Sin & Suffer

by Pepper Winters

  Ten pairs of eyes met mine, including Matchsticks, Mo, Beetle, and a few other original members of Corrupts who were dead-fast and loyal to Wallstreet. These men I trusted and these were the ones who’d been carrying out my plans over the past few years, building up our reserves, planting doubt in our enemies, and arranging a worldwide takeover.

  We weren’t after small control anymore. We were after global.

  Mo stood up as I circled the table and took my seat. The gavel fit perfectly in my hand as Grasshopper took his place.

  “All ready to begin, Kill. They’ve been debriefed on the upcoming meeting with Samson, and the majority know of what is expected of them tonight.”

  Rolling my wrist, enjoying the weight of the tiny hammer giving me so much authority, I smiled. “Perfect.” Looking toward the men, I rapped the table and narrowed my eyes. “Let’s start.”

  Grasshopper was the first to steal the floor. “I’ll go first.”

  The men grinned, already knowing the order in which they’d go. It never deviated. We were all equals, but in Church we followed a hierarchy.

  “I’ve been in touch with our other chapters in San Francisco, Los Angeles, New Mexico, and Arkansas. They’re all aware of what’s in the pipelines and ready to bowl into fucking town at the slightest request.”

  “Did you ask them to come?” Mo asked.

  Grasshopper shook his head. “I figure, with our reinforcements from Green Clovers up north, we should be sweet. They’ve proved themselves in the past and won’t fuck up an opportunity to shed their Irish authority and come into the Pure fold.”

  This wasn’t news to me. Lucky himself had been in touch with me over the years. He’d been hankering for a challenge to prove himself worthy of wearing our patch. Word had got out that being a Pure meant wealth. Being a Pure meant safety, brotherhood, and living a long fucking life, rather than turf wars, discipline, and a one-way ticket to Hades.

  Men were sick of being controlled by a drunken mob still living in Ireland. They wanted home roots. They wanted a faction large enough to spread out and grow.

  It was a win-win.

  “Mo, how’s it going with what I requested?” I looked to the messy blond biker who wore his battle scars like fucking jewelry. In the garish overhanging light, tiny silver scars glittered on his face, neck, and hands. They played peekaboo—almost invisible until illumination shone in just the right way.

  It made him a scary motherfucker.

  “I’ve got three back so far. That leaves one more. Seeing as that blonde bitch was killed back at Dagger Rose.”

  My eyes widened. “Shit, I didn’t expect you to be so quick about it.”

  He smirked. “I’m a fast worker, Prez. The three are still in our custody.”

  “What? Here at the compound?”

  Mo shook his head. “Nope. Got two in drug rehab and one is safe in a halfway house out of town. Thought I’d take the initiative ’cause that’s what you’d have done.”

  Once again, Mo proved I had no reason to micromanage.

  I leaned my elbows on the table and clasped my hands.

  With all the carnage I planned, it was nice to have done a good tiding for once.

  The women who’d been trafficked with Cleo when she first arrived had been reclaimed. Reclaimed and rejuvenated and heading back to health and normalcy—it was a damn sight better than being whores for men who didn’t fucking deserve them.

  The girls had been “gifted” to other presidents in turn for their loyalty. It’d been Wallstreet’s idea: pussy and money—a fail-safe for fealty—but I hated that Cleo had seen me stoop so fucking low.

  I didn’t trade in skin. I didn’t deal drugs. I didn’t sell guns. I wasn’t out to hurt anyone. I was out to reform the wrong and uphold justice. I couldn’t be such a goddamn hypocrite by selling women for my own purpose.

  “Good to hear. Let me know when they’re detoxed. Need to know if we can do anything else.”

  Mo raised an eyebrow. “Do more for them? Shit, Kill. You’ve given them a life they didn’t even have in the beginning. They were the ones who caught their idiotic asses with bikers and spread their whorish legs.”

  “I know. They joined this game, but I sent them deeper. It’s on my fucking head.”

  Topic closed, I turned to the next speaker and cleared my throat. “Next agenda, Matchsticks. Did you hear back from Black Diamonds in England?”

  Matchsticks sat higher in his chair, his large belly squashed against the table ledge. “Yep. Jethro Hawk said he’d provide use of his diamond shipping routes for anything we need transferred and also mentioned a face-to-face meeting with you next time you’re in the UK.”

  I cracked my knuckles. The English tycoon who outweighed my bank balance by almost double—which was no mean feat—had been of great assistance over the past few years. I’d met him at his diamond-processing plant and been so fucking jealous of the son of a bitch for what he had. Not because of the wealth or glittering rocks all around him, but for the woman standing by his side.

  There’d been so much fucking tension between them, but all I could think about was Cleo. Cleo rotting in a grave. Cleo burning alive in her family’s home. I’d wanted to wring his neck for being so lucky. But I never got the chance, because we ended up forming a grudging respect.

  Along with respect, I also found a kinship I never expected. He had a strict father—a family that expected far too much of him. I recognized the trap he lived in and our similar family issues strengthened a bond I knew I could trust. To be honest, my circumstances were a damn sight better than his. At least I had the freedom to kill my father and brother. Jethro? I doubted he’d ever be free.

  “That’ll work. Pass on my thanks. Fingers crossed we won’t have to call on him, but it’s good to have everything in place.”

  Looking around the table, I racked my brain to see if I’d scratched everything off the list. Wasn’t there something else to discuss? My fucking headache still wouldn’t leave me alone. It’d eased a little, thank God. Mainly thanks to the two releases I’d had inside Cleo.

  My lips twitched remembering her head bobbing between my legs. She’d been so fucking pretty.

  I grew hard just thinking about her.

  Beetle announced, “By the way, our snitch has been busy.”

  Everyone’s attention shot to the youngest member, waiting for him to continue.

  Playing with the gauge in his ear, Beetle said, “The snitch in Night Crusaders. He said Dagger Rose is overstaying their welcome. Making plans to move due to a fight they had last night with the Crusader prez. A few men got hurt. They’ve been told to fuck off before the end of the week.”

  “Shit!”

  Grasshopper slammed his palms on the table. “But that’s in two fucking days.”

  Beetle shrugged. “I know. We need to move fast on those assholes. Already told the boys; they’ve stockpiled more guns and prepped the bikes.” His eyes fell on me. “I’m on it, Prez.”

  My heart raced. Two days.

  The timing didn’t really matter; in fact, I’d planned on ambushing them this week regardless. We couldn’t afford to let them fuck off. Not now.

  But two days? Could we be ready?

  “Is Alligator with them? The fuckwit who hurt Cleo?”

  The men shifted in their chairs. The bonfire last night had firmly rooted Buttercup into our family. The men wouldn’t be fighting just because I said so, but because she was theirs now. We had a joint interest. An investment into her future.

  “Sure is,” Lance muttered. The biker was a weathered man with faded tattoos of his beloved Yorkshire terriers on his forearms. He was an enigma but was fucking brutal in war. “Been spotted with Rubix. He’s there. Ready to be executed.”

  Excitement inched through my veins. Despite my weakness, fuzziness, and occasional dizziness that made me stumble like a freak, I was able enough to fight.

  I want to fight.

  I’ve been waiting eight long years for this
.

  I had every intention of enjoying it.

  Fisting the gavel, I brought it down onto the table with a smack. “Good work, boys. You know what else you have to do. We attack in two days. Gather ammo, clear the roads of local police, stockpile everything else we might need.”

  Standing, I growled, “In two days we wipe Dagger Rose from existence and put this fucking treason behind us.”

  Thirty minutes later, I straddled my Triumph and slotted the key into the ignition. Twisting my wrist, the silent machine evolved into a rumbling beast.

  Sunshine sliced slivers off my eyeballs and made my brain bleed. I wanted to get home. I wanted shade. I wanted Cleo.

  But as I turned the handlebars for home, I paused.

  I had one last thing to do and I didn’t want to do it where Cleo could listen in.

  Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I dialed the number I knew by heart and waited for it to connect.

  “Florida State. Please dial the extension you require or hold for assistance. Our visiting hours are between eleven a.m. and two p.m. Monday through Friday and require a prior arranged booking.”

  Pulling the phone from my ear, I pressed the five-digit extension to be put through to the petitionary wing I’d been housed in and suffered the familiar fisting around my gut as I waited for it to stop ringing.

  “Florida State,” a female voice answered. “How can I direct your call?”

  “Prisoner number FS890976. Wallstreet, please.” My tone was curt.

  “One moment.”

  The line switched to god-awful music and I stroked the matte black of my gas tank while I waited.

  It was never a quick turnaround calling Wallstreet.

  The line crackled, cutting off the music. “You have ten minutes.”

  I waited for the additional click as the operator connected me to a line in Wallstreet’s cellblock.

  “Kill, my boy. You got my message, then?”

  I still hadn’t figured out how he managed to send text messages in his predicament, but he did. On a regular basis. “Yep. Received and noted. It’s going down in two days.”

  Top rule when speaking on prison lines. No details. Ever.

  “Good, good. I thought as much. At least I’ll have something to celebrate when I get out of here.”

  My hand tightened. “You heard back?”

  “Sure did.”

  When he didn’t elaborate, I pressed, “And?”

  He laughed, sounding twenty years younger and fucking spritely. “I’m done, Kill. Served my time, paid my price. I’m gonna be a free man again.”

  “Fucking hell.” I stared ahead, reliving those days when I first came out. The fear of open spaces, the constant questions of “Can I go there? Who do I need to check with to make sure I’m allowed? What’s my curfew?” Even breaking the habit of going to bed and getting up—set by the warden’s hateful alarm clocks—took time. “Shit, Wallstreet, that’s fantastic.”

  “They’re letting me go early due to good behavior and proof of conforming to the necessary requirements of a rehabilitated criminal.”

  I knew for a fact that was the truth. He hadn’t had to bribe anyone. He was an exemplary prisoner. I had no doubt the warden would’ve kept him forever if possible—just for the respect and peace he wielded. J Block would never be as calm the day he left; I was fucking sure of it.

  “Do you have a date?”

  “Not yet. The sentencing was just confirmed yesterday. Paperwork and all that jazz is always a holdup, but I’ll let you know when to pick me up.”

  My heart raced to think of him coming home. This man had done so much for me. Made me who I was. Built me up when I was down and all that fucking sob-story bullshit.

  I made a mental note to throw him the best damn party he’d ever seen.

  “I’ll be there, Cyrus. You can count on it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cleo

  I’d gone to a high school dance last night.

  I’d attended with a boy I didn’t like.

  Arthur had refused to take me. My mom said he wouldn’t have been allowed anyway. He was too old for me. But what did they know? He wasn’t too old. How many times did I need to tell them that he was the boy I’d end up marrying?

  I knew what I was and I was happy with that. And I’d be ecstatic when Arthur finally understood that our future wasn’t with others but together. His family, my family—they didn’t count. He was my family. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen

  Two worlds.

  Two identities.

  When Arthur disappeared to deal with Club business, I’d fretted. When he said he’d be back before dinner but never showed, I’d panicked. And when a mysterious package arrived with instructions, I’d freaked.

  I never expected this.

  I never expected Arthur to be such a master juggler with so many moving parts flying unseen above my head or to be left so far behind. Sure, he’d always been a planner, crossing t’s and dotting i’s, but to this extent … I would never have guessed.

  My heart fell thinking how much had changed since we’d matured into adults and formed our own existences.

  I just have to trust that he’ll tell me when he’s ready.

  My eyes focused as I shoved aside my thoughts and concentrated on the now.

  The gloom welcomed me and I turned to face the man who held my heart.

  “Arthur … where on earth have you brought me?”

  He grinned, wrapped in shadow in the expensive limousine’s interior. His teeth were white, his face rugged and handsome. “You wanted to know—I’m showing you.”

  I blinked, trying to make sense of everything that’d happened today. My mind skipped backward, reliving up to this moment.

  The package.

  It all started with the package that’d arrived a few hours after Arthur had left.

  “Yours, I believe.” A Pure Corruption brother stood on the stoop, holding out a large box. Dressed in his uniform of jeans and cut, he looked the part of a biker but seemed too baby-faced to be dangerous. However, his nickname Switchblade said he wasn’t exactly as cherub-like as his features suggested. “Deliveryman just left. I signed on your behalf.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Taking the package, I closed the door and scurried up the stairs to open it. What on earth was going on? Where the hell was Arthur?

  As I sat on the bed and stroked the black silk ribbon wrapped around the large white box, I suddenly felt as if Arthur were beside me—an apparition waiting for me to open the mysterious parcel.

  Slowly, I undid the bow and cracked open the lid.

  Inside was a simple note.

  For you. For tonight.

  My heart skipped, trying to keep up. I’d made a mistake believing I knew everything there was to know about Arthur. I knew the boy, but not the man. And I’d forgotten one very important thing: Arthur was a planner. An arranger. He never stopped orchestrating or plotting.

  I can’t believe I forgot that.

  And this was a prime example how his body might be in my arms, his heart might be nestled snugly beside mine, but his mind … that was off busily constructing world domination.

  I had no clue what would happen tonight.

  But that wasn’t new. Being with Arthur was always a surprise. From daisies in my shoes to impromptu picnics on the Clubhouse roof. Everything was always a shock. But a nice shock, nevertheless.

  Inside the box, sleeping in decadent purple crepe paper, was the most incredible dress I’d ever seen. I’d never been a dress-wearing girl. I favored jeans and T-shirts. A no-nonsense wardrobe when dealing with puking puppies and scratching kittens. But this … wow.

  I didn’t feel worthy pulling such resplendent material from its bed of crepe. Holding the strapless gown toward the window, I fell in love with the intricate turquoise beads on the lacy bodice, flowing down the front to form a jagged lightning bolt teasing with the black tulle of a full-bodied skirt.

  Along with the dress
, there was a strapless bra and matching G-string in black and turquoise.

  “Where on earth did he get this from?”

  With serendipitous timing the phone rang, and, with infinite carefulness, I tucked the dress away and ran to answer.

  “Did it arrive?”

  I beamed as Arthur’s voice pooled into my ear. “Yes. It’s stunning.”

  “Good, I called a local boutique. They assured me it would fit you after I gave them jumbled descriptions on your height and weight.”

  I giggled. “Well, I think they’re mind-readers, because it’s perfect.” Silence fell. I asked, “Where exactly are we going?”

  A masculine chuckle sent my heart skipping. “No questions. We have to work tonight and I need you looking astonishing so I can gobsmack the men in the room.”

  I plopped onto the bed, fingering the crepe. “So you’re pimping me out? Have you no shame?”

  “None when it comes to you. Is it bad that I find you fucking incredible and want to show you off? I want other men to stare at you and know that you’ll never be theirs because you’re mine.”

  I sucked in a breath.

  “I have to run another errand. I’ll be home later. In the meantime, have a bath, do your hair—do whatever you womenfolk require to get ready for a party. I’ll see you later.”

  Before I could say goodbye, he hung up.

  “Cleo? Cleo, for God’s sake, are you listening to me?”

  I jumped, skipping from the past and back to the present. Bringing Arthur into focus, my eyes trailed from his chiseled jaw to the exquisite sight of him wearing a dark grey suit, complete with the tie he’d used to blindfold me. My core melted at ensnaring someone so beautiful—both inside and out. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  He laughed softly. “I was saying what to expect tonight, but seeing as I was boring you, let’s just go in, shall we?”

  I swallowed hard. “Go in where?”

  With glowing green eyes, he shifted in his seat. “Not my fault you weren’t paying attention.”

  I pouted. “It’s entirely your fault that you’re far too distracting and delicious. All I want to do is tear off that tie and put it to other uses.”