Chapter 16 A Different Kind Of Addiction
A DIFFERENT KIND OF ADDICTION
LORENZO
It turns out that the yacht Rafael had chosen as his flagship of his ridiculous shell-game flotilla was the one large enough for a helicopter to land on it. We all crammed together aboard the aircraft—putting us dangerously close to the upper weight limit—and flew back to LA.
Inez was quiet, contemplative. You'd think there would be a bigger reaction to Rafael finally being dead and out of her life for good, but for now she seems content to simply be alive.
I don't push. I just sit as close to her as I can, hold her hand, and try to exude calm and peace.
I don't know what comes next.
Returning to the port where our SUVs are parked, we pile in and head for the hotel where the women are. As the building grows larger in the windshield, I feel a rise in tension inside the vehicle—wondering what fresh mayhem we'll find awaiting us.
The parking lot is half-full, with nothing amiss—no blacked-out Suburbans, nothing on fire, no one running screaming from the lobby, no gunfire, no law enforcement descending like a swarm of vultures. Just a quiet hotel on the edge of the desert.
Moving as a group, armed only with pistols—tucked behind waistbands until we're on our floor—we approach our bank of rooms.
We check them one by one in turn—empty, empty, empty.
Sol, as we reach the last room of the ones we've reserved, pauses with his hand on the knob, listening, waiting, the keycard hovering near the reader.
He looks at me, at his brothers. "Am I the only one expecting the worst, here?"
"No," Saxon grumbles. "Just open the fuckin' door already."
Guns drawn, all ten of us—Rev, Chance, Kane, Saxon, Silas, Solomon, Lash, Inez, Scarlett, and myself—surround the door. Sounds from within reach our ears—chatter, laughter, a hysterical squeal.
"Sounds…fine," Solomon mutters.
"Just open the goddamn door, bro, Jesus," Saxon snaps.
"Fuck, fine," Sol mutters.
"Your woman is right here with you," Saxon says. "The rest of us are on pins and fuckin’ needles."
Sol taps the key to the reader, the light flashes green, and the lock clicks. Sol shoves the door open with one hand, pistol in the other, and slides in, shifting to the side so Silas and Saxon can flow in after him.
A bark of male laughter greets my ears. "Mierda," Toro says, rumbling a laugh. "I almost shoot you, Solomon."
I watch as, one by one, the Cabot brothers lower their pistols. Kane nudges through the brothers, shoving his pistol into his waistband, and the rest of the Arrows follow suit, entering the room.
Sophia and I hang back in the hallway, watching.
“Be right back,” she mutters to me. “Gonna clean up real quick.”
I peck her on the lips. “Alright.”
I enter the room, where all the women plus Toro, Taj, and Fonz are clustered together, half of the women on one bed and the rest on the other, with Taj and Toro on the floor just inside the doorway.
Fonz, the strange man, is on the far bed, bad leg stretched out while Myka and Tatiana paint his toenails a violent shade of pink.
Kane, as Anjalee scrambles off the bed to greet him as effusively as if he'd been gone a week rather than less than twelve hours, stares at Fonz over Anjalee's shoulder. "Fonz, buddy, should I even ask?"
"Nope," Fonz says.
"Well I am askin'," Rev says. “The fuck, man? Why is my girl painting your goddamn feet?"
Myka giggles, not taking her attention away from Fonz's giant, scraggly, cracked toenail. "Relax, baby. We're bored out of our minds and Fonz is our entertainment."
Tatiana dips the brush into her jar of toe paint, or whatever it's called, grinning at Lash. "Are you jealous as well, Nico?"
Lash snickers a laugh. "Indeed not. I think maybe Fonz is your honorary gay friend."
Fonz, who's had his arm draped over his face up until now, moves his arm away to peer at Lash.
“Straight men can have platonic friendships with straight women, I’ll have you know.
Furthermore, straight men can have their toes painted pink by their straight female friends.
" He turns his attention to Rev. "And as for you—you jealous, big boy?
I'm sure your girl will do your nails next if you ask her nicely. "
Rev is silent for a moment, and then, moving oddly slowly, he unties his boots, removes them, peels off his socks, and plants one foot on the bed in a Captain Morgan pose.
His toenails are bright purple. "That's not the issue, jackass."
For a moment, the room is silent.
Myka finishes Fonz's big toe, plugs the brush back into the jar, looks from Rev to Fonz and back to Rev.
She tries to suppress a snicker of laughter, and fails. That snort sets Tatiana to giggling, and soon everyone is laughing except Rev and Fonz.
Sophia, having changed into clean clothes, leans against the doorpost, watching the merriment with a small smile.
Fonz, with partially-painted toenails, stops laughing, eying Sophia. Shimmying awkwardly off the bed, he limps toward Sophia. Brazen as you please, he takes her hand and pulls her into the room.
Stunned by the unexpected move, Sophia lets him pull her toward the bed, the smile vanishing. After a few steps, she halts. "I'm fine where I was."
Fonz gestures at the bed, at Myka and Tatiana. "Boss, just get over there."
Moving stiffly, hesitantly, Sophia shuffles closer to the bed, looks around the room as if for guidance, and then perches on the very edge of the bed, back ramrod stiff, hands on her thighs. "There." She arches a wry eyebrow at Fonz. "Does that make you feel better?"
Myka shifts to sit beside her. Looks at her intently. "Is it over?"
Sophia drops her head, gaze on her hands.
"Yes." A pause. "Well, mostly. Pugli is still out there, and last I heard from Jakob, Pugli's men—or at least I assume Pugli's men—have put him on the defensive.
He claims to not want or need our assistance yet, however.
So, there may be work on that front to do, still, but Rafael is dead. "
Tatiana moves to her other side. "Which means you are free, does it not?"
Sophia blinks. "I…yes, I suppose it does." A clearing of her throat. "Free. What a strange feeling." She looks at Lash—Nicolai. "Pugli seems to have shifted his attention to Jakob. Until that is resolved, however, I would still exercise caution."
Nicolai nods. "I will not feel free until I have seen that man's corpse. I'm sure you understand."
A nod. "I very much do, my friend. Jakob was clear, however. He does not want our interference."
"I have questions," Solomon says.
Sophia glances at him. "I know. But I have very few answers for you.
I truly do not know much more than you. His name is Jakob—spelled with a K rather than C.
I believe he is of European origin, but I don't know for certain.
I know nothing of his past. I don't know where, when, or how he acquired his fortune, only that he is very, very wealthy, and a skilled, cunning, and creative businessman.
He has contacts in very high places in government—here in the States as well as abroad.
He has a sort of…" she trails off, sighing.
"Obsession is the only word I can come up with—he has an obsession with redemption.
It's what drove him to create the Broken Arrows, and Club Sin. "
"So, uh, which came first," Rev asks. "The club, or us?"
Sophia shrugs. "That's a chicken-or-egg question, Rev. The Club was built for you. The two are inextricably linked."
This leaves a ringing silence in the room.
"So he wants redemption for himself, and his way of getting it is…us?" Silas asks.
Sophia shrugs. "Something along those lines, yes.
As I said, Jakob has not shared his past with me.
I believe he…" She pauses. "I think he fled something terrible in his past. Something bad enough that he faked his own death.
That is merely conjecture based on something he said to me recently—'the dead cannot die.
' I do not know what that means, except to think that the world at large believes Jakob, whoever he really is, is dead. "
"So, lemme get this straight," Saxon says. “You've worked directly with the man for, what, at least three or four years? And you know nothing about him?"
Sophia arches an eyebrow. "More like ten.
And yes. I know his character. I know that he is used to being in command.
He is private, secretive. I know he harbors some deep emotional trauma, like the rest of us.
I know that he has great wealth, but spends little of it on himself—he dresses well but simply, keeps to himself, does not own a fleet of supercars or mansions across the world.
Is he hiding? I don't know. What could he be hiding from?
Again, I don't know. But I know that he cares about each of you.
He knows your pasts. He and I…well, I chose you.
He gave me a list of candidates and you seven are the ones I chose.
Your stories…spoke to me, I suppose. And to him.
"He is…well, kind is not the word. He has no softness.
He is all sharp edges, like me. But deep down, there is goodness in him.
But it's…how do I put it? A goodness that I believe comes from knowing all too intimately the cost of being…
bad. I don't think he was always the man he is now.
I think the past he fled was a nightmare at least partially of his own making. But again, that is conjecture."
"We ever gonna meet him?" Chance asks.
She shrugs. "I don't know. Perhaps?"
Silence, then.
"So…now what?" This is from Annika. "Your asshole ex is dead, and I assume that means his goons are gonna be too busy fighting over who's gonna fill the void to worry about his personal vendetta.
Jakob doesn't want our help. Pugli is in the wind and seems to have lost interest in us—hopefully, at least, now that he has Jakob as his quarry. The Club got blown up. So…now what?"