by Amy Love
“Well, given your reputation, I thought you were a stand-up guy, but apparently we’re both in for some disappointment today.”
They stared at one another like they were in some cheesy Western showdown, a tumbleweed blowing between them and eyes twitching on the close-up. Gryff knew he’d have to get the drugs, especially if Beth’s situation was as precarious as Phillip made it out to be, but he sure as hell didn’t want that rat bastard to think he was going to be his errand boy willingly. He had to put up a little fight. He owed himself that much.
“Now you listen to me, Gryff Reeves,” Phillip started, his words uttered in a low, dangerous tone, one that actually made the hairs on Gryff’s arms stand up. “You are going to get me the rest of the drugs that I asked for, and you’re going to do it without a single fucking complaint. Then, when you’re done with that, maybe you’ll get me some more. Maybe you won’t. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with you yet, but just know that I get to decide. As long as Beth’s mine, you’re my fucking servant until I say otherwise. Is that clear?”
Gryff wasn’t exactly proud of what he did next. Holding Phillip’s gaze, Gryff reared back and spat at him. The spittle didn’t quite make it onto that asshole’s polo, but it said more than words could.
“That was a mistake,” Phillip growled, his eyes narrowing, bushy eyebrows deepening. “A big one.”
“I’ll do it,” Gryff called just as the round little man turned to stalk away. “But fuck you, Phillip Crest. You deserve to rot for all the lives you’ve taken.”
Phillip continued onward, sparing a glance over his shoulder to shout, “Oh spare me your dramatics, Mr. Reeves.”
And then he was gone, soon to be replaced by a trio of hulking men, none of whom were quite as muscular as Gryff, but it was three against one in a fight Gryff wasn’t interested in entertaining.
“You try anything stupid,” one of them growled, as another crouched behind Gryff to remove the tape, “and I break your skull this time.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Gryff muttered. His eyes danced from man to man, wondering if he recognized them from anywhere. After all, he’d been in the underground drug world for quite some time, especially in Blackwoods. Most of the drug dealers, and the muscle they brought along, were familiar by now. But none of their faces raised any flags in his mind. None. Must be out-of-towners, because locals weren’t stupid enough to mess with the Steel Phoenixes.
“Up,” one barked, hauling Gryff to his feet. Every muscle screamed and protested at the movement, and he gritted his teeth as he staggered forward.
“Before we go anywhere,” he said as he held his ground, “I gotta take a wicked piss.”
“Keep moving—”
“Look, man,” Gryff snapped, facing the guy who seemed to be the ringleader, the one doing all the talking, “you either let me piss in the bushes or I do it in your car. Pick one.”
The three seemed to confer with one another silently for a moment, a whole conversation had with looks alone, and suddenly they were moving again, one of them muttering, “You’re a fucking animal.”
“Takes one to know one, brother,” Gryff said with a sigh, rolling his eyes and bracing himself for what was coming next.
Chapter 40
Phoenix Rises looked pretty sad during the day. For the most part, the only people who went there were friends and family of the Steel Phoenix Motorcycle Club, and, of course, the members themselves. However, not even friends and family could just stroll in unannounced. You couldn’t give a vague reference at the door and be welcomed to paradise. There was an approved list of day visitors who made use of the bar, which didn’t open until the late evening to the general public anyway, which meant Phillip’s goons would have to find their own way in.
Or not come in at all, apparently.
As they pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the street, parking in front of the liquor store who’d floated the idea of once connecting their basement to Phoenix Rises’s for the sake of running illegal shit between the two. The idea of eventually been turned down, mostly because this wasn’t the 1920s and they didn’t need underground bootleggers filtering in and out of the motorcycle club’s bar. Still, despite the falling out, everyone was still on pretty good terms for the most part.
“You’re going to go in and get the shit,” the driver announced, and Gryff glanced down at the gun—one that looked suspiciously like his, honestly—pointed at his thigh from the guy seated next to him in the backseat. “We’ll wait here. You’ve got a time limit, Reeves. You aren’t back in time, we start deciding which one of your girlfriend’s pretty fingers we chop off first.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Gryff muttered, going for his seatbelt. These assholes weren’t quite the conversational wizards that Phillip Crest prided himself on being. They were out-of-towners, sure, but not much different from the guys whom the Steel Phoenixes employed to do their dirty work. Not exactly the brightest stars in the sky. All they had to piss him off with were threats against Beth, and even though each one was like a dagger to the heart, they were getting old. They needed some fresh material to keep the threat alive. “How much time do I have?”
“Five minutes.”
“Takes about that long to get down to where we store the coke and punch in all the passcodes,” he sneered, frowning. “What? Do you guys just leave your shit sitting out on a table for anyone to take? We actually keep ours locked away.”
The trio exchanged looks, once again having a whole silent conversation without him, and Gryff let out a long sigh. He wasn’t thrilled to be in this situation, but once he had the coke, he’d hopefully be a step closer to finding out where they were holding Beth. Nobody needed to drag her out and parade her around in front of him—all Gryff needed was a location, then it was time to start cracking skulls and getting the hell out of dodge.
“Fifteen minutes,” the driver said, seeming pleased with his revised numbers. “Fifteen minutes to get in, grab the shit, and get out. We’ll give you a leeway of thirty seconds if we can see you making an effort.”
“Well, aren’t you just saints,” Gryff said, a hand to his heart. “I’m so lucky to be stuck with you.”
“Just get going,” the guy beside him growled, shoving at Gryff’s leg with his gun, “before I give you a fucking reason to put some pep in your step.”
“Okay, okay, I’m going…” Gryff shot each one of them a look, one of those if-looks-could-kill looks, then stepped out of the car. Just as he did, a police car drove by, slowly, as if scoping out the motorcycle club’s bar on the other side of the road. In that moment, it would have been easy to flag him down and bust this whole thing wide open, but then what would happen to Beth? He couldn’t risk her life just to save his—not when all of this was his fault.
So he waited for the car to pass, then darted across the two-lane street and made a beeline for the door. As always, the cleaners were in, scrubbing the grime off the tables and floors that were missed by the folks working the shift before. Upstairs Gryff heard familiar voices in a heated discussion, but he didn’t have time to engage. He was on a timer, after all, and since he had no clock or phone to monitor himself with, it made the most sense to just get in and get out.
Just like last night—this morning, more like—Gryff made no eye contact with anyone. He returned smiles halfheartedly to the cleaning crew and tried to mentally get across that they needed to help him somehow, but didn’t dwell.
Given the state of the holding cell in the basement, it seemed that no one had been in to add or remove any more bags of coke since he’d done so hours before. Grimacing, he started scooping up the rest of what he “owed” to Phillip and tucked them carefully in the reusable grocery bag he’d been forced to carry. That in itself should have tipped off anyone who knew him. Gryff Reeves didn’t use reusable grocery bags like a fucking hippie.
He handled each bag filled with white powder cautiously, not wanting to tear the thin plastic and cost the Phoenixes mo
re than he’d already done. As soon as he had the proper amount, he turned and hurried for the door, climbing the wooden stairs three at a time because he had no idea how long he’d been down there for.
Beth. I’m coming, baby. Hold on.
Gryff almost made it to the front door too, but something stopped him. Well, someone stopped him. It would have been easy to ignore just about everyone there, especially the cleaning crew, but Micky was a little harder to evade.
“Gryff, man,” Micky shouted. If he kept going, Micky might have known something was up, and he couldn’t afford a shootout in the street right now. So he stopped, chest heaving and brain aching at the thought of what these seconds might do to Beth.
“I can’t stop, Mick,” he said as his old friend approached. “Seriously, I gotta get going.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist, kid,” Micky said, his jog slowing to a painfully languid stroll the closer he came. “Just wanted to give you your phone. And by the way, you look like hell. What’d you do, get in a fight with a freight train?”
His eyebrows knitted together, his permanent frown deepening. “My what?”
“Doreen found it here last night,” he stated as he extended his arm out. Sure enough, Gryff’s phone was there, untouched and free from Phillip’s grasp. When he’d woken up in the warehouse, bruised and bloodied, he’d assumed Phillip had taken it along with his gun. He’d memorized the address and the punch-in code to the seedy apartment where he was supposed to initially meet the guy, so he hadn’t bothered to check his phone after he got the coke earlier that morning.
“Must’ve dropped it,” Gryff mused as he grabbed it, though his voice wasn’t as strong as he would have liked. “Thanks, man.”
“It’s been ringing like crazy,” Micky told him with a chuckle. “I think your girl is on the warpath. If you don’t call her back soon, she’ll probably blow an ulcer or something.”
The ringing sound in his ears was suddenly so loud he thought he was having a stroke. His head felt momentarily empty. Gryff’s arms fell to his side, and he gawked at Micky blankly for a moment, trying to process the information. “W-What?”
“You know…ulcer…” Micky stared at him, his smile faltering. “It’s a joke, Gryff, relax. She’s just been calling you a lot. You just missed one, actually.”
“Micky, I don’t…” He looked down numbly at his phone. “I…”
“Her name’s Beth, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Well, that’s the name that flashes every time the damn thing rings,” Micky continued, arms crossed and grinning. “I had half a mind to throw it out the damn window. Thing’s been driving me nutso all day.”
“Oh.” His voice seemed very small, which only seemed to make Micky’s expression alter more. Clearing his throat, Gryff tightened his grip around the black rectangle, his whole body starting to tremble, and he offered his old pal a wry grin. “Well, guess I should probably call her back before I do anything else.”
“That’d be wise, my friend,” Micky agreed, shooting him a wink before heading over to the bar. Seconds later Gryff was swiping a shaky finger across the screen. Sure enough, Beth had left him fifteen missed calls and a whole slew of panicked messages. Well, some angry, some panicked, most poorly punctuated, which wasn’t like her at all. Something was very wrong, but maybe it wasn’t the sort of wrong Phillip had made him believe.
With his heart pounding in his ears, Gryff stumbled over to one of the nearby tables, recently cleaned and still a little damp when he set his bag of coke on it. For a few moments, everything else was background noise as he perused all of Beth’s messages, checking the times they were delivered, half-wondering if Phillip was somehow fucking with him.
But based on the time and content of the messages, Phillip couldn’t have been sending them. They were full of panic over her dad’s condition—she’d found him on campus badly beaten, apparently, and was taking him to the hospital.
One of the messages was accusatory. She asked if he’d done it, which hurt, but he couldn’t blame her for thinking it. Throwing caution to the wind, Gryff tapped around on the screen until he was on her Contacts page, then pressed the little green call button. Seconds later the phone was pressed to his ear, but he barely registered the ringing reverberating through the speaker.
“Gryff?” She answered on the fourth ring, cutting it in half just as he had started to give up hope.
“Beth?” Both of them spoke in mere whispers, though he expected for different reasons. Hearing her voice again was like hearing the voice of an angel, and he couldn’t stop the huge smile that spread across his face. “Are you okay?”
“Where have you been?” she demanded, her tone accusatory like that one message, but her words full of trembles and breathiness. “I’ve been trying to c-contact you all day!”
“It’s a long story,” Gryff muttered, pushing away from the table and eyeing the car of Phillip’s guys waiting for him through the window. Things were about to change course—and fast. “Where are you? Still at the hospital?”
“Yes, but—”
“Have you noticed anyone…weird following you?” He grabbed the grocery bag and pulled the strap over his shoulder, then made eye contact with Micky at the bar. His old friend stopped polishing glasses, slowly lowering the one in his hand to the bartop. “Anyone suspicious?”
“What the hell is going on, Gryff?” Beth demanded, the pitch of her voice shooting up several octaves. “Didn’t you get my messages? Someone hurt my father, and I—”
“Beth, it wasn’t any of my guys, I promise,” he said quickly. “Look, just stay with your dad, okay? Keep the door to his room closed if you can until I get there. Don’t let anyone who isn’t hospital staff in to visit.”
“Gryff, what’s going on?” Her strength seemed to grow with each word, perhaps realizing that this situation was even more serious than she might have thought.
“Just stay with him and I’ll find you,” he promised. “I’m on my way.”
“Gryff…”
“Please, Beth,” he murmured, his grip tightening around his phone. All he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and never let her go, but there were more pressing matters to attend to first. Namely, putting a bullet in Phillip Crest’s temple. “Just keep an eye on your surroundings. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Text me the room number.”
Before she could make any further protests or ask any other questions, Gryff hung up and stuffed his phone in his pocket.
“What’s going on, Gryff?” Micky asked as he approached the bar. “Something’s up, isn’t it?”
“I don’t have time to give you a full rundown,” Gryff told him, then held up the bag he was carrying, “just know I’m not stealing all this coke.”
His old friend’s eyes widened. “W-What?”
“It’s just for show right now,” he continued. In that moment, he realized his palms were starting to sweat. Shit was actually getting real. “I found our guy. Well, our guy found me.”
“Gryff—”
“And it’s not the dean,” Gryff pushed on. There was no time to have a real conversation about it, but he knew Micky deserved that much. “I can’t elaborate now. He’s… He’s threatening Beth, and I gotta go get her. Make sure she’s safe.”
“But—”
“Can you keep an eye on the car out front?” He nodded back to the front door. Micky leaned over the bar and squinted, probably just barely able to see through the windows at the front door. “It’s the dark blue Sedan.”
“Gotcha.”
“Let me know if they leave, okay?”
“Done.”
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about it,” Gryff insisted as they both headed for the rear exit of the bar, moving in unison on either side of the bar. “But I—”
“You gotta protect your girl,” Micky finished for him. “I get it.” They both stopped just before reaching the door marked EMERGENCY EXIT, as if knowing exactly what th
e other was doing, but before Gryff could push through it, Micky grabbed his arm and looked him dead in the eye. “We’ve always trusted you, Gryff. I know it hasn’t felt like it because some of us are impatient assholes, but whatever you gotta do, we trust you to do it.”
Although he was in a hell of a rush, Gryff actually took a moment to pause. Micky had said those words to him before, but they didn’t really sink in until now. After all, here Gryff was, standing there with a lot of coke, giving vague answers and clearly trying to make a run for it, and Micky seemed to be helping him without questioning any of it.
“Thanks, man,” he muttered, and they both gripped one another’s hand and gave it a little shake. Micky was the true friend Gryff never knew he had. So, hopefully, he wouldn’t gut punch him for what Gryff was about to ask of him. “One last thing?”