by Zahra Girard
“That might be true, Mack,” I say, and I stop for a second, surprised at how much like a frog’s croak my voice sounds. “But that still won’t stop me from wiping the floor with you.”
“Oh, our conquering hero has awakened. How do you feel, brother?” Crash says.
“Like Mack looks,” I answer. “Like a ruined, disgusting wreck of a person.”
“Lucky for you you’re already in a hospital, Blaze,” Mack says. “It means the doctors won’t have to go far when I beat your ass.”
Stone holds out his hand, though there’s really no need — Mack is grinning and he gives me a reassuring pat on the foot.
“How long have I been out, Stone?” I say.
“A while,” he says. “Any longer and I was going to see if Mack here was interested in playing your Prince Charming.”
“I’d rather you just pull the plug,” I say, laughing.
“You lost a lot of blood, brother. They had to give you a transfusion, and the doctors had to work on you for a while to patch you up from the number that Anna Ebri woman and her boys did to you,” Crash says. “You will be sore for a while.”
“And my mom? What’s her condition? Did you guys get the stuff from the SUV?”
Stone, Crash, and Mack all trade looks. My stomach about sinks out through my feet and into the floor — there’s never been a woman in this life more disappointed in me than my mother, and there’s no one on this earth that I care for more. Maybe there’s one equal. But, all I can think about is the woman who raised me, who sacrificed so many career opportunities to stay here in this small town and give me the best life that she could.
“The wreck ruined the laptop and the files you told us to get. I’m sorry, brother,” Crash says. “And your mom…”
Crash looks at Stone, who clears his throat.
“It’s not good,” Stone says. And, when I try to sit up, he puts a hand on my good shoulder and pushes me back into the hospital bed. “She’s in the operating room right now and has been for a long time. They’re doing stuff in stages. But the docs say that there was significant damage to her liver. And it might be something they can’t repair.”
“I’m sorry, brother,” Mack says.
I’m speechless. My heart constricts tight within the grip of disappointment and despair. This was supposed to be my chance to make things up to her; to show her I can be someone she can depend on instead of the son she wishes she never had. But now the evidence we need to clear her from this loan bullshit is destroyed and, worse, she’s dying. I’m an even bigger disappointment than I could have ever imagined.
I can’t let this happen.
Maybe I can’t save her home, but I can save her life.
Whatever it takes.
“Get me the doctor,” I say.
“What is it, Blaze?” Crash says. “Brother, if you need more meds, just ring that thing by your bed and the nurse will get them for you.
Stone meets my eyes. And in a second he understands; he has a family, he’d do anything — give anything — to save them.
He nods. “Crash, Mack, don’t argue. Go find Doctor Simensen. Get her here, now.”
They leave, and it’s just me and Stone in this stale hospital room. He pulls up a chair next to the bed and takes a seat.
“You sure you want to do this, Blaze?”
“I am.”
“It’s not a simple thing. She might even say you’re not qualified.”
I laugh. “There’ are a lot of things I’m not qualified for, Stone. Hell, I found out my credit score. You want to know what it is?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I tell him, and watch as, just like all the others, his eyes get a touch wider. “Hell, I’m surprised they even let me have a bed here instead of throwing me out in the alley.”
“God damn, Blaze. I’m surprised, too. It’s really that low? Listen, brother, when you get out of here, you’re going to sit down with Crash and me and you’re going to learn how to balance a fucking checkbook,” Stone says. “That score is worse than irresponsible.”
“Yes, dad,” I say, and then, when Stone raises a threatening eyebrow, I clear my throat and say, “Sorry, Stone.”
The door to my room opens and Crash comes in with a young woman in tow. She looks to be just under thirty, thin, with severe features, stern blue eyes, and an expression on her face like she hasn’t smiled in the last few years.
“What is it, Mr. Dunne?” She says. “Your companions were insistent in bringing me here and said it was an emergency. I’m very busy — with your mother’s care — and, unless it is really an emergency, I’d appreciate it if you could keep your questions to the nurses.”
“Tell me what’s happening with my mom.”
It looks like there’s a protest about to come from her pursed lips, but I sure as shit won’t have that. I reach out and grab her by the wrist. Stone puts his hand on mine and pulls it off the doctor.
“Sorry, doc,” he says. “Declan is just concerned for his mother. We’d all appreciate it if you could update us on her condition.”
“We spoke just an hour ago, Mr. Stone,” she says.
“Declan wants to hear it from you. Do us a favor and tell him, all right?”
She sighs. Then nods.
“Fine. Mr. Dunne, your mother is in near-critical condition. Among the many health concerns we have regarding her gunshot injury, most serious is her liver. The bullet nearly obliterated that organ,” she says.
There’s more, but I hardly catch any of it; the look on her face and the tone in her voice causes the probability of my mother’s death to come crashing down upon me with deafening force.
“Declan, you with us?” Stone says, giving my shoulder a light shake.
“Do you need some space, Mr. Dunne? Do you have any other questions? Because, if not, I really would appreciate the opportunity to get back to my rounds. I don’t mean to sound curt, but we are slammed and time is short.”
I shake my head. Take a breath. “You sure as shit aren’t one for bedside manner, are you, doc?”
“Not when people are dying, no.”
“What are my mother’s odds of recovering?”
“This isn’t a numbers game, Mr. Dunne. I don’t want to set any false expectations.”
“Humor him,” Stone says. His voice is cold and commanding.
The doc gives him a sideways look and shifts uncomfortably. “Mr. Dunne, we can repair much of the damage the bullet did to your mother. We can stop the bleeding, we can give her transfusions, but that is it. Your mother urgently needs a liver transplant and, without one, she will die.”
This isn’t a surprise to me; I’ve dealt out enough gutshots to know the damage a bullet can do. In my mind, I remember everything that woman sacrificed for me, even though I was far from being a perfect son; most of the time, I was a headstrong asshole who rushed headlong into the worst situations without giving a thought for the consequences. I don’t blame her for all the anger and hurt feelings she’s got for me; I gave her plenty of reason to feel that way. But all I want — all I’ve ever wanted — is to make her proud and repay her for everything she’s done for me.
“Mr. Dunne, do you have any more questions for me, or can I get back to my rounds?”
I meet eyes with Stone for a second — the old man looks prouder than I’ve ever seen him and, as I look to my other brothers, I see realization and respect dawn on their faces.
Through it all, I’ve given everything for my mom. Now’s my chance to give one thing more.
“I have another question for you, doctor. You said my mom needs a transplant. How quickly can you get me under the knife?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tiffany
The cops haul my father away. Not for any of the financial crimes I’d like — I recognize the impossibility of convincing the fifty-something Officer Paulsen of my father’s many financial misdeeds and moral cowardice before I even pick up the phone — but for suspicion of domestic assault; I look like a m
ess when the police arrive, bruised and frantic and with my clothes torn and dirty, and my father, because of his years of being distant from anything involving genuine emotions, looks totally guilty.
The second they slap cuffs on him and put him in the back of the patrol car, I heave a sigh of relief.
This is nearly over.
Now, I’m just an unemployed loan specialist with a community college degree, a lover in the hospital for numerous injuries, and absolutely no idea what she wants to do with her life.
Is this what victory feels like? Because it really, really sucks.
Storming into the house after watching the patrol car leave, I slam the front door behind me and head to my father’s kitchen, where I pour myself a drinking glass of wine and just think, which is something I haven’t had a spare moment to do in way too long.
I have to be the one to think ahead. Because, out of everyone involved, I’m the best person for that job. Blaze and his club have incinerated this festering fraudulent infection in Torreon, but I need to be the one that cleans this mess up. I need to make sure that the people who were hurt by Anna Ebri are made whole.
And that means homework. And reports. Two things that I excel at — I went to Stanford, after all.
Propelled by excitement and urgency, I head to my father’s bedroom and find his laptop at the bottom of his suitcase. I take it out, guess the password — which turns out to be my birthday because I guess my dad isn’t as smart as I thought he was — and start combing through his computer.
This will take a while. And it will take all my focus.
I head back into the kitchen and call Stone on my dad’s landline.
“This is Stone,” comes the no-nonsense voice.
“How is he?”
“Incredibly capable of pissing off his doctors and making rash, high-consequence decisions about his health.”
“What’s he done now?” I say.
“They’re prepping him for surgery,” he says in a voice that sounds serious even for Stone.
My heart stops. My brain tries to grapple with the implications. Not that long ago, he seemed fine, notwithstanding the shot he’d taken in the shoulder and the battering he’d taken from Anna’s thugs. But none of that seemed the kind of injury that required major surgery.
“Is it serious?”
“They’re going to take some of his liver.”
“What? He didn’t get shot anywhere near there. Stone, what’s going on?”
“They’re doing a transplant. It’s Eleanor who needs a new liver. Blaze is giving her part of his.”
I look down and find my glass of wine empty. I refill it, hoping it’ll drown the concern and fear swirling in my belly. No matter what it costs — even if it costs him his life — that headstrong man just won’t stop giving.
“Just like that?”
“This is a guy who thinks it’s fun to parachute into forest fires. He didn’t hesitate a second.”
That gives me some reassurance, but I still finish half of my glass of wine in a gulp. Then I set it aside — I can’t be drunk for the work that I’ve got to do.
“Is he going to be OK?”
“Over the time that I’ve known him, there’s a thousand other dumber, more dangerous things he’s done that should’ve killed him, and he’s come out of them just fine. Blaze will pull through. His mom should, too.”
“Can you keep an eye on him for me, Stone? It will be a while before I can get down there.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “But what are you staying away for? Is something wrong?”
“I’m fine. And I will make sure that this mess gets cleaned up and Eleanor’s home is taken care of.”
“Just what are you planning, Tiffany?”
“I’m going to do my homework and put together a report. And, before you even ask, I will not mention a word about your club. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of reading to do.”
I end the call before he can say anything; it’s probably not the smartest thing to do, hanging up on the president of a motorcycle club, but I’m already feeling the effects of the giant glass of wine and the excitement building in my chest; I can finally do some meaningful work with my degree: I have the chance to uncover and rectify some enormous financial misdeeds.
I set about it with focused, Stanford-educated vengeance.
Hours pass in my dad’s office chair as my fingers dance across the keyboard and my glassy eyes stare into the depths of his laptop screen, prying open every crime, documenting every bit of evidence, until I’ve compiled a report so comprehensive it could double as a thesis.
When I finally stop and take in the totality of my work, I’m proud — actually proud — of what I’ve done.
For the first time in way too long, I don’t feel like some underachieving, broken failure. I feel like an intelligent woman who has the potential and capability to do outstanding things. This report will be my first step toward something greater. Because I’m not done by a long shot.
My father put so much time into encouraging my academic potential, and the greatest achievement I’ve made in that area is documenting his moral failure. Now, I will take this achievement and make something of myself.
After I make a few copies of my research, I get back in the Volvo and I head straight to Torreon City Hall, which, despite its grandiose name, is a squat, beige series of buildings more akin to a strip mall. I find the annex building that doubles as the mayor’s office and take a seat in his lobby while his secretary shoots me the stink eye.
“Can I help you?” The secretary says. Her name is Janet, judging by nametag she’s wearing. And, based on the look she gives me, she hates my guts.
I don’t blame her for questioning my presence; I look like a lunatic — ragged clothes, my hair is a mess, I’m shaking with excitement, and I’m clutching my dad’s laptop like it’s a newborn. All I need is a tinfoil hat to complete my outfit.
“I’m here to see the mayor,” I say.
“I’ll bet you are. But he’s busy at the moment,” she says, her tone walking the fine line between respect and derision.
“I’m not crazy. This is important. I have information here showing a financial conspiracy involving banks and the local tax assessor’s office. This is criminal collusion between local businesses and city government,” I say, still clutching the laptop tight to my chest.
When I say it out loud, I realize I sound crazy. But I keep that feeling off my face.
“Oh, I’ll bet you have,” she says. “And I’ll bet you put a lot of work into it, too. But, lady, the mayor doesn’t just take appointments from any crazy who walks in off the street. Please leave.”
“He’s in there right now, isn’t he?” I say, looking over her shoulder towards the closed office door.
When she shifts in her chair, I feel a stir of hope.
“That’s none of your concern. Again, please leave before I have to call security.”
I stand. I have no intention of leaving. Drawing inspiration from my hardheaded man, I charge past Janet and throw open the door to the mayor’s office.
Just as I suspected, he’s sitting behind his desk, reclining in his chair with his phone to his ear.
Mayor Pete Trainor’s eyes get wide the second he sees me. Behind me, I hear his secretary calling for security.
I have a minute at most to make this count.
With determination, I charge forward to the Mayor’s desk and, as he watches in disbelief, slam my hand down on his phone, ending the call.
“Who the hell are you?” He says.
“Mayor Trainor, years ago you appointed my father, Lorenzo Santos, as the Tax Assessor for Torreon. For months, he’s been using the powers of his office to facilitate fraud and countless other financial crimes. I have proof — documentation I’ve compiled from his personal files — and I am here to offer you a choice and a chance to get ahead of this scandal. Unless you’d prefer me to send this information to the FBI and the pr
ess first.”
His expression changes. Fear at my threats and, beneath that, there’s cold consideration. He’s a politician foremost, and he’d have to be an utter moron not to realize the implications a scandal like this could have for his career. And his freedom.
I have to hope that Mayor Trainor does the political math correctly.
There’s the sound of the door opening behind us — Janet — and, with just a wave of his hand, the mayor sends her away.
“What are you getting at?” He says.
“The police and, possibly even the FBI’s White-Collar Crimes division, will investigate these crimes I’ve documented. It’ll end with my father in jail. And you will have a job opening. Do you understand what I’m suggesting?”
He arches a disbelieving eyebrow. “You want me to appoint you — the daughter of the man who is involved in this supposed criminal scheme — to the job? How the hell do you think that will fly?”
This is my chance. I have to hit him with everything I have.
“You think people will question the qualifications of a Stanford-educated woman who cared so much about the law and the ethics of the job that she turned her own father in to the police? Please. I thought you were smart, Mayor Trainor.”
For once, the politician is silent. And, sensing my cue, I stand and put one of the flash drives containing my report on his desk. Then I grab a pen and a sheet of paper from his desk and write my cell number on it.
“That’s my number. Call me when you’re ready for me to start my new job.”
Chapter Thirty
Blaze
The pain of a million hangovers greets me when I open my eyes. There’s an agony that emanates from deep in my bones and I feel impossibly weak. But even so, I smile.
Because, when I look to my right, I see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. She’s got eyes that shine brighter than the sun, and an ass and a pair of legs that make me weak in the knees.
Tiffany.
And she’s wearing an expression on her face like I’ve never seen before: pride. Not some forced superiority meant to cover up her issues with her past and her present, but actual pride.