Roses Are Dead (Skilletsville Destroyers MC #3)

Chapter 1

Roishin

Fair is foul, and foul is fair. - MacBeth

D on’t be fooled by a pretty face, or by a pious countenance.

Sometimes both hide the darkest secrets.

Case in point, Carl Windgren . A preacher’s son, he was heir to the divine-infused, velvet-cushioned throne at the back of a broad stage in my hometown.

He was also a notorious drug dealer who lived in the lowest-rent neighborhood of Harrisburg , Pennsylvania , where he ruled as lord over a criminal empire.

Since he couldn’t crown himself king of a church, he found the next best substitute. Drugs .

I’d done my best to gnaw my arms off to get free. Not only from that church, but from Carl .

So , why was I willing to put those shackles on again?

Beth . My best friend. My only friend.

In every way, she was the opposite of Carl .

Beth Windgren -now- Smith was my savior, my first love, in a sisterly way, and the kindest person I had ever met.

A mother to two boys and two girls, a devoted wife, a full-time stay at home mom, and a front-line volunteer for anything that helped make people’s lives more livable, enjoyable, or beautiful.

And she was dying.

The culprit? Aggressive Non - Hodgkin lymphoma. It was a deadly kind of disease.

No prayers could fix that. And believe me, there had been many.

Medicine and science had answers, perhaps not firm solutions, but offered hope. But even hope needs a nudge now and then.

I hid behind Carl Windgren’s couch for the third time that month and measured my breaths so Carl’s criminal visitor wouldn’t kill me.

As I lay on Carl’s beige-gray carpet, I inhaled the rot of mildew, ancient pet stains, and the pervasively sharply “green” aroma of pot shake while the drama unfurled in graphic detail.

It started simply enough. A knock at the back door. Another minion coming to buy, right?

Carl checked his closed-circuit TV system and ordered me to hide. Missing were his joking manner and the veiled threat to make me witness his power play. Whoever it was, warranted Carl’s fear. I dipped behind the couch because he was already opening the back door.

“ I thought Sketch was coming.” Carl’s voice was clear.

The other’s wasn’t. I tried not to listen. But whatever he had to say, Carl didn’t like. “ What do you mean, you didn’t bring it?”

This time, the voice was clearer because the guest moved into the living room. “ I checked the bag, it ain’t there. Someone fucked up. I’m calling, okay?”

“ My time is valuable,” Carl reminded him.

The guest didn’t bother to answer. “ Yo , Bear . I left Sketch’s and—” he was cut off by whoever he called.

“ Fuck . Sorry about that. I didn’t know.

I picked up the car he said would be fixed.

It was fixed—” a pause went on for longer than the last interruption.

Answered with a vague, “ No shit? Daaaaaamn .”

I didn’t have to look to see Carl’s face.

He didn’t mind most swearing except for two instances.

Damn , or goddammit. I knew that sour, holier than thou squint, followed by the slightest downturn of both corners of his mouth.

The tight whiteness that replaced his natural pallor, proving he was stockpiling words like an arsenal but guarding it stronger than any army would.

“ Cool . I’ll let him know.” The tone shifted because he must have had his back turned and now faced Carl . “ Sketch is on his way. Maybe ten minutes, tops. He’s got your shit.”

Carl’s voice lowered to a hiss. “ He clothed himself with cursing as his coat; may it soak into his body like water, like oil into his bones .”

“ Yeah . Right . Anyway , that’s going to be sixteen K .”

A drug drop. Lovely .

“ I’m not paying you.” Carl’s voice was calm.

“ Listen , if you don’t pay, we fuck you up, and you don’t get your shit.”

I bit down on my urge to reveal myself. He hadn’t truly threatened Carl yet. And I’d heard this same refrain at least once before. Carl was a big boy, he could handle himself.

“ Per my agreement with your boss, remember him? Jackson ? I can ask for twelve days from delivery to payment.”

“ What ? You ain’t good for it?”

“ No wonder they call you, Whoosh .”

“ What’s that supposed to mean?”

The noise that came from Carl used to make me curl into a ball and cover my head. It wasn’t loud, or even all that violent. Just a sigh of contempt. At least one person died after that nonverbal assault.

“ Sit . We will wait for your friend in silence .”

“ I don’t have to be quiet. I’m a Destroyer . Go fuck yourself.”

Ah . It made sense that Carl’s supplier was the notorious motorcycle gang that thundered down the roads in packs. Good , god-fearing folk warned their children to stay away from that type of criminal.

It made me want to peek around the edge of the couch to see what one looked like up close to satiate my curiosity. But I knew better than to move or make a sound.

“ You are not a Destroyer , yet.”

“ I will be.”

“ Not if you drive to a drop, forget the product, and then anger the club’s best dealer, you won’t.”

That shut him up. For a few minutes. Then he prattled away about nothing important.

I settled into a more comfortable position so I could ignore the deal going down.

Sketch showed up, and the argument went much like I expected.

Lots of posturing, some threats, and through it all, Carl being his infuriatingly calm but slimy self, only agreeing to pay half up front because Whoosh was rude to him.

Then all hell broke loose. It started small, a thump with the telltale crinkling sound of broken glass. The kind you hear in a car accident, but muffled by the house walls and the distance to the back alley.

“ What the fuck was that?” Whoosh asked.

Sketch moved. His shoes were harder and heavier than Whoosh’s or Carl’s .

Another thump. Then a scream.

My blood ran cold. That was a woman, not an alley cat, and too high-pitched to be one of the gang members that slinked in the grimy valley between the row houses.

Sketch swore and tore open the back door.

Carl quickly tapped in the security codes to the alarm system; the beeps were barely audible over the yelling. Bang !

I covered my head to protect myself from the expected return gunfire. But instead, the heavy tromp of Sketch’s boots grew louder as he strode from the kitchen to the living room. “ Do you know which gangs wear purple?”

“ That would be either the Fifth Street boys, or fucking Maleanta’s asswipes.” For Carl to swear meant he was beyond excited, or pissed. They’d argued over the payment terms, the amount, and everything in-between without him raising his voice.

“ Does he buy from you?”

Carl’s hesitation made me hold my breath. He was going to lie to a Destroyer . Probably an armed one because someone fired off that shot from Carl’s back porch.

“ Cut him off.” Sketch didn’t bother to wait for Carl’s lie. The shuffling of money was distinct. I’d heard the same thing only an hour ago as Carl meticulously counted the cash he’d need for this deal. “ Where does he live?”

Carl gave Sketch an answer that not only included where they lived, but what cars they drove, full names, and where their favorite fast-food restaurant was.

The Destroyers left, and Carl reset the alarm. Cautiously , I crawled out of my hiding spot. His gaze landed on me, and I froze. “ Come here, Rose .”

Shit .

I stood and joined him, pretending that this kind of thing happened all the time. That life was as normal as… well, some crime drama.

“ Do you know who those men were?” He pointed toward the alley.

“ Destroyers .”

A soft noise of satisfaction emanated from Carl . “ That’s right, Mary - Rose .”

I hated the way he said my name like that.

He traced the rows of tiny lines carved into the door frame.

The house was so old, the scars weren’t out of place, but there was something incestuous about his fascination with them.

When he reached the bottom of the rows, he traced four small lines under it with his thumbnail.

Then he sighed. “ You were listening. If they ever find out you were here, you’re dead.

They don’t leave witnesses.” His tone shifted to the same pace and cadence his father used during sermons.

Then why are you still alive? I stuffed the question deep, along with any defiance that would betray me.

“ Look at the very top mark.”

I did.

“ Touch it.”

It was a fight not to disobey him. But I did as he asked.

“ That is ours, Rose . You and I made that mark.”

He was certifiably crazy. And I was even more insane for ever thinking I could bargain and reason with someone clearly trying to outwit the very Devil himself.

My silence kept him talking. “ Remember that day? You wore a dress. I could see up your skirt. Your thin little legs, virginal white panties, those ridiculous light up tennis shoes you wore. There was pink lace on your socks.”

I hated pink. Most any color now. Except black.

“ Your point?”

He grabbed my hair and forced my face against the rough wood. I hadn’t had any warning. “ These are deaths, Rose . All of them. Count .”

There was no way I could. “ Okay ,” I said to placate him.

That was the game. Placate Carl . Pretend to be obedient so he’d do what I wanted.

Give up my life to keep him happily amused for long enough to get his compliance.

It had been such a rough September . But I’d never complain.

Too much hung in the balance. “ I’m going to bruise.

And we have the doctor’s appointments next week. ”

He let go of my hair, and I straightened the pins for my braids so nothing hung loose. As I did, he traced down my cheek with a fingertip. “ I don’t think you’ll bruise. It’s just a little red. Put a cold washcloth on it.”