Strength & Courage (The Night Horde SoCal Book 1) (14 page)

“Why did Demon hurt you even though I told him we were okay? Should I be worried about his temper?”

That wasn’t an answer to his question, but he went with it. “No. He would never hurt his son. We fought in the ring, fair and square. Because I put his situation with Tucker at risk. Or he thought so, anyway. I still don’t know why you lost your shit.”

She huffed. “I didn’t ‘lose my shit.’ I defended myself.”

“From me. But I’m not a threat.”

“We disagree on that point.”

“Do we? You’re threatened? Honestly?”

Her answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming. In fact, he had so long to wait, sitting there while she stared at him, that he found himself listening to the random sounds of her house—a clock ticking somewhere, the creak of the house settling, a car passing by on the street. A dog barking in a yard nearby. Finally, she said, “No. I’m not threatened.”

“Then tell me what the fuck.”

She finished her Jack, grimacing as it went down in bigger swallows than before. “My boss is a little creepy. I’ve got it handled, but I guess I was still feeling pissed about it. Not saying I overreacted, but maybe I was a little bit more sensitive than usual.”

“Creepy how? What’s ‘it’?” He could handle a little rat fuck bureaucrat and make sure he minded his manners.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, no. I know that look. Never mind. I don’t need you pulling some macho shit. Like you said, we barely know each other.”

Taking his empty glass from his hand, she went back to the kitchen and poured some more whiskey. Muse set the icepack down and wrenched himself out of his seat. He walked up behind her. “If you’re askin’ me not to want to take care of you, I guess we have a problem.”

“You shouldn’t want to take care of me. You first laid eyes on me a week ago.”

“I’m not the kind of guy who walks by when a woman is hurt.”

“Jesus. He didn’t hurt me. He grabbed my knee. That’s all. Apparently you had to maul me in public to keep me from getting felt up by your friends, so I’m not sure how that’s better.”

“You wanted me to kiss you. That’s how it’s better.”

The sound that came from her throat then was a growl, pure and simple. “We are talking in circles and I’m tired of it. I don’t like being pawed uninvited. I don’t like feeling like a piece of meat to be fought over. I don’t like being treated like I can’t handle my own shit. End of fucking story. Now, you got an icepack and you got a chance to sit. Will you please just get out?”

“Is that what you want?” He brushed his fingers down the satiny length of her arm, feeling the skin roughen with gooseflesh at his touch. He knew she wanted him still. He didn’t think he was in any condition to get busy tonight, but if she let him stay, he’d make a valiant effort.

But she shrugged away from his touch. “Yes. I want you to go.”

Sore, tired, disappointed, and hurt in more than his body, he sighed. “Okay, hon. I’ll go. But I’m not done with you.”

~oOo~

In the Keep the next afternoon, Lakota went around the table, handing out envelopes to each patch. They were a little thicker than they’d recently been—the protection business had been busier in the past few weeks. Muse opened his, pulled out the bills to cover his back dues, and handed them right back to Lakota. Then he flipped through what was left and did some quick math.

Not enough. Once he paid for Carrie, he’d still be fucking juggling, trying to figure out what bills to float until next month. He was so goddamn tired of dodging shithead bill collectors. Maybe he should have patched in with a club that had Nomads. Nomads always earned; they went where the money was. But then he wouldn’t have been able to stay close to his sister.

Just fuck.

This vote had to go the right way. It was time to go outlaw again, or at least go deeper into the grey. They couldn’t fucking eat just by screwing ape hangers onto Super Glides. Some of the members were strong for other reasons—their old ladies, to be precise. Hoosier was fine—Bibi had gotten some huge court settlement years ago. Bart was married to a fucking movie star. Diaz’s wife was a supermodel. He didn’t know how Hooj or Diaz would vote; both were staying quiet on the matter. Bart was actively lobbying against the work, even though it meant taking a huge hit to their legit business, too. If Ferguson turned his back on them, it could go even further than that. Others could follow. They could end up flattened. Muse thought Bart, who lived in a fucking mansion paid for with his wife’s multimillion-dollar television and movie deals, should keep his damn mouth shut.

He had no clear read on which way the vote would go. A few of his brothers were vocal one way or the other, but most were on the fence. Conversations all week had been heated.

Demon had surprised him by being heatedly vocal against the work. Demon had chafed even more than he had against the leash of a straight life. But Muse shouldn’t have been surprised. It was about Tucker and trying to stay clean and have the best chance to get his boy out of foster care. Knowing that had made Muse think hard about his own vote. Voting for outlaw work would likely put a wall between him and Demon. He’d hate for that to happen, and it was more than just the brother bond. They were friends. Muse had looked out for him almost as long as Demon had worn a patch.

But he had to keep Carrie where she was, and the way things were going, every fucking month he was at risk of getting her kicked. He couldn’t bear the thought of her landing back in a goddamn state facility, with the stench and the bedsores and gloom. That was what he’d pulled her out of. He’d let her down enough. The least he could do now was make sure she had a clean, pretty room and nurses who treated her like a human being. She was still a human being.

The envelopes handed out, Lakota sat back down, and Hoosier picked up the meeting again.

“Now that the packets are out, we’ve got one piece of business. Once we’re done and drinking, somebody can tell me what I missed has Muse and Deme lookin’ like they got rolled by King Kong.”

“More like Madame Butterfly,” Diaz laughed. Muse’s hands coiled into fists, and Demon looked like he wanted a piece, too. Nobody else laughed, and when Hoosier cocked his head at him, Diaz tried to explain himself. “An Asian chick started it all, right?”

“Mouth shut, asshole,” Muse snarled. Hoosier gave him a pointed look. Muse returned it steadily.

“There a problem here? Muse? Demon?”

“No, Prez,” Muse answered right away.

Demon took a little longer, but he answered likewise.

Hoosier pulled on his beard. “Good. I don’t want personal shit muddying up the decision we need to make. We’ve had a week to think about it, hash it out. I don’t want to sit in here all night covering the same territory. Here’s what’s on the table: taking on a border run for Wade Ferguson. San Diego to Oakland, twice a week. Pick up from a Ferguson associate, hand off to the Smiling Ghouls.”

Bart sat forward. “‘Ferguson associate—that’ll be cartel grunts. Let’s call this what it is. Almost everybody at this table remembers what happened with the Perros. We got pulled into that one way or another, and it almost got us killed. It got my best friend killed.” He turned his right arm over, showing an old, ugly burn scar from the inside of his wrist to his elbow. “We bear the scars of our dealing with the Mexicans. They should be lessons that keep us smart now. Cartels are bad business. I don’t care what kind of green they wave at us.”

Hoosier put his hand on Bart’s arm and pushed him back, but Muse didn’t see aggression in the gesture. Just authority. “Bart’s right. We go deep if we vote this in, and people could get hurt. Probably will. But Ferguson cuts all ties with us if we don’t take this on. His legit protection work is half our bank. Losing it could end us. If he convinces anybody else to hire elsewhere, it will end us.

“So we’re Ferguson’s bitch, then? That’s bullshit.” Demon slammed his hand on the table as an exclamation point.

“I agree,” J.R. added. “If we’re going dark, then we should focus on taking Ferguson down.”

Trick spoke up. He was soft-spoken and one of the quieter members, in the Keep or anywhere else. “We don’t have the rep or respect to take on Ferguson. We’ve been straight for more than three years. As long as we’ve been a charter. We’re not players in that world anymore. Nobody would stand with us.”

Connor, Hoosier’s son and the club SAA, answered that. “We still have friends. Not all our contacts have dried up. But Trick’s right. Our rep isn’t strong. Not anymore. If we want to face down Ferguson, we’d do well to take on this job and strengthen our position first.”

Again, Demon slammed his hand down. “I will never get my kid if we go dark. I can’t do this shit.”

“We’ll keep you clear, Deme. You’ll stay off the job. We’ll keep you clean.”

At Muse’s assurance, Demon turned, his eyes on fire. “You’re voting for the run.”

“Hold up, brothers.” Hoosier struck the gavel against the table. “If we’re going to vote, then let’s vote. Facing off against Ferguson is
not
on the table. The border run is the only vote here. Let’s do it. All in favor of taking it on.” He looked to his right, at Bart.

“No!” Bart practically shouted the word. Lakota was next.

“We can’t lose that bank. Maybe we can do something from the inside. I hate it, but aye.” Muse was surprised; he’d had Lakota pegged for a ‘no’ vote.

Thirteen members. When the vote came around to Hoosier, it was split exactly in half: Bart, Demon, J.R., Trick, Jesse, and Ronin voted ‘no.’ Lakota, Muse, Sherlock, Diaz, P.B., and Connor voted ‘aye.’ The vote was down to Hoosier.

“Fuck.” He pulled his beard. “I didn’t want to be the deciding vote on this. I didn’t want us so split. I love this club. I’m proud of the way we took the shit we’d become and made it good again. Muse, you wear a phoenix on your neck. You remember the ashes. A lot of us do.” He stared at the gavel before him. Muse couldn’t read him. Even this close to the result, he had no idea what was next. But he knew everything was about to change.

Hoosier spun the gavel on the table. “I lost my best friend in the Perro war. Bart did, too. I feel his frustration. It’s more than frustration. It’s fear. He’s right. But Trick’s right, too. We don’t have the pull to take on Ferguson, but he has the pull to kill the club. Building bikes and riding protection isn’t enough to keep us whole. Not close.”

He sighed. “I’m making my vote not because I think it’s the right thing to do. I’m making it because it’s the only way I see to keep us together. And I want us to stay whole—no bad blood if the vote doesn’t go your way. We won’t survive resentments building up. Fuck. I vote ‘aye.’ The run is in.”

“Jesus motherfucking Christ.” Bart shoved his seat away from the table and leapt to his feet. As he stormed toward the doors, Hoosier called, “Bart. Sit down.”

Bart ignored him and left the Keep while the meeting was still in session. That was major disrespect.

At his side, Demon was pounding the table with his fists, his face going bright red. Hoosier turned his attention there. “Demon. We’ll keep you clean. We won’t get in your way with your boy.”

“That’s a fucking joke, and you all know it! FUCK!”

Muse put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, a gesture he’d made hundreds of time during the years of their friendship. A calming hand. But Demon knocked it off. “Get off me, asshole!”

Everything was changed.

CHAPTER TEN

“I WILL KILL YOU, YOU BONY CUNT!”

Sid flinched at the words the man shrieked at her as he was being shoved into the back of a San Bernardino County Sheriff cruiser. The paramedic cleaning up her face pulled back and gave her a concerned look. “Sorry, sweetheart. We’re almost done. You sure you don’t want to go in? Stitches would be better than a couple of butterflies. And you might have a mild concussion.”

She just wanted to be alone for a minute. Or the rest of her life. Everything just fucking sucked all of a sudden. “I don’t need to ride in an ambulance to get stitches. I’ll drive myself in.”

The paramedic lifted her eyebrow, her skepticism clear. But she stepped back, snapped an instant icepack, handed it to her, and then pulled her gloves off. “Okay, then. If you’re sure, then you’re good to go.”

“Not just yet.” A uniformed deputy came around the back of the ambulance, where Sid was sitting. He was maybe in his fifties, with the sunburnt, weary look of a lifelong uniformed officer. “Sorry, ma’am. But if you’re not leaving in the ambulance, I need your statement before you go.”

Before she said anything, she looked around. She was sitting on the back of an ambulance in the parking lot of a dreary, shabby apartment complex in Fontana. Her outfit was ruined, blood drying in long stripes down the front. Because she’d been hit in the face by an angry father.

She should have gone into clinical psychology.

“Yeah, okay.” She closed her eyes and let the scene play out in her head. “I was here for an unscheduled home check. The parents have three children in foster care. They’ve been working a reunification program. Part of the terms are random home checks”

“So they weren’t expecting you.”

“That’s what random means, yes.”

His brows drew in at her snark. “And what did you find?”

“You saw Mrs. Green. He was doing that to her when I got here. I got caught between her and him.” Kayla Green had been taken away in another ambulance.

“You got caught there, or you put yourself there?”

“Does it matter?”

He put his pad down at his side. “You put some hurt on him. And I’d guess the ‘reunification’ is off. This guy has a record, and he’s not the kind of guy who lets women get over on him. Take that threat he made seriously, ma’am.”

Fuck. She really hated men lately.

“Can I go?”

With a sigh, he closed his pad. “Yeah. We’ll have more questions later, but you can go now. It’s a good idea not to be alone right now, though. He’ll probably make bail today or tomorrow.”

She was not going to cower in fear over this. And the last thing she wanted was to have people hanging all over her right now. She wanted to be alone. But to get the deputy off her back, she nodded and hopped down to the pavement. “Thanks, Deputy”—she looked at his nametag—“Alvarez. I’m okay.”

“Word of advice, Miss…T—” He glanced at his pad and faltered over her last name. “Miss. You don’t need to be a crusader. Just do your job. Next time something like this happens, back away and call it in. You don’t want to keep putting that pretty face in the way of bad men.” He gave her a fatherly pat on her shoulder.

Her pretty face. Like that was the most important thing she had. God, she hated men.

~oOo~

Four hours, seven stitches, and one pounding headache later, Sid went back to the office to file her report. As she came in, she noticed people staring and assumed that they all had heard about her exciting morning. At first, she tried to smile, but it hurt, and anyway, she just didn’t want to. She went to her desk and got to work.

“Sid. What are you doing here?”

Hearing Dina’s voice, she looked up, but she didn’t bother to look welcoming. She wasn’t feeling especially friendly. “Hey. I’m working. Same as you, I expect.”

Her friend came around the cubicle wall and grabbed her arm. “You should have taken the rest of the day, at least. Paperwork can wait. You’re not at full power.”

Tired as fuck of people grabbing at her, she yanked her arm free. “I’m fine. It was nothing.”

“Sid! Look at yourself!”

“It’s just a few stitches.” And they were under a bandage. “It’s no big deal.”

Dina plucked at Sid’s blouse, and she flinched, knocking her hand away, wanting people to keep their fucking hands to themselves—and then she saw her clothes, stiff with dried blood. “Oh, shit.”

“Exactly. Come on. Let me take you home. It’s the end of the day, anyway. Do the paperwork tomorrow.”

“I have a full day of visits tomorrow.”

“No. Reschedule them and take an office day. Or hell, take a sick day.”

She could barely keep up with her caseload as it was. “I’ll go home now, but I can’t take the day tomorrow. I’ll be okay.”

Dina shook her head. “You are a stubborn fool. But okay. Let’s go.”

“Dina, I can drive myself home. Thanks, though.”

“Sid…”

“No. I’m good on my own.” She stood up and grabbed her bag, casting a quick look at Harry’s closed office door.

“He’s in court today. Are you having trouble with him?”

That wasn’t the first time Dina had said something that suggested Harry’s behavior wasn’t a thing that was unique to Sid. “Should I be?”

Dina paused before she spoke again, and then she didn’t answer the question. “You’re tired, hon. And you’ve got to have a headache.” With that evasion, Sid decided right there that no, Dina would not be a friend. A friend would be straight with her and not drop vague hints that only made her more paranoid but didn’t give her anything to hold onto. If Harry was a problem, a friend would tell her exactly how and why.

Dina calling her ‘hon’ had made her think of Muse, whom she hadn’t seen or heard from in almost a week. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. She missed him, and that just crapped on her crappy day more.

Of course, that had been her call, not seeing him. She’d sent him away. And now he was staying away. She’d seen Michael a couple of times, including once more at the bike shop, and she’d seen the Elliotts, too, all in preparation for a recommendation for reunification. But no sign of Muse.

She had his number. She could have called him. But shit. Getting dragged down that hallway had just been too much. The very day after they’d talked about being grownups when it ended, she’d ended it. But she guessed they were being grownups. Minimal drama.

“I’m fine, Dina. I just want some quiet.” She grabbed her bag, shoved some files into it, and went through the office, trying not to think about how much she looked like a victim, in her bloody clothes, with her swollen face.

~oOo~

One day a week, Sid taught a self-defense class at the Foothills Women’s Center. Mostly, it was stuff like how to hold keys in your hand to make them a weapon, and what to look out for when walking alone, but there were some defensive moves, too. Light stuff. She’d done martial arts through middle and high school, never with much commitment and never landing on any particular discipline for very long. But she had some moves. Enough to help a woman get some distance from an asshole in a dark alley.

Or to back off an asshole who was pounding on his wife.

She’d also signed on to teach on a monthly basis what the center called a ‘self-success’ class, an evening spent doing modules teaching women how to write résumés and cover letters, how to dress for and comport themselves in job interviews, even how to rent apartments and set up utilities and bank accounts. The center wasn’t specifically a shelter for battered women, but more than a few regular visitors had violent partners. The center also offered drug and psychological counseling, immigrant transition support, and a food and clothes bank. At another site nearby, they provided some temporary housing and a crisis nursery. All the women they served were in dire straits and trying to improve things.

She was scheduled to teach her ‘self-success’ class on the evening of the day Kevin Green attacked her. Though she wasn’t feeling very ‘self-successful’ lately, those women had gone through a lot to be able to clear three and a half hours for the class and the little box dinner provided by Blue Sky, one of the nicer restaurants in Madrone. So she wasn’t going to cancel it.

The class went fine. She got a lot of sympathetic looks for her face, and a few direct questions about it, and she realized that she was going to have to explain it in some kind of detail when she taught the self-defense class. That was going to suck. But this class went fine.

She was the last one to leave, and as she turned out the lights and locked the door, she had her first feeling of real fear. She’d gone home early from the office and hadn’t called to find out if Green was on the streets again. She was driving her own car now, and Muse was right—it really stood out. Demon had found out where she lived in a matter of hours. What if Green could find out, too? What if he knew what she drove? What if he knew that she volunteered here?

The center was in a big, old house on a corner in an older residential neighborhood in Madrone. The back yard had been converted into a parking lot, so she’d come out the back door to lock up. Now, feeling paralyzed, she stood on the wooden porch that led down several steps to the lot. The center had been crowded and busy when she’d arrived, and she’d parked near the alley, about as far from the house as it was possible to park. Out of the radius of the single sodium arc light.

If she could get to her car, she’d feel better. She had a concealed carry permit and kept a little Sig Sauer P290 in the glove box.

As she stood there, holding a key up between the fingers of her fist, she heard the clear crunch of someone walking over the gravel lot, but they were still shrouded by the gloom of a moonless night. Fuck! She wouldn’t have enough time to unlock the door and run back in, and, in order to try, she’d have to turn her back on whoever was coming. Her heart was beating so hard it was making her feel sick.

And then he stepped into the circle of light.

Muse.

For a second, she thought she might really puke from sheer relief.

“Hey, hon,” he called, smiling up as he approached. “You comin’ down, or are you sleeping on the porch tonight?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Been a bit. I’m starting to think you deleted my number.” He put his booted foot on the bottom step and leaned on the railing, looking a little smug and a lot handsome. The swelling from his altercation with Michael was gone, and from this distance, it looked like most of the bruising was gone, too.

At that point, while she was checking him out, he must have gotten his first good look at her, because his expression changed and he trotted up the rest of the steps and took her head in his hand, gently but firmly, brushing her hair back from her bandaged cheek. “What the fuck happened? Who did this?”

She pulled her head away. “It’s not your problem.”

He reached for her again, because that was what guys did. They grabbed. But he stopped and let his hand fall. Frustration tensed his features. “Sid. Who hurt you?”

“I’m not going to tell you. It’s not your business. Muse, why are you here?”

He let his question drop, but she could see that he warred with himself to do it. “Wanted to see you.”

“You could have called instead of stalking me.”

“Not stalking. Just waiting.” He frowned. “You want me to go?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked a question like that. The answer was always no. Even when she’d said yes, sent him away, the real answer had been no, she didn’t want him to go. And tonight, feeling tired and defeated, feeling afraid and vulnerable, she
really
didn’t want him to go. But, knowing the weakness of it, she couldn’t meet his eyes, and she couldn’t speak, so she just looked at her feet and shook her head.