Dirty

by A. C. Bextor

  Moving my hand to rest on top of hers on my chest, and after truly seeing how torn she is, I say with renewed determination, “I said it was too late. You’re not alone anymore.”

  “She’s alone,” she states with a wary expression. “I’m scared for her.”

  “I know,” I answer, raising my hands and holding her shoulders. I feel the shake of her body, so I squeeze gently and try to hold her still.

  “What if they’re hurting her?”

  “Don’t think like that.”

  “What if they are? God, how do I even know she’s alive?”

  Shaking my head and squeezing her shoulders again, I do what I can to calm her. “Stop thinking like that, Em. You’re not helping anyone by questioning the worst.”

  Stepping back from me, she wipes her eyes before the tears fall. “I know. I’ve just spent so much time alone, and you’d be surprised at what comes to mind late at night when you can’t sleep.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised at all,” I return quickly.

  “Marie,” she answers.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Max. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you for this.”

  Taking her face in my hands, I try to strengthen her resolve. “I’ll do what I can for Casey. But you’ve got to keep it together for me until I can get in there and see her for myself. Hoss said Dee Dee’s still around, Em. That’s a start.”

  Tears plague her eyes as she looks up at me. Her mouth draws open as if she’s about to say something. Before she can talk, I feel the hem of my jeans being tugged from behind me. When I turn around, I watch as a young, black and white dog continues to teasingly pull for my attention. His tail is wagging as he digs his back paws into the rug, trying to knock me off-balance.

  “He wants to play,” Em tells me, stepping back from my reach. “We rescued him last April from the shelter in town. His name is Owen.”

  Bending down and running my large hand over his even larger head, I claim, “You don’t need cameras around your house. You have all you need right here.”

  “He’s not a great guard dog. The fool loves everyone,” she says. “Except Greg. They’ve not made friends.”

  Her face looks sad with the thought. I don’t miss it and neither does she, so she puts on a fake smile in an attempt to mask it.

  “Nice to meet you, Owen,” I tell him as he tries to knock me over now that we’re eye to eye.

  When I look back up to Em, her sadness has somewhat dissipated and she’s smiling. “You look ridiculous, so you know.”

  “Why?” I ask, allowing Owen to lick my face. “You don’t think I’m ridiculous, do you, Owen?”

  This dog has to be at least eighty pounds. The American bulldog could rip a person’s throat to shreds if given a valid reason. Protecting their owners from harm is a good enough reason for me.

  “I forgot how much you liked animals,” she voices her memory.

  “I still do,” I agree. “I can’t have a dog in my apartment. If I could, he’d be a big one, just like your Owen.”

  “Max?” she asks, pulling my attention away from the puppy still playing at my feet.

  Standing straight, the dog takes the cue and walks out of the room. His panting continues as he makes his way through the large kitchen, the clicking of his paws fading in the distance as he goes.

  “Yeah?”

  “For whatever it’s worth, thank you for helping.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” I remind her.

  “What you’ve already done in a week is more than I’ve been able to do in over a year.”

  As I move to sit back down on the chair, I watch Emma walk past Owen to the refrigerator. “Can I get you a beer?”

  “Sounds good. Are you having one?”

  Shaking her head and smiling, she tells me, “No. I’m good.”

  “It’s no fun drinking alone,” I reply.

  With her back to me, I hear her comment, “Something tells me you’ve done it before.”

  Happy to see her coming out of her inevitable sadness, I reply, “I have, smartass.”

  “Thought so,” she answers, walking back and handing me the beer.

  “So, tell me,” I start, gathering further intel before tonight’s meet. “What’s the last you’ve heard from Dee Dee?”

  “You mean besides the low moans you used to cause her to exude when you were pawing at her all those years ago?”

  I hate talking about my time with Dee Dee. There’s no point in reliving the mistakes of my past with the woman I should’ve chosen back then.

  “Funny girl,” I return.

  “You earned that. I heard you two all those times, Max. Our rooms were next to each other’s and the walls were paper thin.”

  “I’d love to drop the subject of her, but something tells me you aren’t going to let that happen.”

  She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t have mattered. You were who you were and she was definitely who she was. I was me.”

  “You were somethin’,” I remind her. “Still are.”

  She nods and stares at me quietly for a moment.

  Now that she’s regrouped, I need to gather the information I came here for. “So, tell me when was the last time you spoke with Dee Dee?”

  Her face gets serious as she tries to recall. “It was before last time I went to see Casey. She wanted money. The guy she had hooked up with at the time had stolen from her and Hoss wouldn’t listen to her plead her case. She was angry and bitter, she didn’t sound like herself.”

  “When you’d visit Casey, you would see Dee Dee each time?”

  “I tried. I wanted to talk to her. She never wanted to discuss anything, though, so it was more me trying to convince her to leave. She always refused. Later, before I was cut off, she looked worse than I had ever seen her. She said she and Casey were happy living there.”

  “How did Casey look?”

  She looks past me in thought. “Like a kid, I guess. She didn’t look physically abused from what I saw. There were no obvious marks on her, and she didn’t seem to be in any pain. She was quiet. Lonely and nervous, maybe? She was neglected, that was evident.”

  “Ignored,” I say, trying to find a better word for Emma to concentrate on rather than neglected. Neglect sounds worse, but means about the same.

  “Yes, ignored.”

  “Why do you think they stopped letting you near her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tossing the beer bottle cap in the air and catching it on the way down, I don’t look at Emma with my next observation. It’ll hurt her. “Dee Dee’s a whore. She doesn’t matter to the club.”

  “How’s that possible, Max? She’s a person.”

  “It’s very possible,” I explain. “Your sister has chosen a life where she means nothing to those who live there. Men share club whores. Hoss did tell me, specifically, that she was off-limits. He said she belonged to someone.”

  “She still loves you.”

  “We weren’t in love,” I correct.

  “You weren’t, but she was. And you’re a hard man to get over.”

  Stopping the bottle mid-air, I look at Em’s eyes. They’re dancing with humor.

  “You’d know this, how?” I ask.

  Her face reddens, and the shy, sweet smile I’ve always loved makes its way to her mouth. Not only has Em grown up while I was gone, she’s also become more vocal with her thoughts and feelings.

  “I remember when I was younger and you and Dee Dee would come to the house while my parents weren’t home. Your attention never left her.”

  “My hands and mouth never left her, you mean.”

  “Yuck!” she scoffs. “Those, too, I suppose.”

  “Dramatic, Em.”

  Her tone lowers, so I can hardly hear her words. “I used to wonder if you weren’t with her, if you’d have ever looked at me that way.”

  “What’s the confession, Em? Tell me what I’m missing and say it like you mean it.”

&nbs
p; I want to hear her admit what she’s trying so hard not to. Married or not, it’s good to get this out in the open, rather than continue dancing around the past as though it wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Her eyes narrow and she remains quiet for a second, then offers, “I was young. A kid, for all intents and purposes, but I probably crushed on you more than I should have.”

  “Emilyn Richards,” I state her full name, but not the one her husband gave her. “I never knew.”

  Sitting back in her chair, she curves her legs under her and sets her bottle of water on her knee. The back of her hand holds her cheek as she rests her elbow on the chair’s side. “Don’t act like you didn’t have a clue. You used to wink at me on purpose when I’d come home from school and find you and Dee Dee stretched out on the couch.”

  She’s right. I did that, and I’m satisfied she noticed and now she’s admitting to it.

  “With your hands up her shirt and down her pants,” she adds, right again.

  I wink, she blushes, and I confirm, “Of course I knew. But an old man like me needs to hear a young girl crushed on him. Can’t help it if it makes me feel wanted.”

  “One,” she starts her correction by holding up one finger. “You’re not old. And two,” she places two fingers in the air as though counting. “That was a long time ago. I’ve grown up since then.”

  Intentionally looking up and down her body, I allow a small smirk across my lips and watch her fidget in her chair. I’m thinking it’s a good fuckin’ thing she’s sitting at such a distance. Married or not, my thoughts are my own, and I’ll enjoy them as they are.

  “You’ve grown up,” I agree.

  “You never thought of settling down and having kids?” she asks.

  Turning the question on her, I return, “Did you?”

  She takes a moment to think, looking around the room we’re sitting in. “Greg doesn’t want kids. I’m thirty-three already. I don’t see a family in my future.”

  “The Emma I knew would’ve had as many kids as she always dreamed of having,” I reply.

  She tilts her head in thought, then expresses, “The Emma you knew still wants a lot of things she doesn’t have.”

  “You’ll have a family,” I promise without reason. “What are Greg’s thoughts on taking Casey in once we have her out? I assume you’re willing to do that, if possible.”

  “He hasn’t said either way. Greg is busy. He knows what’s happening, but I’m not sure he believes what I’ve told him.”

  I sense her sadness and I hate it. She doesn’t say any more as her fingers pick at the label on the water bottle she’s holding.

  “Em, look at me.”

  When she doesn’t, I stand up and walk over to hand her my half-empty bottle of beer, knowing I need to get the fuck out of here before I say too much.

  “It’s been good seeing you, Em. You have my number. You call me with anything you need.”

  Finally looking up, she asks, “When will I hear from you again? I don’t know how any of this works.”

  “You’ll hear from me when I have something for you to know. Until then, you have my number. I’ll text you my address so you’ll have that, too.”

  Standing from her chair, I back up to give her space. I don’t need the temptation of getting too close to a woman I’ve thought about too frequently for far too long.

  “Thanks for coming. I enjoyed our chat.”

  Winking at her again, watching her face blush again, I smile. “I enjoyed your confession.”

  “I bet you did,” she utters before closing the door behind me.

  More so than she knows.

  Chapter Six

  Eight o’clock exactly.

  I’m on time. I’ve parked my bike on the drive and I’m standing outside the gated walls of the Creed compound, waiting for someone to open it and let me pass through.

  The area around me is exactly what I assumed it would be—dark and eerie. The gates are rusted and held closed with heavy security chains. When I look up, I see the camera scanning the entrance slowly. Three huge, black dumpsters, holding God knows what, sit at the curb. There’s a heavily made wind chime blowing in the breeze, and the constant ringing in the near distance is agitating my already-worn nerves.

  When the gate start to swing open, I take a step back without worrying if I look weak. The man standing in front of me can only be described as sinister. His face is scarred along the right side. It cuts through his black eyebrow and drapes past the stubble of his jaw.

  I’m a big man, standing well over six-foot tall. He towers over me.

  He’s wearing a black leather Satan’s Creed vest with nothing underneath. The tribal tattoos adorning his right shoulder dip into the sleeve of the cut. He says nothing, only opens the gate and stands to the side to let me pass.

  On the way to the cement staircase, which leads up to a wide red door¸ I question, “My bike, it’s all right out there?”

  At this point, I don’t care about my bike, but breaking his silence is my aim. He doesn’t speak the answer but nods once, his eyes never meeting mine.

  As we walk into the club, I’m assaulted with the smell of smoke and pot. Men, even those holding women in their lap, grow silent as I follow my greeter toward the back of the room. I feel every pair of eyes zero in on us as we pass each set.

  The wooden double doors with silver handles toward the back of the large long hallway are closed. My heart rate accelerates briefly as the greeter opens them both at the same time. Once opened, he moves aside for me to enter.

  I say nothing as I stare at a table full of men, all different shapes, sizes, and age. I stay in my spot near the entrance and carefully take in the room.

  This place is fucking filthy.

  A cloak of cigarette smoke surround each member and the windows, from where I stand, appear to be nailed shut. This room serves as a reminder of the Hell I left in my previous MC, but unlike it, this one is so much worse.

  Remembering I’m not a member, I realize I could’ve just walked myself into a trap.

  “Mad Max!” I hear a voice call out. I turn to my left and find Hoss sitting at the head of the nasty table, holding a blonde woman in his lap. Except for a thong, she’s naked.

  “Just Max,” I correct, but in a lying, jovial tone, clearly aware of my threatening surroundings.

  “Sure, sure,” he says, motioning me into the room with his hand. When I start to walk closer to him, I get formally introduced to my greeter. “See you’ve already met Cilas. He don’t talk much. Silent Cilas is what we call him around here.”

  I turn to look up at the man who I now know as Cilas and nod my introduction. Again, he’s unaffected by my attempt at greeting him. Rather than say hello, he moves to close the door behind me then takes a hard stance, straightening his posture and clutching his hands in front of him.

  A soldier to the king.

  “Well, don’t just fuckin’ stand there. Come in, sit right there for a few minutes,” Hoss tells me as he signals for me to take a seat in the chair next to his. I briefly wonder why no one sits at his left side. Then, remembering where I am and what I came for, I remind myself that I don’t care.

  He shifts the blonde off his lap, but not before reaching up and pinching her nipple. Even from here, I can see the force he used in doing so. Her slight whimper of pain and fear is her giveaway. She’s as nervous in his presence as I am.

  After she gets up and starts to move, Cilas opens the door then closes it behind her. He takes his soldier’s stance again and moves his glare hard throughout the room.

  “Let me introduce you to the guys,” Hoss offers. He starts with the skinny blond with faded blue eyes and pock-marked skin at his right. “This is Hangar, my VP and right hand man. He don’t say much either, but if you need help with anything, he’s always around somewhere.”

  I nod, but this time I receive a nod in acknowledgement back. I recognize his name as being Dee Dee’s ol’ man. He doesn’t seem like much, but t
he crazy look in his eyes reminds me not to underestimate him.

  “Next to him is Wick, Creed Treasurer. Then Iron, Sergeant at Arms,” Hoss tells me. Both men nod. “And finally Dog, our resident gopher.”

  In a row, one by one, I meet their eyes again and say nothing, still unsure what the play is. I didn’t realize I’d be meeting everyone today.

  The man at my right hasn’t been introduced, nor has the one next to him. I’m guessing, in what I know about MC life, they’re prospects and don’t fucking matter at all.

  And I sit next to them.

  Losing patience and nerve, I stop his introductions. “No disrespect,” I start. “But when you asked for this meet, I thought you and I would be discussing business.”

  “Still never any nonsense with you, is there?”

  “No, there isn’t,” I answer boldly, moving my chair so it’s aimed directly at him. “What is it you need help with?”

  Hoss positions his back to his chair and smiles. The long, straggling beard moves with his grin. I can’t help but wonder the last time he bathed.

  “Cargo,” he returns.

  Cargo, of any kind, is never good.

  “What are we looking at? What type of cargo?”

  His smile falls as he sits up and braces his forearms on the table at the same time the room stills. “Well, Max. I don’t think that’s for you to know anything about just yet.”

  “When and where?” I reply, knowing he’s right. This is club business, and I’m not a member of his club. I have no need to know further information about their operation.

  He smirks. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, son.”

  The disgusting man in front of me calling me ‘son’ causes bile to crawl up my throat. It’s a sensation I’m growing accustomed to in his presence.

  Hoss starts to stand, slaps his VP on the shoulder as he does, and then walks toward me. He motions for me to rise from my seat and follow. Before we make our way to the door, Cilas has it open and ready.

  Hoss looks back to the room of men, still seated in their place, and demands, “Max and I are goin’ for a walk. Meet adjourned, you know what to do.”

  As we walk out of the office, it’s much of the same as when I walked in. Only now, the eyes I’m met with aren’t narrowed with concern. Each man, in turn, stares at us with an expression I can’t place. I don’t feel the threat I did before. It’s as if walking with Hoss is a privilege.