by Zoey Parker
In the eight years since Croak, Steezy, and I came down from Houston to build the Galveston charter of the Inked Angels, there’s never once been an issue with the police. We paid them enough to keep everyone happy, and as long as the money was flowing, we didn’t have problems. They kept to their side of town and we kept to ours.
Then Grady had entered the scene.
He was just a hotshot young officer at first, one with flexible morals and a sharp eye for opportunities. No one ever trusted him completely, but cash always lays concerns like that to bed. He seemed too greedy, too hungry, too willing. There was a business to be run, though, so Croak worked with what he had on hand to keep things moving along.
The first time Grady had asked for a raise, we didn’t bat an eye. The money was piling on faster than we could count. Fuck it, right? Just pay the man! So we’d paid him and life went on.
It happened again, and maybe a few of the older men, the ones who’d been around the block before, made some noise, but we dismissed it as overcautious and just forwarded what Grady demanded. He became our exclusive contact as he rose up the ranks, blocking out all the other officers we’d ever dealt with before. Up went his rank and up went his price point, without much pause for breath between either increase.
We never realized we were creating a monster.
With business going so well, Croak dropped the ball. He picked up vices faster than I could keep track of them—drugs, liquor, women. He wasn’t a weak man by any means, but after years of busting his ass at the forefront of the Inked Angels network, not to mention the lingering aftershock of the mess with Blaze and the Diablos, he felt he’d earned the right to sit back and enjoy what he’d built. No one could blame him. Not until he started getting sloppy.
So maybe a drug deal slipped by under his nose without getting his blessing first. Perhaps Grady offered protection to another club running some girls from across the border. What’s the big deal, right? Wasn’t the pie big enough for everyone to get a taste? That’s what Croak had told me. He was the boss, so I’d just kept silent. I wasn’t the type to break rank.
But Grady wanted more than just a taste. He wanted the whole damn enchilada. Without a strong hand at the Angels wheel, Grady saw a chance to squeeze us harder than ever. Croak ignored the signs.
Then the night at the races had happened.
To be fair, I hadn’t expected any of this to occur either. I didn’t like Grady, but I thought he was just a money-grubbing son of a bitch, nothing more than that. When you think you know what a man wants, it’s easy to feel like you control him. Money wasn’t an issue for us, so we gave freely.
It wouldn’t be enough anymore.
Now, with Grady striking down on the club with everything in his arsenal, I wonder if this is my fault. It wouldn’t be hard to blame me. After all, I took his girl. I woke the sleeping dragon. Ignorance is no excuse. I knew he was a mean bastard, and yet I went after his woman anyway.
The thing is I don’t regret it. I’d do it again in the blink of an eye. My thoughts go back to the girl sitting at home waiting for me as my child takes shape inside of her. There’s not a thing under the sun I wouldn’t do to keep them safe. To keep them mine.
The time has come to figure out what that thing might be.
“Alright,” I growl to the men assembled on all sides of me. I’m standing in the middle of the bar. All eyes are riveted on me. “I’m not going to waste your time or mine by saying that this is a fucked up situation. I think every man in this room is aware of that.” I turn as I talk, letting each Angel know that I am taking charge, that I can be trusted. That I will solve this mess.
“What we need are facts, not fear. We need a plan, not pussies. If anyone in here isn’t up for fighting to take back what’s ours—not just our president, but also our turf, our business, our respect—then get the fuck out right now. Door’s over there.”
No one moves. Good, I think. We’re going to need all the help we can get.
“The pigs left us this,” says Boulder, stomping forward to hand me a thin manila envelope. I open it up and tug out a single sheet of paper. It’s got an official Galveston police department letterhead. In the text, it says that the club is under investigation for transportation of illegal substances, human trafficking, murder, theft—the list goes on and on. It lists Croak’s official name as the primary suspect along with the indication of a warrant for his arrest.
What a bunch of bullshit. These are trumped-up charges, impossible to verify and blatantly untrue for the most part. Yeah, we’ve dabbled in helping drug shipments across the border, but this isn’t a fucking slave ring. We don’t sell people. We don’t murder civilians.
At least not yet. For Grady, I might make an exception.
I crumple the paper and throw it aside. “This is a direct assault on us, boys,” I say. “We’re past threats and warnings. No one is leaving here until we know what we’re doing next.”
* * *
I emerge from the club a few hours later to smoke and collect my thoughts. The sun is low in the afternoon decline. I wince and shield my eyes against the bright rays. I’m exhausted from hours of planning and scheming, even though nothing solid came out of it. People are confused. The cops are upsetting the balance that’s made every cop and crook in this town rich for a long time. All the rules have gone out the window. There’s uncertainty looming over every course of action.
On top of all the chaos, we can’t bail Croak out until the day after tomorrow. He’s mired in processing purgatory. It’s only supposed to take a couple hours for him to get booked and pushed through the system, but, unsurprisingly, the cops are dragging their feet, making us wait until tomorrow morning to even get the ball rolling on bail proceedings. Once we have that in place, they’ll throw every trick in the book at us to hold onto him as long as they can. It’ll add at least another few hours’ wait to the ordeal. There’s little I can do about it.
My thoughts are interrupted by the phone vibrating in my pocket. I don’t recognize the number flashing on the screen.
“Hello?” I ask as I pick up.
“Knock, knock,” responds a voice I didn’t want to hear.
“Grady, what are you doing?” I fire into the mouthpiece. “What do you want?”
“Tut, tut, that’s not how the joke goes,” he says in a baby voice. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Who’s there?’”
“Cut this shit out, Freeman,” I growl through clenched teeth.
“Well, since you won’t ask, I’ll give you the answer anyway. Do you know who’s not there, Mortar? You aren’t.”
“I’m not where?”
“You’re not home. I thought I’d pay you a house visit. Guess I’ll just have to give my best to your darling wife instead.”
Through the phone, I hear the squeak of my front door. Grady is at my house. Kendra’s there, alone. I need to go. Now.
I toss my cigarette to the ground and tear off to where my bike is parked. There’s no time to waste as I throw my leg across the seat and rip down the avenue towards home.
I’m two blocks away when a patrol car screeches across the street in front of me. I swerve to a sudden halt, barely avoiding colliding with the vehicle.
“What the fuck?” I roar at the mustached cop climbing out of the car. He’s calm as hell, way too relaxed for my liking. I can’t see his eyes behind the mirrored aviators he’s wearing.
“Watch your mouth, boy. I’m an officer of the law, and you were speeding. How fast were you goin’ on that damn thing?”
“I need to go, right now,” I bark.
“Well, you’re just gonna need to hold on a minute. You’re getting a ticket for the stunt you were tryin’ to pull. Keep running your mouth and I’ll throw your ass in the back of the car here, too.” He grins. I see tobacco juice staining his teeth. “Don’t think you’d like that. Unless of course you wanna go see your friend down in lock-up?”
I bite my tongue. I can’t afford to get taken away. No
t with Kendra vulnerable and Grady kicking down my front door. The cop’s partner in the front seat has his hand in his lap, no doubt holding a gun and just begging for me to do something to warrant him firing it at me. Glancing at my watch, I see that it’s already five o’clock. Don’t let him fucking touch her, I pray silently. Don’t let him even get close.
The cop takes his time writing me the ticket and running my ID. I’m fortunate to have a clean background. I wonder, though, why they haven’t invented some reason to haul me away in spite of the lack of any real reason. Could this be just a delaying tactic? Does Grady want me to come home? My heart grows cold. I don’t know what I’ll find there. Horrific images flash through my head, each one worse than the last.
Kendra slumped over and bleeding out on the kitchen table.
Kendra, a knife slashed across her throat.
Kendra crying and screaming as Grady uses her for his own sick revenge.
But I don’t have a choice. I have to go back. Even if it’s a trap, even if it’s to make me confront some nightmarish crime scene, I have to go back.
Finally, the cop re-emerges from the car and hands me the ticket. Before he climbs back in to drive off, he tips his hat at me, smiles, and says, “The major sends his best.”
Grady. That fucking scum.
The car pulls away. I wait breathlessly until it disappears around a corner before I clamber on my bike and roar the last mile home.
The house is silent when I pull up. I don’t see a police car anywhere. Is he still here?
My heart is pounding. Don’t let him touch her, I’m praying over and over again in my head. I don’t think I’d be able to handle seeing her dead.
I have a gun in my hand as I cautiously ease open the front door. I’m ready for anything. “Kendra?” I call out. No answer. “Kendra!”
I still don’t hear any noise as I pad down the hallway on light feet. Pausing at the doorway into the living room, I check the clip on the gun. It’s full, locked and loaded. Safety’s off. If I see the fucker, I’m firing.
I spring around the corner, weapon at the ready.
Chapter 11
Kendra
I shoot out of bed, bleary and confused. The house is dead quiet. I look at the clock to see that it’s already four o’clock. How the hell did I sleep the entire day away? I grumble as I rub the crust from my eyes and head to the shower. The light coming in through the gap in the curtains is nice. Maybe I’ll go downstairs and paint after I get dressed.
The water from the shower head is hot, steamy, and rejuvenating. I take my time basking under the flow and scrubbing my skin down to the pore. Ever since I was a kid, I always took long showers. There’s something about standing under the faucet and letting it take my thoughts spinning down the drain that relaxes me like nothing else does.
By the time I cut the water off and step out, the whole room is filled with steam. I can’t see a thing in the mirrors. I wrap a towel around my body as I step over to the sink. Grabbing a rag, I wipe away a section of the mist and I scream.
I practically jump out of my skin before I realize that the shape on the back of the bathroom door—the one I thought was the silhouette of a man—is just a towel hanging on its hook. I lean over to rest my hands on the marble counter top, laughing at my own silliness. I can feel my pulse coming down from the fright.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell myself out loud. I guess I’m still nervous about Grady. When we saw him at the courthouse, there was something…inhuman about him, like a crucial circuit in his brain had blown out. The image of his twisted face is seared onto my retinas.
I dry off and get dressed, pulling on torn jeans and a white t-shirt that I don’t mind getting messy with paint. It’s close to five already. Where has this day gone?
I hum to myself as I walk down the hallway while brushing my fingertips along the wall. Just before I reach the living room, I stop by the hall closet to grab the few cans of paint and other supplies that I keep stashed at the house so I can work whenever I’m not at the studio. I load up an armful and sashay towards the living room, singing under my breath.
When I see him sitting at the kitchen table, I drop everything.
Paint goes flying. Brushes roll across the tile floor. Shards of glass erupt in a sprinkling shower into distant corners of the room.
“About time you made it down here, you fucking cunt,” Grady snarls. “How long did you think I was going to wait for you to show up?”
I’m speechless. My whole body is coursing with fear. Sweat is beading on my brow, hair is standing up on the back of my neck, and every muscle feels shaky and weak. What is he doing here?
He looks clean, I note, a world apart from the vile wretch who confronted Mortar and me on the courthouse steps just a day ago. There’s a vibrant look to him. Actually, he’s almost too clean, as if he spent hours slaving over every inch of his appearance, grooming himself to perfection. It’s a frightening contrast. To be honest, I preferred him dirty. I liked that the outer shell matched the man I knew him to be on the inside.
“What do you want, Grady?” I say cautiously. I’m backing up into the wall behind me. I wish I had a gun, a knife, anything, although I probably wouldn’t know what to do with it even if I did have some kind of a weapon. But at least I would feel safer. Down here, with nothing to hold, I’m just exposed and helpless.
He brushes away my question. I can still hear the soft scrape of a brush rolling to a halt on the edge of the tiling. “You left me,” he begins. He’s got his arms folded on the table in front of him. I can’t see if he’s holding anything. Maybe he’s the one with a weapon. “On our wedding day, no less.”
“You weren’t good to me,” I say.
“Shut your fucking mouth, traitor whore,” he barks out. I recoil in fear. He smooths his hair back. I see that his hands are empty and breathe a sigh of relief. But I’m not safe yet. Grady doesn’t need more than his bare hands to hurt me. I would know; he’s done it before. “How could you do that? I gave you everything you needed. Everything!” His fist pounds the table forcefully. The whole thing shakes on its rickety legs. I can see the bone-white of his knuckles shining through the pale, flabby skin.
“You used me,” I said. I’m keeping my voice low and cool, but I can’t avoid saying the truth. It spills out of me at the slightest prompting. And the truth is I was a toy for him, just another stepping stone in the path towards whatever it is he was after—sex, promotion, money, power, admiration. Five years together and I still never figured him out. I spent too much time hiding from his fists.
“I didn’t come here to yell at you, although you are a dirty slut and you deserve much worse than just yelling.”
I’m frozen still, a deer in headlights. I couldn’t scream if I tried.
“I came to give you a way out.”
A way out? What the hell is he talking about?
He can see the surprise and confusion on my face. “You don’t deserve it, but I’m offering it to you anyway.”
“Get the fuck out, Grady,” I tell him. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I don’t want to hear anything he says. I don’t want to see him, smell him, or even know that he’s alive. All I want is for him to leave my life forever, never to come back in it, never to hit me or hurt me or abuse me ever again. Get the fuck out, Grady.
He shrugs. “If you want, I’ll leave. Just say the word.”
“I’m saying it.”
“But I think you might want to hear what I have to offer,” he finishes.
I frown. He’s got a note of self-satisfied glee in his voice. He’s got something on me, doesn’t he? Some kind of leverage. A trick.
Is it Mortar? My heart leaps in my throat, but I try not to let my face betray what I’m thinking. God forbid he has Mortar, or that he’s hurt him. I don’t know what I’d do with myself.
“What is your offer?” I grit out. I’m trying to keep him talking about something objective. Whatever it takes to stop his fuse from
burning too short. If he explodes, I don’t think I’ll survive. This is not how I want to die—backed into a corner, pleading for mercy from a man incapable of giving it.
“If you come back to me, you can keep it.”
“Keep what?”
“Your studio.”
It’s like the sound got cut out from the world. A wave of dizziness crashes into me. I have to hold tight onto the corner of the wall in order to keep from collapsing to the ground. The studio. Of course. The one thing Mortar can’t protect. The one thing Grady still has control over. The one thing that so much of who I am is tied up in. The studio.
After the fire, I thought Grady had given up on attacking me through that particular point of weakness. I figured he wasn’t satisfied with indirect warfare, that he wanted blood for himself. But he’s craftier than that. I’ve been so stupid.