Chapter 7
Tank
I file into church behind my brothers, catching one last glimpse of Mira working at the whiteboard. I didn’t lie to Jules, I think we are friends. I mean, I’m not going to deny that she’s a beautiful woman. Tall, curves for days and a beautiful face, she’s exactly the type of woman I go for. But it’s more than that. She’s clever and funny and genuinely interested in people. Pretty much the opposite of my reserved, quiet self. Where most women would ditch me in favor of some of my more outgoing brothers, Mira looks at me as if I’m interesting. Or something. Shit I dont know anything other than my dick’s been hard every time she’s in the vicinity.
I’m snapped out of my confusing thoughts by the banging of Marx’s gavel. I shouldn’t be thinking about what type of relationship Mira and I have. I should be focusing on who the hell is messing with us.
“Wire, got anything for us?” Marx grunts.
“Between Chewy, Remy and myself we managed to ‘find a way’-,” He does comma fingers, “- to get into the RGPD files. Tank’s complainant was one Miss Kelly Maree Birkhead. Nitro’s complainant is Miss Clarisse Louise Welch.”
“Who the fuck are they?” Rider voices what everyone is thinking.
“You’d know them as our old bunnies, Whitney and Kelly.”
“Wait, Whitney’s real name is Clarisse?” Fox asks incredulously.
“Yup. Looks like our old bunnies are fucking with us.” Wire sits back, letting the information settle.
Marx looks less than pleased. In fact, he looks pissed. “So you’re telling me that Whitney and her little sidekick were so pissed at being kicked out of the club that they’re now wasting police time by making false claims against us?”
Wire nods. “All four of the ex-club girls live together in an apartment on Hillcrest Ave. They all four work at ‘Spinners’, the strip club in Roxburgh.”
“They’re commuting that far for work?” Flack asks, clearly shocked. Roxburgh is an hour and a half away from Rose Grove. A long ass commute after a long night.
“Seems that way.”
Dex and Savage share a look, one that doesn’t go unmissed by Marx.
“What do you know?”
“Spinners is owned by a nasty little fucker, David something or other. Big D. Was a pimp on the streets, built up a crew and pretty much bullied all the other lower street criminals until he was top dog. Rumor has it that if you want anything, drugs, girls, information, then Spinners is the place to go.” Savage says with a dark look on his face. “If these women don’t bat an eyelid accusing men of assaulting them, then they won’t bat an eyelid to sell information to anyone who wants it either.”
Marx runs a hand down his face and curses. “We need to neutralize the threat. They all signed confidentiality agreements when they signed up. That includes keeping their mouths shut after a contract has been terminated. Rhodie and Rider pay them a visit, reminding them of their obligations. Prospects, I want you on shifts to watch them, just so they know we have eyes everywhere.”
“If that doesn’t work?” Rhodie asks his brother.
“We send in the women.” Marx’s eyes track around the room looking for any disagreement. He finds none. “Good. That’s settled. Prospects? Draw up a roster, I want two on them at all times, up to you how you all work it.”
“Got it Pres,” they murmur, from their places along the back wall.
“Good. What do we have on Mira?”
“Not a lot. As we heard out there Flora’s Buds was a bust on getting anything out of the security cameras or Officer Davies’ mom.” A few brothers snort and Wire keeps giving his report. “Chewy set up a program, it’s going through all of Mira’s social media messages as we speak. It’s set up to flag any fans that may have questionable behavior.”
“Dude, she writes romance books with really hot sex and people being murdered. I’d be surprised if any of her fans don’t have questionable behavior,” Tav says.
“How do you know that her books have really hot sex in them?” Rhodie asks, turning to look at Tav.
“I flicked through one of her books while I was waiting for church. There’s some good stuff in there. I’m going to try it on Blanche when the kids are in bed.” He waggles his brows and we all groan in unison.
Marx sits drumming his fingers on the dark, scarred wood of our church table. It feels like we’re fighting on all sides, and yet it’s nothing like what we’ve been up against in the past. It feels like two annoyances, although I know as well as any brother around this table that small annoyances can turn into big fucking problems. My mind drifts back to being stationed in Afghanistan. I lost brothers who went on short low danger missions to never come back after running into landmines, or ambushes.
“If we can’t work out who’s behind this, maybe we can find out where the body parts are coming from? Are they being bought on the dark net or is it something else?” This is the first time Sniper has spoken this meeting, and he has a fucking valid point.
“Remy and I had a quick look, but most of the organs for purchase are all for donation, so they would have to be kept on ice. Chewy said that there’s no sign of that,” Wire frowns. I know my brother struggles with not being able to find the answers for things.
“Well, maybe it’s not as bad as we think.” We all stare at Rider. “OK, so four people have died, but we haven’t had a visit from Roman in a long time. When that asshole turns up you know it’s going to be bad.” What Rider’s saying does make sense. Maybe it isn’t as bad as we think.
Banging has all our heads snapping to the doors of church, hands on weapons. Fuck! The Ol Ladies are all out there and all of us, including prospects, are in here.
“Oh Maaaaaarx!” Chewy’s voice sing songs, the tension in the room dropping by a mile.
Marx runs a hand down his face, then waves at Rhodie to see what his Ol Lady wants. Rhodie makes his way to the door just as it swings open with such force that I’m certain that little lady must have kicked it.
“Babe! What’s wrong?” Rhodie asks, dodging the swinging door.
“Roman’s here. Has some important information.”
We all groan, Dex shooting daggers at Rider. “You just had to, didn’t you? Speak his name and the Devil appears.”
“I thought that was more Pops, but OK, I agree with you. But, like, really, what were the chances that Russian dick would turn up out of the blue like that?”
“It’s Roman,” Marx says in a tired voice.
“Yeah, alright. My bad.” Marx stares at Rider before waving Rhodie to let Roman in.
The tall, dark Russian strides in like he owns the place and my mind goes to Mira and if she’s OK. Although, I’m sure if anything happened the women would have taken care of it. And Roman isn’t dangerous per se. He’s more the bringer of shitty news and problems.
“Well, isn’t this a treat? You’ve never allowed me into the inner sanctum. I must say however, that I do have the name of a great decorator should you ever wish to use their services.”
“You know, I was just thinking the other day how peaceful Christmas was with you all the fucking way over in Russia, keeping your business to yourself.” Marx says drily.
Roman smirks at Pres, “Aw, Marx, did you miss me?” Roman comes to a stop next to Rider.
Rider arches his neck until he’s staring directly at Roman. “Can I help you?”
Roman continues to stare and even though I know Rider can be just as violent and tough as the rest of us, I know that prolonged eye contact with another male will get him squirming any minute now.
“Fine!” Rider jumps up and moves to lean against the wall, muttering “Fucker,” and flipping him the bird.
Roman takes no notice, unbuttoning his suit jacket and using his hands to toss both sides out before taking Rider’s seat, crossing one leg over the other.
“Roman, I can’t be bothered with your bullshit today. Say what you need to say and then you can go back to wherever the hell you’ve been hiding lately.”
His lips twitch and then he schools his features, glancing around. “Ana asked me to keep my ear to the ground regarding body parts. As you well know I’m not in the business of transporting anything human, however I have heard of a family-owned funeral home who have been, shall we say, losing things.”
“What kind of things?” Fox asks.
“The kind of things that get sent to beautiful authors.”
Great. So Mira somehow has crossed paths with some madman who has been stealing parts from the dearly beloved. On the upside, it makes the sender a little less dangerous if the organ owners are already dead.
“We’re gonna need the name and location of this home, Roman,” Marx says in a bored tone.
Roman admires his nails a moment, picking at them, not even looking up at Marx. “I’m not sure I can do that.” He holds his hand up as Marx starts growling. “You see, this particular funeral home is under my protection.”
“Why?” Savage demands.
“They’re family friends. They’ve worked hard to make it in the great United States. The founder knew my babushka. Take your pick.”
We all sit and stare at Roman while he continues fucking around, pretending that we aren’t staring directly at him. Any other man would have shit himself by now, but not the man who seems to live to piss us off.
“They take care of your disposals don’t they?” Sniper says in his quiet, measured voice.
At this, Roman looks up, assessing Sniper for a beat. “Well, you can’t expect me to get rid of all those bodies myself do you? Disposal of any type of mammal is very tedious.”
“Is that how you disposed of Diego Cordoza and his men?”
Diego Cordoza was moving women and Roman’s stolen drugs for Eden’s Keep. Roman took care of the problem, but it still doesn’t sit well with my brother. I know there is history there, but that’s Sniper’s story to tell. If he ever wants to.
“Diego Cordoza and his men did not deserve such pleasantries. Their heads were sent to their families, minus the tongues to encourage them to keep their mouths shut.” Roman’s cold gaze meets Sniper’s, sharing a look with him before my brother tips his chin and relaxes back in his seat.
“The name and location of the home, Roman. All we need is to get eyes on it, run surveillance. We don’t need to talk to anyone,” Marx rumbles.
Roman lets out a sigh. “Fine. I think that can be arranged. However, I may need something in return.”
I try to hold in my groan, Rider and Rhodie are unsuccessful. Marx doesn’t answer, just glares at the other man.
“There’s a strip club in Roxburgh. Spinners. What do you know about it?” Roman says, ignoring everyone around him.
“It’s run by a dodgy little shit head that loves to deal in drugs, women and information.”
“Exactly. I’ve heard that there’s a few loose lipped women in there. I would like my “relationship” with the DRMC kept quiet. These shlyukhi, whores may jeopardize that.”
“Consider it taken care of. Now, the name of the funeral home.”
Mira
Well, turns out the planning/investigation meeting with the girls didn’t go quite to plan. Instead of nutting out who could be doing this and why or how, we ended up having cocktails to get the thinking juices flowing. I’m not sure how good any of our suggestions are, given that I can’t even read my own handwriting on the whiteboard and my eyes are fuzzy.
“Ana, tell me again how you met that hunk of spunk Roman. He’s so pretty,” I feel my head roll back on my shoulders, so I use my hands to put it back where it belongs.
I blink, and then close one eye to help my focus. Nope, I was seeing things right the first time. Lovely is sitting on a chair, and Chewy is trying to drape Chomper over her shoulders, like a fur stole. Once he’s in place, his funny little under bite snout hanging dangerously close to Lovely’s boobs, she stands and sashays across the room to cheers and claps.
“These people are seriously nuts, but not you hot viking guy. Wait!” I lean closer to a gorgeous blonde man that I have never met who is sitting next to me, feet up on the coffee table next to mine, Nat painting our toes for us. “Where the heckerly doo dah did you come from?”
Viking man chuckles, the sounds vibrating through me, his giant, hard bicep touching my soft, jelly bicep.
“I came with my husband, he’s managed to make it into their little meeting. He’ll be crowing about this for the next two weeks.”
“Ohhhh Saaasha! We met before when you came in with the hot vampire looking guy!” I pat his head because I don’t know why and then I have another sip of the delicious cocktail. I hold it up in the air, the light hitting the bright pink liquid in my glass. “Compliments to the chef!”
Everyone else calls out their compliments to Mama Debs and Pops who are our alchemists tonight. They’re good at it too, possibly a little too good, but I feel great and not stressed about deadlines or livers or not having real people friends and no boyfriend and oh my God I’m going to die alone aren’t I?!
I try to fight down the tears but the only place the emotion can go is directly out of my eyeballs. And not in a cute way. In a very ugly, very snotty waily way.
“Oh no, we’ve broken her,” someone whispers. I think it was a lady voice.
“It was a matter of time. Besides, she needed a factory reset. Have you seen the weird shit that happens to her?”
“Chewy, that is not her fault.”
“Whose fault is it, then?”
The silence suggests that they don’t know which has me spiraling again. This time with loud sobbing.
“Hey, it’s OK, drunky, let’s get you into your room, yeah? You can sleep off whatever the hell happened here,” a deep, gentle voice soothes.
“Hey! I know that voice. That’s Tank’s voice. It’s so warm and it vibrates me. Like my whole body goes all vibratey. Even my special parts. The ones that Nana said I have to save for good. Am I floating? It feels like I’m floating. Like a massive, chubby angel floating to gift presents to children and take their teeth to make furniture for my teeny house.” My inside thoughts are so funny sometimes.
Whatever is helping me fly makes a funny rumbling sound and my head bounces around making me feel a bit sick. OK, maybe a lot sick.
“I don’t feel well Mr. Rumbly Voice,” I say weakly before lurching.
“Shit! Hold on!”
There’s some banging, actually lots of banging and then I’m on something cool, a white cold thing touching my face. Oh that feels nice. There’s a warm pressure on my back, moving from the top of my neck all the way to almost my bottom, and then back again. Petting me like I’m that big luck dragon from The Neverending Story.
“He died you know,” I sniffle, moving my face to get more cold white onto it.
“Who died, sweetheart?”
“Falcor. He was the very best luck dragon. He was trying to find Ellora Dannon’s mom.”
“Ugh, I think she’s from Willow, not The Neverending Story,” the magic Tank voice says.
“Oh, do you know it?” I raise my head a little, I don’t feel so sick now that I’m not flying anymore.
“Yeah, I remember watching it when I was a kid. My neighbor loved it.” His voice sounds smiley. Usually his voice is measured and rumbly, not light and smiley. I like it.
“Oh, can you please sing me the song? My nana used to sing it to me when I didn’t feel good. Like now. If she was still alive she would be sitting right here with me, singing the theme song, making me feel warm and soft inside.” I sigh, closing my eyes and picturing my nana. Her gentle face and funny crooked fingers. There’s moisture on my cheeks but I keep my eyes clamped shut, so I can keep seeing nana in my mind.
“Shit, you’re killing me, sweetheart.”
“I know,” I whisper, a funny echo whispers back, and then buzzing in my mind.
No, not a buzzing, a hum. Why does the humming sound like the theme from The Neverending Story?
* * *
I roll over and a loud groan escapes. What in the jeewillikers happened to me? I crack one eye open and try to roll the dry eyeball around, taking stock of the room around me. It’s not the same one as the one I was in last night. Or was it the night before? What day is it? Who am I? My hands drift up to my face and I pat it, hoping that everything will feel familiar. Check. Everything feels like it should do. To be sure though I do a quick squeeze of the girls.
“What are you doing?” Holy Moses and that sea he parted, the rumble and grumble of Tank’s sleep-roughened voice punches me straight in the vagina. In a good way. A good vagina punch.
“Um, checking to make sure I’m me,” I squeak out.
Opening both eyes I turn my head toward the furnace that’s on my left side, coming face to face with Tank. Big, blonde, Howdy Doody gorgeous Tank. His blue eyes twinkle as he looks at me and his lips pull up, causing the crinkles around his eyes to deepen.
“Like a big, wise, jolly old walrus.”
“What?” he chuckles, the movement shaking the bed gently.
“Nothing. Just normal things. Normal people thoughts. Anyway, how did this all happen?” I wave my hand around in a big circle, encompassing me, Tank and the room in general.
“Seems last night turned into a girls’ night induction party for you. I was carrying you to your room but when you started looking like you were gonna be sick I brought you to my room. Bigger attached bathroom that I knew would be clean.” His eyes dart between mine, as if looking for signs of me being uncomfortable being brought to his room, but there are none. In fact, he can bring me in here anytime.
His woodsy man scent is everywhere in the room, enveloping me in what feels like safety and hope. Oh, that’s a good line. I’ll remember that for later.
“You with me?” Tank’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and his eyes dance as he tries not to laugh.
“Oh yeah. Totally. Was just, um-”
“An idea for your book, right?”
I beam at him. “Right. Exactly that. How did you know what I was thinking?”
“Let’s just say I used to love English class as a kid.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr. Full of Surprises! I would have guessed bunking out of school. Kissing behind the bike stands. Smoking in the bathrooms. Real bad boy stuff.” He rolls his eyes at what I picture young Tank to be like.
He rolls onto his back, his hands coming up behind his head and stares up at the ceiling. Well, I think that’s where he’s looking. I wouldn’t know. I’m too busy staring at the bulge of his biceps in this position. Moving my eyes to his profile I take note of his straight nose, pouty lips and long curly eyelashes that I spend a buttload of money trying to get. How unfair.
“I was a pretty geeky little kid. My parents were both in the army. I think I came along by accident. They were both career focused and I was dropped off to my grandfather’s pretty soon after I was born. He raised me.”
“Wait, did you ever see your parents?”
“Whenever they were stateside they’d stop by for dinner and things. Sometimes my dad would come watch a ball game or whatever. For the most part though, it was just me and gramps.”
I roll further onto my side, tuck my hands under my cheek and curl my legs in, giving Tank my full undivided attention. Something about this man tells me that he doesn’t often demand the limelight. The fact that he’s here, telling me about his childhood is something precious and I won’t take it for granted.
“Gramps made sure I did well in school. I was good at most subjects, but English was my favorite.”
“What did you like about it?”
“Stories. I liked the stories and how they can transport you to anywhere or anytime. I liked hearing about the characters and their journeys. What they’re going to do and if they’ll survive.” He shrugs a massive shoulder. A boulder of a shoulder. My fingers tingle, itching to touch the tanned skin, pulled tight over the boulder shoulder and marked with dark, swirling tattoos.
“I’ve not told anyone this, well, other than my gramps, but I like to write.” He coughs, clearing his throat. “Um, I like writing stories. It was relaxing when I was stationed overseas.” His cheeks pinken a little and he stares at the ceiling, almost trying to avoid my gaze.
“I love that! I would love to read some of your work.”
“Hell no! No way. They’re pretty shitty. I just like doing it to get out thoughts and things. Nothing like your novels.”
He lies stiff as a board, as if embarrassment or shyness has taken over his body. This huge man, probably dangerous to those who threaten him or his family, is shy of me. Mira Campbell, kooky writer lady who wears too much color and is too noisy and has no inner monologue. My hand finds itself landing gently on Tank’s cheek, turning his head to look at me.
“Writing my novels is me getting my thoughts out. Same as you.” The intensity of his gaze almost takes my breath away. Swallowing, I give him a wobbly smile, so as to not show him how affected I am by the feel of him beneath my palm, his eyes boring into my soul. “I would love to read your thoughts someday, Tank.”
“Tyson,” he rasps, leaning into my hand a little.
“Tyson.”