Текст книги "Devil Smoke"
Автор книги: Max Henry
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
BED OF LIES
Ryan
three weeks later
Ten-thirty and I’m home in bed, thanks to Gunter’s habit of getting himself kicked out of the bar because of a fight. Yep, just another night out at the Red Lion. The whole incident started because some chump looked at me for too long. If only Gunter knew I’d spent the night staring across the room at the sexy guy from the party. Maybe then he wouldn’t have cared so much about some kid who looked like he was barely old enough to drink, let alone fight.
I knew the sexy kitchen-guy would be there, especially since he’s been a steady fixture at the place during the last few weeks. I overheard Eddie telling Easy he asked him to the next car show, and I’d be a fool to deny my heart soared a little knowing that. He called him Bronson. His name is Bronson. Said he seemed like too much of a straight arrow to be be simply out to score. Told Easy to look into him, dig a little on his history, and ask around.
As much as I told Bronson to stay away from us, I’m regretting it. I hope his record comes back clear, free of any ties to people Eddie mind find conflicting to his ‘business endeavors’. I’m praying they let him in to the inner circle and that I get to see more of him. I’m selfish, thinking only of my own desires in this whole situation, but after talking with him at the crack house party, after hearing him whisper those things in my ear, he’s become more than my guilty pleasure. He’s no longer some nameless eye-candy—he’s a person. A man—a fucking fine one at that—and my nightly fantasy.
Gunter can see I’m distracted. I haven’t been putting out as often, and I push his hands away when he tries to get grabby with me. I can’t stand the thought of him touching me like that anymore—especially when Bronson’s watching us. And he does watch. I catch him eyeing me over the length of his bottle as he takes a drink. I feel his eyes on me when I pass on my way to the ladies, and my skin sears every time. I’ve relieved the ache between my legs in the privacy of the stall more than once; closing my eyes and dreaming it’s his hands roaming my pussy, rubbing my clit, and bringing me to orgasm as I bite my lip to stop from crying out.
I want him and if this growing determination has anything to do with it, I’m going to have him. I just need the information out of Eddie first and then I’ll cut myself free, walk away clean and do what Bronson said to—find him.
Yet, there’s only so long I can avoid Gunter’s advances before it sets off alarm bells in the idiot’s head. So tonight, I caved. I bit back the pang of deceit and I promised him I’d make up for my distance, blaming my previously cold attitude on shifting hormones before Aunt Flo. Which brings me to now—exactly twelve minutes after we walked in the door, and here I am, lying beside Gunter while he snores his alcohol– and sex-induced sleep away. He took twelve minutes. I was over it in two. And yet, here he is, satisfied with his effort, oblivious to the fact I’m staring at the ceiling and angry that he never got me off. I’m horny as hell . . . and thinking of another man.
Like I shouldn’t be.
Yet, sometimes the heart wants what it wants, and all we can do to keep our head screwed on straight is give in to the craving. And right now, my heart wants nothing more than to get close to a man with friendly brown eyes to see if my body reacts the same way as it did at the party. Is there something to explore, or did I imagine the whole thing?
Fucking heart.
All it’s done is screw me over. Actually, no. All I’ve done is screw myself over. My life has been heartache on repeat, constant reminders of that damned night my world shifted, when I made the decision to walk down a long, straight road to slavery. Because that’s all this is—slavery. I’m not here in Gunter’s bed because I enjoy it. I don’t act the good little bitch for Eddie because it’s what I need.
I’m surviving the only way I know how with the skill set I was given at birth—the ability to bat my fucking lashes and charm my way out of any sticky situation.
I disgust myself. The lack of morals and dignity I show every day repulse me. But I’m also not a quitter; I want what’s mine, and what’s mine is stored away in Eddie’s head, waiting for me to find a way to get it out.
Blackmail, extortion—whatever the price, I’ll pay it to find out why Harris shot his best friends—my parents—and why he then left me to go it alone when he could have taken me with him and saved all this heartache. I’ll get the answer to the question that’s been lodged in my throat for twelve fucking years, and then I’ll take Eddie down as retribution for keeping it from me. Because as many times as I tell myself he won’t let me know because he’s just that kind of asshole, I can’t shake the feeling he’s keeping the secret to benefit him. My history has to be tied to his business. He must have leverage with me. Why else would he make such a point of keeping the reason a girl’s parents were murdered from her?
The fucker will never see it coming—little old me, taking down the big, bad man with nothing more than a good set of ears and an ever better memory. The posters from the Second World War they taught us about in school said it best: ‘Keep Mum, she’s not so dumb’.
Yeah, he’ll wish he’d kept quiet around me, because I’m a damn genius. One who’s biding her time.
Gunter stirs in his sleep, throwing a hand over my leg possessively. Even out to the world, the thug needs to know he has me close. I’d find comfort in his need, but the kind of things he does make me sick. The lies he believes about racial inequality, that the white man is oppressed and that the world’s problems can be traced to the ‘impure’ races make me want to stab him every time he opens his mouth to spout off the propaganda.
The only thing he’s useful for is to keep me safe from the other predators in this group, and to keep me close to Eddie and the inner circle. If I’m going to get what I need, I have to stay a part of the inside workings of Eddie’s little ‘Team White Power’. So far, so good. The things I know could take them down with one carefully placed phone call to the local PD, but I’m not ready to let Eddie discover that just yet. I need answers before I do.
Gunter’s breaths slow and even out, his eyes twitching as he enters the REM phase of his sleep. Easing his hand from my leg, I slide out from under the covers and tug a pair of panties and my T-shirt on. My phone flashes where it lies on the floor amongst my jacket and jeans. Scooping it up, I make my way quietly out to the living area, skirting a sleeping Tommy where he passed out on the sofa and heading through to the kitchen.
The pipes complain as I run the tap, pouring myself a glass of water. Lifting it to my lips, I scroll through the notifications on my phone with my other hand. And then, same as I do every night, I open a fresh Google search window and type in the keywords to my life: fire, invasion, Harris Friar. I flick through the results, nothing new catching my eye, and sigh. All I want to know is what went through his head that night. Why would a man who treated me like his own come into our house and kill his best friend and his wife? I wish I’d had ten simple minutes with him while he was alive to find out why my life had to change. Ten short minutes to understand what went wrong.
Footsteps on the wooden floor draw my attention away from the phone and yet another dead end. I kill the screen and place it down on the counter, finishing off my water as Gunter rounds the corner in nothing more than a silly grin.
“Wondered where you’d gone,” he whispers, looking over Tommy’s way.
He’s got nothing to worry about—that kid could sleep through a nuclear war.
“Thirsty,” I say, lifting the empty glass to prove my point.
He slips in behind me as I set the glass in the sink, and places his large hands around my middle. Moments like this, my dead heart sometimes gives me a glimmer of hope that I’m not completely cold, that deep inside there’s a part of me that cares something about these people in my life. When the big idiot is being nothing but loving, showing me how much he cares about me, my heart almost aches for how I’ll betray him.
Almost.
“Can’t you sleep?” he asks, nuzzling in to my neck.
“Not really,” I admit, stopping short of having to explain why.
“More nightmares?” Gunter places gentle kisses along the side of my neck, down over my shoulder as he pulls the fabric of my T-shirt aside. “I hate how things haunt you like that.”
“I know,” I say, rubbing my hand over the one of his still on the flat of my belly. “I’m okay. I promise.”
“You never cry.” He runs a hand down my side, curling it around my thigh and tracing a line up my body with his palm. “You look so sad, but you never cry.”
“Crying’s a waste of time,” I tell him truthfully. “Nothing gets achieved with tears.”
“I wish you would sometimes,” he whispers, running his nose up the nape of my neck. “I wish you’d let me help you forget. I want to make you feel better. I want you to feel good because of me.”
My heart struggles against the ice holding it captive, trying to beat for this man. “I do. You make me feel safe.”
Gunter pulls back, spinning me inside his arms and placing his forehead against mine. “That’s not what I mean.”
“It’ll do, though. It’s the best you can give me.”
He sighs, leaning closer and kissing me with a gentleness that completely betrays the rough asshole he is outside of our house. My heart seizes, the exertion on it too great. The chill sets in, and the ice thickens, pounding my heart back into the frigid rock that it is. I want this, the closeness, the care, but not from him.
I want it from a guy who’s infected my thoughts, and left me dreaming at night of a life other than my own.
Gunter slips his hands under my backside, lifting me on to the counter and pressing himself between my legs. I automatically drape my arms over his strong shoulders, placing my palms on his muscular back, and sigh. But instead of shutting out who he is and concentrating on how he feels like I usually do, my mind wanders.
Eyes shut, I let my imagination take hold as Gunter pulls my T-shirt over my head and palms my breasts. I let my fantasy replace his bald, tattooed head with a thick head of dark brown hair. His lips circle my nipples, and I sigh, lost in the depths of a set of brown eyes that caressed me in the kitchen of the crack house. My hands run over the familiar muscles of Gunter’s arms, squeezing his biceps as they flex with each movement of his hands over my body. But still, in my head it’s him, the stranger from the Lion—Bronson.
I’m being unfaithful to Gunter by imagining his touch is that of a man I barely know anything about, but at the same time I can’t stop myself from justifying it. You don’t love, Gunter. How is it being unfaithful when you have no real feelings for him? Nothing more than weak excuses to try and appease my conscience.
Still, I indulge. I let myself imagine a world where the lies I live don’t stain me as the harlot I am, and where I could find the kind of security I get with Gunter, but with somebody I actually could love. I let myself imagine what real love would feel like, to know I belong to a man who wanted to spend the rest of his life with me because I made him happy, not because I made him look good.
A hiss escapes my gritted teeth when Gunter pulls my panties aside and pushes his ready erection inside of me. For the briefest of seconds I’m snapped back to the reality of my weak illusion, to the shame of what I’m doing. But I reach for that fleeting fantasy with both hands and pull myself back to another place as Gunter thrusts hard and bruising. I allow myself to escape the reality once more and fantasize about a life where I can love a man with brown hair and kind eyes without fear of him finding out the truth about me; that I’m nothing more than a self-taught con-artist, selling herself for information, for answers that seem less likely to be had as time goes on.
IMMORALITY
Bronx
With my clothes spread out over the bed, I flop down on the end of the mattress and drop my head into my hands. When did this become my life? Fuck, when did I get so used to what I have been doing with the Butchers that it even crosses my mind to complain about how it is now?
My weeks have been spent for the better part travelling between Nebraska and Texas, my time split between the Red Lion some nights and getting wasted with Hooch at home others. I’ve put rubber to road when I shouldn’t have been thinking of doing anything other than sleeping off a hangover in my motel room. I’ve been wiping the slate that is my mind with an eraser cut into neat lines, and chasing it with the numbing bliss of a cold beverage.
All so I don’t think about her, and what’s she’s doing with a man like him. The thought of that Nazi’s hands on her sickens me; my jealousy burns a bright flame when I ask myself why I can’t have her. Everyone’s hooking up but me, and until now I’ve been envious of the idea, not of the who.
The life of the contract killer is lonely for me, and as much as I play the fool with the women who’ve shared my bed, I wish that wasn’t how I sate my needs. I want somebody who I can talk with at night, somebody who knows when all I need after a shitty day is to be shown affection and appreciation. But to do that, I first need to build a solid relationship with a woman, and the weeks it takes to court a girl aren’t time I can afford to spend. Malice and Ty managed it, but only just. Malice, because his thing with Jane became sink or swim thanks to her asshole ex-husband, and Ty, because damn near dying was a sure fire way to get Ramona’s attention.
As it is, we’re only just starting the task of taking Eddie down, and already I can’t wait to get my ass away from his crew and back to the straightforward job of breaking fingers and recovering debts. I need to dive in headfirst and get this shit done so I can move on and forget her. She made it clear she’s got no intention of leaving that Nazi fuck—I just need to listen. Why is a woman I spoke to in a crack house and who I’ve watched from a distance since screwing with my thoughts like this?
Drawing a deep breath, I drop my head back and stare up at the ceiling, running through what I need to organize if I’m going to stay away from home for a while. I’ve been pushing my luck by keeping away from the Fallen Saints’ clubhouses yet still coming home. I’m not distanced enough. I need to leave Fort Worth altogether. The dogs. Snatching my phone up from where it sits amongst the mess, I hammer out a quick text to Malice.
Going away for more than a couple of days. I need somebody to look after the dogs. Think you could spare a quick visit to pick them up?
I pocket the phone as I stand and head through to the kitchen to check how much food I have for them. The boys eat a mountain of biscuits and meat, being Rottweilers—hazard of the breed. I pull the giant bag of dry food out and set it on the counter when my phone vibrates.
No problem. See you soon.
Bagging up what’s left of the dog roll in the fridge, I set it down beside the dry food and head back to my bedroom to grab the last of what Hooch gave me from my jacket pocket. Eyes cast, I hold the bag in my hand and weigh up the pros and cons of taking another hit. I’m on my own, getting high by myself, but I ache for that relief. I need to feel at ease with leaving. Returning to the kitchen, I find a clear space on the counter and dump out the last of the dust from the baggie, throwing the spent plastic and my dignity in the bin. Within seconds, the coke is cut and heading down the back of my nose to give me a much needed ego boost.
Wiping the residue from my nostrils, I wander over to the back doors to let the mutts in. They both greet me with their silly grins, stumpy tails wagging. The boys follow me across to my usual seat, flanking me like a couple of sentinels on either side of the chair. As I wait for Malice to turn up, I sit and stare at the black TV screen, fingers running over the boys’ heads, my thoughts a million miles away thinking of what it would be like to drag my fingers through her black hair.
What is it about that girl that has me so obsessed with finding out more about her? She floored me, sure, but haven’t a dozen women before? What makes her so special? I run the brief conversation I had with her over and over in my mind, looking for the clues that would give the reason for this attraction away. But there’s nothing, not an inch of why it is I can’t get her out of my head.
I completely get King and what he said about not being able to stop thinking of Elena. But shit, I don’t have a name, and I’m hooked. Is it a fantasy? Have I imagined her to be something she’s not? Maybe the girl’s not that great after all, and it was just the drugs?
Fuck yeah, that’s probably it. I was probably so damn high that I imagined her pouty lips, the way her hair falls in her face, that round backside . . . damn. There’s nothing to explain it except I’ve been bitten by the love-bug, hard, square in the ass. You always hear stories of people who meet ‘the one’, and how they knew it from the moment they first laid eyes on them. I’d thought it was a crock of shit, stories dreamt up by advertising firms trying to sell more Valentine’s day cards. But I guess it’s one of those things you don’t know until you’ve been there, and fuck, looking at her took me all the way, fast.
Now I have a fucking car show to attend, which more than likely means a day spent around her. She’s bound to be there, just like she’s always at the Lion with Gunter . . . who also is wherever the hell Eddie is. Which leads me to another mystery to solve—what does Eddie want me there for? Guess there’s only one way to know what he has planned, and that’s to turn up. Not like I have a choice in the matter, either way—getting on the inside is what I’m leaving my home to do. I’m sure as shit not putting myself through all this for a fucking holiday.
The sound of Malice’s truck pulling up the drive sets the dogs off. The boys are barking at the front door before I’ve left my seat. I get the dumbasses to heel, and release the chain for my friend, welcoming him with the usual clinch and pat to the back.
“How you doing?”
“Yeah, good,” Malice answers, walking in and patting the boys on their heads. “What about you, bro?”
I shrug, wandering through to the kitchen to retrieve the food. “Okay.”
“Don’t sound it.” He leans into the doorframe, arms crossed and a no-nonsense look across his face.
The guy’s known me long enough to have my number. Reservations about this girl aside, I’m fucking nervous as hell taking on this responsibility. What if I can’t do it? What if I blow King’s only chance to clear his cub of debt? “I won’t lie, I’m not looking forward to this,” I admit. “It’s fuckin’ lonely, man. It’s me against the world, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m enough.”
“Hey,” Malice starts, in a no-bullshit tone. “You might be on your own physically, but you ain’t metaphorically. You know we’ve all got your back. One thing goes wrong, you feel off about anything, and you know we’ll be there to back you up.”
“Yeah, I know. Still doesn’t change the fact this whole fuckin’ thing’s on my shoulders. I fuck this up, I don’t just fuck it up for me. There’s a whole MC relying on me to get this right.”
“So ignore the facts, and focus on what you’re doing day-to-day. Forget about the club, forget about us, and just do it. Don’t stress yourself out.”
I give him a wan smile. “Easier said than done.”
“I can imagine.” Malice sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “We all worry about you, bro. Ty’s kickin’ himself already, worrying he’s doing the wrong thing.” He sighs. “Carlos fire-bombed King’s clubhouse the other day.”
“No shit?”
“Truth. Apparently his version of literally puttin’ a fire up King’s ass to get this sorted quicker.”
“Shit.” I place both hands over my face and draw a deep breath. “No added pressure, huh?”
Malice crosses the room, taking the bag of dry food in his arms. “We’ll get through it—we always do.”
“Fuckin’ right we do.”
“Haven’t been in as much trouble as we have and come out alive because we don’t know what we’re doin’, eh?” Malice smiles, a playfulness in his eyes.
I chuckle, picking up the dog roll and patting my leg to get the boys to follow. “Nah, you’re dead right there, brother.”
I need to look back on how far we’ve come to remind myself of what we’ve achieved more often. The day Malice found me fighting bare-knuckle for a meal, I was a young guy with nothing to his name but a fucked up home life and the knowledge that I wanted to make it on my own. Fast forward to now, and although we might be fighting more or less the same battles, I have a home, the dogs, and a family I’d do anything for—even if they aren’t blood. We haven’t fought to get here just to piss it all away because I’m feeling sorry for myself.
There are people counting on me, and if I’m going to prove them right in putting me up to the task, I need to be the first to do the most important thing of all.
Believe in myself.
Because there ain’t nobody else going to be able to do it for me.
