by Naomi West
“No,” I admit; the other two are still in the car, out of our hearing.
“And you care about her.”
“Might be I do, old man.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Then you need to get after her, start working the streets, and to do that properly you need to be stone-cold sober. You can’t take a single goddamn drink if you wanna be any use to that girl. Is that enough motivation for you?”
“I get it.” I nod, resisting the urge to snap at him. This crash has made me realize something—something apart from how badly my body is aching, ’cause I’m used to that; I’ve been in enough scraps—something fundamental about myself. There’s a demon inside of me that don’t care a whit about what happens to my life. All this demon cares about is getting its liquor, and it’ll do anything it takes to keep that liquor coming. I have to fight it. I can’t let it rule me. Arsen—but Arsen isn’t the problem right now. Kayla and the kid, they’re the problem, and the last thing Arsen’d want for me to do in this situation is succumb to drink.
“Kid.” The old man grits his teeth. “Looks like you’ve finally got some fight in you.”
“Yeah.” I nod again, this time fiercer, gritting my teeth as well. “Might be I do.” He claps me on the shoulder and walks away. “Oh, I forgot to mention.” He half-turns. “You got a Harley waiting at the end of the street.” He reaches into his pocket and tosses me a set of keys. “Ride safe.”
I catch the keys and then go upstairs, get changed into my spare leather and some jeans and boots, and then I go back outside and sit on the bike. In the storage compartment of the bike there’s a helmet and a cellphone. It seems like the old man knows more than he’s letting on, since Kayla’s number is programmed into the cell. I call her damn-near ten times, but there’s no answer.
I need to find Connor, get him to back off, so then at least I know she’s safe from that threat. I ride away from my apartment, through the sunlit streets toward a gang hangout on the other side of town. I’ve heard whispers that this hangout has some connection to Connor, but nobody’s ever seen him there. Maybe I can get some information, though. I realize I should’ve done this months ago, but whisky’ll do that: make a man complacent.
I stop on the way at one of our safehouses, the front a Chinese restaurant. Mr. Xing smiles at me. He has a long gray beard and a silver-braided mustache. “Hello, Mr. Xander.”
“Hello, sir.” I tip a hat, which always makes him laugh.
“Always the cowboy.” He grins. “You can go into the back.”
“Thanks.”
I go to the fake freezer right at the back, lift off the lid, lift off the false bottom, type in the combination to the safe, and then take out two pistols with a chest-harness. I fix myself up and then put my jacket back on, checking in the murky mirror in the corner that the weapons don’t show. Then I go back outside, tip my hat to Mr. Xing’s daughter, who giggles—she’s around ten and loves the cowboy routine even more than her old man—and then get on my bike and ride to this gang hangout.
From the outside it looks like a laundromat, which is about the biggest cliché going in the criminal world; I’m surprised Connor went for it. I stop down the street and approach slowly, waiting for security to come jumping out on me. Connor ain’t picky about who he employs. He’ll employ racists and black gangsters and have ’em work side by side. To him it’s all about the bottom line, getting shit done. So I have to watch everybody, even the little old lady who hobbles past me. Finally, I get to the door. The fella behind the desk is laughably out of place: as wide as a vending machine with a short army-style haircut. He has tattoos on his face, so poorly done I can’t even make out what they are.
“Hello,” I say, locking the door and turning the sign around so that the place is closed.
“The fuck you doing?”
I listen: nobody else, unless they’re being mouse-quiet.
“You alone in here?”
“The fuck’s it matter to you for?” He stands up. The prick must be over seven feet. “Turn around so I can see what patch you’re wearing.”
“Sure. And while I’m at it why don’t I give you my guns and offer up my neck?”
He grins, not a pretty sight. Half of his teeth are pitch-black with rot. “What do you want, you biker fuck? You’re an Angel, I’m guessing.”
“If I’m an Angel, what does that make your boss?”
“The boss.” His hand inches toward the desk, where I know for a fact he’s got a gun duct-taped, ’cause it’s what I’d do. “That’s what I call him.”
I draw quickly, both weapons, aiming one at his head and the other at his hand. “Go on,” I say, smiling. “Don’t be shy.”
He grits his teeth, but takes a step back. “What do you want?”
“Information. Where the fuck is Connor?”
He laughs, a soft laugh at first, but it swiftly becomes loud and booming. He grips his sides and shakes his belly, looking up at the ceiling. “You think I’d tell you where the boss is? I like living, Angel.”
“All right, then.”
I shoot him in the arm, a flesh wound. He collapses onto his swivel stool and bites down. “Motherfucker.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I reckon that’s about right.”
The next hour goes much the same, going in on this fella to try’n get some information, but he won’t break no matter what I do. He’s loyal to Connor, so loyal that he takes four bullets, four flesh wounds, and doesn’t say a word.
I leave with no idea where Connor or Kayla are, feeling hopeless, wishing she’d answer one of my goddamn calls.
Chapter Nineteen
Kayla
Connor keeps calling me and so does a number I don’t recognize, which I can only guess is Xander; the last time he called it was from a different number, too, so he must’ve switched phones. But it doesn’t matter, I remind myself, because I’m not going to answer either of them. I switch off my phone. I’m done with that life. It’s in the rear-view mirror, only if Cormac would stop that coughing noise …
As the sun begins to set I pull into a rest stop, wondering what I’m doing, wondering if this is really my life now. I pull up into the parking lot and grip the steering wheel hard. Cormac coughs, not as bad as he was before, but still enough that I want to take him to the doctor. But if I’ve turned my phone off to stop Connor from tracking me—and after what I’ve learned about him, that doesn’t seem as absurd as it once did; he went to war with a biker gang, for fuck’s sake—then surely that means I have to steer clear of hospitals, too. How hard would it be for some nurse to call Connor’s gang and for him to come and scoop us up?
I massage my temples, wishing that thinking was easier right now. When I was a teenager my mind was razor-sharp, but that was because I only ever had to worry about things that happened in books. I had my alcoholic parents and their death and then my distant grandmother, but as long as I kept my nose buried in books, I could pretend that none of that was happening. But I can’t escape in the same way when I have Cormac to take care of. I have to worry about reality.
“It’s okay, little guy.” I go around the back and carry him to the front, giving him my nipple. “Don’t you worry about it.”
We’re in a hidden corner of the rest stop, but even so I worry about the truckers seeing me with my breast out, even for feeding. Seven trucks are lined up outside the diner, with seven truckers inside, lit under the bright yellow lights, all as grizzled-looking as the next, all drinking black coffee. I stroke Cormac’s head as he coughs and feeds, feeds and coughs. I need food, too, to keep myself strong. Maybe once we’re a few states over—a couple of days, at most—I’ll take him to the hospital. But while we’re still within Connor’s web, I don’t see how that’s an option.
He killed Arsen, I tell myself, to fortify my pity against Cormac’s coughing. The coughing is bad; being Connor’s prisoner, or victim, will be worse.
“But if you get like you did before,” I promise him, “then I’ll
give myself to Connor to keep you safe. I promise. But for now, try to be strong, okay?” I go into my bag and take out his baby food, along with his spoon, and do my best to feed him. He smears just as much around his mouth as he swallows, but he still swallows a fair amount. Once that’s sorted out and he’s as clean as I can make him, I inch the car toward the truckers’ vehicles. I don’t want to be doing this, but right now it feels like the only thing I can do. Where did the rest of Xander’s money go?
I thump the steering wheel, angry at myself for only just realizing. It must’ve been the landlord, or Connor. I completely forgot I was even supposed to have that money until now, when I need it. I glance in the rear-view, at Cormac’s drooping eyes. He coughs once or twice and then starts to sleep lightly. I’m so hungry my belly is twisting and cramping urgently, as pissed at me for not feeding it as I am for myself for losing the cash.
Finally, one of the truckers comes outside for a cigarette. He wears a checkered red shirt with a cap pulled over his ears and dark blue jeans. His is around fifty, with tanned skin and what seems to be a perpetual grimace. I step out of the car. “Hello!” I call over.
He glances around, like a boy in high school who’s unsure if the girl is talking to him. “Uh, hi there.”
“Can I talk to you for a moment, please?”
He flicks his cigarette to the ground and walks over, hands in his pockets, looking at me with an expression I don’t find at all comforting. “A lady and a kid,” he says ambiguously.
“I really don’t want to be a pain, but I was wondering if you had a couple of bucks so I could grab myself a sandwich? You see, I left my purse at home and I don’t have any money.”
“Stranded and poor, huh?”
“Not stranded, and not poor. I just forgot my purse.”
He shrugs. “Whatever you say. I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”
A hundred … For a moment I don’t look past the offer. I see myself with the cash, able to get some dinner and fill up the gas tank when it runs low and get far, far away from Connor and his threats. Then I look into the man’s face and really see it. His eyes are bright green, almost the same shade as Xander’s, but they dance with a grimmer light. His smile isn’t charming or friendly. It’s the smile of a jackal.
“My truck is just over there,” he says. “It won’t take long, doll.”
“No.” I shake my head, reaching into my pocket for my pepper spray. “Absolutely not. That’s not what I meant at all!”
“Pfft.” He shrugs. “Go hungry, then. What does it matter to me? I’m trying to do you a favor here. Come to think of it, what’s it matter to you? All alone out here, no man, no money, you must’ve done stuff like this before.”
“I haven’t,” I say, “and I never will.”
He shrugs again and returns to the diner, lighting up another cigarette.
“People are such jerks,” I mutter, getting back into the car. “You’ll learn that as you get older.”
I wait for that man to go inside and for another to come out. This time two come out together. One has a shaggy mane of red hair and a beard to match, and he’s about my age. The other is bald but has the same reddish beard as the younger man. I’m guessing they’re brothers, or at least cousins. “Hello!” I call.
They walk over. The one with the shaggy hair stands back a little, watching. It’s the bald one who talks. He has a scar down the left side of his face, pale white and jagged. “What is it we can help you with, miss?” He has an Irish accent, I think; he sounds like he’s from Boston.
I explain the situation to him. “Just a couple bucks,” I repeat. “I just need to grab a sandwich.”
“You’re out here lookin’ for a couple bucks?” He scratches his bald head. “You a whore or somethin’?”
“No!” I snap. “What is it with you guys?”
“Excuse me, miss, but you’re the one begging at a truck stop. Usually when women come up to us asking for money, they offer somethin’ in return. What’re you offering? I tell you what, since you don’t seem like the whore type, why’nt you show us yer tits and I’ll give you ten bucks, all right? That seems like a fair deal to me.”
“Show you my … no, no way.”
“For fuck’s sake, Greg.” The shaggy-maned one reaches into his pocket and takes out a few bills. He hands them to me while staring at Baldy. “What’s the matter with you? You want her to show you her tits with her kiddie in the back, eh?” He grabs his arm. “Get moving, you piece of shit.”
“Thank you,” I say, nodding to the long-haired one.
He nods back and drags the other one away.
I count out the cash: fifty-five dollars. I clutch the money to my chest, waiting for the truckers to leave. When they do, I take Cormac into the diner and sit in the corner, nibbling on a sandwich and drinking tap water.
Beside me, Cormac coughs.
Chapter Twenty
Xander
I sit on my couch, feeling the effects of the alcohol withdrawal but feeling the effects of Kayla’s absence a hell of a lot more. I rest my elbows on my knees, staring down at my cellphone and my pistols. I’ve been all around town looking for Connor and Kayla and I haven’t been able to find either. I even called up Maxwell and had him work some of his army shit but nothing came up. I’m stranded, alone, lost—and Kayla could be anywhere and anything could be happening to her.
I thump the couch, so pissed at myself I could put a bullet in the goddamn wall. Why did I have to get drunk? Why did I have to push her away? A small voice whispers that I barely know her, that I’m being too hard on myself, but it’s a voice that has little to no sway within me. It doesn’t matter; all that matters is keeping her and my nephew safe.
I almost break my phone, I answer it so quickly.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” he says, sounding as smug as he always did back in the day when he waged war against the club.
“Where is she?” My voice trembles. It’s not a good idea to show a man like Connor how angry I am, but I can’t help it. I pace up and down the room, from the wrecked armchair to the bathroom. “What the fuck have you done with her?”
“She’s safe,” he says. “For now, anyway. It’s amazing what a few hits of morphine can do to relax a person. She’s sleeping like a little angel, which, I suppose, would make her fit in with your lot, wouldn’t it?”
“Very funny,” I mutter. “What about the kid?”
“Snoozing, both of them are snoozing. I have to tell you, they’re lucky to just be sleeping. They ought to be dead for what that little bitch did to me. Spraying me like that. It was very foolish of her. And you really care about her, don’t you? That’s the most amazing thing to me. You really care about this whore. I had my fun with her—she could be fun, when she tried—but you, you don’t … do you love her?”
I don’t answer. I’m gritting my teeth and clenching my fist and imagining what it’d be like to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until his face goes red and then dead-white. “Let her go,” I say. “Don’t be a fuckin’ coward.”
“There it is!” he cries, sounding gleeful. “It always comes back to that with you biker fucks, doesn’t it? Bravery, honor, toughness, blah, blah, boo. It always comes back to some twisted sense of what makes you a good man, but what you all forget is that you forfeited the right to be a good man a long time ago. Good men don’t kill people. Good men don’t commit crimes. These lines you draw, Xander, between murder and rape, between arson and gun-running. Do you really think they make you better than me?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I do, ’cause we’ve never kidnapped women, children. We’ve never burnt down a bar which had civilians in it as well as outlaws. We’re careful.”
“How fun that sounds,” he mutters. “I get it. Really, I do. She has her grandmother’s egg just waiting to be cracked open and you want a taste of the yolk. I can’t blame you. I’m exactly the same. Once I’ve played my tricks on her for a couple of weeks she�
�ll marry me without resistance. I know her. I know how I can bend her mind.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him. “To me you just sound like a madman spitting out horseshit.”
“You don’t know about the egg?” I can almost hear him stroking his chin. “How interesting. Perhaps it truly is love. Anyway, let’s forget about that for now. I want you to bring me twenty thousand in cash and an assurance that you will back off, leave me be. I have business in this town and I don’t need you hurting my men. Pay me the cash and back off, and I’ll let her live. Keep on like you are, and I’ll rape and kill her. The only mercy she’ll get is that I might switch the order.”
I press my knuckles against my forehead, trying to get rid of this pounding headache. “What do you want twenty grand for? That’s not exactly a king’s ransom.”