Riding Dirty (11 page)

It didn’t look easy.

He wondered if she’d gone with him out of plain old loneliness. She hadn’t been with a man in years. She missed sex—with her husband. Cole knew he wasn’t her usual type. She didn’t go for thugs and lowlifes. He’d just been in the right place at the right time. And he’d blown it.

Fuck.

It was full dark when he reached the Hidden Palms. Otherwise known as the “Hairy Palms,” a teenage joke he’d shared with his friends. The nickname was particularly apt tonight. He was going to lock himself in his room and spend a quality evening with his hand down his pants, thinking about Mia.

He parked directly behind his room instead of out front, planning to use the balcony entrance. It was sneaky and paranoid, but whatever. He didn’t want to answer any questions about where he’d been. As he climbed off the bike, he noticed a long figure skirting the shadows at the edge of the property.

Cole went still. He recognized a shady character when he saw one. He
was
one, after all. He’d sneaked away from the hotel regularly during his misspent youth. Sticking close to the fence line, rather than crossing the middle of the parking lot, offered the cover of darkness. This person didn’t want to be seen.

Cole’s adrenaline kicked into overdrive. They were in Dirty Eleven territory. Drug dealers knew better than to sling their shit around here without permission. This creep could be a mischievous teenager, but his shape suggested an adult man. He might be a Peeping Tom. About five years ago, his uncle had caught some pervert hanging around the pool and trying to peep into the ladies’ room. They’d knocked his fucking teeth out. Cole clenched his hands into fists and pursued the suspicious visitor, ready to do it again.

As the guy rounded the corner, stepping from the parking lot to the sidewalk, Cole got a glimpse of a lightning bolt on the back of his jacket.

Mother. Fucker.

Why would a member of White Lightning be here? Cole abandoned stealth and started jogging toward him.

“Hey,” Cole yelled, deciding to give the guy a chance to explain himself. What he really wanted to do was tackle him from behind and start wailing on him.

The outlaw stopped on the sidewalk and turned around. Cole couldn’t believe his eyes. It was Dwight “Dimebag” Arno, the brother of Jesse “Jester” Arno. Jester was the man Cole had stabbed for raping his cousin Courtney.

“Are you lost?” Cole asked, dumbfounded.

Dimebag laughed at the question, shaking his head. “If it isn’t Shank Shepherd. How the fuck are you, man?”

Cole didn’t like the Arnos or anyone else in their shitty club. White Lightning was scum. They’d always been scum. The fact that they’d been involved in his brother’s death made Cole’s blood boil. So did Dimebag’s presence here, and his bold, nonchalant manner. Dimebag was big, but he wasn’t as big as Cole. The other man had a beer gut and a receding hairline. He should be shitting his pants right now. Instead, he was shooting the breeze.

“I hope the big boys in the pen treated you nice,” Dimebag said. “Protected you in exchange for favors.”

“They probably treated me better than your brother. Him being a rapist and all.”

Dimebag’s eyes narrowed. “It’s too bad about
your
brother. I heard what happened. Roach got squashed.”

Cole wasn’t going to put up with insults to Rylan. Not from any member of White Lighting, but especially not from some penny-ante drug dealer whose brother had raped Cole’s cousin when she was
fifteen
.

Cole lowered his shoulder and charged, slamming Dimebag in his round midsection. It was harder than he’d figured, tense as a basketball. He almost bounced off. They both went down in a tangle of limbs, rolling over the curb.

Cole’s strength was in his swing, so he should have just cracked Dimebag across the jaw. That wouldn’t have been as satisfying as full-contact, though. Cole scrambled for leverage and won, straddling Dimebag’s chest. Cole grabbed the front of Dimebag’s cut and slammed him a few times. They were in the gutter, with Dimebag’s ugly mug next to the curb. Because of their respective positions, Cole couldn’t use his powerful right hook.

Dimebag could.

He punched Cole in the jaw, hard. Cole’s head rocked to the side and he lost his grip on Dimebag’s cut. They tumbled into the middle of the street, trading blows. Cole landed a few brutal strikes to Dimebag’s left eye. Dimebag popped Cole in the nose.

Cole ended up on top again, his nostrils streaming blood. Unfortunately, Dimebag had another nasty surprise in store. He reached for a weapon at his ankle. And then Cole was staring down the barrel of a .38.

Cole’s stomach dropped. He lifted his palms and rose, backing up a few steps.

“You’re not so tough now, are you?” Dimebag said, his eye twitching. “How does it feel to be the one without a weapon?”

If Dimebag thought his brother had been unarmed when Cole stabbed him, he was wrong. Jester had picked up a metal pipe during their fight. Instead of walking away, Cole had broken the end of a bottle and driven it home.

Jester had survived, by some miracle. Rylan hadn’t. That was life.

Cole could have made different choices back then. He could have chosen not to tackle Dimebag tonight. But he hadn’t. And now he was going to pay. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and he swallowed hard, picturing Mia.

Mine.

Someone stepped from the shadows at the fence line, holding a cigar with a bright cherry. It was his uncle.

Thank God.

“Put that away,” Bill said to Dimebag. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Dimebag tucked the gun into his waistband. “He charged me.”

“I don’t give a damn what he did,” Bill said. “If you ever draw on my nephew again, I’ll shove the barrel up your ass. Now go home before I let him tear you apart.”

Cole pinched the bridge of his nose and watched Dimebag do as he was told. That’s when it dawned on Cole that the two men were working together. A little part of his soul died at this realization, taking with it the last vestiges of his childhood. “We need to talk,” Cole said to his uncle.

“You need to settle down,” Bill countered, his lip curled in derision. “Look at you.”

Cole stopping pinching his nose and let it bleed. Moving closer, he said, “Look at me? Look at
you
.”

Bill stood his ground. “You’re a mess.”

“Only on the outside.”

“Right,” he scoffed.

“I’m getting some ice,” Cole said. “Meet me at the Jacuzzi tub.”

His uncle probably didn’t like his tone, but Cole couldn’t be dissuaded. They had to discuss this situation right now. It was un-fucking-acceptable. He strode to the nearest ice machine and filled a plastic container with ice. His hands were shaking from the close call. Carrying the bucket to the pool, which was free of hotel residents, he removed his shirt and blotted his nose. The bleeding had slowed. He made an ice pack with the stained fabric, holding it to his battered face.

He’d be fine. Nothing was broken. He was alive.

His uncle reappeared, clad in army-green swim trunks. Cole stripped to his boxers. Sitting on the side of the Jacuzzi tub, he made sure his ankle monitor was covered with the wetsuit material before he submerged his feet. He’d gotten into the habit of leaving the neoprene on his shin and pulling it up or down when necessary. He hoped the fabric muffled his conversations with Mia, on the off chance that his monitor had a listening device. What Cole was about to discuss with his uncle required absolute assurance that they wouldn’t be heard.

Bill turned on the bubbles and got in, still puffing on his cigar. He was fit and broad-shouldered, military trim. Despite a love for Cubans and booze and criminal activities, he appeared as healthy as a horse. Cole’s entire body throbbed with resentment.

“You okay?” Bill asked, studying his face.

“I’m fine.”

“Where were you earlier?”

“Trying to get laid.”

“You have to try?”

Cole shrugged, feeling surly.

“I thought you just said hello and their panties dropped.”

“Not all of them.”

“Well, well,” Bill said.

“Well what?”

“It’s about time you found a nice girl instead of screwing every slut in town.”

Cole didn’t want to talk about his sexual predispositions. Last week, Bill had accused him of liking prison boys. This week he liked sluts too much. He couldn’t win. “What are you doing with that white trash lowlife?”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Bill said, taking another pull off his cigar. “I don’t answer to you.”

Cole shifted the ice pack to another spot, annoyed.

“Maybe you think time stood still while you were away. Nothing changed and no one moved and we all sat around jerking off, waiting for you. Is that it?”

“I didn’t think you’d team up with our enemies.”

“There was a meth war last year,” Bill said. “It got ugly. I didn’t want that cartel shit in my town.”

“So you let the rival club bring it in?”

“Someone is going to sell it here no matter what. That’s reality. At least White Lightning pays me for the privilege.”

“They pay you for protection.”

“I keep the peace,” Bill growled, tossing his cigar aside. “That’s what you don’t get, because you love to fight first and think later. With only one major player in the area, there’s no blood in the streets.”

“What if they want to diversify? Pick up some local girls and put them to work.”

“I don’t care what they do with club whores.”

“I’m not talking about club whores, and you know it.”

White Lightning was known for treating its groupies like slaves, but Cole assumed those women weren’t being held against their will. The main issue was the club’s connection to underground sex trafficking. Cole had heard about teenage girls being forced into prostitution. He wasn’t on board for that.

Drugs had been a part of Dirty Eleven since its inception. They’d made a shit-ton of money in marijuana. Gunrunning and transporting other illegal goods had been lucrative. Bill had dabbled in meth on and off. Cole didn’t like it. Meth dealers were either ruthless killers or junkie flakes. Cole understood his uncle’s choice, but he wouldn’t have voted to collaborate with White Lightning. Their involvement in meth and prostitution rings was troubling, but the real dealbreaker was personal.

Jester Arno had raped Cole’s cousin.

Dirty Eleven MC had been born in response to this violent act. Bill used to be a member of White Lightning. After the attack on his daughter, he’d formed his own club and established strict rules about criminal behavior. Cole had joined at twenty-one, as soon as he was released from prison. He’d loved everything about the club. Its freedoms and its regulations. The family aspect and brotherly camaraderie. He felt as if he belonged to this motley crew of outlaws, more than he’d ever belonged anywhere else.

“We have a code about women,” Cole reminded him. No rape, no wife beating, no female victims. No exceptions.

His uncle rubbed a hand down his face, where condensation had built. He looked old and tired, like the suntanned snowbirds who moved to the desert postretirement. “I’m not involved in their other business interests. What they do outside of Indio is none of my concern.”

Cole couldn’t call him on the lie. According to Ace, Bill had collaborated with White Lighting on at least one other job: the kidnapping that had cost Rylan his life. Cole wanted to ask Bill what the fuck he’d been thinking.

“I heard you went to see Ace,” Bill said.

Cole set down the ice pack, wondering if his uncle was having him followed. “I saw him. So what?”

“What did he say?”

“Just that he wanted custody of Skye, but he didn’t think Shawnee would let her go.”

His uncle grunted in response. “Did he tell you why Shawnee wants to keep her?”

“He was pretty tight-lipped about it, but I didn’t have to ask. I know Shawnee.”

Bill gave him a sharp look. Shawnee was clingy, demanding, voracious in her love. Shawnee had doted on Courtney and been blind to her faults, including the drug addiction that she’d succumbed to. Shawnee couldn’t bring back her daughter, but she could hang on to Skye. Cole imagined she’d never let go.

“I don’t suppose he mentioned that he’s doing wet work,” Bill said.

Wet work meant blood. Assassin for hire.

“I’d steer clear of Ace if I were you. I think he does contracts with AB, and anyone else who can afford his price.” His uncle climbed out of the Jacuzzi tub, water dripping down his legs. “The next time you see him might be your last.”

A chill traveled along Cole’s spine at the cryptic words. He watched his uncle exit the pool area, his mind reeling. Cole wasn’t sure if his uncle had just warned him away from Ace for his own good—or threatened to kill him for insubordination.

CHAPTER NINE

C
OLE SHOWERED AND
shaved after work, eager to see Mia again.

He wasn’t looking forward to his visit with Vargas, however. Before Cole left his hotel room, he tucked the neoprene muffler into his pocket and studied his face in the mirror. His jaw was bruised from the fight with Dimebag. Mia would notice and be disappointed in him. Vargas would ask about it. Cole had to give him some information today. Real information, the kind that could put his uncle behind bars.

Gut churning, Cole locked the front door behind him and climbed on his bike. It was a short ride to the bland medical building in the industrial center of town. He parked and went inside. Vargas and his stooge were waiting for him in the office down the hall from Mia’s. Cole felt a fresh stab of anxiety as he entered the room.

Did they know about him and Mia?

“You’re late,” Vargas said.

He always was.

Cole took a seat at the table, across from Vargas. His partner, Assistant Investigator Edwin Bruce, was standing in the corner. Vargas was a tall, intimidating Mexican with no sense of humor. His suits were neatly pressed and his shoes polished. He was slick. Something about him looked cruel, as if he enjoyed hurting people.

Bruce was a sandy-haired white guy, a rookie, stocky and fit. He was Vargas’s little bitch. Cole kicked off his boot and rolled up his pant leg to give Bruce access to his ankle monitor. They didn’t trust Cole to take care of the device on his own, so recharging it here was part of their biweekly routine. Bruce plugged it in and returned to his corner. Cole didn’t acknowledge the man’s presence.