by Cat Mason
“Yeah,” he mutters, spitting blood onto the ground. “Got it.”
“Clean yourself up, shithead,” Jinks says, kicking him in the ass. “You wanna look your best when you apologize. Right?” he asks, delivering one last hard kick to the ribs. “You could’ve killed those little girls. Better find a way to make that shit right with them,” he warns, spitting on him. “And the bus driver whose nerves are shot to shit now, thanks to your stupid ass.”
“Yes, Sir,” he whimpers, trying to get up. His arms and legs wobble, nearly sending his ass to the concrete again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“That’s better,” I say, grabbing his arm and helping him to his feet. Schrader grabs his other arm, helping me steady the punk’s shaky legs. Settling him back against the side of his truck, I pat him on the chest. “Glad we could talk this out. Enjoy your afternoon.”
Making our way back to our bikes, Schrader claps me on the back. “Look at us,” he says, smiling at me. “Mentoring teens and shit.”
“Yeah,” I reply, shrugging him off. “And, if he’s smart, there won’t be a repeat session.”
Chapter Thirteen
Roanne
“Alright, let’s start again from the beginning,” Agent Laswell says, sitting across from me at the table.
“I’ve gone over everything with you four times,” I reply, ready to pull my hair out. “That’s all I know.”
His brow arches. “I doubt that.”
“Excuse me?” My tone turns sharp at his apparent accusation. “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with what happened to my father?”
“No,” he sighs. “I don’t think you’re responsible for his disappearance. Though, I know you’ve not mentioned that Chief McKelvy gave you information about the investigation that he then asked the coroner to manipulate. Can you tell me why he would do that?”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “I have no idea.”
“Of course,” he nods. “Why would you? As you’ve said, you have nothing to hide.” Placing his elbows down on the table, he bends his arms and laces his fingers. “What if I told you that I know for a fact you’re omitting information to protect your father,” he replies, staring me down. “Maybe even someone else.”
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Agent Laswell.” Leaning back in the chair, I cross my arms over my chest. “I have cooperated completely and have answered everything to the best of my ability. If you have more questions then, ask them. If not, I’d like you to leave.”
“Please, call me Richard,” he replies with a smile. Bending down, he grabs his briefcase from the floor. Reaching inside, he removes a folder and places it between us. “What can you tell me about your father’s involvement with the Twisted Mayhem Motorcycle Club?” he asks, flipping open the folder, he pushes a photograph toward me. “Were you aware your father was engaged in illegal activity?”
“What?” I ask, my jaw dropping as I jolt up in the chair and grip the table. “My father is a highly-respected member of the community. He’s never even gotten a speeding ticket.”
“This photo was taken from the security footage outside the Frazier Stone main offices two days before the explosion.” he informs me, tapping the picture with his index and middle fingers. “You can keep this one, there are plenty more.” Looking down, I blink several times at the image of my father handing over a thick envelope to Jensen. “Want to know what I think?” he asks.
“Not particularly,” I mutter, my fingers inching toward the photo. The satisfied smile on my father’s face as he hands Jensen the envelope sends shivers down my spine. My instincts have warning bells sounding in my head. But, more than that, it has me questioning how well I know anyone.
Especially, my father.
“I’m afraid you’re trusting the wrong people,” he continues. Reaching across the table, he covers my hands. “I also hope you see the danger before it’s too late.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” I reply, yanking my hands free of his. Blowing out a frustrated breath, I narrow my eyes. The last thing I want to do is have this conversation with law enforcement, but for whatever reason, it seems like Agent Laswell has more on his mind than who tried to fake my father’s death. “How about you focus your energy on my father and not whatever trouble you think I’ve gotten mixed up in.”
“For Christ’s sake, Roanne, would you listen to what he’s saying?” Detective Ashmead blurts. Slamming her hands down on the table, she meets my eyes. “You’re not safe here. Stone isn’t the man you think he is. These people aren’t your friends,” she rants, waving her arm around in the air. “They’re criminals. Dangerous. Your loyalty is their only concern, not your safety. The moment they feel threatened by you, you’re as good as dead.”
“I have known Jensen Stone my entire life. He’d never hurt me, or my father,” I argue, shaking my head. “The club had nothing to do with this.”
“Are you willing to bet your life on that?” Agent Laswell asks quietly, his blue eyes softening. “Look, the last thing I wanted to do was upset you more than you already are. I’m here to help you.” Pulling a card from his inside jacket pocket, he places it down on top of the photo, then shoves the folder into his briefcase and stands to his feet. “If you won’t leave here with us now, will you at least hold onto my card? If you think of anything, or feel threatened in anyway, please call me directly. It’s my job to keep you safe.”
“Yes, of course,” I nod, relieved that they are leaving.
Thanking me for my time, Agent Laswell informs me they can find their way out and leave the room. Relieved to have them out of my hair, at least for now, I bury my face in my hands and blow out a long, slow breath. My world has not stopped spinning since the explosion. It is becoming more and more difficult to hold on to everything I knew and believed as I watch it all begin to fall apart in my hands.
“Hey.”
Jensen’s voice should calm me, but it doesn’t. Every word Laswell and Ashmead said are bouncing around in my head, making me second guess everything. Especially Jensen and my father. Dropping my hands, I open my eyes and stare down at the photograph they left on the table. “Laswell has photos of you with my father,” I inform him, running my fingers along the grooves of the wooden table top. “What was he paying you for, Jensen?”
“I inherited half the company,” he replies quickly. “I may not wear the suit and call the shots, but Al made sure I got my share.”
“By handing you an envelope that I am betting was stuffed with cash in the parking lot after hours?” I ask, shaking my head. My throat tightens and my eyes fill with tears. “I know, for a fact, that my father transfers money into an account for you every month, just like he has for years. He told me himself that you’ve never once touched it. Please don’t lie to me. I can’t take anymore secrets, Jensen.”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about, Ro,” he assures me, dropping his hands to my shoulders and giving them a squeeze. “Sometimes, running a business means making tough choices. Al made them. And, when it was needed,” he continues, his voice low and hesitant, as if he is unsure how to explain. “I carried them out. End of story.”
“Yeah,” I breathe, shrugging him off and pushing to my feet. “Why is it that I doubt it’s that simple?” Turning to face him, I take a few steps back. He has changed clothes since I saw him last. Instead of the dress pants and shirt he wore to the meeting at Frazier Stone, he now wears a black t-shirt and dark wash jeans. When he steps toward me, I hold up my hand and press it to his chest, the tips of my fingers brushing over the President’s patch on his cut. I swallow hard. “Agent Laswell is concerned for my safety. He says that I’m in danger if I stay here with you.”
“Oh really?” His jaw ticks angrily, the vein in the side of his neck throbbing rapidly as he breathes. Stepping forward, he shoves my hand away and pins my back to the counter. Grabbing my face with one hand, he searches my eyes. “And what did you tell Agent Laswell?”
I swallow
again, my heart hammering in my chest as I meet the intensity in his stare head on. “T-th-that you’d never h-hurt m-me,” I stutter out on a whoosh of air.
“Well, we both know that’s a lie.” Leaning in, Jensen smiles against my skin, the heat of his breath making me tremble against him. “Don’t we, Duchess?” Sliding his hand up my thigh, he digs his fingers into my hip, making me whimper. “You’ll just have to ask yourself if I’d ever hurt you more than you’re willing to beg for.”
When I think of the worst possible things Jensen could do to me, physical pain is nowhere on the list. Pain fades over time. Even in death. What I fear most runs so much deeper than anything that could ever be so temporary.
The words are on the tip of my tongue. I want to tell him exactly how he can hurt me, all the ways he could damage me beyond repair without even raising a finger. How he already did once, years ago, and took more of me with him than he left behind. But, instead of spilling all my thoughts into the air, and giving them life outside my head, only a moan leaves my lips.
“Do you trust me?” he murmurs over my skin as his teeth graze my earlobe.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
My quick answer shocks me, but not Jensen. “Good girl,” he purrs, pressing a soft kiss to my neck. Releasing his hold on me, he takes my hand. “Let’s go for a ride.”
With my arms wrapped around his middle, and my cheek pressed to his back, Jensen takes his time navigating the roads. When he said he wanted to take me for a ride, I expected it to be his way of avoiding the conversation. Though, just as the sun starts to set, Jensen surprises me by turning onto my street and pulling into the driveway where Schrader and Colt stand waiting beside their bikes. Shutting off the engine, he covers my hands with his, giving them a quick squeeze. “You wanted answers, Babe. Here we are.”
“House is clear, Stone,” Colt says. Stepping closer, he reaches out and grabs my arm when I stumble off the bike. “We’ll hang around and keep an eye out.”
“Thanks, Brother.” Coming up beside me, Jensen presses a hand to my back, navigating me up the walk.
The front door is already opened, when we step up onto the porch, no doubt left open by Colt and Schrader when they checked things over. Stepping inside, I rub my hands up and down my upper arms, hoping to calm my nerves. I can feel the unease radiating off Jensen’s body in waves and I don’t want him to change his mind because he doesn’t think I can handle whatever it is he is about to show me.
Without a word, Jensen leads me through the house and down the stairs to the basement, where we played as kids. The old game room my father designed for Jensen and I hasn’t been touched in years. There was a time when this room was my favorite place in the world. But, after he left, I stopped coming down here because it only upset me. This place holds too much history.
Navigating through the room, he takes us down the hallway toward the room my father used for storage. Opening the door, he flips on the light and releases my hand before heading for the large black bookshelf that takes up the entire wall. Grabbing the edge of the shelf, Jensen tugs it toward him, pulling it free from the wall as if it weighs nothing. Stepping closer, I spot the nearly unnoticeable wheels and hinges. When Jensen takes a step back, revealing the hidden steel door, my jaw nearly bounces off the floor.
“What the hell?” I blink several times, telling myself this has to be some kind of hallucination. “How long has this been here?”
“Remember what I said before, about everyone having their secrets, Roanne?” he asks, looking back at me over his shoulder. “You’re sure you want to know what’s behind this door?”
“There’s no going back now.” Squaring my shoulders, I blow out a breath. “Open the door.”
Nodding his head, Jensen turns the knob, then slowly pushes open the door. Closing the distance between us, I follow him into the room as he flips a switch on the wall. Strong smelling cleansers fill the air of the room, making my eyes water and my throat tighten. The halogen light hanging from the ceiling hums as it begins to brighten, illuminating the room. I blink several times, but there is no mistaking what I see before me. On one side of the room is a large, work sink and a shelving until filled with numerous jugs of industrial cleaners. On the other wall, hangs several knives of various sizes. Below them, is a small table, the top lined with different guns and a few boxes of ammunition. An icy chill slices through me, causing me to wrap my arms around myself. “How long?” I ask again, my eyes moving to Jensen. “How long has this room been here?”
“Your father had this room built around the same time he remodeled the basement to put in the arcade,” he replies, watching me carefully.
“For what?” I ask, shaking my head in disbelief. “What fucking reason could he possibly have for a place like this?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, Baby.” His face falls, his shoulders dropping slightly. “It’s gonna take more than a minute to explain.”
“Then I suggest you start talking,” I bite out, crossing my arms over my chest. “That’s about all you have before I haul ass out of here.”
“It’s a shock,” he replies, turning to reach for me. I take a step back, shaking my head. Right now, he can’t touch me. My mind isn’t capable of processing anything else. Nodding his head, he breathes deeply. “I know. I felt the same way you’re feeling now the first time your father brought me in here.” He grips the back of his neck, pain filling his eyes. “I was a fuckin’ punk kid who had lost two of the most important people in his life. God, I was so fuckin’ angry.” He stops, his breathing becoming labored. This time, when he steps closer, I don’t move away. Taking my hand in his, he presses my palm to his chest. “When the pain cuts that deep, the need for retaliation consumes you. It blinds you to everything else.”
“This can’t be true,” I shake my head as tears fill my eyes. “My father isn’t a monster. He’d wouldn’t. He couldn’t—”
“Everyone has their limit.” Jensen’s eyes change, seeming distant. “Instead of breaking, when your father reached his, he pushed back. Wanting justice doesn’t make him a monster, Roanne. It makes him human.”
“No.” Yanking my hand away, I shake my head. “It makes him a killer.”
“Fair enough,” Jensen replies with a shrug. “But, before you rush to judge his actions, can you honestly say that you wouldn’t put a bullet in Hank Wright’s head if he were standing in front of you right now?”
“I could never take a life.”
“Yeah.” Backing me up into the wall, he grabs my face with one hand, forcing me to meet his hard stare. “You can and you will. Wanna know how I know, Baby?” he asks, sweeping his thumb over my cheek. When my breath hitches, he smiles. “There are two kinds of people in this world. Those filled with fear and those filled with fight. You are your father’s daughter. You push back. Always have. That sets you apart from the weak in this world, Roanne. You don’t have it in you to be beaten down.”
“Oh yeah?” Wrapping my fingers around his wrist, I narrow my eyes. “You still haven’t told me why. What happened that my father felt he had no other option than this?” I ask, throwing out my other hand, gesturing around the room.
Swallowing hard, Jensen drops his hand and takes a step back. His face falls, his eyes though, are void of all emotion. “My parents died.”
The breath rushes out of me on a whoosh, my entire body feeling deflated at the mention of Xander and Lena. Jensen never talked about them after they died. No matter how many times I tried, he refused.
Turning his back to me, he walks across the room and grabs a stack of papers from the shelf. Tossing them down to the counter top, he stares down at them. “George Vaughn,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “He was one of the first employees hired. Al and Dad considered him a friend. What they didn’t know was George was running some side shit of his own. Used the Frazier Stone name to keep up appearances. He was a real shady motherfucker. When Dad caught on, he confronted him, threatened to tell A
l and turn everything over to the cops.” Gripping onto the edge of the work sink, he turns and glances at me, his eyes filled with pain. “George decided that wasn’t an option.”
Pushing off the wall, I make my way over to him. “I didn’t know any of this.” Resting my hand on his lower back, I look down at the photo on top of the pile of scattered paperwork. “Dad told me Xander and Lena died in an accident.”
Jensen’s body goes rigid. “An accident?” he laughs sarcastically. “There’s no such things as accidents. Every choice we make sets a chain of events into motion.” His voice cracks. Swallowing hard, he shakes his head. “Good ol’ George learned that lesson the hard way. Right over there,” he adds, jerking his chin in the direction of the drain in the center of the tile floor.
“You were there?” I ask in disbelief. He was just a teenager.
“Yes,” he nods. “I was less than ten feet from the fucker when he took his last breath.”
Visions of Jensen watching my father kill a man in cold blood, right here under the same roof that I have lived all my life, flash in front of me. I close my eyes, wanting to push them from my mind and pretend they don’t exist. “Jensen, I…” My chest tightens to the point of pain, stealing my words, the room beginning to spin as I try desperately to drag air into my lungs. Staggering backward into the wall, I press a hand to my chest and drop to my ass on the cold tile floor.
“Fuck.” Jensen growls, causing my eyes to open. Releasing his hold on the counter, Jensen is on his knees in front of me immediately. “Ro?” he asks, concern filling his eyes as he grabs my arms, checking me over. “Breathe,” he urges, holding onto me. “You need to breathe.”