4. Hugo
4
HUGO
It’s not every day we let one live. But we need to know what this guy was up to.
“We take him in,” Sam says. “Get answers.”
“After that?” Marie asks, her voice still trembling.
Sam smiles, trying to put her at ease, but before he can respond, Trick says, “Depends on his answers.”
She goes stiff against me. “Are you going to hurt him? He’s unconscious. It’s over.”
Her kind heart kills me. If anyone else said something like that, I would laugh in their face, given the circumstances. But not Marie. Never Marie.
She doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. Marie Durand is soft everywhere, not only in her heart but her whole self. Feeling her pressed against me is almost enough to make me forget about the fight and concentrate on her. The things I would do to this woman…
It doesn’t matter. She’s Preacher’s daughter. Even if she weren’t fifteen years younger than me, it’d still be wrong for that reason alone. Propriety is not something I normally hold to, but when it comes to screwing around with my old friend’s daughter, I’m willing to make an exception.
For now. But if she keeps giving me those fuck me glances, I cannot be held accountable for my actions.
They hoist him up—Sam’s got his shoulders, Trick’s got his feet. I keep one arm snug around Marie. Not that she’s trying to run. She’s trembling against me, her breath hitching every few seconds, but she’s holding herself together. Barely.
It’s no hardship keeping her close. She smells like vanilla and sugar, like something you’d get second helpings of just to keep the sweetness in your mouth a little longer. I should be keeping a leash on my libido, but every brush of her body against mine sends a man’s mind wandering—to places it shouldn’t when there’s a body being dragged across the street.
Marie Durand.
She came back from Boston six months ago, and ever since, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. She’s not the little girl who used to hang around the shop, flipping through the tattoo books and giggling when Trick told her jokes. Not the girl who skinned her knee on our street when she fell off her bike.
She’s a woman now. A smart, gorgeous, impossible-to-ignore woman. And now she’s in my arms, shaking like a leaf, and all I can think about is how much I want her.
Not just in my arms. In my bed. In our bed.
The problem is, I haven’t exactly shared that thought with Sam and Trick yet. It’s complicated. We share everything, but this? This could get messy fast.
Preacher is the guy who saved our asses more than once, and vice versa. After everything we’ve been through, he’s a brother. Hell, he’s practically a saint—a man of the cloth these days. Dragging his daughter into hell feels wrong on so many levels. That’s not exactly the kind of thing you do to someone you respect.
But I can’t help myself.
Besides, she’s not some untouchable angel, no matter how angelic she looks in her floral sundresses. Every inch of her is a woman. Her choices are her own.
I hold the shop door open for the guys, and Trick grunts as he adjusts his grip on the bastard’s legs. “Where do we want him?”
I’m unsure, but I think this guy is awake and playing unconscious. So I keep it coded. “Room two, away from the street window. Strap him in. Let him get real comfortable.”
Sam doesn’t say anything, just moves like a machine, methodical and focused. Trick, of course, makes a show of dropping the guy into the chair with as much noise as possible, but Sam doesn’t even flinch. He’s already grabbing zip ties, securing the guy’s wrists to the armrests like he’s done this a hundred times before.
He has, though perhaps not a hundred. That sounds low.
Marie’s still tucked against me, her fingers clutching at my T-shirt like she’s afraid to let go. I lean down, speaking low into her ear. “You okay, sweetheart?”
She nods, but it’s still shaky, her light brown eyes darting toward the chair where Sam tightens the last strap. “What…what are you going to do to him?”
There’s no sense in explaining what we’re up to. She doesn’t need to know, and we don’t need her to be a loose end. “You don’t have to be here for this. Why don’t I take you to the breakroom? I’ll get you that cup of tea.” Not that I want to leave. I like to watch Sam work.
Her head snaps up, those big, tear-filled eyes locking onto mine. “No. I don’t want to go anywhere. Not without you. Without all of you. I feel better with all of you here.”
Something in my chest tightens at that. She’s scared, yeah, but not just of the guy in the chair. She’s scared of losing us. Of losing the safety we’re giving her right now.
In that moment, I know she’d never be a loose end. She’d never rat us out to the cops.
“Alright,” I say, brushing a thumb over her smooth, unmarked arm. I’d bet folding money she’s ink-free. Gotta stop thinking about that, or all the blood will rush out of my head. I’m already not thinking clearly about her. “You’re staying with us. We’ll be right here, handling him. But if it gets to be too much, you tell me, yeah? Call out my name, anything, and I’ll come running.”
She nods again, and I guide her toward the couch in the next room, settling her down with a blanket before heading back to the action.
The kid is pretending to sleep. Under the bright lights of the shop, he looks too young to be mugging people. Not that I was much older when I started in the game. But by the looks of him, we were in it for different reasons. I didn’t so much mug people as picked pockets, and mostly, it was for fun. This kid, though, he looks rough. His skin and clothes are dirty, like he’s been outside for a while. Even his fingernails could use a good scrubbing.
Considering how he frightened Marie, I might find my pliers and yank them off. That would wake him. She swore we got out there in time, but her fear makes me violent.
Sam’s voice is low and cold, sharp enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “You’ve got two minutes to tell me who sent you, and if you waste those two minutes? I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”
I glance at Trick, who’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching like this is his favorite kind of entertainment. It’s not—that would be women dancing on a stage. I’ve never seen someone with such an appreciation for strip clubs. But he’s like me when it comes to seeing Sam work an asset.
“How long do you think it’ll take?” I ask him.
“Not long,” Trick says with a grin. “Sam’s in a mood.”
Sam’s always in a mood when it comes to protecting people. And Marie? She’s one of our own, even if she’s never given us the time of day in that regard. At this point, it’s the principle of the thing.
He barks, “Name?”
But the kid just lies there.
He pinches the kid’s nose shut. The kid holds out for thirty-seven seconds before he’s gasping for breath. Sam snaps, “Name?”
The kid tries to wriggle his head side to side to escape Sam’s grip, but it’s no use. Tears spring out of his eyes, leaving tracks in the dirt on his cheeks. “Crow! My fucking name is Crow! Let go of me!”
Sam gives his nose a shove, just enough to elicit more tears. “The fuck were you doing out there, Crow?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“I have my orders. I fill them. It’s that simple. Now, let me out of here.”
Sam stands like a statue, calm and terrifying all at once. “You said you fill them. Not follow them. What kind of orders are these?”
“Hell’s Hammers don’t answer to anyone.” Crow smashes his lips together into a thin line. He’s done answering. Until we motivate him.
That might get bloody. I glance toward the other room where Marie is sitting, her arms wrapped around herself. Her face is pale, but she’s listening. I know she is.
“Stay with her,” I tell Trick, nudging him toward the couch.
“What? Why me?” Trick looks offended, but I give him a shove anyway.
“Because you’re better at distractions, and she’s about two seconds from breaking down again. Get that paltry police force here, and for fuck’s sake, make her that tea I promised her.”
He mutters something under his breath but moves toward her anyway, plopping down beside her and giving her one of his dumb, charming grins. “Hey, you ever seen a guy beg for his life before?”
Marie shoots him a look, half-appalled, half-amused despite herself, and I shake my head. Idiot. But at least she’s not crying anymore.
“What are your orders, Crow?” Sam growls.
“Hell’s Hammers don’t answer to anyone.”
“Yeah, you said that, but what you haven’t said is anything useful.” Sam grinds his steel-toed boot into Crow’s shin through his jeans. He lets out a groan, but still keeps his mouth shut. “Don’t make me ask again.”
“Hell’s Hammers?—”
Sam flicks out his switchblade, the one he keeps in his pocket. “I don’t need to hear a third verse of that pathetic song. I’m a tattoo artist, as you might have guessed. But I also do body modification. I know how to split a person’s tongue so they barely feel it.” He crouches low so they’re eye to eye. “I also know how to do it wrong, so they feel every millimeter of the split. That shitty Chinese tattoo on the side of your neck, do you know what it means?”
“Killer.”
Sam cackles in his face. “It means limp.”
“The fuck do you know? You had to tie me up to threaten me. You’re a fucking coward?—”
Sam lunges, pressing the knife to Crow’s throat. “You’re the one who attacked a woman alone at night. Coward is the nicest thing I could call you right now.”
“Hell’s Ham?—”
Sam smashes his fist across the boy’s nose, knocking him out.
I huff, disappointed. “That was selfish of you.”
“He wasn’t gonna say shit else.” He flicks his switchblade closed and tucks it in his pocket. “No point in dragging this out.”
“Perhaps no, but I could’ve had a little fun, and instead you and Trick take it all for yourselves.”
The sound of sirens cuts through the air as Officer Brinks and Sheriff Copeland pull up outside. Small-town cops—barely enough of them to cover the town—but they’re good people. They know us. They know the town.
“Evening, boys,” Officer Brinks says, stepping inside and glancing toward the chair. He’s a short man with a bald head and one too many donuts stretching his belt. He smiles at Crow. “You’ve been busy.”
“Just cleaning up the trash,” I say with a smirk.
“Yeah, Trick filled us in,” he says, peering around the corner at Marie. “You alright, darlin’?”
“Yeah,” she says, her voice weak. “I’m okay.”
Sheriff Copeland shakes her head, her lips twitching. She’s a gorgeous Latina, and she fills her uniform well. She looks even better out of it. Her smile has too much familiarity in it, and everyone in the room knows it. “We’ll take him from here. Marie, can you come by the station to make this formal in the morning?”
“I’ll try.”
“That’s all we ask.” She clips the zip ties, and as his body goes loose, Sam helps them carry him to the patrol car.
I catch Marie watching them, her expression unreadable. When the door swings shut behind the cops and Sam, I walk over to her, crouching in front of the couch. “Hey,” I say softly. “You good?”
She nods, her lips trembling slightly. “Yeah. I’m good.”
But I don’t believe her. Not entirely. “Come on,” I say, offering her my hand. “We’ll get you home.”