Stephanie Tyler - Vipers Run

Flores didn’t pull any further punches, telling me, “Ned Benson’s been murdered.”

My mouth opened. Closed. I put my fingers over my eyes for a long moment. While there was no love lost between my brother and me, he was still my brother. My head spun and Rocco put a hand on my shoulder. When I looked back up, Dom was handing me water. I took a small sip and then asked, “How? Why?”

“When was the last time you’d seen or heard from your brother, Calla?”

“Don’t answer that. Is she a suspect, Detective?” Rocco asked.

“It’s a simple question.”

It was. “I haven’t seen or heard from him in years.”

“Years?”

“At least three.”

“Satisfied?” Rocco asked.

“Where was he when you found him?”

“He was staying in a motel close to the Georgia border,” Flores said.

He’d been that close to here? Was that a coincidence?

“So you and your brother weren’t close, then?”

“Not particularly,” I told her.

“Any reason?”

I knew better than to answer, because even in my slight state of shock I knew that I had a solid reason to want to hurt Ned. People had killed for a lot less than money.

But she was flipping through that damned pad of hers. “Ned Benson stole money that was earmarked for you after your grandmother died. He also forged your signature on the bar’s deed, sold it and pocketed the money.”

I didn’t say a word.

“All of that on its own would be enough to make me suspect you,” she continued. “But there’s another piece of evidence that makes it slightly more damning. Because we found some pictures on his computer—of you, Calla.”

I glared at her. Blurted out, “Those are private. You’re not allowed to see those,” even as Rocco put a hand on my arm.

“They’re evidence now. Motive.”

I looked up. “Motive?”

“He was extorting money from your father. Threatening to go to the papers and put these all over YouTube if Mr. Bradley didn’t pay up.”

But he did, I wanted to tell her. I kept my mouth shut instead.

“Did you check Ned’s bank account?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And?” Rocco asked.

“A large transfer of funds was made a month ago.”

“I’m not seeing the issue here, Detective.”

“The issue is that Cage Owens killed Ned Benson for Calla. I’d accuse Jameson Bradley, but he’s got an airtight alibi.”

“He could’ve hired someone,” Rocco pointed out, throwing my father under the bus.

“I considered that. But Cage Owens was seen at the motel this week, by an FBI agent who’s been part of an undercover sting. I think he makes a very credible witness.”

“He’s wrong,” I said, my voice hollow and raw. “Please go.”

“I have more questions.”

“They’ll have to wait,” Rocco told her, then called for Cage, who was next to me in seconds, even as Flores was telling me, “We can do this down at the station.”

“Is Calla being charged with something?” Cage asked.

“Not yet.” Not yet. Oh my God. “You’ll most likely be charged together.”

“Get the hell out of my house, Detective.” Cage’s voice was a growl, enough to make Flores start a little. And I figured it took a hell of a lot for that to happen.

When she’d gone, Cage came over to me. Rocco had disappeared into the kitchen with Tenn and Preacher to tell them what happened, I figured.

“You heard everything, I’m guessing.”

“Helps that the place is wired,” Cage said. “I knew you’d be fine with Rocco, but figured we needed a heads-up. And, babe, I didn’t ask you to be my alibi.”

“That’s right—you’re not asking or telling me anything.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

My mouth opened to ask him if he’d killed Ned. He’d been angry enough to want to. So had I. But instead, I asked, “Do you think it’s been Ned all these years and not Harris?”

Ned had been the same age as Harris, but Ned hadn’t gone to the same boarding school as I had. My father paid for it and his wouldn’t. “I don’t know.”

“If it was . . . I don’t know which would be worse.”

“You’re trying to push me away, like you think I’m going to do to you.”

I blinked and didn’t answer. Damn him.

“It’s not going to work.”

“You say that, Cage, but I know better.”

“Yeah? You’ve had a lot of men defending you against that prick? Because from where I stand, I’m the only one who’s kept a promise . . . and I intend on keeping it the whole way.”

I swallowed, hard. “Did you kill Ned?”

“No. But I would’ve if he’d been there.”

No hesitation or guilt. Just simple, hard truth. And my simple, hard truth was that it would’ve been all right with me if Cage had killed Ned for his part in everything.

After Rocco and Preacher left, I said good-bye to Tenn.

“I’ll come back anytime you need me to,” he said.

“Are you going back home tonight?”

“Nah. Gonna get in trouble with Tals and head back in the morning. Cage said he’d post my bail if I have a problem.”

“I never said that,” Cage called. Tenn gave me a hug and then left, and I closed the door and set the alarm. The night stretched out before me. I didn’t know what to do. I’d wanted to call my father to tell him, but I wanted to connect with Cage more.

“Hey.”

When I turned, he was standing by the locked door. “Hey.” I felt shy all of a sudden.

“I’ve got to show you something. Will you come with me?”

“Of course.” I followed him through the door, down the elevator and into the big garagelike space in what looked to the basement.

“I hadn’t been working in here,” he admitted. “Not until a few nights ago.”

This was his alibi.

Cage was an artist. Which explained the moody, brooding parts of him.

“Wait. All this . . . is yours?” I put my hand to my throat. Even though I wasn’t a motorcycle enthusiast, that didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate what I saw laid out in front of me any less. Custom bikes finished to varying degrees, each piece painstakingly put together to create one-of-a-kind bikes.

My eyes were drawn to one old bike. It looked prewar and it appeared that the refurbishing process was just beginning. “This is your thing.”

Everything had been covered in blankets, which now lay scattered on the floor. I saw rows of paints, a half-assembled bike and a sketchbook. I put my hand on it, but didn’t open it. My gaze caught on a photograph on the wall, a beautiful, custom bike.

“You made this?”

“Yeah.” His eyes looked far away. “That was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before I enlisted. Before I decided to become a one-man show, taking down the Heathens single-handedly.” His gaze flickered up to the photograph and back down, as if it was too painful for him to look at.

My chest tightened watching him. “And now?”

“I want to. I just don’t know if I can, Calla. I know too much. I’ve seen too much. I’m not the same person anymore.”

He had to be lying—whether to me or to himself, it didn’t matter. “Are you worried?”

“When you do shit like this, you have to feel. And I don’t want to feel anymore because then—”

“Too late,” I told him. “If you already feel, this should be a breeze. Looks like it is too.”

The depth and breadth of his talent was apparent the more I investigated the shop. Since no one else was here, I assumed this was his baby and his alone.

“Does anyone help you?”

“Sometimes Tals will, for the complicated stuff I can’t fix alone.”

“Do just MC members buy these?”

“No. Before I went into the Army, rock stars and celebrities bought them. Figured it was time to pick it up again.”

I pulled myself up to sit on one of the tables so I could survey the place. He climbed up next to me.

“I told you that the Heathens surrounded me in that parking garage. I knew those men, Calla. I grew up with them.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My brother, Troy . . . He was the one who gave the orders to kill me.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Because, based on my family experiences, it wasn’t all that unbelievable. “So your brother joined the Heathens?”

“He was born into the Heathens MC. Just like I was.”

* * *

Calla’s mouth dropped open. He put a finger under her chin and gently pushed up.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . .”

“Fucked up?”

“That sums it up pretty well,” she agreed. “Is it bad there?”

“You have no idea, Calla.”

“So tell me.”

“You’re already too involved.

“In for a penny.”

“Why? Why would you want that?”

“You took on my burden.”

“Willingly. No strings.”

“Why?”

“Because.” He skimmed her cheek with his knuckles.

“Exactly.” She mirrored his actions. “I’m here, Cage. Not because I have to be. Stop trying to lock me out. As a wise man once told me, your walls went back up, but I’m already inside.”

It was only fair that she learned what she was getting into. He’d given her zero choice, and staying here wasn’t an option forever. Nothing lasted forever, but goddamn, he was going to try with the woman sitting across from him. “I couldn’t tell you before. For a lot of reasons.”

“I understand secrets, Cage.”

He ran a hand through his hair. It had started to grow out a little, not enough to make him feel completely like him yet, though. “My father’s the president of the Heathens. Troy’s my half brother. So is Eli, but he’s only fifteen.”

“Where’s your mom?”

“She died when I was twelve. So did one of my sisters.” He paused. “Heathens have been dealing in drugs for a long time. Meth especially. It’s cheap and easy to make and sell, addictive as anything. Heathens run it down the coast. They started when I was about seven or eight. It had never been paradise, because it was a violent MC, but once the meth came into play, it was never the same.”

“What happened to your mom?”

“What happened to a lot of other Heathen old ladies. She got addicted to the drugs.” He paused. “I left, Calla. Left at ten and met Preacher. And he’d told me I could stay with him, that I didn’t have to go back.”

“But you were ten.”

“It didn’t matter. I knew my responsibilities.” And still, a big part of him wished he’d never gone back to his house that night.

If he’d just stayed at Vipers . . .

But he was worried about his sister. He was worried about his mom too, but he was also mad at her, because she wasn’t doing anything lately, for herself or for her kids for two years. Cage had stepped in to help as much as he could, but he was twelve fucking years old, and he wasn’t supposed to be mom and dad to his ten-year-old twin sisters.

Didn’t mean he didn’t try. “I’m the ultimate traitor in their eyes,” he told her. “If I’d been patched in already, it would’ve been really ugly when I left. Although it was pretty damned ugly anyway.”

“What happened?”

He took a breath and he told her his secrets.

The fire choked him. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but even though he was still in that partial dream state, he was still born and bred to an MC. He’d always been able to function easily postslumber, out of necessity. From the time he could remember, it was always, “You take care of your mother and your sisters, you hear, boy?”

And Cage had, loud and clear. Learned to shoot at six, was carrying a piece pretty much everywhere except school by eight and, now, the weapon was in his hand even as he covered his nose and mouth with a towel he grabbed from the chair as he fought his way out through the smoke.

He’d woken when the living room was already filled with smoke. When he’d fallen asleep, his mother had been asleep in the chair next to the couch. As he reached out, he realized that the chair was empty.

Had she stumbled to her room? Lit a cigarette and fallen asleep in bed? He’d caught her doing that before during the day, but that night, he’d slept deeply, and he’d woken and cursed as he yelled for his mother, his sisters . . .

Their room was next to his parents’. He could barely make it past the hallway bathroom before he started choking. The ceiling had begun to fall in and he got out of the house in time, before the entire thing burst into flames.

As he stood, feeling the heat from the fire scalding him, he remembered the tree house. He ran there.