Tarnished Lies and Dead Ends Page 4

  “Anything?” Wildman gave Po’Boy his back, turning his attention to Catfish. “If not, I’m gonna cut him now.”

  “Go for it, brother.” Catfish dropped a knee on the man’s thigh, taking control of his arm from the prospect. “Got him, Mark. Go stand near Randy, man. Good job.”

  “Patch or vest.” Wildman stepped closer, the tang of the knife pinched between thumb and finger. “Fuck it, vest.” He snipped through the leather laces holding the sides of the vest together and wrapped a hand in the leather collar. Giving a yank, he ignored the yell of pain from the man who’d stepped far outside of his role today, retrieving the club’s property. “Drag him out. He don’t need to be in here for this.” He gestured at two prospects still nearby, ones he hadn’t gotten to know yet, not even their names. “Take out the trash, pros.” Standing, he shook the vest once, then folded it carefully. It might not have a center on it, but it didn’t matter. It represented the club. “Prospects, all head outside.”

  “My job, man. Give it over and let me tell them what’s next, yeah?” Twisted stepped close and held out his hand. As he waited through Wildman’s hesitation to hand over the vest, the man called out orders. “Prospects outside, far edge of the driveway. Do not let my men catch you tryin’ to fuckin’ overhear shit.” As Po’Boy had, Twisted flicked his fingers against his palm, and Wildman set the folded black leather in his grip. “Any member who did not thumb-up, and I fuckin’ marked you, trust me, leave your vest on the bar. Po’Boy, wanna count we have eleven after they’re done?” Footsteps from behind Wildman told him Po’Boy was on the move. “After you drop off the vest, you are fuckin’ dismissed. Free to leave.” Twisted walked away from Wildman, confidence in his swagger. “And I recommend you get the fuck outta here fast-like.”

  Men throughout the room moved, walking towards where Po’Boy stood next to the bar. Twisted laid the vest he held on the surface and patted it once. Po’Boy slid it closer to himself and counted down, much as he had through the seconds the men had been allowed time to choose. “Twelve, because I keep good records. Eleven, ten, nine. No, fuckmonkey, you don’t get to just leave the goddamned patches. Boss said vest, you leave the fuckin’ vest. You ain’t gonna patch in anywhere, don’t need no raggedy cut-ass vest on your back ridin’ around here. There now. Ain’t that better? Eight, and I’m waitin’. Eight needs another to get to—there we go, good man, drop it and leave, you had your little bitty boy say. Seven, don’t matter anyway, you’re fuckin’ out, and six.” Wildman made his way to the edge of the room, putting his back to the wall as he watched the dismantling of the club. “Five, four, three and two, and here’s the final one, don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya, one. All in, Twisted.”

  “Movin’ on.” Twisted waited for the door to close behind the last ex-member, then whirled, arm extended as he pointed in rapid succession at Wildman and those nearest to where he stood. “You, you, you, both of you, guy with the head—”

  “Twisted,” Po’Boy interrupted, “they all got heads.”

  “Bald head,” Twisted said with heavy emphasis. “Jesus, the shit I put up with.” The mutter accompanied an eye roll. “And you.” He waggled his fingers. “Go stand near Po’Boy.” Wildman hoofed it quickly, not wanting to make the man say his instructions a second time. “Yea, man, put a hustle on it. I like to see that shit. Take fuckin’ notes, Po’Boy. You’re the one told his prospect to whack him over the head, and he’s still gonna put his hat in the ring to join Incoherent. Well fuckin’ done.”

  “Prez.” Po’Boy coughed, then sniffed delicately as he grimaced. “Maybe we should take this outside.”

  “The fuck why?” Twisted shook his head. “Everyone not standin’ by Po’Boy as of right now, you’re out. Leave your vest, and if you don’t want to do that, trust me, Po’Boy will be happy to deliver your beatout. Oh, I got an idea. We should let—” Twisted’s head turned sharply. “What the hell?” He coughed. “The fuck is that?” He sniffed, less delicately than Po’Boy had. “Oh, Jesus. Outside, for fuck’s sake, outside.”

  About then, the smell hit Wildman and he choked back a gag.

  “Your ex-president shat himself. That seems incredibly appropriate, doncha think, Wild?” Po’Boy flung an arm around his neck and steered Wildman towards the door. “Leave him. Do not fuckin’ move him” was called back over his shoulder. “My guys, and that means every one of you motherfuckers Twisted sent my way, follow me and my new friend here.” He patted Wild’s chest with his free hand, then shoved the door wide. “Fresh air, praise Jesus. That was incredibly rank. I’d venture a guess the man had digestive issues before he became all asshole, but this surely showed his true colors for ya. Shat all over himself and the club, the clubhouse, members, every fuckin’ thing. Damn. What in hell have you been feedin’ that man?”

  Wildman straightened his shoulders, angling to the side and out from under Po’Boy’s arm. He still held the open knife in his fist, taking care to keep the blade away from this man who seemed to have taken—a liking didn’t seem the right word, an interest might be the better explanation—whatever it was, Po’Boy was sticking to him like a sandbur.

  “What’s next?” Wildman angled his head to indicate the pocketknife. “You takin’ our vests, too?” The idea swelled inside him like a sickness. Some of the patches on his vest had been sewn into place by long-lost hands, and he wasn’t ready to give any of that up yet. Probably won’t ever. If they asked for the vest, he’d cut the colors of the dead club off and walk. There’s plenty more states than Louisiana. I’ve picked up and drifted before. I can do it again.

  Po’Boy studied his face, then gave a fluid shrug as he angled his chin towards where Twisted stood apart from them, talking to the group he hadn’t singled out inside. “Up to the man. I’m just the muscle.” Po’Boy flexed an arm, biceps pumped and ready, veins in his forearm bulging. “I learned a long time ago I’m better served by following than leading.”

  “Could say that about ninety-nine percent of us.” Wildman studied the external façade of the clubhouse. “How’d we not see this comin’?” The clapboards were faded and checkered with peeling paint. Each broken or fractured windowpane was boarded from inside, giving the house a jack-o’-lantern look. “Roofline’s saggin’, means support is entirely gone. It ain’t that it’s not pretty on the outside, but if we were to dig into shit underneath, guarantee we find ants and termites boring through the pillars and posts.” The roar of motorcycles made him look over his shoulder to watch as the rest of the men he’d fought for and tried to call brother threw a leg over their bikes and rode off with naked backs. Twisted’s arms were loaded with vests grabbed from the top of the bar. He’d handled them respectfully, and it took Wildman a minute to realize the actions meant something to him, and how he reflected on this man who might become his president. “That shit’s hard to see.”

  “I didn’t have to do a single beatout either.” Po’Boy stepped up beside Wildman and shrugged. “Bummer. I was all set to go two-one-two on a dude.” He postured, miming swinging at an invisible foe, jabs and haymakers slicing harmlessly through the air. “Oh well, day’s not over yet.” He ducked his head and gave Wildman a knowing grin. “Might still get my chance.”

  “Common Enemy is dead.” Wildman shrugged out of his vest and flipped it around in his hands until he could angle the blade against the threads holding the center patch in place. “Gonna get a head start on this shit.”

  “You do that, brother,” Twisted called from the end of the line of men. He’d walked to where Catfish stood next to Ruger. “I want you, these two”—he tipped his head at the men, then clapped a hand on Mosser’s shoulder—“and this one with us in Hammond.” Lifting his chin, he called to a man who stood near their bikes. “Busk, you and Pony take the rest of them to our house here in Baton Rouge. Get them all settled in, yeah?”

  “Patches, Prez?” Po’Boy stood shoulder to shoulder next to Wildman, appearing ready to do battle on his behalf.


  “Yeah, yeah, get all the colors. We’ll put them in a pyre with the vests we confiscated.” Twisted looked around and seemed to find what he needed. “Prospects, you want to do hangaround time, you petition the Baton Rouge house. Trust me when I say you do not want to go anywhere else. Year and a day, same as our probate period. Year and a day and you can approach a different club.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the clubhouse. “Anyone still gonna stay in there or y’all vacating? Trailer is still open, but I’m thinkin’ we don’t want to let Torment ripen much beyond today. Fuck thirty days, we’ll torch the motherfucker tomorrow.”

  The prospects had shuffled together, their civilian clothes making them stand out even more than they had before. One by one, they angled away, heading to their cheap rice burner bikes or cages, and within only a couple of minutes, all that was left in the clearing were IMC members and the men busy removing patches from their vests.

  “It’s not all bad, Wild.” Po’Boy’s hand slapped directly between Wildman’s shoulder blades, his thin shirt doing nothing to relieve the sting from the hit. He jerked his head around to scowl at Po’Boy, who had that damned infectious grin plastered across his face.

  “Why isn’t it all bad?” He finished the bottom rocker and closed the knife, slipping it back into his pocket. With the way his head throbbed, the oppressive heat was boiling him alive, and he just wanted to get out of the sun somewhere. “Tell me what’s good about today.”

  “You got to meet me.” Po’Boy accepted the patches, not giving them a second glance. “No, seriously, you found out you were gonna be fucked over by someone, had them dealt with so you didn’t have to, and are in a prime position to join a well-respected club. We’re the doms in the area, and no one ever dares forget that fact.”

  “Yeah, join as a nonvoting member.” Wildman shrugged. “Guess it could be worse.”

  “Oh, my bad. Did you think you could join Mother without a probie period? Naw, man.” Po’Boy shook his head, laughter glinting in his hard eyes. “You’re my bitch for the foreseeable future, you feel me?”

  He held out a hand, and Wildman accepted the fabric Po’Boy offered him. He smoothed it across his palm, stomach rolling as he realized what Po’Boy meant. A wide straight bar meant to go across a man’s shoulders, giving no room to hide the fact he’d be in a far lesser position than the lowest member of any club.

  “I’m a fucking prospect?” He glanced up, then around the clearing, seeing Catfish, Mosser, and Ruger held the same patches. Anger simmered through his veins at the joke these men had played on them. And we thought we were the cream of the crop. Fuck. He decided to push, see if there was any wiggle room out of this mess IMC had trapped them in. “We’re bounced back to the lowest of the low? How is this not worse, Po’Boy?”

  “Because you’re my fuckin’ prospect.” Po’Boy threw his head back and crowed, flapping his elbows like chicken wings. “Gonna teach you all the right moves. Show me what you got. Hands like beaks.” The man hummed loudly, the song unmusical but also unmistakable. “Flap your wings, and now shake your tail feathers.” Wildman stood stock-still and stared at him. “Come on, probie. Dance with your goddamned sponsor.”

  “Fuck my life.”

  Chapter Four

  Justine, Adken, Florida

  “No, Mr. Yawas, that was not a rhetorical question.” Justine LaPorte narrowed her eyes, pinning her subject to the chair. “It was an actual inquiry that deserves careful deliberation and a considered response. Something I find myself wondering if you’ll be able to achieve given your current attitude.” Head pounding, she refused to allow anything other than disdain to show in her expression. In negotiations like this, admitting discomfort or even any emotion could prove to be a death knell for a continued productive conversation. Been doing this job a long damn time. She denied herself a glance at the clock, trusting her gut, which told her they’d reached the four-hour mark a while ago. Maybe too long. “Which means—” She casually gathered up the papers and images in front of her, tucked them inside a yellow-edged folder, and straightened the corners until things lined up exactly. “You need some time to think.”

  She stood and thudded her fist against the solid metal door, ignoring Yawas’ sputtering behind her. They’ve got to know I won’t back down. He spit out a name, and she nearly paused, but when he didn’t follow with anything else, she held firm and, once the door was opened, stalked through it, listening to the clunk as it set back into place.

  Greg Anderson stared at her as she entered the observation room, his sharp gaze missing nothing. She hated him sometimes. Her counterpart on the anti-trafficking task force wielded the same authority as Justine, but his tactics couldn’t have been more different. Where Justine evoked cautious respect from her colleagues, Greg Anderson left behind the stench of fear, perhaps especially when it was unnecessary.

  “Yawas is a dead end.” Anderson shoved a handful of folders into a box, careless with what amounted to hundreds of hours of labor to piece together the things they knew so far. Justine shook her head, carefully stacking the folders on her side of the table into color-coded columns she then tucked into one legal-sized box. “You knew it when you walked in there. Pretty sure you didn’t have to make me wait out here half a day before you cut him loose.”

  “I didn’t cut him loose.” Justine gestured to the screens, showing Yawas still cuffed and chained to the table. “He’s being detained another seventy-two hours on obstruction charges. I’ll be back here day after tomorrow, giving him forty-eight before I peck away at his battle armor again.” She shrugged. “He knows what I need. The only challenge will be if I can extract it before the window closes on when the information can be used.” She fit the lid of the box into place and draped her jacket across it, hooking her computer bag and purse strap over her shoulder. “I’m going home for now. You can either show back up tomorrow for a rehearsal of the next talk with Yawas, or I’ll know you aren’t interested in this takedown.”

  Without waiting for Greg to finish spitting out whatever complaint he’d been storing up, she opened the door, held it with one heel as she lifted the box, and pivoted through the opening. She used the subterranean tunnel connecting the justice center with the jail and made her way to her office at the back of the building. The small window set in the outside wall was triple-paned detonation-proof glass, which distorted everything, but it afforded her a view of the nearby forest instead of concrete and glass.

  Dumping the box along the wall, she toed open the bottom drawer of the desk and deposited the computer bag inside. That same toe tapped the drawer shut, and a slide of her finger locked the desk. She picked up the jacket, swished it through the air with a flourish, and slipped her arms through the fabric. A tug of the collar, and she grabbed her purse, ready to head out the door and to her home as advertised.

  Where she’d go later was a different beast altogether.

  ***

  Eyes safely closed behind the satin blindfold, Justine let her focus drift. The effortless way her body took in each breath was mesmerizing, how the muscles of her chest and back worked in seamless coordination. She listened to the rushing sounds within her own head, the quiet symphony of blood pounding and air cascading through her nostrils, drowning out any external distractions. Heat bloomed across her upper back, traveling side to side along her skin, then encircling her throat as it moved up to her face.

  A tap against the side of her head was a well-known signal, one ingrained enough to pull her from the soothing quiet. Justine lifted her chin in response and clenched her lids closed tightly as the blindfold slipped free of her head, care taken so the ribbons didn’t tangle in her hair.

  “You are doing very well.” The smooth praise reached her ears as fingers pinched her chin hard, yanking her forwards. She kept her balance with effort, remaining in the awkward position the hand had placed her—bent at the waist, chin lifted so the skin of her throat stretched taut. With her wrists and forearms bound together behind her back, Justine�
��s muscles protested the new pose. “I’m proud of you.”

  She consciously smoothed her features, brows retreating to their normal neutral place, mouth closed as best she could, with the corners tipped up in a slightly positive expression. As blank and open as she could be. The hand reappeared at her chin, this time the grip gentle instead of brutal, and Justine had to fight to keep the dispassionate expression in place. Cold leather settled between her legs, and she rose a little, more an instinctive flexing of her thigh muscles than an intentional creating of space. The shoe-covered foot swept side to side, nudging her knees wider than before. She lost the sense of ease the steady focus on her breathing had provided, instead paying brief flurries of attention to all the places her body hurt. Knees, the outside of each thigh, her hips as they pivoted into a new position, shoulders from being held immobile for this length of time—however long that was. She stilled the instinct to shake the idea from her head, shoving it aside as she tried to find the place of gentle peace again.

  Fingers danced the length of her arms, each miniscule easing of the bindings an unwelcome reminder that the serenity she’d found was ever fleeting. Tiny tugs at the end of each finger presaged the slow degloving that left her skin bare to the air, goose bumps chasing the worn leather. Her hands and wrists were chafed in turn, each arm carefully returned to a more natural position along her sides as the massaging touch moved to her shoulders. Weight landed on her upper back and neck, realigning her torso with the floor, easing the pressure on her hips. The harness holding the ball gag loosened, fingers teasing around her mouth to retrieve the device while a soft terrycloth towel was used to wipe her chin, cheeks, throat, and chest free from saliva that had spilled over.