Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Read online

  “Gotta be me, then might as well get to it.” Powell came at him with a heavy, overhand swing, looking to take him down and out. “You’re gonna go.” Ogre swayed backwards, the strike hitting him a glancing blow across the temple and cheek as he took a step to the side to avoid the initial rush. “Gotta go. Gonna be out bad.”

  “What the fuck for?” Ogre danced sideways again, noting how the circle around them expanded, inserting various pieces of furniture into the mix. He grabbed a chair and lifted it in front of him, using it to fend off Powell’s next attack. Powell grabbed the chair leg and yanked, shoving it against Ogre when he wouldn’t let it go. The heavy wood struck his head with a whack. “The fuck you doin’? You gone mad?”

  “Wasn’t mad the night I heard you plotting behind my back.” Powell attempted a leg sweep, but Ogre planted the chair in the way, a meaty thud telling him Powell would be sporting bruises from the hit. Powell snatched the chair away and tossed it at Ogre, lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl. Ogre barely got his arm up to knock the chair behind him. “Plottin’ and schemin’ to take what’s mine.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Without the chair to divert the attacks, it was only moments before they were grappling in the middle of the floor. Ogre took three hard hits to the kidneys, then one to the edge of his jaw, while churning out punishment of his own in two quick jabs against Powell’s head, followed up with a knee to the gut before he broke free. “What’s the real story?”

  “Always in the way. Even as a kid. Daddy always favored you.” Heaving in great panting breaths, Powell shook his head in a short, sharp burst, then lumbered towards Ogre in a laughable rush. He tripped when Ogre skipped to the side, tried to adjust his trajectory, and went down hard, his head smashing against the corner of the bar.

  Stillness settled around them, all talk ending abruptly, Powell’s sudden silence so heavy it nearly took Ogre to the ground.

  “Brother?” Uncaring if it were a ruse, he fell to a sliding stop on his knees next to his brother’s crumpled body. Blood covered Powell’s face, flowing from a gash ripped in his scalp. “Powell, man. Talk to me.”

  More silence. No one spoke. He couldn’t even hear his brother breathe.

  “Call a bus.” Ogre looked up, his gaze flitting from face to face, taking in their uniform looks of shock and fear. “Call a goddamned ambulance for him.”

  He cupped his brother’s face in his hand, startled to see Powell’s eyes were open. The pupils were uneven, one far larger than the other, and he bit back a scream of anger. Fumbling his phone out, he snapped at the man closest. “Bassil, meet the EMTs at the door. I’m callin’ it in now.”

  “We should think about things.”

  Ogre lifted his chin, phone pressed against his ear, and shouted, “I don’t give a fuck what you think. My brother deserves better.”

  The operator connected and gave her expected intro lines, and Ogre gave her the update as best he could, the address he knew by heart, then turned to pleading, “Please, God, get them here fast. He don’t look good at all.”

  Powell never woke up. He died two days later.

  Two days where Ogre didn’t leave the hospital.

  Two days of the police in his face every time he turned a corner.

  Two days of the club coming to terms that they were leaderless. Something they didn’t like for a myriad of reasons, Ogre finding out not the least of those reasons was due to the dominant club in the region pushing for stability. Outriders didn’t like negative attention, and a headless club would wreck the area around them as it writhed and died.

  At the end of day two, FourQ had come to him with the president patch in hand.

  Standing beside his brother’s deathbed, machines silenced and stillness in the room, Ogre turned him away without a word, shoulders hunched against the arguments and pleas.

  He’d gone home, not having been able to connect with his old lady during that time, the cops having confiscated his phone as evidence of something.

  There he’d found the rest of what his brother had planned.

  Assassin in his kitchen, eating the leftovers of the meal Ogre’s wife had cooked for him. The man had been taken off guard after waiting for so long without his target in sight. Ogre hadn’t questioned him, hadn’t taken the time, because taking up all the space in his head was a drumbeat of urgency shouting the question, “Where’s Shelly?”

  Once he’d dealt with the man sent to kill him, Ogre tore through the house, screaming her name.

  He found Shelly dead in their bed. Covers defiled by her blood and more, the run-at-the-max air conditioner no competition for the natural course of things in the Keys, where hot and humid was every day. She was cold and pliable, deep purple along the backs of her legs and arms where the blood had pooled in place.

  His baby dead in her womb.

  Ogre’s calls for help went unanswered. The club, his brothers, unified in their determination to ignore him if he wouldn’t take up their yoke of authority. It was only when he’d shown at the clubhouse, gory and raging, that he got their attention.

  Bassil had known the full story. He was the only one, though, which was small comfort for Ogre.

  Powell had bought a paper on Ogre, had intended him to be beaten out of the club as a traitor, so the loyalty of the members would pass back to Powell upon Ogre’s death. The paper hadn’t included Shelly, but the hired killer hadn’t been known for having a mercy streak.

  It had taken four brothers to pull him off Bassil, leaving the man spittin’ teeth on the floor, his nose a bloody mess.

  That’s when the club had shown its true colors. After everything he’d endured, everything that had gone on, when he picked up a phone to call the cops, the men had ripped it out of his hand. Talking about “for the good of the club” and “brother, you know this ain’t the way.” They’d talked and talked until he’d given in, making his own move to give over a secondhand marker, which ultimately led to a man he’d only heard tales about. President of the Bama Bastards and reportedly owner of an intelligence network second to none. The dom club had made the call, so at least Ogre was kept at arm’s length from any fallout.

  For a price, the man had organized a cleaner for Ogre’s house, care and transport of Shelly to the stretch of woods the club used for disposal, and the materials to put her in the ground with. Ogre would have been willing to pay twice to see her handled with grace and compassion. The Bama Bastards president had come through in unexpected ways, the women he’d hired to wash and prepare her not turning away from the mottled monster she’d become. Ogre’s last view of Shelly was with her hair clean and pulled to the side, lifelike face tinted with tasteful colors, and a serene upturn to the corners of her lips.

  Now, here they were a week out from that day, and he’d wanted just one thing from the club. They might not have stood behind him, might not have helped with the cops, and might not have given him permission to deal with Shelly’s death like he’d wanted—but they were damned sure going to do a memorial ride.

  “If you won’t give her respect, then I got nothin’ for you.” He advanced on FourQ, grabbed the man’s vest lapels, and gave him a forceful shake. “Get the fuck”—he shoved hard, FourQ landing on his ass on the floor—“out of my house.”

  So it was a respectful parade of one who rolled past the woods, engine revving, pipes blatting out his pain. At the next intersection, Ogre rolled to a stop and looked left, then right, then left again. One way was north, and the rest of America. One way was south and the oblivion the ocean promised.

  He glanced down and saw his nameplate. The vest already felt tons lighter, the club patch having been ripped off the back, tossed to the floor of the house without a second thought where FourQ had fallen.

  He grabbed one corner of the nameplate and pulled until the first few threads snapped, then gave it another hard yank without dislodging the fabric. Shelly did a good job with her sewing. His throat closed up, clicking dryly a
s he tried to swallow. Wedging his finger into the space where the threads had broken, he strained, pulling hard, the wind seeping out of him as the patch slowly came free. He held it on one palm, staring at his name as the wind ruffled past it, lifting one corner. Ogre no more. Another gust came after that one, and then another, and a moment later, the patch was airborne, sailing out into the road.

  It had scarcely come to rest in the northbound lane of the highway when he rocked his throttle over, gunning the engine as his back wheel spun free, squealing as it found traction. Then Lyle was gone, headed north and away from the only place he’d ever called home.

  Chapter Two

  French Quarter, New Orleans, Twelve Years Later

  Lyle shook his head in a slow arc, scratching across his chin with the tip of his thumbnail as he studied the man in front of him.

  Jonah Warner was someone he trusted. Ruger, nicknamed for his preferred type of iron, stood as tall as Lyle but twice as broad. Not a man to be trifled with, he was known for being slow to anger but quick to respond when pushed. “Man, you know it ain’t right.”

  Lyle shook his head again, flattening his palm on top of the table they shared. “Ruger, it might not be right, but it ain’t wrong, either.”

  “There’s only so much a man can stand.” Ruger turned and leaned straight-armed and stiff against the railing in front of him. Lyle stepped up next to him and surveyed the scene below. They were on an external balcony on the second floor of a building in the French Quarter. The street in front of them was flooded by the typical weekend mass of tourists milling, drinks in hand. They’d been called to the place earlier in the afternoon by Torment, the president of the Common Enemy, a motorcycle club both had been hanging around, the reason for the call still unclear.

  Sure the club was partying in the room behind them, but that was not much different from the open clubhouse parties they’d attended. If anything, the group had been less welcoming than normal, murmurs of surprise accompanying their arrival.

  Then the girls had shown up. Bought-for-the-night whores from a known cathouse, experienced women for the most part. One girl was obviously new, claiming a barely legal eighteen as her age, but her blushes and shy stammering labeled her more innocent than not. The club president had latched onto that one, and from his persistence, would not be letting go. The girl had been schooled in how to comport herself, not resisting or complaining, even when the man’s hands turned rough underneath her clothing. But her physical flinches of pain were visible, and Ruger wasn’t on board with what was clearly going to happen tonight.

  Shouts of laughter filtered through the closed glass doors behind them, and Lyle turned around in time to see Torment strip the girl’s dress from her body, leaving her standing in a scrap of fabric for panties.

  Ruger snapped upright at Lyle’s groan and whirled around. He’d taken two steps before Lyle stopped him. “She signed up for this.”

  “You cannot tell me she knew what this party would bring.” Ruger’s neck twisted, and he glared at Lyle. “She’s just a fuckin’ kid.”

  “Give me ten minutes. All I ask. I’ll have a distraction here, and you can whisk her away if you want.” Lyle shoved past him and opened the door, looking over his shoulder to return Ruger’s glare. “Ten minutes, brother.”

  Inside the room, he scooped up a jar of the potent moonshine the members had been drinking and lifted it to his nose, suppressing a shiver when the rancid scent hit him. “Torment.” His call was calculated to distract, loud enough to reach the president, not sharp enough to warrant alarm. “Thought I could do a demonstration for y’all.” He shrugged, lifted the jar to his mouth, and pretended to take a drink. Rolling his head back, he shouted towards the ceiling. “Whoa, Jesus. That’s the good shit.” Lyle shook his head as if disoriented, then took another step towards Torment, reseated now with the naked girl on his lap. “Heard you were interested in my…interests, so to speak.” He dug in his pocket and withdrew his phone, wagging it in his fingers. “One call, and you’ll see it all.” Lyle tipped his head to one side and pursed his lips. “Interested, or nah?”

  “Oh yeah, brother.” Torment slipped out from underneath the girl, letting her settle into his seat as he stepped towards Lyle. “I’d be very interested in a little demonstration.” The hunger on the man’s face was vicious and dark. “Been asking for this for a while. What do you need?”

  Lyle made a show of looking up, marking the high ceiling. “Nothin’ special. That’s about twelve feet, wouldn’t you say? Plenty of room for what I need.” He tapped a number on his contact list and put the call on speaker as it rang the second time. The call connected, and he spoke gruffly, tone strict and hard. “Monique, this is Master Lyle.” He rattled off the address, conveniently close to his sometime playmate’s apartment. “I expect you prepared and here in five minutes. You and I will be providing the entertainment for the night.”

  Smooth as silk, she responded, “Yes, Sir.”

  Lyle disconnected and locked gazes with Torment. “I gotta get something from my bike.”

  “Of course.” Waving his hand magnanimously, the president granted permission. Behind him, Ruger had maneuvered the girl out of the chair, retrieved her dress, and was already walking her through a door on the far side of the room. Torment had heard the door closing and whirled around, a slow rage beginning to roll off him as he realized what had happened. Do I really want to be part of what this guy stands for? He wasn’t patched, not yet, but if he didn’t change trajectories, Lyle knew he’d become part of the club in days, not months.

  Lyle left the shouting man behind and made his way downstairs. He grabbed his small bag from where it was strapped on his bike, then waited in the doorway. Monique strode up soon after he’d taken up his position. He watched her from half a block away, her hips swaying as she stalked the sidewalk in her heels. A camel-colored coat was wrapped around her torso, tightly covered from throat to knees, regardless of the heat of the New Orleans evening. That’s promising.

  Monique stopped in front of him, chin to her chest as she threaded her fingers together behind her back. Her posture was impeccable: shoulders back, breasts lifted, the language of her stance spoke of a confident submissive. Open, ready, and patient. Waiting.

  He reached for her and drifted the back of a single finger along one cheek, smiling as she subtly leaned into the touch. “Monique, you’ll use the stoplight system tonight. But you know me well enough I hope you’ll trust me to push you as far as I think you can go. These men who will be observing will not touch you. From the moment we walk through that door, until I say the scene is over, you’re mine.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Her breathing was shaky and shallow. From the flush in her cheeks, he read it as excitement, not fear. Her tongue darted out, slipping across her bottom lip. Oh, yeah, she gonna be all the way into it.

  As long as he could remember, he’d enjoyed having total control over his sexual partners. Since Florida. That was a thought he couldn’t afford tonight, and he cast it out. Shelly had fulfilled the emotional portion of what he’d seen as a perfect relationship. She might not have wanted his natural, untrained dominance, something he’d had to tone back for her, but he’d been deeply bonded to her. Long ago and far away.

  Lyle had been in the scene since one of his more memorable attempts at forgetting had resulted in being introduced to the broad world of BDSM. It was at that moment Lyle had found his casual interest in that all-important control had bloomed into an exploration of pleasure and pain, paired with tenderness. Safe, sane, and consensual was the backbone of what he enjoyed and the tenet of various clubs he’d frequented. That was how he’d first encountered Monique, scening at an exclusive club in New Orleans.

  Pleasure was a major factor for Lyle. He liked pleasure for himself, but even more, he liked turning on his partners, and as a chaser, also had a deep enjoyment of denying them when it suited his mood. All part of the lifestyle’s control aspect he found so appealing. Part of what Monique e
njoyed was impact play, which was what they’d be demonstrating tonight. Lyle had already intended to go to the club after the party, and the bag he’d retrieved held everything he needed to put on the scene Torment would be expecting.

  As he continued to caress Monique’s cheek, then trailed his touch down her throat to the collar of her coat, he tracked her emotional state. She settled, steadying underneath his hand, until she blew out a long, deep stream of air, releasing the last of her nervousness.

  “I plan on fucking you.” From the sound she made in her throat, he knew Monique was on board with the idea. “And beyond that, I have a couple of surprises for you, but my intent is to make you fly, sub. Do you want to fly tonight?”

  “Ye—” Monique’s mouth dropped open, forming a perfect “O” of arousal. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Remind me of our agreement.” He knew her desires by heart, but giving her a direct order to voice them would empower her while also framing her expectations for the scene.

  “Impact play with intimate contact, Sir. Restraints permitted if it pleases Sir.”

  “And the rest?” There was a longer list of desires, but she’d previously also communicated a group of hard limits. He wanted to know for certain there’d been no shifts in her boundaries. No surprises for the Dom, darlin’.

  “No breath play, no fisting or double penetration, no humiliation, no incest role play, and no bodily fluid exchange.” Underneath his thumb, her heartbeat still pounded away, even as her shoulders relaxed and lowered. “Sir.” The simple statement of the rules affirmed not only that she was in control of her emotions but also that they were about to do a scene that would turn her on. Turn them both on, something he’d do his best to minimize on his side of the line so he could stay alert to potential threats in the room. And the fact I gotta do this shit with a group of men I’m considering patchin’ with says a lot about the quality of my friends. Ruger excluded.