SLY: Kings of Carnage MC

by Nicole James

  “Sure you can, one foot at a time. I’ve got you.”

  This is ridiculous. I suck in a breath, mortified he’s witnessing it. “Just go away. Please.”

  “Not a chance. Now come on down.”

  I step down one rung, clutching the ladder, then another until he suddenly scoops me up and sets me on the ground. I let out a yelp. “I had it. I was fine.”

  Sly chuckles. “Babe, you so did not have it.”

  “I would have had it.”

  He holds his hand out. “Give me the bulb.”

  I hand it over.

  “What’s the screwdriver for? You didn’t think you needed that to change the bulb, did you?”

  “No!” God, how stupid does he think I am? “There’s a bolt on the sign that rusted out.”

  “Give it to me.”

  This time, I don’t even argue. What’s the point? I just pass him the bolt and screwdriver.

  He scurries up the ladder like he’s a fucking pro. In a matter of minutes, he’s completed both jobs and climbs down. “You got a broom?”

  I nod.

  Sly walks inside behind me with the ladder, knowing exactly where the storage room is, then sets it against the wall as I grab the broom. He follows me back out and watches as I sweep the glass into the sewer drain.

  When the last of it is gone, I turn to him. “Thank you for helping me.”

  He grins. “You looked a little terrified up there. You afraid of heights?”

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  He nods to the bar. “How ’bout you repay me with a beer?”

  “The bar’s closed. We don’t have a Sunday liquor license.”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “You’re a real rule-follower, aren’t you?”

  “Yep. I bet you’ve never followed one in your life.”

  He grins again. “Depends on the rule.” He looks at the apartment above. “How about you offer me a beer upstairs? Can’t get in trouble for that, can you?”

  “Oh, I think taking you upstairs could be all kinds of trouble.”

  “I’ll behave. Scout’s honor.”

  “You, a boy scout?” I laugh.

  “I was, actually. Made it all the way through Cub Scouts to the Webelos in fourth grade.”

  “Webelos?” I arch a brow, trying to picture him as a fourth grader.

  “Yep, it’s actually an acronym for We’ll Be Loyal Scouts.”

  “I see. There’s that loyalty thing again. Seems to be a pattern with you.”

  He huffs out a laugh. “Guess so. How ’bout that beer?”

  I bite my lip.

  “Come on, you at least owe me a beer for the help.”

  “All right.” I lead him inside.

  “Think we could snag a bottle of whiskey to take upstairs?” He gives me a look I can’t say no to.

  I huff out a breath. “Fine. Pick your poison.”

  Sly grabs a bottle of Jameson, and I can’t help thinking about Da. I lead him up the backstairs and into the apartment, stopping in the kitchen to grab a couple of beers from my fridge, and then pass him one. I take two glasses down from the cabinet, and we move into the living room.

  He follows, his eyes taking it all in. “Nice place. I always wondered what it looked like up here.”

  I sit on the couch. “Well, now you know.”

  “I like the fireplace. Wood-burning, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  He spots the couple of Dura-flame fire logs I’d recently bought sitting next to it. “Mind if I start one?”

  I shrug. “Be my guest.” By the time I remember they last three hours, he’s already laid one in the fireplace and lit the bag with a lighter from his pocket. Then he moves to sit next to me on the couch and takes a sip of his beer.

  “How’ve you been, Michaela?”

  “Fine, and you?” This is the weirdest experience. I’m sitting here in my apartment with a patched member of the Kings of Carnage. Have I lost my mind?

  “Business good?”

  “Why? You worried about the club’s money?”

  He sighs. “Babe, stop bringin’ that up, okay?”

  I take a sip of my beer and decide to keep my mouth shut.

  “You still seein’ Stanfield?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was never seeing him. We had dinner once.”

  “Glad to hear it. People aren’t always what they seem, Michaela. Looks can be deceiving.”

  “That apply to you too?”

  “That applies to everyone, angel.”

  “Not always. Sometimes people are exactly what they seem. Like my ma and da.” My eyes fall to the bottle of Jameson. I nod to it. “That was my da’s drink.”

  “I know.”

  “You ever drink it with him?” I’m not sure if I want him to say yes or no.

  “All the time.”

  That answer surprises me. It’s as if he knew him better than I did, that he shared something with him I’d missed the last three years. It makes me sad and my eyes start to sting.

  Sly must notice because he puts his beer bottle down and reaches for the bottle. He doesn’t ask me, he just pours us both two fingers and passes me a glass. He holds his up. “To Cullen.”

  I tap my glass to his. “To Da.”

  His eyes are on me while we both drain our glasses. He lifts a brow, like he’s surprised I can down a shot of whiskey, then grins. “A true Irish lass.”

  He picks up the bottle and pours us both another shot.

  The fire log is fully engulfed now, and the cold apartment is warming, or maybe it’s just the Irish whiskey warming me from the inside.

  I sip the second one. I’m not so stupid as to down shot after shot with this man—boy scout or not. No, Webelo, I correct myself in my head and giggle.

  “Christ, you’ve only had one shot. Don’t tell me you’re tipsy already?”

  I shake my head, feeling the need to defend my Irish honor. “Of course not.” I study him. “How well did you know my da?”

  “As well as you can know someone you see once a week. We’d talk, and sometimes we’d do a shot together. Why?”

  “It’s just weird, you knowing him.”

  “Why is it weird? I’m not a real person to you? I’m just a caricature of some villain in your eyes, huh?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what you are to me.”

  “How about, a friend.”

  I huff out a laugh. “You’re joking, right? My friends don’t shake me down for money.”

  He slumps back and rubs a hand over his face. “That’s club business. I can’t change that. But I like you, Michaela. I’m not tryin’ to be your enemy here.”

  I don’t say anything because I don’t know what to say to that.

  He huffs out a laugh. “Your da ever tell you about the time the pipe burst in the kitchen?”

  I shake my head.

  “Funniest thing you ever saw. I walk in and he’s standing barefoot with his pants rolled up to his knees. The man had the whitest legs I’ve ever seen. He’s standin’ there with a mop in his hands trying to sop up three inches of water. I asked him, ‘Cullen, what the fuck are you doin’?’” He looked at me and said, ‘I haven’t got a fuckin’ clue,’ then he burst out laughing.”

  “What’d he do about the water?”

  “I called a buddy of mine who does industrial clean ups. He came out and took care of it. Gave him the club discount.”

  The apartment is getting warm, and Sly shoves the sleeves of his thermal shirt up. That’s when my eyes fall to the tattoo on his forearm. It’s a lion with a tilted crown, and I know immediately I’ve seen it before. It all comes rushing back like a giant wave crashing over me, and suddenly, I’m gasping for breath.

  “You okay, kitten?”

  I tear my eyes from the beautiful ink and stare at his face. I try to make the pieces fit. His face and the face of the man who dashed into the smoke-filled bar the night of the fire …

  I’m bent over my da, shaking
him and begging him to wake up. I can’t lift him; I tried. I can’t even drag him farther than the front door. I want so badly to call 911, but I have to get him out first. There’s no time to make a call.

  A coughing fit takes me, and then a man is dashing through the front door, his boots loud on the wooden floor. I panic, thinking it’s the man who robbed us. He’s got his arm over his face, but when he kneels beside my da, I see his light green eyes and know he’s a different man. My gaze drops to his forearm, and I stare at the tattoo: the face of the lion snarling back at me, the crown on his head askew.

  He shouts at me. “I’ve got him. Get outside!”

  I stand but don’t move. I’m afraid to leave Da. The man grabs Da’s arms and drags him to the door. He pauses and yells at me again. “Go! Go!”

  I run out the door and stop on the sidewalk, turning to look back and crying. He pulls Da outside and onto the sidewalk. Then he races back inside. The sound of a fire extinguisher carries to me. Darn it, I forgot it was under the bar. I should have remembered. I should have used it.

  He comes back outside and kneels by Da, but he looks at me. “You okay, kid?”

  I nod, crying, using the sleeve of my shirt to wipe my face.

  He lifts his chin to the picture on the front of my favorite boy band. “You a big One Direction fan?”

  I nod, feeling stupid for the childish crush at the age of thirteen. The man kneeling before me is so beautiful, much cuter than any of the boys on my shirt, and I think I have an instant crush on him. Plus, he just saved us, so he’s like my knight in shining armor.

  Sirens rent the air and we both look down the street. The man stands.

  I look up at him.

  He smiles. “You’re da’s gonna be fine, sweetheart.”

  And then he backs up.

  I turn to watch the fire engine arrive. A moment later, a fireman is kneeling by my da, putting an oxygen mask over his face while several more drag hoses toward the smoke-filled bar. There’s honking and people running, and in the confusion, I suddenly can’t find the man who saved us.

  “It was you. That night. It was you.”

  He gives me a funny look. “What night?”

  “The night of the fire. It was you who ran in and dragged my da out.”

  Sly stares at me a long moment and then swallows. “Yeah, it was me. You were that little girl?”

  I nod, and then frown. “Were you also there the night they came and beat my father?”

  He shakes his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was four years old.” I nod at his vest. “A group of your MC came in and beat my father. They wanted money. When he didn’t have it, they beat him.”

  “In front of you?”

  I shake my head. “My da made me hide in the closet. Said we were playing a game and I wasn’t to come out no matter what.”

  “You saw it all?”

  “I peeked through the crack.”

  “Fuck, Michaela, that was before my time. If you were four, I would have been about thirteen or fourteen at the time. That would have been back during Vic’s reign.”

  “Reign of terror you mean.”

  “Yeah, he was an asshole. That was long before Chaos took over from his father.”

  “Chaos?”

  “Vic’s son. That’s his club name. He’s our president now.”

  “Oh.” I search his eyes. “The night of the fire, I turned around and you were gone. Why’d you leave?”

  “I was prospecting for the club then. I didn’t need to get tied up explaining shit to the police. Hell, I’d just done five years in prison at that point. I was a little paranoid about goin’ back. Last thing I wanted was for them to try to pin an arson or robbery charge on me.”

  “Wait. You’ve been in prison? What for?”

  Sly chugs down his shot and sets it on the table, then stands. “That’s a story for another day, darlin’.”

  “Don’t go.” I can’t believe the words fall out of my mouth.

  He stares down at me.

  “One more story about my father. Please?”

  He nods and sits back down. “All right. But you gotta do another shot with me.”

  I bite my lip, and then smile. “You think I can’t hold my liquor, don’t you?”

  He chuckles. “Babe, I know it.”

  I hold my glass out, and he picks up the bottle and refills it, then sets it back down. “Another story about Cullen, huh? Let me think. Oh, I know one.”

  I twist on the couch, facing him and tucking my feet under me, like I’m ready for story time or something. He leans back and regales me with not just one story but several while his deep voice lulls me. I could listen to Sly talk all night. I lean my head back on the sofa and close my eyes just for a second, then feel his hand stroke over my head as I drift off.

  Thirteen

  Sly—

  My words trail off as I watch Michaela float off to sleep. She looks so angelic. I set my glass on the table and glance around for a throw blanket to cover her with, but see none. We’ve been talking for hours, and the fire is finally burning low, so I don’t want her to get chilled in the night after I leave.

  I stand and go in search of one in her bedroom. It isn’t hard to locate and my gaze takes in the room. It’s pretty bare of furniture, but I can’t tear my eyes from the wrought iron bed with the floral quilt and pillows piled up against the headboard. I move to it and grab one to tuck under her head, but I can’t resist lifting it to my nose and inhaling her soft floral scent still lingering on the fabric.

  My dick gets hard as I stare down at the rumpled sheets and imagine fucking her there. I sigh, knowing that’s not happening anytime soon, at least not tonight. I may be the last man a mother would want her daughter involved with, but I’m not so low as to take advantage of this girl when she’s had too much to drink. Michaela trusted me enough to bring me up here, and that trust was hard fought and hard won, and I don’t want to blow it now.

  Sex with a willing Michaela is a strong temptation, though, and I know if I carried her in here, I could rouse her enough with the things I could do to her body that she’d capitulate, maybe even beg for it. But that’s not the way I want it to go between us. I don’t want to be something she wakes up in the morning and regrets.

  I snag a small crocheted blanket folded over the foot of the bed, then take it and the pillow out to the living room. I place the pillow by the arm of the sofa, then shift Michaela down to lay prone on it and tuck the afghan around her.

  She sighs and cuddles deeper.

  I smile, stroking her hair away from her face and whisper, “Goodnight, Sleeping Beauty.”

  I can’t resist pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  Then I let myself out, twisting the lock on the doorknob. I hate not being able to set the deadbolt, but I don’t have a key to the place yet.

  I’m gonna have to do something about the security in this place. Michaela alone here at night has got me worried. That back door would be too easy to bust, and with the bar, there are always guys around like the one who fucked with her car. If I hadn’t been here that night, who knows if he wouldn’t have gone up the back stairs and used that tire iron to bust in her window.

  I walk around to my bike, fire it up, and head out.

  It’s just after eleven when I pull up to the clubhouse and park next to the other bikes already there. I yank open the door and am instantly hit by the sounds of music blaring and raucous laughter.

  After finding my crew in our usual spot by the pool table, I walk over and slump down in a chair to kick back, and Cookie immediately drifts over. I feel her presence behind me just by the smell of her perfume alone. It’s a heavy, musky scent that’s overpowering and does nothing for me. I’ve found that lately I much prefer Michaela’s fresh floral scent. Cookie’s hands slide down my cut and her arms loop around my neck.

  “Hey, Sly,” her sultry voice whispers in my ear.

  I pull her hands off. “I’m not i
n the mood, babe. Get me a beer, will ya?”

  She huffs, but moves off to do my bidding. I fold my arms and stare blankly at the green felt. After a few minutes, Bouncer sits next to me.

  “What’s up, brother?” he asks, twisting to look at me with an elbow on one knee, and a beer dangling from his hand, the other palm flat on his thigh. “Somebody piss in your helmet?”

  The corner of my mouth pulls up. I know he means well, but I’m not in the mood to laugh. “Found out some shit tonight about the club back when Vic was running it.

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  Pool balls strike together with a snap as Bash makes a shot.

  North stands nearby with a cue in his hand while waiting his turn, but my statement has him moving closer to listen.

  Cookie delivers my beer. She looks like she wants to linger, but my finger-point sends her trotting off.

  When it’s just us again, I continue, “Michaela said when she was four years old the club came by Mooney’s Pub the Sunday before Christmas. Beat the crap out of her ol’ man. Cullen made her hide in the closet, but she watched the whole damn thing through a crack in the door.”

  “Fuck.” Bouncer breathes the word, his brows knitting together. “Must have traumatized the poor kid.”

  My eyes flick up to lock with North’s. “You ever hear about that?”

  “No, but wouldn’t surprise me. Those guys were hardcore assholes with shit for brains.” He twists to glance at our president who is leaning against a post. “No disrespect, Chaos.

  “None taken.” Chaos cuts his eyes to mine. “Those days are gone for fucking good, bro.”

  “I know. I get that. But she’s having a hard time trusting me. Now I know why.”

  Chaos huffs out a laugh. “Women and trust. Now there’s a fucking subject.”

  I get what he’s saying, but I’m not in the mood for any belittlement of what had happened to Michaela. I want to beat the shit outta the men responsible, but I can’t, because they’re all long fucking gone. We’re what remains—the six of us. So does that make me just as guilty? I wasn’t a member of the MC back then, but Vic and those assholes ran things when I put that patch on my back. I signed up for everything the MC stood for. Maybe I was naïve back then. Maybe I didn’t understand to the fullest extent everything I was signing up for, or maybe I was just desperate to belong someplace, anyplace back then. But does that make me guiltless? Do I not bear some of the fucking blame?