“Yeah, man. I did it. Where’s my fucking money?” The other male voice is angry and making no attempt to be quiet.
“He needs proof before you get paid. You know that’s how it’s done.”
A deep chuckle that sounds more sinister than humorous filters through the room. “Proof’s in the obituary.”
Obituary. He killed someone? With this crew, I’m not surprised.
“Shh, shut up. If Hatchet hears us talking MC business here, he’ll have our cuts.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Hatch. I want my motherfucking money.”
The sliding glass door opens again. “What the fuck are you dipsticks doing?”
“I’m going to take a piss.” The sound of boots on carpet disappears into the hallway.
“I want my fucking money, Hatch.”
“Shut your damn mouth.” Hatch’s growled words are followed by the gurgling sound of a grown man being choked. “You don’t bring that shit up in mixed company, Tread. You fucking hear me?”
Gasping. “That bitch . . . and her man . . . are dead. I want to get paid—”
I hear the loud crack of fist meeting flesh and then the thump of a body hitting the floor. My stomach turns.
“Shit, Hatch. You broke my damn nose.” The nasally voice is followed by the sound of stomping boots trailing off in opposite directions. There’s a murderer with a broken nose in my house. The thought doesn’t evoke the warm and fuzzies.
Hatch staggers into the kitchen, clearly missing the fact that I’m sitting less than six feet away. He pulls open the fridge door, grabs a bottle, and pops the cap. Turning, he leans against the fridge and tilts his head back for a long pull off his beer. He downs half and then his eyes go wide on me. “Snow White”—he glares—“how long you been sitting there?”
I suck down a spoonful of noodles. “Not long.”
He takes a step closer to the table. I don’t have to look up from my food to know he’s staring at me. I can feel it.
He clears his throat. “It would be wise if you pretend you didn’t hear that.”
Sitting back, I study him for a moment. Shaggy brown hair, black tee, and that damn leather vest with his MC’s logo embroidered on the breast. He radiates bad-ass biker. I shrug. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Good girl.” He leans a hip against the counter. “I trust you’ll keep that sexy mouth shut?”
Man, this guy gets on my nerves. In my house, threatening me? I drop my spoon into my bowl and lean back, eyes on his. “And if I don’t?”
He smiles as if I’ve just challenged him to a dare. “I’ll shut it for you.”
“Hmm . . .” I purse my lips and cross my arms at my chest. “You threatening me?”
He continues to stare and stands in a way that would be considered stoic if not for his lurching in a booze-induced dance. “Don’t forget what I know about you, Mac Ellenshire.”
Dammit. He’ll always have that as leverage. I’d never talk anyway, but the extra threat to expose my secret is enough to make me swear in blood to keep my mouth shut. “Whatever. I won’t talk.” I continue to eat, hoping he leaves me to my canned dinner.
“Smart girl.” He grunts and turns to head back outside.
That guy and his band of * bikers don’t scare me. I know fear and pain, and neither Hatch nor his gang has that power over me. There’s only one person who does, and I’m thinking it’s time I pay him a visit.
Nine
Eyes like silver
Hair like fire
Singing away my sorrow
There’s nothing I’d deny her.
--Ataxia
Mac
I’m straddling my motorcycle, head tilted back, staring. Wow. This place is huge. The garage alone is twice the size of my house, and with the tropical landscaping, it’s like a desert oasis. I’d expect a professional UFL fighter to have bank, but I didn’t think they’d spend it on a house the size of a resort.
Did I read the address wrong? I fish my phone from my messenger bag and check the text from Layla.
“I’ll be damned.” The number and street name match. “Spare no expense Slade.”
There was no way I was going to say no when Layla invited me over to the Slade’s for some girl time. I guess the guys get together to watch baseball and the girls just sit around and do what girls do.
What do girls do?
I was secluded most of my life, not having any interaction outside of doctors and therapists. We had social hours where I’d visit with others, but the people I was locked up with weren’t much for conversation, at least not the kind you could understand.
I take a few steps to the front door and notice cars parked off toward the garage. Cadillac Escalade. My breath catches in my throat. Rex.
A butterfly mutiny explodes in my belly. I was hoping he’d be here.
I ring the doorbell; it sounds as if it’s announcing the Queen of England rather than Mac the nobody. Overkill much?
The door swings open and Jonah’s wife Raven answers. Just like when I’ve seen her at The Blackout, her eyes take me aback.
“Hi, Mac, right?” She gives me a genuine smile.