Leather and Sand (Riding the Line Series) (8 page)

Tearing himself away from the scene before him, Dax pushed his hand through his hair almost violently before walking right back out the door. He hesitated for a second, taking one last glance at Rhee as she cradled the little girl possessively to her chest. She refused to look at him. The child’s face was obscured, but her white-blond hair stood out as it fanned over the dark material of Rhee’s dress. A tide of emotions ran though him so fast he could hardly take a breath, including a healthy dose of nausea, fear, and startling anger.

Shaking his head slowly, Dax willed away the tidal wave of emotions that roiled in his gut, and the outrage and questions that swirled along with them. The child looked to be around two or three years old. Blond hair. Was it possible? No, it couldn’t be. Could it?

No way.
No fucking way!

Disbelief overcame the shock and anger that was growing quickly out of control like a brush fire during Darling’s dry summers. Forcing himself to move slowly and calmly, as he had trained himself to do in touchy situations, Dax pulled the door shut with an audible click. He didn’t much recall how he got back to the hotel. Sleep came easier than he might have expected. It turned out that sweet oblivion was a welcome escape.

Chapter Eight

Fuck!
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

Rhee struggled to control her emotions as Sirena cuddled against her. This was the worst thing that she ever could have imagined happening.
How
could this have happened? She couldn’t allow herself to fall apart. Sirena was very perceptive and she picked up on emotions easily. Rhee didn’t want to cause her any stress or confusion. Realizing how tight her arms were around the little girl, Rhee forced herself to take a deep breath and relax. Manali appeared with some tea, and Rhee smiled weakly. The woman had been up all night and she looked no worse for wear.

“Well,
keiki
? Care to explain?” Manali asked.

Rhee sighed heavily. “Not really.”

“Was that who I think it was?” Manali looked meaningfully at Sirena.

After a pause, Rhee nodded. It was pretty obvious who Dax was. Sirena shared his intense blue eyes and his stubborn jaw. Manali looked like she wanted details but she didn’t say anything. Rhee was exhausted and from the look of things, she wouldn’t be getting any sleep until the afternoon, when Sirena went down for her nap. Rhee stared out the sliding glass door that opened into the yard. The sun was just beginning to rise, illuminating the lush, green plants and flowers. The sound of waves crashing lulled her for a few moments until Sirena started to squirm.

“Mama! Want waffles!” The tow-headed little sprite exclaimed, clambering off of Rhee’s lap.

Yawning with exhaustion, Rhee sat up and rubbed her eyes. Manali shrugged and headed back into the kitchen.

“Manali, wait. I’ll do it. Please, get some rest,” Rhee pleaded.

“I’ve still got some energy left,
tita.
Why don’t you get cleaned up and then we’ll see. Come, monkey.” Sirena bounded into the kitchen after her, and Rhee had to thank her lucky stars for the thousandth time for Manali. She was truly an angel.

Rhee hobbled into the bathroom and turned the spray on full blast. Inspecting her foot, she found that the gash on the underside of her heel was shallower that it had initially looked. The water stung as it cleansed the wound. Rhee sagged as she fought to stay awake.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?!

Coffee helped immensely. That
Kona
blend was really something else. Rhee persuaded Manali at last to go get some rest. By late morning, Sirena had that glazed look in her eyes, a sure sign that she was ready to go down. Rhee was ready to drop. Instead of their usual routine, Rhee pulled Sirena into her own bed with a couple of books. They read three of Sirena’s favorites before falling asleep together, Sirena’s head tucked beneath Rhee’s chin.

***

Dax was distracted as hell and Wince knew it. He cast several worried looks at his vice president, but Wince knew better than to question him. Dax got into a small, blue car and motioned for him to follow him in the van. There were only a few times that Wince could recall Dax acting like this and pressing him hadn’t been pretty. Wince rubbed his nose absently, a phantom throb reinforcing his urge to stay silent. Yet, when they pulled up to a small home set against a backdrop of sand and plants, Wince took notice.

Dax got out of the car slowly and stood in front of the little cottage for several minutes, as though he was trying to make a difficult decision. Wince watched with growing concern as Dax tensed further. The man’s posture was positively rigid, and Wince wouldn’t have been surprised if Dax just went and snapped right then and there. Dax shoved his hand into his unruly hair. It was a frustrated gesture that Wince was all too familiar with. Finally, Dax knelt and left the keys under the front mat. He stalked back to the car and motioned for Wince to move into the passenger seat.

They drove in silence for a few moments. Wince didn’t want to ask, but he had to. He just couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. Dax had come in late. Or should he say early? The sun was about to rise when Wince heard the door to the suite open. Dax had been particularly quiet when he got up, but he seemed a little jumpy. Wince noticed Dax’s bruised knuckles.
Did he get into a fight last night?

“So, we’re meeting with Vidal today?”

“Yup.”

“Anything I should know?”

“Nah.” Dax sounded like he was a million miles away.

“Dax?”

“Yeah?”

“Whose car was that?” Wince had his eyes trained out the window when he blurted what he knew was an incendiary question.

Dax looked out the window for a long moment before responding. “Ran into the stowaway last night.”

“What did you do, man? Your hands—” A small current of fear rippled down Wince’s spine.

Dax wouldn’t hurt Rhiannon…no matter how angry he was. The man would never lift a finger against a female. In all the years that Wince had known Dax, he had never been abusive to women. And Lord knew there had been a few women who may have deserved a heavy hand. Wince mentally reviewed the list of stalkers who had slapped Dax, broken his stuff, and generally went crazy when they didn’t get what they wanted. Wince glanced sidelong at Dax. No, he wouldn’t have lifted a hand against Rhiannon. His eyes went back to Dax’s bruised knuckles.

“She had a problem. I fixed it.” His voice was stoic, revealing nothing but the barest of facts.

Wince stiffened. “How is she?”

Memories of Rhiannon, her long reddish-brown hair and those sparkling green eyes flooded Wince’s brain. She had been his friend. One of his best friends. Then, he misread their relationship and crossed the line. Even after that embarrassing display, he had felt a special connection to the stowaway. Rhee was special—a collection of conflicting traits that made her all the more attractive. She was open but guarded, strong but fragile, with hints of steel glistening beneath her satiny smooth exterior. One of those rare beauties who didn’t seem to realize how precious she was. After the debacle that had nearly gotten her killed, Wince’s initial crush had deepened and transformed into something he could only assume was a kind of brotherly love. He thought Rhee felt the same. Until she abandoned them all.

Dax finally made eye contact with him finally as they pulled up to a popular eatery.

“Man, I have no idea how to answer that question.”

***

“So, you want to use my shipping containers to move your guns?” Vance Vidal wiped the corner of his mouth with a thick, monogrammed napkin and tossed it on the floor carelessly.

Dax nodded, fighting to keep the grimace off of his face. Vidal rubbed him the wrong way. In every way. He was even more arrogant than Dax had expected, if that was possible. It was difficult to focus but Dax knew he had to secure the line, even if it meant dealing with a dipshit like the one who sat across from him, shoveling caviar into his face. Just a few shipments of Russian guns into the
Port of Los Angeles
would yield so much cash that Dax could almost imagine a completely different life.

The shipping containers were crucial to their plan. Both the Mexican and the Asian crews wanted more guns. Turf wars were taking a toll and whoever made the biggest bang ruled the streets. This firepower was new—something really special. Knowing Hawk, he would instigate a bidding war between the two factions. It was a little suspect that Hawk would go for such a big change this late in his career, but maybe his president wanted what Dax himself was wondering if he too craved: freedom.

“It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Dax assured coolly.

“How beneficial?” Vidal took a sip of champagne.

Dax regarded the man sitting across from him. Vidal was one entitled bastard. Hawk helped the man’s father by funding his shipping venture after they fought alongside one another in Nam. Hawk explained his gesture of goodwill only by stating cryptically, “one good turn deserves another.”

According to Vidal, his father was incapacitated, ravaged by cancer and dementia. It became quickly apparent that although Vance Vidal was the decision-maker now, he wasn’t exactly his father’s apprentice. In fact, Vidal’s head of security seemed a hell of a lot more competent than the flashy, arrogant son of a bitch who sat across the table, all but gloating about his wealth and power.

“We’d split the weapons take. Eighty-twenty. All you have to do is look the other way, like you’re already doing with the
Natives’
weed.”

Vidal let out a disdainful snort. “Come on, I’m taking all the risk.”

“
We’re
taking all the risk once the guns get into the port,” Dax corrected smoothly. “There’s practically no heat on the water. Once the container arrives, your liability ceases. We have an inside line with one of the ship gangs in the L.A. port. They’ll unload directly into our trucks. It’s seamless.”

“It sounds like a smooth execution. Still, I have a little rule. It’s guided me well. I don’t make any deal for less than fifty percent.”

What the fuck?
Dax fought to keep his expression neutral. No one in his right mind would suggest an equal partnership with this kind of deal. The
Phantoms
had the connection with the supplier and with the distributors. Vidal was just transport. The man was either really stupid or really smart. Looking at him, Dax was inclined to believe the former over the latter. Dax feigned nonchalance. Hawk would settle for seventy-thirty.

“Don’t think that will fly, pal.”

Vidal affected an indifferent expression and then shrugged as he stuffed a forkful of seared
mahi mahi
into his gullet.

“We have the connection with the supplier, man. You wouldn’t have this company if it weren’t for us. History is a good enough reason to work with us on this.” Dax pressed.

Vidal’s narrowed his eyes. “What my father did with your leader is no longer my concern. The way I see it, you don’t have a lot of options here. I want fifty percent, or no deal.”

Wince’s eyebrow twitched, but other than that he gave no reaction. Vidal’s security man shifted, signaling perhaps his own surprise at Vidal’s argument. Other than his barely perceptible reaction, the man at the door hardly moved a muscle, making it easy to forget he was there.

Dax sighed. He didn’t want to play it this way, preferring a somewhat amicable relationship with his connections. But, Vidal was green—and difficult. “Actually, there is another option.
The Natives
will pull their shit from your containers if you don’t give us the green light on this deal. Right now.”

For all of his false bravado, Dax was amused to see how quickly Vidal paled beneath his spray on tan at this new development.

“No,” he whispered. “They need my connection. Who did you talk to? They would never agree to that!”

Dax shrugged. “I don’t need to talk to anyone.
The Natives
make a lot of decisions based on the kind of past relationships that you seem eager to overlook. We have a lot of history with the originals that still sit at their table. We have secured an alternate manner of transmission if you’re…not interested.” Well, the last part wasn’t altogether true, but Dax had a good poker face.

The look on Vidal’s face before he covered it up was a little disconcerting. For a moment, Dax thought the man might lose it. Then, with obvious effort, the psychotic expression dissipated, leaving in its wake an expression of anger tinged with embarrassment.

“Let me, er, check my numbers.”

The man quit the room. Wince looked like he was about to laugh, but Dax jostled him under the table, reminding him of the security detail who still stood at silent attention by the door. After nearly fifteen minutes had elapsed, Dax stood and threw his napkin on the table. They would make one more attempt to work this connection, but after that, the
Phantoms
and their affiliate street gang would find another way to run their product, which was fine by Dax. He had no desire to work with a shitbag like Vidal.

Dax stood and turned to the door. He didn’t feel like tangling with the Vidal’s security, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask nicely for permission to leave. Seconds later, Vidal returned, his pace fast and jerky. Dax smiled grimly, noting the white residue glistening beneath the man’s nostrils. Maybe the man had an expensive drug habit that made him even greedier and more irrational than he would normally be. Dax filed his observation away in his brain. A connection with a habit was bad news. Real bad.

“It turns out that I can appreciate history. I’ll make the deal. You said…thirty percent?”

Dax hesitated just long enough to cause the other man to look worried. Then, he slid back into the high backed, leather chair. “You’ll take no more heat than you’re already taking. Just sign off on the false documents and leave the rest to us. You’ll get a cut every month.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for trying, right?” Vidal offered, lamely.