Chapter Twelve #2
His words left me deflated. Lucas was right, and I was being na?ve. I absolutely did not want to believe that my long-lost cousin had anything to do with the pictures being delivered or whoever jumped me in my yard. That would be too depressing for words.
We fell silent again, working in harmony for another few feet of baseboard before I gave into my curiosity and said, "Will you tell me about the Raptors now?"
Lucas blew out a breath. "If you really want to know. It's not a pretty story."
"Tell me."
I wanted to know more about this man who had quickly become a part of my life. So much of him was a secret, and too many people knew who he was while I knew next to nothing.
"I left home at eighteen," he said. "My stepdad was an asshole. He married my mom when I was ten and Gunner was seven, and from what I could see, he didn't do a whole lot except drink beer and order the rest of us around.
"I hated him, and he hated me. The second I could leave, I did. I joined the Army right out of high school. I stayed in touch with my brother and my mom, but I never went back. Dale was a Raptor, a foot soldier—no one important, but he loved that club.
"The only work I ever saw him do when I was growing up was running errands for the club.
When he wasn't half-drunk on an easy chair in our trailer, he was at the clubhouse, kissing Raptor ass.
He brought Gunner in when he was just a teenager.
By the time my mom died, Gunner had worked his way up in the club. "
"What does that mean, that he worked his way up in the club?" I asked. What I knew about biker clubs could fit on my thumbnail with space left over.
"The Raptors were into a lot of shit, mostly protection—helping drug dealers move their product from one place to another. They didn't deal themselves, but there were other things . . ."
Lucas gave me a long look, then shook his head and fell silent. When he spoke again, it was clear he wouldn't be explaining what 'other things' meant.
"Gunner was always a smart kid, less rebellious than I was. He thought Dale was an asshole too, but he played along and kept from getting his ass kicked."
"You didn't?" I asked. It wasn't hard to imagine a teenage Lucas mouthing off to his stepdad.
True to my vision, he said, "Never could keep my mouth shut.
Which is funny because I loved the Army, and they don't appreciate smart asses.
But it was different, because even at eighteen, I recognized the Army's authority.
I chose them. Dale was just some dickhead who talked my mom into marrying him, and she was so tired from working two jobs, she didn't realize that he was going to be one more burden. "
"I can't see you taking orders from anyone," I said.
"Neither could I," he admitted. "But I had to get out of that house. Out of that town. I was done with everyone looking at me, at Gunner, like we were trash.
"I played football in high school once I filled out. Could've gotten a scholarship. I wanted to go to college, but I was too angry. Restless. The Army seemed like a good compromise. I'd have opportunities, and I could work out some of my aggression without getting thrown in jail."
"And you liked it?" I asked.
I was surprised he was telling me so much, and I wanted to hear more. I wanted every crumb of Lucas Jackson I could get. He fascinated me.
Gorgeous, amazing body, fantastic in bed. But beyond that he was a mystery, one I wanted to solve. It occurred to me that I wasn't supposed to want to know the life story of a fuck buddy. Asking personal questions kind of defeated the purpose of keeping things casual.
"I fucking loved it," he answered. "Shocked the hell out of me, but the Army and I were a perfect fit. I went to college while I was in, got an IT degree, and got to do some really cool shit with it. I ended up in Spec-Ops for a few years before I got out and started freelancing."
"Is Spec-Ops what I think it is?" I wasn't exactly sure, but I was imagining something like the Rangers or the Seals. Or one of those teams you hear about that doesn't exactly have a name.
Semi-confirming my suspicions, Lucas said, "Probably. And if it's not, I can't tell you what it is."
After years of knowing the Sinclairs, and with my cousin Gage doing something equally secretive in the Army himself, I knew better than to press further. When they said they couldn't tell me, it meant they really couldn't tell me.
"So how did you go from freelancing to the Raptors?"
"My brother," Lucas said.
The words had weight, dragging the smile from his face. I knew grief. I'd lived with grief for years. I didn't need Lucas to tell me that Gunner was dead.
I kept my mouth shut and waited. We moved a little further down the baseboard, stuck in a corner for a few minutes where the paint in the cracks wouldn't heat up enough for me to scrape it off. Finally, Lucas started speaking again.
"The Raptors had a president with ambition.
He wanted to expand the club, which ended up in a turf war.
Gunner took his back and got promoted to lieutenant, then VP.
Around that time, Dale got himself killed and I came home for the funeral.
Mostly to see Gunner. I didn't give a shit about Dale, but I needed to make sure Gunner was all right.
"He was like a different guy. Serious. Had his shit together.
We hadn't been close for a while, but after that, we stayed in touch.
I didn't like what he was into. Not that my hands were always clean, but I fought for our country.
And even freelancing—let's just say I have a well-defined line I won't cross. "
"The Raptors were on the other side of that line?" I asked.
"Yeah. Way on the other side. But he was my brother.
The only family I had left. We got a lot closer those last few years.
I was traveling all over, almost never stateside, but when I was, we'd hang out.
Then the president of the Raptors decided to get in bed with Big John. You know who Big John is, right?"
I did. Vaguely. I knew he was dead and that before he'd died, he'd run his own criminal enterprise, based mostly outside of Atlanta, and Abigail's first husband had been his son.
After the son died—according to the story, Big John had him assassinated—Big John had tried to kidnap Abigail. I also knew Lucas had killed Big John in Jacob's penthouse.
I didn't think Lucas needed a recap, so I just said, "Pretty much, yeah, I know who he is. Or was."
"The Raptors hooked up with Big John, and a month later, the president died in an accident—that I doubt was an accident—and Gunner took his spot.
I was overseas under a blackout, so I didn't know any of this until it was way too late.
A few months after Gunner became Prez, Big John had two people killed the same day . . . his son and my brother."
"That's why you shot him," I whispered, mostly to myself.
"It was a long time coming. He was an evil bastard. As soon as I got the message that Gunner was dead, I finished my job and came back. I made a deal with the Raptors. I took Gunner's position long enough to take down Big John's organization. Once that was done, I was out.
"That's how I got to know Brennan. We got a lot of pushback on all sides. Nobody liked my working with the Raptors, including most of the Raptors. But they wanted revenge and the territory they could grab with Big John out of the way. The police think I'm a wildcard, but we got the job done."
"That's why you trust Brennan?" I asked.
"Yeah. Too many times, everything seemed like it would go sideways and Brennan always had my back."
"So you're not with the Raptors anymore?"
"No. I dealt with Big John, we took out the rest of his organization, and I handed my kutte to the real Prez and walked away.
I'm not a cop, and I'm not on a crusade, but their thing is not my thing.
And their bullshit got my brother killed.
He made his own decisions. I know that. He didn't see the line between right and wrong the same way I do.
I couldn't have saved him. He didn't want to be saved. "
"But at least you got revenge," I said. "Does it help?"
Lucas gave me a long, measuring look before he said, "Not really."
I stared down at the bubbled scraps of paint I was scraping off the baseboard. The police reports said my aunt and uncle’s and my parents’ deaths were both murder-suicides. Both cases were closed.
But I knew, all of us knew, that there was no way my uncle would've killed my aunt or my father my mother.
No way.
They'd been murdered.
After all this time, we still had no idea who had done it or why. Their deaths had left a wound that wouldn't heal. Not just grief, but a rage that had no target.
Someone had stolen them from us.
Someone needed to pay.
I'd always thought revenge would help that wound to heal. According to Lucas, I was wrong.
Lucas switched off the portable heater and set it down on the floor, upside down so the heating element could cool. Pulling the scraper out of my hand, he set it aside and stood, bringing me to my feet along with him.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go get a beer and some food. Then we'll come back here and I'll fuck you until you beg me to stop."
At that absurd thought, I busted out laughing. "Good luck," I said when I got my breath back. "That's not gonna happen. You can fuck me all night and I'll still ask for more. You'll be begging me to leave you alone and let you sleep."
"You want to bet?" Lucas asked with a chuckle. "First person to beg has to mow the other one's yard. You spent enough time watching me behind the mower. Now it's my turn. I can see you now, nothing but the mower and you, in a bright red bikini."
"Cocky much?" I asked as we went down the back steps—after I set the alarm and locked the door. "No bet. I don't mow lawns. And I don't own a red bikini."
"That's a crime. Your body in a red bikini?" Lucas shook his head and looked at the sky, the anticipation in his eyes so hot I immediately considered some emergency online shopping. Though I still wasn't mowing the lawn.
It was only a few blocks to a neighborhood bar that had a great beer selection and a fantastic bar menu.
We dropped the bet, which was a good thing because a few minutes after we hit the futon, I was naked with Lucas's mouth between my legs, begging desperately for him to stop teasing and start fucking me.
Which he did.
All night.