— Chapter 50 —

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Bass-heavy music reverberated through my eardrums in the VIP section of Crave.

By the time midnight had come around, the club was full to the brim. Sipping fancy drinks from shiny glasses, people were dancing endlessly on a floor illuminated by neon lights, their happy chatter adding to the cacophony of noise that was putting me on edge. Strobe lights seemed to blare right into my pupils—hues of red, blues and purples, highlighting the figures of the rowdy Mayhem bikers ahead of me. They were busy laughing and indulging in booze, filling up the VIP sections on the second floor which overlooked the rest of the club below.

Chains followed by my side as we made our presence known to the gang of bikers. Silver-white hair fell loosely at the sides of his forehead from beneath his hoodie, a stark contrast to the black vest hanging off his shoulders. He was like a cobra, Chains. He stalked behind me with the eyes of a hunter, masked behind a calm aura... but always alert to his surroundings.

You could see the surprise flash across the faces of Mayhem bikers who turned in our direction.

Nobody had seen me since the broadcast—the night I'd been shot. Rumors had been circulating that I'd been put out of commission.

"Holy shit," I heard someone murmur off to the side, "I thought he was dead."

Another biker answered him with slurred speech. "Yeah, man... that's a fucking ghost."

It wasn't hard to tune them out. With my hands buried in the pockets of my worn jacket, I zeroed my focus on the one person I'd come to see tonight.

Tats. He was busy playing a game of poker at one of the tables when he saw Chains and I coming. You could see it in his posture—his newfound lack of confidence at the sight of us. He knew why we were here.

Dropping his cards on the table, he ignored the bitter grumbles of his companions and stepped out of his booth. A dispirited frown weighed on his lips. He headed in our direction, and with only a brisk nod from me, Chains went and slung an arm over the biker's shoulders. His strong grip and wry smile gave Tats no choice but to follow us into one of the separate rooms.

Finding one that was unlocked, I pushed the door open to the sight of four guys slinging back tequila with cigarettes between their teeth. Two women stood at their beck and call, one holding a tray of shots while another danced on the table before them. Snapping their attention to me when Chains and Tats came in behind, I gave the strangers an annoyed stare.

"All of you," I said, "leave."

Thankfully, my reputation seemed to precede me. The women were the first to leave. I heard a few very audible cusses from the men, but after downing their last shots and putting out their cigarettes, they eventually followed out. Chains kicked the door shut behind them and gestures for Tats to take a seat on the red leather couch in the middle of the room.

It wasn't a massive space, but the room was illuminated by a dozen small lights that reflected off the black marble flooring. A grey carpet sat beneath the glossy, coal-black table before us. Hell, if that carpet could talk. The centerpiece of the room, though, was the seven-seater couch made from a bright scarlet leather, matched only by a red floor lamp in the corner of the room.

I took a seat across from Tats as Chains leaned against the door to the room, standing only a few feet behind the Mayhem leader.

He twirled a butterfly knife between his fingers—metallic clicking filled the air.

I lit a cigarette up with my rusty lighter while Tats started to come up with some kind of last-ditch excuse.

"Alright," he began, "I know this looks bad. But you gotta believe me, Edge, I had no idea one of my boys would be in that race."

Thick smoke began to rope into the room from the burning end of the cigarette between my fingers. Balancing it between my lips, I drew in a long inhale of viscid air and rested an indifferent glance to the tattooed biker.

And I observed him, letting the heavy smoke seep slowly from my cold lips.

He looked nervous. You could see it in the way his legs shifted—slight, but noticeable. He seemed to spend a lot of time deliberating whether he should meet my gaze or look away from me completely, because he never had the nerve to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds. His hair was black and pin-straight, shaved into a loose mohawk that fell down the right of his face... he pushed the strands out of his eyes with every click of Chain's blade.

"Thought you were dead, you know," he muttered. "My crew told me you were shot following those bastards down to the airport."

I moved the cigarette from my lips and offered a derisive shrug. "Well," I slowly drawled, "back from the dead by unpopular demand... me."

Chains smiled to himself. Tats shook out the back of his hair and sighed.

"We watched the broadcast on one of the flatscreens," he explained. "I saw you pushing 200 in that storm and thought for sure you wouldn't be coming out alive."

"I'm glad I could defy expectations," I said. "Unfortunately, can't say the same for your biker. His name—Gears, was it? He was hospitalized after his crash. I heard he broke most of the bones in his ribs and arms... but the doctors are saying he'll live. That'll save a stain on your conscience, at least."

Silence followed my words. Interlacing and unlacing his fingers a few times, Tats drew in a long inhale and an even longer exhale.

He grumbled at me, "Come on, man. Do you think I really would have let him go through with it if I'd known?"

Speaking plainly, I said, "You're losing control."

Tats parted his lips only to clench his jaw shut instead. Hesitating for a moment, he then replied, "Do you honestly fucking expect me to be micromanaging every little thing these bastards do all day? Half of them spend every waking minute wasted while the other half are off doing god-knows-what. You could write a book with the illegal shit they're doing in their free time, Edge, a fucking book. And there aren't enough hours in the day to keep track of all that. So I sincerely apologize if I can't figure out when they decide to go street-racing against your will, alright? Jesus Christ."

He reclined back into the seat and crossed his arms over his chest like a ticked-off toddler.

I gave him a flat look.

"Are you finished?" I asked him, letting the smoke escape with my words. "Because when you are, people are being killed because you think it's too much of a challenge to manage your own people. There's a lot more to that vest you're wearing than parties and booze, Tats, so you just let me know when you're ready to pull your head out of your ass and get back to work."

Tats pursed his lips briefly, letting the frustration show in his demeanor. He eventually succumbed to complacency.

"What do you want me to do?" He snapped at me. "Was it not enough to shred Gears's patches off, you want me to drag the crippled guy out and publicly humiliate him? What, so we can make an example of what happens when things don't go your way, Edge? Please, let me know what you'd fucking fancy. I'm all ears."

"It might not be Gears that needs to be made an example of," I said, sinister. "You seem to be forgetting your place lately. I'd like to give you the benefit of the doubt because I know Gears was a good friend to you... but don't test my patience."

Tats appeared to spot the line drawn in the sand and clenched his jaw. Perhaps he'd learn to hold his tongue.

I knew the answer already, but I asked anyway, "Did you even stop to question him?"

He rolled his eyes. "Kind of difficult considering his jawbone was basically ripped off its hinges. But I'll make sure to put that on the agenda... you know, when he can move his mouth again."

Chains had told me something similar a few nights before. Perfect, I thought. The one person who could actually provide some valuable insight was useless in his condition.

"I heard that the redhead was put in police custody," Tats brought up. Marcus—yet another loose end that I hadn't found the time to cut off. "You really trust that loose-lipped prick not to go running his mouth?"

"If Marcus had confessed anything even remotely useful, the police would've beat down my door days ago. He's not a cause for concern."

The Mayhem biker scoffed. "That seems like a lot of trust to put into someone who isn't even a Stray Dog."

I grimace slightly before I replied, adjusting on my seat to stop the striking pain in my side. The stitches were gone, but the wound was as hellish as it was tender.

"He may not be a Stray Dog, but he's reliable enough to do what he's told. I wish I could say the same for you." My words came through gritted while I continued. "I asked you weeks ago to hand me a list of people racing in Boston with Mayhem vests on their backs. But you failed. And I thought if you couldn't do that, then you'd at least be able to point out the bastard who was giving your crew invites to race—which you haven't. So that's twice now that you've proved yourself incompetent."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tats growled, his slit brows pressing together. I gave Chains a simple look. "Rich of you to be barking orders left and right, really. You think I haven't fucking tried? I had three fucking bikers beat half to death trying to get someone to talk. Nobody wants to cough up what they know, Edge!"

I hissed, "Then get creative."

Chains came up behind where Tats was sitting and slapped his hands down on the biker's shoulders, making Tats jump in alarm.

"I'm sick of all the fucking excuses," I began, getting to my feet. Putting out my cigarette in the ashtray on the table, I rested a cold glare on him. "Two people have already been killed. Another is wasting away in a hospital bed. People are betting big money on races and putting people's lives at risk. It's not a matter of control anymore—it's about integrity. How many more people are going to die while you're sitting on your ass, perfecting the art of doing absolutely fucking nothing?"

Sliding my hands into my pockets, I leaned down and met his line of sight with a vicious poison lacing my words.

"I need information—so you have a week to get me a name." Briefly observing the fearful gleam in his tattooed eyes, I tilted my head and scoffed. "Don't make the mistake of forgetting how you got here. You run Mayhem because I allow you to. Everything you have I gave to you."

Chains brought his face to Tats' ear. The point of his butterfly knife pressed to the biker's throat.

With a curled lip, he hissed, "That can all be taken away."

Tats cringed away from the silver-haired man, his unsteady gaze peering at him with fear. Insecurity gleamed in his eyes. Brows pressed together, a bitter expression on crossed Tats' face.

"You want a name?" he slowly rasped, turning to face me.

The Mayhem biker let out a sharp exhale, scratching the back of his neck.

"Before you showed up tonight, I was supposed to be meeting here with someone named Midas. Never met the guy before, but he and Gears seemed to know each other," Tats confessed. I couldn't help but note the uncertainty that tainted his speech. "The guy's bad news, Edge. He walked into Crave tonight with two bodyguards behind him—both of them carrying guns."

The piercing on my tongue grazed the back of my teeth. Walking around with guns so openly in Boston only meant one thing: you weren't afraid of burying a few bodies in the process of making new enemies.

Midas, huh?

I spoke firmly, "Where is he?"

The biker huffed.

"There's an area sectioned off by velvet ropes not far from the stage. With any luck, you'll find him there," He said. "But having someone with your reputation lurking around here tonight? Heh, he might just find you first."

I felt my fists clench in my pockets. Challenge accepted.

Nodding my head to Chains, he let go of Tats and followed behind me as we walked out of the private room. We left the Mayhem biker to collect his pride.

Midas. I'd never heard the name in Boston before. A man carrying weaponry so plainly through city streets wouldn't have gone unnoticed for so long. Either he was new in town, or he'd developed a lack of care for the rules. Perhaps it was both.

Ignoring the sideways glances of bikers, we headed for the large set of stairs at the entrance of the second floor. But the sight of a familiar face made me pause.

Chains frowned, "Hey, isn't that...?"

Tall, dressed in a red satin bomber jacket, a distressed shirt and black jeans, a lean figure walked in our direction from another roped-off VIP section. His blank obsidian eyes met mine, complimenting an expression of profound boredom.

We recognized each other in an instant. It was only then that his inkblot irises glossed over with annoyance.

Elliot's ex. James.

I think I'm going to punch something.

There was someone else walking behind him—a young Japanese man, perhaps a relative, only he carried himself a lot differently. Slightly taller, he was dressed in a tailored raven-black suit and polished loafers. Standing straight with a thin build and his chin held high, he had neat hair and an observant look in his brown eyes.

James stopped only a foot or so away from me. His slightly raised brow was the only cue I had that he was surprised to see me.

"Problem?" The man behind him asked.

James shook his head.

"No," he said. "Have a good night."

The older guy passed me a simple glance but left it at that. He took his leave. James shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and scoffed at the sight of me.

Fucking punk.

"This is a surprise," I said flatly. Tilting my head, my gaze caught on the mark still at his cheekbone—Elliot's handiwork. I taunted, "Didn't think someone so high-and-mighty as yourself wanted to be caught amongst the street rats."

James's eyes contorted into a glare. He didn't reply to me.

Instead, he slowly turned his focus down to the bar on the lower floor and brought his fingers to his lips. He whistled—an ear-splitting whistle, cutting cleanly through the noise in the club and catching the attention of someone down below.

My gaze finally narrowed on a familiar head of pale-brown hair. And when he met our focused stares, the face I saw made my jaw tic.

Elliot Taylor.

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This book honestly started out as just some self-indulgent fluff and I accidentally gave it plot so now we all have to suffer :)