Shot to Hell (Four Horsemen MC #7) (9 page)

She didn’t knock his hand away.

“Have supper with me tonight, darlin’.” Ace used a husky tone.

If he’d asked her earlier, she’d have turned him down flat, but Steele’s reaction spurred her on. Steele was practically seething—his chest thrust out, muscles cording in his arms.

Ash smiled, slow and wide. “I’d love to, Ace.” She slid her phone across the table and he put in his digits, then she called him so he’d have her number.

“It’s a date.” He winked at her and slid out of the booth. He stood chest to chest with Steele and, for a second, Ash thought one of them might take a swing at the other.

Finally, Ace backed off. “Wish I could stay and eat, but I’ve got a busy day so I’ll catch you later. How about a late dinner? Ten?”

“Perfect.”

With a grin, Ace sauntered off.

To tweak Steele further, she turned to watch the other biker walk away. Ace had a damn fine ass–high, tight, and firm. If only she were interested.

Although Ace wouldn’t care if she was. His heart—or at least his attention—clearly belonged to another—a former cop, no less. She doubted an outlaw and a former officer of the law had a chance in hell.

“Are you finished?” Steele plopped down across from her. With one finger, he pushed Ace’s cooling cup of coffee to the edge of the table as though his brother had the cooties.

She blew out a breath. “For now.”

“Ace is a dick.”

“I didn’t ask, and I don’t give a damn about your opinion. You and I are strictly business.”

Angel brought over a mug and poured coffee for Steele. Ash told him Ace had left and then ordered her food to go, so she could get away from Steele as soon as possible.

After the biker waiter left, Ash pulled a small notepad from her jacket. During an investigation, she kept detailed notes on all the interactions she had with people involved in the case. “I’ve got a lead we should follow up on.”

“What kind of lead?” Steele glanced at the pad.

Justice walked over. Evidently, he’d been having breakfast at the counter, and she hadn’t picked him out amid all his brothers. All of them looked the same from behind—jeans, leather cuts, and nice rear ends.

Ash continued speaking. “I’m hopin’ it’s a helpful one. The DEA keeps tabs on people of interest. In a records search, they came across someone who might have worked at one of the Raptors’ businesses. It’s been hard to sort out since the bikers did a lot of things off the books. Enid Poole might have stripped at the Pussycat Palace, and now she works in nearby Crimson Creek at a new place called The Lone Star Lounge. Her stage name is Ginger Heart.”

Ash would rather not go to a strip club, but it was the only lead she had. It wasn’t the first raunchy place she’d gone looking for criminals and it wouldn’t be the last, but going in there with a couple of big guys at her back might make it easier, at least.  She’d been to a few strip clubs in her day—for work purposes only. The criminal element gravitated toward dives and drunken party types.

She didn’t begrudge anyone making a living the way they saw fit or patronizing those establishments, but it made her wonder about chasing some high-end, white-collar criminals. Maybe she’d get to go to a ballet or an opera instead of bars filled with nude girls.

“Crimson Creek is Dixie Mafia territory,” Steele said. “Hold up.” He narrowed his eyes. “They gotta strip club now?”

“The Dixie Mafia,” Ash repeated. “How do they figure into all of this?”

“Long story.” Steele didn’t answer the question, the tight-lipped bastard.

The Raptors had an association with the Dixie Mafia, but the evidence trail was tenuous at best. According to her boss at Cole, DEA leadership was more interested in nailing the
Tres Erre.
They’d leave busting the Dixie Mafia to the FBI.

Justice slid into the booth with Steele. “Well this oughtta be interestin’.” He turned to Steele. “Are we gonna make a scene or go in stealth mode?”

“No, we’re gonna get the intel we need and get the hell out before we run into the devil himself.”

“Are the Dixie Mafia enemies of yours or what?” She could sense a story there.

“No comment.”

Ash let him have his secrets for now, but she’d snoop to get some answers later.

Angel brought her a white Styrofoam container. She opened the lid to find a yogurt parfait with fresh berries and granola on the side.

Hmph,
Voodoo had known exactly what she’d like.

“I should be going,” Ash announced. “I gotta sign the agreement with your club president and fax it back to Cole.”

“Any idea when the stripper’s gonna be there?” Justice asked. “If you got her home address, we could show up, maybe avoid an unnecessary confrontation.”

“I don’t have a residence on record. I tried all the databases but didn’t come up with jack shit. I got a feelin’ she’s transitory. Maybe stayin’ with friends or relatives?” She pulled out her cell phone, searched for the Lone Star Lounge, then dialed the number.

Ash grabbed her breakfast and stood. “I’ll text you if she’s working tonight,” she called over her shoulder and walked away from Steele as fast as her feet would carry her. She wished she’d practiced the maneuver when she was younger.

It might’ve saved her a lot of pain.

Chapter Six

Later in the evening, Ash rode with Justice and Steele over to the strip club. The drive to Crimson Creek had been awkward and silent. Ash hadn’t done the teamwork thing since being in the military. To make matters worse, the bikers had insisted on driving, so she was squished between them as she rode in one of their trucks.

Her Forrester had four seats, more leg room, and bulletproof glass. She’d been shot at more than once, so it came in handy.  For some reason, Ash had an uncanny ability to piss folks off.

They stood in the parking lot, staring at the glitter and glitz. The strip club was wrapped in red, white, and blue neon lights. On the top of the club’s sign, a glittering cowgirl flexed her leg up and down, displaying her boots. Justice and Steele didn’t look happy about being here either, which was rare for men.

The lot was nearly full, and a group of guys in their twenties leaned up against the wall near the entrance. They wore identical blue shirts, but she stood too far away to read them. Ash guessed they were probably part of a bachelor party.

“You sure you wanna go in with us? It might get rough in there.”

She bristled. “I can handle myself, Steele. Unless you got another reason? Are you afraid your Dixie Mafia pals will show up and spill the beans about more felonies?”

After she’d signed the contract with Axel that morning, the president had let the club’s business relationship with the mafia slip. He’d been light on details, but she’d figured out the club had done one drug run across the border. Now, she’d be forced to work with the Horsemen in order to find the Raptors, and Steele’s club would skate off with no criminal repercussions.

Steele shook his head. “Not now, Ash.”

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Who pissed in your oatmeal?” Justice shot her a look, but she pretended not to hear him.

They trudged to the door. Both bikers paid an entry fee to a big, beefy guy in a tight white T-shirt and jeans working as a bouncer. He wore a ten-gallon hat, and his muscled arms were as big as her thighs.

“No charge for you, ma’am.” He tipped his cowboy hat.

“Why?”

He leered at her chest even though she’d dressed down in a sweatshirt and jeans. Walking into a strip club in provocative clothing would invite unwelcome attention when she was trying to lay low.  

“We don’t get many ladies. You here to watch or strip too?”

Ugh.

The men draped against the walls
whoohooed
as if they expected a re-enactment of the creepy Aerosmith video,
Crazy
, where Alicia Silverstone and Liv Tyler jumped on stage at a strip club and took it all off.

One thing she loved about her job was the opportunity to channel all the rage she’d stored up. Bouncer Boy might be big, but she had tricks up her sleeve she’d bet he’d never seen before. Laying him out flat on the pavement would be easy and kind of funny.

Ash pulled back her fist, but Steele seized her elbow and hauled her in the door.

“Take it easy.”

“Hey!” She shoved him away once they were inside.

“We’re keepin’ this quiet-like, remember? Enemy territory and all.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.” She shook her arm as if he’d tainted her by touching it.

Justice patted her shoulder. “Make ya a deal. If the bouncer gives you any lip on the way out, you can break his nose.”

She laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Alright then. Let’s find this girl.”

Ash scanned the room to get a lay of the land. She hated to admit it, but the place wasn’t half bad for a strip club. It was somewhere between strip club and a honky tonk. 

It wasn’t as sleazy as some of the places she’d been. That wasn’t saying much, though. One club she’d had the misfortune to visit in New York’s Chinatown featured something called a “Ping Pong Pussy” show, which had scarred her for life.  Ping pong balls should
never
be launched out of some places.

Lone Star had a Texan feel, which matched the name. The club’s music was so loud it practically vibrated the tables…if they’d had tables. Instead bar stools were placed around old kegs, which had been branded with the name Jack Daniels. One wall had beer cans arranged in the shape of Texas flag. Ash glimpsed a group of men in the back, watching a stripper in lingerie ride a mechanical bull, her bared breasts jiggling.

Classy.

The DJ in the booth by the bar played Jessica Simpson’s sultry version of
These Boots Are Made for Walkin’
. The stage in the center of the room featured three women twirling on poles—all of them wearing cowboy boots, Daisy Duke short shorts cut to show their ass cheeks, and red bikini tops that barely harnessed their breasts.

A waitress who breezed by with a tray of shots wore a red bandanna halter top, cut-offs, and red cowboy boots. She tipped her hat to Justice as she passed.

“What brings you fine gentlemen to this establishment?”

She turned to see a handsome man standing near the bar in an expensive-looking black suit. Ash sized up the good-looking, blond man in his early thirties. He had penetrating blue eyes, and he smoothed an expensive black silk tie as he returned her frank gaze. He didn’t look like he belonged at the club, but criminals came in all shapes and sizes. Some much more attractive than others.

“Well, if it ain’t Byron Beauregard.” A pulsating vein stood out on Steele’s forehead.

She’d heard the name before. The DEA had a close partnership with the FBI when it came to drugs and organized crime, so they briefed each other on current developments. Beauregard had worked his way up the Dixie Mafia food chain in Texas.

Beauregard looked so…
normal
. Color her disappointed. She’d been hoping for some flashy suits, like the kind the Italian mob guys strutted around in.

The latest stories placed him as the brand new underboss. Cotton Krug, the former underboss, had inexplicably come to an untimely end, which put Beauregard right beneath the head honcho, Tucker Cobb.

What Ash couldn’t work out was why the FBI hadn’t yet made a move on Beauregard and his organization. Were they waiting to build a better case? Or did the mafia have protectors in high places, men in power they paid off with pricey bribes?

Beauregard offered a hand to Steele and Justice. The bikers folded their arms over their chests, refusing to play nice, which made Beauregard shake his head.

“And who might this pretty thing be?” Beauregard asked Steele.

Steele and Justice remained silent, as if they were doing a statue impression. It was confusing to Ash.
Weren’t they hauling this asswipe’s drugs over the border?

“Ashton Calhoun.” Ash offered her hand to the gangster.

She’d intended to shake it, but he kissed her knuckles instead. “Byron Beauregard, local businessman and entrepreneur.”

Ash grasped his hand and squeezed hard as she looked him straight in the eye. For a moment, they stared at one another, hands locked.

Beauregard’s smile widened.

She kept hers stony and devoid of warmth. Drug-dealing bastards like him had killed her brother.

He winked. “Can I have my hand back, darlin’?”

She released him and smiled sweetly. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“The
pleasure
is all mine. And what brings a pretty thing like you to this deplorable place?” Beauregard slyly glanced at Justice and Steele. “Unless you’re here to avail yourselves of some adult pleasure?” He raised a wicked brow. “Far be it from me to judge anyone’s…appetites.”

“Oh God, no,” she screeched before she checked herself.

The mobster threw back his head, laughing. “And why not? Were you hopin’ for a better offer?” His tone implied he might make one…or he was playing with her.

But Ash found the implication more disturbing than a ping pong ball stuffed up her vagina.  

“She’s here on business,” Steele snapped as he stepped between them. “You own this place?”

Beauregard shook his head as if the idea were too ludicrous to even contemplate. “Don’t go gettin’ on your high
Horsemen
about this. I don’t own this…club.” He cast a disdainful eye around the room. Ash was sure he’d been about to use a more colorful term—like rat’s nest or hellhole.

He continued prattling away. “One of my relatives owns the Lone Star, and I was simply stopping by to be polite.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You know how it is with family.”

“Last time we checked, you didn’t give a fuck about bein’ polite,” Justice said.

Ash watched this interplay, fascinated. What the hell was going on here? Had the Horsemen been unwilling to work with the Dixie Mafia?

“If I wasn’t a gentlemen, I would’ve ordered the bouncer to toss you out on your sorry asses.” Beauregard had all the charm of a crocodile about to snap its jaws shut on tasty prey. “Except for Ms. Calhoun, of course.” He turned his attention back to her. “And you never elaborated…what
exactly
brings you all here?”