Pagan (The Henchmen MC Book 8)

by Jessica Gadziala

  "Sorry, Kennedy," Reeve said, ducking his head so he could catch my eyes, looking sincere. "You're just going to have to ask Pagan your questions."

  With that, he turned and left, and if I wasn't mistaken, I could hear the click of the lock.

  "Did you give them hell?" Benny asked, standing at the washing sink, pulling the foils out of my client's hair. The glass was all swept up and my client was beaming up at Benny. So everything was okay.

  Sort of.

  Except the whole situation next door.

  I gave Benny a look that said we had to talk about it later, making him nod, and get back to work.

  Twenty minutes later, we were in an empty shop.

  "Alright, spill. What has that look on your face? Did they get nasty? I mean, I might not be scary, but I will call my man and have him over there in a heartbeat. You've had enough of shitty men this... what?" he trailed off.

  "The weirdest thing just happened..." I started, cut off by the chime of the door, making me turn. "Perfect timing," I said, seeing Pagan walking in, hair wet like he had freshly showered, but otherwise just him- jeans, boots, wifebeater, leather cut, scruff. "I need to talk to you about..."

  "Do you have five bucks, pet?"

  Thrown off, my brows drew together and I reached under my desk for my purse. "I, ah, I think so. Hold on, let me check."

  Frazzled, I rummaged through my bag to find my wallet, pulling out five singles, my last five singles, and handing it to Pagan. All the while, wondering why the hell he would need five dollars from me when he had a million dollar house and a car that cost a fortune. But that being said, he had covered all the food and whatnot we had had over the past couple weeks, so if he was a couple bucks short for something, I totally needed to step up.

  "Congratulations, pet," he said oddly as he pocketed the cash, pulling out a curled up stack of paperwork and putting it down on the desk.

  "Congratulations for what? I love a good party," Benny said, coming up to stand on the other side of the desk with Pagan.

  "What is this?" I asked as he pushed the papers to me, drawing my attention down.

  "Is this a... deed?" When he didn't answer, my eyes moved over to the bold print. "Why is my name here?"

  "Because you are now the owner of the whole building," Pagan said, patting the pocket where my five dollars were situated.

  "Okay, this makes no sense," I said, swallowing hard, but with my suddenly very dry mouth, it was difficult.

  "Funny thing," Pagan said, shrugging, so freaking casual about something so crazy. "It happens that Ethan Criss only sort of owns this business. He and his partner, Conor, actually own it. And since Ethan hasn't been to work in a while," he paused there, giving me a look that I couldn't quite interpret and I thought I had gotten pretty good at reading him, "Conor was all-too-happy to look over the paperwork on this property. Was pissed too that Ethan never took you up on your offer earlier since that dump next door has been doing nothing but falling apart while empty. I made him an offer he couldn't, in good conscience, refuse. It was supposed to be a surprise," he added with a smirk as I just stood there catching flies in my mouth. "But you had to get all hyped up on your righteous anger and storm over there and ruin it."

  He... bought a building for me?

  No.

  That was just... insane.

  I never even planned to own the building. That wasn't even in the realm of possibilities for me.

  And he didn't have that kind of money.

  Right?

  But then again, nothing else made sense seeing as the store next door was full of Henchmen.

  "Pagan, I don't..." I shook my head, watching as Benny silently backed away, making his way to the door, obviously picking up on the fact that Pagan and I needed a minute to sort things out. And, very likely, going next door to ogle and be a cheerleader to all the sexy bikers doing manual labor. "This makes no sense," I went with, deciding it was the most honest, coherent thought inside my swirling brain right then.

  "What doesn't make sense?" he asked, head ducked to the side. "I bought the building. And thanks to your nice little investment," he said, meaning the five dollars he had conned out of me, "now you own the building."

  "That must have cost..." I trailed off, the sum of money that would take being completely foreign to me.

  "Seven-hundred," he offered easily, no muss, no fuss, no hedging, no making me beg for the exact number.

  Seven-hundred thousand dollars.

  I was pretty sure that would be more than I would see in my entire lifetime. How did he even have that kind of money? True, he had the two less than legal jobs, but could they really be enough to allow him to have his expensive beach home and just... take my building as a wash.

  My.

  My building.

  "You just need to sign the paper, pet," he said, stabbing a finger toward where there was a blank spot for my name.

  "I just..." I trailed off, forcing myself to take a steadying breath, preparing myself for what I knew I had to do. "This is extremely generous, Pagan. In fact, they need a whole new word for what this gesture was. But... it's too much. I can't let you spend that on me."

  His chest expanded with a deep breath before he moved from his side of the desk to mine, backing me up against the wall. "There's a difference between a man who spends on you and one who invests in you. I'm not buying you a thousand dollar dress, or five-hundred dollar shoes, or some jewelry that cost a downpayment on a house. I'm investing in your future. And I know you're going to take the opportunity to make this a success because that's the kind of woman you are. I've dropped tens of thousands of dollars on bikes and ATVs and four-wheelers and cars and shit that I buy for the sole purpose of crashing. This is probably the first sound investment I have ever made with my money."

  He wanted to invest in me.

  That, that word, perhaps meant more than any "I love yous" or "I'll be with you forevers" ever could. Because it meant he believed in me and what I was capable of, what I was bound to accomplish in my life. It meant that, beyond the 'him and me,' he still valued me as an individual.

  I looked down for a minute, sure the whole weight of what I just realized was in my eyes, and not wholly comfortable being quite that vulnerable yet. "I will probably never be able to pay you back."

  "I wasn't asking you to."

  And that, that casualness about such a huge sum of money, was what managed to make my head raise. "You're out seven-hundred thousand dollars."

  "Yes and no," he said, shrugging.

  "How no?"

  "Technically it was my money, but it has been sitting in an account untouched for, fuck, I don't even know... ten years?"

  Maybe even more confused, my brows drew together. "Okay, can I maybe have this from the beginning?"

  I never asked him for details, never wanting to be that needy chick who pried information out of you. I always believed someone's actions meant a hell of a lot more than their pasts, so when he didn't automatically offer me his when I offered him mine, I just let it go.

  In light of this though, yeah, I was asking.

  "You want my story." It wasn't a question, just an acknowledgment of my request.

  "I think it's maybe time for that, don't you?"

  He took a long, deep breath, seeming more stressed than I had ever seen him before. In fact, I had never seen him stressed before. It wasn't an emotion that I thought was even in his wheelhouse.

  "Alright," he said, giving me a nod. "I'll give it to you."

  And right then, I was pretty sure, downright certain, that I was maybe the only person he had truly given it to before.

  That, well, it meant something too.

  SIXTEEN

  Pagan

  There was really no good way to tell a person that you grew up rich.

  As in filthy.

  As in, even if I lived five lifetimes of my moderate laissez-faire spending, I wouldn't really even put a dent into it.

  I came into the world a h
efty eight pounds and four ounces with he distinguished name of Robert Scott the Third, in a special hospital room that cost a good ten grand a night. Because heaven forbid a Scott slum it in one of the normal rooms. My mother couldn't be caught sweating in public, let alone having blood and a human coming out of her while she let out a string of unladylike curses.

  I went home to an eight-thousand square foot mansion on twenty acres that served absolutely no purpose seeing as my father was never home to do shit like barbecue or play catch. You know, if he even knew how to do either of those things.

  My mother was usually busy with what she referred to as her 'social calendar.' Before she married into the prestigious, old-money Scott family, she had had her own corner office, a mid-six-figure income, her own place, her independence. But Scott women, my grandmother had informed her, did not work. They did charity luncheons and connection-building brunches.

  A part of me had always wondered what she had been like before they slowly stole her spirit.

  You know, before she was taken out of my life, never to be seen again.

  Infidelity, the rumors always were. They were vicious and frequent, but I had always wondered about the truth behind them. Or if, maybe, she just never lived up to their high standard.

  By the time I was eleven, she was nothing but a memory.

  As an adult, I guess I could have sought her out.

  But a part of me felt nothing but resentment toward her, figuring that she was likely paid off to leave me behind. Because, otherwise, what could have possessed her to leave her only child behind? And if money was enough of a reason to wipe her hands of me, I wanted nothing to do with her.

  From eleven on, there was no one around. Sure, there was a staff of housekeepers, gardeners, drivers, cooks, the works. But there was no one at that point whose job it was to expressly watch little ol' me.

  At that age and with that kind of freedom, what was a boy to do but get into every kind of trouble he could?

  I cut out of the very nice private school to take off into the woods and climb trees, build makeshift forts, start fires, all the kinds of things that boys of 'good breeding' weren't permitted to do. But since my father was never around to see all the cuts, bruises, and scars, I got away with it.

  Then, of course, by the time I became a teenager, shit got all kinds of crazy.

  Fighting was always my second favorite pastime. Now, the private school guys I went to school with were a bunch of pansies, but even some schmuck in a fencing uniform or horseback riding breeches could be poked and prodded enough to throw a punch. And that was all I needed.

  But before fighting, was skirts.

  I lost my virginity at fifteen to the woman who cooked my meals. After that, it was a whirlwind of pussy. The plus side to private school girls is they, like me, had spent a lot of time alone and didn't have much of a childhood, growing up way too fast for their own good. By the time we were all sixteen, I don't think there was a virgin among us. And sex was as casual as a handshake.

  It was also around then that I learned how much I liked cigarettes and whiskey.

  And because all this drinking, smoking, fighting, and fucking was taking place in the bowels of some mega mansion, completely unattended, no cops were ever called, no records were ever recorded, no parents were ever the wiser.

  Hungover as fuck I attended far too many debutante balls, opening days, charity auctions, whatever the fuck event was deemed mandatory by my grandmother who was either so naive or so stupid that she always mistook my red-rimmed eyes, tiredness, and surly ass attitude as a lack of sleep and school pressure to keep up my grades.

  She died about a week before my seventeenth birthday and, with no matriarch left to keep up those kinds of appearances, me, my father, and my grandfather were never forced into tuxes or summer suits to attend any of those dull as shit events again.

  My clock was running out too. It was a fact I was almost painfully aware of in my lovely, but small gilded cage.

  Graduation would mean my father and grandfather would call me into the office, sit me down, likely offer me a whiskey because that was what was done, and have the mother fucking 'talk.'

  The one about my future.

  The one about their expectations on it.

  I didn't need the talk to know what they wanted from me. They wanted a four-year degree in business. They wanted me to sow my wild oats, party, get the childish shit out of me without creating a criminal record, an illegitimate child, or making the news.

  From there, I was meant to start at one of the companies as a mid-level employee. You know, so the word 'nepotism' wasn't shouted like a rallying cry. Then, when I was about twenty-five, I would get my corner office. I would get a salary that would make a pro-football player pale.

  One might think this was a dream.

  After all, money was important. If you were poor, it was important. If you were rich, it was important.

  But if the money came with clauses, like mine would, namely a suitable wife, the right number of children, the perfect outward appearances, then it wasn't the freedom that wealth afforded a person. It was just another kind of prison. True, the walls were gold, and the sheets were a fuckuva lot softer, but a prison was still a prison, no matter how nice the view from your barred windows.

  As one could imagine, the man I was presently, didn't just appear out of thin air one day. It was the culmination of all the events of my life. So even at eighteen-years-old, I was a headstrong, stubborn, cocky, loud-mouthed dick.

  Cue the meeting I always knew was coming.

  "That was a nice speech, Dad. Did you practice that in front of the mirror? Or are you just repeating the same speech Gramps over here spoon-fed you at my age?"

  "Robert, have some respect," my father chastened, voice bored.

  "This is heartwarming, really," I said, tipping back my whiskey and going for a refill, something no one even said a word about. "But I think it is a little late to pull the Dad-card on me. Fuck, I don't even think I've seen your face in over three goddamn months. And you," I said, waving my glass, the kind that cost about a hundred bucks each, at my grandfather. "When was the last time I saw you before the funeral? Three years? You think you have the right to come back here now and make demands on me?"

  "Robert, I have done nothing but..."

  "You could have stopped at nothing. That was the complete thought. You have done nothing."

  "I am your father and it is time to put this insolent, childish behavior behind you and become a man."

  My lips quirked up at that. "Didn't you hear, Pops? Sheila made a man of me years ago. You know, during one of those never-ending business trips of yours."

  "It's like talking to a damn brick wall," my father grumbled to my grandfather who had simply been watching me with interest since I started speaking. "Listen, at twenty-one, you are coming into your trust, and I can't in good conscience, give it to a spoiled little brat who isn't going to do what is expected of him."

  I pressed my lips together at that, rocking back on my heels, tipping back the whiskey, and draining it. I slammed it down on the edge of his desk, leaning slightly forward. "I don't want your fucking money or the strings that come attached to it. Take it and shove it up your ass. I don't need you or it. I will make my own way in the world."

  With that, and literally nothing but the clothing on my back and the wallet that had just enough cash to buy me a hotel room for a week, I left.

  I never looked back.

  I never called on holidays or birthdays.

  I never asked for a dime.

  I didn't show up for important events, not even my father's funeral when a heart attack took him down on a golf course, something I only knew about because it made the news.

  I was living holed up in my cheap hotel room in Navesink Bank the next week, working as a bouncer in a club on the outskirts of town because the owners appreciated the fact that I was fearless and filled with rage.

  I was there for years.

/>   It was there I met Ross Ward the first time.

  He was walking past the mouth of the alley where I was wailing into some shithead who shoved a random woman against a wall and forced his hand up her skirt.

  "Do you always rage-out like that in a fight, or did he grab your girlfriend's ass or something?"

  I stood slowly, wiping the sweat from my brow with a blood covered hand, reaching into my back pocket for a cigarette and lighter.

  I shrugged. "My paycheck didn't clear yet," I said, most of the anger stemming from the fact that that meant I wouldn't be hitting up Chaz's like I planned, finding a skirt, and taking her back to the hotel to have a tour of my sheets. "Then this schmuck put his hands on a girl inside. His face seemed like a good fucking place to take out my anger."

  To that, the man's lips curved slightly. "I usually like desperate, but I can definitely make use of stupidly angry."

  "This a job opportunity?" I asked, kicking the idiot on the ground as he rolled up onto all fours. "You show your face around here again and you'll be eating through a tube, mother fucker." It was a threat, and not an empty one, but my voice was calm. I had purged all the rage.

  "It's a chance to audition for a job. You ever hear of Hex?" At my raised brow, he reached into his pocket and produced a card with just his name and address on it. "Now you have. Tomorrow at nine."

  So then I had my audition, making the ring so slick with blood that it had to be hosed off afterward.

  But then I had a job.

  It was the first time in years that I didn't truly have to worry about money, wasn't living paycheck-to-paycheck. Because Ross Ward paid a nice chunk of royalties to us. And me, well, I drew a crowd with my particular brand of animalistic violence.