GIVE IN: God's Hellfire MC Read online

  I padded out into the hallway and found a bathroom to relieve myself. While I was searching the big upper floor, my mouth began to water as the fragrance of cooking bacon and eggs and fresh-brewed coffee hit my nose. I finished up and stopped before I left the restroom. I knew I shouldn't look in the mirror, at least not too closely, but I did anyways. My heavy blue eyeshadow was smeared off, my mascara was running, and my lipstick was rubbed off. I looked like a clown that had gotten into a back alley brawl, and lost.

  After a few minutes' unsuccessful search for makeup remover, I settled on the liquid soap Micah had sitting out. It was basic, but it was better than looking like one of those bad crying clown velvet pictures my Mee-Ma had in her double wide.

  Scrubbed up, I stumbled downstairs and found the kitchen. Micah was in there, humming along as he finished up breakfast. I stepped up behind him just as the toaster popped its cooked bread out of the top slots.

  “You're awake,” Micah said in a deadpan voice, not bothering to turn from the stove. “Coffee cups are over there,” he said, gesturing with his spatula to a cabinet.

  “Yeah,” I grumbled, my vocal chords feeling unfamiliar in my throat, and went to pull down one of the big ceramic mugs from the cupboard. I poured myself coffee.

  “Food'll be ready in just a bit, Ms. Sizemore,” he said. “Have a seat at the table, I'll bring you your plate.”

  I nodded, not even catching that he'd used my last name. The coffee hadn't kicked in yet. I went and plopped myself down at the dining room table and, soon after, the Don was bringing food out to me. A pile of bacon, a mound of delicious-looking eggs, and thick-cut toast arrived in front of me.

  After a few bites of my food, and a few healthy slurps of coffee to wash it all down, I finally started to perk up.

  Didn't matter, though, because Micah apparently wasn't much for breakfast conversation. He just sat there, scowl chiseled on that handsome face of his like he was the statue of some ancient king in the deserts of Egypt.

  “So,” I asked, a forkful of egg halfway to my mouth, “what's the plan for today, Don? You gonna take me upstairs and make me pay rent, yet?”

  He grunted and stuffed a piece of bacon in my mouth, chewing it with relish. His jaw worked like a wild animal. Not in a gross way, or anything, but in a manly way. Like that bacon was his enemy, and he was the barbarian hordes.

  “No, then?” I asked, giving him a little smile as I leaned forward and, reaching below the table, put my hand on his knee.

  He ignored me and brushed my hand away as politely as I'd ever had it brushed. Not that I'd had it brushed away very often, of course.

  I frowned and picked up a strip of bacon, biting the end off it. This nut was going to be a tough one to crack.

  We finished eating in silence, getting down to just our orange juice and coffee. I got up before he had a chance and cleared the plates. He didn't say a word, or try to stop me.

  When I came back to the table, I stopped behind his chair and put my hands on his shoulders. If my less subtle overtures hadn't worked, maybe I needed to get even more slutty. I rubbed his thick, muscular shoulders a moment before leaning down close to his ear. “You sure you want to keep turning me down, Don?” I whispered, my lips close enough so I'd tickle his ear with my breath.

  I felt him shiver a little, and saw the hair on his neck raise in response. He groaned a little, but I at least got a response. “We have errands to run today, Ms. Sizemore.”

  He didn't get up, turn around, or remove my hands, though.

  “Well,” I said, my lips still next to his ears, my fingers still kneading his rock-hard muscles, “all I've got is this slutty skirt to wear out, Don.”

  He cleared his throat and abruptly pushed back from the table, throwing me off balance and making me stumble back a couple steps. “I've got some stuff that should fit you, from an ex. We'll see if it fits.”

  Fucker. Turn me down three times in a row, would he? I didn't care if I wanted him dead, or not. Rejection still sucks. If I'd thought about it in the kitchen, I would have grabbed a steak knife so I could have planted it between his shoulder blades.

  I frowned hard and realized I was pouting.

  He got up and left the room, not even bothering to look my direction or meet my eyes.

  I stamped my foot.

  Mother. Fucker.

  But, then, I had a bright idea. I'd show him. I grabbed his mostly-full orange juice off the counter and darted into the kitchen. As spotless as this big, fancy house was, he had to have cleaning supplies just piled up. I set the glass on the counter and dropped to my knees, began digging through the under-sink cabinets.

  Bottles of counter cleaners, wood polishes, waxes were set up like rows of soldiers.

  I ransacked through them, finding what I thought would do the trick: Drain-O. Good, old-fashioned poison. With a grin, I scrambled up and poured a healthy dose of the plumber-in-a-bottle into his OJ and tucked the cleaning product back under the counter. I grabbed the juice and nearly ran back into the dining room, setting it on the table as close to where he'd left it as I could remember. Then, I returned to my own coffee and orange juice and began to drink it down.

  As the still-warm coffee made its way down my throat, though, I began to think about what I'd just done. Sydney was still with the God’s Hellfire MC, with that Gov guy back on Bourbon Street. And I didn't even know where I was. Hell, even if I did know, how was I going to get my friend out of there? It was crawling with bikers, who wouldn't likely take too kindly to me showing up without their boss.

  Shit.

  And they definitely wouldn't be too keen on me when they found out I'd poisoned the bastard.

  Double shit!

  I slammed my coffee back down on the table and went to grab Micah's poisoned juice, but stopped in my tracks as he came around the corner, clothes draped over one arm.

  He glanced down at my outstretched hands for a brief moment, then his eyes came back up and locked with mine. “Here,” he said, dropping the jeans and tee shirt over the back of the chair in front of him. “I think these will fit.”

  Triple shit.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled as I grabbed the orange juice from the table and made like I was going to go pour it out.

  “Throwing out my juice, Ms. Sizemore?” he asked my back.

  I stopped in my tracks, took a deep breath. “No,” I said and shook my head. Then I thought better of it. Of course I was. “Well, yeah,” I said, with a nod. “Figured you were done with it, that's all.”

  “Not yet,” Micah said as he came up behind me and took it away. “Waste not, want not. That's what my dad, old Jaws Marlow used to say.”

  I laughed nervously, my eyes fixated on the glass in his hands. “My mom used to say the same thing.”

  Time seemed to stop as I watched his hand bring the glass to his lips.

  I held my breath.

  His eyes locked on mine as his nostrils flared a little.

  I bit my lower lip as I repeated the mantra: Please don't please don't please don't please don't please-

  He stopped with the glass halfway to his lips. “Second thought, my stomach's feeling a little queasy. You were right, better pour it out.”

  I exhaled a little and smiled. “Sure thing, Don,” I mumbled as I took it away from him and went into the kitchen. I sighed as I emptied its contents down the drain and ran the faucet afterwards.

  The whole time I was rinsing the sink, though, I was thinking about that look in his eyes. Had it been realization about my poisoning his drink? Or was it something deeper?

  “Come on, Ms. Sizemore,” he called from behind me, “better shake a leg. We gotta long morning ahead of us.”

  That was when it hit me. I'd never told him my last name. So, either he'd gone through my purse and found my ID, or something else was up.

  The question was: what?

  Chapter Six

  Micah

  I had to give Kaci credit. Of all the women who'd spent the night
at my house, she'd been able to pull off two firsts: not getting laid and trying to poison me.

  The first one, that was pretty understandable. After all, I'd drugged her and left her in the guest room, and didn't even bother to undress her.

  The second one, I had to admit was a bit more surprising. Thank God she'd over-poured whatever it was she'd poisoned my drink with. She'd put enough in there to make it smell like the inside of a meth lab.

  As she and I headed out to my grandfather's, with her riding bitch on my bike, I couldn't help but wonder why. Why try and kill me? Last night was the first time I'd met her, before that I didn't know her from fucking Eve.

  Had it been the spanking? Inside my mind, I shook my head. Nah, no way. Unless, of course, she was real batshit crazy. A life on the fringes of everything could get into your head, though, make you do things no sane person would ever do. People like us, we lived by different rules than your suburbanite middle Americans.

  Could she think I was responsible for something else, that I really did own her now? Like, she was going to be sold to me that night, and the only way to get her freedom was to off me?

  Or, maybe, there was a more sensible option. One that, as she tightened her arms my waist and trailed her long nails over my six-pack, I didn't want to admit to myself. Not because it wouldn't make sense, but because it would show just how stupid and trusting I was when it came a pretty face.

  What if she was sent by the Thunder Kings MC, our biggest rivals? What if they knew we were meeting with Abram, somehow, or they'd set it up to begin with, and she was meant to assassinate me?

  Whatever her reasons were, though, her little plan hadn't worked. And, as we made our way up I-55, across the edge of Lake Maurapas, I aimed to make sure things stayed that way. After all, I still had some repair work to do around my Grandpa's place.

  # # #

  Kaci

  As I shook Micah's grandfather's hand, I realized for the first time just how crooked a man could be. Honestly, I was surprised that the president of the God’s Hellfire MC could even walk straight.

  “Wow,” I said as I looked around the den, “all these FBI medals are yours?”

  Quentin laughed a big belly laugh. Even for a man in his seventies, you could tell he liked to laugh and have a good time. And, from that belly that produced such a great, full laugh, you could tell the man liked his Cajun. Cap it all off with a shock of silver hair and great, big, bushy eyebrows, and you had the perfect picture of a doting grandpappy. “Yep, all mine,” he said, “earned 'em back in my prime, when I was just a little older than my grandson, here.”

  I whistled low and gave him a winning smile. “Come on, Quentin,” I teased him, “you ain't even hit your prime, yet, and you know it.”

  He laughed again and nudged Micah with his elbow. “I like this one,” he said. “She strokes the ego just the right way.”

  But, as I watched the way the grandpappy and grandson got along, and as I looked around the den of the older man's home, I realized one thing: I couldn't ever go to the cops about my problem, or about the criminal organization I knew the Don was running. As corrupt as the local cops were, and boy were they corrupt, I'd never thought it would go all the way up to Washington. Not like this.

  Any whiff of trouble, and Micah's grandpappy would just yank him out of the fire before the cops even knew what happened.

  Micah was protected, virtually a made man.

  Which meant that, as nice as Quentin seemed, he was just as crooked as his grandson. There was no two ways about it.

  That meant I'd have to stick with my original plan, after I'd gotten Sydney out. Weasel my way in, get in under his skin, then strike. Cut the head of the snake and the body dies. Then, maybe, I'd have my revenge.

  But, as I watched the two men interacting, it was hard to reconcile what I knew to be the truth with what I saw right in front of me. Just two men that seemed to love each other.

  “Shoot,” Quentin said, snapping his fingers, “I sure am a poor host. Y'all two want tea or a beer or anything?”

  “Tea for me,” Micah said. “Still gotta get to the repairs and stuff. You, Kaci?”

  “Beer?” I asked.

  “Anything for you, sweetie pie,” Quentin said, then turned around and bustled off into the kitchen. I could tell from the way he was acting, he just seemed tickled that Micah had brought someone along with him. And even more tickled that someone happened to be a pretty girl.

  “He's in a good mood today,” Micah said after his grandpappy was out of earshot in the kitchen. There was a certain satisfaction to his voice, and I could tell he was happy that he brightened the older man's day.

  “It's because he thinks I'm your girlfriend,” I said in an almost sing-song voice as I sidled up next to him.

  It took him a moment, but eventually Micah made a face as he realized I was right. “Shit,” he groaned.

  “Ain't my fault,” I said, grinning as I twisted the knife, “I'm just along for the ride. I ain't the one breaking the old man's heart.”

  “You like to cook, Kaci?” Quentin called from the kitchen. “You should come in and see this kitchen, if you do.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Micah, but he just shrugged. “It really is a nice kitchen,” he said.

  I could barely make mac and cheese from a box without setting the whole block on fire. But, still, being a working girl meant being an actor. I headed into the kitchen and put on the proper face, one of astonishment and awe. In this case, it wasn't too difficult. The kitchen was all granite and chrome, with a great big professional-looking cooking range and a fridge big enough to store a dead gator in.

  “Impressive, huh?” Micah said from behind me.

  “Yeah,” I agreed as I walked further in.

  “Take a seat,” Quentin said, gesturing to a set of barstools that were pulled up to the counter. “Take a load off.”

  “You know, Gramps,” Micah said, “there ain't exactly a law saying every woman need to know how to cook nowadays.”

  Quentin laughed that huge laugh of his again, filling the kitchen up till it felt like the windows were bowing out in their frames. “Oh, I know, Micah, I know.” He turned to me, smiling as he placed an open Abita in front of me. “You see, Kaci, Micah's Grammy couldn't cook a lick. Not a dang lick. This was all for me.”

  I grinned back at him and took a swig off my beer. It went down smooth and cool.

  He slapped his belly and laughed. “See this? Liking food's the Marlow curse.”

  “Always figured the Marlow curse was more about liking the food too much, Gramps.” Micah said.

  Quentin Marlow laughed again, and I swore I heard the window panes almost crack.

  We talked a little more after that, going back and forth and dithering on certain topics. Quentin didn't pry too hard about my past, or my age, and I made up lie after lie about my childhood. It came out of my as habit, this need to protect my past, my privacy.

  Finally, though, when there was a lull in the conversation, Micah added something that was a little unexpected. “Hey, Gramps,” he said after a moment. “Caught the news last night. You hear about that executive getting killed in the Hilton? That Abram Ivanovich guy.”

  My ears perked up immediately. Abram Ivanovich . . . was an executive? What? I thought he was just some skeezy gangster-pimp, tied up with God’s Hellfire!

  The old, retired FBI agent's face went sour, like he'd bit into a bowl of etouffee expecting crawdad, but got a cockroach instead. “Yeah, I saw,” he said, almost spitting the words. “Serves the bastard right, I'm sure.”

  Micah made a face as he took a sip of sweet iced tea. He set the sweating glass down on the granite counter. “You alright there?”

  Quentin shook his head and waved it off. “Oh, it ain't nothing. Just that whole company that guy was tied up with, Petrov, it never should have been allowed to start in the first place. We told the State Department and the ATF not to let the licensing go through, but they wouldn't listen to me or my
partner.”

  I cocked my head to the side. Abram worked for some company I'd never heard of, but the government was involved somehow with it. That was interesting.

  Micah clearly thought so, too. He leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes intently locked on the old man. “This is juicy,” he said, grinning.

  “Oh, Kaci don't wanna hear any of my old stories from back in the Bureau,” he said, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Sure I do,” I said, taking another big suck off my beer. If it was tied to the man who murdered my brother, I was all fucking ears.

  Quentin sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He wasn't exasperated, or anything, but I could tell he was collecting his thoughts and getting all his ducks in a row. He leaned back on the counter behind him, perching his butt right on the edge.