SLY: Kings of Carnage MC

by Nicole James

  I stare up at the crescent moon and wonder where Sly is right now, and if he’s seeing the same moon. Sighing, I curl up in the corner of the sofa and think about my situation. Buddy jumps up to snuggle next to me, and as I take a sip of wine, I absently pet him. Should I wait until Sly returns to Uprising and talk to him in person, or should I broach the subject over the phone? It’s so hard to read someone’s reaction when you can’t see their facial expressions.

  I bite my lip. I absolutely hate asking for help. Even something like this—where I’m offering a percentage of the business—still feels like a favor. The last thing I want is to be indebted to anyone.

  I’m staring into the dark fireplace when my phone rings and pull it from my pocket. It’s a video call from Sly.

  I can’t help the jolt of happiness that shoots through me.

  I connect and there’s his smiling face. He’s outside with the sounds of idling bikes in the background. It looks like a gas station.

  “There’s my beautiful girl,” he says.

  I laugh. “Where are you?”

  Sly turns and glances to his side, then swivels the camera for me to see gas pumps, a bunch of bikes, and men in black leather. “Some truck stop south of Macon. Stopped to gas up.”

  He turns the phone back to his face. “How are you doing, baby girl?”

  “I’m fine. Your prospect’s doing his job. Saw him when I locked up.”

  “I know you did. I called him.”

  “Oh.”

  He grins. “Gotta make sure he’s lookin’ out for you while I’m gone.”

  “So, when will you be back?”

  “Tonight, but it’ll be a couple hours. You gonna be awake?”

  “Are you coming by here, then?”

  “I was plannin’ on it unless you don’t want me to.”

  “Of course I do.” I bite my lip, wondering if I’ll even get a chance to talk to him about the bar tonight. I know as well as he does what’s going to happen the minute we lay eyes on each other. If I know Sly, he’ll make a beeline straight for the bedroom.

  “Something wrong, babe?”

  I shake my head.

  “Bullshit. Tell me,” he demands, his eyes fixed on me.

  I shake my head. “It can wait.”

  “Maybe so, but now you got me worried. Its gonna be bothering me all the way back. I don’t need to be distracted while I’m riding, Michaela, so just tell me.”

  I sigh. “It’s nothing to worry about, just the bar.”

  “What about it?”

  “There’s a balloon payment due on the mortgage loan my father took out. It’s big and I don’t have it. First Federal sent me a foreclosure notice.”

  “Fuck, babe. How much do you need?”

  I tell him and he whistles.

  “Had no idea Cullen borrowed that much. Hell, the club would’ve given him better terms than that fucking bank.”

  “Oh, so you’re loan sharks now too? Maybe he didn’t want his legs broken if he was late paying.”

  Sly rolls his eyes like I’m being dramatic. Really?

  “Look, I don’t want to fight with you, babe. What do you need? A loan?”

  I shake my head. The last thing I need is to get further in debt with the club. “I was thinking more along the lines of an investor.”

  “An investor?”

  “Yes, like a silent partner.”

  He moves farther from the group where it’s quieter, and leans against a wall.

  “What percentage are you looking to give over?” he asks.

  “Twenty percent.”

  He huffs out a laugh. “For that amount? Babe, be serious.”

  “Thirty.”

  “I can tell you right now, the club won’t settle for less than fifty.”

  “Fifty?” I practically shriek.

  “And they’ll want to put some controls in place, Chaos will probably insist on putting someone from the club in there.”

  He’s got to be kidding. “You mean like managing the place?”

  He nods. “This is business, honey, and we keep a tight rein on our businesses. Tight.”

  I sigh. This is not what I had in mind.

  “You don’t want to give up that kind of control. I get that, but there’s no way the club’s gonna invest that kind of money without running the show. I’m sorry, Michaela, it’s just not gonna happen.”

  “Okay, I get it.” I shift my eyes away.

  “Babe, look at me.” I shift them back and he continues, “Not sayin’ there’s not a way I can’t help you.”

  I frown. “You? You’d want to invest?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe. Depending on what the pub’s pulling in a month. What’d the bar do in profits the last six months?”

  I stare at him blankly, embarrassed that I don’t know the answer. I should know this stuff. “I, um, I’ll have to get the numbers for you.”

  “All right.”

  “Sly, you’ve got that kind of money? Just lying around, like, liquid assets? I don’t want you to sell your bike or anything for me.”

  He chuckles. “Sorry, babe. Not sellin’ my bike. For you or anybody. Unless you need a kidney or something, then maybe.”

  I can’t help grinning.

  “But, yeah, I’ve got it. The club’s got several pretty lucrative operations. We all get our share.”

  It’s so tempting to take him up on it, but I wonder how many strings would be attached. If I do this—what would it mean for us as a couple? How would it affect everything else? When I don’t reply, he prompts.

  “Michaela.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just I hadn’t expected that to be an option.”

  “Maybe where I’m concerned you need to up your expectations.”

  I grin. “Oh, really? You’re up to it, are you?”

  “I’m up to all of it, baby, in case you hadn’t figured that out yet.”

  I study his face. Sly’s sincere in his offer, whether it’s to help me or just to stay in my pants, I don’t know.

  “I know what you’re thinking, girl, but I’m not makin’ this offer to get into your pants.” He grins. “I’ve already been there, and it ain’t just to stay there, either. I’m into you, big time. If you haven’t figured that out yet, I’m in trouble.

  “I appreciate the offer, Sly. I do. But—”

  “But what?”

  “It would change things between us. Let me think about it.”

  He pulls his chin up and nods. “I get that. I do. Okay, take as much time as you need, although sounds like you’re under a tight deadline, so I wouldn’t wait too long.”

  Someone shouts something to him and he turns his head. I hear the bikes thunder to life.

  “We’re pullin’ out. I gotta roll. We’ll talk when I get there, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll see you then. Be careful.”

  “See you soon, kitten. Think about it, and we’ll talk more tomorrow, because when I see you tonight, talking’s gonna be the last thing on my mind.”

  I smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Show me your tits, baby.”

  I roll my eyes and flash him one.

  He grins and puts two fingers up in a peace sign with his tongue between.

  I chuckle. “Is that a promise?”

  “Damn straight it is.”

  “Sly! Let’s roll!” someone shouts.

  “Gotta go.” He winks and disconnects.

  I drop the phone and stare out the window.

  I suppose this gives me time to figure things out before I see him again. I’m beginning to see just how much of his time the club takes up. It’s like sharing him with a mistress, only his mistress is much more important to him than any other woman would ever be. She’s a needy bitch that demands his loyalty twenty-four seven.

  Any woman crazy enough to want a future with Sly would have to be very understanding and accept that. Was I that kind of woman?

  I’m invigorated knowing he’s on his way home and will be he
re in a couple hours. I pad into my room to make the bed and take a quick shower. After reapplying my makeup and brushing out my hair, I check the clock and see that I’ve still got an hour.

  Making a snap decision, I throw on jeans and a sweater and head back down to the bar to get the numbers Sly’d asked about. I lock the door behind me and move into the office. It creeps me out being down here after hours. I turn on the lights and sit at the desk.

  I pull out the ledger, grab a piece of paper and start jotting down profits and expenses to give Sly.

  When I’m finished, I close the book. It’s then I notice the paper’s edge poking out from the back of the binding. I frown and flip to the back. A single sheet of paper with a note scribbled on it stares up at me. I pick it up and read the lines.

  Cullen—

  You either come up with the money you owe the club or you’re a dead man. I’ll be by Thursday to pick it up.

  —S

  My mouth falls open and I drop it back on the desk. I can’t stop staring at it. How had I missed this? It’d been stuffed in the back of the ledger all this time and I’d overlooked it. Thursday jumps out at me. That was the night my father died.

  I stare at that scrawled S. It’s like a snake, a viperous snake in the grass, just like the man who’d written it. There’s only one possibility really. I don’t have to wonder. I know who it is, and I know what this means. He’s been lying to me all this time, about all of it. He did threaten my father. He was here that night. Everything he’s told me has been a lie. I’ve been so gullible. What a fool I am.

  I stare blindly at the desktop, consumed by my thoughts. My father couldn’t come up with the money that night, so either he killed himself or Sly killed him. Is that possible? Could Sly have done that? Could he have fooled me so completely? Perhaps his actions toward me are more to do with the guilt he feels than anything else. The way he stood outside the cemetery fence the day my father was laid to rest, the way he tried to run me off, and when I wouldn’t back down, the way he’s been looking out for me—was it all born of guilt?

  I can’t believe he has a black soul with no feelings when I’ve seen proof to the contrary.

  I bite on my lip, trying to think, and then I start digging through the piles until I find the manila envelope and yank it out. I pull the report out and go through it again, page by page. I have to know if this was suicide. Something hasn’t felt right from the very beginning.

  I try to imagine in my head what may have played out that Thursday night. My father stuffed this note in his ledger. Had he found it on his desk, or maybe when he flipped open the ledger to make the entries? I picture him sitting at this desk and filling out this ledger, night after night. And that’s when it hits me. My father was left-handed. But that doesn’t fit with the report. It said he shot himself in the right temple. It said the glove on his right hand had gunshot residue.

  Did Sly sit in the passenger seat next to him, put a gun to his head, and kill him, then calmly pull his glove off, put it on my father, and place the gun in his hand even as his slumped, dead body bled out?

  My trembling fingers lift to my mouth, and my eyes sting with unshed tears.

  I shuffle through the report until I come to the photograph of the glove they took into evidence. I squint, studying it closer. It’s black leather and there’s a mark on the back. They are monogramed letters—KC.

  I know I’ve never seen my father wear gloves like these, and he certainly wouldn’t have any with a KC on them. I suck in a breath as it dawns on me.

  Kings of Carnage.

  “Oh, my God. No. How stupid can I be? He played me.”

  Twenty-Six

  Michaela—

  I sit at my kitchen table waiting, the anger brewing inside me until I’m ready to smash things. I hear the unmistakable sound of a Harley approaching, the vibrating sound comes first from the glass in the front windows, then from the alley as it pulls in and shuts down.

  I stand and peer out the curtain. I see Sly slowly climb from his bike. He looks stiff and exhausted. He pulls his helmet off, hangs it on the handle bar, and stretches. He strides toward the stairs and I pull back, remaining out of sight.

  I’ve gone over and over in my head the things I want to say to him, but now that he’s about to reach my door, I’m not sure what the first words out of my mouth will be. I almost feel stunned, like I did when I found that note.

  He taps on the glass, bends to peer through the window, and spots me. I open the door and step back. I can tell by the smile on his face that he’s ready for sex, certainly not a fight.

  He glances back to lock the door, saying, “Hope you’re ready for me ’cause I’m gonna throw you over my shoulder and carry you to that bed, woman.” He turns around and Buddy runs to him, whining and jumping and wagging his tail a mile a minute. Sly drops his hand to scratch his ear. “Good boy.” Finally, his gaze lifts to take in my stone-cold expression, and he frowns. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

  I hold up the paper. “This.”

  His eyes on my face, he takes it slowly from me. His gaze drops to the paper and quickly scans it. “What the fuck?” His blazing glare flicks up to mine, and his brows shoot up. Sly’s voice has a hard edge to it when he bites out, “You think I wrote this?”

  “Tell me. Did you kill him? Did you shoot my father in the head that night?”

  “Are you fucking serious with this shit?”

  “Tell me,” I snap.

  “You know I didn’t.” He spits the words through snarling teeth.

  I arch a brow. “Do I?”

  Sly’s taken aback. “Don’t you? Maybe I fucking misjudged you.”

  “Maybe I misjudged you!”

  “You seriously think if I’m gonna threaten to kill a man, I’m gonna put it in writing?” His voice is deep and the volume has escalated. Buddy retreats under the kitchen table.

  “What about this?” I hold up the picture of the glove.

  He snatches it and studies it. “What is this?”

  “Evidence. The report says it’s the glove my father was wearing when he pulled the trigger.”

  “Why the hell was he wearing gloves?”

  “Exactly. And why does this one have KC monogrammed on it? It’s Kings of Carnage, isn’t it? You wear black gloves. I’ve seen them.”

  “Babe, you seriously think I wear gloves with monograms on them? Mine look nothing like this. This is a rich man’s glove, not biker gloves.”

  “Just shut up. You’ve been lying to me right from the beginning, about all of it.” I don’t want to hear any more of his bullshit. The man could talk me into believing anything. I yank the envelope I’d prepared earlier from my back pocket and hold it out to him. “Here’s the rest of what I owe your damn club. It’s all there, every fucking penny. Now get out.” I point at the door.

  Still as a statue, he just stares at me. “Babe, calm down and think this through. None of this makes sense.”

  “It’s all making sense to me now. Get. Out.”

  Sly’s jaw hardens and then he turns and pitches the envelope on the table. “Keep the goddamn money.” He storms out, slamming the door behind him. I don’t move an inch as his boots pound down the stairs, and then his bike thunders to life. He roars out of the alley and down the street. I listen to the sound as it drifts away until it’s silent again. Then I move to the kitchen table, fall into a chair, and with my face in my hands, I burst into tears. Buddy comes out and puts his paws on my lap, trying to tuck his head under my arm and reach his mouth to lick the side of my face.

  I relent and scoop him up, holding him tight and rubbing my cheek against his head. The emotional pain that’s tearing me apart is crushing. My heart is breaking.

  I so wanted to believe in Sly. I wanted to believe in the goodness I saw in him, the way his face lit up with his smile, the way he’d look at me with tenderness. A million images flash through my mind: his help with the broken sign and the Easter boxes; the way he held me at the cemetery and off
ered to take me away from here, anywhere I wanted to go; the way he sat at my grandfather’s table and gave him his word the club would give me no trouble.

  I huff out a laugh. They’d already given us plenty of trouble, apparently.

  I dash at my tears, pissed off at myself for wasting a single one on a man who probably killed my father. Maybe the evidence is circumstantial, but right now, all the pieces fit, and I’m no one’s idiot.

  Twenty-Seven

  Sly—

  I roll up to my mother’s small house on the edge of town, coasting most of the way so I don’t disturb her neighbors. I park the bike and cross the low porch. The screen door is all that separates me from the scene inside. The television is tuned to the nightly news, and Ma’s asleep sitting up in the corner of the couch.

  The hinges on the wooden frame creak as I enter. I shake my head; not even the hook on the door. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her to lock up. Maybe this neighborhood is relatively safe, but she shouldn’t count on it.

  Her head is tilted; a crossword book lies limp in her hand.

  I shake her shoulder gently. “Ma.”

  She wakes, takes the glasses from her face, and straightens. “Hi, baby. How was your trip?”

  “I’m too tired to tell you right now.” I sink into the couch, slump back, and rub my eyes.

  “You just get in?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “You should have gone straight home and gone to sleep.”

  I drop my hand and look over at her. “I promised you I’d fix that leak under the sink.”

  She reaches over and pats the knee of my dirty jeans. “My problems can wait.”

  “You know me better than that.”

  “I guess I do.” She smiles. “When you were a child, you never let anybody help you with nothin’—whether it was buttoning your shirt or tying your shoes.”

  Normally, I would laugh with her. I don’t and she notices.