Four days later
Zoe glanced up as the door of the parlor opened and she smiled in greeting at the young woman standing there, looking slightly nervous. She was short, a bit awkward in her body, with long, dark hair and a trim, prim little skirt. No high heels, no figure-hugging clothes, very little makeup. She looked oddly angelic: innocent, kind, almost untouched.
Zoe looked down at her own tight jeans, tugged her mini t-shirt down over her pierced navel, knew she couldn’t hide the ink on her lower back. The woman stepped into the parlor, and Zoe wondered if she’d ever seen a woman who looked less likely to get a tattoo, in the whole of her life. But if this was who Zoe thought it was, then she wasn’t there for a tattoo, anyway.
“Maria?” Zoe set down her fifth coffee of the morning, came out from behind the counter. “Maria Torres?”
“Yes. Hi. Zoe Parish?” The other woman’s voice was soft, gentle, melodious, and right away, Zoe liked her. Maria extended a small, delicate hand. “Thank you so much for the interview.”
“Thanks for coming.” Zoe shook her hand, then gestured at the merrily perking coffee maker. “Coffee?”
“Green tea, if you have it, please.”
“Uhhh… it’s possible.” Zoe stared blankly around the parlor, stunned that she literally had no clue if tea bags actually existed in this space slavishly dedicated to strong, black coffee. “Maybe?”
Maria laughed then, the sound carrying sweetly over the tattoo guns, voices, music, and the guys looked over at her with great interest. Viking got to his feet, ambled over, and Zoe gave him a bit of a what the hell, man? look as he grinned at Maria. Zoe was pretty shocked that he’d make a move on her potential babysitter right in front of his boss, especially since Maria looked about as Catholic-school-girl as it was possible to look, but hell. Maybe that was Viking’s type. Good girl made to go bad. Sweet little thing, just ripe to be corrupted.
“Hey, girl,” he said now. “How’s you?”
“Good,” Maria replied, looking not at all concerned about a six-foot-seven, heavily-tattooed man with a wild red beard looking down at her. “Yourself, Viking?”
“Can’t complain.” He reached out and took her left hand, squinted at the engagement ring there. “So, it’s true, huh? You and Dillon?’
“Yes.” Maria smiled radiantly, and suddenly the shy, almost mousy little librarian-type was gone with the wind. “He says hi, and asked me to schedule another session with you, for maybe next month?”
“Sure thing, doll.” Viking lumbered over to the reception desk like a gigantic bear, flipped through the appointments. “How’s about the nineteenth? He working overnight up at Curves?”
“Uhhh, I’m not totally sure. I think he’s on early afternoons in a few weeks. Starts at one, finishes at nine.”
“Alright, hon. I can schedule him for a morning session… I figure his sleeve needs another four hours. Can he go to work all inked up, though?”
“No.” Maria shook her dark head. “Jax says no way. Says Dillon needs a day off after.”
“Yeah, I figured. Can’t bounce the bad dudes when you can’t move your arm, huh?”
“Jax?” Zoe chimed in now. She’d watched this exchange with barely-concealed delight: she kind of loved that unassuming, cute little Maria knew the terrifying teddy bear Viking. “Who’s that?”
“Oh, Jax Hamill,” Maria said. “He owns Dangerous Curves, a bar up on the highway. My fiancé, Dillon Saunders, bounces there.”
“Ohhh, yeah.” Zoe nodded, enlightened now. “Wolf told me about that place. The boys love to go out there, just to get a change of scene from Satan’s. Rough crowd, huh?”
“Can be,” Maria said quietly. “There have been a few – situations.”
“OK, doll.” Viking gave her another grin. “I’ll pencil Dillon in, and give him a call later today and confirm. Cool?”
“Cool,” Maria agreed, then she looked at Zoe. “Oh! I’m sorry! I was supposed to come here to talk to you about your daughter, not schedule a tattoo appointment…”
“Nah, it’s good.” Zoe waved her hand in a careless movement. “Let’s go do that now, OK?”
“Yes. Please.”
Zoe nodded at the guys, who resumed whatever they’d been doing, led Maria to her office in the back. She’d liked Maria Torres on paper already: the younger woman was educated, she had years of experience up at Open Skies Ranch, she had glowing recommendations from her former boss up at Open Skies and from several people she’d done childcare work for here in Denver. She’d come across to Zoe as professional, reliable, good with children. After having spoken to every single one of Maria’s former employers, she was far-and-away Zoe’s first choice to take care of Keira.
But the fact that she was on a first-name basis with Viking Callahan was yet another huge point in Maria’s favor, oddly enough. Zoe loved people with a foot in two vastly different worlds, she found contradictions both fascinating and endearing, and it looked like Maria was as comfortable in the rough, dirty world of bikers and bouncers as she was in the powdered world of babies and mushed bananas. Maria might be a bit shy and conservative, but she clearly had a backbone – and Zoe liked people who could hold their own.
So, yeah, she’d go through the motions here, ask Maria all the tough questions, work her way down the checklist… and then she’d talk money and availability. And she’d invite Maria Torres into her life with her beautiful, amazing daughter. She’d expand the circle of her new life by one more person.
It felt good to add people to her world, Zoe was starting to discover. After years of closing herself off to most people – Wolf and Willa being the notable exceptions – it was a bit of a shock to open up, a shock that she’d had to slowly work through these past few days here in Denver. But now she was happy, almost eager to invite people in.
She’d welcomed in the guys here at Blue Dragon, absolutely, because she’d discovered that they were genuine professionals, passionate about the art of tattooing, respectful and funny as hell. Any concerns that she’d had of being treated like ‘less than’ just because she was a woman had been totally misplaced.
The guys from the garage had been brought closer too, because they’d done some repair work on her shitty little car, and bought Keira a new carseat as a welcome gift. Silver was turning out to be an incredible landlord, and Rebel in the kitchen over at Satan’s was totally cool with Zoe’s vegetarianism, and was expanding his cooking repertoire by bringing her lunch every day at work.
Bad-ass Rebel had admitted to her up-front that – not shockingly – he was a meat-man, a carnivore through and through, but for Zoe, he’d scour the internet for veggie recipes. The man had come through too, and in spectacular fashion: just the day before, Arrow had asked Rebel if he had any extra portions of Zoe’s zucchini-and-cheese pasta bake. Rebel had raised his eyebrows, brought his MC brother the vegetarian meal instead of the burgers that he’d made for Saint and Viking. Arrow had declared it ‘awesome’, and admitted that maybe vegetables weren’t ‘fuckin’ boring, after all.” Zoe had high-fived him with a huge grin.
It was happening, then, this gradual building-up of a new, better life. That aching want that she’d felt that day after the guys had set up Keira’s bedroom, that deep longing to belong somewhere for the first time in a long time… the ache and longing had receded. Not completely, that was true, but Zoe knew that if she kept inviting people past her walls, into her world, then eventually it would fade to nothing more than a pin prick.
She wasn’t inviting in everyone, of course – she still had the door firmly barricaded against him. Drawbridge up, alligators in the moat, guards manning the towers, Zoe in the highest turret with a goddamn grenade launcher as self-protection.
Not that Scars had really tried to storm the castle, if Zoe were being honest. In fact, he’d barely noticed the existence of the castle, or her. She’d seen him over the past week, of course, from a distance and across the parking lot, as he’d gone in and out of Satan’s. She’d seen him with Wolf, pretty much daily, and she’d caught a glimpse of the two of them just an hour before, when they’d taken off on their motorcycles and gone who-knows-where.
It was like he’d totally forgotten her after all his passionate protestations of genuine interest almost a week ago, and promises that this was just the beginning of ‘them’, and she wasn’t at all surprised about the amnesia. After all, guys like Scars were all about the sweet-talk when they were looking to get laid, and they then ignored a woman if sex wasn’t forthcoming – and Scars’ indifference meant that he had clearly found another pair of legs to bury himself between.
Zoe told herself she didn’t give a single, flying fuck about that. At all. It was what she’d wanted, and she was thrilled that the jerk had actually listened. Definitely. She didn’t even notice that he wasn’t noticing her, because why would she?
Wrenching her mind away from the way that his large, strong hands had held her face as he’d kissed her, Zoe refocused on Maria. This was what was important, after all, finding the best, safest child care for Keira.
Scars Innis wasn’t safe, wasn’t sane, wasn’t good for Zoe, sure as hell wasn’t good for her daughter. He wasn’t a man that she could count on, or turn to, or trust.
Scars Innis was nothing to her: not then, not now.
Not ever.
**
Scars stared across the table at Dawson Kinley, President of The Blood Crew, torn between normal, everyday hate, and bitter, corrosive, gut-churning hate.
Dawson, his ex-MC-brother, was a man that once upon a time, Scars had risked his own life for, without hesitation or regret. A man who’d betrayed the club, broken away and started his own MC, taken some of the other Road Devils with him. A man who’d picked up all of Kirk Jensen’s dirty contracts, the same ones that Wolf had extricated the Devils from with such pain and precision.
Dawson was a traitor. A liar. A fucking snake in the grass.
He was also up to some serious shit-stirring, if the word on the street was right – and that’s what Scars and Wolf were here to find out, if at all possible. Not that they expected Dawson to roll over and level with them… but they had to at least let the man know that they were wise to his games.
It was diplomacy MC-style – which meant guns on the table in plain sight, while concealing another one in their boot or the waistband of their jeans.
“I’m telling you,” Dawson repeated, his dark eyes cold as a midnight river. “I’m not doing anything against your interests, Connor.”
“No?” Wolf’s voice was that low, dangerous growl that made his road name suit him so perfectly. “You ain’t usin’ neutrals against us?”
“Jesus. No.”
“What about the Warriors up in Fort Collins?”
Those black eyes flashed. Just for a second. Then Dawson looked amused.
“Yeah, you knew damn good and well that Mace Rimes would be on the phone to me,” Wolf said. “You and your boys go on up there and try to pressure his MC to take some of the slack left behind by The Fallen Angels gettin’ wiped out, and you think Mace is thrilled about it? His MC has never done criminal shit, and you know it, man. You knew Mace would turn you down and then bring me into the loop, so my question is, why start the conversation in the first place?”
“Why do you think?” Dawson asked, shifting his weight a bit in his chair, looking lazy and relaxed. He nodded at Scars. “C’mon, Innis, share your thoughts with the group.”
“So that this would happen,” Scars replied, his voice like gravel. “This exact thing. This meeting. You did it to make fucking sure that me and Wolf showed up on your turf, at your clubhouse, to talk to you, which is exactly what we did. Now, answer my President: why did you start this conversation? What do you want to say that you couldn’t say in a goddamn text message?”
“Ha!” Dawson guffawed, and Scars gritted his teeth. Yeah, Dawson was President of his merry band of traitors, but some respect was due to Wolf as a fellow MC Prez, and to Scars as a Veep. And, frankly, a bit of respect as a small nod to their years of former brotherhood wasn’t a bad idea. Dawson’s disinterested body language and dismissive laugh were all starting to push Scars’ buttons, and he reminded himself to keep his cool.
No sense starting shit in another MC’s clubhouse – especially when he and Wolf still had no clear idea what their ex-brothers were even really capable of. Or what they wanted. Or if they intended harm. Or if they came in peace. Or anything useful to the decision-making process of ‘Do we start shit, or do we play nice?’. Time to do some probing.
“That’s your answer?” Scars asked evenly. “You gonna laugh? Nothing to add?”
“Oooooh, I know that tone,” Dawson said. “It’s Scars Innis playing it calm and collected as his temper starts to rise.”
“Yeah?” Scars rejoined. “And I know that tone. It’s Dawson Kinley killing time, dancing around the fucking point, because he doesn’t want to say what’s really on his goddamn mind.”
Dawson laughed again, but it was a far more genuine laugh this time. “Yeah, we can read each other like books huh?”
“Yeah.” Wolf held Dawson’s flat black gaze. “So drop the bullshit and say what’s what, or we’re out of here. Me and Scars came on the understandin’ that we’d give you one chance to say what the hell you want. You waste our time or dick around, we agreed to walk. And I gotta tell you, man, my feet are pointin’ at the door.”
“OK, OK.” Dawson held up his large hands. “Same old Wolf Connor.”
Wolf didn’t even respond to that. He just cocked his dark head, trained his steel-gray eyes on his ex-brother, and waited, utterly still and silent. Not so much a wolf right now, as a snake all coiled up and ready to strike – or not strike, depending on whatever happened next.
“Lookit,” Dawson said, and that was when Scars knew that, despite all his sneering bravado and ‘who-the-fuck-cares’ blustering, Dawson was nervous. Starting a statement with ‘lookit’ was one of Dawson’s big tells, and Scars felt his own blue gaze sharpen, even as Wolf’s stance became somehow more like stone. “We need to talk about cooperation.”
Neither man responded to that, which they knew Dawson hated with a passion. The man couldn’t deal with silence at all, and sure enough, he started to talk again.
“I don’t mean the super, heavy-duty illegal shit, OK, I know your boys are out of that, Wolf. I mean the more… well. The milder illegal shit. Illegal-lite.”
Wolf and Scars exchanged loaded glances, returned their attention to Dawson. Still said nothing.
“It’s the Highway Hellions boys out in Utah,” Dawson said. “Crusher Alcott’s people.”
Right away, Scars tensed. Crusher Alcott. Oh, shit. If Scars had to make a list of people he was thrilled to never have to be in contact with again since Wolf had pulled the plug on the Jensen work, Alcott would go to place number one, with a rocket. Known for his fondness for crushing grown men’s windpipes with his bare hands, Crusher Alcott was a living nightmare, even in the one-percenter world, and Wolf and Scars had both been relieved to be away from him.
Except maybe not, because here Crusher was, back as a topic for discussion, for some ungodly reason. Scars flashed back to his conversation with Sam, when his brother had said that maybe it was impossible to get away from his old, criminal life, no matter how hard he tried, or how well-intentioned Wolf was.
The resurrection of Crusher Alcott, no matter how brief or small, showed Scars how right Sam was about the past refusing to stay dead and buried.
Jesus Christ. Just let me get away from the darkness and the monsters. Please. C’mon, man, old Jesus, old boy. Do me a solid here.
“Crusher Alcott?” Wolf said, the words a low, menacing growl. “Anythin’ involvin’ that motherfucker ain’t illegal-lite, Dawson, so don’t even start the bullshit with me. What do you want?”
“It’s not what I want, OK.” Dawson sighed. “It’s what Alcott wants.”
“And what’s that?”
“You.” He gestured at Wolf. “He wants you.”
“Why?”
“Lookit,” Dawson said again. “He – he doesn’t trust me, alright? Doesn’t want me to come near Utah with the drugs that we traffic into Nevada.”
“Why doesn’t he trust you?” Scars asked, though he already suspected the answer. Turns out, he was right.
“Because… well.” Dawson shifted again. “Because I screwed you guys over, basically, by leaving and starting The Blood Crew. Alcott doesn’t understand much, but he lives for club loyalty, and he – he told me I can’t cross over into Utah anymore. None of my boys can. I guess we can try to sneak in and through, but it’d just be a matter of time before we got caught, and you know it. Someone would see us, or someone in Nevada would get word back to Crusher. Everyone knows everything, somehow, so no sense even taking the risk, not even once.”
“So?” Wolf shrugged. “Go through New Mexico and Arizona and avoid Utah altogether. It adds hours to the transport, I know, but if Alcott’s bein’ a blustery prick, just do it. What’s the issue?”
“There’s another problem.”
“There always is,” Scars said wryly. “What?”
“Alcott’s talked to Skulls Montgomery in Nevada, too. Got him on his side. Skulls doesn’t want us making the drops.”
“Ah,” Wolf said, almost amused now. “So… lemme see if I’m up to speed here, man. You fuck off on your brothers, start a new MC, go lookin’ to grab all the dirty work I’d just dumped – and now some of those dirty contacts doubt you’re a stand-up guy? Is that about right?”
Dawson nodded tightly.
“Wow, I do love irony,” Scars said. “So I’ll enjoy all this later. For now, what are you asking? Spell it out, loud and clear.”
“Yeah, OK.” Dawson ran his hands through his dark hair. “I want to keep the Nevada contract with Skulls, and as much as he appreciates my drug contacts at this end, he doesn’t want to deal with me at that end. Crusher won’t deal with me at all, but he respects that Skulls has the need for the product, so he gets that Skulls will still buy from me, on behalf of both of them. That’s all square between them.”
He paused, took a breath.
“So the problem isn’t the demand or the supply… it’s the logistics. I have what Crusher and Skulls want and need, but I can’t take it to them.” Dawson stopped again, then plunged in at last. “I need you guys to do the deliveries. Crusher says if it’s you, you can go through Utah, no problem, and drop off the packages for the Highway Hellions instead of having to wait for Skulls to send the shit from Nevada. You can then cross the state line into Nevada, and Skulls will accept delivery directly from you.”
“And how much do you get out of this?” Wolf asked.
“Not anything like as big of a cut as we had with Jensen, of course, because we’d need to split it with you. I’d pay you way above market for delivery services, though, because without you boys on board, that whole contract goes away… huge hit to me financially, so the small cut is worth it.”
“Huge hit to your rep, too,” Wolf observed. “Losin’ two MC’s as major drug clients is nuclear, man. I mean, they’d have to scramble to find a good replacement supplier, but I’m sure that other groups are already circlin’ them, offerin’ what they got. They ain’t gonna be without a drug store for long.”
“I know,” Dawson admitted. “That’s why I’m talking to you. You’d drive, Wolf, just drive. Nothing else. Pick up, drop off, take your pile of cash. No stress or mess.” He grinned. “Illegal-lite, see?”
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I see.”
Scars glanced at his President, knowing that tone, knowing that Wolf saw clearly. People made the mistake all the time of thinking that Wolf Connor was stupid; they listened to his crap grammar and blunt speech patterns, and assumed that just because he was uneducated, he was a moron. But were they ever wrong: Wolf was the smartest, sharpest guy that Scars had come across in his life.
Yeah, his brother Sam was the most intelligent, and that went without saying, but Wolf was smart. Street-smart. Forged in fire, a School Of Hard Knocks graduate with honors, he’d pretty much raised himself on the street from the age of six. He read people like nobody’s business, spotted weaknesses in seconds, and like the primal predator that he was, he had the patience to quietly stalk his prey. Wait for them to fuck up, or relax, or turn their backs.
That was when Wolf pounced. Went for the jugular, ripping and tearing at the pulse. Left the body bloody and broken under a full moon as he howled in savage victory.
Wolf might be playing by the rules of society and law for the first time in his entire life, but he hadn’t been tamed. Not anything close to it… and now his ferocious gray gaze was nailed on Dawson. Scars didn’t feel sorry for Dawson, not even a little bit, but he did wonder if the man was starting to appreciate just what he’d done here.
Oh, shit, man. You made a mistake, bringing the wolf back to your patch and offering it a civilized tea and a cake-walk drug delivery job.
“So…” Dawson was good and unnerved, but he had to finish this, that much was clear. “What do you think, Wolf? Do you think we can – can cooperate? Set aside our differences and earn some good money for our clubs? Be good, strong Presidents and fatten up the treasuries? I mean, I know your personal bank account has taken a hit since you live exclusively off your legit earnings, I know your boys earn far less, I know not everyone’s happy about that – this arrangement will fix all of that. It’s win-win-win, a great thing for everyone. For all of us.”
“You think so, huh?”
Wolf spoke softly, and Scars tensed right the hell up. A quiet Wolf was the most dangerous version of the man, and automatically, Scars’ foot twitched: his second gun was there, in his boot, and he suddenly wondered if he was going to need it.
Yet again, just for a heartbeat and a blink, Scars thought about Sam’s words, about how there was really no getting away from this slimy, mucky underworld; he also wondered if he was about to take yet another life.
Maybe finally have his own taken.
“Yes, Wolf,” Dawson said, clearly sticking to his guns even as the house fell down around his stupid head. “I really think so.”
“No.” Wolf stood up and Scars followed suit. “Thanks for the meet.”
“Just – just no?” Dawson was stunned, got to his feet too. “Wait –”
“No.” Wolf grabbed his gun from the table, watching Dawson closely. “No way.”
“But –”
“No.” Wolf nodded at Scars, who picked up his own main piece. The two men backed up, not taking their eyes off Dawson for even one second. “Good luck, man. You’re gonna need it.”
“But why –”
“Because, Dawson,” Wolf said, as Scars got the conference room door open and shot a filthy, warning look at Patches, The Road Devils’ ex-manager at Blue Dragon who was now standing guard. He nodded at Wolf that he had eyes on the man outside, and Wolf returned his focus to Dawson. “We’re better off out of this life. I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to bring my boys back into it, you hear me? If they’re unhappy with earnin’ an honest paycheck, they know where you are, and they can defect on over here like the rest of my traitor ex-brothers you got in your crew. But as long as my people show up to tend bar, and fix cars, and do tattoos, I’m gonna assume they’re good with how things stand. That they already think I’m a good, strong President.”
“I’ll lose Skulls and Crusher,” Dawson said, almost desperate now. “I’ll lose a shit-ton – hell, man. I might lose everything.”
“Karma’s a bitch,” Wolf said coldly. “You made your decisions, and now you get to live with ‘em. You got some good stuff out of leavin’ The Road Devils, and now you gotta face the bad stuff, too. You’ll figure somethin’ out, man. You always do, when your back is against the wall.”
“You’ll be sorry for this,” Dawson said, taking a step forward, his expression furious. He was angry and reckless, beyond caring, and he proceeded to lose IQ points at an exponential rate. “This isn’t over, Connor. Not by a fucking long shot.”
“Listen up, asshole,” Wolf hissed, and Scars tightened his grip on his weapon, stared Patches down. “It is over. It’s been over for a year, but I guess you missed the fuckin’ memo that went around, so let me make this clear to you: we’re out of the life. I don’t give a shit how much money you throw at me, my answer is always gonna be ‘no fuckin’ dice’. End of. Here’s the thing, though… you threaten me or my people ever again, and I’m gonna forget that I’m a law-abidin’ citizen now. Just because I pay taxes don’t mean that I’ve forgotten how to make a man stop breathin’.” Wolf stepped forward, stood almost toe-to-toe with the smaller man. “So… you wanna test my memory on this point?”
“No,” Dawson stammered, dropping his eyes, taking a step back, but Scars wasn’t fooled at the docile act. He’d seen the flash of sheer, murderous rage in those dark depths before Dawson had looked away. “No… it’s cool, Wolf. We’re cool. I’ll – I’ll figure something else out.”
“You do that.” Wolf turned, trusting Scars to have his back. “I have complete faith in your ability to screw someone over for your personal gain. Carry on, man.”
Scars and Wolf left the clubhouse, barely glancing at their former brothers who were standing around, but their every sense, every nerve-ending, every fibre were all straining, prickling, alert and pumped to the max full of adrenalin. If they heard so much as a ‘click’ – even if it turned out to be a goddamn pen – they’d pull first and ask questions later.
Nothing happened, though, and they hit the parking lot without an issue. They got on their bikes without a word, peeled out and away. Scars knew that Wolf had plenty to say, though, and so he wasn’t surprised when Wolf pulled over at Dangerous Curves, killed the engine.
Scars parked next to his Prez, removed his helmet. “You need a beer, man?”
“Nah.” Wolf shook his head, flattened his hair. “Just wanted a second to talk to you before we head back.”
“OK.” Scars leaned back, his weight braced on his long, strong, jeaned legs, crossed his massive arms. “Shoot.”
“First, thanks for havin’ my six in there. For a second, I thought it might go another way.”
“Yeah. I did, too. Glad it didn’t.”
“No shit.” Wolf ran his hand over his stubble, briefly shut his eyes. “Can you believe him askin’, though?” He snorted. “‘Illegal-lite’, my ass.”
“Right? “ Scars managed a grin at Dawson’s idiotic choice of words. “Anything that involves Crusher and Skulls isn’t ‘lite’ anything.”
“Amen, brother. Now, the second thing is… what do you think the chances are that Dawson’ll do somethin’ as payback for me sayin’ no?”
This was the big question, and Scars knew it. He also knew his answer, and he believed in it with everything that he had, despite Dawson’s split-second of rage.
“Honestly?” Scars said. “I think the chances are slim-to-none.”
“Yeah.” Wolf blew out a breath, looked at the passing cars and trucks on the busy highway. “I think so, too. The man is too busy sortin’ things out right now, especially with probably losin’ two key drug buyers… but once he does sort shit, he may turn his attention our way.”
“I really don’t think so. I think that by then, he’ll have forgotten it ever happened. I mean, we know he can plan, and we know that he can follow through. We saw that with him starting up The Blood Crew right under our damn noses.”
“Mmmm,” Wolf said darkly. “Too true.”
“But even though he’s a two-faced, sneaky prick, Dawson doesn’t hold a grudge. He never has. He gets mad fast, he gets over it faster. He doesn’t dwell on his failures either. Look at Ice and Cain and the twins: he begged them all to join his new crew as Enforcers, and they turned him down flat. He bitched and screamed for three days, threatened them and acted like a jerk, then he just stopped, and put his time into scouting and recruiting new guys. After the temper tantrum, he always comes to his senses, refocuses his energies, solves the problem, moves on to bigger and better things. I say, he’ll be pissed at us until he comes up with a plan to get new clients and sets it in motion. In a week, he’ll have forgotten he ever asked us for help.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I agree. But still – I need you to keep an eye on Zoe. Just for a little while.”
“What? Zoe?” Scars damn near toppled backwards off his bike, both in shock and delight. “Why?”
“Because I promised her that she and Keira would be safe if she came back here and worked for the club. I said all the shit was over and in the past. I don’t think Dawson and his crew will do a damn thing to any of us, let alone her – but I ain’t takin’ even the smallest chance with that woman. We protect her, we protect her baby, and since Zoe’s the most important damn thing in my world, she gets the best I got watchin’ her back. That’s you, man.” Wolf looked as soft and worried as Scars had ever seen him, in all the years that he’d known the man. “Do this for me, OK?”
“Of course I will. You know you don’t need to ask twice.”
“Thanks.” Wolf straightened up, his tone going brisk and cool again. “I’ll tell the guys what’s what with Dawson so they can watch Zoe at Blue Dragon and Silver can watch her at home, but I don’t want her in the loop yet.”
“Agreed.”
“So.” Wolf put his helmet back on, lowered his kick stand. “Let’s go, Innis. We got to call a meetin’ of all The Road Devils, and give ‘em the news. They need to be on alert until I think Dawson’s over it.”
“Wolf?”
“Yeah?”
“You think… you think we can ever really get out? Out of the life, even though we were in it for so damn long?”
Scars hated to ask, hated to sound pessimistic, or like he was questioning Wolf’s leadership and decisions, but this was weighing heavily on his mind. Some days, he thought that it was just about all he thought about.
Except for Zoe, of course. He thought about her near-constantly, and it had just about killed him to keep his distance for the past week, but she’d been up to her eyeballs in settling in at work, and trying to find a babysitter, and moving fully into the house.
He’d figured that she’d need to focus and get organized, and his private welcome gift to her had been to give her the space and time to do what she had to to start a new life, on her terms. Scars had watched with interest and pride as she’d kicked the parlor into a semblance of order in record time, and hired Maria Torres, a genuinely sweet and good-hearted woman, and had listened to Silver talk about how he’d hung some of Zoe’s own art on the walls of his house.
In short, Scars had backed off, but it was always meant to be a temporary capitulation, a brief respite in his campaign to take Zoe on a real date, one with clothes and talking and maybe even some good old-fashioned hand-holding at the movies. And if he were being totally honest, he’d also been hoping that his short, self-imposed absence would give her a chance to miss him, maybe just a little bit. He’d been planning to make another Zoe approach soon, anyway, and Wolf had just given him the green light.
“Hell, yes, we will.” Wolf was firm, fierce. “It’ll take some time, Scars. Longer than I’d hoped, I see that now, but that don’t mean that it’ll never happen. We just keep makin’ the right choices – like we did today. We keep sayin’ ‘no’. We keep watchin’ out for each other. We keep the faith, and we keep puttin’ one foot in front of the other on the right road. We do that, and one day we’ll be free from it all. No more calls to wipe out one-percenter MC’s lookin’ to do us harm, no more requests for cooperation with drug runners. One day at a time, man. We’ll do it, if we do it together. If we stick together.”
And just like that, Scars believed all over again. He believed in his President, in his plans, in his ability to change Scars’ world for the better.
Now… he had to figure out how to watch out for Zoe without having that woman make him lose his freaking mind.
Easier said than done.