Cooper Construction Series Box Set

by Jen Davis

  He knew it well enough when he was younger. How could he have let himself forget?

  But knowing his father’s flaws didn’t make him prepared to walk away from the club. He wouldn’t only be leaving his dad. He’d be cutting off his connection to Cue Ball, Scott, and his mother. Just like Uncle Wes had.

  For what?

  Unbidden, an image of Joshua Cooper danced through his head and with it, the fragile thread of hope he could have a family of his own. Josh wasn’t his, but the dream of a family didn’t have to die. He didn’t have to be alone; he could make a new future.

  His phone buzzed.

  He didn’t have to decide right now. But he wasn’t getting any younger. If he was going to start a new life, he’d have to do it soon.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Amanda

  The summons from her father came faster than Amanda had hoped. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since her break-up with Nathan. Apparently, her desire for a longer reprieve was unrealistic.

  The hairs on the back of her arms rose as she left her condo late Saturday morning. For the second time in as many days, she felt like someone was watching her, but she focused on the dread pooling in her stomach over the idea of facing her dad.

  He’d never handled disappointment well. When she’d decided to join Charlie’s company, for instance, he went on a tirade spanning more than an hour, covering everything from her lack of loyalty to him to the disregard for her future and the waste of her education. Honestly, he still wasn’t over it. The man put up a classy, Old Southern front, but he had a temper hotter than Tabasco sauce.

  The ride over stretched interminably yet ended instantaneously. She wanted to get it all over with, but facing the music was going to suck beyond imagination. Part of her had fought the summons, but the man was her father, and years of conditioning had taught her not to ignore him.

  She’d even dressed in an armor of sorts: dark blue jeans, with calf-hugging brown boots, and a dark green sweater. It felt like crushed velvet, warm and soft and casual, and her dad would probably hate it for all of the same reasons she loved it.

  Steeling herself, she sought him out in the study. He sat rigidly at his desk, red pen poised over a stack of papers. His face tightened when she stood on the opposite side of the heavy wooden surface, but he didn’t look up. “You reneged on our deal.” His voice cut like pure ice.

  She could do ice too. In fact, that particular mask gave her an extra shot of courage. “It depends on how you look at it.” Folding her arms, she ran her hands over the comforting softness of her sleeves. “I kept up my end of the original agreement perfectly.”

  His gaze shot up to her. Forget ice, now he was all heat. “So, you never intended to give me those four weeks?”

  The answering fire inside her came as something of a surprise. “I intended to give you six months, which is exactly what I did. Six months of laughing at his shitty jokes. Six months of tolerating his abuse and making myself small.” The heat burned hotter. “Now I’m done. He’ll never belittle me again. Never hit me. Never kick me. And never hurt me.”

  Her father tossed his pen onto the table with an exasperated huff. “No need to be crass, Amanda, or so dramatic.”

  “Dramatic? Would you like to hear about the time he pushed me for disagreeing with him? Or when he threatened to sodomize me to teach me my place? It happened only a couple of weeks ago, Dad, and a few days later you tried to extort me into keeping him in my life.” She clasped her hands together to stop the shaking. But fear no longer fueled her, rage did.

  Her father didn’t so much as flinch at her words. His expression stayed infuriatingly neutral. “Enough.”

  “Really? Because you summoned me here to talk about it. You want to talk about the time he kicked me in the ribs? Or hey, I can show you the marks he left on my arm two days ago.”

  He rose to his feet. “We’re done here.” He looked at her like a piece of gum stuck to his shoe. “I expect you won’t be returning the money.”

  The money? After everything she’d just told him? Fuck him. “You expect right.” It wasn’t about the money; it was about him. About her bowing and scraping to him, trying again to fill his bottomless well of need—for attention, adulation, obedience. A fool’s errand, and she was done being a fool. She’d figure out some other way to keep Kane safe from his threats.

  “Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost me?” he hissed.

  She turned on her heel and paused at the office door, looking back at him over her shoulder. “I know exactly what it cost you. It cost you your daughter.”

  He didn’t say another word as she resumed her path out of the room and out of his life.

  ***

  Kane

  The I-95 route to Jacksonville took a little longer thanks to the detour along Highway 17, but the view made up for the delay. Cue Ball said all road trips were the same, but something about being close to the water on his bike made hours on the road go by in half the time.

  Though he’d never really minded making gun runs for the club, getting away from all the drug garbage, even if for only a day, came as a downright relief. He and Frank left right after dawn to make it for the lunchtime meeting with Sergei. Frank drove the SUV, and Kane escorted him on his Harley. They could have ridden together, but Kane was in no mood to hear about who the man fucked last night. He struggled more and more to fake any enthusiasm about his friends’ sexual conquests or even to jump in on singing the praises of the club. It seemed like those were the only things anyone wanted to talk about anymore.

  Had it ever been any different?

  He let his memory stretch as his body relaxed into the rhythm of the open road. When he had tried to exorcize Mandy from his life, his brothers provided an endless string of distractions to keep him from going crazy. If he got too sad, someone—usually Scott—would drive him to the strip club down the street from the clubhouse and slap a Bud in his hand.

  At the time, the club provided security for Bottoms Up, so they never had to pay a cover. Most of the guys would’ve said the free admission was payment enough, but the job also brought in a few extra bucks.

  Those first few years after the break-up blurred into a loop of lap dances, benders, blowjobs, and even a few three-ways. They were bitter and broken years, where he intentionally scraped the bottom of the society barrel as a big fuck you to the woman who would have been devastated to see him sunk so low. After a while, it simply became the reality of his life.

  He stopped shaving or cutting his hair. He used the money he’d saved for Mandy’s ring as a down payment on his bike. And visited the tattoo parlor more times than anyone else in his club.

  Only his first tattoo had any real meaning, Mandy’s name inked large and proud across his back, spanning shoulder to shoulder. He’d lied and told the other guys he got it before the break-up, but she would’ve hated him marking his skin with her name or anything else. No, he’d gotten the tat right after she left him. He’d told himself it was so he would never forget how completely she fucked him over, a reminder to never fall for another woman again. Another lie. She’d branded herself on his fucking soul; the tat only made it visible to the world.

  The next one came a year later. He got another every few months, all with the same themes: skulls in honor of the club and an array of female demons and angels. After all, he considered women both heaven and hell, so it made sense.

  Now, he bore little resemblance to the clean-cut guy who went to night school and picnicked with his girlfriend under the stars. Mandy’s willingness to let him kiss her the other night was a fucking miracle. And not only because of the way he looked. He gave up the dream of winning her back years ago, but he’d convinced himself she’d never loved him…she left because she didn’t care.

  Could he believe her explanation now?

  Yes. Maybe that made him a fucking idiot, but he didn’t doubt her for a second. Her abrupt change of heart about their relationship had never made sen
se. He would’ve bet his life she’d loved him every bit as much as he’d loved her, and her version of events gave him a lifeline. It said he hadn’t misjudged her; she did love him—so much she gave him up to protect him.

  The gray waves churned in the corner of his stinging eyes as he considered her father’s bullshit extortion story. It had a thousand holes in it, but the important thing was, he believed she believed it. She didn’t just break his heart, she broke her own.

  How was he supposed to feel about that? His gut tangled in knots. He wanted to shake her for her naivety and for carrying the weight of it all on her shoulders. He would have never allowed a threat to tear them apart, but then again, she probably knew that from the beginning. She didn’t give him a choice.

  She thought she was saving him, but even if all Beau’s shit about the cop was real, hell yeah, he would have gladly done some time, knowing she was waiting on the other side. It would have been better than the endless emptiness he got instead.

  He could examine it a thousand times, ask himself what if. He could rage about it, mourn over it, question it. Truthfully, though, the moment he could tell himself it wasn’t her fault, he’d grabbed onto it with both hands. He’d grabbed on to her.

  Mandy was the only thing he truly ever wanted in his life, and if he could find a way to have her now, his tattered soul still yearned for it. The question was whether she could ever want the man he had become. Dirty and used and jaded.

  Arriving at his destination gave him a much-needed break from his thoughts. Sergei stood outside the warehouse, his thick arms folded over his black wool coat, his white-blond hair slicked back from his face.

  Kane climbed from his bike, his legs like Jell-O after the long ride. Ignoring the sign of weakness, he approached his contact and shook his hand. He only wanted a nice, easy exchange. “Hope you weren’t waiting too long.” He couldn’t read the Russian’s impassive face.

  “No. You are right on time.”

  Even after five years of working with the man, he still enjoyed listening to the unusual cadence of his accent. Unfortunately, Sergei was a man of few words. He led Kane and Frank, who had pulled up right behind him, into the warehouse where twenty-five AR-15s waited inside a parked black van. Frank walked straight to the guns to examine them.

  Sergei firmed his jaw, then turned to Kane. “Rumors are circulating about your club dipping into the drug trade.”

  Shit.

  “I won’t waste my time or yours asking if it’s true. But I will say this, my people expect our business to be the focus of your business. The drug trade is perilous. When you put yourself at risk, you put us at risk. We have no interest in being at risk. Let me be clear. If the rumors are true—if you are endangering our operation—stop it now.” His voice echoed in the warehouse, cold and vaguely menacing. “We can overlook a misunderstanding, but our position is known now, and we expect you to behave accordingly. Is there any part of this you don’t understand?”

  Sergei had never said that many words to him in every conversation they’d had combined. And Kane couldn’t miss the message. He couldn’t blame the icy winds for putting a chill in his bones. “I understand.”

  Sergei nodded. “Good. Take it back to your father.”

  Frank returned. “Everything’s in order. Let’s load it up.” Together, they crated the guns in the false bottoms of boxes filled with bags of coffee, then loaded them into the back of the SUV.

  He pulled an envelope full of cash from his back pocket and handed it to their Russian contact.

  Sergei tucked it into the inside breast pocket of his coat, then walked away without another word.

  Frank chuckled. “A man of few words. If only they made women who can be as quiet.”

  He forced a smile. “Let’s get back on the road, brother. We need to get the merchandise back to A-T-L.”

  Oblivious to his churning stomach, Frank got behind the wheel and cranked up the old Bronco’s engine. They road side-by-side, headed back to the interstate.

  The Skulls had been in partnership with Sergei’s syndicate for the past five years. They’d never had an ounce of trouble, but they’d never made trouble either. The Russians only ever demanded two things: discretion and fidelity. Sergei had been crystal clear. Working with Ace violated the terms.

  But would Malcolm take the warning seriously? Probably not. Unfortunately, his father was a narcissist and a stubborn one to boot. He’d end up dead or in jail before he bent to the wishes of another man, if he even believed the warning at all.

  You could walk away from the club and be done with the whole thing. The traitorous voice in the back of his head definitely had a point. It would also go a long way in getting his life back on track, but on track to where? Back to school? He never got his degree. Back to Mandy? What kind of man would he be to turn his back on his brothers for a woman who dumped him a decade ago? But she wasn’t just some woman, was she? She was everything.

  Round and round he went, arguing with himself. Five hours later, he’d gotten no closer to an answer, at least about his future with the club.

  He thought about the way Scott had refused to let him wallow in his misery the first year after Mandy pushed him away. His brother took him everywhere he went, so he’d never feel alone. They went to hard rock concerts together, bowling alleys, bars. Scott taught him the basics of bike mechanics over the course of dozens of beers. Stayed up with him all night when he needed it, watching American Pie and telling bad jokes.

  He thought about Cue Ball and the dozens of lap dances he’d paid for. Frank and his sage advice about how to hustle college kids on a pool table.

  Then he thought about Uncle Wes, whose face he only sort of remembered. He could no longer recall the sound of his voice, what kind of food he liked, or what he did to earn a living.

  Hell, he could have a passel of first cousins out there for all he knew. He’d probably never know because that’s what patching out meant. Wes was cut off, now and forever.

  One thing he did know: he had to tell his brothers about Sergei’s warning.

  Frank followed him inside the clubhouse, leaving the guns in the Bronco for now. They’d move them to the storage place where they stashed the meth later.

  The inside of the house still stunk to high heaven, the chemical aroma so thick, it made his eyes water. He found his father and Cue Ball out back, smoking in the carport, the small space heater glowing orange next to the folding chairs where they sat.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His fingers were numb from his hours on the road. “I have a message from Sergei. You’re not going to like it.” He filled in his father on the conversation at the warehouse.

  “Fuck that commie-bastard.” Classic Malcolm. “He doesn’t get to tell me how to run my club.”

  Technically, it wasn’t supposed to be Malcolm’s club. Yes, he was president, but they decided everything by a majority vote. Still, his father founded the club, and his proprietary vein ran deep.

  “I think we need to put it in front of the table,” Kane warned. “The Russians have been our partners for a long time. It’s a mistake to dismiss what he said without even talking about it.”

  His father tossed his cigarette butt on the ground. “We did talk about it. Just now.” He stood, and Cue Ball followed suit. “Now, let’s get the merchandise to the storage place. Don’t want to have a bunch of weaponry around if a raid ever comes about.”

  The dismissal couldn’t have been clearer, which made his blood boil. Malcolm shouldered past his son, forgoing the shortcut through the house, to walk around the outside.

  Cue Ball stopped beside him. “You coming with? Scott and me, we’re going out for a drink tonight. We can head out after the drop-off.”

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He shook his head. “Nah, man. Maybe I’ll catch up with you later.” He waited until his friend rounded the house before he checked his display.

  Amanda: Can I see you tonight?

  Mandy. />
  For all of his introspection, for all of his soul-searching, he didn’t need to think at all before he typed out a response.

  Kane: One hour. Your place.

  He needed the time to get presentable. His apartment was a quick ride; he made it home in minutes. It took a bit longer in the shower to clean off the evidence of the road.

  Once he was clean, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stopped at the sink to brush his teeth. Afterward, he forced himself to look in the mirror. He’d avoided it for so long, he could barely remember the last time he studied his reflection.

  Damn, he looked like shit. Why any woman would want to get near him was a mystery he couldn’t begin to unravel. He used to be a good-looking guy, but the scar gave him a rough edge he could never erase. The hair and the beard, on the other hand, those things he could do something about.

  But how much? She’d know it was for her. She’d have to.

  He couldn’t erase everything he’d become in the last thirteen years. But he could do something. He pulled out the drawer beneath the sink and dug around inside before his hand landed on the thick-handled scissors inside.

  With a deep breath, he lifted them up and began to cut.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Amanda

  The setting sun cast an orange glow through the sliding glass door as the minutes ticked closer to Kane’s arrival. Amanda had wanted to call him the moment she’d walked out of her father’s house, but she forced herself to think long and hard about it first.