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She leaned in, her lips moving against his.
“I’ll have her on a spit, baby,” she cooed. “She’ll learn what it means to betray Dutch Turner.”
Dutch growled, clasping Sylvia’s hips tighter and spinning her around until she was pinned between him and the table.
“I want pictures,” he muttered, busying himself with removing her dress. “I want to see what you do to her.”
“Of course,” Sylvia cooed, looking over his shoulder, smiling. “Anything you want, baby. Anything you want.”
Bex
The men were so distraught and looked so damn low on the day before they were to meet the Blackhawks; I thought there had to be something I could do for them all. Even Cross was looking especially sallow, and spent a lot of his time muttering instead of speaking aloud. He wasn’t even interested in playing hide the pickle when we woke up that morning; a sure sign that something was wrong.
Well, I only knew one sure-fire way to lift men’s spirits (besides the obvious). Pulling Boon and Eagle to the side, I gave them a list of things to get from the store; they had to go forty minutes out of the way to avoid being seen in Cutter, but they were more than willing to do it when they heard what those ingredients would be used for.
People can talk all they want about Texas and Tennessee; it ought to be a known fact that nowhere does barbeque better than Missouri. We’ve got the sauce running through our veins. When Boon returned, I cleared out the kitchen and started cooking, no recipe needed. The men who’d grumbled about being shooed away from their poker table soon came to linger in the doorway as the smell of melted butter and Worcestershire, red peppers and vinegar, roasted chicken and rubbed-up ribs filled the cabin.
I could hear the spirits lightening in the other rooms, laughter mingling with low masculine voices. It did my soul wonders, too. When Cross came down from upstairs, red-eyed and looking tired, he had a goofy smile on his face. The smell must have wafted up through the floorboards. I only allowed him a few minutes to nuzzle up behind me and watch me work, then swatted him out of the kitchen to join the rest of his brothers as they drank themselves into forgetfulness.
There was more than enough liquor stashed away to go around, but they were sure trying to prove that statement false. It was a wonder they were drinking at all, considering the sort of morning they were facing. But then, that was just the way it was with the Crusaders: you live every night like the morning would never come, and get through every morning dreaming of the night to follow. For the first time in what felt like forever, no one uttered Dutch’s name.
I had my own things to forget. Like the fact that my man was riding into hell the next day. Like the fact that he might not ride out. He’d kept his promise so far, but we both knew there was no guarantee he’d be able to keep it again. We couldn’t talk about it, because it was too big. The fear was too big to comprehend. So I cooked, and the cooking helped. So did the cocktail Cross fixed me up with some of Mack’s liquor stash.
With the meat cooking, I whipped up a potato salad and a big mess of macaroni and cheese with bacon. If some good ol’ Missouri barbeque didn’t do the trick, nothing would. And when I finally lay the spread out on the kitchen table and hollered for the men to come eat their fill, I knew my instinct had proved true.
“Cross, if you don’t make this woman your old lady, you’re twice the fool your old man is,” Fleet crowed, digging into his second helping of ribs.
“Shit, if you don’t make her your old lady, I will,” Grinder threw in after jabbing Fleet in the ribs. Cross threw his arm around my shoulder; he hadn’t eaten too much, but he looked happy.
“Fill your stomachs, not your eyes, boys,” he said, pulling me in to plant a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll lock her up soon enough.”
“Oh, so macho,” I teased, scratching my fingernails over his stubble, which was getting a bit long now that he’d gone some days without shaving. “I’m a free woman. I’ll be your old lady, but I sure as hell ain’t gonna be your princess in the tower. You just try to lock me up, Cross, and see what happens to your family jewels.”
The men hooted at that, stomping their feet.
“That’s why this sauce is so damn spicy, I reckon,” Mack said, rubbing his stomach. “She musta spit in it.”
“Aw, did you burn your tongue, old man?” Boon slurred, sitting on a milk crate with a half-full bottle of whiskey between his legs. And then he was sitting on his ass, as Mack kicked the milk crate out from under him and grabbed the whiskey bottle in one smooth motion. The room erupted in laughter again as Mack took a hearty glug of the golden liquor.
“Fightin’ fire with fire,” he croaked, passing the bottle on to Blade, who kept it going around the circle. The cabin felt warm, even as the sun began to sink and the night’s chill set in. Summer was almost over. No one knew what the next season would bring, but at least for one night, it didn’t matter.
The men had to be up well before dawn to reach the rendezvous point with the Blackhawks, so sleep came early to most. Blade and Cross stayed up, presumably fixed on seeing the night clear through to morning. As much as I wanted to stay at Cross’ side until the last minute, I found myself nodding off in his arms.
I was drunk enough not to dream. And I was drunk enough to sleep through Cross carrying me upstairs and laying me in bed. I was drunk enough to sleep through him leaving.
I remember stirring when the roar of bikes filled the cold, black, starless sky outside, only coming half out of sleep. I was almost back on the deeper side of dozing when I heard something loud enough – and strange enough – to actually wake me up. Even then, my mind could barely process the sound of glass shattering. It was the sound of a lock turning and a door creaking open that got me on my feet and scrambling for my gun.
But it wasn’t in the bedside table, where I’d fully intended on stashing it the night before. It was still in my bag. And my bag was…
A stair creaked.
My bag was downstairs. My bag was on the kitchen table. Another stair creaked.
I was fucked.
Cross
“That building has been in our club for decades,” Porky said, looking down at his boots.
“And?” One of the Blackhawks sneered; not all their men were happy about granting us pardon in return for our assistance.
“I’m just sayin’…”
“You came to us, asking for immunity,” Beacon said. “If you decide your club’s property is more important than your lives, we can end this right here and now.”
“No,” Blade said, giving Porky a squeeze on his shoulder. “We’re in this.”
“So, what’s the best approach?” Lip asked. It was the coldest part of the night, a half hour before sunrise, and we were gathered together just off an old service road that wound through Cutter’s forested outskirts.
“The kitchen,” I said, looking to Blade and getting a nod in return. “It’s got the only window on that side of the house. And the gas stove will go up quick. But we’ll have to get around the long sides…”
“We’ll take care of that,” Grinder said, speaking for the old guard. I turned to him, squinting in the darkness.
“How’s that?” I asked. “You got an invisibility cloak I don’t know about?”
“No,” he spat back. “But we got a good thirty years on you boys, and good lives behind us. If someone’s gonna have to be bait, it might as well be the ones who are close enough to the grave already.”
“Bullshit,” I said.
“We already talked about it,” Fleet chimed in. “We’re alright with…”
“Well, maybe we’re not alright with it,” I argued, wondering if Blade would back me up on that. It was too dark to read his expression, and I knew I was more than a little biased. After all, my father was the one offering to martyr himself for the rest of us.
“This argument is between y’all,” Beacon interrupted. “Whatever you decide, it’s gonna be your job to get that house burning. We’ll take c
are of it after that, though your help will be sore appreciated, of course.”
The plan, in a nutshell, was to smoke Dutch and his boys out. They wanted to use the clubhouse as their own personal foxhole. Pick us off from the windows. We had to get them out in the open, where numbers would matter more. Besides that, the fire would make the whole thing a lot easier to cover. We didn’t need cops adding to our woes.
“Grinder,” I turned to him. We’d always had a casual relationship. Not overly familial. He was used to hearing me call him by his handle.
