The Lies Between Us (The Devil's Dust #4)(37)

“Great,” I respond, tapping my knuckles against the counter.

Stepping out of the bar, I inhale a large breath, taking in the clean crisp air. That was easy—no bullets, no hustling. Guess I’ll be arriving at my mom’s earlier than I thought. I clench my teeth. It’s as if I long for violence now. I hate it. Taking pain from another is similar to doing drugs. You’re nervous at first, thinking of all the things that can go wrong, but then you push through those unsettling nerves and just do it. You come to find out it’s not that bad. You actually get a high out of it; feel f*cking great. You do it again, and then again, and the next thing you know, you start craving it.

I glance over and find a black shiny car parked next to the curb with a man leaning against the hood, his legs crossed out in front of him. I squint, trying to figure out if I recognize the man when he turns his head and looks right at me. Fuck.

“Phillip. You haven’t been answering my calls.” It’s Stevin, the FBI agent who hounded me in prison.

“Get the f*ck away!” I yell, pointing off into the distance. Stevin grins and stares off. He knows he’s putting me at risk.

“So, you’ve been ignoring my calls.”

I shake my head before turning and walking toward my bike. “This ain’t prison. You have no leverage over me anymore.”

“I’d think again. I want you as my informant!” Stevin hollers.

“Not my problem.” I step up to my bike, ready to throw my leg over it.

“Yeah, but it will be your problem if your club knows you’ve been talking to the FBI inside of prison.” I stop, my blood running cold as my heart beats to a dangerous level.

“What about the pretty little redhead, huh? I wonder what dirt I can dig up on her.” He lifts his shoulders with a Cheshire grin plastered across his arrogant face.

I nibble on my lip ring, not sure what to do. He’s threatening not only my woman, but my club. I flick my eyes to his and start my bike.

“Fuck you,” I mutter, deciding he’s f*cking bluffing. If he were going to do that shit, he’d have done it.

***

Four hours later, I pull up to my mom’s house and see Zeek’s bike already parked in the drive. Zeek and I don’t get along. He’s was my father’s pride and joy, running the Sin City Outlaws in Vegas, carrying on the DeLuca title. I said ‘f*ck you both’ and turned my back on them. My uncle is just like my father, and I want nothing to do with any of them. They shoot now and ask later; family is of no importance to them. They care about leverage, rank, and money—nothing else.

“Phillip!” my mother cheers, rushing out of the front door. Her brown hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she has on a Levi shirt with gray sweats chopped off mid-leg.

“Sup, Ma?” I climb off my bike and head toward her, enveloping her small bony frame into mine.

“My boy, it’s been too long,” she cries into the crook of my neck.

“Mom, it’s only been a few weeks,” I laugh.

“Yeah, well, I get lonely.” She pulls back and slaps at my shoulder. “Your brother is inside setting the table now.”

I look at the two-story house, the house that was my mother’s starting over chip. She moved here after my father was killed. I came with her and found Devil’s Dust shortly after. Ever since Zeek and I moved out, Ma has tried to get us to come over for dinner at least once a month. When I was in jail, she would visit at least once a month. Zeek never came, and I didn’t expect him to.

I step inside the house and see pictures of Zeek and me as kids. Mom has them hung all over the living room walls like a f*cking shrine. It’s humiliating. I can see it now: if I brought Cherry here, my mother would whip out the pictures and laugh at my expense. My mother knows about her, but that’s about it. She’s asked to meet Cherry, but it’s just not the right time.

The smell of pot roast takes my eyes off the wall and toward the kitchen.

“Smells good, Ma.” I inhale deeply and walk toward the mouthwatering smell.

“Zeek,” I greet, my tone dry.

“Brother,” Zeek responds, sitting at the dining table. His dark brown hair is pulled into a small ponytail at the top, the rest of his head shaved. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt with rosary beads around his neck, and has his boots kicked up on one of Ma’s chairs.

“Sup?” I tug the chair that his feet rest in, making them drop to the floor with a ‘thud’.

Sitting in the chair, I feel him staring at me.

“What?” I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s rubbing his chin, a f*cking smirk crossing his face.

“You ever talk to your president about letting us in on some business. I told you we got much better drugs than you’re getting, bet money on it,” he states, his tone holding a high volume of confidence.

“No, I didn’t. I think it’s best if you keep your f*cking skunk weed in Vegas and out of my affairs, brother,” I retort.

Zeek’s face falls, the veins in his neck protruding suddenly. “My shit is the best in Vegas, I’ll have you know. You can * foot around the DeLuca family business all you want, but you will be involved one way or another. I can promise you that, brother,” he threatens. He swears on our father’s dead body that he’ll make me a Sin City Outlaw one day.