Shooting Dirty Page 16

  “Tomorrow,” he said, making it worse.

  She nodded, as foolish as he was.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Janelle slept in late on Sunday morning.

  She stayed curled up in the blankets for a long time, replaying every moment of last night’s tryst with Ace. When she finally arose, wearing a satisfied smile, the coffee was still warm and there were donuts on the table. She helped herself to both, padding into the living room in her pajamas.

  Jamie was watching a soccer game at low volume and her mother was playing solitaire. Janelle sat down on the couch, biting into her glazed donut.

  Yum.

  Jamie muted the game and looked at her. “Where were you last night?”

  “Out,” she said, her mouth full.

  “With Ace?”

  A flush rose to her cheeks as she chewed and swallowed. She hadn’t been embarrassed about her other hookups, but of course, Jamie hadn’t known about them. The only man she’d deemed worthy of meeting Jamie was a boyfriend she’d had four years ago. Their relationship had fizzled. He’d been nothing like Ace.

  No one was.

  “You should call if you’re going to be late,” Jamie said.

  Janelle glanced at her mother, taking another bite of donut. Renata smiled and flipped over another card. “I didn’t think either of you were awake. I’ll send a text next time.”

  He turned the volume back on, grunting.

  She finished her breakfast and took a long shower, rinsing away Ace’s touch. Her body felt deliciously sore and well-used. Eager to be used again.

  Although she’d love to spend the day lounging in the sun or watching trashy television, she had work to do. Her trailer needed a top-to-bottom cleaning if she wanted to get back her security deposit. She also had to figure out what to do with the furniture. It wasn’t worth the storage fees.

  She brought Jamie with her to Salton City. He was on his best behavior, probably hoping she’d return his video games. They spent the afternoon spiffing up the trailer, trying to reduce the evidence of ten years’ worth of wear and tear. She’d moved in when Jamie was just two. He’d grown from a toddler to a boy here.

  Now he was almost a teenager.

  She decided to ask the landlord if he could use the furniture. She didn’t have the time or the energy to sell the mismatched, shabby-chic pieces. After scrubbing the last window, she threw down her towel and called it good.

  “How about a milkshake?” she asked Jamie, hooking her arm around his neck.

  He never said no to that offer.

  They went to the ‘50s-style diner in Brawley, a local staple for burgers and fries. It was on the main drag, so truckers visited the place in droves. She ordered her favorite sandwich and ate half of it, marveling at Jamie’s huge appetite. He was growing faster than she could buy clothes. His feet seemed to get bigger every week.

  After he was finished eating everything but the table, he burped into his fist. Loud enough to be overheard, but she just smiled. The afternoon sun beamed through the window shade, turning his brown hair into dark gold. He was the spitting image of Shane. Sometimes the resemblance broke her heart.

  “What?” he said, seeming self-conscious.

  “You look like your father.”

  His eyes—Shane’s eyes—turned guarded. “I think I look like Owen.”

  She wasn’t surprised he’d say that. Jamie had hardly known his father, but he loved his uncle. Owen was a younger, leaner version of Shane. A better version. Smarter, kinder, more handsome.

  She paid the check on their way out. Instead of heading straight to her mother’s house, she stopped at the graveyard.

  Jamie wasn’t pleased by the detour. “What are we doing?”

  “We haven’t visited his grave.”

  “I don’t want to visit that asshole’s grave.”

  She clenched her hands around the wheel, ignoring his bad language. His resentment toward Shane, while justified, was eating him up inside. She’d thought she could protect Jamie by keeping Shane away. Maybe she’d done more harm than good.

  Like her own mother.

  Renata had sent Janelle away in an attempt to protect her, but they’d never communicated about the abuse. All this time, Janelle had assumed her mother hadn’t wanted her. Janelle had felt sullied by her stepfather, shamed into silence.

  She couldn’t do that to Jamie. She couldn’t sacrifice their relationship in order to hide painful secrets. More importantly, she couldn’t let him go on like this, hating Shane. It wasn’t fair to either of them.

  “Come on,” she said, bringing her purse. “Let’s pay our respects.”

  He mumbled something about Shane not being worthy of respect, but he got out of the car and followed her.

  Shane’s grave wasn’t overgrown or neglected. There was a plastic bouquet at the base of the headstone, along with a red rose that appeared less than a week old. Jamie studied the rose, his mouth thin.

  Janelle dug a cigarette out of her purse and lit up, hoping ghosts didn’t mind secondhand smoke. “Grandma Jackson must have been here recently.”

  “She’s delusional,” Jamie said. “Acts like he was a saint.”

  Exhaling into the early evening air, Janelle pondered the woman in question. Motherhood could make you do strange things. If Jamie followed in Shane’s footsteps and became a criminal, Janelle wouldn’t stop loving him.

  Hell, she was dating a criminal right now.

  “I have to tell you something about your father,” Janelle said.

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Too bad,” she snapped, feeling ill at the prospect. Taking another drag, she said, “He didn’t stop sending you letters. I just stopped giving them to you.”

  He stared at her in disbelief.

  She wished for the ground to open up and swallow her. The cemetery was a fitting place for a burial.

  “Why?”

  She’d considered telling Jamie about the arguments with Shane, the nasty names he’d called her on the phone, and the birthdays he’d forgotten. But those were just excuses. The real reason was much harder to articulate. “I was trying to protect you. That’s why I wouldn’t accept his calls, and I didn’t tell you he was out of prison. I thought I could keep you safe from being hurt by him if I kept you two apart.”

  “You were wrong,” he said, his voice raw.

  She smoked her cigarette, miserable. “I know.”

  “I thought he didn’t want to see me. I thought he didn’t love me.”

  Tears of guilt and dismay filled her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  He slapped the cigarette from her hand and stomped on it, making a sound of fury. Then he grabbed her purse and upended it. The contents scattered all over Shane’s grave. “You’re a fucking bitch, just like he always said.”

  Choking back a sob, she dropped to her knees to gather her things. Her vision blurred and her chest tightened with pain. She couldn’t breathe. His words felt like a physical assault, attacking her peace of mind.

  After she collected her stuff, she followed him across the cemetery. He left a path of destruction in his wake. Flower petals and fake plastic decorations littered the grounds. She found him sitting under a tree, scowling into the distance.

  “I saved the letters for you,” she said. “They’re in a box at Grandma’s house.”

  He was holding his right wrist. There was a bloody scratch on his palm, as if he’d grabbed a handful of thorns during his rampage.

  “Let me see,” she said, kneeling beside him.

  He allowed her to blot the cut with a tissue. After a few seconds, he winced and pulled his hand away.

  “There’s a reason I don’t trust men,” she said, using the tissue to wipe her eyes. “It’s diffi
cult for me to talk about, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by telling you. I just have issues with men and that’s why I haven’t dated much. I’m afraid to let anyone get too close, or to let anyone get too close to you.”

  “What are you afraid they’re going to do? Hit you?”

  The tears continued to flood her eyes. She’d told him about her biological father and the physical abuse her mother had suffered. The sexual abuse was so much harder to discuss. Her stepfather had tricked her into believing it was her fault. She should’ve fought harder. She shouldn’t have given in.

  “Did Grandpa Gary hit you?”

  “No,” she said, looking away.

  Jamie grasped her arm. “You can tell me. I’m not a baby.”

  “Let go.”

  He released her with a frown.

  She stood, needing some personal space. He wasn’t a baby anymore. He was taller than her and he outweighed her. She was still stronger than him, but that would change soon. “Grandpa Gary molested me.”

  His face went pale with shock. “No. He couldn’t have.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, her heart racing. “He did.”

  Jamie leapt to his feet and started pacing in front of the tree. “You mean he hugged you too tight, or he touched you over your clothes?”

  “He raped me. When I was your age.”

  He clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified. The sight of his distress pained her, but she felt calmer now. It was clear that he believed her, and he cared. She hadn’t planned to tell him, but she wasn’t sorry she had.

  She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “It didn’t go on for long because your grandmother sent me to live with my aunt. We never talked about it, and the secret tore us apart. That’s one of the reasons I decided to tell you about Shane’s letters. I wanted to face the mistake I made instead of burying it.”

  His eyes watered with emotion. He lowered his hand and came forward, throwing his arms around her for a fierce hug. “I’m sorry I called you a bitch.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He drew back. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

  She appreciated the sentiment, though she wasn’t ready for him to start protecting her. He was just a kid. She wanted him to be carefree for as long as possible. “I love you,” she said, smoothing his hair.

  “I love you, too,” he mumbled.

  She smiled at his boyish reluctance to express emotion. He was well on his way to becoming a surly young man. They walked back to her car and she drove to her mother’s. She gave him Shane’s letters as soon as they got there. He took the box to his room and stayed inside for over an hour. When he came out, his eyes were swollen.

  “Can I call Owen?” he asked.

  “Of course.” Janelle gave him her cell phone because it was long distance.

  He retreated to the bedroom again and shut the door. She wrapped her arms around herself, proud of him for reaching out to someone in his grief. It was so much easier to deny your problems and pretend everything was okay.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ace met Jester at the clubhouse, as planned.

  White’s was dead at two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. No drunk hookers stumbled around on stage, but there were a few graybeards sitting at the tables. The bouncer patted him down and escorted him to the back office.

  Jester was alone.

  Ace didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried about the change. He outweighed Jester by at least twenty pounds. There was no question who would win in a fistfight—but Jester didn’t fight fair.

  He smirked at Ace from behind his desk, seeming unconcerned about getting his ass kicked. Or his neck broken. “Have a seat.”

  Maybe Ace was losing his edge. He was past thirty, clean and sober, with a steady job. He’d never been a brawler, like Shank. He didn’t fly off the handle and start punching anyone who got in his way.

  He just killed people. For money.

  “I heard your boys showed up at the pussy palace after we left,” Jester said.

  Ace wanted to tear Jester apart for touching Janelle, but he couldn’t show emotion. He had to follow the same advice he’d given Jamie. Acting like he cared would only encourage Jester to do it again. “They’re not my boys.”

  “You didn’t call them?”

  Ace shrugged. It didn’t matter if Jester thought he was still friendly with Dirty Eleven. “Vixen is Dirty territory.”

  “It’s neutral.”

  Ace didn’t bother to point out that Jester and his buddies had been wearing their cuts. Flashing MC patches wasn’t allowed at a place like Vixen. It sent the message that White Lightning was looking to expand. “If you want to talk club politics, ask someone else. I’m out and don’t give a fuck.”

  “Right,” Jester scoffed, leaning back in his chair. He drew his palms together, silver rings twinkling, and pressed his lips to his fingertips. His clothes looked unwashed, his skin sallow. There were dark circles under his eyes.

  Ace knew the signs of a meth binge. The first stage was overconfidence; users felt powerful, high on their own hype, impervious to cold or heat. Then came the nervousness. Extreme paranoia. After a few days, you started seeing meth monsters—skittering shadows that crawled in and out of corners, messing with you.

  Jester wasn’t displaying most of these symptoms yet, but he would be if he kept using. His mental functions would deteriorate.

  “Been up all night?” Ace asked.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  Ace had only slept a few hours, but he wasn’t tired. Being with Janelle was worth it. Every moment in her bed had revitalized him.

  “What’s the word on my brother?” Jester asked.

  “No one’s talking,” Ace said. “Maybe it went down like the cops say.”

  “Where’s Shank?”

  “Dead, as far as the club’s concerned. They buried his cut. Bill told me not to speak his name again.”

  Jester absorbed this information with a slight frown. Getting ghosted was the worst sort of insult. There was a hierarchy of ex-membership in most MCs. Old, well-respected men could retire with honor. Dying, especially in service of the club, was another acceptable option. Early quitters like Ace were shunned, ridiculed and beaten on sight. Ghosts were the lowest level. They were treated as if they never existed.

  Ace wasn’t conflicted about sharing this news from Dirty Eleven’s inner circle. If Jester thought Shank was dead, literally or figuratively, he probably wouldn’t bother to look for him. Jester’s main opponent was Bill, anyway.

  They had that in common.

  Ace didn’t know if he’d be able to use their rivalry in his favor. He’d been weighing his options. Janelle had suggested Shawnee as a possible ally. He’d never considered approaching her, and not just because she was a woman. She was a fucking viper. But there were no good guys in this lifestyle, and no right choices. Everyone with the power to help him also had the power to hurt him.

  “I’m concerned that Wild Bill is making moves against me,” Jester said.

  “He makes moves to get richer,” Ace said. “Money is his passion, not revenge.”

  “That may be true, but our personal history isn’t easily brushed aside. Indio’s not big enough for the both of us.”

  “Then why don’t you stay in Riverside?”

  “Because there’s a hole to be filled in Indio. People want our product. If we don’t supply the demand, the cartels will.”

  Ace pasted on a bored look, waiting for him to get to the point.

  “Rumor has it that Bill’s living large at the casino and ignoring his duties to Dirty Eleven. Now is the perfect time to strike. As one of the founding members, you’re in an advantageous position. Shank and Roach are gone. The
other guys respect you. Remove Bill as president and take his place.”

  “Remove him?”

  Jester took a small object from a drawer and placed it on the surface of the desk. It looked like an iodine bottle.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s Botox.”

  “You need to get some work done?”

  Jester shook his head. “This is a concentrated version of the shit they inject in bitches’ faces. It’s fucking deadly when ingested. Odorless and tasteless. One dose and your target will drop within twenty-four hours.”

  Ace had never heard of using Botox to kill someone, but poison wasn’t his style. He didn’t need it; he was a crack shot. “Chemicals show up on toxicology screens. You can’t use poison and get away with it.”

  “You can if it looks like a heart attack, and it will. They might screen for drugs, but they won’t even suspect poison.”

  Ace made a skeptical sound. “Where did you buy it?”

  “From my chemist. He’s discreet and professional.”

  “I don’t want to be voted in as president of Dirty Eleven,” Ace said bluntly. “And I wouldn’t collaborate with you if I was.”

  “Fine,” Jester said, waving a careless hand. “Surely there’s something else I can give you. Let’s discuss your terms.”

  “Let’s discuss you fucking yourself.”

  His eyes darkened at the suggestion. “Everyone has a price,” he said, removing a photograph from his drawer. It was a computer-printed image from the club last night. “Speaking of holes to be filled...”

  Ace stared at the photo of Jester grabbing Janelle’s ass.

  “Do this job and I’ll leave her untouched. Mouth, ass, pussy—all for you. Instead of getting used by members of my crew.” He paused, tapping Janelle’s ass with his fingertip. “Refuse, and I’ll send you another picture of her after we’re done.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Ace said. “She means nothing to me.”

  “Like Courtney?”

  Ace didn’t have a good comeback for that. He might not have loved Skye’s mother, but he hated Jester for raping her, and Jester knew it.