“You’re gonna wish we were,” Muerto said as he seized the guy’s arm. The dealer struggled and pulled in a vain attempt to break free. “You keep fighting me, it’s gonna get worse.”
“Gag the fucker and bring him to the cell.” Steel turned away and held his hand out to Jigger. “Give me the shit. I wanna see what’s got a fucking hold on my daughter.” He stared at the cellophane packet holding the small black rock that looked like a piece of coal. This shit was what seduced Chenoa and almost killed her. He shook his head and shoved it in his pocket. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
The cell was a place in the clubhouse to bring people who needed to be persuaded to tell the Night Rebels information, or needed to be taught respect, or simply needed to be eliminated. It was in the far left corner of the basement and had a reinforced steel door, soundproof walls, no windows, and various tools for implementing the club’s desired effects. Knives of various sizes lined the back wall; metal bats, pliers, and wrenches hung from hooks on the side wall; and gallon jugs of chemicals, cleaning products, and disinfectants were neatly lined up on a large steel table. Steel beams suspended from the ceiling had pulleys and hooks in them. Metal folding chairs were stacked against the front wall. A curled-up hose and concrete floors made for an easy cleanup.
By the time the Night Rebels arrived back at the clubhouse, they had bound and gagged the sniveling dealer. Dragging him down the stairs by his shirt, the young man groaned and grunted until he was thrown on the cold floor in the cell. As Steel stared at him, the man’s eyes grew wild with fear. Steel gestured for Diablo to sit the dealer on a chair. Diablo unfolded the metal chair, pulled the man up by his shirt, and slammed him down. The young guy bowed his head.
“Ungag him,” Steel said, and Diablo complied.
“I didn’t do anything. Please. I swear. It’s just a crappy fuckin’ job. I don’t even get paid that much.”
Steel went over to him as he was babbling and backhanded him across the face. Blood spurted from the man’s nose. “Shut the fuck up! You fucking sold smack in our territory, and you’re trying to tell us you didn’t do anything? You’re a piece of shit.”
The man’s eyes widened as blood dripped down his chin onto his white T-shirt. “I didn’t know it was your territory. They didn’t tell me. I’m sorry. I don’t even know who you are. I’ll go to another area and sell. You can have your territory back.”
“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up,” Steel said. “The whole county is our territory, and we don’t allow that shit you’re selling on our turf.” The young man looked confused. “Who gives you the shit to sell?”
“I get it from a distributor. He goes by the name ‘Candyman.’ I’ve never met him. It’s usually mailed to me, or I pick it up at different locations. I have to pay the money first. I pay it through the Internet using bitcoins. Can I have a tissue?”
Diablo went close to the man and yelled, “No you fuckin’ can’t!” He boxed his ears and the dealer cried out.
“Where does Candyman get the Mexican Mud?” Steel leaned against the metal table.
“I don’t know. I’m just a small-time hood. I deal to support my own habit.” He hung his head down.
“Why the fuck did you want the food stamp cards?”
“Candyman said they bring good money ’cause we buy them cheap and resell them at a marked-up price. I preferred cash, but sometimes people don’t have it, especially the ones who live on the reservation.”
Crimson filled the space between Steel and the young man. He kicked over the chair, throwing the man on the ground. The dealer moaned and looked up at Steel’s blazing eyes. This fucking dirtbag probably sold smack to Chenoa. I wanna kill him. The young man started to open his mouth but then closed it and kept his gaze locked with Steel’s. “You deal at the rez?” Steel asked through gritted teeth.
“Sometimes,” the man answered tentatively. “Mostly just on the streets.”
“How old are you?”
“Just turned eighteen last week.”
“Happy fucking belated birthday,” Muerto said as he kicked him in the stomach. The man groaned and curled over.
Steel watched the young man who was bleeding, bruised, and squirming in pain. This fucker isn’t the ringleader. He’s a goddamn addict who’s supporting his fucking habit, but he knows more than he’s saying. “What’s your name?”
“Jason,” he said as he winced. “I think my ribs are broken.”
“Why the fuck do you think we care about that?” Muerto said as he gave the man another kick. Diablo, Goldie, Crow, and Steel laughed. Muerto spun around. “This fucker’s been too pampered. We need to toughen him up a bit.”
Steel pushed away from the table and knelt down beside the whimpering man. “I’m not buying your story, Jason. And when I think someone’s lying to me, it pisses me and my brothers off to no end. So we can play this a couple of ways. You can either tell it to us straight and live, or keep bullshitting us and after a painful couple of days, we’ll spread your ashes over the dump. The choice is yours. We got a lot of time. Think about it. I’ll be back, and then you can give me your decision.” Steel stood up. “Get his ass back on the chair. See if you can give him a taste of what’s gonna happen if he chooses noncooperation.” As Steel opened the heavy door, he heard Jason cry out in pain when Muerto and Goldie sat him down.
Outside, the moon hung full beneath an eclipse of blazing stars in the black sky above him. He breathed in the fresh air, then slipped his hand inside his cut and took out a joint from a small pocket. Cupping the flame with his hand, he lit the joint and inhaled deeply. Looking up, the brilliant specks carpeting the velvety blackness winked at him.
He wished the lanky kid would give up everything he knew. Steel had no problem killing someone who hurt or threatened the brotherhood, who disrespected his patch, or who betrayed him or his brothers, but he wasn’t enjoying offing an eighteen-year-old addict.
Fuck! I gotta find out who’s supplying the shit. I gotta stop this. Now.
“He’s ready to talk, Prez.”
He hadn’t even heard Goldie come out. Without saying a word, he stubbed out his joint and walked back into the clubhouse, descending the back stairs to see what Jason had to say. When he entered the cell, Jason sat slumped over, his hair matted in blood, his T-shirt soaked in dark red, and his arms covered in angry, red marks. Steel went over to him and pulled his head back. “Have you chosen to live or die?”
“Live,” he said in a low voice.
“Good choice. Now let’s do this again from the top.”
Over the next thirty minutes, Jason revealed that he got the drugs from a couple of guys who worked for Candyman. The two guys had spiked blond hair, wore blue jeans, and usually wore leather jackets or vests, but he didn’t know their names. He said that his pay was fifteen percent of the sale. Most of the money he earned went up his arm. Jason also revealed that he thought a biker gang was the supplier, but he wasn’t sure. He’d heard some talk among the other dealers about that. He’d sworn that was all he knew.
Steel believed him. Jason was a low-rung dealer who wouldn’t be privy to the internal workings of the network. “I’ll tell you what, Jason. We’re gonna put you on our payroll. And we pay better than fucking fifteen percent.”
Jason’s eyes widened. “You want me to work for you? What do you want me to do?”
Diablo kicked his chair. “First off, have some respect. You don’t fuckin’ talk to the prez until he asks you a goddamn question. You’re not a fuckin’ brother.”
Steel chuckled. “You’re gonna be the club’s snitch. We need to find out who’s dealing on our turf, and you’re gonna help us do it.” A flash of hope crossed Jason’s eyes. “Yeah. You’re gonna live, but it may only be for a short time if you double-cross us. Betrayal is not something we like, and the punishment is the betrayer pleading for death. You get my drift?” Jason bobbed his head up and down. “Good. You got anything you wanna say now?”
“Y
eah. I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not, but I was planning to stop dealing ’cause it was getting harder to make enough money, and the food stamp card thing was starting to freak me out. I didn’t want the feds breathing down my neck. I’ll help you out.”
“Doesn’t seem like you got a choice,” Crow said.
“He has a choice. It may not be a good one, but we always have a choice. Isn’t that right, Jason?” Steel narrowed his eyes. The young man nodded. “Then we understand each other. Perfect.” He turned to Crow and pointed. “See this guy? He’s in charge of you. Don’t fuck this up. You don’t want to get on his bad side.”
“No, you fuckin’ don’t,” Crow said as he put his face a mere inch from Jason’s.
“We’re gonna untie you and you can wash up. It’s best if you spend the night here. You got a problem with that?”
He rubbed his wrists as Crow cut the rope from his ankles. “I need a fix bad. I’ll go through a shitty night if I don’t get something.”
“Life’s fucking tough. You’re going to have to man up to it. We’ll make sure you have a bathroom at your disposal for tonight.” Steel walked toward the door.
“Man, please. I can’t handle the withdrawal. I need something. Anything.” Jason’s voice hitched.
“One more thing. The dudes with the spiked blond hair, did you notice any patches on the front or back of their leather jackets and vests?”
Jason paused, his eyes rolling up. “Uh… yeah, I remember. They had a real cool patch on the back of them. It was a big ass skull with a hammer crushing it. I was gonna ask them about it ’cause I wanted to get one, but they weren’t the friendly type.” He wiped the sweat rolling down his face. “I need something bad.”
“Give him some joints to calm him.”
Steel walked out the door, went up to the bar, and hit his fist against Paco’s and Skull’s. “We got a fucking snitch on the payroll.”
“Yeah?” Paco asked.
Steel nodded. “I hope he doesn’t fuck up. He’s an addict, so there’s a big chance he will.” He threw back his tequila shot. “The motherfucking Skull Crushers are in on this. The kid described their patch. The kid picks up the drugs from them. He also thinks it’s a biker club supplying the smack. I gotta call Hawk in the morning to see if he’s heard anything. The Insurgents have access to more information than we do. The kid’s barely eighteen. Fuck.” He threw back another shot, intending to get good and drunk.
“The way I look at it, the Skull Crushers just signed their goddamn death warrant.” Paco slammed his fist on the bar. Skull followed suit.
“Yep. That’s the way I look at it too. We’ll call an emergency church for tomorrow early afternoon. The way these fuckers are drinking tonight, I need their asses sober and their full attention. I’m gonna head upstairs. I’m beat.” He clasped Paco’s and Skull’s shoulders, grabbed a bottle of tequila from the bar, and headed upstairs.
In the quiet of his room, he kicked off his boots and hung up his cut, then switched on the small lamp on his nightstand and killed the overhead lights. Turning on one of his favorite bands, Five Finger Death Punch, he settled into the chair, took a deep drink of tequila, and listened to “Bad Company.”
He closed his eyes, Breanna’s bright blue ones sparkling in his mind. A longing so intense filled him, and his chest cavity ached. He shook his head as if to dislodge her image from his mind.
And he did. Chenoa’s dark eyes came into focus, but they weren’t bright. They were dull, almost lifeless, and an icy fear wound around his spine. “Don’t leave me, sunshine.”
A thickness in his throat formed and he squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to make his mind go blank, to absorb the music, to not think.
He took another long drink and swallowed the lump in his throat, but his mind ricocheted between the sparkling blue orbs and the dark, dying ones.
He drank until he saw nothing but blackness.
Chapter Sixteen
Breanna slipped through the back door at Cuervos. The parking lot was already full for a Friday night. She’d made it a point to drive around the lot and the front and back of the bar before she parked and went inside. She’d been looking for Steel’s motorcycle, telling herself that she hoped he wasn’t there, and then dealing with the disappointment when she realized he wasn’t. That’s the way the past few days had gone with her, a back and forth of I hope I never see him again and I wish he’d call. Whenever she called the rehab center to get an update on Chenoa’s progress, her heart always melted when the staff told her how much time Steel spent with his daughter. Dr. Turner, who ran the rehab facility through the hospital, told her it’d been a long time since he’d seen a father as devoted and determined to help his daughter.
A man who loves his daughter as much as he does can’t be all bad, can he? And he’s great with his mother. So why the fuck is he acting like a jerk with me?
She stuffed her tote into her locker and slammed it shut. Glancing in the mirror, she touched up her lip gloss and tried to pull down her skirt. She did it each time she wore the short spandex skirt, and each time it stayed exactly the same length.
I better get some good tips tonight to make this shit worth it.
“Hey, Breanna, how’re you doing?” Jorge asked as he handed two patrons their drinks at the bar. “We’re gonna be slammed all night. I hired another waitress the other day. Her name’s Mindy. That should help you and Jill out.”
“That’ll be a big help.” She smiled and walked into the crowd.
A couple of hours into her shift, Breanna had already made a little over a hundred dollars in tips. She knew the attention she gave the guys helped her get more than the standard 10 percent, so she flirted with them and made them feel special. She never crossed the line, and for the most part, the men were tame and respectful. If she had to bend down a little lower than normal when she set down or picked up the drinks from the table, then so be it. She needed the money, and standing on high heels for eight hours was sheer torture.
She approached a table of three businessmen dressed in jackets and ties. She hadn’t seen them in the bar before, so she figured they weren’t locals, probably staying at the small hotel down the street. Setting three coasters down, she smiled. “What can I get for you gentlemen?”
One of the men, who wore a navy jacket and khaki pants, grinned at her. “You’re a pretty one. Do you have any specials?” The other two men gazed at her cleavage.
“We have killer nachos for four ninety-nine, wings in original and chipotle sauce, all mixed drinks are half price until ten, and we have ten beers on tap.”
“What do you recommend?”
“The nachos are awesome, but I’m not a wing girl, and all the tap beers are excellent. The bar’s known for it.”
“What kind of girl are you?” the man sitting across the table asked. He looked to be in his thirties and sported a beard and stylish haircut.
“A hardworking one.” She took their orders and squeezed through the crowd to hand them to Jorge.
He glanced at it and smiled. “The nachos are a big hit tonight.”
“I keep pushing them.” She laughed and placed the drinks Jorge had made for one of her other tables onto the round tray. When she picked up the heavy tray, both Jill and Jorge yelled out. She stopped in her tracks. “What’s wrong?”
“Your wrist looks like it’s ready to break,” Jill said, her eyes filled with shock.
“The damn tray’s too heavy,” Jorge said as he leaned over and quickly took off some of the drinks. “Come back and get these. It’s not worth hurting yourself.”
“What? It’s not that heavy.”
“Doesn’t your wrist hurt?” Jill asked as she absentmindedly rubbed hers.
Breanna looked at them and then started to laugh. “No, it’s fine. I’m double-jointed in my wrists and hands. I’ve been like that since I was a kid, so I forget how weird it looks to other people. Don’t worry about it. It’s just the way I’m built.” She grabbed the
drinks Jorge took off and placed them back on the tray.
“You sure that’s normal?” he asked.
“It is for me. Really, it’s fine,” she said to Jorge’s and Jill’s doubtful faces. “I’m good. See?” She lifted the tray and walked away laughing.
The businessmen consumed two orders of nachos, baskets of wings, and taquitos along with numerous glasses of beer. She figured she’d receive a big tip from their table. She’d learned that they were comptrollers from Kansas and they were in town overseeing the accounting operations of the Alina National Bank.
By the time she placed another round of beers in front of them, they were inebriated. As she turned to leave, one of the men grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “How about a little kiss from our favorite waitress?”
She smiled and tried to pull out of his grasp. “If I do that, I’ll have to do it to all the guys.”
“You can treat us special since we’re out-of-towners.”
“That wouldn’t be fair, would it?” she said.
“It isn’t fair that you’ve been teasing us all night, honey,” the man in the navy jacket said.
“I haven’t been. You nice gentlemen are just so easy to talk to.” She pretended to go along with them as she tried to pull away, glancing at the man who still held her arm. “Why don’t you let go of my arm. I have other customers I have to serve. I promise I’ll be back.” If he doesn’t let go of me, I’m going to slap him hard.
“I will if you give me a kiss. Just a small one.” He pointed to his cheek. “Right here.”
Before she could answer, a low, feral voice said, “Get your fucking hand off her.”
A slow shiver rode down her spine as butterflies exploded in her stomach.
The man’s eyes grew wide as he dropped his hand down to his lap.
“Don’t fucking touch her or any of the waitresses again, or I’ll not so nicely throw your ass outta here.”
STEEL: Night Rebels Motorcycle Club (Night Rebels MC Romance Book 1) Page 14