Chapter 47 Sloane #3
I’ve sat through this whole exchange on the edge of my seat.
Michael’s a grade-A moron of the highest order to concoct that kind of lie.
This is the point in the proceedings where Jacob calls Rebel and asks him if he’s sent his cousin Jacob’s way.
And Rebel’s response? “No, of course not. Kill the lying little fucker.”
You don’t want to cross Rebel. He’s the kind of guy who makes people like Jacob quake in their boots.
He has enough power to shut down any organization he sees fit.
As head of the largest motorcycle gang in California, Washington, and New Mexico combined, Rebel also happens to be the same vile piece of shit who bid to buy a night with Sloane two years ago.
He’s a violent motherfucker with a penchant for girls in the skin trade.
After he spends a night with them, they tend to disappear.
That’s why I stepped in when I found out Eli was about to sell Sloane to him.
And Michael’s just claimed that he’s related to the guy?
Jacob doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself.
He leans back, scratching his belly, then sits forward again, scowling.
“And how do you propose I verify this claim of yours, then? Because that is one motherfucking crazy-ass claim. If you’re lying to me, you know it won’t just be a simple case of killin’ you now?
I’ll have to have my boys beat the living shit outta you.
Then they’ll have to bring you back from the dead so Rebel can kill you himself for using his name. ”
He’s absolutely right. Rebel will want to kill him personally. Michael doesn’t blink at the description of what will happen to him if he’s caught in this lie, though. He’s calmer than fucking ever.
“I tell you what, Jacob.” Michael peppers his tone with just enough disrespect to make me cringe. “Why don’t you take a photo of my handsome face and send it to my cousin? He’ll tell you straight up if we’re blood.”
The cogs inside Jacob’s head grind in protest as he works this one through. Eventually, he takes a picture of Michael and types a quick message. His cell makes a dinging sound: Sent.
The next few minutes are brutal. Jacob’s cell phone sits on his knee, while Jacob stares down Michael.
He may be past his prime, but there’s no doubting the threat in his eyes.
I’ve always known I’ll die a grisly death at some point—you can only dodge bullets for so long before one of them eventually hits something vital—but I have to admit I never thought it would be in a Black Talon brothel.
And I never thought I’d be so afraid for the safety of the woman I’ll be leaving alone in their midst if I get—
Bright white light illuminates Jacob’s cell screen, and the thing almost jumps off his leg when it starts vibrating. He’s calling. Rebel’s actually calling. A text would have done it. But no. A phone call? What the hell does that mean?
Michael eyes the phone, arching an eyebrow. “If you know my cousin, then you’ll know how he dislikes being kept waiting.”
A sneaking suspicion begins to develop in the back of my head. No way Michael would be this sure of himself right now. Not unless… not unless…
“Rebel, my friend.” Jacob answers the call gingerly, as though he’s working his way toward the same conclusion I am. “Thanks for calling. Sorry to bother you with such a—”
The rumbling voice on the other end of the line cuts him off.
Jacob’s eyes grow round as he listens, the fingers of his free hand tapping distractedly at the side of his chair.
“Well, I didn’t order that, I assure you.
I’m—” Jacob exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers.
“I know. I’m—” Doesn’t look like Rebel’s in the mood to let Jacob fit a word in edgewise.
The head of the Black Talons pales as he listens to whatever the man on the other end of the line has to say for himself.
“Yes, I agree. I totally agree. It’s unaccept—”
A roar erupts out of the cell phone, and then… nothing. Jacob lowers his phone in order to look at the screen. Unaccustomed as he is to having people hang up on him, the look on his face is hilarious.
“How goes my cousin, Jacob?” Michael asks.
So it’s true then. I can’t believe Michael’s been keeping that shit under lock and key for so long.
And why the hell has he been working for me when he could be a big fucking deal in his cousin’s organization?
The smug bastard does a good job of hiding his smirk, but the tone of his voice is too satisfied to conceal.
Jacob’s just the sort of person to kill someone for being a cocky shit, and yet he doesn’t kill Michael.
Thoughtfully, he sets his phone to one side.
“He was unhappy about the bruise on his only cousin’s face,” he says slowly. He meets Michael’s gaze. “I have to apologize for the mistreatment you’ve suffered at the hands of my men. If I’d known, then…”
Michael just nods. “An easy misunderstanding.” He holds up his hands, jerking his chin toward the restraints. “I’m assuming you have no problem with removing these now, though? They’re a little tight.”
Jacob goes purple. With horror, embarrassment or fury, I don’t know, but he signals to Clark all the same. “Uncuff him.”
Clark, the ever-obliging employee, does as he’s told. Michael massages his wrists, that smug fucking look still on his face. “I wonder,” he says, “if you might have a bathroom I could use? I’ve been stuck down here for three days. A shower really wouldn’t go amiss.”
Most men would flee for their lives after escaping an ordeal down in Jacob Dixon’s cellar, but not my guy.
By the glint in his eye, Michael seems dead set on sticking around.
Jacob’s double chin wobbles. He’s mad as a grass snake, but what can he say?
“Of course, my friend. Of course.” He stands and gestures toward the door, still twitching with what I can only imagine to be affront.
Michael goes to follow, but first he turns to me, offering me his hand to shake. “Sorry to hear about your trouble, man. If you need any help with this Charlie Holsan guy, just let me know. I’m sure I could pull a few strings.”
I wanna slap the cheeky fucker upside the head.
If I’d have known he was Rebel’s cousin, I may have asked him to pull hard on those fucking strings a while back.
Maybe not, though. Dancing with Rebel is like dancing with the devil.
I wouldn’t want to owe the man a thing. I shake Michael’s hand, squeezing way harder than necessary.
In return, Michael provides me with a saintly smile and saunters out of Jacob’s killing room like he just enjoyed a pampering weekend at the Ritz.