Blood and Honor (19 page)

The new club doctor, an older lady, said they could blood test tomorrow. Rhee would know for sure, very soon. Then, she could convince herself that she hadn’t made the biggest mistake of her life.

***

Dax checked the time on his phone and swore under his breath. He’d been at the compound for almost two days straight. Following the Trish incident, he’d sent Rhee and Sirena back to his house with strict orders to stay put, as well as two grunts to make sure Rhee obeyed him this time.

It was a ballsy move—bringing Trish to the clubhouse. He understood why Rhee had done it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t totally mindfucked by Trish’s appearance. He had kept an eye on her when she went to school—even knew about some of the dates she went on, but he never knew her secret.

All this time, the twinges of guilt he experienced about fucking her over, and Trish was pregnant—by another man. Smart, calculating Trish. Who would have thought it?

“You want me to put him to ground?” he had asked her, referring to the asshole who had knocked her up and then abandoned her.

“No. I just want closure, Dax.”

Then Trish dropped another bomb—a bigger one, if that was possible. She was sick. Real sick. The man in him, the outlaw, couldn’t help wanting to protect her. But, Trish assured him that she was happy, given the circumstances, and well taken care of. She came to say her piece and enjoy the rest of her time on this earth, and he was impressed by her integrity. Still, that didn’t stop him from calling up a charter club and putting a guy on her and her new man. Closure was one thing, honor was another thing entirely.

Wince was still holed up in his bunk putting together shit for Darling PD about the kiddy porn ring. That shit was going to be taken down, fucking immediately, and fucking violently, if Dax had anything to say about it. There was the issue with Rhiannon being pregnant, too. And Hawk talking to the feds…

Dax’s head ached. He was itching to get back into the water—the deep blue peace was comforting to him. At least it was quiet. He glanced at the bar. Maybe a drink would calm his nerves.

Dax shot back a brandy and then an idea sparked in his brain. Grinning, he paced quickly out to one of the sheds located at the rear of the compound. His master key was no match for the rusty lock, which looked like it hadn’t been touched in years.

No worries.

He pulled a pint-sized tomcat from his ankle holster and one bullet was all it took to shatter the lock. A yell went up from the clubhouse and three grunts raced outside, guns drawn. Dax dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

“Fuck off.”

They stood there, gaping at him until he turned and glared. “I said, fuck off!”

The door to the shed swung open and light crept in, making the swirls of dust in the doorway dance. Dax felt the grin on his face getting wider as he made his way into inside. It was still there, leaning against the back wall—and from the looks of it, it was in pristine condition. He ran his hand down the side, feeling the dings and the bumpy remnants of old wax. Testing its weight, the thing felt smaller than it had when he was a kid. But, the old boat would work just fine.

Dax tucked the heavy surfboard under his arm. Time to see if Darling Beach still had any shitty waves to fuck around on.

***

From Hawk’s bunk in the clubhouse, Alanna had a perfect view of the yard. She already had her eye on Dax as he sauntered out to the shed. Who wouldn’t look at the man? He was like a god—all strong and golden, with muscles that bulged out from beneath his tight black tee shirt. She felt her eyes widen as he pulled his piece from his ankle and shot the shit out of the lock on the shed. Immediately, Alanna’s panties moistened at his aggressive behavior.

Fuckin’ unreal.

What was the man looking for in there? Dax was on a mission and from the looks of it he didn’t want any interference. She watched, her curiosity mingling with her heightening arousal.

When Dax finally emerged from the shed, and she saw what he carried under his arm, Alanna experienced a jolt of sexual desire so strong she nearly creamed her jeans. It was a fucking surfboard. She flew into action, discarding her jeans and throwing on a sexy, black bikini and shorts.

Alanna smiled to herself. She had a few pictures on her cell phone of the papers Hawk thought he had hidden in his desk. They should be proof enough. Dax was sure to reward her handsomely—and she knew just what kind of tribute she was going to suggest.

It only took a few wiggles and gropes to get the keys to one of the grunt vans. Hopping in Alanna slid her oversized sunglasses over her eyes and waited. A few minutes later, the Phantoms
’
vice president appeared, looking sexy as sin in his board shorts. The man was sex on a fucking stick. She watched as he secured his surfboard to the roof rack of the Suburban and patted it with a sentimental look on his face—like he was seeing an old friend.

He meant to surf Darling Beach, of course. There was one break there—she’d heard some of the grunts talking about it. The place was decent in the winter if there was no wind, but the water was fucking freezing. No matter. She followed him at a safe distance to avoid being spotted, and then she watched from her vehicle as he loped down the sandy trail.

After his session, he’d be all hers.

Chapter Forty-Three

Slade pulled up to the docks and checked the time on the antique pocket watch that dangled from a reinforced chain on his belt. Some of the guys gave him shit about his timepiece but it had belonged to his old man and he would wear it until he went to ground. He didn’t bother explaining his affinity for the antique gold piece. It was nobody’s damn business.

Over the last few weeks, Hawk put him on extra runs to the port and Slade wasn’t sure why. At first, he assumed his president was just trying to get him out of the way. Now, Slade picked up on an underlying sense of anxiety down there. The ship gang working this dock had been in the
Phantom’s
pocket for years and they were used to the gigs. So why did the longshoremen seem so tense lately?

Slade lit up a doobie and took a long inhale as he watched the men work. Looked like a dangerous fuckin’ job—inside the hold of the ship, cargo containers were moved to a precise location so the winch could pick them up. Then, the containers, which had to weigh several tons, were lowered onto the ground. Another guy driving what looked like a huge forklift picked it up and stacked it.

Containers came from lots of shipping yards contracted with the port. The ones from
Mako Shipping
were easy to identify. Slade and the ship gang carried a sheet identifying which ones held contraband. They popped those open and the gang unloaded the Phantoms
’
shit right into the trucks that carried them to their distributors. The empties were loaded right back onto the ship. It was a well-oiled process that had been going on for years. Nothing could go wrong.

Could it?

Fuck, the place was loud. Slade adjusted his handheld radio so he could pick up the frequency the longshoremen used.

“Nah, he said it would be marked special.” The disembodied voice belonged to one of the dockworkers.

“Wouldn’t we hear something?” A different voice inquired.

“We’d fuckin’ smell something man, if it’s what I think it is.”

“Shut the fuck up, you dipshits. This is a public channel we’re on.”

There was silence for several moments after that. When the voices resumed, they were all business. But the seed had already been planted in Slade’s brain. Something was coming in through the port. Something important. And Hawk wanted to know when it showed up.

Slade pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at it. He had enough information to take the next step, but rather than texting Dax, he texted Wince. It was better if the information came from him.

***

Twenty-four hours and ten coffees later, Wince was staring at his laptop screen with bleary eyes that felt like they were full of sand. He was particularly fascinated with the digital yearbook he was able to access. In her senior photo, Rhee looked like she was faking her smile, but at least she was smiling. Two grades back, and Michaela Blake’s solemn face stared at him, expressionless, save for the haunted look in her dark eyes.

In her high school photo, Mickey’s hair was reddish-brown, like Rhiannon’s. They shared so many features they could have almost been twins. Something about this photo tugged at a place inside of Wince, fueling his motivation to solve the puzzle of her disappearance even more. It wasn’t about Rhee any more. Wince felt connected now, to Mickey. After digging up everything he could find about the girl, it was like he was the one who lost her.

When he came across the next piece of information, he had a feeling that his hope was futile. It was a police report, and it contained some information that Wince was sure Rhee didn’t know. Those words, in their simple font, complicated everything.

Brake lines cut.

The accident that killed Susanna Blake and Paul Malone was no accident.

It was murder.

***

“I need to talk to him, right now. He’s been gone for five hours and I’ve been blowing up his cell.”

There was an edge to Wince’s voice that wasn’t usually present.

“Well, I don’t know where he is. Dax was really antsy last night. Have you checked the beach?” Rhee wasn’t worried. She trusted her man. Plus, the way she was feeling right now, she needed some time sans Dax—to think about her possible…condition.

“You know, that’s probably where he is. Bet one of the grunts knows—I just haven’t been out of my cave for the past twenty-four hours.”

“He mentioned a place he used to surf at when he was a kid. Is that near here? Maybe Sirena and I can head down there and check it out. We need to get out of the house anyway.”

“Stay put, Rhee. Please. Did he mention if he’d be swinging by the compound before he heads back to the house?”

Something in his voice sent a wave of adrenaline coursing through Rhee’s veins.

“What’s going on, Wince?” The question flew from her mouth and then she held her breath. Rhee’s heart started pounding like it always did when she thought their luck was changing—when she thought they might be one step closer to Mickey.

There was a long silence.

“Wince?” she repeated.

The sigh that issued from the phone was so heavy Rhee almost dropped the damn thing into the sink along with the dirty dishes.

“I’m fuckin’ destroyed, sweets. Haven’t slept in a while. Let me…close my eyes for a few minutes. I’ll text you in a little while.”

“Okay.” She had to force her squeaky voice to respond.

Is this it?
If it is, and he won’t just come out and say it, then it’s probably bad news.
God help me, I just want to know the truth.

Her limbs went shaky as all sorts of horrible scenarios played out in her head. Rhee practically fell onto the couch just as Sirena bounded into the room with a can of play-doh in each hand.

Duty calls.

“Mama, open it!” Sirena demanded. “I wanna do play-doh.”

Ugh.

Play-doh was messy and the damn cans were nearly impossible to open. Rhee looked at Sirena, trying to figure out how to redirect her to another activity, but it wasn’t going to happen. In a few minutes, it was going to look like the
Fun Factory
exploded in the living room. Sirena looked up at her expectantly, and those twinkling blue eyes—eyes that looked so much like another pair of eyes—were Rhee’s undoing.

Guess I’m a sucker for blond hair and a pretty face,
Rhee thought ruefully as she pried the lids off of the bright yellow containers. It took some effort but she was finally able to access the fuchsia and lavender material inside.

Who the fuck engineered these things?

She set Sirena up at the kitchen table, knowing from experience that the dough would be easier to sweep off the wooden floor in the kitchen than it would be to pick it out of the carpet.

“You play too, mama.”

Sirena plopped a blob of bright pink material in front of Rhee. She rolled it in her hands, the salty smell reminding her of another young girl who liked to play with her so long ago. Tears pricked her eyes but Rhee dashed them away in an attempt to shield her daughter from her unstable emotions.

After a few moments, Rhee noticed that the band of pressure that was sitting around her chest, preventing her from taking a deep breath, had loosened a bit. It seemed that kneading play-doh had a calming effect on her, and that was a very good thing.

I should keep this shit in my purse.

Purse dough—that would be a great idea in so many ways.

A smile emerged, but its appearance made the tight feeling in Rhee’s jaw all the more obvious. Rhee wondered whether her heart was permanently cracked. She was a mess of conflicting feelings. Sometimes she felt like a puppet who was being controlled by an evil master who liked to jerk the strings in different directions at the same time.

There might be another baby on the way.

She was actively trying not to stress about it, but Rhee looked forward to tomorrow’s appointment with a mixture of dread and anticipation. At least Dax would be there—there would be no solo doctor’s appointments spent wondering if everyone else in there was judging her this time.

“Look mama, snake.” Sirena announced. “Ssss!”

“Wow, baby. Nice job.”

“You make mama snake.”

Despite the turbulent feelings that warred inside of her head, Rhee found herself grinning. “A big, fat one?”

“Yeah!”

Sirena watched with great interest as Rhee took a huge hunk of play-doh and proceeded to roll it. When she was done, Sirena placed her little snake next to the larger one.

“The baby go next to the mama,” her daughter commented softly, her eyes meeting Rhee’s with a look of quiet certainty that only small children seemed able to project.

Rhee felt her heart expand and her eyes moisten.

It feels like I should be in so many places right now, but I’m right where I’m supposed to be.