Lost Girl (Poison Wells Blades MC Book 3) Read online

  He wanted an office like that, and he wanted to be the man that men like his own father listened to.

  It was only later that he learned the power of the law itself. That he learned the reason for his daddy’s awe at Andrew J Laughlan’s ability to navigate its twists and turns. How the lawyer steered and swerved around it.

  Even Laughlan could only keep Karl Sage out of jail for so long, but, as Jackson later learned, the old advocate must have been practically a magician to keep him at liberty at all.

  Karl had been a Marine, too, and so Jackson was able to feel that he had paid his father respect by following him into the Corps. Jackson solemnly swore to himself that this would be the only part of his father’s life he’d follow.

  Impressed by the trappings of the law, Jackson grew fond of oaths, vows, deeds, contracts and covenants and of ritual.

  It was a long time before Jackson came to understand how much this took his path in parallel with the rules, traditions and sacred customs of the biker world. That closed community his father Karl had withdrawn into after his release from prison.

  When Karl Sage finished his last tour of duty with the Marines, he came straight back to Summerlin and hooked up with his buddies from the Corps. Most of them had joined up with the local biker gang. Motorcycle club they called it. Karl rode but he didn’t join.

  Karl did work for the club, though, mostly by enforcing and providing muscle. Jackson never learned the full extent of his father’s activities, mostly just the ones that showed up in charges.

  As his father was engulfed more and more in the work for the motorcycle club, Jackson saw him less and less. That rare meeting in the red desert, almost their last as it turned out, at the Blades MC bar on the outskirts of town was fateful.

  Jackson roomed in Vegas while he studied to pass the bar, and worked nights at the Mirabelle, an upscale downtown casino. Jackson was accustomed to working in uniform. He hated the look of the bright red vest and showy white shirt, but he saw it as equipment while he dealt cards across the blue baize from the shoe. Not in the way of the personal equipment he wore as a Marine, but it had a purpose.

  The cut of the vest and pants emphasized his wide chest and strong, tight butt. It made him feel more exposed than protected He couldn’t deny that it helped attract tips, though.

  The tall and willowy blonde in the sparkly halter stood to leave the table. She scooped up her winnings and passed a few chips to Jackson. He smiled and thanked her.

  He waited until she was across the casino floor before he moved the chips, sliding them carefully to reveal the card with a phone number she’d left underneath. He tapped it on the table where the security camera would see it.

  His floorwalker buddy Chay, stopped by the table in the brief moment while there were no players. “I’ve been making an audit. Your table always has the sexiest girls.”

  “Only because it’s so near the bar. Shareen brings the drinks here soonest.”

  As he collected the chips from the box under Jackson’s table, Chay smirked and said, “That isn’t because you’re near to the bar either, Jackson.” He arranged the chips by color for the count. “Shareen would serve your table first if you were out by the fire doors.”

  Chay wrote the count in the book and waited for Jackson to initial it. “I think Careena’s got you on her list too. You need to watch out there.”

  “Careena? Pit boss Careena?”

  Chay nodded seriously.

  Jackson co-signed and said, “There must be plenty of men padding around after her fine black ass.”

  “Not in here there aren’t.”

  Employee fraternization was a termination offense,even more certainly than being seen with a customer. “She may have a fine ass, but there’s an invisible belt over it and it’s hug with skulls.”

  Chay fastened the box back under the table. “She’s a habitual slayer. Lures a man into an elevator or a back stair-well, gets what she needs, gets him fired.” Jackson scowled as Chay collected the chips into his bag.

  Chay said, “She’s been seen in the bar of the Stratosfear after a firing,slugging tequila like a sailor on leave.”

  “How come she never gets canned?”

  “Too clever,” Chay said. Then as he left the table, “Take care, amigo. I’ve a strong hunch she’ll be coming for you.”

  Not that day, not the next day but another two days afterwards, Jackson was on his way to sign out when Careena emerged from between the flashing lights of a canyon of slot machines.

  She crossed the blue carpet with a big grin showing her strong teeth and she followed him through the door marked ‘Private’ into the back offices. Her voice was low and husky. “Hey, Jackson. You’re looking pretty fine for a man coming off an eight-hour shift.”

  Chapter 4

  “Go on, baby. Grab my hair. That’s it.” She scratched his neck, pulled his face into hers. Her soft breasts squeezed hard against as her hot, wet lips fastened on his.

  “Oh, yes, Careena.” Her fingers curled in his hair and pulled. As her hips rubbed hard against him he growled, “Shove me down there. Shove me where you want me. Show me how to it, Careena.”

  She pushed and he sank to his knees. The scent of her smoked his senses and his hot breath blew back as he snarled between her strong thighs. “Pull your panties aside. Hell, tear them.”

  She ripped her little nylon knickers apart and she pulled his head into her mound. His tongue was hard and fast into her folds. He licked and flicked around the base of her nub. He felt her tremors as he slid his tongue around her hood.

  She clenched as his hands squeezed into the smooth flesh of her round cheeks. Her thighs spread wide and her knees shook as he drove his tongue upwards, flicking fast into her soft chasm.

  She pulled hard on his hair and shouted in exhilaration. Her thighs clamped on the sides of his head and her fingers gripped and clawed. Her stomach rolled and the whole of her shuddered.

  She back slid down the tiled wall and moaned. From under her mound he rasped, “Yes, baby. Pull me up. I know you aren’t done with me yet. Go on; rip the buttons off my shirt. Scrape your nails down my chest. Don’t worry about hurting me. Do it.”

  Her teeth fastened on the hard flesh of his chest. He braced his arms against the wall. Her fingers scraped all over him.

  His voice dragged from the bottom of his throat. “You want me on my back? You want to climb on top of me, take what you want from me, is that it? You can put it where you want it.” She pushed him to the floor. Her eyes were wild as she ripped his pants open.

  “Go on, YES, Careena. Ride me like a bronco. Go on.” She sat astride him and she drew him in. Her warm, wet walls held him like the softest leather gloves.

  Gripping his hair with one hand, she held his head to the tiled floor. Her ass slapped against his thighs and her other hand pulled on her lengthening nipple. She slammed onto his hard cock and her thighs squeezed his as she rocked it.

  “Yes, yes. Do it, Careena!” Her eyes clamped shut before stretching wide open, and she gasped and grunted. She shouted and slammed on his stiff cock as she came.

  From above, the view of the show in the kitchen, even from the one-point camera, was easily hot enough to bring them fifteen minutes of internet fame, as Barclay the bald, pink head of security pointed out. He made them both stand by the big desk in his office as he played the whole show.

  Careena pressed her lips together and drew them between her teeth. She had been here before.

  Barclay said, “You’re a highly valued member of the team, Careena. But the situation here could obviously put the casino in an impossible position.”

  She spoke. “It’s okay, Mr. Barclay. I won’t want to bring any complaint. Of course, I understand the casino’s policy…”

  Barclay cut in, “We’re aware of how well you do understand it, Careena. That’s another reason this matter is so extremely serious. It’s clear that you assaulted Mr. Sage, and he has told me as much.”

  Her mout
h sagged open. “But I…”

  “There really is only one possible outcome here, Careena, as I’m sure you know.”

  She deflated and her eyes widened into wide almond shapes. Barclay went on, “At the casino we very much hope that Mr. Sage won’t press for criminal charges to be brought. It will be a matter for him to decide.”

  Careena roused. Her foot stamped. “Play that recording again. Play it with the audio.”

  “There is no audio on that recording, Careena. Chay tells me that the channel was faulty. But the evidence is unambiguous. Collect your things. Anything that’s owing to you after deductions will be forwarded forthwith.”

  She stared. His voice hardened, “Now leave.” Her eyes glowered like hot coals at Jackson as she turned to go.

  “Please wait, Mr. Sage.”

  After the door slammed behind Careena, Barclay said, “Casino employees don’t usually bring charges against other members of staff. It isn’t usually felt to be helpful or necessary.” His dark beady eyes searched Jackson’s. “Will you find it helpful or necessary, Mr. Sage?”

  Jackson shook his head.

  Chapter 5

  Not too many of Jackson’s law classmates rocked up to class in shades and on low, fat Harley Davidsons. It was the one trace of Karl’s blood that Jackson could never get out of his veins. He didn’t crave the clubs, the outlaw lifestyle or the biker fraternity, but he was hooked on the bikes.

  Once time when Jackson was fourteen, Karl had let him down for the third weekend in a row. As always, his excuse was something to do with the bike. Jackson saw the gleaming Harley as the key to his revenge, and he fired up Karl’s low-rider.

  When he pressed the ignition, the sound and the powerful, controlled shake of the engine got him fired up too. He had no idea what he would do when he got the bike out of the driveway, but he knew that Karl would come running as soon as he heard the motor kick into life, so he didn’t wait around.

  The smooth power of the throbbing beast between his thighs raised his spirit. He felt the cycle lift as he twisted the throttle. The machine surged forward as if it was alive and eager as he let out the clutch. He leaned out of the drive and the huge mass of metal was almost down to the pavement.

  Jackson turned the throttle and the bike straightened up and leapt forwards. The sensation of raw power was electric to Jackson as he swept out onto the highway with the wind in his face. As he learned to guide the low weight of that sure machine, Jackson was smitten.

  He’d been around bikes and bikers enough to know how to operate the controls, but he was unprepared for the sensation of raw energy that he got from having the big v-twin engine and two wheels pulling underneath him.

  The connection between him and the cycle as he controlled the motor with his hands and feet and steered the bike with his hips swelled him with a charge of freedom.

  Jackson rode Karl’s bike around until after midnight. He rode through town, to the freeway, out in the desert, up in the hills. Anywhere and everywhere. The combination of freedom and thrill was the best thing he had ever felt. He would have ridden on forever but he didn’t have any money and he didn’t know how to fill the tank.

  When he finally rolled the Harley back to the front of the shabby apartment building, Karl was waiting on the steps. He had a joint in his hand and raw anger in his eyes. When he saw Jackson riding, though, he softened. They had something in common after all.

  Jackson worked at grocery stores, delivered newspapers, cleaned up in a diner; he took any work he could to get the money to buy himself a bike.

  The Nevada bar is reckoned one of the toughest in the US, along with California, and the fact that Jackson passed on his first take impressed all of the local law firms. From the first seven that he visited with his CV, four offered him a desk right away. Joel Ellis, the senior partner at Ellis, Francis and Crane was himself an ex-Marine in his late thirties. His firm handshake was the one that Jackson went back for.

  Ellis said that he didn’t mind Jackson finishing out the month at the Mirabelle, so long as he was in good shape for court days. His first few weeks there likely wouldn’t be too many, so he should just spend some time around the courthouse while the clients got to know about him. That suited Jackson.

  In his last week dealing at the Mirabelle, two men he knew from the corps, Hendricks and Wiley, sat down across the card table.

  To Jackson’s eye, Wiley’s bullet-head wasn’t much improved by his having grown out his Marine flat-top into a kind of a pineapple sprout. Hendricks’ blond thatch was still in the Marine cut, and he looked relaxed in denims and a bike jacket, as if they were a part of him. Wiley, not so much.

  Wiley said, “You look great in the monkey suit, Sage.”

  “Good to see you, too, Pete. I see you didn’t re-enlist. Oh, unless you’re on an undercover detail.”

  The start of a smile pulled Hendricks’ lips. Jackson gave him a look of greeting.

  Wiley said, “So deal, monkey-man.”

  Jackson said, “I can’t do that, Pete. I know you.”

  Wiley rolled his eyes, “Who’s going to know, monkey man?”

  Hendricks’ voice was like a minor earth tremor. “You called him by name.”

  Wiley’s face flinched. He said, “The monkey suit’s got a name tag.”

  “Yes,” Jackson said, “Which you didn’t read.”

  Jackson’s tag said, ‘Vincent.’

  Hendricks asked him, “Did you ever find yourself a Vincent?”

  Jackson smiled, pleased that Hendricks recognized the name of the vintage foreign bikes that he had a passion for. “I found a Black Lightening that I’m restoring. It’s going to be a long project.” He spread his hands on the table, “Guys, it’s great to see you, but I can’t chat now.”

  Wiley scowled but Hendricks rested a huge hand on his shoulder. Before the men left, Jackson wrote his cellphone number on a card, in big numerals for the cameras to see, and he handed the card to Hendricks.

  “I’m starting in law practice next week and I may need an investigator now and then. Call me if you’re interested.”

  When Chay came by to pick up the chips, he asked about the two men. It was standard procedure. Any time a dealer had a conversation with a guest, security would follow up on it.

  Jackson told him, “Hendricks is a man you’d be glad to see in any combat or field situation. In the four years I knew him, he always did what he said he would do and he never once told a lie.”

  Chay’s brow furrowed as he looked up from the ledger. “never telling a lie is a good thing, right?”

  “With Hendricks, things don’t always mean what you’d expect them to mean.”

  Jackson remembered the intricate red patterns on the ornate rug in the tent, and the cracking of the tent flaps on the cold hillside near the Syrian border. Hendricks led the mission, and he had brought a goat farmer to the tribal warlord. The warlord sat, in a chair draped in rugs. He wore robes with intricate decoration and embroidery.

  An arc of men stood behind him with bullet-belts crossed over their robes, massive curved daggers in their belts. All of them carried Kalashnikovs. All of them wore sunglasses by Porsche, Ferrari or Hermes.

  Hendricks negotiated, and Jackson could just about follow the conversation. Hendricks’ Kurdish dialect was perfect. The warlord claimed that the farmer had molested children in nearby village.

  Rumors around the hillsides had confirmed it, but the evidence was far from conclusive. Jackson believed it, although the fact that the farmer’s land was right between two patches of disputed territory made him suspicious.