Stand (The Brazen Bulls MC Book 7)

by Susan Fanetti

  “Shit, that’s death penalty.” Slick gasped.

  Delaney nodded. “If they go with that charge, yeah. He’ll plead down to avoid a trial, if it comes to it, so that’s not our big worry.”

  “You mean he’ll deal?” Fitz asked. Caleb had been wondering the same thing. Didn’t a plea bargain mean a bargain—that they’d want something, like information, in return for a lighter sentence?

  “He won’t talk.” Becker said. “He’ll agree to plead guilty, and they’ll give him something lighter because trials are expensive. That’s how it works.”

  “Didn’t work that way for Mav,” Simon countered.

  “Enough!” Delaney scrubbed his gnarled hands over his face. He had never looked older or wearier. “We’re not there yet. We’ll bail him out as soon’s he’s arraigned, and then we’ll figure out how to get his ass clear. The trouble we’ve got is the witness. Holloway’s new bride. Can we neutralize her?”

  “We’re not killing an innocent woman,” Apollo said. He made it sound not like an argument, but a statement of fact.

  Delaney agreed with a shake of his head. “No, we’re not. But find out if there’s anything we can use to leverage her.”

  As Apollo nodded, accepting the job, Wally said, “Prez, I don’t know if it matters. The way she was screaming, there must’ve been half a dozen neighbors outside, watching us get to our bikes, and Eight limping like he does. There’s more than one witness.”

  “Goddammit!” Delaney sent the empty ashtray flying; it hit the wall and broke apart. He patted his kutte as if he were looking for a pack of cigarettes that hadn’t been there in more than a year. “Okay. Let’s get him home, and then we’ll sort this shit out.” He sighed. “As long as we’re all here at two-fucking-thirty in the morning, I got something new comin’ down from the Russians. In just more than a week, we’ve got a special shipment going west. Irina is Irina, and she hasn’t said much, but I’ve been dealing with this woman for a long time, and I think what she’s shipping is part of whatever she’s got brewing south of the border. The handoff in Bakersfield is new. We cannot have the heat of a murder rap on the club right now, while we’re moving whatever she’s selling. That’s the most pressing problem at the moment. I’m going to have to tell her about this, and I’d damn well better have a solution that doesn’t get in her way.”

  “It’s only our problem until we hand it to the Bone Wolves, right?” Caleb asked. He’d been on the scouting run last year, but since then, he’d run the western route only once. They’d enlisted the Bone Wolves MC out of Amarillo to mule the Volkov product from Texas to Arizona. Caleb hated those racist motherfuckers who wouldn’t even shake his Osage hand, but they had something Madame Volkov wanted: a lively trade in crystal meth.

  “We’re not handing this off,” Becker said. “We’re riding it all the way to California.”

  As the table reacted to that in various demonstrations of exhausted surprise, Delaney added, “She wants it in our hands the whole way. She’s paying a bonus for the work. Eight couldn’t’ve picked a worse time to get up to this fuckery. Now we’ve got to keep it quiet as we can. Novak will do his part. But the wife, the neighbors, I don’t know how we keep that out of the news. Simon, what about Deb’s friend?”

  “Aly? She’s cool about keeping work and kin separate, and Deb’s like kin to her. I’ll ask her to keep a lid on it. But she can’t control more than her own channel.”

  “What if we leave Eight inside?” Becker asked.

  The table went instantly quiet with a thunderous kind of silence.

  “What?” Wally asked. “You were just on my ass for leaving him behind.”

  Becker’s face warped into a snarl. “And if you’d helped him, or better, if you’d held him back in the first fucking place, we wouldn’t be in this mess now.”

  “He told me to go.”

  “And you’re not a fucking prospect anymore that has to do what he says. Your actions are on you, asshole.”

  “Say your thinking, Beck,” Delaney cut in, pulling focus back to the issue.

  Becker cleared his throat and set his confrontation with Wally aside. “We get him out as soon as we can, but not until after the next run. That sends a message to Irina and anybody she needs to worry about that we’re willing to let him rot, and it keeps law’s attention on Eight, in jail.”

  “It sends that message to Eight, too,” Slick said. “If he feels abandoned, that could make more trouble. If he thinks he’s got to look out for himself.”

  “Eight’s no rat,” Becker growled. “He’ll be loyal to the bitter end.”

  Apollo nodded. “He will be. And I can get word to him inside, settle his mind that he’s not forgotten.”

  “We’re going to let him sit in a cell? What about ‘never ride away from a brother in need’?” Gargoyle asked. He didn’t talk much, in church or anywhere, but when he did, he had something to say.

  Caleb was on the fence, himself. Eight Ball had gotten himself into this mess. Since his accident, he’d been short-tempered and more impulsive than before. He’d killed a guy who’d needed killing, but he’d done it on his own, and now the club had to clean up for him. So it made sense that he’d feel the weight of it. But still, it felt like a bad precedent to set, choosing the Russians over one of their own.

  Then again, the Russians were more than a big payday. They were also a big threat, should Irina ever decide she was unhappy.

  Delaney’s response to Gargoyle reflected Caleb’s unvoiced thoughts. “Eight made this mess, Gargo. He’s gonna feel it some while we make it right.” He reached absently for the ashtray he’d thrown earlier and seemed forlorn that it wasn’t there to be fiddled with. He played with the gavel instead. “When we hooked up with the Volkovs, nobody at this table could see how big Irina would get.”

  He glanced around the whole table. Caleb followed his eyes. A lot of empty seats—Maverick, Gunner, and Rad, off in Joplin. Eight Ball, in lockup. Ox, on a Mexican beach, hopefully still feeling great and soaking up the tropical life. Dane, feeding the worms.

  A sorrowful, stunted laugh left Delaney’s lips. “There’s nobody but Beck sitting here right now who remembers those days, but I think I speak true. She was just getting her feet under her, and I think we all expected a woman running that organization would only go so far. We were partners, not employees. There was balance. I’ve tried to keep that balance in place, and she’s been content to call us partners, but make no mistake, at this point, she’s humoring me. Her power has grown to a hundred times ours. There’s nothing we can do to her that would have a serious impact on her business, but she could crush us while she sips her tea. So when I say Eight Ball needs to wait while we smooth Irina’s way, understand. I’m not protecting her interests over a brother’s. I’m protecting the Bulls, all of us. Eight sent Wally off because he understands that. He fucked up, and he knows what he has to do. He’s loyal. Say what you will about him—he’s an asshole, he’s a shit disturber, all that’s true. But he is a Bull, straight through. We won’t leave him behind. We just have to protect the club first.”

  The president let that speech settle on the table for a few seconds. “Now, I’m old, and I’m tired, and in the morning I have a shitload of work to do. Apollo, in the morning, you put together what you can about the witnesses. The rest of you, have your regular day. But please. Please keep your asses out of trouble.”

  ~oOo~

  “What’s California like?”

  Caleb stretched out on the worn polyester bedspread and shoved both flat pillows under his head. He shifted his phone to his other ear. “It’s Bakersfield. This isn’t the California they show on the postcards.”

  Cecily laughed. She had the greatest laugh—soft and husky, almost hesitant at first, then blossoming into humor. “No palm trees?”

  “Oh, there are palm trees. They’re a little pathetic, but officially, they’re palm trees.”

  “No girls in bikinis?”

  He heard the shift
in her tone—still trying to sound lighthearted and teasing, but with a sharp edge. She was starting to dig. “Actually, yeah. There were some girls in bikinis at the pool this afternoon.”

  “Were they cute? Tight little asses and perky California tits?”

  “Not as perky as your Oklahoma tits. And I like a little bit of meat on an ass.”

  “Oh, come on. People write songs about California girls. I know they’re hot.”

  She was still trying to sound like she was just playing around, but failing more with every word. “Ask me what you want to know, Ciss.”

  No sound on the line but the faint hiss of an imperfect signal.

  “Cecily.”

  “You fuck any of them?”

  “Nope.”

  “You want to?”

  “Before I answer, I got a question for you.”

  “You’re deflecting. I guess I know the answer, then, don’t I.” All pretense of play was gone, and her tone was all ice and fire and sharp points.

  “Put your claws away, iňloňka. I just want to know if you have a right to the answer.”

  “What?”

  Less than two weeks had passed since Caleb had gone to Ox and Maddie’s house with her and ended up spending the rest of the evening, most of the night, and most of the next day. He’d been out of Tulsa for the past four days, but before that, they’d spent six out of eight nights together. Six good nights. Some very nice evenings and mornings, too. Cecily Nielsen’s defenses were a concrete wall ten feet high and eight feet thick, topped with glass shards and razor wire. Inside all that, she was full of sorrow and rage, and maybe a little broken. But deep inside, there was a girl who’d had a happy life once, and who still remembered what that had been like. That girl was funny and smart and thoughtful.

  Angry Cecily, sweet Cecily, vulnerable Cecily, happy Cecily. Caleb was pretty thoroughly hooked on the whole Cecily package.

  He recalled that night at the drugstore, his rage at the asshole disrespecting her like that, and the way she’d been after, all breathless and flushed and babbling. She’d almost said something then. He was pretty sure he knew what, and he’d been glad she hadn’t said it.

  Then. Now, he wouldn’t mind hearing it. It was a risk, pushing Cecily to make herself vulnerable. But she was poking around at the edges of the same territory, so what the hell.

  “In the parking lot outside Walgreens. You remember?”

  “How could I forget?” A hint of smile back in her voice.

  “You told me not to ask if you love me.”

  Silence.

  He pushed on. “How about if I ask now?”

  “Why?”

  “You’re asking me to stay faithful, right? That’s where all this is going? You want to know if I’ve fucked anybody, or if I will, and you want the answer to be no. Right?”

  “Caleb…”

  “So I’m just saying, if you want me to answer that question, I think I’m going to have to ask the other. Because only a woman with an exclusive right to my dick gets to ask where I put it.”

  Another silence. This one went on awhile, until Caleb gave up.

  “Or we could just drop the questions.”

  “Ask.” She barked the word at him; she was pissed.

  And he knew why. Smiling to himself, he asked. “Do you love me?”

  “Answer my question first.”

  “No.” She was going to have to take the leap.

  “You’re a dick.”

  “Sometimes. Not to you.”

  “Caleb…”

  “Cecily.”

  Still no answer.

  He threw her a lifeline. “Why do you think I would ask the question, Ciss?”

  The quiet in Oklahoma stretched on. Finally, just as Caleb was framing the words to end the call, she said. “Yes. I mean, I think so. It’s early, so I don’t…yes. Yes. Happy, you dick?”

  “Yeah, I am. Because I feel the same way.”

  “Oh no. Fuck you. You don’t get to slither out of it. You have to actually say the words.”

  “Why? You didn’t.”

  “Yes I—oh.”

  “But here you go. How about this: I’m falling in love with you, Cecily. So I’m not looking to fuck anybody else. My dick is yours until further notice.”

  “Oh. Okay. Good. That’s good. I’m falling in love with you, too.”

  “That is good. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. You scare me, Caleb. I’m all upside down.”

  “No, Ciss. You’re right side up. You just forgot what that looks like.”

  She laughed quietly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You just reminded me of something I read in college. By Plato. It’s not important. Starting back tomorrow, right? Everything’s smooth?”

  Everything had been perfectly smooth. They’d handed off their cargo—two long, heavy crates that they’d had buried under a freight of recycled auto parts, also in crates—to a man in a tailored suit and slicked-back black hair. The handoff had gone off without a hitch. The man had even introduced himself and shaken the hand of each Bull. Julio something. Santangelo, maybe? Santa Vera? Whatever. Some mid-level operative in the scheme Irina Volkov had cooking. He’d been cordial and professional, like they were conducting a regular business transaction. Those auto parts, maybe. Not whatever death machines were in the crates.

  Now, business done, truck empty, mission accomplished, they had a long ride home through the desert in June. Three days in the saddle, baking in the sun, the wind in their hair, the road rolling under their wheels.

  He couldn’t wait.

  “Yeah. Starting back tomorrow. Then we can make up for this week away.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Cecily smoothed her hand over Caleb’s belly. As her fingertips grazed the spot just above his hip, the muscles beneath spasmed—he was ticklish there. She drew her fingertips in, along his hip bone, and down, past his spent cock, and settled her hand around his balls. They were soft now, but still hot.

  He sighed at that touch, and again when she played a finger over the velvety soft skin. The sound in his chest was like a big cat’s sated purr.

  “Fuck, that feels so good.”

  She was tucked inside the curl of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder, her leg hooked over his. They lay in her bedroom in Maddie and Ox’s house, bright noon sun slanting over the bed. In this room, everything was perfect. At least, she could pretend it was true and believe it.

  Things were perfect. She and Caleb had been in love for a month, and that month had been spent in ease between them. They understood each other, wanted each other, desired each other. Loved each other. Her job was good. His work seemed calm. Things were normal with the club, as far as she could tell.

  She was living here again, but it was different now, because she wasn’t on her own. Caleb spent most nights here, and they’d developed a comfortable domesticity. She’d even started to cook, something she’d never been all that interested in before. Uncle Ox had an extensive collection of cooking tools, and she’d picked up some cookbooks at the library. Caleb cooked, too.

  She was still drinking, sometimes too much, but nothing like before. Several weeks under Maverick and Jenny’s eagle eyes had curbed her heavy reliance on vodka. She’d been heading toward alcoholism, even she knew that, but she’d jumped off that runaway bus before it had crashed into the station. The other stuff, the pills and coke and weed, that had all been recreational, party favor shit. She’d only done it in that environment, and now she spent her nights trying new recipes and drinking wine with dinner by the pool instead.

  Cecily hadn’t been to a club in something like two and a half months—not since that night at Tempest. Nothing like a night like that to kill the urge to party around strangers.

  That was one of the things that made the world not-so-perfect outside this room. There were a few things, big things, but that was becoming the biggest. It was strange: that night had happened at the end of Apri
l. Now it was the middle of July. More than two months. She remembered nothing between Tempest and waking up here, with Caleb babysitting her. As horrible as it was, the incident in her life was secondhand knowledge. People had told her what had happened. Gaps had been filled in with conjecture and deduction. For two months, she’d felt detached enough from this moment in her history that she could set it aside, lock it away, keep it from attacking her.