CHAPTER FOUR
“I am so screwed,” I mutter under my breath, watching Tacoma through the RV window as he paces back and forth across the parking lot with his phone pressed to his ear.
If my brother finds out I tossed the Kings’ VP onto the ground and put my gun to his head, he’s going to blow a fucking gasket. The sudden visual of the vein in his forehead that always pops out when he’s pissed flashes through my mind. I can picture it threatening to burst out of his head.
I groan inwardly. This is so bad.
Maybe I can make amends before I leave, and Chief will never find out.
I glance out the side window toward the clubhouse, picturing the murderous look on what’s-his-name’s face when I tossed him into the dirt. His face was as red as a beet. I doubt there’s a chance in hell the VP will let bygones be bygones.
I sigh.
Not good, Cali. Not good.
As if the Universe has a sense of humor, my phone buzzes with a text.
Chief: U there yet?
My first thought is to toss my phone in a drawer and ignore my brother’s nosey ass, but as I’m debating it, the damn thing vibrates again.
Chief: Yes or no?
I roll my eyes at the still locked screen. He’s a real pain in the ass. You’d never guess from the way he treats me that I’m a twenty-four-year-old woman, and not a child that needs to be micromanaged.
Growling, I unlock my phone, open the message, and punch out a quick reply.
Me: Yes! Jeez, Louise, I’m working!
His response is immediate.
Chief: B good.
Rolling my eyes, I shove my phone across the counter.
“Cool,” Jagger says more to himself as he drops down onto the reclining loveseat and turns my television to ESPN. He’s the spitting image of his father.
Mr. Hot Biker President.
Tacoma.
Sweet baby Jesus, the man is a total beefcake.
Six-two of pure muscle wrapped in worn denim, and black leather, with dark hair peppered with flecks of gray.
Yum!
It’s all messy in that way that looks like he’s been running his fingers through it.
Those cobalt-blue eyes of his are absolutely sinful, and when he smiled at me earlier, I felt it all the way down to my toes.
The man is sex on a stick in that rugged, bad-boy way that screams trouble with a capital T.
He’s older than me, too—probably by fifteen years or so—which only adds to his appeal. I’ve always been attracted to older men. They know exactly who they are and what they want.
“So what kind of job are you doing with my dad?” Jagger asks from where he’s kicked back, flipping channels on the flat screen hanging on the wall.
“Well…” I start.
He pops an expectant brow.
“Uh…” I try again, but come up short. I’m so far out of my comfort zone here. I don’t usually come in contact with my clients’ families. And Jagger’s got me backed into a corner because I can’t exactly tell him what I do now, can I?
Well played, young Padawan. Well played.
His lips twitch. Probably because he knows it’s illegal as fuck, and he wouldn’t be wrong.
But he’s not my kid, so I evade his question like a motherfucker.
No way I’m telling Tacoma’s mini-me that there’s a dead guy in his father’s club and I’m there to clean it up so nobody knows it ever happened.
Nope, I’m not saying a word. My lips are sealed.
Like the smart woman I pride myself on being, I turn to Saylor, who’s feeding Panda animal crackers from a little baggie.
The little glutton loves to eat. “He loves animal crackers,” I tell her.
“I love them too!” Saylor admits, giggling when Panda snatches another cracker from her fingers.
The butterball is such a porker. He’s gonna make himself sick.
“Is this your house?” she asks, her blue eyes curious as she takes in the space around her.
“It is,” I confirm, trying not to think about how I ended up living in this thing.
The King Aire has been my sanctuary since my breakup with Zane last Christmas.
I’d been so sure he was the one—a nomad with the Saints MC who swept me off my feet with his charm and promises.
That’s all they were. Bullshit promises he was never going to follow through on.
For six months, I actually believed I’d found the perfect man for me.
I didn’t have to hide who I am and what I do.
It was a lie, though. Every bit of it. Something I learned on Christmas Eve when a very heavily pregnant woman showed up at the clubhouse.
I’ll never forget the gut-wrenching pain I felt when she dropped the bomb that Zane was the father.
Turned out he’d been seeing her the entire time we were together.
I ended things on the spot, my finger itching on the trigger of my Sig as I aimed it at his crotch.
If my grandfather hadn’t stepped in, Zane would be singing soprano in the Saints choir.
I should have known better than to trust a biker. My father was always stepping out on my mother. That’s why she left.
I promised myself I’d never make the same mistake.
And yet here I am, feeling this ridiculous chemistry with Tacoma, a man who probably has women in every corner of this tiny town.
The blonde from earlier who showed up for a roll in the hay is a stark reminder of why I don’t fuck with bikers anymore.
They’re all the same—different pond, but always the same frog.
Also, Mason warned me to be on my best behavior, and I’m pretty sure hooking up with the Kings’ president doesn’t fall in line with being on my best behavior.
A knock on the RV door interrupts my thoughts. Tacoma is standing there on the other side with his eyes trained on a beautiful older woman with wild auburn hair and a man who looks like an older version of Tacoma.
“That’s Grandpa and Gigi!” Saylor squeals, carefully handing Panda back to me before rushing to the door.
When she shoves it open, Tacoma and his parents are waiting at the bottom of the steps.
“Mom, Dad, this is Foxy,” Tacoma says, appearing beside them. “Foxy, my parents, Roxy and Eagle.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, stepping down from the RV.
“Likewise, honey,” Roxy says warmly, her voice carrying a slight Southern drawl.
Eagle nods at me respectfully. “Ma’am.”
“We’ve gotta go handle that thing,” Tacoma tells his father, and I don’t miss the meaningful look that passes between them.
Eagle nods. “Go on. We got the kids.”
I hand Panda back to Saylor and smile when she starts talking a mile a minute about how he eats animal crackers and sleeps in a tiny bed. Jagger follows more slowly, but I can see he’s just as taken with the animal as his little sister.
“You ready?” Tacoma asks, his voice all business now.
“Yep.”
Get it together, Foxy.
You’re here to do a job, not the client.
Tacoma takes a turn down a side street and pulls into an alley.
As I follow behind him, I glance towards the front of the building and catch the sign on the front.
Anarchy’s Pretty Kitties.
I snort. “Seriously?” Pretty Kitties? Why am I not surprised?
Turning into the alleyway behind Tacoma, I maneuver my RV into the narrow space and cut the engine. Through my windshield, I watch him dismount, remove his helmet, and run a hand through his hair in a gesture that shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.
He swaggers over with that loosey-goosey hip sway that makes my mouth go dry. It’s criminal for one man to have that much sex appeal.
When I open the door, he’s waiting at the foot of the steps, hands shoved in his pockets and his expression unreadable.
“I just gotta grab my bag,” I say, pointing over my shoulder.
I move to the back of the RV, hearing him climb the steps behind me. I can feel his eyes on me as I open one of the many hidden compartments built into the custom cabinetry, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze.
“Your parents seem nice,” I say, pulling out a large black leather duffel bag containing some of the tools I’ll need.
“They’ve been a lifesaver since I got custody of the kids,” he replies, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine.
I think back to his ex-wife showing up earlier. What a bitch. The way she dismissed her beautiful children as if they were an inconvenience made my blood boil.
Spinning around with my bag, I find Tacoma closer than I expected. He holds out his hand for the duffel.
A smile pulls at my lips. “Well, aren’t you a gentleman?”
He takes the bag, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange, sending an electric current up my arm. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
I follow him down the steps into the alley—a grimy, narrow passage littered with cigarette butts and empty beer bottles, the brick walls covered in faded graffiti. He unlocks a gray metal door that looks like it could withstand a small explosion.
The moment we step inside, the smell hits me—that unmistakable odor of death and bodily fluids that no amount of perfume or air freshener can mask. I don’t flinch; I’m used to it. This is my job, after all.
A man comes striding down the hallway toward us—tall and muscular with olive skin and intense dark eyes. He’s good-looking in a grumpy bear kind of way, but not as attractive as Tacoma.
“Bash, this is Foxy,” Tacoma introduces us. “The cleaner Viper sent.”
I don’t miss the silent conversation the two men have with their eyes—some kind of warning passing between them. Bash holds up his hands briefly, indicating that the message has been received.
“The room’s this way,” Tacoma says, leading me down a hallway lined with doors marked “Private.” He stops at the last door and pushes it open. I take my bag and step inside, immediately switching into professional mode.
The room is small, with a black leather sofa pushed up against a wall and a single pole in the center. Slumped on one of the sofas is a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit with most of his head missing, and blood and brain matter splattered across the wall behind him.
“Damn,” I whistle low. “He must have really pissed someone off.”
“We didn’t kill him,” Tacoma says quickly.
I glance back at him. “I didn’t say you did. Who is he?”
“The mayor.”
I whistle again. “High profile. Someone’s trying to fuck you, and not in a good way.”
I return to my bag and unzip it, pulling out a roll of plastic, a pair of latex gloves, and my meat thermometer.
Dropping all my supplies on the table beside the sofa, I pull on the gloves, then grab the roll of plastic and roll it out onto the floor.
“Do you need help with him?” comes from the doorway.
“No.”
Grabbing tubby under his arms, I use all my strength and hoist him off the sofa and onto the plastic, carefully rolling him to the center.
“Holy shit,” Bash blurts out. “He’s gotta be every bit of two hundred and eighty pounds.”
I’d say more like two-ninety, but don’t comment.
I lift the mayor’s blood-soaked shirt, exposing the pale, bloated flesh of his abdomen. Without hesitation, I stab the meat thermometer into his liver, hearing both men behind me groan uncomfortably.
“What are you doing?” Tacoma asks, his voice strained.
“Figuring out when this guy died,” I explain, watching the digital readout. “Figured you’d want to know since you and your club weren’t the ones who pulled the trigger.”
Tacoma grunts in acknowledgment.
The thermometer beeps, and I read the display. “What’s the temperature in the building?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Sixty-nine,” Bash answers.
I do the mental calculations quickly. “He’s been dead for about twenty-two hours. So sometime yesterday afternoon, between 3 and 4 most likely.”
I stand and dust off my knees. “You might not want to stick around for this next part.”
Tacoma nods, his eyes lingering on me for a moment. “I’ll be in the office if you need anything.” He gestures down the hall. “First door on the right.”
I watch them leave, then turn back to survey the carnage before me. Blood splattered across the wall, brain matter on the ceiling, the spray-painted message declaring a new king in town.
Time to get to work.
First things first. I pull out the burner phone I’ll give Tacoma once I’m done documenting the scene, and take photos of everything.
I make sure to capture the scene from multiple angles.
He can destroy the photos later, but I need them now to ensure I don’t miss anything during cleanup.
Plus, the club might need them for something later.
Next, I lay out more plastic sheeting, covering the floor around the body. From my bag, I retrieve a small handheld vacuum with a HEPA filter for collecting the smaller fragments, and heavy-duty trash bags for the larger pieces.
I work on autopilot, my mind and body working from muscle memory.
This is where I excel. With my eidetic memory, I turn chaos back into order, erasing all evidence of violence as if it never happened.
My OCD tendencies, which made me a target for bullies as a kid, make me exceptional at this work.
I notice patterns, details, and inconsistencies that others are blind to.
As I clean the room, I consider the message painted on the wall. “THERE’S A NEW KING IN TOWN.” Someone’s making a power play against the Kings. But who? And why kill the mayor in their club?
I’m halfway through cleaning the wall sprayed with brain matter when the door opens. I turn to see Tacoma standing there, two bottles of water in his hands.
“Thought you might be thirsty,” he says, his eyes taking in my progress.
I realize I’ve been working for over an hour without a break. “Thanks,” I say, peeling off one glove to accept the bottle.
He leans against the doorframe, watching me. “You’re good at this.”
I take a long drink before answering. “I should be. Been doing it since I was sixteen.” Well, sorta.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Sixteen?”
I shrug, capping the bottle. “Family business. My grandfather was the cleaner for the Saints before me.”
Tacoma’s eyes roam over the room, noting how much cleaner it already looks.
“Any thoughts on who might have done this?” The question is out of my mouth before I can stop it.
“We’ve got our suspicions.”
Accepting the vague answer, I return to work, aware of him still watching me. “You don’t have to stand guard. I’m not going to steal the stripper pole.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “Just making sure you have everything you need.”
“I’m good,” I assure him, turning back to the task at hand. “This is going to take a few more hours.”
He pushes off from the doorframe. “Right. I’ll get out of your hair.”
After he leaves, I exhale slowly.
Focus, Cali. You’ve got a job to do.