Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends

by MariaLisa deMora

  A cushion whooshed out air nearby as someone sat, and Justine, so accustomed to the routine by now, anticipated the touch that would urge her slump to the side, resting her cheek against a fabric-clad thigh. A soft blanket settled over her shoulders, and as heat pooled against her skin, Justine slowly relaxed. A moment later, the hand grazed over the top of her head and gently removed the tie holding the tight braid, then stroked down the fall of hair. Some set of minutes later, Justine finally blinked her eyes open for the first time. The soothing cadence of fingers threading through her hair didn’t change or falter, but she knew her partner was fully cognizant of her progress rising through the levels back to complete awareness.

  She wrapped her fingers around his ankle, as clear an indication she was ready to move things along to the culmination as his signal earlier about the blindfold.

  “Justine, you went really deep tonight.”

  She nodded, cheek rubbing against the expensive fabric of his suit pants.

  “These cases are killing you a little inside.”

  She couldn’t argue, not when the truth of his statement was something she witnessed in her mirror every day. Each of the latest rounds of trafficking busts was worse than the previous ones. The victims a little younger, a little more damaged, and way too often, a little too dead.

  “It had been too long.” Damn. Her admission came out hoarse, rusty as a gate no one bothered to maintain. “It was good.” She took a deep breath and snuggled a little tighter against his leg. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “It’s my honor as always, Justine.” His fingers sank into her hair and gripped, turning her face up so their gazes clashed. “It would please me if you called more often.”

  She schooled her features as the gentle scold lashed like a whip. “My joy is to please, Sir.” Not please him, specifically, although he’d been her first choice of a top when she’d realized where her car was aimed. Leaving the office, she’d turned the opposite way from the route that would take her home, only realizing it a few minutes into the drive. Sometimes the subconscious response is right. She’d sleep well for the few hours remaining tonight and be back in the office tomorrow with a vengeance. Justine gave her shoulders and arms a subtle stretch, arching her neck the slightest amount, the twinges from muscles and ligaments soothing, not painful. “You’re very good at your job.”

  Greg Anderson smiled at her. “I’m good at all my jobs, Justine.”

  She smiled back and straightened, pulling away from his touch in preparation for rising from the floor. Time to get the hell out of Dodge, she thought, and inclined her head in acknowledgment of his words.

  “We both are.”

  Chapter Five

  Wildman, Two Years Later

  “Trust is a thing of beauty.” He stared at the woman lashed to the wall on the opposite side of the room. Not Wildman’s sub; he wasn’t playing tonight, just found himself at the club in an observing role. Something he’d been doing more and more. The woman’s body jolted at the solid smack of a paddle applied to the bottom curve of her ass, the contact hard and stinging enough to send ripples throughout each of her limbs. The Dom pulled back to inspect his work, running a tender touch along the raised red strip of skin.

  “Been a while, Master Lyle.”

  He turned to look at the man seated next to him. “Yes, it has, Master Jonah.” Ruger grinned back at him.

  In the years since joining the IMC, the two men had drifted apart and then back together again, following where the club led. Years of turmoil presaged by the aggressive takeover of their previous club, but both men had agreed it had all been worth it. Forging friendships with good men, then getting to watch as things turned on a dime for them, and then finding themselves in the middle of history-making events—all worth it.

  Ruger’s initiation to the scening world of BDSM had been that long-ago night in the Quarter when Monique had come to the party at Wildman’s invitation. He’d watched avidly from the balcony as Wildman set things up, then—according to his retelling of the event—been mesmerized by the beauty of Monique’s submission. Days and days of questioning had led to a casual invitation to the club, which had, in turn, led to an unexpected deepening of their friendship. Wildman couldn’t have foreseen the benefits of having a close companion to bounce ideas off and talk through the nuance of a planned scene.

  Monique had long since retired from casual play, finding the kind of committed partner she’d longed for, but Wildman still loved to watch her when the couple played publicly. Another loud smack of leather against skin brought his attention back to the bound woman across the room. Monique’s head tipped backwards with a low moan as the heat from the strike flooded through her system.

  “I received a personal invitation.” Wildman shrugged, lifting a bottle of water for a drink before twisting the cap back into place. “Never been one to turn down a chance to be a voyeur.”

  “Why not find a sub and play? There’s four or five I’ve seen who are just waiting for that crooked finger to call them over.” Ruger leaned an elbow on the arm of his chair, angling closer. “I see a pair that enjoy doing twosomes, if you were interested.”

  Shaking his head slowly, Wildman let out a grunt. “Just not feelin’ it tonight, man. Don’t let me be the anchor on your boat, though. Feel free to bob off over the waves and catch yourself a keeper for the evening.” Movement along the edges of his vision pulled his attention, and he stared at the man who’d just walked into the room, crossing the space with purpose in his stride. “Hol-ee shit on turd toast. Don’t act like an idiot lookin’ around, but glance towards the hallway leading to the back rooms. Is that Po’Boy?”

  The response was slow but sure. “Nah, can’t imagine him here. That guy’s too tall or something. I didn’t get a full look at the face, and he wasn’t my sponsor or anything, but I’d recognize Po’Boy anywhere. That ain’t him.”

  Wildman grunted, watched the man’s back as he paused in front of a closed door and lifted a fist. Even such a minor gesture felt familiar, but he didn’t draw Ruger’s attention away from Monique again. She’d just taken another strike and looked to be near orgasm. Her partner opened his pants as he moved behind her, hands gripping the globes of her reddened ass as he pulled back and out, opening her for his cock. Either he’d already sheathed himself in a condom, or their agreement was vastly different than Wildman and Monique’s had been, because the man plunged deep inside her with one thrust.

  By the time he looked back at the hallway, Po’Boy’s doppelgänger had disappeared, and Wildman lifted one shoulder, shrugging away the uncertainty. Quack. It’d been a hot minute since he’d been Po’Boy’s prospect, but some jokes never died.

  “I’m out, brother.” The word slipped so naturally from his lips that it shouldn’t have been jarring, but in this setting, it truly was. Here they were not MC members, but Doms and Masters. His usage of the different kind of title was telling, and Wildman grinned. “Gonna get me some wind therapy.”

  “Enjoy yourself, Master Lyle.” Ruger’s tone was wry, and as Wildman stood, he watched his friend crook the aforementioned finger, calling an unattached sub away from a quietly chattering group. “I have other cravings to tend to.”

  Wildman retrieved his belongings from the desk and quickly located an empty changing room. It was the work of moments to put away his club persona and don the one that fit just as comfortably. Phone in hand, he stared down at the screen, scrolling through the messages that had come through while the device had been locked away. Trouble brewing in Alabama, and Twisted wanted an all-member meeting later tonight. Wildman wavered a moment about retrieving Ruger, then decided the man had time to play. He’d bring his friend up to speed soon enough.

  Once across the causeway and in the clubhouse though, as they settled into places around the room to listen to Twisted’s proclamation of what they’d be doing for the next few days, Wildman did find it interesting Ruger wasn’t the only member missing.

  So was Po’Boy.
r />   ***

  Justine

  Pinching the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger, Justine pressed hard, hoping the wave of intentional pain would offset the growing ache behind her eyes. She released the hold and straightened in her chair, blinking at the reams of paperwork spread out in front of her. Commandeering a conference room with ample space to review the data had been a good call. The room was also windowless, which meant she’d been more focused than if she’d stayed in her own office.

  Frowning, she flipped a paperclipped sheaf of paper to one edge of the table, shuffling through the pages underneath until she found the information she was looking for.

  Over the past year, her office had been inundated with reports of trafficked women and children. Each case proved more disturbing than the last, and each incident was harder to track and document with prosecution in mind. She could disturb the route or the shipment, but finding those responsible had become nearly impossible.

  “At some point I’m going to have to become okay with saving the people, I guess.” Justine blew out a stream of air as she raised her gaze to the man seated across the table from her. “But the department doesn’t care about that. They care about successful case prosecutions. There’s little chance they’ll keep funneling money for the investigations if we can’t produce the big payoff at the end of things.”

  Greg scowled and raked a hand through his hair, then patted it back into place. “My side of things is the same, you know? You’re not the only one facing a decision here.”

  “Did you see this bit of intel?” She nudged a sheet of paper in Greg’s direction, and he leaned forwards, fingers deftly plucking the corner to drag it closer. “I think that’s a solid lead on the next shipment.” She scoffed. “Listen to me. A shipment, as if the cargo were no more worrisome than a container of hijacked electronics or luxury purses. That’s a lead on the next truckful of humans the cartel wants to sell into slavery. These are people, Greg. How can someone do something so heinous to another human being?” Justine pressed her lips into a tight line as she shook her head, swallowing hard against the nausea swelling alongside the disgust she felt. Twelve out of twenty women dead at the last scene. Walking into that container had scarred her deeper than she wanted anyone to see. “I’m always just floored the things the supposedly evolved species on this planet are willing to do for money.”

  “I’d say you’re passionate about your role in stopping these assholes. It can be easy to get lost in the logistics, but you always bring it back to the people. Back to the individuals, and having that reminder is good for anyone working trafficking.” Greg’s hand landed on hers, and she pulled away, back ramrod straight. “Sorry,” he muttered, picking up the paper again. “I see where you’re pulling the idea from that this is a tell for a route.” The sheet fluttered back to the tabletop. “But I don’t see where the info is about the route’s actual route.”

  She flipped the paperclipped sheaf back in front of her, thumbing through half a dozen sheets before she found the one containing the information she’d remembered. Turning it around, she handed it to Greg, top sheets tucked out of the way. Justine watched his face as he read the info, not surprised when his brow furrowed instead of raising in an “ah-ha” moment. This would be a slow slog to lead him into the info as she saw it, but one good thing about Greg was he didn’t discount any theory until it had been beaten into submission.

  She talked, referring to the information drawn from various sources the department had to offer. In-country chatter on known phones were tied to recordings acquired from the cartel members’ home states in Mexico. That intel had then been paired with shipping manifests for containers unloaded in local ports—and as she’d slowly built the case for the route she’d identified, Justine had grown even more convinced this was a solid lead.

  She watched Greg shake his head again, rejecting her argument about the facts that appeared plain as day. Justine sighed in frustration, smoothing a palm down the front of her jacket. We’re equals. Anderson doesn't get to nay-say me on this. With that reminder she opened another folder, bringing out another stack of papers.

  It didn’t matter, though; all the rehashing of the evidence had cemented a plan in her head.

  Now she just needed to figure out how to go about it.

  ***

  Wildman

  “Y’all ready for this?” Wildman scanned the group of men arrayed in front of the clubhouse. Members from half a dozen chapters had arrived as requested, and they’d all listened to Twisted’s narrative on what came next. It was nearly go time, when they would split into three groups and pull out of the lot and onto the highways. Three hours would have them arriving at the destination picked for his group, over closer to Biloxi, where the cartel’s containers had been stowed in the back of an abandoned warehouse. “I asked if y’all were ready for this?” His roared repetition of the question got responses at least, and he grinned at the prospects shouting the loudest. “Y’all aren’t even fuckin’ goin’, man.” Shaking his head, he clapped one of them on the back. “Keep the house safe for us, yeah?”

  “Yes, sir.” Earnest and solemn, the prospect nodded vigorously as he agreed.

  Rumbling of pipes from up the road made Wildman spin away, his hand automatically going to his back, where he kept his piece. He didn’t relax until the riders were close enough to make out faces under helmets, and once he’d recognized the two leaders, he crowed loudly. “Fuck yeah, the gang’s all here. CoBos are in the house.” Whirling, he looked for Twisted and found a broad smile on his president’s face. “Pleased you called ’em in.”

  “I am too.” Twisted tipped his head a tad and grinned, eyes cutting to look at Wildman. “Wouldn’t be a party unless we could throw a little Wrench into it.”

  “Par-tay.” Wildman crowed again, then shoved his fists against his hips and waited.

  Tonight, the Incoherent MC would take on an advance guard of the Mexican cartel that had been trying to horn in on their IMC territory, something locked down and undisputed for decades. This had been planned as a preemptive strike alongside their allies in the Caddo Hobos MC, and one that had every hope of being entirely successful. Tonight, the cartel would relearn the lesson that the IMC and CoBos didn’t give a shit what the motherfuckers wanted and were entirely willing to pay in red if needed.

  His old mentor Po’Boy didn’t disappoint, appearing as if by magic in front of Wildman and pulling him into a hard embrace, fist pounding against his back. “Brother, good to see your fuckin’ face.”

  Tension seeped out of Wildman’s muscles, replaced with a strange sense of relief at Po’Boy’s presence. It still killed that the man had patched out of the IMC a few months ago, and Wildman remained uncomfortable seeing the different colors riding on the man’s back. Po’Boy had been the one constant for Wildman within the Incoherent club from the first moments of the hostile takeover of CEMC, to being the man’s bitch of a prospect, and finally to a developing friendship filled with trust and a solid belief Po’Boy would always have his back. His leaving had opened doors for Wildman to move up within the organization, so shit wasn’t all bad. “Fuck me, why do I miss you, motherfucker?” Wildman pulled back and scowled at the laughter bubbling out of the man’s mouth. “See, I miss you, but then I’m around you again, and all of a sudden I remember why I can’t stand you, and I’m fuckin’ glad you’re gone.”

  Po’Boy’s mouth pulled sideways as he fought a grin. “I love you too, Wild.”

  “Quack fuckin’ quack.” Twisted’s grin was a little wider, his shoulders a little more relaxed, and Wildman realized he wasn’t the only one glad to see Po’Boy’s face. “Glad you could join us, brother.”

  “Ride or die, my friend.” Po’Boy grabbed around Twisted’s shoulders, one fist already pounding the man’s back as he pulled him close. “Always ride or die.” He arched back and surveyed the men scattered in small groups. “We rollin’ soon or standin’ around with sticks up our collective asses?”
>
  “Figured you and Wrench would want to know the score and plan, man.” Twisted stepped away, one hand smoothing down his beard. “Gather ’round, kiddos. Got a tale to tell.” Once every man was within earshot of his position, Twisted lowered his chin and raised his voice to cast across the group. “Cartel’s shipping into our territory, as well as every goddamned port along the coast. We got word yesterday various smaller boats were being deployed, and have friendly eyes on two such boats docked in Eden Isle, just outside of Slidell. More are in Gulfport as well as Biloxi. They’re shipping out in trucks that look legit, branded shit they bought at auction, complete with pizza place logos or cleaning service information. Fuckin’ legit lookin’, but filled to the brim with shit that’s killin’ our people.

  “You all know I’m a man who looks the other way, with every expectation others will do the same. You wanna get fucked up and live in your own goddamned head, that’s your fuckin’ prerogative. Long as you don’t kill someone else in the meantime, I’m down, man. Sellin’ shit, again, long as you don’t kill someone else in the process, knock yourself out.” He shook his head. “They’re bringin’ in this shit knowing full well it’s killing about seventy-five percent of their users. Now, that ain’t good business for them, but when it touches our people, it’s bad business all around. We’ve lost two, a brother from the Biloxi chapter and the oldest kid of a Baton Rouge brother. Club won’t stand for this, and we’re gonna deliver a helluva message today. Stay off our patch of ground. And we’re claimin’ every fuckin’ acre of real estate between here and fuckin’ Ocala if we have to. Every chapter has a role today. Some partnering with other clubs to get shit done. That’s us, just in case you’re wonderin’.”

  Laughter rose, defusing the tension as Twisted no doubt intended. Wildman was always amazed at the man’s eloquence and in awe of the passion with which he spoke. Anyone listening would be crystal fucking clear where he stood and why he was taking these actions. Why Twisted had called the club to arms, knowing it would start a war.