Cold Burn (2 page)

I climb the stairs to my room and grab the postcard I tucked in the side of the frame of the mirror above my dresser when I left this morning. I read David's familiar script.

"Sure feels like I'm still in Florida. It's hot, humid, crowded, and infested with mosquitoes. I expect you to take care of Lisa, and I plan to come back to haunt you soon to check out you're doing it right. Take care, Bro."

I read those lines, looking for a coded message, but I see none. I'm not even sure why he underlined the word right. I understand it as a green light for my taking care of his sister the way I want to, but that's because it is what I want to read into it.

As far as I can tell, there are no hidden messages in this text. Nothing dates it. It could have been written five years ago or last week. I flip the card over and look at the picture. It's one of those typical Floridian views taken from a plane or chopper flying over the beach. There's a bit of water on the right, surrounded by the beach and ocean-front properties under a clear blue sky. In a sunny-gold fancy font, the beach is identified as Point Lookout, Florida. There are so many people on the beach that I suspect the photo was taken during a spring break party. All spring break beach parties look the same.

I curse Everest for getting my hopes up then drop the postcard on the dresser and get ready for a shower. I'm no longer mad at him; I understand why he kept his thoughts to himself. Like he said, it's going to be painful to close that door he cracked open in my head. I would never have shared such doubts with Lisa, so I can't blame him for keeping silent.

I sigh. David's really dead.

When I come out of the shower a few minutes later, my father is sitting on my bed, waiting for me. "Ice, you look like crap," he says.

"Thanks, I know. Everest just told me."

"There's shit we need to talk about. Tomorrow. My office. Noon."

When he's not trying to seduce an audience, my father is a man of very few words. Short sentences, no verbs if they're dispensable. He sounds like his favorite toy, the whip. He loves to crack it figuratively and literarily. His affinity for it is probably the reason his friends call him Cracker. Plus, he's a proud Floridian. The name “Cracker” matches every aspects of his personality.

"Sure thing," I say. I'm relieved he doesn't want to talk now because I'm dead on my feet.

As he steps toward the door, his eyes fall to the postcard. He picks it up and stares at the picture for a few seconds before dropping it back onto the dresser. As he walks out, he says, "I know it was the right choice for the town, but this hotel sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of Point Lookout. Night, Ice."

I throw the towel on the bathroom floor and crawl into bed. Surprisingly, I don't fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. I haven't had more than five hours of sleep a night all week. I rode hundreds of miles to find a runaway kid and bring him back home to his parents. Why am I not sleeping?

Something's nagging me, but I don't know what. I’m not sure if it’s something Cracker said or the fact that, for an hour, I hoped David wasn’t dead. I toss and stare at the ceiling.

Lisa will be back soon. Just thinking of her gets me hard enough to pound nails. I close my eyes and remember how thoroughly sated she looked the last time I saw her. To make sure none of those fancy intellectual law school students caught her eye, I had been relentless with her. I made her scream my name all night long.

Just the thought that someone else could lay a hand on her gets me in full caveman mode. No sharing, not even with a brother. When Everest told me that he really liked her and that she had kissed him, it took all my willpower not to hit him. I probably would have punched anyone else.

She's mine. Fuck, she's always been mine, and that's just the way it should be.

Everest makes fun of me. He says it's this other way around, that I'm hers. He may have a point.

Except when I was acting as dungeon master and required to care for a poorly treated sub, I haven't touched a woman since she left. I wasn't even tempted. Nothing's wrong with the sweet butts in the club. Some of them are actually pretty hot, but my mind's not in that game anymore. No more mindless sex. I want the real thing, and the real thing is Lisa.

I flip onto my stomach and sigh in relief at the thought that my sexual dry spell is about to end. I think about the five acres of land I've purchased behind the clubhouse. It's ideal. There's a small lake and some beautiful trees. I could build her dream house on it. I would let her pick the layout, the builder—anything she damn well wants in every single room of the house, except for one.

I want one extra room in the house, one room that Lisa doesn’t yet know we need to make our house perfect. Our home will have a nice sound-proof playroom for the two of us. A place where she can wail my name all night without waking up our children because there's no way in hell I'm ever taking her to The Styx.

CHAPTER THREE

"'Bout time," my father says as I enter his office five minutes after noon. He looks exasperated, as if I were an hour late. He's forgotten that when I came in here ten minutes ago, he was on the phone and ordered me to leave.

His short-term memory is shot. That's the reason he's stepping down. Every so often, he has a lucid moment and realizes that his temper and a failing brain are a lethal combination that could put the club in danger. And the club is the only thing he's ever loved.

Cracker might also love Everest’s mother, or so Everest thinks. I have my doubts, but then again, Everest’s mother clearly satisfies a need that Cracker has. He stayed around for a couple of decades and still visits her and their daughter, whom he worships.

In Cracker's head, the lines between all forms of desire are blurred. Cracker's English resembles Spanish, in that it has only one word for the ideas of both wanting and loving. Still, Everest is probably right. Cracker still loves/wants his old lady.

And he does adore Juliya. Most of the time, I feel sorry for my sister. I can't imagine being the center of the old man's attention is easy. Plus, Everest and I are two overprotective brothers with an attitude. It must be a heavy weight to carry.

Juliya and the MC are all Everest and I share with Cracker, all we hold dearly enough to put up with him.

Cracker stares at a pad on his desk and frowns while going down the list he's written in large block letters.

"Xander Wild tour?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "We're on. I'm taking four guys with me."

"Fine. How long will you be gone?"

"Just one week. We're only handling his security on the East Coast. We hand him over to another chapter as soon as he starts going west. You've got the schedule, and in case you have questions, Patricia will always know where to find us. After that, I plan to stay put for a couple of months."

Cracker frowns at the sound of my assistant's name. Patricia's not afraid of him. Hell, Patricia's not afraid of anyone or anything. She's the only dominant woman at The Styx, and Cracker is spooked by the very concept of a woman holding a whip. He has a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that some straight men like being bottoms.

"We'll need to organize a meet with your brother when you come back." His eyes remain riveted to the pad. "I need to decide to whom I'm going to be handing the gavel."

He can't seem to make up his mind which of his sons he wants to step into his shoes. He's told me he would favor Everest because he's been raised in the club, and he would have a firmer hand, which Cracker feels the club needs.

Cracker's right about Everest being tougher. No matter how much he denies it, Everest is just like our old man, bossy and manipulative. The major difference is that Everest's so smooth, his victims don't realize they've been screwed until they're done for. He would indeed make the most effective president.

But as long as Everest doesn't walk away from his police job, it's not going to happen. His membership in the club is already very questionable. We're not an outlaw MC, per se. Most of the club's activities are legit, but close enough to borderline to draw the attention of Internal Affairs. So, for as long as he remains on the force, Everest will not be our Prez.

"How are you feeling?" I ask Cracker.

"About the same way that you fucking looked yesterday," he growls. "Frustrated and way too tired for a man of my age."

"Anything I can do for you?"

"Yeah, talk your brother into coming here full time," he snaps back.

The man doesn't realize he should be more careful about what he wishes for. He's got no idea how lucky he's been that I am the only one he’s had to deal with so far. Sure, Everest and I are in agreement about the future of the MC. However, we have very different ideas about how to make that future happen. I think it best to let things take their natural course. I'm fine remaining the VP until Cracker steps down. Everest is not as patient. If he comes here full time, he’ll not only do everything in his power to become president, he'll also make sure it happens right away.

But then again, Cracker may know that already. That could explain why he’s tried to play us against each other. He failed. There will be no sibling rivalry on that front.

The same doesn't hold true as far as Lisa is concerned. I don't care what Everest thinks or feels. She's mine. Just mine. And when I see her next, she and I will have an interesting conversation about her going around kissing other men.

"Am I boring you?" Cracker barks.

"Sorry, Prez,” I say. "I was distracted. What is it you were saying?"

"Juliya. She's coming home from college at the end of the spring term. She's gonna spend the summer at her mother's. She called to ask if you'd all be around, and she asked about the Fourth of July party." He looks at me with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be here." Yep, his short-term memory is shot. I just told him two minutes ago that I was not going anywhere after my rock-star-sitting gig.

Even though I've totally taken over the management of two of the MC’s activities I initially assisted him with, I go through the motions and spend the next half hour trying to bring him up to speed. It's useless, despite the notes he takes. He'll have forgotten all about it in a few hours.

We have nothing much to say about the activity of The Styx. In a sex club, when there's no drama, it's same old, same old most of the time.

I have tons to say, however, about the Friendly Persuasion Agency's booming business. Lately, we've been getting unofficial referrals from the police about cases in which their hands were tied. We're more efficient at times because we have no trouble crossing some lines the cops aren’t even allowed to step on.

Also, unlike them, we're not hindered by state borders. That's the reason the police suggested to the families go to us for help searching for their kids who had joined a new cult. We checked out the pseudo-religious association—a “church” who teaches “divine intervention through love”—that had come recruiting in our neck of the woods. It was just a front for a bastard to get his hands on fresh flesh and easy money.

After we brought back a few kids, the parents got together and hired us to invite the guru to move out of the state. After a little Friendly Persuasion Agency magic, he moved away. But he had his hooks deep in one of the kids. We brought him back home, but he was so brainwashed that he followed his mentor—and took a shitload of cash from his parent's home. I don't know what kind of business Carlos Sanchez’s father is in, but if he had that much cash lying around, it couldn’t be legit.

It took me a few days to find the conniving little brat. He fought me with so much conviction that I had to call in a cage to bring him home.

"How old is the kid?" Cracker asks after I tell him about Carlos.

"He'll be eighteen soon. Why?"

"Because he sounds like the kind of kid who's in bad need of guidance while we need new prospects," he answers with a smirk.

It never crossed my mind, but he's got a point. The kid's smart and lost. He needs to belong to something, and hanging out with us could help him get a better grip on life.

"You wanna take on another prospect?" I ask. "I thought we had all we needed, prospect wise"

"Naw, one of them quit last night after I demonstrated some whip technics on one of the new girls." An alarmed look must have crossed my face because he adds, "Got no complaints from her. She's still in my bed, and I think she likes it there."

I shrug. "Fine, then I'll reach out to the kid when I come back."

We go over some more stuff before it's time for me to get ready for my next gig. Star-sitting should be interesting, especially since I do like Xander Wild's music.

CHAPTER FOUR

The ride up from Point Lookout to New York State is uneventful. I picked Lobster and Waxer. They’re probably not the sharpest of our club, but they're real tight and loyal to me. We're riding with a prospect whose name I can’t seem to remember and an older member called Brains. He's not as quick on his feet in case we need to fight, but he's got street smarts. The four of us have worked together before, and we make a good team. I’m hoping some of our experience will wash over onto the prospect.

The first concert is set in Jones Beach Theater. As we drive east on the Meadowbrook State Parkway, I notice an exit sign for another Point Lookout. A home away from home. I wonder how many towns across the US share that name.

Even though it's early when we arrive, a big crowd has already gathered. I look at the faces as we slowly drive to the parking area. It's mainly kids, all looking dazed. They don’t look stoned, but more like they need a nap, probably because of the sun. This is one of the first warm weekends of spring, and it's easy to get drunk on intense light exposure. Since Xander Wild's audience doesn't look dangerous, I wonder why he's hired us.

I checked him out before we left. Alexander Hughes, aka Xander Wild, is in his early thirties, just a few years older than I am. In his interviews, he says he has two daughters, but he's never been married, and no one has ever been able to identify the mother or the kids. His only family I could find is a brother, Andrew Hughes, who is a police officer in Manhattan. The only dirt I could dig up was Xander's reputation as a womanizer. No history of drugs or alcohol abuse. He's pretty healthy and balanced for a rock star.