Unbreakable: Unrequited Part Two (Fallen Aces MC Book 2) (12 page)

Did she know? Did she realize what her husband had become? What I’d do to have somebody to talk to who understands, who knows his crazed mind. Maybe then I’d be afforded the answer on how to get the hell out of here, how to convince him to let me walk out unharmed.

It’ll never happen.
And neither will seeing King again. My chin falls to my chest as the last of my false hope vanishes. All this fighting, all this suffering for the right to one day have a life
I
chose, and for what? So I can become another statistic in Carlos’s career?

“She dated my friend in high school,” Carlos announces out of nowhere. “I chased her for months and tried to convince her I was better suited than him. She believed it. I never did.”

“She must have loved you, though, to choose you?” Something about talking his history through with him is calming—a distraction within the problem itself.

“She was wrong to.”

“She probably didn’t feel that way.”

He hesitates, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far by presuming to know what his first wife felt.

“At the end, she did.”

“Your son, does he remember?” All I know is that the boy was young, but not how much so.

“Everything.” His tone is strained, the emotion almost palpable in his words. He hurts talking this through, but as much as I don’t want to read into it, I get the feeling it’s also therapeutic for him.

“You’ve never spoken to anyone about this before, have you?”

“What occasion would I have to?”

Fair point. “Why do it all over again, then? Why repeat history by doing the same to me?”

He laughs, cold and snide. “Oh, Elena. There’s nothing the same here. I don’t love you, and we have no children. I wouldn’t miss you at all.”

A mix of fear and embarrassment hit me. He’s as resolved to sell or kill me as he was when I first ran in here, and I was a stupid, naïve woman to think any sort of connection would change that. Yes, maybe it helps him to talk through the painful past, but he’s only doing it to help himself, as with anything he’s involved me in since the start.

I’m nothing but a pawn in a game of chess I have no control over.

“Let me out of here unscathed. I’ll be useful to you if you let me stay.” I’ve resorted to pleading—I’m pathetic.

“How, Elena? Tell me how you’d be useful.”

Damn it.
He’s put me on the spot. I didn’t exactly think it through before the pathetic plea left my lips. I’ve got no intention of being useful. My only plan is to have him believe I want to try better, to be compliant, so I can get out of this room and away with Sully.

“I’m good with numbers.”

“So is my accountant.”

Fuck.
“Why is Hammer here? I could help you by distracting him into agreeing to whatever you want?”

“He’s already agreeable. It was the semantics we discussed. Try again, little fox.”

What else do I have that he can’t get elsewhere? The realization sinks like a stone through the base of my gut.
I have to try.
“Your son? He’s estranged, right?”

“What’s that got to do with how you’d be helpful?”

He sounds intrigued. Maybe I’m getting to him?

“You’re building an empire, so surely you’d need an heir.”

“Go on.”

I swallow back the sick that swirls in my throat. “I could give you one.”

Nothing. The chirp of a cricket outside is the only sound between us.

“You’d have my children to ensure your own life?” he asks.

“Yes,” I tremor.

“Huh.” He sounds surprised, impressed even.

My chest rises and falls rapidly. My heartbeat vibrates though my entire being. Did it work? Have I bought myself time with a lie? If he thinks I’m of use to him, hopefully he’ll drop the sale, leave me be long enough for me to get out before he realizes I never intended on going through with it.

“One condition.”

Damn.
“What?”

“You prove to me how serious you are about the offer by starting now.”

“Excuse me?” I’ve dug the hole deeper, if it were even possible.

“Either you come down here and ride me like you fucking mean it, or I head back out to my guests and fuck that bitch while she signs the contract agreeing to your sale.”

And there he is, the sick and twisted asshole I married. Correction—who married me. It’s not as though I had any say in it.

“What’s it going to be, Elena? I’m tired of being here already. Had hoped for our little soirée to be over the formalities by now.”

“Go fuck that bitch then,” I grind out as I crawl around the doorframe to face him. “But what use is a contract for sale if you can’t deliver the goods?”

His jacket has been removed, his shirt loosened at the collar, yet his eyes are anything but tired. “Where are you going to go, little fox? Where are you going to run when the only way out of your hole is blocked?”

“How can you be so sure?” The walk-in robe backs on to the room next door, and if this wing is anything like the rest of the house, they’re all inter-connected by a single door beside the outer wall. This little fox has been thinking.

Maybe if I get to the room next door I can catch them off guard? They’re expecting me to escape from the master room, but what if I snuck out further along while they were focused here? Would it work?
Not like I have any other options, is it?

“If you’re thinking about jumping out a window, I wouldn’t, dearest.”

Either our minds work the same, or the asshole has some crazy ESP thing going on. “Who says that’s what I was thinking?”

“Logic,” he replies dryly. “Every window is locked, and besides, if you were to break the glass, you’d have a trained sniper to contend with.”

A bitter laugh rumbles from deep in my throat. “That’s how you’re going to get around the hard part this time, huh? Get somebody else to do your dirty work. So fitting for your style.”

Carlos lifts his bowed head, presenting narrowed eyes my way. “He won’t kill you, darling. That’s still my job.”

“Does she pay for dead whores, your bleached plastic-titted bitch?”

His white teeth peek between his parted lips as he grins. “Ever heard of necrophilia?”

The smug smirk slides from my face as my gut roils.

“That’s right, sweetheart—she’s got customers who’ll pay to fuck you even when you’re dead.”

King

“How long is this going to take? I’ve got somewhere to be tonight.” I glance down at my phone, counting the minutes until I need to haul ass to the location Sully texted me.

“Somewhere more important than this?” Hooch asks.

“Better believe it.”

He eyes me curiously, and then starts toward the building with a huff. Asking anybody at the clubhouse about what we wanted to know would have been sure suicide, especially when Apex is itching for a reason to strip me down and send me packing. Next best way to find out why the hell the Fallen Aces didn’t go after blood back in ’97? Ask somebody
outside
the club who was there.

“What’s this guy’s name again?” I ask.

“Devon,” Hooch answers as he looks over the orange brick façade of the downtown bar. “Old man said he’s the only living brother who was there that night, who’s no longer patched.”

No patch means the guy’s more likely to talk out of turn and unbiased. “And we’re sure he’ll give a bunch of fuckin’ preschoolers a history lesson?” I indicate to our rag-tag pairing, young and baby-faced compared to the likes of this man if he’s anything like Hooch explained on the way over.

“Won’t give him an option.” Hooch smiles and shrugs. “In you go.”

Hooch holds the door open and I cross the threshold into the dimly lit, smoky premises. The dull warble of a racing channel filters from the far corner of the establishment, and around a dozen aged and weary faces all stare somberly into their ales. A couple of silver-haired gentlemen watch as we pass by and head down to the booths at the back to a man wearing a Trilby and sharp-collared business shirt. If it weren’t for the tattoos that bleed out from his cuffs and collar, I would have thought we had the wrong guy.

He lifts his head from the newspaper spread out on the table and tilts his black-rimmed glasses down his nose to get a better look at us. “Finally come to collect, huh, guys? Took a while.”

I tip my head to the side while Hooch shakes his. “We’re not here to finish you off,” he reassures. “Got some questions you might be able to answer.”

Devon leans back in his seat, his elbow braced on the low back of the vinyl-covered cushion, and truly looks us over for the first time. “Ah, so you’re some of
them
.”

“Who?” I ask as I lower myself onto the edge of the booth seat opposite Devon.

“Young blood wondering what it is your elders aren’t tellin’ you.”

Jesus—were we that transparent? “Somethin’ like that,” I say. “Are you goin’ to help us, or should we save ourselves the effort and walk out now?” I lean back and cross my arms over my chest, well aware I’m not coming off as friendly in any way.
Good.
I don’t have time to fuck around today.

Devon eyes me with a small smile. He’s pegged me as the one in charge of this crusade given the way he stares deep into my eyes, challenging my bravado. “How about you ask the questions, son, and we’ll see which ones I answer?”

Hooch makes a move to sit, yet stills when Devon holds a hand up, tsk-ing at him.

“I bet you’re both thirsty, am I right? I know I could use a refill.”

I roll my eyes. Hooch grumbles on his way to the bar.

Devon calmly lifts the sides of his newspaper and folds it neatly along the creases and sets it to one side. My skin itches. My impatience grows by the second as he carefully, and purposefully lays out cardboard coasters for our drinks. His lips are curled on one side the whole time; the asshole takes great pleasure in fucking us around, that’s for sure.

“Where you in a hurry to get to?” he asks, avoiding eye contact as he fusses to make sure the coasters are in a perfect square. “You’re as jittery as a June bug.”

“People to see.”

“Other than me?” he queries. “My, you are busy.”

“Cut the crap,” I snap. “Why’d you leave the club?” His attitude doesn’t lend to me wanting to trust him. His answer to the most important question will be the only thing that sways me the other way.

“When your VP shoots your dog because you refuse to come in for a bullshit meeting to promote him to president, and
then
holds the gun to your daughter’s head next as extra persuasion, a man can become . . . jaded,” he explains as Hooch returns with three beer necks jammed between his fingers.

“You didn’t agree to his promotion?” I ask.

“Nobody did.”

“He’s talkin’ about Apex, right?” Hooch asks, catching up on what he’s missed.

Devon nods. “I am.”

“It’s fucked,” I huff out. “I never heard anything but good shit about him when I signed up. I looked up to the asshole once. How do I know you’re not twistin’ history to suit you?”

Hooch shakes his head and places his bottle back on the table. “You only heard the highlights, King, because that’s what Apex wanted you to hear—only the good stuff. He’s been an asshole for years.”

“What do you know about this?” Devon asks.

Hooch turns to face the old guy properly, and Devon slowly nods his understanding. “I see it now. You’re Judas’s boy, right?”

Hooch tips his chin in acknowledgement.

“Fuck. You were a chubby little toddler in your mother’s arms when I saw you last.”

“Time flies, huh?”

Devon takes a swig of his beer and removes his Trilby. “How can I help you boys then?”

“Denver, ’97,” I state. “Why didn’t our club retaliate?”

A slow smile spreads over the old guy’s face. “Good question. I can’t tell you
why
they chose not to, exactly.”

Hooch sighs and swipes his drink up in frustration. “Here I was thinkin’ this trip was goin’ to be worth my while.”

Devon holds up a hand, shushing him. “I never said I didn’t know anythin’ about it, just that I don’t have the definite answer.” He settles his elbows on the table, the tattoos most of the lifers have clear on his right fingers: club, spade, diamond, and heart. “I can, however, give you the rundown on what happened before and after that night, which you may or may not have use for.” He grins. “You boys know much about Apex’s old lady?”

“Only that we never see her,” I answer.

Devon lifts his eyebrows as though to say “I know.” “There’s a reason why she’s always at home, never around.” He takes a sip of his drink for dramatic effect. “You boys know that Apex has a son as well?”

Our jaws hit the table. “Say what?” How did I not know that? Does anybody at the club know?

“Yeah. Should be about your age by now. Would have been next in line for that gavel your president loves to keep under his pillow at night, but a little ‘argument’ fucked that up for him.”

The pair of us stare at this relic of our club’s hey-day, waiting on the best part of the story.

“He met his old lady when he was propsectin’ for the Blood Eagles.”

All color drains from my body. I swear I can feel the temperature change as the blood sinks to my toes. “He what?”

“Bet you didn’t know that, huh?” Devon tips his drink at us, and then downs a healthy gulp.

“He kept that quiet,” Hooch muses. “I don’t even think my old man knows that.”

“Not many people do,” Devon confirms. “Only me, Hammer, and a couple of the lifers in each club. Your pres pays a pretty penny to keep it that way, too.”

Explains some of the Aces financial troubles, then.
“Why keep it a secret until now, though? Members prospect for different clubs all the time.”

“That they do. But they don’t start a blood war when they leave.”

“What you on about?” Callum narrows his gaze on the old guy. “You sayin’ that this shit with the Eagles started before Denver because of Apex? That it never really ended?”

Devon simply bobs both eyebrows, twice.

So much makes sense now: the connections between him and the Eagles, his reluctance to let anyone in on what he’s doing. “Still doesn’t explain why there was no retaliation in ’97.”