Beard With Me: Winston Brothers

by Penny Reid

  He didn’t nod. “How many times?”

  I meandered a step closer. “Ten.”

  “Two.”

  “Eight.”

  “Two.”

  I grunted. “That’s not how negotiations work, Billy. Eight.”

  “Four, and that’s my final offer.”

  “Deal.” I stuck my hand out.

  He looked at it, seemed to debate touching me.

  I grunted again. “I thought you weren’t going to treat me like garbage anymore?”

  He leveled me with a coolly candid stare. “How am I treating you like garbage?”

  I wiggled my fingers. “Worried I’ll give you cooties?”

  Again that fraction of a smile. This time he didn’t hide it so fast, but I was still uncertain what it meant. “I am not worried about you giving me cooties, Scarlet.”

  “Then shake on it.”

  Gathering a deep inhale, he reached out and gripped my hand. A snap of electricity passed between us, like when clothes come out of the dryer all staticky, buzzing up my arm. I ignored it. His eyes jumped to mine, held, strangely bright but completely unreadable. I withdrew my hand, folding my arms again.

  “Fine. It’s settled.” I angled my chin, trying to look down my nose at him, which was silly since he was so dang tall. “Four times.”

  “Four times,” he repeated, also crossing his arms. “And you stay.”

  He said this like a command, making me want to shave his eyebrows while he slept. I wouldn’t, but I wanted to.

  Instead, I shrugged, pretending his tone didn’t get under my skin. “I’ll stay. You teach.”

  And you better be a damn good teacher.

  Chapter Seven

  *Scarlet*

  “It's delicious to have people adore you, but it's exhausting, too. Particularly when your own feelings don't match theirs.”

  Tasha Alexander, A Fatal Waltz

  Getting to the Dragon Biker Bar wasn’t a big deal. It would’ve been a long walk, mostly uphill, if I’d had to walk. But there was no need for that. Whenever anyone needed to get to the compound, all they had to do was walk to the closest pay phone and call in.

  The Corner Shoppe, despite its use of the double “p” and an “e,” wasn’t a cute little market. It was an eyesore. A bright neon yellow building with a tar roof, red rust stains on the peeling stucco, and a sign painted in black that read BEER, and another sign on the other side that read SMOKES.

  Out front was a small parking lot with random cigarette butts and empty containers littering the pavement, a plastic bottle or two, and an empty Big Gulp cup that was spotted with red sticky soda on the inside. It was no secret, the Larsons, who owned the Shoppe, stole cups from the 7-11 in Merryville instead of buying their own.

  But there was also a pay phone.

  The phone rang three times before it was answered with a gruff, “Yeah?” a voice I recognized as belonging to one of the newer—and more reliable—recruits.

  “It’s Scarlet. I’m at the Corner Shoppe on Moth Run Road. Send someone to get me.”

  “Got it.” Click.

  I hung up, taking a couple deep breaths as I exited the booth, and walked a short distance to the tree line. The Corner Shoppe might’ve looked a mess, but it was surrounded on all sides by majestic oak, pine, and ash trees, the forest rising up behind the building as though to threaten this unsightly blight in the otherwise natural landscape.

  Leaning against a tree set some feet away back from the road—just in case I didn’t like who they sent as my driver—I zoned out, psyching myself up for what was to come. Or, maybe more accurately, numbing my mind and shutting down.

  Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

  But I did completely bite off four of my fingernails before I heard the telltale sound of a motorcycle engine. My mouth suddenly dry, I straightened from the tree and hid myself behind it, peeking around the thick trunk just as the bike materialized.

  Repo.

  He wasn’t a bad guy, relative to the other bad guys I knew. I mean, he was a criminal, yes. He kept the books, managed the money flow—in and out—approved all purchases, authorized every single expense. But Repo never did pay me no mind growing up, and I always figured I wasn’t on his radar.

  But from watching, I knew he had the respect of most of the men and had a reputation for being fair minded and even tempered. He didn’t threaten, didn’t seem prone to unnecessary violence, and entertained his lady friends away from the community rooms.

  Also, the man never wore a helmet.

  Releasing a long, deep breath, I pushed away from the safety of the tree as he haphazardly pulled into a spot. Not cutting the engine, not even turning his head, he waited. Boots flat on the ground, bored expression on his face.

  This is it.

  Walking toward my father’s money man, I didn’t even feel the cold. I took that as a good sign. He turned his head as I marched beyond the tree line and removed his sunglasses, his patient stare moving down and then up.

  “Scarlet,” he said as soon as I was within earshot, rubbing his tidy salt and pepper beard. His white skin was slightly pink at the cheeks and nose, probably due to the cold. If he were in a suit instead of black leather, he’d look like a banker on a bike.

  “Repo,” I said, stopping about three feet away.

  His eyes moved over me again, taking in my dirty long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Probably my unwashed hair as well.

  He grimaced. “You got a jacket?”

  “Nope.”

  His grimace intensified. “I don’t have an extra.”

  I said nothing, my mind finally quiet, checked out. Stepping closer, I moved to mount the bike. He stopped me with a hand on my arm.

  “Hold on. Take my jacket.”

  I shrugged him off, staring straight into his dark eyes. “I’m not wearing your piece of shit jacket. And if you try to make me, I’ll take it off mid-ride and throw it in the woods.”

  The side of his mouth quirked up, but his eyes held no humor. “Fine. Get on.”

  I’d done this a thousand times, maybe more. How regular folks sat in a chair, that’s how I got on a motorcycle. Mounting the bike behind him, I settled my hands around his waist but kept my back straight. I needed to touch him to feel how he moved, but that was it. Minimal contact sufficed.

  “Ah, wait now. I got a helmet for you.” He twisted at the waist, reaching beyond me for the compartment at my back. “In the trap. Get it and put it on, unless you think that’s a piece of shit too.”

  I didn’t move. “You’re not wearing one.”

  The older biker’s gaze, hard as it was, seemed to warm a little. “Yeah. And I ain’t Razor Dennings’s fourteen-year-old daughter, am I? Put it on. Please.”

  Giving my eyes a half roll, because feeling disdain at the irony of the situation was better than feeling mournful and wretched, I did as instructed. Vaguely, I noted the inside of the helmet smelled like it was coated in cheap perfume and hairspray. If I’d been myself, fully conscious and reacting as normal, I would’ve gagged.

  Repo watched me put it on, strap it into place, and waited for my hands to find his waist again. Then and only then did he pull away from the Corner Shoppe. And we were off.

  Later, when I recalled the events of the day, I didn’t remember much of the ride, just that it was windy. It was like we pulled away, and then suddenly we were there. Repo carefully slowed and walked his cycle next to an impossibly long line of bikes. I slid off, my movements unhurried, and placed the helmet back in the trap. I was calm, so calm. Good.

  Not waiting for him, I stuck my hands in my back pockets and strolled to the front door.

  “Hey. Wait. Wait up,” he called, a note of urgency in his voice. “Jesus, Scarlet. Hold on.”

  I turned. “Why?”

  He finished up with his bike and quickly walked to where I stood, taking off his glasses again. With a mild frown on his face, Repo seemed to be studying me with
a strange kind of intensity.

  “Why’d you want back in?”

  “I’m hungry. I just want breakfast.”

  His eyebrows pulled together. “You came back here for breakfast?” he repeated, like he was sure he’d misheard me.

  I nodded.

  The older man sighed. “Shit, Scarlet. I’ll buy you breakfast. Let’s go to Daisy’s. You don’t have to . . .” He sighed again. “You don’t have to go inside.”

  “I also want some money.”

  The muscle at Repo’s temple ticked. He reached in his back pocket and, to my surprise, pulled out a wad of money. “How much you need?”

  Taking a step back, I glanced between him and the cash, the surprise and unexpectedness of the offer cracking my armor of detachment.

  But then I remembered where I was and who I was talking to. Repo was a Wraith, first and foremost and always. Maybe he was trying to trick me, test me as part of some sick mind game of my father’s. Or maybe he was looking for some “female companionship.” It was very possible that Repo had never mistreated me prior to now because I’d never been on Repo’s radar prior to now because I’d never been old enough to register prior to now.

  Whatever. I couldn’t trust Repo. I couldn’t trust anyone. Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

  I tilted my head to the side and sneered at his wad of cash. “And what do you expect me to do for this money?”

  The big man sighed for the third time, his eyes cutting to the right as he answered through gritted teeth. “Nothing, Scarlet. Not a damn thing.”

  I shook my head, taking another step back as his attention returned to me. “Yeah. No thanks. I’ve never met a dollar bill without strings attached to it.”

  A flicker of something flashed behind his eyes, and it seemed like he was about to say something, but then stopped himself. Cursing under his breath, he pulled five one-hundred-dollar bills off the top, grabbed my hand, placed the bills in my palm, and curled my fingers around them before I could react.

  “There. No strings. Now, where you wanna go? Back to the Corner? Or maybe the bus station?”

  Curling my lip, I threw the money in his face. “Fuck off, Repo. And leave me the fuck alone.” Not sparing him another glance, I turned and marched to the club, opening the door without looking back.

  I thought I heard him say, “Stubborn,” or something like it, but I didn’t pay him any mind. I was here for a reason, and I needed to get it over with before reality seeped in and I lost my nerve.

  Taking no notice of the large bar area—which was the first room as you entered—I headed straight for the labyrinth of hallways behind the kitchen. The first few doors were community spaces, some had pool tables, some had beds, some had conference tables and the like. Further back were the junior recruits’ rooms. When I’d been planning this, I figured they’d mostly be asleep. Luckily, I was right.

  Down a set of stairs, another hallway, a hidden door, another hallway, up two flights, another hall. I’d made it to my father’s rooms and I honestly could not tell you if there’d been anyone I’d passed on the way.

  My hand found the handle and . . .

  I glanced down at my fingers. They were shaking. I closed my eyes, clenching my jaw, taking a few quick, deep breaths. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Just do it. Just do it.”

  Damn Repo. I was ready to do this until he’d offered me money. For the barest fraction of a second I’d almost believed him, that he’d give me five hundred dollars with no strings. But I was no fool. With these guys, there’s always strings. Always.

  Besides, money wasn’t the real reason I was here.

  Taking one last deep breath, I exhaled slowly. The numbness descended once more, falling like a soothing blanket of detachment over my head, my shoulders, my back and stomach and thighs.

  You are fine. It’s fine. You’ve done this before. It’ll all be over soon. Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

  Staring at the door until I felt absolutely nothing, I turned the knob and walked in.

  I knew where my father would be. He liked to sit on a stool in front of the black lacquer bar at the far end of the main room, one foot on the floor, one foot on the bottom rung of the stool. I forced my eyes higher and his face came into focus.

  He wore all black, a stark contrast to his pale white skin, and his eyes were blue, but not like mine. Thank God. If I’d had his eyes, and I had to look at them every time I saw my reflection in a mirror, I would never look in a mirror.

  His hair was black and long and gleamed under the lights. His chin came to a subtle point—like mine—and his cheekbones were high and sharp, with shadowy indents beneath. My father would’ve been a good-looking man if he weren’t so terrifying.

  He looked at me like he wasn’t surprised to see me. But then, I imagined Repo had informed him I was on my way.

  Razor licked his bottom lip, nibbled on it, his dead-eyed stare settling on me like a cold hand. I struggled—and I mean struggled—not to feel it.

  “Scarlet.”

  “Daddy.” It was like a script.

  “What are you doing here, girl?”

  “I need money,” I said, monotone. Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

  “You want money?” He perked up, a flicker of life behind his calculating gaze. “You asking your daddy for something, Scarlet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stood, sauntered to me, stopped about two feet away. “You know what happens when you ask for something.” His stare grew bright, seemed to glow with excitement.

  “Yes, sir,” I said evenly.

  He examined me for a long time. Or maybe he was just savoring the anticipation before he got to cut into something. Drawing his bottom lip between his teeth again, he chewed on it.

  “That’s why you’re back?”

  I nodded, meeting his gaze squarely. It was too late now—too late to change my mind, too late to leave—and for some reason, that made everything feel so much easier. No choice.

  A fleeting smile arrested his features and he laughed—like a giggle—turning and moving toward the tall knife cabinet along the far wall. “You staying around? How long you here for?”

  Rid of his gaze, I let mine fall to the floor, focusing on nothing. “For a little. I wanted to get something to eat from the kitchen.” In many ways, the worst was already over.

  “You’ll eat when I say you can eat,” he said absentmindedly, opening the cabinet.

  I pushed away fear upon seeing the glint of the knives and worked to subdue it. “Okay. Can I eat here?”

  “I don’t fucking care if you fucking eat.” Razor pulled a pack of Marlboros out of a front pocket and patted his other pockets, presumably for a lighter. His attention moved over the blades.

  In the brief silence, I heard a rustling noise from one of the back rooms. “Is that Scarlet?” a woman asked, her voice scratchy. It could’ve been my mother, hard to tell.

  Razor turned over his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up and get back in bed!” The rustling stopped, the sound retreated. My father looked at me, scowled. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I shook my head, arranging my features to appear as bored as possible.

  He examined me, his eyes narrowing. “I have a question for you.”

  Shit.

  “Yes?”

  “You know Raymond’s oldest son? Prince King?” He pulled out a cigarette, lifted it to his lips.

  Show nothing. Feel nothing. “Yeah, I know him.”

  “He was expelled.”

  “Oh?” I asked, sounding completely unperturbed. Maybe it was good I knew what was coming, maybe it was good I had to prepare for it. I was a rock: blank, without motivation, without fear, without worry, without purpose.

  My father lit the cigarette, took a drag, never taking his eyes off me. “It happened last week. You didn’t hear about that?”

  “You know I
’m not a big talker.”

  He smirked at that. “Yeah. I guess I do know that. You haven’t heard anything?”

  “I’m not a big listener either.”

  Again, he nibbled on his bottom lip, and then took another pull from his smoke, speaking as he exhaled, “Well I heard something about you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was just about to send my boys out to pick you up, matter of fact. You got a boyfriend? That McClure kid? I don’t like that.”

  I pressed my lips together, pretending like I was fighting a smile. “Ben McClure? Big Ben? The Sainted Son of Green Valley? That’s real funny.”

  “It ain’t true?” His eyes were assessing.

  “Uh, no. I mean, I know him. He’s nice to me. Always trying to give me charity. But I—”

  “Don’t you take a thing from him, you hear me? Tell him to fuck off. Like I said, I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t take anything from him. If I need something, I come to you.” Build a wall. One brick at a time. Don’t let anything in. Don’t let him in.

  He twisted his lips to the side subtly, like my statement pleased him, his gaze flickering down and then up. “You look like shit. Too skinny. You should stay a while, take a shower. You stay for a bit.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged, like this didn’t matter to me one way or the other.

  But make no mistake, I would not be staying.

  He turned back to the cabinet, taking another puff, blowing out. “You know what? Forget I said that. You talk to him the next time you see that boy.”

  What?

  I let my confusion show on my face and in my voice. “What would I talk to Ben McClure about?”

  He pulled out a knife and I tried not to look at it.

  “Talk to lots of kids. Talk to everyone. Find out who got Raymond’s son expelled,” he said. “You find out, I’ll give you some real money.”

  I made sure to look like this interested me. “How much?”

  “Fucking greedy. You’ve always been so fucking greedy, just like your momma.” He shook his head, grinning and putting the knife back. “I’ll give you two thousand dollars. Five if the rat turns out to be a traitor here.”