by Nikki Riker
His broad, handsome face looks less angular and cruel when he's sleeping. I miss the glint of those pale eyes, the way they scour me hungrily. But I have to admit that I like seeing him this way. It's the first time I've seen him asleep. It's easier to imagine him as Vincent this way, when he's not exuding brutish strength and arrogance.
I trace a finger carefully along his jaw, surprised when he doesn't immediately wake. He must be a heavy sleeper.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket and I jump. I forgot it was in there. I'm intensely shocked that it still has battery life after over a month of being out of my possession. Someone must have been charging it, and I'm not sure I want to know who.
I dig it out of my back pocket and see I have thirty-two missed calls and seventeen messages. Shifting off of Calamity's lap carefully, so as not to wake him, I settle back into the passenger's side and unlock the phone. Most of the calls are from Kase's burner phone or Cruz's number. There are a few from Cleo and Holly sprinkled in, the alarm apparent even in the texts. My chest twinges with guilt. My friends must be beside themselves and I've barely spared a thought for them, too absorbed in trying to best Calamity in a battle of wills.
And if my friends are worried, it's nothing to how my brothers must feel. I feel like a coward when I delete the messages without listening to them. Calamity's comments come back to me unbidden. He's right. My overprotective big brothers won't accept that I bartered away my body and my freedom for a couple of prostitutes. They won't accept that everything I've done has been welcomed and reciprocated. They'll think I've been raped. They won't let Calamity leave the meeting place alive.
My jaw flexes and I catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror. My eyes are steely. Determined.
I'm not letting it end this way. I have to let Kase and Cruz know what happened to Calamity. And to do that, I have to convince a witness to fess up. Uncle Rocco and dad are dead. Trent is in jail and probably wouldn't confess, even if I could get ahold of him. Which leaves only one man who can tell the whole truth.
I open up my contacts and pull up Harman's number. After a second of thought, I reach over the seat and snatch my club jacket from the bag that Calamity packed for me. I tie it around my waist the wrong way, obscuring the damage he's done to my jeans. What a brute. I can't help but smile, though. I've never had someone who wanted me so much they couldn't even wait for me to shimmy out of my jeans.
I open the Camaro's passenger door and slip out quietly. The rain patters lightly on the ground around me and I bring the phone up to my ear, nerves stretching thin as the dial tone continues.
Doc Harman answers on the second ring and he sounds out of breath when he demands; "Penny, is that you?"
My throat goes suddenly dry. Having the truth confirmed will hurt like a bitch. I'm about seventy percent sure Calamity is on the level. He has no reason to lie about being a Spade. But if he's telling the truth, it means that I've been lied to my entire life by my family and by kindly Doctor Harman. It hits close to home.
I clear my throat and force the question out before I can lose my nerve.
"Is it true?"
"What do you mean?" I can hear the hastily muted sounds of a sitcom in the background. He must be at home on one of his rare days off. I almost feel bad for what's going to inevitably ruin his night.
"Is it true that my father shot Trinity Gardel?"
The silence on the other end of the line is total and confirms all my worst fears. If Harman has nothing to hide, he should have leaped in with a furious denial. Finally he spoke, voice hushed and wary.
"You can't trust, Gardel, Penny. He's a dangerous man."
"I can't trust you either, it seems. And yes, he is a dangerous man. Because we made him one. But he didn't use to be, right? Vincent Gardel was as much a teddy bear as Ryker underneath the muscle."
Doc Harman swears viciously beneath his breath. "Calamity Gardel is not like Ryker, Penny. How can you even draw that parallel?"
"Answer the damn question, Harman. Did my father shoot Trinity Gardel?"
He's silent again and I can practically see the cogs turning in his head as he formulates a response to lessen the blow.
"He wasn't aiming for Trinity," he says at last. "It wasn't murder, you know. Manslaughter, at best. If he tells you it was malicious, he's a damn liar."
Bile creeps up my throat, and I don't think I've ever been this disgusted in my life. Harman has been using this to justify that night to himself for years, washing his hands of responsibility because Trinity hadn't been the intended target, just an unfortunate byproduct.
"He told me that too," I inform him quietly. "He knows Trinity wasn't the target. My father would never have shot her on purpose. Because he was obsessed with her, wasn't he? To the point that he'd rather she hate him than let Calamity have her for a second longer."
Harman makes an inarticulate sound but doesn't deny it.
"Intending to shoot Calamity doesn't make it better," I bite out fiercely. "He still meant to kill, Doc. And you let the blame fall to an innocent man."
"He's not innocent. He's a monster, Penny. You've been in his clutches for a month. You have to have seen that."
"He's a monster we made. We have no one to blame but ourselves for what's come of it. That's all I needed to know, Doc. So I'm going to hang up now. Go ahead and tell Cruz the truth. Or don't and I will. Either way, I'm making this right."
"Penny-"
I end the call before he can say more. All his rationalizations make my stomach churn. It's all true. They ruined his life. And all this misery has come from it.
What would my life be like if my father could have just taken the rejection with grace?
I wouldn't be with Calamity, that's for damn sure. Even if things fell apart with him and his wife, which I doubt, he would respect my father and keep his hands off of me. He might have been a father figure to Kase and Cruz.
I might have even dated his son. I try to picture him. That little boy that never got to be. In my mind's eye, he's his father in miniature, and when he grows up, he bears a striking resemblance to Calamity. Tall and broad, with close-cropped blonde hair and his mother's captivating eyes. A man who flirts with danger and cultivates an air of charm. He'd be just like Vincent was. Tough, but with a heart.
My chest aches, because I'll never get to know him. And my grief about the what-ifs has to be a mere ghost of Calamity's. He's been living with this for decades.
Brooklyn would also have grown up a Spade, an almost sister to me, and then a literal sister when she and Kase married. My brow puckers. Would she and Kase have gotten together? Their romance had bloomed mostly because of adversity. Would they have fought so hard to stay together if circumstances hadn't torn them apart?
I'll never know. And part of me is grateful for that. Horrible as it is, this path led up to this moment. It brought me to Calamity. A man that I'm falling for against all sanity. I have to make sure Calamity makes it out of the coming confrontation alive. I won't let history repeat itself. I won't let my brothers become murders. Not over me. Not over a lie.
I'm contemplating just how to stop the meeting place from becoming the OK Corral when a distinct snap echoes from behind me. I turn, hands already flying up into a defensive posture so I can attack whatever's coming. But by the time I turn around, it's already too late.
Kylie stands behind me, a gun already aimed at me, a triumphant smirk plastered all over her rouged lips.
"Come with me, Spade," she says, cocking the gun with menacing clicks. She tosses something. My hands shoot out, catching a pair of steel cuffs with little effort. "There are some people who'd like to speak with you. Put those on."
My eyes long to dart back toward the Camaro. Calamity is still inside, still blissfully ignorant of the danger. She may not know he's in there, and I don't want to draw her attention to him. The vengeful harpy would probably shoot him, just to keep him from touching me ever again. She struck me as the possessive type.
"Whe
re are we going?" I ask, stepping closer to her even as I slip the cuffs onto my right wrist. It closes with a snap. Kylie doesn't relax until the other is also in place.
"To meet an old friend. He's dying to see you again, Penelope."
And with that ominous pronouncement, she seizes me by my cuffed wrists and drags me away from the car, away from Calamity, and into the unknown.
16
Calamity
The squeal of tires wrenches me from my peaceful sleep.
I instinctively try to pull Penelope closer, only to find she isn't there. Whipping my head around, I can't spy her in the passenger's seat or the back either. Her jacket is gone from the bag. She's gone.
I scramble out of my seat as my mind puts her disappearance together with the squeal of tires. There are only a few possibilities. Either the Cruz brothers tired of waiting and absconded with their sister, or someone else has. I doubt the kidnappers are her brothers. There's no chance they'll leave me alive. So that only leaves one other option. This is a coup d’état, yet another attempt to overthrow the existing power in this city. I can only think of one group that would take Penelope and leave me alive. The Hellions. They don't want to make an enemy of me and mine by making an attempt on my life. They would make an attempt on Penelope if they think they can maneuver her brothers into a position to be killed by using her.
But they don't know that I've formed an attachment to her. They'll expect me to be pissed that they've broken my new favorite toy. They'll never expect that I'm ready to slit every one of their throats. That I can use to my advantage.
I leap out of the Camaro, thinking quickly. I've got Penny's bike hanging half out of the back of the trunk, secured by cords. It'll be less distinctive than the car, and easier to stay out of sight if I follow them. I take a frustrating thirty seconds to undo the cords, and the bike settled on the soaked pavement. The keys are already jammed in the ignition, ready for Penelope to ride away when I traded her to her brothers. I twist them savagely and sling a leg over the bike. The Softail Slim feels strange after spending so much time on my Fat Boy, but it'll drive just fine.
I gun the throttle and race after the car, turning the corner off Hart street. Once I've closed the distance somewhat, I try to keep several car lengths away, hoping the unusually dark morning will disguise my features, or that the kidnappers will be too busy with their captive to notice a lone bike following in their wake.
Whoever is responsible for this is dead. I don't give a shit what their motives are. I've been too lenient with my people if they think they can get away with rebellion not once but twice in one year. I will end each of them and destroy the empire I've built here. If I die in the attempt? So be it. Just so long as Penelope survives.
The car veers off the main roads quickly, and I'm forced to follow even further back, to escape notice. In the center of our part of South Hollens, a motorcycle is a sight so common as to be ubiquitous. Here, in the slick dirt roads that lead out of town? Not so much. If I'm spotted, there will be no doubt who I am. So for her sake, I keep as far back as possible without losing them. I know where they're going, though. There's only one thing out here of note.
Sure enough, the car pulls up to a rickety shed that overlooks the South Hollens Rock Quarry fifteen minutes later. I pull Penelope's bike to a stop near a copse of trees. I'm still at least a half-mile off, and this is still risky. They're likely to hear the bike. I need to be assured that she's safe, and I have to figure out which lives I'm ending tonight.
The car crunches to a stop a moment later, and a short, busty brunette steps out. Her face is nice, but not overtly pretty, like Penelope's. Her makeup is applied thickly, so she almost resembles a drag queen. My lip curls immediately. Kylie. I should have known better than to assign her as Penelope's bodyguard. It had originally been a ploy to make them both miserable, and now it's backfiring spectacularly. Kylie's probably sold her downriver just for spite.
She's going to regret that decision when I'm through with her.
The passenger's side door opens, and another woman steps out. I recognize her at once. I've only seen that distinctive hair in the King's portion of South Hollens once before. Avis Harding. She's got all that fiery hair tied back in a no-nonsense ponytail and has changed into a scarlet zipper top that mounds her small but firm breasts, pushing them up to just beneath her chin. Her midriff is mostly bare beneath the leather jacket she's wearing, and her jeans ride low, showing off creamy flesh. Going for a femme fatale vibe. A few months ago, I would have appreciated the show.
Now? The sight of her just pisses me the hell off. The bitch is in my territory and kidnapping my woman.
Penelope is dragged out next. I'm relieved to see she appears mostly unharmed, except for a bruise blossoming on her right cheek. Someone will lose their hand when I figure out who struck her.
I'm assessing my chances of taking down the five men who pile out of the vehicle after her. It makes six that have to die and one that I'd like to spend my time punishing. Those odds aren't the worst I've faced. The situation with Dallas was far worse. Just about the time I've pulled my gun and fire on them, a second car approaches from a different side road. Then another. And another. By the time they've all emerged, there's thirty, with enough bodies to obscure my line of sight on Penelope.
Shit. I'm good, but I'm not that good. During the stalemate with Dallas months ago, I had Malick and several other men at my back. The Glock I have on my person has seventeen shots total. It's not enough, even if I never miss a shot, which I'm bound to do at this range. I need backup. But I can't trust that the men I drag from the clubhouse won't immediately put a bullet through my skull the second I turn my back.
Even if I could find a group of loyal men to come with me, none will stay loyal when they discover what the objective is. No King is laying down his life for a Spade. A Spade that, for all they know, is just my new favorite piece of ass. To them, she's less than a prostitute. They'll let her die.
So there's only one place I can turn to for aid. Every fucking cell in my body tries to rebel against the conclusion I come to. No. No fucking way was I going to lay my life in the hands of my enemies. It's just as dangerous as charging this group, and it's twice as humiliating if I fail.
It's Penelope's cry of pain that jerks me out of my furious contemplation and decides for me. I can't save her alone. If I try, I only guarantee both our deaths.
I wheel the bike around, slinging mud in an arc behind me as I turn back toward town. I take off as quickly as I can, mind made up. I need allies if Penelope will survive the night. I can't trust my own people. So I will have to trust hers.
I check my wristwatch. It's a half-hour past noon. Past time to meet Kase and Cruz at the boundary line. I have to hope there's not an ambush waiting. Both our lives depend on my ability to talk down two hot-headed men who thought I'd killed their father, raped their sister, and tried to destroy everything they'd ever built.
In short? We are fucked beyond belief.
But I still have to try. For Penelope.
So I leave the quarry and the woman I’m falling in love with behind, about to make a deal with the devil to save her soul.
17
Penelope
The tang of blood fills my mouth, and I glare murder up at Kylie. So that’s where my brass knuckles went. I hadn't found them in my jacket pocket and assumed Calamity still had them. I'm fortunate that she's such a little thing and not trained to fight, or I'd be hurt a lot worse. Brass knuckles increase the pressure per punch and protect the knuckles from damage, which is why they're so handy to have. If one of the men wore them and hit me, my jaw would probably be broken. Instead, I think it's just a tooth.
I swallow the molar she knocked loose along with a mouthful of blood. It scrapes painfully down my throat before landing sickeningly in the pit of my stomach.
Kylie draws her hand back for another strike but is stopped by the redhead. Her name is Avis, I think. Or Ava? Evie? Something like that. She does
n't look like much, but her grip has to be iron, because Kylie can't bring her hand down, even with the advantage of her momentum. An undignified whine escapes Kylie's rouged mouth.
"Avis! You said I could hurt her. You promised that I'd get to when we had her."
"I said hurt her," Avis said with steely disapproval, yanking the brass knuckles off of Kylie's fingers. "Not kill her. One wrong punch with these bad boys and you can kill someone. You want to hit her? Use your own fists. But be careful. She's no use to us as bait if she's dead."
I swallow another mouthful of blood and my flippant retort. What the fuck is it with these people and dangling me like a lure? If my brothers weren't stupid enough to go rushing across the line to kill Calamity—whom they have more reason to hate—then they're sure as hell not rushing to end these chuckleheads.
Kylie doesn't make another move toward me, probably scared of breaking her hand on my face. A wise financial decision. Hard to make a living when you can't give hand jobs, amongst other things. I give her a taunting little smile and blood oozes between my teeth. She takes another step toward me. Avis tightens her grip on Kylie's arm until she yelps.
"Control, woman," she snaps. "Learn some. You can wail on her later. Right now, the boss wants to have a little chat with our guest."
My ears perk up a little at that. Boss? Am I about to meet the mysterious "friend" that Kylie referred to? Because I can't think of anyone in the Hellions I might consider a friend. Not even Damon, my informant before this whole business went down, could be considered my friend.
Avis inclines her head to one of the men surrounding us, and he stoops, grabs me under the arms, and hauls me upward. The sudden jerking motion jars my broken tooth. The agony is so pointed that I choke on vomit. I swallow it back before I can spew it all over his shoes. I'm not giving Kylie the satisfaction. He doesn't handle me with care, dragging me forward in that same jerky fashion. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to scream. The exposed nerve throbs in time with the beat of my heart, sending spikes of agony slamming through me.