Vipers Run (12 page)

The next night, Cage waited until Calla fell asleep and then he grabbed the keys to the door at the end of the far hallway. Behind the door was an entire world he'd tried to ignore, but finally, that night, it became clear to him that in this space he might find the answers he sought.

He hadn't been here in years. The last time was the week before he'd shipped out for the first time, and when the familiar pull tugged at him, he almost didn't recognize it.

He made sure to alarm the door behind him so Calla would remain safe in the apartment alone—and the Vipers guys continued to guard the front door to the apartment. Then he took the freight elevator down to the private space on the basement level, but separate from the garage. He was
the only one who had access to this space, from above and below.

His hand shook as he unlocked the door and he cursed a string of familiar favorites as he finally got the damned thing to open. And he stood in the doorway, surveying a place where time really had stood still.

Had he moved on? He'd thought so. Thought he'd lost his passion for this. Frankly, it'd been so long since he'd picked up a brush or a pencil to simply sketch, beyond a map of a potential battlefield or LZ that he'd thought maybe he'd imagined his talent.

Fixing bikes or cars was something he'd done most recently for survival, not for joy.

He closed the door behind him, because the thought of anyone walking in right now was unbearable.

He looked at the sketchbook, sitting exactly where he'd left it. He recalled picking it up several times and almost carrying it out the door with him, but in the end he'd left it behind. He ran a finger through the light dust on the cover. Not enough to have collected over the past years. Which meant Preacher had been having the place cleaned.

Scratch that. It meant that Preacher had been cleaning this place himself, because he knew how Cage guarded his privacy fiercely.

And Preacher still believed he'd come back to this room. That he'd come back here, no matter how he'd tried to stay away for a myriad of reasons. He'd tried to escape his Heathen MC past with the Army and then, postenlistment, when he'd realized how bad things had gotten in Heathen territory.

How Eli was no longer unaffected. How he'd known the boy wouldn't be, because Cage had been ten goddamned years old when he'd left, already irreparably scarred. But Eli's mom lived off-compound and had promised to keep him safe. Cage even gave her money and a phone number to call if things got bad, and she'd taken it, because she'd realized how deep she was in. Up to her goddamned neck.

You left him in hell.

And maybe Cage didn't deserve this kind of beauty in his life, not Calla or the art, didn't deserve the way both made him feel.

Maybe he didn't, but he wasn't stupid enough to throw away gifts, not the one in his bed or the one that had been with him since as long as he could remember.

He opened the sketchbook gingerly, like he was afraid to see the past, that maybe it would remind him of the anger and revenge he'd harbored. But it wouldn't matter, because it certainly wasn't dead or buried.

And neither are you.

He stared at the first sketch for a long moment before leaving it for the actual bike, the one he'd just gotten a start on when he and Tals decided it was time to follow in the Vipers founding fathers' footsteps. Enlist, boot camp and deployment.
Hoorah
Rangers. He had the scars, the ink, the mentality to prove he was enmeshed in two brotherhoods so fully that he'd never fully escape either. And he didn't want to, but the Army was the only bridge back here.

He bent down on one knee as he uncovered the bike, like he was begging forgiveness, proposing to work on it again at the same time.

The bike was built from scratch. He hadn't acquired all he'd needed for it, so he'd have to hunt down the hard-to-find parts. With Tals's help, because Tals could procure just about anything. He was the juvenile delinquent and criminal of the bunch, and based on the company he kept, that was saying a hell of a lot.

He touched the cool metal, ran his fingertips along the pattern he hadn't been able to shove from his mind.

He'd promised Preacher that he could restore this. Preacher had never stopped believing in him.

So when had he stopped believing in himself?

He guessed that it didn't matter, since right now he believed in everything again. He knew he'd have to walk through hell to get there, but he was willing, because he saw his paradise on the other side.

Two hours later, he'd sanded and painted the bumper. At first, he was hesitant, and then the right music, the smell of grease and oil, made his hands take over from his head. He blinked, stepped back as he stared at what he'd accomplished, then stared down at his hands.

“Still here,” he murmured. And then he locked up, showered to get the paint and turpentine off him so he could slip back into bed, one step closer to healing himself . . . and hopefully, by extension, healing
Calla.

I'd first called Tenn the night I'd told Cage.

“Do you need me there?” he'd asked, and just hearing him say that was a huge relief. But it was easy with Tenn, because I didn't need him the way I needed Cage.

“I might.”

“I'm a phone call away,” he'd promised, and when I'd heard Cage leave me after he'd thought I was asleep for a third night in a row, I did call.

Tom was at the door in two hours. Bypassing the alarms. Knocking on the door at the same time he was texting me.

I didn't know what to say, so I just fell into his hug. He carried me over to the bed and curled around me, asking, “When the hell did you sleep last?”

“I feel like that's all I've been doing.”

I'd sent him the pictures, because I'd wanted him to see what Cage had. I needed his help and I told him that. “How could he see these and ever think about me the way he did before?”

“He can. He will, hon. You've got to give him credit. He's lived through ugly things. We all have.”

“I want to believe you. But I don't know how to bring him back to me.”

“You don't need my help, Calla. You know what to do.” He paused. “He wants to make sure you're okay. That's what's holding him back. He doesn't think of you any differently. You do.”

“Stop being so smart,” I told him. And then I changed the subject slightly, to the other worry weighing on me. “The promise he made to me . . . Now that he knows, what's he going to do?”

“You know the answer to that, baby girl.”

“Stop him.”

He gave a short laugh with absolutely zero humor behind it. “Yeah, that'd work.”

“You could try, for me.”

“If I thought I could, I'd already have stopped the man from doing other dangerous things, Calla. But the truth is, if he can't do this for you, he'll never be able to live with himself.”

“After what he's found out, he'll never be able to live with me either. Never be able to look at me again.”

“That's bullshit.”

“He hasn't tried to sleep with me, or really touched me since I told him—and that's a new record for us. I'm not an idiot.” God, I sounded like a miserable fool. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you.”

“Do I look bothered?”

“He left me tonight. Snuck out while he thought I was sleeping. That's three nights in a row.”

“Could be club business,” Tenn offered. “He's not going to go far.”

“It doesn't matter—he might as well be a million miles away.”

“When you first met him, he promised he was going to make whoever hurt you pay.”

“He did.”

“And you believed that.”

I had.

“Let him.”

“Would you?”

“I took care of my own shit, Calla, because I could. If I couldn't have, damned straight I would've let Cage do it.”

Tenn was so calm most of the time—so
seemingly easygoing that I knew how deeply his pain had to run. It was always the easygoing ones who held the most pain. “I'm sorry, Tenn.”

“You did nothing wrong.” He paused. “You can rewrite your script, you know. Take control of it. Nothing's bad if it makes you feel good.”

I stared at Tenn. “How are you so wise?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed. “Christ, woman, you're making me feel old. I'm not wise. Just crammed a lot of life into a small time frame.”

“I think you're a miracle worker.” I only wished Cage was there to take me the rest of the way.

I must've fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, I heard semiangry men's voices. I blinked to see Cage standing over me and Tenn practically underneath me. Tenn was lying there, and I was half on his chest. He'd been watching a movie.

Well, porn. A porn movie.

“You're lucky I know which way you swing,” Cage muttered to him.

“Maybe I'm bi and never told you,” Tenn shot back as he remained curled around me.

“I will fucking kill you.”

“Try it, old man,” Tenn said, and instead of upsetting me, their interaction made me laugh. Tenn turned to me. “Are you laughing at us?”

“Completely.”

“Huh. See if I ever defend your honor,” Tenn said with fake insult.

“It's the first time you've laughed in days,” Cage said quietly. I held out a hand to him, to pull him down. Once he was settled next to me, Rocco called through the door and walked in.

“Bedroom,” Tenn called and Rocco found us. And the porn. And grinned.

“What's up, Roc?” Tenn asked, like he owned the place. I didn't care, because Cage was holding me. I ran a hand along his arm, because I saw something red.

“Paint,” he told me.

But before I could question him more, Rocco said, “There's trouble down at the clubhouse. Flores wants to talk to Calla. I figured you'd rather meet her there than here.”

“She can come here,” Cage said.

“I can go to the clubhouse,” I told him.

“Forget it.”

“I can't avoid it forever.”

“Good thing it hasn't been forever, then,” he told me.

Rocco left and returned in a few minutes to let us know that everyone was on their way.

“Everyone?” I asked.

“Flores, that partner of hers—Dom something . . .”

“Her partner's a Dom?” Tenn asked.

“Not a Dom—his name's Dom,” Cage told him, and I snorted. Rocco perched on the edge of the bed, then lay down across the width at our feet, and that's how Preacher found us. Watching porn.

“Why are you watching gay porn?” he asked.

“It's a threesome,” Rocco pointed out.

Preacher muttered something like “Jesus fucking Christ” and then there was an official-sounding rap on the door. “She wouldn't tell me what it was about. Insisted on seeing you, Calla.”

I got up with the rest of them, reluctantly. Tenn turned off the TV and walked with me toward the couch as Cage let the detectives in.

I noted that Rocco walked out then, probably to guard the door. Which I appreciated. I'd had enough surprises.

At least I thought I had.

Detective Flores and, yes, Detective Dom came forward with serious faces. “Calla, I'd like to speak with you alone, please.”

“No,” Cage and Tenn said in unison. And Preacher too.

“It's all right,” I told them. “It's not like you'll be far, right?”

“It's either here or the station,” Flores said.

“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked.

“Do you feel like you need one?” she shot back.

“Yes.”

“Rocco!” Preacher shouted. He peeked in and Preacher pointed at me. “She's lawyered up.”

Rocco came in and sat down next to me.

“You're a lawyer?” Flores asked him, before I could.

“Yes, ma'am. Member of the South Carolina bar.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card to hand to her. “Calla, I'll tell you what not to answer, all right?”

I nodded. Cage and Tenn and Preacher moved off toward the kitchen. Flores took a seat across from me, while her partner stood.

“Where was Cage Owens last night?” she asked me pointedly when I was looking at her dead-on.

My gaze didn't waver as I lied. “He was with me.”

“All night?”

I smiled. “Yes, all night.”

“I suppose that's what you'll tell me about every night this week,” Flores said.

“What's this all about, Detective?” Rocco asked. “If you want to question Cage, please do so, but my client's answered your question. Did you come all this way to ask that?” Rocco, who'd just been watching a threesome, was as professional as I'd ever heard anyone, especially if I didn't look at the skull and crossbones T-shirt he was wearing.

Flores didn't pull any further punches, telling me, “Ned Benson's been murdered.”

My mouth opened. Closed. I put my fingers over my eyes for a long moment. While there was no love lost between my brother and me, he was still my brother. My head spun and Rocco put a hand on my shoulder. When I looked back up, Dom was handing me water. I took a small sip and then asked, “How? Why?”

“When was the last time you'd seen or heard from your brother, Calla?”

“Don't answer that. Is she a suspect, Detective?” Rocco asked.

“It's a simple question.”

It was. “I haven't seen or heard from him in years.”

“Years?”

“At least three.”

“Satisfied?” Rocco asked.

“Where was he when you found him?”

“He was staying in a motel close to the Georgia border,” Flores said.

He'd been that close to here? Was that a coincidence?

“So you and your brother weren't close, then?”

“Not particularly,” I told her.

“Any reason?”

I knew better than to answer, because even in my slight state of shock I knew that I had a solid reason to want to hurt Ned. People had killed for a lot less than money.

But she was flipping through that damned pad of hers. “Ned Benson stole money that was earmarked for you after your grandmother died. He also forged your signature on the bar's deed, sold it and pocketed the money.”

I didn't say a word.

“All of that on its own would be enough to make me suspect you,” she continued. “But there's another piece of evidence that makes it slightly more damning. Because we found some pictures on his computer—of you, Calla.”

I glared at her. Blurted out, “Those are private. You're not allowed to see those,” even as Rocco put a hand on my arm.

“They're evidence now. Motive.”

I looked up. “Motive?”

“He was extorting money from your father. Threatening to go to the papers and put these all over YouTube if Mr. Bradley didn't pay up.”

But he did,
I wanted to tell her. I kept my mouth shut instead.

“Did you check Ned's bank account?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And?” Rocco asked.

“A large transfer of funds was made a month ago.”

“I'm not seeing the issue here, Detective.”

“The issue is that Cage Owens killed Ned Benson for Calla. I'd accuse Jameson Bradley, but he's got an airtight alibi.”

“He could've hired someone,” Rocco pointed out, throwing my father under the bus.

“I considered that. But Cage Owens was seen at the motel this week, by an FBI agent who's been part of an undercover sting. I think he makes a very credible witness.”

“He's wrong,” I said, my voice hollow and raw. “Please go.”

“I have more questions.”

“They'll have to wait,” Rocco told her, then called for Cage, who was next to me in seconds, even as Flores was telling me, “We can do this down at the station.”

“Is Calla being charged with something?” Cage asked.

“Not yet.”
Not yet
. Oh my God. “You'll most likely be charged together.”

“Get the hell out of my house, Detective.” Cage's voice was a growl, enough to make Flores start a little. And I figured it took a hell of a lot for that to happen.

When she'd gone, Cage came over to me. Rocco had disappeared into the kitchen with Tenn and Preacher to tell them what happened, I figured.

“You heard everything, I'm guessing.”

“Helps that the place is wired,” Cage said. “I knew you'd be fine with Rocco, but figured we needed a heads-up. And, babe, I didn't ask you to be my alibi.”

“That's right—you're not asking or telling me anything.”

“There's nothing to tell.”

My mouth opened to ask him if he'd killed Ned. He'd been angry enough to want to. So had I. But instead, I asked, “Do you think it's been Ned all these years and not Harris?”

Ned had been the same age as Harris, but Ned hadn't gone to the same boarding school as I had. My father paid for it and his wouldn't. “I don't know.”

“If it was . . . I don't know which would be worse.”

“You're trying to push me away, like you think I'm going to do to you.”

I blinked and didn't answer.
Damn him
.

“It's not going to work.”

“You say that, Cage, but I know better.”

“Yeah? You've had a lot of men defending you
against that prick? Because from where I stand, I'm the only one who's kept a promise . . . and I intend on keeping it the whole way.”

I swallowed, hard. “Did you kill Ned?”

“No. But I would've if he'd been there.”

No hesitation or guilt. Just simple, hard truth. And my simple, hard truth was that it would've been all right with me if Cage had killed Ned for his part in everything.