I stop, halfway up the walkway. "How pissed are they?"
"They?" He scoffs. "Try all of us. You're in for it." He sweeps his curtain of hair over a shoulder. In another life, Abraham could be a model. He's solid, like me, all carefully maintained muscle. He's also got naturally olive skin and smoky blue eye—all things women trip over themselves for. Unfortunately for them, Abraham is all about his boyfriend Rui.
My chest rises with a tight breath. "I'm gonna make this right."
I head up the rest of the walkway and start climbing the stairs.
"There's one more thing," he says.
I pause beside him, one boot on the top step.
"We can't get ahold of Olivia." He lifts a shoulder. "Guess we're gonna need Vaughn after all."
I rub my face with my hands. "What do you mean, you can't get ahold of her?"
"She'll turn up. It's Esther. She loves Esther." But not you, is what he doesn't say.
Or maybe it's all in my head.
"Okay. Thanks for the heads up." I continue onto the porch. Gripping the door knob, I stop again. I don't know whether I'm supposed to knock or just walk in. This is club business—half of us are already inside. I don't want to startle Esther's grandparents, though. They've been through enough.
I raise a fist and knock.
"Dude." Abraham chuckles. "Just go in. No one's gonna shoot you."
"Hope not," I mutter. The gun that Donny gave me presses against the inside of my arm, the metal warm from my skin. I don't know if its presence is what makes me think of it, or the fact that my brothers wait inside, each of them armed, too. Inside the pen, the only men with guns were the ones keeping us inside. Every time I had to fight, I only needed my own two fists. Once in a while an inmate would have a shank or a screw, but even those are easier to avoid in close combat than a bullet.
Out here, on the other side of the bars, the rules are different.
I walk inside.
34
Olivia
The younger version of Greg blinds me with his flashlight. "Ma'am," he says, sounding not exasperated or even pissed off, but amused. "Do you know why I pulled you over?"
I lift my chin but keep my eyes down away from the light. It hits my face. I bet I'm glowing, I'm so pale from this winter.
Officer Byrne draws a sharp breath. He lowers the flashlight. "You," he whispers.
The lower back holster seemed like such a good idea when I started riding. Now it keeps my gun miles out of reach. I glance at his hip holster, slung low like a cowboy, only inches from where his hand rests at his side.
"I remember you," he says, voice a notch louder but still unsteady.
The sweat from the palms of my hands soaks into my jeans, making my skin clammy. I hold his gaze. If I look away, he might shoot me.
"You were at my mother's house, with Greg," he continues. Even in the dark, his hair blazes, his eyebrows two burning caterpillars, wriggling toward each other for a kiss. "I heard . . . something, but . . ." The knot in his throat bobs as he swallows. "I knew he liked to get rough sometimes."
"Rough," I scoff.
Sometimes I still feel his hands wrapped around my throat.
Officer Byrne holsters his flashlight. "You're Olivia, right?"
A chill grips my spine, icy fingers walking their way up the vertebrae. It isn't fair that he knows my name but I don't know his.
"Olivia," he says again, shaking his head.
The way he's saying my name nearly freezes my blood. I don't remember much about him, just that he was a punk teenager playing video games—the only other person in the house when it happened. For all I know, he's as fucked up in the head as Greg is.
I wrap my arms around myself in the guise of a hug. My fingers only graze my ribs—still too far from my gun.
"I should've come downstairs," he says softly. "I don't even remember which game I was playing. I didn't want to pause it. Maybe deep down I knew what was happening."
I hold up a hand, remembering too late that I'm dealing with a cop. "I don't want to talk about this." The last thing I need right now is a flashback. If I have any chance of getting out of here alive, I need my head straight.
"What he did is on me." Officer Byrne steps back a couple paces until his calves touch the front bumper of the police car. He sits on the hood, the palms of his hands planted on the shiny metal.
I nudge the Street Glide's kickstand into place, then dismount, every step in slow motion—just in case. I turn, facing him. The longer I look at him, the more his features become his own. His eyes—so light a green, they're almost gray—are so much softer than his brother's. The locks of red hair that fall across his forehead, making him look even younger.
He sighs. "This bike is registered to a Mark Clayton."
"My boss," I explain. "I'm running an errand."
He nods at my cut. "For the MC?"
"For my roommate. Her grandparents live around the corner."
"I'm guessing you don't have a motorcycle license," he says.
I keep my eyes wide. "They're literally right around the corner."
His eyebrows rise then fall. "Uh-huh." He crosses his arms. "Look, Olivia–"
"What's your name?" I interrupt. I don't want to think about that night. I don't want to remember. I just want to forget. Still, I need to know his name. Maybe it'll help me put it all to rest. Maybe it won't. I just need to know.
"Finn."
"Finn," I repeat. "You were in the living room the whole time." The words are out of my mouth before I can catch them, stuff them back down into the dark of my memory.
"Yes," he says softly. "Greg introduced us."
"And then he took me downstairs. To a partially finished basement. There was a load of laundry going, both in the washer and dryer." Each frame of the memory rushes me. It's as if Finn's face is the key to where I've locked it all away. My fingers twitch for a cigarette. They're in my saddlebag, go figure. "Is it okay if I get a cigarette?"
"Please." He gestures toward the bike.
Sucking in a deep breath, I turn toward it, then walk on legs that might as well be weighted by sand bags. I grab what I need and light up, leaning against the bike.
"I saw you afterward," he says while I smoke. "I pretended to be asleep on the couch, but I heard you guys come up. You looked so empty." He rubs his temples. "He came back wrong."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
"I don't mean that night. I mean before that night, when he came home on leave. He was so different. I should've known."
I exhale smoke into the dark. "He didn't seem off to me at first. He was excited to reconnect. I thought he really liked me. Turns out he just wanted a toy. Maybe he needed to hurt someone to work through all of the things he saw. I don't know."
"Doesn't make it okay," Finn says. "I'm really, really sorry."
I lift my eyes, meeting his. "What about Cami?"
"What about her?"
"Is she okay? Does he . . . hurt her?"
He spreads his hands. "I don't know. I don't see them too often."
"That night wasn't the only time," I tell him. "He lied to me over and over. He wanted to try different things. I'd say no, and he'd say no problem, then do it anyway. He always did whatever he wanted with me. It just escalated every time. After that night, I knew I couldn't see him ever again, or he'd kill me." I bite my lip hard, anchoring myself in the present. The salty, metallic taste of blood floods my tongue.
Finn's face hardens. "I can't change the past," he says, "but I can do something now. I owe you, Olivia, and I don't think it'll ever be enough. I'm going to let you go." He slides off the hood. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a business card. "This is my cell. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, just call me." He holds it out to me.
I take the white rectangle, rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger. "I'll hold you to that," I tell him.
He nods, then gets into his car. "Take care of yourself, Olivia," he says before closing his door. A
moment later, he shuts off the flashing lights. Then he drives away, leaving me alone on the dark, quiet street.
I sink to the pavement, my knees finally giving out. Gasping for air, I crumple the card in my hand. I will never trust a Byrne, especially not a cop.
I throw my pack of cigarettes, lighter, and the crushed business card into my saddlebag. Then I retrieve my phone from where I left it on the seat.
By some miracle, Siri actually sent my text to Esther. It says it was delivered, but there's no read mark—she hasn't seen it yet.
There's no more time to waste.
I flip through my photos, reading through the Figueroa file again, this time scouring for Josué's address. It'd be faster to ride, but I can't read at the same time. While I read, I walk toward Esther's grandparents'. Somehow, some way, I'm ending this tonight. Esther and the girls deserve a new beginning.
35
Cliff
I stand on a maroon area rug, next to a couch that was made to look like gold but instead came out a mustard yellow. Donny and Esther sit beside an older woman who must be Esther's grandmother. Everyone turns to look at me, the room going silent except for an oxygen machine whirring somewhere in the house.
I don't know what to say to make this right. I can't remember the last time I had to apologize to another human being. For twenty years, I was never sorry about anything—except Lucy.
Donny stands from the couch, unfolding his body and rising, casting a dark shadow over Esther and her grandmother. He regards me with a cool stare.
"Did Vaughn have any luck?" Beer Can asks from the other side of the room. He turns a knickknack over in his hands.
Without meaning to, I reach up and rub the back of my head.
Beer Can sighs.
I drop my hand. "You were right," I tell Donny. "We're better off with Olivia. Where is she?"
Esther and Donny exchange glances. "We still haven't heard from her," she says, standing. "I'll try her again."
I run a hand through my hair. "Shit."
"Guess we might need Vaughn after all," Donny mutters. He lifts his eyes to mine and shrugs. Reaching inside his cut, he pulls out my phone.
I hold my hand out for it, but he doesn't drop it into my palm.
"I still wanna kick your ass, Red Dog. But I know you're going through it, too. We good—for now." He drops the phone into my hand. "Call your girl. Maybe you'll have better luck."
I start to say "She's not my girl." The front door opens, the knob slamming into the wall. Olivia stands in the doorway, her curls wild, eyes lined with dark circles.
"Sorry, Mrs. Aguirre," she tells Esther's grandmother. Her eyes meet mine.
An electric current washes over me, zapping through my limbs and muscles, holding me in place. It's strong enough to snap ligaments and melt bone. The sight of her washes away all of the anger and fear I've been carrying between my heart and ribs. I can never be angry with her for long. My little wolf. I take a step toward her, but she drops her gaze, turning instead to Esther.
"Did you get my text?" she asks.
My knees go weak as the sting of her shrapnel digs into my skin. Mark's words echo through my head: She's the fucking dragon, and she's going to burn us all alive if we get in her way.
The problem is, I want her fire.
It's like she's cut my skin open and poured lava inside. I'm wide open, burning, waiting for her rain to cool me down. Waiting forever, probably.
She will never love me.
"No," Esther says, standing. She tugs her phone from the side pocket of her leggings. "Oh." She grimaces. "I left the ringer off."
"Jesus." Olivia sighs. "I sent you the files. You had Josué's address this whole time."
"Where have you been?" Donny shouts, rounding on her. "We needed you 'this whole time,' and you were nowhere to be found, Prospect." He glares down at her, chest heaving.
"Hey!" I step forward, putting my body between them. "She needed a minute. She's here now, right?"
He shakes a finger at us. "The two of you done now? Can we focus?"
I nod. "I've got you, brother."
He sighs. "Olivia?"
"I'm here," she says, looking everywhere but at me. "Toci has an apartment on Andrew Avenue. They've got to be there."
"No," says a wavering voice. For the first time, Mrs. Aguirre speaks. She stands from the couch. "He's paying her rent, but he isn't staying there. He knows he needs to be out of the picture if Toci's going to get the girls back."
I clear my throat. "Why take them, then? I thought they were close to reunification."
"Because I filed a complaint," Esther says. "The DCF headquarters is investigating. The woman I spoke with said it's odd that this social worker is pursuing reunification."
Olivia shakes her head. "Glace isn't pursuing reunification. That was the old social worker."
"Old social worker? The girls have had Glace for a long time. Too long—they should already have a permanency plan," Esther explains.
"So . . ." Olivia runs a hand through her curls. "Why is Glace working toward reunification? And why did she lie to me?"
"Does it really matter?" I interject. "We've gotta go."
Olivia shoots a glare at me, then turns to Esther's grandmother. "Any ideas where they might be?"
Mrs. Aguirre nods. "Try the American Motor Lodge, in Waterbury. It's right off Route 8. That's where they used to meet up." She sighs. "If I could turn back time, I'd have nailed that girl's ass to her bedroom floor."
"Abuela," Esther soothes. "It's going to be okay."
"Essie, you're with me," Donny says. He pulls open the door. I join him, scanning the bikes.
"Where's your Street Glide, Olivia?"
She says nothing.
"Jesus Christ. We don't have time for this!" Donny barks. "Olivia, you're with Cliff. Beer Can, Abraham. Let's go."
"Bring those babies back safely," Mrs. Aguirre begs.
Before I duck through the door, her eyes meet mine. I nod, then turn away. "Let's go," I tell Olivia. I mount the Screamin' Eagle and pass her my helmet.
She pushes it away. "I'm right around the corner. Just drop me off." She hops on behind me, her arms only loosely around my waist.
Chest tightening, I nod. Then I start the engine.
36
Olivia
My head is reeling. I need a minute alone to catch up—thirty seconds, even—but I just had to walk over rather than take my own bike. New rule: Never put myself in a position where I have to cling to Cliff's back. I try not to press my face into the leather of his cut, try not to inhale his woodsy, clean scent, even over the smells of the road. And I most definitely don't feel all of those muscles, the hard ridges and swells of his back. His hair flies into my face, untamed, the black locks wrapping around my head and engulfing me in the cedar and agave in his shampoo.
I want to shove him off the bike.
He doesn't try to talk to me. He brings me straight to the Street Glide where I left it after Finn took off. I swing off the back of Cliff's bike and walk straight to mine. Halfway there, I freeze, fear locking my limbs.
It's always after the action that I freak out.
I glance around, as if Finn's police car is going to materialize any second. It's just Cliff and me, the roar of his Screamin' Eagle loud enough to drown out the turmoil in my head. But it doesn't.
I see Finn's face, then Greg's, and I'm catapulted back to that night, in that basement bedroom, his hands around my throat. The first few times things got weird, I just figured he was into kink, had some odd fetishes.
That almost killed me.
I claw at my throat, fingers touching only my own skin. I'm safe, I remind myself. I'm here. I look around the street again, turning in a circle. Cliff sits on his bike, brown eyes alarmed.
"Olivia?" he calls out. He starts to say something, but Donny and Esther, Beer Can, and Abraham roar onto the street.
"Let's go!" Donny yells. He urges his Dyna forward, not bothering to wait for us.
Casting us a curious glance, Beer Can follows. Abraham doesn't even spare us a look.
"You good?" Cliff asks me.
I don't know! I want to scream. But there's no time to dig into my crazy. I shove the memories down and swing onto my bike. "Come on," I tell him, and start her up.
I fall into formation at the back of the pack—Prospects don't get to ride up front. Cliff hangs back with me, his eyes watchful. I wish he'd stop. He makes it so hard to be angry with him when he so clearly cares—even after I called him a bastard. Not my finest moment. I definitely jabbed his most tender point.
I always do.
We tear down 63 and jump onto Route 8, Esther clinging for dear life on the back of Donny's bike. I'm surprised he brought her with us. I would've left her with her grandma, where she's safe, where she won't have to see what we do to her father. What I want to do to him.
Thinking about what he did to her and her sisters sends my blood racing through my veins. Nausea and rage burn up my throat, tightening my grip on the handlebar. I rush Street Glide forward, passing Cliff and putting myself in the middle of the formation.
I haven't been present for Esther. Ever since she told me about her father, my own memories of Greg erupted from where I must've buried them. In college, I took a psychology class where we did a unit on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. At the time, I thought it was fascinating how the brain can suppress memories just to stay sane. Yet the deeper they're buried, the more violent the outbreak, the more vivid the flashbacks.
Some defense mechanism.
It's better to deal with your shit. I know that. From a clinical perspective, I know exactly what I'm supposed to do: ride through the flashbacks, let them happen. I don't want to.
It's like there are two versions of me. There's rabbit Olivia, the girl who froze and stuffed it all down until she couldn't remember anymore. Then there's biker Olivia, the woman who isn't afraid to take back what belongs to her.
A life for a life.
His life for the life I could have had. The person I would be if he hadn't ruined me.
A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2) Page 16