by Naomi West
“Want me to hop in there with you,” she asked, touching his chest as she made the suggestion. “Scrub your back?”
“No, can't this morning,” he said and laughed, before kissing her softly on the lips. “Smalls's already bending over backwards to cover for me, and I don't think I'd leave on time if I took you up on your offer.”
# # #
Cutter slipped back into the daily dine and grind of the Farm to Fable line like he hadn't missed a shift. Even with their staff shorthanded as it was, and business as busy it could possibly be, the prep went smoothly and the food got out of the kitchen with only minor complications or confusion.
In fact, he even had a customer wanting to thank the chef personally. Just towards the end of the shift, Squirrel, who had been waiting tables for them, came back and got his attention. “Hey man,” he said, a strange quality to his voice, “got a customer out there wants to talk to the chef.”
Cutter glanced from Squirrel to Smalls, then back again. “Me?” he asked, sighing. Honestly, he really wanted to finish up his last bit of prep on this dish, but a compliment from a customer was still a compliment. You didn't want to snub someone who might leave a shitty review on some website out there.
“Sure,” Cutter said, nodding as he wiped his hands clean on a kitchen towel, “lead the way.”
Together, the two men walked out to the front of the restaurant. Cutter looked around the small eatery.
“Over there,” Squirrel pointed. “That guy.”
Cutter's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched tighter than a bear trap. His chest tightened and his heart began thumping double time. Seated at the corner table, all by himself, was Wyland West. With a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of Cutter's tomato bisque soup sitting right in front of him. In the Vanguard MC's restaurant of all places. His hair was as perfect as the day before, his charcoal gray spotless and well-pressed. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world.
Cutter stalked over to him, his fists clenched, simultaneously thankful and pissed that he hadn't brought a chef's knife with him. He'd love nothing more than to slit the motherfucker's throat and drop him face first in that bowl of tomato bisque, to see his heart's blood pump out with each dying breath into the reddish-orange tomato soup as he slowly gurgled to death in front of God and everyone.
But, that wouldn't help anything. No, it'd just set Cutter up for a one-way ticket to the gas chamber. “Hello Wyland,” he growled as he approached the table.
“Oh, are you the chef today, Desmond?” Wyland asked, feigning surprise. “I had no idea! It was great seeing you at the courthouse yesterday, by the way. Sorry I couldn't stay to chat, had a long list of meetings.”
“What do you want here?” Cutter growled through gritted teeth, his fists squeezing so hard his knuckles popped.
“Just getting my favorite, a grilled cheese with some tomato soup. You guys really do an excellent one here, you know? Par excellence, if you ask me.”
“Thought you hated grilled cheese and tomato soup,” Cutter said, but quickly regretted his words. That was something Liona had confided him just recently.
“Oh? Is that what Liona told you?” Wyland asked, laughing. He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth clean with it. “No, no, I get it every chance I can when I'm out to eat alone. It was one of the only things she could cook without fucking up, so I made a rule about never having the stuff for it in the house. Had to keep her on her toes so she wouldn't get too comfortable, you know?”
No, he didn't know. Cutter shook his head. What kind of sick fucker had this man turned into? He stayed silent, just put his hands on the back of the chair that sat across from Wyland.
“And, don't worry,” Wyland said, leaning forward conspiratorially. He put up one hand, pretending to shield his words from anyone who might be watching. “I know you've got her, Desmond, hiding out in your little clubhouse,” he whispered and gave an exaggerated wink.
Cutter squeezed the chair so hard he was almost worried it would begin to splinter.
“It's so adorable you think your brotherhood, or whatever, can keep her from me, Desmond. Your little gang, you're all so cute.”
Squirrel and one of the other waiters stepped up beside Cutter, their arms crossed as they leveled their gaze on the assistant DA.
“Oh,” Wyland said, that fake mirth still in his voice, “great job today. Really knocked it out of the park, considering how shorthanded you were today. What's his name, Big Jack? He not show up for work today? Oh, that's right! Word around the water cooler was that he hit a spot of legal trouble and had the cops cart him out of here.”
Cutter growled, deep in his chest, vibrating the chair. “Get. Out.”
“Really, Desmond?” Wyland asked with a grin, flashing those perfect teeth of his. “Don't be that way,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “It's been so long since we had a nice chat. Since school, I think.”
“Out,” Cutter said again, this time louder. “And never come back here again.”
The clinking of forks and scraping of knives stopped behind him, as they were merely a water faucet that someone had turned off. Cutter could feel the eyes in the small restaurant all turn to him and land squarely on his back. Wyland gave him a gratified self-congratulatory grin as he pushed his chair back from the table. The legs scraping across the tiled floor might as well have been rictus fingers tearing over a gravestone it was so ominous. He stood and straightened his tie as if getting thrown out of diners or antagonizing biker gangs was something he did on a daily basis.
Cutter realized that the second part was actually true. Eyes still on Cutter, Wyland reached into his pocket, grabbed a fat money clip, and began to thumb twenties off on to the tabletop. He left a small stack and walked around the table toward the three men. He stopped next to Cutter and said, in a low voice, “How's that leg, by the way? Heal up just fine?”
It took every ounce of Cutter's dwindling self-control to keep down his darker bloodier urges. He could have easily reached out and crushed Wyland's windpipe and ended things. Liona would no longer live in fear, the Vanguard would go on without him, and he'd just spend the rest of his life in prison. Everyone would be safe. Everyone else would be fine. Instead, he bit his tongue and kept his hands gripping into the back of that poor, abused chair.
“Well, anyways,” Wyland said, leaning in closer, “just remember, my cock was there first.”
The other two men were faster than Cutter, or at least more prepared. They grabbed their president by the shoulders, arms, and waist as he lunged with a roar for the smug-faced piece of shit. Squirrel even caught his fist before it connected with Wyland’s rich pretty-boy face.
Wyland didn't flinch as the two men held Cutter back. He didn't budge, not one bit. “Tell my little whore,” he said as he reached up and patted Cutter's cheek with fake affection, “that Daddy'll be seeing her soon.” Then, he turned and left, disappearing out the diner's front door as he began to whistle “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
Cutter struggled against them one more time. “Don't go after him, prez,” Squirrel whispered from behind him, his grip like steel around Cutter's beefy arm.
“Not worth it, brother,” murmured the other guy as Wyland got in his white BMW.
“Let go of me,” Cutter growled back, shaking off their restraining hands. “I'm fine.”
They released him as Wyland West backed out and drove away with a happy wave.
“I'm fine,” he repeated again, then exhaled swiftly.
But he was anything but fine. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples, the anger coursing through his body like a live wire. All the eyes of the patrons, wary and cautious, were on him. He should have done it, he should have killed him. Just broken his fucking neck, right there in the middle of the diner.
“It'll be okay,” Squirrel said, reassuring Cutter as best he could. “We got this, brother.”
“Yeah,” said the other guy. “It's cool, alright?”
Cutter nodded to t
hem both and, with another grumble, headed back into the kitchen. The eyes followed him as he left, as worries about Liona being alone for the day filled his mind. Worries about Wyland knowing where she was, and her being left unprotected all day.
He burst back into the kitchen. “Smalls,” he said to his second-in-command, “need your help.”
“What's up?” Smalls asked as he turned from the line.
“Need you to go check on Liona.”
“Things alright?” Smalls asked as Cutter crossed to him.
Cutter shook his head. He told him about his encounter just then. “Wyland knows we have her,” he said, his voice low. “Just go stay with her, okay? But don't let her know that piece of shit found her. Alright?”
Smalls nodded. “Sure, buddy. I'll take care of her like she was my own. But, dude, you really should tell her.”
“We'll tell her, alright? But I wanna be the one to do it.” Cutter clapped him on the shoulder, squeezed his arm. “You're a good man, Smalls. Best friend I ever had.”
Smalls grinned. “You too, son. The best.”
Chapter 25
Liona
“Uno!” Liona shouted and pointed.
Smalls slapped his hand of cards down hard, frustrated. “Goddammit, girl! I was almost there, too!”
They'd been playing different games for the last two or three hours, ever since Smalls had gotten back from the restaurant. He seemed particularly keen on keeping her interested in staying with him, always suggesting a new card game or a game of pool as soon as they were finished with the current one.
“It's ‘cause you're tired, Smalls,” Liona said, laughing. “You're losing focus, and not keeping your eyes on the prize. Why don't you go take a nap or something?”
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head vigorously, maybe trying to get some more blood flowing the old noggin'. “I'm fine, I'm fine. Just a little rusty is all,” he assured as he began to draw two new cards. He swore under his breath as each one entered his hand.
“Well, you look exhausted,” Liona said, slapping down another card from her hand. “Want some coffee?”
“Maybe in a little while,” he said. “First, I gotta whip your little butt.” He normally took a nap whenever he got home the restaurant, she'd noticed, and always loudly announced his intentions.
This afternoon, though, was different. First, he'd come home early, and alone. Now, he was stuck to her like a clingy boyfriend. Yes, something definitely seemed off.
“So, how was work?” she asked.
“Fine,” Smalls said gruffly as checked his hand. He cursed and drew another card.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, then?”
“No,” he said, “not really.”
“You guys busy?”
“Yeah, had a packed house. Business was picking up.”
“Huh,” she said, slapping down a draw 4 card. “Uno,” she said.
Smalls cursed loudly, his eyes like steel as he tried to stare her down. “Goddammit.”
“So, if you guys were so busy,” she asked, unflappable, as he drew his cards, “why'd you come home so early? Doesn't Cutter need you in the kitchen, since you're short-handed?”
He pursed his lips together and made a clucking noise out of the corner of his mouth. He didn't say anything, just kept his eyes fixated on his hand.
Smalls was probably an awful poker player, she realized. “Something happened, didn't it?” she asked, her voice more insistent this time.
“Look,” he said, laying down a card on top of the pile, “Cutter told me not to tell you. So, I can't, okay? He's my president, I gotta listen to him.”
What was she? A mushroom? Something to just keep in the dark and feed shit to? She growled and tossed her cards down.
“Oh, come on, Liona,” Smalls said, “he's only trying to keep you safe and make sure you don't worry, that's all.”
Why were the men in her life always keeping things from her, or trying to control her?
Outside, the sound of a whole pack of bikes filled the air as the rest of the Farm to Fable staff came riding home. They roared to a halt in the parking lot and, one by one, the engines began to turn off, so the symphony of thunderous motors seemed to fade slowly away.
“Well,” she said, giving Smalls a narrow-eyed, angry look, “I guess I'll just have to ask the president himself, won't I?”
“Look,” he said, “I wanted to tell you right away, but he said I should wait for him.”
She exhaled with frustration and rolled her eyes. She tossed her last card on the pile. “I'm out,” she said, her voice sounding almost as dejected as she felt.
Smalls looked like he was about to crumple his remaining cards in his hand. He slapped them down on the table, face down, cursing the whole while.
“Sorry,” Liona said as she crossed her arms, “Granny Copeland loved her card games.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Smalls said, “I'm sure she was a sweet ol' lady.”
“Nah,” she said, “she was a real bitch, never let any of the grandkids win.”
“Look,” Smalls said in a lowered voice as he began to jog the cards together and straighten them, “don't hold it against him when he gets in here. He has good reason for doing what he did.”
Liona sighed. “Fine.”
Soon the door flew open and all the men were bustling in. Most of them collapsed down in the rec room, bringing the decibel level up to a dull roar, while a couple of the guys made a bee line for the kitchen and the ice-cold beer stored there.
Cutter brought up the rear, his face downcast and torn. “Hey babe,” he said, his voice matching his visage. “We need to talk.”
She was still a little pissed that he'd instructed Smalls to hide something from her, even though she didn't know exactly what it was. “You don't say,” Liona said.
The president of the Vanguard shot a look to his second-in-command.
Smalls raised his hands in a ‘don't shoot’ gesture. “I didn't tell her nothing.”
“He didn't,” Liona confirmed, feeling a little bad for the older man, but still pissed.
“Come on,” Cutter said, his voice emotionless, “we'll talk in my bunk.”
She slowly pushed back from the table and got up. She followed after him, her feet light on the floor as he clomped and stomped through the clubhouse. They got to his bunk and he held the door open for her. She stepped past him and he closed the door after her. “So, what happened?” she asked as she sat down on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap.
“Wyland showed up at the Farm to Fable,” Cutter said as soon as the door was shut. His eyes were searching around the room, and his brain was clearly working double-time. “He, uh, knows where you are.”
A cold fear gripped her immediately. The bottom of the world seemed to fall out, like the little piece of sanity she'd lucked into, was all just an illusion that was about to be brushed by her ex-fiancée. She felt the blood leave her face, her palms go clammy, as she thought of all the torment he'd put her through. As she remembered the pain and humiliation he'd caused her, inflicted on her.
“But,” he said, sitting down next to her and putting an arm around her shoulder, “we're going to protect you, okay? We're going to find a way to keep you safe. You have my word.”
She nodded silently, trying to believe Cutter, to really listen to his words and internalize them. The Vanguard had managed to defend her so far, hadn't they? She nodded again. Yes, they could keep doing it.
“And, if it really comes down to it,” Cutter said, rubbing her shoulders, “we'll get you out of here, okay? You and me, I promise. But first I'm going to make sure he pays for what he did to you, babe. He'll never have you again, alright?”
She nodded again, trying to fight back the tears. Her eyes were already watering, and her shoulders were already shaking. She turned to Cutter and smothered her face against his chest, and he pulled her against him as she began to cry. “I should just leave,” she sobbed out. “I'm bringing this
all upon you guys. You and Smalls and the others, you don't deserve this.”
He stroked her hair, kissed the top of her head. “Go where?” he asked. “Your parents can't protect you, babe. Your father's a good man, but he can't do anything but call the cops.”
“Then what?” Liona sobbed. “What should I do?”
“Stay with us,” Cutter replied. “Simple as that.”
Liona tried to wipe away her tears as she nodded. “This just doesn't seem fair to any of you guys.”
“Life ain't fair, babe,” Cutter said. “And no one's ever claimed otherwise.”