Blood and Honor

by Vixen, Jayna

  Those fuckers deserved it. The Chicos had blackmailed his dad into laundering money and then they got greedy. When the feds were closing in, the Chicos had torched his old man’s jewelry store—with Slade’s mother inside. Then, Mexican MC had fingered his old man make it look like he was running an independent operation. Slade’s innocent father went down, accused of burning down his own business and murdering his own wife to keep her from talking.

  Slade knew that his old man held on to the belief that the truth would set him free—right up until the day he was shanked in prison. He was sure it was a Chicos shock collar that did it too—to tie up loose ends. Slade was supposed to be the first one in their small family with a college education. He had been accepted to a couple of state schools when the tragedy struck.

  Now…not a day went by that he wasn’t nearly overcome with his desire to borrow a few guns and shoot up the Chicos’ clubhouse himself. But…there was a subtle art to revenge. Slade needed to know who set the fire. And who ordered the hit on his old man. He wanted those individuals specifically—to suffer. To hurt the way he did. To be lost. And to die a cruel death the way his parents had. Slade clenched his fists and lowered his signature shades back down over his eyes. He didn’t want anyone to see the rage that he kept there, barely concealed behind the dark lenses.

  He was a just an average kid before all of this shit went down—not the typical sort to try to get into a motorcycle club. Hell, he didn’t even know how to ride at first. But, Slade took the focus he had used get into school and applied it to his own special brand of revenge.

  Nothing could fuck this plan up. Slade had worked too hard and too long to get his foot in the door with the club. He hoped that Hawk knew what he was doing. The old man was acting weird lately—lots of time unaccounted for. Then there was the night Slade caught the Phantoms’ president on the phone whispering furiously to an unknown caller. The last time Slade came upon the man sneaking around in the dark at the edge of the compound, Hawk hurled his phone into the fucking dirt and stomped on it like it was a fucking rattler about to bite him. Something was definitely up with the man.

  And it couldn’t be good.

  Then there was the new chick, Alanna—she was a real piece. A piece of ass and a piece of work, too. Hawk was all over the girl, but Slade saw right through her act. He had watched her in action on the island. Saw the way she looked at Dax. Saw the way she looked at his woman, too. Alanna surprised the boys by risking her life to save Dax’s kid—like a martyr, throwing herself on a bomb. But it worked like a charm, as he suspected her last ditch attempt to secure herself a place in the club was meant to do.

  In a strange way, he understood Alanna’s motivation. Sometimes, you found something that consumed you. It took you over—took complete control over all of you—and you were like its puppet. Your obsession directed your words, your beliefs, and your actions. Slade knew firsthand how a matter of the heart could possess you so completely that sometimes, you really had no control over yourself. But he had learned to control his master. To a degree. Still, it gave him insight, and he knew exactly what this little slut Alanna was about. Alanna did what she did, not for Sirena, but for Dax. She had gotten her dumb ass shot on top of it, and then crawled back to the clubhouse—and into Hawk’s bed.

  He had to hand it to the hang-around—-she wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Alanna was actually setting the bar higher—by getting in bed with Hawk. She was bedding down with the man every damn night, even though the Phantoms’ president made no secret of the fact that he wasn’t on the market for an old lady.

  Too much trouble, Hawk always said.

  The ghost of a smile graced Slade’s lips as he rolled into the port to check on the latest shipment. He parked next to a row of shipping containers at the fruit docks and undid his chinstrap. Pausing, he cocked his head to the left, thinking he detected the low hum of another bike. Nah, no one else had business here but the Phantoms, as far as he knew. It was a sweet gig, for now. Oversee the chronic and pineapples, get paid.

  There were so many things to occupy his jumbled mind—so many players in a game that they were unaware they played.

  Yeah, he admitted to himself that he had no idea how this was going to play out.

  But at least…life was never boring.

  Chapter Five

  “You okay, honey?”

  The lone waitress in the old diner on the corner was one of those sweet, grandmotherly types. Crap. These ones always seemed to pick up on her angst, and more often than not, they tried to get involved. In the past, out of sheer desperation, Mickey consented to offers of a home-cooked meal and a warm bed to sleep in. She never went home with men, or even with married women. In fact, if she noticed even the slightest hint of a man in the home, Mickey would vanish as soon as the good Samaritan’s back was turned.

  Although she didn’t make a habit of being a charity case, sometimes there were just no safer options. Some of the folks Mickey came across were caring and kind. They accepted her story—that she was running from an abusive boyfriend—at face value. The story wasn’t that far from the truth and helped in Mickey’s desire to remain off the grid. Oftentimes, these strangers who opened their doors to her told Mickey of their own hardships as well. She understood their need for camaraderie, and she appreciated the human contact, limited though it was, but Mickey’s nightmares were getting worse. There was a time that she actually thought she was getting a handle on them, but no more. In fact, the longer she was on the run, the worse things were getting—and the shrill screams in the middle of the night were enough to send any sweet grandmotherly type into cardiac arrest.

  Mickey had been kicked out onto the street in the dead of night more times than she’d care to admit.

  It was just easier to be alone. So, she managed a nod and a weak smile, and thankfully the waitress moved on. Mickey had been all over the damn place, financing her drastic, erratic movements all over the map with odd jobs and handouts. Any time she got the slightest notion that her past was going to catch up with her, she ran. Over and over again. She had the sinking feeling that someday, she was going to have to stop running but that day didn’t have to start now, did it?

  Reaching down beneath the table, Mickey pulled out the money she had stowed in her shoe. Fucking twenty bucks. That was all she had left. Her hand clenched reflexively before she was able to relax the death grip on her coffee.

  It was going to be okay. Somehow, she always made it. She always got to the next place. A meal and a place to sleep were luxuries, as long as she kept moving. Being in constant survival mode meant that she didn’t have to think—about her past or her future.

  “Just the coffee, hon?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mickey looked away. Would there ever be a day when she wasn’t ashamed of being poor?

  Being poor is the least of your worries, the insidious voice in her head whispered.

  Mickey squeezed her eyes shut as if the action would dispel the horrifying image that was flitting across her brain. She smiled wanly, to keep up her façade. No sense in getting kicked out into the snow. The waitress refilled her cup, clucked to herself, and made her way back behind the counter. Mickey stared out the window. It was cold outside. Dark and dreary.

  Like my soul.

  Mickey sighed, gripping the coffee mug as though it were a lifeline. The heat seeped into her skin. It warmed her hands but that was where the comfort stopped.

  Guilt was an unforgiving bastard.

  The man at the table next to her stood abruptly, and paid his tab. The wind tossed the door closed with a bang. He had left his newspaper behind so she scooped it up, pleased to find any kind of distraction, and a reason to spend a few more minutes in the warmth of the diner. She huddled in her back booth, grateful for the simple black and white and the familiar typeface.

  She started flipping to the classifieds immediately. Twenty bucks wasn’t enough for a ticket out of this town. She had no destination—she just knew she had to keep mo
ving. Unfortunately, the help wanted ads were dismal.

  Fuck it, looks like I’m stuck here for a while.

  Mickey turned the pages absently now, staring through the words. She might have missed the small photo at the bottom of the page if she hadn’t sloshed her coffee, spilling a large droplet just above the grainy picture.

  Everything inside of her stopped. For a moment, she thought her heart had ceased to beat as she stared at the caption:

  Local Artist Gives Back to Community.

  The fact that Rhee’s face smiled at her from the tattered pages of the daily news wasn’t what fazed her the most. No, it was the blurred image of the man standing behind her that made Mickey’s blood turn to ice. She stood up, perhaps too quickly and the blood rushed to her head.

  Mickey knew what was going to happen—it had happened a few times before. Frantically, she lunged for the bathroom, but it was too late. The room spun. Someone yelled something—the words distorting as though they were calling to her from under water.

  Then, she returned to the sweet oblivion that she knew so well.

  Chapter Six

  “Did you see Mama swimming out there today?”

  Dax shrugged. Sharks scared the piss outta him, just like they did everybody else, but ever since the Vidal incident, he kind of felt like the big fish were on his side. He had seen their shadows passing beneath him as he sat on his board, deep in the line up, waiting for the perfect set to come in. Oddly, Dax never felt any danger when he was out in the marine wilderness. Still, if Rhee knew just how big the large tiger that liked to cruise the reef really was, she’d probably flip her shit.

  Nah, there was no probability about it. Rhee would definitely take a knife to his board. A wry smile settled on his face as an image of his stubborn, beautiful chick came to mind. Dax was almost beginning to wonder if she was intentionally trying to goad him into another spanking…one that he wouldn’t mind administering in the least.

  “Yeah. At least she looks well fed. Won’t bother us, I hope.”

  “That’s one big ass shark.” Turtle agreed. “Gonna paddle out?”

  Dax grinned. Turtle knew the answer. “It’s why I’m here, braddah.”

  “Sweet, brah. Let’s do this.”

  Having a braddah—a gang of ‘em, really—was cool. It was kind of like having a surrogate club. In fact, now that he had been out here for a few months, relaxing into the slower island pace, Dax was starting to wonder which crew was the stand-in. The local boys came in handy when it came to looking after Rhee—Sirena too. Dax was used to having a posse but he was done riding the fucking line. It was a big decision—one that came with big consequences. So, it came as a surprise when Hawk didn’t demand he cut out his patch and burn his leather when he received Dax’s message.

  Can’t come back, brother. Not now.

  I need you here, kid.

  Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, brother. But it’s a family matter.

  He didn’t have to say much else. Hawk knew how much family meant to Dax. They worked a deal, and it was a fuckin’ good one. Turtle’s family owned a small island that was totally off the grid. Supposedly, there were a lot of little clumps of earth like that in the sea. The soil was fertile and the coffee business was the perfect foil for weed they grew there too.

  Coffee and bud…the perfect combination.

  Dax set up a direct supply line to the medical marijuana clinics that were sprouting up all over the damn place, Darling included. It was easier to do than he expected. Wince and Slade handled the business stateside. Dax used their existing connection at the port to run Ivan’s hardware and a few keys of green through the shipping yard every few months. It was cheaper than running ice. Safer, too. No one went apeshit from smoking bud the way they did when they smoked too much ice.

  Hawk bought off one of the ship gangs years ago, so it was no big thing to add another shipment to their existing connection. The longshoremen were happy to unload their contraband for a couple grand and a few ounces of green.

  Dax rotated his arm experimentally, feeling a slight pull in his shoulder as he watched a clean set roll in. The first wave peeled off and a perfect barrel formed as it raced to shore. Yeah, he was definitely paddling out. He was healed fucking well enough.

  Chapter Seven

  “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I like to take pictures! It relaxes me. You know that. You’re the one who suggested I do what I love…”

  “Look, there’s no time for this. Salazar saw you and your fucking camera last night. Why the hell didn’t you stay in the bar where I put you?”

  “I told you—I was looking for the bathroom! I saw some cool shit to shoot. I had no idea…”

  “You need to get the fuck out of here, Micks. I mean it. Disappear.”

  “Where the hell am I supposed to go? I just told my sister that I would get an apartment with her…”

  The cartel wanted her for what she had captured on film. The sad thing was that Mickey wasn’t even after that particular image—she was taking a photo of one of the dancers—a girl whose hardened façade seemed to disappear when she was on the pole. Unfortunately, she caught something in the background—something that ruined everything. When she first realized what she had done, she had considered erasing the picture, but now figured she might need it—for some kind of insurance.

  Dizzy paced. “If you stay here, you will die. And it won’t be pretty. These guys the Chicos are dealing with-the cartel—they like to inflict fucking pain, Micks. Real pain. Do you understand me? There’s no way in hell I can go up against the Familia. So you need to get the fuck out of here!”

  Dizzy shoved a wad of cash at her. “Take this. Get yourself on a plane to BFE. Change your name. Change what you look like. Just go. Now!”

  He stalked from the small bunk they shared, slamming the door as he went.

  It was the last time she ever saw him.

  Mickey remembered how she sat there for a few minutes in total shock, unwilling to leave…unwilling to believe things were over. Deep down, she knew Dizzy was right. The best thing to do was to disappear and leave nothing behind. She had to start over and forget her name, her family, her past. Most of her past was a hell she didn’t care to think about anyway. Any trace of her would be deadly to the ones she loved.

  But…things had been good—so good.

  With Dizzy and his crew, she was known only as Micks, and her past couldn’t touch her. In fact, as the weeks went by, it was easy to pretend that none of it had ever happened.

  Dizzy was one of the only men in her life who had ever protected her. He didn’t pressure her for sex. He had her back—like he understood how damaged she was inside, and why.

  Perhaps he had his own demons to conquer.

  But, he never got a chance to tell her about them. Mickey swept in like a nuclear bomb, leaving destruction in her wake, just like she always did. When Danny “Dizzy” Delgado’s name came up in the obituary section of the Darling paper, Mickey was thousands of miles away, but the impact of his death rattled her so much she felt like she was standing on the man’s grave.

  Because it was her fault. More blood to add to her stained hands.

  She left, like he told her to, and just like that her brief reprieve was over. It was like she had been living in a dream, one where she wasn’t the girl she had been. Now, she wasn’t sure who she was anymore…

  Before she disappeared, Mickey considered the fact that her trail of destruction would lead to Rhee. She made that ill-fated phone call, but it was too late. The car came out of nowhere, and she caught flash of steel glinting from the rear window. She was already running, the receiver of the pay phone left dangling, her sister’s voice echoing behind her as she ducked into the bus station.

  Things just kept going from bad to worse. Mickey couldn’t go to the cops. She was a fucking murderer. They would find out what she did and she would probably get the death penalty. She couldn’t put Rhee or anyone else in danger.
>
  Plus, she didn’t want Rhee to know what she did.

  Mickey remembered her final thoughts as she hopped the first bus out of town, on the road to nowhere. She needed a destination. If she made it to the airport, there was only one place she could envision herself going.

  Hell, if I’m going to die, it’s going to be somewhere warm.

  ***

  “Are you okay, honey? Anything hurt you?”

  Mickey sat up groggily, the faded memories clogging her brain. She put her head in her hands and realized that the low, keening noise was coming from her own mouth.

  “I-I’m fine,” she croaked, willing her eyes to focus on the face that swam in front of her.

  It all came rushing back to her then. The diner. The kindly waitress. The newspaper…

  Him.

  Mickey shot to her feet and immediately hugged the wall as a wave of dizziness threatened to sweep her legs out from underneath her. Oh, fuck. This isn’t good…

  “Oh my! Please, honey, sit down! You’re not…not pregnant are you?”

  Mickey managed a wan smile and shook her head violently.

  The seemingly innocuous question unlocked a floodgate of emotion, and Mickey’s fragile emotional walls crumbled into dust. One sob tore from her throat, and then another. Somehow, she was lying on the faded tile floor, her body wracked with sobs, knowing that all the while a stranger watched her with concern. A warm hand smoothed down her back but for once, she didn’t reject the contact. Instead, she turned into the older woman’s body and allowed herself to be held.

  She was nowhere near cried out, but Mickey Blake wasn’t about to let her vulnerability show—at least, not for very long. She stifled her tears, shoving them back down, down, down into her guts, where she stowed all of the bad feelings.

  “I’m so sorry,” she managed. “I-I’ll go now. Here.” She fumbled in her pocket for her remaining cash and with a shaky hand pushed all of it towards the server’s hand.