Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
SMOKE
T he name of the band was Grindfreak .
Slade hadn’t heard a song by the band, nor did he intend to until they got on stage and played their songs. They looked the part of some kind of wannabe glam rockers from a long time ago. Four guys with long blond hair, tall and skinny, probably wearing women’s yoga pants, ensuring they each had a decent sized dick bulge.
There was Stick, Stevey, Simmy, and Style.
Slade chose to watch the backstage while Fitz took the main part of the club. They also had two prospects—Bram and Stu—out front while the enforcers—Virus, Amos, and Dolph—took the sides and back. Everyone was kept in line.
Slade couldn’t believe how many people showed up for this band. And the women. These beautiful women with low-cut shirts and beautiful, bouncing breasts, desperate for a chance to just touch one of the rock stars. It almost made Slade want to hang up his leather cut, grab a guitar and start playing.
Then again, everyone knew that bikers didn’t need bodyguards to chase women away… they took everything that came their way and then some.
“Hey, you look familiar to me!”
The voice caught Slade off guard. He had made sure the normal security for the nightclub had everything in place to keep the wannabe groupies from rushing backstage.
When he turned, he saw Calista standing there, a bottle of wine in her hand, her eyes completely whacked out… and cocaine on her noise . Slade walked up to Calista and gently thumbed her nose.
“Little bit of snowfall, huh?”
“Whoops,” she said. “I was hanging with the band.”
“Too bad. Not a good look when a pretty one like you has breath that stinks of cum.”
“All I smell off you is jealousy, big boy.”
Slade smiled. He felt words moving toward the tip of his tongue…
Where’s your sister? Nelle? Right? She here tonight?
“Hey, we need to do a little catching up, sweetheart,” Slade said.
“You bikers get right to the point, don’t you? You think you can fuck me better than these rockers?”
Slade leaned down toward Calista’s right ear. “If I wanted to fuck you, sweetheart, my cock would be stuffed up your tight ass already. I don’t do small talk. Now let’s cut the bullshit. Your sister was shot and killed. Not meant for my club. Those bullets were meant for her. They hit the target. That’s why I’m here tonight, sweetheart. We’ve got some talking to do. Figure it out. Understand me?”
Poor Calista’s face turned red, then white. She quickly drank from the bottle of wine as though it was water. Slade placed a hand to her arm to stop her. “Don’t get too drunk. Unless you want me to throw you over my shoulder and take you back to the clubhouse. You can sober up by morning. But there’s a fee to get into the clubhouse. Can you guess what it is?”
“My pussy,” Calista said.
The cold look in her eyes told Slade she’d been through this routine so many times. She was merely a lost soul, using her body and sucking cock to find a purpose. Feeling good in the moment but the second the warm cum trickled down the back of her throat, she was forgotten and lost once again.
Slade had already stepped his foot in shit today with Marcus’s baby mama, no way he was going to show care or compassion for Calista. This was about finding out who rode through Cielo and shot up the pizza place. It was about who wanted Thalia dead… it was about who could have killed the VP of SOFRAW .
Slade ripped the bottle of wine from Calista’s hand and brought it near his lips. Then he remembered… He sniffed the top of the bottle and shook his head.
“Smells like cum,” he said. “Enjoy your wine and cock, sweetheart.”
Slade tossed the bottle of wine to the right. It hit the floor and broke. He stepped back.
“Take it easy on the snow too,” Slade said, touching his nose.
Calista swallowed hard. She seemed terrified. That was good. Scared meant Calista would give him some answers. There was just one problem.
Calista would be shot to death within the hour.
Here’s what happened…
Grindfreak was given the ten minute warning to get ready. Some local band opening for Grindfreak just finished their set. The roadies and crew for Grindfreak had gotten the stage ready for the band. The club buzzed with excitement. Backstage just the same.
Slade had been standing just off the side of the stage, waiting to see Calista again. He had no choice but to lean on her. Hard. He figured once it was all said and done, he’d take her back to the clubhouse and give her a proper night. These rock stars were weak little characters come to life. Nothing more. Slade could toss Calista over his shoulder with ease and have his way with her…
Someone yelled SMOKE .
Some woman stumbling around in heels too high for the alcohol content in her blood. She giggled as she screamed that the building was on fire.
Fucking stupid drunk idiot , Slade initially thought.
Then two more people said there was smoke. Slade finally saw the smoke coming from the bathrooms of the backstage area.
His first instinct— the band is smoking it up in the bathroom. That idea vanished when Slade saw how thick the smoke was. And then he smelled it. It wasn’t weed. It wasn’t exactly fire smoke either. It had a certain punch to it that reminded him of a smoke bomb. Like something you’d set off for the Fourth of July. Some kind of cheap firework. That’s all.
Yet it induced plenty of panic. Bodyguards quickly escorted the band out. Two of the guys were missing pants. A handful of women— naked —came running along with the band, getting out of the club and to their tour bus for safety. While Slade knew there was no immediate danger from the smoke bomb, not many others figured it out. Again, panic.
People running in all directions, yelling and crying, fearing their lives were going to come to an end. An announcement echoed over the system that everyone needed to evacuate.
Calmly.
There was no calm. No calm at all. Everyone pushed, shoved and charged, so it became total chaos. For a minute or two Slade thought someone from the band had done this. Typical rock star bullshit. Trying to be cool or funny. Playing a joke that had no purpose nor punchline.
That was proven wrong… really wrong…
“She came walking down—”
“She?” Chief Dick asked as Slade took the time while being cut off to take a swig of whiskey from a bottle.
“Calista. The girl who was shot and killed.”
“The whore. For the band.”
“Does that play into this, Chief?”
“You tell me. Seems everywhere you guys are right now someone is shot and killed. Not a good look, Slade.”
“Fuck you,” Slade growled as he stepped closer to the chief. Towering over him, he continued, “She came walking down… the hallway. Whatever you want to call it. Holding her stomach. Covered in blood. Blood all over, Chief. All over. She was lit the fuck up. I don’t even know how she was walking. Like a fucking zombie. And she just—”
A scream echoed behind Slade. He jumped. His damn nerves were officially rattled. When he turned, he saw… Nelle. The third sister. The only surviving sister now.
“Fuck,” Slade whispered at that morbid yet true thought.
Nelle stopped screaming when she looked at Slade. She then hurried toward him, almost breaking out into a run to get to Slade.
Slade almost opened his arms, thinking Nelle was going to jump into his arms. He even pictured it for a second too. Catching her. Holding her. Hugging her. For some reason telling her she would be safe…
Speculation equaled zero because Nelle stopped right in front of Slade. She looked up at him with angry, sad eyes.
Before Slade could say a word to Nelle, she wound up and punched him in the mouth.