Slam (The Brazen Bulls MC #3)

by Susan Fanetti

  They got onto the porch and swung around.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Darnell, in the lead, said.

  A male nurse. A big black male nurse. Jenny wondered what her father thought about that. He wasn’t racist, exactly, he served whoever came into his bar, he was cordial to the Turners next door, and he was civil to the people he met, but he thought black people weren’t as smart or industrious as white people.

  Actually, yeah, he was racist. He had been, anyway. Jenny wasn’t clear on how much of who he’d been still remained inside that silent, jerky body. How would he feel about Darnell feeding him and bathing him and changing his diapers?

  His other nurse was a heavyset, muscular Native American woman. Would he like that more? Or less? Did it matter, if he couldn’t say? Would he learn anything, being dependent on people he didn’t respect? Was he capable of it? Had he ever been?

  Strapped to her chest in the Snugli, Kelsey popped Jenny’s boob free and started to fuss. Jenny began bouncing at once—since she’d discovered that Kelsey would be quiet if she was in the Snugli while Jenny bounced and swayed, she felt like she was never still—and shifted her to the other boob. She didn’t bother to close the ‘done’ side of her bra.

  “Gurney won’t fit,” Darnell called to the ambulance guys. “I’m gonna need to take the doors off.” He leaned into the house and sent Jenny a questioning look. “That okay by you, ma’am?”

  No one had ever called her ‘ma’am’ before Darnell. It didn’t sound right. “Yeah. Whatever you need.”

  Darnell had been to the house a few times in the past few days, giving her tips about how to get ready for her father. They’d made sure the wheelchair her father got would fit through the doors and hallways of the house, but they hadn’t measured for a gurney.

  Was nothing about this ordeal going to just be easy? Just happen without a hitch? Nothing at all? Wasn’t it bad enough that it was happening at all?

  “You got tools? A screwdriver?”

  “Yeah. The garage. I’ll get ‘em.” She turned, and Kelsey lost the boob and began to cry. Jenny dug into the Snugli, perfectly aware that her left boob was showing at its side, still dripping milk, and not giving a ripe fuck, and tried to get her squalling child to latch back on.

  All at once, with no warning, Jenny was crying, too. “Please, pixie,” she begged an infant who couldn’t understand.

  “You know what? Never mind. I’ll carry him in.” Darnell stepped back out. After a minute or two, he came in, her father cradled in his arms like he weighed nothing, and carried him back to his bedroom.

  Kelsey latched. Jenny was still crying, almost getting it under control, when she noticed one of the ambulance guys standing just inside the front door. “What?”

  “Sorry. I need you to sign.” He held out a clipboard. She went and scrawled her signature on the line he indicated, and then he and his colleague pushed the gurney away. They left two bright yellow plastic bags on the porch.

  Inside one of the bags, Jenny could see the blood-spattered checkered pattern of the shirt her father had been wearing they day he’d last beat her, the day that Maverick had done this to them all. She stood on the threshold, feeling the rhythmic draw of Kelsey’s suckle, her other boob out for the world to see, and stared down at that piece of shirt.

  “Ma’am?” Darnell stood right behind her.

  “Jenny.” She turned around and faced him. “Please call me Jenny.” That seemed supremely important just now. She needed a friend, and Darnell was the closest candidate. A friend wouldn’t call her ‘ma’am.’

  He reached out and pulled her shirt over, covering her boob. “Jenny. It’s gonna be okay.”

  She shook her head, disappointed in his empty words. It was not going to be okay.

  But he pulled her inside, picked up the yellow bags, and closed the door. “It is. I’ve been doing this job a while now, and I know that families find their way. It’s like learning a new dance. When you don’t know the steps, you trip over yourself, making mistakes all the time. But once you figure it out, you move smooth, and everybody thinks you’re magic.”

  The image of this big man dancing, like Astaire and Rogers, made her smile. “You dance?”

  “I do. Met my wife that way. Got a wild hair and took a class. Latin dancing, if you can imagine. She was teaching it.” He grinned. “I looked a fool, swingin’ my big ol’ legs and arms every which way, trippin’ over these boats in my shoes, but she didn’t give up on me.” His grin softened. “Don’t you give up on you. It’ll be okay. You’ll figure out the steps.”

  Jenny offered him a nod. She wasn’t convinced, but she appreciated the encouragement and, for the first time in months, she didn’t feel completely alone.

  Maybe Darnell was a friend.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Hold up. You see that?”

  At Gunner’s question, Maverick and Apollo stopped and looked. Becker, who’d come up from behind after paying their tab for supper, ran into Maverick’s back.

  “Shit, sorry, man. Why’d we stop?”

  Maverick didn’t know yet. But Gunner had sidestepped into the alley, and instinct drew Maverick and the others into cover as well. They didn’t need to know why to be cautious. They trusted their brother that there was cause.

  Looking over Gunner’s shoulder, Maverick focused on the storefront across the intersection—a mom-and-pop pho place that the Bulls frequented. One of those excellent little places that locals kept a secret. They’d actually bickered this evening about whether to eat there or at the burger joint they’d landed at. Beef and beer had won out.

  A white Lincoln Navigator was parked at the curb, its high sheen reflecting the rainbow of Christmas lights that swagged across the streets in this part of town.

  “That’s Derrick Ammons’ ride,” Gunner said.

  Becker put his hands on Maverick’s shoulders and rose up on his toes, rubbernecking. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Look at the wheels. I’d know that bling anywhere. He treats that truck like a woman. Probably fucks the tailpipe.” The wheels were super-high-end chrome spinners. Even on the parked car, they threw light back like jewels. Gunner looked over his shoulder and met Maverick’s eyes. “They’re on our turf.”

  Since Booker Howard had pounded his message into Wally’s head, the Bulls had been preparing for war. More than simply gearing up, they’d put Apollo on intel, and he’d dug deep. Derrick Ammons had been a mid-level operative in the Dyson crew, but he’d been promoted since Melvin Dyson’s ‘retirement’ and was now the distribution chief for Street Hounds.

  Still leaning on Maverick’s shoulders, Becker said, “They’re still owed for Wally.”

  If they moved on somebody that high up as retaliation for their prospect, it could set the fuse alight on the keg of gunpowder that sat between the Bulls and the Hounds. Maverick shook his head. “We gotta get to a phone, call D in on this.”

  “I got this.” Apollo dug into his kutte and pulled out...a phone. Once of the cell phones Maverick had seen ads for on television. Nokeys, or something like that. He figured them as toys for rich businessmen. The guys who’d already had car phones.

  Keeping an eye on the restaurant, Maverick heard Apollo’s call connect. “D, it’s Apollo. I’m with Mav, Gun, and Beck, over by Pho Ha’s. We got a situation.... We’re standing here looking at Ammons’ SUV.”

  After a beat or two, he set the phone from his ear. “Anybody see a guard on that thing?”

  “Not out here,” Gunner said. “They might have somebody keeping their eyes peeled inside.” He turned his whole body to face Apollo. “He wants us to hit the truck?”

  Delaney had obviously heard that, because they could all hear him through the earpiece of Apollo’s toy. “GUN! SETTLE!”

  Becker chuckled. Maverick couldn’t keep the smirk from his lips. Apollo beamed a grin bright enough to illuminate the alley. Gunner flipped them all off.

  Apollo put the phone back to his ear. “What should we do
, prez?” He listened, nodding, “What’s everybody carrying?” he asked, then held the phone out among them again, so Delaney could hear.

  Maverick pulled his kutte open to show his shoulder holster. “My Glock, same’s always.”

  “My Sig,” answered Gunner.

  “I got my Sig on me,” said Becker. “But I got Boom Boom in my saddlebag.”

  ‘Boom Boom’ was Becker’s fifty-caliber Desert Eagle. A ridiculous handgun.

  Apollo put the phone back to his head. “And I got my Beretta.” He listened again. “Okay, D. I’ll call when it’s done.”

  Shoving his phone back into his kutte pocket, Apollo pulled his sidearm. “Everybody mount up and lock and load. And get Boom, Beck. We’re killing the truck.”

  They mounted their bikes and rode up, spanning the street. Going through the intersection, they braked, aimed, and all at once, fired, unloading four mags into the Navigator.

  Thunder exploded from Becker’s Eagle, and the SUV rocked and bounced with every bullet. Glass sprayed, tires exploded, water hissed from the engine. The alarm wailed until a bullet struck it and shut it up.

  They fired fast and emptied their mags just as the door to Pho Ha flew open and four black men surged out, their guns already drawn.

  In the sudden break after the Bulls ran out of bullets, Maverick heard Bing Crosby’s voice, coming through the open restaurant door. Ol’ Bing was dreaming of a white Christmas. The mounds of shattered auto glass on the street and sidewalk, glinting back the festive Technicolor of strung Christmas lights, seemed to be giving Bing what he wanted.

  After a beat of shock, the Hounds aimed their own weapons, which, Maverick assumed, were not empty. “GO, GO, GO!” Apollo yelled, and the Bulls turned and flew down the street to a much less festive chorus of gunfire.

  ~oOo~

  “We whole?” Maverick asked, once they stopped, tucked in an alley, out of range of danger. “Anybody hurt?”

  No one was. Not a single bullet had hit them, not even their bikes.

  “WOO-HOO!” Gunner crowed, laughing. “That was FUCKING AWESOME!” He whooped again and slapped Maverick on the back. “Damn!”

  Maverick laughed. He’d forgotten how good the surge of adrenaline in a life or death fight could feel. He’d spent four long years in a nonstop life or death fight, but this something entirely different. When you had power in the situation and hope for the outcome, life or death was a choice. He chose life.

  He was going to lean on Delaney to get Kevlar vests for the club.

  ~oOo~

  Maverick smiled as Eight Ball picked Kelsey up so she could reach the top of the tree. When she couldn’t make the angel stand up straight, Eight put his hand over hers and helped. Cheers and applause greeted her success, and she looked around shyly, grinning and blushing, and then strangled Eight Ball in one of her death-grip hugs around his neck.

  Glancing toward the bar, where Jenny sat with Willa, Leah, and Patrice, Griffin’s girlfriend, Maverick watched his lady watch their daughter and Eight Ball. Jenny didn’t care much for that particular brother. As far as he knew, Jenny and Eight hadn’t had any specific interaction that had gone bad. He supposed there might be something he didn’t know about, but he doubted it. Eight would never move on a brother’s woman, damn sure not the mother of a brother’s child, and he wouldn’t go out of his way to do wrong to a woman, either, not even one who’d abandoned a brother.

  He thought it was probably that: Eight Ball didn’t go out of his way for women, period. Other than Mo—he had a mama’s-boy devotion to her—Eight barely noticed women at all. They had his attention when he was looking to get off, and they were invisible otherwise. Rumor had it that he had some freaky tastes in the getting-off department, too. A lot of women seemed to be able to scent that on him. Some of them liked it, and others did not. Jenny did not.

  Fine by Maverick. But he watched her pay attention to how Eight Ball was with their daughter, and when she smiled, he felt relief. If she could find some trust for that brother, then she was well and truly settled in.

  “Should I be worried about that?” Gunner sat down at the other end of the leather sofa.

  Maverick finished off his glass of Jack. Tyra, a sweetbutt, was there in a flash, taking his empty away from him and sashaying to the bar to refill it.

  “About what?”

  Gunner nodded to the pool table. Gunner’s older sister, Deb, was playing pool with Simon. Maverick watched as Deb set up her shot, bending sidelong over the table. Simon’s eyes seemed to be focused not on her shot but well to the side, about the location of her ass.

  “That’s a thing? Si and Deb?”

  “I don’t know, man. I don’t think so. She hasn’t said anything about it. He sure as fuck hasn’t said anything to me. But he’s lookin’ at her like she’s laid out on a plate with parsley.” Gunner slammed his beer bottle to his lips and swallowed down a long pour.

  Maverick took his refill from Tyra with a chuckle. “Easy, bro. She’s a hot chick in tight jeans, bent over a pool table. Si’s a red-blooded Bull. ‘Course he’s gonna look.”

  “My sister is not a hot chick.”

  Yeah, she was. Deb was about Maverick’s age, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t had a thought or two about her. He’d hooked up with Jenny not long after he’d met Gunner and his family; otherwise, he might have made a move on Deb.

  “To answer your question, no, you shouldn’t be worried. It’s probably nothing. If it’s something, they’re both well over the age of consent, and Deb deserves some good times, don’t you think?”

  “Not with a Bull, though. Not with all the shit goin’ on right now,” Gunner groused.

  He had a point, and Maverick turned to his own family again—his pregnant wife, laughing with her friends. His little girl, helping Zach hang paper snowflakes on the twinkling clubhouse tree. On this Christmas Eve, the clubhouse didn’t seem like a clubhouse at all. It was a home, filled with family. There were even Christmas carols playing.

  But outside, a storm brewed. Not the kind that might bring a white Christmas, but the kind that might bring a red winter.

  “It’s quiet for now,” he said to his friend.

  Booker Howard hadn’t retaliated for Ammons’ SUV. Though the Bulls remained vigilant, Howard seemed to have decided that the truck wasn’t worth escalating trouble too quickly. He’d spent the past few weeks building up his organization, transitioning Northside from the defunct Dyson crew, cleaning that house, establishing relationships. Melvin Dyson had been an important man on the north side of Tulsa. Howard likely had to tread lightly to build up the support he needed. He couldn’t just lay waste and claim the rubble.

  The Bulls watched carefully as it happened. Delaney and Dane were doing what they could to strengthen the club’s relationships, ensuring that their friends stayed friendly, and seeking Volkov support.

  And they were arming themselves heavily, preparing for battle. They had vests now, too, and wore them whenever they were out in colors.

  Out in the open, Tulsa seemed like its usual self, but anyone who moved in the underworld was on alert for war. DEFCON 1.

  “Won’t be quiet for long, though,” Gunner said. “You heard D—they’re probably waiting to hit us on the next Russian run. When we’re scattered.”

  Every eight weeks or so, Russian guns came in, and the Bulls split up to handle the north and south legs. Generally, in a peaceful Tulsa, they left one man or two at home, just in case, and the rest of the club went on one leg or the other. Normally, that was good sense, with enough coverage everywhere. But in a civil war, it made them weak at home and on the road both.

  Maverick would not live his life in fear. Not now, not when he had everything he wanted. He shifted his seat so he could face Gunner straight on. “Then we won’t be scattered, Gun. We’ll work it out. We’ll figure out a new schedule and keep everybody whole. We’re strong, and we’ve got stronger friends. Trust D. Howard is a hemorrhoid on the asshole of the world. He
won’t win. We will.”

  After a contemplative silence, Gunner sighed. “Okay, yeah. We need more men, though. I’m thinkin’ of putting a name in.”

  A beam of pleasure lightened Maverick’s mood again at once. Sponsoring a prospect was serious business. A prospect’s success or failure landed on his sponsor’s back. Maverick had, a few times, worried that sponsoring Gunner, the human tornado, would end his own time in a Bulls patch. Now Gunner had settled down enough to think about mentoring, shaping, another Bull. That was real growth. He slapped his friend’s back. “Yeah? You got somebody in mind? Hangaround?”

  “Nah. He’s been to a few parties, and Dane knows him, but he doesn’t hang around. Somebody I know from the races. Osage Indian kid. Caleb Mathews. He’s cool.”

  “Yeah—bring him up in church next. That’s great. You’re still racing, huh?”

  Gunner shrugged. His attention had moved to the bar, and their women. His woman in particular, Maverick had no doubt. Pretty little Leah. “Yeah...sometimes. Not like I used to.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Now I’d mostly rather just be home.”

  Maverick’s eyes landed on Jenny, and she looked over right then. Their eyes locked, and she smiled.

  “Yeah. I know what you mean, Gun. I know what you mean.”

  ~oOo~

  Maverick came into the bedroom and stretched, pushing his fists into his lower back and arching over them. “Damn. The people who make assembly directions on toys need to take some English classes. I don’t know why they bother putting those worthless sheets of paper in the box at all.”

  Propped up in bed with a book, Jenny smiled. “Did you get it all together?”

  “Yeah.” He stripped down and slid in beside her, and she set her book aside. “It looks pretty great out there. I can’t wait for Kelsey see it all for the first time.” He brushed his fingers over her forehead. “How’s your head?” She’d gotten one of her ‘auras,’ signaling a migraine on the way, while they were at the clubhouse.