by Penny Reid
The title president was a misnomer. Despot would have been more fitting.
A deal.
He wanted to make a deal.
“Who else knows you’re sick?” I asked, trying to sound sympathetic and not ecstatic. My guess was that no one here knew, and that was why he wanted to talk to us alone.
Winston’s eyebrows pulled together, and his gaze moved over me, confusion and a hint of suspicion—just the barest hint—turning his blue eyes hazy. “Why do you want to know?”
“I just meant”—I rushed to add, thinking on my feet, and lying my heart out—“if you’re sick, do you have anyone to look after you? Who is helping you through this difficult time?”
I felt Roscoe’s gaze on my profile and my neck heat. Roscoe would know I was lying, because he knew me so well and because I wasn’t a great liar. I just hoped Winston wasn’t as perceptive as his son.
Roscoe’s father shook his head, still looking a touch confused and doubtful of my intentions. “No one needs to know except my doctors in Texas and Roscoe here.”
“You’re afraid of looking weak in front of your brothers,” Roscoe muttered, drawing the older man’s attention away from me. “That’s how it works here. If they smell blood in the water, it’s over for you.”
I tried not to grimace at Roscoe’s words, because even to me they sounded like a threat. Which, given the fact that we were trapped in this room with no windows and no shoes, wasn’t a great way to endear us to our captor.
Confirming my worry, Darrell Winston straightened to his full height—FYI, not as tall as Roscoe—his eyes flashing. “Is that a threat?”
Roscoe smirked. “No, sir. Merely an explanation for the lady. She’s not been touched by the filth of this place, doesn’t know how your stupid shit works.”
I felt certain at once that Roscoe was purposefully trying to draw attention away from me and my poorly timed question. Even so, I was glad I’d asked it.
Darrell made like he was going to push Roscoe and I held out a staying hand, pressing it against his chest. “Hey, stop. Stop. Roscoe is going to help you, remember?”
Roscoe made a scoffing sound. “Yeah. That’s why we’re here. To help.”
“You are helping your daddy,” Winston said firmly, looking torn between wanting to punch Roscoe’s lights out and hope that he actually would help.
Roscoe didn’t say anything at first, glaring at his father and looking torn as well. I couldn’t speak for him, or distract Winston with more questions. Roscoe had to answer for himself.
Oh please oh please oh please, just tell him what he wants to hear so we can leave.
At length, Roscoe released a bitter sounding laugh, shaking his head, then his gaze shifted beyond Darrell to the door behind him.
“I honestly don’t know,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.
I tensed, bracing myself for a tirade from his father.
It didn’t come.
Winston nodded, his eyes glassy as they moved over his son’s features. “I suppose I can understand you need some time. I wasn’t—” He stopped himself here, his voice breaking. He inhaled a shaky breath, as though needing to steady himself. “I wasn’t there for you like I wanted to be. Your momma kept us apart, and—whatever you decide—I want you to know that missing out on watching you grow up has always been my biggest regret.”
Wow.
I mean, holy freaking wow. I almost clapped, that’s how good of a performance Darrell was giving. He was laying it on pretty thick, sure. But still, I almost believed him.
Roscoe withdrew his hand from mine and slid it around my waist, pulling me close. “Thank you for telling me that. It means . . .” He paused here, glancing at his shoes, and then back to his father. “It means something.” His voice was all quiet solemnity, and I had to work to not gape.
Again, the urge to clap was intense. I didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to see a bullshitter bullshitting another bullshitter at this level. The bullshit was strong with this family. We’re talking bullshitting Olympics, and they’d both tied for first place.
But then I watched as Winston searched his son’s face, and that’s when I knew Roscoe had been the one to win the gold. There was no mistaking the hope on the older man’s features.
In that moment, I realized something interesting: in a battle between two bullshitters, the one who cares about the outcome will always lose to the one who doesn’t care at all.
* * *
Let me break down this awkward situation for you.
Roscoe and I were escorted out of the Wraith’s compound and returned to our cars by: a) Isaac Sylvester, who was working undercover, acting like an asshole, and technically Roscoe’s brother-in-law through Jennifer Sylvester’s marriage to Cletus Winston, and b) Curtis Hickson, an actual asshole who’d taken my sister away from her family when she was in high school and broke my parents’ hearts (and my heart, too).
Green Valley was entirely too small.
Nothing was said while we were escorted or chauffeured until the tail end of the journey, when Isaac pulled next to Roscoe’s truck and placed the SUV in park.
I opened my door, ready to get as far away as possible from the pretend asshole and the actual asshole. I didn’t know how Isaac had managed it, day in and day out for years. The man deserved a medal when all this was over, maybe even a bullshitter gold medal.
Roscoe placed his hand on the door handle, but didn’t open it, instead saying to Isaac’s reflection in the rearview mirror, “Your sister misses you.”
I glanced between Roscoe and Isaac, both men so incredibly honorable, but one having to hide it so completely. I wondered if Isaac missed his sister, if he ever thought about her, if he wished things were different, and swallowed around a sudden thickness in my throat.
“I don’t have a sister,” he finally said, his voice emotionless. “Now get out.”
Sigh.
Roscoe shook his head and exited the vehicle, walking around to my side and shutting the door as soon as I’d cleared the SUV.
Isaac backed out of the gravel space and drove away down the dirt road. As I watched him go I knew—without a shadow of a doubt—undercover work would never be for me. Lying to people, pretending to be something I wasn’t, it felt impossible.
“We all got tested five years ago,” Roscoe said, pulling me out of my contemplations.
“Pardon?”
He gave me his eyes for a split second before dropping them to the gravel at our feet. “Darrell had another son. He lived in Texas. Cletus found out after he’d already died.”
I had a hunch, but I asked anyway, “How did he die?”
“Cancer.” Roscoe shook his head, huffing a humorless laugh. “Probably the same type of cancer Darrell has.”
I closed my eyes, absorbing this information. If they’d known about their brother, if Winston had told them, they might’ve been able to save him.
“I’m sorry.” Opening my eyes, I studied this man next to me, still staring at the ground. He was beautiful, in so many ways, and the pain he felt for a brother he didn’t know endeared him to me even more.
Endear? Is that what we’re calling it?
“Oh yes, I esteem him greatly,” I muttered to myself, feeling ashamed for ogling his beautiful soul and face and brain and body and person while he was obviously going through a difficult time.
Determined to give him support, I placed a hand on his shoulder. He grew still.
I slid my hand from his shoulder to his fingers and squeezed; we’d squeezed each other quite a lot today. He exhaled.
“Roscoe, if you need—”
“You can’t tell anyone about what happened,” he said, shaking his head.
“Uh . . . what?”
He gave me his eyes; stubborn determination shone back at me. “I don’t want anyone to know about Darrell. My family has been through enough.”
“You’re not going to tell them?”
“Nope.”
Incr
edulous, I asked, “You’re going to give him your bone marrow and not tell them?”
Now his expression turned hard. “What makes you think I’d give that man anything?”
“I- I don’t understand.”
He turned to face me, withdrawing from my grip and placing his hands on my shoulders. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone. Promise.”
My mouth opened, closed, then opened again, because I was struggling to give him an answer that wasn’t a lie—I couldn’t lie—but also wouldn’t piss him off.
“I’m sorry, I can’t make that promise.”
Roscoe’s eyes narrowed. “Simone.”
“No.” I shook his hands off, taking a step away. “No, I can’t promise that. What if he takes you again? You want me to, what? Not tell your family what happened?”
“That’s something different. I’m not in any immediate danger.”
My jaw dropped. “Are you joking?”
“He won’t—”
“Yes. He will. He most certainly will. He’ll come for you again. That man is desperate and he believes you are his only chance at survival.”
“Then it would be a dumb move to hurt me.”
Oh for fuck’s sake!
Stubborn, stupid man.
“Roscoe.” I found I needed to take a breath, to calm down, because my blood pressure had just launched itself into the atmosphere. “Take a minute to think about what just happened. Fact, Darrell believes he is going to die if you don’t give him your bone marrow. Also fact, a desperate Darrell Winston is a dangerous Darrell Winston. He is not above abducting you and sucking those cells out of you, one way or the other.”
He shook his head. “All I have to do is tell Catfish, or Drill, or one of the other guys that Darrell is sick, that he’s dying. Like I said, a hint of blood and they’ll swarm.”
I licked my lips, my heart racing, because I could not let Roscoe do that. If Roscoe did that, then Winston wouldn’t turn himself in, he wouldn’t ask for a deal. My Simone-senses told me Darrell Winston knew something big, something that would help us break this case, stop the murders, maybe take down the entire organization.
And then Isaac could see his sister. And Nelson would be free of the G-Spot. And I could stop lying to everyone. But most importantly, justice would be served.
“Don’t do that. Don’t tell Catfish or Drill anything. Don’t.”
“Why not?” he demanded, his words dripping with aggravation. “Let his precious Wraiths take him down. It’s what he deserves.”
“Promise me you’ll wait.”
Gritting his teeth, Roscoe shook his head. “Like you’ll promise not to tell my family what just happened?”
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shitter shiticker shite shoot shat shit.
Shit.
“Fine.” I crossed my arms, lifting my chin. “You promise not to tell anyone about your father being sick, I’ll promise not to tell your family what just happened.”
He also crossed his arms. “And no one in your family either. Or anyone who might tell my family.”
“Deal.”
I stuck out my hand.
He shook it.
He dropped it.
He turned and stomped away.
I frowned at his back. “Where are you going?”
“To Nashville.” He opened the door to his truck. “I have work tomorrow. Early.”
“Well, okay then,” I shouted at his back.
“Don’t follow me,” he growled in response.
I snorted. “I won’t.”
I won’t need to. Bwahaha—
“I hope you aren’t too attached to that tracker you put on my truck”—he turned, his eyes flashing blue lightening, his words catching me completely off guard—“Because when I find it, I’m going to feed it to a black bear.”
Chapter Sixteen
“There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrance of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth.”
Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
*Simone*
“You have to go to Nashville.”
I stared at Nelson, saying nothing. Lundqvist was giving me a sympathetic look. I suspected I’d bought his sympathy with doughnuts.
Nelson’s glare moved over me and she grunted; it was an impatient, unhappy sound. “Payton, time is running out.”
“I know.”
She met my stare with one of her own, clearly waiting for me to continue speaking. When I continued my silence instead, Nelson stood and paced the length of the small kitchen, her movements restless. “Okay, so, let me break this down. The Kentucky Derby is next weekend. According to your contact in the Wraiths, Razor Dennings will be there, reasons unknown.”
“Right.”
“Lundqvist’s intel from the Black Demons and my information from the G-Spot point to Razor Dennings as the perp. All the local clubs believe he’s the one behind the murders. We have circumstantial evidence, but no smoking gun.”
Or knife. Razor carried knives, all the dead bodies we’d found had been stabbed to death, but we’d found no murder weapons.
“Three weeks ago, you believed Winston wanted to make a deal, that he has information about—as you said—‘something big’ and seemed nervous during your meeting. He’s looking for a trade, an exchange for cancer treatment.”
“And a get-out-of-jail-free card,” I added, the reminder a warning.
She waved my comment away. “He gives us definitive evidence on Razor, he’s got his ticket out.”
“Right.” I tried not to grimace.
“But Winston needs his son’s—Roscoe’s—bone marrow.”
My heart twisted. “Right.”
“And you haven’t made contact with Roscoe in three weeks. Which—and I don’t think I’m making a huge leap here—is probably why Winston hasn’t approached us about a deal.”
I sighed, resting my elbow on the kitchen table and rubbing my forehead, combating a whole lot of feelings. Roscoe hadn’t found my tracker yet, so I was still monitoring his movements. Over the last several weeks, he followed a similar schedule to the first week I’d watched him, but with one big exception. He’d remained in Nashville Thursday night through Sunday instead of coming home to Green Valley.
Initially, I’d been relieved by his absence. Nashville, though not far in the scheme of things, was likely too far for Darrell Winston to arrange another abduction, especially if Darrell was trying to keep a low profile within the Wraiths.
But then, after one week became two—BAM! Feelings.
Always with the feelings.
This time it was longing. I missed him. I’d started missing him the day after he left, but I’d been able to reason through the foreign musings. Heck, I’d gone years without thinking about Roscoe, why should I think about him now?
So what if we’d kissed? (twice, on two separate occasions)
So what if we’d made out? (on the floor of a cell in the basement of the Dragon Biker Bar)
So what if it had been fan-fracking-tastic? (so much so, that—in retrospect—being abducted by the Iron Wraiths ranked among my top ten best dating/romantic experiences . . . who am I kidding, it was number two, right after dancing with Roscoe in Genie’s bar and right above kissing him at Hawk’s Field)
Three weeks later, I was missing him, thinking about him, wishing for him constantly. I found myself daydreaming, his smile, the cadence of his voice, how he looked at me, his body over mine, our hands woven together, how he’d devoured my neck, the deep growling groans he made, his tender—and not so tender—kisses.
Time and distance, which I’d hoped would clear my head, had only accomplished the opposite.
“Agent Payton.”
I glanced at Nelson.
Her eyes were wide, her eyebrows suspended on her forehead. “You need to go to Nashville.”
The rest of her instructions were implied: you need to go to Nashville and convince Roscoe to give Darrell W
inston his bone marrow, so Darrell will turn himself in before the Kentucky Derby, so we can arrest Razor at the Kentucky Derby.
Just the thought of suggesting Roscoe help Darrell made my stomach turn.
My features must’ve communicated my displeasure, because she rolled her eyes, her palm hitting her thigh. “What? What is it?”
Lundqvist spoke around a huge bite of doughnut. “I’ve been to Nashville. It is a nice place.”
“I’ll go,” I said, glancing between Lundqvist and Nelson. “Nashville isn’t the problem. But Roscoe is. Like I told you weeks ago, he won’t give his father a bone marrow donation, and nothing I say or do will convince him.”
Nelson crossed her arms. “Then who can convince him? Who will he listen to?”
I shook my head. “His brother Billy—but that’s no good. Billy wouldn’t help Darrell either. Maybe Ashley.”
“The sister,” Nelson explained for Lundqvist.
Lundqvist picked up another doughnut, his third. “Yes. I’ve seen her. She’s an efficient and competent nurse.”
I gave Lundqvist a double take, because most men commented on Ashley’s stunning looks, but then I remembered Roscoe’s sister donated her time to a free clinic in Knoxville, which was where most of the Black Demons biker club went for health services.
“Anyone else?” Nelson pushed. “Anyone else he’ll listen to?”
My dad.
I shook my head again, huffing in frustration. This conversation was pointless. I couldn’t tell Billy or Ashley or even my dad because I’d made a promise to Roscoe.
Nelson considered me, her jaw ticking. “Payton, you’re killing me here. You need to do something. Lundqvist and I can do nothing. We have evidence, but nothing concrete and only hearsay as motive. You’re going to have to make it happen. Winston doesn’t have forever, and neither do we. The Derby is—”
“Next weekend,” I finished, rubbing my sternum and glancing behind her to the kitchen wall.