One week later
Zoe was at home after a long day of work, alone with Keira. The baby was in her high chair, enthusiastically eating Cheerios with her fingers, while Zoe stirred the pot of pasta on the stove, reheating the meal from the night before. She was hungry, she was exhausted, she was hours from sleep… and she was the happiest that she could recall being in years. Maybe forever.
When she’d driven from Fargo to Denver, she’d adamantly refused to get her hopes up about what Wolf might have been offering her. Zoe had learned the hard way that expecting anything in life was a grave error, and always led to disappointment. She’d been sure that Wolf was going to give her something, but she’d also been sure that although it would be an improvement on her life in North Dakota (because how could it not be, the way that things had been going?), it wasn’t going to lead to her bliss.
Well. She’d been wrong.
She’d been in Denver for three weeks, and she felt like she’d been there forever. Like she’d never left in the first place.
The work at Blue Dragon was excellent; the cute little house was snug; the guys were courteous and respectful; Keira was happy with Maria. Yesterday, they’d celebrated Keira’s first birthday, and it had been a joyous, heartwarming party, with just Wolf, Zoe, Willa, and Keira. Zoe and Willa had stayed up most of the night talking, making plans for the summer for visits, maybe planning a Christmas trip in Canada.
After the hours and hours of talking, Zoe had dropped Willa off at the airport stupid-early, and despite the eight a.m. flight departure time, she’d looked so thrilled to be getting back to Jimmy.
In short: all was right in the world, and Zoe knew now that she wasn’t a woman who needed wild dreams of glory or fame. At the end of the day, she just needed a pot of pasta, a happy baby eating Cheerios, a sweet little house, a job to go to in the morning.
She just needed a home. A family. A bank account that grew a bit every month. A backyard with a porch. A little life to call her own, where she could raise her daughter safe and warm.
And if there was a little lonely part of her heart longing for someone to come up behind her here at the stove and kiss her neck, or come in that door with a bottle of red wine to share after putting Keira to bed, or to scoop her up in his strong arms and fuck her against the bedroom wall until she collapsed on his body – well. Zoe could shout down that part of her heart, tell it to cut it the hell out. Remind it that she wasn’t looking for a man, or a relationship. She had other things to do.
Just then, the doorbell rang. Keira startled, gave a bit of a cry, and Zoe turned off the element, swooped across the kitchen floor and picked her up.
“Hey, little flower,” she murmured in Keira’s ear. “It’s OK. Just the doorbell. Wanna go see who it is? You think it’s Silver, coming over to hang some more pictures for us?”
Keira gripped Zoe’s shirt, gave her a gummy grin. She was teething again, and Maria had bought some plastic water rings and put them in the freezer for Keira to chew on. She’d told Zoe that the cold was soothing, and it helped numb the pain a bit, so Zoe grabbed a ring as she passed the freezers. Keira took it with a squeak, stuck it in her mouth, drooled all down Zoe’s chest.
“Yeah, nothing sexier than mommyhood, huh?” Zoe said as she went to the door. “I hope whoever’s standing out there likes wet t-shirt contests, because little flower, you’ve got me in first place.”
“Arrruuummmfff,” Keira muttered around the frozen plastic starfish. “Aaaaarrrrr…”
“Yeah, ‘aaaaarrrr’ to you too, cutie pie.” She got to the door, shifted the baby to her hip. “Silver? Is that you?”
“No, Zoe. It’s Scars.”
At that voice, that one that she heard in her dreams, that one that she thought of as a velvet growl, as a bit of wild with some tenderness, Zoe damn near dropped Keira. She also seriously contemplated hiding under the high chair.
“Scars?” Her own voice came out a little strangled, so she tried again. “What are you doing?”
“I’m standing on your front porch, talking to you through a door. What are you doing?”
“Uhhh.” God, the man always knew how to throw her off-balance, didn’t he? Damn him. “I’m – I’m just making dinner.”
“You can stop. I brought you dinner.”
“You what?”
“Hard to hear through the door, huh? Maybe open it up, so we can talk like normal people?”
“Uhhhh,” she repeated, desperately casting around for an excuse. “Well… the thing is –”
“There’s no ‘thing’, Zoe. I’m standing right here. I brought you something to eat. It’s getting cold. Open the door.”
“I don’t want to,” she said, fully aware that she sounded like a child, but going ahead and carrying on anyway. “I want you to leave me the hell alone. I’ve only said it a hundred times.”
“You’ll need to say it a hundred-and-one.”
“Leave me the hell alone.”
“After I feed you. I’m not leaving until you take what I’ve brought you, so you might as well open the door… it’s a nice night, and your front porch has an awfully comfy chair to just hang out in.”
She sighed, feeling mutinous and mulish, like an utter brat. “Fine.”
“Thank you.”
She jerked the door open, and Scars grinned down at her, all sexy-hot muscles and devastating charm. He was wearing well-worn jeans, a tight blue t-shirt that made his eyes stand out in that hard, scarred face even more, a jean jacket, and his Road Devils cut on top. In one hand, he held a large pizza box; she saw a bottle-shaped paper bag tucked under his arm. He was so achingly huge and strong, and the way he just towered over her in her bare feet made Zoe feel impossibly feminine and fragile.
“Hey, beautiful,” he drawled. “How you doin’?”
“Don’t call me that, Scars,” she snapped, hating the jolt of desire in her stomach. “I told you that already.”
“Wasn’t talking to you, Zoe, so stomp down on that monster ego.” Scars stepped into the house, and she sniffed appreciatively at the delicious smell of super-cheesy and -gooey pizza. “I was talking to this sweet peach.” So gently, so impossibly carefully, he reached for Keira’s tiny hand, shook it with two of his fingers. “Hey, little lady. You’re Keira, I guess?”
The baby gurgled, kicked her chubby little legs against Zoe’s body, totally selling her Mom out by smiling at Scars with every ounce of her cuteness. He returned her smile, then winked.
“The way I hear it, kiddo, is you had a birthday yesterday. I also hear that you like bunnies. Is that true?” He cocked his head at Keira, then with a flourish, produced a pink rabbit from his jean jacket pocket. He handed it to Keira and she took it with a shriek of utter capitulation. Right away, she dropped the teething ring and bit the stuffed animal’s left ear, grinning widely the whole time. “Yeah, I guess my intel was solid.”
In response, the baby gurgled again, adding to the mess on Zoe’s shirt. Despite her shock and anxiety at Scars’ sudden appearance, and despite the fact that she was about as unsexy as humanly possible in her baggy jeans and messy ponytail, Zoe found herself smiling too. Keira’s sweet little laugh always had that effect on her: if there was anything better in the world than baby giggles, Zoe had no idea what that might be.
Scars seemed to find the gurgles adorable, too. He gazed at Keira, taking in her blonde curls and large brown eyes. He looked at Zoe, then back at the baby.
“She’s got your hair, huh?”
“She’s got Hailey’s hair,” Zoe corrected him as she reached down to retrieve the teething ring at her feet. “It’s just that me and my sister had the same hair. Got it from our Mom.”
“The brown eyes are from your sister, too?”
“Yeah.”
Scars nodded. “So can I set this pizza down?”
“Oh… yeah, of course.” Zoe waved in the direction of the kitchen. “Over there’s good.”
He wandered off and started to open and shut cabinets, taking down plates and wine glasses, clearly at home. Zoe wondered how many times he’d been over here, maybe drinking beers with Silver and the boys in the backyard. She trailed behind him, glanced down at Keira. The baby was watching Scars avidly, now hugging the bunny tightly.
“You’re making goo-goo eyes at him,” Zoe whispered, kissing Keira on the top of her head, wondered if she was talking to her daughter or to herself. “You’ve fallen for the charm, have you? Careful, little flower – careful of any man who comes bearing gifts, and especially this one.”
“I know you’re vegetarian,” Scars said as she reached the kitchen. “Rebel told me.”
“Yeah.”
“So I got you a pizza with double cheese, mushrooms, and mild red pepper. Cool?”
“Yeah. Damn near perfect, actually. Almost what I’d order myself.”
“What’d I miss?”
“Black olives.”
“So I did OK.” He flashed her that gorgeous, rare, knee-weakening grin, the one that was fast becoming her personal kryptonite, then turned his attention to the drawer, on the hunt for the corkscrew. “Right?”
“You did OK,” she agreed, starting to soften a bit despite her reservations about the man. She told herself that hunger was making her weak and foolish. “Thanks.”
“Sure. I figured you’d need a bit of a treat, now that your friend’s gone back to Fargo.”
“I won’t say no,” she said. “Extra-cheesy pizza beats leftover, limp pasta in marinara sauce, hands-down.”
“No kidding, right? There isn’t much that pizza doesn’t beat, really.”
He pulled out the cork, poured her a glass of red wine. She started, remembering her thoughts earlier, about wishing for a man who’d come on through the door with a bottle of red, and between the wine and the pizza, she got the most uneasy feeling that Scars Innis was a goddamn mind reader. He extended the half-full glass, and she approached with a bit of hesitation, but then remembered that Keira was there. No way Scars was going to start any crap with a tiny drool-monster attached to Zoe’s chest, so she relaxed. Just a bit.
She took the glass, making a huge effort to not so much as touch his fingertips. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” He poured a second glass, then cut two slices of pizza. “How many do you want?”
“Just those two, please.”
“As you wish.” He plated her dinner, set the plate on the table, and nodded at the chair. “Sit. You look beat.”
“I’m OK,” Zoe said, even as she felt her body start to sink into the cushion. “Just had a lot to get done in a pretty short period of time. Things’ll settle a bit from now on.”
She lowered Keira down to the floor, away from the wine glass and the food, and the baby took off, scooting on her hands and knees, over to Scars. Zoe was about to jump up again, but Scars was too quick.
He spun from the counter, got down into a crouch, met Keira at her level. Zoe watched as her daughter stopped, then twisted her diapered butt into a seated position. Keira surveyed Scars solemnly for a few seconds, and he just looked right on back at her, his blue eyes warm and bright and so gentle. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to touch her; he just let her sit near him, taking him in fully.
Zoe held her breath, suddenly wondering what the baby was seeing: did she notice the long, white scars? The shaggy dark hair falling over his forehead? His eyes as blue as an ocean? His firm, full lips, now raised in a half-grin? His huge upper body, his broad shoulders ripping with muscle, his massive hands resting on bulging thighs?
She’d never know what Keira saw in those few seconds, of course, but she did know this much: whatever it was, Scars met with the baby’s approval. Keira cooed, then gave the bunny to Scars. Just pressed it into his hand, sharing it with him.
To his eternal credit, Scars treated her offer of kindness seriously. He took the pink rabbit, gave it a little cuddle and a kiss on its nose. Keira watched, clearly delighted, then reached for the toy again. With great ceremony, Scars returned it to its owner, and she crawled away to the living room area, where Zoe had placed all her toys on a play mat.
The adults watched her go, then looked at each other again. Just for a second, it was like a kindness had passed in the room. Zoe dropped her fucking attitude and suspicion and believed that maybe an MC member could actually be a good man, and Scars saw his whole life with these two beautiful ladies and a stuffed rabbit, just hanging out and eating pizza.
Then Zoe remembered just who – just what – was standing there at her kitchen counter and she looked away, breaking the sweetness of connection, already pissed off at herself for her fanciful bullshit. Yeah, bringing Keira a toy was nice, but then again, the terrifying and murderous Ice had brought the baby something too… God knows, that meant nothing much, in the long run.
And the long run was all that Zoe cared about.
“So what do you what, Scars?” she said abruptly. “What’s with the wine and pizza out of the blue after more than a week of nothing? You at a loose end tonight? None of your regular screws available down at Satan’s?”
Scars almost sighed as he watched her slam down those damn emotional shutters deep inside, yet again, and go on the attack, yet again. Jesus fuck, this woman. Every time he thought that she’d shown him a little piece of her heart, that she’d started to soften and bend, even a little bit, she doubled down on the bitch act. He’d known that Zoe Parish was going to be a handful the first night they’d met, but he had to admit, the woman was a tougher nut to crack than he’d expected.
For the past few days, a part of him had gotten up every morning and demanded why the actual hell he was still holding out any hope. Maybe he should just accept that they were a one-time (well, technically, two-time) fuck in a bar back room, and cut his losses, and call it a day. God knows, there were easier women skulking around Satan’s and Denver in general, women who wouldn’t object to him being nice to them. Women who might even appreciate a man who had given them space to sort out their work and home and childcare arrangements, a man who had just backed off and waited until things looked more resolved before making another move.
Scars wasn’t known for waiting when he wanted something, but he’d waited this past couple of weeks, and he’d felt every minute. He’d stomped down hard on his most basic instinct of moving and acting, not just hanging out and twiddling his thumbs… and he’d found that fucking difficult. He’d found himself seriously wondering if he was crazy to overlook other women, women who wouldn’t automatically tell him to get lost the second he entered their orbit.
But… he didn’t want those women. He didn’t want easy. He didn’t want to have some willing woman in his bed, just because the one that he really wanted was a challenge that bordered on being a goddamn military-grade pain in the ass.
And besides, he couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Zoe’s face that night when he’d reached up and unclipped her hair, let it fall all around and on his naked chest in those soft, golden waves, and called her beautiful for the first time. That look… such utter, gorgeous stillness. Like she’d heard a voice in her head, or music of unearthly beauty, or her own soul whispering to her. When Scars closed his eyes and thought about Zoe, it was her in those few perfect, shining seconds that he thought of before anything else.
He was sure that that Zoe was the real one. The one that she fought so hard to hide away from the world, maybe the one that she fought even harder to protect using her severe, rigid persona. That hidden Zoe was sweet, glowed from within, was strangely vulnerable… and that was the Zoe that made Scars’ heart squeeze hard every time he remembered her.
That was the Zoe that he wanted her to show him and just him, over and over again, every single day. That was the Zoe that Keira saw and adored, he was sure of it. Scars wanted her to just rip off her brittle mask and have her trust him with that gentle version of herself, because he wanted her to understand that he’d never hurt it, or damage it, or reject it.
No… he’d cherish that Zoe. He’d take care of her. He’d love her.
If she’d just give him a chance.
He’d watched her all week, as per Wolf’s orders, watched her so she had no idea she was being watched, and he’d wished hard for that chance. He’d come over that night, hoping against hope for that chance; or maybe just a chance at a chance. And for a few minutes there, when she’d been holding Keira and watching Scars pour the wine, and she’d had that soft, unguarded look again, he’d thought that maybe he’d be able to beg, borrow, and steal a chance. Even a small one.
But the mask was firmly back in place now – and his shaky, wavering chance had just evaporated like the dawn mist.
Goddammit, Zoe. I’m not a monster. Just see me, the way I see you. Look with better eyes, baby, I beg of you.
“Well?” she snapped, keeping her voice low so that Keira didn’t hear her anger. “Your usual easy lays already all paired off with your brothers for the evening? You do pass them around amongst yourselves, right, the club whores?”
“OK – what?” Scars stared at her in horror, so shocked that he actually dropped the knife in the sink with a clatter. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me.” Zoe crossed her arms, quailing a bit at the look on that hard face; maybe she’d gone a bit too far? Then she opened her big fat mouth and carried on taunting him: “I asked if you’re here because nothing better was on offer with its legs open.”
Scars was a man of few words at the best of times, but that didn’t mean that he was often rendered speechless. His silence was mostly because he found small-talk annoying and boring, and he just opted out of conversation. When he did talk, it tended to be about important shit.
This time, though, he was just struck dumb. How dare she? Who the fuck did she think she was? Hot lay or not, the woman was way the hell out of line here, and Scars wasn’t taking this crap from anyone. Not even Zoe, gorgeous green eyes and perfect breasts be damned.
“Shut up.” That voice was a low, menacing growl, and she did back up now. “Shut that pretty little mouth Zoe, before I come over there and shut it for you, you hear me? Not one more fucking word about me passing around women like a goddamn pimp, I swear to Christ.”
“You threatening me, Scars?” she said, ignoring his command, angry enough now to be reckless. “How are you gonna shut me up, huh? You going to smack me around in front of my kid?”
“What?” he repeated, stunned anew at just where her mind went sometimes. “Oh, my God, Zoe, do you actually think that I’d ever lay a fucking finger on you in violence?”
“You’re the one who said that you’d come over here and shut me up.” She glared at him. “How exactly were you planning on doing that?”
“Ideally, I’d throw you over my shoulder and toss you on the bed, fuck you until you couldn’t talk or walk. But we got a baby over there, so that’s out.” He approached now, slow, his eyes pinning her in place. He watched her shrink back, and he stopped, eyeing her from five feet away, keeping his distance but making damn sure that she could feel his power and anger. “So how about I keep your mouth busy in other ways?”
“No,” she whispered, wondering how fast she could get to Keira and out the door. “Don’t touch me –”
“You sure, baby?” he said, teasing her, taunting her, making the words a threat that sounded like an invitation. “You don’t want my lips on yours, shutting you up before you can spout any more b.s.? My hands running over your body, holding you in place against that wall for my pleasure? My fingers snapping open those jeans and sliding inside you, making you come right here, make you come until you beg for nothing but more?”
“Yes,” she said, not sure that she meant it.
“Yes, you want all that?”
“No,” she retorted, stung at his smug grin. “Yes, I’m sure. No, I don’t want all that.”
“Liar,” he said softly. “Such a beautiful little liar, but a liar all the same.”
“Scars…” She was still afraid, but her fight was coming back. “I want –”
Just then, his cell phone rang. He cursed, still holding her gaze, grabbed it out of his jeans pocket.
“What?” he snarled, not even bothering to see who the hell had such lousy damn timing. “What?”
“Clubhouse.” Wolf’s voice was low, cold, emotionless, and Scars snapped right to attention. He knew that tone, and he knew that whatever it was that had caused Wolf to call it out, Scars wasn’t going to like it. “Now, man.”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Ten.”
“Yeah.”
Both men disconnected without another word, and Zoe narrowed her eyes at the distracted, distant look his face. In less than five seconds, he’d gone from totally focused on her to mentally checked-out. In his head, Scars was already on his bike, heading to whatever mess or dirty business was waiting for him – she was already a thing of the past, a blip in his day.
It would have always been like this, she knew, if they’d ever actually gotten together. He’d show up when he was horny; he’d walk out on her when the club called. Straight and narrow activities and out of the criminal life be damned, it was still club first with these boys. It was the only life they really knew, it was all they really believed in. And he actually wanted her to get serious about something together?
Yeah. As if.
“You got trouble, big guy?” she said casually. “Gotta go?”
“Yeah.” Those blue eyes stared at her absently, and she felt a pang when she compared that prairie distance to the heat and passion of just a few minutes before. Then Zoe reminded herself that she was glad that he was leaving… that’s what she’d wanted, right? “Enjoy the pizza and wine without me, and you and that little peach have a good night.”
She watched him stalk across the room, heading for the front door. He stopped suddenly, turned, stared back at her with no warmth. Like she was a total stranger.
“By the way, Zoe… what you just said was bullshit and way out of line and super-bitchy. No call for it, at all. I’ve done nothing to deserve that from you, or from anyone. You really think that about me, then I’m happy to leave you the hell alone. You ever have anything that I can help you with, you let me know, but I won’t be coming around here anymore. I sure as hell won’t be asking you out again. You run Blue Dragon, and I’ll run Satan’s, and we’ll nod politely as co-workers for the MC when we see each other. Besides that, we don’t know each other and we never did. Deal?”
Her heart plummeted into her stomach, and she felt actually, physically sick. She plastered a stony expression on her face, though, because the alternative was to tell this man that she was sorry for being such an utter bitch-on-wheels after he’d been so sweet. To say that maybe, just maybe, she’d been wrong.
No way she was apologizing to Scars Innis. No way she was copping to regret.
It came to Zoe – suddenly, in a blinding flash of ‘oh, shit, I get it’ – that she wasn’t angry at Scars at all. She was angry at herself. Angry at herself for kissing Scars outside that bathroom. For going with him, willingly, happily, eagerly, to that back room. For leaping in response at his every touch, his every kiss. For letting him into her trembling, needy body. For begging for more, and more, and more again. For being unable to kick his tender toughness out of her head, once and for all, and to hell with him. For invading her dreams, causing her to wake up a sweaty, turned-on mess in the middle of the night. And most of all, for giving her hope – hope that maybe she could be with him after all.
That hope was the killer. It was making her weak, sloppy, sappy. It was making her forget. And she couldn’t forget… this time around, she had a baby to think about and protect. She had to get smart. She had to get strong. She had to get Scars Innis the fuck away from her once and for all.
So she kicked down on her anger, on her regret, on her lust, on her hope, and she said, “Deal.”
“Yeah, good, then. Take it easy.” And he was gone.
Zoe looked over at Keira who was still clutching the pink bunny. The baby was staring at her, and Zoe could practically see the ‘what the fuck, Mom?’ bubble over her blonde head.
“It’s for the best,” Zoe said, deciding that a full glass of red wine was totally called for, and was still safe. With the baby monitor, she’d hear Keira when she woke up crying later. “I know it doesn’t feel that way right this second, but believe me – it is.”
And once again, Zoe wondered who she was trying to convince all of this to: Keira, or herself?
Me. I’m trying to convince me.
Goddammit.
**
By the time Scars got to the MC clubhouse next door to Satan’s Bar, Wolf had gathered everyone in the room they used for important meetings. Scars knew that Wolf wasn’t going to start anything without his Veep present, both out of utter respect for Scars’ position, and because Wolf hated to repeat himself. It was one of the man’s biggest pet peeves: Wolf liked to say something once, and then trust that it was done.
Scars entered the room, everyone shuffled over to clear a path for him to get to the front of the room next to Wolf, who was standing at the head of the table. Wolf nodded at him, Scars nodded back. Despite the fact that there were almost thirty men in leather cuts in the room, it was completely silent, save for some shuffling of boots on the floor, a cleared throat here and there, some rustling of clothing.
Scars stood then, massive hands in his jeans pockets, and waited. Just waited for whatever the fuck it was that demanded a full club turn-out on such short notice. It had been almost four months since Wolf had last demanded everyone come to Church – the MC slang for a mandatory club meeting – and at that infamous meeting, he’d publicly announced the banishment of several members who’d been secretly talking to Dawson for ages. Scars still internally grimaced when he recalled the overflowing humiliation and rage at that meeting.
“OK,” Wolf said abruptly, and literally, to a man, they stopped breathing. “We got a problem. A fuckin’ big one.”
He reached behind him, and Scars saw a small cardboard box sitting on the top shelf of the cabinet. Wolf set the box on the table, and they all looked at it. It was about the size of a magazine, plain brown, unmarked with any kind of stamp, no label or address or name.
“Arrow found this tonight, when he was lockin’ up Blue Dragon,” Wolf said. “It was sittin’ right in front of the back storage room door. The one leadin’ out to the dumpster and private lot.”
Everyone nodded, still staring fixedly at the box.
“He opened it up, thinkin’ it might be somethin’ for the parlor that got misdelivered to the back door somehow. Zoe ordered a bunch of supplies last-minute and in a rush, and they’ve been arrivin’ all week at all hours. The boys at the garage and the bar have accepted delivery on the parlor’s behalf more than once.” Wolf narrowed his gray eyes. “But it ain’t for the parlor. I don’t fuckin’ know what it’s for – but we got a message, boys. A serious one.”
He picked up the box, turned to Scars, held it out. Curious, Scars looked inside, and his stomach jumped when he saw the contents.
“Fuck, Wolf,” he said softly. “Is it real?”
“Yeah.” Wolf faced his brothers again, carefully tipped up the box on its side so everyone could see, but not so far that anything fell out. “It’s a finger.”
Dark murmurs greeted both the grisly sight and Wolf’s words. Nobody was all that freaked out by a ripped-off, bloody and jagged finger sitting in a box, if truth be told. Hell, they’d all seen and done far worse things in terms of mutilation to a human body. The former Enforcers – Ice, Cain, and the Baylor twins, Dux and Drake – had barely blinked at the finger, naturally, but even the boys who’d rarely been sent out to take out rivals and enemies weren’t squeamish.
No… this wasn’t about the rather mild (for an ex-one-percenter MC) gore factor. What had the blood running cold in their veins was that it was a middle finger. Worse, a woman’s middle finger.
“At first I thought it might be Zee’s,” Wolf said, raising his voice above the babble, and the men shut up immediately. “But she doesn’t wear nail polish at all. Ever. Besides, I talked to her after the box arrived, real casual, and she’s fine.”
A sigh of relief went around the room.
“So. Who’s usin’ a woman’s finger to tell us ‘fuck you’, do you think, Scars?” Wolf asked softly, in that dangerous tone that every man recognized from the old days. “Who’s comin’ to mind?”
“Oh, hey, Prez,” Scars said, a bit alarmed. “I agree that he’s the obvious suspect, but we all know him. This is not Dawson’s style. He’d never do it himself, and he’d never sign off on it, either.”
“You think?”
“I really do.” Scars was firm; he thought lots of bad shit about Dawson, naturally, but he wasn’t about to start blaming the idiot for everything, as tempting as it was. “Now… I’m not so sure about some of his boys, mind you.”
“You think one of his crew might have done this behind his back?”
“Maybe. We don’t know all of the guys over there, but the guys that we do know – our former brothers – have already demonstrated a lack of loyalty to their President. If they can fuck you over, why wouldn’t they do the same to Dawson?”
“Hmmmm.” Wolf stared at the finger. “We need to get some intel, guys.”
Kansas and Cole looked up, even as everyone looked over at them. In the previous incarnation of The Road Devils, they’d been the guys who collected any info the Prez asked for. They’d had the contacts, the charm, and the smarts to cajole, tease, coax whatever they’d needed to know out of people… and then they’d had Ice, Cain, Dux, and Drake if they’d needed a different form of persuasion to get people to cooperate and talk.
“Where do we begin?” Kansas asked, all business. Like he’d never stopped being the main information-gatherer for the MC. “With the owner of the finger, or with who sent it?”
“The sender,” Wolf said without any hesitation. “Take the box, check the cameras around the businesses, check vehicles and plates. And everyone here – you think if you saw anybody around the back door of Blue Dragon, or anyone who you see now was maybe sketchy, even if you didn’t think much about it at the time. Anythin’ that you think of, no matter how small, you tell Scars, Kansas, and Cole. Am I bein’ clear?”
Everyone nodded.
“Prez?” Saint said, clearly hesitant. “A question?”
“Yeah?” Wolf nailed the man with his famous ferocious glower. “Shoot.”
“Do we – do we tell Zee about this? I mean… this box showed up at the tattoo place, right? Not Satan’s or the garage, so do you think… well. Do you think she needs to know?”
“No.” Wolf snapped the word, and the other men all nodded again, accepting the President’s decision without question. “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with Zee. The box showed up at the parlor back door because it’s the only one with no real foot traffic and no camera at all, which pisses me off now, so Jinx, you get on that. But anyway, how could anyone drop a box off at Satan’s, with all the comin’ and goin’? Or the garage, which is nothin’ but huge windows facin’ every direction? Nah… whoever it was didn’t even walk up to the parlor front door, they snuck around back. This ain’t about Blue Dragon, or its staff, or Zee. It’s about gettin’ us the message without bein’ found out.”
Scars listened to Wolf, his stomach tight with worry. Yeah, OK, what Wolf was saying made sense, on every level – but something wasn’t sitting right with Scars. A part of him wasn’t so sure that the choice of location was totally unimportant. After all, the person could have couriered the box to the clubhouse, right, put Wolf’s name on it, and had it delivered direct to the President’s desk.
So why the roundabout delivery, why risk discovery, just to leave a box on the ground where it could have been damaged or destroyed, maybe carried off by mountain animals? They came down around the clubhouse sometimes, and went through the bar dumpsters for food, so it wasn’t totally unheard of.
Maybe – just maybe – the woman’s finger was intended to be received by the only woman who worked at the tattoo place? Maybe this had something to do with Zoe’s arrival back in Denver? The timing was a bit worrying, after all, seeing as she’d shown up barely two weeks before, went on a supply ordering spree… and suddenly weird packages were appearing at the door of the business she managed? Packages with woman’s body parts?
Yeah, I don’t know. Fuck. Am I paranoid? Am I not paranoid enough? Maybe?
Then again, if Scars was thinking about timing, he had to take into consideration the fact that he and Wolf had just been to The Blood Crew’s clubhouse that very goddamn week. It was their first face-to-face with Dawson since he’d stabbed them in the back, and wasn’t it more likely that the box had something to do with that meeting than Zoe Parish?
He didn’t know. He just knew that he didn’t like it. He didn’t like thinking about some guy sneaking around the place that Zoe worked, watching and waiting, then getting so damn close to her, without her knowing. Without anyone knowing.
Because there’s something else, isn’t there? Well, two something else’s.
First, Scars was furious that someone had gotten that close to Zoe. Wolf had charged him with keeping an eye on her, and even though he suspected that the box had been dropped off while Zoe had already been home with Keira, that didn’t make Scars feel much better, or any less guilty. If somebody was skulking around Zoe’s place of work and leaving mangled body parts, then Scars needed to step the hell up.
Second – and this was the one to be careful about – Scars had feelings for the woman. Yeah, he was still good and pissed about what she’d said to him in her kitchen, and he intended to give her some space, but maybe he was jumping to conclusions just because he cared about her. Maybe he was seeing threats to Zoe personally where there were none – because Scars knew that if anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself.
So maybe Wolf was right after all: maybe this damn box had nothing at all to do with Zoe. Maybe Scars was looking into the shadows and seeing fanged, clawed monsters, when really, what was standing there was a rock. Or a kangaroo. Or a stack of crates of vodka.
But who the fuck did the finger belong to, then?
“So,” Wolf said, his growl cutting into Scars’ confused thoughts. “We find out who sent the box, we find the poor woman who they’re probably holdin’, definitely hurtin’.”
“Any chance she’s already dead?” Scars asked softly. “That they took the finger off a corpse?”
Wolf nodded at Viking, who ambled up to the head of the table. He reached into his jeans pocket, fished out a pair of nitrile gloves from the tattoo parlor, snapped them on. Gently, carefully, he picked up the slim finger and held it up to the light, squinting at the severed nerve endings, the coagulated blood. He shook his head, his mouth angry and grim under his wild beard.
“She was alive when they took her finger,” he said, setting it back in the box. “No doubt.”
“Goddammit,” Wolf said, letting his temper get the better of him, just for a few seconds. “That’s not what I wanted to hear, man. Not that I want a dead girl out there, but you know what I mean.”
“I know.” Viking sighed, pulled off the gloves. “I wish that I could smell formaldehyde or something chemical, and then I could say that this asshole – or these assholes – maybe raided a medical school autopsy room, but I can’t. Until about four hours ago, this was attached to a living, breathing woman.”
“Wait,” Scars said, stunned, but confident that Viking was right. After all, the man’s medical and forensics background hadn’t failed any of The Road Devils yet. “Four hours?”
“Yeah,” Viking replied. “No more than that.”
“Jesus fuck,” Scars said, horrified, though also secretly relieved, because that meant that when this sick prick had dropped off the box, Zoe had definitely been home, safe and sound. Scars had followed her home and made sure of it. “But that’s good, in a way, for a sense of time. We need to look at all our security cam stuff going back no more than a few hours.”
“No,” Cole corrected him. “We’ll need to look back way farther, since no way this guy did this important of a drop cold. He’d have for sure done some scouting, and we might get lucky and see someone or a vehicle that shows up a lot over a few weeks, for short periods of time. But yeah… we start with the past four hours.”
“So get to it,” Wolf ordered him, including Kansas in the command. “Now. Take anythin’ and everythin’ you need. Rebel, keep ‘em fed and watered, whatever they want. Everyone else, guard duty needs to be set up around all our buildings. Scars, you set up the rotations, make sure we’re covered 24/7. Shifts organized perfectly, no holes or fuck-ups.”
“Yeah, Prez. Gotcha. Consider it done.”
Here Wolf paused, shot a look of steel around the room. “All of you… watch Zee. Arrow, Saint, Vikin’, you clap eyes on her when she’s at work, everyone else, watch her when she’s wanderin’ around the grounds, goin’ for lunch at Satan’s and all that. Ice and Cain, you’re the protective detail. Silver, you got security cams on your place, so we’re good there.”
“Yeah, and they’re active,” Silver said. “I haven’t been watching the footage, because why would I, but I can take a look, if you want.”
“I want,” Wolf said flatly. “Let’s make totally sure that this fucker hasn’t been stalkin’ Zee, maybe even just for fun.”
“OK, I’ll go through it all tonight,” Silver said. “Let Scars know if anything looks off.”
“Fuckin’-A. And everyone? Eyes in the back of your heads, you feel me? You all know what to do. Christ knows we’ve done it enough times before.” Wolf glared around the room, clearly enraged that they were back here, again… back to living like criminals waiting for a raid on the clubhouse that peppered them with bullets, or for a rival MC to start taking out their members over coffee in a public diner. “Full fuckin’ alert here, at home, at Curves, when you go grocery shoppin’, everywhere. You never relax, not for a second. We don’t know what any of this means yet, and until we do, we’re workin’ on the theory that it means bad trouble and danger. The fuckin’ coward hid in the shadows to deliver what he had to say to us, so that’s where we need to start understandin’ we are. In the shadows.”
Everyone nodded again, because really, what else was there to say? A finger in a box wasn’t a birthday greeting, or a ‘hey, love ya, you MC scamps!’ message. It was bad news, is what it was, and to a man, they knew how to act now, how to observe others in their environment, how to move around a world of shadows.
They knew how to live like men in the cross-hairs… because that’s where they’d lived for a long, long time. It was the life that Wolf had dragged them out of, despite the clawing hands that didn’t want them to leave.
And yet, here they were. Back in the cross-hairs life.
Again.