If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel (26 page)

And before you even ask, I Googled his number too. It was also a no go. Apparently he prefers to stay off grid, and keep his phone unlisted. So, no answers there. Not that I’d pull up into his MC parking lot in my little red beep-beep bumping Nicki Minaj. Umm, no. Grammy didn’t halfway raise no fool.

But mother? Oh, I will question the shit out of my mother. Tomorrow.

“Come on.” Ty comes in from the doors open between my room and the deck. And this time when his green eyes hit mine, they aren’t sparkling with mischief and playfulness. They’re dead serious. “Get up. Shoes on. We don’t have much time, if any.”

The letter that was in my lap and the center of my attention before he walked into my room floats to the floor when I stand and jump into action, grabbing my Chucks from my closet. After I shove them on my feet, I grab my purse and hold my hand out for my phone. “What? What happened? Let’s go.” I nod towards the direction of my front door. “You keep talking, though. What’d her dad say?”

“Who are you calling, sister?” he asks as I skim through my contacts.

“Don’t worry about it. What’d her dad say?”

Ty and I make it out the front door before locking up and hopping in his Kia Soul.

“The authorities found a note signed with No Name, No Color at your mother’s yoga class, in the women’s locker room. It left a phone number, with directions to wait until the phone has service connected. They’d…” He shakes his head before glancing at me over the hood of his car and opening his door. He ducks into the driver's seat, leaving me hanging.

“They’d...what? They’d what, Ty?” I scream as I slam his passenger door.

He wouldn’t answer me, though. For someone who knows how much I need answers, he really doesn’t give a shit, because he leaves me high and dry in search of them.

“I don’t—the fucking reception cut out. I missed that part. Come on. Let’s just get to the police station. They’ll answer everything then, dove. It’s gonna be okay,” my friend coolly lies to me.

“Right. Right.” I hit Zach’s number on my contact list. A number I’ve never had to use before. I’ve never really had a reason to, I guess. “It’ll be alright,” I tell my best friend as the phone on the other end begins ringing.

I know whatever it is isn’t good. It can’t be good. It feels too bad. Grams always said some of us Blakeney women have a sixth sense that warns us of something bad coming. And I’ll be damned if I haven’t felt it a hundred times in my life. Hell, it’s even caused me to prematurely bolt. Insert clearing of throat here—bus station decisions. Looking back on it, I remember feeling it the night I was taken from Eden and Mom the first time in Chicago, too. It was always there...I just didn’t know what it was, or if I should acknowledge it.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, dove. I promise. You’ll see. The police will get all this ironed out. I’m sure of it.” My sweet, dear friend lies because he loves me. And for that, I’ll love him too, always.

“I know you’re right, Ty.” After I grab his hand, linking our fingers together, he casts me a sad sideways smile. The phone continues ringing and I wonder if Zach’s purposely not answering as Ty and I both whisper to each other in the stillness of the little cab of his car. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

But we both know it’s not.

And then Zach finally answers the damn phone.

“Umm...hello?”

“Hey, it’s Eve. Lauryn’s friend. I need the closest person’s name and number you’re allowed to give me who’s associated with Jacques Cain. Please. My sister’s life may depend on it, Zach. I’m not kidding, either.”

It takes him a few stuttered moments, but he gives me a number. And he gives me a name.

Jake ‘Clutch’ Smith. Whoever the fuck that is.

After I shot from beneath the pile of brothers and gathered my balance underneath my feet, I started pulling my trigger...and thinking of nothing much else, when most of the other brothers who were surrounding me quickly followed suit. And even though it was us who were supposed to be the ones receiving the element of surprise, whoever the main person was that had a speech prepared before their attack started a little too late. Or he fucking hesitated. Hell if I know, either way—he made a mistake. Because before he could even begin speaking or clear his damn throat I’d plugged the choked up coughing bastard in no colors full of bullet holes.

Now, here’s the extremely fucking unfortunate news...but first, I’ll give you the good: No brother of mine was lost.
Jesus. Mary. And Joseph. Thank Christ.
I motion the cross over my chest while sitting behind my desk.

But besides the guy I’d riddled with holes, the rest of the fucking no color wearing bastards weren’t into position yet, because ole boy hadn’t started talking. Or cleared his throat. So as soon as my shots rang out, I tipped those fuckers off while they were still in flight or fight skittish mode—just before the calm before the storm. That’s where they were. And they all fucking took off. Every last one of them when bullets started whizzing.

So besides the man plugged full of hollow points, and I can guarantee he ain’t fucking talking, we got nothing. No idea who the fuck they were.
Again.

The guy who we assume was the one calling the shots, as he was the first into position, had no identifying marks on him or his bike. Not even a fucking tattoo to go off of—which is weird. Don’t you think? There was nothing. Not even a decal on his bike. Who doesn’t have a single tattoo these days? Especially living this lifestyle.

“Clutch found a note, Jacques. Please.” I’m flying from around my desk, reaching around him, trying to grab the fucking piece of paper from Dreads’ hand that he’s holding above his head when he rounds the corner of my office. He keeps raising his hand higher, like I’m not fucking six-foot-six.

“Give it the fuck to me!” I’m pissed already. I’m pissed at myself. I’m pissed at being so damn trigger happy. And when I’m pissed, or emotional, I curse out of sense. “If you don’t give it the fuck to me, I swear to damn shit, Dreads!” I growl.

“Look, I’ll give it to you. I’ll read it with you, aloud while you read it if you want. That’s cool. I just need you to sit down. I have something to tell you first. It wasn’t discussed before all
that
shit.” He motions to the window, and what I assume occurred within the walls and gates of our club just last night.

Then he holds the paper up. “Plus, there’s this shit.” And folds it before sliding it into my hand. “Your Uncle Chase was found shot in New Orleans, outside of a little cafe called Cafe Du Monde. Only they were a little slow when he was found at two am yesterday morning. With two slugs in the front of his mug. And they weren’t nearly as busy as they are when they start serving those yummy beignets. Anyway, Slim says O’Malley is written all over it. As in 'King'—not...Eve.” He nods towards the note in my hand. “That’s...brother, I don’t know what to tell you that is. I know we need to figure out who the fuck is behind this. Fast. I’ve got nothing. And from what’s on that note, I wish I had even less...especially now. But even more for you, brother. Goddamn, I feel sorry for you.” He shakes his head before turning and leaving.

I stand there, in the middle of my office for damn near five minutes, staring at the folded piece of paper in my hand. I slowly make it back to my desk, still staring at the note like it’s the end of a damn double barrel. And when I’m behind my chair, I sit down and stretch my long legs out in front of me before leaning back. After resting my elbows on the armrests of my chair, I unfold the note and read it word for word:

A mother for a daughter. One’s already on her way to see the grim reaper. And we’ve let the stupid whore of a mother go—with a warning, of course. Sans a finger or two. The bottom line is this. Stay away from the oldest daughter of Ilsa’s. It’s time these bitches stop procreating, all the way around. We may unexpectedly start prematurely...I do hope you find the rhyme to the riddle even we don’t know how we want solved yet…

~No Name No Color

No Name No Color
? What in the Sam’s hell of fuck?
No Color?

I try slowly spelling it out in my head.
Is it race affiliated?

And how are you gonna leave a note? When you don’t know your ransom? My mind screeches to a bloody halt as my eyes shoot back to the letter in my hand.
It’s a fucking ransom note! That’s what the fuck this is. It’s ransom!

I snatch the phone from the cradle and dial the one behind the bar. When Slim picks up, I bark out orders. “Call Philip, 'King's nephew. He knows about Eve being his uncle’s kid, he just hasn’t said anything yet because he wants her inheritance. That’s some inside shit, Slim. You hear me?”

“Gotcha, brother,” he replies.

“Tell Philip to fucking call me. ASAP. I need to know if our girl’s okay.”
Our girl? Where the hell did that come from?

“What, like you think 'King' is behind this shit with the no colors, too? Why would he be taking out his own kid and killing your uncle?” Slim asks.

I grit my teeth before slowly speaking through them. “Brother...what the fuck did I say to do?”

“You got it.” The line goes dead and I replace the phone in its cradle before staring at it. Thinking…

That makes absolutely no fucking horse shit sense. None! Why would O’Malley be taking out his own lineage? Why kidnap his own kid and kill
my
Uncle Chase? What’s Ilsa got to do with this? And who the fuck from DDDs would claim to be from an unknown club?
And
want my Unc dead? Why? That makes even less sense. Plus it eliminates Philip; he wouldn’t be coming after Chase
. Or us.
Not in the current circumstances the MC is in. We’ve got no beef. And hell, my club’s hardly profitable these days I been running it so thin.

I need answers. Like old timer answers.

Clutch!

“Fuck, yeah! Clutch!” I spring from my seat, pulling my iPhone from my back pocket, and find the contact for the oldest motherfucker I know still kicking it in this club: The longest running Sgt. At Arms, and Roxy Bell’s father, Jake ‘Clutch’ Smith.

“This is Clutch,” he answers.

“Hey, brother. Run upstairs to the steeple’s office. Got some questions, a history lesson I need brushing up on. And if what they say is true, and history does repeat itself—I’d like to fucking be a little more prepared if there’s a next time, old man, yeah?”

“Yup. Be up in five.” The phone goes dead before I can slide my thumb across end.

Clutch is a few years older than Pops was, and he’ll let you know it too. Funny thing about Clutch is that until five years ago, the man’s mind was sharp as a tack. But these days, it’s like the poor bastard can’t remember what he ate for breakfast some mornings… however, he remembers 1994 like it was yesterday—and right now that’s about the decade I’m looking for.

I glance at the clock four minutes and fifty-seven seconds later when I hear who I can only assume is Clutch climbing the stairs. And I let him know I hear him coming. “Right on time, my brother.” I stand from behind my desk as he makes it around the corner, and show respect for him by making room for him to sit. “Come on in. Have a seat.”

After I clear some shit off one of the chairs sitting opposite mine on the other side of the desk, I nod to it. “Gotcha a spot cleaned off, old man. How goes it?”

“Fuck if I know. I can’t remember if I still gotta take a piss, son. What’d ya need? Got some questions?” he mutters as he slowly sits in the seat I cleared off for him.