Where Souls Spoil (67 page)

Chapter 21

BY THE TIME
the game is over, both Cheyenne and Lisa can’t stop yawning. I think Lisa won, but I’m not entirely certain. All I know is that I definitely lost. Cheyenne is mumbling incoherent things about taking down The Thimbles street gang with a series of federal charges. I try to ask her what kind of sentence The Thimbles would get for that, but she replies with something about shooting bunnies. Lisa stands from the table, stretches her back out, and pats Cheyenne on the back. “Time for bed.” They leave abruptly and when they’re out of earshot, I turn in my seat and ask Grady, “Should I be worried that your daughter is talking about shooting bunnies?”

“Nah,” he says as he finishes off his fifth beer since dinner. “The bunnies deserve it.” My eyes widen and I can’t find anything to say. What the hell does that even mean anyway?

Suddenly, being alone with Grady is too much. I want this. It just makes me nervous. I hop out of my seat and collect the bowls and plates from around the table. In the kitchen, I set them in the sink and get to rinsing them off in preparation to put them in the dishwasher. Grady follows behind and dumps the empty beer cans into the recycling bin. He hovers over my shoulder as I scrub the dishes free of food particles. Warm breath heats the back of my neck sending a shiver down my spine. He lifts my hair, drops it over the front of my shoulder, and presses the front of his body into my back.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. I don’t want him to stop. Feeling his body pressed into mine, trapping me between him and the counter, makes me think I could be agreeable to just about anything—things I probably shouldn't agree to. Like going to bed with him. But he is and I am, so I can’t think straight enough to wonder how insane I am. I want him, I know that. I want him more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

“Getting you to cooperate so I can fuck you. Don’t think I forgot what you look like as you come.” He drags his hand up the center of my spine all the way to the base of my neck. His touch is gentle. It makes me want to tell him everything about myself. His proximity is much too close– it is unnerving. I am already in way too deep for my liking. It can't be healthy for me to be this obsessed with him. I guess it's just been so long since I've been in any kind of relationship that I forgot how these things work. I force myself to be here and in the moment, and not too much in my own head. “Where do you want me to fuck you?”

Turning off the water and using my hands as leverage against the edge of the counter, I take a deep breath and let my head fall back against his chest.

"Are you always this bossy, and does it actually work for you?" I ask.

"I'm the one asking questions here," he says. His hand comes around from the back of my neck and trails effortlessly across my collarbone and down my forearm. “I asked where you want me to fuck you.”

"Is that how it usually works for you with women?"

"I don't normally do a lot of talking with women," he says. "Don't usually care what they have to say." I'm not exactly surprised, but maybe a little disappointed. It's easy to forget who he is, and what he does when he's sitting around playing a children's game with his daughter and mother on a Friday night.

"What makes me different?" I ask. Immediately I regret the question. It is stupid of me to ask, to even think that there is a difference.

“Everything, or maybe nothing. Maybe it was just the timing and the situation, but I think we got something here. Something I ain't had in a damn long time,” he confesses. I don't really know what he means by that, or maybe I do, and I just don't want to admit it to myself. Last night and even during the game tonight, being with him seemed like a great idea. But I know so little about him that it’s scary how little I care what big, awful things I could uncover.

“Listen, I don't do sappy shit," he says. He brings his arms up and rests his hands on the edge of the counter. “But I like you. I want to see where this goes.”

Looking down at his large, rough hands, I think that maybe this could work. He's being direct with me and verbalizing what he wants, and I have a feeling that he doesn't do that with a lot of women. He strikes me as more of a do now and reap the consequences later kind of guy. Only, as silly as it sounds, I don't really know how to be in a relationship. If that's what he even means. I'm probably suffering from some sort of PTSD, or some Florence Nightingale kind of crap that makes me think that everything that is actually a really horrible idea might be good idea. But I've been down the rabbit hole of insanity before, and last time it was alcohol fueled and drug-enabled. I don't have that excuse this time.

"Mindy’s an addict and an alcoholic," I say. I shouldn't be sharing this with him. It's really none of his business, but if I want to keep this, whatever this is, I should start by being honest and letting him in on this part of my life. "You asked why I don't drink, and that's why. I followed her into oblivion and I don’t like who I am when I’m not sober."

I have never willingly shared that with anyone. It’s Mindy’s story to tell, not mine. We went through all that crap together. Only, when I was ready to move on, Mindy wasn’t. “I tried to help her. I enabled her, ended up dropping out of college because of it. It was a hard two years that I don’t wish to repeat.”

"Few months back, my best friend died. It tore me up. Tore Chey up, too. That’s why her grades suck. I wasn’t tuned in enough to notice and when you called me out on it, it only pissed me off." I don't say anything out loud because it seems pretty obvious that there's nothing I can say that he would appreciate. Instead, I opt for hoping that the more I share, the more he'll share.

"Every man I’ve ever dated is a tool,” I admit.

“I’m a tool,” he says.

“No doubt,” I whisper.

Grady reaches out with his thumb and caresses my knuckles. I let my eyes fall closed and the rest of my body sink against his. I never talk about what went bad with me and Mindy because it's still too painful to recall. His left arm lifts off of the counter and curls around my waist. He sucks in a deep breath at the top of my head and releases it slowly. His body grows stiff in every way imaginable.

I take my free arm and place it over his arm at my waist and squeeze. Gooseflesh appears all over my skin. He places a kiss to the back my head and then another to the shell of my ear. I have now had his lips on the back of my neck, the back of my head, and on my ear. And while each kiss is better than the last, they aren't enough.

"Kiss me," I whisper. It worked well for me the last time, so I go with it.

"I'll do more than that. I'll suck on your tits," he says. His hand at my waist travels up and ghosts across my nipple. His words are so crude that I should be offended, but they have the exact opposite effect. An overwhelming need overtakes me. "And eat your pussy."

The same hand drops to the crotch of my jeans where he drags his finger down my center. My body involuntarily locks into place and my breathing ceases for the few moments it takes my brain to process what he's doing. It doesn't matter how much attention I pay to myself, it's never the same alone as it is with a partner. Last night was proof of that.

"And I'll fuck you until you beg me to stop." He presses his hardened dick into my back to emphasize his point. I have to force my muscles to loosen and to remind myself to breathe. If ever my heart were on the verge of giving out, now would be it.

"I don't do casual," I say. Even now, in this moment, I try not to forget all the strides I've made the last few years in order to get myself back on track. Step four. The moral inventory. I've never done casual sex very well. Being with somebody intimately always leaves me expecting more, and there was a time when I took whatever they were willing to give. But I can't be that person anymore, and damn the stupid steps because they make me say and do things I would rather not– honest things. I never should have let Mindy convince me to do them with her.

"I can't do casual," he says. "My life, the club, Chey… everything. We are either strangers who fuck or you are my woman. There is no in between bullshit about dating multiple people, seeing if it's a good fit, and all that stupid yuppie shit." His words take me by surprise. A man like him, I expected some criticism for my position. I've been on an emotional cliff all night, in danger of falling into an abyss of feelings I'm not ready for. And like everything in life, I see it coming. I'm losing my footing and then before I know it, I've fallen so hard that I don't think I'll ever recover. Lust, love. Whatever you call it, I don't care anymore. This is like falling into the best thing you didn't even know existed until you almost passed it by.

"Being your woman, is that what you call being your Old Lady?"

"Not exactly. I tell my brothers that you're with me and they will treat you like family. But, being an Old Lady only happens if the club unanimously votes you in. We won't even consider taking a vote until a brother has been with his bitch for at least 18 months. It's an honor to be voted in." I don't ask what the point of being voted in is because I'm totally distracted by his use of the word bitch. I really hate that word. As scary and foreign as all of this is, it's my life for the foreseeable future. I'll brush up on motorcycle club lingo at a later date.

“I don’t like that word,” I say. He tenses behind me, but says nothing.

“It’s the way I talk. It’s just a word,” he says lowly. But it’s not just a word to me and it grates on my damn nerves every single times he uses it.

“You’re asking me to accept so much about your world, plus the danger I’ve already been dragged into. Why can’t you just honor this one request?”

“I’m not used to the give and take of relationships, but I’ll try,” he says.

“Fair enough,” I say, giving in.

Taking my hand, he leads me out of the kitchen and through the living room, then down a flight of stairs. We move slowly in absolutely no rush. My body buzzes in nervous anticipation the further we get into the house. At the bottom of the stairs is a rec room on the left, surrounded by large single-pane windows. On the right is a short hall with two doors. We walk through the first door and step into a dark, masculine room. Grady flips one of the four switches on the wall and soft lights illuminate the room in a warm glow. The walls are gray and the carpet is a worn Berber. The furniture is mismatched and aged, though sturdy to the eye.

He shuts the door behind us and moves to place his hands on my hips. My breath hitches as he runs his hands under my shirt and drags it upward. We undress one another slowly, taking our time. First it’s his cut and then his shirt. My pants and bra follow along with his jeans and socks. Soon, we’re in nothing but our underwear.

He reaches out and cups my face in his hands then kisses me deeply. He slips in between my lips and massages my tongue with his own. His hands knead at my breasts and then my ass. He dips his hands into my boy-cut briefs and slides them off. I do the same with his red boxers and let them hit the floor.

Hooking my leg up over his hip, I wrap my arms around his neck and lift myself into his arms. He helps support me with both his hands on my ass. I push my damp pussy into the shaft of his straining cock. He moans soft, but deep at the contact.

“You on the pill?” he asks. I rub my core against him again and shiver in response.

“Yes,” I admit. I have been for years, but I leave that part off.

“Do you trust me?” he asks. Looking into his eyes, I realize that yes, I do trust him. I capture his lips with my own as we devour one another. With a steady grip, he rocks me into his large cock. I swivel my hips until a steady build begins in my core.

Lifting myself in his arms, he gets the hint and uses one hand to guide himself to my entrance. He parts my folds and spreads me wide as he enters my wet center. I lower myself slowly so as not to hurt either of us and to savor the moment. He groans as he buries himself to the hilt. It’s an incredible feeling, having him so deep as he claims me.

Soon, he’s laying me on the bed. We’re still connected, but the moment I’m safely on the mattress, he rears back and then slams into me. I gasp for breath and have to bite my lip as he brings me nearer and nearer to the edge.

Wanting to be with Grady is one thing, but having actually been with Grady is a whole different ball game. I thought I had it bad before, but now it’s a hundred times worse.

Chapter 22

I'VE BEEN THINKING
a lot lately about the differences between right and wrong. Surely, stealing is wrong. But is it wrong if you steal food to feed a child? Murder is wrong, but I suppose I could probably make a case for that as well. Morality is really subjective – at least that is what I'm going to tell myself so I can sleep at night after this.

Mr. Beck won't issue Jeremy a permit because he has a beef with the club. That seems wrong, especially in light of the fact that, when I asked Jeremy why he was so determined to work at Forsaken Custom Cycle, he said he wants to make his dad proud. While Grady is usually pretty mum about anything related to the club, he does talk with me liberally about the personal dynamics at play between the club members and their families. Some of the relationships seem a little messy, but he promises me that once things calm down with the crazy Italian guy, Jim and Ruby are going to have a big party so I can get to know everyone. They’re obviously a tight-knit group that has each other’s backs, and if I want to be worthy of my place beside Grady, I’m going to have to earn it.

"Next," the teller says. She gives me a friendly wave of her hand, welcoming me to her station. I recognize her as the mother of one of my students. Her daughter, Vickie, is a sophomore with a serious eager-beaver attitude. I give her my best friendly smile and push out whatever lingering guilt I am feeling about doing this. It's for a good cause, I remind myself. Even if there are some casualties along the way, I'm determined to carry this through. Mr. Beck may not be the monster that I want to paint him to be, but he’s certainly not a good guy, either.

"Holly, how are you doing today?" The teller is all smiles as I set the three checks and the deposit slip on the counter. I lean forward just slightly and give her an apologetic smile.

"Oh, pretty good. You know, I just realized that I don't have the account number for these deposits. Mr. Beck was in a bit of mood when he sent me over here. I would really hate to have to go all the way back to the school." Thankfully, she doesn't push. One of the benefits of small-town banking is that it's actually quite easy to convince a teller to pull up a customer's information using just their name.

"Don't worry about it. Between you and me, Mr. Beck never remembers his own account number." With a few taps of the keyboard and a little redirect of the mouse, she's pulled up what she was looking for, grabs the pen, and gets to filling out the account number on the deposit slip. In addition to Mr. Beck's obvious agenda against the club, he has a rather liberal interpretation of what can be counted as a business expense. Unfortunately, his liberties have all been small and accounted to less than $500 in the last few years. I'm not looking to bust the guy for a few too many business lunches from questionable establishments. Call me crazy, but I don't think the school board allows their administrative staff to write off lunch at the golf course every other Tuesday, even if Mr. Beck's companion is the ever-charitable local attorney, Larry Jennings.

“Thank you,” I say as the teller deposits the checks without issue and hands me a receipt. I look over the receipt for a moment and hop from foot to foot. The teller eyes me curiously, but stays quiet. Finally, I turn back toward her and give her a nervous smile. “I might be biting off more than I can chew here, but I just don’t want to get in trouble at work. Are deposits like these common for Mr. Beck?”

The teller looks around and bites her lower lip. I sigh then pat her rested hand on the counter. With a nod, I say, “I’m sorry, forget I asked.”

I’m about to turn around when she says, “Wait. Listen, if you’re uncomfortable with making these deposits, I suggest you go to the school board with your concerns. I have nothing against Mr. Beck—he’s always been good to my kids—but he has a membership at the golf course. That place is expensive. My husband is a landscaper there, and he’s seen him playing a few rounds during school hours with Larry Jennings. You know that lawyer whose son was…violated?”

Pay dirt.

I force myself not to smile or show any other sign of excitement over this information. I knew Mr. Beck was up to something. His behavior has changed too much in the last several weeks for there not to be a reason for it.

“Well, my husband thinks Larry Jennings is trying to find out what happened to his son because Mr. Beck is always handing over these files and the few times Bob got close enough to hear, they were discussing troubled students. It doesn’t seem right—an administrator doing something that like. It’s awful what happened to poor Darren. Things like that aren’t supposed to happen here, ya know?”

I nod and lean in like what she’s said is the absolutely most interesting thing on the planet. “I know. That’s kind of scary, but how can Mr. Beck help?”

“The police haven’t made any arrests, so I’m guessing he thinks it might be someone at the school who hurt his son. Only reason Bob and I can figure why Larry has been so generous to Mr. Beck.”

The more she talks, the more I realize I am in over my head. I’ve never done anything like this before, and the best I can hope for is that I don’t end up ruining my own life in the process. But I have to know what’s going on. I figured I’d find something fishy in Mr. Beck’s records, but had no idea I might run across something like this. I don’t even know what “this” is yet, but so far it’s not looking so good for Mr. Beck, which actually helps me follow through.

“Generous?”

“I didn’t say anything, and I’ll deny it if you say I did, but one of our other tellers deposited a check from Larry Jennings to Mr. Beck the other day. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but when I was balancing her station, I just happened to remember my husband griping about Mr. Beck playing golf during school hours.”

“I’ll keep it to myself,” I say. “I’m not out to get him or anything, I just don’t want to be involved with something that doesn’t feel right. Gotta protect my own butt, ya know?”

She agrees, and we exchange a few pleasantries before I go. The more I find out about Dick, the better I feel about forcing his hand to give Jeremy the work permit.

Back at the high school, I stride in with shaking hands and flushed skin. I spent the entire drive over from the bank trying to calm myself down, but when that didn’t work, I decided to just go with it. With purposeful steps, I beeline for Margot’s desk. She looks up with concerned eyes and a frown. “Holly, what’s wrong?”

“I think I may have done something that could get me in trouble,” I whisper as I lean over her desk. “Mr. Beck had me deposit those checks, right? Well, please don’t say anything, but one of the ladies at the bank suggested that Mr. Beck may be making more deposits to his personal account than he should be.”

“I’ve been curious about that over the years,” she says quietly. Her eyes dart around the room nervously. “It’s always tiny little amounts, but it adds up. Tell you what, just refuse to run his personal errands from now on. That’s what I’ve started to do. But for now, you have proof he asked you to do it, so even if he does get his wrist slapped for too many expenses, you’re in the clear.” She finishes off with a friendly smile. I give her a nod and act like her words were the most comforting thing I’ve ever heard. In reality, they do comfort me. They tell me that if this goes south, Margot believes me.

“I’m just going to go tell him that I think my working hours are better served here, doing the work I’m paid for, not running errands,” I say quietly and straighten my back as I head down the hall toward Mr. Beck’s closed office door.

Two knocks later, after a thousand knots in my belly, doubts in my heart, and the overwhelming desire to turn around and run away, Mr. Beck shouts for me to open the door. When I turn the handle and enter the room, he’s at his desk with our attendance and grade tracking software pulled up. His face is a shade redder than normal, which is saying something considering he’s always a little on the red side. Jeremy Whelan needs this, the club needs this, but most of all, Grady needs this.

“I’d like to offer you one more chance to change your mind about extending a work permit to Jeremy Whelan,” I say as I close his office door and push the button lock into place.

“Holly, I’ve explained why I will not issue Jeremy a work permit, at length, to several people, and I refuse to have this conversation again. I’m sorry,” he says in exasperation. I nod, and pull out the deposit slip, and hand it over to him.

Now or never.

“What’s this?” he asks as his eyes try to make sense of the numbers on the small receipt.

“It’s your deposit receipt,” I say. I’m really doing this. I am. “This morning you sent me an email asking me to prepare three checks from the school’s vendor checking account to be made payable to you.”

“I did no such thing,” he shouts.

I raise my now steady hand in front of my face and shake my head. “You’ll find this is going to go much more smoothly if you can restrain your temper.”

“What are you doing Ms. Mercer?” he asks.

“I’m letting you know that I’m uncomfortable with running your personal errands. In your email, you explained that you purchased new office supplies for yourself and you had a business luncheon as well as a dry cleaning bill that was to be charged to the school’s account. I never have understood why you think the school is responsible for your dry cleaning bills, and this one was a doozy,
Dick
. Who spends over three hundred dollars on dry cleaning, anyway?”

“I didn’t ask you to deposit any checks this morning. You had me sign those checks for the soda vendor, the water delivery guy, and the landscaper. I’ve never spent that much on dry cleaning!” He’s started to scream again, but I use my hand to indicate that I’d like it if he lowers his voice. His face is a much darker red now, and he’s breathing heavy.

“Silly,
Dick
. The district pays for the landscaper and the soda vendor, and Margot has already paid the water delivery guy through June. You see, I have all of that on my calendar. I wouldn’t have asked you to do such a thing. Did you know I’m obligated to report suspicious behaviors?”

“This is starting to sound like blackmail. The club is putting you up to this, aren’t they? I’ll have both Cheyenne Grady and Jeremy Whelan expelled for this. You’ll be fired, and I’ll bring charges against you for your part. That bunch of inbred felons can’t buy me.” His jaw trembles as he talks, his eyes are hard, and he’s struggling to pull in deep breaths.

“No, the club has no idea we’re having this conversation,” I say. Nor should they ever find out. I suspect Grady wouldn’t be too happy with me if he did. “Do you really think you have the upper hand here?”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he says lowly.

In the eleven years that he has served as principal at Fort Bragg High School, Richard Beck has only expelled seven students. One of those students actually set the library on fire—on purpose. The other six earned their expulsions the good old-fashioned way, by not showing up to class and letting their grades plummet. In addition to looking up Mr. Beck's expulsion rate, I took the liberty of pulling the former student files that we have on Forsaken family members since Mr. Beck's employment. Trying to explain to Grady the reason I needed the real names of his brothers was a huge pain in the butt. He used this really deep voice and guffawed at me as he said things like, "club business, babe," and, "appreciated, but keep your nose clean." Grady may have been adamant about not telling me when I first brought it up, but I was able to reason with him. As it turns out, Sterling Grady can be convinced of almost anything as long as you have his dick in your mouth.

Once he was able to see the value of my offer, I got to work. It didn't take me long to prove my suspicions right. Though Mr. Beck has only expelled seven students in his tenure, he has petitioned—extensively—for the removal of twelve. The five students he hadn't been able to expel were all related to the club. From his communication with the school board, it looks like he almost got Josh Wilcox expelled in his sophomore year. But just as he asked for leniency on behalf of Jeremy Whelan, Jim Stone had gone to bat for Josh Wilcox back in the day as well. Mr. Beck's reasons for attempting to expel these kids always comes back to one thing: a concern over their violent nature. And yet, there are no disciplinary records that indicate violent outbursts.

Still, something is going on here. Mr. Beck does everything by the book when it comes to Forsaken. He certainly doesn't like the club, and he doesn't like their kids, but the last doctored petition to the school board for immediate removal was sent two months prior to Ian Buckley's graduation, and it looks like they began just a few weeks after Ian, Ryan Stone, and Josh Wilcox started high school. Ryan and Josh ended up dropping out early on in their senior year anyway. While I'm not a fan of Mr. Beck's bullshit vendetta against club, it looks like it's possible that the three boys drove him to do things he hadn't done previously.

Until now.

“I’ve looked up your records, and I know the score. You hate the club and everything they stand for. You detest their kids, and you’ve made it a point to try to punish them time and time again. It must be frustrating to be unable to do your job properly because of the incredible influence of Forsaken.”

“You won’t be able to find employment in this town after this, Ms. Mercer,” he says. His voice is slowly steadying, but it doesn’t matter. His fingers still shake.

“Mr. Beck, this is how it’s going to go. I need something from you, and you need something from me,” I say, taking a play right out of Grady’s playbook. “I refuse to owe anybody any favors. You can keep your job and the two grand that was just deposited in your account if you just sign Jeremy Whelan’s work permit and back date it to this past July. If anybody should ask, you gave Jeremy permission to work while you prepared the permit, and of course, you’re so very sorry for any inconvenience your lateness may have caused.”