Page 24 of Rough Ride

He’d been completely truthful when he told Eliana that he’d kill Max before he let anything happen to her. In a way, it might be a mercy killing. Max was dying and not in a pleasant manner. Kye had done enough research on pancreatic cancer to know what was in store.

With less than a ten percent survival rate, and that was with treatment, Max was in the last months of survival. When they’d met that morning, Kye had noted the yellowing of his sclera. Jaundice was a sign it had reached his liver as well as his lungs. Even without this, the last push of Max to try to free as many Demons from lockup was his own farewell to the club he’d built from the ground up.

Good or evil regardless, Max was a titan, and there was a melancholy that had crept over the Demons. His condition was widely known, though, maybe not the extent, and with equal parts restlessness and anticipation, change was coming. They all felt it. This level of tumultuous vying for authority hadn’t occurred since the Defectors tried to seize control.

Sitting on the back deck, cell phone in one hand, cigarette in the other, Kye contemplated their next moves. Whatever was happening, it would be soon. When Max made the call to end his dealing with Eliana, they’d need to move quickly. Running scenarios in his mind, he knew Max would keep it close to the belt.

Eliana wasn’t some nobody living in Pine Hill they could make go away. She was a prominent member of a law firm that was likely already missing her. She could only extend her bereavement leave and vacation time so far before the phone calls would roll in. As soon as people started asking questions, missing her, looking for her, that was when Max would pull the trigger. Either figuratively or literally.

Kye would need to be careful. Methodical. While he had fail-safes in place for himself should he need to flee the country, he didn’t have any credentials that would allow Eliana to walk onto an airplane and disappear under an assumed name. Without sufficient time to print up the documents he needed for her, he’d have to think of something else.

That was where the text message came in. Kye could count on one hand the number of people in the world he actually trusted, and as things within the club shifted, the mantle of power hanging in limbo, that list was getting shorter and shorter. Kye needed help.

While Plan A was waiting for Max to kick the bucket, he couldn’t keep things in limbo. For all he knew, Max had left explicit instructions with Dhal or one of the goons that should Eliana or any other unfulfilled task be left undone, should he die too soon, for them to finish the task. It was what Kye would have done.

The club was everything to Max. He could be dead ten years, and his bidding would still be done. There were those, like Dhal, who held a particular loyalty not only to the man but to the agenda. It was their kingdom. Their purpose. Their excuse for vengeance, cruelty, and blood. They’d find any reason to inflict pain and punishment wherever they could. Especially if it meant discrediting whoever took over.

While it was a promising prospect to inherit the entire club, it would be several months if not years of unrest before Kye could reasonably take the throne without defiance, disestablishment and likely murder attempts. Riggs could be an issue. Grier too, although the thought made him feel sick.

It only took him a few minutes and two more cigarettes to check on a few things, formulate the rough beginning of an exit strategy when his phone chimed. The anonymous number of a burner phone read a brief message:

The fuck you texting this early for? Kye grinned; he could hear the man’s tone in the brief reply.

Do you remember what I said to you in Wexford?

Yes.

Greenlight, mate. It’s a go.

For fuck's sake. You can’t be serious.

I wouldn’t joke about this. Kye sent the text and waited a long moment. He pulled out a fourth cigarette and struggled to light it. He abandoned the task when his phone finally buzzed with the response he was waiting for.

Well, it’s been a good run. Jeronimo!

According to modern science, there were seven distinct forms of mental disorders and behavioral health diagnoses. The most common among them being anxiety, mood, and psychotic. As Eliana stood staring out the window in the kitchen, arms crossed, bare feet pressed firmly into the tile, she wondered what she was afflicted with more: anxiety, mood, or psychosis.

It had been two days since she’d sent back the last of the cases Max had provided. She’d fallen into a steady routine for nearly a week. Boxes would come in, and she’d send them back out. Working the defense had kept her mind occupied. She’d been able to distance herself from the crimes, most of which were petty theft, armed robbery, possession. Two, in particular, had afflicted her. Murder. It had taken three straight nights and endless amounts of coffee, but she’d managed to sabotage the prosecutor's case. They would walk. Two days ago, the boxes stopped coming, and she hadn’t heard a word from Max.

Yanking the fridge open, she stared vacantly at the contents. Kye, the dutiful prison warden, had kept it stocked with anything she could have wanted. Fresh vegetables and fruits, bottles of sparkling water, organic gluten-free pasta… Eliana sighed as she grabbed a beer and the bakery-fresh cheesecake. Tossing the plastic dome lid aside and popping the top of the beer, she sat at the counter, drank from the bottle and ate from the tray.

Add an eating disorder to her list of current afflictions.

The front door opened and closed, but she didn’t bother looking up. She knew it was Kye. His bike had rumbled into the driveway nearly thirty minutes ago, but he’d paced the front yard talking on his cell phone for a long while. She’d watched him. Black boots trekking through the muddy yard, his khaki cargo pants fitting well over his ass where her eyes had lingered, tight-fitting white shirt under his black leather cut that was adorned with patches and brands from the Demons. He’d worn his hair down that day, the long strands well past his shoulders now. In the gray afternoon, he looked ethereal against the din.

“That kind of day?” he asked, setting his cut on the counter next to her. She made a humming noise of agreement, and he kissed her on the top of the head before fetching a beer for himself. “You going to save me any of that?” he asked, gesturing to the cheesecake with his bottle. Eliana’s reply was a large bite where she licked the fork clean. “Then again I could watch you do that all day…”

“What happens when I run out of cheesecake?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Got anything else I can put in my mouth?” Kye choked on his beer, spittle running down his chin and staining his shirt. Eliana smiled triumphantly. Their game of sexual tug-of-war was likely the only thing keeping her from snapping. The boredom and lunacy of waiting were only adding to the tension and anxiety that had built up in her. So why not add sexual tension to that.

“I can think of something,” he said, setting his bottle aside and tossing her a wink. She grinned and watched as Kye pulled his shirt off and began rinsing it in the sink. Eliana couldn’t help biting her lip. With his back to her, she could see every curve of muscle as his shoulder blades moved. He’d always had a darker complexion than her, and the hours he’d spent outside gave his skin a more bronze hue. Smooth and chiseled with two dimples on his lower back, she imagined how much better his skin would look covered in fingernail marks.

“Do you have any news?” she asked, trying to pull her thoughts back. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand the silence. I need something. Anything.” Her voice was sharp and had an edge of pleading. Kye wrung his shirt out and tossed it over his shoulder before turning.

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” he answered. “Max has gone quiet since yesterday. Last I heard he said he’d send more your way when he has it.” The white shirt was still wet, and her eyes followed a droplet of water that ran down his chest, over his pectoral, down the center of his prominent abs and soaked into the elastic band of his underwear that peeked out above his pants.

“It seems like he’s stalling,” she commented. “Like he’s trying to make up his mind about something.”

“Could be,” Kye said, retrieving his beer. “He wants you nervous. He wants you to be afraid. It’s what keeps him in power.”