Lately, he’d been dreaming about his childhood more often and couldn’t put his finger on why.
In his dreams, Byron was once again eight years old in this very house, hiding under the bed, flat on his belly. His childhood bedroom had been right across the hall from his parents’ room, and he’d heard horrific things over the years.
This particular night, the one Byron had nightmares about, Buckley had come home drunk after an evening of partying and doing God only knows what. As an enforcer who’d worked his way up to Underboss in the Dixie Mafia, he was a brutal man, capable of just about anything.
Buckley had started an argument with Loretta, Byron’s mother. The two of them never should’ve gotten married. As far as Byron could tell, all they did was fight. Byron heard the unmistakable thwack of his father’s leather belt on bare skin. Because Buckley was a real son of a bitch, Byron had experienced the bite of it, stinging on his backside and calves. His father never stopped until the blood welled.
Buckley liked to beat on Loretta too. It’s probably why she stepped out on him with another man. Byron found out later after he read her journal, she’d intended to leave Buckley and run away with Joker, a biker in the Four Horsemen MC.
That terrible night, Byron had laid under the bed—the chill from the cold wooden floor seeping into his very bones. His conscience had warred with his need for safety—a man would get out from under the bed, protect his mother. Instead, he’d listened in agony as the walloping continued, as his mother cried and whimpered. His father had hurled insults at her, calling her a slut and a whore. Then the whir of a zipper, grunting, and Loretta’s gasping wails.
The next thing Byron knew he was standing in the hallway, hand pressed against the wooden door as he summoned the strength to walk in, to stop this, but he’d been too late.
Bang.
Something hot and red rushing from beneath the door. Slippery and thick, staining his feet. Blood.
And Byron had been bathed in it ever since.
Fuck this trip down memory lane.
After taking a swig of moonshine to wash the dreadful recollection down, he threw on some clothes and went downstairs. Gentle laughter came from his office, two voices—one high-pitched and female and the other low and rumbling.
It had to be Vick and Jasper. Byron listened in because he was a nosy bastard and this was his house, after all.
“Tomorrow we gotta make a better plan. We’ll go for a walk, then a shower, and then breakfast—in that order.”
“Good call—I’m still ringin’ with sweat, Jasper.”
“We’ll hit the trail by the gorge this time, and then I’ll take you to Sugar Daddies, Vixen.” Vixen was Jasper’s pet name for Vick. “You can get one of those donuts you love so much.”
“It’s a bagel, not a donut.”
“No, it’s a donut camouflaged as a bagel. The thing has cream cheese frosting and crunchy cinnamon stuff on top.”
“Greek yogurt icing, and the crunchy stuff is granola—because it’s a granola bagel. See? Healthy.”
“Donut.”
“Bagel.”
Byron’s stomach heaved. I’m gonna get a toothache listenin’ to this sickly sweet shit. Those two should fuck already and be done with it. Time to break it up.
“What are you two doin’ here?” Byron barged in the office.
“Geez, you scared the snot out of me.”
Victoria Hale, better known as Vick, sat at his desk, red-tipped fingernails poised over his keyboard. She wore a black and white shirt printed with the words Success is the Best Revenge and a pair of black yoga pants, along with sneakers. Her baby-fine dark hair was pulled up into a bun. Her normally pale skin was flushed, and her tortoiseshell glasses were fogged.
“Mornin’, boss.” Jasper tucked his gun away. He’d drawn as soon as Byron walked in the door. He sat in front of the desk, also wearing athletic clothes—Nikes, a shirt, and jogging pants. “Didn’t expect to see you so early.”
“Clearly. I repeat—what the fuck are you doin’ here at this hour in the mornin’?”
“You don’t have to be such a butthead. I’m here doin’ my job.” Vick didn’t believe in swearing, and when Byron was in a better mood, it amused him. “I came over to check the security systems since the power went out. I wanted to make sure everythin’s functionin’ right since I’m the tech analyst and all.”
“And I came with her because I drove. We got up early this mornin’ and exercised.”
“You went on a hiking date?”
Call him crazy, but Byron thought dates were about getting dressed up and going to a fancy restaurant. Maybe a movie if things were casual. He sure as hell wouldn’t take a lady for a run. They could work the food off later, in bed, the way God intended.
Vick turned red, and Jasper cleared his throat.
“No, not a date, a hike.” Jasper studied the carpet. “We’re friends.”
“Yeah, friends who exercise and don’t date each other,” Vick added. “Nothin’ to see here but workout buddies.”
Lord, keep me from slappin’ ’em both.
Those two had something juicy bubbling below the surface of their “friendship.” It was the worst kept secret in the Dixie Mafia and the subject of much gossip. Vick and Jasper were both in denial about the attraction between them. One of these days, they’d have a full-on office romance on their hands. Inevitably, it’d end in recriminations and tears. What a pain in the ass.
“Whatever. I need my office back.”
“We were about to be goin’ anyway.” Vick stood and looked down her nose at him. “Your systems are all back online.”
“Fantastic.” Byron crossed his arms over his chest. “You two should find another place to play slap and tickle.”
Neither one of them gave him any backtalk since he was the boss. Instead, they hustled their asses out—probably going for coffee and a bitch session about him.
Speaking of java, Byron turned the coffee maker on and flung himself down in the chair. Damnation. Thinking about his mother’s murder always got him riled and he probably shouldn’t have taken it out on them, but they’d get over it. And if they didn’t, oh, well—there was a very long line of people who hated his ass.
After grabbing a cup of joe, Byron pulled up his bank account online and savored the sight of his ill-gotten gains. Looking at his money always made him feel better.
Sometimes, it was the only thing that made this life worth the sacrifices.
***
An hour later, Jane came down the stairs. Byron sat in the dining room with another cup of coffee and the Wall Street Journal, a ritual of his.
Her suit was slightly rumpled, and he wondered if she’d slept in it. He hadn’t thought to offer her something of his to sleep in, and now he wished he had, if only for the visual.
As always, the sight of her affected him on a visceral level—made him sit up straighter, take notice, and an electric hum of attraction buzzed through his body.
Jane was sexy in a subtle way. She had a deft mind, a sassy attitude, and her body didn’t hurt either—lush hips, tiny waist, and large breasts which sparked his imagination. Her figure reminded him of Mae West, and she had the cool conceit to back it up.
And she wanted nothing to do with him, which made him want to chase her more if only to win her over. He could scarcely believe he’d talked her into spending the night, and he hoped it was the start of something even more intimate.
“Mornin’,” he drawled.
She froze like a doe caught in the headlights. “Good morning. I should be going to work.”
“At least stay for a cup of Kona coffee—freshly brewed.” He lifted the silver carafe, like the devil dangling a juicy apple.
She bit her lower lip, and he could read the hesitation on her face.
“Maybe just one cup.” She drifted into the dining room and sat down across from him.
Byron had some ideas about what might’ve happened. It was time to test them out.<
br />
“Sleep well?”
“No.” Jane poured a cup of coffee into a china cup and added a generous amount of cream. She wrapped her hands around the mug for a moment, as though soaking in the warmth before bringing it to her lips.
Jane had bags beneath her eyes, and she was more subdued than he’d ever seen her. For a woman with a normally formidable air, it was disconcerting. Her dilemma must be weighing heavily on her mind.
“How can I help, darlin’? I hate seein’ you like this.”
“No one can help me. I have to handle it on my own.”
“At least you’re admittin’ there’s a problem this mornin’. You’ll find a solution soon enough, I expect.” He should’ve known she wouldn’t willingly volunteer the information—Jane took the principles of her profession to heart. Real casual-like, he leaned back in the chair. “I saw a grainy picture of you in the papers the other day with a headline about the grand jury choosing not to charge Oscar Valentine.”
Jane cringed.
Byron had also heard all about the case on the news as well as rumors from some of his underworld contacts. This wasn’t the first time Byron had brought up Valentine with Jane, and they’d squabbled about it before. Byron thought Valentine was guilty from the very beginning, and he’d advised Jane to be on guard with him.
“You had dinner with the fuckin’ psycho last night, didn’t you? Let me guess, he wanted to ‘celebrate the win’ with you?”
Jane didn’t respond.
“And you ain’t defendin’ him this time.”
“Byron—”
“He scared you, didn’t he? Tell me. Did he confess his sins, darlin’? Whisper all the dirty little details?”
Her face had gone a feverish red.
Bullseye. The bastard had probably gotten off on it.
Jane cleared her throat. “I’m going to tell you a story, but it’s only that—a story. I’m not saying it has anything to do with the meeting I had yesterday.”
Byron wondered where this was going.
“When I was in law school, we studied an infamous incident in my legal ethics class. My professor split us into two groups and made the class argue both sides of the Buried Bodies Case.”
“Go on.”
“Back in the seventies, Robert Garrow, a career criminal who’d served time for rape, confessed to killing two women. His defense attorney, Frank Armani, listened as his client admitted to leaving their bodies in the woods. Due to ethical obligations, Armani was forced to keep his client’s secret.”
“Love the name.” Byron stroked the lapel of his suit. And the subtext of this conversation wasn’t lost him.
“Garrow had a lot of issues—drug use, prior offenses, and some mental health problems, so his recollections weren’t credible without confirmation.” Jane spoke stiffly as though giving a lecture. “Armani, being a dedicated defense attorney, confirmed the client’s story.”
“How’d he verify it?”
“Armani and his co-council went out to the woods and located the bodies. The young women’s parents were searching for them. Garrow had been brought in on other charges, so no one had connected them to the girls’ disappearance. Armani tried to secure a deal for his client with the prosecutor, using the location of the women’s bodies as leverage.”
“Sounds like Armani had a pair of heavy brass balls.”
“That’s one way of seeing it. The prosecutor refused to negotiate. Instead, he told reporters Armani knew where the girls were but wouldn’t tell him, so he could secure a sweet deal for his murderous client.”
“Sweet Jesus. I assume the villagers came after the attorney with pitchforks?”
“Pretty much, but Armani wouldn’t break. He declined to tell the prosecutor what he knew, even when they tried to have him disbarred for misconduct.”
“What happened to him?”
“Armani got death threats and the Garrow case nearly destroyed his legal practice. He even carried a shotgun in his truck to defend himself.”
“An attorney in such a tough spot needs protection, don’t you think?
Jane pressed her lips together. “I take your point.”
“What happened to ol’ Armani?”
“They didn’t disbar him because he’d followed the ethical standards, but I doubt his life was the same afterward.”
“And Garrow?”
“Garrow was charged with another crime and imprisoned. Later on, he was shot and killed by police when he escaped.”
“A fittin’ end.”
Jane took a sip of coffee. Maybe she was stalling for time. “People belittle my profession, but a defense attorney has a responsibility to be a zealous advocate for a client. That’s how the legal system works.” She shook her head. “The first time I heard about this case, I didn’t appreciate all the nuances. I’d originally sided with Armani—client-attorney privilege shouldn’t be breached for any reason. I thought about it as a laywer, not a person.”
“And now you ain’t so sure?”
“What if your morals bump up against the standards set by your profession? What if your heart tells you to do one thing and your head demands another?”
“I’ve faced that particular kind of dilemma before.” When he’d first started as a hitman, he hadn’t been able to compartmentalize his life and his work.
“What did you do?”
“What I had to do.” It’d been a long, painful ordeal, and he’d lost parts of his humanity in the process.
“Do you think Armani was right to protect his client’s privilege?”
“I think Armani made the choice he could ultimately live with. The question is, what can you live with?”
She sighed.
The silence stretched between them, and Byron let Jane sort out her thoughts.
“I stayed up all night thinking about my dilemma, and before you ask, I can’t tell you.”
He rolled his eyes. “Anythin’ you say to me, I’ll take to the grave, darlin’.”
“Which is usually my line, albeit without the homespun language.”
They gazed at one another, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a bit of affection in her eyes. Byron had the feeling he’d finally broken through her cool exterior—it was only a crack, but he’d take a crowbar to it and get her to trust him if it was the last thing he did.
“I prefer to keep my own counsel on this, but I need your advice about something else.”
“I’d be happy to help.” Byron couldn’t believe she was outright asking for his opinion. And he wondered what else could possibly be bothering her, given the magnitude of this situation.
“Interpersonal relationships aren’t my forte, and you have an uncanny ability to understand people.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “If a woman wasn’t open to your romantic overtures, how would you prefer she broach the subject with you?”
“Is this your subtle way of tellin’ me to piss off, darlin’?”
“I’m not talking about you.”
No way. Did she mean…?
“Fuck a duck. The psycho’s in love with you?” No wonder she was so shaken up.
“I suppose it doesn’t constitute privileged information. Yes, Valentine said he’s in love with me.”
Oh, heeeelllll no.
Byron was done with this crap. “I got a solution for you, a real permanent one, and all I need is a couple of bullets.” He grabbed the gun from the holster beneath his jacket, then cocked it. “Afterward, I’ll take you out for a big breakfast. How does bacon and eggs sound?”
She stared at the Glock with rounded eyes.
“Jane?”
“I’m going to do us both a favor and ignore the threat you made. I’m an officer of the court, and I solve my problems with the law, not bloodshed.”
Byron put the gun down and tried to reason with her. “You follow society’s rules, but he doesn’t, darlin’. Do you know how dangerous Valentine is?”
“I might have an idea or two.” Her already milky
skin somehow went even paler.
Valentine must’ve shown her a trophy or two from his killings, and it only reinforced Byron’s opinion of the bastard.
“When dealin’ with an animal like Valentine, it’s either kill or be killed.”
“I don’t know why I’m bothering to explain this. At this point, I don’t see much difference between the two of you.”
Damn, she knew just how to hurt a man.
“Let me give you a big one. I don’t murder defenseless women and dress them up like brides. And I sure as fuck don’t get off on the…things I have to do to protect my business interests. As for my sex life, I love ’em and I leave ’em alive when the relationship ends. And the ladies always leave with big ol’ smiles on their faces.”
“So you only use women for pleasure and companionship?” Her tone was sharp. “What a gentleman.”
His brief, torrid relationships had been splashed all over the gossip rags, but she didn’t have to make it sound so empty—even if it was.
“The point is, I don’t kill women—unlike your brand new boyfriend.”
“Valentine isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Does he know that?”
She scowled. “I’ll simply explain myself in a clear, concise manner. I’m sure if I—”
He laughed without any humor. “Yeah, he strikes me as the type who takes ‘no’ for an answer. I’m sure he’ll mosey on along after you reject him.”
“I’ll reason with him, and he’ll see the logic.”
“Darlin’, a serial killer’s in love with you—think about it for a spell. Despite the fool’s name, it ain’t gonna be all roses and chocolates.”
She placed a hand over her mouth.
Byron felt like a bastard for scaring her, but she needed a reality check. Whether Jane understood it or not, she was fighting for her life, and it was time for drastic measures. He couldn’t let her walk into a trap.
“I see your point. Maybe…,” she broke off. “A bodyguard might be in order, someone to keep me safe, at least until I get this situation under control.”
“Finally, you’re makin’ some sense. Unless you want me to take care of him? My offer still stands.” Because it’d be his pleasure. Byron had been killing for a long time and wiping out this freak wouldn’t cause him even a moment’s hesitation.
Blood in the Water (Dixie Mafia Series Book 2) Page 6