Indebted: 'Til Death Do Us Part (Teal & Trent Book 3) Page 3

  “When I put on this cut,” Mutt flicked his leather-patched vest, “I knew I’d have to do some fucked-up shit, but the rape and murder of a kid?” His voice lowered and he shook his head. “Hell, I ain’t no damned rapist, whether she’s a child or not.”

  Gator spoke up. “Me either, brother. Fuck that. The bitches at the club all put out. Hell, I can barely even make it back to my room from a run before I got two bitches humping my leg.” He chuckled.

  Trent rolled his eyes and listened as Shayla explained what the men were saying.

  “Prez was mad at the Davenport girl’s father for not holding up some part of a deal,” Shayla chimed in.

  “That’s why your ass was on the chopping block, blondie.” It was Ace who spoke. “You heard too much, and now,” he gestured to his men, “here we are to shut you up. But we got better plans.”

  “We gonna be some heroes and probably end up dead,” Gator said, the playful tone from before now gone.

  “Y’all are going up against the First Sons? Alone?” Shayla asked, not bothering to hide the incredulity in her voice.

  “We aren’t alone.” Mutt eyed Trent, as if he’d gut him the first chance he got and that was when Trent noticed the wide nose, darker skin, and course beard. The man wasn’t all white, and clearly thought that since Trent ran with the Aryans, he would have issues with him.

  Little did the man know, Trent only had issues with fucking dying tonight.

  “You want to use the men I hang with as an army?” Trent finally understood what the hell was happening. They wanted to save the girl, but didn’t have the bodies to do it. “What makes you think I can convince them to save a Spanish girl?” he asked, making sure to keep his eyes on Mutt.

  “You better be able to do it, or that makes you useless to me,” Ace muttered. He stood from his crouch, and this time, placed a blunt in his mouth. “Trust me, once you and blondie are useless . . .” He eyed them both, waiting for Trent to come around.

  Trent nodded. He could round up a few men who ran in nasty circles, but they’d want to be paid. “All right. The four grand is out of the equation though, I’ll need it to pay them to help.”

  Ace nodded. “Most of the men will be out on a run. Prez ain’t going, so we don’t need many men, about ten or so, total. They’ll be about fifteen or so left behind. The three of us are in the Elite Five, so you’ll only have Rambo or Dice to contend with.”

  Trent was more than concerned about the Elite Five. Those men were flat out mercenaries, and he couldn’t help but to be grateful that three of the five would be at his back.

  “That four grand you’re talking about ain’t stretching so far between ten men,” Mutt noted.

  Trent would have to pay everyone in cash. He nodded. “I ain’t worried about it.”

  “Well,” Gator pushed up from the wall. “You got two days to get at the very least six good men together.” He headed to the door. “If you don’t, I’ll be out back, digging graves.” He walked out the door without another word, and picked up a shovel that was propped against the hall wall.

  They would have killed Trent and Shayla tonight, if Trent hadn't admitted his love for her. But why?

  “Hey,” Trent shouted, and only Ace turned. The rest of the men disappeared down the hall and presumably out the front door. “Why’d my answer save our asses?”

  Ace’s easy-going smile faded and he slid his gaze to Shayla. “’Cause if you fuck this up, I will kill her.” He looked back to Trent, menace abundant in his gaze. “That knowledge should keep your ass on point. And if it doesn’t, then . . .” He blew a kiss to Shayla before disappearing down the hallway.

  Trent took in a few calming breaths. before he turned to Shayla. “What the fuck did you get me into?”

  Chapter 4

  In for a penny, In for a pound

  Trent walked into the Devil’s Bastard, the sound of men cussing and laughing overwhelmed the air as his booted feet pounded the pavement to the back room, where he and his men normally sat, pounding beers, and watching ass. Grunts and head nods greeted him as he made his way further into the club. He ignored them all, making a bee-line to the back. He glanced in the back room to see Jason, Mark, and Dillon all throwing back a shot of what looked like whiskey.

  “Hey!” Trent called to the only waitress behind the bar. It was noon and Sam was the only one working. “Get me a double of what they got, and keep ‘em coming, till I say otherwise.”

  Sam nodded and busied herself behind the bar, while Trent sat down at the table nearest the back exit.

  Dillon thrusted a fist in the air and hooted. “Fuck yeah.” Leaning back too far, the man nearly toppled out of his chair. Reaching out, he righted himself, just before his ass met the floor. “Man, what are you doing here so early? Ain’t you got work or some shit?”

  Normally, Trent couldn’t stand Dillon, as he was always ready to start shit. But today, he was glad as fuck he’d run into him. It’d only take beer, or the promise of some ass, to get him to do any kind of favor.

  Sam sat the shot glass down on a paper napkin.

  Trent glanced up at her. “Y’all getting fancy around here?” He picked up the double and slammed it back. “Another.”

  Sam smiled, her crooked teeth on display. “Nah, nothing like that. You starting a tab, Reed?” Her playful tone had dissipated the second Dillon showed interest.

  “Yeah, start one up for me.”

  “Me, too,” Dillon added.

  Sam flicked him the bird. “Hell no. Pay as you go.” The group laughed and Dillon sat back in his chair, looking like someone had kicked his puppy.

  Jason took a long swig of beer, then placed the bottle on the table. “What brings you in here this early?” Trent knew he would be a hard sell. The swastika tat on his chest and KKK inked on his knuckles, along with the fact he’d been in jail for numerous hate crimes, told Trent convincing him to rescue a little Spanish teen would be close to impossible.

  Trent took in the man’s ice blue gaze and cruel smirk, and shrugged. “Just trying to pick up a few fellows for a job I got contracted for.” He had to make sure to not tell the men he owed the FSMC a favor. Hell, that would send even the dumbest man running from the room. “I need men not afraid of the law.” Trent didn’t bother lowering his voice. He’d scoped the place out the second he walked in and knew every damn drunk in the bar.

  Jason quirked a brow, but didn’t say a word.

  Dillon’s grease-stained hand flew up. “Ooh! Pick me.” Trent’s eyes went to the man as he waved it left and right, wiggling in his chair like the ace student in the class dead set on fucking up the grading curve.

  “Put your damned hand down,” Trent muttered. “You know I got your ass. A bottle of whiskey, and a hand job over at the titty bar you love so much.”

  Dillon whooped and hollered, before heading to the restrooms in the back. Sam made her way over and sat another shot glass in front of Trent.

  Mark motioned to the glass as Trent tipped it back. “You ain’t never been one to drink this early.” His lazy drawl came out a bit slurred. Mark drank at any time of the day. The man’s large size gave him more leeway in that area; while most men hovered around the two hundred mark, Big Mark was pushing three-twenty. His weight wasn’t sloppy, either. Mark held his weight in his legs, chest and arms, and power lifted daily.

  “Celebrating,” Trent lied.

  “How much you paying?” Jason asked.

  “A grand each.” Trent placed the shot glass on the table.

  “BYOG?” Mark asked.

  “Yeah, but I got you on ammo,” he said, knowing that’d sweeten the deal. This way, all the money went to the men, and nothing was wasted on supplies.

  Jason was the first to agree. “I’m in. How soon?”

  Before answering, Trent looked to Mark who nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  Sam placed down another shot.

  Mark motioned to his glass and she moved to refill it. “Who we riding with, and what is the
job?” Sam picked up his cup and headed back behind the bar.

  Trent was only mildly surprised that the men waited until now to ask about the actual job, however, Trent had never really been into anything too heavy in his life, so perhaps they weren’t worried by that account.

  Trent downed the shot and placed the glass on the table. “I got three friends riding along. Mutt, Ace, and Gator from Blackwater.”

  Jason sat back, his beer sloshing over the rim of his cup onto his hand.

  “Brothers from Blackwater?” Dillon stumbled from the bathroom, his hands fumbling over his fly. “Them dudes . . .” He whistled, then sat—or rather, fell drunkenly—into his seat. “Well, I’m still in, but I want a happy ending,” he added, as if this were some sort of negotiation.

  Trent grunted his approval. “You all in?” He lifted the next shot and threw it back. His head began to cloud, and his body loosened—the liquor having its intended effect. Eyeing each man, he knew the second they decided to ride with him.

  As each man said yes, Trent imagined the group of men heading down to Blackwater. Trent was not fucking naïve. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would be expected to kill tomorrow night. Keeping himself alive was his main goal, but Trent also thought to the young girl caught in the crossfires of a vengeful gang and her corrupt father.

  He stood on loose legs; he needed to check with Reno—an old buddy—to see if he would join. “Meet me at my house, tomorrow night. I’ll go over the plans with you there.” Trent wasn’t too concerned with the police in this situation, seeing as how the FSMC had most of them on their payroll, and wouldn’t dare show up to an MC shoot out.

  As he headed out the door, he pulled a fifty from his wallet. Placing it on the bar, he pushed it over to Sam. He wouldn’t leave that shit anywhere near Dillon, as the bastard would end up drinking it.

  “Thanks, Trent.” Sam smiled. “And thanks for watching Rain for me last week.” Her sad smile pulled at his chest. She was a good girl, stuck in a shit town, and he’d often wondered what would have happened between the two of them if he’d known she liked him before Shayla crashed into his life.

  “No problem. Call me if you need me to watch her again,” he said honestly. The two-year-old was cute as a butterfly.

  Trent sat in the chair, his eyes glued to the computer screen. He was on the phone with his old buddy Poe, and talking to him about what to do if something happened to him and it turned into Poe wanting to ride down to Blackwater with him.

  “Man, I tell you that you are going to need me to have your back, you can’t trust them Aryans with shit.”

  Poe was right, but Trent was more concerned with what would happen if Poe showed up. The man was known for dating only black women, and if anything, he’d be in more danger than Trent. He might not have trusted some of the men he was working with, but he wasn’t about to place his safety over Poe’s.

  Trent tapped the keyboard finishing out the letter. “Nah, this fight ain’t for you.”

  He chortled. “Well, I am a lover and not a fighter, but for a friend— “

  “And that is why I am telling you this isn’t where you need to be.” His voice was firm. He wouldn’t bring him into this shit, no matter the cost.

  Shayla walked in just as Trent pressed print. Closing out of everything he went to the printer and snatched up the letter.

  “You clear on everything I need you to do if shit goes South?” Trent had shit together and ready, someone to take care of Logan while he was locked up, and all Trent’s shit.

  “I got you,” Poe confirmed before hanging up.

  Shayla made her way to the chair and plopped down into it. “The guys are starting to show up.”

  Trent folded the papers up and placed them in an envelope. Who’s out there?” He hadn't heard any bikes pulling up.

  “Jason, Dil and Reno.” She turned around in the chair, pushing the chair back and forth over the floor. “And Big Mark just walked up.”

  “Good, I thought Reno wasn’t going to show.” Trent was only able to get four guys, but when he thought about it, he made the fifth. “Go out there and let them in,” he said as he heard the first bang on the door.

  “Okay.”

  Trent nearly passed out at her easy compliance. Her fear was evident and wholly necessary. When she left, he placed more papers in the envelope. Moving to the wall closest to the window, Trent lifted an old broken board in the wall and shoved the papers there. His cell was programmed to send a text to Poe tomorrow after dawn, so if anything were to happen, Poe would be the first to know. He’d come over and grab the envelope with Trent’s final wishes.

  Poe was the only one Trent trusted at the moment. He couldn’t send the envelope to Logan’s aunt, Elma. Her heart wasn’t in good shape and he’d fucking promised her he’d stay the hell out of trouble. The sound of motorcycles revving down the street pulled him from the room and down the hallway. His men sat in his living room pounding what was left of his beers and smoking weed.

  “When them biker boys getting here?” Dillon asked around a gulp of beer. “I’m thinking of signing up as one.”

  The front door burst open and Ace, Mutt and Gator strode in, all in black leather and virile dominance. Gator sauntered into the kitchen, his arms and chest bear except for the cut he wore. The other two wore long sleeve black Henleys under their weathered cuts, black leather boots and black leather pants. Trent wore all black as well, and had instructed his guys to do the same.

  Dillon jumped up and headed into the kitchen, stars in his eyes, like a kid meeting his fucking hero. “Y’all fucking recruiting?” he questioned Mutt, who was undoubtedly the last man in the room he should have spoken to.

  Mutt turned, danger and anger radiating from him in waves. “You want to join a MC that lets niggers in?” His voice brokered no response, but Dillon spoke anyway.

  “I get a cut like that, if I do?” He pointed his bottle of beer at Mutt’s cut. Dillon’s voice held an odd calm, as if he were really considering joining, whether blacks were allowed in the club or not.

  Trent hadn't expected that. For as drunk and stupid as the fool was, he was more so bigoted. His brand of hate had been saved for the Mexicans he believed were stealing his work. Trent knew the truth was that no business wanted to hire a drunk when the job was roofing, but Dillon didn’t see it that way.

  Like a cobra striking prey, Mutt pulled his gun from the back of his pants and pressed the muzzle to Dillon’s forehead. The room went still, even Trent stopped breathing for a moment.

  “The fuck,” Dillon muttered as his beer bottle slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. Trent stood shocked and amazed at Mutt. Hell, he was outgunned and outnumbered; yet he stood there, gun cocked and loaded, never once surveying his surroundings. One wrong move and Dillon would die on Trent’s kitchen floor tonight.

  Trent’s eyes flew to Mark, Reno, and Jason, wondering if the men felt any sense of loyalty to Dillon. But they stood there, eyes on him—watching and waiting. He realized then, just like Ace was in charge of his men, Trent’s men would only follow his lead. He’d shoved his gun in the back of his jeans earlier and had since yet to remove it.

  His eyes slid to Ace, as Ace eyed him with interest. Trent was no longer the odd man out. He had more men than Ace now; if he wanted, he could end this shit with Ace. The knowing smirk on Ace’s face led Trent to believe that Ace knew exactly what Trent was thinking.

  Again, the innocent brown eyes of sixteen-year-old, Elena, flashed before him. The thought of her mother, who was no doubt crying for her daughter, called him back from the brink. Trent stood down, his muscles relaxed and his brain went from soldier mode to search and rescue mode.

  “Right now, there’s a kid getting raped. Her little body, broken and abused,” Trent declared.

  Mutt’s body twitched, the obscure darkness bled from his eyes and Trent knew his words had reached him.

  “Mutt, I think you got that gun pointed at the wrong mother fucker—don�
��t you?” Trent added when the man didn’t stand down.

  The last time Mutt had spoken about Elena, he’d heard an emotion in him that at the time he couldn’t pinpoint. Now, as he thought back about it, he realized it was the same emotion he felt for Shayla every year she came home from Blackwater, broken and alone.

  “I know you want to get her back and not waste time with that little shit.”

  Mutt’s penetrating gaze finally moved from Dillon to Trent. The dark abyss of that gaze sent cold stark fear down Trent’s spine. The man had no doubt seen and done some horrible things and Trent wasn’t sure Dillon would make it out of his house alive tonight.

  Keeping his eyes on Trent he slowly lowered his gun. “You want to keep him alive? You keep him away from me.” Mutt turned and headed into the kitchen where Gator handed him a beer.

  “Damn!” Gator pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, balled it up and threw it to Ace who caught it. “I just knew one of these White Nationalists were going to die before we even left the house.” The dejection in his voice seemed so damned sincere. Mutt threw back the beer and swigged it in a matter of seconds, pulling the empty away from his face he turned that black gaze back to Dillon who’s seemed scared sober and said, “We ain’t out the front door . . . yet.”

  Chapter 5

  The insurrection is here…and there will be blood.

  After the men had gone over the plans, reviewed the blue print of the meatpacking plant, and decided today was as good a day to die as any, they loaded up in a rented truck and headed out. Trent had sent Shayla to stay with his buddy’s Aunt Elma, but not before Ace had reminded her of the consequences of calling the police or warning her pop, Dice, of what was to come.

  And what was to come? Would Trent have to end a life tonight? Would they roll up to a trap, or worse, would they be rescuing a corpse? Blackwater was not but a thirty-minute drive from Trent’s county, and it always made him sick to his stomach to come out that way. The buildings went from historic and renovated, to dilapidated and abandoned, in a matter of a few blocks.