Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Read online

  “Oh, bitch, you think you can heavy-hand me into regretting blockin’ your ass? Ain’t gonna work. I’ve shredded better bitches than you, because you’re in a fuckin’ phase and lookin’ to walk on the wild side for maybe the first time in your life, and my man don’t got time for something that’s gonna fuck up his head.” Laughter rang through the line, hard and angry. “He ain’t never gonna know about this convo, just so you understand where I’m comin’ from.”

  The call disconnected, and she stared down at the silent device in her hand. Shit.

  If his president didn’t want her in Wildman’s life, Justine knew she had zero chance at anything, much less seeing where this consuming desire could take them.

  Then the phone vibrated, and she looked to see a video call was incoming.

  With a heavy breath, she accepted, shocked to see two men on the call. Twisted and Retro.

  This could be good. Licking her lips, she nodded at the camera. Or not, but I won’t know if I don’t ask. “I thought you were done talking to me, Twisted?”

  Twisted made a rude sound far back in his throat. “Retro, you’re an asshole.” He adjusted so he faced the camera directly. “Now that we’ve an impartial audience, woman, tell me what the fuck you think you want to talk to Wild about?”

  His question wasn’t unkind. No, the inquiry was entirely reasonable and one she’d prepared for. But right now, with a cold phone held tightly in both hands, tiny screen able to give her his irritation and little else, Justine couldn’t feed Twisted the answer she’d rehearsed. It was true, by the plainest definition of the word, but telling this man she wanted to thank Wildman was like saying she wanted the barest of sips when everything inside her wanted to upend the hose and bathe in the water.

  She made a split-second decision, going with what felt right.

  “I need him to know what he got from me was real. Wasn’t the job, wasn’t relief, wasn’t misplaced gratitude for a rescue. I’d like to tell him he matters. A chance to connect without shit raining down from the sky around us. I need to make him understand that he matters to me.”

  Silence on the line for the longest time matched the seemingly frozen video, and she waited, breaths coming shallow as her lungs seized up from the terror that held her in its grip. Never had she wanted anything this badly.

  In a direct change from his previous tone, responding in a voice gone soft and soothing, Twisted showed that he understood what she felt was at risk. “You got the time to put it on the line like that, I’ll make it happen.” He lifted his chin, gaze boring directly into the camera. “Shit’s always swirling nearby, and your job makes it even chancier for him to reach across such a divide. You gonna have his back when Uncle Sam calls you to task? You ready for this, gal?”

  “You know who I am?” He made a sound she took for a yes, and she laughed without amusement, knowing the sound was far from pleasant. “Then trust me when I say I was born ready.”

  “Then you’ve got six days to prepare. Be at the Hammond clubhouse, seven o’clock on the dot. You’re late, you get a locked fuckin’ door, no matter how hard you pound against that bitch. Be there, or—” Twisted shrugged. “Not. Don’t matter to me.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “If we could be done now?” Retro’s drawl broke the tension, and Justine flashed a smile she didn’t feel. “Shut-eye is my friend right now, so I’ll be obliged if neither of you called me again until sometime after noon, give or take a fast minute.”

  “Fuck you.” Twisted thrust a hand towards the camera, the back of his middle finger filling his screen. Then it went black, and Retro’s window shifted to take up the space.

  “You got what you wanted, Justine.” Top of his head tipping to the side, Retro let her see the concern in his expression. “Hope it shakes out how you want it in the end.” Without a goodbye, Retro disconnected, and she was left staring at the blank screen of her phone.

  “Me too, Retro.” She shook her head, placing the phone back on the nightstand as she eased back underneath the covers. “Me too.”

  ***

  Justine

  Seated in her car, she stared at the building in front of her. The wide windows gave her a glimpse into the world the home’s residents occupied, made to look like any living room in an effort to help keep them engaged and calm.

  Her mother was particularly attached to a low armchair near the window, and Justine could make out a figure seated there now. With a hard push of air outwards, she opened the car door and stepped out, stretching her back until ligaments popped in a satisfying way.

  Most of the bruises had faded in the time since she’d been with Wildman. All of the ones he’d inflicted were gone, and she’d mourned each of his marks as they disappeared. The only major bruising was along one flank, remnants from a fall during a coerced fight with one of the cartel guards.

  Is it too much to hope he’ll want to do that again?

  It was time to focus, and she pushed the thoughts away, walking towards the building. Justine held the fob attached to her keys next to a reader beside the door, pulling on the handle when the locking mechanism clicked.

  The home had great security for the residents, and Justine had long come to a sense of thankfulness that her father had cared for his women enough to create this oasis for them. She was under no illusions it had been selfless, because she wasn’t an idiot. But he could have easily killed them instead, and sinking so much money into creating a facility like this redeemed his motives in her mind.

  Turning to the window, she smiled when her mother’s gaze was already locked on her, awareness in the pleased expression on her face. It didn’t happen often, so Justine took it as a blessing when it did.

  “Mom, how are you?” Bending close, Justine brushed a kiss across her mom’s cheek, smiling when she received one in return. “Lookin’ good, lady.”

  “I’m feeling good today, sweetheart.”

  Pulling back, Justine stared into Lori LaPorte’s face, taking in the beauty and grace her mother had always embodied. One thing Daddy always liked was pretty women. “That’s awesome. Do you have time for a chat?”

  “Oh, honey, I don’t know.” Her mom pulled a face, then laughed. “I’ve got a hot date with a Parcheesi board later, but I could squeeze you in now.”

  That set the tone for much of the afternoon, their easy banter frequently interrupted by laughter as the minutes ticked past.

  “Now that you’re comfortable.” Her mom circled Justine’s waist with an arm and pulled her sideways. Justine leaned her head against her mom’s shoulder and breathed in her scent. The same perfume as always—a light vanilla and citrus. The smell of safety and love. “Tell me what’s goin’ on, baby girl.”

  Justine contemplated lying for half a second, until her mother’s fingers and thumb found her side in a hard pinch. “Oww, stop it. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m here, baby girl.” The arm around her waist tightened briefly, then relaxed.

  “I met someone.” Her mother hummed far back in her throat but didn’t speak. “Oh, Momma, he’s perfect for me. Kind and giving, protective, and so much of what’s him matches what’s me, you know?”

  “So what’s the problem? Because sure as I’m sitting here, there’s a problem, or you wouldn’t have hesitation in your voice.”

  “He’s in the life.”

  “So?” Her mother’s instant response surprised Justine, and she pulled away to look into her face. “Don’t pull that with me, baby girl. What does it matter if he’s in the life?”

  “You always told me you didn’t want that for me.” Justine shook her head. “Hell, I’m not sure I want that for me.”

  “Mouth, pretty girl.” Her mom’s gaze tracked across Justine’s face, brows pulling slightly together. “What does it matter?” she asked again, with a deepening of her frown. “In the life, not in the life, it doesn’t. All that matters is if he’s a good man. Is he?”

  “He is.” Firming her quive
ring lips, she tried to give her words as much oomph as possible, needing her mom to understand. “So good, Momma. Good to me.”

  “Then why aren’t you with him?” Her mom leaned sideways in the chair, putting more distance between them. “Why are you here chatting up an old woman when you could be building something with him?”

  “He’s in Louisiana.” Blinking tears away, she laid her hand on top of her mother’s, pleased when her mom’s wrist rotated, strong fingers clasping to hers. “And I’m here.”

  “That’s easily remedied, baby girl. If you want this with him, then you’ll have to bend. Lord knows I bent with your father, time and again.” Fingers gave her hand a strong squeeze. “And I don’t regret a single minute. I love him.”

  Justine wavered but decided to ignore the fact her mother spoke in present tense. “I know you do, Momma. He’s easy to love.”

  “No, baby girl, he is not.” Her mom’s laughter was surprising, and Justine leaned closer. “Doubt there’s ever been a man harder to love. With everything that happened, it would be easier for me to hate him.” Her mom’s gaze swept the room, landing on the face of her best friend: Crystal Dawn Dixon, Mason’s mother. “But he brought me so much beauty. Would go out of his way to find it for me and place it in my hands. Like you, my baby girl. Out of everything, there’s nothing I’d change.”

  “I love you, Momma.” Justine smiled when her mother’s other hand cupped her jaw, holding her gaze.

  “And I love you too, baby girl.” Her mom patted her cheek, hard enough to sting. With a grin, she soothed the flesh with a brush of her fingertips. “Now get your head out of your ass and go find and claim your man.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wildman

  A herd of kids ran past him headed towards the kitchen, and Wildman gave a hip twist to avoid running smack-dab into at least two of the little cretins. Multicolored lights were strung off every available surface, and a Halloween-themed decorated tree stood in the farthest corner, donated presents already piled high underneath. Even if out of season, the effect was blindingly festive, something he would normally enjoy.

  Today was the club’s annual friends and family fundraiser blowout, and the excitement of being allowed inside the clubhouse still hadn’t worn off the smallest IMC family members. “Fuckin’ kids.” He chuckled, not upset in the least to have the clubhouse full of the next generation of IMC. Sure, theirs was a club that had grown by absorbing members—including him—from organizations they’d taken over, but the core of their club was second and, in some cases, third generation, with patches handed down through families.

  I didn’t do so bad for myself. After being dealt a shitty hand so many years ago, he’d managed to find a good home, finally. He untucked a beer from under his arm and offered it to Twisted, handing a second to Po’Boy and finally popping the top on his own. They looked at each other and laughed softly, musical tones low, Po’Boy smirking a little. Wildman shook his head with a grin and gave his expected addition to their conversation, as they knew he would, this tradition having been in play for a while now. “Quack, quack.”

  “Heard me a tale,” Po’Boy said, after he’d taken a long drink and leaned back in his chair. His gaze was trained on an IMC member by the bar, watching the man blow a stream of sweet smoke towards the ceiling.

  “Do tell. What story is that?” Wildman asked as he reclaimed his seat, shooing Wrench’s feet off it. The new CoBos president was an honored guest, seeing as he was not only a favored friend of Twisted’s old lady, Penny, but was also in a poly relationship with Po’Boy. So many fuckin’ changes. Not all bad. He scowled at the man when he threatened to put his feet in Wildman’s lap, holding the expression even when Wrench broke up laughing. Not all good, either. “Fucker.”

  “Man, you were right. He’s in a piss-poor mood.” Wrench shook his finger at Wildman. “You need to get you a better attitude goin’, man. It’s a par-tay. Prezzies for the kiddies come Christmas.”

  “Yup,” he drawled, tipping up the can for a drink. If they knew just how bad his attitude was, they’d have chased him out of the house before now. He forced a smile as the herd of kids ran past again.

  It had been a long set of days since he’d ridden away from a run-down shack on the edge of a bayou outside of Sun. Well beyond the IMC normal haunts, the old meth cook house was hidden in CoBos territory, and it was only due to Po’Boy’s history with informants in the region they’d known of it at all.

  They’d ridden out arrow true to where Po’Boy had said she’d be, unexpected hostage to an old IMC war with a drug dealer and manufacturer, pure bad luck she’d been the one taken. Ten men had peeled off the column to deal with the lookout, the rest of them riding straight to the cook shack. Seeing the man in the window had curdled his stomach, but when Justine appeared like a ghost behind that fucker, his blood had run like ice. By the time the man went down—and it was only later he’d learned how she’d done it, proud as fuck of her taking her own out on the asshole—Wildman had been crouched beside her, finally believing in luck. The relief at holding her and knowing she was safe had been bolstered by the understanding that she was strong and wily, and far too smart for her own good.

  Too good for the likes of me.

  Then had come the moment he had known was coming at the end of the ride. They’d talked about it, talked it to death, and the outcome was set in stone before they rolled off the IMC lot.

  Get there, deal with whatever threats there were, ensure her well-being, provide her a method of rescue, and leave.

  The herd was back, kids chattering loudly and clattering up and down the stairs. It was so noisy in the room he could see Po’Boy’s lips move but couldn’t make out the words. Wildman leaned close and shouted, “What?”

  “Turn around.”

  ***

  Justine

  For the second time in her life, Justine stood in the middle of the IMC clubhouse main room. This time it was with cold, clammy hands clasped at her waist, nervously waiting for Wildman to turn and look at her.

  Her debriefing had taken so much longer than it should have, but she’d understood. The last her staff had known, she’d been investigating the disappearance of two women in the panhandle of Florida in conjunction with reports of increased activity by a Mexican drug family. Only after Mason had alerted Anderson had she become one of the missing—car left parked in her own garage, identification and service weapon still in the bedside safe at her home in Adken. When she’d called for rescue, hundreds of miles away from home, not only had she been beaten badly, she’d borne Wildman’s marks on her body, too.

  “Ma’am, we need to catalog your injuries.” The little duty nurse gulped at Justine’s glare, the clipboard in her hands trembling enough to set the single sheet of paper fluttering, outline of a female body moving as if alive. “It’s SOP, ma’am.”

  Justine nodded, cleared her throat, and stepped to the center of the sheet spread across the floor. “I wasn’t raped. I’ll identify the bruises caused by the kidnappers.” The nurse made a sound, crouched near Justine’s feet, looking up at her body. “Just point to something.” She did, indicating an overlapping set of teeth marks high on the inside of Justine’s thigh. “Consensual. Next.” The girl shifted to the side and indicated a deep bruise along her hip, dark purple and red, sore, and still hot, days after being inflicted. “Bad guys.”

  Through the hours of questions—filled with curious sideways glances, all their whispered behind-the-hand conversations hovering over the charts and folders spread out on desks, information she wasn’t allowed to see, not until she’d been cleared in Anderson’s mind—all she could think about was Wildman. She knew the surface information, such as his government name, but that wasn’t who he was. That man had been fed to the flame of anger and betrayal years ago, and Wildman was who had risen like a phoenix from the ashes.

  She also hadn’t been able to escape him, even in her dreams, and Justine shivered at the memories, glancing around
the room again. It wouldn’t do to get caught up in her own mind here, not now, surrounded by so many strangers.

  I’m still convinced it was better to do it this way.

  Except this moment, this spectacle, wasn’t what she’d expected.

  Justine’s eyes cut side to side, and she worked hard to suppress a snort of amusement.

  About the furthest thing from private she could imagine was this clubhouse during a massive fundraising party. And with Twisted’s reputation for being a canny plotter, she suspected everything about the move was purposeful. He’d played first cool and eventually supportive on their video call, while completely playing her in the process.

  Wildman’s shoulders heaved with each heavy breath, visible tension running through his muscles. He shook his head once, then leaned forwards towards the man with the wild blond hair, and the vibration of whatever he’d said rumbled through the air.

  Then Wildman turned, and she was lost.

  His hot gaze ran down and then up her body, finally landing and staying on her face, and she offered him a trembling smile as she covered the small distance between them.

  Any bravado that had bolstered her through those intervening days had fled the moment she drove onto the lot with her car and saw the hundred or more motorcycles parked in orderly rows. Fear had taken its place as she had been ushered inside, hard stares turned her way, the murmurs of “Fed” and “Rebels” and the hated “Justice Morgan” following every step. Now, as she finally stood in front of Wildman, the controlled lack of expression on his face drove out fear and ushered in despair.

  Her being here was not something he wanted. I didn’t listen. She should have. But, even with three men she trusted and respected telling her the plan was a bad one, she’d persisted, and now she’d somehow wrecked any chance she could have had at what he’d offered.

  God.

  Blasted to pieces any chances to be with him. Again, for a moment or a lifetime.

  Just… gone.