8. Braxton
Chapter eight
Braxton
It’s a bright day in Boston as Cash and I pull into the underground garage of Finn Monaghan’s warehouse in Boston.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says. “Everything okay?”
“I’m always quiet,” I reply, shifting the van into park and killing the engine.
“Yeah, but usually you at least bitch about the music I’m playing. Shit, I even put on one of Cece’s rage-baking playlists, and you barely batted an eye.”
I’m not about to tell him that my mind keeps wandering back to the hotel room Vanessa and I spent the night in together.
That I can’t get the way she looked when she came for me over and over out of my head.
Or what it was like waking her up with my tongue in her pussy.
Or how I’m fucking annoyed that she hasn’t spent even one night in bed with me since returning to the clubhouse four days ago.
Sure, we’ve had sex, but I thought after the first night of sleeping together, she would have loosened up a bit with the whole no sleepovers rule.
“Just have a lot on my mind,” is all I give him.
I’m not like my brothers. I’m not going to cry on their shoulders about my relationship—or whatever this is with me and Vanessa.
It’s not a relationship. She’s made that clear.
Hell, I was willing to go right along with it—key word, was.
I may not want to open up to my brothers, but I can’t lie to myself.
I don’t like that she gets out of bed after I’ve made her come and goes back to her room.
I don’t like that she keeps those walls in place.
And what’s really fucked is I hate how much I don’t like it.
“Anything to do with the dancer who’s been staying at the clubhouse with you?”
My gaze sharpens when I meet Cash’s eyes. “She has a name, asshole.”
The man has the audacity to let a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “How was New York?” he asks.
Instead of answering, I open the van door and hop out. The Monaghan lieutenant, Cillian, steps out from the elevator on the far side of the garage.
“Cash, Braxton. Good to see you,” he says, holding out his hand for us to shake. “It’s been too long since you both came to Boston.”
“Good to see you too, Cillian,” Cash tells him. “How’s the bar business?”
About a year ago, Cillian met a woman in New Orleans.
The family used to use the ports down there for shipping before they took over Boston.
Turns out, she had some ties to the Black Roses by way of her brother—Cooper—who lost his life protecting Lucy.
Coop was a good prospect and a great man, and when he died, we all felt his loss.
His sister blamed the club and refused to have anything to do with us until she met Cillian.
The Monaghans needed a little assistance taking out the last leg of the Italian family that was causing problems for them after some dumb fucking capo took Nova, Cillian’s now fiancée, and her friend.
Those pieces of shit got put to ground, and Nova came back into the fold.
She opened a bar in Boston with a New Orleans flair to pay homage to her home state.
“Good. Keeps us busy. And keeps Nova from going stir crazy.” He wears the smile of a man totally and completely in love with his woman every time he says her name.
A chuckle escapes me. I can’t imagine what a retired pickpocket from the French Quarter would pull up here if she was bored for too long.
Another elevator opens and two men wheel out a pallet with several crates on top.
“Here we go,” Cillian says. The men stop in front of the back doors of the van, and Cillian opens the first crate. “Let’s take an inventory then get you packed up and on your way.”
I open the back door, and Cillian gets a look at the bike we have inside.
We travel with one just in case we ever get pulled over by the cops.
It adds credibility to our story that we’re simply motorcycle enthusiasts transporting a new bike to a customer.
Not that it’s ever happened, but we all believe that there’s a first time for everything, so we make damn sure to keep our asses covered every run.
Cillian lets out a low whistle as he takes in the machine. “Damn, that’s a good-looking bike.”
“Thanks, it’s a restoration I’ve been working on.
Barrett just needs to finish the paint job on the tank and then it’ll be on the road,” I say, staring at the beauty in the van.
“If you’re ever interested, we could build something for you.
Make it a two-seater so you and Nova can have some fun when you aren’t stuck at the bar. ”
Cillian nods with a gleam in his eyes that I recognize all too well. “I might take you up on that.”
After finishing the inventory and packing up the shipment of guns that are set to be delivered to the Iron Disciples clubhouse later this week, we shake hands with Cillian and get on the road to head back to Shine.
“So, you going to tell me about the night you spent in New York with Vanessa?” Cash asks after about ten minutes of silence.
“We had some drinks and some laughs.”
“What was it like being back where you two first met? Did it rekindle any old feelings?” he asks, wiggling his brows.
I roll my eyes. “What old feelings? We met a few years ago and had a night together. Then she showed up in Shine and needed some help.” That seems like far too simple an explanation for what’s between me and Vanessa. Problem is, I don’t have a better one.
“But you two are sleeping together now. With no feelings involved. Living in the same clubhouse, spending time with everyone. Together. She cooks for you, and you growl at any prospect who gets too friendly with her. But there’s nothing more between you two than that. I have it right?”
“Who told you I growl at the prospects for talking to her? There has been no growling.”
Cash laughs, and I kind of want to punch him in the face.
“Look, I’ll be honest with you.” God, this guy is a pain in my ass.
“I don’t know what’s going on between us.
Vanessa wants everything in these little boxes.
And I’ve been mostly fine with that. It’s fun having her around.
She’s got a wicked sense of humor and likes to give as good as she gets.
When I get home from working at the shop or she gets home from her shift at the club, she gives me this smile.
” I have to stop one from spreading across my face when I think of her.
“It’s almost as though she’s relieved that the rest of the world is shut out, and it’s just the two of us for the rest of the night.
But she has no intention of letting her walls down.
And it’s not like I can do anything to change her mind.
It’s fine. I’m not really into the whole relationship thing anyway. ”
At least that’s what I keep telling myself. But the more time I spend with Vanessa, the less true that rings in my own ears.
Red and blue lights start flashing behind us, and I look at Cash.
“Pull off the highway,” one of the cops says through the police cruiser’s speaker.
“Shit,” Cash mutters as I take the exit and pull over on the side of the road.
The cops follow us, and I blow out a deep breath as I put the van in park and kill the engine. There’s no way they’re going to find anything unless they take us in and strip the van. Then we’ll be well and truly fucked.
Through the side mirror, I watch one of the cops walk up to the van with his hand on his side piece. I look at the passenger-side mirror and see another cop walking up to Cash’s side.
I roll down my window, and my brother does the same.
“Is there a problem, officer?” I ask.
“Step out of the vehicle,” he says.
An unmarked car pulls up behind the police cruiser, and I look at Cash, seeing the worry he’s trying to hide behind his eyes.
The cop on my side steps back—as does the one on Cash’s. Four men emerge from the car that pulled up as we get out of the van.
“I wasn’t speeding, was I, officer?” I ask in a mild tone.
The man grabs me by the wrist and twirls me around, slamming my front into the side of the van. In the next second, he wraps my wrists in zip ties, tightening them to the point that they’re digging painfully into my skin. Then he hauls me back by the collar of my shirt, pushing me toward the back.
The other officer yanks Cash behind the van as well, and we don’t say anything when our gazes collide.
There’s something about this that doesn’t feel right.
“What do we have in here?” one of the men from the other car asks.
“I picked up a bike in Boston, and we’re taking it back to our shop in Shine,” I answer, trying to keep my voice level.
When the other man—whom I can only assume is a police officer since he hasn’t shown a badge and isn’t wearing any identification—opens the back door, he peers inside then looks at the others. He jumps into the van and begins kicking around the floorboards and the side panels.
This isn’t right. They didn’t tell us why we’ve been pulled over, and they immediately opened the back door and started looking around. I haven’t even given them my license or registration.
Another guy jumps in the back and undoes the straps for the bike.
Without ceremony, he pushes the motorcycle out of the back door and Cash and I watch it crash to the ground.
Our eyes meet again and his narrow as he looks inside the van and then at the other two men who are waiting in front of the unmarked car.
“What precinct are you from?” he asks. “Do you have a badge number?”
The men don’t answer; they just give him a cocky smirk.
One of the men takes a knife from his pocket and wedges it under a panel, propping it open and exposing our cargo.
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath.
“Well, looks like our tip paid off.” The man holding my wrists sounds absolutely giddy.
“Who the fuck are you? You sure as hell aren’t cops,” Cash says as the two men jump out of the back and slam the doors shut.
“We might not be some fucking pigs, but you two are still fucked,” the asshole behind me says.