Mine: Black Sparks MC (22 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

At the buzz of his phone, he jerked awake suddenly, disoriented. This wasn’t new for him; most of the time he slept with one eye open, or at least felt like he did. He had no idea what time it was; days and nights had begun to blur, but the shaft of sunlight streaming through the narrow window had begun to fade into the gloom of dusk.

“Liana?” Clawing the floor, he managed to send the phone skidding across the wood and under the radiator. He ignored it for the moment, scanning the floor for his discarded clothing and throwing it on hastily. The room was empty, cold as it had been when he’d lived there. He was shivering, in fact. The radiant heat of the woman who had fallen asleep next to him, her hand next to his face, her legs pulled up against his torso, had left him colder, more bereft, because all that lay beside him now was an empty span of floor. “Liana?” he shouted again, ignoring the phone for a moment, getting up and running to the bedroom door, calling her name again, echoing down the ghostly hall.

There is no sign of a struggle
, he thought as he scanned the room, the bare floor where they’d lain, where her warm, smooth skin had been nestled in the space next to him, finally where she had been meant to be, always. He stared at that spot, briefly, transfixed, then turned away. How could she have left him? There was no sign of a struggle, no sign of anybody having broken in--smashed windows, a kicked-in door. Besides, wouldn’t he have heard that? If Jack Camus had managed to locate them, wouldn’t he have woken up Nick simply for the pleasure of seeing the torture in his eyes, of having to watch Liana walk away from him again? No, it seemed increasingly likely that she’d left on her own. That she’d simply walked away from him, without looking back. He steadied his hand on the railing, feeling shaken.

Noel Richardson’s house had never been home to him; he’d never felt wanted in it. At times it had felt malignant, haunted, even. But it had never felt this empty. He went downstairs, into the kitchen with its staged breakfast nook, champagne glasses set for two--with no champagne in the house, of course. What a bitter joke. He even opened the front door, only to be greeted by the same suburban inertia he’d hated the first time he’d lived here: the guy across the street on his riding lawn mower, a FedEx truck clattering by. He closed the door quickly; despite Becky’s assurances that she’d taken care of things, the last thing he needed was the neighbors catching onto something suspicious. He sank down into the kitchen chair.

He should have expected this, he realized, burying his head in his hands. There was no other logical outcome. Nick hadn’t succeeded in convincing her to stay; he’d seen the steely resolve in her eyes as she’d pulled away from their kiss and turned her face toward the ceiling, as if she’d set her mind on some higher, nobler purpose. He remembered throwing out all those grand possibilities--places like Fiji and Australia. She was just humoring him. For people like them, there was no way out of the life they led.
I shouldn’t have fallen asleep
, he cursed himself. He might have been able to keep her here. But by knowing she was determined to leave and still demanding she stay, he’d be no better than Jack Camus.

From upstairs, he heard his phone vibrating again, knowing it was probably Tryg, demanding some task from him as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just demanded his vice president give up everything for the club. At least he still had the Sparks, he thought bitterly. They’d protect him; they’d back him up. But what did it mean anymore, if, without Liana, he didn’t feel like there was anything worth protecting?

Maybe he’d been delusional, even insane, to think Liana had ever had any intention of staying with someone like him, who could only offer her violence and death and disgrace, a life on the run--everything that was the opposite of what she deserved. If she’d stayed with him, she would have been in even more danger--both from Jack, whose jealousy and obsession were like poisons, and from the Black Sparks themselves, who wouldn’t be able to forgive the fact that one of their own had turned on them, and in the process, sunk their chances of victory over the Vipers.

Yes, deep down, he knew why Liana had left. That didn’t make it any easier for him to accept. And what sat in the back of his mouth like a bitter pill was the knowledge that Jack Camus was still out there. Liana may have thought she was making a clean break--both from Nick and Jack--but that was an illusion. Jack had tools, resources, the entire power of the metropolitan police force behind him. If he wanted Liana, if he had to chase her to the ends of the earth, he’d find a way.

Maybe he already had.

And maybe Nick was delusional to think only he could get rid of Jack for good. But even if Liana didn’t want him after that, even if she was rightly fed up with living her life, even if she wanted to go off and live life free on her own terms, he wouldn’t begrudge her that. But he couldn’t leave her now. Not when Jack was out there, too, hunting her.

He reached down to pick up the phone, and his eyes froze in horror on the one word Liana had sent.

Help.

From a mile away, the whine of a siren rattled the double-paned windows of the house, a sound that turned his insides to cold iron. He stood still in the doorway. There was nothing about the police that had ever signaled anything good for Nicholas Stone. Disgrace, displacement, judgment, blame--that’s what the police represented. He had to get out of here, he realized starting down the stairs and into the garage, focused on slipping out the garage door as quickly as he could--and then going to look for Liana.

But it was already too late.

“Freeze!” shouted a cop’s voice as he moved to throw open the service door.

The spinning tires as the cop car pulled up, the rotating red-and-blue lights like some kind of grotesque carnival were made even more bizarre by the peaceful suburban scene surrounding Noel’s old house. And in that moment, he thought of Noel--the twisted man’s revenge from beyond the grave, how he’d loomed over Nick, as the boy had stood with his hands against the cool metal of the cop car, being patted down like the criminal he was now convinced he was destined to be, because that’s how everybody--save for one person--had treated him. And that was person was gone now, again.

“Hands in the air!” shouted the cops standing in the doorway, their Glocks pointed at him as if he they expected him to open fire any minute.

But he didn’t even have a weapon. His weapon was his bike; it was the protection, courtesy of the Black Sparks. But he couldn’t reach that now. Liana was gone, the Sparks were gone, and something else gone had terribly, terribly wrong. Slowly, defeated, he raised his hands.

“Who put you up to this?” Nick demanded as the cops rushed toward him. “It was Jack Camus, wasn’t it?”

“You’re under arrest for murder,” said the female cop, her husky voice strangely reminiscent of some of the guards in Circleville.

Nick felt himself break out into a sweat; the memory he thought he’d ditched for good now returned in terrifying full color.

“Murder?” Nick demanded. “Murder of who?

“Daniel Kinski.”

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

“This doesn’t have to be hard, Nicholas,” said the detective. “It can be very easy. All I want is the truth.”

“I told you,” Nick said, drawing a deep breath, reminding himself that losing his cool would only land him back in a holding cell with two black eyes. “The truth is that the there’s a girl out there who’s in serious trouble, and you guys aren’t doing shit about it.” He spoke through his teeth, practically seething.

Across the metal table in the interrogation room, the woman, who had introduced herself as Detective Madigan, wore a gray pinstriped suit, a badge around her neck, and had eyes boring down on him like little chunks of coal. She was older, but she might have been good-looking under different circumstances. However, Nick knew, she had drunk too much cop Kool-Aid to be capable of revealing that there might be a human being somewhere in there. His eyes flickered to the Styrofoam cup of water sitting at the edge of table. Big mistake.

“Thirsty?” she asked tauntingly. “Mouth a little dry?”

The truth was his shirt had begun sticking to his back; it was hot as hell in here under the lights. A lock of his damp hair fell in his face, and since his hands were still cuffed to the metal folding chair, all he could do was flip it out of the way.

“You want those cuffs off, too?” Her had the teasing lilt of a fourth-grade bully.

But Nick knew enough not to show any weakness. Liana’s life might depend on it. He blinked, trying to shake away the idea that the girl he loved was trapped somewhere, screaming in pain--

“Once again, Nicholas, “ said Madigan, putting one leg casually up on the other chair, “that’s not the truth I want to know.
I
want to know about you and Helena Kinski.”

Nick slumped against the chair. “You know the truth, Madigan. She set me up.”

“
Who
set you up?” she sneered.

“Helena.”

“Helena Kinski, celebrated society wife of industry titan Daniel Kinski?”

Nick knew she was phrasing it to make him sound as ridiculous as possible, and he had to admit, hearing it repeated back to him, it did sound preposterous. But it had to be true. It explained all of Helena’s behavior over the past few days. She hadn’t wanted him--at least not him, as a person. She’d wanted him as a pincushion, a convenient target to stick all of her crimes on. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d been planning her husband’s death for months--years, even. Then, like an idiot, he’d come along and fallen right into her trap.

“She’s already told me everything. How you two have been playing hide the pickle.”

“Hide the
pickle
? Seriously?”

Madigan forged on. “How you sweet-talked her into running away with you, about how the two plotted to bump off Tryg Ryan and you would take over the Black Sparks, and how you tried to convince her that the only way you two could be together was to off her husband so she would inherit his money--and how when she tried to back out of the plan, you snapped and murdered him anyway--and tried to murder her.“

“That lying bitch! That was all her idea! She set me up!” Nick leaped up from the table, trying to shove it aside, but, of course, it was bolted to the floor. Another burly cop rushed in, shoving him down into his chair. “Sit down, kid,” he barked. “Don’t make me light you up,” he said, taking his taser and turning it around menacingly in his hand.

Nick seethed. Still, that’s the last thing he needed, to be writhing around helpless on the floor. If he had any chance of talking his way out of this, he’d need all of his faculties about him.

“Hey, Watson,” shouted a familiar voice from the doorway, calling to his partner.

The burly cop’s head swiveled, and Nick looked up automatically, recognition dawning when he saw the stocky young copper-skinned cop who had rushed into subdue him.

“Chucho?” The young cop’s eyes lit up, his lips parted in a knowing, twinkling smile Nick knew well.

He took a step back. “Nick?”

“You two know each other?” asked Madigan, an infuriating little smirk of amusement on her face. “How sweet,” she said dismissively. “However, if you’ll excuse us, I still have a lot of questions for this individual to which I have not yet received adequate responses.”

Chucho shook his head, but he winked at Nick, who managed a small smile. He had never been more grateful to see a familiar face before--even if the memories it brought back were of razor wire, cinderblock ceilings, and tasteless meatloaf. “Well, I believe federal regulations require that all suspects be offered a drink of water after every thirty minutes of interrogation. Anything else constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.”

Madigan rolled her eyes. “I believe interpreting the finer points of the U.S. Constitution is a little above your pay grade, Sanchez. Now beat it.”

With a sympathetic glance, Chucho shut the door as firmly as Madigan had, leaving Nick licking his sandpapery lips, imagining the drink of water that had almost been within his grasp.

Still, seeing a familiar face gave Nick a glimmer of hope--but every time the hope flickered in it was replaced by an image of Liana flashing through his head, every time worse than the image before--whips and chains lashing across her delicate golden skin, blood flowing through cuts, tears of fear filling her eyes, and Nick not there to protect her as he’d vowed to do. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes. She sent that text message to him on purpose, expecting him to do something, because she’d had no else to turn to. And now here he was, sitting helpless in the very place he’d been trying to outrun for the past six years.

Maybe the universe was trying to send him a message that this was where he belonged--so why did the powers that be have to torture him first by showing him a glimpse of what real joy could be like, of the girl curled in his arms in a golden circle of light?

“Now think about it from my point of view. Whose story do you think I’m more likely to buy? The biker boy with the juvie rape record, or the wife of the titan of industry he was boinking?” She reached for her cup and took a calm sip.

“So much for the sealed juvenile system. Did Jack manage to show you that, too? It was him who called in the arrest, wasn’t it?” he spat with contempt. “He timed it perfectly.”

“I don’t know who this Camus person is, but he’s got nothing to do with this case. We found Daniel Kinski dead in his basement yesterday.”

“Well that proves I’m innocent, then. I haven’t been to the Kinski’s in two days. I can prove it. Ask Tryg ”

“I said he was found dead; I didn’t say
when
he was killed.”

“Fuck.” Nick directed his gaze at her. He knew his looks could be disarming--hypnotizing even, but she was a tough nut to crack. He watched her swallow, her throat muscles moving under her collarbone. “I would think you were smart enough to know, after all your years on the force, that things aren’t always how they look.”

“Your flattery is sweet, but I’ve found that actually, nine times out of ten, things are
exactly
how they look. We have CCTV footage proving you were in the Kinski house on multiple occasions leading up to the day Mr. Kinski was killed. And Mrs. Kinski has confirmed it.”

Nick slumped in the chair. He knew now that nothing about his arrival at the Kinski’s had been random. Helena had known about his record; she knew he was a prime target to frame. A woman like her didn’t throw herself at some nobody biker boy unless she wanted something in return. A lesser, more naïve woman might be swayed by Nick’s looks and the excitement he represented. Helena Kinski was no innocent ingénue; in fact, it was Nick who had been taken in by her, despite his every effort to keep his wits about him.

Nick’s mind was racing, but meanwhile, Madigan was still talking. “Your DNA and fingerprints are all over the house. And Mrs. Kinski, herself, has gone on the record saying you two were sexually involved, and that you were after a shipment of drugs that that Daniel Kinski had been involved in orchestrating the theft of. In short,” she paused for dramatic effect, “it looks bad, Stone.”

“Don’t you realize that’s exactly what she wants you to think?” Nick countered. “She hates her husband; she told me she’s wanted a divorce for years and he wouldn’t give her one.”

“What’s to stop her from leaving him?”

“Because she’d be penniless!” Nick exploded. “They had a prenup ensuring she wouldn’t get a thing. So, instead, she came up with a plan to murder him, frame me, and get away with a truckload of untraceable drug money.” Nick tried to catch his breath; he was blinded with rage, more at himself for what an idiot he’d been to ever fall for Helena’s seductiveness. The more he looked at Madigan, the more he saw Helena--her freezing-cold gaze, plump pout, and perfectly sculpted hair. The icy bitch. He felt anger radiating out of his every pore.

“Okay, Stone,” said Madigan suddenly, “I’m leaving you in here a while to cool off. Maybe when I come back you’ll be ready to talk. Who knows, maybe I’ll even bring you a cup of coffee.”

“I don’t want coffee. I want--” But she was already gone. Nick screamed and banged the back of his head against the wall.

Moments, later, the burly cop from earlier came in holding a bottle of water and Nick licked his parched lips. At least he’d get some relief, finally. Maybe once he wasn’t so dehydrated, he’d be able to think straight, and come up with a plan to get out of this and help Liana.

“Officer,” said Nick, trying his best to keep the contempt out of his voice. “I know you don’t trust me, but just listen for a second. There’s a girl who needs help--”

“Shut up.” He showed his yellowed teeth as he unscrewed the cap off the bottle and dropped it to the floor. “I’ve got one thing and one thing only for you,” he said. Nick looked up sullenly from beneath his sweaty bangs. “A present.” Suddenly the guy grabbed the back of the metal chair and upended it, sending it and Nick crashing to the rock-hard floor.

“What the--” Before he could scramble up, the cop came back, aiming his scuffed black leather boot solidly between Nick’s gut and his crotch, the pain like a torpedo to Nick’s already weakened frame. He doubled over, gasping for air, writhing in pain. His hands rattled against the cuffs, unable to even move his hands forward to hold his chest, feeling like a fish on a beach, mouth moving but no sound coming out.
I can’t even protect myself
, he thought, cursing himself, and Liana was somewhere a million times worse.

The cop stepped back. “Courtesy of Sergeant Jack Camus. Oh,” he said turning back. “He wanted me to mention something else. Something about your girlfriend, and how he likes to hear her scream more than any other sound in the world.” As Nick wheezed in the corner, barely able to raise his head, the cop took another swig of the water bottle, then poured the rest of it in the wastebasket in the opposite corner of the room. “Have a nice night,” he said, and slammed the door shut.