No one else sticks out, but whoever it is, I’m going to hunt them down. First, I need the name of the person or persons starting the damn rumor that I led Carlos to the kill shot point.
There was no leading involved, but I can’t outright tell Ty and his crew that Carlos and I were in cahoots. Not until I have the pieces lined up for my coup d’état. I have a feeling it’s one or more of the guys from Ty’s crew of fifteen, the same guys who will vote for or against me dating his little sis.
Fuck a vote.
Other people shouldn’t decide matters of the heart. The decision is for one person alone to make—Ever.
“I’ll start with Ty’s crew,” Slate says. “You question the girlfriend.”
I smirk. Had Slate said Ever’s name, there’d be more than ribbing going on. I’d take him out at the knees. I’m learning really quick that my temper flares hot at lightning speed when I think of any guy saying her name, getting close enough to touch her, or even fucking looking at her.
“Maybe Carlos said something to her that’ll clue us in to whether he told someone of his plans. Someone who’s not on our radar. Then we’ll case the Eastside. I’ll call the guys in for overwatch.”
I stick out my fist. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.” We fist bump.
Ever went to my nightclub to dance in her dead boyfriend’s memory. When with me, on my Ducati, holding tightly to me and watching the sunset, she talked non-stop about her dead best friend. I listened to her talk about another guy because she was happy. I would never rob Ever of what brings her happiness. Happiness is important, and we should get it when and where we can.
What guts me, though, is this invisible string that ties me, her, and Carlos. Carlos wasn’t just her boyfriend and best friend. Carlos Santiago was my mentor.
“Even if Ever was his girl, he’d never tell her.” What he and I were planning to do in the Eastside would rain hell down on our heads.
Carlos would keep what we were doing a secret from Ever, believing he was protecting her. That was the kind of man he was. He protected what was his.
“Find a way to get a list of names of the guys loyal to José and Carlos from Gage. One or more of them hate my guts enough to lay Carlos’s murder at my feet.”
“Sure thing.”
We stare at the house, each deep in thought. A loud engine breaks through the silence. I glance over my shoulder. A lifted pickup truck with tinted windows parks alongside the curb. The door opens, and a six-foot-one, lean, and tatted motherfucker with a smirk on his face pushes off the seat and lands on his boots.
I turn and grasp Midnight’s extended hand. His cousin, Dare, comes around the truck. He and Slate fist bump. I throw a glance over my shoulder. “Is there an easier way in than busting through the front door?”
Midnight pulls keys from his pocket. “There’s a sliding door to the kitchen.” He swings his gaze across the lawn. “First, you gotta get through the minefield of dog shit.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Slate shoves his hands in his pants pockets.
“Come on, man. Let’s see who comes out on top with less crap on their shoes.” In his joyous excitement to best us, Dare sticks out his meaty palms and shoves me and Slate off the sidewalk and onto the messed-up, littered lawn.
I stumble and catch myself on a filthy fridge. Slate isn’t so lucky. His foot gets tangled in a coiled-up garden hose. In his effort to untangle from the hose, he trips over a microwave and lands chest-first on a pile of large black garbage bags. The bags puff out and break open. A putrid smell fills the air.
Holding my breath, I watch the large and formidable Slate Gray scramble to his feet as a string of curses leaves his mouth.
“Fucking Dare.” He glares at Midnight’s cousin and flips him the bird. “For that, you take the lead. We’ll be on your six.”
Military talk from an ex-marine. I chuckle. Slate could do better than being a bouncer at my club. Hell, he could have his pick of security firms to work for. Or he could become a cop.
Except he’s more mercenary than hero. Someday, a woman will need saving, and Slate won’t be able to resist his natural inclination to protect, no matter the cost to his life.
We follow Dare to the side gate that’s hanging on its hinges. One blow from a strong gust and that gate is done for. My gaze slides to the top floor. The windows are broken, like kids used them for target practice. Shingles hang off the gutters that are barely holding on to the house, while little trees are growing in the gutters. I shake my head. Birds and their fucking droppings.
I cram my hands in my pants pockets and make a mental note of all the things that will need fixing, starting with clearing junk from the lawn, getting a service to pick up dog crap before the lawn is mowed, and replacing the boarded-up front door.
We make it to the sliding door without stepping on a shit mine. Thank fuck. I can stand stepping on anything, but dog shit is my limit.
Midnight unlocks the door and waves us through. I walk in first. What a bad fucking idea.
The place is worse than a money pit. It’s a fucking disaster zone. Dishes are piled high in the sink. The stovetop is a mess of pots and pans with dried-up what the fuck in them. And the smell? The word biohazard comes to mind.
I’m hit in the face with the stench of dog piss, dog shit, rotting food, and mounds of plastic bags in the living area, festering in the hot house.
