Silas (Dirty Aces MC Book 4)

by Lane Hart

  “Oh, that makes sense.”

  “In order to ensure your safety, you will have to make sacrifices,” Agent Sheppard informs me.

  “Like what?”

  “Like leaving behind everything and everyone in this life to become someone else. You’ll get a new name, a new home, completely start over in a new place.”

  “When my other option is being killed in retaliation, that doesn’t sound so bad,” I admit.

  A fresh start? A new name? It’s not like my life is so great or I’ll miss anyone. Or anyone will miss me…

  “Does that mean I’ll have a clean criminal record and my old debts will be erased?” I ask.

  The agent reaches under his jacket to flick open the buttons on each wrist of his shirtsleeves like they’re annoying him. “Ah, yeah. Cora Walsh will be presumed dead by local law enforcement in a few days, so you won’t have to worry about that. And it would be wise to not contact your family or friends again…”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “Really?” he asks in surprise, his hands dropping to his sides when he finally stops fidgeting with his clothes.

  “Really.”

  “You’re okay never speaking to or seeing anyone you know again?”

  “That’s right,” I agree.

  “Then, ah, I guess you should start packing. The sooner we leave, the better.”

  “Right now?”

  “Unless you want to stick around until those guys come back for you?” he mutters, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder toward the broken window.

  “Oh, okay. Sure. Give me a few minutes to grab my things.” I start to head down the hall to my bedroom but stop abruptly to ask, “What things should I pack?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever you can’t live without,” he says. “And could you hurry up? I ain’t got all day!” His gruff tone suddenly turns stern and demanding, which is so hot it makes me wish I had showered today rather than rolled around in bed and the closet floor, looking a mess.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll hurry,” I reply.

  Silas

  * * *

  This mission is going so much easier than I anticipated. I thought for sure I would have to pick the woman up and carry her away kicking and screaming. It turns out that she is more than happy to take my word and walk away from her life to start a new one.

  Must not be much of a life, which is pretty fucking sad.

  And how gullible can someone be to trust a strange man who bursts into her house? She didn’t even ask to see my badge closely or insist she call to confirm my identity with someone at the local FBI office. Thank fuck.

  While Cora is gone to pack, I keep an eye on the dark neighborhood through the windows I busted, hoping it’s late enough and dark enough that no one heard or saw the bricks shattering glass, or pays any attention to the car I just bought parked in her driveway. Even if they do see the old man’s Buick and get the license plate, it’s a fake, of course.

  After all, I learned to be a criminal and cover my tracks from the best.

  Which reminds me…pulling out my phone, I shoot a quick message to a local glass repair man, telling him I’ll pay double if he can get here first thing tomorrow morning to fix the place up and clean every shard of glass from the carpet. Time is running out before Cora is reported missing. That’s when the police will show up here and start looking for evidence that she was kidnapped or killed.

  When it feels like I’ve been waiting over half an hour with no sign of the woman again, I stride down the hall to her bedroom to remind her to move her ass.

  Instead, I get a quick glimpse of her pale, heart-shaped ass. Her back is to me when she drops her towel, her red, curly hair dripping down her back as she pulls a pair of white cotton panties up her legs.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I bark at her.

  She lets out a squeak when I startle her. Grabbing the towel from the floor, she picks it up, pressing it to her chest before she spins around to face me. “Jeez! I needed a quick shower. Why are you in my room?”

  All this time she’s been in the shower instead of packing. I glance over to the bed and find one suitcase open on top of it, not even halfway full. “I told you to pack fast, not take your sweet ass time taking a long, hot shower!”

  Combing her fingers through the damp strands of hair to get it out of her face, she says, “I don’t know where we’re going, or how long it will take to get there, so I figured I should at least be clean if I’m starting my life over, right?” She hesitates before asking, “Where are we going anyway?”

  “You’ll see when we get there,” I tell her, rethinking my whole idea of just throwing her over my shoulder and getting the fuck out of dodge. Tying her up while she’s wearing nothing but those chaste panties is actually a very appealing option.

  No. Fuck no. I can’t even think about laying a hand on her. This is a mission Malcolm is trusting me with to save Nash’s ass, and he specifically said not to hurt her. “Hurry up and get dressed!”

  This may be one of the first times in my life that I’ve ever insisted that a beautiful woman put clothes on instead of taking them off. Not that I usually wait for the clothes to come off in an orderly fashion. With the women I’ve been hooking up with lately, it’s more of a quick ripping and yanking of fabric to get my dick inside of them as fast as possible. After all, when you’re paying by the hour, every second counts.

  Most people probably think that hiring prostitutes is disgusting, but to me it comes down to convenience and accountability. Everyone is on the same page when fucking is nothing more than a simple monetary transaction. There are no feelings required or expectations I have to meet. I’m always safe, I never even get a blowjob without my dick wrapped up. And for the right price, the girls let me do whatever I want to them. All holes are fair game. If I want to fuck their mouths, they gladly open up and say ‘Ah.” If I’m in the mood for anal, they break out the lube. It’s the oldest trade in the world, because women have something men would gladly pay to get whenever they want it.

  Sex on demand.

  No one would ever accuse me of being a romantic.

  Not to mention, I don’t completely trust myself to be completely alone with a woman I’m fucking. Knowing other people are nearby, under the same roof, means I have to keep myself in check, restrain myself from going too far…

  “The quicker you leave the room, the faster I’ll finish getting dressed and packed,” Cora tells me, sounding like she thinks she has the upper hand in this situation. I could easily turn around and walk out to give her privacy, but I’m a sick pervert who wants to watch her get dressed even if she’s off-limits. And I do enjoy being in control.

  “You think this is a game?” I ask her. Peeling back one side of my suit jacket, I show her the loaded nine-millimeter handgun in my leather holster again. “It’s your life at stake here, woman, not mine. But it is my job is to keep an eye on you and make sure no one kills you, so that’s what I’m going to fucking do!”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll hurry,” she says, actually apologizing to me when I’m actively being a dick. What is wrong with this chick? I honestly don’t have a clue, but I think I like it.

  Leaning my shoulder against the door frame, I cross one ankle over the other, getting comfortable, or as comfortable as I can be in this confining suit while I wait for the rest of the show.

  And what a show it is.

  I only see a few more brief glimpses of her smooth, peaches and cream skin when she goes to the closet and pulls a floral, short-sleeve dress over her head, going notably braless. The side glimpse of her tits makes me think they’re only small handfuls, but they’re perky, the perfect size for my mouth.

  Why do I insist on torturing myself like this? Probably because I’m a masochist and a sadist. The next few days are going to be painful as I make myself resist not only fucking her but getting myself off to her until this mission is finished. The delayed gratification by the time this is all over will be so good I
may never walk again.

  When Cora goes into the bathroom, she keeps the door open so I can watch her flip her curly mane of wild red hair around while drying it before she pulls it up and ties it with a ponytail, leaving her bare neck on display. My first thought is that I want to bite down on that flawless neck hard enough to leave permanent marks. But damn it, I’ve got a job to do. Malcolm and Nash are counting on me. So, my dick and I will just have to suck it up and keep this strictly professional.

  Chapter Four

  Cora

  * * *

  As we leave the Carolina Beach city limits in the agent’s Buick, I let out a sigh of relief, feeling safer already with Agent Sheppard. I know I was pushing my luck by taking the time to shower and get ready before packing, but at least now I’m clean and smelling fresh even if I can’t stop coughing or sneezing. Having a man watching me raptly as I get dressed was also nice. It’s been too long since I’ve had a date, so busy working late nights and weekends that there is no time for fun. Not that I’ve had many prospects, other than a couple of tourists passing through, which is not what I’m looking for at all. Those guys are too boring and predictable. Based on my experience the last few months, I know they have the same plan – take me to dinner where they act all charming and interested in me as a person, feed me a meal that isn’t even half as good as my own cooking, get me tipsy on a few fruity drinks, take me back to my place and invite themselves inside for a quick, blink and you miss it, round of missionary before they make an excuse to get dressed and leave.

  I’m not that desperate for sex, especially sex when I don’t even have a good time.

  That’s the one thing I miss about my teenage years – fooling around with bad boys who were dangerous but knew exactly what they were doing in bed. In fact, they did it so well, I would always fall for their bullshit and believe everything they said, right up and until they screwed me over.

  It took my third romp with a bad boy before I ended up in serious trouble that still follows me to this day. Which is why I’ve sworn off troublemakers for good.

  I wonder what the agent thinks about me and my past since he probably saw it in my file while researching this assignment. Since he carries a badge, he’s probably all holier than thou when it comes to the law, everything black and white with no gray area.

  “So I guess you know all about my record, huh?” I ask him. I needed to break the silence because he hasn’t said a word since we left.

  “Do I?” he replies, obviously playing coy.

  “Well, the FBI has access to everything, right?”

  “Right,” he agrees. “It’s all in their database…”

  “In my defense, I was young and stupid,” I tell him. “I fell in love whenever a guy gave me even a little bit of attention because I was so lonely. That’s not an excuse, just what happened. I would have never burned that building down on my own, you know? Thankfully, no one was hurt, but I feel terrible for the owner who had to start all over.”

  “The fire…right,” he mutters. The agent keeps his gaze on the road except for the occasional side eye when he peeks over at the hem of my dress that comes up to mid-thigh when I’m sitting. I can’t tell if he approves or disapproves.

  “The insurance company paid him back for all of his losses right after it happened. Now I just have to spend the rest of my life paying back the insurance company as part of my punishment. My parents have it and could pay, but they refuse to help me. They pretty much disowned me after the fire. They only let me stay at the beach house because it keeps me out of their hair.”

  “You still owe a lot?” the agent asks.

  “Three hundred thousand dollars. Granted, if the asshole hadn’t wrecked the car when we were being chased, he would’ve been arrested too and done hard time. Then the restitution would have been split down the middle, only be a hundred and fifty thousand for me to pay back. I probably should have turned him in, gotten my sentence reduced and reduction in the total due.”

  “You didn’t ever turn him in?” Agent Sheppard asks, now turning his whole face to look at me before facing the road again.

  “Nope. Stupid right?”

  “Right,” he mutters in agreement.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m a bad person, just because of one idiotic mistake I made when I was younger.”

  “I don’t think you’re a bad person,” he responds, sounding sincere.

  “Good. That’s good. I did a year in prison and have been paying back as much of that money as I can every month. It’s the reason why I’m glad I get to live in my parents’ beach house, you know? So I don’t have to pay rent.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, of course, when Harold Cox’s place went up in flames and the detectives realized I had been there that night, they thought I was burning things down again when I didn’t have anything to do with either fire. I swear. This time it was those…those men…”

  “I know you didn’t do it,” Agent Sheppard responds sincerely, which makes me feel better. “No reason for you to go down for something you didn’t do for people you don’t know.”

  “I wasn’t going to say a word,” I explain as I drum my fingers on the window seal while watching the sun come up over the horizon. “But then the detectives found the number of the restaurant on Harold Cox’s call log, and boom, I was in deep shit. It was either rot in prison for years or give them what little bit of information I remembered.”

  “Which was one of their names. Nash, right?” the agent asks.

  “Right. And that they were wearing motorcycle helmets. I had no idea Nash was the name of a local biker and it would be so easy for them to find him. Then a week later, he was in the line-up. At least I guess it was him. Am I going to have to testify?”

  “No,” he responds, his knuckles suddenly tightening on the steering wheel.

  “Good. Because I may have been wrong, you know? And those guys that killed those men and set the fire, I think they had a good reason.”

  “Oh yeah? Why do you think that?”

  “Well, maybe you won’t think it’s a good reason, but I did.”

  Again, I withhold the part about the girl they were looking for, Jetta. So far, the detectives haven’t mentioned her, so I’m not going to either.

  Chapter Five

  Silas

  * * *

  Fuck.

  My gut is churning with some odd sensation I haven’t felt before. The longer we drive, the stronger it gets. It’s more than being hungry. I think what I’m feeling could be…regret.

  It’s been years since I’ve had even a hint of guilt creep up in my non-existent conscience.

  Now I’m really glad I didn’t kill this woman when we found her that night in the pantry or tie her up and hurt her.

  Cora never went to the fucking cops. The detectives came to her about the murders and pressured her to talk by threatening to throw her in prison.

  How could they do that?

  They had to have known she was innocent. Even if there was a little blemish on her record from when she was younger, everything about her looks sweet and harmless. She wears white panties, for fuck’s sake.

  Now she’s having to up and move her entire life, however pathetic it might have been, for the same men who put her in this position.

  Needing a cigarette, I drive one handed while pulling a smoke from the package in the console. As soon as I stick it in my mouth, I light it up with the Zippo in my free hand.

  I don’t bother rolling down the window before blowing the smoke out the side of my lips, which is when Cora starts coughing again.

  At first, I think she’s just one of those bitches who hates smoke, so I crack my window.

  But then a little while later, she’s bent over at the waist, hacking for several long minutes. I momentarily worry that it will end with her coughing up a lung in the floorboard.

  “Do I need to pull over?” I ask, holding my smoke out the cracked window.

  “No. Sorry,” she
croaks out, apologizing to me before coughing some more.

  Cora eventually reaches into her purse that’s full of medications she swept inside from her bathroom cabinet before we left. She pulls out a pack of cough drops, unwrapping one of them with shaking hands before throwing it into her mouth. The barking gradually dies down until it’s more sporadic so she can at least take a deep breath in between attacks, filling the car with the heavy scent of cherries.

  “You okay now?” I ask.

  “Yeah, just a bad cold. The cough comes and goes.”

  “You want me to put my cigarette out?”

  “What? No. Why?” she replies, sounding perplexed by my question.

  Jesus. Is this woman really this damn nice or is it an act?

  I flick my smoke out the window and roll it up since Malcolm told me not to hurt her, and I’m guessing sending her to the hospital with bronchitis or pneumonia when it could’ve been easily avoided by not smoking would probably count.

  Once the car is silent again, Cora says, “So, have you always wanted to be a federal agent?”

  “Huh? I mean, yeah, I guess.”

  “You grow up with family in law enforcement?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s nice,” she replies as I answer her questions with the fewest words possible. “My parents hated that I wanted to be a chef. They paid people to cook for them and didn’t understand why I would want a job that’s so demeaning.”

  “How is cooking for others demeaning?” I ask in confusion.

  “I don’t think it is; they do. I actually enjoy it,” she says, interrupted by a cough. “I love preparing a meal or a dessert that people love.” Cora pauses for a moment, then asks, “Will I be able to work as a chef after I relocate?”

  “Sure, why not?” I ask.

  “What about references?”