Neither This Nor That Box Set 1

by MariaLisa deMora

  “You made some serious enemies. Did you know there are two separate contracts out for you?” Facing away from Po’Boy, the man stood framed in the windows, ignoring the groans Po’Boy couldn’t contain. “Though each is decent enough on their own, together they were enough to get my attention.” He rolled a shoulder, a motion Po’Boy recognized as settling the strap of a holster. He’s got at least one, he thought.

  Standing still, the man presented an attitude of patient waiting, which echoed his movements and words from earlier. He put Po’Boy in mind of a hunter, willing to be silent and still for hours waiting on an elusive moment in time when fates aligned, gifting them with a perfect shot. Is he hunting me? “So I did some looking, poking around where I normally wouldn’t, and I found some very interesting things about you.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder to where Po’Boy lay. “Ralph Lewis.” Another pause, then he finished with a word which had never been part of Po’Boy’s name, “Grover.”

  Turning back to the window, the man shook his head. “You’re an interesting fella. Looking at you, a body would never know you had money, that you came from money. But I’m betting it’s not something you knew, either.”

  “You got the wrong guy,” Po’Boy gritted out, listening to the motor chatter for a moment before it resumed its grinding whine. Jesus, give up the fuckin’ ghost already. “I ain’t got nothin’ a body would want. I’m just a poor boy.”

  The man chuckled, the sound low and intense. “That’s rich. You’re funny.” Snorting, the guy glanced at him again, his gaze locking with Po’Boy’s. “You come from money. Your momma never told you, did she?” Po’Boy stared at him. “Yeah, she left you in ignorance. Probably hoping with ignorance comes bliss.”

  The pulling cables shivered, stuttering again, then the sound increased in pitch until it was shrieking, a metallic clatter signaling the end of life for the motor. There was still tension on the lines, but it was a relief to know he might not lose his hand after all. “I done told you, I ain’t got anything of note.” He kept his speech to the patter of the bayous. “I ain’t nobody. Don’t know what nonsense you’re spewing, but you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree with me.”

  “Your momma was Shirley Lewis, of the Baton Rouge Lewis family. Your great granddaddy was into lumber and land. He bought up a bunch of land, all kinds of land in all kinds of places. Up in Mississippi, over in Texas. Wound up with land that happened to sit on a gas field. Your granddaddy knew his business and held onto the rights with a tight fist. One of the reasons he weren’t happy with your momma getting knocked up like she did. He had a man all hand-picked out for her, and she bucked him every step of the way.” He realized the man had adopted a near copy of his speech patterns and grimaced, knowing playing the fool wouldn’t work here. The guy snorted. “Yeah, your granddaddy weren’t happy. But he kept track of her, and when she had a boychild, he kept track of you.”

  “So what, he probably had a dozen kids and they’ve had a dozen kids, so now you think they’re all out to kill me for my part of his estate?” Bending his knee, he pulled his leg up, finding some slack, reaching up to try and loosen the cable from around his hand.

  He stopped, stunned by what the man said next.

  “Nope, Ralph Lewis Grover, you’re the only child of an only child of an only child. It’s all yours. Or your heir’s.” Turning, the man put his hands on his hips, fists balled and elbows to the side. “You even know you got an heir?”

  “Fuck are you talking about now?”

  “Well, one of the lists I saw showed you as Ralph Lewis, which is what I expected. But the other”—shaking his head, the man stepped closer—“had you down as Grover’s kid. So I did some digging. Did you know he adopted you? Made you his kid, first thing when he married your momma.”

  Po’Boy’s head snapped back, and he stared up at the man, stunned.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Now, cast your mind into what pathways that leads you.” Stepping back, the man leaned his shoulders against the wall. “I got some time. I can wait.”

  “I don’t have to think. Fuckin’ Jeff.” Man had stepped in the deep end of the pool. First cartel, then putting out a contract on Po’Boy. Nothing that’s going to help extend his life expectancy.

  “Got it in one. Must say, color me impressed. Shouldn’t be surprised, though, everything I read on you said you were smart. So imagine my surprise when I heard you’d been stupid.”

  Po’Boy was nearly lost inside his head, trying to sort out the idea he might be worth enough to put a hit out on. Nearly, but not quite. Beyond Jeff, there were two questions in his head. “Who dropped the other paper? And what do you mean, I’ve been stupid?” He could think of a dozen MC rivals who might want him dead. “What’s the payoff? How much are you gonna make on me?” That would narrow it down, and since he wasn’t dead yet, there was every chance he could get out of his one. Fingers under the cable, he wiggled it back and forth, finally slipping his hand free, losing more skin and flesh in the process but counting it progress nonetheless. He sat up, loosening the noose around his ankle, feeling the rush of blood painfully in his foot, pins and needles making him hiss. “Jeff and who?”

  “You fucked a girl.” He studied his hands, curling one palm up, fingers curved.

  “That’s it? All you’re givin’ me? No more than that? Man, I’ve fucked a lot of gals.” He rubbed his hand, avoiding the painful wound on his wrist. “That’s not as big a clue as you might think.”

  “Well—” Casually dipping into one pocket, the man pulled out a blade, flipping it open with a relaxed motion, applying the tip to each fingernail in turn. “You fucked a girl, then you fucked her sister. Then, you fucked that girl’s cousin.” Eyes angled up, he stared at Po’Boy, wanting to watch as whatever bomb he dropped detonated. “And that cousin? He wasn’t happy when you were done with him. He’s got family money, too. He rolled up an offer and threw it in the waters, knowing he’d sweetened the bait with enough to get a bite.” The guy shrugged. “I knew about the other offer, so I bit.”

  Sounds outside heralded the arrival of other parties, something Po’Boy could do without, not seeing where it could be a winning situation for him, given this guy’s offhand attitude. The door at the front of the house opened, and Po’Boy twisted on his ass, rolling to his knees and then his feet as he turned to face this new threat. “You gettin’ paid to deliver breathing?”

  “I already got paid. No more work is needed on my part.”

  Po’Boy glanced at him. “What?”

  “You got friends, as well as enemies, Po’Boy.” With a single word cementing his knowledge the man had thoroughly looked into him, Po’Boy tried to split his attention between the known and unknown. “Tell Retro I left you alive, yeah?” Strolling to a door, the man opened it and, leaving it standing wide behind him, walked through.

  “Lewis,” a familiar voice purred his name, and he turned to face Sam Rotain. She was holding a pistol steady in one hand, as casually comfortable with the weapon as someone raised around them would be.

  “Lewis,” an also familiar voice gritted out his name, and he stared over Sam’s shoulder at the man following her into the building. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Greg?” He barely got the stunned question out when Sam raised her arm, locking her elbow as she squeezed the trigger. Po’Boy threw himself to the floor, yanking his weapon out and firing at her. His wrist couldn’t hold against the recoil, and he shouted in pain, fighting to try and line up the barrel again. Greg rushed towards him, gun in hand, the grip coming down in a rush that pulled darkness with it.

  Being in the suite now meant Greg hadn’t been a hallucination. Being tied up as he was, meant Sam hadn’t been one, either. At the moment, he couldn’t decide which was worse. From Grover’s rental house in the country to his suite in Orleans, he’d gone from the frying pan into the fire.

  The sound of a key in the lock alerted him, and he was staring at the door through slitted eyes when it opened, admit
ting Sam, followed by Greg. Ignoring him stretched out on the bed, they carried bags of what looked and smelled like takeout from Plaisirs Caches to the small kitchen area. “I don’t see what you like about Truman. He’s kind of a douche.” Sam set her bag down and turned to face Greg.

  He shrugged, turning his back on Po’Boy as he placed his bag on the countertop. “He’s a power top, and I like dick.”

  “Jesus, don’t remind me. The idea of you takin’ it up the ass makes me sick.” Sam faked a shiver, grinning broadly.

  “Fucked you up the ass, you seemed to like it.” Greg reached out, trailing his fingers down Sam’s arm. “We get the asshole behind me hard, we can figure out something we’ll both like.” He leaned forwards, pressing his lips to hers, pulling back a moment later to finish, “Guarantee.”

  Sam looked at Po’Boy over Greg’s shoulder, the grin fading. “Still not sure why he’s not dead. I thought you said you’d paid someone to kill him.”

  And there it was. Proof of the redheaded man’s information falling out of Sam’s mouth like it was a food order at a diner. Po’Boy stared as Greg turned to look at him.

  “Yeah, I’m still not sure about that, either. But,” he twisted to face Sam, “this could be fun.”

  Jesus fuck.

  ***

  Crissy

  Easing the car to a stop in the underground parking space, Crissy glanced at the man seated beside her as she turned off the lights. In the illumination of the garage, she watched as Thorne picked at the skin of his knuckles, not looking up, seemingly lost in thought. She glanced around, reaching for a moment to the console before remembering the car he’d had her drive had the gearshift on the steering column.

  “We’re here,” she said unnecessarily, not wanting to startle him. They’d ridden the whole way from Slidell in silence, broken only by his repeated checking of the magazine on his gun. The metallic slide and snap sounded again, and she stared at his hands moving so familiarly on the weapon.

  You grew up around guns, she reminded herself again. Got your first deer at nine-years-old. Fascinated at how his fingers danced through the motions, she shook her head slightly. Yeah, but I’ve never seen a gun held by a madman. Jury was still out on his mental state, and his twitching made her wonder if he was a tweaker, coming down off an unstable high. That would account for his rambling monologue in the motel.

  The tiny house he’d taken her to after they left the motel had been in his family for generations. Thorne had described the convoluted family tree that brought it to his ownership, but she’d only tried to follow for a few minutes before realizing he was lost in a sea of memories which had nothing to do with what was going on today. She reached and retrieved the pistol from underneath her leg. The arsenal he’d unveiled behind a plain, wooden door had been the reason for their visit. Gathered and stashed there, he promised her the gun in her hand had never been used for more than target practice.

  When she’d lifted an eyebrow in confusion, he explained it meant if used in “self-defense,” and he’d used the air quotes when saying the words, it would be a clean burner to drop “at the scene,” another phrase deemed deserving of those curved motions of his fingers.

  Then he’d showed her a map on his phone with a green dot and a pulsing red one.

  The green dot was his phone’s location, where they were in the middle of nowhere outside Slidell, surrounded on all sides by thin strips of blue, the waters of the many bayous they’d driven past and around on their way to the shack. The red dot was Sam’s phone.

  When Crissy enlarged the map, bringing the street and nearby business names into focus, she’d been shocked and then saddened to see the address was that of Lewis’ condo. In that moment she was nearly undone, struggling to hold her tears back, remembering again Retro’s voice on the phone talking about the three of them together. Then she remembered the confrontation on Ty’s sidewalk, where he’d casually talked about having sex with Sam. Fear drove her thoughts, and she struggled to hold back tears. It didn’t take them long to replace me. Thorne saw her near to losing it and tried to console her, missing the mark with his, “She don’t mean nothin’ to him. Wrench never glommed onto her like he did you. She was just wet and willing.”

  “They’re at Po’Boy’s place in New Orleans,” she finally choked out, and he eyed the phone with distrust, as if it could grow fists and strike at any moment.

  “Don’t change nuthin’,” he muttered, thrusting the phone and an extra magazine of rounds her direction. “Bitch got him. Think about his place. She trashed it. He knew about that place of Po’Boy’s, so could she.”

  Swallowing hard, she bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Retro said folks hadn’t seen either of them, but he didn’t have any indication anything bad had happened.” She’d meant to remind herself, but said it aloud, only realizing it as Thorne stiffened and turned woodenly to stare at her.

  “You fuckin’ know Retro?” He shook his head. “You best buds with Twisted and his Shiny Penny, too?”

  “What?” She shoved the magazine into the back pocket of her jeans, and reached up, cradling her jaw for a moment, the clenching of her teeth setting up a fierce throbbing.

  “Nothin’. Got what we want, now let’s go. Follow the bouncing ball.” Walking out, he headed towards the car and she paused on the tiny front porch, pulling the door shut behind her.

  “Don’t you want to lock it?”

  At her question, he laughed, and she saw the man who might have attracted Sam, the expression lifting fifteen years off his face. “Gel, we deep in the bayous. Ain’t nonesuch gonna bother thangs here. Hell, half the parish is kinfolk. They need, they’ll use, then return. It’s our way.”

  “You got a key?” Thorne’s voice startled her out of her head, and Crissy nodded. It was on a carved wooden keyring Lewis had left on her nightstand the last time he slept at her house. A peace offering, maybe. An invitation, possibly. She hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t given an explanation, and then they’d simply stopped talking. She’d kept it like a talisman, never intending to use it. “Let’s go then. See what we find.”

  She was out of the car, pocketing the keys when he spoke again. “You got it in you to deal shit out to Sam if needed? If she’s hurt your men? You got that in you?”

  Crissy stared at him across the top of the old car, unrepaired rusty dents dotting the surface, the rancid smell of well-used fishing tackle drifting up from the inside. Used and abused, the car wasn’t cared for. But it wasn’t breathing, either. No matter what, Sam was a person, and Crissy didn’t know if she could hurt her. As she stared at him, thoughts of Ty’s recitation of Sam’s instability, and how Sam had threatened her fluttered against her resolve. She recalled the way Lewis’ face had blanched at the mention of the sister’s name, Sabrina. Then she remembered the condition of the condo, how Ty’s bedroom had been destroyed, and thought about the deranged attitude it spoke to. The woman could have hurt either of them, badly. The knife, impaling the image of the three of them. What if she’s already… “If I have to, yeah.”

  As she spoke, Crissy felt a stillness settle into her soul. Whatever this was she was feeling, doggedness or determination, it must have shown on her face, because Thorne told her, “Yeah. I get that now. Let’s go see what we see.”

  Holding the loaded pistol tight against her leg, she led Thorne up the stairs, pausing for breath as they reached Lewis’ floor. Laughter drifted down the stairwell at one point, and she had looked up, glimpsing two masked women in evening gowns leaning over and staring at them. How surreal.

  Checking the hallway through the small square of glass, she tugged the fire door open, murmuring, “This is it.”

  “Slow and easy, gel,” Thorne urged as she slid the key into the lock. His quiet encouragement helped steady her, and with a deep breath, she turned the knob and slowly pushed the door open, glad when the lights inside were bright, helping disguise their entrance. Slapping sounds from inside the room had her gut clenching, and she
slipped around the edge of the door not sure she wanted to see what was happening, but like driving past a wreck on the interstate, unable to look away.

  Three bodies. Lewis was splayed near the center of the bed, head tipped to one side, naked and exhausted. On the other side of him there was a man on his knees behind a woman, powering into her, the sound a result of each impact of his thighs on hers. Sam. Her head pillowed on Lewis’ belly, one hand in view, and it took Crissy a moment to realize she cradled a knife in that hand, positioned perilously close to Lewis’ side. A moment later and she recognized the red stripes covering his thighs and belly were cuts, shallow but still bleeding. Another moment and she knew the way his head lolled with each movement of the mattress meant he wasn’t asleep, he was unconscious. What if he’s… She refused to let her mind follow that thought into the darkness.

  Sam’s head came up and she stared at Crissy, mouth open and working soundlessly. Then the man groaned, fleshy ass quivering and flexing as he shoved hard once, then a second time. He hadn’t stilled when Sam pulled away, yelling, “Thorne,” as the man shouted, “Jesus, Sam!” He twisted to face the door, hard cock bobbing side to side, glistening wetly in the bright lights. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Thorne pushed past Crissy, gun lifted to shoulder height and Crissy winced when he casually backhanded the man with the barrel. The blow knocked him off the bed where he slithered into a heap on the floor, silent, dick already going soft against his thigh. Sam was shoving backwards on the mattress, knife in hand, eyes only for Thorne. Lips closed tightly, she glanced down at Lewis, then over at Crissy and back to Thorne, a grim smile flattening her mouth into an ugly line.

  Before Crissy could react, Sam had thrown herself prone beside Lewis, lifting the knife to his throat.

  “Stop, Thorne.” Sam’s shout wheezed, as if she’d been running for miles. “I’ll kill him. They’ll look to you, you know they will. Club don’t care about bitches. You’ll never get your diamond. I’ll kill him.”