"That's a felony." I light a cigarette, my eyes on his.
"I know. He's good with that shit. He'll clean up his tracks."
"You ever have him look up our employees? Or associates?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "What are you getting at?"
"Greg Byrne." His name burns up my throat, leaving an acidic aftertaste. "He have a record?"
"He was in the Navy for a short stint. Only signed up for three years. Came out right after. No issues there. Nothing that shines, either. Why?" His blue eyes laser into me.
"Olivia dated him in high school." I lean forward. "He raped her."
Ravage's eyes darken to a storm gray.
"He tried approaching her last night, right before we took off." I spread my hands on the desk, gripping the wood as if I could reach through it the way I want to break Greg's skull.
He nods once, real slow. "Whatever you want to do, take it to the table. I'll back you up. No one hurts a River Reaper. I don't give a shit whether she's patched or when it happened."
"Call Church," I say, sitting back. I rest my hands on my thighs, vision tunneled to the breadth of my palms, the thickness of my fingers. The solid knuckles, scarred from dozens of fights. Killer's hands.
"That's a felony," Ravage reminds me.
I look up.
A snarl twists his features. "One I'm sure your brothers will be happy to make disappear."
I nod. "Thanks." Pushing back the chair, I stand. The heaviness of my decision pulls me down, a black gravity.
"Thank you for coming to me." Ravage stands, too, and holds out his hand.
I clasp it. He shakes my hand once with a firm, slow pump, those glacial eyes never leaving mine. His black eyebrows bear down on his face, his mouth taught.
"Be in the Chapel in forty-five minutes," he says, releasing his grip.
With a final nod, I turn and walk out of the office.
* * *
Ravage sits at the head of the MC's table, the gavel resting by his hand. His whole body is curved slightly, muscles coiled and ready to pounce. "Thank you all for coming."
I glance around at my brothers. Skid, our VP, sits on Ravage's left, his scarred hands clasped. Our Sergeant-at-Arms and best candidate for a dwarf cosplay, Beer Can, to his right. Next to him is Donny, whose six-plus frame makes him our Enforcer, until you catch the warmth in his eyes. Across from Donny sits treasurer Mark—probably the most normal looking of all of us. The members who don't hold offices fill the rest of the seats: Stixx, Vaughn, Abraham, and me. We'd be ten if Mercy'd stayed.
"We've got to vote on a serious issue," Ravage says, "but first, Vaughn. How far did you get before I dragged you out of your mom's basement?"
The men around the table smirk.
"Actually, I do all my hacking at Starbucks. Public Wi-Fi," he explains, brown eyes crinkling. "I couldn't find any of the DCF cases Donny filled me in on. Except this one. The rest of 'em have all been closed, so there wouldn't be anything else to find. I did find this." He pulls a folded rectangle of paper from the inside pocket of his cut. Unfolding it, he spreads it out on the table.
I lean forward, peering at it. At thirty-eight, my eyes aren't what they used to be.
"Josué Figueroa is a registered sex offender in Arizona," Vaughn announces. "I couldn't scare up any details. It appears to be unrelated to any of the DCF cases."
"The sex offender lists are a state to state thing," Donny growls. "Connecticut might not even know about it."
"I say we call in an anonymous tip." Ravage holds his hand out for the sheet.
"To DCF?" Donny scowls. "Nah. They ain't gonna do shit. I say we find out where he works, someone lets his boss know. Get his ass fired."
The men nod around the table.
"That sounds like a plan," I tell Donny.
He gives me a grateful chin jerk. "Thanks, brother."
Vaughn cracks his knuckles. "Guess my work's cut out for me tonight."
"Talk to your ol' lady," Ravage tells Donny. "See if she can find out where he works. That might be faster than sending Vaughn on a wild goose chase."
"It'll get him out of his mom's basement for a night, too," Beer Can ribs. "Maybe get him laid."
I bang on the table, a steady beat. "Let's get Vaughn laid!"
My brothers join in, keeping time with me with hands and feet. Laughter ripples through the room, some levity to lighten the situation.
Ravage clears his throat, and the Chapel quiets. "I appreciate what we're doing for Donny and Esther. This is outside our area of expertise, but I'm proud of all of you." He glances at me. "Cliff has another public service for us to consider."
I spread my hands on the table, look each of my brothers in the eye before beginning. "I don't know how to tell you all this, so I'm just gonna say it: our live band's gotta go. Namely, their lead singer."
Mark frowns. "What do you mean? Business is up. Our accountant says our revenue's tripled on the nights Oh Vile Eye plays."
"Oh Vile Eye did something vile to our own Prospect," Ravage growls.
"When she was in high school," I clarify, "Olivia dated the lead singer, Greg. He raped her. I want him dead."
A collective shock circles the table, my brothers muttering contempt.
"I never would've hired him if I'd known." Mark bows his head.
Skid clasps his shoulder.
"You couldn't have known," I soothe. "None of you could've. We all know how Olivia likes to handle things herself."
Donny snorts. "Yeah, she does."
"I'm not asking any of you to do anything," I say. "I'm just asking for your blessing. I need to take Greg to the river."
Several of my brothers start talking at once.
"Introduce him to the Sludge Spector," Donny says. "Fuck yeah."
"Slit his fucking throat," Beer Can suggests.
"What about the band?" Mark asks.
"The river? Let me earn another X," Stixx grumbles.
"I'll get his address," Vaughn says.
Ravage knocks the gavel against the edge of the table. "We vote. Do we take Greg to the river?" From across the table, his eyes meet mine. "Yea," he votes.
I swing my gaze to Skid.
His chest rises as his lungs fill. "She's a good bartender. A good Prospect. A good ol' lady. And we made a promise to Mercy. Yea."
I nod my thanks, then turn to Mark.
"This is my fault," he says with a sigh. "I'm with you all the way. Yea."
"Fucker should burn in his own house," Stixx says. "The river's too good for him."
"Is that a nay?" I ask, shoulders tensing.
He scowls. "She's a good girl. He should burn!"
"Stixx!" Ravage barks. "The how is up to Cliff."
Stixx's pale blue eyes meet mine. "Yea, brother," he whispers, running a hand through his white blond hair. "I'm sorry."
I lift one hand from the table. "My vote's yea," I growl, blood boiling. I need this done soon, before it consumes me, before I implode from the rage coursing through me.
Ravage fixes cold eyes on Abraham. "You with us this time, or is there gonna be a problem again?"
"Yes," Abraham says without hesitation.
I frown, but before I can ask, the vote continues.
"Yea," echoes Donny. "It'll be like old times."
"That girl sure does leave a trail of bodies behind her," Skid says.
"Beer Can?" Ravage asks the stocky Sergeant-at-Arms.
The light illuminates the gray's in Beer Can's beard and at his temples. He shakes his head slowly, fingers absently stroking his beard. "I've known Olivia since she was a baby," he says, voice breaking. "She's like a granddaughter to me. I've always loved Mercy." His brown eyes meet mine, aching and pleading. "Do it. Yea."
Ravage clutches the gavel so tightly, I wait for it to snap. "We'll help Oh Vile Eye find a new singer," he says, then slams the head of the gavel onto the table, the decision made.
My shoulders straighten. My jaw squares.
&nb
sp; Now it's only a matter of when.
28
Olivia
I frown at the house. It’s absurd that something so innocuous looking could belong to someone like him. The exterior is teal and friendly, and he is anything but. Looking at him from the outside, I thought he’d be a good time. He smelled spicy and cool, and his pouty lips and long red hair sucked me in.
He was charming, always smiling—until he wasn't.
He could walk out of this house right now and take me out with his Navy SEAL training. If he steps out of that front door, I don’t have a single excuse for showing up here.
But I couldn’t stop myself.
From the moment I realized he lives right up the street from me, my brain has buzzed in his direction. I’m not much of a walker, but my legs started tingling the second I pulled his house up on Google again.
They’re still tingling.
I want to cross the street, march up that front walk, and ring his doorbell. See the look of shock on his face as he registers my presence. Search his eyes for any hint of shame. I’d even take regret. Ask him the question, the one that’s burned on my tongue for over a decade. The one that I buried deep in my heart, but still surfaced anyway. Repression only works for so long.
“Why?”
I whisper the word. It slices my lips. It’s a futile question, because there’s no simple answer. The answers are the kind you get only after years of couples talk therapy. We aren’t a couple. I’m not sure we ever really were. Something about him always pulled me in, washing over me until my lungs were full of him. Even now, after all this time, here I am. I couldn’t stay away.
Even after everything he did to me.
I know things about him. His wife is a teacher. He’s building a mini bridge to the woods in their backyard. They don't have any children. There are also things I don’t know, like whether he is sorry, if he thinks about me, whether his wife is safe. I’m good at finding things out but that last one’s locked down tight.
I don’t know those things but I do know one other thing. Two, actually.
He isn’t home right now.
And I’m going to ruin his life like he ruined mine.
The curtains in the front window move. A heart-shaped face peers out at me, her brown eyes watchful. I recognize Cami from the single wedding pic on his Facebook. Instead of turning around and going home, like I should, I take a step toward the house.
The curtains fall back into place.
I freeze in the middle of the street. I should not be here. I'm not ready to face him. I'm not brave enough to face her. The front door opens and she steps out.
"Hi," she calls in a sweet, soft voice. "Are you okay?"
I reach behind me, touch the holster at the small of my back. The metal of the gun presses against my skin, hot from the sun and my own body. It's not a comfortable holster, but my only other options require a jacket—Connecticut is a concealed carry state.
My mind reels for an excuse.
"I'm looking for Mercer," I blurt, the name rolling off my tongue. "Does he live here?"
She shakes her head. "I'm sorry. My husband and I bought this house this winter when we got married."
I glance at the two cars in the driveway. "Is your husband home?" I already know the answer, but I need to know how likely he is to walk out that door.
"He's sleeping," she says with an amused smile. "He works late."
I wonder where else Oh Vile Eye plays, what else he does for a living. "Would he know the previous owner?" I ask, still playing dumb.
"I'm not sure. Sorry," she says again. "Can I get you something to drink? Do you want to come in?"
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I could use a glass of ice cold water. Or a freezing cold bottle of vodka. "No. Thank you." I clear my throat.
"Do you need a ride?"
I consider it. Two minutes in a car with Cami could get me the answers I need, but then she'd know where I live. He's already too close to me.
"I work at Big Y," I say. "Can you give me a lift?"
"Sure. Let me just grab my keys." She ducks back inside, closing the screen door behind her.
I shift from foot to foot. I should walk away. I should stop coming here.
The door opens again and she flits down the steps, keys in hand. "I'm the Jetta."
"I figured." I glance at the black Thunderbird, remembering all the times I sat in that passenger seat.
I can't believe he still has it.
Then again, that thing was his baby.
I slip into the passenger side of the Jetta, the palms of my hands clammy. I have no reason to fear Cami. Still, as I buckle myself in, I check the front door of the house, the windows.
Nothing moves.
Cami starts the car and pulls out of the driveway, her maneuvering smooth. I find myself staring at her, studying the flawless skin, the way her lips naturally curve upward. Mine curve down, a permanent frown.
She's a teacher, the kind of person who gives rides to strangers. He's a musician, a muscle car junkie. I can't imagine what drew them together.
"How did you two meet?" The words are out of my mouth before I can reel them in. "I love a good meet cute," I say, recovering.
She grins. "Me too. My parents own a deli. Sometimes I help out, especially in the summer. I teach at the high school."
I nod, give her what I hope is an encouraging smile. Big Y isn't far.
"He'd just got out of the Navy. He comes in—in full uniform—and tells me he's starving. So I recommend our Italian combo. He gives me this flirty smirk and says, 'Do you come with it?' I'm Italian," she explains with a giggle. "Our deli's Damato's—my maiden name."
That sounds like him, all right. All charm, all the time.
"So you're happy?" I wish I'd flipped down the visor, so I could glance into the mirror, see whether my face looks horrified.
"God, yes. That was in the fall. We've spent every minute together ever since. Except when he's playing. I can't stay awake that late." She laughs, a musical, untarnished sound.
A sharp pain settles into my chest. How is it that he can be so good to her, after scraping me hollow?
Except now I know: he's lied to her at least once. He didn't just get out of the Navy. He got out years ago, when we were dating. He's been in California, pursuing his music.
I swallow bile.
"Are you all right?" she asks as she pulls into the Big Y parking lot.
"My boss's car is here," I manage. "He's such an asshole."
She frowns. "Dave? He's always been sweet to me."
"One of the supervisors," I say quickly, reaching for the door handle. "I've gotta go. Thanks for the ride." I push it open and get out, hurrying toward the electronic doors. As I pass through them, I glance over my shoulder.
Cami sits in her Jetta, watching me, her eyebrows pinched together.
* * *
I wander the store for ten minutes, then check the parking lot. She's gone. I pull out my phone. There's a missed call from Cliff, three from Esther. No messages. I call Esther.
"Can you pick me up? I've got some news about your case." I pace the front of the building, a cigarette in my other hand.
"I've been trying to call you," she says in a hushed voice. "Donny said—"
"Esther, I've got your entire file on my phone."
"What?"
"I texted it to you this morning. There's a lot of information we can use."
"Where are you?"
I skirt a woman pushing a cart brimming with groceries. "I took the bus to Big Y after work."
"Ah, shit, your bike. I was supposed to pick you up and then bring you to get it."
It seems like ages ago that she dropped me off at work this morning. "It's okay. Can you come get me now?"
"Of course, but Olivia? Cliff is looking for you. The whole club is—"
"We'll talk when I see you," I promise. "See you soon." I hang up, scanning the parking lot. Even though I'm pretty sure Cami went bac
k home, part of me expects Greg to pull up in his Thunderbird.
I will Esther to hurry.
I wait twenty minutes before she pulls up.
"You sure took your time," I mutter, getting in.
She blushes. "Donny and I were . . . when you called." She clears her throat.
"Donny and you were what?" I tease.
Her flush deepens. "So what's in my file?"
"Don't you check your texts? Or do you only answer for a Donny booty call?" I can't help it. She's so freakin' cute.
"Don't you answer your phone?" she counters, pulling out of the Big Y parking lot. She heads toward The Wet Mermaid.
I hold up my hands. "I was busy."
"Where are your groceries?"
"Oh." My lips tug to the side. "They didn't have what I wanted."
"Cravings, huh? Are you pregnant?" She cackles.
My cheeks burn. "Asshole."
"Hey, you and Cliff bone just as much as Donny and me."
"I can't believe you just used the word 'bone.'"
Esther's olive skin reddens to a tomato hue. "Why don't you tell me what's in my file?"
I open the pics on my phone, flipping through them for reference while I fill her in. When I get to the pregnancy part, I hesitate. "It says you emancipated yourself," I hedge. Then I sigh. So much of womanhood involves tiptoeing around delicate subjects. I'm done not talking about things. "He raped you again."
She nods.
"He got you pregnant."
She nods again, face pale.
"I haven't talked to Glace yet, because I wanted to run it by you first. If you're willing to testify, we can contest the reunification. What he did to you is plenty of reason for the state to not give those kids back."
"What if they say I'm not stable enough to take care of them?" she asks, voice small, cracking.
"Esther, you're the most stable person I know. You stayed in to study more than I did, and that's saying something." We really were the perfect roommates. I'm going to miss her when she moves out.
A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2) Page 13