Slater's Claim

by Amber Morgan

  Don't react until you know everything, he told himself sternly.

  He read through Alice's email. Then he read through all the attached files she'd sent—newspaper articles, court files, and obituaries. Then he read it all a second time to be sure he'd taken everything in.

  By the time he was done, he knew where Liviana Mancuso was.

  And he knew who Cullen Nash was.

  ****

  Nash was in his office with Rattler. They were both taking apart and cleaning their guns in silence. Slater wasn't sure if it was the guns or the silence that made the scene ominous. Nash looked up when he entered, weary resignation on his face.

  “What happened now?” he asked.

  Slater hesitated before coming in and closing the door. He had no idea if Rattler knew about Nash's Mancuso side-project, but he'd bet not. The two weren't exactly confidantes, and everyone knew it. Nash's decision to appoint Rattler as VP had cost Punk a lot of money, in fact. The safe bet had been ... well, almost anyone else in the club.

  Still, whatever Nash's reasons for doing so, he had made Rattler VP, and as far as Slater was concerned, that meant Rattler needed to know what was going on.

  “I've got information,” he said, holding Nash's gaze. “On Liviana Mancuso. And on Ciarán Reardon.”

  Nash sighed and put down the nylon brush he was holding. “I guess I did ask for this.”

  Rattler frowned at them both. “Why do I feel like I'm about to lose my shit?”

  Nash eyed him. “You're always about to lose your shit,” he said dryly. He beckoned at Slater. “Let's start with the good news. Livi?”

  “Alive and well, and living in Baton Rouge under an assumed name.” Slater hesitated, but the look on Nash’s face said he was going to ask for the name, so he did the good prospect thing and told him before he had to ask. “Carmela Basso.”

  Nash snorted, as if the name was a private joke. “Of course she fucking stayed in Louisiana. What’s she doing? Any word on that?”

  Slater scrolled through Alice’s email, as if the details weren’t burned into his brain. The combined weight of Nash and Rattler’s gazes made him uneasy, like he was walking blind on broken glass, and pretending to re-read the email gave him an excuse to avoid their eyes. “Paralegal studies at a local community college.”

  Now Nash barked with laughter, but he sobered quickly when both Slater and Rattler looked at him. “So she’s okay. She’s okay.” He said it softly, almost wonderingly. “Married? Kids?”

  Slater shook his head. It was impossible not to notice the tension in Nash’s shoulders easing.

  “So that’s the good news,” Rattler said, glare fixed on Nash. “Some woman’s living a happy life in Baton Rouge. Fantastic. What’s the bad news and what the fuck do we care anyway?”

  “Yeah, Slater,” Nash said. His own eyes gleamed with barely-concealed amusement. Under the circumstances, Slater wasn’t sure what was funny. Then again, Nash had always liked needling Rattler. Maybe he just found Rattler’s annoyance entertaining. “What’s the bad news?”

  Fuck it. Slater decided to just read the news article out loud. Nash already knew what he was going to say, and Rattler would get the situation faster this way.

  “Ciarán Reardon, aka Kieron Redmond, aka Colum Rooney, enforcer for the Hounds of Balor MC and person of interest in several suspicious disappearances in New Orleans, is missing after a road accident near Saint Martinsville, Louisiana last night. Police are treating both the accident and his disappearance as suspicious following the killing of Michael Dunn two months prior.”

  Rattler’s scowl was so deep it looked carved into his face. He stared at Nash, but spoke to Slater. “When’s that dated?”

  “It's almost sixteen years old,” Slater replied.

  “So from before you joined us. Not the time you mysteriously took off for six weeks after you joined?” Rattler asked Nash now. There was a challenge in his voice, as if daring Nash to tell him whatever he was thinking was wrong.

  He was putting it together fast, Slater thought. It would be easier if Nash just told him the rest, instead of making him work for it, or making Slater spell it out with further news articles and obituaries.

  “No, this is from before that,” Nash said, smiling bitterly. “This is the first time I disappeared, before Wild Blood. The second time, after I joined Wild Blood, that was … clean-up work.”

  “Who’d you clean up?” Rattler demanded, hands clenched into fists.

  Nash picked up the magazine of his gun. He didn’t seem to realize he’d done it; his expression was distant and stormy. Remembering something ugly, Slater knew. He saw that look often on ex-military guys who worked security for ArcLight.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said finally, dropping the magazine with a dull thud. “Once we’ve dealt with Alessi, I will tell you, Rattler. All you need to know right now is that it doesn’t affect Wild Blood.”

  “It better fucking not,” Rattler said. “I’ve got deep roots with this club, Nash. Deeper than most, and a damn sight deeper than yours. My number one priority is always going to be Wild Blood. If that ain’t true for you—”

  Nash held his hand up. Slater was mildly surprised when Rattler fell silent.

  “I know that. It’s why you’re VP, for fuck’s sake. But let’s get through one clusterfuck at a time, okay? After Alessi, we’ll talk and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Rattler nodded grudgingly and returned to cleaning his gun.

  Nash relaxed, shooting Slater a warning look.

  “Not a word of this goes outside this room, prospect,” he said.

  “I’m offended that you even need to say it,” Slater said. He tucked his phone away, unsure how he felt about the entire exchange. But it wasn’t really important right now. His focus had to be on Freya. “Do you need me for the meeting with Alessi?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Sure enough, Nash shook his head. “Officers only for this thing. Keep an eye on your strays and don’t punch anyone, and we’re all good.”

  Slater’s hands curled into fists involuntarily, thinking of Zeke. “What’s gonna happen—”

  He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, and he stepped aside to let Tanner in. Tanner’s face was tight with worry and anger. Never a good look, but on a day like today, it caused an answering spurt of anger in Slater. What the fuck else is happening?

  Nash echoed his thoughts with a dramatic groan. “What now?”

  “I need to talk to you,” Tanner said. He glanced at Slater. “Privately.”

  Slater didn’t wait to be ordered out. He nodded to Nash and Rattler and left. The office had felt too small when it was just the three of them and the weight of Nash’s past. Add in Tanner’s obvious anger, and the room had suddenly become a fucking prison cell. He was glad to be out.

  But what now?

  He leaned against the wall, hands behind his head, and listened. Down the hall, music floated from the bar, just loud enough to mask any other noise in there. The ever-present smell of motor oil and sawdust permeated the air, a smell he would always think of as “home” now. There was a stillness to the old mill that spoke of anticipation, the eerie calm before a storm. And it was a storm Slater wouldn’t get to see break. So what did he do now?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Instinct sent Slater to the bar. It was the most likely place for Freya and Kayden to be, and frankly he wanted a drink. It would ease the tension coiling in his gut, or at least so he hoped.

  The bar was busier than usual for this time of day, with all the club girls and most of the brothers and prospects there. Yesterday’s incident and today’s meeting with Alessi had everyone spooked, he thought, especially coming so hot on the heels of the New Orleans shit.

  Wild Blood MC was hovering the edge of a fall. Or at least, that was how it felt to him. A fall back into a way of life Nash had removed them from. And now Slater understood Nash’s past a little better, he understood why Nash had mov
ed them this way. Stay low, stay quiet. Don’t attract attention. Especially not the kind that might get the wrong people asking questions about Nash himself.

  Slater sighed, heading for the bar. A club girl he knew only as Peaches pulled him a beer. He took it with a grunt of thanks that his mother would box his ears for and scanned the room for Freya. He found her watching a game of pool. Lynch, a relatively new prospect, was losing to Kayden. Knowing how good Lynch was at the game—his family owned a pool hall in Wakefield—he was either letting Kayden win, or Kayden was a secret shark. Freya sat with Sofia, watching her brother with a wistful expression.

  Kayden looked half-dead, and Slater wished briefly that Freya wouldn’t be so stubborn about taking money from him. The kid needed professional help. If Slater could get him that, why wouldn’t they take it? Maybe he should just offer the money straight to Kayden…

  Although if Freya found out he went behind her back, she’d flip. Rightly so, he grudgingly allowed. And giving cash to a drug addict might not be the best idea. Sighing again, he made his way over to the group. As he approached, he caught the end of a filthy joke from Lynch that had Sofia and Freya in peals of laughter. Lynch grinned at winked at them both, his gaze lingering on Freya, and Slater felt a shot of vicious jealousy.

  Freya's sunny smile was the one he'd seen her wearing in the Hot House when she worked the floor, dazzling but fake. It didn't ease Slater's jealousy in the slightest. The problem wasn't Freya smiling. The problem was Lynch thinking he deserved a smile from her.

  Only the strictest self-control kept him from storming up to Lynch. He forced himself to keep a normal, natural pace, but once he was at the pool table, he placed himself between Lynch and the seated women.

  “Looks like I'm missing all the fun,” he said, trying and failing to keep his tone light.

  “Fun?” Lynch snorted. “Only if your idea of fun is me being mugged by Kayden.”

  Despite his pallor and the slight, but obvious shaking of his hands, Kayden's smile was bright and genuine. “Freya and I used to play all the time when we were kids.”

  “Dad sold the pool table after he caught us fleecing the neighbor's kids,” Freya put in, her own smile taking on a real warmth at the memory.

  Kayden started to say something else, then grimaced and turned away from the table, one had pressed to his stomach. Freya jumped up, but it was Sofia who got to him first.

  “Time to go see Rigs,” she said, looping her arm through Kayden's.

  “I can—” Freya started, anxiety wiping her smile away.

  Kayden shook his head, setting his pool cue down on the table. “I'd really rather you didn't see me taking drugs, Freya.”

  She bit her lip, distress seeming to consume her as Sofia and Kayden walked off.

  Lynch set his own cue down, shooting Slater a peculiar look. “Gotta say, all this shit—drugs, mob lords—I didn't think Wild Blood was that kind of MC.”

  Slater took Sofia's seat, conveniently placing himself next to Freya. She shifted toward him so their legs pressed together. Even that slight, innocent touch was electric, sending a jolt straight to his cock. She really was magic. Made for him.

  “I don't think it was until today,” he answered, forcing himself to focus on Lynch. It was difficult. Lynch was nowhere near as attractive as Freya.

  Lynch chuckled, giving them both a knowing look now. He made a show of checking his watch. “Well, looks like I'm due a shift on the bar. I'll leave you guys to ... whatever.”

  Slater glanced at Freya to see her flushing, chewing her lower lip in a way that did nothing to ease his hard-on.

  “Kayden and I have really fucked things up round here, haven't we?” she asked, staring at her shoes.

  If she was one of his sisters, he'd tell her she was being melodramatic or self-pitying, with various degrees of sympathy depending on the sister. But he really wasn't interested in being brotherly to Freya. He never fucking had been. And if he was honest right now, he wasn't interested in talking either. All the tension and anger in him, sparked at the Hot House and stoked by Zeke and Alessi, needed a release. And he needed Freya. If he waited for the perfect time to stake his claim ... the way life was moving right now, he'd be waiting forever.

  He wasn't that patient.

  He stood, grabbing her hand as he did. “Come with me.”

  The perfect time, he decided, as he towed her out of the bar, was always right now.

  ****

  Her heart in her throat, Freya didn't resist as Slater hauled her out of the bar. The arousal and electricity of their encounter in the garage hadn't faded yet, and she didn't have to guess at his intentions now. It was clear in every line of his body, in his purposeful stride, and his hot grip on her hand. Excitement gathered in her gut like a storm of butterflies. It beat away every other concern, from Kayden to Alessi. And maybe that made her selfish, but fuck it. Just for a while, just for a little bubble of time, she wanted something purely selfish. She wanted Slater.

  He led her away from the bar, past the kitchen and down a quiet, dusty corridor that seemed to lead nowhere. A staircase at the end of the hall suggested it went down to a basement, but he didn't take her that far. As soon as they were out of sight of the main hallway, he swung her around, pressed her against the wall, and kissed her.

  Hard. Possessive. Hot. So damn hot. She returned the kiss frantically, spearing her fingers into his hair, pressing her body to his with a needy whimper. He broke away just long enough to scan the corridor and make sure they were alone. Freya realized with a thrill she wouldn't have cared if they weren't. The same triumphant charge that powered her when she danced at the Hot House filled her now at the thought of being seen. Let someone see. Let everyone see. She wasn't ashamed of her lust for him.

  Slater yanked her top up, exposing her bra, his fingers grazing the soft mounds of her breasts. “Tell me yes,” he whispered.

  “Yes.” It was the sweetest word she'd ever spoken.

  He shoved her borrowed sweat pants down, eyes smoldering. Freya kicked them off and wound her arms around his neck, thrilled at how easily he lifted her. With one arm around her waist, he picked her up so she could wrap her legs around him. He bowed his head, dropping tiny, sharp bites down her throat, until she was wriggling against him, desperate for more contact.

  He gave it to her, palming her breast and pinching her nipple through her bra. He twisted it until Freya gasped, her head falling back as raw desire seized her. She cupped his jaw with one hand, bringing his mouth to hers. His kisses were intoxicating. The taste of him, the smell of him... God. The dance came swarming back to her. She'd already seen him lost in passion, and they hadn't even touched then. Excitement and anticipation lit a fire in Freya. She was absolutely ready for more.

  And Slater was too. He pressed her against the wall again, keeping her locked in place with her legs around him, but giving himself enough room to grab her panties. He yanked at them, ripping the flimsy material and casting the ruined garment aside. She let out a fake squeal of protest.

  “I’ll buy you a new pair.” He plunged his fingers deep into her cunt, and her cry now was one of pure pleasure. “Or maybe I won’t.”

  She could only moan, her eyes fluttering closed. Silence fell between them, the sounds their soft panting as Slater strummed his fingers over her throbbing clit and pumped them in and out of her wet pussy. Thank fuck he was holding her up, because her legs were trembling, and she'd never have been able to stand.

  She trailed one hand down his chest, trying to reach down into his jeans, but their position made it impossible.

  Slater laughed hoarsely, giving her a playful, warning nip to her throat.

  “I'm in charge,” he told her.

  Her stomach flipped. “Fine by me.”

  He set her down just long enough to strip off his jeans, his cock springing free. Freya had a split second to appreciate that he'd gone commando before he picked her up again, his hands cupping her ass this time. She barely had time to
draw breath before he surged inside her, his cock filling her so perfectly it stole all the breath she had left.

  He rested his forehead on hers, his body still, his eyes dark and deadly serious. “Next time, we'll be in a bed,” he whispered, slowly beginning to move his hips. “Next time, we'll take our time and I'll lick, and kiss, and suck, and bite, every last fucking inch of you, Freya.”

  She whimpered, her cunt clenching around him. He punctuated every word with an achingly slow, careful thrust, and she needed more. So much more. She wanted it rough and wild. She wanted it now.

  And then she wanted it again, slow and delectable, just like he promised.

  She grabbed a handful of his hair, trying to thrust her own hips and kick start him. But he had her pressed back too hard against the wall, keeping her perfectly under control. Somewhere down the corridor, out of sight, she heard a door slam and was reminded again that someone—anyone—could walk in on them. The idea just made her want him more, as if he might be taken away from her.

  She felt the second his iron control snapped. He sunk his fingers hard into her ass cheeks and suddenly he was thrusting with force, driving his dick into her just as fast and wild as she needed.

  She wanted to scream. She didn't dare. So she buried her head in the crook of his neck, fastening her mouth to his skin and biting down, smothering her cries of pleasure. Slater swore, his movements growing more frantic with every second. The knowledge that he was close to the edge drove Freya crazy...

  ...And so she couldn't stop her cry of protest when he pulled out of her.

  He dropped her to her feet, shaking his head. “No protection—”

  Freya stared at him, uncomprehending for a second, heat burning away everything except her need for him. “Oh for—”

  She dropped to her knees, hands reaching for his cock. He was still hard and ready, shining with her juices, and she took him into her mouth greedily.

  Slater groaned, knotting his fingers into her hair as she sucked him off.

  “Christ, woman,” he said, his voice a husky growl. “I'm never letting you go. You know that, right?”