by A. J. Downey
“I’ll take her to Trinity Gen myself as soon as we’re done here,” I told Angel and he nodded. I looked him over and said, “And thanks, man.”
“That part was nothing. We got you, brother.”
We pulled each other in for a hug, the investigators in charge of this case came over, and I gave my full statement. When I managed to look back down the alley again, the passenger door to my truck was open and Skids was standing at it, Chrissy’s jeans clad legs dangling out of the open door.
I went up to hear what was being talked about and heard Skids say, “Don’t you worry about none of that. Windows can be replaced, people can’t. I’m just glad nobody got hurt, most of all you.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, but her voice was dull with none of its usual sparkle. I put a hand on Skids’ shoulder and he stepped aside and let me through.
“Take her home, Youngblood, Reflash and I are gonna board up these windows; rein in some of the guys to help.”
“Let me know if there’s anything we can do,” I said.
Chrissy echoed the sentiment softly with, “I’ll gladly pay for the windows… I mean, this is my fault.”
Skids and I snorted in unison. “The hell it is,” the retired cop grated. “Business has been booming, sweetheart, it’s not the end all of be all’s, plus, that’s what insurance is for.”
“Thanks, Skids.”
“No problem, Youngblood, now get you gone before the horde down there makes it down here.”
I looked back at where Skids jutted his chin at the teeming media on the other side of the yellow tape.
“Aw, fuck. Tuck your legs in, precious; we’ve gotta roll.”
She did what I asked quickly and I shut the door, just as camera flashes started to go off in our direction. We went to Trinity Gen first, got her looked at and some x-rays taken. Everything checked out okay and they gave her some pain meds. She was out of it the whole way across the bridge and I practically had to carry her upstairs to bed.
She was sitting glassy eyed on the edge of my bed staring at me as I took off her boots when she said out of nowhere, “I’m so sorry…” before she finally really broke down and started sobbing.
She’d held it together so well, at the Ten-Thirteen, in the truck on the way to the hospital, all through being looked at while at Trinity Gen. Even all the way home, she’d been rock solid, and to tell you the truth, it’d worried me. Except now, now that she was breaking, all I worried about was whether or not I’d be able to put her back together this time.
“Why is this happening?” she asked, her voice mournful and heartrending, her breath warm against my shoulder.
“I don’t know, precious, I honestly don’t know…”
“I don’t understand, what did I do, Tony?”
“Nothing, baby, you didn’t do anything…”
I held her while she cried it out and wracked my brain on how to fucking fix this, and all I could come up with was one solution. A single goddamn solution and I didn’t like it one fucking bit.
I lay awake, Chrissy cuddled close into my side, head on my chest, knocked the fuck out. Between the pain medications they’d doped her up on at Trinity Gen combined with just her sheer emotional exhaustion over the whole fucking mess, I wasn’t surprised. I wished I could join her, but I couldn’t. Not knowing that it wasn’t going to stop. None of it. I think she knew it too, and I didn’t want to lose her. I didn’t want to have to choose between the city I loved and the woman I was pretty fucking sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
I wasn’t going to, either. Instead, I was working on a plan. One that involved several key players. Key players I texted from my phone while Chrissy breathed heavy, deep, and even against my chest, Roscoe curled up and racked out with her on her hip. Pretty sure he knew her pain. Was also pretty sure, in his little kitty brain, he wanted to ease that pain as much as I did.
Every single one of the people I texted hit me back almost immediately, and every single one of them were in. I guess I wasn’t the only one who was having a rough night sleeping over this.
We’d been lucky. The shots into the Ten-Thirteen hadn’t hit anybody. The worst injury that’d occurred had been to poor Chrissy, with her need to go to the hospital and get checked out. The rest of the people that’d been there had walked away with nothing worse than some superficial scratches from flying safety glass.
It was kind of a miracle, actually, which is how the media was portraying it, based on some of the texts I was getting. Of course, there were also the notifications from my own social media accounts that were telling me that very same press was vilifying Chrissy. Blaming her lack of cooperation with them on keeping her case sensationalized and in the spotlight. I’d seen some pretty sick shit, but that certainly took the fucking cake right there. It also made me want to talk to those reporters, see if they were behind cooking up a more sensationalized story. In fact…
I shot a message to one of the guys I knew handling the drive-by. The Ten-Thirteen wasn’t my precinct, so I didn’t have a say, but we cops weren’t always as territorial nor were we always as glory-hound as films and TV would have the civilian world believe. Every once in a while you had an asshole be that guy but it wasn’t as often as all of that.
I fell into an uneasy sleep and was up with dawn’s early light, so I got maybe four hours roughly. It wasn’t my finest hour, but the guys were coming in for breakfast and a round-table in my kitchen.
I slipped out of the bed and pulled on my jeans. I didn’t bother with a shirt or even socks, opting to get my ass downstairs and breakfast started. The guys were likely going to show up hungry and Chrissy was going to need to eat.
First things first, I got the necessities out of the way, and by that, I mean I made the biggest pot of blackest coffee I could manage, then I went and used the bathroom. I had my priorities straight, and it was a good thing, too. By the time I came out of the bathroom downstairs, hands dripping and going for the linen closet cursing my dumb ass for never having a towel on the rack down here, I heard bikes out front rolling to a stop in my driveway.
I grabbed the hand towel and went to the front door, opening it up and seeing Skids and Reflash in my driveway, I just left it open and walked away. I put the towel on the rack in the bathroom to Reflash calling out, “Yo, yo, yo! Youngblood, where you at?”
“Right here, you dumb ox. Keep it down, Chrissy’s still sleeping.”
“Heh, not sure how she can after all that,” he commented dryly and I sighed.
“Drugs, lots and lots of drugs. Come on in and have a seat; coffee’s brewing.”
I shook Skids hand then Reflash’s and they went into my dining room and took a seat around the eight-person table. I started pulling shit out of the pantry and the cupboards to make pancakes, bacon, and eggs. I had everything required, just needed the time to put it together.
I hadn’t bothered closing the front door. It was a nice enough day, and the other brothers would be getting here soon, trickling in by ones and twos. The next to show up were Yale and Backdraft, followed by Golden and Angel, then Poe, then Oz, Blaze, and finally Driller and Narcos.
The last two had been conspicuously absent due to their role in the department hierarchy. Narcos was just that, an undercover on the narcotics squad. He was the rougher of the two of them in appearance, long hair spilling over a wide swath of bandana across his forehead. He had on big, black wraparound sunglasses hiding what I knew to be shrewd green eyes. His long hair a light brown where it brushed his shoulders, his beard just about as long, now, touching the middle of his chest. Driller was his partner and handler, a little more clean-cut but not by much. His dark hair was nearly black but still a somewhat regulation cut. It was long enough on top to maintain a somewhat greasy appearance to fit the part of hardened outlaw criminal. Both of them were covered in tattoos, and fit, they had to be at the top of their game for what they did.
They made a badass team, but it also meant they weren’t always pres
ent for these little get-togethers and for the shit going down with their true club. It just was what it was.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” Blaze said and went up to them to show them some love. They clasped hands and pulled each other in for a hug. Meanwhile, Reflash came over and started poking into my business in the kitchen, which, truthfully, that shit was only a matter of time. Reflash was like that.
“Woah, shit! We got a full house,” Narcos said.
“Y’all gonna bust out the kiddie tables?” Driller asked and Backdraft went over and hugged him.
“Yeah, and you two fuckers are sittin’ at ‘em,” he said.
I went in for my own greetings, the damn dining room and kitchen awfully fuckin’ small with a dozen grown ass men in it.
“Kiddie tables are out in the garage,” I told them. “Let’s get this shit started.”
Skids got up from the head of the table and pulled out the chair for me, I frowned and he said, “Your house and your party, Youngblood.” I didn’t argue. When the president of your club offered up that kind of respect, you took it.
“Before you go, where’s your plates?” Reflash asked, manning the skillet of flapjacks I had going and peeking in the oven at the bacon I had going and grinning. “My man!” he crowed with pride.
“You don’t think I listen to you, DC?” I used our term of endearment for the club’s vice president. We didn’t follow the typical outlaw hierarchy, instead choosing to stick with our more comfortable and familiar policing hierarchy instead. To us, Skids was our chief, and Reflash our deputy chief, hence DC for short. It was our world inside the club and we believed wholeheartedly in that. We had a few major tenets. Our world, our rules. Be good men, protect and serve, and above all, always do right by our fellow man.
“I know you listen,” he said, giving me a playful sock in my shoulder. I’d bitched once upon a time that I could never get my bacon to turn out like his, chewy but crispy at the same time. He asked if I fried it and when I’d said yeah, how the fuck else were you supposed to do it he’d said to me, “Man, you fucking barbarian, you fucking bake it.”
Now I did as I’d been told. Cookie sheet, parchment paper, baked it at four hundred and twenty-five degrees for fifteen to seventeen minutes and that shit came out perfect just about every damn time.
“Yeah you ever lose out on being a cop, you can become Reflash’s head kitchen bitch,” Oz teased, setting up one of two card tables out of the garage and everyone laughed.
“Man, fuck you,” I was laughing too, though. That’d been a good one.
I got Reflash reacquainted with my kitchen and when I turned around, Chrissy was standing mutely against the archway leading into the dining room from the stairway. She was in one of my button down shirts and had managed to get into her sling, more or less. Her long legs were a sight for sore eyes, and I longed to have them wrapped around my hips.
She looked at me somberly and the rest of the guys hadn’t seen her yet, but they did the second she said, “I thought I heard voices.”
Total silence, several of the guys jumped and turned and more than a few of them looked gobsmacked. Had to admit, that shit made me smile, knowing they were jealous and she was mine. I couldn’t and wouldn’t deny it. I wasn’t prone to possessive streaks usually, but I had a bad one where she was concerned. I’d given her up once, it’d been a mistake and it wasn’t a mistake that bore repeating.
“Hey, precious. Sorry did we wake you up?”
“Mm-mm. Roscoe did.”
I smiled, “Fuzzy little dipshit.”
She smiled too, but it was wan and fragile. Yale got up out of the chair at the dining room table closest to her, opposite where I was to sit and held it out for her. She went and carefully sat down, smoothing down my shirt, behind her, likely the only thing she could manage getting into, and I wondered what happened to my damn robe.
I ducked sideways into the living room and snatched one of the throw blankets off the couch and returned to her, draping it over her legs, not just for modesty, but for warmth. The front door was still open and someone had slid open the back slider to get some fresh air through the place, but the spring air out there still had a chilly edge to it.
She looked up at me and murmured, “Thank you,” and I bent and brushed her lips with mine. I quickly made introductions between Chrissy and the guys she didn’t know and Reflash put the first round of food up on the breakfast bar, letting the guys help themselves. I fixed Chrissy a plate first and asked if she wanted coffee or orange juice.
“Both, please?” she asked meekly, clearly out of her element with all of the guys here and I nodded. Before I could even turn to go to the fridge, a glass and a cup were being passed down the line my way. I set them down for her and went through the line and fixed up my own plate.
We all got food and settled in for the long talk ahead. Just because I was at the head of the table, didn’t mean I was in charge, though. It was just my house. Skids started off at my right hand with, “Okay, boys. Let’s start with what we know.”
“I’m sorry,” Chrissy said, voice soft but far from timid, “But what exactly is this?”
“Youngblood?”
I finished the bite of pancake in my mouth and washed it down with some coffee and said, “This is us, trying to figure out how to get your life back, precious.”
She thought about it for a minute and said her truth, “I’m beginning to think that’s an impossibility,” which wasn’t that just fucking heartbreaking?
“Nope. Not going to let you give up, not when we haven’t exhausted every possibility.”
“Youngblood’s right,” Reflash said from my left, “we’re just getting started.” He looked at Skids and then me and said, “Right, so what do we know?”
“Youngblood,” Skids intoned and I leaned back in my seat.
It was a good question, what did we know? It was best to start at the beginning when it came to piecing everything together, and so I did.
“Kevin Cohan, screen name ‘homerun hero,’ in a fit of moral outrage at the Miranda Maguire verdict, published Chrissy’s address on a public forum with the marching orders that someone needed to quote, unquote, ‘take care of the bitch.’ A one Michael Silver, screen name ‘silver surfer’ a person completely unrelated to Cohan, except for the fact they frequented the same forum, for reasons unknown to the rest of us, but likely due to the fact he was hopped up on methamphetamine, took those words to heart and took himself over to Chrissy’s.” I took a deep breath. “Where he kicked in her front door, whereby he shot Samantha Lynn Hayworth once in the head, and Chrissy twice in the back.”
“Jesus Christ, you want my job?” Yale cracked and there was some laughter around the tables. My eyes were fixed on Chrissy’s somber gaze as she sat stolid and listened to the facts of her case laid bare in cold, clinical, semi-legalese.
“Then what?” she asked, like she hadn’t thought about this in much the same way a thousand and more times over. I knew she had. She was a lawyer, how could she not?
“While admitted to the hospital and recovering, a third individual began sending threatening messages, and even made another attempt on Chrissy’s life.”
“Why?” Narcos asked, and I shook my head, my eyes never leaving Chrissy’s; proud as hell of her when she sat up a little straighter.
“We don’t know,” she answered. “Best guess is the same reason everyone else has tried to kill me, but I have to admit, this feels… different.”
I had to agree on that one and I said so, “That’s because it’s one thing for someone hooked on meth to go kicking in doors, and it’s another when they start making calculated moves like this new asshole. His MO is completely different from these other…” I groped for the right set of words.
“Morally outraged keyboard warriors?” Yale supplied and I shrugged.
“Yeah, sure, we’ll go with that.”
“I thought about that,” Chrissy murmured.
Golden, who was s
pinning a coin on my tabletop said, “Of course you have. You’ve thought this whole damn thing to death. How could you not?” He gave her a reassuring smile to let her know he didn’t mean anything by the brooding comment and she nodded in agreement.
“So who could this unsub be?” Backdraft asked from the kiddie table and Driller shoved him in the back of the head while he and Narcos had a laugh.
“What, you going all Criminal Minds on us?” Narcos asked.
“You jokers got a better name for him?” Reflash demanded.
“Yeah,” Driller responded, “How about douchebag.”
“Cocksucker?” Narcos suggested.
“Does it really matter what we call him?” Angel asked, looking at Chrissy who was staring pointedly at the ceiling, eyes glassy as Driller and Narcos blew off steam.
“They aren’t making fun of you, baby. They’re just a couple of dumbassed pricks,” Blaze said and she sniffed and nodded.
“Ouch, that hurts…” Narcos said, a hand on his chest.
“Enough,” Skids ordered sternly and the both of them shut up and exchanged a look. Backdraft elbowed Narcos and thrust a chin at Chrissy who was being strong, but was riding that razor’s edge on whether or not she was going to fall apart.
She caught my eye and I tried valiantly to telegraph strength down the line, the connection we shared, the bond that was growing stronger every day.
“Yeah, either fucking shut up and help us figure this shit out, or get the fuck out. I love you guys, but in case you haven’t figured it out? I’m in love with this woman, and if we don’t figure this shit out, our only option is gonna be to relocate.”
That sobered them up and cut their shit real damn fast, Blaze looked down the table in my direction and said, “Just what are you saying, bro?”
“I think it’s pretty fuckin’ clear what he just said,” Reflash snapped, his famous temper starting to ignite. “If you assholes didn’t have enough to figure this shit out and come up with a plan just based on the fact this woman needs our help, how about the fact we don’t lose Youngblood as a brother? Huh? That enough for you fuckers to fall in line?” he demanded and a weighted silence descended on everyone around the table.