Shattered Dreams (Boys of Bellerose, #3)(38)
Taylor: Just… that I had some shit to sort out.
The reply was almost instant and exactly what I expected.
Ricci: Twenty hours and that’s the best you came up with? Typical fucking drummer. I’ll handle it, you uninspired fuck.
I huffed a laugh and shut my phone down, stashing it in the center console so I wouldn’t lose it in a bar fight, should one eventuate during this visit. The odds seemed in favor of that happening, so I’d rather not have Bellerose business fall into bad hands.
Pushing Billie from my head, I loaded my Glock with a fresh clip and added a spare to my pocket. Then I checked the mirror to make sure I’d shrugged off every shred of softness that my girl had manifested in me. This wasn’t the place for weakness, and these people wouldn’t hesitate to leverage any whiff of vulnerability they caught.
Satisfied that I looked enough like the killer I was, I climbed out of my car and clicked the key fob to lock up. Then I strode confidently across the gravel parking lot to the bar.
As expected, the bikers at the door moved to block my entry with no-nonsense expressions.
“I’m here to see Bones,” I told them with a flat glare. “He’ll want to see me.”
The smaller of the two men gave me an unimpressed up and down. “Oh, you think? Who the fuck are you?”
“Unimportant,” I growled back. “Why don’t you let Bones decide for himself, huh?”
The guys glanced at one another, then the bigger one shrugged. “Let him in. Could be fun.”
I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. They seemed to think I was going to be leaving in a body bag just for requesting an audience with their president, but that wasn’t in the cards for me today. Not when I had Billie’s sweet kisses to get back to. I’d get the information I needed, then leave… by whatever means necessary.
The small guy reluctantly stepped aside, and I pushed past them to enter the bar. My eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dim light inside, and I swallowed the urge to gag at the smell. Two dozen sets of suspicious eyes turned my way, but the big guy from the door followed me in and clapped my shoulder.
“Prez is in the basement,” he told me with a gold-toothed grin. “That way.” He pointed me toward a door highlighted with a neon sign that flashed Fuck Around with an arrow pointing down.
Keeping my mouth shut, I ignored all the patched dudes staring at me and crossed to the door. Not hesitating, I yanked the door open and proceeded down the narrow staircase into the basement of the bar.
The lights flickered annoyingly as I entered the room, and I squinted around quickly to assess any possible threats. There were a handful of tough looking dudes, but far fewer than upstairs in the bar. In the middle of the basement, a boxing ring was set up, and inside it I spotted Bones—the Grave Robbers MC president—beating the ever-loving shit out of some guy.
His opponent was barely recognizable as a human, he was that messed up. As I drew closer, he dropped to the ground with a brutal right hook from Bones, blood splattering all over the stained mat. Bones then proceeded to kick the shit out of the nearly dead man, his steel-toed biker boots no doubt breaking some ribs in the process.
Saying nothing, I waited patiently until Bones was satisfied he’d inflicted enough pain. Then he stomped aggressively on the man’s skull, and I didn’t flinch. It was concerning how easily this all came back to me, but that was a worry for another day.
“Who the fuck is interrupting me while—” His furious bellow cut off abruptly when he recognized me, and his whole body froze for a moment. Then he quickly masked his shock with a lazy smile and bark of laughter. “Ho-ly shit. What is this, the Ghost of Christmas Past come to remind me of my sins?” He leapt out of the boxing ring, his lithe muscles dripping with blood as he approached.
“Something like that,” I muttered.
Bones roared another laugh and clasped me in a rough hug, smearing me with blood and making my teeth grind. Affectionate fuck was always testing my limits. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this visit, Maker, but fuck, it’s good to see you! Jim-Bob! Go fetch us a bottle of Scotch.”
He guided me over to the seating area on the side of the ring where he spectated when fights were on. Pulling a packet of rolled joints from his pocket, he offered me one. I accepted because, shit, I needed to calm down.
“Good stuff,” I commented after the first drag, letting the musky smoke fill my head.
Bones gave a toothy grin. “The best. You should try my coke; that shit is smooth. You’d be into that these days, right? Now that you’re a big-time rock star.” His tone was mocking and sarcastic, but there was no heat of betrayal. That was why I’d come to him and not a closer contact. Not everyone had been cool with my shift into the public spotlight, and plenty of my former associates saw my fame as a good excuse to rip me off. Or try to.
I grunted a noncommittal response and took another long drag of the joint. It really was good shit, but I probably shouldn’t get too wasted. I still had to drive all the way back to Naples in time for our flight to Dublin on Wednesday.
“So, I assume you’re not just here for a friendly visit.” Bones cut straight to the chase after his guy delivered the Scotch that neither of us was likely to drink. He waved a hand to dismiss the extras from the room, giving us privacy to speak.
I shook my head. “No. I heard a name recently that has been needling at my memory, and I can’t place it. Hoped maybe it’d mean something to you…” After all, Bones had cut his teeth in the Kahulu Cartel right alongside me. We’d trained together as kids, shared beatings at the hands of my uncle, and completed more than our fair share of favors for the cartel together. He also had an eidetic memory and was able to recall events and conversations from his whole life as though they were happening in real time inside his head.