Cold Blood (Lone Star Mobsters Book 4) Read online

  Cold Blood

  Lone Star Mobsters

  Book Four

  Cynthia Rayne

  Table of Contents

  Cold Blood

  Table of Contents

  Book Blurb

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Epilogue

  Books in the Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Book Blurb

  Time can’t heal wounds, but love does.

  Justice is a biker and former Navy SEAL living with PTSD. While he didn’t give “the last full measure of devotion” to his country, he came damn close. And his nightmares drag him back to Afghanistan.

  Etta May Jameson is a social worker dealing with her own painful memories. But her boundaries are crumbling when it comes to the wounded biker, and she longs to take another chance on love. They both need to deal with their battle scars as well as they're growing feelings for one another

  But when Etta's ex-husband is paroled, her past becomes present. And her future is in jeopardy.

  Chapter One

  Get the free prologue.

  I hate this godforsaken place.

  Hell’s Gate trailer park was a rusty, dusty shithole. Justice had been living in a glorified, second-hand camper for a couple of years. It was all part of the plan to save up some cash and buy a brand new house, but he’d never gotten around to making the purchase.

  Justice couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

  Some nights, he felt like dousing it in kerosene and lighting the mother fucker up. It wouldn’t help his predicament, but the thought cheered him up regardless.

  Besides, it’s not like a change of indoor scenery would do much for him anyway. Justice always felt confined and constricted indoors.

  The trailer smelled moldy, so he spent most evenings outdoors in a lawn chair positioned in front of the fire pit. The night air called to him. The scent of wood smoke and the crackle and pop of the flames usually soothed him, but there was no easing the burden tonight. Neither weed nor whiskey could touch this pain.

  Next week was the anniversary of their mission. Half of his SEALs unit hadn’t made it out alive. Trick, Woolly, and he had made it stateside, but Justice still felt like a part of himself was trapped there.

  Bulldog, Gunner, and Tank hadn’t been so lucky. One little, two little, three little Indians.

  Lately, he couldn’t shake the memories. Afghanistan was front and center in his mind. Typically it hovered around the recesses, and he could tuck it away with a little substance abuse. Not now. Anytime his thoughts drifted, the past screamed for attention.

  I should go see Trick. It had been too long since they’d seen each other.

  “Damn, I should be up there.”

  Ace sat across the fire from Justice, contemplating the star-filled sky overhead. He used to be in the Air Force, and Justice got the impression Ace felt more comfortable gliding through the great blue yonder than on land.

  He knew the feeling.

  He’d spent a lot of time in the water. There was something peaceful about all the cool wetness surrounding him, almost holding him. In the ocean, everything fell away. Justice could get lost in the deep, dark blue for hours, watching the fish, the gentle sway of the seaweed.

  Justice took trips down to the gulf every chance he got. Snorkeling and beachcombing were his two favorite hobbies.

  “Didn’t you fly a week ago?”

  “It’s not enough, and it never will be.” There was a wistful tone in his voice.

  They were both members of the Four Horsemen Motorcycle Club. These days, Ace was his best friend. They lived in Hell, Texas, and the place smelled like sulfur, thanks to the hot springs which flowed through town.

  Hell took its moniker seriously, and nearly everything had a devil-themed name. The club owned several area businesses—Seventh Circle Motors, Inferno Firearms, a bar called Perdition, and others.

  And evidently, they were both restless.

  “Then you should schedule more flights.”

  “Love to, but it’s not an option. I’m a glorified air taxi these days, as my father loves to point out.” He shook his head.

  “Your dad sounds like an ass.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  Ace’s dad had been a decorated naval aviator back in the day. He’d won a ton of awards, and Ace had never quite measured up to his father’s glory, or his brother’s for that matter. His older brother, Ford, was also a pilot and the family golden child, so Ace overcompensated by bragging and generally being a cocky bastard. Although Justice thought there might be something else at work. Ace never discussed why he’d left the military or why he hadn’t joined a commercial air company.

  “Oh, and get this, Ford’s got a new girlfriend, and they’re talkin’ about gettin’ hitched.”

  “You almost sound jealous.”

  “Why the fuck would I wanna get married?” Ace asked.

  He had a point. Ace was kind of a slut.

  “Maybe it’s the girl you’re after. You want what you can’t have.” He’d seen Ace go after any woman who brushed him off and when she finally gave into him, Ace moved on to the next conquest.

  “I do not.” There wasn’t much venom in his tone, and Justice knew he’d hit a nerve.

  “Do too.”

  Although, Justice wasn’t qualified to make judgment calls on other people’s pasts. Lord knows he had a U-Haul truckload of his own baggage to sort through.

  He had blood on his hands, not from the enemy, but from someone who mattered. And he’d never be clean again. Justice took a hit from his hand-rolled joint. Pretty Boy, another of his brothers, had cultivated a unique strain of marijuana for Justice, called Mercy. The pot mellowed him out and gave him some balance.

  Ever since he’d walked into a grisly murder scene a couple of months ago, everything had come rushing back. The air had been cold and the room filled with steam from the newly minted corpses. The blood was so thick on the carpet it had squelched under his shoes.

  Justice was familiar with handling dangerous situations. It was his life’s calling, but he hadn’t been prepared to find a half-dozen butchered people. He hadn’t seen anything like it since he’d been in the sandbox, a military term for Afghanistan, and the incident had touched off an avalanche of buried memories.

  When he glanced up, he found Ace watching him with an unreadable expression.

  “What are you gawkin’ at?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  Justice tensed. “I’m about to come over there and find out.”

  He had a nasty temper. The rage boiled up inside him and sometimes spilled over. Luckily, his brothers never minded a bare-knuckle brawl now and then.

  “You want some of this?” Ace tapped his chest as though to say come at me.

  Justice closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to cool down. It was a struggle.

  “Not tonight, dear.”

  Ace snickered. “I ain’t the only one with issues. Ever think you smoke a bit too much?”

  “Nope. I only use enough to sui
t my needs.” He took another hit.

  “Come on, brother, I’m serious. Lately, you’ve been a hot mess.”

  “Emphasis on the hot part.” Justice showed off his guns—flexing those impressive biceps. Whenever he couldn’t level with someone, he joked himself out of an uncomfortable situation. These days he was more buff than usual because he’d been distracting himself with physical activity.

  “I’m serious.” Ace was having none of it. “Are we gonna talk about your sudden dislike of red bodily fluids? The insomnia…?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about your eight-mile camper? Because every time I’m over here, I look around, expectin’ to see Slim Shady.”

  “It ain’t so bad.” He’d be damned if he gave Ace the satisfaction of agreeing with him. Besides, the whole trailer park thing had worked out fine for Eminem.

  “Maybe there’s somethin’ else on your mind?”

  “Like what?”

  “Look, I was in Afghanistan, too. I know what—”

  Justice snorted. “No, you flew above it, droppin’ bombs and then went back to the airbase. I spent months with my boots on the ground. Trust me, it ain’t the same thing.”

  “You’re kind of a dick.” Ace took another shot of Fireball whiskey and zipped up his hoodie.

  It was late October and the nights were chilly, while the days were still warm. Justice dreaded winter with its frigid temperatures and gray skies. They both wore hoodies beneath their cuts, a biker term for the leather vests they wore.

  “Kind of? I’m a full-blown dick.”

  Ace’s lips twitched. “I’m sure a hellion saw to it personally.”

  “You’re damn right she did.” Earlier in the day, he’d gotten a blowjob in the pinball room at the clubhouse.

  They called biker groupies who hung around the club hellions. They were nice enough women—most of them were young, cute, sexually uninhibited, and willing to please.

  Justice loved fooling around. The clubhouse was full of loose women, and he’d fucked plenty of them. It temporary scratched the itch, and then he’d moved on to the next, and then the next. No big deal.

  “Well, if you ever wanna talk about it…”

  “Thanks, but it’s classified.” Nearly everything he’d done in the military was top-secret, but it was an excuse not to talk. He stood and stretched his arms above his head. “Damn, I’m sore from the ride we took earlier. I’ve still got a hitch in my get along.”

  I’m gettin’ old. Justice was thirty-six, but some days he felt twice that age.

  Earlier, they’d driven home from a biker rally in Waco. He didn’t mind a long ride, but it took a toll on his muscles. When he’d been in the service, Justice had been in peak physical shape. He hadn’t gone soft, by any means, but he didn’t have as much lean muscle mass as before. Back in the day, he’d gone out into the field with a heavy pack strapped to his back and tromped around for hours, and it hadn’t bothered him.

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “No, you’re hungover.” They’d had three glorious days of whiskey, willing women, and hard rock.

  He cracked his neck, and then dropped to the ground and did thirty push-ups. A Master Chief at the academy, a real vicious bastard, had told them to exercise until they were too exhausted to go any further, and then do another hour more.

  To challenge himself, Justice put one hand behind his back. It helped him focus on his body, instead of all the thoughts running through his head. But Justice knew what he really wanted to do.

  No, he needed to see Etta May Jameson. The curvy ginger had captured his attention, but she deserved better than an outlaw biker. She was a social worker in town and helped underprivileged kids. The woman was practically a saint, better yet, an angel.

  She’d seen him at his lowest, sweating, shaking and babbling a few weeks ago. After he’d gone off the deep end, his brother, Steele had brought him over to her place. They’d been in the middle of a rescue operation when he’d lost his damned mind. The next thing he knew, Justice had found himself in Etta’s living room holding a glass of sweet tea.

  She’d talked him down, her tone was deliberate and soothing. While Justice didn’t lay out all the details, he’d given her the general gist of the problem. Ever since then, he’d been finding excuses to see her.

  Etta said she couldn’t be his therapist since they had a “dual relationship” and apparently it was against her profession’s ethical code. Frankly, he wasn’t interested in her mental health prowess. Justice wanted to take her out for dinner and then spread her open on his bed. But it wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. Not when he was fucked up in the head and shivering like a little girl at the sight of blood.

  “If you’re that out of shape, we could go for a run tomorrow mornin’.”

  “No thanks.” Maybe he’d do some high-intensity training tomorrow—old-school military calisthenics, jumping jacks, pull-ups, sit-ups. If he exhausted himself, Justice wouldn’t be able to obsess about anything.

  The roar of a motorcycle engine coming down the street stopped him. Justice got to his feet. A familiar Harley snaked around the corner.

  “Oh, fuck, it’s Axel. I didn’t think he’d come by tonight.” Ace kicked a rock, and it skittered across the ground, pinging against the fire pit.

  Just then, Axel thundered into the parking lot, kicking up dust. He came to a stop beside the picnic table and shut off his hog.

  “Shit.” Ace rubbed the back of his neck.

  Okay, something’s up.

  “But you knew he’d eventually come by?”

  “Um, yeah.” Ace refused to meet his eyes.

  “What’s goin’ on, brother?”

  “I gotta go. We’ll talk later.”

  “About what?”

  But Ace had already made a beeline for his Harley. He hopped on and then vroomed off before Justice got any answers.

  And then Justice was left staring at Axel who’d folded his arms over his tree-trunk like chest. He’d just been voted in as president. Personally, he’d always thought Axel was kind of a prick, but he’d been a decent leader since he’d taken command. Like the military, the MC had rules and a leadership structure.

  “We gotta talk, Justice.” Axel’s mug was grim. He was around six and a half feet tall with intense dark eyes, something between a beard and a five o’ clock shadow on his cheeks.

  Justice had a feeling some awful news was headed his way.

  “Want some whiskey?” He lifted the bottle.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I can’t.” Axel nodded to his bike. “Charlie and I are takin’ a few days off.”

  He’d gotten serious with a girl named Charlie a few months back. Must be nice to have someone to share his life with, a woman who cared for him, loved him no matter what. Justice envied all of the brothers who’d settled down with an old lady.

  Justice cleared his throat. “So you’re here on business.”

  “Afraid so.” Axel scratched his chin. “There’s no easy way to say this.”

  “Then spit it out.” No point in delaying the inevitable. Justice braced himself. He knew the guys had been talking behind his back. Whenever he walked into a room, the conversation died, and he got these twitchy narrowed-eyed looks.

  “You’ve been off lately.”

  “Yeah.”

  And no matter what he tried, Justice couldn’t glue himself back together.

  He’d ruthlessly shoved down what had happened in Afghanistan, and refused to deal with it. Now, it all came rushing back, barreling down on him, full force, and he couldn’t shut it out anymore, so it was a big fucking problem.

  “We’re concerned about you.”

  “Me too.”

  “You should talk to somebody.”

  “Don’t need a shrink.”

  Some secrets were best left buried. Besides, he doubted anyone could help him deal with all these wounds anyway. What he needed to do, was shove it away once more, then he’d get his equilibrium back. So he
wasn’t signing on to lay down on a couch and spill his guts, especially to a stranger. He hadn’t even told Etta very much.

  “Yeah, you do, brother, and until you get some help…well, I ain’t sayin’ you’re out of the club, but you’re gonna step back, take a break from your duties.”

  Justice served as the sergeant-at-arms for the club, an enforcer who took care of problems. Now, he was being pushed aside.

  Oh, God, no.

  One of the things, Justice had missed about the military was the camaraderie. With the bikers, he’d gotten a new band of brothers, and they always had each other’s backs. He didn’t want to lose their support now, didn’t know what he’d do without them.

  “I see. Y’all voted?” The club was democratic, one of the things he loved about it, although ultimately the decision lay with Axe.

  Axel nodded. “It’s temporary.”

  But what if it wasn’t? What if the Four Horsemen thought they’d be better off without him?

  Well, he wasn’t going to beg.

  Justice straightened his shoulders. “Alright. Thanks for tellin’ me.”

  “I want you to seriously consider talkin’ to somebody.”

  “Fine.” Justice had no intention of following through.

  Axel frowned. “You wanna sit a spell? Chaw the rag?”

  “Can’t. Gotta be somewhere.”

  “Fair enough.” He nodded. “I should be headin’ out anyway. Night.” He got back on the bike and took off.

  Justice needed to get the fuck out of there. After scooping up a steel bucket filled with water, he doused the fire and smoke billowed into the air.

  He climbed on his electric blue 2017 Street Rod Harley and took off, wheels screaming.

  Chapter Two

  It’s gonna be fine. No need to freak out.

  Etta May Jameson couldn’t believe her own comforting lies. She sucked down an iced coffee as she sat on the front porch, smoking a cigarette. Her leg bounced, and she tried to calm down, but it wasn’t working.

  Maybe because her intuition yelled at her, a full-throated shriek. Things were definitely not going to be okay. Etta could feel it. She hadn’t heard back from the parole board yet, and she was growing increasingly nervous. For the past few days, she’d been obsessively checking her mail and phone messages, waiting for the official word and had gotten nothing but silence in return.