Hellbent (Four Horsemen MC Book 5) (20 page)

When Shep’s eyes drifted over him again, Pretty Boy really wished Shep would stay. But he knew that wouldn’t happen.

"Yeah, of course." Shep looked over the group, gave a nod like everything was in order, then turned to Voo. "You in?"

"In a few. I'm uh, I'm going to finish this episode."

"It's a two-parter," Lexie hissed.

"These next two episodes," he replied dutifully. "I'll meet up with you. Parking lot of Seventh Circle?"

"That's where we'll be."

Pretty Boy tried to focus on the show as Shep left, but his BAC was a little too high to allow for real concentration. With the background of the women's constant litany of sexual tension citations, all he could think about was the blond biker. The way he felt scorched from the inside out when Shep looked at him. The way his stomach dropped when they got too close.

The hot sounds he'd made up against the alley behind Perdition as they ground against each other, while Shep kissed him back, slow and filthy.

He cleared his throat, strategically moving a throw pillow. He caught a glimpse of Voo moving closer to Lexi behind him. He whispered so softly, Pretty Boy couldn't catch much of it.
Sauced. Loa. Crossroads. Sober ride.

For a second, he thought he'd completely spaced on an entire episode. Until he heard Shep's name.

Lexi handed him her half-drained milkshake with a soft smile and he exchanged it for a bottle of water and a package of her favorite shortbread cookies.

"You're sure you don't mind staying up another six hours? I'm asking an awful lot. But I need to do something for Shep.” Voo’s whisper carried softly over the tv.

“Like get him really, really drunk?” Lexi teased.

“What I have planned for the night is
not
something you ask a man to face sober,” he said firmly.

"Yeah, no big. But you're making me coffee before you leave." She grinned.

"You seriously rock." He winked at her. She blushed.

Pretty Boy wondered what the capacity for unresolved sexual tension capacity was in Eddie's living room. Of course, considering how often she and Cap had been in this room, probably a lot. Surely the furniture would’ve melted by now.

Twenty minutes later and cup of coffee in hand, Lexi sighed as Voo's bike thundered down the ride. Pretty Boy patted her knee reassuringly. She put her hand on his head and left it there. Misery loves company.

Chapter Twenty

When you got a problem, that’s why you got brothers. Lean on them.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

The Crossroad Crows, Jagger's band, finished their warm ups and Shep's hearty round of applause echoed through the deserted space.

"Man, I don't even know what kind of band you are. Bluegrass? Folk? Outlaw Country? What do you call it?" Shep teased.

"Badass," Jagger replied with a smirk. Then he hopped up on the makeshift stage they'd made out of pallets in the Seventh Circle Motors parking lot. Their new fiddle player shook out her arms and raised the violin to her shoulder. Her hair was platinum blond on top and indigo blue underneath. Which meant she fit right in. The group was a hodge-podge mashup that landed somewhere between hillbilly and hipster.

They started up a bluegrass cover of Hozier's
Take Me to Church
and when Jagger belted out the first few lines, goosebumps ran down Shep's arms. The asshole had every right to be smug. Badass didn't cover the Crossroad Crows.

The pain pulsing in Jagger's aching voice as his Irish brogue caressed the syllables was the most spiritual moment Shep had experienced since he'd turned his back on becoming a Pastor. He moved across the stage, angling his shoulder against Blue's so they were back-to-back and she played the fuck out of that fiddle.

When had they gotten so good? But he knew. When Blue joined. Because that's all Jagger ever talked about anymore. Shep made a mental note to get around to having her checked out incase this started to look like an Old Lady arrangement.  At the end of her solo, she tossed him away with a impertinent elbow and a decidedly unimpressed look.

But it wasn't fooling Shep. The two of them on stage crackled with sexual tension, and its effect on their music was heady. He blew out a breath, his heart actually speeding a little.

He snapped a photo and texted it to Eddie.
You know this girl?

No. I'd remember blue hair.

Shep snickered. God, he missed Eddie.
She's all over Jagger like white on rice.

Interesting.

He tucked the phone back in his pocket. If he hadn't found anything by the time Eddie got back, she'd have the dirt—out of town or not.

Jagger hopped off the “stage.” He clapped a hand on Shep's shoulder and grinned. "You know I didn't ask you to tag along so you could lollygag in the crowd. Get up there!"

Shep grinned. He pulled his harmonica from his inside pocket and hopped up to sit on the left end. "This is as far as I'm going."

"Fine." He gestured at the rest of the band. It took him an extra second to recognize the song through the bluegrass interpretation. Ed Sheerhan's
Make it Rain
was a song that always tugged at his heartstrings.

Blue kept time by tapping her bow hand on the rim of her black violin as Jagger's fingers danced across the banjo strings. When Jagger got through the first line, Shep raised the harmonica to his lips.

The music filtered the pain out of his bloodstream and when he started to play, he could feel it soaking the notes. They fanned and flitted out from the fingers wrapped around the harmonica, drenched in helpless longing and remorse.

He thought about how he'd felt, riding across town, loaded gun tucked in his shoulder holster the night Noah's father died. For a second, he envied the clarity of that moment. The all-consuming vengeance that had done the thinking for him. He thought about Noah's face after it was over. Thought about what had happened next.

He imagined the life he'd been planning on having. Full of church and music, family and friends, barbecues and potlucks, dogs and picket-fences. The whole straight and narrow path shebang. He thought about how lost from that path he was now. The decisions that had brought him to this point.

Struggling to hold a wild and damaged group together with both hands, sacrificing his own wants, repressing his desires, to serve his club. To make up for his transgressions. To salvage something good from the tower of crap his life felt like sometimes.

He couldn't hide from it in the overwhelming swell of the music. His own self-loathing for what he'd done. And worse, how he still felt about it now. His biggest regret? That he wouldn't take it back if he could.

And then there was Noah.

Eyes all aching and heated, tightly toned body pressed against his, the bourbon sweet taste of his lips as they breathed into each other, grinding …
Fuck.
Shep was stone hard just thinking about it, throbbing with a hunger that would never be satisfied. Bittersweet swells rolled through him, making the sounds from his instrument sharp and lonesome.

When the song ended, Jagger caught his eye. "You okay, brother?"

Shep smiled weakly. "I gotta be."

"That's no answer."

He shrugged. "I'm out for a bit. Why don't you play your new song for me while I grab a smoke?"

Jagger nodded. "Look, do you need a hand with the Rally prep? Now that the Crows are squared away, I got some time."

"Nice of you to offer, but the prospects and I got it covered." Shep smiled. "No worries."

He tossed back another shot before he lit his smoke and let the song's slow and dirty tempo wrap around him. It was a duet called hellbound, about two people willing to go to hell to be with each other. And if watching them play together was enough to make Shep blush, listening to Blue and Jagger sing together was like music porn.

Her salty, low and rasping tones hit a striking contrast to his clear, gilded tenor. The suggestive lyrics curled around the charisma oozing off that stage. Blue strutted in front of her band, her cowboy boots clicking with every step as she sang. Her voice was as devilish as Jagger's was angelic.

When you look at me, with your eyes on fire, I like to make, the flames climb higher. I'll be burned alive, I'll be et-er-nal-ly drowned. Honey for you, I'll be Hell-bound.

He frowned. His emotional and slightly inebriated state leaned towards over-identifying. But he was
so
feeling this song right now. In a really sick way, he kind of liked the way it hurt.

A motorcycle rolled into the parking lot, lights flickering across the band. Voodoo parked his bike and jogged over to them. He dropped into a lawn chair next to Shep and whispered, "How's practice going?"

"Great. And strangely depressing." Shep shook his head. "You finally pried yourself away from chick-flick night?"

"Don't sass me now, cher," Voo admonished. "You don't know what those brothers went through.
You don't even know.
Talk about brotherhood, sacrifice.
"

Shep held up his hands. "My bad, my bad. I take it back."

"Just so." He nodded. "Just because you've been in a foul mood for months doesn't mean you can dis the Winchesters."

"Hey—I haven't been in a foul mood for—" Shep cut himself off when Voo shot him a withering look. "Alright, I'm kind of … going through a thing."

Voo grinned. "I know. It all became pretty clear to me tonight while I was hanging out with Lexi."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't worry brother." Voo's sly smirk was less than reassuring. "I'm here to help."

Chapter Twenty-One

Respect Voodoo’s beliefs. He’s scarier than you are.

~Four Horsemen Prospect Handbook

* * *

Apparently, Voo being there to help meant dragging his and Jagger's asses out into the middle of where Bumfucked Lane and Long Forgotten Dirt Road met. Spindly clouds dancing across the full moon cast strange shadows on the creaking wooden fences surrounding them.

They were surrounded by acres of silent pastures. There was even a creepy ass straw scarecrow tilted at a distressing angle in the distance.

Jagger whistled low. "This is not okay at all."

"What the fuck are we doing out here?" Shep reached for his flask, the burn of the whiskey barely holding his epic case of the creeps at bay.

"We're here to make a deal with Papa Legba." Voodoo's eyes flashed, but he was dead serious.

"Whoa, hold on a minute!" Jagger held up his hands and backed a few steps. "I ain't selling my soul for a—"

"Relax." Voo's mouth twitched. "No soul selling required, I promise. Here's how it works, you leave him an offering, invite him to consider your problem and make him a deal. As long as you keep up your side of the bargain, you're fine."

"And if you don't?" Jagger asked.

"You're … not fine." Voo shrugged. "Just keep your damn promise. How hard is that? You're setting the terms—don't promise something you can't deliver on."

"I'm not drunk enough to do this." Jagger still looked alarmed.

"How are you going to name your band
Crossroad Crows
and wuss out now? Man up!" Voo shot him an admonishing look.

"Alright, alright—let's all settle down." Shep didn't like them making all this noise out here. It was too quiet, their voices echoing over fields swept by whispering night winds. "What kind of offering?"

Voo grabbed a basket out of the bed of the truck. He popped the lid and angled it so they could see inside. Two large bottles of Jack Daniels. A box of nice cigars. An aluminum package of Voo's smoked ribs. And something that looked like a ziplock baggie full of rock salt. Shep rose an eyebrow.

"Don't ask," Voo muttered. He tossed the bag of salt back in the truck and carried the basket to the center of the crossroads. He pulled one of the bottles of whiskey out and trotted back over to stand with Shep and Jagger. "One of you pop this open. You don't let a Loa drink alone. That's what my Granmé always said."

"That's it? Are we asking it for something or taking it on date?" Jagger stared around. "Aren't we supposed to … I don't know, have to bleed on something? Or throw chicken bones?"

"You watch too many movies, brother." Voo laughed. "One by one, we go kneel by the basket and tell Papa Legba what we want."

"Dude, you look somber as shit," Shep said, gently.

For a second, he though Voo's eyes had filled with tears. But he took a deep breath and they seemed to vanish. "Trust me, nothing good comes from not taking this serious."

Shep and Jagger nodded, straightening up. Shep wasn't sure when Voodoo had started making sense, but he'd bet money it was around the seventh round of shots.

"Shep, you go first." Voo shoved him towards the basket.

"Fuck you—no way. You go first. This was your crazy idea." Shep playfully shoved back. "Go."

He and Jagger watched as Voo stumbled towards the basket.

"Think this shit'll actually work?" Jagger whispered.

"No goddamn clue. But I don't like to bet against Voo." Shep crossed his arms.

"Good point."

"So," Shep drawled. "What kind of name is 'Blue?'"

"The stage kind." Jagger winked at him.

"There a last name to go with that?"

"Oh, I'm sure there is." He shook his head. "But damned if she'll tell me. We got this bet going that I can't guess."

"What do you get if you win?" Shep asked, bemused.

"A kiss."

"And if she wins, what does she get out of it?"

"I don't fucking know. Staying a mystery?" Jagger threw his hands up.

Voo came back, smiling. "Who's next, boys?"

Jagger straightened his string tie, adjusted his black suit jacket and strolled forward.

"I guess that answers that." Shep tried to smile at Voo, but the expression wouldn't cooperate with his face.

Voo's hand landed on his shoulder. "You carry some heavy burdens, my friend. I hope you trust that you could share them with me."