Before I Wake: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel Page 8

  “Fate’s not on our side? ’Cause our time has been cut short? What the fu—” I slam my hands against his chest, mentally slamming my anger shut. “Like I said before you so rudely interrupted me: This hot-and-cold shit is getting tiring. Thank you for the necklace. It wasn’t expected. And I appreciate it more than you could ever know.” I curtly smile before snatching my duffel bag and shouldering it. After heading towards the door that leads from my room to the stairs, I'm proud of myself for not hesitating.

  I wanted Jacques Cain to say something before I made it to the door. I wanted him to remember something. Either something he forgot to tell me or something, anything, about me or the time we were together six months ago. I wanted his voice to stop me from turning the knob when my hand clasp around it. I wanted his arms to circle my waist, maybe stop me by using force, since it’s worked before. Many times before, actually.

  But none of that happened. None of it.

  Instead I don’t think I see a muscle twitch beneath his skin as I open the door and close it behind me.

  When I walk into the main room on the bottom floor of the compound, I briefly look around in search of two Cajun men. ’Cause, aside from that, all the men on the bottom level all look the same, especially with my current frame of mind. Black leather and beards. Line them up and the only difference’ll be the shade of the beard.

  As Clutch and Nails step up, they stiffly look from me to each other and then back again.

  “Hey,” I say, interrupting their awkwardness. “I’m just trying to get the hell outta here. Have either of the two of you seen King anywhere? Jacques said he was looking for me.” I hate when I pull my lip between my teeth after I finish speaking, but I’m awkward as hell and the tension in this place is so thick you could cut it with a knife. So, I don’t pull it back from between my teeth, either, until Clutch stops speaking.

  “Dreads is just outside waiting on you. He’s gonna take you to where they are. Everyone’s at the steeple.” He nods towards the open bay garage doors. “You can head that way. He’s just through there.”

  As I walk in the direction he indicated, I over hear Nails mutter under his breath, “That his? Shit, does Rox know?!”

  But I close out their conversation. I can’t focus on that right now. I have way too much other shit going on. And what Rox or any of these motherfuckers think about me or the child I’m carrying is the least of my current concerns.

  Let me find out who the hell I am first. Then I’ll worry about what people think. But not now. It’s too early in the damn game to care now.

  Dreads is leaning against the side of the metal building when I step out onto the asphalt of the parking lot, but when he sees me, he comes jogging over. “Hey! You look well. Definitely can tell you got some rest. You get some breakfast to eat? We have a long road ahead of us.”

  I smile up at him, placing my hand over my eyes so I can block out the sun rising over his shoulder. “Not yet. I’m sure we’ll eat at L’s though. Have you seen ‘King’? Jacques came storming upstairs, saying there was a change in plans. Looks like I lucked out. I won’t be locked up in his tower after all. No damsel in distress openings at the moment.” I shrug, fully recognizing the beginnings of a pity party, and I do try to stop it. Somewhat.

  “Yeah.” He grins before grabbing my elbow and tugging. “Come on. I’ll take you. Actually, I’m going with. Jacques said the only way he’d let you out of his sight was if one of his brothers rode with y’all to NOLA. So we’re Big Easy bound, baby.” He winks before scooping up a black leather bag that’s gone unnoticed until now.

  “You're going? Wait. That doesn’t make sense. What the hell does he care? Let me out of his sight?” I squawk and twist my arm when he stops us outside the church-looking building.

  Dreads opens the door, and without missing a beat, he swings me over the threshold and plants me on my feet, looking from just inside the double doors, up at a pretty damn spectacular chrome stairway leading to the second and third floors.

  “Wow,” I spit out ignorantly, and it sounds just as bad as it did the first time when it echoes the third or fourth time off the bare walls.

  “Your boys are upstairs. I think they’re ready to go.” He cups his hands and hollers up the stairs, “Ay! She’s here. We all ready?”

  As ‘King’ and Philip jog down the stairs, a whole new brand of anxiety mixes in my veins before I swallow the dry lump in my throat.

  Okay...so, now what?

  I still don’t know these people, either? Do I? I thought, with ‘King’ being my biological father, I would feel a second trusting nature or a sense of family. Loyalty. Something.

  “Ahh, cher bebe. Look at ya, Evie. Simply beautiful.”

  He smiles while clasping his cufflinks. As his dark-brown eyes narrow on mine, they almost seem to change to black, and I falter in my footsteps.

  “It’s just pants and a T-shirt, but thanks.” I smile awkwardly, hoping like hell my father doesn’t realize my hesitation when I see the telltale sign of blood on his handkerchief just before he quickly tucks it away in his pocket.

  My gaze shoots back up the stairs before I’m able to pull it back down and keep my eyes pinned on where he’s finishing with his cuffs.

  “So we’re going by L’s, right? So I can see Ty? ’Cause he’s gonna be pissed as hell if he flew up here and doesn’t get to see me before we leave.” I chuckle, though I find the entire situation the furthest thing from funny.

  I don’t really know any of these people. Hell, if I'm being honest here, I don’t really even know my own mother. So how can I possibly trust some random person she slept with more than twenty-five years ago? Nuh uh. No way.

  Call it the pregnancy, but my alarms go up. And they stay.

  “Of course, ma chère. Straightaway. I had them find a car. I didn’t want you uncomfortable for the ride. It’s a Lincoln MKZ. Clutch said she drives like a dream. I just want you at ease. I know the last half year’s been hard on you, yeah? It makes me almost see red to think what they done to you—” He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he’s seemingly regained composure, he glances over his shoulder and speaks to Philip. “Have my bike hooked up on the trailer. I’ll drive ma chère. There’s no need for her to be riding with a stranger,” he barks.

  “King, I’m her cousin. I’m far from a stranger—” But before the younger man can finish speaking, my father has his hand in the air.

  “Stop. I’ve already explained riding partners. Stay together. And stay safe. We’ll head out at oh nine hundred. Eve and I have to swing by and see some of her old acquaintances. Everyone be here and be ready.”

  Once “King” has declared his order and reinforced his reign, I follow his lead to the car parked out front of the church. Or steeple. Whatever. And silently say goodbye to Jacques for possibly the last time.

  It’s the first real meeting we’ve had since I can remember, and already, it’s going south faster than shit. Eve’s hardly been gone an hour. Hell, they haven’t even left town yet, meaning I still have to see her. Again. And I don’t know how I feel about that yet.

  “Where’s her mother?” I ask the men at the table when I finish pacing the length of the steeple. “Have the police questioned her?”

  “They have. But, other than talking them through the assault and the scene of the crime again, she can’t really recall much. She was too busy getting the shit knocked out of her.” Philip curses in French before leaning back in his chair.

  I cut my eyes towards him, follow his movements, and then bark in Dreads’s direction. “Dreads, I want you with Eve. Phil, you understand that shit? You set her up in a room, you set him up in one next to it. I don’t want the two of them with more than a wall between them. Is that understood?!” I shout, slowly pinning my eyes on each man's before moving to the next. “I want to know who the hell is writing these notes, threatening King’s daughter. I want to know why the No Color bastards are handing over their bikes with them attached like goddamn Christmas gi
fts. I want to fucking know! Something instead of fucking nothing!”

  “I just don’t understand why my daughter had to pay a price no one will name. What’d she do wrong? Besides not say she was guilty!?” Clutch’s voice isn’t coming from a man who’s currently an MC member. It’s coming from a man who’s a father. And one currently having to sit aside while his daughter learns the most important lesson of all…

  About procedure.

  Respect.

  And fucking protocol.

  When “King” asked for her blood to wash away the sins my MC had caused his club—and his family—the vote was cast. And whether I voted yay or nay wouldn’t have mattered. My nay would've put us at twelve to one without Clutch’s vote. So I let it be a landslide instead.

  And I realize what an asshole I am. With almost every passing day.

  But...it’s difficult to think yourself a man worthy of any happy ending when all you seek is the bleak end itself. As hard as I’m sure it is for you to understand that, it is what it is.

  “She didn’t have an alibi, brother. You understood that perfectly well when you cast your first vote and the reward was posted for Bentley's head on a platter. It’s the same difference with your daughter, old man.” I don’t know what to tell the man I’ve known my entire damn life.

  Other than that I don’t agree with it, either, but when the club votes, it sticks. It’s fucking policy and procedure from that point on. And I can’t vote unless it’s a tie or extenuating circumstances, which there wasn’t any for Ben Cain, so why would there be for Roxy Bell? Ben’s just as dead as Rox is; he just hasn’t been caught yet. And, as much as I hate to admit it, it makes me fucking sick. But someone has to pay. And it ain’t gonna be the cops collecting. Not when it’s this deeply rooted into something this MC.

  “Is it finished? Can I at least have the Butcher go take a look at her?”

  I’m actually astonished by his request. Clutch has been a good father to Rox, considering the circumstances. Being a father to a daughter and then raising her the only way you know how because her ma was nothing but a piece of shit and never a permanent fixture in her life has gotta be hard. And it’s probably the reason Roxy’s in the position she’s in.

  But she made her decision. She made her own bed, and now, she must lie in it.

  She’s got no alibi. None. And, instead of providing one or at least trying to plead her case and explain her involvement—whatever it was—she decided to plead the Fifth. Well, the Fifth doesn’t go over as well in our club’s judicial system.

  “Clutch, how many of my men do you still see walking around here with my blood running through their veins? Meaning how many of my family members do I have to lose to this chaos before it’s ceased?! Do you think I want my last living blood relative running around, ducking from his own MC club, with a target on his back?!” I look around the oblong table, making sure to spend a second or two glancing into each of the men’s eyes. “I didn’t want Roxy’s vote to land the way Ben’s did any more than you wanted it to, Clutch, but this is our club. The rules are still the same, and you can’t buck tradition. Without it, we might as well be the savages they claim we are. I’m sorry, Clutch.” I pin my gaze back on the oldest brother at the table. “I can’t let you down there. Not yet.”

  Slim’s chair squeaks as he sits forward. “Dreads, King just pulled up. Time to hit the road.”

  Once I’ve stalked back to the head of the table, I snatch up the wooden-handled gavel before slamming it twice on the old oak table. “Meeting’s adjourned. Slim, you and Nails finish up downstairs. But give me about thirty minutes first. I still want to question her one last time.” I nod towards the three newest prospects: Tuck, Johnson, and Screw. “When Nails is done, I want the three of you to call the Butcher. Let him know she’s ready. I want her to at least have a proper burial.”

  I toss the gavel somewhere towards the middle of the long table where my ma’s crucifix, or a much larger, grander replica of it, is carved into the dark mahogany surface. But I never see the gavel hit the table. I don’t even hear it before the door slams behind me and I head in the direction of the basement downstairs.

  I knew that the shit with Ben was going to go down. I fully expected that. I did. But, when the topic of Roxy came up and it was decided that that too would go to vote... I don’t think anyone could be prepared for that. The older members did as I’d asked and brought King into the steeple. He made the call, and it went to vote. I don’t think I’ve ever lost someone so fast and unexpectedly. Especially someone I thought I could trust.

  Roxy was like a goddamn sister to me…

  But my thoughts are cut short when I slide the metal doors open and I’m met with the sight of her in front of me.

  I’m not a fan of this part. Never have been, but then again, none of us really are. Not when the brand of revenge is like this. This sweet doesn’t even apologize for the bitter. It doesn’t even feel worth it.

  Roxy’s arms are tied together above her head by a rope and pulled pretty damn taut. She’s bruised and more than busted up a bit, but other than a spot here and a spot there, I don’t see much blood.

  Then I see the water board. Ahh…

  That I’m not surprised to see. My men have always had a hard time torturing the pretty ones. Especially when it comes to drawing blood.

  I don’t even announce my presence. I just begin speaking to her. Straight from the motherfucking heart.

  “You know my pops had to torture my ma for twenty-four hours straight once? Her life was never really on the line, but her loyalty sure as shit was being questioned. Ben’s father, my uncle Chase, got his tighty-whiteys in a bunch because she chose Arch over him. No matter how clear he made his intentions that he wanted to marry her. Chase always claimed he saw her first...but that was never the story. Not to hear my ma tell it.” I chuckle, trying to recall the details of the story as my ma told me them as a child.

  When I turn around, putting Roxy back in my line a vision for the first time since I began speaking, I realize every word I’ve spoken over the last few minutes has strung her a little bit tighter than she was when I first walked into the room. The muscles that were loosely hanging around bones are now rigid where they’re tied to different surfaces.

  Her short, cropped pixie haircut now just looks like a mess of blond matted with blood, and as I step closer to her, I have to stop from reaching out.

  “I’m sorry, Rox. I didn’t want shit to end like this. All you had to do was talk…” I allow myself to scan her make-up and dirt-smeared face now that I’m less than two feet away from where her ankles are cable-tied to the hooks on the floor. And, when I see the telltale sign of duct tape strapped around her midsection, it dawns on me…My brother’s preferred method of murder in acceptance of Roxy’s crime.

  After quickly doing the calculations in my head, I conclude I’m finished taunting her. Too much time has already been wasted. I seriously doubt she has the energy, much less the lung capacity to breathe let alone participate in my little last-minute interrogation. There’s no way in hell I’m getting a single response from her when her lungs are plugged full of holes and duct-taped back up. Especially if they’ve been making her dunk for apples too.

  After stepping from the cell in the center of the basement, I close it behind me. Then I slide into a nook off a side wall and sink into the first chair I spot.

  I settle in for the long run. If this shit’s gonna go down, the least I can do is man up and witness it.

  After my thumb hits the button to turn the monitor on, the live feed of where one of my oldest friends sits shackled and strung in a cell becomes clear on the screen. I swallow around the lump lodged in my throat and hit the volume button, making sure, if she does decide to speak, I’ll at least be able to hear her.

  As I watch the rope slowly turn in a circle beneath her weight, I think back to this morning with Vagabond. She left one of her bags beside the doorway between her room and mine. I gotta make sure s
he remembers it before she leaves. I tucked a little gift in there for her too.

  “I-I’m sorry for every time I’ve ever failed you,” Roxy whispers.

  My head shoots up. Her eyes are pinned on the camera, and from the angle, it feels like she’s damn near looking straight into my soul.

  “Especially this one,” she mutters, causing me to sit forward.

  I don’t know the measure of time that passes before she speaks again. I just know that it feels like forever. Then she finally speaks, but this time, her head is hanging down. The original surge of strength my presence and words caused must have waned, because her next words are muttered through labored, uneven breaths.

  “Ben said he was going to marry her. Eden. I did everything in my power to stop him. I couldn’t let that inbred child be born. It would've ruined his life. He didn’t know what I knew. He wouldn’t listen to me when I told him the similarities between his dad and his child bride. But I loved you, and I couldn’t let his mistakes ruin your name like that. Ruin your MC.”

  Before she’s gathered enough energy to stagger in another full breath, I stand and make my way towards the cell. But I don’t even bother to open the door. I just spit the words at her through the bars, looking down at her in disgust.

  “Eden’s not Unc’s fucking kid! She has a fucking daddy! A rich one, too. Ilsa’s no Virgin Mary. I can promise you that. She wasn’t keeping it in the club. Never. Ilsa’s a rich bitch through and through. How do you even think she ever hooked up with King in the first place? Even his whores make six figures. He’s not gonna shack up with some skank from across the tracks! And money stays with money. It may play with trash on the weekend. Ilsa may have been fucking Pops and Unc on the side, but Monday through Friday, she was in Jersey while Ma was in and out of the hospital, fucking dying!”

  Her soft sobs barely echo off the bare walls, and they grate against my nerves like a motherfucker.