Neither This Nor That Box Set 1

by MariaLisa deMora

  More than once he’d cried out for his mother, afraid the hand clutching the covers so tightly was his stepdaddy’s. Not that she’d been around to help him when that part of his journey started. As if invited in by the thought, he saw a larger than life image of her dead face, blood crusting the inside edges of her nostrils, crimson bubbles passing out through her parted lips, each breaking skim of red spattering more of the substance on her cheeks and chin.

  Shaking his head, he pushed to a half-sitting position, elbows to the sagging mattress behind him, head tipped forwards so his chin rested on his chest. Exhausted from the nights of interrupted sleep, he dozed in that position, head bobbing just enough to keep him on the cusp of being awake. Fuck, I’m tired.

  The dreams hadn’t been like this for a long time. In fact, he couldn’t remember when they’d been so bad. Sleeping with Crissy and Ty had been a Godsend, because when he was with them, either nestled in the middle of his partners or being the biggest spoon to their cuddled sleeping arrangements, his dreams were sweet. Now, it was like the shades flew up when he went to sleep, memories coming at him double-time to make up the deficit.

  Pounding at the door startled him, yanking his head upright and sending a hand to the nightstand where he noticed the tremors eased once the familiar weight hit his palm. On his feet now, he stepped into his jeans and strolled towards the rolling sounds still pummeling his front door. Easing to one side, he studied what he could of the figure in front of the door, gut rolling when he recognized the face of the man waiting for him to answer the demanding call.

  Hand to the doorknob, he pulled it open abruptly, gun leveled at the man who had been so many things in his life: stepfather, nightmare, and now nemesis. Archibald Jefferson Grover.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wrench

  Staring across the table at Ace, Wrench ruthlessly controlled his breathing, praying the man didn’t see how the pulse pounded in his throat, each beat of his heart taking up all available space, choking him. “The fuck you say?” As much as he didn’t want to hear the story, he had to, because the ripples of gossip rolling through the biker community were brutal, filled with fear and pain. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Naw, man. Heard it from Wildman. He was Po’Boy’s prospect, doubt he’d be spreading rumors like that if they weren’t true.” Ace scrubbed a palm across his chin, raspy whiskers making a sandpaper sound. “Jesus. Can you imagine being inside a whirlwind like that? Shit.” The last word was drawn out, extra vowels inserted as Ace shook his head.

  Lips pressed tightly together, Wrench tipped his chin up, angling his gaze towards the ceiling. What the fuck is the man playing at? Po’Boy loved IMC, like Wrench loved the CoBos. That was one of the many things the two men had in common, a belief in the ideals and value found in the life. If he really is…his mind shied from the phrase, and Wrench tried again to wrap his head around what Ace had told him. “Tell me again.” He kept his gaze turned upwards, focusing on a spot near the angle of the wall. The shadow there could resemble a spider, in some light looking real enough to cause more than one brother to throw things in attempts to dislodge what was seen as an unwelcome visitor. One party in particular had seen a blitzed-out Peanut climbing on a chair with shoe in hand, ready to show the shadow who was boss.

  “Twisted met with him one morning. Shouting, but not enough anyone thought much of it, those two always got on like a house afire. Moonshine and Mason jars, you know? A call went out for officers. None of them are talking, but word is Twisted called him to the floor.” Ace laughed, the jagged sound without humor. “Those two been ride or die since I can remember, man. This is hard to swallow. And you”—Wrench’s gut soured, waiting for whatever Ace said next—“you’re close with both, outside the club. What’s your take on this?”

  “Twisted actually took his colors?” He eyed the end of the curtain rod which cast the shadow, noting the cap was delicate and ornate, and looked nothing like a spider.

  “Yeah, cut him right there as he stood. Left his vest hole-punched and naked. Wildman snapped a pic as Po’Boy walked out of the house.” Ace’s shadow danced up the wall as he lifted his arms overhead, the darkness clearly identifiable as a man, but from the shadow alone you wouldn’t have a clue who. “Pic’s making the rounds, brother. You ain’t seen it yet, you will.”

  “Twisted called him to the floor and cut him? Only officers present, and no general message out to members yet?” Things weren’t adding up. If a club cut a man, people were told, informed so they didn’t fuck up and stay in touch. A cut member was shunned from the moment the blade hit the threads. They lost everything they’d worked for: club, brothers…the brotherhood.

  “Yeah, not how I’d do it, either. I know what you’re thinking, but if they were just sending him in quiet like, they wouldn’t have cut him.” A pause, the shadow of the man shifting and changing shape as Ace moved. “We’ve done that with you, had you go in naked to places. But you held your patches. We’d never have cut you for a run.”

  “Spider’s back.” Wrench lifted an arm and pointed to the shadow, noting idly how his hands trembled. “You look at the ceiling, you’ll see it.” He shifted his angle, pointing at the end of the curtain rod instead. “You look there, you know the spider’s not real. But that’s not what catches your eye at first. Your brain sees the thing that makes you the most nervous, draws your attention to the perceived threat, so you can deal.” Straightening in his seat, he glared at Ace, seeing the same hope he had burning in his belly. “Ain’t no way Po’Boy’s out bad. No way in fucking hell.”

  Ace blinked slowly and stared back at him. A pained expression crossed his face, and he seemed to square his shoulders slightly. “You and me, we never talked about what I heard on the phone.” Quick as a thought, Wrench was on his feet and headed towards the door, his body taking over with a response he’d never had before: flight. “Do not touch that fucking door.” The barked order stopped him in his tracks, and he glanced over his shoulder to the man sitting at the table. Regret and anger were what greeted him, neither of which made sense if he was about to out Wrench. “Not my choice of topics either, bastard. But you’re about to make another mistake.”

  Turning to face him even though every instinct told him to get out, Wrench waited, two words still dancing around his head, a shrieking alarm so loud it was hard to hear Ace. Out bad. Ace pulled his attention again, saying, “You done fucked up with Po’Boy. Don’t let your shit get in the way of your good sense, son.”

  Faced with what he’d been fearing and dreading since that day in New Orleans, fighting to stay still as ordered, Wrench was unsure what the man was trying to imply and shrugged his confusion.

  “Jesus. You ditched the motherfucker because you were afraid of what might happen. You’ve been a miserable bastard since. Climbing up everyone’s ass when you didn’t need to. Ty”—this wasn’t Ace talking, this was Tommy Canton, his father’s life-long friend—“you thought so little of us you didn’t give us a chance to prove you wrong. Not my choice of partners for you, son, but if he matters, then you need to get your thumb out of it and dig deep to get back to where you want to be. He’s out bad, that’s all we know. You think it’s a diversion, then let’s work on that. We can call Twisted, use club relations as a reason, keep Po’Boy’s secrets as best we can while we try to sort things out from where we stand.” Pushing to his feet, Ace leaned towards Wrench, a palm out. “Don’t run from the spider because your brain’s tricking you into thinkin’ that’s what I am. Come on, son. Let me help.”

  ***

  Twisted

  Thumb pressed to the underside of his brow, pressure applied against a pain that couldn’t be eased, Twisted sat and stared at the tree line without realizing time had passed, only noticing when Penny walked outside. Glancing up, he saw worry and fear fight for dominance on her features, angling his chin down and looking at the boards between his boots before either could win. On the one hand, he was glad to his bones she was home. O
n the other hand, he knew it’d be far more difficult to avoid giving her answers when she was in his face.

  The slant of the shadows had changed, edges becoming less defined, and he estimated he’d been home a couple of hours, not making it past the chair on the front porch. Bone tired and locked into the events of the past two days, he couldn’t free his mind from the mire of thoughts and emotions, running the gamut from fiercely angry to hopeless. He realized Penny had come no closer, and didn’t blame her, admitting as much with a warning, “Not fit company, darlin’.” He took a chance at why she’d come out to where he sat. “Go ahead and eat. I’ll be inside in a bit.”

  Silence, then the soft, sure padding of bare feet coming towards him. She climbed into his lap, wedging her way between his arms, folding herself against his chest. With a sigh, he wrapped her up, squeezing tight. She always knows what I need. He swallowed hard, then muttered, “Gonna be a while before I’m good, Penny. I cain’t change direction on a dime.”

  “Did I ask you to?” She burrowed her face into his neck, pressing close.

  They sat like that for an hour, then two, and Twisted only stirred when the annoying buzz of mosquitos became incessant. “Gonna get eat up you stay out here, darlin’. Skeeters are out in force tonight.”

  “I get eat up, you’ll get eat up. We’ll scratch each other’s itch.” He chuckled, and she snorted, then giggled as she lifted her head. “Not what I meant, but that’s funny as hell.”

  “That it is.” Tipping his chin towards his neck, he stared into her eyes, weighing his options. As the daughter of one club and queen of another, she knew about the life, knew there were many things he couldn’t talk about with her. Still the pain clamping tight around his chest demanded some kind of release, and he knew if he could only share it with her, there would be some give in those iron bands holding him captive.

  He’d constructed and discarded a thousand plans over the course of the past two days. Looking for anything which would put an end to what he prayed would remain farce and give Po’Boy the chance to come home. Me and Chip, his only contacts. A program too quickly put into place meant Po’Boy was hung so far out there to dry it’d take a miracle to get back with skin intact. Just the idea of him working without a net like this left Twisted with a sick feeling, like he was crawling out of his skin.

  There was a fluttering touch along his bicep and then a sting followed by a growing burn. He jostled Penny when he reached across to slap the mosquito, leaving a smear of red behind. Ain’t bleedin’ for your ass, motherfucker. He paused, finally finding the words he needed to say. “You know me and Po’Boy been ride or die for a while. He’s been my brother long as I can remember.” Not a question, still he waited until she nodded, the softness of her skin sliding across his chest. “I don’t say this lightly, Penny. The man can do no wrong in my eyes.” He paused again, and she made a noise he took to be agreement. His heart swelled, because he knew Penny felt the same way, had a bond with Po’Boy that was nearly as strong. “No wrong. Nothing he could do would give me pause. So you can do what you will with the knowledge.”

  He stood abruptly, cradling her to his chest for a moment before he let her slowly slide down his torso. “Need to fog or light a candle, skeeters are gettin’ bad.” Without another word he walked away, leaving a stunned, speechless Penny behind him. Do with that what you will, darlin’.

  The look on Po’Boy’s face when Twisted had called him to the floor had been bad enough. The bogus charges they’d cooked up with Chip’s help had run across Twisted’s tongue and lips like acid. Collaborating with the enemy, but without specifying the individual, left everything up to the imagination. Knowing he’d been part of the club running cartel assets to the ground in Ponchatoula had made several officers cock their heads, but with Po’Boy not refuting anything, only two spoke out against the deed. Catfish and Ragman, both hard men to fool, and Twisted could only hope their act had been believable. The rest damned him by his own silence.

  Knife held between numb fingers, Twisted had set to sawing the patches off the man’s vest as he stood there, fists in hard balls at the end of each arm. There was no way to reassure him; any word spoken would expose the lie. Po’Boy didn’t speak, teeth clamped so tightly it was a wonder they didn’t shatter like glass in his mouth. He had to stand and take it, circumstances muted him as effectively as severing the muscle of his tongue.

  Twisted could only imagine how Po’Boy felt to see the weathered patches in the hands of an officer, wonder at how light the vest must have seemed without the weight of the club on it. One thing he didn’t have to wonder about was what Po’Boy had in his heart, because the agony was plain on his features. “’Bout fuckin’ killed me to do it, brother.”

  Twisted looked around, realizing he’d stalked the entire way through the house, and was now standing on the back porch, where the skeeters were arguably worse than around the front, stinging bites blooming on his arms and neck as the bloodsucking insects honed in on vulnerable flesh. “Fuck,” he shouted, drawing his foot back and sending a table sailing over the rail with a hard kick.

  ***

  Penny

  She stared at Twisted’s back as he stalked away from her and into the depths of the house. Incoherent’s patch seemed to mock her from the center of his black vest, and images of the picture forwarded to her phone flashed through her mind. Po’Boy’s back as he walked through the clubhouse door, the unfaded dark shapes of the rockers and patch glaring in the sunshine telling a story she didn’t know how to read. Do with that what you will.

  The expression on Twisted’s face tore at her; she’d never seen him look as devastated. What struck her more than anything was the lack of anger in him. Oh, he was mad as a wet hen all right, but at himself. She could recognize self-loathing from a mile away, and her Twisted was eat up with it. What he wasn’t was angry at Po’Boy. He wasn’t angry or betrayed, wasn’t disappointed. Fear, he had that by the bushelful, and when you stacked all of everything up beside the other, it was telling.

  Ty will know what’s going on, and he won’t shy from telling me. She yanked her phone out and tapped a button, listening to the call ring beyond what she’d expect. Frowning, she was about to hang up when someone answered. “Fucking finally,” she barked, then was shocked into silence when an unfamiliar voice responded.

  “The fuck you want?” No nuance of recognition there. Penny double-checked the screen, making certain she had indeed called Ty. “Bitch, you got five seconds and I hang up.” The attitude had to be club, no other answer, but who?

  “No, wait.” She stumbled for a moment, moving into club mode to say, “I’m looking for Wrench.”

  “Ain’t we all, sweetheart?” That was a cryptic response, and she puzzled on it for a moment, then heard voices in the background she knew. He’s at the clubhouse.

  “Is that Ace? Let me talk to him.” Laughter in her ear told her she’d forgotten herself, because there was no place in a club where a woman could demand something like that and have it handed over. “It’s Penny, and I need to talk to Wrench, but if not him then Uncle Ace, please.”

  “Penny Dane?” Cautious respect crept into his tone, and she smiled tightly, humming her affirmation into the handset. Away from the speaker the voice called, “Ace, I got Penny. You said you were trying to catch her. She’s on his phone, man.”

  Noise in the background and then Ace was on the line, barking his own questions at her. Hard and fast, he didn’t give her a chance to respond individually. “Fuck, Penny. You okay? Where is he? Where’d Wrench haul his ass to? Twisted giving you anything, doll? Are you okay?”

  Finally he paused for a breath, and she asked, “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Address that one first because it made the least sense. Given Ty’s phone was at the clubhouse but he wasn’t, it wasn’t a far leap to know he’d left it intentionally when he rolled out to whatever destination he had in mind. Obviously something the club wouldn’t approve of, but it wouldn’t take a wizard to guess
that one. He’d gone after Po’Boy, and given what she knew of their relationship, Ty was trying to protect the man from fallout if he could.

  “You’re okay.” A statement this time, but he didn’t bother to answer her inquiry, so she put it aside, listening carefully to what Ace said, and didn’t say. “Wrench talk to you lately?”

  “Why’s his phone at the clubhouse and him not?” Countering with her own question, she left it hanging, again not surprised when he sidestepped it.

  “He hasn’t called you.” Certainty in his tone, Ace was about to shut her down entirely, so she pulled out the tiny morsel Wildman had dropped when he sent the picture of Po’Boy around.

  “He mixed in with the cartel business Po’Boy’s trying to sort?” Put the lie to the out bad rumors, but this was Ace, and he’d been stonewalling supervisors and subordinates since before she was born. If anyone could hold the info close, it was him.

  “Shit.” Bingo. “You need to order something else from the menu, doll. If that’s what you’re thinking, then you’re probably not feeling well. Which means anything we…” He paused a beat, selecting his words with care and she had a moment to wonder who was within earshot on his end. “…might deliver would need to be handled with care.”

  “You send me whatever you need. Let me help.” She shook her head, knowing what he would say. I had to try.

  “Take care, Penny. You know we love ya, honey.” His voice roughened, growing thick, and he told her, “Do anything you need, and you know that’s true.” A brief pause then a click and the connection went dead.

  Shit. Wrench was in the wind, and no one knew where he was. The text had indicated Po’Boy had worked a deal with the Columbians to transport a truck coming off a container, but she knew he’d never do that. None of IMC were hurting for money, and money would be the only reason for a member to pull that kind of betraying bullshit. So Po’Boy was floating around somewhere, and now Wrench had ghosted, too.