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

by Skyla Madi

  “You’re going to make yourself sick, Nila,” Judge’s deep, amused tenor follows, complimenting his daughter’s light laugh. “Or fall on your face.”

  It makes my heart swell and pound in my chest.

  “No, I won’t,” she shoots back, her dark hair swishing around her shoulders. She stops anyway and beams at her dad, who stands behind the camera. “See?”

  Tears spring to my eyes. She’s so happy, and she looks so much like Damon. Nila turns and runs away, her pink party dress bouncing around her knees. The camera pans toward a large picnic table decorated in different shades of pink balloons and streamers. And a handful of bikers sit around the table, all wearing princess tiaras on top of their heads and pink feather boas around their necks. I smile as the camera follows Nila as she runs up to the table. One of them, who I recognize as James Creed, turns in his seat as she approaches, and she jumps into his arms to sit on his lap. They really are a family here…

  Nicolás didn’t have birthday parties. It was just me and him. If I were lucky, Elias would be out of town, so I could bake Nicolás a chocolate cake. We’d dance and sing, wrestle, and snuggle. If Elias was home, I had to pretend Nicolás’s birthday didn’t exist.

  “Another birthday down,” Judge says, but the camera stays on Creed and Nila as Armi paints cake cream on her nose and she tries to reach it with her tongue. “What’re we going to do for the next one?”

  The men laugh and poke fun, even Casino—who does nothing but scowl at me—is happy. I guess these were simpler times for the Devil’s Cartel Exeter chapter.

  A woman chuckles, her voice husky. Judge’s ex, I assume. “Think we can get the boys into tutus?”

  The camera turns on Judge as he laughs, exposing his perfect, white teeth. He’s so young, and his skin is clean. There are no tattoos up his neck or on his forearms and I wish I knew him then.

  I exit the video and am led to a folder with a million more clips. I know better than to snoop, but I want to see Judge happy. I want to see what a functional family looks like. I watch another video, and another. With every laugh from Nila and warm, loving smiles from Judge, I fall deeper into my admiration for Judge’s softer side. He’s the most beautiful father I’ve ever seen, and I know, if I’m not careful, I’ll hang all my hopes and dreams on him. I exit the video of Judge and Nila playfully arguing while covered in flour in the clubhouse kitchen, then I turn the TV off and sit in the darkness. My heart feels too big to fit in my chest and my tummy is turbulent. Quickly, I find myself romanticizing the idea of Damon and Nicolás, and it’s wrong. I shake my head, lift myself off the couch, and exit the room.

  “Lost, darling?” a deep, British voice asks, and I squeak, jumping a mile out of my skin as I whirl on my heel.

  “Oh, you scared me.” I swallow my panic with a hand over my heart as Modo, the friendly-looking biker, smooths his large hand down his copper beard, his eyes smiling along with his lips.

  I need to come up with something and fast. I don’t want word to get back to Judge and he thinks I was snooping around his room.

  “Modo, right?”

  His lips pick up at the corners and he adjusts his leather cut, all smug-like. “The one and only.”

  “I’m looking for Judge. Have you seen him?”

  He tsks, feigning sadness. “The pretty ones are never looking for me.” Then he grins and flicks his head down the hall, gesturing for me to follow him. “C’mon.”

  I follow him toward the party, where the strong smells of BBQ meat and beer emanate. I smooth my palms down my shirt and tug on the hem of my shorts, trying to pull them further down my thighs. I’m not dressed for a party, and my hair—I quickly rake my fingers through it as we step into the large area. Clashing glass, roars of laughter, and the chattering of conversation is almost deafening.

  “He was in the garage, fucking around with a bike, last I saw,” Modo shouts over his shoulder and I fight to keep my attention on his, instead of the skull printed on the back of his cut. “Are you in a hurry?”

  I shrug and he snags my wrist in his big, warm hand.

  “Have a drink with me.” A demand, not a question.

  I let Modo pull me toward the bar where a young man in a brown leather cut saunters closer, eyeing me curiously.

  “Does Prez know she’s out of her room?” he asks, drumming his tattooed fingers against the oak bar.

  I frown.

  “Mind your own business, Kace.” Modo leans over the bar. “Get me four shots of tequila.”

  Kace shifts his attention to me, purses his lips, then turns with a defeated sigh and fetches Modo his order. Tequila? He wants to go straight to tequila?

  “Am I not allowed to leave my room?” I ask Modo, watching Kace as he sets four small shot glasses in front of him and lifts a bottle of tequila.

  “You’re a grown woman. You can do whatever you want.”

  Modo excitedly drums his palms against the bar and I drop my stare to tiny specks of salt and liquid as they bounce with the vibrations.

  “Do you know—” I pause as Modo cranes his neck, moving his ear closer to my mouth. “Do you know anything about Elias? About when you’re going?”

  He smirks at me. “You’re really gonna ask me to divulge club business to you?”

  “It’s my business too.”

  I keep Modo locked in my stare until Kace brings the shots of tequila and turns around again. Without breaking eye contact, Modo pushes two shot glasses toward me.

  “We’re gonna get your boy back, Minnie,” he says. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  How could I not worry? No one tells me anything here—not even Harlei—and Judge hasn’t visited me in weeks. He told me to trust him, but I’m hanging by a thread.

  Sighing, I glance at the mini glasses. I’m not much of a drinker, but if I’m going to talk to Judge, I could use the liquid courage. I grab the shot of tequila and tip it down my throat with a quick swallow, pushing the lime and salt away. “Tell me, how’d I get the nickname Minnie?”

  Modo laughs, picks up his glass, and drinks it down. Like me, he forgoes the lime and salt. “Because of me. I thought your name was Yasminnie when I read it. The fellas found it hilarious.”

  I snicker and grab my second shot. “Yasminnie, huh?”

  He grabs his too. “Don’t you start.”

  We take our shot at the same time and bare our teeth because the second dose doesn’t feel as smooth on the palate. I shiver and push the shot glasses far away from me. I zone out while Modo talks about the politics of a foreign country I know nothing about, and I glance over my shoulder, over the heads of bikers and women milling about. I’d put Elias up there as one of the most dangerous men on the planet, and it boggles my mind that these people aren’t afraid of going up against him. I wish I had their bravery, their tenacity. It’s no secret this chapter is going to lose some of its members. Nothing was fatality free when it came to Elias Vergara. He liked his enemies to suffer. For him, the more bloodshed there is, the happier he is.

  “And that’s why Harry stepping back from his royal duties is bullshit!” Modo booms, slapping his hand against the bar, turning his body toward me. “Want another drink?”

  Shaking my head, I exhale and push away from the bar. “Sorry, Modo. I need to see Judge.”

  Modo points over his shoulder to the front doors. “Garage.”

  Smiling, I pat his shoulder and head toward the big, black front doors. Outside, the cool air clings to my bare skin, but it fails to chill my warm blood, thanks to the tequila. Twenty yards ahead, the warm lights from the garage spill onto the gravel drive. A distant clang of metal sends my heart rate through the roof. What’s he doing in there and why isn’t he at the party? My mind drifts to the video paused in his room. Did viewing them drive him out here? To be alone? I lift myself onto the tips of my toes and ease across the pointy rocks toward the garage entrance. I follow the sounds of quiet rock music deeper into the building. Scents of oil and freshly welded metal
assault my senses, lifting the hair on the back of my neck as I inhale it deep into my lungs. A fine layer of dirt and debris sticks to the soles of my feet as I brush by four neatly lined black trucks with blacked out windows. At the back of the garage, I see him, a topless Judge, hunching over a chunk of metal on a makeshift plywood counter, a spotlight swinging above his head. My throat runs dry at the sight of his broad, tattooed shoulders, and the defined shape of every muscle in his back. He swipes his hands against his jeans, drawing my attention to the black t-shirt tucked into his back pocket.

  “Can’t sleep?” he asks, and I startle, my lips parting to let out a rush of air.

  Tingly nervousness runs down my arms and I fidget with my thumbnail before I step forward with an exhale, touching my finger to the grill of the truck beside me. I don’t know why, but it grounds me, makes me feel less anxious.

  “No.” I walk closer to him, dragging my fingers along the cool, black metal.

  I approach the counter and peer over his big forearms to see what he’s working on. I don’t know what I’m looking at. A small engine, maybe. Whatever it is, it’s dirty and corroded. Judge stops what he’s doing and peers down at me. His dark, ocean eyes flicker down my face to my chest, then back to the chunk of metal in front of him.

  He points across the counter. “Pass me the wrench.”

  Thank God I know what a wrench is. I lean over the wood, feeling the warmth of Judge’s gaze sweep down my side. I grab the wrench and slap the heavy steel into his open palm.

  “You can’t sleep either?” I ask, watching as he loosens something on the rear side of the engine. “Is it because…you’re scared? Of what’s coming?”

  Judge snorts, dropping the wrench to the plywood. “Scared? Me? Not likely.”

  He turns and walks away from the counter. I turn too and watch as he steps around an engineless motorcycle and sits on a black leather backseat that’s been ripped out of a car.

  “I’ve been scared once in my life and my worst nightmare came true.” He reaches into the empty orange frame and twists something with his fingers. “Nothing left in this world to scare me.”

  He’s talking about the death of his daughter, Nila, and I understand what he’s saying on a deeper level. The fear of losing a child—your child—is the scariest thing in the world, and I’m facing it.

  “You were a good dad.”

  The words fall from my parched lips before I can stop them, and Judge pauses with his fiddling. Embarrassment warms my veins and heats my face. I didn’t want to say anything, but since watching his home videos, there’s a warm mass in my chest of admiration for him that I can’t swallow down. I want him to know I saw him with his daughter, making her laugh and smile, making her feel loved, as a child should. I want him to know I think he’s a good father in case he’s never been told, like I’ve never been told I’m a good mother.

  …perhaps I’m not.

  “Yeah?” He continues to twist something. “How do you know?”

  I open my mouth to tell him I was in his room, but I can’t bring myself to utter the words as my brain shouts that I breached Judge’s privacy. He didn’t show me the videos, so I had no business viewing them. I don’t want him to be mad at me.

  I lower my gaze to the floor. “Just a hunch.”

  I lift it again as Judge sits back with an exhale and places his hands on his thighs.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask and he groans.

  “I don’t even know anymore.” He taps the empty seat beside him, gesturing for me to sit. “I’ve been trying to repair it to surprise Kace for his birthday. Nothing’s going right.”

  I sit beside him and trap my hands between my knees. Among the smells of oil and metal, I pick up on Judge’s cologne and the gentlest hint of cigarettes. My mouth waters and my skin pebbles as the scents mix expertly together, taunting me almost.

  “That’s nice of you.”

  He gently kicks the motorcycle with the tip of his boot. “Creed thinks we should buy him a new one, but…your first bike has to be a throwaway, you know?”

  I nod, but I don’t know. I don’t know the first thing about motorbikes or club life. We stare in silence at the empty orange frame for an eternity, it feels like, when he finally speaks again.

  “Why are you here, Minnie?” he asks, turning his head. His stare heats the side of my face and I want to look at him, to see him up close for the first time in weeks, but I’m afraid what secrets his handsome face will draw out of me.

  “Just checking up on you.” I moisten my lips out of nervousness. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks. I wanted to…”

  Nothing. I can’t do anything…because I’m afraid. Afraid of men, of rejection, of failure. I’m afraid of falling into the wrong crowd—again. I’m afraid of being exposed, of creating new enemies. Of course, I can’t tell him any of this.

  “You wanted to what?”

  I shift my gaze from the bike to Judge’s hand. Dark, dry blood stains the ball joint on the side of his wrist and the skin is lifted, dirt and metal darkening the entrance to his wound. Without thought, I reach out and touch his wrist, smoothing my small fingers alongside the cut.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  He shrugs but doesn’t shake me off. “Caught my skin on the bike.”

  I glance around the garage, looking for a place to clean it. On the left wall, a small, dirty white sink stands all on its lonesome. I lift myself off the chair and tug on Judge to do the same. He doesn’t fight me as I lead him over to the sink where—thankfully—the water works. I pump the soap dispenser and collect two beads of soap. Judge isn’t impressed as I clean his hands, then rinse them under the water. Black water runs into the basin. I wash them twice before the water stays clear and I’m happy with his clean hands. I inspect the cut and, since the dirt and debris has been washed away, it doesn’t look so bad.

  “Just a scratch,” I murmur, looking around for a towel.

  When I can’t find one, I use my shirt to pat his hands dry and it feels…intimate.

  “How’d you know I was in here?” Judges asks, his tone quiet and calm.

  “Modo told me.” I continue patting his hands, my confession on the tip of my tongue. He deserves to know I invaded his privacy. I’m sure Modo will tell him anyway. “I went to your room first. You weren’t there.” Our stares lock. “You left your TV on and I saw…”

  I swallow hard. What do I say? How do I say it?

  “You watched the videos?” He searches my eyes for the answer. “Is that what you meant when you said I was a good dad? Because you saw me smiling in a couple clips?”

  His tone is suddenly venomous, and I absorb my flinch, trying not to internalize his frustration. I get it. I spied on the most precious, most memorable times of his life. I’d be annoyed with me too. I release his hands as irritation dominates his handsome face.

  “Not because you were smiling. Because you played with her and made her happy. You took care of her.” I straighten my shirt and smooth my palms over the damp wrinkles in the fabric as fire burns at the back of my neck. “And I love that.”

  I’m swept up in the flash of his deep blue irises as blush swirls in my chest and travels north. I see the weight of my words rest on him as he absorbs what I said. I mean every word. I know what a bad dad looks like. They don’t smile, aren’t compassionate, and they certainly don’t go out of their way to make their children laugh.

  “I don’t feel like a good dad,” Judge admits, glancing down at his hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like a good dad.”

  My heart stutters and I step forward, only to stop when his arresting gaze hits mine again, and I’m lost to their turbulent, vulnerable depths.

  “It’s the curse of being a parent,” I tell him. “We never feel good enough, even when we’re doing our best.”

  I let my own words sink into my bones. More often than not, I feel like the shittiest parent in the world, but I’m doing my best with what I have, with what I’ve been l
eft with.

  “And that’s what you came all this way in the middle of the night for?” He steps forward, and I tense. “To tell me you think I’m a good dad?”

  “I…” The blush in my cheeks turns to hellfire. I glance at his lips and I stop breathing as the heat spreads through my veins. Why’d I come out here? “I…well, I…”

  Judge moves forward and I suck air between my teeth, backing toward the sink until I’m flush against the partition the sink is mounted to and he’s only a hairsbreadth away. He presses his slim hips to mine and his warm breath blows across my cheek.

  “Tell me you wanted to see me,” he says, and I tilt my chin higher, bringing my mouth closer to his. “Tell me this midnight call is because I was on your mind…like you were on mine.”

  I lick my lower lip. The thought of admitting it aloud sends tendrils of dread burrowing through me, as if speaking the words gives another man control over me. In response to my silence, Judge eases his large body harder against mine and smooths his hand up the wall beside my head, craning his neck with a threat to kiss me. Instead, he moves his head toward my neck, grazing his lips against its slope. Shaky air rushes from my mouth and anticipation prickles down my spine, lifting fine hairs all over my body.

  “Tell me,” he murmurs, touching his lips to my flushed skin.

  Still, I hold the words deep in my chest. Judge continues to kiss my neck, moving north to my jaw. Every second kiss sees his tempo pick up. They become needier, more passionate, and he’s threading his fingers through my hair. My eyelids flutter shut as I’m lost to the unbearable tingles his lips send shooting over my skin. They penetrate my pores, singe my nerve endings, and I swiftly become putty in his hands.

  “I…” I purse my lips into bloodless lines. I won’t say it. “Damon…”

  He doesn’t stop. He nips at my skin until it hurts, then he kisses it better. He does it over and over until my head spins, my breathing is labored, and my knees tremble under my weight. I let my head loll to the side, giving him more flesh to kiss.