Her lips twisted. “Sounds like the bitch needs put away for life.”
“What she needs is a cozy grave for one.”
Ash had a wicked gleam in her eyes—the thrill of the chase.
Damn, this new kickass side of her was kinda hot in a twisted way, but it came from a dark place.
“I know why you’re so angry.”
“Oh yeah? You psychic all of a sudden?”
“Don’t need to be. His birthday is comin’ up.” He usually spent Abe’s birthday and the anniversary of his death on benders—filling up on whiskey and women so he could drown out the pain.
“Our birthday.”
His chest tightened. Steele wanted to tell her lots of things—that he was sorry, and she shouldn’t be tempting fate and trying to get herself killed. But it was hopeless. She’d never listen to him, so he stayed mute and finished the damn job.
After a while, Ash yawned into her hand. Her eyelids drooped, and she wasn’t as tense.
“You tired?”
“Yeah, didn’t sleep much last night.”
No wonder she’d taken on several grown men tonight and held her own. “Maybe you should get some shut-eye.” He didn’t come out and tell her to rest, because she’d stay awake to spite him. Oil and water—they didn’t mix well.
“Maybe.”
Steele walked to the end of the bed, pulled out his cell phone, and fired off a text to Ace, canceling her dinner date with him. And nope, he didn’t bring it up. He doubted she’d remembered it.
Ash curled on her side, and as she moved, Steele noticed the wound on her neck. A scar swooped down by her throat, directly over the vein. He couldn’t help but stare, and he reached a fingertip out to touch it.
Ash slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.” She pulled the collar of her shirt higher then dragged herself to the other side of the bed.
“What happened? Who cut you?” What the hell had she gotten herself into? It was bad enough someone had taken a knife to her face—they’d tried to end her life too?
“I did.” Her look was drenched in bravado.
“You…?” Steele couldn’t even get the words out. She’d taken a knife to her own throat.
Ash stood and walked to the mirror. She pushed her hair back and examined her throat in the shiny surface. “I always keep it covered. I shoulda been more careful today.”
“You tried to commit suicide,” he breathed. He felt like someone had punctured his ribcage and seized his heart.
“Yeah, but it’s none of your fuckin’ business so do us both a favor and leave.” She stalked back into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.
Dumbly, Steele stood there for several minutes, staring at the closed door. He wanted to break it down and demand an answer. He wanted to shake her until she told him everything—until he made Ash promise she’d never, ever do something stupid again.
But he didn’t—couldn’t, actually.
He was the last person on earth who could reason with her. When his legs worked again, Steele dragged himself out of her room.
And threw up on the pavement.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, Steele sought out Pretty Boy at Perdition. Steele hadn’t been able to sleep—not a wink. Every time he closed his eyes, he dreamt about Afghanistan again—the night Abe died. He could still play every single second of it in his head like a horror movie. The smell of charred flesh on the smoky air. Abe’s face frozen, contorted in pain forever. Since Coyote had gone missing, the nightmares had come calling every evening.
Steele shook his head, trying to block out the images.
Normally, he fucked his way into a good slumber, but Ash had come crashing into his world. And screwing another woman had mysteriously plummeted to the bottom of his priority list.
Steele was out of his depth—he didn’t do this touchy-feely crap. Ever. He preferred to punch his way out of a problem, which wouldn’t cut it in this particular situation. Besides, Ash needed help, whether or not she realized it and, unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to give it to her.
So Steele sought out reinforcements.
Pretty Boy stood behind the counter, pouring pretzels into small wooden bowls from a Sam’s club-sized bag. The bar hadn’t opened yet, so the place was nearly empty. Other than Pretty Boy, he spotted a couple of hellions meandering around, refilling salt and pepper shakers. Neither of them were Wendy—thank the Lord for small favors. Steele didn’t see Eddie or Ryker around, so this was a prime opportunity to have a talk.
Pretty Boy raised a brow. “What’s up, brother?”
He didn’t normally come to the club this early in the day without a good reason. Steele needed a favor but didn’t know how to ask for it without sounding like a gigantic douche.
“Nothin’ much. How’s tricks?”
He sat down on a stool and helped himself to a fistful of pretzels. After he’d barfed in Hades’ parking lot last night, he hadn’t felt like eating when he got home. Although salty pretzels probably weren’t the best breakfast option.
Narrowing his eyes, Pretty Boy continued filling the bowls, and while he didn’t call bullshit on Steele’s answer, his face sure as fuck did.
“Tricks are fine,” he said after a long pause. “Why?” Pretty Boy rolled his eyes heavenward. “I swear. Are you here to hassle me?”
“About what?”
“My affection for dick. For the last time, I ain’t into you. Never was, and I don’t know shit about decoratin’. Don’t believe everything you see on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy reruns.”
Steele frowned. Yeah, he’d probably given Shep and Pretty Boy a hard time, but not deliberately. He’d been interested was all. Not like he’d met many gay folks. “I really don’t care, man. The gay thing is ancient history. Gay it up, brother.”
Pretty Boy’s shoulders shook. “Good. I will.”
“Damn shame you don’t know nothin’. My place is a fuckin’ mess.”
They both grinned.
“Before I forget, I need you to take somethin’ to Justice. He didn’t stop by yesterday, and you two are workin’ together right now, right?”
“Yep.”
Pretty Boy slipped a hand in his cut and withdrew a Ziploc baggie full of weed.
Steele turned it over in his hands, examining it. “Is this Apocalyptic Night?”
“Nah, it’s a strand I developed for Justice. I call it Mercy.”
“Justice gets his own type of weed?” Steele was impressed and a bit jealous.
“Yeah, he asked me to work on one when I was a prospect. It calms you down, helps you sleep.”
Steele tucked it into his cut. “I’ll make sure he gets it. He owe you any money?”
“Nah, he already paid me. Justice has a standing order.” Pretty Boy placed the bowls around the bar. “So why are you really here?”
Steele nearly choked on the pretzel he’d been munching on. Fuck, he should’ve been practicing his approach.
“Uh….”
“Is it Wendy?”
He leaned closer to whisper. “How the fuck do you know about Wendy?”
“Brother, there ain’t no secrets in this place. I overheard a couple of the girls comparin’ notes last night.”
He didn’t give a shit about hellions gossiping behind his back. Not anymore. They could chin-wag all they liked, but gossip had a way of turning up at the worst possible moment. What if they said something to Ash? It bothered him more than he cared to contemplate.
“What? You into her or somethin’?”
“Oh, God, no. I want the social worker’s number.” And there it was, without finesse.
“Etta May?” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Pretty Boy was no longer a prospect and couldn’t be ordered around anymore. It sucked ass. Big time.
“I need it.”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I like her, and you aren’t gonna fuck her.”
“Don’t w
anna.” The idea had never occurred to him.
“Yeah? I don’t believe you. That’s what you do. You’ll screw her and then toss her away. What do you want with her? Are you fresh out of hellions to bang?”
“Do you think the only reason I talk to women is to fuck them?”
A ripple of shame ran through him. Oh, fuck—that’s exactly why he talked to a woman.
Women viewed him as a fun guy to fool around with, not the kind they’d bring home to Mom and Dad. Steele had never been the brightest crayon in the box. In high school, he’d lived for the gridiron, not the classroom. In the military, he’d held his own, but he wasn’t exactly a genius.
“Yeah, I do.” Pretty Boy vaulted over the bar.
Damn. “I talk to the old ladies all the time. I never—”
“Only because it’s in the club commandments, and our brothers would knock your teeth down your throat for lookin’ at them sideways.”
“I don’t wanna fuck her. I need her help. Are you gonna give me the number or what?”
“I’m leanin’ toward not. What’s up?”
“None of your fuckin’ business.”
“Tell me.” Pretty Boy drummed his fingers on the bar. “Etta has hauled my ass out of the fire a few times. I’m not gonna leave hers unprotected.”
Steele sighed. He might as well tell the partial truth. “I need the number for a friend.” Ash deserved her privacy. No one else needed to know she was suicidal.
“Uh huh.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And?”
“And she’s goin’ through a difficult time. Her brother died in the war, and I think she’s havin’ trouble letting go.” He offered up a slice of the truth, but he couldn’t say more.
Pretty Boy cursed under his breath. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He held out his hand. “Give me your phone. I’ll put the digits in. She’s in Dallas right now—some kind of social worker conference she’s speaking at—so I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”
Steele forked over the prepaid, and Pretty Boy’s fingers flew over the keyboard before he tossed it back. “Got it. Thanks, brother.”
“No problem, but while Ms. Etta May Jameson is helpin’ out your friend, she’s under your protection. Got it? Don’t let nothin’ happen to her. And I can’t overstate this…don’t fuck her. Don’t.”
“Got it, brother.” The matter settled, Steele tried to be his usual jokester self, even though the role didn’t quite fit just now. “Let’s talk about my strain of weed. What do you think about Man of Steele?”
Pretty Boy sighed.
***
Steele headed to Hades in time to watch Ash jog across the parking lot. When she caught sight of him, Ash broke into a run. He sprinted over, catching her at the door before she could dash inside and shut him out.
She wore a pair of thigh-hugging black leggings and a tight top which read: Sweaty Haute Mess. She’d fastened the arms of her hoodie around her tiny waist. Upon closer examination, he could see she’d swiped some makeup over her scar to disguise it. If he hadn’t known what he was looking for, he’d have never noticed the wound.
“You run every mornin’?”
“Yup.” Turning her back on him, Ash placed an arm on the wall and extended one foot, stretching her muscles.
Steele filed the info away for later use. He wanted to ask about her suicide, but could he bring something so volatile up? “Hey, we need to talk.”
“About what? You pukin’ right outside my door?”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Because you just copped to it. The barf stunk to high heaven, and I had to keep refilling the ice bucket from the tap to wash away your mess. Took me six trips.”
“Sorry.” He’d meant to text Angel and tell the prospect to care of it, but he’d been befuddled last night. Might as well say it. “Let’s talk about the big ass scar on your neck.”
Ash cooled, and damn if her grim face didn’t look meaner than a junkyard dog. “Fuck off, Steele. Let it go, ain’t none of your business.” She headed for the door, keys jangling, and he followed her, muscling his way into the room.
She stood staring at him with her hands on her hips. “Let’s talk about the shaky lead instead.”
He wanted to say so many things, but the words wouldn’t come. Steele couldn’t heal the damage he’d caused.
“I—”
“What, Steele? What do you want from me?”
I wanna make you whole again. Instead of saying the words, Steele handed her Etta May’s number. He’d copied it down on a bar napkin. “Here, she’s a clinical social worker. One of my brothers knows her, says she’s real good at her job. Maybe she could help.”
Biting her lower lip, Ash studied the napkin.
Steele waited for her to rip it up, maybe throw it in his face, but she didn’t.
“I saw a therapist.” She said it so low he had to strain to hear.
He stepped closer. “Yeah?”
Ash rubbed a thumb over her scar. “Right after I cut myself.”
“Why did you cut your own throat?”
She turned away from him. “I thought it’d be a fast way to go, quick and easy. But my mom found me, got me to the hospital in time. As soon as I saw her face, I regretted doing it. She’d lost one child, and I nearly caused her to lose another.” He could only see her profile. “After they patched my ass up, I got shipped upstairs to the loony bin for a month.”
Her mother was an emergency room doctor. Thank God she’d been there to save Ash.
“When?”
She walked to the mini-fridge and grabbed a couple of bottled waters. Ash tossed one to Steele and grabbed another for herself. Twisting off the cap, she took a long pull. For a moment, he didn’t know if she’d answer him.
“Our birthday. The first one without Abe.”
“And that’s the only time?”
She nodded. “It was after I’d left the Corps, before I started working for Cole. I was at loose ends….”
“Why would you slice yourself up?” It was the question he’d been dying to ask since he’d found out last night.
“Why do you think?”
“I know he’s your brother and your friend. You miss him, but—”
“But what? I have so much to live for? I have my whole life ahead of me? Go on, give me your platitude, I’ve heard them all.”
“I wanna hear you talk.”
“You don’t get it, and you never will.” She turned away. “Losin’ a twin is more painful than losing a brother and best friend. He was my other half. The therapist at the hospital told me about twinless twins. There’s a support group for us, like Alcoholics Anonymous or somethin’.” She faced him once more.
“You ever go?”
Ash shook her head. “I read the pamphlets she gave me, but I can’t sit there and yak about my problems with a roomful of strangers.”
Steele didn’t blame her. He wouldn’t be able to open up to a bunch of people he didn’t know either.
“It’s about identity. We were a set. Abe and I shared a sense of self, and now he’s gone, I’m half a person.” Ash wrapped her arms around herself. “Somethin’ will always be missin’ from my life. We came into this world together, and we should’ve left it that way.”
Steele ached all over. He wanted to hold her, offer her comfort, but she’d give him a black eye. So he stood there, staring, unable to say or do anything helpful—useless as teats on a bull.
“I gotta live for the both of us, and sometimes I can’t take the pressure is all.” She lifted her chin. “This is the last time we’ll discuss it.” Ash blew out a breath. “I want you to leave, then we’ll follow up on the lead tonight. I’ll text you the details. We’re gonna need the cover of darkness.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Shaking, Steele stumbled out the door—but at least he didn’t upchuck.
Chapter Nine
Later in the morning, Steele sat by himself in Hades, picking at
a Denver omelet. He’d ordered the damn thing hoping the smell would make him hungry.
It didn’t.
The front door swung open, and Steele glanced up to see his buddy, Frost, walk in. Frost had short reddish-blond hair, blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. As per usual, he was dressed in a fancy blue suit. Steele had gotten a terse text from him the night before requesting a meeting, and judging by the hard set of Frost’s jaw, he hadn’t come to breakfast to do a little chin-wagging.
Steele and Frost had served together in Afghanistan, along with Abe. After their tours ended, Frost had gotten a position in the county sheriff’s office, while Steele went the outlaw route. Unlike most of the club brothers, Steele didn’t have a record and took an occasional bounty hunting gig on the side. Frost let him know when some dickhead slipped through the legal cracks so the club could administer some vigilante justice.
After ordering coffee and a glazed donut at the counter, Frost sat down across from Steele. Voo usually sent a prospect to Devilicious every morning for a dozen or two donuts. The bakery added a red cinnamon coating, which gave the pastry a satanic luster.
Steele raised a brow. “Seriously? A donut?”
“Fuck the cliché, I got a sweet tooth to indulge.” He bit into the pastry with gusto.
“Why’d you need to meet?” Shaking his head, Steele speared a forkful of omelet and twirled it around. He let it fall back to the plate, untouched. Nope, still no appetite.
“We got a report over the wire yesterday about a dangerous fugitive believed to be in the area.”
Steele glanced up. “Oh yeah?”
“You’re gonna sit there and play stupid with me?”
“Who says I’m playin’?” As a kid, Steele loved the role of class clown—still did, actually. School hadn’t been easy for him, so he’d enjoyed himself in other ways—quarterback, babe magnet, and joker extraordinaire.
“Fine.” The cop pitched his donut down with a sigh. “Let’s do this your way. The fugitive is Jonathan Royal, the former president of Kentucky’s Four Horsemen chapter. He’s a convicted murderer, not to mention the extortion, illegal arms sales, assault, and racketeering charges.”
Steele knew exactly who Frost was going on about. Not all of the Horsemen chapters had a strictly straight-and-narrow approach to earning money. Royal had busted out of prison and had been on the run ever since—for nearly a year now.
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