by Huss, JA
Every movement is slow.
Every gesture is tender.
Every word is soft.
And if I didn’t know what was coming, it would be the perfect happily ever after.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Spencer
Leaving Ronnie in bed might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I look at her one last time in the dim glow of approaching dawn outside. Her golden hair is spread out on her pillow, her little hands all tucked up under her chin like she’s cold. I pull her close one more time. She’s a heavy sleeper, but she grumbles and gives me a snuggle before wiggling away and turning over.
I wish I could just steal her away right now. Run away with her. Some tropical island where we’d live naked, brown from the sun, carefree with no one else around. And if I had met Ronnie first instead of Ford and Ronin, I would. I do love her more than the Team, but my Team is in this mess right now because of me.
Yeah, Rook has a lot to do with it as well, but now that our stories are intertwined—for the sole purpose of saving my ass—it’s not about Rook’s mistakes anymore. It’s all about mine. I’m the one who killed the Boulder dude. I’m the one who told Rook to cover for me with the story she told the police last year.
And yeah, Ronin and Ford were there when I pulled the trigger, and Rook is responsible for those human traffickers being linked to us in the first place. But everything all comes back to me. We stand together, so if we lose, we’re all going down. We all played a part.
But I’m the only one who’s really guilty. I can’t just up and run away with Ron. I have to clean my mess up or one day it will come back and kick my ass. I know this. I saw it happen when I was sitting in the Denver Detention Center, waiting to be processed over to Boulder County, and I was stuck in this cell with a guy who was also in for murder one.
Three and a half years ago
“You got a girl?” the guy asks from his side of the room.
I don’t even look up. “No. Not really. A bunch of them, you know.” It just sorta comes out. My mind is spinning from my current situation.
Because we are fucked. That detective in Boulder got a hold of Ford’s computer and sure enough, he found a way inside Ford’s protected shit.
How the fuck did they breach his shit? I don’t get it. It was locked up tight. In fact, it wasn’t even on that computer. It was being held on a remote server. I don’t know all that shit Ford does to keep his data private, but I do know for a fact that nothing’s actually stored on the computer. Nothing is local. Which means these guys got into his system, traced his ass through the cloud, and then broke in.
My breath comes out in a long controlled exhale.
I’m so fucked.
“That’s good, son,” the older guy says. “Because they always get you. They always get you in the end.”
I look up at him now. He looks Mexican but his Southern drawled English says he’s not, he’s about forty or so, and his green tats tell me he’s no stranger to prison. All the knuckles on his left hand have x’s on them. “What?” I’ve got no interest in hearing this asshole’s version of Life Lessons Learned in the Joint. I just want him to shut the fuck up.
“Your loved ones? You got loved ones? Mommy and Daddy?”
I shake my head at him. “Dude, my family is not gonna be my downfall, take my word on that one.”
“No? Why’s that? Because you innocent?”
I take a deep breath and go back to my own thoughts.
“And that’s not what I meant, anyways. I meant, if you’ve got someone close to you, too close to you, then they sees that, you know?”
Sees that? The grammar lapse conflicts with my previous opinion about his English. “See what?” I ask, frustrated with the talking but unable to stop myself from asking. Being locked up will do that to you. I’ve been here three days already, and this asshole’s blathering is not my idea of enlightening conversation.
“See you love someone. They sees that, then they use it to take you down.”
“The cops?” I ask, confused by both the bad grammar and what he’s actually saying.
He laughs at me. “Them cops is the least of your problems. The ones you work for. Those ones. They keep records of your family.”
I just stare at him. “What?”
“You’re still learning, pup. But if you want to stay in this business, you better figure that part out right quick.” The dumb Mexican routine drops the longer that sentence streams on and I realize he’s been playing me these past few days.
I sit up and pay attention.
“That’s right, kid. Now you’re learning.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I look up at the ceiling, at the cameras. I’m pretty sure they’re keeping a nice peeled eye on me right now.
“The cops ain’t the bad guys, pup. It’s the bosses you gotta worry about.”
I stare at him for a few seconds, looking beyond the ugly tattoos, the weathered brown skin, and the fact that he smells like he’s been homeless for years. And when I finally do that, I see him for the first time.
I see him because I recognize him.
He is some other Team’s Ronin. As sure as shit, I see it. He’s some Team’s liar and he’s here because it’s his job to take the fall.
“Is that all?” I ask him.
He gives me a small smile. “Let me offer you a piece of advice, OK, son?” He stops, but I give him nothing but silence. Silence is the only safe way out of this situation. “Keep the ones ya really love far, far away.”
I’m just about to reply when the door buzzes and both of us jump a little. It slides open and two guards appear. “Shrike?”
“Yeah.” I blow out a long breath as I get to my feet.
“Charges have been dropped. We’re moving you through outtake.”
I walk forward, then look back at the Ronin and give him a nod. He nods back and I walk through the doors.
I never saw the guy again. Not in person anyway. But I did see him on the internet a year later. Drudge Report ran a headline about a mob job gone bad and an unidentified victim with x’s tattooed on his knuckles.
He was the mark in that hit and not two weeks before that his wife and kids died in a freak carbon monoxide accident while they were sleeping.
It freaked me the fuck out. I had just pitched the Shrike Bikes pilot to the Biker Channel. I sucked up to Ford and got him to commit, then called Antoine to feel him out for the photography. I had always planned on using Ronnie for that show. I wanted to make her life special, give her a taste of the better life, as she liked to call it. A life where she could shop and play without worrying about money.
I wanted her to be my model. So bad. Painting Ronnie’s body is the most erotic thing I’ve ever done. Man, she turns me on like nothing in this world.
But that guy. His words were burned in me. So I told the Bomb no. I told her I wanted a new girl. Some professional model. Someone taller, dark hair. Thinner. I told her I wanted the anti-Bomb to be my Shrike Bikes girl.
I hurt her with those words. I’ve never seen a more hurt look on her face. She broke it off with me and I played the bruised boyfriend for a week or so, telling anyone who’d listen that she’s a bitch. But every night I drove by her house. Sometimes I’d sit up on the roof of the little candle shop across College Avenue from Sick Boyz and spy on her. You’d be amazed how far you can travel on the rooftops before you have to hit the streets.
And she dated a few guys. I held my jealousy in check, because it never seemed to go anywhere. I followed her relentlessly for months. And then slowly I let her go. Redirected my attention to Rook, and the two brothers I’d been missing for years, as we all got back together for the STURGIS contract.
But when Veronica Vaughn showed up as Operation Jon was in full swing… when she came out of that building smelling like guns with blood dripping down her side… when Rook told me she’s the only reason Jon didn’t get her that day…
Ronnie wasn’t hurt. I knew she wasn’t hurt
. That bullet skimmed her, it was a scrape. But that’s not the point. The point is, my world touched her. My fucking world touched her. And Ronnie pulled out her little pink gun—it was a Walther P99 that day, but every gun I picture her with is a pink .38 Special—fully loaded this time, and went in shooting just like I taught her.
She got knocked on her ass that day. Jon really did a number on her. When we got back from Sturgis she was all black and blue. And that shit really hit home. I lost all my resolve. I wanted her back. I wanted her back so bad. I kept her closer to me that month than I had in more than a year. I took her to Rook’s birthday party and I fucked her every chance I could.
Until the bullshit came back in full force. Again.
It’s like these mistakes we made will never end. It’s like the past has me by the balls and it has no intention of letting go.
This trial is our last chance to put this that Boulder shit to rest.
Rook. Rook is our last chance to put this shit to rest. Rook needs to just get up on that stand and lie her ass off. She needs to stick to the story she told last year. That’s the only way this will end and Ron and I can be together.
If we can just get past the trial…
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Veronica
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I take the stairs down to the garage where my bike is. Rook. We’re having coffee at Shrike Bikes today, park in back and the crew will let you in.
OK.
Yeah. Today has nothing in common with yesterday. I thought this week and last week were totally different, but today and yesterday are like two different dimensions. Yesterday I was Veronica Vaughn, tattoo artist. Today I’m Bombshell the Assassin’s Assistant.
I still don’t know who Bobby—Tet, or whatever the fuck his name is—will be killing. And actually, he never said he was killing anyone, but he never denied it either. And he left me with the impression that silence is a valid answer for a reason. It means the question is important, he’s just not giving me an answer.
What he did tell me was that he’s part of a secret organization—aren’t they all?—and he’s here to complete a job that somehow involves Ashleigh and Kate.
And Spencer, I remind myself. Bobby didn’t elaborate on the whole you’ll-help-me-or-your-boyfriend-will-die thing, either. And I’m too chicken shit to ask outright. Because I’m not sure I want to know the truth.
What if Spencer is part of this guy’s business? Spencer told me he was guilty that night last week. But he never said of what—just everything they said about him on the news that year we met was true. But that’s ludicrous. They said a lot of shit that I know for a fact wasn’t true. Like he came from an abusive home. That was said once. I looked up all the reports after he left that night. That’s definitely not true. And they said he knew Ronin since they were six, but that was Ford. They got that wrong too. So Spencer is exaggerating. He’s not guilty of everything.
But some of the stuff rings true to me. I know they’ve conned people. I’m not sure who it was, but Spencer and I were out once with some friends of his from Ronin’s old neighborhood in Denver, and I heard mention of con jobs. Drug dealers, they said. But I’m not sure conning drug dealers is a bad thing. Spencer does not do drugs. We’ve never smoked a joint or anything. We drink beers when we’re out together. But he’s not a partier and neither am I.
Spencer is all business. His life pretty much revolves around his work. Be it painting, or bikes, or the show.
So murder? Yeah, they said it on TV. And yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what Spencer was referring to the other night when he said he was guilty. But murder? I just can’t see it.
Spencer is a calculating guy. He’s a thinker. He’s calm and rational and he plans everything. He makes lists and keeps spreadsheets. He’s not a guy who just goes off and murders someone.
He’s a gun fanatic, sure. He’s got guns stashed everywhere in the house. And whenever I asked him why he needed so many guns, it was always the same answer. ‘You might only get one chance to save your life with a gun. Keep one on you and keep one next to you.’
I’ve been packing heat since the first day I met him and went to his shop to see the ’56 Blackbird. After our very first dirty fuck, Spencer loaded me up, set me on the back of his dirt bike and took me out to the gully he uses as a shooting range on his property so he could show me the basics.
But even though on the surface he looks like he’s half-crazed about these weapons, he’s not. He’s very disciplined. We’ve been in several confrontations while traveling and even though I know he’s always got a gun on him, he’s never, ever pulled it out. Ever.
The gun doesn’t make the man. That’s what he always said. The gun doesn’t make the man.
I palm the FN Five-SeveN through my jacket, just to quadruple-check that it’s there. It’s not big, and it’s not heavy, not even when it’s fully loaded, so it fits nicely in my inside pocket.
I straddle the bike, snap on my helmet, and start her up. I ease back out of the parking space, then give her a little gas on the throttle and stop at the gate. I don’t have an opener, or the code to get back in here, but the gate must be on an automatic trigger, because it opens for me after a slight pause.
I pull out on Mason Street and barely have time to shift into third gear before turning on Maple and pulling into the lot behind Shrike Bikes. There’s a lot of cars and bikes here, but the door opens before I even shut the engine down. I get off and walk over to the open door, taking off my helmet.
“Rook and Ashleigh are in the front.”
I don’t really know Spencer’s mechanics since they were never part of the biz when I was around, but I have seen Ryan enough to know his name. I smile and walk past as he lets the door close behind me. “To the right,” he says, pointing.
I walk down the hallway, go through a steel door, then come out in the showroom. I can hear Rook and Ashleigh talking in a room behind the counter, and the whole place smells like coffee.
I really need some coffee.
“… so I have to piss on the stick tonight.”
“No!” Rook exclaims as I enter the little room behind the showroom desk.
“Oh, hey, Ronnie,” Ashleigh says as she hands Kate a baby cookie.
“You’re pregnant?” I ask.
“She doesn’t know yet. But Ford’s asking her for a test to check.” Rook waggles her eyebrows at me. “They’ve been bareback for months.”
Great. That’s just great. I’m gonna help a man abduct her tonight, and she might be pregnant.
“Coffee, Ronnie?” Rook asks, handing me a cup. “Spencer got me this new coffee machine and outfitted the store room as my own personal space.”
“Why?” I’m confused. And jealous. Why the fuck does Spencer do everything for Rook? I’m insanely jealous every time he pays attention to her, even after he told me how he really feels last night.
“The boys don’t want us having coffee across the street until things die down,” Ash says. “Why do you have that look on your face?”
“I don’t have a look,” I reply defensively. “I’m just confused, that’s all.”
“Ronin is crazy thinking about the reporters.”
“Yeah,” Ash joins in. “And Ford, holy shit, he’s off-his-meds insane over this stupid job tonight.”
“Ashleigh,” Rook chastises.
I walk over to the fancy coffee machine and press the button for coffee, then take my time adding cream and sugar. I can’t hear them whispering behind my back or anything, but I can almost feel the looks and hand gestures.
When I turn they’re both smiling big. Like I just caught them doing something bad. I ignore them and plop down on the couch.
“Spencer came in happy this morning,” Rook offers.
“Well, he got laid last night, so I guess that’s why,” I reply back, uninterested. All I’m thinking about is tonight. How am I supposed to help Bobby/Tet do this job when Ashleigh is pregnant?
“Earth to Ronnie,” Rook
says as she snaps her fingers in front of my face.
“Huh?”
“I said, are you two back together?”
Are we back together? We can’t be back together, because then my loyalty belongs to him. And I can’t choose him over this job, otherwise his life is in danger. “No, I’m seeing someone else. This Italian guy from my building. He owns the building, actually. He owns the other apartment building too, but there’s asbestos in that one and—”
“Whoa,” Rook says. “What are you talking about?”
“Did you say Italian guy?” Ash asks, her face pale with worry when I look over at her.
Yeah. That’s a dead giveaway. Does she know this guy? Maybe, maybe not. But she’s worried. I know her Tony came from the mafia, Rook spilled that part to me as soon as she found out. Damn, I wish I had a picture of Bobby. Or a picture of Tony. “Hey, we should go to your house for coffee, Ash. Let’s go now.”
“No,” they both say together. “We’re not allowed out of the building today,” Rook says.
“Until later anyway,” Ashleigh explains.
Rook shoots her another look and it’s pretty clear they are in on the job Bobby was referring to last night. I just sulk on the couch for the entire hour after that, saying pretty much nothing. My mind is racing at top speed, trying to justify kidnapping my friends.
The ends justify the means. That’s what Bobby said last night. Yes, it’s horrific and terrifying, but the end justifies the means.
Of course, he never told me the end. I laugh out loud at that and both Rook and Ash stop talking to shoot me a look of concern. “Sorry,” I say quickly.
They continue to talk until I get a text from Carson telling me I’m late to open the shop. Holy hell. I get up, say my quick goodbyes, and then head for my bike. Three minutes later I pull up in front of Sick Boyz, more confused than ever.
Because I might be trading the lives of my friends for Spencer.
How does one choose between friend and lover?