6. Khadri “Moros” Weston

6

KHADRI "MOROS" WESTON

I didn't go back to the house that night. Instead, I stayed in my office at Musk. I wasn't going to be able to sleep anyway so it didn't matter where I was suffering my insomnia from.

After making a snack in the kitchen, I was getting comfortable when my phone rang. It surprised me to see Dude's name pop up.

"What's up?" I asked.

"You good?" Dude asked. "Your people are worried. Do I need to send the calvary?"

I chuckled. I knew when he said your people he meant Pasha.

"I'm fine." I replied. "I don't need back-up. I just need this migraine to fuck off."

"You're still getting those?" Dude wanted to know. "Let me guess. You aren't taking the medication."

"I don't feel like myself when I take them." I admitted. "And I'll take one, fall asleep in my bedroom and wake up in the bathtub—Dude, I can't take them because I never know where I'll be when I wake up."

Dude sighed. "One of those cases where the side-effect is worse than the actual ailment."

"The last time I woke up trying to start my truck, without the keys."

"That's dangerous. Maybe have the medication modified?"

"Naw." I bit into my sandwich.

I chewed for a silent moment before speaking again.

"I'll be on those things for the rest of my life and?—"

"You have the money to pay for it."

"It's not the money." I confided. "It's the dependence. I can deal—I just—right now it feels like my skull is trying to battle brain. I'd kill for a shot of whiskey right now, but booze makes it worse."

"Maybe try getting some sleep—or stretch out on your back, close your eyes, turn off all the lights." Dude suggested. "Let go of everything for tonight. I'm assuming stress makes it worse."

"You could be right."

"You know Tex knows where you are, right?" Dude asked.

"I know."

"I'll tell Pasha you're fine." Dude took pity on me. "I won't tell her where you're at. But at some point, you should call her. Don't let her light Toronto on fire to smoke you out."

I laughed. "I'll go back tomorrow."

Alone in the silence of the empty bar, I finished my sandwich, drank two bottles of water then washed up in the staff bathroom in the back. And while I wanted to look into Ryanne's situation more, Dude was right.

The migraine trying to push my eyeballs from their sockets from inside my skull needed darkness.

After setting up on the floor with the cushions from the sofa—Pasha's idea—I turned out the lights, but the moon was still shining through the glass walls.

I found tiny red remote on my desk and queued the blinds. There was a click before the shades began descending. Waiting for them to close all the way, I sighed, removed my jacket and rested back to the cushions.

In the silence, to give myself more darkness, I covered my eyes with my jacket and exhaled, feeling the exhaustion pulsing against my lower back.

I closed my eyes, allowed myself a moment to just breathe—deeply to slow my heart and relax. The less blood my heart was pumping through me, the more my body would cut off the power to the migraine and the sooner it would go away.

At some point during the night, I was able to fall asleep, the nightmares floating in on me, but they weren't as dark as they usually were.

The next morning, my headache was gone but my body was sore. I packed up and left Musk for the gym. Since I was a yearly member, I had a locker and had laundry service available. My locker had been cleaned, my gym clothes folded neatly and had the faint scent of fabric softener.

I changed quickly, got a work-out in to further clear my head before showering and making my way back to the house. Pasha met me at the door—the moment I entered my code for the gate, I knew she'd know.

"You're still here." I kissed the side of her head just as Ryanne walked into the room. "I thought you had a meeting in Hamilton today."

"Yes, but you were missing." Pasha told me, following me into the kitchen for me to find coffee. "I couldn't leave."

I sighed while pouring myself a mug.

"Dude told you I wasn't missing." I sipped. "And you know what's happening when I go off like that."

"That won't stop me from worrying." Pasha pointed out. "Feeling better?"

"Mm."

"Listen, Moros." Pasha sat on one of the stools and rested her elbows on the marble counter. "You sure you want to keep doing this? We can call Dude, have him send some people and?—"

"I gave my word."

"Fuck your word!" Pasha snapped. "When was the last time you had one of those migraines? I don't like you in pain."

Reaching over, I caressed her cheek gently as her brown stare dug into my face. Eventually, I let my hand fall and she sighed.

"I'll be okay." I told her. "And if I'm not okay, I have you to reel me in. Try not to worry."

Pasha twisted her lips from a frown into a thin line.

"You be careful." Pasha told me. "I'm watching you."

I winked at her.

She hurried around the counter to kiss my shoulder.

"Breakfast is in the oven." She informed me. "I'm going to try making my meeting. Call if you need me."

She was halfway out the door by then.

"I will—no speeding!"

"Aww, Phi, you're no fun!"

Smiling, I was lifting my coffee back to my lips when Ryanne stuck her head into the room. My mood immediately changed.

Turning, I dumped my coffee into the sink and was washing my mug when she cleared her throat.

"The two of you are close," were her first words.

That wasn't what I expected her to say.

"I'm heading out to talk to someone about your involvement with Sloan." I told her.

"Can I come with you?"

My first instinct was to say no.

But this was her life—she needed to have a hand in saving it, in returning to the normal that she knew. And besides, going to see Polk wasn't dangerous.

"Fine." I set the mug in the drainer and dried my palms on the thighs of my pants. "Let me shower."

A shower at the gym was to wash the stink of my workout off. A shower at home was for a deeper clean and to fix the facial hair on my face.

By the time I was finished, I felt better, a little more human.

Stopping to grab my gun from the safe, I checked it before shoving it into the holster against the back of my waist. I found Ryanne sitting outside on the front step with her bag.

"You should stay here for a while," I said, stepping through the door.

She jerked around and stood.

"Sorry, I though you heard the door opening."

I stepped by her and descended the stairs toward my truck.

"Maybe we can stop by your place on our way back to pick up some things."

"I—I'll need to go back to work," she said, opening the passenger door. "It's not the ideal situation but I need the money."

I said nothing.

My understanding of her need to work and trying to keep her safe battled inside me, but that was her life.

"It'll take a while to get that place back to being open ready." I advised as I pulled myself in behind the wheel. "I suppose you'll have a little time off."

I could already see her doing the math in her head.

As I started the ignition, she sighed—that was the moment the numbers became too much and she simply gave up.

I knew that look.

"About yesterday?—"

"Don't worry about it."

Rolling the truck in the circle of the front yard to face the gate, I watched as they slowly opened wide enough for me to get the truck through safely. While she picked at her fingers in her lap, she didn't offer any other conversation and I didn't either.

I kept my eye son the vehicles around me. Torez wasn't the kind of man to give up, even with some of his crew taken out. His clients were usually very wealthy which meant the mission needed to be done or Torez and his people were out big money.

All we'd managed to do was piss them off and they would definitely try again unless their clients called them off.

That wasn't liable to happen.

They'd tried and failed twice—that I knew of.

"I really don't know how any of this is happening," Ryanne said. "I didn't mean to put you and your friends in danger. I just wanted a little help and it's turned into whatever this is."

"No one is blaming you."

"Pasha is." She replied immediately. "She thinks I'm doing this on purpose—that I put a target on your back and that's not what I wanted to do—that wasn't my intentions. If you want, I'll just take this to the cops and take my chances."

"Shorty, calm down." I glanced at her as the red light changed to green. "If we're right and Sloan is involved in any of this, there isn't a helluva lot the cops can do. Pasha has always watched my back. She's a little overprotective, but she means well."

Ryanne made a sound in her throat.

"She knows what this is?—"

"Does she?"

"Yes." I replied, hanging a left onto Mulligan before a quick right down an alley with graffiti on the walls. "She's taken care of me for years and when she sees people attacking, her back goes up. It's fine."

Ryanne nodded as I pulled to a stop before easing the large truck into a parking spot between a Honda and a Harley.

"When we go in, stay at my side." I advised. "Don't wander off. Don't talk to anyone."

"Why?"

"You're a smart woman, Shorty. You'll see why."

Shamrock Paddy's was never the place to bring a woman—well, a woman of worth. I'd brought Pasha here, but only because I needed a favor from the owner. When I tried getting her to remain in the car, she'd only frowned at me, climbed out and strutted herself across the alley and into the place.

Sometimes, she was too brave for her own damn good.

Shamrock Paddy's was a shady underground bar in a shithole part of town.

The music of the area were sirens and gunshots—as we met at the back of the truck and was crossing the ever running water on the path, a shot rang out.

Ryanne pressed to my side and shoved her smaller hand into my large paw. While I trembled at her touch, I didn't pull my hand away.

Instead, I left her hand where it was.

The building doubled as the bar, in the basement, and a couple crappy apartments above. The windows held sheets as curtains and graffiti was the new paint.

Usually, the owners would pay to clean the rebellion art off the exterior, but they gave up about five years before.

Graffiti removal was expensive, and it made sense they wouldn't do it anymore.

Inside, Ryanne eased closer to me as the stench of stale cigarette smoke filled our noses and our eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.

The air was hazy with cigarette and weed smoke, the dull conversations floated through the place like a million bees buzzing.

While I didn't move until my eyes found Poke, Ryanne tightened her grip on my hand.

The moment Poke saw me, he took off toward a back door that those who weren't familiar with the place wouldn't know was there. There were no emergency exits to the haunt—the door led into a back space where people would hide in case of a raid.

There were no one of means there either—just a bunch of people up to no good, getting high and hammered.

Frowning, I used my free hand to pick up a nearby stool and hurled it like a fastball at Poke. It crashed into his back, his arms flailed above his head as his body jerked dangerously forward from the impact. He hit the ground hard, causing a table to topple over.

No one reacted.

In a place like Shamrock Paddy's, people minded their own business.

And Poke was a bit of an asshole—they probably thought he had it coming.

"I don't feel like running today, Poke." I growled, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and lifting him like a bag of flour back to his stool.

"Fuck off!" Poke slurred.

"Do I have to remind you how to behave in front of a lady?" I demanded.

"If she's a lady, she wouldn't be here." Poke eyed Ryanne through heavy, drunken lashes. "Fuck, she's kinda sexy for a fatty."

Ryanne tugged her hand from mine.

I back-handed Poke so hard, he slammed into the floor and curled in on himself clutching the arm he fell on.

"Get up." I demanded.

Whimpering in pain, Poke rose and rested an ass cheek on his stool.

I demanded the bartender bring him nothing but water until we were finish talking and turned to stare at the man, now favouring his arm.

It's probably broken.

I don't care.

Taking Ryanne's hand, I eased back on a stool and gripped her hips to lift her across my lap, her back resting on the bar.

"I have some questions, Poke." I ignored her surprise gasp. "Torez Sloan, talk."

"That's not exactly a question." Poke spat. "I think you're still healing from your brain injury."

I tilted my head.

"Fine." Poke winced. "What do you want to know?"

"Who's he working for right now?" I demanded.

"I don't know."

I shifted.

Poke flinched.

"I really don't know." He panicked. "All I know is, whoever it is, has some maaaad moolah."

"How do you know that?" Ryanne asked.

Poke looked at Ryanne as if he'd forgotten she was there.

"Answer." I growled.

"He's in the country," Poke replied. "Which is a risk on his life. If they catch him, he can be executed."

"Canada doesn't have any crimes that are punishable by death," Ryanne said. "And the last military execution was in like 1945. So, start making sense."

"You're a civilian. What do you know?" Poke spat. "Look, Sloan is on the list."

When I arched a brow, the man widened his eyes and tipped his chin toward me while tilting his head to the right.

Realization filled my head.

"How did he make it on the list?" I wanted to know. "There are only three people on that."

"Four now." Poke replied. "When you were under, a whole lotta shit happened. They are all need to know and since you were on your way out?—"

"I didn't need to know."

"Exactly." Poke replied.

"So, you're telling me, this man is risking his life for money?" Ryanne shifted against my thighs.

Her breast brushed my chest, and I almost lost my mind.

"No disrespect, Lady, but Torez isn't very smart." Poke explained. "If the money is right, he doesn't care. So, hence what I said before to be self evident. Whoever hired him, has money—money that would put Steve Jobs to shame. And another thing."

Poke stopped to glance over his shoulder.

"I may not like you Morose but you're a good cat." Poke leaned in. "Sloan is keeping information on this gig close to his chest. He hasn't even old his own guys why they're doing this. Nothing is floating around the dark holes. What I do know for sure is that. he's brought in Hulk and Cider."

I nodded and patted his shoulder.

"Go see a doctor about that arm." I lifted Ryanne to her feet and stood. "And you and I didn't have this conversation."

"I'm not a complete idiot, Moros." Poke waved to the bartender.

"When you're sober, no." I replied.

When the bartender hurried over, Poke waved him off and I took Ryanne's hand and exited the Shamrock Paddy's.

"Who are Hulk and Cider?" Ryanne wanted to know.

"Enforcers." I replied, opening her door while looking around. "The last time we met, didn't end well."

"What in the hell is going on?"

"I don't know yet." I answered. "Get in."