I looked up the stairs in time to see a blonde head tuck behind the double doors that led to Tango’s parents’ bedroom. The voice and the head of hair belonged to Kaylee.
Hmm. I could’ve contrived a list of everything that was wrong with that scenario, but I figured they deserved each other, and neither of them were worth my brain juices.
When the lock clicked, Maria mumbled, “Esa puta” under her breath, compressing all of my thoughts into two simple words, and continued through the door leading to the six-car garage.
She led me past a Range Rover, a Porsche, then a Mercedes.
Oh God. The Mercedes.
My stomach flipped. My knees buckled. Visions slammed so hard and fast I fell to my knees.
Tango. Bow tie dangling from his opened collar. Hair disheveled. Eyes glassy and unfocused.
Addy. Hair bouncing. Skirt bunched around her waist. Riding. Moaning.
Kissing. Fucking.
Addy and Tango. In the back seat of his daddy’s Mercedes.
I vomited on the pristine, tiled floor of Carlos Rossi’s garage.
Far away, or maybe right next to me, Maria called my name.
I pushed to my feet and ran.
Through the door. Across the lawn. Down the long drive and through the security gate. I ran. When I couldn’t run anymore, I walked.
I headed toward the Truck Stop. When I hit the parking lot, I made my way past the restaurant and headed down the trail to the beach. I kicked off my shoes. Trudged through the water. When chest deep, I floated onto my back and willed the current to take me away.
I lost my shoes somewhere between Maple Avenue and Sycamore Lane. Didn’t matter. I never wanted to wear them again. I ran until my legs gave out, and I cracked my knees and palms on the asphalt. I stayed that way, on all fours, in the middle of the dark street, huffing, and faint, and blank.
Tango had seen me, seeing him.
He would come after me. Explain it all away.
I waited, shuffling through memories like a mad woman, desperate to find an excuse for his actions. Maybe it was a dream. Perhaps I’d misunderstood. Either way, I knew, I just knew, he’d find me and stitch my deadly wound.
I stayed where he could find me, my heart bleeding out, on that dark street.
He didn’t come.
Lifetimes passed before the roar of a motorcycle startled me from my delusions. The engine cut and thick-soled, black boots stepped into my line of sight.
“Hey, Blondie.”
A familiar voice.
“I found these down the road.” He dropped my four-inch heels at my side. “Care to talk about it?”
I curled into a ball, the bite of the asphalt on my bare skin a welcome distraction. I never wanted to talk again.
Dane didn’t ask any more questions.
Dane squatted, slipped my shoes on my feet.
Dane lifted me off the road and settled me on his bike.
Dane wiped the blood from my hands and knees.
Dane dusted the muck off my three-hundred-dollar dress.
Dane.
Dark.
Dangerous.
Dane...
Saved me.
I would not survive losing Slade again, but if protecting her meant going behind her back to uncover whatever she was hiding, I would risk pissing her off, and yes, possibly losing any chance at winning her love.
From behind the safety of my tinted glass, I watched Doctor Leticia Slade spin her graying hair into a neat bun and fasten it on top of her head. She slid her shoulder bag and briefcase behind her seat, then hoisted herself into the dust-coated Ford. Because she was petite, maybe a pinch over five feet, it took some muscle and gumption to settle behind the wheel.
I waited for her to roll a few cars ahead of me, then pulled onto the street. My light blue rental sedan was inconspicuous enough, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, so I stayed a safe distance behind. I followed her through town until she turned off Garden Avenue onto a long dirt driveway that led through a sprawling property.
The house at the end of the drive was modest. Several fenced, unkempt fields surrounded the white rancher. The yard, however, was immaculate and landscaped to perfection. Bright red and fuchsia flowers hung in baskets across the wraparound porch. Behind the house stood a large red barn, its doors open wide. Parked inside was a shiny blue eighteen-wheeler. The sun bounced off its polished chrome, casting an eye-squinting glare my way.
Sure enough, when Dr. Slade hopped out of the truck, Rocky James Mason, flanked by a black dog twice his size, sprinted through the front door and barreled into her arms. For some odd reason, seeing the little guy happy and safe warmed my insides.
I rolled past the property, parked under the shade of a juniper tree, and scrolled through the records Tito had emailed earlier. My guts knotted and unbidden anger heated my face at the sight of Addy’s name. I’d never liked the girl. Tolerated her for Slade’s sake. Such a shame; Addy had been every bit as smart and pretty as Slade, only she had chosen to use her intelligence to manipulate people. A costly lesson I’d learned firsthand.
Addy’s mother had run off with a man when we were thirteen, leaving her in the care of her unstable uncle, Walter Reynolds.
According to Tito’s findings, Addison had quit her job at the Dollar Tree and disappeared from Whisper Springs three months after graduation, around the same time Slade had left town.
Walter’s son, Dane, had lived with them off and on. He’d been arrested numerous times—drugs and other petty crimes. The charges never seemed to stick. Slippery fucker was now running with the damn Satan’s Slayers.
No doubt in my mind, it was his bike Brett’s mother had seen Slade on.
To my core, and with equal measures shame and disgust, I knew that tattooed motherfucker had to be Rocky’s father. I understood, respected, and was grateful for Slade’s decision to keep Rocky a secret. If she hadn’t, she’d have been lost to me forever. If Dane knew Rocky was his child, Slade would have zero say in her or Rocky’s fate. Girls like her didn’t survive long with men like Dane. Club life would have destroyed her.
The thought of her being afraid of anyone filled me with rage. I squeezed my phone until I heard a crack, then tossed it on the passenger seat. The other files could wait. I needed a shower and at least two cold brews before I could read further.
I turned the car around with the intention of heading to my hotel back in town. Had a plume of smoke not caught my eye, I might have missed the mountain of muscle wearing a black cut over nothing but tatted skin, leaning against a mean-looking Harley, ankles crossed, cancer stick hanging between his lips, attention aimed at the white house.
I slowed to a stop. Through the rearview, the skull and snake emblem and the white print on the back of his vest stood out clear as day. Satan’s Slayers.
Faster than a flipped switch, I turned, from calm and cool to raging beast. In a fit of adrenaline-amped fury, I jumped from the car and was on the guy faster than he’d heard me coming. I struck. Once. Twice.
He grunted, but didn’t teeter. His hand was at my throat. My back hit the dirt. We wrestled. I gained the upper hand, straddled his thick torso. Through his heavy beard, the fucker showed off a set of yellow choppers.
I struck again.
The man laughed, eyes fixed over my shoulder.
I realized my mistake. He wasn’t alone.
I turned to block the oncoming strike. Not fast enough. With a flash of white hot pain, I was down for the count.
I woke, choking on the iron tang of blood, my face throbbing like the bass drum at a Slayer concert, in the driver’s seat of the rental sedan. When I moaned in agony, cold metal pressed to the back of my skull.
“Drive, pretty boy,” the man holding the gun ordered.
I wiped my bloody knuckles on my pant leg. My head buzzed like a son of a bitch, and the world spun around me. “Not doing shit ‘til you tell me why the fuck you’re casing that house.” Through the rearview, I could s
ee the man wore a baseball cap pulled low. With the aviator shades and his full beard, the only facial feature I could make out was the crooked blade of his nose.
The man leaned closer, his breath heating my ear. “Not your fucking concern.” He tapped the side of my head with the gun’s muzzle. “Drive.”
I turned the key. Pressed the gas. Rolled onto the quiet street. Minutes passed in excruciating silence before my captor released a loud sigh.
“Where the hell am I going?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“Where are you shacked up?”
“Rimview Inn.”
“Head there.”
“What’s your connection to the Slade family?”
The asshole pulled off his cap and glasses. With his long auburn hair and unkempt facial fur, he remained indistinct. Until he met my gaze through the reflection with a pair of wild, angry, and fucking huge green eyes.
I nearly choked on my rage. “Reynolds.”
“Listen, pretty boy. No time for a reunion here. Tell me what the hell you’re doing in Montana.”
I wasn’t telling that criminal shit. “Why the fuck you stalking that family?”
“Stalking?” He barked out a laugh that didn’t contain a lick of joy, then turned his head to look out the window. “I heard the boy was here. Just wanted to get a look at him.”
My heart rate spiked. He’d been keeping tabs. He knew about Rocky. “Get a look. That’s all?”
He nodded, then sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s all. Needed to see him living and breathing with my own two eyes.” Dane shifted behind me, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the two front seats, waving the Ruger around like he couldn’t decide where the target mark was on my head. “Never thought I’d see your pretty mug again. Blondie send you?”
Fuck. He’d given her a nickname. “Nobody sent me. Slade doesn’t know I’m in Billings.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Interesting. I assume, since you’re here, that you know about the boy. What I’m worried about is how much you know and what you plan on doing about it.”
“I know enough, and I’m not doing shit. Unless you plan on going after my girl. That happens, you and me are gonna get bloody.”
Dane’s lip curled in a snarl. “Fucking rich-ass, pansy motherfucker. If I wanted Blondie, I could’ve taken her the night you fucked my cousin. Which reminds me.” His fist met my jaw, my head met the window. I swerved. He grabbed the wheel and righted the car. “Keep driving. You pass out on me, I’ll shoot all that pretty, clean off your face.”
No need to ask what the cold cock was for. I deserved it.
I white-knuckled the steering wheel, forcing the murderous urges down deep. I’d be no good to Slade dead.
“So what’s the plan, Reynolds? You get a look at your boy, you go back to the club, forget he exists? Can you really just walk away?”
“You got balls of steel talking to me about walkin’ away. You privileged fucker. You should be thanking me. I’ve been shoveling your shit for six damn years. I can’t walk away from something I never had. The club can’t know he exists. I can’t have anything to do with either one of them.”
What the fuck was he spewing on about? “Help me understand something, Reynolds. What’s so fucking special about that club to make you give up your son? What kind of man—”
“That club,” he interrupted. “My brothers are the only family I got, which is more than I can say for…” Dane fell back into his seat and tapped the Ruger against his forehead. “Wait a minute. Wait a motherfuckin’ minute.” He dropped his forehead into his palms and rubbed his eyes. “My son?”
I turned into the hotel parking lot and slammed the car into park, more confused than ever. “You didn’t know?”
Dane’s shoulders bobbed, and a deep, menacing laugh tore from his throat. “You’re as stupid as you are pretty.” He pushed his door open, unfolded from the small space and proceeded to help me out of the car by wrapping a large hand around my throat, and tucking the barrel of his 9mm under my chin. “I should kill you right here, for bein’ so damn ignorant.”
Dane’s buddy pulled into the slot next to us, cut his engine, and dismounted his bike. He ripped his helmet off with a jerk, revealing a bald scalp, a scar that stretched from mouth to ear, and a glare that promised a shitload of misery to anyone who crossed him. The guy was an inch shorter than Dane, but deadly all the same. “Get what you needed?” he asked Dane, never taking his eyes off me.
Dane grunted a yes and pushed me toward the entrance.
Baldy pulled a blade from under his cut. “We doin’ him in the room?”
“We’re doing this now,” Dane yelled over the phone. “It’s your only chance. Shit goes tits up, it’s over. Hear me? They’re bringing the buyers in tonight. If they like what they see, that kid is gone for good. Understand? She’s alone, but not for long. You got thirty minutes, give or take. And Slade, don’t fucking ask her permission first. There’s no nice way to go about this. The girl is jacked. Grab her, however you gotta do it, and get the fuck clear of that cabin.”
I nodded, mindless to the fact he couldn’t see me. Dane’s words faded to garbled noise, and everything seemed to move in slow motion. I watched Tucker snag the keys from the counter and nod to James. When he tucked a gun into a holster under his shirt, my hands started to tremble.
“You hear me, Blondie? We can never talk again after this.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” I managed to mumble.
Tucker grabbed my arm and yanked me out the back door.
“Thanks again, Dane. I owe you so much.” I waited for his response, but he’d already ended the call.
“Miss Mason.”
“Yes,” I said, shaking the haunting memory from my thoughts.
“Mr. Rossi will see you in just a moment. His conference call ran a bit late.”
“That’s fine. Thanks, Lisa.” I forced a smile at the gorgeous redhead and watched her busy herself behind her desk.
Sweet Lord, my palms were sweaty. The manila envelope in my hands made for an adequate fan, I supposed, but my inner oven seemed to be on the fritz, melting me from the inside out.
I closed my eyes, sucked in a deep dose of oxygen, and blew it out nice and slow. I had nothing to fear. I’d faced scarier adversaries.
I reminded myself that I had the upper hand. Carlos Rossi had been after my property for longer than I could remember. He wanted it, he’d get it, but I wouldn’t let him take advantage. He’d have to bleed for this win.
I rose from the white leather chair and looked out the window of the reception area. The view, as expected, was stunning. Downtown Whisper Springs, the city beach, the lake. The once quaint town was now vibrant and busy and teeming with tourists, beachgoers, and outdoor enthusiasts. New construction bloomed everywhere I looked. My hometown had grown so much I hardly recognized it anymore.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The deep voice, although familiar, ignited prickly chills down my spine.
“It’s become too commercial, if you ask me,” I replied. “We’re losing our small town charm.” I wasn’t about to make nice with a man I was prepared to play hardball with. The man who was responsible for the changing face of Whisper Springs.
He chuckled, placed a hand at the small of my back, and gestured toward his office door. I strode forward, steeling my spine, head held high. If only I could’ve controlled my wobbly ankles. I hadn’t worn heels since that awful night six years ago, and the moment I stepped onto his plush carpet, my foot turned and gravity took hold.
Mr. Rossi caught my arm and held me upright. So much for my confident facade. I thanked him, after I steadied myself, and sat in the brown leather chair situated in front of his desk.
When he sat opposite me, I choked down my nerves and forced myself to meet his gaze. My eyes burned with threatening tears. His eyes. Dear God. So green. Like dewy moss enjoying its first rays of the morning sun. Eyes so familiar my chest ached.
“It’s lovely to se
e you again, Miss Mason. Excuse me for staring. You look so much like your mother.”
It took everything I had not to punch him in his smug face. “I could say the same for you and Tango.” Aside from the wrinkles around his eyes, and the gray hairs, the two of them could pass for twins.
Carlos cleared his throat and folded his hands on top of the desk. “Thank you for meeting me without the lawyers. I wanted this to be a pleasant discussion. I know how much that diner means to you. Do you mind if I ask why the sudden change of heart?”
Imminent death at the hands of a violent gang. Life sentence for murder and kidnapping. So, so many reasons.
“It’s time for me to move on.” I licked the dryness from my lips and pulled my papers from the envelope. “This is the list of things I need from you, Mr. Rossi. You want the property, it’s yours as long as you meet these conditions.”
“Please. Call me Carlos. No need for formalities.” He skimmed the stack of papers, brows shooting up in surprise more than once.
“If I don’t agree to these terms?”
“You’re not the only interested party.”
Carlos shook his head, sat back in his seat, and laughed. “Styles?”
Oh, yes. Ray Styles. The thorn in Rossi’s side. Former business partner turned rival. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
Carlos pushed a button on his desktop phone. “Lisa. Would you mind ordering lunch for two? Santino’s please. The usual. And please cancel my appointments for the rest of the afternoon. Miss Mason and I will be here awhile.” He winked at me, a fresh twinkle in his eye.
“Certainly, Mr. Rossi,” Lisa’s voice rang through the speaker.
Carlos rose from his chair and crossed the room to his mini bar. He poured a drink and offered me one, which I declined. When he sat back down, pretty crystal tumbler in hand, his eyes narrowed on me. “There’s a little bit of devil hiding behind that angelic mask, isn’t there, Miss Mason?”
Oh, if he only knew. “You’ve no idea.”
“You’ve no idea what the fuck’s goin’ on, do you?” Dane leaned against the bathroom doorframe and flipped through the Bible that he’d pulled out of the nightstand drawer. “Fuck. I’ve dreamed of this day for years. Prayed we’d run into each other.”
Truck Stop Tango Page 14