Preacher (Wayward Kings MC Book 4)

by Zahra Girard

  “I did some digging. I went back into all our reporting records from around your father’s murder. Not just what was published, but any notes or records I could get my hands on. I talked to every person who was working around that time. And I might’ve found a witness,” he says.

  My eyes shoot open. “A witness?”

  Detective Erickson said there weren’t any witnesses.

  He nods, looking proud of himself at catching my interest. “The notes I found mentioned a woman named Tanya Harrison. I don’t know how credible she is, though. She has a record.”

  “What kind of record?”

  “In 2002, she was arrested for drug possession. Heroin. And she has three other arrests on her record for the same thing. She’d been out of jail for just two weeks when your father was killed. But she was the only one in the area when it all happened. She was looking to score and get high.”

  My temples start to ache and I finish my drink in a hurry. “So the one witness we have is a drug addict that the cops didn’t even bother to interview?”

  I remind myself that I can’t judge someone on their past. This woman could be a link to my father.

  Bryce nods. “She still lives in the area. I’m going to talk to her in a few days. But her record’s been clean since everything that happened with your father.”

  “Well, that’s something,” I say. I try to keep upbeat — this woman might know something — but it’s still hard to feel positive. I didn’t come to Reno expecting to solve my father’s murder. I just want more information about him, about the event that took him from me. I want some form of closure. “Did you find any articles about my dad unrelated to the shooting? Stuff he did, cases he worked on, anything?”

  “Is that all we’re going to talk about tonight?” He cocks his head and looks at me like I should feel reproach for wanting information about my father. “I thought we were on a date, here.”

  “This is important to me. Come on, Bryce.”

  “So, that’s it? I’m more than just a reporter, Jessica.”

  “Look, I don’t want to lead you on in thinking tonight is going to be about anything else.” Even if I weren’t thinking about Preacher, his attitude is definitely not making me feel like doing anything other than finishing my next drink and leaving here as quickly as possible.

  “I didn’t find much. Your dad wasn’t very noteworthy, Jessica.”

  “What the hell did you just say?” I snap.

  “Sorry.” Bryce shrugs. “I found a few blurbs. One was a writeup on the annual Reno PD-Reno Fire softball game. Another was a short paragraph about a narcotics bust he made. But there wasn’t much more. The Times made a switch to digital records like a year after your father’s incident, but a lot of the unimportant stuff was lost when there was a fire in our server room six years ago. I’m sorry, Jessica.”

  I get quiet. I’m brokenhearted and furious at the same time.

  Bryce reaches out, takes my hand, and manages to give it a squeeze before I pull my hand back.

  What entitles him to try and comfort me?

  I can see right through his petty manipulations.

  “Let’s just get back to talking about the witness, Tanya, and when you plan on interviewing her. Ok?”

  He frowns. “Are you sure?”

  All I see is this bleak future where I don’t learn much of anything about my dad except for a few stories from his partner. It makes me feel painfully empty inside, like my chest is constricting around my heart.

  My dad stuck forever as this vague, half-remembered something.

  Bryce notices my empty drink and sends another card down the pneumatic tube. My second vodka shows up quick enough and goes down even quicker.

  “I’ll talk to her eventually. But why don’t we focus on having a good time tonight?” He says. “You’ve got to live your own life, Jessica. Don’t be caught up in the past.”

  He looks at me expectantly, like he’s hoping that since he’s already gotten the hard part out of the way in telling me that my dead father didn’t leave much of a mark on the world, I can move on.

  He certainly left a mark on my own life.

  Mind made up, I reach into my purse and pull out my wallet. I put a twenty that I really can’t spare on to the table. “I’m going home, Bryce. Call me when you hear more about Tanya. Good night.”

  I can feel the shimmer of tears waiting to fall from the edges of my eyes as I get up from the table and head to the door.

  Bryce stares after me, dumbfounded, as I step into the parking lot. I can see him through the windows, staring at me, with his martini in hand and a look on his face that’s somehow both disappointed and maddeningly smug.

  The key turns in the ignition and my old car sputters to life and I drive out of the parking lot and about a block down the road before I pull to the shoulder. I put the car into park and just sit here for a second, listening to some old Alanis Morissette song on the radio while I stare down the empty street.

  Fuck Bryce.

  Fuck his trying to manipulate me.

  I’ll put up with his bullshit until I get what I want from him, but I am through being subtle when it comes to getting what I want.

  I’m sick of hints. Sick of clues. Sick of suggestions. Sick of dancing around what I need.

  I’m done with that.

  It’s a five minute drive to the nearest liquor store, a two minute transaction to pick out a bottle of vodka, and another eight minutes to drive home.

  It takes five minutes to drink down enough courage to march up the stairs of my apartment building.

  The door opens — normally for once — and I throw it open with a bang.

  He’s there on the couch. He’s shirtless. There’s a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table in front of him. It’s half-drunk.

  This is what I want.

  The words fly out of my mouth before I think.

  “Stay right where you are,” I order him as I march across the room.

  My heartbeat is heavy and loud in my chest, pulsing against my ribcage. My breath is shaky, and my body tingles electric as I straddle his lap and look down into his eyes that are as deep and blue as any ocean.

  “I want you.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Preacher

  Earlier that day…

  The door shuts behind her and I get up right away. The more time I spend in Jessica’s care, the stronger I get, and the more urgently I realize that I need to get the hell out of here and get back to my MC brothers before I end up falling for her.

  My feelings for her are a weakness and a liability to the both of us. It could get her hurt, and there’s no way I can allow that.

  What she tried last night — sitting in my lap, touching me, brushing her hot lips against my cheek — was nearly enough to break me.

  I can’t allow it.

  I stand up, I get dressed and I start to pace as my mind works through a plan for the day. Somehow, I need to get information on where my brothers are and what’s going on in the Reno underworld.

  Easier said than done.

  Getting around anywhere is going to be pretty damn difficult without any money and everything I have — wallet, phone, all of it — is currently in the possession of Reno PD.

  Sometime shortly after she’s left, there’s a sound from the front door that brings me to a halt.

  Click.

  It’s subtle, and gentle, like the noise of a lock being picked by practiced hands.

  It’s followed by a thud and a chunk that’s anything but graceful.

  They’ve found me.

  My muscles tense, ready to spring into combat, and I turn towards the door and watch as it opens inward.

  Standing in the doorway and weighing in at well over two-hundred pounds, is a man in a black t-shirt with the words ‘Dragonstorm’ written on the front in flaming red-orange letters. He’s got a goatee that’s somewhere between peach fuzz and pubic hair, and black hair that’s been lazily buzzed — it’s pat
chy and uneven in places, with some spots having long, un-cut hairs.

  He turns into a statue the second his beady eyes spot me.

  I smile at him and walk towards him, hand stretched out.

  “You must be Stephen.”

  It takes him a second, but he blinks. It reminds me of the lazy blink of some frog or lizard. “Who are you?”

  “You were looking for Jessica, right?”

  “No. I think I have the wrong apartment.”

  He still hasn’t shaken my hand, so I take my hand and put it on his shoulder and pull him in past the doorway, then shut the door behind him.

  “So, you forgot where you live, then?”

  “Look, I’m just going to go, ok?”

  “Sure. Once you tell me what you were going to do in Jessica’s apartment.”

  “Nothing.”

  His pale face stars to color red and his greasy forehead gains an extra sheen of sweat.

  “Be honest with me, Stephen. You’re the reason she bought her own washer and dryer, right?”

  “Look, all I know is that I do so much for her, and the bitch acts like I don’t even exist. So what if I borrowed some of her things? She fucking deserves it for dressing like a slut and acting like she’s too good for anyone except for fucking assholes.”

  In one quick movement, I slide my hand from his shoulder to his throat. One squeeze of his corpulent, squishy neck and his whining cuts off in a gag. I force him back hard into the wall and punch him square in the face.

  “She doesn’t owe you shit. If she wanted to fuck you, she’d fuck you. If she wanted to talk to you, she’d talk to you. It’s that fucking simple. Maybe you should learn how to be a man instead of a little piece of shit who fucking expects women to hop on his greasy little dick just because he’s ‘nice’ to them,” I say. “And don’t break into their fucking apartments while they’re at work to steal their fucking panties.”

  Stephen’s face turns even more red and his pudgy fingers claw at my grip on his throat. I hold it there and watch him squirm until I’m satisfied he’s learned his lesson. Then I punch him again.

  He slumps against the wall and heaves a shaky sigh.

  Whether he’s learned his lesson or not, I’ve learned I need to fix Jessica’s door. If a slob like Stephen could break in that easily, who the fuck knows what any of the Jackals could do if they found me.

  Of course, to fix a door, I’m going to need money. Money that I don’t have.

  Stephen glares at me while his face returns to its normal, fat shade of pale. “You are a fucking lunatic.”

  “You’re right,” I nod. “Now, give me your fucking wallet or I’ll kill you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Give me your wallet. Now.”

  He fishes it out of his pocket. I think I catch him mutter the word ‘asshole’ but decide to let it slide. He hands over the damn thing.

  It’s fucking velcro.

  Jesus Christ.

  * * * * *

  The little dust-up with Stephen’s made me about a hundred bucks richer and the first place I hit after leaving Jessica’s apartment is a bar called High Velocity. It’s one of the places my club scouted ahead of time. It’s MC-friendly, the owner used to ride with a club called the Silver Serpents on the East Coast before retiring to Reno, and it’s kept itself independent from the control of any other club like the Bloody Jackals.

  It’s as friendly a place as I can expect and it’s one of my best shots at getting information and getting back to my brothers before I fall in any deeper with Jessica. I can’t drag her into this world. She’ll only get hurt, and I can’t have that on my conscience.

  I need to stay focused on my mission: to find my club, and then kill the man we came here to kill — Mason Shaw, known by the road name ‘Mammoth’ and President of the Bloody Jackals founding chapter in Reno.

  He’s the one who gave the order for the hit on our club. He’s the one with Grease’s blood on his hands.

  This won’t be over until he’s dead.

  Music hits my ears and smoke fills my nostrils the second I step inside. Hard Rock and cheap tobacco. High Velocity is a real bar and my kind of place.

  It’s ten in the morning, and this place is full. Best of all: there isn’t a Jackal patch in sight.

  If I didn’t have a job to do, I could spend all day here with a highball glass of whiskey in my hand and a woman on my knee. Fucking paradise. Still, I catch a few strange glances wearing my fucking Euro metal t-shirt and oversized jeans. I’ll need to be quick before some asshole decides to start shit.

  I pull up a seat at the bar next to some old man who looks like he’s been riding since the US got out of Vietnam, and put a twenty down on the bar for my three dollar beer.

  It shows up quick, goes down even quicker, and then I put down another twenty for my next one. The bartender looks at me sideways and his eyebrow quivers slightly, in caution or amusement, I can’t tell. There’s a well-worn silver snake patch on his leather jacket. He’s got to be the owner.

  “With the amount you’re paying for that beer, friend, you better tell me what you’re looking for. I won’t hesitate to beat your ass if you’re here looking to start shit, no matter how much you’re overpaying for your drinks.”

  “I want to know what you know about that shooting at Jokers Wild the other night.”

  “I don’t know shit about that. And I plan to keep it that way.”

  “Don’t fuck with me,” I say sharply. “I know who you are, I know you keep your ear to the ground.”

  He scowls at me. “What I do know, is that it’d be smart for you to keep yourself out of it. Mammoth owns most of this damn town and if you go putting your nose where it doesn’t belong, you’ll wind up in the hospital like everyone else who gets on his bad side.”

  I put down most of the rest of my cash.

  “I can handle it. Tell me what you know. I don’t give a shit about the consequences.”

  He shrugs, takes it, and pours me another beer. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. But with your taste in music, the world will be better off without you,” he says, eying my shirt. “Seriously. Fucking dragons? What are you, twelve?” He pours himself a shot of whiskey, downs it, looks at my shirt again, and pours himself a second shot. “All I’ve heard about that shooting is that Mammoth knew those guys were coming, knew the second they came into town, and did what he always does: put a whole lot of lead into anyone in his way. You know how he got to be president of his club, right?”

  “Educate me.”

  “Fifteen years back, the Jackals weren’t nearly the players they are now. Mason was just a patched member and the Jackals president was some guy named ‘Big’ Jim Celemente who spent most of his time with his thumb up his ass. The Jackals were small time, they did a bit of dealing, bit of transporting petty shit like meth, and they ran a small whorehouse off the interstate that catered to truckers and men who didn’t mind risking the clap. Back then, the cartels were the ones who ran this town and they had started importing some potent shit from South America. High-grade heroin, laced with the kind of shit liable to turn you into a zombie.”

  “Then how’d Mammoth dislodge the cartels? Once those fuckers get their hooks in, they don’t let go of a town without some serious federal firepower,” I say.

  The bartender nods. “Some rumors say he had a little help. Some people who were happy to see the cartels gone in exchange for a local boy. The devil they know, or so the saying goes. Whatever the case, within a few months, Mason put Big Jim in the ground alongside ten of the top cartel guys in Reno. Most of that came in one bloody weekend when they seized the cartel’s main warehouses here in town.”

  I take a second to digest the new information. This Mason guy’s tougher than we gave him credit for. “Have you heard anything related to the shooting the other night?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing. Look, maybe those guys the Jackals were after ran back home. More likely, Mammoth’s boys left them out in the desser
t. Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve fed the fucking buzzards. Either way, if those sons of bitches are still alive and they have any sense, they’ve gone back to wherever the hell it is they came from, because next time they won’t be so lucky. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

  I hit the sidewalk worse off than when I came in. Nearly broke and no closer to finding my club and there’s this nagging voice in the back of my head that tells me I might never find them. They could be nothing more than a pile of bleached bones in the dessert.

  I’m alone. My brothers wouldn’t spend all this time hiding. It’s not like them. The family I’ve known for years is probably nothing more than a pile of vulture food in some ditch out in the desert.

  I try to fight it, but I can’t silence it. I’m a long way from quitting, the least my brothers deserve is for me to find out the truth of what happened to them and put a few bullets into whatever Jackals I come across.

  But maybe I need to open myself up to the possibility that I’m going to have to start over.

  My thoughts flash back to Jessica and how soft her lips are, and how natural it felt for her hands to caress my chest.

  I could do a whole lot worse than her.

  Maybe I should…

  My last handful of cash goes to buy a bottle of cheap whiskey on the walk home and a few of the things I know I’ll need to fix her door.

  The desert air starts to cool as night comes on. The sun slips below the horizon, throwing orange and red of a hundred different shades into the sky.

  The first sip of whiskey burns in a good way.

  It’s not so bad here.

  I get back to Jessica’s place. Everything’s just as I left it.

  It’s time to get to work.

  The second drink of whiskey burns a little less.

  I take out my tools and start to work disassembling her doorknob. It’s not going to be too hard to fix, it’s just going to take a little time.

  Ideas roll around in my head and start to coalesce into something resembling a plan. I can settle in here for a while. I’ll find out what happened to the rest of my club and I’ll help Jessica learn what happened with her father. We’ll both get the kind of closure we’ve been looking for.