by Lana Grayson
This wouldn’t feel good.
I dove into the river as a hail of bullets sprayed over my head. The water rushed around me, murky and chilled. I kicked and surfaced only after scraping my hand against something hard and probably rusted. The water lathered me in grime and shivers. I spat out the foul taste.
I stroked down the river, avoiding the sweeping headlights. The squeal of tires burst towards the road, and the pop of gunfire echoed over the night.
I hauled myself onto the muddy shore, just lucky I didn’t get stuck with a discarded needle. My clothes sopped with water and grit, and I swore against the ache of my knees, the slice on my hand.
I didn’t let myself rest. My prepaid phone soaked with water. Worthless. I didn’t even bother trying to call.
Temple was in the Valley, and, once they tired of fucking with Keep, they’d turn their focus to the one who mattered.
Lyn.
She wasn’t safe.
And I didn’t give a damn if she refused my help.
No one was touching Jocelyn Hart.
She belonged only to me.
Anathema held a last ride memorial service for Blade.
Of course, they didn’t have a body, and I doubted they’d ride into hell to find where the bastard fried for all eternity.
Blade didn’t deserve a memorial. He never had a good reputation with my girls even before I learned of the horrible things he did to his daughter.
I was lucky none of my dancers had been hurt by him. Or maybe they were and they never said anything—just like Rose, too afraid to speak out against Anathema.
I ground my jaw as Thorne spoke for his fallen brother. The memorial was held in Pixie. Keep took care of the arrangements. The bar dressed somber in black, the tables moved for rows of folding chairs for the extended Anathema family. They’d move again later. After the ride, they’d return to celebrate Blade’s life. They’d drink to his loyalty. His bravery. How he shut his mouth in jail and how many sons of bitches he killed in the name of Anathema.
Thorne had much to say about the dead man, and nothing to say about the Darnell who killed him. Then again, Brew did what they both planned. Thorne left him alive specifically to take out Blade. Thorne couldn’t kill him himself, couldn’t combat the rightful vice-president.
But a dead man didn’t have those loyalties.
And Rose? No matter the nightmare, she was just a gash.
Sure, she was cute, and she was a damn talented singer, but beyond bending over for Thorne and wearing his patch, she was nice girl with no influence over the club. She understood that. It was why she hadn’t talked until Brew and Luke worked with Temple to get him out of jail.
Lessons learned too late.
Lessons that meant I wasn’t wearing black to the service. Red suited Blade—crimson and insulting. The men didn’t notice. In a sea of leather, the focus was on the apparent dead. And thankfully, no one noticed the stoic, curly haired victim staring at the clock instead of the framed picture of Blade. They nestled the photo within his jacket. Never did find his cut.
Brew must have burned that himself.
But it wasn’t good for Rose to distract herself. Mourning was expected. If she looked bored—or worse, delighted—it’d fuck us over worse than anything that bastard ever did to her.
Thorne pretended not to watch his old lady. He spoke lies that would earn her tears later, but he couldn’t do shit to comfort her now. He patted the jacket on the pedestal and nodded to his men.
“Lost a brother, a father, and badass mother-fucker. Blade was a real man. Part of our gray generation, our core.”
I wondered if that lie was harder to swallow than denying the truth of who killed him. Thorne’s jaw set. He pointed to the door.
“One last ride for Blade. Let’s go.”
He didn’t look at Rose as he passed. Wasn’t his place to delay a ride for his old lady, nor was it hers to stop him. She accepted the condolences of a few members but didn’t wait for them all to leave. She burst through the back of Pixie and stormed up the stairs as the men filed out.
Thorne looked more eager to take a knife to the wrists than deal with her. He was never the cuddle-type, much preferred to take action. I had no idea how he meant to settle her down, but I anticipated the favor he’d ask. He looked me over before grabbing his helmet.
“Should have known you’d make a statement with your tits,” he said.
I shrugged, the low-cut lace disgracefully red. “You don’t think Blade would have liked this dress?”
“Too fucking much.” He nodded to the stairs. “Make sure Rose is seen sniffling with some tissues.”
“She won’t be crying for the right reasons.”
Thorne didn’t deny it. “Can’t do anything about that now.”
“You could go up to her.”
He grunted. The thought apparently burned him enough without me striking the match. “I gotta lead the men.”
“Watch your back.”
“Watch your ass.”
I smirked. “Everyone does.”
I shimmied to the stairs as the men started their bikes. Only two prospects with bullets for balls stayed behind. The rest of the old ladies and sweet-butts started setting up for the wake.
Pixie had an oven, and Rose should have been downstairs to sort out shit before Keep’s tweaked out girl decked Gold’s old lady over the salt shaker. And with Gold’s baby balanced on her hip, Annie wasn’t in a mood for any bullshit that might have hurt a hair on Silver’s pretty little head.
Someone had to take control of the women. I went to retrieve Anathema’s queen.
Keep remodeled the upstairs for the officers—a home away from home if they needed a bedroom. Thorne claimed the suite at the end of the hall though he rarely used it now that he and Rose shared a cozy little house in the suburbs.
I didn’t knock. The door closed behind me. Rose hid in the bathroom. Her voice echoed off the tile. I knew who she called.
And that murderer was the last man we needed to make an appearance today.
“—Can’t handle them talking about him like that. I can’t pretend anymore. I just can’t—would you let me freaking finish—damn it, just listen to me.” Rose batted at the shower curtain. She swore—the same phrase I’d heard him use before. “You always do this! I don’t need you to come here, I can handle it—Brew, just listen to me! I just wanted to talk…”
The same time honored argument between the two of them. I pushed the door open and leaned on the frame. Rose nearly leapt down the drain before she realized who crept up on her. I snapped my fingers.
“Let me talk to him.”
Rose paled. “I—I’m not talking to anyone.”
“Bullshit. Give me the phone.”
The voice on the other end snapped. Rose didn’t tolerate his tone. “It’s just Lyn.”
We didn’t have the minutes to waste. I pulled her out of the corner and stole the phone.
“Been a long time, stranger,” I said.
Brew exhaled, his voice stained with the same gruff regret he always had when he talked with Rose.
“Take it this isn’t a friendly call?” he said.
“Is it ever?”
“Never that optimistic.”
I smirked. “Good. A man like you doesn’t have much cause to be optimistic.”
“The more things change...”
I eyed Rose. “Your buddy’s been starting trouble.”
“Gotta be more specific. Don’t have many buddies.”
Brew and Luke always did have the most in common. “Knight’s turning detective on us. Got himself one hell of a case to solve.”
“Christ. He got any idea about me?”
“Hasn’t pieced it together yet.”
Rose bit her nail. “We won’t let him know. I won’t risk anything happening to Brew.”
Brew had it made. He rode away from the line of fire, entertained himself with a blonde piece of ass twelve years younger than him, and had n
o responsibilities to Anathema. That little doggy played dead, and he got himself a handful of treats. But the rest of us?
“If Knight figures out you’re alive and tells the rest of Anathema that Thorne didn’t kill you, we’ll have anarchy. The club will disintegrate, and Temple will feast on what remains.”
Brew knew how to comfort and condescend in the same dark tone. “Knight can handle Temple.”
“I’m not worried about Knight. I’m worried about me. They’re trying to pin his death on us.”
He sighed. “Damn it. I tried to help him. I gave him some intel to get him a leg-up on Temple.”
“You gave him the reconnaissance?”
“How the fuck did you know he had it? Christ, if you knew how many men died for that information—”
“Jesus, Brew. If he figures out it was you—”
“You gonna tell him?”
“Why the hell would I tell him?”
Brew snickered. “Because I can’t tell which of you is up the other’s ass, not when you’re both bending over for it.”
“Oh, screw you.” I frowned as Rose glanced into Thorne’s room. Someone knocked at the door and warned of an impending coleslaw/potato salad crisis. “Just tell me you buried that body real deep.”
“Martini’s cousin handled it for us.”
“Fantastic. So long as Martini’s fucking cousin—”
“He’s a specialist. My Dad isn’t wormfood—parts of him are dissolving in a fucking barrel across the states. You tell Knight he can keep sniffing, but he’s only gonna smell bleach.”
“And what are you doing?”
“Touring wine country.”
Was he kidding? “So you’re tasting grapes and getting blown every night, and we’re facing a goddamned war.”
“This exile’s a bitch, I’ll tell you.” Brew’s voice lowered. “If things go to hell. You call me. I’ll get Rose out of there.”
“Things are so far beyond hell even you wouldn’t recognize the brimstone. I’ll take care of your kid, Daddy.”
I ended the call and tossed the phone to Rose. She protested as I shoved a box of tissues in her hands.
“You’re gonna go downstairs, and you’re going to give the waterworks tonight, you hear me? Act like you’re in mourning.”
Rose wasn’t amused. “I baked a casserole for the wake. What more do you want?”
“I want you to realize what happened wasn’t your fault, but we gotta deal with it like it is.”
The tissues pushed at my chest. “You have no idea how much I suffered because of Blade. I didn’t ask Brew to kill—”
“It wasn’t your decision to make. The guys knew the consequences. So you’re going downstairs, you’ll pretend you just lost your daddy, and you’ll convince these guys to look across the river for the murderer.” I paused. “Or they’ll come after Brew, and then you’ll lose a real father.”
“What about you?”
I fixed my hair in the mirror, tightening the French twist. “I have to work tonight.”
“None of the guys are coming to Sorceress tonight.”
“And half my girls are mourning with them here. Someone’s gotta be at the club.”
Where it was safe.
Where I had a bag packed and a car with a full tank waiting for the moment lady luck to refuse the couple bucks I stuck in her thong.
I made my appearance, and I doubted Thorne would keep Rose around Pixie once the drinks sloshed and the skirts rode up. They’d celebrate in their own special way, and those rattling headboards spelled enough guilt for all of us.
Rose followed me downstairs. “Lyn, be careful. You know you’ve got a bulls-eye on you.”
“Always do.”
Rose reluctantly let the girls in the kitchen drag her away, feigning an appropriate amount of sadness.
If war was coming, it wouldn’t be tonight. Even Temple wouldn’t antagonize two clubs during a funeral. Tensions rode high enough.
I sunk into my car. The familiar twin headlights flashed in my rear view mirror. The sedan followed me onto the highway. ATF wasn’t subtle. They had no reason to be. I hadn’t returned Agent Greene’s phone call, and I wouldn’t. Knowing the Feds, they’d give me a couple days before they hit hard. But as long as they parked outside until they slapped a warrant on my counter or ass, they’d keep Temple at bay. Use one pest to root out the other.
The club was dead. Shannon was on for her shift, but she didn’t dance, hardly looked up from her phone as she took selfies on the stage of her new red hair and nose ring. The music pulsed low, and I poured myself a drink.
No sense wasting a free night.
I changed from the cocktail dress and into my workout clothes—tights and a clingy tank that wouldn’t get tangled in my latest obsession.
Last year it was belly-dancing. The year before hula hoops. Before that, burlesque inspired nights. I prided myself on constantly innovating Sorceress with new, sexy, and exotic brands of entertainment.
My newest challenge installed a month ago, and I loved it. Hadn’t mastered it yet, but that’d come in time.
The metal rigging was tucked into the ceiling, and the twin aerial silk curtains draped from the frame to the floor. The aerial silks were a marvel of human strength, beauty, and rigorous conditioning. If I took off a few pieces of clothing while twisting within the silk and suspending myself above my adoring fans, I was bound to pop a few men’s zippers.
I chose a rich burgundy color for the silks, something to compliment my blonde hair. I hoisted myself six feet off the floor by twisting upside down and hooking my feet in the silks. Ideally, my aerial show would be a sultry tango fifteen feet in the air, but it was hard to master even with weekly classes and a private instructor.
I performed nearly naked aerial ballet with only two twisted silk ropes bound around my ankles, waist, and wrists. It looked sexy. Powerful and sleek, an extension of femininity that contorted my body in beautiful positions. I favored a vertical split, but the other girls liked when I twisted my arms within the silks and dangled in self-inflicted bondage.
Either was fine by me. The men would get a show, and I’d have my creative license to perform something other than a repetitive twerk to overplayed top 40.
“Holy Christ, Lyn.”
I didn’t expect an audience. I hadn’t coordinated the act yet, and my movements were still jerky, compromising my form. His voice startled me. I missed a loop around my leg. The bound silks split into two, and I lost the twisted support. My hands gripped the silk before I crashed to the stage.
That was a long drop. I hadn’t done it yet. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t ever smack into the ground. No telling the damage it’d cause me or my wooden stage.
Luke watched from the floor in appropriate amazement. I hooked my ankle around a layer of the rope, desperate to take the weight from my slipping wrist. I kicked the silk and created a fold for my toes before he realized how I struggled.
My heart pounded. It wasn’t because I made the mistake or that I nearly broke my neck.
It was because of him.
Not a reaction that would keep me safe—from the world or the knight bound to protect me from it.
“You shouldn’t be here.” I licked my lip. Goddamn, his eyes were royal blue even from the ceiling. “Not good for people to see us together.”
Or for me to be so close to the man I kicked from my apartment.
Reluctantly.
Idiotically.
Rightfully.
Luke smiled. “Just here for a dance.”
I laughed. “Oh, really?”
“That strange?”
“What’s Prince Charming want with my girls?”
“I’m not looking for the girls. I’m looking for you.”
He had my attention, and it wasn’t good while I wove thin fabric fifteen feet in the air. I twisted the silks again, wrapping over my hips and legs and forming a faux-harness. I sat perfectly still, a canary baiting a cat, and waited.
“I gotta talk to you.”
“We have nothing to discuss.” I shifted my weight, letting my little platform swing with crossed legs. “We said everything we needed to say.”
“Situation’s changed.”
And it would, every day, every minute, until he got what he wanted. I knew what that was now.
Me.
“Not interested,” I said.
“Don’t pull the attitude. We have a complication.”
I didn’t like his tone. Men were only that serious because their problems got out of hand. Luke created enough crises. I couldn’t afford his brand of help anymore, not when it was delivered with equal parts generosity and catastrophe.
“I’m working,” I said.
I kicked the silk out from my hip and demonstrated a cute twirl. The material unfolded and puffed out into a transparent lining. I bound it within the second strand and created a little tent capable of holding me horizontal like a bed. It had the benefit of transparency in the right angles, silhouetting my curves in the spotlight.
Luke was impressed. It was hard to hide his enjoyment of the show, but he didn’t acknowledge it.
“I want a dance,” he said. “Back room.”
“You’re not getting it.”
“I’ll pay double.”
“You’ll pay triple for interrupting this routine.”
He flashed a pocket full of hundreds. “Deal. You’re mine.”
I swallowed a dozen profanities. Shannon watched from the opposite stage, eyebrow arched and phone buzzing with messages. Not good. God only knew what low-life she talked to, and the last thing I needed was word getting to her owner, Lash, that Luke poked around Sorceress again.
“One dance,” I said.
“That’s all I’ll need.”
I doubted that. I wrapped the silks over me, binding my midsection in the crimson material until the entire length coiled over me. Luke shouted as I released my hold. Gravity did the rest. I spun, unraveled, dramatically falling but in complete control of my motions.