Knife & Flesh (The Night Horde SoCal Book 4) (22 page)

Trick was quiet, and finally Juliana braved the tilt-a-whirl in her head and looked at him. “It’s different with you. Maybe it shouldn’t be—I mean, he’s a fireman, and you’re…”

When she let the sentence die, he finished it for her. “An outlaw.”

“Yeah. On paper, it looks like I have things out of whack. I have a voice in my head all the time trying to tell me I have things out of whack. But I didn’t feel for him what I feel for you. He never even met Lucie. I never felt close enough to something serious with him to let him meet her. You met her without me, and you treat her like how you feel about her has nothing to do with me. I don’t know if that has anything to do at all with how I feel, or even if it makes sense. But what I feel for you feels…
important
.”

His eyes held hers, and his hand came up to cup her face. “I love you, Juliana.”

She covered his hand with her own. “That
is
important. I love you, too.”

Standing at Connor’s side near the altar, Trick looked around. He was a little disappointed. The Catholic church was a modern build, probably in the Seventies, and didn’t have the sense of history and gravitas he thought a place of worship should have. He could name a handful of buildings without religious purpose where he’d feel a stronger sense of spirituality.

But the abstract stained glass behind the altar captured his attention. The sun shone through and cast a kaleidoscope of light over the altar and the crucifix suspended above it.

His family hadn’t been particularly religious during his life, so he didn’t have a sense of religious history for himself. Even at thirty-four years old, he was still searching for that sense of meaning. He wasn’t an atheist; he hadn’t made up his mind enough for that—and he wanted not to be. Either despite of or because of his experiences, and his deep reading in philosophy, he wanted something greater than himself to believe in. He just hadn’t yet found any such thing he could trust.

Connor fidgeted at his side, dragging the collar of his dress shirt away from his neck. “Fuck, I’m choking,” he muttered. They were both wearing black suits, white shirts, and grey ties. Connor had a white rose in his lapel. Trick’s was a pale orange hue, a little darker than peach.

On the other side of the altar, where the maid of honor would normally stand, was Kyle Moore, also in a black suit, grey tie, and peach rose boutonniere. Cordero had asked him to be her ‘man of honor.’ The priest had been shocked at the rehearsal the night before.

Moore had been cordial to Connor and civil to Trick when they were back in a side room, waiting for the service to start, but now he was ignoring them.

“Easy, brother,” Trick chuckled as he watched Connor fuss with his clothes. “Not long now.”

“Are you shitting me? There’s a whole Mass. We’ll be up here for a fuckin’ hour.”

The priest, already standing before the altar, turned a judgmental frown on them. Trick grinned back with a shrug.

He was surprised, though, so he said to Connor, quietly as he could, “The rehearsal thing last night was only fifteen minutes.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Father Somebody grumbled.

Connor nodded and stopped fidgeting, and then the music for the bride’s walk began to play. As the guests stood, Connor turned and faced down the aisle. Trick sought out and found Juliana, standing near the front, next to Faith, among his family. Where she belonged.

He wished Lucie could have been here, too.

But she was with her father. They’d know after this weekend whether Stiles had been chased off by their namedropping of Jason Devore. If not, if he intended still to make trouble for Juliana or for the Horde, then they now had a bigger stick. Sherlock had connected dots and filled in a picture that, while short of proof, could do Stiles real damage.

Jason Devore was a silent money man in Hollywood, the kind of guy who had virtually no public presence, but whom everyone who needed to get a project financed knew. About a decade ago, while Stiles was his head of security, Devore’s young wife disappeared. The story had made news for about a minute and a half. Trick didn’t remember it, but he hadn’t been home from overseas for long at that time, and he’d been so disoriented he’d barely noticed the weather, much less the news.

Shortly after the story died down, Stiles left Los Angeles with a huge payout from Devore. Sherlock had not yet discovered truly damning evidence, but his theory was that Stiles had, at his boss’s behest, killed Tiffany Devore, or at least disposed of her body. Stiles’ reaction to the name certainly suggested that he had some story he didn’t want told.

Trick wasn’t interested in Stiles’ past activities, but if they had leverage to keep his present and future activities in line, then all to the good. Because if that asshole did anything to hurt Juliana or Lucie, in any way, Trick would handle it, and he doubted he’d have any new demons tormenting him over that.

As if she knew he’d been watching her, Juliana turned and caught his eye. She was beautiful, in a simple, blue satin dress that he’d watched her make. She had her hair up in some kind of sleek style, and Trick was momentarily distracted from the event of the day by a strong mental image of his mouth on her long neck.

His cock shifted, and he flinched. A boner here at the altar while he best friend got married—probably bad form. Just a guess.

Cordero walked down the aisle arm in arm with her grandmother, Renata. She wore Renata’s wedding dress, Trick knew, all lace aged to ivory, the top off-the-shoulder. In the place of a veil, she wore a cluster of red, orange, and yellow flowers in her hair, pinned at the nape of her neck. A larger cluster of similar flowers formed her bridal bouquet. Trick grinned as he remembered Connor’s drunken lament that he now knew the difference between a dahlia and a daisy. Between his mother, his old lady, and her grandmother, Connor had been far deeper in wedding planning than he’d ever wanted, especially since he hadn’t really wanted a wedding at all.

But he loved his woman, and she loved her grandmother, and her grandmother wanted a big wedding. So, though Connor had never before worn a suit, he was in one now. And though Cordero was among the least girly women Trick knew, she now walked slowly down the aisle in a forty-year-old Mexican wedding dress. With flowers in her hair and in her hands.

She smiled at Connor the entire way. Trick looked sidelong at his friend to see him smiling right back, looking positively moony with love.

Trick had always thought Cordero was hot. Today, he saw that Pilar was beautiful.

When they reached the altar, Renata hugged her granddaughter, and Connor, and then joined their hands before she went to sit in the front pew—next to Bibi and Hoosier. As bride and groom stepped to the priest, Trick sought and caught Juliana’s eye again. She smiled and put her fingertips to her lips, blowing him a kiss.

~oOo~

Though the wedding itself had been formal, the reception was more in keeping with Connor and Cordero’s personalities. Not that they hadn’t gone all out: they’d reserved almost half of the Madrone City Park, and, since the party began right after the wedding and would continue until they got thrown out when the park closed at midnight, they had turned the reception into something like a festival. For the kids—there were quite a few kids—they had a bounce house and games. For the grownups, there was a catering tent with a full bar and a buffet, with snacks early on and then a dinner later. The Horde had built a stage for the music. They’d booked a couple of bands: one to play during the day and another to play at night.

Another tent near the catering tent held makeshift dressing rooms, so that people who had attended the wedding could change into clothes more befitting the casual vibe of the reception.

Trick came out of the changing tent, comfortable again in his jeans, t-shirt, boots, and kutte, and found Juliana standing outside, still wearing that sleeveless satin dress and sky-high silver shoes. Her weathered backpack dangled off her hand.

“Hey.” He walked over and put his hand on her back. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I’m just bummed that I only got to wear this dress for a couple of hours. I wanted a Cinderella night.”

He grinned and kissed her cheek. “If you want, you can give me one of those sandals, and I’ll chase you around with it at midnight.”

“Har-de-har.” She gave him a playful push. “Move. I need to go change.” She headed into the tent.

While he waited for her, Trick turned and surveyed the area.

The guests at the wedding Mass had been limited to people closest to Connor and Cordero: the Horde and their families, the regular club girls and hangarounds, firefighters from Station 76 and their families, and a couple of Renata’s friends. A few dozen people, maybe fifty or so.

The reception, on the other hand, had been opened wide. They’d invited friends from other local clubs and their families, firefighters from other San Bernardino County stations and their families, and Renata’s work colleagues. And Horde business associates. Rather than a few dozen guests, a couple of hundred were converging on the park.

The Horde had set Titus and Jerry at the entrance to the section they’d rented, directing traffic and doing crowd control.

While Trick watched now, two black Range Rovers pulled up, and Titus and Jerry let them through to park where the Horde and their families were parking. La Zorra had arrived.

Though he’d known to expect her arrival, he hadn’t allowed himself to think on it too much. For whatever reason, Dora Vega and her apparent personal interest in him was a major trigger, and his mental balance had been so fragile over the past several weeks that he did all he could to avoid triggers.

Now, though, as he watched her climb out of the Rover and wondered whether whatever she wanted from him would be made clear here, at Connor’s wedding reception, Trick felt nervous.

No. Not nervous. He felt panic.

Real panic. Too much panic. Oh, fuck.

Standing outside, in the middle of a park, walls closed in on him anyway. The sounds of the party receded, and his head got loud. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. His chest contracted and squeezed his heart, and he clutched at his shirt, trying to make room.

He had to get out of here. But where? How? Oh, fuck.

A big hand grabbed his arm from behind, and he wheeled around, ready to fight. Connor had him, his brows drawn down with concern and confusion.

“You okay?”

Trick couldn’t answer. Connor dragged him around the tent, to the narrow space between the changing tent and the catering tent. An obstacle course of guywires nearly tripped Trick, but Connor pulled him on, not stopping until they were well sheltered.

Losing the fight against the anxiety, Trick folded forward and grabbed his knees.

“What the fuck, T? Are you sick? Are you having a fuckin’ heart attack?”

He tried to answer, but he couldn’t. Consumed now with panic, he shook his head, then dropped to his knees.

“Trick! Jesus Christ! Where’s Juliana?”

“I’m okay,” he finally gasped as the attack loosened its jaws a fraction.

Connor crouched at his side. “You are very far away from okay, my brother. What is goin’ on?”

The world crawled back, and he began to feel like he wasn’t going to die right here and now. Again he said, “I’m okay, Con. Just need a minute. Go be a groom.” Connor had to go out and meet the Queen, if nothing else.

“I’m not leaving you back here like this.”

Gaining some more traction on reality and calm, Trick sat back on his heels. “I’m okay, man. I’m okay. I don’t need you hovering like a bitch. Get the fuck out.”

Studying him closely, Connor finally nodded. “Alright. You chill, though. Then go home.”

Trick shook his head. “I’m not leaving. I’ve got a toast to do.”

“Fuck the toast.” He stood up. “Jesus, T. You and I are gonna have a talk about this. For now, I’m gonna find Juliana.”

Trick didn’t want her to see him like this, but he wanted her comfort. He closed his eyes again and didn’t answer. When Connor finally left him, he sat his ass on the grass, pulled his knees up, crossed his arms over them, and buried his head.

Jesus fucking Christ. All this over a woman. Why? He had to find a way to think it through without losing his shit, or it was never going to lose its hold on him.

First, though, right now, he had to pull himself together enough to get through this party. Although the disabling anxiety had receded, Trick knew that it would be hours before he would feel something like normal. Maybe not again tonight. But he had to get at least through the toast. He was the fucking best man. He had a duty.

Wrapped up in his attempt to find the ground under him again, he didn’t know Juliana was there until he felt her hands on his shoulders.

“Trick.”

He looked up; she was kneeling in front of him smiling a one-sided smile—not ridicule or amusement. Compassion. He tried on a smile of his own, and he thought it was moderately successful.

She put her hand up and combed her fingers through his hair. The drag of her fingernails over his scalp soothed him, and he closed his eyes again and leaned into her touch, sighing out weary tension.

Without saying anything else, she turned and sat at his side. When she put her arm across his back and pulled him toward her, he let her, and when he found his head in her lap, it was a good thing.