Shooting Dirty (19 page)

“Where are we headed?” she asked.

“To a guy named Pigpen’s house.”

She nodded, putting on her seatbelt.

“Do you know him?”

“Not really. He’s been in the club a few times.”

Ace doubted Pigpen would recognize her from Vixen. Like Janelle, Tiffany had a different persona on stage.

“Are you going to kill him?”

“I’ll try not to.”

Ace wanted him to talk—if he was even home—and dead men didn’t do that. He was hoping to find Pigpen or one of his buddies to pump for information. “I’ll drive by to scope the place out first. Then I’ll park down the street. I need you to knock on the door while I wait next to it, out of sight.”

Tiffany understood the plan. “Gotcha.”

“As soon as he opens it, you have to move. Get as far away as possible in case something goes wrong.”

“Like what?”

“Like a gunfight.”

“How do you know they have Janelle?”

“Jester sent me a picture.”

“Is she alive?”

“I hope so.”

“Are you in love with her?”

Ace jerked his head to look at her, startled by the question. She stared back at him. Then he returned his attention to the road, contemplative. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Janelle. He’d kill for her, but he was a natural born killer. He’d always been able to pull the trigger without blinking an eye. He’d also gotten her into this mess, and it was his responsibility to get her out. Only a coward would look the other way when his woman was in trouble.

His
woman. That was the key.

His emotions were locked away somewhere, out of reach, but his caveman instincts worked just fine. Janelle was his woman, his possession, his property. No one else could touch her, and anyone who hurt her better be prepared to die.

When they reached Pigpen’s ramshackle abode, Ace scoped out the scene. There was one truck in the driveway, covered in sandy dust.

His blood ran cold at the sight. What if they were too late?

He parked down the street, his blood pounding. “If he asks what you want—”

She interrupted him. “I’ve got this. I won’t tell you how to kill people, and you don’t tell me how to work a mark.”

Fair enough. Ace shut up and exited the truck, drawing the Colt from his waistband. When they reached the driveway, he inspected the pickup. There was a discarded pillowcase and a skeleton mask in the bed. The cab was empty. He nodded at Tiffany, indicating that they were in the right place. Then he crept forward and flattened his back against the side of the house, very close to the front door.

At his signal, Tiffany stepped up to knock.

A light above the door came on, bathing her in a golden glow. Ace’s heart hammered against his ribs. He stayed stock-still, gun raised, praying he couldn’t be seen by anyone inside the house.

“Hello?” Tiffany said, tentative.

The door cracked, just a little. Ace waited for Tiffany to do her magic.

“Ohmigosh,” she said, clasping a hand to her cleavage. “I’m so glad you’re home.” She sounded half-drunk, half-ditsy. “I just got my car stuck in a ditch, and my phone’s dead. Can I use yours?”

The door swung open and Ace moved in. The man on the other side was Pigpen. Ace clutched the collar of his shirt, pushed him against the wall and pressed the barrel of the Colt into his fleshy cheek. “Are you alone?”

Pigpen nodded.

“Who else lives here?”

He hesitated. “No one.”

That was a lie. Ace took the gun away from his face and let go of his shirt. Then he jammed the heel of his left hand into Pigpen’s nose. There was a sickening crunch of cartilage. Pigpen cried out in shock and tried to staunch the blood flow. Ace followed up with a brutal gut-punch. Pigpen dropped to his knees, wheezing.

“Who else lives here?” Ace repeated.

“Fuck you,” Pigpen said, his response muffled.

Ace glanced at the doorway. Tiffany hadn’t fled the scene, like she was supposed to. She came inside and shut the door behind her, locking it. He didn’t argue, although he’d rather not endanger her further. Ace quickly searched Pigpen for weapons. Then Ace shoved Pigpen down on the ground and kicked him in the ribs, probably breaking a few. Pigpen’s body jerked from the impact. He whimpered, holding his ruined nose.

“If you get up, I’ll fucking kill you,” Ace said. Then he strode through the hall with his gun drawn to check the bedrooms. The first one was a mess. The second was clean and neat, clearly belonging to someone whose name wasn’t Pigpen. Both were empty, as was the bathroom. When Ace returned to the living area, Tiffany was standing over Pigpen with her hands curled into fists.

“Where’s Janelle?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Pigpen wheezed.

She looked at Ace, who gestured for her to continue. She kicked Pigpen in the side. Not hard, but it didn’t matter. He was already incapacitated, his ribs bruised or fractured. “Where did you take her?”

Pigpen didn’t answer. This was his strength, Ace realized. He wasn’t smart or experienced, but he was loyal. In the MC, that meant everything.

Ace glanced around for a blunt object to convince him with. There was a crescent wrench on the coffee table, as if someone had been doing a repair. Ace tucked the Colt into his waistband and grabbed the wrench. Pigpen saw him coming and rolled onto his stomach, covering his head. Ace held the wrench between his teeth and straddled Pigpen’s back. Grabbing Pigpen’s right arm, he shoved it between his shoulder blades. Pigpen made a sound of agony, begging for mercy.

Ace didn’t have any for him. He took the wrench out of his mouth and held it ready. “Put your left hand flat on the ground.”

Pigpen didn’t do it.

Ace applied a little more pressure to his right arm and his sore ribs.

Pigpen did it.

“If you don’t tell me where Janelle is, I’ll break every fucking bone in your body, starting with your fingers.”

Pigpen flinched, flexing his hand.

“You ready?”

“Please,” he rasped.

Ace used the wrench like a hammer, crushing Pigpen’s pinkie finger. It bent at an odd angle. Pigpen screamed in agony, but he didn’t talk. Ace moved on to his ring finger, and then his middle finger. Tiffany grimaced and turned around, unable to watch anymore. When Ace targeted Pigpen’s forefinger, he capitulated.

“Okay,” he cried. “Fuck!”

“Where is she?”

“Dos Cabezas water tower. She’s inside the tank.”

Ace knew the place. It was miles deep in the desert, close to the old railroad tracks. “Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s with her?”

Pigpen hesitated, so Ace raised the wrench again.

“Chum’s guarding her.”

“Is he armed?”

“With a .9.”

“Why aren’t you there?”

“I came to get some...supplies.”

Some dope, he meant. Fucking tweakers always needed a fix.

“Find something to tie him up with,” Ace said to Tiffany. He searched Pigpen’s pockets. Sure enough, there was a bag of meth on him. Ace dumped it out on the carpet. Then he stole Pigpen’s phone and keys. When Tiffany returned with duct tape, Ace bound Pigpen’s wrists behind his back. The tape wouldn’t hold for long, but there wasn’t much else Ace could do, besides shoot him.

“I’ll watch him,” Tiffany said. “Otherwise he’ll break free and tip off the guard before you even get there.”

She was right, but Ace didn’t want to leave her unprotected. “Who else lives here?” he asked Pigpen.

“Rex,” Pigpen said. “He works the night shift.”

There was a baseball bat by the door. She picked it up and sat down on the couch, ready to defend herself.

Ace gave her his truck keys with reluctance. He would drive Pigpen’s vehicle to Dos Cabezas and arrive incognito. “I only need an hour, so don’t stay too long. If Rex comes, get the fuck out of here. He’s not an easy mark.”

She just stared at him, her face pale. She was probably sickened by what she’d seen him do to Pigpen. Ace felt nothing, not even a flicker of remorse. Pigpen’s pain and suffering didn’t register at all. None of his targets were human to him.

“You’d better save Janelle or die trying,” she said. “You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

She dismissed him with a wave, her eyes watery.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Babysitting Pigpen wasn’t as easy as she’d figured.

Tiffany wished Ace had knocked Pigpen out before he left, because he was really fucking annoying. The White Lightning member cried and whined and begged her to remove the tape. His breathing became labored, to the point of exaggerated wheezing. He claimed that he had a punctured lung.

Although she doubted his story and didn’t give a damn about his physical comfort, her unease grew. She’d never been involved in anything illegal before. Not
this
illegal, anyway. She was worried about getting caught by Pigpen’s buddies. She was worried about Janelle and her crazy-hot boyfriend.

Tiffany didn’t deal well with anxiety.

“Do you have any pot?” she asked Pigpen.

“Fuck you, bitch,” Pigpen said.

She narrowed her eyes, studying the red-tinged spittle hanging from his lips. His nose was crusty with dried blood. He was hurt, but he’d live. He obviously felt good enough to babble nonstop and insult her.

She glanced through the dirty curtains, checking the driveway once again. The window was protected by iron bars for extra security. “When does your friend get home?”

“Soon. And he’s going to rape the shit out of you while I watch.”

Tiffany picked up the baseball bat and strode toward him. Hitting him over the head would shut him up.

“Please,” he said, baring his teeth. “I’m in pain!”

“You want some drugs, pig boy?”

“Yes.”

“What have you got?”

“Oxys. In my room.”

She glanced down the hall, contemplative. Getting him out of sight and drugging him wasn’t a bad idea. She set aside the baseball bat. “I’m going to help you up,” she said, standing over him. “You walk down the hall and into your room. If you cooperate, I’ll take off the tape.”

He breathed through his mouth. He really wanted his hands free. They were swollen, his broken fingers poking in different directions. “Okay.”

Getting him on his feet was a challenge, but they managed. She held his bound wrists and urged him down the hall. There were two bedroom doors, both open. Pigpen shuffled toward the one on the right. It was filled with beer cans and dirty clothes. The only window was barred. She skirted around a pizza box on the floor, nudging him toward the unmade bed.

He climbed across the mattress on his knees and rolled onto his side, wincing.

“Where’s your stuff?” she asked.

“Top drawer.”

She opened his dresser drawer. There was a disgusting collection of porn, various drug paraphernalia, a bag of top-quality weed and several pill bottles. One of the bottles had oxy capsules. The other was mixed, with a few round, white pills marked R-O-H.

Rohypnol. The date rape drug.

Pigpen was facing the other direction, his arms tightly bound behind his back. He would know the roofie wasn’t an oxy by the shape, so she crushed it up and put it in a glass of water. Then she found some basic painkiller capsules. Bringing him two, she put one in his mouth. He swallowed it with water.

“You want two?”

“I want four,” he growled.

She gave him the second, and the rest of the water.

“Now untie me.”

“Not yet,” she said, putting a blanket on him. “When you get drowsy.”

“I can’t breathe.”

“Did you hurt Janelle?”

His expression turned belligerent, but he was smart enough to hold his tongue. Tiffany patted him on the cheek and returned to his stash. She pocketed the rest of his roofies and sat down to roll a joint. She might as well stay busy while she waited for him to go bye-bye.

It had been a long night.

Tiffany replayed the events of the evening, shaking her head. She’d embarrassed herself by kissing Janelle. She didn’t know why she’d done that. It was clear that her friend had fallen hard for Ace. They might not be the perfect couple, destined for white picket fences and easy street, but they had passion. Tiffany had never experienced passion. She’d only been on the receiving end of obsession, and it had almost killed her.

As she licked the rolling paper, she heard a motorcycle pull into the driveway.

“Crap,” she said, tucking the joint into her bra. Pigpen started yelling, proving his lungs were working just fine. She had to punch his sore ribs to quiet him before she gagged him with a dirty sock. He bit down on the fabric but couldn’t dislodge it or make much noise.

It was too late to do more. His roommate was already inside the house. Tiffany tossed another blanket over Pigpen’s head. She turned off the lights and left the room, locking the door behind her. There was no garage or any other exit, so she had nowhere to go. She walked down the hall, forced to brazen it out.

Pigpen’s roommate was in the kitchen, frowning at the contents of the fridge. “Who the fuck ate my sandwich?” he called over his shoulder. He showed no sign that he’d heard the struggle in the bedroom. Tiffany considered making a beeline for the front door. Then he straightened and their eyes met.

Her stomach dropped.

It was the virgin.

Janelle had given him a lap dance the other night. He’d been with those other White Lightning assholes. He was young, dark-haired, sort of punk-rock looking. Not as brawny as Ace, but big enough to intimidate. Ace had called him Rex, and said he wasn’t an easy mark.

He shut the refrigerator, seeming surprised to see her. “Where’s Pigpen?”

Tiffany feigned ignorance. “Pigpen?”

“Pete,” he clarified.

“Oh. He left a few minutes ago.”

Rex gaped at her in disbelief. “You’re with him?”

She nodded. “He said I could hang out until he got back. Is that okay?”

They were MC members and at least one of them sold drugs, so it wasn’t cool to let a strange woman roam around the empty house. Even so, Rex didn’t ask her to leave. Guy code prevented him from interfering with his roommate’s sexual conquests.

“I’m Tara,” she said, giving him her stripper name.

He stuck out his hand. “Rex.”

Her palm tingled with the telltale zing of compatible chemistry. She’d always been attracted to a wide range of people, men and women alike, so she dismissed the reaction as unimportant. He was super hot, but this was a tense situation. She needed to focus on the task at hand, not his sexy lip ring.

Rex didn’t linger over the contact or leer at her suggestively. He seemed puzzled by her presence, and not interested in taking advantage of her. Maybe he avoided Pigpen’s leftovers. She couldn’t blame him.

She also couldn’t really flirt with him. Using her sexuality to disarm men came naturally to her, so she racked her brain for other options. She had to do something to keep him away from the bedrooms.

A muffled noise came from that direction. Tiffany panicked and knocked over an empty beer bottle, which rolled across the counter and fell off the end. Rex caught it neatly and tossed it into the recycling bin.

“Do you mind if I make something to eat?” she asked, shuffling through the kitchen. Maybe she could bang some pots and pans around.

“Good luck,” he muttered.

He was hungry. Tiffany brightened at this realization. She knew how to cook, and most men his age would eat anything. “Let’s see what there is,” she said, opening the fridge. It was completely empty, except for beer. She removed two bottles and set them on the counter. “Will you open one for me?”

“They’re twist-off.”

“Oh. Never mind then.”

Rex sat down at an empty barstool and opened it for her anyway. Hiding a smile, she searched the cabinets. There wasn’t much to work with: sourdough bread, a tin of Spam and a can of tomato sauce.

“How about a meatball sub?”

He looked skeptical. Shrugging, he opened the second beer and took a long drink. “Where did Pete go, again?”

Tiffany made a noncommittal sound and heated a frying pan on the stove. She cut the Spam in thick slices, browning it on both sides. Then she added the tomato sauce. While that was bubbling, she toasted the bread. She couldn’t find any clean plates, so she washed two, making as much racket as possible.

Then she dried the plates on her shirt and built the sandwiches. They were meaty, messy and hot, on crisp sourdough.

Rex took a test bite. He chewed and swallowed, arching a brow. “This is fucking good.”

She dug into her sandwich, pleased by the compliment. He wolfed down his and finished the second half of hers. Then he wiped his mouth with a napkin and drank the rest of his beer. He kept giving her funny looks, as if he couldn’t figure out why she’d go for Pigpen.

“Pete told me you work nights,” she said.

He nodded. “At the guitar factory.”

She spotted a beat-up acoustic in the corner. “Did you make that one?”

“Nah. I bought it at a pawn shop.”

“You play?”

“A little.”

It was quiet now—too quiet. She took the plates to the sink, wondering if Pigpen had smothered in his own filth. “What kind of music?”

He didn’t answer.

“Let me guess,” she said, perusing him slowly. “Johnny Cash.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Do you know any of his songs?”

“I can play a few, but I can’t sing them.”

“I can. Play one for me.”

He walked over to the guitar and sat down on the couch, strumming a C chord. She took a seat across from him. Although the guitar sounded fine to her ear, he adjusted two of the keys. Then they decided on a song, one of Cash’s later hits.

He was good. It was a cheap guitar, nothing special, but he hit the notes with confidence, nodding his head to the beat. He had a guitar player’s hands, strong and agile.

Tiffany started off shaky and immediately regretted the song choice. She couldn’t pull off Cash’s gruff, tortured tone. Instead of faltering and going quiet, she got louder and sang the damned thing. By the end she wasn’t half-bad. Ten years of choir before she left home had given her a decent vocal range.

When it was over, something hung between them in the air. Rex was studying her again. “You have a nice voice,” he said huskily.

“Thanks.”

He kept staring.

She flushed like she was still a choirgirl instead of a seasoned stripper. Then she became aware of a thumping noise in the bedroom.

Shit.

Rex heard it at the same time she did. “What’s that?”

She didn’t answer.

He set the guitar aside and went to investigate. Tiffany jumped to her feet. Time to go. Although Rex hadn’t acted threatening in the least, he was a member of White Lightning. She couldn’t expect him to be sweet to her just because they’d played a song together. Pigpen had promised that Rex would “rape the shit out of her.”

On her way to the front door, she heard more motorcycles pull into the driveway. She glanced through the curtains, hoping they were Dirty Eleven riders.

Nope.

Lightning bolts blazed on their black leather vests and her entire life flashed before her eyes.

Now she was
really
screwed.

She retreated a few steps, biting the edge of her fist. There was no safe direction to run. After a short hesitation, she followed Rex down the hall. Pigpen had managed to get the door open, but he’d stumbled and fallen on his face. He appeared semi-conscious. The remnants of the duct tape clung to his wrists.

“You did this?” Rex asked.

Tiffany gripped his arm, pleading. “Hide me.”

He glanced over her shoulder, swearing under his breath. Then he shoved her into his room and locked the door. “Do they know you?” he asked, his eyes narrow.

She shook her head.

“I can’t hide you,” he said in a low voice. “Take off your clothes and get in the bed.”

Rex’s room was neat as a pin. The space was spare and organized, with a single barred window. There was no closet, no large furniture to duck behind and no space under the bed. She tore her shirt over her head and shimmied out of her jeans, her heart racing.

The men were pounding on the front door.

“Hurry,” Rex said through clenched teeth. He removed his shirt and dove under the blankets. She joined him in her bra and panties. “Those too,” he urged, fumbling with his belt. She unfastened her bra and the joint fell out. There was no time to remove her panties. The men were inside the house, storming down the hall.

Rex covered her mouth with his and got on top of her, thrusting his hips in a crude facsimile of sex. She wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck, kissing him back. Fear made her mechanical, uncoordinated. Their mouths and bodies mashed together in clumsy desperation.

The door burst open, splintering at the frame.

Rex rolled off her with a frustrated growl. He held the blanket over their lower halves, leaving her breasts exposed. Tiffany didn’t cover them. “What the fuck?” he roared, feigning fury over the interruption.

Jester, the president of White Lightning, was standing in the hallway. “Why didn’t you answer the door?”

“Why the fuck do you think?”

Tiffany made a sound of mortification and covered her face.

“I was about to bust my fucking nut,” Rex said. “Is there a fire, or can I finish?”

“Get dressed,” Jester said. “Now.”

When the coast was clear, Tiffany dropped her hands. The door was broken, but it had been pulled closed. Rex was sitting next to her, shirtless. He had a beautiful chest, sculpted with hard muscle. Most of his tattoos were military style, rather than jailhouse. There was a swirling treble clef on his ribcage.

He noticed her perusal and put his shirt back on. She couldn’t find her bra, so she emerged from the bed in her thong panties, bending over to pick up her jeans. He watched her breasts jiggle as she wrestled into the denim. Tearing his gaze away, he sifted through the blankets for her bra. He passed it to her, his neck flushed.

“Thank you,” she murmured. He’d saved her ass, big-time.

He put on his boots, saying nothing. Then he motioned for her to stay there and left the room. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. Pigpen seemed incoherent, but he might talk. Someone could recognize her from the club, despite her casual appearance. She sat at the edge of the bed, nibbling her thumbnail down to the quick as Jester interrogated Rex in the other room. Rex said he just got home and hadn’t even known Pigpen was here.