SLY: Kings of Carnage MC

by Nicole James

I watch and meet her eyes when she straightens. “How much you rake in tonight? Bet there’s a bunch of bills down that boot.”

  “Actually, I haven’t had a chance to count it all.”

  “You didn’t take it back to your locker after your act?”

  “No, I had to pee, then they told me to get out on the floor.”

  I can’t help the chuckle. I take her hand and lead her out the door.

  “Oh, wait. I have to get the outfit.” She turns and collects all the pieces. “I have to return them to Sabrina.”

  My brow lifts. “Sabrina? She lent those to you?”

  “Yes, and now I’ll have to pay to have them replaced.”

  I snatch them from her. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll square it with her later.” I walk her back to the dressing room. “Get dressed. You got jeans?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, ’cause I’m on the bike. Hurry up. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  “You’re awfully bossy.”

  “That’s ’cause tonight, in here, I am your boss. And you’re not dancing in here ever again. Now move.”

  She slams the door in my face.

  I grin. I’ll give her that one for now. I yell through the barrier. “You keep me waiting out here longer than ten minutes, Chastity, I’m gonna come in there and carry you out of here over my shoulder. Only warning you’re gonna get, babe.”

  I think I hear a faint, “Fuck off, Sly.”

  I chuckle and whisper, “Be careful what you wish for, kitten.”

  I stand with my arms folded like I’m damn security guarding the door and glance at my phone to check the time so I can keep track.

  Sabrina comes down the hall.

  I pin her with a hard stare. “You responsible for this?”

  She frowns. “For what?”

  “Michaela Mooney a.k.a Chastity a.k.a ‘Here Kitty Kitty.’”

  “Oh, crap. You know her?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “I’m sorry, Sly. She ran into us at the diner. Gave Brandy and I this sob story about how she was desperate for money to keep from losing her family’s bar. I thought I was helping. What’s the issue?”

  “The issue is I’ve been seeing her. The issue is she had no clue the MC owns this strip club. The issue is I’ve got a problem with her naked in front of all my brothers.”

  “She was hardly naked, Sly.”

  My glare tells her that was not the right answer.

  “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  “She know about us?”

  “Not from me. Hell, I didn’t know you knew the girl.”

  I peel off a couple hundreds and hold them up. “By the way, I owe you for the outfit. You won’t get it back.”

  She takes the money. “What’d you do?”

  “Parts of it are in pieces. Other parts, she’s keeping.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

  I grin. “Immensely. You teach her all those moves?”

  “I shared all my best tricks with that girl.”

  “Wow, you never do that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I tug on a lock of her hair. “Thanks, Bri. And I guess it goes without saying, you and me, that ain’t gonna happen again, just so you know.”

  “I figured as much.” She shrugs. “It was a fun night, even if it was only once. I guess I should feel honored.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because unless I miss my guess, I’m the last piece of ass other than hers you’re ever gonna have.”

  I chuckle. “Christ, you may be right about that, doll.”

  “Good night, Sly.” She opens the door just as Michaela is preparing to walk out.

  “Oh,” Michaela looks at her. “Thank you for everything, Sabrina, but apparently I’m not allowed to dance up here anymore.” She glares at me.

  Sabrina smiles and looks back at me. “Yeah, I heard.”

  Michaela’s chin lifts as she looks at me. “Oh, you did?”

  “Keep the outfit, honey, as a memento of tonight, and good luck with everything.” Bri looks pointedly at me, and then hugs Michaela.

  I grab Michaela’s hand and tug. “Let’s go.” My eyes sweep over her. She’s got the black boots on over her jeans. Yup, I’m really diggin’ those boots.

  When we walk back through the club, I avoid the table with my brothers, but Bouncer notices us and grins.

  Suddenly Michaela is pulling back hard on my hand. I turn to see her eyes wide and she’s frozen in place. “What is it, babe?”

  She doesn’t say a word, so I follow her gaze.

  Arthur Stanfield is at a table, getting a lap dance from Brandy. While she runs her fingers through his hair, his hands slide up her hips, but she pushes them away. She climbs off him and glides her hands slowly and seductively down her body. He grins. Then, Brandy holds her hand out to him, and he stands, letting her lead him back toward the VIP rooms, her long hair swishing at the top of her almost bare ass.

  I tug Michaela out of the bar and to my bike.

  “That was Arthur Stanfield,” Michaela finally finds her voice.

  I put on my helmet. “Yeah, he’s in here a lot. He’s one of Brandy’s regulars. I’ve heard some fucked up stories about him. He’s got some perverted tastes.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Yeah, he’s a dick. You ain’t figured that out yet?”

  She just stares back at Centerfolds’ entrance.

  I pull her helmet out of my saddlebag and hold it out to her. She takes it and straps it on while I throw a leg over the bike, lift it off its kickstand and fire it up. She climbs on behind me like she’s been doing it her whole life. Those badass boots bracket my hips, and I reach back and give her leg a double pat. It’s kind of become our signal. When I do it, she wraps her arms around me tight, I drop the bike in gear and hit the throttle, roaring out of the lot.

  It feels fucking good to have her back on my bike, back where she belongs.

  Too soon, I pull down the alley behind her place and she climbs from the bike. We walk up the stairs. While she keys the door, I bring up the shit we need to get out of the way.

  “I did some research. Stanfield’s got big plans for this area of town, your block in particular. Already bought up every other building on it. You’re the last hold out.”

  “What?”

  “Stanfield wants your building so he can tear the place down and build. The filings are public record. I looked ’em up. The proposed development is a multi-million-dollar venture. He’s putting in upscale shops with condos above. And that’s not all. He’s been buying up land all over town.”

  “For what?”

  “Best I can figure, he’s got big plans, a huge expansion to that country club and a lot of upscale homes. Some kind of retirement village would be my guess. Runnin’ it all through some shell company called FRG Developments.”

  “FRG? What does that stand for?”

  “I don’t know maybe Fucked Real Good. Sorry, I know it’s not funny.” She’s stunned speechless by all the information. I lean toward her. “It wasn’t the MC, babe. You’re lookin’ in the wrong direction. Stanfield planted that note. I’ll bet my life on it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he wants your bar.” I shrug. “Maybe he found out about you and me. Maybe he’s makin’ sure you don’t turn to me for help. And how is he doing that, Michaela? By makin’ me the enemy.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Who has motive? Think about it. He wanted this building, this land, and your father wouldn’t play ball. But that’s right, I’m the convicted felon with a murder rap, so I must be the one who killed your father, huh?”

  She lifts her chin, too inflexible to admit she was wrong.

  “You’re too stubborn for your own good, woman. You won’t accept anyone’s help, but you’ll go up to Centerfolds and take your clothes off for a bunch of men.”

  “I’ll
do anything to save this place! But don’t ask me to rely on someone else because I’m not fool enough to put my hopes on anyone but myself.” She jabs her thumb at her chest. “I’m the only person I can rely on. I learned that the hard way.”

  “Well that’s a shitty way to live.

  She shrugs. “If you want something you have to get it yourself. I don’t need help from anyone.”

  I shake my head, disbelieving. “The most dangerous lies are the ones you tell yourself, babe.”

  She lifts a brow. “Right back atcha, Sly.”

  I huff out a breath. “Well, Michaela, you may not like it, but to save your precious bar, you’re gonna have to learn to accept help or you’re going to lose it all. Just how stubborn are you gonna be?”

  “Look who’s calling the kettle black.”

  I shake my head, and stab a hand through my hair. I turn and stalk down the stairs and back to my bike before I say something I’ll regret, before I let the images of her dancing on that damn stage flash before my eyes, and I do something stupid like carry her to the bedroom and try to fuck some sense into her.

  Thirty

  Michaela—

  After Sly leaves, I break down in tears.

  I’m about to lose everything. Tonight was a total disaster. How could I be such a fool? I’m sure everyone in town but me must know the Kings of Carnage MC owns that stupid strip club.

  And then seeing Arthur Stanfield in there shocked me worse than seeing Sly and his brothers. The way he was with that woman, I was so wrong about him.

  He must have come straight from his country club by the way he was dressed, wearing that green golf shirt with the gold crest on the chest …

  It flashes before my eyes, and I remember the two letters scrolled in elegant script—KC, Kilpatrick Club, his damn golf country club.

  KC.

  Sly’s words come back to me, rumbling through my head. “Those are rich man’s gloves, babe, not biker gloves.”

  Oh, my God. Did Arthur truly kill my father? Da would never sell the place to be torn down, of that I’m certain. Was Da the final hold out? Was that reason enough for Arthur to commit murder? Is the man capable of going that far?

  I realize there’s only one thing for me to do. I’ve got to solve my father’s murder. I have to! Somehow.

  I’m so wound up from everything that happened tonight. I decide to change and go down to the office.

  I know if I can prove who did it, I can get the life insurance and save the bar as well as relieve my guilt and maybe even forgive myself for thinking the worst of my da.

  I search through the safe and papers in the desk, not exactly sure what I’m looking for, but something that ties my father and Stanfield. Eventually, I come across a contract. The name FRG Developments jumps out at me. I scan it. It’s a purchase offer for the bar. It’s torn in half and I can imagine my da’s anger when he did that.

  I dig around the office some more, and in the very back of the desk drawer, I find a cell phone. I frown, because it’s not my father’s cell phone. It looks like some type of disposable one. I turn it over, studying it, wondering why he’d have such a thing.

  There are four numbers written on the back with a sharpie. I frown, wondering if it’s the code. It’s dead and I have to locate a charger and wait. Finally, the screen lights up and I try the code. It works and I’m in. It immediately takes me to a text screen and displays a text that’s half written but hasn’t been sent yet.

  Stanfield’s got proof of the illegal liquor I got from you guys. Says he’s going to the state with it if I don’t sell. Look, I know I’m behind on payments but … My prized coin collection is in the safe. It’s yours if you can help me with this asshole. Oh, shit. He’s here. Call me when y—

  It stops there. I stare down at the screen, shaken. I want to search the rest of the phone but I don’t want to lose this half written text.

  I take a screen shot photo, then return to the menu. There are two outgoing calls from that last night of his life. Made to two different numbers; neither one picked up. Neither one I recognize. I wonder if they are burner phones to guys in the MC. Sly perhaps?

  I sit for a long time in the stillness of the office, wondering what to do. If I go to the police, I’m not sure they would take any of this seriously. After all, they did a slipshod investigation the first time around. Why would they be eager to reopen a case that’s already been classified a suicide? I’m not even sure this would be enough evidence for them.

  I need something more. But what and how am I going to get it?

  If I could prove that Arthur Stanfield killed my father, I’d get that insurance money.

  I rehash the things my father was trying to tell someone in that unsent text. What was that about a coin collection in the safe? I don’t remember seeing it there in all the times I’ve been in it. I frown and squat in front of it and roll through the combination.

  I pull the door open and search around. There are bags for deposit, rolled coins, and stacks of ones for the till. Some tax papers, certifications and licenses, but I find no precious coin collection. I start biting my lip. Da said it was in the safe.

  If Arthur walked in while my da was texting the MC, perhaps the safe behind him was open. Perhaps he’d even pulled it out and looked at it before starting the text.

  If Arthur saw it, perhaps he talked Da somehow into going in the car with him, then shot him, then walked back in and took the coin collection.

  If he did, he may still have it.

  If I was to find it in his possession, that would surely be evidence enough. And the text would give motive, perhaps that would be enough to reopen the investigation.

  I have to get inside his house and search the place. But how? I’m sure he’d have an alarm. My body tenses as an idea comes to me. I bet there’s one time he’ll be out of the house and with the doors unlocked. The night we had dinner, I remember him saying he puts in an hour every afternoon working on his tennis serve at the court he had built on the grounds of his home. Maybe I could get inside when he’s out there.

  Thirty-One

  Bethany—

  I pull down the tree-lined road, following Michaela’s directions. It’s beautiful with lots of long drives to expensive homes on the golf course.

  “I think you’re insane for doing this, and you’re probably going to get yourself arrested.” I glare over at her, wondering why I agreed to this idiocy.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  “No! If this goes bad, there’s no sense in you getting in trouble too.”

  “If this goes bad, you won’t have any help.”

  “Stop here,” she orders. “His driveway should be just over that hill somewhere.” When I park, she hops out.

  “Michaela, please,” I plead, hitting the button to roll down the passenger side window.

  She leans in. “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re not back in thirty minutes, I’m calling the cops,” I threaten.

  She nods and jogs off, like she’s just out for a run.

  I tap the steering wheel with my finger. I’m jumpy as hell as I check my mirrors. There’s no one in sight. Cars don’t park out on the street in neighborhoods like this and I wonder if I look suspicious.

  Goddamn you, Michaela!

  If only I could get her to listen to me, but once she’s got her mind set, she’s stubborn as hell. I bet that biker friend of hers could stop her from this madness; unfortunately, I don’t have his number. I tap my finger some more and an idea comes to me. I know someone who might be able to get in touch with him.

  I do a quick search on my phone and call the diner, then ask to speak to the waitress named Savannah.

  A hissy older woman, who sounds put out, snaps, “Just a minute.”

  Finally, I hear the phone clatter as it’s picked up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Savannah?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Bethany. You don’t kno
w me, but are you the waitress involved with one of those bikers? The Kings of Carnage?”

  “Who are you? Why are you asking?”

  “My friend is seeing a guy named Sly. She’s about to do something really stupid, and I think he may be the only one who can stop her. I need to get a message to him. I thought maybe you could help me. Am I wrong?”

  “Um, well, I might be able to get a message through. What’s your number? Maybe I can have him call you.”

  I give her my number. “Just tell him, Michaela is up on Cotton Road, and she’s about to do something that’s going to put her in danger. I hope he’ll understand, and I hope he’ll care.”

  “Cotton Road. Got it. I’ll do what I can, Bethany.”

  “Thank you, Savannah.” I hang up and wait.

  Sly—

  Just as Bash leans over the green felt with a pool cue in hand, preparing to make a shot, he looks over and asks, “Come to think of it, where’d you disappear to last night?”

  I wait until he pulls back his cue, and say, “Ask your old lady.”

  He skews his shot and scratches, then straightens and glares at my grinning face. “Now, see, why you gotta be a dick?”

  I chuckle and his phone goes off. He pulls it out.

  “Hey, angel. How’s my girl?”

  I take my shot and sink the cue ball. Fucking hell.

  North sits on a barstool, watching. He chuckles. “Karma’s a bitch. But then you’re game’s been in the toilet all day. What the fuck’s the matter with you? Thought you got your dick wet last night.”

  I cut my eyes to him. “Shut up, asshole.”

  He makes a kissy face at me.

  Bash taps my arm, his ear still to the phone. “Write this number down.”

  I frown at him. The fuck? Like I’ve got a pen. I huff and pull my cell out and type the number in as he reels it off.

  “Cotton Road. Got it. Thanks, babe.” He ends the call and slides the phone in his pocket, then looks at me. “Your girl might be in trouble. Some chick named Bethany called the diner and asked for Savannah. Wanted to know if she could get a message through to you. Says Michaela is up on Cotton Road and she’s about to get herself in some trouble.”