“Nup,” I hiss, striding through to the cabaret and the crowd, as I grab the bullwhip from Deacon’s hand.
Juliet is full, not packed, but people always come out before the holidays to get their fill of relaxation before the stress. The few days after holidays are always busy, too.
Jack is sitting in the middle of the room. I turn and feign a chipper—chummy—smile as a look of concern perks on his face. I plop her ass on the stage like a damn rag doll as everyone grows silent. Placing my left hand on the stage, I jump the several feet up.
“Lucas, what are you doing?” Emily cries. “You can’t do this.”
I strip off my shirt and throw it near her hip. Pulling one of the spinning racks forward, I lock the wheels to stay in place. She snivels like her blanket fell in the mud.
Poor, poor Baby Emlee.
I draw back and crack the whip without hesitation. The whoosh and pop sound echoes throughout the room amidst the gasps. I throw it again, this time hitting my shirt. Emily jumps. I place the handle in between my lips cause I’m damned angry and leather is always nice to grind my sharp teeth against.
“We were just playing around,” she excuses as I place her on the stand and lock her wrists up tight. Her eyes expand to the size of saucers. “We were playing.”
“And so are we.” I wickedly grin.
With the whip in my left hand, I proceed to give the performance of a lifetime. Throwing lash after lash, I slide across the stage with the grace of ballerina and the magic of trapeze artist. I am infinite and light, bouncing and striking with thrashes and gentle slides.
I pray someone records this shit.
I spin and toss another, getting even closer to her. Mascara tears are lining over her face, and while that might typically be a turn-on, it is not. She is ugly to me. An ugly wannabe who doesn’t know the first thing about sitting down, shutting up, and listening.
I am aggressively hostile.
Relentlessly, I continue batting the floor with all that I have until my muscles drip with sweat—over hard guns and the scar and ink of my one true queen. I breathe heavy and deep as each inhale spurs on my kindling and every exhale becomes a veil of my wrath.
Backing up, I dash and drop to my knees, sliding across the floor—because the true Dominant should always kneel before the submissive before commencing. The respectful act shows the fluidity of servitude and the trust of providing to one another—it is balance.
And she and I have none.
She glances down and sobs as I gracefully roll up and extend my arms wide. “Please…don’t do this…”
“You want a Dom…”
“I do, Sir,” Deacon answers on his knees behind me.
Okay, I didn’t expect that.
“You’re right,” I say, unclipping her cuffs, and having not laid one hand, one stroke, one ounce of physical pain to her being. I can’t promise there isn’t some psych trauma. But she started this; I just finished it. “You don’t deserve me; I’m too fucking good for you.”
“I just wanted to know…”
“No, you wanted to push,” I correct, lifting a single finger. “I told you no. And maybe you haven’t heard this but no means no—in every regard. This is not something I do anymore.”
“But it’s a part of you Luke.”
“Not a part you will ever know.”
She uncontrollably sobs, still persisting, “… Why?”
I gaze to the crowd and Deacon. “Don’t you understand—if I hit you, I am going to hurt you—and this was never about hurting you. You still just don’t get it. You think this a joke, a game, a play—but to me, this is the air I breathe. This is the blood in my veins. This is in my very soul. This is who I am. But I am no longer accepting any new submissive.”
I pace over to Deacon. “Up.”
“Yes, Master Nero.”
I hear Emily crying as we walk away.
I am trained for this.
But fuck if it ain’t hard some days.
63
Same As I Always Was
Sunday morning, we’re at some new little restaurant, Lamb’s House, in one of the old restored houses on Main Street. The weather is good and the boys are on the prowl as we sit outside enjoying our breakfast.
Water glasses hold condensation shining in the sunlight like iridescent baubles. Carafes of coffee and half-eaten plates of French toast, pancakes, eggs, bacon, and biscuits sit on plates, which Nico is slowly devouring. He already ate all of his. There are four boxes of smokes and two lighters on the table.
In a loose blue suit and white dress shirt, Dom appears as the put together one of our group. He seems relatively content for a man going through a divorce. Not surprisingly, Ashley is being a real bitch. He didn’t bother to tell me in Boston because he knew I would worry.
Nico is in a green plaid shirt with super tight brown jeans. He’s pawing at Deacon’s biscuit and dipping it in the remaining syrup on my plate. “If you touch my piece of bacon,” I warn, dropping my sunglasses. “I may break your fingers.”
“Can I eat your Frenchie?”
“Yes,” I reply, lighting a smoke. He isn’t right in the head. Maybe none of us are. Though with Nico, he almost acts like a cycle exists. Sort of like a menstrual cycle, but a serial killer version.
“I need some fucking fruit.”
“If we ever see our waitress again,” Dom grumbles, detesting bad service. Now, I understand no one enjoys poor service, but it is morally reprehensible to Dom.
I sit, studying Nico and wondering if there is some prescription to cure him. Or at least calm him. I know, I’m the last person who should be suggesting a medical cure. I’m the guy with the half-full vial of blow in my jeans sitting next to the police chief. Dom wasn’t wrong about the uppers in Boston, but Deacon was about the coke in the river. I was quite sober and feeling all of the terror. And that may be why I went home and worked myself into a tizzy.
I just can’t stay clean.
Nico eats and maims.
I work to exhaustion until my brain feels like it is oozing out of my skull. The drugs help when the sex can’t. I’m better in Texas than I am in Boston. Not perfect, but better. Last night was hard.
Cruz is wearing my Downbelow hoodie with no cut and jeans that fit his fine ass. It’s a different look for Deacon, not having his cut on, but I like the new boyishness of him. He was an MC club kid and never knew anything but that life. If nothing else, he is expanding his horizons and I’m proud of him for being so brave.
I’ve got my standard issue blue Henley and jeans with flip-flops because I wasn’t chasing anyone down today. I even turned my phone off. “Excuse me,” I say to the girl in the apron. She has her back to me. “May we get a plate of fruit, please?”
“Hi!” she eagerly says. “I’m sorry about the delay. We were shift changing. Oh, my gosh…”
Recognizing the girl, I mutter, “I know you.”
“Yeah, you do,” she flirts, batting her lashes.
“What are you doing here?”
“June suggested I apply to Juliet,” she smiles, suggestively. “And I was accepted. Thank you.”
“Anytime, Skeeter.”
“I’ll…go get…that plate…of fruit.”
She walks off, and I grab my water glass, leaning back and pulling my foot up into the chair, as my table mates…or should I say…savage, horny motherfuckers all watch her ass disappear into the restaurant.
“Who the fuck was that?” Nico asked. “And did you just call her Skeeter?”
Crunching on an ice cube, I say, “She bites.”
Dom gives a knowing look to me. “So, how are her topping skills?”
“She has potential.”
“Her name is Skeeter,” Nico repeats. “What is her real name—Mosquito?”
I grin. “Hannah Beth Nelson.”
“Why the fuck do they call her Skeeter, Sal?” Nico is relentless as he finishes Deacon’s biscuit. “Does she skeet shoot, breed mosquitoes, or what?”
“Roller derby.” I weave side to side in my chair. “She did it when she was young and the name stuck.” They’re all staring at me, though my answer seems to pacify the inquisitive Nico for half a second. Deacon is giving me the—I-know-you-stuck -your-dick-in-that glare. Dom is curious about the D/s factor.
But leave it to Nico to blurt out, “So did you fuck her?”
“No.”
Deacon furrows his brow in a tight line. “You didn’t bang that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?” he asks like the thought of me keeping my dick in my pants is unimaginable. “She’s hot.”
I toss my glasses up on my head. “Which is it with you guys?If I’m being a manwhore, you bust my balls. If I’m not, you bust my balls. And frankly, I’m kind of tired of the judgement. Dom is hanging out in Boudreaux’s mansion so he can bend a former victim over his knee.”
“Wasn’t she the mute little girl they found years ago?”
“Shut up,” Dom says.
“Nico is sitting around Juliet staring at all the fresh, rare meat. And you’re having a relationship with Allison.” I stop just short of bursting his bubble. “So what difference does it make if I’m fucking Emily and thinking about Iris?”
Nico peers up. “… Are you really doing that?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you need to get laid.”
I lean my head back and my shades hit the ground. Skeeter returns with the fruit and bends down—and yeah, she has an incredible rack with the perfect dip to fit my….—and hands them to me. “Thanks, darlin.”
“You’re welcome, babe,” she says, clearing the empty plates and handing the eager Nico his fruit.
Before she takes my plate, Nico swipes my bacon.
“I saw that, motherfucker.”
Moments unfold almost like a (bitter) sweet romance novel.
I decide to put away the laptop and spend some time with my family. It’s a strange place for a workaholic, but what I realized is I have a double team (twenty-four) very qualified men and women trying to locate Jaid. And no matter what I do, I’m not going to bring her home any faster.
Georgia and Jas volunteered to stay in Nebraska with Kevyn Abo. I recruited Aimee Eldemann and Rachel Jackson to help. Rachel was a super sleuth PI, and her girlfriend, Dana Archer, who is Dale’s sister, went up, too. Jeremy “Mock” Miller, Barnaby “Naby” Shanks, Dale and Baby Mae.
Randy is in Sugargrove, spending the holiday with his son, Joe, and his wife, Natalie. Despite my urging Zoe to come home, she maintained needing to stay on site in Washington to keep whittling away at the pieces, so I sent Ainsley to be with her because no one should be alone on Thanksgiving.
I’ve talked to Cat almost every day. She misses me, but she is making her way through plenty of fresh rods to roll on. My sister loves to her some rod. And I can’t say as though I blame her.
Emily and I are…trying.
She is in love with the idea of being a mafia wife, but I am more of a handful than what she expected. She loves the image and memory of the Sal she once knew, not necessary my current behavior or attitude. We’re still engaged. We’re still getting married. And I’m still making deposits in a womb I don’t want to inhabit.
But as strange as it is, I also still love the girl.
And I’ve just pulled out of her when she says, “I’m really sorry for pushing you.”
“I’m sorry for being a dick.”
“I deserved it, Lucas,” she says, kissing my lips. “I just want to get to know you and Juliet is a huge part of you.”
“We can try,” I reluctantly concede, trying to find a happy medium between nothing and all that I am. There is a valid chance that she may very well end up being Mrs. Sal Raniero and I need to accept that.
Iris may forever be nothing more than a mirage.
And my dreams for our future held tight behind the glass of a snow globe.
“I love you,” she whispers, pulling closer.
My fingers run over her cheek. “I love you, Emily.”
With the disappearance, I feel like I need to be around for my former Mistress and Jaid’s mother, Serene. She finds humor in my charms and it is that very reason I am now out grocery shopping with Trudy and Serene. It’s not a bad MIHF-sandwich and they both adore me.
We take my truck and go into Austin because Serene likes a particular market there. I park far away from the store because my truck is big and I hate getting my doors dinged.
On the other hand, I’m fairly certain Trudy could make a splendid dinner out of the purchases from a convenience store. And that is the clear difference between them. Serene was raised with money; Trudy knew the struggle and how to get a good deal. They were both fantastic shoppers, but their approach contrasted greatly, which is why we ended up buying more in bulk than we needed. Serene would need a singular item and Trudy would buy the four-pack. She did this with everything.
And me, being the guy I am, pick up the tab.
We’re almost giddy when we leave, knowing we beat the rush of Wednesday. I load the haul of two full carts with the perishables/breakables into the cab and toss everything else in the back. Serene is in the backseat on the phone with Kade’s nanny, Rosalina. And Trudy is handing me the bags when I get the sour feeling in my gut like someone is watching us.
Standing up on the tailgate, I stop just in time to see an old brown car slowly cruising by one aisle over. “You’re taking too long there, Nero.”
I don’t respond as I watch them reach the end of the lane and turn to come down ours. “Get in the cab, now.”
She panics, “What’s wrong?”
“Do it, dammit!”
They ease up behind my truck and roll down the window. I’m not certain they aren’t about to pull a gun on me, so I crouch down on the tailgate and light a smoke. They’re young—just kids. Let me clarify, because I know I’m young, but they’re younger than me. “What can I help you boys with?”
“Neves wants to talk to you.”
I exhale a cloud of nicotine over their car. “That’s funny cause I’ve been wanting to talk to him.”
“Meet him. Tonight. At the Old Fairgrounds near Godland.” I take mental snapshots of their faces and the car. “And come alone.”
I give a snarl. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Neves figured you would say that. He said to tell you the flower is on the line.”
Instantly, my jaw tenses and I briefly glance down. “What time?”
“Eleven.”
“Deal.”
The driver floors it and they’re gone. “Who the hell was that?”
“The Devil’s Messenger.”
“Are you okay?” Trudy moves to the tailgate. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just a haunting reminder of what is on the line.”
At ten o’clock, I kiss Emily goodbye. She thinks Deacon and I are going to a late movie in Austin. The little lies we tell to chisel our souls until they disintegrate into nothingness.
“You ready?” Deacon asks as I get in his truck.
“You do realize if I take you with me…”
“Diaz was my step-dad. Delirium had a deal on the table with Lotus when Amber went nuts.”
I don’t bother to say—Lotus didn’t want the deal and Amber executed a hit on behalf of the golden empire. Because I don’t always share well, and this is one time when staying silent may be the key to unraveling the nest…er, web. Either way, it’s a mess of fine-spun threads.
“I need to talk to him,” he insists as we drive south.
Godland is about half-way between Little Bee and La Chiesa. It’s another abandoned town in Texas with a population of less than five hundred. The only reason I knew where “the old fairgrounds” were is because in some respects, I’m old. I’ve been hanging out in a small town for nine years and I remember going to those fairgrounds with Kaci. I can stop talking and she can stop speaking, but I can’t
change the memories permanently branded into my being.
“You can’t put a Delirium deal back on the table,” I point out.
“No, I can slip a Reckless Rebellion deal under the door.”
Down a dark, two-lane highway, all I can see is the glow of our headlights. If he turned them off, it would be no different from being capsized in the creek. “Deacon…”
“What?”
“Neves is gagging on Immortal’s balls and if you get involved in that, you will never get out.”
“I guess, I better learn to swallow.”
For the life of me, I have no idea why in the hell Deacon would bend over to take it up the ass from Neves. “Why would you do that?”
“Because if Neves gets some of his members back, it takes the heat off Lotus, and therefore you.”
“You’re offering to be the fucking sacrificial virgin,” I yell, turning my hat around and lighting a smoke. “They will gang rape every orifice of your club and leave your dead, bleeding body out in the sun.”
“And I would do it all for you,” he insists, taking the cigarette from my left hand. “Because let me explain one thing to you. While you are up hobnobbing with the top tier of Lotus, Cristos, and even The Commission, what you fail to realize is, Immortal is dynamically closer to an MC club than your suits.”
I blink. “Is that what this comes down to—cuts versus suits?”
“I’m saying I am better equipped,” he hisses, grabbing his junk. “To handle Cinco, Neves, and Immortal than you. And you can sit back, let me do it, and thank me later. Or I can watch them scalp you and kill them later.”
“This is a pointless debate…”
“No,” he fires off. “It isn’t. You just don’t want to accept the class divisions in top tier. There are those who play dirty in leather gloves and those who don’t give a shit if guts get under their fingernails. And my club is big enough to entertain Neves until you can merge The Unholy with Lotus.”
Cracking my knuckles, I laugh. “Big assumption there, Saint…”
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