Diamonds: Motorcycle Club Romance (Savage Saints MC Book 8)

by Hazel Parker

  He gave a weak chuckle, slapping the table with much less energy than he had started.

  “I don’t know, guys,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  There has to be… isn’t there something?

  “We can’t just quit,” I said, but I was something of a hypocrite. I wanted this to go away as badly as anyone else, and I was certainly ready to make a hell lot more concessions than I had been before. “We have to do something.”

  Richard shook his head.

  “If you can think of something, then, by all means, try,” Richard said. “But there cannot be any blood spilled. That is the one thing I’m going to sit here and say right now. I’ll let us go broke. I don’t care. Everyone in this room knows what it’s like to be broke as hell, and we’ve all come out stronger on the other side for it. But I am not going to let anyone get hurt or killed. Is that understood?”

  “I’m in the same boat,” I said, finally mustering a fake smile.

  But no one else responded in kind. I looked down at my phone, desperately trying to think of a solution. If we couldn’t use bloodshed, then we had to use diplomacy. One, because Richard had commanded it, and two, because even if we moved the bloodshed outside of Las Vegas, even if we moved it out of Nevada, the reputation would follow us, and we’d suffer as a result.

  Direct discussions with Trace seemed out of the question. Richard had already taken on that challenge, and he had failed—and it wasn’t because Richard was a bad negotiator. Trace just had the upper hand.

  But maybe someone on the team was more prone to emotional swings and volatility than Trace. Maybe if I found the weakest link…

  “How well do you know the Saints over there, Richard?” I said. “Do you know anyone besides Trace?”

  “Sure,” Richard said, but he didn’t sound too enthused about it. “Krispy, BK, and Splitter. There are two others named Mafia and Sensei, but I never dealt with them much.”

  I definitely wasn’t negotiating with BK. That was like trying to negotiate with a brick that could speak five words per day. I had a better chance of getting Jenna to speak.

  Jenna…

  “OK, well, between Krispy and Splitter, do you know anything about them?”

  “I wouldn’t say a word to Krispy,” Richard said. “Don’t forget he went to the hospital on our watch. We paid for his bills, but he’s not exactly going to want to go easy on us. But don’t think that reaching out to Splitter is going to do anything, though.”

  “Why not? Ain’t he their VP?”

  And if I’m a VP, we can bond over that. And once you have something in common, it makes negotiations and discussions that much easier. Maybe I’m stretching here. I definitely won’t know if it’ll work until I try it, but…

  I had always made a name for myself at the club by being the face to the public, the guy who got our clients in. My charm, my wit, and my smile were what got girls to parties, men to shows, and, before the last month, the police and politicians on our side. I felt like I had to step up here and do that with Splitter.

  Too bad my confidence with that was utterly shot. Jenna was gone, the city council was up our ass, and Mario had resigned.

  “He is, but he defers to Trace like a dog,” Richard said. “He’s a very passionate guy, but that passion is directed toward helping Trace however they can. It’s not like you and me, where I’m the old fucker, and you’re the young gun. They’re not only president and VP; they’re good friends. You’re not going to split that apart.”

  But there was something that Richard had said that left me with a small glimmer of hope. “He’s a very passionate guy.”

  People who were stoic and not prone to emotional volatility were the hardest to get to do what you wanted, because they couldn’t get swept up in the moment. The overly passionate ones, though, were more easily persuaded. I could see when their moods were shifting, when their attitudes were adjusting, and when they were more easily swayed. Perhaps I’d only get the chance to do this over the phone, but it was something that I nevertheless had to try.

  Even if there was only a two percent chance of such a move working out, it wasn’t like we had a whole lot of other options.

  “Maybe not, but I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “It’s what I can use my skills for. And we don’t have much time, anyway.”

  “Unfortunately,” Richard said. “We need to get this resolved within the next four hours. We have to assume they’ll get there that soon. The longer we wait, the less chance we have. If we even have a chance now.”

  I looked around at the rest of the table, hopeful that someone would take a risk or search for a way out.

  But no one said a thing.

  And who could blame them? Barber had a kid. Mama and Pork had each other and would soon have a kid as well. They had bigger things to fight for than the club or money. That wasn’t to say the club didn’t mean anything to them—in fact, in three years, if we were still around, I would wager they’d be just as devoted to the club as ever—but right now, they had larger concerns.

  It was really just down to Richard and me to save this club. And Richard looked like if he had one more curveball thrown his way, he was going to blow an artery and die.

  “Bottom line, everyone,” he said. “If we don’t have something when everyone shows up tonight, I am surrendering the club to them. I’ll fight however much I can to limit their takeover, but I’m not going to let it escalate beyond shouting. We have practically no leverage, and that’s just the way it is.”

  The rest of the room nodded their heads weakly, smoking their cigarettes and sipping on their drinks. I didn’t even know how this group of people was going to oversee a show tonight, let alone oversee negotiations with a group as hungry for money as the California Saints. I couldn’t be here.

  I left the room, found the ladder on the side of the building, and went up to the top. The sky was still bright, albeit starting to take on that sunset hue. In a matter of less than an hour, the sun would completely dip beneath the surface, the sky would turn a dark blue, and then, just a short time later, complete darkness would envelop the city. I could only hope that this last-ditch move would be the light of the casinos, shining through the darkness.

  But first, I had to figure out how to contact Splitter—and fast.

  I had no leads to start off of. If I asked anyone in the California Saints, that was going to raise alarm bells right off the bat and guarantee I got nowhere. But who the hell would know?

  Maybe no one knew who Splitter was. But people in Hollywood would know people close to him.

  I wrote a text to a producer I knew well, a regular attendee of The Red Door, that read, “Hey, do you know anyone in the Savage Saints in Green Hills? Trying to reach out to them for a partnership.” I copied that text and sent it to about a half-dozen other people in Hollywood and a few of the professional athletes in the area. I didn’t have high hopes for this, but while I searched through Google, it seemed like a good place to start.

  The texts that I started to get back were mostly about knowing Trace or BK. No one seemed to know who Splitter was.

  But then, unexpectedly, one director did. Kind of.

  “Funny enough, my lawyer is dating one of them,” he wrote. “Her name is Amber Reynolds. I think guy’s name is Shaun Reddings.”

  I quickly searched that name using both Google and a police database that I had access to that, well, I probably wasn’t supposed to. Sure enough, that was Splitter.

  I was then able to use that database and a few other records to source Splitter’s phone number. I thought of texting him, asking him to meet, but a text was the sort of thing that could have easily been shown to everyone in range. This had to be private.

  I took a deep breath, looked at the number, and hit the dial button.

  The first dial tone rang. This is stupid. He’s going to pick up, laugh, and say I’m seeing you soon.

  The second dial tone rang. But you have no choice. If you want to keep the club
alive, you have to take some silly risks.

  The third dial tone rang. No, this is stupid. He’s—

  “Hello?”

  I gulped.

  “Hi, Splitter?”

  “Yes, who is this? How do you know my name?”

  Time to be the Dom who can charm anyone. Even, when necessary, men.

  “Splitter, my name is Dom, and I’m a member of the Las Vegas Savage Saints. I know who you are, and I know that you’re coming here. But before you all get here, I would love to meet up with you and see if we can expedite negotiations.”

  That’s never going to work. Even the smoothest salesman can’t sell something to someone who is not only not buying but is actively pitching people not to buy.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  I pumped my fist.

  Hope. That’s what I have in mind.

  “Well, the way I see it, you’re the vice president and I’m the vice president of our clubs, right?” I said. “And so far, our presidents have not been able to come to any conclusion. It’s why you have to make the drive all the way down here.”

  “Hmm, yeah.”

  He’s not fully in yet. But he’s not bouncing, and he sees where I’m coming from.

  “And so I’m just thinking, what if you and I tried to hammer something out? You’re the VP for a reason, and that reason is you know how to handle shit. You are expected to lead if Trace goes out. Well, here’s the thing. This isn’t life or death.”

  Ignore that Richard said it was getting to that point.

  “It’s just us trying to figure out what’s fair. What have we got to lose? What if we meet up, just you and I, and spend a little bit of time figuring out if we can work something out? Nothing crazy. Just the two of us.”

  A long pause came. I wanted to believe that this was just Splitter trying to decide how he could best explain his decision. He hadn’t hung up, I could hear the background noise, but every second that passed made me a little more nervous.

  “Interesting idea, I like it, man.”

  “Yeah man,” I said, starting to feel like I was getting in a groove. “And that’s not to say that we’d just call everything off. I just figured, hey, if we can spare some headaches and some time, why not see if two people can work it out.”

  “Yeah, I get it, man, I get it, that’s a fucking good idea. Hmm.”

  Another pause came.

  “So let me understand this right, man, just so I make sure I have everything clear,” Splitter said.

  I had found my comfort zone with Splitter, and much to my utter relief, we were both of a similar nature. We sometimes spoke like bros, we both had bro tendencies, and we were much deeper people than that. I almost wished I’d gotten to know him better before, because right now, that just wasn’t something that we could take the time to do.

  “You want us to meet up at the border to hash out an agreement, just you and me,” he said. “And I’m going to leave my club behind, and you’re going to leave your club behind?”

  “That’s the idea, brother,” I said. “We get in a room with six officers on one side and five on the other, plus whoever you’re bringing, no one’s going to negotiate like that. I mean, yes, discussions will be had, but it’s not anything that’s going to be lasting. One side will resent the other. You know the old saying—two people at one desk will accomplish more in one hour than an entire group in a conference room over one month?”

  “Goddamnit, that’s so fucking true,” Splitter said. “Give me one moment.”

  I heard background chatter, but at this point, there was nothing I could do. I just put my phone down, hit the speaker button so I could hear when Splitter was coming back, and just folded my hands and twiddled my thumbs. This had to work with Splitter because if not, the gig would be up. No one else was going to fall for my attempts.

  There were so many risks that I didn’t like taking with this. For one, part of my condition was that I would head south to intersect the California Saints without even telling Richard or anyone else. That, in turn, meant that whatever Splitter and I negotiated, I had to do without the approval of Richard. This would basically give him two options—whatever I was able to hammer out of Splitter, or complete ownership by the California Saints.

  I was probably sacrificing my relationship with Richard for this, but I knew in doing so, if I succeeded, he’d come to thank me someday.

  Second, I was opening myself up for violence. I was going to go alone, even if I thought Splitter was secretly using this to spring a trap on me. I had no self-defense if this happened. Even if I got a shot on Splitter, thirty other bikers would then be shooting at me, and that would be that. No more Jenna, no more parties, no more anything.

  But what were the alternatives?

  All I had to do was go downstairs, and I’d see there were literally none.

  “Yo, Dom?” Splitter said, coming back. “Trace is going to give me thirty minutes with you. If we have a deal and he approves it, then we’re good. If he doesn’t, though, then we’re going to continue down to The Red Door and negotiate there.”

  “I totally get it, man,” I said. “Yeah, I’ll head down right now and wait for you. You’ll come alone?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  I believed him. The two chapters of the Saints may have been antagonistic to each other right now, but that didn’t mean the individuals couldn’t be friendly to each other.

  “Great,” I said. “See you then.”

  “Yeah, man.”

  I hung up the phone, pocketed it, and took one last look at the Strip.

  Goddamnit, Dom, you better be at the top of your game.

  Because if you aren’t, you won’t have any more games to play.

  Chapter 18: Jenna

  As much as I hated to admit it, especially with the consequences it could have on my career, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dom.

  If I didn’t care about him like I said I did, then why had I risked so much—on the night I was suspended, no less—to help him and the Savage Saints out? It wasn’t like I’d helped him and then gotten suspended. I’d gotten suspended, knew I could be ruining everything, and still helped him.

  Maybe I was admitting it because this new chief, some guy named David Isaac, was a real giant pain in the ass right now. He was giving his introductory speech to the entirety of the station, and I think it could go without saying that I was not among the believers.

  “This place has suffered from corruption for far too long,” he said. “I am not going to lie down and let it continue. No way, no how. I will root it out, and I will make up for the failures of the previous administration.”

  What is this, politics? You can refer to Gutierrez by name, you know. He’s not some scumbag.

  It wasn’t helping matters that he spoke with about as much enthusiasm as Siri did. His voice was monotone, boring, and very slow. Many of us found ourselves checking our phones, looking around, or slyly trying to get a peek at our emails while he rambled on and on about the need to better everything in the place.

  I promised myself that I needed to be patient with him. Maybe he really would crack down on a lot of inefficiencies, and maybe we really would become a better department. Maybe, in doing so, I could better achieve the goal I’d set out to achieve, to make Danica proud of what I’d done for her.

  But to work for a guy as drab and boring and as weak as Chief Isaac just didn’t seem like it.

  He then said that he would send out calendar appointments to set up one-on-one meetings. I kept a close eye on my email, wanting to make sure that I was one of the first to schedule such an appointment—I wanted to go first, get it out of the way, and then not have to speak to Chief Isaac for as long as possible.

  But for now, though, there was that small interlude between a meeting ending and me doing actual work. In that interlude, wouldn’t you know it, I found myself looking up Dom’s record.

  A… a very clean record, surprisingly.

  No felonies.
No misdemeanors. A couple of speeding tickets, but nothing egregious—one going eighty-two in a seventy, and then one for going sixty-four in a fifty-five. Obviously illegal, but the equivalent of not turning your homework in one day at school.

  Was this guy really so bad that to associate with him was akin to putting the entire reputation of the department at risk? Was this what I was avoiding?

  Maybe it was worth trying for.

  But I needed some better advice before I tried anything too crazy.

  * * *

  When I got home, I’d done no better at getting Dom out of my head. If anything, it had only gotten worse. At one point, I found myself hating him—I’d lost Chief Gutierrez and gotten Chief Isaac because of him? Because of my association with him?

  But that faded as I accepted that there was no changing that. For that matter, Gutierrez had resigned, not been fired, so that wasn’t something forced on him.

  If that was in the rearview mirror, and there was nothing to be changed, then why not?

  “Why not” was the predominant narrative as I walked into my apartment and dropped my keys in the bowl at the front table. But I didn’t leave my phone there like I normally did. Instead, I made a phone call.

  “Saunders,” Chief Gutierrez said on the other end of the line. “Don’t tell me your first day with Chief Isaac was that bad.”

  “Well, sir, am I allowed to be honest? I mean, I know you’re my supervisor, but—”

  He let out a hearty laugh. I could see him as if he were in front of me, leaning back, putting his hand on his chest, his eyes closed as he let out a bellow of a laugh.

  “Saunders, I’m retired! I know you wish I were back, but I’m not your supervisor anymore. I’m more of a friend or a mentor, if you insist, than a supervisor. So yes, please, go ahead and be honest. Something tells me you won’t say anything that I disagree with.”

  It was good to hear his voice and his reassurances. Even when he’d kick my butt for doing something stupid, he could still put a smile on my face in the end.