Unfinished Business: A Bastards of Boston Novel

by Carina Adams

  My blood ran cold, just like it did every time I’d heard those words.

  When we’d first found out about what she’d done, I’d wanted to shake her for being so foolish. Not only was she obstructing justice by falsely confessing and handing over a weapon that ballistics would easily prove hadn’t been the one that shot Hansen, she was doing exactly what we’d spent weeks trying not to do; connecting the two of us. I knew that it was only a matter of time before the blues showed back up and hauled me away again. And unlike the first time, I wouldn’t be able to protect her.

  The announcement of her arrest had surprised us all.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the news that the gun she’d turned in was the actual murder weapon. Wiz, who I trusted, told me he watched Cris hand the gun to Candy. Candy swore she’d gotten rid of it.

  Yet, somehow, Cris had gotten it. When I found out how, heads were going to roll.

  “And,” McCue added, dragging my attention back to the meeting, “detectives can tie her to the scene.”

  Another thing that infuriated me. Cris hadn’t gone inside. There was no way to tie her to the scene except for bullshit lies she made up. Since none of us could visit with her, and the police and McCue were being extremely tight-lipped about evidence, no one knew what they had.

  McCue clicked his computer, and a picture appeared on the wall behind him. He stood and walked to the side, letting us have a better view of the little boy smiling up at the camera.

  “His name is Owen Chase.”

  Faces around the table went blank.

  “I don’t know who that is,” Tina announced.

  “Neither do I,” Michael Murphy, Cris’s dad, chimed in.

  Matt and I stayed silent. I knew the boy on the screen. I hadn’t known his name, but his face haunted my dreams.

  “He just turned four,” McCue told us. “Ironically, he shares a birthday with Crissia. He would have never made it past three if your daughter hadn’t saved his life.”

  “I don’t understand,” Michael admitted.

  McCue sat back down and made eye contact with each of us. “Tomorrow, there will be an article published in the Globe that releases information on a young boy who was rushed into the emergency room in May. According to medical records obtained, scans of the minor show years of abuse. Bones that didn’t heal correctly, scars from burns. This article will also say that Crissia found this minor badly beaten and carried him to hospital. Where she voluntarily gave authorities all her information. She also went back almost every day to check on him, until he woke up. After he regained consciousness, she’d read to him and sit to watch television.”

  The last part made both Matt and me sit up straighter. When in the fuck had she done that? And how in the fuck had we not known? She had a tail on her all the fucking time. I was going to kill someone.

  “Are you character building?” Tina demanded.

  “How does that have any relation to Cody Hansen’s murder?” Liam asked quietly.

  “Owen,” McCue pointed to the wall, “lived with Cody Hansen and his girlfriend, and had for a few years, although no social service organization had any record of that. Owen’s mother was recently located in Seattle.”

  I clutched the table and met Matt’s surprised eyes.

  “She’d run into some trouble a few years ago and left Owen here with her sister. Until Crissia turned herself in and explained what had happened, the police had been unable to locate his family. The two seemed like unrelated events.”

  A silence settled over the room as everyone tried to digest the news.

  “She killed him, didn’t she?”

  “Mom!” Matty yelled. “Don’t say shit like that!”

  Tina barely batted an eye. “You heard him. She carried the little boy to the hospital. After Hansen hurt him. She didn’t save Hannah.” She stopped, her eyes darting to me. “I’m sorry, Rob.” She grabbed my hand and continued. “She’s blamed Hansen for Hannah’s death for years.” She sighed. “She did this.”

  “No,” I snapped, ready to defend her. Ready to confess, but Matt beat me to it.

  “She saved a little boy!” Matt exploded. “So, that means she killed Hansen? Innocent until proven guilty, right, Ma?”

  “What do we do now?” Liam asked, interrupting their squabble. “What can we do to help?”

  “You let me do my job. You don’t say a word to anyone. Do not discuss the case. Don’t mention Crissia to anyone. You come to court and support her. That’s it. Leave everything else to me.”

  The fuck I would. This motherfucker had to play by the rules. I didn’t.

  “Robert,” McCue called, as if he knew what I was thinking. “We need you to stay away from her completely.”

  I opened my mouth, ready to tell the pansy-ass douche that he could kiss my ass, when Liam clamped his hand over my arm.

  “Listen to the lawyer,” he hissed.

  “Why?” I demanded. “I was already bagged. For the same murder. They interviewed me two days ago, asking me bullshit questions about her. They know we know each other. They have evidence that says I was at the fucking scene.”

  “And you will be called to testify.”

  I’d known I would be. They’d interviewed Matt more than once, too. They were fishing. My lawyer was worried about an accomplice charge. I wasn’t. If my testimony could give the jury an ounce of doubt over whether or not Cris was the one who pulled the trigger, I’d take it. Cris was the priority right now.

  “You’re a person of interest. Her brother’s best friend. That’s all the connection they need.”

  My heart pounded as my fist clenched. “I’m a hell of a lot more than that,” I seethed.

  “This isn’t a pissing contest.” My attitude didn’t faze McCue in the least. “This is about what’s in the best interest of my client. This case will play out in the papers. I want every single prospective juror to see Crissia as sweet and innocent, a young woman who had no choice but to do what she did.

  “If they think, for one second, that’s she’s mixed up with the Bean Nighe, she’ll be someone you manipulated to do your dirty work. We’ll lose this case.”

  “I’m not a Bean Nighe,” I growled back.

  “Yeah.” The lawyer nodded in mock agreement as his eyes moved over my shoulders, focusing on the cut I wore. “A no-name club affiliated with the Bean Nighe is no better. Having you around will assure a guilty plea. Is that what you want?”

  He knew it wasn’t. I stood up, unable to hear any more, Matty right behind me. I’d stay away. For her. But I didn’t want to.

  McCue had been right. Over the next few weeks, the media picked up the case and Cris’s picture was plastered everywhere. Some papers called her a cold-hearted killer and claimed it was a love triangle gone wrong. Most dubbed her Saint Crissia, the patron saint of abused children. As bits and pieces of the case leaked, more and more people rallied in her support.

  My friends and family tried to keep me busy. I couldn’t bear to stay at the studio without her, so I moved back to the duplex. I threw myself into finding a way to get her out. When I hit a dead end or needed a distraction, I focused on the one thing I could control.

  Establishing the new club was much tougher than I’d thought it was going to be. In my mind, I was going to hire a lawyer, establish a corporation, write some bylaws, and then apply to the AMA—the American Motorcyclist Association—for a charter sanction. I wanted to be aboveboard—completely legal, so everyone would take us seriously. Yet, no one would. Even lawyers refused to return my calls.

  I didn’t want to give up, but after a few weeks of constantly hitting my head against a brick wall, I was ready for us to crawl back to the Bean Nighe with our tails between our legs. A rider without a club was nothing more than a wannabe. My friends had gone long enough without a patch on the back of their cuts.

  One night in mid-July, after a horrible day, Jeremy joined me in the backyard, a beer in each hand. I shoved aside the pile of paperwork, wel
coming the distraction. He always tried to bring me information on Cris, and it had been days since I’d had anything good.

  “I bought a bike.”

  I almost spit out the sip I’d taken. “You did what?”

  “It’s not a Harley.”

  I laughed as I lit my cigarette and took a long drag. “You bought a scooter, didn’t you?” I couldn’t resist.

  He nodded, playing along. “I did. Thought since you were starting your own club, you wouldn’t kick me out. It’s emerald green and matches my eyes.”

  I snorted. Jackass. “You don’t ride.”

  He shrugged and looked up at the sky, as if he could see the stars. “I didn’t. The Princess and I took a two-day riding course last month. We both passed.”

  I sat up, bracing my elbows on my knees. “Cris got her license? She’s too scared to drive.”

  “Cars,” he told me, still staring up toward the heavens. “She’s afraid to get behind the wheel of a car. She wanted to surprise you when you got out.”

  “I want her on the back of my fucking bike, not on her own,” I growled. But I wasn’t mad. I was impressed. But mostly I just wanted her with me, anyway I could get her.

  “I want in.”

  I didn’t bother asking him to clarify because I knew he meant the club. “Jerm.” I didn’t know what to say. “What about your dad?”

  He shrugged. “Figure it’ll be good to have a connection with the BPD.”

  Tank and Matt chose that moment to come out and join us. “You tell him?” Tank asked as he plopped his ass on the ground across from me. I was clearly the only one who hadn’t known.

  “I don’t want to drag you into shit,” I told Jeremy honestly. “I won’t put you or your dad into that position.”

  “You’re not the Bean Nighe, Renegades, or the Horsemen,” he argued. “You’re different.”

  “Exactly, we’re the fucking redheaded stepchildren who don’t have a club. A bunch of stubborn bastards.”

  “Fuckin’ right we are!” Tank hollered.

  “That’s it.” Matt pointed at me. “You’re right. We’re bastards.” While he waited for me to digest it, Matt looked at Jeremy. “Liam calls himself a stubborn bastard all the time. I asked him why once; he said it meant that he was passionate, that he loved Rob more than Rob loved himself, and that he wasn’t gonna stop until he saved him.” He narrowed his eyes on me. “It’s fuckin’ perfect.”

  It was.

  “Bastards MC.” I said the words.

  “Bastards of Boston,” Tank added.

  “The Bastards MC of Boston aren’t going to be looked at any different than the rest. Trust me.” I met Jeremy’s eyes. “We’re a bunch of criminal kids. You’re not. You don’t want that distinction.”

  “A bunch of criminal kids who save others. You said yourself, we’re not gonna sell drugs or run guns. So our members have pasts, but that doesn’t define their future. How many other clubs would have walked into that house and saved that little boy?”

  “I killed two people.” I admitted.

  “One,” Matty argued. “You killed one. And neither deserved to live. You’re a fucking hero.”

  “We saved one kid,” I argued. “I’m not a fucking hero.”

  “Save more,” Tank chimed in, completely serious. “You want a purpose, Rocker? Want our club to be different? There it is.”

  Matt nodded. “We’re the Bastards of Boston. We protect the innocent, are passionate about what we do, and we’re not gonna stop until we save them all.”

  “To be a Bastard, you have to take an oath to protect those who can’t protect themselves,” Tank suggested. “We follow our own rules, only accountable to each other, the women we love, and the innocents we protect.”

  “And the ones we couldn't save,” I added quietly.

  We were quiet, lost in though.

  “I’m going to be proud to be a Bastard,” Jeremy told us, a sad smile on his face.

  Matty tipped the neck of his bottle toward me. “Now you have something to tell my sister when she comes home.”

  I nodded and let him think I agreed. The truth was, I didn’t know if she was ever coming home. I wasn’t sure I could save her.

  That realization destroyed me. There is nothing scarier than realizing you could lose the one person you can't live without.

  30

  Cris

  The amount of mail I received while incarcerated surprised me. Women from all over the world sent me their heartbreaking life stories. Wedding proposals from men I’d never met. Cards and letters from friends—ranging from Katie to Nick, old to new—telling me to keep my chin up, promising that this nightmare would all be over soon.

  Yet, the one person I wanted to hear from never sent me a thing. Every time I was handed an envelope, my heart leapt, hoping it would be the day I’d get word from Rob. And each time, my heart broke a little because nothing came from him.

  When my parents were finally allowed to come see me, I asked immediately, but they didn’t want to talk about Rob. Mom was too angry to do much more than glare. She claimed I’d thrown away my future, that I wouldn’t have a place in USM anymore. To be honest, college was the furthest thing from my mind. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back.

  Dad refused to discuss anyone. He’d looked at me, whispered, “They’re listening!” like a crazy person, and started talking about the weather. Loudly. For a few minutes, I tried to decipher if he was talking in code, then laughed uncontrollably at the absurdity of my life. The giggles made him even more uncomfortable. His face turned dark and he asked if they’d been giving me drugs.

  Our visit ended not long after that. They hadn’t come back. I wasn’t upset they didn’t.

  My parents weren’t bad people. They weren’t even terrible parents. They’d never hurt Matty or me on purpose. In fact, they’d loved us enough to do what was right. When they’d realized they didn’t love each other anymore, they walked away from their shitty marriage before they started to hate each other.

  Dad’s career had taken center stage from that point forward, yet he never missed a ball game or a school recital. Mom was one of those women who believed in true love and didn’t always think things through. She dated a lot—desperate to find her next true love.

  They loved Matt and me the only way they knew how.

  They just didn’t like me very much. The fact that I was stuck in jail, awaiting a murder trial, horrified them. Matty had been a kid when he’d committed his crimes. I was an adult. They were ashamed.

  That’s why I was surprised when they sent me a care package a few days after their visit. Filled with silly things—like money for the commissary, a picture of my hometown, and magazines—it meant the world to me. Every few days, another would come. They made my stay much less intimidating.

  Two weeks before my trial was set to start, I was excited to find a package waiting for me after a meeting with my lawyer. It had come at the perfect time; anxiety had my stomach in constant knots. I sat on the floor next to my bed and dug in.

  The National Geographic Traveler made me do a double take. I looked at the return address label on the box, just to double check that it was from my mom. It was.

  I frowned down at the magazine. Maybe she was trying to tell me I needed to see the world. Or she was rubbing it in that I never would. I rolled my eyes and tossed the magazine onto my bed.

  Oh, the Places You’ll Go! by Dr. Seuss came out next. My mouth fell open as I stared at the children’s book. She’d given it to me when I was little and at the end of every year, my teachers had written in it, so that one day I’d look back and see how far I’d come. I didn’t open to read the notes; I didn’t need the reminder.

  “Thanks, Mom.” I shook my head and sighed. Apparently, she’d resorted to passive aggressive techniques to show her only daughter how much I’d failed her.

  I didn’t want to see what else she’d packed, but I was a glutton. I dumped it out, knocking the contents onto the floor. A
polaroid, paperback, and envelope fell out, all face down. I lifted the book first.

  Tell No One by Harlan Coben was not a book I knew. In fact, I’d never heard of it. I flipped it over and read the synopsis. I hated thrillers—Mom knew that. They were great for people who lived ordinary lives where the most exciting thing that ever happened was when the beer truck made an early delivery at the local 7-11. For me, they were too much.

  Sighing, I picked up the picture and flipped it over, hoping it would at least be something interesting. It took a second for my brain to process the sight of a young me, dressed in a cute black swimsuit.

  I didn’t remember the suit, and I’d never seen this picture before, but from the looks of it, I was eleven or twelve. I was grinning at the camera, truly happy. It must have been the only picture of its kind because I rarely posed for pictures and never smiled in them.

  I gasped and dropped it.

  A memory of the day it was taken, one I’d blocked for almost ten years, played like an old movie. It’d been hot, too hot not to go swimming. Dale had taken me to the ocean because my mom had to work, Matt was with his friends, and my dad had bailed on me. Terror washed over me as I felt Dale’s hands on me just as clearly as if he was in the room with me.

  I barely made it to the metal toilet in the corner before my body rejected my meager lunch. My stomach cramped and self-hatred settled deep. I’d stopped smiling in pictures the day that Dale had taken that one. I’d stopped smiling all together.

  I twisted around, glancing at the magazine and the books. Traveler, the places you’ll go, tell no one. A very clear message that wasn’t from my mom.

  I glanced at the letter apprehensively, hoping I was wrong. With shaky appendages, I stood and reached for it. I didn’t want to see what was written inside, but I had to know. Before I could stop myself, I lifted the flap and pulled it out.

  My dearest Crissia,

  I was disappointed to read about your arrest in the paper. I know how hard it is to be locked away for something you didn’t do. Keep your head up and don’t listen to anyone. You know the truth in your heart, just like I did.