Page 46 of The Devil's Scars

It felt good to add people to her world, Zoe was starting to discover. After years of closing herself off to most people – Wolf and Willa being the notable exceptions – it was a bit of a shock to open up, a shock that she’d had to slowly work through these past few days here in Denver. But now she was happy, almost eager to invite people in.

She’d welcomed in the guys here at Blue Dragon, absolutely, because she’d discovered that they were genuine professionals, passionate about the art of tattooing, respectful and funny as hell. Any concerns that she’d had of being treated like ‘less than’ just because she was a woman had been totally misplaced.

The guys from the garage had been brought closer too, because they’d done some repair work on her shitty little car, and bought Keira a new carseat as a welcome gift. Silver was turning out to be an incredible landlord, and Rebel in the kitchen over at Satan’s was totally cool with Zoe’s vegetarianism, and was expanding his cooking repertoire by bringing her lunch every day at work.

Bad-ass Rebel had admitted to her up-front that – not shockingly – he was a meat-man, a carnivore through and through, but for Zoe, he’d scour the internet for veggie recipes. The man had come through too, and in spectacular fashion: just the day before, Arrow had asked Rebel if he had any extra portions of Zoe’s zucchini-and-cheese pasta bake. Rebel had raised his eyebrows, brought his MC brother the vegetarian meal instead of the burgers that he’d made for Saint and Viking. Arrow had declared it ‘awesome’, and admitted that maybe vegetables weren’t ‘fuckin’ boring, after all.” Zoe had high-fived him with a huge grin.

It was happening, then, this gradual building-up of a new, better life. That aching want that she’d felt that day after the guys had set up Keira’s bedroom, that deep longing to belong somewhere for the first time in a long time… the ache and longing had receded. Not completely, that was true, but Zoe knew that if she kept inviting people past her walls, into her world, then eventually it would fade to nothing more than a pin prick.

She wasn’t inviting in everyone, of course – she still had the door firmly barricaded against him. Drawbridge up, alligators in the moat, guards manning the towers, Zoe in the highest turret with a goddamn grenade launcher as self-protection.

Not that Scars had really tried to storm the castle, if Zoe were being honest. In fact, he’d barely noticed the existence of the castle, or her. She’d seen him over the past week, of course, from a distance and across the parking lot, as he’d gone in and out of Satan’s. She’d seen him with Wolf, pretty much daily, and she’d caught a glimpse of the two of them just an hour before, when they’d taken off on their motorcycles and gone who-knows-where.

It was like he’d totally forgotten her after all his passionate protestations of genuine interest almost a week ago, and promises that this was just the beginning of ‘them’, and she wasn’t at all surprised about the amnesia. After all, guys like Scars were all about the sweet-talk when they were looking to get laid, and they then ignored a woman if sex wasn’t forthcoming – and Scars’ indifference meant that he had clearly found another pair of legs to bury himself between.

Zoe told herself she didn’t give a single, flying fuck about that. At all. It was what she’d wanted, and she was thrilled that the jerk had actually listened. Definitely. She didn’t even notice that he wasn’t noticing her, because why would she?

Wrenching her mind away from the way that his large, strong hands had held her face as he’d kissed her, Zoe refocused on Maria. This was what was important, after all, finding the best, safest child care for Keira.

Scars Innis wasn’t safe, wasn’t sane, wasn’t good for Zoe, sure as hell wasn’t good for her daughter. He wasn’t a man that she could count on, or turn to, or trust.

Scars Innis was nothing to her: not then, not now.

Not ever.

**

Scars stared across the table at Dawson Kinley, President of The Blood Crew, torn between normal, everyday hate, and bitter, corrosive, gut-churning hate.

Dawson, his ex-MC-brother, was a man that once upon a time, Scars had risked his own life for, without hesitation or regret. A man who’d betrayed the club, broken away and started his own MC, taken some of the other Road Devils with him. A man who’d picked up all of Kirk Jensen’s dirty contracts, the same ones that Wolf had extricated the Devils from with such pain and precision.

Dawson was a traitor. A liar. A fucking snake in the grass.

He was also up to some serious shit-stirring, if the word on the street was right – and that’s what Scars and Wolf were here to find out, if at all possible. Not that they expected Dawson to roll over and level with them… but they had to at least let the man know that they were wise to his games.

It was diplomacy MC-style – which meant guns on the table in plain sight, while concealing another one in their boot or the waistband of their jeans.

“I’m telling you,” Dawson repeated, his dark eyes cold as a midnight river. “I’m not doing anything against your interests, Connor.”

“No?” Wolf’s voice was that low, dangerous growl that made his road name suit him so perfectly. “You ain’t usin’ neutrals against us?”

“Jesus. No.”

“What about the Warriors up in Fort Collins?”

Those black eyes flashed. Just for a second. Then Dawson looked amused.

“Yeah, you knew damn good and well that Mace Rimes would be on the phone to me,” Wolf said. “You and your boys go on up there and try to pressure his MC to take some of the slack left behind by The Fallen Angels gettin’ wiped out, and you think Mace is thrilled about it? His MC has never done criminal shit, and you know it, man. You knew Mace would turn you down and then bring me into the loop, so my question is, why start the conversation in the first place?”

“Why do you think?” Dawson asked, shifting his weight a bit in his chair, looking lazy and relaxed. He nodded at Scars. “C’mon, Innis, share your thoughts with the group.”

“So that this would happen,” Scars replied, his voice like gravel. “This exact thing. This meeting. You did it to make fucking sure that me and Wolf showed up on your turf, at your clubhouse, to talk to you, which is exactly what we did. Now, answer my President: why did you start this conversation? What do you want to say that you couldn’t say in a goddamn text message?”

“Ha!” Dawson guffawed, and Scars gritted his teeth. Yeah, Dawson was President of his merry band of traitors, but some respect was due to Wolf as a fellow MC Prez, and to Scars as a Veep. And, frankly, a bit of respect as a small nod to their years of former brotherhood wasn’t a bad idea. Dawson’s disinterested body language and dismissive laugh were all starting to push Scars’ buttons, and he reminded himself to keep his cool.

No sense starting shit in another MC’s clubhouse – especially when he and Wolf still had no clear idea what their ex-brothers were even really capable of. Or what they wanted. Or if they intended harm. Or if they came in peace. Or anything useful to the decision-making process of ‘Do we start shit, or do we play nice?’. Time to do some probing.

“That’s your answer?” Scars asked evenly. “You gonna laugh? Nothing to add?”

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