Shot to Hell (Four Horsemen MC #7) (12 page)

Axel must’ve given her an abbreviated version. The club kept their secrets well. “We were…coerced into an alliance with the Dixie Mafia. They had an agreement with the
Tres Erre
to ship drugs across the border. The Raptors have been smugglin’ for years.”

“How’d they rope you in?”

“Long story. Ain’t mine to tell, though.”

She blew out a slow breath, and Steele could tell she was making an effort to control her temper. “I can’t do my job if you keep secrets from me.”

“Gotta keep this one.” Eddie Rollins, Axel’s mother, had gotten in deep with Beauregard, and the mobster now held her life in his hands. Literally.

“Figures.” Her lips twisted. “I shoulda known you’d put your needs above duty.”

Steele had no defense. Ash wasn’t right about this particular situation, but his dick had come before his best friend in the world. He didn’t even try to defend himself.

He tended to her wounds and shut his mouth. Moments passed and neither of them said a word.

“The DEA,” she began, filling the silence. “They’d heard rumors about a management shake-up in the cartel, a new leader.”

At least he could talk about this with her. “Yeah, a couple of us met her. They call her
bruja
.”

“Spanish for witch?”

He nodded.

“A woman in charge of a cartel. I don’t know whether to be proud for the sisterhood or disgusted.”

“Believe me, it’s the last one, and her name should be bitch, not witch. She left a pile of bodies in the village we traveled through, and I ain’t bein’ poetical. I mean, a mountain of pieces.”

“Holy shit.” Ash pressed a fist to her lips and puffed out her cheeks.

“Talk about a sight you don’t forget. She’s livin’ high on the hog in this big fancy house while she’s killin’ folks and pumpin’ poison into the States.”

Her lips twisted. “Sounds like the bitch needs put away for life.”

“What she
needs
is a cozy grave for one.”

Ash had a wicked gleam in her eyes—the thrill of the chase.

Damn, this new kickass side of her was kinda hot in a twisted way, but it came from a dark place.

“I know why you’re so angry.”

“Oh yeah? You psychic all of a sudden?”

“Don’t need to be. His birthday is comin’ up.” He usually spent Abe’s birthday and the anniversary of his death on benders—filling up on whiskey and women so he could drown out the pain.

“
Our
birthday.”

His chest tightened. Steele wanted to tell her lots of things—that he was sorry, and she shouldn’t be tempting fate and trying to get herself killed. But it was hopeless. She’d never listen to him, so he stayed mute and finished the damn job.

After a while, Ash yawned into her hand. Her eyelids drooped, and she wasn’t as tense.

“You tired?”

“Yeah, didn’t sleep much last night.”

No wonder she’d taken on several grown men tonight and held her own. “Maybe you should get some shut-eye.” He didn’t come out and tell her to rest, because she’d stay awake to spite him. Oil and water—they didn’t mix well.

“Maybe.”

Steele walked to the end of the bed, pulled out his cell phone, and fired off a text to Ace, canceling her dinner date with him. And nope, he didn’t bring it up. He doubted she’d remembered it.

Ash curled on her side, and as she moved, Steele noticed the wound on her neck.  A scar swooped down by her throat, directly over the vein. He couldn’t help but stare, and he reached a fingertip out to touch it.

Ash slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.” She pulled the collar of her shirt higher then dragged herself to the other side of the bed.

“What happened? Who cut you?” What the hell had she gotten herself into? It was bad enough someone had taken a knife to her face—they’d tried to end her life too?

“I did.” Her look was drenched in bravado.

“You…?” Steele couldn’t even get the words out. She’d taken a knife to her own throat. 

Ash stood and walked to the mirror. She pushed her hair back and examined her throat in the shiny surface. “I always keep it covered. I shoulda been more careful today.”

“You tried to commit suicide,” he breathed. He felt like someone had punctured his ribcage and seized his heart.

“Yeah, but it’s none of your fuckin’ business so do us both a favor and leave.” She stalked back into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

Dumbly, Steele stood there for several minutes, staring at the closed door. He wanted to break it down and demand an answer. He wanted to shake her until she told him everything—until he made Ash promise she’d never,
ever
do something stupid again.

But he didn’t—couldn’t, actually.

He was the last person on earth who could reason with her. When his legs worked again, Steele dragged himself out of her room.

And threw up on the pavement.

Chapter Eight

The next morning, Steele sought out Pretty Boy at Perdition. Steele hadn’t been able to sleep—not a wink. Every time he closed his eyes, he dreamt about Afghanistan
again
—the night Abe died. He could still play every single second of it in his head like a horror movie.  The smell of charred flesh on the smoky air. Abe’s face frozen, contorted in pain forever. Since Coyote had gone missing, the nightmares had come calling every evening.

Steele shook his head, trying to block out the images.

Normally, he fucked his way into a good slumber, but Ash had come crashing into his world. And screwing another woman had mysteriously plummeted to the bottom of his priority list.

Steele was out of his depth—he didn’t do this touchy-feely crap. Ever. He preferred to shoot his way out of a problem, which wouldn’t cut it in this particular situation.  Besides, Ash needed help, whether or not she realized it and, unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to give it to her.

So Steele sought out reinforcements.

Pretty Boy stood behind the counter, pouring pretzels into small wooden bowls from a Sam’s club-sized bag. The bar hadn’t opened yet, so the place was nearly empty. Other than Pretty Boy, he spotted a couple of hellions meandering around, refilling salt and pepper shakers. Neither of them were Wendy—thank the Lord for small favors. Steele didn’t see Eddie or Ryker around, so this was a prime opportunity to have a talk.

Pretty Boy raised a brow. “What’s up, brother?”

He didn’t normally come to the club this early in the day without a good reason. Steele needed a favor but didn’t know how to ask for it without sounding like a gigantic douche.

“Nothin’ much. How’s tricks?”

He sat down on a stool and helped himself to a fistful of pretzels. After he’d barfed in Hades’ parking lot last night, he hadn’t felt like eating when he got home. Although salty pretzels probably weren’t the best breakfast option.

Narrowing his eyes, Pretty Boy continued filling the bowls, and while he didn’t call bullshit on Steele’s answer, his face sure as fuck did.

“Tricks are fine,” he said after a long pause. “Why?” Pretty Boy rolled his eyes heavenward. “I swear. Are you here to hassle me?”

“About what?”

“My affection for dick. For the last time, I ain’t into you. Never was, and I don’t know shit about decoratin’. Don’t believe everything you see on
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
reruns.”

Steele frowned. Yeah, he’d probably given Shep and Pretty Boy a hard time, but not deliberately. He’d been interested was all. Not like he’d met many gay folks. “I really don’t care, man. The gay thing is ancient history. Gay it up, brother.”

Pretty Boy‘s shoulders shook. “Good. I will.”

 “Damn shame you don’t know nothin’. My place is a fuckin’ mess.”

They both grinned.

“Before I forget, I need you to take somethin’ to Justice. He didn’t stop by yesterday, and you two are workin’ together right now, right?”

“Yep.”

Pretty Boy slipped a hand in his cut and withdrew a Ziploc baggie full of weed.

Steele turned it over in his hands, examining it. “Is this Apocalyptic Night?”

“Nah, it’s a strand I developed for Justice. I call it Mercy.”

“Justice gets his own type of weed?” Steele was impressed and a bit jealous.  

“Yeah, he asked me to work on one when I was a prospect. It calms you down, helps you sleep.”

Steele tucked it into his cut. “I’ll make sure he gets it. He owe you any money?”

“Nah, he already paid me. Justice has a standing order.” Pretty Boy placed the bowls around the bar. “So why are you really here?”

Steele nearly choked on the pretzel he’d been munching on. Fuck, he should’ve been practicing his approach. “Uh….”

“Is it Wendy?”

He leaned closer to whisper. “How the fuck do you know about Wendy?”

“Brother, there ain’t no secrets in this place. I overheard a couple of the girls comparin’ notes last night.”

He didn’t give a shit about hellions gossiping behind his back. Not anymore. They could chin-wag all they liked, but gossip had a way of turning up at the worst possible moment. What if they said something to Ash? It
bothered him more than he cared to contemplate.

“What?  You into her or somethin’?”

“Oh, God, no. I want the social worker’s number.” And there it was, without finesse.

“Etta May?” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Pretty Boy was no longer a prospect and couldn’t be ordered around anymore.
It sucked ass. Big time.

“I need it.”

“Hell no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like her, and you aren’t gonna fuck her.”

“Don’t wanna.” The idea had never occurred to him.

“Yeah? I don’t believe you. That’s what you do. You’ll screw her and then toss her away. What do you want with her? Are you fresh out of hellions to bang?”

“Do you think the only reason I talk to women is to fuck them?”

A ripple of shame ran through him. Oh, fuck—that’s
exactly
why he talked to a woman.

Women viewed him as a fun guy to fool around with, not the kind they’d bring home to Mom and Dad. Steele had never been the brightest crayon in the box. In high school, he’d lived for the gridiron, not the classroom. In the military, he’d held his own, but he wasn’t exactly a genius.

“Yeah, I do.” Pretty Boy vaulted over the bar.

Damn. “I talk to the old ladies all the time. I never—”

“Only because it’s in the club commandments, and our brothers would knock your teeth down your throat for lookin’ at them sideways.”

“I don’t wanna fuck her. I need her help. Are you gonna give me the number or what?”

“I’m leanin’ toward not. What’s up?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

“Tell me.” Pretty Boy drummed his fingers on the bar. “Etta has hauled my ass out of the fire a few times. I’m sure as hell not gonna leave hers unprotected.”

Steele sighed. He might as well tell the partial truth. “I need the number for a friend.” Ash deserved her privacy. No one else needed to know she was suicidal.

“Uh huh.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And?”

“And she’s goin’ through a difficult time. Her brother died in the war, and I think she’s havin’ trouble letting go.” He offered up a slice of the truth, but he couldn’t say more.

Pretty Boy cursed under his breath. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He held out his hand. “Give me your phone. I’ll put the digits in. She’s in Dallas right now—some kind of social worker conference she’s speaking at—so I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”

Steele forked over the prepaid, and Pretty Boy’s fingers flew over the keyboard before he tossed it back. “Got it. Thanks, brother.”

“No problem, but while Ms. Etta May Jameson is helpin’ out your friend, she’s under your protection. Got it? Don’t let nothin’ happen to her. And I can’t overstate this…don’t fuck her. Don’t.”

“Got it, brother.” The matter settled, Steele tried to be his usual jokester self, even though the role didn’t quite fit just now. “Let’s talk about
my
strain of weed. What do you think about Man of Steele?”

Pretty Boy rolled his eyes.

***

Steele headed got to Hades in time to watch Ash jog across the parking lot. When she caught sight of him, Ash broke into a run. He sprinted over, catching her at the door before she could dash inside and shut him out.

She wore a pair of thigh-hugging black leggings and a tight top which read:
Sweaty Haute Mess.
She’d fastened the arms of her hoodie around her tiny waist. Upon closer examination, he could see she’d swiped some makeup over her scar to disguise it. If he hadn’t known what he was looking for, he’d have never noticed the wound.

“You run every mornin’?”

“Yup.” Turning her back on him, Ash placed an arm on the wall and extended one foot, stretching her muscles.

Steele filed the info away for later use. He wanted to talk about her suicide, but could he bring something so volatile up? “Hey, we need to talk.”

“About what? You pukin’ right outside my door?”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Because you just copped to it. The barf stunk to high heaven, and I had to keep refilling the ice bucket from the tap to wash away your mess. Took me six trips.”

“Sorry.” He’d meant to text Angel and tell the prospect to care of it, but he’d been befuddled last night.
Might as well say it.
“Let’s talk about the big ass scar on your neck.”

Ash cooled, and damn if her grim face didn’t look meaner than a junkyard dog. “Fuck off, Steele. Let it go, ain’t none of your business.” She headed for the door, keys jangling, and he followed her, muscling his way into the room.

She stood staring at him with her hands on her hips. “Let’s talk about the shaky lead instead.”

He wanted to say so many things, but the words wouldn’t come. Steele couldn’t heal the damage he’d caused. “I—”

“What, Steele? What do you want from me?”

I wanna make you whole again
. Instead of saying the words, Steele handed her Etta May’s number. He’d copied it down on a bar napkin. “Here, she’s a clinical social worker. One of my brothers knows her, says she’s real good at her job. Maybe she could help.”