GARRETT (Southside Skulls MC Romance Book 8)

by Jessie Cooke

  He looked at the little cabin as he put on his gloves. Smoke curled out of the chimney and he thought about waking up earlier with Paige in his arms. His first thought, before anyone moved or spoke, was that she was what had been missing in his life. And then Trigger walked in the door and all hell broke loose. He’d made a damned fool out of himself, and he wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t want anything else to do with him at all. He’d had women fight over him in the past and it hadn’t impressed him. It always left him feeling sorry for how pathetic it made them look.

  He’d screwed up, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to fix it. He slid on his do-rag and pulled his hair back into a short ponytail. As he wrapped the elastic band around it he wondered if he should even try. Paige had had sex with him, but big fucking deal, a lot of women had sex with him. What’s to say she even wanted anything more? He didn’t know a fucking thing about women, other than how to please them in the sack. He’d thought she was different...but again, what the fuck did he know? He started the bike and kicked up the stand. He needed to stick to what he knew for sure, and that was how to put a bullet in a man’s head from three hundred yards away.

  He knew he was already getting a late start, but before he could find the patience to sort through the thousands of people on the strip without feeling the urge to go psycho-sniper, he needed a breather. The cabin was close to a place that brought peace to his soul when it got restless, and this morning peace was what he needed more than anything else.

  He left the dirt road that led up to the cabin and took the main road until he came to the entrance to I-15. He got on the interstate and headed for the state park. He was going to take the Valley of Fire loop. It would add about thirty minutes to his commute, but it would be worth it. He could see the beautiful rock formations as he drove along I-15. They were brilliant colors and looked like fire that had been liquefied and splashed against the dark blue of the Nevada sky. When he turned off the interstate and onto 167, the route that would take him through the park, the reds and oranges became even more vibrant and that feeling of peace he sought began to descend. He rode his bike full throttle, letting the cool wind neutralize the fire that ran through his own veins until he came to the cutoff for the dam. He stopped for just a few minutes and looked out at Lake Mead. The water was calm, but it was cold, so the tourists that sometimes flocked to it had left it alone today. At last he realized it was getting late in the day and he pointed the bike in the direction of Vegas.

  He lived in the city of sin, where people danced with their demons, and all he wanted to do was escape his. He just had no idea how to do that. How do you change who you are to the very core of your soul? Could a man who took a life without blinking ever just be a regular person? Could someone really change that much? He thought he could do it for Jessie, but that hadn’t worked, and then he met Paige and thought maybe she was the key...Truth was, he was looking for an easy fix. The monster was inside of him, and he was the only one that could chase him out. But not today, he thought with a sigh.

  He maneuvered the bike through the heavy morning traffic toward Fremont Street. Whereas Vegas itself is known as “Sin City,” Fremont Street should be known as the land of debauchery. Garrett actually went out of his way to avoid it at all costs most of the time. It’s as glitzy and glamorous as the Strip at first glance, but upon closer inspection, it warps into something even more bizarre. The “Fremont Street Experience” that draws tourists by the hundreds of thousands, spans four blocks, and is lined with hotels, bars, casinos, and restaurants and shaded by a digital canopy that’s ninety feet above the ground and fifteen hundred feet long. It’s an explosion of overstimulation with concerts playing on the screen and live bands playing on the three stages set up along Fremont Street. People are zip-lining above you and walking half-naked around you...some are bending their bodies into pretzel shapes and others are dancing and gyrating in a lewd, overfamiliar fashion. They’re all looking to make a buck, either from their “talents” or their pitiful faces as they hold up their cardboard signs and hold out their tin cups.

  Garrett hated it, and knowing a rapist sat in a cushy office at the top of one of the newest and most glamorous hotels and casinos in the downtown area made him despise it that much more. He would like to just drop him today, like the vermin he was. But he was smart enough to know that would just be too risky. Garrett didn’t take risks. It was the only way a man as big as a mountain could remain a ghost. He was there today to get a look at him in person, see who he spent his time with on the job, and get a feel for the guy’s schedule. Then one night when the stars aligned, he’d spend one bullet in the hopes of cashing it in later for a scant amount of retribution.

  He parked the bike in a garage down the street from the Silver Spoon and then waded through the already busy streets toward the casino, scoping out the buildings on either side of the street...just in case. He chuckled to himself as he wondered if assassins from Vegas got special consideration in heaven...after all, if you’re going to beat the average of 2,000 cameras that most casinos operate, as well as 360-degree cameras, pinhole cameras, infrared cameras, and license plate recognition cameras...you’d have to have the luck of a saint to not get caught, right? A man could hope, anyways. Hope was all Garrett was still holding onto...maybe that wasn’t such a good thing.

  He ignored the two women trying to get his attention as he crossed the last street in front of the new casino. Each wore the headdress of a Vegas showgirl along with pasties and a thong. They probably stood there eight hours a day in their six-inch heels, soliciting people, mostly men, for souvenir photos. The fact that they expected a “donation” was an unspoken rule among the street performers and heaven help the tourist who didn’t realize that. He was in for a cussing from Spider-Man, a middle finger from a Ninja Turtle, or worse. They were all looking to make a buck, and slight them and you’d be in for the modern Vegas version of a public stoning.

  When Garrett got inside the casino, he scanned his surroundings quickly and headed for one of the slot machines. Walking around looking at things would get him a starring role in one of the surveillance films and later, when they were investigating the death of the piece of shit living the high life upstairs, that alone would put him on the list of suspects even before they found his loose connection to Paige, his affiliation with the Flames, and his history of being one of the most prolific snipers that the Navy SEALs had ever seen. He didn’t like that kind of attention. He sat down in front of a noisy machine and stuck in twenty bucks. He hated to gamble. If he wanted to give his money away, he would have handed it to one of those women with the pasties out front...the return on his investment would have probably been much swifter. He casually glanced around the casino floor and pressed the “spin reels” button. While he sat there and watched his money being swallowed up by each push of a button and spin of the reels, he scoped out where the cameras were hidden...the ones that weren’t looking right at him through the computer screen, that is.

  When his twenty was gone, he got up and pretended to be looking for somewhere else to stick his money. As he did, he checked out the signs and mentally mapped out a path to the executive suites. In a manner of twenty minutes he was smiled at, brushed up against, and outright propositioned. He politely turned down the fifty-something-year-old woman who was wearing one of those nametags stuck on a lanyard around her neck. She was an insurance salesperson from Birmingham and her name was Dolores. Dolores didn’t look half bad for her age and in another time and place, Garrett might not have hesitated. But this wasn’t the time or the place for a hookup.

  He spent a long, slow day, people-watching and wandering around as much as he could without making himself too recognizable until evening began to fall at last. He left the casino and, now elbow to elbow with people on the street, he made his way to the end of it, and around the side toward the alley in back. Garrett knew the bigwigs didn’t just walk out of the fancy offices upstairs and onto the same elevators every Tom, Dick, and H
arry used. They had private elevators that led to private entrances, and exits, where the valets would be waiting with their luxury cars, or their drivers would be waiting with their limos. Garrett had already checked with an old Navy friend of his that worked for the motor vehicle department and he’d gotten the make and model of Ewell’s car, and the license plate number. He took out his phone and held it to his ear, lit a cigarette, and paced back and forth, pretending not to pay any mind to the finely dressed people that flowed and then straggled out the back and into their cars.

  Over an hour and five Marlboros later, Garrett saw what he was waiting for. One of the valets parked a sleek, gun-barrel-gray sports car in front of the private entrance. Garrett watched the man with the dark hair come out and walk around to the open driver-side door of the sports car. He handed the valet a tip and slid into the leather seat. In his head Garrett counted the seconds it took the man to do all of that, and then looked around behind him. The roof of the hotel behind them was about two hundred yards away. If the rapist’s high-rise apartment didn’t work, that would.

  He watched the man leave before walking back to the garage to get his bike. He already had the address where the rapist lived on the eighth floor of a posh high-rise. Garrett figured the man wasn’t headed straight home, but that didn’t matter. Tonight was about getting ready. It wasn’t time for the shot to happen...but it would, when it was. Garrett had learned a lot of things in the Navy, the most valuable of which was patience. It was a virtue that snipers couldn’t survive without. He marveled again at himself and that thought. Maybe it was just human nature to think of everything in terms of “survival” even after you’d marked that off your own to-do list.

  14

  He went back to the cabin that night, late. He made sure things were okay and he watched Paige sleep for a while. Her beautiful face and the slow, rhythmic movements of her chest as it rose and fell gave him peace. He did ache to touch her, but he resisted. Instead, he refueled his body with food and coffee, slept for two hours, and by the time Ewell showed up for work the next day, he was there.

  For the next two days, Garrett followed him, making mental notes of all his movements. During that time, he didn’t go back to the cabin. He wouldn’t until this was all long over, if he was still breathing. On the third morning, he went back to his own apartment, fixed himself something to eat, and then began the preparation process for the job. It was a routine that he went through anytime he did a job in Vegas, which wasn’t often. It was precautionary for him...but mostly, it was to keep the club out of it if he ever did get caught.

  He went into the bedroom and packed a small bag before unwrapping the new burner phone and sending Monkey a text. He stuck the phone in his bag when he finished. It would be crushed and tossed somewhere far from here, just in case. After that was done, he went into his closet and pushed the clothes that hung on the rack along the back wall out of the way. Using his combination...J-E-S-S-I-E...he opened the safe and pulled off his kutte. He folded it and put it on top of the safe with his wallet and the now-crumpled envelope with the letter for Jessie inside, still in the pocket.

  He reached into the back of the safe and took out a black leather wallet and opened it. He counted the hundred-dollar bills to make sure they were all there. He had twenty of them. He tucked the wallet into his back pocket and then after taking Jessie’s letter out of the pocket of his kutte, he put that inside the safe. He almost closed it before he remembered that he’d taken the box out to show to Paige. He went out to the living room and took the box off his desk, and it went into the safe too. Monkey would be sending someone to clean out the safe if anything ever happened to him. He never wanted the club associated with any of the things he was responsible for doing...even if a lot of it had been at their behest. His brothers were his family and a man protected his family. It was all he had, really.

  After he finished with the safe and it was locked back up and hidden once again, he moved to the closet in the hallway. He pushed the pile of clean towels to the side and slid open the panel behind them. Reaching inside, he pulled out a long, black gun case and sat it down on the floor next to him. He reached back in and pulled out a small one then, heavy with the ammo that was packed inside. He also pulled out a black duffel bag. It was empty, but it wouldn’t be for long. He closed the panel, moved the towels back over, and carried everything he’d just taken out into the living room. He sat it all down near the front door and took a dark jacket off the hook there, slipping it on before pulling the ponytail holder out of his hair and running his hands through it.

  He picked up the gun cases just as the knock sounded on the door. He didn’t need to look out, or ask who it was. Only his brothers knew the special knock. He pulled open the door and without saying a word, Saint took one of the cases out of his hands. Garrett picked up his overnight bag and the empty duffel bag and followed Saint. Saint was an oxymoron in a lot of ways. He looked like a choirboy, spoke with a soft, Tennessee accent, wore a cross and carried a bible...but next to Garrett, he was probably one of the most lethal sons of bitches alive.

  When they got to the parking lot behind the apartment building, Saint hit a button in his hand and the trunk of a black sedan popped up in time for him to put Garrett’s gun case inside. Garrett followed him and did the same with the rest of the gear and closed the trunk before pulling the key to his Harley out of his pocket and holding it out to Saint. Then he handed his Harley keys to Saint and Saint handed Garrett the keys to the SUV. Before they separated, Saint embraced him and said, “See ya soon, Bear.”

  Garrett gave him a nod of thanks and as Saint walked toward Garrett’s parking stall, Garrett got into the car and waited until his friend had driven away on Garrett’s bike before pulling out onto the street. On his way to the station he avoided the Strip, which would still be busy with tourist traffic. He took the back roads, which lengthened his trip, but that was okay since his train wouldn’t be leaving for a couple of hours. He passed a park on his way and his eyes landed on a cage underneath one of the bright streetlights. It was a batting cage, and the sight of it brought a rush of memories to the front of his mind that he’d been trying to bury for years. Every so often they returned like a tsunami, flooding every corner of his brain.

  Besides Jessie’s letter, his stepmother Vivian’s had been the hardest one for him to write. Their relationship had been tenuous for years and maybe when he died, she wouldn’t want to hear from him. But the letters had been his final act of self-indulgence and perhaps even a little cathartic...especially Vivian’s. Garrett’s enormous body convulsed with a shudder as his thoughts went back to the day that changed his and Vivian’s lives forever.

  Vivian married Garrett’s old man, three years after his mother died. Garrett was nine at the time and he was pissed. He was pissed that his mother was dead. He was pissed that his old man spent more time on the road than he did with him, and he was really pissed that suddenly this woman who was young enough to be his old man’s daughter was suddenly his stepmother. He was also pissed that she came with baggage...a six-year-old boy named Beau who Garrett was expected to entertain. Beau was small and pale, and his eyes were really close together. He had trouble learning in school and retaining anything he learned, in or out of school. Garrett knew now that the boy was special needs, but back then, he was an angry nine-year-old in a fourteen-year-old’s body. Despite the fact that Beau looked up to him, followed him everywhere he went, and wanted to be just like him, Garrett wasn’t exactly mean, and he never laid a hand on the boy...but he went out of his way to ignore the little boy as much as he was able. Poor Beau had no idea why Garrett treated him so poorly, and he ached for a brother or a friend so badly that he consistently tolerated it, never saying a word to Vivian or Garrett’s old man about anything Garrett did, or said.

  One day when Garrett was twelve and Beau was nine, Garrett went to the batting cages in town to hit a few balls and Beau tagged along behind him. Garrett rode as fast as he could on his bicycl
e, trying to lose the younger boy, but to no avail. He’d just put on his helmet and stepped into the cage when he heard the sound of Beau’s quiet little voice behind him.

  “Hey, Garrett, can you teach me to hit a ball?”

  “No,” Garrett remembered saying. “You probably couldn’t even lift the bat. Your arms are too skinny. You should stick to what you’re good at, naturally.”

  “But...I’m not good at anything.”

  Garrett snorted. “True,” he said.

  “Teach me, please. I can hold the bat. I’ll show you!” Garrett was about to snap something else mean back when he spotted the group of boys coming toward them from the other side of the park. They were kids from a rival MC and the leader was a sixteen-year-old piece of shit who had spent most of his adolescence locked up in the youth authority. Garrett had had a few run-ins with him, which he’d always gotten the better of. But the last time Garrett had beaten him down for putting his hands on a much younger girl, Ivan had made threats to come back with a gun.

  “Beau, go inside the arcade.” The batting cages faced the back side of the arcade. It was a cold Connecticut morning, so most of the activity was inside. As Garrett’s eyes scanned the park, he could see that he’d be on his own with Ivan and his friends. He just hoped the older boy hadn’t made good on his promise to get his hands on a gun.

  “Why? I want to learn how to hit the ball...” Beau whined.