Blood in the Water(45)

A hipster. Of course one of those pretentious dicks would be running this monstrosity. Good suit, though.

“I’m Byron Beauregard. Pleased to meet ya.” Jane stood behind him, tapping her foot on the floor impatiently.

“Beauregard. The Byron Beauregard?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yeah, I’ve seen your picture before. You’re in the gossip rags all the time.”

“I know.” Byron swaggered further into the room.

Byron had wined and dined a passel of women over the years. No one special, of course, because he had a tendency to lose interest fast, but all of them had been entertaining. Every now and then his picture made the paper as he showed up at the opening of a new club or a restaurant in Dallas with a pretty thing on his arm.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Skeeter.”

Byron peeled back the jacket the slightest bit, to show his piece.

Skeeter gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles going white. “What the shizzle are you doin’ with a gun?”

“Whatcha think?”

“Shootin’ people?” He lifted quivering hands over his head.

“Whatever you do, don’t piss yourself. Ain’t got the stomach for bodily fluids this mornin’. Where’s your boss?” Byron scanned the room but didn’t see hide nor hair of the president.

“Ain’t here.” His lips trembled a bit. “Rooster’s on vacation.”

Aw, hell.

Byron had dealings with the president before, back when he was looking for a new biker gang to be the Dixie Mafia’s errand boys. The Four Horsemen had ultimately been recruited, but he’d made a preliminary deal with the Broken Hearts which had fallen through—though he suspected the bikers were happy it hadn’t worked out. They weren’t quite as delusional as the Four Horsemen, but they had a code of sorts and found the Dixie Mafia distasteful.

“Fair enough. And the second in command?”

“I’ll text him.” Still shaking, Skeeter pulled out a cell phone and tapped on the keyboard.

“Look, Hairdo, my date and I are in town for a romantic getaway.”

Jane had a sudden coughing fit.

Skeeter stood as still as a statue with wide eyes and a pale face.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Byron said. “If I were here on business, you’d be riddled with bullet holes already, so bring it down a notch.”

Jane kept fiddling with her briefcase. Like the coughing spell, it was probably a nervous tick. He’d have to work with her body language or she’d give them away.

“Okay, cool.” Skeeter’s head bobbed up and down. “And for the record, I ain’t a prospect or nothin’. Just a citizen runnin’ a paper, though I hang around the club.”

“Duly noted.” Byron doubted Skeeter had the outlaw temperament necessary for this gig.

“Date you said? What a scoop.”

Byron didn’t want Jane to get caught up in his sordid dating life. He had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the added scrutiny, and it’d probably damage her career. While her bosses defended criminals, he doubted they’d want their lawyers openly dating them.

“How’d you snag him?” Skeeter asked Jane as he pulled out a notepad. At least snapping the man into reporter mode had dialed down the fear.

I might be piss-free today.

Jane surprised him by laughing. “Believe me, it was easier than you think. But on the record? No comment.”

“Damn.” Skeeter dropped the pen.

“We ain’t here for an interview anyhow. When’s the VP comin’?”

“Scorch owns the saloon down the street. Should only be a couple of minutes.”

Byron hadn’t met the man, though he’d heard the name before. What was it with bikers and aliases? Why couldn’t they have regular names like everyone else? Then again, it also escaped him why anyone would want to barrel down the highway on a crotch rocket. Byron loved the comfort of his leather-seated SUV.

Minutes later, a tall, broad-shouldered biker with spiked black hair strutted in the door. The brown-eyed man wore a pair of jeans and a red muscle shirt, beneath a black leather vest. He had a VP patch on the front pocket. A tribal tattoo trailed down his right arm, and he had an eyebrow ring. Byron glimpsed a reddish pink scar down the length of his neck, which extended beneath his shirt.

A burn scar? Scorch, indeed.

Apparently, he’d lost what looked like a painful battle against the flames. Although Byron doubted the man had once been as handsome as himself.

And then the bastard pulled a sawed-off shotgun from behind his back.

Byron automatically pulled his weapon.

“Fuck nuggets!” Skeeter hit the floor behind the counter. “I said he came in peace, bro. No need for this to get heavy.”