Under careful supervision I'm allowed back onto the bike, and Cleo clambers on a few seconds later. The Kings arrange themselves around us in a formation. We're once again boxed in, unable to flee. If we try to make a break for it, we'll be shot. If I were alone, it might be worth the risk. But as I'm once again reminded, I dragged Cleo into this clusterfuck with me.
The streets grow danker and darker the further we travel inside the King's half of the city. When we reach the King's clubhouse, it's a shock to the system. It seems like someone plopped a freaking palace in the middle of a pile of shit. No other building around looks like this one. It's three stories high, new, and the owners spared no expense to make it look good. Another group of guards is waiting for us outside the gate. They look like they'd rather turn us to roadkill than let us pass, but Axel barks orders at them until the gates are opened.
Cleo's breathing is ragged again, and it's audible when we step off the bike and onto the front lawn. Though the place is well kept, it's still in South Hollens. The mud sucks at our heels as we approach. I seize Cleo's hand and give it a gentle squeeze.
"I've got you," I say in an undertone.
Then we mount the steps after Axel. The door swings open and we step into the main hall. There must be at least fifty people in the huge main room. Many of them are women, scantily clad and fawning over the King men. There must be at least three women to every man. But I draw my attention to the center of the room, to the most imposing figure of the bunch.
"Calamity Gardel."
13
Cleo
My eyes are glued to the man who sits, straight-backed and regal on what can only be described as a throne.
He's nearly as tall and muscled as Ryker, though there's cruelty in the set of his jaw and flashing deep in his eyes that Ryker could never possess. Protective and impulsive, yes, but my Ryker could never be cruel. This is the face of a man who could order executions without batting an eyelash. His eyes are a shade of blue so pale they look like chips of ice in his broad face. He's older than I expected. Forties or fifties, most likely. His features are rough-hewn, skin stretched tight over haughty cheekbones, a jaw that is heavy and masculine, under blonde hair buzzed so short it barely exists. He looks like an Aryan's wet dream.
A hush falls over the room as we enter, and Calamity Gardel regards us in that silence. His face is impossible to read, shrouded in half-shadow as it is. His eyes sweep over Ryker first, assessing the threat they all face. And then, when he's satisfied, he turns those glacial eyes to me. A small smile tugs at the edges of his thin lips, though I don't see the lust that's clear on other men's faces. He just seems to regard me with benign interest, like I'm some exotic bird that's wandered into his home.
When he speaks it's a basso rumble, laced with a hint of gravel. I had the off the wall thought that his bedroom talk had to be next level. I banished it at once. I'm not here to jump into Gardel's bed. At least, I hope it doesn't come to that. Ryker would probably kill Gardel for even suggesting it.
"Ryker Fenton," he drawls. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
The genteel nature of the question freezes me cold. This hospitality is hiding something sinister. Perhaps the prelude to a beating.
Ryker stiffens at the sound of his name from this man. He's probably wondering just how he knows it. We've never crossed the line before and, so far as I know, none of the Kings have invaded our side of the line either.
Gardel lets out a low, humorless chuckle.
"You didn't think I'd leave myself ignorant to the competition, did you? You're Ryker, Roman Cruz and Trent McNeil's second in command. Quite a bruiser I hear, too."
Ryker shakes off the compliment like a dog shrugging off water. "Not Trent's. Those days are over."
Trent cocks one eyebrow and tilts his head to the side. "No? Trouble in paradise? I always hoped that the foolish co-presidency would split you in half. Better one man rule, I say."
He would, as that man was him. Would he feel if he were deposed? I doubted it.
Ryker doesn't reply, though the rage rolling off of him is palpable. I fear at any second he's going to snap and do something that will get us both killed. So, just as before, I step out from behind the shield of Ryker's body and address a shitload of angry bikers.
"Mr. Gardel, I'm Cleo Sutton and--"
I don't have time to finish the sentence. Gardel barks a laugh that is echoed by every single biker in the room. My face heats with embarrassment, though I'm not sure what joke I'm being made the butt of.
"No need to be so formal, Cleo," he says, purring my name. "Call me Calamity."
His eyes rove over me once again and his smirk grows more pronounced. "So you're the reason the Spades are crumbling. I've heard rumors about you. Trent's brat put you in your place."
I cringe away from his words, and tears sting my eyes. I blink, refusing to let them fall. I need to be strong, damn it. For Ryker. For the rest of the MC. But his words strike at me, confirming my worst fears. All the unrest happening in the MC is my fault. I'm the reason for all the violence. I'm the reason that Damian is dead. The reminder of my weakness, first against Damian and then against Trent mocks me.
"Calamity," I whisper, volume stolen from my voice. "You're a very smart man. You must see there are advantages to this situation."
"Indeed," he says, steepling his fingers, leaning his chin lightly on them. "I have two of the most valuable members of the Spades to do with as I please. I'm well within my rights to kill you both. I might send your bodies back to Cruz in pieces. I think that's reminder enough not to fuck with the Kings."
I search for words to compose my rebuttal. I'm surprised when my reply doesn't come out as a mousy squeak.
"Maybe, but that's short-sighted. We're more useful to you alive."
