by Sybil Bartel
“Calm down,” he clipped, cutting the engine and putting the kickstand down before getting off and shoving his garage door open.
“I’m not gonna calm down. You put your house up for sale in one day, and you don’t even mention it!” And he’d fucked me, twice if you counted fingering. “You don’t get to do that. Not now. No fuckin’ way.”
“Take it inside,” he ordered, glancing across the street at the old lady watering her flowers before he walked his bike into the garage.
“Oh, that’s rich. You mean take it inside the house you’re sellin’ without talkin’ to me about it.” Tired, irrational, emotionally spent, I threw my hands up. “Tell you what. You do whatever the hell you want, because that’s what you’re gonna do anyway, and I’ll do whatever the hell I want.” I spun on my heel.
His giant hand caught my arm, and he yanked me back around.
Tarquin leaned down and dropped his voice to lethal warning. “Inside.”
“So is this my belated answer to my question in the bathroom?” I taunted.
“Now,” he warned.
I glanced over his shoulder at the old lady busybody. “You see this?” I yelled.
The old lady set her hose down, fixing to cross the street.
Tarquin yanked me toward the front door. “Get a hold of yourself.”
“Get a hold of myself?” I practically screeched, my temper hitting a new plateau.
“Get in the fucking house, Shaila.” Jamming a key in the lock, he kicked the front door open.
“No.” I planted my feet. “You and your For Sale sign can fuck right off with yourselves.” I yanked my arm out of his grasp.
He moved so quick, I didn’t see it coming.
Tossing me over his shoulder like a sack of flour, he stormed inside, kicked the door shut and tossed me on the couch.
Coming down on top of me, caging me with his giant hands on either side of my head, he got in my face. “I’m selling the goddamn house so you and I can pick a fucking new one!”
My mouth formed an O, but nothing came out.
Seething mad, Tarquin growled, but he didn’t say more as the doorbell rang. Pushing himself up, he gave me a look that said it all. Now he had to deal with the neighbor lady, and he was none too happy about it.
Feeling guilty as shit, I opened my mouth to say I was sorry at the same time he opened the door.
My apology died on my lips.
A cop with his hand on his gun eyed Tarquin. “Mr. Scott?”
“What do you want?” Tarquin demanded.
“I’m going to need you to step outside a moment.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I jumped up. “Officer, he wasn’t doin’ nothin’. I was just—”
“Shaila.” Tarquin’s lethal glare cut to me, and I closed my mouth as another man, older, not in uniform, stepped up behind the cop.
The older man’s eyes went wide as hell as he looked over Tarquin’s shoulder and gaped at me before looking back to Tarquin. “Holy shit, Scott. Is that—”
“What do you want, Morrison?” Tarquin clipped, cutting him off.
“Who is that?” I demanded.
Tarquin turned and spared me a glance as he lowered his voice. “Stay inside and do not speak, you hear me?”
Before I could answer, he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.
I rushed to the window and peeked out just enough to see them, but not enough so they could see me spying. Barely able to hear through the thick glass of the impact windows, I caught only a few words, but the ones I did hear were enough.
Hangman and Hialeah.
I yanked my zippered pocket open, and with shaking hands, I fumbled around on my phone until I had the number I wanted.
I dialed.
It was picked up on the first ring. “Luna and Associates.”
I recognized the voice. “Is this Tyler?”
“Yes, ma’am. Who am I speaking with?”
“It’s Shaila Hawkins. I need Mr. Luna right away. There’re cops outside the house and some cagey-lookin’ man, and they’re talkin’ to Tarquin.”
Tyler paused. “The police talking to Scott isn’t necessarily cause for alarm.”
At first, I hadn’t remembered a thing about the night they pulled me out of the clubhouse, not until after I came to my senses in the hospital. But when I saw André Luna at Luna and Associates, I remembered seeing him in the clubhouse that day. I didn’t remember much of anything else, but he’d smelled familiar, and I knew he’d been there with Tarquin and that Shade character. And that was exactly the leverage I needed now.
“You tell Luna he’s talking to Tarquin about the Hangman MC’s clubhouse. You tell him that right now,” I demanded.
Noncommittal and almost disinterested, Tyler gave me some fake polite bullshit. “Please hold. I’ll see if he’s available.”
Tarquin raised his voice, yelling something at the older guy, and all of a sudden, the cop was behind him, cuffing in.
“Fuck!” Still holding the phone to my ear, I had enough sense to throw the chain on the door before I opened it. “What’re y’all doin’,” I yelled. “You can’t cuff him for yellin’!”
“Inside!” Tarquin barked.
“Shaila Hawkins?” the older man asked.
The veins on Tarquin’s neck bulged with fury. “Close the fucking door!”
“Miss Hawkins,” Luna came on the line.
“Step outside,” the cop ordered me.
“Don’t you fucking dare, woman,” Tarquin warned.
“What’s going on?” Luna demanded.
“Can you please come outside, Miss Hawkins, and talk to us?” the older guy gave me a fake smile.
Tarquin yelled, “No,” at the same time Luna said, “Don’t fucking do it. They’ll arrest you.”
Fear leaked out of my eyes and God forgive me, I slammed the door shut on Tarquin and the cops. “André, you need to get up here. Right now.”
Morrison, the prick, leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Witnesses saw you at the Hangman clubhouse on the night in question.”
He was full of shit. Every witness was dead.
Ignoring him, ignoring the closed-in space of the four dingy-as-fuck walls, I sat there and did what I’d been doing for hours. I kept my fucking mouth shut and glared at the mirror behind Morrison’s head.
I didn’t know who the fuck was behind that one-way glass, and I didn’t care. Cops, FBI, ATF—fuck, I didn’t care if it was Homeland Security. I wasn’t going to give them shit. Sooner or later, he’d have to get me a lawyer.
So I fucking sat.
“You’re not helping yourself, Scott,” Morrison warned. “I’ve known you for years. I’ve cut you a lot of deals. Tell me what happened with the Hangmen. I already told you we had our eyes on them for years. Help us figure out who took them down.”
The door opened and a dark-haired suit with glasses and a messenger bag walked in. “I’ll take it from here, Morrison. Give me a few minutes to confer with my client.”
Morrison schooled his expression and looked at the guy. “Barrett.”
“I’d say it’s nice to see you again, Morrison, but you’re holding my client under dubious circumstances at best, and let’s be real, you questioning him is beyond a shot in the dark. Just because he was familiar with the Lone Coasters doesn’t make him a suspect in the deaths of the Hangmen members. Their MCs weren’t at odds, never had been. Besides, my client has not been affiliated with the Lone Coasters for quite some time.” The lawyer, who looked young as fuck, glanced at me. “Isn’t that right?”
I tipped my chin.
“See?” Barrett asked Morrison. “Now give me a few moments to confer with my client, or let us all get on with our evening.”
“I’m not done questioning him,” Morrison complained.
“Fine.” Barrett set his bag on the table. “I’ll speak with him. Then we’ll give you ten more minutes of our time as a courtesy.” He crossed his arms.
Slow as fuck, Morrison got
up. “You’ve got five minutes,” he warned, heading toward the door.
Barrett smiled at me like we were in on some inside joke. “Attorney-client privilege takes as long as it takes.” He looked back at Morrison. “I’ll assume you’ll handle the local PD on the other side of the glass and respect our privacy as you leave.”
“You know I will,” Morrison said tiredly before walking out and closing the door behind him.
The lawyer took the seat Morrison vacated and held his hand out to me. “Mathew Barrett. André Luna called me.”
“He hire you too?”
Barrett frowned. “Does he need to? Luna didn’t mention that you were destitute.”
“I have money. Doesn’t mean I’m going to spend it on you.”
He chuckled like he wasn’t offended as he opened his bag. “You don’t want a public defender up in this neck of the woods.” He slid a piece of paper toward me and a pen. “Those are my rates and a contract. Sign it if you would like me to represent you.”
“Where you from?” He looked like one of those superhero fucks on TV.
“Miami.”
I glanced at the blur of words on the paper I didn’t give a fuck about. “Shaila okay?”
Barrett nodded. “She’s fine. Luna’s with her.”
“Cops get to her?”
“No.”
“You gonna keep her out of this?”
“Is that what you’d prefer?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll do my best.”
I picked up the pen and signed the damn paper. “What does Morrison really have?”
“Nothing concrete, all circumstantial. A convenience store clerk saw an SUV fitting the description of a Luna and Associates SUV the night of the mass shooting at the clubhouse over a week ago. A homeless man, alcoholic and of questionable mental capacity, heard a motorcycle drive away from the Hangman clubhouse after seeing flames in the sky. An untraceable gun was found at the scene of the burned-down Hangman clubhouse, same caliber as bullets recovered from the shootings the week before the fire.”
I exhaled.
They had nothing.
Barrett looked at me pointedly. “Is anyone going to place you at the Hangman clubhouse last night or this morning?”
He was a lawyer, I’d signed his contract, I knew how this worked, but I didn’t trust him. Leaving out the pertinent shit, I gave him a few details. “I drove from Ormond to Miami yesterday, picked up my woman, and we went for a drive through the Glades before heading back home.”
“Right,” Barrett agreed as he pulled a yellow pad of paper out of his bag, like he knew what the fuck I was talking about. “Luna said Miss Hawkins had come down to Miami to view a property you all were thinking of purchasing before you joined her.” He flipped through a couple pages of handwritten notes, then looked up at me with a clear conscience like he hadn’t just regurgitated a lie. “And why did Miss Hawkins go ahead without you?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“No,” he corrected, speaking slower like I was a fucking idiot. “Answer as if Morrison is asking.”
“I’m going to answer his fucking questions?” What kind of bullshit lawyer was he?
Barrett set the pad down. “Look, we’re going to give him as much benign information as possible.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve spoken with Luna.”
I didn’t take the bait. “Good for you.”
He stared at me a moment, then picked up his pad again. “Okay, what are you going to tell Morrison regarding yours and Miss Hawkins’s separation during the day yesterday? Also, how are you going to explain your whereabouts on the evening of the twelfth?”
Fuck this. “Why do I need to explain them?”
Barrett, despite looking like he was a twelve-year-old superhero, didn’t put up with my shit. “Because men were shot and the FBI is questioning you and you’ve already served time.”
“I was at home on the twelfth.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“I live alone.”
The fucker jotted some notes. “Anyone see you, call you?”
“I was at a beachside bar, Luna came in, had a drink with me, and we left, separately.”
“Mm-hm.” He wrote down more shit. “And what did you discuss?”
“His woman.”
Barrett looked up at me. “Why?”
“She used to live with me. Now she lives with him.”
The fucker frowned. “Would you say there’s animosity between you two?”
“What does this have to do with the Hangmen bullshit they’re questioning me about?”
“Were you and Luna at the Hangman clubhouse the night of the twelfth?” He looked back at his pad as his pen scratched across the paper.
Everything pissing me off, I aimed and pulled the trigger. “Yeah, we killed every last fucker there, took their club whore, then I went back a week later and burned the place down after killing everyone we missed the first time.”
No change in his expression, Barrett set his pen down. “I am ninety-nine percent certain I cannot keep Morrison from questioning Miss Hawkins.”
My nostrils flared. “You said—”
Slick fucker held his hand up. “I know what I said, but she is a person of interest if anyone connects her to the Hangmen, which they will as soon as they pull the same old police records that Luna did, if they haven’t already. The only question is how we talk our way out of it.”
Prick. “There is no we.”
Fucker smiled. “There is now, because you hired me.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
His eyebrows drew together, his gaze drifted, and he picked his pen up. He wouldn’t have lasted ten fucking seconds in the Rangers.
“You got a plan or are you bullshitting me?”
“I’m thinking.” He looked back at me. “What’s your history with Morrison?”
“What makes you think I have one?”
“He’s here when a couple dozen other agents could’ve been. You have a history with the Lone Coasters, and he built a career on taking down MCs.” Barrett looked pointedly at me. “Not to mention River Ranch.”
Fucking hell. “What’d Luna tell you?”
“Nothing. Well, nothing specific about River Ranch,” he amended. “I’m just putting a few key ingredients together based on Morrison’s career and the timeline and the information my admin pulled on you as I drove up here.”
Not saying shit, I crossed my arms.
“Is it fair to say you and Morrison have a history?” the lawyer fuck asked, pressing the issue.
I thought about it a moment, wondering what it would do to my woman if I admitted to information Barrett could probably get by asking Morrison. The lawyer was right. The second Morrison put together that my woman didn’t die seven years ago and that she was holed up at the Hangman clubhouse, then they’d have a motive for me to commit murder.
Goddamn it.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Does he know who Miss Hawkins is?”
Fuck. “Yes.”
“Luna says you were unaware, until recently, that Miss Hawkins was alive. Is that correct?”
My jaw clenched. “Yes.”
“Police records from the night of the twelfth indicate the Hangmen did not divulge the nature of the attack on their clubhouse. Nor did they admit a female was removed from the premises.”
Thank fuck. “Then they have no reason to suspect Luna and I were there.”
“Only their hunches.” He leaned back in his seat and tucked his pad of paper back in his bag. “Okay, you ready to do this?”
“Yes.” No.
He looked me in the eye and rattled off a list of commands like he practiced it daily. “Do not volunteer any information. I will intercede when I do not want you answering a question. If you don’t know the answer to one of their inquiries, do not make anything up. Say nothing that will implicate you. Don’t fidget, and do not lose your t
emper. Questions?”
“Anyone ever tell you that you look like one of those superheroes?”
“Repeatedly.” Standing, he banged once on the door as he flashed an ironic smile. “Clark Kent. Or Superman, to be more specific.” He glanced at the door and banged again. “Morrison, we’re ready.”
My leg bouncing, my heart racing, I looked out the tinted window of the SUV for the hundredth time. “Why do they still have him locked up? You said your lawyer friend could get him out.”
“I said they didn’t have any concrete evidence against him,” André corrected before glancing over his shoulder at me. “Relax, chica. He’ll be out soon.”
I wanted to tell him how stupid he sounded telling a woman to relax, but I held my tongue because one of the only things I learned from my junkie mama was that if you didn’t have nothing nice to say to someone doing you a favor, you best keep your mouth shut, and André Luna was doing me and Tarquin a favor.
But I did ask how he was so sure. “How do you know that? They could lock him up and throw away the key.” Then where would I be? This whole thing, every damn second of every wasted year, it’d all be for nothing. Me and Tarquin would be separated as sure as Daddy planned it himself.
“If Scott goes down, we all go down.” André met my worried gaze. “And I’m not gonna let that happen.”
“You the Pope?” He couldn’t control the law.
“No.” André flashed a brief but devastating smile. “Better. I’m Cuban, chica.”
Shade, sitting in the front passenger seat, smirked as the passenger door across from me opened abruptly.
Both men spun with their weapons drawn.
My heart went to my throat, then my frayed nerves took a dive.
Kendall.
Smiling.
“Just so you know,” she said in a singsong voice like two men aiming at her wasn’t nothing. “If I was the bad guy, I already would’ve gotten a few rounds off.”
Shade shook his head.
“Jesucristo, woman,” André muttered. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay home.”
“No, you said, and I quote…” Kendall’s voice turned into a perfect imitation of André’s. “Don’t you dare go off half-cocked on your own and drive up to Scott’s like you did last time.” She waved her hand elaborately behind her at an identical black Escalade pulling up beside us and dropped the accent. “I didn’t drive, and I didn’t come alone.” Her smile turned cunning. “But I did manage to sneak up on you.”