her taking the thick cock deep into her throat, hands over her head holding onto Lewis’ hips, had been nearly enough to make Ty lose it and come right then.
His phone vibrated again, and Wrench looked down to see he’d received two texts from Po’Boy. Keying the screen open, he read the first one. Meant to say something last night, want you and Crissy at the suite this weekend. The second text was shorter but just as bossy. Don’t even fuckin think of bailin. Wrench’s gut clenched with anticipation of what was to come. Then he grinned and touched an icon on the screen, waiting as the image app loaded. He swiped until he found the filter he wanted and snapped a selfie, then saved it to his phone. Without adding anything other than a three-word caption, he sent the image to Po’Boy. A moment later he got it back, with a hand-drawn U R on top of the picture of him with a fake full beard and a cigar, his text below it read, “Who’s your daddy?”
***
Crissy
Walking through her front door, Crissy toed her shoes off and nudged them to the side as she set the alarm. She sighed and smiled. Was a good night. She’d gone out with her coworkers for a drink that turned into a late dinner, listening to them regale the group with stories of their families, previous jobs, college hijinks, and in general all the things that friends talked about. She’d even contributed a story or two, earning laughter for an impersonation of her college advisor, doing her best to explain his cockney slang.
Bedtime rituals complete, she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. I’m doing a little bit of all right, she thought, grinning. Tugging her nightgown down, she smoothed fingertips across two overlapping bruises on the swell of one breast, one from Lewis and the other from Ty. She knew when the marks faded her men would renew their visible claim. Maybe I’m doing a lot of all right. Her grin flashed in the mirror again as she turned off the light.
Seated on the edge of the mattress, she texted Bob to set-up a time to video call Missy the next day. He responded right away, reassured her she wasn’t bothering him, and they settled on early afternoon. That would put the call post-nap for Missy, and predinner preparations for Bob. It also put the call right before she left the office, which worked out just fine for Crissy.
Since moving back to Louisiana, she had tried to find a healthy balance between giving them space to establish their forever changed family unit with his folks, and her longing to see and talk to them every day. She wasn’t homesick, not really, because Louisiana was home and each day that passed cemented the feeling more. No, she was peoplesick, and missing the hours of playtime she would spend with Missy. It’s healthy, she reminded herself, for them and for me.
Leaning into the pillows, she grabbed her phone, thumbing the screen until she got the text app open. The string with her sister was long, and most of the recent texts were filled with commentary about Ty and Lewis. Nothing too personal, nothing like the kind of giggling rundown she would have given Rhoda before. Crissy had tried to keep it PG-13, keeping the details to herself, but still she’d poured out her hopes and fears in text.
I miss my Missy Prissy.
Tapping the photo icon, she opened the folder of images she’d captured as stills from video chats. Her niece’s face was so expressive, and that slightly crooked smile was enough to make her want to fly to Minnesota tonight just to hug her. Crissy sighed, tracing her fingertip along the curve of Missy’s cheek.
Look how beautiful she is. Just like her momma.
Back to the images, she found a picture that had been misfiled, this a photo of Ty and Lewis on Ty’s couch. Captured in nearly identical poses, beer bottles cradled in their laps, bare feet resting on the coffee table, they were staring at something out of frame. Because she’d taken the picture, she knew it was the TV and a ball game that had captured their attention. She also knew that the moment she’d stepped out of Ty’s bedroom, their eyes had swung to her. And being as she was only wearing a towel, it had only been a moment later the TV was off, and her men had her sandwiched between their heat. Ty’s fingers had teased the towel away from her body, dropping it to the floor as he’d kissed her. Then Lewis’ hands had cupped her breasts, lifted and offered them to Ty with a growled, “Our Crissy’s needy tonight, brother.” That had been an offer Ty had eagerly accepted, wrapping his lips around her nipple and drawing deep.
I’m so lucky, Rhoda. I can’t even tell you.
Smoothing the cotton covering the pillow next to her, she rolled her head and sniffed, finding the scent of Lewis lingering in a telling way. He’d surprised her last night, coming in sometime after midnight and crawling into bed. He’d curled around her, shoving his leg between hers and pulling her tight against him with a muttered, “Sleep.”
This morning had found him cursing and covering his head with the pillow when her alarm went off, mumbling about torture devices. Then he’d surfaced and kissed her hard, rolling into her and pressing close so she felt his erection, one long arm outstretched to silence the alarm. “Mornin’, baby,” he’d murmured against her lips, leaving her dazed as he’d exited the bed. Turning to look at her, Lewis had shaken his head, a soft look on his face. “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, darlin’. I’m a lucky bastard, ge
ttin’ to see this first thing.” Crissy had pulled the sheets to her chest, smiling up at him. “Tomorrow night, my suite in Orleans,” he’d ordered as he bent deep, kissing her gently.
“Bossy Lewis is back.” Resting her head on the pillow, she’d stuck her tongue out at him.
“You get your shower in,” he’d responded, and she’d been caught off guard, his knowledge of her morning routine warming her belly. “I’ll get the coffee going, honey.”
So very lucky.
Chapter Thirteen
Po’Boy
Easing his bike off the bridge and onto the tangle of surface streets, Po’Boy wove between the cars on his way to the building housing his suite. According to Twisted, the fish fry had been a success, generating the exact feeling of comradery and support the officers from all three clubs had hoped. Where normally his mind would be filled with the plans he and Twisted had talked through last night, his ride today had his mind consumed with one scene from the previous evening.
Beer in hand, Po’Boy stalked across the field behind Twisted, both men headed to the bonfire nearest the small dock. They’d been directed this way by no less than three prospects, each man pointing to the group around the fire, mute mouths not speaking so they could give no offense, arms lifted to point out Ace. Felt good to know they could count on the CoBos to offer up respect in fair measure. That had a warm burn in his belly as he trailed his president towards the large group of men gathered around the fire.
What Po’Boy hadn’t counted on was how it’d feel to see Wrench standing next to the CoBos president. He’d never fucked around with someone he knew. Never fucked around with someone in the life. A cavern-deep line he’d not ever been tempted to cross, and now he was so far on the other side of that line, he didn’t know what to think. He’d stood there, silently flanking Twisted as was his place, carefully maintaining a neutral expression. Protect and support were his watchwords as VP and even though he and Twisted were surrounded by brothers and friendlies at the moment, from long experience his gaze remained in constant motion, cataloging body language, assessing everyone and everything for hidden threats.
Wrench had much the same role, but in this setting, the CoBos were more laid back, understandable since the place was their clubhouse. Still, Wrench appeared visibly aware of every man in the group, his eyes flicking from one to the other in an unending cycle. Every man except Po’Boy. The way Wrench’s gaze seemed repelled by him felt like a spotlight shining down on him, even if he knew it wasn’t. Knew not a single man would think anything about their public conduct with each other. Once he saw how Wrench was reacting, Po’Boy became hyperaware of his own behavior, determined to leave no room for questioning. Still, it was his first experience of seeing Wrench and not being able to acknowledge anything, not letting himself even go so close as to touch Wrench in passing, and it stung painfully. Ain’t like we’re goin’ steady, he scolded himself. Just fuckin’.
Rolling to a stop in the garage, he killed the engine and backed the bike into his parking space. From the way Wrench ignored him, it might have been easy to take offense, but Po’Boy knew what was going on underneath the surface. Made him glad he’d already ordered the man to come to New Orleans. They needed to set some ground rules for future encounters, get shit straight, so no one learned anything the two of them wanted to be kept secret. Do I want him to be a secret? What about Crissy? He wanted to take her out, but the idea of her appearing to be only Wrench’s gal pulled at Po’Boy’s gut. And vice versa, he thought, knowing Wrench would most likely have the same reaction to a night on the town where Po’Boy got to show her off, but Wrench’s touch would be forbidden. How in the fuck did it get so goddamned complicated?
He unstrapped the small bag from the back of the bike and prowled towards the elevator. They’d be here soon, and he wanted to be ready. Leaning on the back wall of the car on the way up to the suite, he let his mind wander back to the rest of the previous night.
From across the flames, he heard the hiss of a name that pulled his focused attention: Deuces.
Ace said, “Got word a delivery was coming in for him, and the product got diverted. Heard the man was hot to trot about missing shit.” Beside him, even though Twisted didn’t speak, Po’Boy knew he had been surprised by the announcement. It was likely no one else in the group would be able to read the tension flooding his brother’s frame as they listened to Ace, but he knew him so well it could have been shouted. “Shoulda known better than to try and run shit through territory what didn’t belong to him.” He paused, and Po’Boy watched as his gaze ran across the circle of faces, gauging his next words. “Redirected Houston way.” Three words said a lot, because none of the three clubs here tonight had tight connections with any groups in Houston, which meant unlike Po’Boy had immediately assumed, it hadn’t been the CoBos who jacked Deuces shipment. Houston meant they were looking towards a new player in the game, and changing the dynamics within the region was dangerous.
His words underscoring Po’Boy’s unease, Twisted asked, “You sure? Houston?”
“Houston,” a voice confirmed from behind them, and Po’Boy swung around to see Retro walking the same path he and Twisted had just followed, paced closely by his VP, Mudd. “I’m gonna need presidents and their officers only for what I got.” The pronouncement meant Retro had intelligence none of them would want to hear, but he’d give it to them anyway, letting them control how far down the ranks the information ran.
The CoBos members who were standing nearby quickly scattered at a gesture from Wrench, while Po’Boy glanced around to ensure there weren’t any IMC he needed to shoo away. Their group of six formed a ring not far from the fire, Ace and Wrench with backs to the blaze, which left their features in shadow and made them hard to read. Retro studied each of them in turn and then began.
“Mexi cartel in Houston jacked the VWMC shit. I got a name and not much more from my—” He paused, tellingly. “—source. But you know me—” His lips twisted as he grinned at Twisted and Po’Boy. “—I always got another source up my sleeve. Found a trail. That phone you lifted”—he nodded at Po’Boy—“has come in handy in more than one way. Even if it took a few days to make it to me,” he looked at Po’Boy in a meaningful way, making it clear that as usual, Retro knew everything that was going on, “I’d have considered the trail tainted just because it was fucking Rotain and we all know the kind of bitch she’s turned out to be. But after a couple of days the phone rang, and when I answered it, there was a wealth of information to be had. Seems her ‘sponsor’”—he made air quotes with his fingers when he said the word, and Po’Boy snorted a laugh—“is highly disappointed in her ability to come through with what she promised.” He paused again and turned to look at Wrench, head cocked to one side, waiting.
“What’d she promise?”
The question was asked by Ace, not Wrench, but Retro’s stare didn’t waver as he answered, “Bitch promised an in with the CoBos. Claimed golden pussy.” Wrench’s head snapped back and, for the first time, his eyes met Po’Boy’s, every line in his face accentuated and taut. “Said her pussy was so golden, she’d serve the VP up on a platter.” Po’Boy couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away, the expression of disgust on Wrench’s face disconcerting for a moment because Po’Boy assumed it was aimed at him.
Wrench’s outburst put that fear to rest, and Po’Boy took a deep breath even as Wrench swore. “Fucking bitch! She did not offer to fuck her way into my ear, did she?”
Retro nodded, and Po’Boy’s gut twisted as the man looked between Po’Boy and Wrench, a look of amusement mixed with interest on his face. That was wiped away as soon as Retro started to speak. “She absolutely did promise, man. Had a tight deadline, too. You fucked it when you headed to Kentucky, but the word is that fucking up happened just before you left. Something about a little front yard showdown which turned into a smackdown for Sam.” He tipped his head to the other side, offering a slight smile. “Care to fill in the gaps there?”
Without hesitating, Wrench said, “Sam rolled up ridin’ bitch on an RC leader’s bike. Wasn’t looking for anything from me but bullshit, hit the ground humming her lies. Didn’t take but a minute for me to set her straight, and she left with her man.” Po’Boy noticed he left out the part about Crissy dipping her toe into the bullshit and set aside his unease at this, deciding it wasn’t an omission that mattered. “Thorne knows what he’s got in his bed, and you gotta know I’m not interested in having her back in mine.” Shaking his head, Wrench muttered, “Bitch wasn’t worth the effort the first time. Fuck.”
Twisted snorted and asked, “Anyone here hadn’t banged Sam Rotain?” Retro’s hand was the only one raised, and they all chuckled. Twisted said, “Rotains have been a blight on the parish for decades. Her big sister”—Po’Boy’s stomach rolled at his last memory of Sabrina Rotain, huddled against the wall in a holding room at the IMC clubhouse, her ruined face blindly tracking Twisted as he stalked back and forth, coming to grips with what he knew had to be done—“caused my family and club no end of pain before she went missing. Sam knew the score every time she climbed a man’s cock. This is just her trying to hook a bigger fish.” He made a noise far back in his throat and spat to the side, Po’Boy fought the urge to do the same, the memory of the smell of blood and lime, the taste of shit mixing with old rust coating his throat. “Mexi cartel had put their feelers in this neck o’ the woods before. We always chop those motherfuckers off. Won’t be any different this go around.” The certainty in his voice lent confidence to every man except Retro, and Po’Boy watched as the man eyed Twisted’s face in the flickering light from the flames.
Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Page 47
