by Joanna Wylde
Yeah, killing Teeny would feel damned good. Just needed to make sure Becca was protected, both from him and herself. If anyone went down for this hit, it wouldn’t be my girl.
Nope. I’d make damned sure of that.
BECCA
We reached Santa Valeria around three in the afternoon. Puck had been quiet for most of the day, his mood almost grim. Made sense to me—I’d never planned out a murder before, but it probably wasn’t something to take lightly, all things considered.
It’d seemed so simple up in Idaho. We’d drive down here, find Teeny, and shoot him. Now that we were here, though? All sorts of logistical questions kept bubbling through my brain.
“How are we going to do this?” I asked Puck as we pulled into a gas station. The building hadn’t been here five years ago, that much I remembered. Just that one change was enough to throw me off, and I realized how much I didn’t know about my hometown, mom, or Teeny these days.
“Don’t know yet,” he replied, reaching for his wallet. I still had my pathetic fourteen bucks and change in my purse. I’d tried to give it to Puck for expenses but he wouldn’t take it.
“I’ll go take a look around this afternoon, after I get you settled at a hotel. We’ll make plans after that.”
He stepped out of the truck, walking toward the station to prepay, since we’d been using cash for everything. In fact, Puck had been incredibly careful about leaving any traces along the way, to the point of confiscating my cell phone and giving me a burner with only one phone number in it—the disposable cell he now carried. The morning we left the Armory, he’d even handed me a fake driver’s license. I assumed he had one, too. He’d also put new plates on his vehicle and when I’d asked him about it, he stared me down silently.
Deciding I wanted to hit the bathroom, I opened my door and stepped out. Looking across to the second set of pumps, my breath caught.
No. No.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I must be losing my mind because that was my mother standing there, gassing up a battered Camaro.
No. No way. This couldn’t be happening, could it? I started toward her, wondering if this was another dream. I’d had a couple of them—dreams where Regina told me none of it was real. Mom was fine and she’d left Teeny and we’d all live happily ever after together.
Then I’d wake up and it hurt like I’d just lost her all over again.
“Mom?” I asked, my voice hesitant. The woman froze, then turned slowly toward me. Her eyes widened in shock and . . . horror? “Mom, is that really you?”
She shook her head, eyes wide. I reached for her and she started trembling.
“Becca . . .” she whispered. “I’m so—I mean, I didn’t think . . . I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Her words sank in and realization flooded me. This wasn’t some kind of miracle. She knew I’d thought she was dead—her entire body radiated guilt. Holy. Shit.
“Is this about money?” I asked, feeling something break deep inside my soul. “Is this really just another of your cons? It is, isn’t it? You thought I’d send you three grand and then what? You’d send up a box of ashes from the fire pit? What the fuck is wrong with you!?”
My voice rose at the end to a shriek. Tears started rolling down her face and she reached for me. I flinched back, realizing I was on the brink of losing it.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said, her eyes darting. We were creating a scene. Too bad. “I have to go.”
Stunned, I watched as she jerked the gas nozzle free. Then she climbed into her car and pulled out with a screeching of tires, gas cap flying. It rolled across the pavement, coming to a stop about six inches from my foot.
What the fuck had just happened?
“Becca, you okay?”
I looked over to find Puck staring at me, confused. No. I wasn’t okay. Tears started to build in my eyes, then I was in his arms, crying.
“Baby, you gotta tell me what’s wrong,” he said after a few seconds. His entire body was tense—ready for a fight. Shit. I needed to pull myself together.
“It was my mom,” I said, forcing myself to stop sniffling. “She’s alive.”
Puck stilled.
“What?”
“I was getting out of the truck to go to the bathroom. Then I looked over there and saw my mom.”
Something crossed his face, a hint of shock tempered with . . . pity?
“Sweetheart, it’s not uncommon for someone to think they’ve seen someone who died.”
“No, it was her, Puck,” I said, my voice forceful. “I talked to her. She called me by name, said she was sorry. Then she got in her car and drove off. That’s her fucking gas cap right there.”
“What the hell?”
“It’s a con,” I said, feeling like the stupidest person on earth. “She’d been calling, begging for money. I kept telling her no so I guess she raised the stakes.”
“That fucking cunt,” he growled. He let me go, spinning toward his truck in helpless, frustrated anger. For a minute I thought he might punch it. Then—just like that—he pulled it together.
“Get in.”
“Puck—”
“Get. In. The. Truck.” Rage covered his face, along with that terrible darkness I’d seen from him a few times. Oh fuck. This was bad. Really bad.
Wait. Mom was alive. That was good. I didn’t want her dead, did I?
Mixed, confused emotions crashed through me as I climbed into my seat. I was vaguely aware of Puck outside, gassing us up. My thoughts flew too fast to catch as I tried to understand what had happened.
Mom was alive. She’d pretended to be dead. Told her daughter that she was dead.
For three thousand fucking dollars.
Pain sliced through me as it fell together. Pain. Relief. Shock.
Hurt.
How could she care so little for me, put me through that kind of hell for money? Because she’s a junkie and a crook. She doesn’t care about anyone but herself. Fucking bitch.
The rig swayed as Puck climbed in, looking straight forward. Rage radiated off every square inch of his body.
“This ends now.”
“What?” I asked.
“This shit with your mom,” he replied. “She’s cut off. Today. You’re never talking to her again. That woman is fucking toxic and she’s out of your life.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, turning on him. My head was a swirl of a thousand different emotions—Mom had been dead and suddenly she wasn’t. She’d tricked me and used me and treated me like I wasn’t even a real human being whose feelings mattered. Now Puck was going to tell me how to feel, too?
I didn’t need this shit from him and I didn’t care if he was right—it wasn’t his decision to make.
“It’s time to end this. I’ve watched that bitch jerk you around for five years and I’m sick of it. No more. I’ll get you set up at the hotel and then go straighten her ass out. We’ll leave for Idaho in the morning.”
The swirl of confused feelings in my head came together, turning into anger. I couldn’t turn it loose on Mom because she’d run off, but Puck? He’d just painted a big ass target on his forehead and I didn’t give a shit if attacking him was fair or not. I was an adult and I’d make my own damned choices.
“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?”
The muscle in his jaw flexed as Puck turned the key, the big truck roaring to life. “I’m your old man and it’s my job to protect you. I’m serious about this, Becs. We’re leaving tomorrow and you are never going to communicate with that bitch again.”
Oh no. No way. He did not get talk to me like that.
“Fuck you,” I growled. “You have no goddamn right to tell me what I can and can’t do. You don’t own me and you don’t get to control me.”
He turned to look at me, and the raw anger on his face stunned me. Holy shit. A small part of me wanted to cower back, to beg him not to hurt me. No. I wasn’t that little girl anymore and Puck Redhouse didn’t get
to push me around.
“You’ll do what I say, Becca. She lied to you. Put you through hell. What kind of psycho bitch tells her kid that she’s dead just to make a quick buck? If you still want anything to do with her, you’re fucked in the head. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
Red rage filled my vision, no joke. As in, my vision literally turned red. That’s how angry I was. I wanted to kill him, destroy him. Here he was, I realized. Here was the biker asshole coming out, the one I’d known was in there all along.
“This is why I’ll never be your old lady,” I hissed. “In the end, you’re all the same.”
The words fell between us with a thud.
“I’m too pissed to have this conversation with you right now,” he said, slamming the truck into gear. He pulled out into traffic with a squeal of tires, just like my mom had. Crushing pain hit again, and I felt my anger deflate. Why would she do that? How could she do it? What the hell had I done to deserve that woman for my mother?
Fuck her.
And fuck Puck, too. Fuck him for being right about her, and for saying all the things I didn’t want to think about out loud.
Fuck all of them.
I started to cry.
SIXTEEN
PUCK
My fingers itched to kill Becca’s mom—her and her piece of shit husband. They’d been alive too long, polluting and destroying everything they touched. Fucking disease on the earth, both of them.
And now Becca was crying. Like I was the bad guy here?
Fuck. I knew I was being an asshole. Had known it the instant the words left my mouth. Not that what I’d said was wrong—this was absolutely the end for that bitch and her husband. I’d kill them both if they ever tried to contact her again.
Might still kill Teeny anyway.
But tearing into her like that? That’d been a tactical error, not to mention a dick move. Becca needed compassion and kindness and the right words. I’d never known how to do any of that shit.
Darcy.
I’d call Darcy and she’d tell me what to do. Relief hit as we pulled into yet another shitty little parking lot, attached to another shitty motel. Diesel was already here, waiting on the tiny scrap of grass clearly designated for smokers.
Cigarettes.
Fuck, I wanted one. I could taste it already. If I had a smoke, I’d be able to deal with Becca. That’d do it. Parking the truck, I glanced at her and winced. She was still crying. She wouldn’t look at me, either. Nope, she just stared out of the passenger-side window, sniffling because her mother had ripped out her heart and then I’d acted like it was all her fault. Christ. Fucking day from hell. I needed to say something, even I was smart enough to know that. Too bad I had no idea what to say.
“I’ll be right back,” I told her, opening my door. Ten minutes later I came back with two keys to a room down at the end of the building. Becca wiped her eyes as I grabbed our shit, but she followed me toward the room. Then she caught sight of Diesel, pausing.
“That biker’s watching us,” she whispered.
“Yeah, I know,” I replied, my voice tight. Get her ass into the hotel, then you can have a smoke. “I asked him to meet us here.”
“Why?”
“For backup,” I said. “I don’t like heading into shit without someone behind me. He’s an ally—that’s all you need to know.”
Balancing the bags in one hand, I opened the hotel room door and stepped inside. Looked just like every other crappy room in existence. Battered polyester bedspread, TV so old it probably had vacuum tubes.
“We need to talk,” Becca said quietly, shutting the door. I glanced over to find her staring at me, eyes like open wounds. Wow, this day was just getting better and better.
“What?”
“Will you answer a question for me?”
“Sure.”
“Were you ever planning to let me kill Teeny?”
I studied her, realizing it was a trap. Even worse, it was a trap I’d set for myself. “Why do you ask that?”
“You wouldn’t make a plan with me,” she said slowly. “And now I find out you arranged for another guy to come. He wouldn’t want some woman he’s never met as a witness. Why were you playing me? I’m not a child, Puck.”
“I’m not playing you and I sure as fuck don’t think you’re a child,” I told her, running a hand through my hair. Christ I wanted a smoke. “But you’re right—I wasn’t planning to let you kill anyone. You’ve got enough bullshit and darkness in your life already, Becs. Trust me, you take a man’s life, you’re stuck carrying him forever. I understand why you wanted Teeny dead but no fucking way I’d lay that on you. I care about you too much.”
“You seem to think I’m some sort of glass figurine. I’m not going to break, Puck. I’m an adult who’s been through shit. I survived and now I’m moving forward. You should’ve trusted me.”
“But it’s my job to protect you,” I said, wondering how the hell I could make all this go away.
“You can’t protect me,” Becca whispered. “Life doesn’t work that way. Look, I’m sorry I lost it with you. I’m not stupid—I know Mom screwed me over and I know I need to cut her off. But that was something I had to figure out for myself. When you give me orders it pisses me off and then I stop listening.”
I sighed. “Yeah, I get it. I’m sorry I was a dick, too. Look, I need to go out to talk to Diesel. Might hit a bar or something. Won’t be more than an hour or two, that sound good? I think a little space might be good for both of us right now.”
She nodded, looking away. “Yeah, space is good.”
Her quick agreement didn’t make me happy—shouldn’t it bother her that I wanted out? Fuck, what did I want?
A smoke. Yeah. Smoke first. Calm down a little . . . then we could talk, figure everything out. Damn, but relationships were complicated. No wonder Painter couldn’t keep his together.
BECCA
Puck had never taken me seriously.
No matter how I looked at it, I shouldn’t have been so surprised. That’s just how things were in the MC world. An old lady isn’t supposed to ask questions. She certainly doesn’t stick her nose in club business, not even when it’s not club business at all.
Puck himself had told me the Silver Bastards were different from the Longnecks, but they weren’t that different. Now what? We needed to find a compromise or this whole thing was dead in the water. That terrified me, because despite our fight I couldn’t handle the thought of losing him on top of everything else.
I dropped back on the motel room bed, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. There had to be something, right? Puck treated me like a child and my mom treated me like I wasn’t even a real person. Did it really matter that Puck hadn’t planned to let me kill Teeny? That was a side issue. Ultimately, this was about my mom screwing me. Again.
She might as well be dead to me.
Rolling off the bed, I walked into the bathroom, washing my face with cool water. That felt better . . . When Puck got back, we’d have a real talk. He needed to know I wasn’t going to be an old lady like he thought. I wanted to be with him, no question. But I’d never be happy as one of those puppets who nodded and smiled whenever her man said to.
My stomach growled and I bit back a smile. So what if my world had crashed down around my ears—apparently I still had to eat. I walked over to the window and looked out to see a Denny’s on the far side of the parking lost. Maybe I’d treat myself, see how much fourteen bucks could buy at a place like that. Grabbing my burner, I dialed Puck’s number.
“Hey,” he said, answering on the first ring.
“Hey,” I said back, feeling awkward. “Um, I’m sorry to bug you, but I’m kind of hungry. You mind if I walk over to Denny’s? It’s just across the way.”
“Yeah, I can see it,” he answered. “Okay. Go grab something and then head right back. Call and let me know when you’re back in the room. I might be a while.”
“Sure.”
I
grabbed my purse, checking to make sure the little gun Earl had given me was still inside. Not that I expected to need it, but after all that’d happened anything seemed possible.
As it turned out, fourteen dollars was enough to buy quite a bit at Denny’s.
The food improved my mood. Enough that I was starting to feel some serious guilt about the way I’d taken my anger out on Puck. Not that I agreed with him on everything. I didn’t. But it was time to face reality—I had an anger management problem and if I didn’t figure out a better way to communicate with him, sooner or later it would drive us apart.
The waitress brought my bill and I counted out what I owed plus a thirty percent tip. That left me with exactly one dollar. I shook my head and dropped it on the table, because why the hell not? Then I hit the bathroom. Another woman walked in and took the stall next to me. I finished my business and set my purse on the counter to wash my hands. I’d just reached for a paper towel when I caught a glimpse of her stepping out of the stall.
It was my mother.
At the gas station I hadn’t really looked at her. I’d been too startled. Now I took in every wrinkle around her eyes, the gray at her temples, the tremor in her hand . . . Mom still dressed like a biker babe, but she’d taken on that tough, dried-jerky look that comes from too much hard living.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, holding my gaze. The agony in her voice sounded so real I almost bought it. Then I remembered—Mom wasn’t human. She didn’t have real emotions, not like the rest of us. Nobody who felt real emotions would do what she’d done.
“I want to apologize,” she said. “Please, baby. I fucked up. I see that now.”
“Fuck off.”
“I realized at the gas station—I haven’t seen you in five years. You’re different, baby. All grown up. I can’t quite believe it, can’t believe I almost threw you away again. Please let me talk to you.”
“There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear.”
She frowned, reaching into her pocket. In that instant I knew something was terribly wrong and I reached for my purse right as she pulled out a gun.