Angels and Ashes (Heaven's Rejects MC Book 2) (7 page)

I sleep soundly for several hours until my phone starts ringing off the hook four times in a row.
Who the fuck is calling me knowing how late of a night I had?
Crawling from bed, I retrieve my phone from my jeans pocket and stare in semi-shock at the name on the screen.

Sliding to answer, a sweet voice fills the receiver.

“Raze?” the voice almost whispers with a slight edge of fear to her words.

“Dani, what’s wrong? Has something happened to Hero or you? The babies okay?”

“I’m fine, and so is Hero, but Raze, I think you should know that Darcy just took off in Jagger’s car with a gun tucked into her jeans.”

“What the
fuck
?” I exclaim. “Where was she headed?”

“She didn’t tell me, Raze, but I saw a passport tucked into the pocket of her bag. I have a feeling she’s going to Mexico.”

Fuck, just what I need.
Another bat-shit crazy woman hell-bent on stirring up trouble. Pulling up my contacts after ending my brief call with Dani, I dial Voodoo’s number and instruct him to track Jagger’s Challenger. Jagger loved that car beyond words and made Voodoo put a tracking device on it in case it was ever stolen. His paranoia will play in our favor since something has Darcy spooked enough to take the car. V comes through five minutes later and sends me the link to the tracking monitor on the car.

Sending off a quick text to Slider, I request his babysitting presence at the house then quickly shower and throw together a change of clothes, grabbing my bulletproof vest from the closet. I don’t know what I am going to walk into, but I will be prepared, especially with how much the violence in Mexico has escalated in the recent months.

Pulling a sheath of knives from the nightstand, I strap my shoulder holsters on and tuck knives in each open spot to conceal them under my cut. Bringing a gun across the border is illegal and would land my ass in Mexican prison so I have to stick with blades. If worse comes to worst, I can call in a favor to one of our allies and get firearms if necessary.

It will be dangerous to wear my cut in Mexico, but I need to make sure that I have my club affiliation displayed for identification purposes. V will have notified the local clubs that I will be in their territory for personal reasons and not business by the time I get down there. Let’s just hope they roll out the welcome wagon and not the undertaker should I have a run-in with them.

Grabbing my things, I make my way down to the garage when a motorcycle’s rumble pulls up into the driveway. Slider glides into the side garage door while my bike idles and I pull on my leathers. Giving him the rundown of his duties, I toss him the spare house keys and swing my leg over the seat of my bike. He disappears inside as I retrieve my phone from my back pocket and click on V’s link. The tracking software takes a few minutes to connect to the car’s embedded tracking device, but soon, a map with a moving icon appears.

Sure enough, Darcy is speeding down southbound I-5 and is already south of San Diego. Pulling out of the driveway, I give my Harley some gas and head south. I don’t know what she is up to, but going to Mexico alone is the worst fucking idea she’s ever had. I just hope I can get there in time before she does something stupid.

The drive through Los Angeles and San Diego is mostly uneventful. Typically, no matter the time of day, the traffic is always backed up, but today it’s smooth sailing through both of the large cities. It’s not unusual for there to be a five-hour back up at three in the morning around this part of California. Coming from another state, the traffic and the width of the highways scared me. It took me nearly three years before I would even venture out on the freeways on my own. Now, so many years later, I am cruising down one of the biggest freeways in the state with carefree ease.

Just as I arrive at the Mexican border, I hit traffic. I know that crossing the border will take some time so I dip my hand into my bag, pulling out my passport and a bag of pork rinds that I picked up from a convenience store just south of San Diego. The sign over the freeway says the wait’s over two hours to get through border patrol. I munch on my snack while my mind floats to my destination and the significance behind Brent choosing this place to hide whatever it was for Raze. Gatito Del Diablo was just a stop on our spring break bar crawl on Avenida revolución in Tijuana. The girlfriends that I made while attending the University of Southern California went on and on about how crazy night life was in Tijuana, and back then, I was just as big of a daredevil as they were. I was just there to have fun, and I had no intention of walking into the seedy corner bar and changing my life forever.

“I’m going to go grab us some more tequila shots, ladies.”

I made my way to the old wooden bar and leaned far over the edge, exposing my ample breasts in an attempt to get the bartender’s attention. What felt like two seconds later, the bartender shoved ten glasses of Patron toward me on a tray. Throwing a couple of twenty-dollar bills down on the bar, I turned and ran smack dab into a drunk guy trying to dance to the music playing in the bar. The tequila glasses clanked, tipped sideways on the tray, and spilled right down my shirt, soaking not only the thin fabric, but my bra as well. The man never uttered an apology as he ran his finger through the spilled tequila and tried to rub his thick calloused fingers across my face.

“What the fuck, dude? You owe me sixty bucks in tequila, shit head,” I screeched at him, throwing down the tray and glasses onto the scuffed wooden floor.

The drunk man laughed at my words and tried to walk away from me. There was no Goddamn way I was going to let that bastard leave without paying for the drinks he just spilled on me. I worked my ass off all semester at a local campus bar to save money for the trip, and I was not about to waste it on some asshole who thought he could get away with spilling my drinks and not pay for them. I stomped off after him as he headed for the restrooms in the back corner of the bar. I grabbed ahold of his arm to stop his progress of running away, but when I yanked back, his right fist came flying toward me. I tried to duck out of the way, but a tattooed hand flew into my view and blocked his strike. A large man stepped between us before he cold-cocked the drunken bastard, sending him collapsing onto the floor. I sidestepped around the brick wall of the man standing in front of me and saw my assailant flat on his ass with his hands covering his blood-stained face.
Jesus, this person has a hell of a left hook.

“Is that how your mother taught you to treat a lady?” his gruff voice asked. “I think you owe the lady a round of the bar’s best tequila, don’t you think?”

The man on the floor sputtered out something in a mix of Spanish and broken English as he reached into his pocket and threw a large wad of cash at the tattooed man. His hands grabbed the crinkled bills mid-air before landing a kick to the man’s mid-section just as two bouncers barreled into the area and separated the two men.

“He bothering the lady, Jagger?” one of the bouncers asked.

“Yeah, man. Tried to rough her up. Take that piece of shit outside,” he responded. The two men hauled him up from the ground and made their way toward the front exit. The tattooed man then turned to me and shoved the cash into my hands, which brought me out of the state of shock from what had just transpired.

“You okay? He didn’t get any shots in that I didn’t see, did he?”

My eyes trailed up from the cash in my hand to find the man standing before me—sexy as shit. His chest and arms were huge, covered with tattoos and corded muscle. His chest was broad and stretched the t-shirt under his leather vest tightly. His chiseled jaw was bearded, but it was his icy-blue eyes that took my breath away. Blue eyes had always been my kryptonite, but I had never seen a shade of blue that bright before. Fuck, if he looked at me and told me to strip naked and hula-hoop, I think I would have obliged him without question. Judging by the tiny flecks of gray in his beard, he looked to be older than me, but I would have bet not by much.
He can’t be more than in his early thirties, I’m guessing.

“You mute, babe, or do you see something you like?” he asked with a sideways smirk.

“No, I’m fine,” I replied. “Thank you for stopping him. I think the tequila has killed my reaction time. I didn’t have a chance of ducking his punch.”

His brow furrowed deeper as a look of confusion washed over his face. “You get hit often, belle? If that is the case, then I think you and I need to take a trip to see your old man. He needs a little life lesson on how to treat a lady.”

Shaking my head at him, I watched as his bright eyes shone back at me.

“No, trouble just seems to follow me when I go out with my girls. I don’t know whether it’s me or them, but trouble is never far behind,” I said, nodding toward the boisterous group of girls dancing and singing in the corner of the bar. “Why did you call me belle?”

His eyes followed the direction of the noise before trailing back to me as a laugh rumbled through his hard chest. “I called you belle because of that sweet little accent of yours and the fact that you look like one of those southern belles you see in the movies. So prim and proper until you piss her off,” he teased. “And, it’s definitely the lot of you that seem to find trouble. Every single man in this place has their eyes trained on your group over there.”

“So you’ve been watching us, huh?”

A smile cracked on his face as I did my best to try to seem sexy. Unlike my friends, I didn’t exactly have a ton of guys lined up to want to date me. Apparently, feisty bitches who can take care of themselves aren’t their thing. They want damsels in distress, and until then, I’d never had to play the role before.

“Nope, just you. I’ve been sitting at the bar trying to decide if tonight was going to be my lucky night. Just my luck that some stupid son-of-a-bitch would give me the opportunity I needed to talk to you.”

My mouth drops in shock. “You wanted to talk to me?”

He laughs at me, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t a guy want to talk to the most beautiful thing in the room?”

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“Angel, you are the most beautiful creature that I have ever seen. Now, you may think I’m saying this shit to get them panties off ya, but an old man like me doesn’t usually have a shot in hell with a girl of your caliber.”

“Old man,” I questioned. “You can’t be that old.”

“I’m old enough,” he said with a quizzical laugh. “Now, how about we go back to the bar and we get those drinks you’re currently wearing.”

“Sure. I hope you like the smell of tequila, because I seem to be wearing most of the bottle.” He laughed while his hands fell to my lower back and led me back toward the bar. Sliding on the stool, he sat down next to me and ordered a round of tequila for my friends and me and beer for him. The bartender served us quickly, leaving a shot glass for me, and sent a bar maid over with the tray for my friends. I tipped the cool glass back against my lips and let the alcohol burn down my throat. Slamming the glass down onto the bar, I laughed.

“So, what’s your name?” he questioned after taking a swig of his beer. “I’m betting it’s something pretty like Dahlia or Rose.”

Throwing two fingers into the air toward the bartender to hail him over for more shots, I turned to the man and laughed. “My name is Darcy. I know, not very hip and cool like most names nowadays, but my parents are old-fashioned. Is Jagger your real name?”

“Nah, that’s my road name. My real name is Brent. How do you like me so far?”

The memory fades as the traffic for the border finally eases up. The last time Brent and I came to Tijuana we didn’t need a passport to cross, but as soon as the laws changed, Brent insisted that I get a passport for the kids and me, just in case. I never understood his reasoning behind his love for Mexico, but he traveled here often for club business in the last few years, always remembering to bring home my favorite bottle of tequila for those rare date nights we got to take. The border patrol agents are very thorough in their search of the vehicle, but with a little flirting distraction, I keep their focus on me.

Driving across the border, I make the short trip into Tijuana with ease. The GPS guides me until I am parked in front of the bar where my entire life changed. The streets are lined with brightly-colored lights and bars with rows of palm trees swaying in the breeze. Dozens of tourists are crowded on the sidewalk with drinks in their hands as the street vendors try to convince them to lighten their wallets and buy the junk and trinkets they are peddling
.

Stepping out of the car with my bag in hand, I click the lock on the doors. Usually, I would be afraid of leaving Betty outside like this, but I don’t intend on staying long. I pull open the doors of the bar, and within seconds, the memories my husband and I shared here hit me in the face. The place hasn’t changed much over the years with the exception of the old wooden bar being replaced with a shiny new chrome top. I take in the room as a familiar voice cuts through the fog of my past.