Unbeautifully

CHAPTER NINE

Ripper, Tap, and Cox cut their engines a small ways away from an old abandoned group of condos on the edge of town. Warily they eyed the dark, decrepit scene before them.

“You trust this bitch?” Tap asked Cox.

Cox laughed coldly. “I don’t trust any bitch, least of all this one, but she contacted us when she coulda just snagged our shit from Marcus and split.”

Fucking Marcus. One of their main distributors. They got a shipment in, then they cut, bagged, and tagged it and sent it packing with several different runners. Only Marcus had fucked up. Got himself ganked.

By a fucking woman.

Looking off in the distance, Cox squinted. “There she be.”

Ripper followed Cox’s finger to an attractive young black woman with an afro the size of a house and an ass to match, who was sauntering their way.

“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” he growled, looking her over.

Skintight leather jacket. Skintight jeans. And thigh-high leather boots with what he was guessing were six-inch heels.

“Holy shit,” Tap breathed. “Holy fuckin’ shit…look at that ass.”

Cox laughed. “Calls herself Mama Vi.”

Mama Vi? Shit. Why the fuck did that sound so familiar to him?

“Boys,” she greeted them, flashing a white smile, stark against her bright red lips and deep chocolate skin.

“Diana fuckin’ Ross,” he shot back, staring in horror at her hair. “Where the fuck is our shit?”

Tsk-tsking him, she grinned. “Gotta proposition for ya first,” she drawled.

“I’m listenin’,” Tap said, staring the bitch up and down with a dumbass smile on his face.

“Ain’t you a sweet-lookin’ little white boy,” she cooed, stepping forward and placing her hand on Tap’s chest. Ripper caught sight of her nails, three inches long, curved like claws, and also bright red.

Sweet-looking little white boy? Tap?

Grabbing Mama Vi’s wrist, Tap slammed her hand down over his cock. “Ain’t nothin’ little ’bout me,” he growled.

Her grin grew.

“Ta think, Big Jay had said bikers weren’t nothin’ but sheep-fuckin’, honkey-tonkin’ rednecks.”

Ripper’s heart skipped a beat.

Big Jay.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Cox growled. “I look like a fuckin’ redneck to you?”

Stepping away from Tap, she glanced over at Cox. “No, boo,” she said silkily. “You lookin’ like a mighty fine piece of pandillero meat to Mama Vi.”

“Gracias, niña,” Cox said, dipping his head.

“El placer es mío.” She giggled.

Ripper glanced between a love-struck Tap, and Cox, who seemed to be having some sort of an identity crisis. “What the fuck is wrong with you assholes?” he demanded. “Did you not just hear what the bitch fuckin’ said? Big Jay! She works for motherfuckin’ Big Jay! She ain’t no bitch of his, either. She’s his crazy-ass little sister, Vivian Jones. Gotta rep a mile fuckin’ long, most of it for killin’ white boys who fuck her brother over.”

Both his brothers turned to him, confused.

“Who?”

“What?”

Mama Vi’s deep, silky laughter echoed throughout the empty parking lot. “You homegrown, white boy, ain’tcha?”

“Yeah,” he growled. “Born and fuckin’ raised and still workin’ the Cali territories. Now start fuckin’ talkin’. What’s a boss from LA like Big fuckin’ Jay doin’ messin’ with my club?”

“Word’s out,” she said. “Preacher done dropped science on the Horsemen. You boys hit the big time and you gotta start payin’ the piper.”

Preacher. Another thing he could lay at Eva’s feet. If it weren’t for Deuce’s alliance with the Demons, this shit wouldn’t be happening.

“I’m guessin’ we ain’t gettin’ our shit back?” Cox growled.

“Not this time,” she said. “You been chin-checked. Think of it as a good faith payment.”

“Fuck that!” Cox shouted. “We don’t gotta to listen to some fuckin’ hood rat—”

“No,” Ripper interrupted before Cox got himself killed. “We’re not interested.”

“You sure about that?” Mama Vi asked sweetly, her dark eyes on him. Appraising. Assessing. Scaring the ever-loving shit out of him. The stories he’d heard about her… Her skills and finely honed specialties were right up there with Frankie’s sick and twisted bullshit.

“I’m sure,” he said, already knowing Deuce wouldn’t play ball with street gangs, no matter how high up on the food chain they were. Most of them were unorganized, their distribution messy, full of snitches and junkies, making it too easy for the law to get the drop on them.

“You’re makin’ a mistake.”

Tap’s jaw clenched. “You threatenin’ us?”

Mama Vi smiled nastily. “I am. You don’t play it our way, Deuce is gonna have a war on his hands.”

Fuck. Deuce was going to be pissed. First, because he was in New York and not able to deal with this bitch himself, and second, for threatening the club. No one threatened the club and got away with it. Deuce was going to want blood. And speaking of wanting blood…

“You want a war, bitch, you fuckin’ got one. Now, where’s our boy?” he asked.

“White boy, you are makin’ a mistake.”

He pulled his piece mere moments before she pulled hers. Half a second later both Cox and Tap had their guns trained on her, but he wasn’t under the false impression that any of them were safe. The bitch had deadly reflexes and was more than likely armed with an entire arsenal.

“Bitch,” he growled. “First, you’re gonna learn right the fuck now that no one is gonna threaten my prez, my club, or any of my brothers and get away with it. Second, I ain’t white, I’m motherfuckin’ tan. Third, you tell me where our fuckin’ boy is or I’m puttin’ a bullet in your big black ass.”

For several heart-pounding moments, no one moved until Mama Vi tucked her gun back inside her jacket.

“Scarface,” she drawled. “First, if Deuce don’t think Jay can take him down, he’s one sad, sorry mothafucker.”

She glanced toward the condos. “Second, your boy’s tied up inside.”

Then her dark gaze turned back to him and she smiled just a little too sweetly. “Third, honey, ain’t no man ever pulled a gun on me and lived happily ever after.”

She leaned in a few inches. “I will hurt you,” she whispered. “Count on it.”

As they stared at each other, it took every ounce of his willpower not to pull the trigger and blow this bitch straight to hell.

“Lookin’ forward to it,” he growled softly.

No one said a word as she walked off.

“Tap,” he barked. “Stay out here in case she comes back.” Glancing at Cox, he jerked his chin in the direction of the condos. “Let’s go, chief.”

“This is fucked,” Cox muttered, stepping in line beside him.

“Yeah.”

“You think Prez is gonna go to war?”

“Yeah.” Deuce didn’t mess around. It was how the man had gotten where he was today. That and most people were scared shitless of him. Had been for a long time now. Ripper hadn’t been around when Deuce had his old man, Reaper, offed, but the circuit still buzzed about it. Fuckers were still whispering about how Deuce had posted the hit with the explicit instructions to make Reaper’s death as long and as painful as possible.

Ripper couldn’t picture wanting to kill his own father, but then again, his old man had been a good guy. Both his parents had been quality stock. He often wondered where he’d be if he hadn’t lost them at such a young age. Still surfing? Skating? Beach bumming it with his friends and an endless supply of blonde-haired, blue-eyed hotties?

A wave of longing hit him, a homesickness he hadn’t felt in years, and suddenly he found himself thinking about home, eating his mom’s pot roast and apple pie, watching TV with his old man, listening to him bitch and moan about the declining morals of modern society. Both of them constantly complaining that his hair was too long, that skating was too dangerous, but he saw the secret smiles when they’d thought he wasn’t looking. They’d been proud of him.

He was fairly certain if they were still alive, they wouldn’t be proud anymore.

Jesus Christ, what the fuck was wrong with him lately?

He needed to find a way to turn off this all of a sudden “give a shit” switch that had been turned on inside of him.

“Shit’s gonna get messy,” Cox mused.

“Yeah.”

Reaching door number one, they pulled their pieces, glanced at one another, and Cox kicked open the door. There was Marcus. The dumb as shit, hairy, Italian motherfucker was tied up in a corner. Dumbass.

“Please,” Marcus said hoarsely. “Please…”

“Please fuckin’ what?” he yelled, stalking forward. “You lost an entire shipment! To one fuckin’ woman!”

“The bitch jumped me,” Marcus rasped, struggling against the ropes. “Took everything, took the rest of the shit, took all the cash. Did you know she’s got throwing stars?”

Eyebrows raised, Cox glanced at him and he shook his head in response. Marcus had made a big mess and he had to go to ground. It didn’t matter if Mama Vi had used a motherfucking cannon to gank him, Marcus had one responsibility and he’d failed. Now he was deadweight.

Sighing, he bent down and pressed the muzzle of his nine to Marcus’s temple.

Knowing he was worm food, Marcus began thrashing in earnest. “Dude! Please! Gimme two weeks and I’ll make back what I owe ya! Please, man, I got fuckin’ kids!”

Ripper snorted. Marcus knew the game, had been living in it his whole damn life, and knew having kids didn’t mean jack fucking squat.

About to pull the trigger, the front right pocket of his leathers started vibrating.

“Gimme a sec,” he said, tucking his gun back in his pants and reaching for his phone.

“Wat up?”

“Where are you?” Deuce barked.

“Edge of town, at the abandominiums.” Using his shoulder, he held his phone to his ear while he pulled his smokes from his cut and lit one up. “’Bout to do Marcus in.”

“The woman?”

“Ain’t no woman, Prez,” he said around an exhale of smoke. “Big Jay’s little sister outta LA.”

Deuce cursed. “You square that shit?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s that costin’ me?”

“War. And more than likely me goin’ to ground.”

Because Mama Vi wasn’t kidding around. He knew a sociopath when he saw one; that bitch had the same cold, dead eyes Frankie had. Eyes that lit up with a whole lot of crazy only when blood was involved.

“You ain’t goin’ to ground,” Deuce growled. “Not on my watch. They want a war, they’re gonna fuckin’ get one. Put the word out, club’s goin’ on lockdown.”

“On it.”

“And Ripper?”

“Yeah?”

“Spoke to Dimebag earlier. Eva’s at the club, so’s Cage, and Danny ain’t, meaning she’s home alone. So I need you to grab her on your way back.”

What? No. Fuck no.

“Can, uh, someone else get her—”

“You got somethin’ else to do?”

Fuck.

“No.”

“Yeah, well, the boys got families they gotta get, you don’t. And the less traffic in and out of the gate, the fuckin’ better. And I ain’t real sure why I gotta explain shit to you that you already motherfuckin’ know. So shut the fuck up and go get my daughter.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “On it.”

He shoved his phone back in his pocket, dropped his smoke onto the dirty carpet, stubbed it out with his boot, and pulled his piece.

“NO!” Marcus screamed. “No! No! N—”

The bullet cracked through Marcus’s skull. Instant quiet.

“’Bout fuckin’ time.”

“You coulda done it, so stop fuckin’ whinin’.”

“Fuck off. Was that Prez?”

Ripper nodded. “We’re on lockdown. Go grab your kids and that crazy bitch of yours.”

Cox gave him a sideways glance and grinned. “Jealous.”

After tucking his gun back into his leathers, Ripper used his forearm to wipe Marcus’s blood spatter off his face.

“Dude, ain’t no one jealous of you. Dumpin’ Anna for Kami was like tradin’ in a sweet little kitty cat for a bloodthirsty tiger.”

“Yeah,” Cox drawled, grinning. “Half the time I don’t know whether to come or cry or both, but fuck me if she ain’t worth it.”

He watched Cox walk off, wondering what bitch on earth would be worth Kami’s level of bullshit and came up empty. That bitch was on a level all her own.