After that, he made her do all the work.
* * *
It was two days later, when Boone was returning to the offices with Mag after they’d been out to meet with an asset on another job, that Hawk came right out of his space at the top of the huge, auditorium-style room and called, “Men. Up here.”
Boone looked to Mag, Mag looked to Boone, and then they walked up to Hawk’s office.
He wasn’t seated behind his desk, but Hawk was not the kind of man who often sat.
He was leaned against the side, arms crossed on his chest.
Mag, the last one in, closed the door.
When he had both his men’s eyes, Hawk gave it to them.
“Got a call from Eddie. As you know, that shit with Mueller and Bogart happened in Englewood, jurisdiction of their PD, so Eddie and Hank were out. Still, Eddie knows the ME over there and gave him a call. ME told him straight up he was billing it a double homicide, considering Mueller’s tox screen showed such high levels of Rohypnol, not only would he be unable to deliver that kill shot straight to the heart of Bogart, he’d have trouble aiming at his own head.”
Boone felt relief at this colossal fuckup.
“So, we got ’em,” he noted. “Or at least we got something and it’s something the cops can’t ignore.”
Hawk shook his head.
Then he shared, “Report just filed. Ruled a murder suicide. And no mention of the Rohypnol.”
“What the fuck?” Mag asked.
“That was Eddie’s question. So he called the ME. Five times. When the man finally answered, he denied ever telling Eddie about those results and was adamant there was no Rohypnol found in either man’s screen.”
Shit, fuck.
“They got to him,” Boone said.
Hawk nodded once. “They got to him.”
“Shit,” Boone muttered.
“And we’re right, this is big,” Mag stated.
Hawk nodded once again. “We’re right. This is big. Because that wasn’t it. Eddie got that news, he went to the investigating officers and asked if they were ordering an assessment on the suicide note and if they printed the backdoor light. The detective who caught the case stated there was no reason to do an assessment of the note due to the ME’s ruling, and no reason to print the light, since he supposedly followed Eddie’s lead on that and says it worked. DA is going to close it as is. The nail in that coffin is going to hit the evening news.”
“But now, Eddie’s out there,” Boone said ominously.
“Now, Eddie’s out there,” Hawk agreed. “And that’s why they put him and Hank in front of this. Not to mention, noted Slim and Mitch and me in their texts. They got the power. They’re willing to go the extra mile. But they can be reasonable, they gave us what we wanted. Time for all of us to step back and shut down.”
No one said anything.
Hawk broke the silence.
“Lee’s better at this shit, so his boys are all over that ME to find out if they paid him, or if they’re holding something over him. Eddie’s out. He’s too visible right now. Hank, Slim and Mitch too. Malik is gonna see if he can get a copy of that note. Once we get all that, we’ll proceed from there.”
This time, Boone and Mag nodded.
“All right, men, the plot thickens,” Hawk said in preparation for dismissing them. “Boone, you get on telling Cisco. I’ll tell Mamá. And when I have your next orders, you’ll know.”
Both men did chin lifts and walked out the door.
“Christ. Roofied. Probably aware enough to know in some part of his head what was going on, totally incapable of doing anything about it. Is it semi-fucked I feel bad that Mueller was done like that?” Mag asked on their way to their workstations.
“Nope. Don’t got a lotta love for the man, and you can read from that, not any, but that’s harsh. Justice should be fair. It should be known what he did and the man he was, and he should pay for that. But his family thinking he’s steppin’ out on his wife to fuck prostitutes and not even pay them before he kills his partner and guarantees a closed casket? And he’s doped up and not even given a fighting chance before they lay him out?” Boone shook his head.
“Sinister shit,” Mag muttered.
“We’ve seen worse,” Boone pointed out.
“Yeah,” Mag sighed.
They hit their workstations, which were next to each other, and Boone spied Mag’s nameplate that said #1 BOYFRIEND on it.
Evie had given him that. It was goofy as fuck. They gave Mag no end of shit about it.
It rolled right off his back in a way Boone wondered if that plaque wasn’t his most prized possession.
What they’d discussed on their way to see the asset earlier, he was figured he was right about that.
So he took them out of the heavy and into what they’d talked about on their way to see their asset.
Something a fuckuva lot lighter.
“This weekend?” he asked.
“This weekend,” Mag confirmed.
Out of curiosity, and to be prepared, Boone queried, “How much was the ring?”
“You don’t wanna know,” Mag mumbled.
Boone started chuckling. “You’ll get a new fifteen-dollar plaque, and Evie gets Tiffany.”
Mag looked him in the eye and said, “Worth it.”
Boone knew it was.
Fuck, but he knew it.
He lifted a hand, caught Mag’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
Then both men went back to work.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Really Cute
Ryn
We were unloading lighting at the house when I got the call.
Okay, Boone was unloading it.
I was admiring him while watching him do it.
All those muscles bunching.
Yum.
“You could help,” he said just as my phone started ringing.
“And miss the show?” I asked.
He chuckled, and the way he did I knew he liked that I liked the show.
It was Saturday, a week and a half after the bogus murder suicide.
And by the by, I wasn’t feeling real sad for Bogart and Mueller (though I felt sad for their families, especially with all the media hoopla, it was ugly).
But still.
That was no way to go.
What I was, was back to work at Smithie’s.
The press release had gone out and Smithie was in full dither about the big premiere of the revue that was happening next month.
Dorian, on the other hand, was calm as a cucumber (as per usual).
We didn’t have to hire a crew to keep work going on the house, firstly because I was on it even on days where I had to work the nights (I just turned up later than the rest of the guys), and secondly because there were always one or two Chaos guys who showed to help.
They adamantly refused payment.
They also adamantly refused to stop showing up when I demanded they do that because they’d refused payment.
And last, they continued adamantly refusing me buying their lunches, and instead, they maneuvered it so they always bought mine.
This brought on an exchange of words (with Hound, but also Dutch, not to mention Boz) that earned me another call from Tack where he said, “Listen, Ryn. We got no crises. Shit is copasetic. And we’re finding, no matter how fucked it is, that copasetic is boring as fuck. It means they got two choices. They either work on cars, or work in the shop. The men hate workin’ in the shop, and our garage isn’t big enough to have all of them working on cars. Worse, if they were all there, they’d be up in each other’s shit about how they worked on cars. So honest to fuck, you’re doin’ us a favor. We’re bikers. We need a change of scenery every once in a while. Give ’em a change of scenery.”
He was so full of shit.
They’d totally adopted me, not to mention took on a project they wanted to see through, and Tack was laying a trip on me so I’d let them do what they wanted to do.
I did not get into this with Tack.
I said, “They wanna keep helping, I buy lunch.”
I thought he’d balk or hand me another line of bullshit.
Nope.
He’d said, “Deal.”
And then he hung up.
Truth be told, it kinda messed with my head to have free labor (ish, feeding the boys every day wasn’t cheap, it still didn’t cost as much as skilled labor).
But who was I to deny a biker a change of scenery?
This meant the walls were painted. The floors were down in the rooms that needed no further work. Hound had taught me how to tile, and after the kitchen cabinets were up, I’d done the backsplash (and it looked awesome).
The electrician was coming in that next week to do her thing. The plumber was coming back the week after to do the bathrooms and finish work in the kitchen.
It wasn’t like I had a ten-guy crew. We had some significant work to do and it was a lot more time-consuming than I thought it would be (of which, I took note for budgetary and scheduling purposes for the next one).
But if we kept going at this clip, we’d be on the market before summer’s end.
And I hoped that meant we’d be on the market to buy the next house by autumn.
Because seriously.
This flipping houses shit was a blast.
I loved my girls, Smithie and Dorian.
But it was way, way better than stripping.
And the best part of the goodness that had become of life was that wasn’t all the goodness.
It kept on flowing.
Evie and Mag were now engaged.
Plans were heating up for Lottie and Mo’s wedding.
Though, Pepper and Auggie were still being stupid. But I sensed Pepper was taking in the Evie and Mag thing, the Boone and me thing, and having a good think (so I was laying off to give her time to have that think, and come to the right conclusion, and if she didn’t, I was laying right back on again).
The only downer was the fact that Hattie had pretty much instituted an all-around friend divorce.
She wasn’t being mean.
She just didn’t return texts for days, was always busy when we tried to make plans, and denied there was anything to talk about at direct requests to do just that.
It was getting on Pepper’s nerves.
It was concerning Evie.
And it was making Lottie plot (I could see it every time her eyes fell on Hattie).
So I was pretty chill about it, because Lottie plotting got me Boone.
Enough said.
I couldn’t say all was right in the world.
I was still out of Angelica’s life, which meant Portia and Jethro’s. My brother still wasn’t talking to me (and now wasn’t talking to Mom). And I still didn’t know what to do about all of that.
But at least I wasn’t under a 24/7 security detail anymore.
A plus.
And I got to spend a Saturday, which was the day before a Brunch in Bed with Boone Sunday, watching my hot, built, alpha, Dom boyfriend lugging boxes.
A total plus.
I took in the show of Boone squatting to put down the load he was carrying (sweet) and pulled my ringing phone out of my back pocket.
I tore my eyes away from Boone’s thigh, looked at my cell, and at what I saw on the screen, I couldn’t stop my “Oh shit.”
“What?” Boone asked.
I pressed my lips together, rubbed them a bit, looked at Boone, and said, “Brian,” timing it to come out right before I put my phone to my ear (so he wouldn’t stop me from putting my phone to my ear) and greeted with a tentative, “Hey.”
“Ryn,” he said quietly.
His tone made me drop my head and listen hard.
“Okay, I…I need you,” he said.
I lifted my head instantly and saw Boone, my sweet Boone, right there in front of me.
“You need me for what, Brian?” I asked softly.
Boone lifted a hand and wrapped it around the side of my neck.
“I just got back from seeing the kids and I’m, well…I’m sober, Ryn. It’s just been a little while, eight days, and I didn’t wanna say anything to you or Mom until I knew that it was gonna kinda…take. But Ang has been…I couldn’t see the kids until…” He trailed off.
“I know. She mentioned she was going to do that,” I said.
“Yeah, so, um…yeah. She did that. And so I went to a meeting and it took a little…you know, a little bit to, you know, uh…lay off the sauce. I kinda fell off the wagon every day for, you know, some time there, but I just, you know…” I heard him suck in breath and my heart bled at how hard this was for him, but I didn’t interrupt. “Fuck, Ryn, I just needed to see my kids.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“So she let me see them today and…and…Christ!” he suddenly exploded.
I went solid, but when Brian didn’t go on, I pushed out, “What?”
“She’s like, I don’t know, maybe thirty-five, forty pounds.”
What?
“Who?” I asked.
“Portia,” he answered.
“What?” I shrieked.
Boone wrapped his fingers around the wrist of my hand that was holding the phone.
I shook my head at him, hard.
His mouth got tight.
Through this, Brian spoke.
“She’s skinny, Ryn. Like, super skinny. Eyes all hollowed out. I…it’s freaking me out.”
“What the fuck is happening, Brian?” I demanded.
“She wants to see you.”
I pulled away from Boone, started toward the door and declared, “I’m going there right now.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there,” Brian said readily.
I was nearing the door, Boone at my side.
“Portia’s not eating because I’m not around?” I asked my brother just to confirm I was getting this right.
“Fuck,” Boone hissed.
“Angie says no. Angie says she’s just going through a phase. But I asked her, Portia, direct, and she says she’s on a hunger strike until her mother lets her see you.”
“Goddamn Jesus Christ,” I bit out. I shouldn’t have stayed away. I should have made the peace. Goddamn it! “How long has this been happening?” I asked as Boone beeped the locks on Mo’s truck that we’d borrowed to pick up the lighting.
“I don’t know, Ryn, because I,” his voice cracked, “fucked shit right the fuck up and I haven’t seen my babies.”
“Okay, Brian, you go there, and I’ll go there, and I won’t go in until you get there. And I’m calling Mom. I’m also calling fucking Brenda,” I said, hauling myself up into the cab after Boone opened my door.
He also closed it the second I cleared.
Wasting no time.
Loved my man.
“Okay, Ryn, but I’ll call Brenda. You call Mom,” Brian told me.
“You got it, bro,” I bit off. “See you soon.”
“Ryn,” he called.
“What?” I asked.
“I love you so fucking much too.”
I stopped breathing entirely.
Brian disconnected.
“Baby,” Boone growled.
I started breathing.
Only then did Boone ask, “Your niece isn’t eating?”
“She’s on a hunger strike until she sees me.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” Boone murmured, switching on the ignition.
“Angelica says it’s a phase. But I’d say she probably weighed about fifty pounds. I don’t know how much a kid that age should weigh, but she was a healthy weight. Brian says she’s super skinny. Says she weighs, like, thirty-five pounds. She’s a tall girl. Thirty-five pounds is little.”
“Your mom hasn’t seen them in a while?” Boone asked, his arm around my seat, looking over his shoulder, backing out of the driveway.
“No. I didn’t think about it, with all that was happening with Brian. But she hasn’t mentioned them, and I thought she hadn�
�t because she didn’t want to make me feel badly, because I couldn’t see them.”
“Right, we’re gonna be there in fifteen, sweetheart. So get on the phone with your mom.”
I got on the phone with Mom.
In the brief conversation with Mom before she was out the door, I learned three things.
One, she’d only seen the kids once since Brian’s accident.
Two, she had noted at that time that it looked like Portia was taking off weight, but again, at that time, it wasn’t alarming, and she just thought it was because of all that was happening with the adults in Portia’s life. However, Mom did warn Angelica to have a care about that.
And three, right now she was freaked way the fuck out.
When I disconnected, Boone asked, “How was your brother when you talked to him?”
“Flipped out about Portia.”
“Other than that.”
“Sober,” I told him.
“Sorry?” he asked.
“He’s going to meetings. He says he’s sober. Has been for a little while. Not long. Eight days. But Angelica wouldn’t let him see his kids, and I guess that was the catalyst for him to find some help.” I took in a big breath, mindfully, which meant I also let it out. “He said he started meetings a bit ago. Kept falling off the wagon. But he’s on it now.”
Boone had no reply.
“He was nice to me, Boone. He ended the call telling me he loved me.”
It took a sec before Boone said, “Okay, baby.”
Yeah.
He was with me.
He was going to give Brian a chance.
Me?
“He’s gonna fall off again,” I said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. He’s on now and needs positive reinforcement for that.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“And it’s a pretty intense incentive to stay on it, his daughter starving herself and her mother doing dick about it.”
He could say that again.
“Yeah,” I repeated.
“Babe, that’s bad, but this is good. Her family is closing in. You’re all going to see to her. She’ll be all right. Focus on that.”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
He held out his hand, palm up.
I took it.
We were at Angelica’s in less than fifteen minutes.
Brian was already there.
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