by Cat Mason
“Hockey,” Malcom clarifies, settling back in his chair and propping his feet up on the ottoman. “Nashville’s got some fire in ‘em this year.”
“No,” I bite out. “Not a fan.”
“Being a rude bitch won’t get you anywhere around here, Sweetheart,” Malcolm says through gritted teeth, tossing the remote beside his feet, he stares at me, his eyes darkening. “Especially not with me.”
“Good thing I don’t give a fuck what you think,” I inform him, mustering up every ounce of strength I have. “I’m not stupid. I know for a fact you’re not the one callin’ the shots, Sweetheart.”
“Really?” Dropping his feet to the floor, he leans up in his seat. “Got it all figured out, do ya?”
“Enough to know that you wear that expensive three-piece suit to make you feel important, even though you’re nothing but an errand boy with a God complex.” Leaning back against the cushion, I smirk when he tugs at his collar and clears his throat. “You live on instilling fear into others and don’t like that I’m not trembling every time you speak.”
“That all?”
I shrug. “That, and as much as you want to kill me right now, you can’t; that doesn’t play into the plan of the guy who’s actually calling the shots.”
“Plenty of ways to shut you up that don’t involve killing you,” he seethes, his fingers digging into the arms of the chair. “If you’re smart, Cheyenne, you’ll realize you have good reason to be afraid of a man like me. Every threat I make is a promise I fully intend to keep.” Pushing to his feet, he steps around the ottoman towards me, his jaw ticking angrily. “Including the one where I kill your man. I sincerely doubt you want the death of another club member on your conscience.”
“Fuck you,” I spit angrily.
“Uh oh,” Malcolm taunts, clicking his tongue. “Looks like I struck a nerve. Tell me, Cheyenne, how does it feel knowing that everyone you love is going to die and there’s nothing you can do to stop it?”
“Don’t count me out because I’m a woman, asshole,” I warn, pushing to my feet. “You’d be surprised what I’m capable of when backed into a corner.”
“You wouldn’t talk to me that way if you knew who I was, Bitch,” he challenges, towering over me.
“I may not know who you are, but I know what you are,” I inform him, not backing down. He arches a brow, silently baiting me as he waits for my answer. I smile. “Dead man walkin’.”
“You were instructed to make my guest comfortable,” an eerily calm voice says, making me jump. “Not upset her.” My eyes snap to the doorway as a man, who looks to be about the same age at Pop, steps toward us. He wears black dress pants, with a crisp white shirt and a blood red tie. His auburn hair has traces of gray. “It isn’t her fault for our predicament, any more than it is mine.”
“She’s got a mouth on her,” Malcolm blurts in his own defense.
“Which you rightly earned from what I’ve overheard,” the man replies. Working the cuffs loose on his shirt, he begins rolling them to above his elbows, exposing forearms filled with black tattoos, strung together with blue and gold bands. On one arm, there are stitches inked over a large scar that wraps around his forearm from wrist to elbow. Stopping in front of me, he gives me a warm smile and extends his hand. “Hello, Cheyenne. I’m Maxwell Teague.”
The name Teague instantly registering in my mind. “You blew up our shop.”
My eyes drop to his hand, but I make no move to shake it. He nods, seeming impressed with me. “Leave us,” he says to Malcolm, but keeps his eyes on me. “Cheyenne and I have a lot to talk about.”
Malcolm glares at me, his nostrils flaring. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
“Have Sarah bring the tray in.”
Malcolm’s body stiffens, clearly not happy with being ordered around. “Sure thing, Dad.” Turning his back to us, he storms for the door.
Dad?
Walking around the ottoman, Teague switches off the television before taking a seat in the chair Malcolm was in moments ago. “I apologize. My son shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. He’s been taught to respect women.”
“As opposed to kidnapping them,” I snort, sitting back down slowly.
“I’m afraid that was my call. A bit callous but necessary, I’m afraid; my hand has been forced.” Leaning back in the chair, he rubs the tips of his fingers together. “My strike needed to send a message as well as provide me an advantage.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Teague, but killing me isn’t going to send a message,” I inform him. “It signs your death warrant.”
An older woman with short red hair walks into the room, carrying a tray filled with a covered plate, various cans of soda, a bottle of water, and a coffee cup. “Where would you like it, Mr. Teague?”
Sitting up, Teague clears his throat. “Here on the ottoman is fine. Thank you, Sarah.”
Settling the tray between us, she quickly lifts the lid off a plate, exposing some fruit, along with some sliced meats and cheeses. Looking up at me, she gives me a warm smile. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, Ma’am.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I tell her, forcing myself to return her smile. After all, it isn’t her fault I am here.
“That will be all, Sarah,” Teague says, dismissing her. “Close the doors on your way out. I want to be sure we won’t be bothered.”
“Yes, Sir,” she replies, doing as he instructed.
Taking the coffee from the tray, he blows the steam away before taking a quick drink. “For the record, I have no intention of hurting you. You don’t get to my position by being so uncontrolled.”
“You expect me to believe you sent your son and some goon with a pipe to kidnap me all so they could drive me two hours for a friendly conversation?” I snort skeptically, arching my brow.
“Of course not.” Taking another drink, he places the cup back on the tray. “We all have our roles to play, Cheyenne. You’re no different. However, I don’t see a need to kill in order to get what I want. In my opinion, taking a life ends the ability for further communication between two parties. However, I am a firm believer in manipulating a situation in a way that always insures I have the upper hand. That’s why you’re here.” Pushing the tray toward me, he jerks his chin in the direction of the plate of food. “You really should have something. If not for you, think about your baby.”
“My child isn’t up for discussion, Mr. Teague,” I snap, angry that this asshole knows things like this about me. His calm and cool demeanor has me wanting to claw his eyes out. It is literally taking everything I have in me not to maul him like a fucking cougar and make a run for it.
Which is stupid and reckless.
I am not naïve enough to believe the only people on this property, other than myself, are the four that I have seen. It is safe to say Maxwell Teague has an armed to the teeth security team covering every square inch of the grounds, twenty-four-seven. I may not be bound and gagged, but I am a prisoner nonetheless. He may not kill me himself, but his cockiness tells me there are plenty of people who would jump to do anything he asks without hesitation.
Teague is cocky. That much is clear to me immediately. If he really has no intention of killing me, there is only one other reason a man as calculating as him had no qualms about bringing me to his home. He believes he is invincible here. That no one can touch him, or hold him accountable for his actions.
It is exactly that arrogance that will be his downfall.
“We are very much alike, you and I,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” I deadpan, my eyes dropping to the unlit fireplace. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t see a mirror image of myself when I look at you.”
“Fair enough,” he replies with a quick nod of his head. “However, appearances can be deceiving, as I’m sure you know. After all, we both put our trust in a man who lied right to our faces.”
“Ah,” I sigh, reading into his agenda
all too well. Of course this is about Troy. “The difference between you and me is that I’ve accepted the sting of betrayal and owned my own guilt in it, instead of waging some vendetta against the other wronged parties all to make myself feel better about getting egg on my face. Troy got one over on all of us, good for him. It cost his ass in the end.”
“You’ve moved on, which is commendable. However, that also means you’ve accepted your losses, as most people in your situation would. That can’t have been easy.” Leaning up, he braces his elbows on his knees, his face turning hard and serious. “Another difference between you and I, Cheyenne, is that I refuse to lose. Especially in business.”
“What does that even mean?” I ask, completely confused. “I don’t understand who you’re trying to beat here. Troy’s dead. Weren’t you the one who told Stone that Ivy killed him to begin with? If you ask me, this entire mess should’ve died right along with him.”
“I’m afraid the situation has escalated exponentially,” he informs me. “This has become about much more than the betrayal of a dirty middle man.”
“Yeah,” I deadpan, rolling my eyes. “It’s become a rich man’s temper tantrum.”
Stepping around the ottoman, he towers over me, dark eyes blazing and nostrils flaring. Suddenly, the family resemblance between Maxwell and Malcolm is very clear to me. Dropping his hands to the arms of the chair on either side of me, he leans in close. “Whether you like it or not, Cheyenne, you’re a part of this. You can continue to make things harder on yourself by trying my patience and hospitality, but I suggest you bite that razor-sharp tongue of yours and cooperate. I’d hate for you to find out what kind of monster I become when the time calls for it.”
I swallow hard, his piercing glare sending a shiver down my spine. “You said you weren’t going to hurt me. That you don’t kill people to get what you want.”
“I did.” Teague flashes a sinister, bone-chilling smile that has dread settling in my chest like a lead weight. “I never promised the safety of anyone else. Did I, Cheyenne? Are you willing to live with that risk?”
My shoulders slump, the breath rushing out of me at the idea of anyone I love being hurt, or killed, because of something I did to piss this fucker off. “What do you need me to do?” I ask, swallowing back the emotions that threaten to spill over.
Straightening, Teague nods in satisfaction. “Eat.” Making his way back around the ottoman, he takes his seat again before reaching for his coffee. “Then, we have a phone call to make.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Schrader
Four fucking hours.
That is how long it has been since I was bashed in the head by some pieces of shit who took my girl. There are no words that can describe the fear that grows with each passing minute. The only thing stronger is the rage brewing inside me with nowhere to go. Yet.
The bastards who took her are going to beg to die when I get my hands on them.
The entire drive to the hospital, I went over everything that happened in the last few days, then gone back further to the shit with Roanne and her father. This shit all comes back to Lorzano and Teague and the blowback that was all instigated by that goddamn D.A. months ago when he cut and run.
“Lorzano doesn’t have her,” Stone says, walking back into the hospital waiting room. Sitting his phone down on the table, he yanks a hand through his hair and blows out a frustrated breath. “He lost two guys in that ambush and was nearly hit himself. He wants the motherfuckers behind all this as much as we do.”
“I doubt that,” I ground out, my jaw ticking with fury. “If it wasn’t Lorzano, it was Teague. Should’ve killed that son of a bitch a long time ago.”
“You think this shit’s all connected?” Colt asks from the doorway.
“Too much of a coincidence for it not to be,” Stone nods. “Schrader’s right. Teague set up the ambush and took Shy. No doubt in my mind.”
Jinks looks up at me over the top of his laptop screen. “She should’ve never been off the goddamn lot.”
“Second guessing shit doesn’t fix anything,” Stone argues, his eyes shooting between the both of us.
“No.” I hold up my hand. “He needs to say this shit, let him.”
Closing his laptop, Jinks puts it down on the seat beside him before pushing to his feet. “You fucked up,” he says, striding toward me. “Got Pop on a goddamn operating table, two bullets in his fucking chest. Docs don’t even know if he’ll make it. Shy should be here. That’s on you,” he grounds out, baring his teeth. “Anything happens to her, because you decided to take her on some romantic field trip, I’ll slit your motherfuckin’ throat.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I inform him, not backing down. “There’s a lot of shit you don’t know, Brother.”
“Well, let’s have it.” Taking a step back, he throws out his arms wide. “Straighten me out.”
Blowing out a breath, I yank the photo Dr. Kahn printed off from my pocket, holding it out for him to see. “Shy’s pregnant.”
“Motherfucker!” Ripping the photo from my fingers, he punches me in the jaw.
When he swings again, I am ready for him. Grabbing his arm, I whip him around, and pin his chest to the wall. “You want this to come to blows, then we take it outside. I’m not doin’ this here.”
“You knocked up my sister!” Bringing up his elbow, he hits me on the same side of my face I took the pipe. Releasing my hold on him, I stumble backward. “We can take it wherever you want, but I’m still kickin’ your teeth down your throat,” he warns, facing me, ready to charge again.
“The baby’s not Schrader’s.” Everyone’s eyes instantly move to the door where Henley is standing beside Colt. His arm drops, protectively wrapping around her shoulders. Tensing briefly, she shoves him away. “It’s Troy’s.”
The vein pulses in Jinks’s neck. “She’s having that bastard’s baby? She never said shit about it to me or anyone else.”
“I wonder why,” Henley and I say in unison.
“I didn’t get her pregnant, but that doesn’t change shit.” Bending down, I swipe the grainy photo from the tile floor. Meeting Jinks’s eyes, I hold it up again. “My girl, my baby. Best you get yourself right with that before she comes home.”
The tension in the room is off the fucking charts. This is everything Cheyenne didn’t want. I know that. It wasn’t my place to say shit, or Henley’s. This was Cheyenne’s story to tell, she made that abundantly clear; but I’ll be damned if I was about to let this shit get in the way of finding her. She will be pissed, but I have no problem letting her kick my ass the moment she is back in my arms.
Stone’s phone begins vibrating on the table. Swiping it up before it falls onto the floor, he has it to his ear in seconds. “Stone,” he barks. His jaw ticks violently, his free hand balling into a tight fist at his side. “You’ve got nerve, motherfucker.”
Fucking Teague.
My blood boils at the fact Teague actually has the balls to call and start barking demands like ordering takeout. “If he even touches her,” I warn, my teeth grinding together painfully.
“You want anything from this club, you’ll put her on the goddamn phone. Now,” Stone says, moving toward me. “Yeah.” His voice softens immediately. “You hurt?” My heart hammers in my chest, watching Stone like a hawk, trying to figure out what she is saying on the other end of the phone, but he is hard to read. “Yeah, he’s here. Okay.” Holding out the phone to me, he nods his head. “She’s askin’ for you.”
I don’t hesitate. “Shy?” I ask the second the phone is at my ear.
“Schrader,” she sighs into the phone, emotion filling her voice. “God, I’m so sorry.”
“Not you who’s gonna be sorry,” I promise her, hoping like hell that piece of shit is listening. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she assures me, but I don’t miss the tremble in her voice. “How’s Pop?”
“Nothin’ a few stitches won’t fix,” I lie, not wanting to add the str
ess to her load right now. “They’re workin’ on patchin’ him up now. We’re all more worried about you.” Jinks looks to me immediately, nodding in silent understanding. The last thing I want to do is upset her further at a time like this. Her mind needs to be focused on taking care of herself and the baby. Not on whatever is going on here with us.
“Good,” she sighs again, sounding relieved.
There is a struggle on the other end of the line. “Shy?” She screams my name and starts to says something else, but her voice is quickly muffled. “Shy!” I’m fucking frantic. My eyes fly wide, moving to Jinks, who looks as worried as I am.
“She’s being well taken care of,” Teague says into the phone. “Whether it stays that way depends on you.”
“If you lay a hand on her, motherfucker, I’ll—”
“I’m afraid you won’t be calling the shots here,” he interrupts me, his voice calm and confident. “I am.”
“What do you want?” I ask, knowing that question has the power to be a double edge sword. Is there anything he could possibly demand that I wouldn’t give to get her back? What if what he wants is more than I have to give?
“Ah, I recognize the desperation in your voice, Schrader.” I can almost hear the smug bastard’s smile through the phone. “Very much like Stone when Roanne was taken and he asked for my help. I told him then, like I will tell you now; I have no tolerance for betrayal, nor sympathy for those who choose to take from what’s mine and get caught doing so. You stole from me as well. I want it all back. My truck, my crates and Connor; along with the money Stone gave to Lorzano. Money that rightfully belonged to me. Yes,” he says, his voice filled with arrogance. “I know about that, too.”
“Your man was just as dirty as ours,” I inform him, wondering if he knew Connor was robbing him blind.
“Which makes him mine to deal with how I see fit, doesn’t it?” His tone is ice cold. “Being that I am a realistic man, and I quite enjoy Cheyenne’s company, I am going to give you twenty-four hours to make this happen. I will call back then to arrange the exchange. For her sake, be ready. I am not a patient man,” he warns, then ends the call.