Naming His Price (Poison Sons MC)

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.

Naming His Price copyright @ 2014 by Brook Winters. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.

NAMING HIS PRICE

“I think you must be half out of your mind.”

As she typed furiously at her computer, the young woman on the receiving end of the comment barely spared a glance at the man standing over her. She hadn't known how long it would take for word to get around the office, but apparently, news traveled faster than she'd thought.

“Dan, look: I know you're ambitious. But heading out
there
, regardless of how big the sale, will only bring you trouble.”

With a sigh, Danielle Sparks hit
send
on her current page. As soon as the e-mail she'd been working on disappeared, she shoved back from her desk to fix Nick Camp, her friend and coworker, with an indulgent smile. “Hey, don't be upset because you didn't think of it first.”

The older man's cinnamon-colored eyes widened in disbelief. “Upset?
Upset
? Danielle, we're talking
The Poison Sons
here.”

“Mmhm.” Nodding, she flashed him her pearly whites. “Some of the most moneyed men in town.”

“Some of the most
dangerous
men in town,” Nick returned seriously, his gaze somber.

For a moment, his expression managed to pierce through her hard-earned shell of confidence, allowing a sliver of apprehension work its way in. Danielle could play ignorant all she wanted, but the fact of the matter was that she was well aware of just how lethal the Poison Sons could be.

For the past decade, the once small-time motorcycle gang had been growing in numbers, strength, and influence. She remembered a time in her adolescent years when every rebellious bad boy in school had gone from spray painting bleachers to joining their ranks. Every daydreaming girl had turned from their big screen stars to lust after muscled, tattooed locals.  Whenever a procession of gleaming, roaring Harleys made its way through downtown, there had been stares, whispers, and rumors; but no one had doubted that the gang's time would soon pass.

In the space of a mere 10 years, however, the Poison Sons had become a household name. Almost everyone in their sizable southern town had dealings with them through one outlet or the other, and every major business transaction had to go through some lower level Sons lackey.

While there were many that would say that the gang taking control of the town's economy had ultimately increased their wealth and efficiency tenfold, there were others that argued that every official in power, from highest politician to the lowliest beat cop, was there because the Poison Sons had chosen him. People who backed out on business deals involving the gang tended to disappear without a trace. Their slanderers didn't slander for long, and anyone who knew any better kept less than ideal information about the Sons to themselves.

It was a level of power both frightening and intriguing.

And it was that power that also made the Sons some of the best potential clients for real estate.

The firm Danielle worked for held properties owned by several institutions and upper echelon powerhouses; land that wasn't as easily bought and sold as the lots that were locally owned. Some of the properties they had for sale were from especially prestigious regional business moguls — penthouses and high rises in some of the town's best neighborhoods.

However, it wasn't one of these that had caught Danielle's attention. More interesting to her was an expansive warehouse in the downtown region. Already located near one of the Sons' main hubs of operation, she knew that the huge building would be ideal as their new headquarters.

When she'd first pitched the idea to her boss, the older woman had merely laughed.

Barbara Stanford had been impressed by Danielle ever since she'd joined the company five years ago. She'd risen quickly through the ranks as a direct result of her ambition and willingness to go after clients that other realtors wouldn't touch.

The idea of direct dealings with the Sons, however, was apparently over the top. “Half of the properties we have listed are theirs anyway,” Barbara had argued, “through some third party or the other. No one deals one on one with the Sons, Danielle. At least, no one with any sense of self- preservation.”

It wasn't that Danielle hadn't taken the warning to heart. She'd seen too many bodies dredged up from the river and far too many aftermaths of fatal shootings on the news to be completely oblivious to the power of the Sons. In addition, they had expanded in influence as she'd gone through adolescence. She'd watched them take over the town. Honestly, she was probably one of the town's citizens whose knowledge put her in the most danger.

Yet, she persevered.

The young woman couldn't properly explain it, even to herself. Certainly, the prospect of this sale meant a huge bonus for her, but it also meant going where no one had gone before — deep into the Poison Sons' territory.

To talk to anyone in charge, she'd have to head out to the Poison Sons' current headquarters. Everyone knew where it was but anyone sane — at least, anyone but her — stayed well away for fear of catching a glimpse of something they shouldn't. Along with knowing the location of the building, however, Danielle also knew that it was falling apart. She'd gone through company records to find that the old bar had been purchased about seven years ago and a deposit was put down to hire re-modelers. The workers had never shown up and subsequent attempts to improve the building — already decades old — had never been undertaken. It had to be a rat trap by now. An organization as important and powerful as the Poison Sons needed a newer, more convenient base of operations.

She was good at her job.

Danielle knew she could quote the selling points of the warehouse from A to Z; but first, she needed to get in to see someone who could make the purchase. Word around town, as sparse as it was, told that the most recent leader of the Sons, Jonah Hicks, had recently stepped down and his son was now in charge.

It was perhaps two or three days ago she'd convinced herself that she was going to make the warehouse sale. She would march right out to the decrepit bar on Newnan road and espouse so thoroughly on the merits of the location that the new man in charge would be chomping at the bit to buy.

Or her name wasn't Danielle Sparks.

“Nick, I've already made my mind up.” Standing, the young woman squeezed her friend's shoulder reassuringly. “I'm going to
try
to get them to take this warehouse off my hands, at least.”

“And you would have chosen the one situation where 'try' might equal sudden death.” Nick's sarcastic tone followed her beyond the cubicles as she made her way to the bathroom to freshen up.

It was almost quittin' time.

Barbara had demanded that if she was going to go through with her foolishness, it wouldn't be on company time. No matter; Danielle knew Barbara was merely covering her ass, and it actually turned out to be more convenient for her ultimately. Her office was a good deal closer to Newnan road than it was to her apartment.

Once inside the small ladies restroom, the young woman splashed water on her face copiously before looking into the mirror. A girl in her mid-twenties stared back at her, tanned skin smooth and unblemished. Her large, almond shaped eyes were a very particular shade of blue, almost violet in hue, and her pixie-like nose and full lips combined to make a visage that was pretty damn good-looking, if she did say so herself. Paired with a tall, curvaceous frame and veritable rivers of chestnut colored hair, her appearance had turned the heads of a fair few men in her time.

Now, Danielle applied the smallest amount of cosmetics: a bit of eyeliner and mascara, and the thinnest layer of lip gloss. Upon pursing her lips and examining herself critically, she decided that in her navy pencil skirt and white button up she presented a picture both sophisticated and alluring. It was a combination she was hoping would help her win over the son of Jonah Hicks.

With a winning smile that revealed rows of even, white teeth, she left the bathroom and returned to her desk to gather her things.

It only took about ten minutes for her to finish up a few last minute e-mails, switch her computer off, and grab her bag.

“Are you
sure
you want to do this?”

Her head popped over the barrier of the cubicle to find Nick before her once again. This time, the man's face was a mixture of both resignation and worry. Hopefully, he wouldn't try to physically stop her. Nick was a nice guy, but he could be a bit overbearing at times. Danielle had heard through the grapevine that he'd once been planning to ask her out, but had never worked up the nerve when he realized how much of herself she put into her work. It was true, she had to admit, that she'd turned down several of the other guys in the office.

“Absolutely. You've lost this one, Nick.” Turning off the lamp atop her file cabinet, she stepped from the small space, grabbing her coat. “There's nothing you can say to me that Barbara hasn't already tried.”

Sighing, her companion merely shook his head. “Well, just be careful. I don't want to hear about you on tomorrow morning's news.”

Danielle shot him a reassuring smile before waving good-bye.

In the minutes that it took her to leave the building, she pursed her lips slightly in consideration. If she was going to be on the news tomorrow, it would be as the first person to have made a personal real estate sale to the Poison Sons. If she caught a hint of anything funny brewing, she'd leave.

She could only hope that she was in a good position to do so should the time come.

**

“I'm going out of my fucking mind.”

As he leaned over the pool table, lining up his shot, Rusty spoke plainly to his opponent. He flattened his torso against the rat-nibbled green velvet and closed one eye, only to straighten again before he truly aimed. Instead, he grabbed his beer glass from a nearby table and chugged a quarter of its icy cold contents. Once he'd wiped the foam from his upper lip, he turned back to face Silas, who was looking at him in a mixture of frustration and amusement.

“What you mean?” The Cajun's voice was deeply accented, but Rusty had never had any trouble understanding him; nor had his late father. Until the day Jonah Hick's lungs had given out from tobacco use, he'd loved to crack jokes at the bayou-dwelling hitman's expense.

“I mean I've never been boreder'n my goddamn life.” The shot he finally took sailed past the target by a hairsbreadth on the left side, and he scowled.

Grinning to show a mouthful of gold-capped teeth, Silas neatly sank two striped balls into opposite pockets before replying. “What made ju tink twas gonna be blazeen guns an' bar fights?”

“That's what it was
before
the transition.” Rusty replied succinctly, taking another sip of his beer. “I think I liked it better when I was ridin,’ wheelin' and dealin.’ Sitting in this shit heap all day is driving me nuts.”

As he commented on the décor, Randolph Hicks's gaze swept over the ancient bar for what must have been the hundredth time that day. Christ, the place was a fuckin' dump.

The brick walls were so old they were blackened in some places and crumbling in others. Wood fixtures throughout the bar were rotting halfway through, completely ravaged by termites. The tables and chairs were all decidedly weather-beaten from years of being washed and dried in the sun; as a result, formerly gleaming, lacquered wood had been dulled to a bland gray. The bar itself had held up alright, its bricks still mostly in place, and the shelves that held numerous bottles of spirits were steady.

Other than that single merit, however, the place was pretty much a code violation waiting to happen. If they hadn't had the town health department in their back pocket a long time ago, they would have been closed down within minutes of inspection. How his father had run the Poison Sons from this hell hole for the past ten years he'd never understand.

“I'll admit, doesn't smell da greatest.” Silas wrinkled his nose as he drained his own small draught of whisky. “But da old man, he was fond of it.”