Sinister Red: Wulven Kings MC Book One Read online

  And he was. Dad was happy to be doing something close to what he truly enjoyed, but the deeper he got, the more nervous he became and taking me out on that call with him might have blown it for both of us.

  I’m determined to keep that from happening though, and not just because of the super attractive redhead that I’m hoping to see right now.

  “What’s up with Dad?” Harlow asks as she starts packing up her kit.

  “He needs the MacAllister ashes.”

  “Oh, your man is back already?”

  I roll my eyes as I grab the plain, unmarked box from the shelf and start writing up the tag. “I doubt that. It’s probably one of his sons or grandsons picking this up.”

  “Mmhmm…”

  “Come on, Har. It’s a simple pickup of the cremains. They didn’t need some huge entourage just to do that.” I smirk as I head toward the door. “Besides, what am I going to do, corner Snipe down here and bang him next to Mrs. Liddell?”

  “Nope!” my best friend chirps. “She’s coming down the hall with me, so the room is yours!”

  With a chuckle, I leave the embalming room and take a left down the hall, heading in the opposite direction my bestie will be whisking Mrs. Liddell off to in order to wait for her big day tomorrow.

  This is another part of my job I love.

  Upstairs, the funeral home itself is pretty standard. My great-grandfather turned his home into a parlor when my grandfather became an undertaker, the two of them working tirelessly to make the big colonial functional as a home as well as what they needed it to be professionally. The second floor was all bedrooms and bathrooms, normal standard stuff, and the first floor had a large kitchen with a small private dining room and sitting room off to the side, but the rest of it became the actual funeral home.

  And the basement, that’s what I find really cool.

  When they converted it, my grandfathers essentially dug out and built tunnels all over the property because this predated industrial freezers and morgues as we know them, and keeping the bodies underground helped. It was just one big room at first, with a tunnel that led to the crematorium and one that went to the side of the house in order to get the body back inside, but over time, that changed.

  It wasn’t until my dad was a boy and started having nightmares about ghosts that they decided to change anything, but when they did, it was awesome.

  More rooms and tunnels were added, like the embalming room I just left, the morgue Harlow is going to, an actual office where we keep paper files that go back almost one-hundred and twenty years, as well as a room we can crash in if Dad and I get a big workload. The first floor is now for funerals with caskets, the second for memorials or services with urns, and the kitchen still functions as a kitchen so people have the option to have the entire funeral here from start to finish if they choose.

  Not a lot of people go for that, but it’s on the table, and it helps having a kitchen around when we’re working.

  When they redid the house, that meant my grandpa needed a new one, so they built a small, two-story bungalow on the back of the property and that’s where my dad has lived ever since. Walking to work isn’t a half bad deal because yes, I still live with him.

  So yeah, I like my job and pretty much everything that goes with it.

  I smile as I climb the stairs, but when I get to the top, I pause at what I hear.

  Motorcycles.

  Lots of them by the sound of it, and when I push up through the storm cellar doors and out into the side yard, I find that I am one hundred percent correct.

  There are probably a dozen motorcycles sitting in our long driveway, a few of them empty, but the rest idling with their riders still seated.

  I close the doors carefully then just stand there like an idiot for a few moments staring at the ridiculous number of dangerous men that have invaded my space. There are some I haven’t seen before—not that I saw many the other night—but I immediately recognize a few.

  Like the quiet, broody man with the ball cap pulled down over his brow, and the one kind of crazy looking one with the mismatched eyes. And I see the two my dad told me were the decedent’s grandsons, the really tall one that looks like a Scottish Viking and his cousin that looks like the dirtier, blonder version of him. Those four were there the other night and they were the ones talking to Snipe when we left.

  “Hey there, pretty lady.” The dirty Viking grins. “That the old bastard in the box?”

  I nod as I start walking along the side of the house.

  I’m actually not sure if I should be confirming that the man in my hands was a bastard—it goes against all of my training—but based on what I saw and heard, he was, and I don’t really care about the rules right now.

  The taller Viking spits with a snarl as he turns away from me, but his cousin speaks again. “Don’t mind him, sweetheart. Wasn’t directed at you.”

  With a tight-lipped smile, I nod again and pick up my pace.

  They don’t make me nervous, not really, but I’m starting to think hanging onto the cremains of someone they obviously didn’t like could work against me, and I’d rather not be on anyone’s bad side, even by default.

  Once I’m inside and clear the foyer, I take a deep breath, then immediately choke on it when I walk past the first viewing room and see the mother and father of the little boy standing outside my dad’s consultation office.

  He looks pissed, so pissed, but stoic, and she’s openly crying, which is about how they were when I saw them the other night.

  Wonderful.

  They’re probably here out of courtesy, out of respect to really show the couple that the man that caused so much pain is dead and gone, but it’s still not something I was prepared to deal with and seeing them again has my heart breaking.

  And if I thought walking past the bikers outside was hard, getting by those two is going to be even harder.

  Especially when the office door opens and Snipe steps into the hall.

  Shit.

  “Excuse me,” I basically whisper as I stop short of them. “I have to…”

  Snipe says a few hushed words to the still hurting couple, then turns to me.

  “I have to… I need to get by. I’m so sorry…”

  “No worries, sweetheart.” He ushers the couple down a bit, then looks over his shoulder at me. “Nice to see you again, Sofie. Even if it’s under shitty circumstances.”

  I just nod because what the hell am I supposed to say to that? Yeah, totally. Super shitty since I’m holding the cremains of an asshole that hurt that couple’s son, but I’m really happy I got to see you again, and that’s because I can’t stop thinking about you regardless of those shitty circumstances too.

  Somehow, I don’t think any of that is appropriate right now.

  “Ah yes, Sofie, here.” My father motions toward me as I slip into his office and close the door. “I don’t think you were formally introduced the other night, but it’s important for you to do that now.”

  No, I’d like to introduce you or I’d like for you to meet and that means these two men before me now are most likely Hamish MacAllister’s sons and the biggest of big players in this rather deadly game.

  “Tavish MacAllister, lass.” The one on the left with blue-green eyes and deep chestnut brown hair grins through his beard as he extends his hand. “Ye can call me Mac, and dis is me brudder, Angus.” He nods to the one on my right with dark strawberry-blonde hair and matching eyes as he does the same.

  “Sofie Berk.”

  Wow, these men are huge. Not quite as big as their sons outside, but damn near close, and they look super scary with the wrinkles and beards, all the leather and long hair. They aren’t scary though. Not to me anyway. They probably should be, but I can see the warmth in their eyes, can practically feel it resonating off of them, and if I didn’t know they were hardened criminals waiting on their murdered father’s remains, I probably would have just thought they lived a rough life and liked riding motorcycles.

>   My father stands and rounds his desk. “So you’re aware, since you are now involved, Tank and Gunner run the Wulven Kings MC. Tank is their president and— “

  “I’m the VP, yada yada. Don’t hafta scare da poor ting, Roland. I tink she knows who calls the shots at this point and I doubt we’re gonna have no trouble wit dis one.” Angus rolls his eyes. “And yer girl can call us Mac and Gus just like da rest of da bonny lassies.”

  Woo, if only I were twenty years older.

  I could listen to these Scottish accents all day.

  But, with my eyes closed.

  Mac and Gus are warm and friendly, and they definitely have charm, but they aren’t exactly my cup of tea. Neither are their sons for that matter, even though I can totally see the appeal in both.

  I prefer fire engine-red redheads with freckles and…

  “Sofie?”

  I blink and look around at the three very expectant faces staring back at me. “I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”

  “Sofie…” My father sighs. “I was just telling Tank and Gunner that you’re a few months away from finishing up your degree early and would most likely be assisting me on calls from the club more often.”

  “No shit?” As soon as the words are out, I cringe.

  Oops.

  “Aye, no shite, lass.” Mac chuckles. “And we’re happy to have ye.”

  “Aye.” Gus nods. “Ye handled yerself like a seasoned pro, ye did. Didna take any shite from da boys and dished it right back. Didna flinch at the mess ye walked into. My Trudy will like ye, she will.”

  “Thank you?”

  The brothers laugh as my father turns about thirty shades of purple. He’s going to blow his top over this, and that leads me to believe they were probably discussing my involvement with the club before I got here. I had a feeling I was in it before, but I know I am for a fact now. I’d even be willing to bet that I wind up with a couple of Scots on speed dial after this.

  “Now that that’s sorted.” Dad grunts as he shoves his glasses up his nose. “Sofie, if you’ll hand over the cremains, you and Harlow can close up for the night.”

  “Harlow?” Mac arches a reddish-brown brown. “Another lass we need ta vet, Roland?”

  “Not unless you want a makeover.” I snort. My father shoots me a dirty look and I shrug. “What? Harlow isn’t exactly going to be working on anyone these guys know.“

  Gus grins just like the dirty Viking. “Ye never know, lass. Mac here would look real bonny wit some face paint.”

  I giggle and shake my head. “You two are perfect without all that gunk. Besides, Harlow specializes in making the dead look pretty, and after what I saw, you seem to specialize in the opposite.”

  “That we do, lass.” Mac’s gaze drops to the box in my hands and for a split second, I see remorse flicker in his blue-green eyes.

  Shit.

  I’m just breaking rules right and left tonight.

  “I’m sorry. Oh God. I’m so sorry, he was your father and— “

  “Harlow’s mother is a nurse and she’s had extensive training in things of that nature. No schooling, but between her mom and working here, Harlow is quite capable of acting as a makeshift nurse if the need arises,” my dad blurts. “She could be beneficial, and since she works with us so often, it wouldn’t hurt to bring her in on this at some point.” He swallows hard. “Give her the heads up when you leave, would you, Sofie? That’ll be all— “

  “He was a right bastard.” Mac reaches out and gently curls his fingers around the white cardboard I’m offering to him. “Beat our Ma on da daily most of our lives.”

  Gus nods as his eyes drop to it. “Beat us too.”

  “And our boys.”

  “We tought… as he got older, he’d slow down, right? Wouldna had so much fight in him.”

  Mac tightens his grip on the box. “We was wrong about him. Wrong about a lot. But me lad, he made tings right. Made ‘em right when we couldna.” His warm eyes lift to mine and my heart breaks at what I see. So much pain, so much hurt, so much remorse and regret, but now I know it isn’t for the remains of the man he’s holding. It’s because of him. And just when I’m ready to start bawling for all of them, Mac grins. “It shouldna been pretty, lass. Bastard deserved ta go out ugly, and yer right saying the Wulven Kings specialize in doing dat.”

  Totally throwing the rule book—and possibly my sanity—out the window, I reach out and grip one of each of their hands and give them a firm squeeze. “Then I’m not sorry at all, not for the way a bastard met the ugly end he deserved.” They both look at me with curious smirks. “I’m sorry that it didn’t happen sooner to prevent all of the hurt he clearly caused before it did.”

  Mac and Gus each give me a curt nod of approval as my dad clears his throat. “Right. Well, Sofie, thank you for your help. That’s all for tonight.”

  And just like that, I’m excused.

  “So stupid,” I grumble to myself as I stomp down the hall to the embalming room, shoving another cookie into my mouth. “The opposite of what you specialize in. God, that was stupid.”

  I mean, I wasn’t wrong, I’m sure most members of that club make things messy and ugly when they need to be, and Mac and Gus didn’t seem to take offense, but God, saying something like that to the sons of a recently cremated guest of Berk Funeral Home is stupid no matter how you look at it.

  With a sigh, I stop in front of the door, promptly dropping my forehead to it with a thud.

  That could have gone way worse if those two weren’t as laid back as they are, but I’m sure my dad is going to light into me later for this shit anyway. And now Harlow is going to get dragged in… Not that she’ll care, she’d want in anyway, but that’s just double the reason for him to go psycho.

  My best friend’s dad walked out on her and her mom when she was little, and after my mom left, my dad basically became her dad too. It’s just always been like that, and we even joke about our parents hooking up. I’m actually pretty sure they really are dating and have been since we graduated, but I’m not going to bring it up until I have proof because Harlow will run with it and make it weird. Weirder anyway.

  “Har…” I sigh as I cram another cookie in my mouth and push into the embalming room. “Babe, you got a… and you’re not here.”

  The room is void of people and the only light on is the one over the table. Which means Harlow left without locking up. Again.

  So, I stroll over to the table, set down my napkin full of Oreos, then hop up on it with a grunt.

  What a day.

  What a few days, honestly.

  Ever since going out to that garage to pick up what was left of Hamish MacAllister, I’ve been all edgy and uptight. Mainly because I knew it was going to turn into a thing with my dad. I was too at ease, too comfortable, too calm and clear-headed in a situation like that for his liking, and the fact that I could handle myself around guys like those bikers is another tick in the con column for Roland Berk’s list of reasons I should help him in the field.

  I’m beginning to wonder if he took me to that scene in order to try to scare me out of this kind of work altogether.

  Dad was reluctant from the get-go to have me answering calls, which is why he always encouraged undertaking and not my curiosity about the work he did as an M.E. Occasionally, when I was still in high school, he’d pull out an old case, give me certain details, and see if I’d come to the same conclusion he did about the cause of death, but that was the extent of it and he never showed me photos or went into graphic detail. It was something we’d bond over, the drive for knowledge and solving puzzles in the form of medical anomalies, but Dad never really let it go beyond that.

  When he started working as an actual M.E. again, he’d sometimes pull me in as a consult on a case, but eventually that slowed to the point of stopping because of the violent nature of them.

  I’m assuming it was because of that anyway; most of the cases he took on were illegal and dangerous, probably even cut and dr
y to some degree, like the one a few nights ago, but I have a feeling it was because my dad really didn’t want me to get involved in the lifestyle any more than I’d have to outside of the postmortem preparations.

  At the end of the day, I know it’s because Dad is trying to protect me, but I think I proved that I could handle all aspects of what he does, and if he really wants me to take over the family business at some point, I’m going to need to be a part of whatever he has going with the Wulven Kings. Which is probably something he should have thought about more seriously since my father would definitely rather I be here embalming people and transferring his paper files to the computer than out on any calls, and that’s why it wouldn’t shock me if that scene at the garage was his way of trying to get me to quit on my own.

  And since it didn’t work—and introduced me to Snipe, who he is clearly not a fan of—my dad is going to go bananas on me at some point, I’m sure.

  I grab another Oreo and twist it apart carefully, leaving the cream filling intact before I peel it off the other side and set it on the napkin.

  It’s kind of funny to think of my mild mannered, buttoned up and a little nerdy father running with a motorcycle gang. He probably had a coronary when Mr. Johansson told Dad he needed the extra help because of the Wulven Kings. I bet the look on his face was priceless. I giggle over that as I twist apart another Oreo and cram the chocolate pieces into my mouth, only to jump clear off the table and nearly choke when I hear, “You always eat your cookies like that?”

  I spin around and search the dimly lit room for the voice, and when my eyes land on a dark corner and the silhouette of a man, I have to fight the urge to scream.

  “It’s just me, Sofie,” Snipe says with a small smile as he steps out of the shadows. “Don’t need to freak out and call for help.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” My heart is pounding in my ears, and at first it was because I wasn’t alone when I thought I was, but now it’s for an entirely different reason.

  “You scared of me, Sofie?”