Burning Daylight (A Devil's Cartel MC Series Book 2)

by Skyla Madi

  “She doesn’t want you, Damon.”

  I smiled. “Is that what she told you?”

  “Yeah, that’s what she told me.” He pushed off the porch railing and sauntered closer. “Then she showed me how much she doesn’t want you. All night, all morning, and well into lunch.”

  I tipped my head. Riling him up was too much fun. “She must be a good liar.”

  He gripped my chair’s armrest and leaned in. His dark, whiskey eyes weren’t glistening and there wasn’t a drop of humor to be seen. He wanted to beat the living shit out of me.

  “When you get a woman, I’ll be right there,” he warned. “Breathing down her neck.”

  Creed’s threat fell on deaf ears. I didn’t want my own woman. I’d already been there and done that, and it ruined my goddamn life. “I’m shaking.”

  “I’m going to Vegas and I’m gonna enjoy my weekend, fucking Isabelle all over the city, while you sit here, all by yourself, playing with your limp dick.”

  I simpered. Lucky bastard.

  “Damon!” Yasmine snapped, pulling our attention. She stormed toward us, her thin arms swinging at her sides and Wrench hot on her tail. “I’m done!”

  “What now?” I shouted as Creed released my seat and straightened.

  Modo choked on another snore and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. “What the—what’s happening?”

  Yasmine stopped in front of the porch as I lifted myself out of my chair and walked over to the railing. I leaned on the wood and peered down at her.

  “You’re not done. You’ve still got four bikes, mine included. You’re not leaving here until every one of them is scratch free.”

  She stood on an awkward angle and pointed back at Wrench, the fucking idiot. “I can’t do it with him. He keeps touching me and breathing all over me—”

  “So?” Creed says dryly, as he came to stand beside me. “He’s helping you. Give him some.”

  My cheek twitched again, and Yasmine pinned him with her dark, sexy eyes. “I’m not talking to you, asshole.”

  “Oop.” Modo roared with laughter behind us and my lips kicked up at the corners as amusement swirled through me.

  Creed arched an eyebrow and cut his eyes at me. Most women turned to jelly in Creed’s presence. He could make a female do whatever he wanted without uttering a word. I’d seen it with my own eyes. Maybe he was losing his charm. In his defense, Yasmine wasn’t an ordinary woman. She had fire in her eyes and fuel in her soul and I was certain there wasn’t a feeble bone in her body. Even if she gave Creed a shot, he couldn’t handle her. He loved being a woman’s knight in shining armor, the hero who opened jars and reached items too high in the kitchen. I’d never been attracted to women like that. I liked women who’d break the jar long before they’d ask for my help. Yasmine was that kind of woman and I wanted her to prove it to me. I wanted her to prove she already tried her hardest to get her son back and I really was her last resort.

  “You don’t need me to fight your battles for you.” I straightened and she pouted her lips, reminding me of the way she kissed me last night. She wanted it. She was hungry for it. If I hadn’t found that little baggie of cocaine, would it have gone further? Would we have done more in my bed than argue and sleep? “You’ve got four more bikes to do. You can leave when they’re done, and only when they’re done.”

  Yasmine clenched her fists at her sides and seethed. I recalled the night I first met her, by the lake. I was the one she wanted. She was awed by me. Her eyes held all the hope in the world, as if she believed her son was finally within arm’s reach. Now, she detested me. As she glared up at me, there was no awe in her features. No respect. Not even fear.

  “You’re pathetic, you know that?” She spat it in Spanish, and I translated without fault. My ex spoke Spanish and I spent the first few years of Nila’s life taking nighttime Spanish communication classes. “I hope you rot in hell.”

  Minnie whirled on her heel and stormed back to the garage. I turned my attention to Wrench and stared at him. I expected an apology, a vow to leave her the fuck alone, since she verbally detested even the feel of his breath on her gently tanned skin. Instead, he shrugged his fat shoulders and turned away, trudging all the way back to Yasmine where he stood way too close. She looked at me, and if looks could kill…

  “I like her,” Modo said, leaning back in his chair. “She’s fun.”

  Creed, Modo, and I continued to watch Wrench and Yasmine. He violated her personal space more times than I could count, and she took it all with a dipped head and gritted teeth until she couldn’t take another unsolicited touch. Wrench brushed his palm by her breast, smirking like the pervert he was, and Yasmine snapped. She chopped him in the throat and punched him in his bulbous stomach with enough force to make him hunch and clench his torso.

  “Jesus,” Creed uttered, folding his arms across his chest.

  But Minnie wasn’t done. She bent and grabbed the bucket of dirty, soapy water by her feet. She lifted it, spilling it down her white shirt as she went, then slammed it over his head, dousing him completely. Holy shit. I fought a wicked smile as something ignited in my veins. An excitement I hadn’t felt in the longest time coiled through my body and burrowed through my bones. Modo’s right. She’s fun.

  Trouble too. I didn’t have time for trouble.

  Yasmine adjusted her ponytail as she stormed from the garage and barreled up the drive.

  “Hey!” Creed shouted.

  He shot forward and hooked his leg over the porch, ready to jump it. I hit the back of my hand against his chest as she flipped him off and kept on going.

  “Let her go.”

  “Let her go?” Creed frowned at me. “Why the hell are we letting her go?”

  I turned and strolled across the porch. Irritation and disappointment danced around my ribcage as I bounded down the stairs and closed the distance between me and the garage. My men weren’t the best. They’d all done things in their lives that put them on God’s naughty list, but none of them had touched a child, purposely murdered an innocent, or raped a woman. When I took over, those sick fuckers were the first to go. I had no tolerance for it. We didn’t traffic human beings, we didn’t play with blood diamonds, we didn’t sell drugs to kids. With my bare hands, I lifted this chapter out of the dirt, out of the dregs, and I gave my men something to be proud of.

  Wrench ripped the bucket from his head and tossed it away as the soles of my heavy boots hit the concrete garage floor.

  “Fucking whore,” he grumbled, pushing his knuckle-less fingers through his long, soaking hair.

  He froze as he righted his head and saw Creed, Modo, and I standing there, staring.

  “What’d you do, Wrench?” Creed asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his cut.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Modo stepped forward. “We saw you do a whole lot more than nothing.”

  I screwed up my face. “You didn’t see shit. You were sleeping.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Still…”

  “Oh, big-fucking-deal,” Wrench spat. He shrugged out of his cut and dropped it to the floor. Then he wiped his hands down the front of his shirt. “Bitch was up her own ass anyway.”

  I sauntered forward and circled Wrench while Creed went out onto the drive. I dragged my gaze all over him, then all over the garage. He’d been in here with her for hours. The scratches weren’t deep, and he was repairing whole panels on some bikes instead of buffing them out. There was no reason to do that unless he was trying to keep her in here longer than she needed to be.

  I use it to buy myself more time in a day. I can’t save him while I’m sleeping, her words echoed in my mind and guilt wormed its way through my organs. I stopped in front of Wrench and watched him. He wrinkled his nose and blew air from his lips, apparently nervous. Yasmine was trying to get her son back and here this asshole was, burning up all her daylight, and for no good reason.

  “She’s gone,” Creed sighed, planting his
hands on his hips. “What about the bikes, Judge?”

  I clenched my jaw and jolted forward. I slammed my fist into Wrench’s stomach, right where Yasmine got him, and forced the air from his lungs. He gasped and wheezed, this time collapsing to the floor.

  “Wrench’ll fix them.” I crouched by his head and brushed hair out of his reddening face with my index finger. He squeezed his green eyes shut and focused on getting his lungs to work the way they should. “Won’t you, Wrench?”

  “Yeah, Prez,” he gasped, curling into the fetal position. “I’ll fix ’em.”

  FIVE

  Y A S M I N E

  I turn my key in the keyhole of my motel room door, a room generously—and unknowingly—paid for by a Charlotte Waller. Guilt twists through me and tightens around my ribcage. This is what my life has been reduced to. Cheap motel rooms, credit card fraud, and associating with criminal bikers. When will it end? I’ve become the thing I hate most in the world. Lawless.

  I jimmy the key in the lock and push down on the handle. With a satisfying click the door unlocks, and I tilt my head back, lifting my chin in thanks to a God I don’t believe in. I step inside the tiny, self-contained room and close the door behind me. In the quiet, my mind turns toward thoughts of a hot shower, so I can wash away the dirt and sweat I accumulated on my three-hour trek from the Devil’s Cartel clubhouse.

  Then it hits me…

  …the smell of old eggs.

  I sniff and wrinkle my nose as I inhale the sulphur scent deep in my lungs and hold it. My eyes go wide. He’s found me. I whirl on my heel and grab the door handle. As my fingers connect with the metal, a hand clamps around the back of my neck and I shriek as I’m yanked backward. In my stumble, I drop my keys and trip over my own feet.

  “Elias isn’t happy with you, Camilla.”

  I gasp at the use of my fake name. Jorge. I know that husky smoker’s voice from anywhere. He was my babysitter for the duration of my miserable time living with my ex-husband. Jorge moves his gigantic hand from my neck to my hair and grips it tight. I hiss and clench his wrist as he drags me back, my ass inches from the dirty floor, toward the kitchenette.

  “Let me go!” I shout, and I’m lifted by my hair, my sore feet no longer sliding along the floor, and I grit my teeth against the unbearable pain of my scalp holding my bodyweight. “Shit.”

  I’m slammed into a wooden chair hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I grip the flimsy armrests and hang my head, taking shallow breaths to give my lungs time to recover. Jorge crouches in front of me and pushes my hair out of my face, forcing my head up. Our eyes lock—brown to ice blue—and he smirks. His lips pull at the corner, stretching the deep scar that runs vertically through them. I swallow hard. I doubt he’s forgotten I gave him that scar… I attacked him with a playdough knife the night he and Elias came for Nicolás. It’s healed atrociously, but at least it matches the one running down the middle of his bald scalp.

  “What do you want?” I ask, sniffling as tears well in my eyes. “What more could he possibly want?”

  Jorge leaned in close and surveyed my tears.

  “You’re crying?” He thins his eyes. “You disappoint me.”

  I straighten my spine and my fake tears dissolve. “You disappoint me. How can you still work for him, Jorge? After everything he’s done to Nicolás?”

  Jorge was Elias’s right hand man—a brute that could fell impossibly large groups of men in no time at all. At one point in time, Jorge was my only friend. He became my brother, always looking out for me when Elias was gone, always playing with Nicolás, and keeping him busy while Elias and I fought like cats and dogs. I thought I could trust him. I thought he’d help us escape…but he was only loyal to Elias. And he betrayed me.

  “I owe my life to Elias.”

  I sneered. “Then you’ll die with him too.”

  Jorge grinned and stood. I watched as he rolled the sleeves of his black button up shirt to his elbows.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says, then cracks his knuckles.

  “You haven’t missed me.”

  I lift myself out of my seat and roll my shoulders. I don’t have it in me to fight him, but what choice do I have? My heart pounds and I peer at the front door.

  “He only sent one of you?”

  “One today.” He squares up. “If I don’t get it done, he’ll send two tomorrow.”

  Nausea rolls through me, a result of breathing in the gas Jorge filled my room with.

  “Something to look forward to, then.” I grit my teeth and launch forward. I slam my fists into Jorge’s fat stomach, then swing for his head. Grunting, he catches my wrist and punches me in the side. I shout as my organs ripple and my legs give out from under me. I drop to my knees, clenching my side. Jorge extends his hand and I stare at his gigantic palm.

  “I’m exhausted,” I tell him. “I can’t fight you.”

  “Yes, you can. You will.”

  I close my eyes. “I won’t.”

  “You’re not a victim, Yasmine.” He bends and takes my hand. I hiss as he forces me to my feet. “I once saw you jump a dining table and drive a steak knife through Elias’s chest. You want to see your son again? Fucking prove it…or die trying.”

  I blow air from my lips. He’s right. I didn’t end up on Elias’s yacht by accident. I chose to be there—worked my ass off to be there. It went further than I ever expected it to go, but I made my own choices.

  Jorge swings his fist and I duck it, planting three swift punches to his ribs. He grunts and hunches, tucking his elbows in to protect his torso. I shift my assault to his head and connect with his jaw. Pain flares in my wrist, but I ignore it and hit him again. The force of my punch throws his head to the side. Growling, Jorge barrels forward and grabs me around the waist. His gigantic, wide-set body hits mine like a freight train and I’m lifted off my feet. I grab onto him and brace for impact as he dives into the kitchen and slams me into the cupboard. I hit it hard and the cheap plywood cracks and splinters. Pain slices across my scalp and zips down my spine. My brain rolls in my skull as space dances in front of my eyes, pretty stars obscuring my view. Jorge rears back, keeping his hands on my hips, and drives forward, thrusting his shoulder into my torso repeatedly. Each hit feels like it fractures my spine, each hit drops me lower and lower until I’m sitting on the floor, my palms exposed. Jorge towers above me, his fists clenched at his side, his nostrils flaring. I’m no match for him. I never have been, even when he was teaching me how to fight in secret at Elias’s villa in Greece.

  “I can’t…” I pant, wincing when the muscles around my spine spasm. “I can’t fight you.”

  He licks his bloody lower lip and steps forward. “Get up.”

  I shake my head. “Promise me you’ll look after him. Promise—”

  He snatches my hair and punches me in the mouth. Reality falters, blood fills my mouth, and I swallow it, tasting my life. My shitty life.

  “Promise me, Jorge,” I gurgle, unable to see his expression through the blur.

  “Elias is going to kill him.” Jorge rears back and hits me again. I think I lose a tooth and swallow it, like a pill, with a mouthful of blood. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  He releases my hair with a shove, and I tip over, my cheek hitting the dirty linoleum floor. I close my eyes. When they flutter open, all I hear is the sound of my heart beating in my ears. It plays like an anthem, demanding I get up and fight for my son.

  Jorge paces back and forth right outside the kitchen, slow, calculating steps, as he draws his cellphone to his ear and speaks into it. I roll onto my front and crawl toward the bottom kitchen drawer, barely able to pull my weight along on my shaking arms. Every inch I move feels like the drawer moves further away, a trick composed by my shattered equilibrium. Blood rolls freely from my lips and I choke on a sob, then collapse, squeezing my eyes closed.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” Jorge asks, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Yes. She is.”

  Jorge�
��s shoes tap the floor and the linoleum dips by my face. I hear Elias’s deep, smooth voice before I register the feel of a warm phone screen on my face.

  “I told you, Sweetheart, didn’t I? I told you what would happen.”

  Hot tears burn out the corner of my eye. “I hate you.”

  “You hate me?” I hear his smile in his tone. “It was you who infiltrated my life and fucked everything up.” He pauses to drag on a cigarette and it’s like I can smell it through the phone, the rich, European tobacco. “I gave you everything you wanted. I laid the world at your feet, made you a queen, and what’d I get in return?”

  I don’t answer.

  “I got lies, betrayal, and a monster child only you could love.”

  My lower lip trembles. Just when I think my heart is as broken as it can possibly be, he shatters it a little more.

  “You may hate me, Camilla, but you ruined my life.” He takes another drag. “I was content knowing you were alive and suffering without Nicolás, but then I hear you’re conspiring with the Devil’s Cartel—”

  “They won’t help me,” I rasp. “They refused.”

  He laughs. “Lies fall from your lips so easily, don’t they?”

  “I’m not—”

  “This will be the last time we speak. I’d tell you to rest in peace but that’s the last thing I want for you. I hope you rot in hell, you cunt!”

  I wince and flinch away from the phone, dropping my head to the floor. Jorge turns away, returning to his phone call with Elias. He begins to wrap it up, agreeing to whatever Elias wants just to get off the phone. Thick pumps of adrenaline and stubbornness fills me. This isn’t how I die. I lift my head and continue army crawling to the bottom drawer where I stashed a handgun months ago. Hope ignites in my veins when I make it across the small kitchen and quietly open the drawer. Like I expected, my little black handgun sits amongst washed take-out containers. I reach inside and grab it without disturbing the stacking order and alerting Jorge.