Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set, Page 2

  She doesn’t mean anything to me?

  With each of those six spoken words, a dagger was thrust into my heart. How could he say such a thing?

  My assailant wrapped his arm around my neck and yanked me off the stool so hard I slammed against his chest. Struggling to breathe, and now facing Baker, I searched his face for answers. His eyes were fixed on the man who towered over me, but offered nothing to ease the pain of what he’d said.

  The wild-eyed maniac took a step back, dragging me with him. “I’m not fucking around, Baker. I’ll put one in the back of this bitch’s head.”

  Slowly, Baker lowered his hands.

  The pistol pressed hard against the base of my skull. “Keep your hands where I can see them, Baker.”

  She doesn’t mean anything to me. The words echoed in my mind. Then, it dawned on me. That was his sign. He had a plan, I simply didn’t know what his next step was. Whatever it was, it was going to have to be precise. One wrong move, and I would be nothing but a memory.

  I closed my eyes.

  Please. Guide me through this. Help me understand what it is that I need to…

  The explosive sound of the gun firing caused me to suck what would surely be my last breath.

  Warm blood cascading down my face and onto my chest followed.

  Then, everything went black.

  1

  Baker

  Six months ago.

  Cash paced the room with his eyes glued to the floor. I stroked my beard with the web of my hand while I waited for him to respond. After wearing the soles of his boots thin and streaking my freshly cleaned floor with scuffs, he paused and looked up.

  “We don’t kill women, children, or the elderly,” he said under his breath.

  His actions were unacceptable. As the president of Devil’s Disciples MC, I had many responsibilities. Keeping my men out of prison was one. Being a babysitter wasn’t. I demanded that everyone follow the rules outlined in the club’s bylaws. If they couldn’t – or wouldn’t – there was no place for them in the MC.

  I could count the rules on one hand. Following them was paramount to the club’s success.

  I studied him. An intimidating man to outsiders, he was lean and muscular with a mess of hair that obscured his eyes when he didn’t take the time to clear it away from his face. His jaw was sparsely covered in scruff, and his tanned skin was spotted with tattoos. His eyes were commanding, making looking away from him difficult.

  “You understand the importance of that rule, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Suppose so,” he said in a flat tone.

  I pushed my chair away from my desk and stood. “You suppose so?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You’re guessing?” I sauntered toward him. “You know how I hate guessing.”

  “What the fuck, Baker? It was an accident.”

  “You expect me to believe you fired that weapon on accident?” I narrowed my gaze. “You left a bullet buried in the cabinet beside that bank manager’s shoulder.”

  “I don’t care if you believe it or not,” he snapped back. “That’s what happened. It was an accident.”

  “If you’re prone to discharging your weapon on accident, maybe this club isn’t the best place for you. I can’t put the rest of the men at risk, Cash.”

  He looked me over as if sizing me up. “What are you saying?”

  “I just said it. I can’t put the men at risk. You know the rules. Only point where you intend to shoot, and only shoot who you intend to kill. No women, no children, and no old people unless it’s self-defense. It’s a pretty simple set of rules. You’re lucky you didn’t kill her. If you had, we’d all be facing murder charges.”

  “It was a fucking accident,” he insisted. “It won’t happen again.”

  Our club was a close-knit group of men who were friends long before we chose to prove our alliance to one another by donning leather jackets and getting matching tattoos. My friendship with Cash began in kindergarten. He made the mistake of challenging me on the playground. An ass whipping ensued.

  As much a kindergartner could administer, anyway.

  We’d been friends ever since. Friendship didn’t afford him a pass for putting the club at risk, though. We had a strict set of rules we followed, one of which was training monthly as a group at the firing range. It provided assurance that we were as fast – or faster – at reacting when we faced a threat.

  Another was indexing our weapons when we were on the job. Indexing – or carrying the weapon with the index finger out of the trigger guard – was a crucial step in preventing gun related accidents from happening.

  I gestured at his right hand. “If you were indexing your weapon, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Accident, motherfucker. It was a fucking ac-ci-den-t. I’m done talking about it.” He folded his arms over his chest. “She was a mouthy bitch, anyway.”

  “She was doing her job.”

  “She was mouthy.”

  “She was trying to protect the bank’s interest.”

  “Fuck her,” he hissed. “It’s insured by the feds.”

  “Sounds like she got under your skin.”

  “I was sick of listening to her.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  He glared. “If I wanted to shoot her, I would have shot her. Right in her shit-talking mouth.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” I asked mockingly.

  He chuckled a dry laugh, and then cut it short. “Yes, it was.”

  I turned toward the window. Three stories down, the street was lined with parked cars, most of which disappeared at five o’clock when the workday ended. I scanned the block while Ben Harper’s Burn One Down played. When the song was over, I turned to face him.

  He’d done little to convince me it was an accident. The bank manager in question had directed some pretty choice expletive-laced threats at Cash, and I suspected his temper got in the way of him doing his job.

  “Your cut will be reflective of that accident,” I said in a dry tone. “Mistake. Poor judgement. Temper tantrum. Whatever you want to call it.”

  He scooped the hair away from his eyes and shot me a glare. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I’m not.”

  “How much you gonna cut me?”

  “Enough that we don’t have this conversation again. No matter how much someone gets under your skin.”

  “Fuck that bitch,” he said through his teeth. “She was trying to give me the bait money. And, she talked a huge line of shit. We voted, Baker.”

  I gave him a sideways look. “If the tables were turned, tell me what you’d have done.”

  “If I was her?”

  “If you were her. What would you have done?”

  His eyes searched the floor for a moment. “I’d have given the thief the bait money.” He tilted his head to the side and raised both eyebrows. “But I wouldn’t have made it so obvious.”

  I spit a laugh on the floor between us.

  His eyes thinned. “What?”

  “You’d follow the conditions of employment at the bank, but you won’t follow them with the club?”

  “She was an irritating bitch.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned a sly grin. “It was.”

  It wasn’t an accident, and I knew it. “Whatever you want to call it, it’s going to cost you roughly fifty-three thousand bucks. After the club’s paid, that’s seventy-five percent of your take.”

  “God damn it, Baker,” he seethed.

  “It’s not negotiable. I’ll announce it to the club on Wednesday afternoon.”

  “Fine. But that bitch better hope I never see her on the street.”

  The job was in Indio. The odds of him ever seeing her again were nil at best. “She’s a hundred and fifty miles from here, so we won’t have to worry about that, will we?”

  “It’s a good thing.” He tapped the tip of his in
dex finger against his forehead. “Because the next one’ll be between her eyes.”

  2

  Andy

  Present day.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.” He shook his head so lightly it seemed unintentional. “I hate to say it, but I believe you were called in by accident.”

  My heart sank. “Accident?”

  “You have no property management experience? Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir,” I stammered. “I have no experience, but I believe I’m more than qualified. In fact, I’m convinced I’ll better serve you in this position than anyone else you’ll interview. I’m sure of it. Quite sure.”

  I was three minutes into the most important job interview of my life. A job I had no experience at. The Notice to Vacate I’d recently been forced to comply with was all the motivation I needed to convince the old man on the other side of the desk to hire me.

  He held my resumé at arm’s length. His brow wrinkled. “I don’t know why she prints these things like this. I need a magnifying glass to read it.”

  He picked up a pair of wire-framed glasses and stretched the curved earpieces over the back of each of his ears. For just shy of eternity, he studied my sparse work history through the thick lenses. When he finished, he placed the resumé on the side of his desk and set his glasses on top of it.

  “You are Andy Winslow, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I’ve got to be honest, Andy. When I told Nadine to call you in for an interview, I thought you were a man.”

  “I’m one hundred percent woman. All 134 pounds of me,” I said playfully.

  His face remained expressionless.

  “Does being a woman prevent me from being considered?”

  “I suppose not. It’s just that I can’t see how a business management degree – and a few years of experience as a bartender while you were in college – can prepare you to manage two pieces of property that are filled with demanding tenants.” He waved a dismissive hand at my resumé. “Is this the extent of your job experience?”

  My qualifications were bleak at best. For fear of tarnishing my otherwise spotless background, I hadn’t bothered listing the job I’d been fired from recently. Excluding it, my life’s experiences – in respect to work – were listed.

  “Yes, Sir. But that sheet of paper isn’t reflective of my abilities at all.” I stood and removed a hair tie from my purse. “Give me your best demanding tenant impersonation.”

  His eyes thinned. “Pardon me?”

  “You’re an angry tenant. I’m the property manager. Go.”

  He looked at me as if I was crazy. “I don’t think this is--”

  “I’m serious.” I twisted my hair into place. “You don’t think I’m qualified, and I think I am. Try me.”

  He crossed his arms and then looked me over. “My air conditioner quit, and I need to get someone to look at it right away,” he said, his tone coarse and challenging. “I’ve got family coming in from Michigan, and I can’t wait all damned weekend.”

  I gave him a stern look and dropped my voice a few octaves. “It’s Friday, Mister Greene. You and I both know that getting someone to come look at the air conditioner on Friday at six o’clock is going to be impossible. Rest assured I’ll get it resolved as soon as I can. Have you noticed the fan making any funny noises, or have you seen any signs of backed up condensation?”

  “I haven’t noticed, no.”

  I cocked my hip and looked him up and down. “You haven’t noticed, or you haven’t paid attention? You do realize it’s your responsibility, not ours, to clean the condensation pan, don’t you?”

  One side of his mouth curled into a half-assed grin. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. “I thought you had no experience at this?” he asked.

  “I don’t.”

  “How do you know what a condensation pan is?”

  “My uncle owns a heating and air business.”

  He stood and cleared his throat. “I’ve been seeing bugs every time I come home at night. I need you to get this place sprayed--”

  “Pest control is a preventative measure, not a reactionary one. It’s performed quarterly. We treated the building in June. I’m sure whatever you’ve seen is on the verge of death. If not, we’ll make sure they are in September, when we treat it next. Anything else?”

  His eyebrows raised. “Let me guess. Your knowledge of pest control comes from an aunt who’s an exterminator?”

  “No. I lived in an apartment. Every time I called them about roaches, that’s what they would tell me.”

  He let out a sigh and then lowered himself into his chair. “I’m not convinced hiring you is the answer--”

  “That’s funny. I’m convinced if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

  His brows knitted together. “I’ll regret it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m sixty-seven years old, and I can count my life’s regret with one finger.”

  “That’ll all change if you hire someone else,” I assured him. “You’ll reach a point of regret.”

  He leaned back in his chair and looked down his nose at me. “Is that a fact?”

  “If you could see beyond my feminine exterior, you’d realize how valuable and man-like I am. I cuss like a sailor. I can easily out-drink a Russian peasant. I’m loyal, but not to a point of fault. For me, honesty is second nature. I’ll argue until I’m exhausted if I think I’m right. If I’m proven wrong, I’ll admit it promptly. I earn the respect of those around me by knowing when to listen and when to speak--”

  “Why are you speaking?” he asked. “Right now?”

  “Because you’re not one hundred percent convinced you want to let me leave.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  I gestured toward his desk. “You’ve got three piles of resumés on your desk. I’m guessing one is the people you’ve interviewed. One is applicants. The other is the pool of interviewees you’ll be picking from. You’ve got no less than ten resumés in each pile. Yet, you’re still talking to me. Furthermore, my resumé isn’t in a pile. It’s at the edge of your desk. Apparently, you haven’t decided what to do with me yet.”

  A low chuckle escaped him. “What’s your favorite cuss word?”

  “Cocksucker,” I responded dryly.

  He choked on his laugh. “Type of whiskey?”

  “Single malt scotch. Macallan. Neat.”

  He sighed lightly. It was apparent he was entertained. Nonetheless, he pushed the dagger in a little deeper. “You lack experience, Miss Winslow.”

  “You called me in for an interview despite that lack of experience. Because you thought I was a man. Right now, I think the idea of hiring a woman for the position intrigues you. You’re hoping to come up with something to convince you it’s a bad idea, but so far, you haven’t.”

  “I’m impressed by your ability to ad lib and fascinated by your intellect, Andy. I’m simply afraid your lack of experience is enough--”

  “I Googled you before I came. Your properties are on J Street and Westside Drive. What do they rent for? Three grand a month? Four?”

  His face washed with pride. He lifted his chin slightly. “The building on J Street is primarily office space. The average rent is around ten grand. Between three and five for the living spaces on Westside, depending on square footage. Why?”

  “They’re not filled with roaches, and the air conditioner isn’t on the way out. Your properties are immaculate, I saw the pictures on your website. There’ll be problems, sure, but not of the variety we’ve discussed. You need a dynamic leader with strong business, marketing and management sense. That’s what your ad said. I graduated Magna Cum Laude from USC. There’ll be a senior property manager above me. I’d act as the buffer between him and the contractors, suppliers, and tenants. No one will manage your money better than me, Mister Greene. Nobody.”

  “I like you,” he said with a smile. “It’s hard not to. No
w that you’ve mentioned it, I’ll touch base on something you said earlier. That one regret I spoke of? I’ll tell you what it is. After spending the majority of my adult life single, I married a woman who was considerably younger than me. She spent money as if it grew on trees. Damned near drove me into bankruptcy before I realized what was happening. Right or wrong, I simply don’t trust women with my money. I have my doubts you’ll be frugal.”

  Acting indifferent to his remark, I walked past his desk and gazed down at the street. The bicycle I’d resorted to use as transportation – because my car was repossessed – was chained to the corner lamppost. At the curb in front of it, someone’s spotless red Ferrari caught my attention.

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Come here for a minute.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want you to see something.”

  I gestured to the lamppost at the corner of the street. “See that bicycle chained to that post?”

  He peered over my shoulder. “The one with the basket on it?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s my transportation. My only transportation.” I pulled a Think Thin protein bar from my purse and turned to face him. “And, this is lunch. Frugality is my middle name.”

  The look of uncertainty that he’d been wearing diminished. It hadn’t vanished, but it was close. He was considering me. All I needed to do was push him over the edge of the indecisive cliff he was standing on.

  “If you hire me right now, I’ll make you an offer,” I said. “But it’s only good if you take it before I walk out of here. Your ad said the position paid eighty-five thousand a year. I’ll take it for seventy thousand for the first year. At the beginning of year two, either fire me, or bring my wages in line with what they would have been if you paid me the eighty-five.”

  “That’s an interesting offer.”

  I turned toward the door. It was a huge risk, but I began walking, nonetheless. “You’ve got about ten seconds to decide on whether a twelve hundred and fifty dollar a month savings is attractive to you or not.”