Where Souls Spoil (60 page)

“Tell me what happened,” I say and lean against the door. She paces for a moment with her thumb in her mouth. She bites down hard enough to wince and then pulls it out. When she swings around, her eyes are wild and her hands shake at her sides.

“I don’t even know,” she says. “I was at my desk. Cheyenne came running in saying there was a weird man at her car who had a message for you.” Her words come out quickly, but the last one has a bit more punch than the rest. Yeah, she’s real unhappy with me right now. “I went outside and told him he couldn’t be on campus, and I told him to leave Cheyenne alone. He didn’t like that much, and he told me that Mr. Man—Mancini, I think—his business partners are here and they need to meet with you.”

“You mean Mancuso?” I ask. Before I can get the word out, she’s snapping her fingers and nodding.

“That’s it,” she says then starts pacing again. “Anyway, he said they need to talk about an acquisition and something about a hostile takeover, and then it was weird. He said something about the club not wanting to give up some assets. It didn’t make much sense, but then he said something about aggressive tactics. I just, I can’t do that again. Look at me, I’m shaking,” she says and lifts a shaking hand up to my face.

Shit.

“Anything else?”

“I asked him why he couldn’t go to you himself, and he said he wanted to check on Cheyenne,” she says and trails off. She places her hand over her mouth and gasps. Whatever she’s thinking about is frightening her, which is putting me on edge.

She rushes up to me, places her hands on my chest and says, “He threatened her. He said he’d hate to see anything happen to her, and when I started to freak out, he asked me to not make him hurt me.”

Everything in the room comes into focus. Even the tiny imperfections in the paint job where the wall meets the ceiling are crystal clear. I can hear everything around me. Forcing myself to be hyper aware is the only way I can shut down the straight-up panic attack I’m about to have. It’s rare that I find myself losing control and turning into a madman, but fucking with my kid is sure to do it every time. Cheyenne is the only good thing that came of my marriage to Layla, and she’s worth every goddamn headache and heartache I’ve had over her bitch mother. I can’t live in a world where my kid doesn’t, and even the faintest suggestion of losing her is enough to make me shut down entirely. But I can’t go there and let that happen. People depend on me. Letting them down can get them killed. My brothers deserve better than that. So instead, I let myself slip into autopilot where I can just take care of shit without thinking too much about what I’m doing.

“You and Chey are both safe,” I tell her and reach up and awkwardly place my hand on her shoulder. She’s not calling me an asshole or screaming at me, so I try to do what I can to keep shit calm. Her eyes drift to my hand and, very slowly, she removes her hands from my chest. Something doesn’t sit right with me with the way she removes her hands, but instead of thinking on it, I file it away for later. I’m never going to figure this woman out, and there’s no reason I should want to. When I take my hand off her shoulder, she backs up. I push off the door and then open it with every intention of walking out without saying anything else. But the look on Holly’s face is so pathetic that it stabs at something in me, and I find myself trying to comfort her. “You trust that I’m going to keep you safe?”

She gives little more than a non-committal murmur that I don’t understand, but as I stride out of the room she whispers so low I shouldn’t even be able to hear it, “I want to.”

On my way down the hall and into the main room where my brothers are all sitting around and talking strategy, I let that tiny bit of confidence Holly has in me push me to make good on my promise. My kid is safe as long as she’s with us—which is where she’s going to stay—but I have no clue what I’m going to do with Holly. I doubt she’ll be gung-ho about staying with me until this shit blows over, and I can’t lock her up in the basement for her own safety. Although, it would serve her right for being so fucking difficult. Regardless of what I end up doing with her, right now I need to get Ian and one of our prospects to take her and Chey to the house to be with my mother, who should be home right about now. I need them safe with a few of my brothers so I can focus on finding this asshole and demonstrating why his little stunt is the last mistake he will ever make.

Chapter 13

Grady

“WE DON’T HAVE
any fucking clue where this guy is, let alone
who
he is!” Duke shouts from across the table. We’re in Church—again. I’m starting to think I should just move into this fucking room with how many club meetings we’ve had lately. This shit is necessary, and I need to keep my head in the game, but I can’t stop my foot from tapping on the floor in a show of impatience. I just want to get home to Chey and make sure she’s okay. I still need to figure out what to do with Holly, and I need to calm my mother down. No doubt she’s half past crazy right now.

“That prick isn’t going to help us. He’s just going to lead us around by our dicks,” Diesel gripes from the far end corner of the table. Beside him is Chief’s empty seat. If he were here, he’d know what to do. Having to sit and stare at that vacant space makes it hard to trust in what we’re doing.

We’re back at it about Michael. Especially now that this Italian cocksucker has shown up and targeted my girl, it’s even more important that we get better intel. When we got back to the clubhouse half an hour ago, every one of us looked totally defeated and mentally wiped. We rode around looking for that asshole for a good hour before giving up.

Fort Bragg isn’t big enough to spend any longer than that looking for the guy. He sticks out enough that when we asked local business owners if they’d seen him, a few of them were able to confirm that they had. The last time we had some asshole walking around in a two thousand dollar suit it was when Junior swung into town and tried to kill his sister for information on the club. So far we got Mr. Hill from the hardware store on the look-out. That old man is nosey as fuck and one of the best locals to have on your side if you need anything. Loyal as he is stubborn.

“Anybody think to run this by Lank?” Bear says from beside Diesel. Lank is Thomas Lankershim, a dirty cop who’s had his mouth on our dicks for the better part of a decade. I shake my head and lean forward.

“Lank is out of touch right now, got it?” I say. Diesel and Bear exchange a confused look, and Fish shakes his head. Only Duke seems to fucking get it. “Not to beat a dead horse or nothing, but we got the FBPD inspecting our balls right now over that Darren shit. For
some
reason, they have witnesses that place our van at the scene.”

“We got it, Knuck,” Wyatt says, using part of my club nickname. “Let that horse die.”

“I’m just saying,” I say, completely unable to let it go. “We have to be more careful about the shit we’re pulling out there. We got too much going on to make mistakes.”

“For the last goddamn time, that was not a mistake,” Duke snaps. I go to open my mouth when Jim slams his gavel down and screams. His face is bright red, veins stick out at his temples, and he is shaking with anger.

“Enough!” he says. “All this bullshit is getting us nowhere. We’re just spinning our wheels. If you assholes don’t have anything else constructive to add, go home and get your dicks sucked.”

Duke scrubs at his face and slams his hand down on the table and says, “Fuck.” I look over the empty chair beside me and find that, for once, Ryan is calm. He’s our resident hothead and the guy most likely to lose his shit or shoot someone. I can only surmise that without Ian at the table, he doesn’t have anyone to keep him in check so he’s having to watch his own ass for once. Maybe I should send Ian off on missions more often if this is how Ryan is without him here to cool him down.

Jim dismisses us. After a few words with Wyatt, I head down the hall to get home to my kid. Ryan rushes up beside me, gives me a hard look, and says, “Can we talk?”

“What about?” I ask, hoping it’s not about his bitch again. The last time we went over the shit with Alex it didn’t go so well, and now is not the time for him to be coming to me about this crap.

“Miss Priss,” Ryan says. I stop dead in my tracks and stare him down. Whatever it is, it better be good. He and I are on thin ice right now, and while I don’t think he’s going to start something, I never can be totally sure with him. Ryan’s always been a loose cannon, but he’s also always looked out for Chey. Back in the day he used to keep an eye on her when Layla would unexpectedly drop her off at the shop while I was busy. He’s barely twenty-five, and only eight years her senior, but in a way he’s like the big brother she never had. Whatever my personal feelings are about the shit with Alex, I could never totally turn my back on a guy who has done right by my kid.

“I might have a lead,” he says and looks around to make sure no one else can hear.

“And why am I just hearing about this now?” I ask.

“Not up for a lecture from the king,” he says and nods in the direction of his father. I lift my chin and raise my brows to let him know that I’m listening. “Guy who deals blow in Mendo, he’s got a cousin who’s hard-up for street cred down in Richmond. The cousin works for Homeland Security. Word is he’s been taking bribes for years, only his clientele dried up with a couple of RICO sweeps. He has access to passenger manifests for pretty much every airport nationally.”

A slow smile spreads on my face. Ryan may be a Grade-A asshole, but he’s slick, that’s for sure. The guy’s formed connections with every kind of loser you can imagine. Sometimes, like now, it pays off. Having access to a motherfucking Homeland Security employee with proper access to passenger manifests is going to come in handy. I almost don’t give a shit what we have to do to get this guy in our pocket. If he proves useful, I’ll even let the guy suck my dick as a thank you present.

“What does he need?” I ask. I was hoping to get back home soon, but that looks like it’s going to be a no-go. Getting an identity on this asshole is priority one.

“His grandma lives near the docks. Her house has been broken into twice this month. Two other women have been mugged and had the crap beat out of them. Dude needs to know his grandma is safe, but he can’t afford to pay street rent anymore. Shit started when he stopped paying.”

Typical. Places like Richmond are riddled with crime, and the cops don’t have enough staff in the county, let alone the city, to stop it all. Street gangs have taken over and made it a place nobody actually wants to live in, but they can’t afford to move out after they’ve paid protection money to the gangs. It’s total bullshit. And some people think
we’re
assholes.

“We’re already stretched thin, and Richmond is a five hour ride from here,” I say. “We don’t have the manpower to bust into the barrio and swing our dicks around.”

“You trust me?” Ryan asks.

I don’t even pause to think about it before saying, “Yes.”

Just because we don’t always get along doesn’t mean I don’t trust him. He’s my brother, and that shit runs deeper than any beef I’ll ever have with him.

“Then let me handle it. Go home. Tell Miss Priss I say hi,” he says and slaps me on the back as he walks away. I stand in place and watch Ryan walk away. I let myself have a single moment to consider that maybe Alex has been good for him. He’s always been a bastard, but he’s a good guy to have watch your six. All the bullshit he causes sometimes makes me forget that I actually almost like the guy.

The street is dead quiet with few lights on inside the sparsely-set homes. The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since I bought my house back when Cheyenne was a toddler. A few of my neighbors have remodeled their homes over the years, but by and large, everything looks the same. With so much changing so often in my life, this kind of steady is exactly what I need.

At the end of my street, there’s a large clearing. I bought the house that butts up to it. The closer I get to my split-level, the more at peace I feel. There’s a part of me that’s always on edge, has been for the better part of twenty years, but here—in my home—sometimes I can take a deep breath and not tense up that it’s going to be my last.

I swing my bike into the driveway and give a nod to Ian, who’s sitting on the front porch, his feet resting on the railing and his hands in his lap. I can’t see it, but I know he’s got a piece resting on his legs. I park my bike in front of the garage next Ian’s and Jeremy’s, and don’t bother covering her up. If it starts to rain, I’ll put her away later. Once my helmet is off and she’s resting on her kickstand, I set my helmet on her handlebars and give Ian a nod.

“Alarm’s on for the perimeter except here in the front. Baby Boy’s been doing sweeps of the backyard every ten minutes. So far we’re clear,” Ian says and stands from his position. In his right hand is a stun gun. In his left is a semi-automatic with a suppressor attached to the barrel.

“Good,” I say. “Thanks for hanging out, but I got it.”

“I don’t mind. I can stay, brother.”

“Your sister needs you,” I say and slap him on the back. The guy’s already going through some serious shit, and I don’t need to be adding to his plate. Ever since we brought Alex to Fort Bragg, Ian’s been having to deal with some fucked-up shit. I know it eats away at him. Knowing you have twin siblings out there somewhere is one thing. Being confronted with them face to face the way he is, is another story altogether. Ever since we found Alex, bloody and beaten, at the hands of her twin brother, Michael, Ian’s been more distant than usual.

“Yeah, she does,” he says and waves me off. As he turns, the light catches the scar that runs from his ear to his mouth. I wonder if he forgets it’s there, if it’s so much a part of him that he doesn’t feel it when he shaves. Or if every day he can feel it, the bumpy, cracked skin that never healed properly.

Inside the house, all is silent. The front room is empty, as it usually is. There’s no television in there, so we have little reason to spend time in that room. Still, the light is on. Bypassing the main hallway, I walk the perimeter rooms, starting with the kitchen. The light is on in here, too, as well as the family room before me. The kitchen is a large, open space that oversees the family room. When my mother moved in about twelve years ago, she told me to expect a lot of home-cooked meals because a kitchen like this deserves to be used. I don’t eat here much, but she and Chey make doing dinner together a regular thing. Still, despite the open space, I can’t see a single person. Reaching into the back of my jeans, I pull out my .45 and hold it down at my side.

With my eyes wide open, I walk slowly and cautiously through the dining room and into the family room. Still nothing. Movement catches my eye from the back porch. I raise my gun up and creep toward the sliding glass door. Just as I reach the glass, I lower my gun and blow out a frustrated breath.

On the back porch, leaning over, with their arms resting on the railing, are Jeremy and Cheyenne. They’re facing one another, and she’s smiling. Wide. She’s giving him the same smile she gives me when she tries to convince me she’s going to bring her grades up in time for the end of the term. It’s the same smile she gives her grandma when she makes Chey’s favorite dessert. Now I raise my gun for a whole different reason. I don’t care if she is seventeen. Jeremy Whelan does not deserve her smiles, and he certainly doesn’t deserve the giggle she’s giving him. He’s not patched yet. I could shoot him, and my brothers couldn’t say much about it. Except for Duke. He’d catch hell from Jeremy’s older sister—Duke’s woman, Nic. But she’s not my bitch, so it’s not my problem. I
could
shoot him.

In the reflection of the glass, I can see my mother standing several feet behind me. She places her hands on her hips and says, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. They’re just talking. Put down the damn gun.”

I turn around slowly, put my gun in the waistband of my jeans, and roll my shoulders to release some of the built-up tension. She’s been giving me crap about letting Chey date for years. It’s not that I won’t let her date. She’s more than welcome to date. She just chooses not to more often than not. I guess she doesn’t like to go through the hassle of trying to ditch my tail and failing anyway. I’ll give her credit for trying, though. She’s definitely getting better at that.

“You hear about today?” I ask her.

“You’ll find him,” she says. And that’s my mother. She doesn’t answer questions if she’s certain you already have the answer. “I want to know why he targeted my granddaughter.”

“You and me both. Ryan’s working a lead right now. We got eyes and ears in town working in our favor. We’re gonna find him, Ma.”

She sighs heavily, and it’s one of those rare times that her age shows. Her mouth turns down, smile lines become more apparent, and crow’s feet spread outward as she narrows her eyes. Her dark brown hair has fewer grays in it than mine does—thanks to Violet at the salon she goes to with Ruby every six weeks. She’s not intimidating in size like Elle is, but when she gets going there’s no stopping her. Disapproval from Lisa Grady is almost worse than being on the business end of an enemy’s gun. The woman should have been born Catholic the way she throws around guilt trips like they’re fucking antacids. And I can tell, just by that single sigh, that she’s about to deliver up a doozy.

“What’s going on?” she asks. “I know Ruby’s daughter is here, and I know why. Don’t pull my leg with vague answers. Just tell me how bad it is.”

“A fucking mobster showed up at your granddaughter’s school today. How bad do you
think
it is, Ma?” I snap and instantly regret it. She has every right to her concern, and here I am being a dick about it.

“We’ve been over this, son. You pull that macho crap with everybody else, but need I remind you that I am your mother? I choose to be here for Cheyenne. I don’t
have
to be. Now, start talking.”