Shot to Hell (Four Horsemen MC #7) (10 page)

Steele cleared his throat. “We need to speak with one of the dancers, Ginger Heart. You know her?”

“Afraid not, why you wanna speak with her?”

“She’s a person of inter…an interestin’ person.” Ash had almost fucked up. She’d rather shoot her way out of a problem than pussyfoot around. It was a character flaw.

He scratched his chin. “You meant person of interest. Now that’s somethin’ I think an officer of the law might say.” Beauregard pinned the bikers with a flinty gaze.

“She ain’t a lawman,” Steele’s lips twisted. “Er, woman.”

Beauregard stepped around Steele and invaded her space. “What alphabet soup are we talkin’ here? FBI? ATF? DEA?”

She couldn’t tell if he was about to take her out back to the old woodshed, or if he was about to offer her a bribe. “None of the above, actually.” It was sort of the truth.

“No?”

“Nope, I don’t work for any of those agencies. I’m here in a civilian capacity.” Ash hoped the dear Lord wouldn’t strike her dead for lying.

“And the fine, upstanding Horsemen are acting as your escort?” Beauregard asked her the question, but he stared at the bikers, baiting Justice and Steele.

As if on cue, the men flanked her small body with their imposing frames. Annoyed, she squeezed between them, pushing herself to the forefront. “Trust me. I don’t need protection, boys.”

Beauregard gave her a bemused smile. “I don’t believe you do.”

“You could talk the hide off a cow.” Steele stalked closer to the mobster. “If you don’t mind, we got business that doesn’t involve you.” He walked off.

Beauregard blocked Steele’s way again. “What are you hopin’ to learn from Miss Heart?”

“We’re gonna girl talk a bit. You know how it is.”  

Beauregard frowned but let it go. He turned his attention back to Steele and Justice.  “Since you boys are here, we gotta have a conversation about…a situation.”

Now it was her turn to be curious. “Which situation?”

Steele scanned the room. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

Beauregard nodded. “Follow me.” Before he walked off, he pinned Ash with a warning glance. “We won’t be long, so don’t go causin’ any trouble while we’re gone.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You boys have a real nice chat.”

Ash didn’t waste any more time. She made her way to the back of the room and didn’t linger near the stripper poles since she’d lost her escorts. Experience told her one of the men would offer to buy her a lap dance if he could watch.

Instead, she hedged her bets, hoping Ginger would be backstage, getting ready.

Ash slipped through the door stamped
Employees Only
at the rear of the club. Behind it lay a long concrete hallway. Halfway down the corridor, she found a door slightly ajar. Inside, a half dozen women sat in front of small white dressing tables and mirrors surrounded by lights.

A radio in the corner played Miranda Lambert’s
Kerosene.
The women chatted as they applied makeup, paying her no mind.  Some of them wore robes, others had on variations of a cowboy/stripper look.

She didn’t have a badge to flash, but she hoped her don’t-fuck-with-me expression got results. “I need to speak with Ginger Heart,” she said loudly over the music.

Shrugging, the women returned to their grooming and gossip, except for one redhead in the rear of the room. She hunkered down at her mirror, obviously trying to look unobtrusive, but ended up making herself seem guiltier than hell.

Keeping her body between the woman and the door, Ash stepped over, and the stripper feigned interest in her makeup. Glitter coated her eyelids, and her lips had been painted a glossy Pepto Bismol color. Her hair had been teased and sprayed like a chick in an eighties music video, and she wore a pink sequined bikini with matching leather cowboy boots. Her Stetson lay on the table in front of her.

“Ginger Heart?”

“Naw, I don’t know her.” She hooked pink dangly earrings in her lobes and studied her reflection.  

“Okay, we’ll try this again. Enid Poole?”

Her eyes went wide, and she met Ash’s eyes in the mirror. Her lower lip quivered. “W-who wants to know?”

“I’m Ashton Calhoun, and I need to ask you a couple of questions.” She kept her tone light so she didn’t spook the girl.

“You a cop?”

“Nope. I only want some information. It’ll only take a couple minutes, I promise.”

“Okay, fine. But do you mind if we talk outside? I could use a cigarette.” She grabbed her lighter and a pack of mentholated smokes from a drawer.

“Not a problem.” The sooner Ash got out of this place, the better she’d feel.

Ash made it past the bouncer without incident, but the four bachelor party boys still stood against the walls. They watched her with interest as she walked past. One of them was bent over, puking on the sidewalk. Another had a cigar in his mouth, and he licked his lips as he ogled her. Another sang an off-key version of Tim McGraw’s
Real Good Man
. The last one pissed on some poor bastard’s Ford truck.  

Pukey wiped his mouth. “Hey there, sexy girl. Is she your girlfriend?”

Ignoring them, she pulled Ginger further into the parking lot so they could speak in private.

With shaking fingers, Ginger lit a cigarette. “What do you wanna know?”

“A few months back, you were arrested for driving while intoxicated near a strip club called The Pussycat Palace.”

“Yeah, and I paid my fine. What about it?”

“Did you work at the Palace? For the Raptors?” The DEA hadn’t been able to prove it with any records, since the club hadn’t kept any, but it seemed likely.

Ginger studied her pink boots. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Can’t…or won’t?”

She sucked on the cigarette again and blew out a series of smoke rings. “A bit of both, actually. The Raptors are no joke, and talkin’ about their business with outsiders is dangerous.”

“Your name won’t come up.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I’m not with the police. I work with a security firm. This ain’t a strictly legal operation. I’m not gonna call you as a witness or ask you to testify against anyone. I need some info.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m not lying.”

Ginger stared at her, and Ash could read the indecision on her face.

Pissy staggered over to them. “Hey, girls! How about a lap dance?”

“Fuck off.” Ash pulled Ginger further away from them. “I’ll never tell ‘em where I got the intel.”

“And if I tell you anything, what’re you gonna do about it?”

Ash smirked. “I’m gonna rain all kinds of hell down on those boys.”

After a long moment, Ginger nodded and gave a small smile. “Yeah, I used to work there before I got my head straight.” She pulled a blue coin from her bikini top. “I got my six month’s sobriety chip from NA last week.”

“Narcotics Anonymous?”

Ginger nodded.

Ash was impressed. Six months sobriety from hard drugs was an achievement. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Pukey drifted closer. “Hey, don’t be a bitch. We’re tryin’ to help you make some money.”

Ginger ignored the guy, talking to Ash instead. “When I worked at the Pussycat, they handed out drugs like candy. Got me hooked, and then….” Tears filled her eyes. “Those dicks deserve all the hell you can give them. What do you wanna know?”

“They’ve disappeared. The Raptors abandoned their business holdings and their homes. We haven’t even found any family members. Do you know any place they liked to hole up when they were in trouble?”

She thought a moment. “Yeah, actually. There’s this state park they liked to hang at. They used it a couple of times when somethin’ went down with the local police. They used fake ID to get cabins and camping spaces until it blew over. And one summer, they threw a huge blowout there. All the club officers stayed in cabins while the girls and regular members stayed in tents.”

Ash pulled a piece of paper and pen from her pocket. “Do you remember the name?”

Ginger nodded.

“Write it down for me.”

As the girl scribbled down the information, Ash scowled at the bachelor party guys who were getting closer. She got a good look at the matching T-shirt designs as all four of them wobbled toward her.  It had a lame checklist:
moon someone, get a girl’s phone number, get a girl to flash you, shotgun a beer, and—
her personal favorite—
get a girl to spank you.

“Can you think of anything else that might be useful?” Ash asked when Ginger had finished. She tucked the piece of paper into her pocket for safe-keeping.

“Cabin number twelve. Manson, the president, used to bring his side chicks up there on weekends and when he’d get into it with his old lady.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I think he had dirt on the park rangers or some kind of deal with them because they left it empty for his use. I know he’s…gone…but there might be something you can use there.”

“Did he ever bring you up there?”

“Only once, and believe me, once was enough.”

Ash sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you two lesbos?” Pissy asked. “Because we’d pay to watch you fuck.” All of his buddies shuffled in behind him. They reminded her of zombies with their vacant expressions and slow movements—only instead of brains, they wanted breasts.

Ash didn’t reply. These dicks were practically begging her for a smack-down. Ash placed her hands on her hips. So much for not making a scene.

 “Thank you for the help. Go inside now. I’ve gotta have a word with these here gentlemen.”

Ginger didn’t walk away. “Um, I don’t wanna leave you here by yourself. This doesn’t look safe.”

“I’ll be fine. Go on.”

The stripper hesitated but darted past the drunks and scooted in the door.

“No. Don’t leave us, Pink Ranger.”

They all cackled at Pissy’s joke.

“Alone at last,” Ash said as they circled her. She cracked her knuckles. Damn, she could use a little tension release. Nothing like a good old-fashioned, knock-down, drag-out bar fight. “Now then, maybe I can help you boys with the last number on your checklist.”

“You’re gonna spank us?” Pukey asked.

“In a manner of speakin’.” Ash sidled up to him.

“Oh, I’m scared.” His voice was high and girlish.

“You should be.” Ash kicked him square in the balls.

Chapter Seven

Steele and Justice followed Beauregard into an unmarked door on the left side of the bar. The room was an office, and like the rest of the club, it had a country and western theme. Steele took a gander at the signs on the wall. One read:
$5.00 fine for whining
. Another read:
Sinners and Saints Welcome Here.

The walls and the floor were wooden, and the ceiling held several long, braided ropes. Strung through them were Mason jars with pail-like lids that had been wired with bright white lights. Two suede chairs faced a converted barrel. It’d been tipped on its side, sawed in half, and nailed to two wooden slats, which held it in place. With the flat wooden top, it formed an unusual desk.  

Beauregard sat in the leather chair, while Steele and Justice took the chairs on the opposite side of the desk.

The door burst open, and a woman with long blond hair walked in. She had a rough-and-tumble look with her faded jeans and flannel shirt. Lines surrounded her mouth and eyes, and Steele would be willing to bet her blond hair had come from a bottle.

“This is my aunt, Bonnie Beauregard. She’s…rustic.”

Bonnie strolled over and placed her hands on her shapely hips. “And what he means by rustic is, I don’t put on airs, unlike some people I know. Now, what are y’all doin’ in my office?”

“I’m havin’ a meetin’ with these nice gentlemen. It’ll save me a trip.”

“I told you I don’t want none of your no-account mafia dickheads runnin’ around this place. I paid for it with my own money, and I don’t owe you boys jack shit.”

Beauregard leaned back in her chair and placed his feet on her desk.

“We’re bikers,” Steele informed her. “And for the record, we hate those mafia assholes as much as you do.” While he spoke to Bonnie, he looked Byron in the eyes.

She laughed.

“If you don’t mind?” Beauregard said pointedly.

“I do mind, but I doubt it’ll stop you.” And then she shoved his feet off her desk and sauntered to the door. She tipped her hat. “Nice to meet ya, boys.”

Steel and Justice waved at her as she walked out.

“Let’s get down to business, I have other things to do tonight. How goes the Raptor situation? You boys found ‘em?” Beauregard withdrew a black box from the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. He sucked on the end and lit up the smoke.

Steele bristled. Justice had the same reaction, judging by how tense his shoulders got.

Steele would give Axel an explanation anytime he wanted because he respected the chain of command—always had. But he didn’t owe Beauregard shit.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Nope.”

Beauregard flicked the ash off the tip of his cigarette. “I’d expect you and yours would be runnin’ all over Hell and half acre tryin’ to find ‘em. Especially since the Raptors snatched one of your brothers. What’s his name? Crow?”

“Coyote,” Steele gritted out.

“Whatever.” Beauregard rounded the desk. “And that’s why you’re here with your girlfriend, right? Scarin’ up leads on the Raptors?”

“She ain’t my girlfriend.”

Justice sighed. “Why? You got any helpful intel?”

“Wish I did, but seein’ as how you ain’t gettin’ it done, I’d better step in.” He buttoned his jacket and smoothed it.

Oh, hell no.

The last thing the club needed was another deal with this bastard. Beauregard had dug the club deeper and deeper into his debt with every deal they’d made. Not to mention the danger he’d gotten them all into.

“We don’t want your help,” Steele said, giving Beauregard all the
fuck you
attitude he damn well pleased.

“Yeah? Well, you need it.”

Justice set a warning hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy.”

Steele forced himself to take a calming breath before he spoke. “I’m not talkin’ for the club—it’s important you understand. And I ain’t tryin’ to be disrespectful neither, but I gotta put it all out there.”