Flesh and Blood (Dixie Mafia Series Book 1)

by Cynthia Rayne

  Flesh and Blood

  A Dixie Mafia Novel

  BOOK ONE

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Books in the Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Crimson Creek, TX

  “Come on, twenty more yards, you can do it, baby. Don’t quit on me.”

  Annabelle Nunn coaxed her aging blue Ford F-150 further down Crimson Creek Drive. Lately, the only kind of luck she’d had was bad, and she needed this one tiny victory.

  Belle glanced at the gas gauge. It hovered over the danger zone, but the gas light hadn’t flicked on yet. Blueberry had to reach the Lickety Split parking lot, the local gas station and convenience mart, before he ran out of gas. The next hurdle would be scrounging up enough change to fill the tank.

  “Come on, only a few more feet. You can do it.”

  Belle stroked the steering wheel as she spoke, as though her sweet talk would keep the truck running—well, chugging along. Blue had been with her since college, and Belle hoped he’d last a couple more years.

  Blue lumbered into the parking lot, and she parked next to the gas pump. She upended her purse and picked up the stray change which had sunk to the bottom. After raiding the seat cushions and her pants as well, Belle came up with four dollars and ninety-three cents. She’d have just enough to get around town for the next few days. Thank God gas prices had gone down.

  Belle jumped out of the truck and slunk inside with a palm full of coins. The heels she wore were a half-size too small and pinched her toes, but she’d gotten them at Target for a steal so she’d bought them. She’d worn them to a job interview earlier this morning, and now her feet throbbed. Aransas Behavioral Health had an opening for a full-time family therapist and, from what she’d learned about the agency, it’d be an ideal fit for her skills and background.

  Unfortunately, the interview had only lasted twenty minutes—a terrible sign.

  Belle headed inside. She passed a steel oven with wrinkled red wieners impaled on spikes, neon orange cheese flecked with red, ready to squirt on tortilla chips, and a ginormous ice cream bar and all the fixings.

  Normally, she’d have turned up her nose at the junk food, but she hadn’t had a real meal in days. At this minute, she only had $10.27 to her name—not counting the change in her palm.

  Please let Aransas call for a second interview.

  Belle got in line. Lickety Split had a banana split theme. A big framed picture of anthropomorphic food—cherries, bananas, nuts, and scoops of ice cream—dancing into a pair of open lips dominated the room. The grinning food cha-cha-ing to its demise was vaguely disturbing.

  “Pump number two, please.” She handed the coins to the pimply teenager at the cash register with a sheepish smile. The man in a flannel shirt standing behind her sighed.

  A flush crept up her neck, causing her cheeks to flame.

  To his credit, the clerk didn’t say anything or give her an evil look. Instead, he plunked the coins onto the counter in neat stacks as he counted. According to the badge clipped to the lanyard around his neck, the clerk’s name was Mike. Mike wore a red and white striped polyester uniform and a matching store-issued ball cap.

  Behind the cashier’s narrow shoulders, she spotted a Help Wanted sign plastered to the window.

  Her breath caught. What was the likelihood Aransas would call? Zilch. She’d wasted six months pursuing a job in her field and hadn’t even gotten past a first interview. Meanwhile, her options and her savings had dwindled to nothing.

  Paying the rent and utilities this month had cleaned out her bank account. Time to accept the inevitable—beggars can’t choose a damn thing. She needed a job—any job—and she’d reached the end of the line. Now wasn’t the time to get picky.

  After four years of college, three years of graduate school, and a hefty sixty-five thousand in student loan debt she’d be paying off well into her golden years, Belle would work for minimum wage if it’d keep the wolf from her door.

  Emmett Caldwell, her father, had always said that—although he used it to justify whatever get-rich-quick scheme he tried. Belle had taken the phrase to heart, and it’d become a mantra. It meant she’d do whatever was necessary to keep herself fed, sheltered, and clothed—anything short of depending on a man. She’d always taken care of herself.

  While putting herself through college, Belle had a slew of terrible jobs. In exchange for room and board, she’d supervised three hundred freshmen in the dorms and spent every weekend babysitting drunken college boys. One hellish July, she’d supervised community service for juvenile delinquents.

  “Can I have an application?” Belle bit the inside of her cheek.

  “Uh, yeah.” Mike grabbed one from a nearby clipboard and slid it over to her.

  Belle should’ve made contingency plans a couple of months ago—applied for jobs outside of her field, maybe public assistance as a distant third option. Stupid pride had gotten in the way. She’d been so convinced someone would hire her, but nothing had panned out. And now she was at the end of her tether.

  Form in hand, Belle scurried out the door and pumped her gas. As she watched the numbers on the pump change, a prickle skittered up the back of her neck like someone was watching her. She glanced around. A man two lanes over stood next to a shiny black Chevy Silverado. He wore a weathered Carhartt jacket, a trucker hat with the brim pulled low over his eyes, a pair of jeans, and muddy work boots. His only distinguishable feature was a scruffy beard, which obscured the lower half of his face. He appeared to be like any other blue collar worker stopping at the Lickety Split on his way home from a construction site or an oil field.

  Had he been watching her before she glanced over?

  Although he wasn’t looking Belle’s way, something about him bothered her all the same—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. As a counselor, she had a lot of insight into human behavior, and this man made her uneasy. Belle had learned the hard way to pay attention to her instincts.

  After she placed the gas pump on its holder and capped her tank, she looked again, but Trucker Hat wasn’t studying her.

  Or maybe I’m losing it.

  Belle had lived in a perpetual state of anxiety fueled by desperation for the past few months. And now she could add paranoia to the growing list of problems.

  Goody.

  As Belle pulled out of the gas station, she checked the rearview mirror to be sure.

  Trucker Hat had vanished.

  She blew out a breath to calm her nerves and drove home. She passed a group of local businesses—How-De-Do, Sugar Daddies, Poison Fruit, Jumbles, and a brand new strip club, the Lone Star Lounge. The owner, Bonnie Beauregard, had Dixie Mafia connections, so the residents had been too afraid to put up a fuss about an adult business in their midst.

  The mafia had a foothold in Crimson Creek. Why criminals would choose the tiny town for the base of their operation was debated by the locals. Belle thought it was probably the lack of scru
tiny—the Creek only had a sheriff and a part-time deputy. And they spent most of their time ticketing people for speeding.

  At least Lickety Split was better than stripping at Lone Star. Belle squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. I can do this.

  What other choice do I have?

  Belle had a one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of Blackwood Apartments. It wasn’t much to look at—the complex had a seventies feel with popcorn ceilings and burnt orange closet doors. But the walls were recently painted, the plumbing worked, and the rent fit her tight budget, so she’d taken it.

  When she’d first moved to town, she’d wanted to live in Magnolia Arms, but the rent was three hundred dollars higher. There was also a rumor going around town the Dixie Mafia owned it too.

  As soon as she got in the door, her long-haired tuxedo cat, Quaxo, galloped toward her. She scooped him up and stroked his fur while he purred, bumping his head under her chin, his blue eyes closed in abject pleasure.

  If only it were so easy to make her happy.

  “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”

  Quaxo meowed as though he’d understood.

  The cat was the only other “person” in her world at the moment, so she spoke to him, if only to have someone to talk to. Belle had been friends with a couple of her co-workers. After she’d been fired from Peregrine Family Solutions, things had gotten awkward, so she’d ignored their texts and phone calls until they’d stopped trying. Now, she was too self-conscious to call them and admit she hadn’t gotten another job. Belle promised herself she would once she had another position.

  “Did you miss me?”

  Quaxo purred.

  She’d named him after a cat in the musical, CATS. Belle had been a choir kid in high school and loved Broadway tunes. She listened to the soundtracks over and over until she’d memorized the entire catalog of songs from a show.

  After setting Quaxo down, she kicked off her pumps then flexed her feet, digging her toes into the carpet. Belle carried the shoes into the bedroom and stopped to study her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. She examined her interview clothes, looking for flaws. Belle wore a pair of black trousers and a matching jacket, along with a red satin shirt. A professor had once said red was a “power” color and wearing it conveyed confidence, so she wore a splash of red to every interview. And when Belle paired the color with her pale skin, auburn hair, and brown eyes, it complemented her features.

  Her face looked thinner, but she still had hips and curves. Belle had always been chubby, and she’d battled her weight for years. Since she’d gotten fired, her appetite had flatlined, and she didn’t have much food in the house anyway. At one time, the weight loss would’ve thrilled her. Belle’s father had made her self-conscious about her size, and it affected her self-worth. She’d eventually settled into a size twelve, which suited her frame.

  The phone rang, and Belle hurried into the other room to answer it.

  Please let it be a second interview.

  The number came up unknown, but Belle pressed the green button anyway.

  “Hello?”

  No reply.

  “Hello?” Belle listened intently, but no one spoke or even breathed.

  She’d gotten her hopes up for no reason—again. It was only some creeper crank-calling. She ended the call and tossed the phone down. So frustrating! Why wouldn’t someone hire her? All she wanted was a job in her field. Was that too much to ask?

  Belle had all the requisite credentials. She’d studied each position—checking out their websites to learn about the culture and their programs. And when she wasn’t preparing for interviews, Belle searched for jobs—for hours every day, all day. Sometimes, she wondered if her former supervisor, Jim Halstead, had blackballed her.

  No, I can’t do this. She didn’t have the energy to obsess about her career tonight.

  She undressed and hung the outfit neatly on a hanger, then slipped on some comfy yoga pants and a T-shirt. Belle sat on the secondhand couch in the living room and snuggled with Quaxo. Right now, he was the only good thing in her life.

  Nothing in the room was new. A scarred shelf on the wall by the door held her skimpy collection of books, mostly counseling texts she used as a reference. Belle had gone digital and sold any paper copies she owned. On top of the shelf was a black glass lamp—a “put it together” piece from IKEA. The coffee table was a castoff she’d found in front of someone’s house on trash day.

  After a few minutes, Quaxo wiggled out of her grasp and trotted over to his food bowl in the kitchen. He meowed loudly until she filled it with kibble. There was only half a bag left. Last week, she’d run out of the wet food she gave him for breakfast, and he yowled for it as she stumbled out of bed every morning.

  Belle washed her hands, filled a glass with water from the tap, and pulled six saltines from the cracker box. She placed them on a paper plate and slathered three with peanut butter before topping them with the rest of the crackers, creating sandwiches. All she had left in the cupboard was a sleeve of crackers and a half-eaten jar of peanut butter.

  She was starring in her own version of the musical, Rent—without the hunky co-stars and perky dance numbers. In her less optimistic moments, Belle imagined all sorts of horrors like being thrown out on the street, forced to live in her truck. And what would happen when Blue eventually died? Would she move into a homeless shelter then?

  She couldn’t turn to family. Her father had walked out a long time ago, and her mother was gone. Belle was on her own, and she had to get out of this mess by herself.

  As Belle ate, she filled out the job application.

  ***

  A couple of hours later, Belle laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. Quaxo curled up beside her, soundly asleep with a full belly. There was something calming about stroking a cat—the soft fur, his low, rumbling purr.

  It was only nine o’clock, but she’d gotten rid of her satellite television a couple of months ago. She had books to read but felt too restless. The application was ready to go, and she’d drop it off first thing the next morning.

  Maybe things would look better then. At the very least, they couldn’t get any worse.

  Belle jumped at the loud bang on the front door.

  I spoke too soon.

  Quaxo leaped off the bed and scurried beneath it. She wished she could crawl under there with him.

  Another knock, more insistent than the last one.

  After grabbing a ratty robe from the bedpost, she slogged into the living room, then hesitated halfway to the door as paranoia struck again.

  Could it be Trucker Hat?

  Gritting her teeth, she peered through the peephole. Two men stood outside. Belle didn’t recognize the men, and they looked…intense. The younger man wore a leather jacket, and she spied a gun-shaped bulge beneath his arm. He kept shooting glances at the parking lot.

  Woah. Was he looking for witnesses?

  The older man wore a black three-piece suit and idly smoothed his paisley tie while they waited for her to open the door. Suity had a cool, blue-eyed stare Belle could feel right through the wood.

  She had no idea why they’d come calling, but they probably weren’t here to sell Girl Scout cookies. And the last time she’d checked, MasterCard didn’t send thugs when customers stopped making payments.

  Maybe she could ignore this particular problem, and it’d go away. Holding her breath, she tiptoed further away from the door.

  “We can hear you in there, Ms. Nunn.”

  Oh, God. The threat in his tone was unmistakable. Belle couldn’t see, but she bet Suity had spoken.

  “I suggest you open this door while you still have a choice in the matter.”

  Her palms itched, and her heartbeat picked up. She wanted to get out of here, but they stood in front of the only exit.

  Belle mentally counted down from ten, centering herself. Counselor training had taught her to remain calm in a crisis situation. Only this time, she was the one having
a crisis.

  “What do you want?” She squinted out the peephole.

  “You.” Suity crossed his arms over his chest. “A friend of mine would like a word.”

  Belle gulped. And she’d thought life couldn’t get any worse. She should’ve known better. The universe delighted in pushing her face in the mud after tripping her in the first place.

  “Who? Why?”

  “Dixon Wolf has a couple of questions for you.”

  Dixon Wolf. She’d heard the name. He owned a huge mansion on the edge of town. Apparently, the rumors she’d heard were true—Wolf was a member of the Dixie Mafia.

  “What does he want with me?”

  Suity sighed. “You’ll have to ask Dix, darlin’. This kind of errand is far below my pay grade, but I owe him a favor. Open the door so we can speak face-to-face like two civilized people.”

  Nothing about the man was civilized, despite his attempt at charm.

  Biting her lower lip, Belle opened the door an inch or two, keeping the chain in place, so she could study Suity. He was tall and broad-shouldered with blond hair and big blue eyes. Belle put his age around mid-thirties, judging by the slight lines around his eyes and mouth.

  Suity grinned. “Ms. Nunn, I presume?”

  She nodded.

  “Good to put a face with a name. What I can see of you anyway.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Byron Beauregard, and my silent partner over there is Rebel Jackson.” He waved a hand toward the younger man, who kept watching the parking lot. Belle placed Rebel in his early twenties with dark hair and dark eyes. They were an unlikely duo. “We’ll be escortin’ you to the meetin’.”

  While she didn’t recognize Rebel, she’d heard of Byron Beauregard. Beauregard was rumored to be a hitman, and his family was infamous in Texas. Their money had come from prohibition times when they’d bootlegged moonshine—among other criminal activities. They had connections to the Dixie Mafia as well as local politics.

  And Belle wasn’t going anywhere with him.

  “I’m afraid I can’t—”

  He raised a brow. “I’m not a man people say no to. One way or another, you’re comin’ with me.” His once-friendly gaze turned crisp and clear—like ice.