Damon:A Bad Boy MC Romance Novel(38)

Curly looked up and down the street, calculating. He looked back at the fat wad in Damon's hand.

"How do I know this isn't a trick?" Curly said, approaching the car warily.

"What? I'm going to kill you in broad daylight in my own fucking car? I  know who paid you, I know it's them who really want me dead," Damon  growled. Curly looked impassive. Damon sighed. "I got my woman in the  car, and she won't abide any killing. Just get in."

Curly leaned down, looking in the passenger side window. Tricia recoiled  from his cold glare, the violence in his sneer. Damon sat back down in  the driver's seat and waited. Finally, Curly opened the passenger side  door, sliding in.

"I should kill you right now," Curly said as he shut the door. "Then I  could take the money and get the rest of what hose assholes owe me."

"I know," Damon said, trying to swallow the desire to strangle the guy.  "That's why she's here. She's got 911 on speed dial. You make any move  we don't like, and she's out of here, down the block, with the cops on  the line."

Curly grunted, looked back at Tricia once more, and saw the phone in her  hand. Tricia felt, once more, the cold tingle up her spine. Something  in this man's eyes told her all she needed to know about his feelings on  women. It made her sick.

"What do you want?" Curly barked, turning back to Damon.

"I want to end some shit," Damon said, keeping his eyes straight and level above the steering wheel.

"You gonna pay me to lay off you?" Curly asked, dropping his gaze to the money in Damon's hand.

"I'm gonna pay you to lay off me," Damon agreed, nodding. "And to tell me something."

"What? I don't know where they're hiding out," Curly said. "I only met them at bars and shit."

"That's not what I want you to tell me," Damon said, and finally turned  to look at the man he'd hunted all those years. "I want you to tell me  that you recognize me. That you know who I am."

Curly scoffed, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I know who you are," he said. "You're the fucker I got paid to  kill, the fucker who got a few good shots in before I turned you into  Swiss cheese."

Damon's muscles twitched, violently.

"That's not all I am," he growled, nearly spitting the words out. Tricia  watched from the backseat, still holding her phone up, her heart  racing. Damon might lose his cool. He might snap.

"Alright," Curly said, sensing Damon's growing ire. "Then who are you?"

"Let's start with you," Damon said, impatient. "You're Curly Gottlieb, right?"

"Yeah, I am," Curly said. "Didn't Whitley tell you my fuckin' name when you signed up for the fight?"

"Twenty years ago, you lived in Providence, Rhode Island," Damon said, ignoring the man's question.

Curly's eyes darkened, his own hands fisting.

"So?"

"You beat and raped a woman in a parking lot," Damon went on, choking  the words out like he was coughing up razor blades. Curly's eyes went  wide, his skin blanching.

"What are you, her fucking brother or some shit? Her son? Shit  –  you're not my fucking son, are you?"

Tricia's breath caught in her throat. Was that enough?

Not for Damon.

"You were a miserable, pathetic little prick," Damon said. "And I want  you to admit it. I'm not your fucking son. If I was, I'd kill myself. I  wouldn't want your shitty blood in my veins."

"Who the fuck are you then? What the hell do you care?"

"I'm the kid you threatened. I'm the kid who saw," Damon finally ground  out. Tricia saw the red rising in Damon's cheeks, saw pain flash in his  eyes, bright hot and searing. Curly's jaw went slack, and he seemed to  re-examine Damon, or see him for the first time.

"You're that little gypsy kid? Shiiiit," Curly said. "I forgot all about you."

"You forgot?" Damon barked, his shoulders bunching. "You FORGOT?"         

     



 

"Hey," Curly said, backing away and putting his hands up. "Hey man, it was a long time ago. I've had a rough life."

"You've had a rough life," Damon said, his voice strangely flat now. "You've had a rough life. You've had a rough life."

He sounded like a broken machine, and Tricia fought back the desire to  touch him. She needed both hands to keep the phone steady.

"Damon," she said, using her words instead. He blinked, turned away, looked down at the money in his hands.

"Fuck it," Damon muttered, then looked back at Curly. "Just tell me what you do remember. I want to hear you tell me the story."

"Are you fucking crazy, man?"

"Stop asking questions, and start talking," Damon growled. Curly looked at the wad again, sighed, and leaned back slightly.

"I don't know," Curly said. "I was a kid. I was horny as fuck all the  time. I'd always cut through the parking lot and see this bitch on her  way to her car. She always smelled like fuckin' flowers ‘cause she  worked at that store. And one day I just figured, fuck it. Why not. So I  picked up this piece of wood and bashed her over the head.

And listen, man, I never even got off, alright? I tried to, but I never  did. I guess that's ‘cause you interrupted me  –  I remember that now. You  got me all distracted. By the time I got back to her, I didn't even  really want her anymore. She was all bloody and shit. So I wiped down  what I could, ‘cause I wasn't as stupid as I seemed, you know? And I  closed the door and I left her there. That's it. That's the whole  story."

The way he spoke, as though telling a story about getting ants at a  picnic, made Tricia nauseas. The coldness. The total nonchalance. But  he'd said it. He'd told it. In his own words, in his voice. Damon was  silent for a long moment. Tricia wondered if Damon would forget all  about the plan. She had a mental picture of Damon reaching over and  bashing the man's head into the window. Instead, Damon threw the wad of  money into Curly's pocket. The older man eagerly picked it up, flipped  through it, saw that it was all twenties. His eyes were bright, a smile  on his face.

"That's three grand," Damon said, his voice flat again, emotionless.  "I'm sure that's a lot more than the Steel Dragons wanted to give you.  Now get the fuck out of my car. I never want to see your sorry ass  again."

Curly didn't argue, was all too happy to obey. The sound of the door  slamming shut seemed too loud, seemed to ring and echo in Tricia's ear.  She put the phone down, crawled up to take his seat. She grimaced,  realizing it was still warm from his body. That was closer than she ever  wanted to be with a man like that.

"I got it," Tricia said, holding the phone out. "I mean, we'll have to  edit it a little, and I still don't think it's going to do any good, but  I got it."

"It probably won't do a damn thing," Damon muttered, taking the phone  from her hand. On the screen, he could see the first frame of the video  Tricia had filmed from the front seat. "I don't think these kinds of  confessions are admissible in court, or even grounds for an arrest."

I finally made my movie, he thought, feeling numb and cold all over.

"But maybe when you come forward as witness … "

"Maybe," Damon said, gritting his teeth, doubt in his voice. He knew how  these things worked. He'd been through it all in his head already. A  witness twenty years after the fact was pretty damn unreliable. This  confession was pretty much worthless, even after cutting out the parts  that mentioned the money. Stabs in the dark. In the deep, wide, awful  dark.

Tricia folded her hand over his, and a little bit of light shone through.





44





They gave Jenner one phone call, but he hadn't figured out how to use it  yet. He could call Kennick, ask for money for a lawyer. He should call  Kennick. Kennick had promised him money. Money would be useful, no  matter where he ended up.



He guessed that Kennick hadn't really gone back on his word after all.  Jenner had made him promise to get him away from the Steel Dragons, and  so he did.



Jenner had never specified that he didn't want to go to jail, either.



They had him on aiding and abetting, conspiracy, arson, and more. If  Jenner got a good lawyer, he thought, he might get off on time served as  the Steel Dragon's prisoner. But that would involve proving he was  their hostage, that they held him against the will … and any prosecutor  worth his salt could probably argue that the Steel Dragons were hiding  him, protecting him.         

     



 



He knew that Roper and his men, all of whom had been led out in  handcuffs, same as Jenner, would find harboring a fugitive a much better  crime to admit to than kidnapping.



Jenner rolled his head back on the hard, stiff cot. Just like his bed  back at the clubhouse. The only difference was that the guards here wore  badges instead of cuts.



Maybe this was what he deserved, after all.