Blood and Honor (8 page)

Overhearing their drunken conversation wasn’t the worst of his problems. No, the bigger issue was whom he had practically smacked into in his haste to get back inside the clubhouse, unseen.

Alanna. Conniving little bitch. And the smile on her face told Slade that he wasn’t the only one who had heard Gray and Tank’s inebriated discussion.

She had shit Dax would want to hear, she said. But she wouldn’t say what. Or who it implicated. Slade knew he couldn’t push the groupie without opening a massive can of worms that would fuck with his own plan. Now, Slade was an unwilling partner in Alanna’s scheme. He wasn’t surprised when she told him her end game: Get Dax back to Darling.

She’d tell Dax what she knew and no one else.

Slade hated being manipulated—especially by a snotty little bitch. Dax would be no different. The last thing he wanted to do was interfere with his VP’s life. Hell, Slade respected Dax. The club’s second in command might have done some pretty fucked up things, but Dax clearly operated by his own code of honor. Dragging the man back here in response to Alanna’s little power play was a very bad fucking idea.

But…what the fuck else could he do?

Slade nursed his whiskey, lost in his thoughts. He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before he was interrupted.

“Hey, sugar. Lenny says you need anything besides that drink, you let me know and he’ll put me on break. You seem a little…stressed.”

The waitress boasted a set of fake tits that rivaled the size of Slade’s head. He gave the rest of her the once-over. She was older, which was fine, but the layers of caked on makeup and the too-tight pants ruined it for him.

Slade forced his lips to affect a reasonable smile. “It’s all good, baby. Got a hangover.”

She looked disappointed but she seemed to accept his excuse. “I’ll be around Thursday after the run. At the party.”

He nodded but he knew he came off aloof. He didn’t mean to be rude. Really he didn’t. But, Slade had more important things to worry about. He certainly didn’t have time to socialize.

His phone buzzed with a text. Hawk. Speak of the Devil…

“Check port.
Be at table by five.”

Seemed like the man was giving him a lot of responsibility lately, with little to no supervision. It felt weird because he was obviously gaining favor with Hawk—something Slade had been working for, but now he wasn’t sure he could trust him.

Fuck, man.
Nothing’s simple any more.

Maybe it was time to define his code of honor. It seemed to work for Dax, after all. Honor was a funny thing though—you couldn’t buy it, you couldn’t steal it. You either had it or you didn’t.

Slade thought long and hard about that shit as he flew down the highway. Where was he supposed to draw the line? Maybe there wasn’t a line at all. Maybe the divide between blood and honor was just a figment of his tired, vengeful imagination.

Chapter Fifteen

Rhee stood in the shower contemplating her flat belly.

Am I?

She didn’t like not knowing. The girl at the clinic she called told her that it was too early to do a blood test and the pee sticks were all negative. So far. Still, something was off. There was only one other time her body had gone all hypersexual and haywire. She tried to pinpoint when she started feeling strange and found that she couldn’t quite put her finger on when that little churning feeling had started to hum in her belly.

Maybe the meeting with her new donor was throwing her off. The man was in the running for congress and he had roots here on the island. Turtle said he’d heard of the guy. The large grant Thatcher wanted to make to Rhee’s studio was an obvious ploy to garner public favor for his campaign, but that wasn’t what bothered her—not really. The damn guy made her uncomfortable. She knew she had come across as guarded and tense rather than welcoming and grateful for the man’s interest. Something about the way he looked at her…it threw her off enough that she felt the need to shower again once she got home.

She replayed her interaction with Thatcher in her head, trying to discern what it was about the guy that bugged her. He asked a lot of questions. When Thatcher asked about her hometown, Rhee hadn’t skipped a beat. She never considered Darling her town, so she named the place she was born…the place she had been raised until the car accident that killed her mother and stepfather.

It was the way the man’s eyes had flickered when she named her hometown. He recognized it. She was sure of that. As she walked him through the donor forms, Thatcher causally asked about her family. He mentioned that he had a sister—that she was a pain in the ass. Then, he had asked if she had any siblings.

Some of the other donors made small talk like this and it had never bothered her, so what was it about the conversation with Thatcher that made her hackles rise? Rhee sighed. The fact of the matter was that this kind of contribution was going to get her little charity a lot of publicity. Thatcher had attended one of her fundraisers about a month ago, when the local press photographed her in front of her new studio.

Maybe that was it—the public attention was a little overwhelming for her.

Rhee was enjoying the balance of working for a cause she loved and being a mom. And being with Dax. Truth be told, being with Dax was rather…time-consuming.

Not that she minded.

Her nipples stiffened at the mere thought of the man and Rhee found herself gasping with desire as she rinsed the soap from her body. She rushed the rest of her shower and dressed, forcing her strange thoughts out of her mind.

Chapter Sixteen

It had been two weeks, and Ruby’s tender loving care was proving to be just what Mickey needed—even though she wasn’t sure it was what she wanted. But…letting Ruby mother her seemed to be helping the kindly old waitress too, and Mickey wouldn’t deny her. In fact, Mickey was grateful to know that allowing herself to be cared for was helping Ruby heal in her own way as well.

Ruby was the perfect nurse for her—she was helpful without being demanding, and she didn’t ask too many questions. Plus, the woman ran a diner so there was an abundance of comfort food—the kind that stuck to your ribs and warmed you up from the inside out. In just a few short days, Mickey could tell she had put on a few pounds. The bones in her hips didn’t stick out so harshly and her cheeks had a little color in them. She was sleeping a little better than usual. Overall, the gentle companionship and consistent food and rest put a sparkle back into her eyes that had a few of the regular customers at the diner commenting on her improved appearance.

The diner patrons were of two main sorts: those who were passing on through, and those who came every day at the same time—like clockwork. No one gave her the creeps, which was a welcome change. It was like being stuck in a parallel universe—one where everything went slow and steady, and no one did anybody any wrong. It was a place where she could regain some strength—and formulate a plan.

It was terrifying to look at the scrap of black and white paper that she kept in her pocket. Now, instead of running away from her past, she was going to have to track her sister down and warn her. The man in the photo was evil and there was no way he was connecting himself to Rhee by accident.

He was still out there. And he was getting close to Rhee. There was only one reason Mickey could think of for that.

He
knew.

He knew that Rhee was her sister. The resemblance between Mickey and her big sister was rather striking. People used to comment on it all the time when they were growing up. Plus, he had connections and he would know she had family.

The bastard wanted something—something from Mickey. The something she kept in her backpack.

Sometimes, it was hard to keep track of who she was running from—especially now with the cartel out of the picture. At least, she thought they were out of the picture. She just kept moving, ignoring the fact that she wasn’t sure what she was trying to escape now—the bogeyman…or herself.

While she tried to figure out her next move, Mickey poured coffee, cleared tables, and ran food at the diner. It wasn’t hard. In fact, the job kind of started to grow on her. It gave her the chance to interact in a very superficial way, with the random folks who came in for a quick bite to eat. Living in fear could cause a person to become isolated. But here in this small town, with Ruby as her sort-of guardian, Mickey felt safer than she had in a long, long time.

There was a pile of nametags in the drawer beneath the ancient-looking cash register. One of them read, “Kelly.” Of course, that was the one Mickey chose to wear most often because it turned them into a diner duo with rhyming fake names. “Shelley” and “Kelly.” Sometimes, she wore the other names. When she selected a nametag, she made up a little story to go along with the name. She was a million different people from one day to the next and it was a welcome break from who she really was.

“Pearl” was a crotchety, chain-smoking old biddy who acted like she was doing customers a favor by taking their orders.

“Jennifer” was a sorority girl who worked part-time at the diner to pay for school, popping her gum as she collected her tips.

There were others…maybe six in all. Mickey had a personality for each of them.

She estimated that she would be able to get to Rhee in another two weeks, but she wouldn’t have much more than the cost of her plane ticket. No matter. She was used to living on next to nothing. Her current situation was just a small reprieve from her daily life so the best thing to do was to avoid getting used to it. Expecting it.

Expectations were dangerous.

If only she had been able to make things work on the islands. When the police came poking around, trying to find her when the cartel shit went down in Darling, she used up her last few dollars to move again. And again. Until the expectation of staying in one place receded like the sun setting over the ocean.

Mickey tried to keep the troublesome thoughts from reflecting on her face. Ruby directed her a gentle smile as she delivered table four’s burger order to the kitchen, and Mickey’s heart gave an unexpected twinge. She couldn’t stay here forever, but it was going to be hard as hell to leave.

Chapter Seventeen

Alanna again?

God fuckin’ dammit. The slut was going too far this time. Wince literally had his head in his hands after receiving Slade’s text message. Yeah, the girl had risked her life to try to get Sirena to safety—a fact that no one had forgotten. Alanna got her her pass for that. But now, she was milking her injury and her newfound status with Hawk, even though she had an obvious thing for Dax.

So…what was the hangaround up to now?

Dax’s pot deal and the new shipping orders made things a little crazy the first few months after Vidal went to ground. Securing the lines and managing the deliveries took up a lot of mental space. Alanna was out of the picture for a month or two. Then, she appeared one day on Hawk’s jock and nobody said shit. Maybe that was why she was flying under the radar, but that mistake had to be addressed.

Now.

Wince thought back to the first time he came across Alanna—three months ago when he and Dax first arrived on the island. They were at one of the touristy hotels and the groupie showed up with her little story. Implying that someone at the table was a rat—it was a dangerous charge to make. At the time, Wince figured Alanna for a resourceful kind of slut—just a groupie willing to go the extra mile to fuck herself to the top of the old lady pecking order.

But, now he wasn’t so sure. Shit lately seemed off. It was enough to make Wince think he was the one who was losing it. Why had Hawk sent him on this latest recon mission, anyway? There was nothing to report on. Dax and Turtle had their operation down to a science. There were no holes—at least none that Wince could see. He liked the mile high club, but there wasn’t much reason for all of this flying back and forth.

Maybe he’s trying to keep me out of the way?
Wince quickly put the notion out of his head.
Nah, that can’t be it.
It’s Hawk.
He’s my brother.
My president.

Wince wanted to stay put, to enjoy the slower pace here. But now, it looked like he was heading back to Darling, to pick Slade’s head.

“It’s touchy
—
has to do with the martyr.
In person only, brother.”

The martyr. It’s what they called Alanna.

The tugging at his hand was a welcome distraction.

“Sorry, sweetie. Looks like Uncle Wince is heading back to the airport.”

“More work, Unka Wink?” Sirena queried, in her innocent little voice.

Wince switched his phone to silent and shoved it deep into his pocket. “Not before our tea party.”

He heard Rhee’s snort of laughter, but Wince didn’t care how stupid he looked. It was Sirena’s favorite game, lately. The feel of her chubby hand on his arm made something inside of him—something that Wince had never before realized was broken—feel whole again.

Too soon, he was back on the plane and this time, when the same willing stewardess who took care of him on the way over approached, Wince shut her down. Maybe if he wanted to feel whole he needed something real. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to find real down some slut’s throat.

***

Alanna was just biding her time. She had photos of the papers she found in Hawk’s desk in a file on her phone. Hard copies were stowed in a place she knew no man would ever think to look—inside a pregnancy test box. It disgusted her to buy the damn thing, but she knew it was a safe place to put the proof. The mere idea of being pregnant totally sucked—great way to ruin your pussy and your tits. God knows how Dax’s chick did it. That girl, Rhea or Rina, or whatever the hell her name was, was probably looser than a hooker after a long weekend.

Ugh.

A lot of the biker whores—if not
all
of the biker whores—who frequented the clubhouse, had a thing for babies. Alanna had just never had that mother instinct. She had higher aspirations than to be some brat’s mom. This thing with Hawk—it was just temporary. He was going to be gone soon. He’d either be dead at the hands of his own crew, or inside for life. Either way, she had to start grooming the rest of the crew to view her as the
HBIC
—the Head Bitch in Charge.