Page 13

Chapter 13

Liam

T he drive to the compound is shit. Traffic from the party makes the ride three times as long. Then add having to watch out for drunken assholes, even more so since I’m on my bike.

I’m not worried about something happening to me. I’m more worried about my Harley. Cost me more than I’d ever admit. I let the town think it’s bought and paid for by Darrin and his operation, but I purchased it myself.

I ease onto the compound, which is accessible from a dirt road off the Natchez Trace. A long scenic travel corridor that stretches from Mississippi to Tennessee.

The back road winds around through the woods enough that tourists or passersby would simply think it was a road that leads nowhere.

But nestled back here—well, more like concealed—is the compound entrance. It’s a rugged place with several ruined buildings housing many of the workers strung out or using. Darrin doesn’t put too much effort into those living quarters. The clubhouse and the trusted circle, however, are a different story.

I snort at the term clubhouse. Darrin hates being referred to as a motorcycle club, but with half the men riding hogs and an organizational structure like one—it’s damn close.

The large oak and pine trees surrounding the gated entrance cloak the moon. Brilliant bursts of colors occasionally pop into view above the towering branches from those still celebrating the Fourth. And I wish it would end.

Pulling past the gate, I guide my bike to the clubhouse. Darrin requested I swing by before returning to my cabin for the night.

The clubhouse is a large two-story building that serves as the hub for our operations, meetings, and eating. Honestly, the whole place smells like drugs and engine oil. The communal firepit sits off the back porch of the clubhouse, although while some may think it is a nice bonfire for bonding, it’s far from the case. Darrin has a sick obsession with branding people.

The horseshoe seared on the side of my ribs burns with the memory.

Luckily, my assigned cabin sits a good distance from the clubhouse, and I do my best to stay away from this place as much as possible.

A buzz in my back pocket tickles my ass as I pull my bike into park and swing off.

Received.

Deleting the message, I stride to the double doors.

“Have fun at Mommy and Daddy’s?” Blitz’s oily voice seeps into my ear. He stands to the side of the double doors smoking a cigarette.

I scoff. “Same shit, different year.”

He snorts in laughter that turns into a wheezing cough. “See that brother of yours? Heard he had a new piece of ass.”

My nostrils flare and Blitz narrows his eyes at me. Steeling my expression, I grunt in response, yanking open the door.

He’s an idiot, my brother. Bringing a woman into his life. Enjoying the perks of having everyone else clean up his mess. He may only be two years younger than me, but he’s acting foolish.

When I walk in, several of the guys hover around the meeting table. Darrin’s dark brown hair is curled and wet as if he just got out of the shower, and it indicates he’s over this day like the rest of us.

“We have several shipments coming in from the border this week. It will be all hands on deck to get it moved out. I don’t want it here long.” He blinks, those mismatched eyes looking at each of the guys.

The men nod. The warehouse on site allows us to consolidate and distribute. Most of the product goes into the hands of local dealers, but we have a few trucks we move product in for out-of-state transport. Darrin procured three United States Postal Service trucks modified to conceal product. We’ve never once been stopped.

“In other news, we caught a snitch. Found an undercover cop snooping around. Y’all know how I feel about cops.” Darrin holds out the S so it hisses from the tip of his tongue.

“What’da do with him, D? Make an example out of him?” Snape chuckles. Snape is a hound, always sniffing for blood.

“No. That would draw too much attention. Gave his name to our friends down south.”

Hollering and fists on the table distract me from the pit growing in my stomach. Silently, I’m praying they don’t ask about Adam.

Pounding on the front doors of the clubhouse pauses the meeting, and Blitz runs in, saying we’ve got a junkie at the gate.

This happens. A lot. The town’s people get hooked on Jackpot and the dealers are squeezed for information. Ultimately, the compound location is given away, and they rummage through the woods, looking for a fix.

Darrin stands, his tall form striding to the front doors before the rest of us. There are six of us in this trusted circle. Micah is the only one with more brains than muscles. He’s Darrin’s little brother and he handles all the finances, so he doesn’t live on the compound. He’s a treasurer of sorts—but again we aren’t a motorcycle club.

Reaching the gate, we see the man. His hands shakily grip the secure fence, attention darting to each of us as we approach. He tries to claw his way in, reaching through each post. Plastering his head to the gate, he smooshes his face there, pleading with us.

“Let me in. I-I-I can pay. I’ll pay.”

Darrin steps forward. “How did you find this location?”

The man blinks rapidly, eyes working overtime as he tries to remember.

“J-Jace. He told me he was out. Had to get some from the compound. I followed him out here.”

Darrin’s cold expression hardens even more as he steps forward, taking the man’s face between his thumb and fingers through the iron bars. He moves the man’s face up and down, inspecting him. “And just what would you do for a hit?”

“Anything, man. I’d do anything.”

It’s a little past midnight when I finally make it to my cabin.

Darrin decided he’d let the man in, give him what he desperately craved, and then told him there was an upcharge for it being a premium on-site product. It took everything in me not to snort during his tirade. That’s Darrin, though. Uses what you crave, what you seek. He gives it to you, then pulls the plug, expecting loyalty in return, or charges what you can’t afford. If you can’t pay it back, you’re in debt to him. For the long haul.

The cabin is quiet. Undisturbed. It’s not the traditional Adirondack Mountain cabin you picture when planning your winter vacation, full of serene views and tranquil gentleness.

No. This is a rectangular box.

Sided in traditional rough-sawn lumber with a humble front porch, it houses one bedroom and one bath. With a minuscule kitchen and a decent-sized living room, it’s nothing special. But good enough for me.

Honestly, I’m not sure how Snape lives in his small cabin with his woman. My large body barely fits in between the damn doorways, let alone trying to share the space with another person.

Most of the men here aren’t in committed relationships, but there’s a constant supply of women on the compound. Many looking to trade intimate moments for a hit of the latest batch that came in. A few have girlfriends, but even then, if Blitz wants one of them, he takes them. No questions asked. Call it the perk of his position as next in line. The only time he backs down is if they’re married.

A couple years ago, a guy named Cider found out another guy on the compound was sleeping with his wife. Cider killed him. And at that point, new rules were instated about marriage and messin’ with another’s wife.

Stepping through the door, I move to turn on a low-light lamp in the living room before removing my boots. They are large, clunky things needed for riding my bike and occasionally beating the shit out of people. As is part of my job as the enforcer.

It’s only part of the work I do for Darrin, though. When I first started with him, after I was allowed in the compound, I had the rookie jobs. Cleaning up blood, unloading shipments from the border, or sobering up the guys after a long night. Since then, Darrin has trusted me more and more. I liaise between Darrin and the dealers often. I go to them. Check their count and their stash.

In the corner of the cabin, near the door, is an old coat rack my grandfather made me, and I fling my black leather coat on it. He gave them to all three of us grandkids a few years ago for Christmas. He doesn’t have much time for woodworking anymore, but the deep cherry and smooth lines make it the only nice piece of furniture this whole place has.

The couch is an old burgundy leather from Double Lucky’s, and the recliner is from my father’s shop. Everything I used to own I sold to come here four years ago.

Wood paneling wraps the kitchen, and I installed open shelving with reclaimed wood instead of upper cabinets. The light pine lower cabinets are full of knots, and most needed replacing when I moved in. Then two years ago, tired of all the wood, I replaced the butcher block countertops with a precut piece of granite.

Sliding a cast iron skillet from the lower cabinet, I place it on a burner before kicking the stove twice to turn it on.

I grab five eggs from the refrigerator, which is usually what I reach for most nights as a midnight snack. They splatter in the sizzling pan and the heated butter pops out to sting my skin.

I don’t flinch. Only stare at the eggs as they cook, exhausted.

Blonde hair and gray eyes flicker in my thoughts from this evening. My mother kept going on and on about how lucky Adam was that he’d found someone. Him being such a “good boy” and all, he deserves to have a “nice woman”.

I snort and my eyes slide around the dimly lit cabin and over the knitted Afghan folded neatly on the couch. If only my mother knew.

Fleur, though—her narrowed eyes at me. They dilated in fear and widened in apprehension when she found out I was Adam’s brother. He hadn’t told her. Probably for good reason.

But that fear melted into something … more. Furrowed brows and deepening lines in her expression—curiosity. Like she had a million and one questions to ask, and I can be sure Adam won’t answer them. If he tries, they’ll be lies.

I flip the eggs. Yolk spills out of one, creating swirls of golden yellow in the curved pattern of a horseshoe. Scowling at the eggs, I stab the others, violently breaking each one until they’re seared through.

Mismatched plates are all I have, and I reach up for a blue one with red speckled dots and slide the snack onto the plate. Starved, it takes two forkfuls to devour them, and I clean up in a hurry, craving sleep.

But before I can shower, I take out my notebook and draw those eyes. Glistening silver in the sun but storm gray in the clouded day. They claw at my mind, and I draw. Dumping out the vision of how they widened in fear, yet also detonated with irritation when she saw me today. Who is this woman? And why am I drawn to her?

When I’m finished, I pad into the single-person bathroom and twist the shower handle to near scalding. The blistering burn doesn’t even register with me anymore.

I feel nothing.