Pagan (The Henchmen MC Book 8)

by Jessica Gadziala

  Ag. Meaning aggravated assault.

  I wasn't sure yet if I was even going to stop there.

  "I appreciate the concern, but whatever happens, is happening tonight. So get me the files and find me some blank ones too while you're at it."

  With that, I walked out of the bathroom, finding Edison looking over Barrett's shoulder. Now Barrett, he was a 'personal space' kind of guy. Meaning, he didn't fucking want you in his. But he wasn't screaming at Edison.

  "No, frate," Edison said, jabbing a finger at a piece of paper. "There. That."

  "The fuck you doing?" I asked, brows drawn together. "Moonlighting as a private investigator now?"

  Just as Edison was starting to speak, the printer clicked on and started spitting out the paperwork I demanded from Luce. "What's this?" Edison asked, picking up the pages and looking at them.

  "Part of the plan," I told him, snatching the pages away, and moving toward the door. I knew that, in about an hour or two, there was going to be some serious questions from him, but I would deal with that after.

  We drove off toward the destination, parking in his fucking driveway because, well, my car was nice and no one would think it was out of place there. Knowing there was no security system made sneaking in through the garage literally something a child could do.

  It was late, the house quiet, making us cringe at the sounds of our boots across his pristine tile floor. I wasn't sure how much family money he had or how many properties he invested in to make it work for him, but whatever he had done business-wise was working for him. The house was worth one-point-five easily. The car in his drive was another hundred K. His suit when I had seen him at Kennedy's was a couple grand, as was the watch. The man made bank.

  Normally, you would find that admirable.

  But too fucking often in my life, I found the biggest monsters lived behind gates, surrounded by beautiful things to mask their ugly souls.

  I reached into my pocket, handing the papers to Edison as we stopped near the staircase. "In case I'm too fucking bloody to touch them," I said at his lowered brow. To that, understanding completely, he pocketed the papers, and we moved up the stairs.

  I heard him before I saw him, before we were even close to the master bedroom. I guess a part of me had been figuring he would be long asleep already, but as we both pressed against the wall, listening, I realized he was in damage control mode.

  "No, they're not fucking hardwired," he growled at to whomever he was talking to. "They're cheap fucking cameras you can buy at a store. You just need to get in, get into their computer system, find the footage, and delete it. No, Vance, I need this done fucking tonight. Before they open in the morning."

  He was raging. And even with the carpet on the second floor, you could hear him pacing.

  I shared a look with Edison, knowing what money could afford a man. Namely, power. Power to step on the little guy then buy brand new shoes and claim you had no idea where the treadmarks came from. He was going to take away the leverage she had in going after him. And if I knew the kind of bastard he was, and I did, I knew he was also going to have that computer backup cut. So that the next time he cornered her at work and she threatened to hang him with the footage, he would know there was nothing there to prove it if he didn't leave DNA evidence.

  He would get away with it too.

  I'd bet my car that he had gotten away with it before.

  There was a silence as, I assumed, he hung up, before he was talking again. "Yeah, Mack. I have Vance on that. I know. Well, that's what I fucking pay you for. If she still goes to the cops, you get me out of it."

  Lawyer.

  He was covering all his bases.

  And literally the only way a man knew to do all that shit was if he had scrambled in the past and learned how to handle it.

  Fucking asshole.

  I bet I piqued Luce's interest back at Barrett's, and if I had, he would look into him. I bet the next time I heard from Luce, he would tell me about all the pay-offs so women didn't press charges and all the paperwork at the NBPD that got 'mis-filed' or disappeared.

  When there was silence again, and I looked back at Edison, I could see he was on the same wavelength as me.

  Some men were rabid dogs.

  And everyone knew what had to happen to rabid dogs.

  They needed to be put down.

  Like I said, I beat the ever loving shit out of men without a blink. But, to me, taking a life was serious shit and not to be taken lightly.

  But this, this shit with this mother fucker, I wasn't taking it lightly. I was taking it really fucking seriously.

  I cracked my neck and moved away from the wall, listening near the door for another moment, making sure he wasn't still on the phone but on the listening end. When I was sure there was no-one to be a witness to Ethan Criss's last moments on earth, I reached for the knob and pushed inward, surprised when there was not even a hint of sound, nothing to make Ethan look back from where he was staring at his window, even though the drapes were pulled. He turned half toward his bed, flinging his cell on top of it.

  And it was right about then that I cleared my throat, enjoying it maybe too much when he stiffened and turned, eyes huge.

  But his first reaction wasn't the fear you might expect.

  It was all ego.

  He snorted. "Should have known that bitch was fucking around with you," he said, seeming to pay no mind to how the word bitch made my hands curl, made a low, rumbling sound vibrate in my chest. "I always knew she was low class through and through. But I was in a slumming it kind of mood."

  Slumming it?

  Fucking... slumming it?

  He thought Kennedy was slumming it?

  Stupid fucking bastard didn't know when to shut his mouth.

  "So... what? You're here to 'send a message?' Do you know who I am? I will have you behind bars within two hours."

  "Eh," I said, shrugging casually, watching as Edison leaned back against the door after he closed it. "I don't think there is great cell reception from six feet under, right Edison?" I asked, cocking my head to the side, watching the realization cross his face.

  He rolled his eyes, though. I guess that was the problem with getting away with shit too often; it made you think you were untouchable. "See yourself to the door. I'm sure you tripped the security alarm on your way in."

  My smile rose then, slow, likely a little demonic-looking given how fucking twisted I was feeling right that moment.

  "Funny thing. We know you don't have a security system. Would you like to take a second to make up a story about having a vicious pitbull or twenty years of Ju-Jitsu, or can we get on with the killing and dying part of the evening?"

  I think that sank in.

  Because all the indignant blood that had been filling his face a second before, it all drained away, leaving nothing but the scared little man who realized that all his connections, all his money, were completely useless to him in this situation.

  I liked that.

  I let my anger feed on that.

  Because this was the kind of man who got his rocks off by taking a woman's power away, taking her choice away.

  And he was getting his first real taste of having his own power, his own choice taken away from him. I wanted him to really let that sink in, to really feel how awful that was.

  So when I charged at him, yeah, I fucking played with him for a while. The hits were superficial, nothing to do any real damage. I wanted him pissing his pants scared, like he had made women feel in his past, like he had made Kennedy feel before she found a way to get away from him.

  "Just a suggestion," Edison cut in when I finally snapped, finally had enough fucking around, when I grabbed the bastard by the front of his shirt and hauled him up. "The bathroom is easier to clean," he added when I looked over.

  "Just fucking jealous I got a handful of those full tits of hers," the moron said as I half-dragged him into his enormous master bath.

  He was really just signing his
own death certificate.

  Because I didn't know about that.

  I knew he pushed her around and ripped her dress.

  She didn't tell me there was any actual sexual violation.

  Grabbing her tits? That was a mother fucking violation.

  "You got a handful of her tit?" I asked as I tossed him back against his vanity. "Which hand was it? Eh, you know what? I'll just fucking break them both." Then I grabbed the first one, twisting until the crack of bones was drowned out by his howl. After that, I went ahead and followed through with my threat for the other one.

  I don't know how long I went at him.

  For me, rage was something that burst out of me, but never consumed me.

  There though, in that bathroom, with a man who put fear into a woman I cared about, it fucking ate me up. I wasn't even fully aware of what was happening until I felt Edison's arms fold across my chest, yanking me back, and shoving me against the vanity, making me look up and see myself for the first time.

  Honestly, my first instinct was almost to laugh.

  Because, quite frankly, I looked exactly like that bastard that Kennedy had referred to me as- Niro from Taxi Driver - in the final scene, covered in his and others' blood.

  "Think he's good and dead there, frate," Edison said, looking at me over my shoulder. "Can't say I'm not a little disappointed that you didn't tap out so I could have a round or two, but the mother fucker certainly got what was coming to him."

  I turned back around, seeing the blood around him like a chalk outline, coming from... who the hell knew where. He was beaten every fucking where. I wasn't even sure what the actual cause of death was.

  "Think you pierced a lung with his broken rib," Edison said, crouching down beside his body. "He was doing that death rattle thing, choking on his own blood."

  I stood up, taking a breath, smelling nothing but copper.

  The plan had been a beating, a con into signing the papers I brought, giving over the ownership of the shop to her.

  Had I planned to kill him, fuck, I dunno. Maybe I would have gotten some tips from Luce who practically did it for a living and got away with it.

  "Well, I bet this fucker has some black bags somewhere to wrap him up in," Edison announced, still chill as fuck. Honestly, it was almost chilling how calm he was about shit. "Then we'll use a sheet for good measure, cram him into that tiny trunk in your sports car. Well, I'll do all that. Your ass needs to get in that shower and clean up. I'll find some clothes for you. Then I'll get rid of all this blood, vacuum the bedroom. I saw one of those wet mop things in his kitchen; we'll use that on the way out to get rid of any possible treads. Oh, and I'll text that Vance guy from his phone and call off the break-in."

  Shit.

  Okay.

  Maybe Luce wasn't the only bastard in town who knew how to get rid of evidence.

  "And the body?" I asked, waving a hand toward it.

  Edison shrugged. "I'll take care of it."

  "You'll take care of it?" I repeated, brow raised, wanting more than that.

  "I have a way," he said, shrugging again. "Trust me, frate, no one will ever know what happened to old mister rapist bastard."

  Then, with that, we followed his plan.

  That plan had me dropping him, and the goddamn body, at some place he kept a car stashed, moving the body into that trunk with the strict orders to vacuum and shampoo my own just in case, then him driving off to take care of what was left of Ethan Criss.

  Me, I went home. I burned the clothes he stole from Ethan's. I showered again. I changed. I cleaned out my trunk, then washed the whole outside for good measure.

  By the time I was done, it was late the next morning, and I was finally on my way back to the compound and my woman Kennedy.

  I needed to fucking stop thinking of her as my woman.

  The fuck was wrong with me?

  And yet... when I saw my name across her back, along with the words 'property of,' I had to admit, it felt right.

  I wanted her to be mine.

  That shit, well, there were no words for that shit.

  Aside from maybe- completely un-fucking-like me.

  So I yanked the cut back on her when she tried to shrug it off, embarrassed by the joke Roderick played on her, and her eyes cut to my hands which, admittedly, looked worse than any fight I ever had at Hex. I was pretty sure there were bite marks on them if you looked close enough.

  "What did you do?" she asked, her voice a mix of scared and disbelieving.

  Because she already knew.

  I didn't need to tell her.

  But I gave her the truth anyway.

  "What needed to be done."

  FOURTEEN

  Kennedy

  What needed to be done.

  What needed to be done, from a legal standpoint, was a trip to the Navesink Bank Police Department and a report filed.

  That being said, Pagan was a member of an outlaw biker gang who sold arms. He was a fighter in a morally questionable and definitely illicit underground club.

  Nothing about Pagan was legal.

  I should have known.

  When I woke up alone, when he wasn't just somewhere in the compound lazing about. I should have known.

  Maybe a part of me did, but didn't want to admit it to the rest of me. Because what would it say about me as a person that I was maybe okay with him beating the hell out of Ethan? True, what had happened the night before was beyond messed up, it was horrifying what could have gone down, it was criminal itself.

  Did that make it okay, though, to want the metaphorical eye-for-an-eye?

  Hell, maybe it did.

  Either way, Pagan got his vengeance on the man who, through his actions, actually had my belly feeling wobbly at the idea of going back into the one place that had been my safe haven.

  And more than a small part of me felt a little wishy-washy over the idea that he had done that for me.

  "Come on," he said, touching my hip.

  "Come where?"

  "Figured we could swing by your place, you could pack a bag, then I'll take you back to my place for the night."

  Well then.

  Was there even a chance of turning him down?

  Seeing as the only comfort I found the night before was him being close, and I maybe wanted that again, and I also wanted some answers, I guess I was going to his place for the night.

  And as the decision got made, there was a jumpy, happy sensation inside as he led me out to the car, shinier than the last time I had seen it, and we drove off.

  "Ah," I said when he went to cut the engine. "Do you mind maybe..."

  "Not a mind reader, pet," he said with a smirk when I trailed off, feeling more than mildly embarrassed.

  "Can you just wait in the car? I'll be five minutes tops," I rushed to add, inwardly cringing at the desperation in my tone. "It's, ah, a mess in there and it would be faster if we skip the whole tour thing and..."

  "What you're saying is," he cut off what was sure to be an epic (and embarrassing) ramble, "you want to get this over with so we can get back to my place and you can get me naked. That's what you're saying."

  My lips curved up, completely ignoring the ache in my cheek. "That must be what I meant," I agreed.

  "The fuck you still doing here then?"

  I laughed, shaking my head, and making my way out.

  For a man you maybe didn't think of as layered or intuitive or... whatever, he really did have a knack for saying the right things at the right moments, for being able to see my discomfort and brush it off.

  That was pretty impressive.

  I rushed inside, stuffing random bits of clothing, undies, bras, and various bath essentials into a bag, then grabbed a pair of shoes, really over being barefoot, and rushed back to the car.

  "Don't know why the fuck you bothered with clothes," he said as he reversed out of his spot. "I plan to keep you stark fucking naked from the second we walk in the door."

  Normally, that would not be
something that excited me. I was pretty sure I didn't know any woman who was as comfortable being naked as most men were comfortable free-balling. But, somehow, the idea of him stripping off my clothes and keeping me naked for his usual brand of constant physical contact was exciting.

  Hell, even as he drove, his hand found its way halfway up my thigh, gripped tight, and held there for the rest of the ride. Now if I was naked... and I maybe just shifted a little...

  Okay, my mind was running away with itself.

  What can I say, it had been several days since I had had the best sex of my life. Most of that was spent pissed off at him which managed to just barely keep my panties from catching on fire the whole time. But now? Yeah, I was going to need an extinguisher if we didn't get back to his place pretty freaking soon. Hell, my nipples were at attention at just the thought of him touching me, rubbing against the material of my tee that felt almost oppressive suddenly.

  By the time we made it to the beach house and pulled into the garage, every inch of me was humming in anticipation, beyond any kind of rationality. All I knew was I needed his hands on me. I needed to feel his body slide against and inside mine.

  It had only been four days.

  But it was far too long.

  "You hanging here?" Pagan asked, ducked inside his door, making me realize he had somehow cut the engine and gotten out without me even realizing.

  "Oh," I said, shaking my head, reaching for my bag by my feet, and climbing out with him.

  "You want a drink?" he asked as we stepped through the garage door that led into the kitchen. "Or are we done with the pretense bullshit so I can rip off those clothes and fuck you until we both can't see straight anymore?"

  "I'll take option two," I admitted with a smile, glad that I was literally just minutes away from relief of the pulsating need between my thighs.

  "Thank fuck," he growled, moving toward me, bending low, and freaking sweeping me off my feet.

  It was so unexpected that I shrieked and fought the hold for a long second as he completely ignored me, charging through his house and toward the stairs leading up.