"God, I'm exhausted, and it's only eight." She pins me with an exasperated look. "You should've told me you had a connection to the Figueroa case."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize it'd be an issue," I lie. "What happens now?"
Diane scoffs. "You are the least of my concerns. Turns out Glace has a personal connection to the case, too. She's friends with the children's mother." She rolls her eyes. "She bypassed protocol and pursued reunification. If your friend hadn't filed a complaint, we probably never would've known."
I try to swallow, but my throat is as dry as a bone. "What does this mean?"
"It means Glace is officially off the case. I've suspended her, but my hands are tied if headquarters decides to fire her."
"And me?"
She scoffs. "You may have left out your relationship with Esther, but you didn't take it any further than that. I have no reason to suspend you. However," she says, giving me a stern look, "you're off the case."
I sit back in my seat, relieved. "Can I ask what's going to happen with the case now?"
"It's being handed to another worker," she says, rubbing her temples. "After last night, the state has no choice but to move forward with a permanency plan."
My shoulders tense up again. "Which is?"
"We'll continue trying to contact birth mom and dad, but it looks like they've skipped town—again." She rolls her eyes. "I'm sure they're aware they've committed a federal offense. We've probably seen the last of them. Your friend should get a date for her guardianship hearing soon."
I exhale, relieved. "In the interest of full disclosure, I'm texting her as soon as I walk out of this room."
"I figured." Diane smiles. "These kids get a happy ending, which doesn't always happen. It's racked up a lot of paperwork, but I'm glad for them. Now," she says, shifting folders on her desk. "I'm pairing you with Harrison. He's a Boomer, so he'll kick your ass if you pull any more stunts. In a case like last night, protocol is to call your superior, not hold your friend's hand. Consider yourself verbally warned."
"Thank you," I say. It could've been so much worse, but I have no intention of playing by the rules. I just have to make sure I don't get caught.
Knuckles rap on Diane's door. A man with blond hair streaked through with silver sticks his head in. His beard and hair slicked back into a short ponytail make him look like a biker. His high cheekbones make him look like an actor.
"You must be Olivia," he says, flicking a glance at me. "Let's go. Got a nasty house to visit." Without another word, he strolls away, leaving the door cracked open behind him.
"You heard the man," Diane says.
At least I have good news for Esther.
41
Cliff
I wake up with the blanket twisted around me, my arms empty. The room comes into focus slowly, as if I'd spent the night drinking instead of digging a six-foot deep hole. Every muscle throbs, especially my back.
I take a shower so hot, my skin is red and angry when I step out. But at least my muscles are looser.
I pick my way through the club house, then slog down the stairs. It's still so early, everyone is sleeping, the strip club locked up tight for the day. Bikers are kind of like vampires.
As I near the landing, I hear voices—Pru's smoky velvet, Trish's perky lilt.
"Just talk to him," Trish insists. "He won't bite."
"I know," Pru says with a sigh.
"What are you so afraid of?" Glasses clink as the blonde bartender lifts what sounds like one of the trays for the dishwasher.
I don't want to intrude on their conversation, but I really need a coffee. Preferably Irish. I clear my throat and approach the bar.
Both women look up at me, Pru from under dark waves, her hair still teased up from last night. Trish smiles, her face void of any makeup. Combined with the floral printed dress she's wearing, she looks sweet. I could almost pretend she never said she'd ride my Red Dog.
I smirk at the memory. "Morning, ladies." My voice is smokier than usual from the late night.
"What can I do you for?" Trish asks with a wink.
Nope. No pretending here.
"Feel like making me an Irish coffee?" I stand between where Pru sits and an empty stool, and lean on the bar.
"Sure thing," Trish coos.
Pru eyes me. "Rough night?"
"About as rough as yours." I nod to the bruise on her thigh. "How'd that happen?"
Despite her dark hair and cool complexion, pink tinges her cheeks. "I haven't banged myself up this bad since my very first night on the pole." She nods toward the stage. "New shoes. I slipped."
"Which is why," Trish says, passing me a coffee in a to go cup, "you should sing instead of dance."
I take a sip, nodding appreciatively. Trish might suck as a bartender, but she makes a damn good cup of coffee. Or maybe it's the whiskey."You sing?" I ask Pru.
She shoots Trish a glare.
"She's actually really good." Trish slings a towel over her shoulder. "I told her she should ask Mark about Cervical Caves taking Oh Vile Eye's spot."
I lift an eyebrow. "Cervical Caves?"
Pru purses her lips, but holds my curious gaze.
"I'm not knocking it," I tell her, chuckling. I hold up my coffee in a salute and step away from the bar. "See you later."
As I head out the door, I hear them whispering.
"Did he and Olivia break up?"
Wish I knew the answer to that.
It's impossible for a newbie like me to hold a coffee while riding a bike, so I smoke a couple cigarettes while I finish it. Then I take the Screamin' Eagle over to Lucy's. Halfway there I realize it's a weekday and she's more than likely at work. I pull into her driveway, considering my options. I could go back to The Wet Mermaid and back to bed. I could let myself into Lucy's and crash on her couch.
Or I could find some way to occupy myself.
The problem is, I've got nothing to do, nowhere to be. For twenty years, I got up at the ass crack of dawn. I did my job. I reported to the dining hall for meals. Then I went to bed before lights out so I could get enough sleep. Since coming home, I've had something to do every day. This is the first time that there's nothing.
Without Olivia, Lucy, or the club, I've got nothing.
If Lucy decides to keep her baby, I'll be Uncle Cliff. I can help her out during the day while she works. Save her some money on daycare. But even then, eventually that baby will be old enough for school.
Then what?
I need more. I need something that's just mine, something I can turn to on days like this when I'm kicking my heels.
But I've got no idea what that is.
The realization sends me reeling. I stagger off the bike, stumble my way to Lucy's door. With numb hands, I unlock it and push my way inside. I sit down on the couch, hard.
I don't want to be the guy watching court TV on his days off, ricocheting around until someone needs me. I need Olivia, but I'm not even sure she needs me. I'm not even sure we're a "we" anymore.
I'm just a reaper, haunting the town I grew up in, hovering somewhere between life and death.
I need more than this half life.
I need to build a real life. I don't really know how—I don't have many marketable skills, unless you count killing and burying people. And for twenty years, I worked in a machine tools shop. I don't know if any factories around here will hire an ex-con, but I've got to try.
At the very least, I need a bike that I can call my own, one that isn't a lender from the club. I need a place of my own, too. Living in the club house is convenient, but it isn't mine. I've never had anything of my own. If I can find a second job—maybe a first shift piecing together tools in a factory—maybe I can make a life of my own.
I love the club. I love Lucy. And—god help me—I love Olivia. But I need something that's all mine, something that's constant no matter what.
And there's only one person who can help me find that something.
42
; Olivia
"Come on, slowpoke," Harrison calls over his shoulder.
I pause halfway up the driveway and make a face at him. "Why couldn't you park in the parking lot?" I say through gritted teeth. Instead, he had to park down on the street, forcing us to climb this hill.
Well, me. Mr. Spry is already almost at the top. It's like he's the one in his twenties and I'm in my . . . whatever age bracket he's in. It's hard to tell. Despite his blondish white hair and beard, Harrison is as tan and muscular as a thirty- or forty-year-old.
"Oh, quit your whining," he chides. "You're young. You ride a motorcycle. I thought you liked thrills?"
The only thrill I like is the one that happens when I'm rolling around in a bed with someone, but I probably shouldn't say that. It might be the truth but it could be interpreted as sexual harassment. Not that I'd ever jump into bed with this guy. He's a pain in the ass.
"I'm coming," I grumble, and silently vow to start doing cardio at the gym. I've got a cushy state job now, plus I'm still bartending for the MC. I can afford it.
I crest the top and wipe the sweat that's somehow broken out above my lip. Between the heat and this unexpected climb of Mount freakin' Everest, I'm going to be lucky if my deodorant holds out.
Harrison and I stand at the edge of a huge complex of "townhouses" in Waterbury. I've always referred to them as the Gayridge apartments. I'm not sure what they're formally called. Bree used to have a boyfriend who lived here, so I spent a lot of time roaming around outside.
I never climbed this damned hill, though.
I glance down toward the packy, wondering if I can talk Harrison into buying me some tequila after we finish this home visit. He's been taking me on nothing but home visits these past couple weeks. It's like he and Diane don't trust me to do anything else. At this point, I'm a pro. I could repeat the checklist in my sleep.
I'm getting bored, and I'm afraid of what might happen if it keeps going that way. I glance at Harrison again and nearly choke. I'm not that bored.
"All right, back down we go," he says, and starts jogging. Jogging!
I gape at his back. "What do you mean, 'back down'?"
"Exercise is good for you. Especially you. You're way too tense." He zips down the hill. I look for something to throw at him.
"So we don't have a home visit here?"
"Nope!"
With a sigh, I traipse after him. At least going down is way easier than up. Still, it takes some concentration. The road winds all over the place, and cars fly up and down the thing like it's the Autobahn. I consider pushing Harrison into traffic, but don't because the club probably wouldn't back me up on this one. I'd back me up.
This old asshole is torturing me.
I find him at the bottom, leaning against his beat up Buick and smoking a cigarette. At least this is something we can agree on. I light up, too, and hop up onto the trunk. "Thought you were all about the healthy shit?"
"This is my one vice," he says. "I just love a good leisurely smoke."
Maybe he's all right, after all.
"So what is on the agenda today?" I ask.
"I make this run every Wednesday," he tells me. "Makes up for the cigarettes."
I roll my eyes. "You realize that makes zero sense, right?"
"Shut it, Millennial. You know nothing. I'm sixty-two and there's not a single cell of cancer in me. I think I'm doing something right. You, on the other hand . . ." He shakes his head at me. "You need more cardio. We're going to do this every Monday and Friday, from now on."
I laugh. "Yeah okay, Gramps."
"Gramps?" He scowls. "I'm young enough to be your father. Gramps." He mutters to himself, something about disrespect.
I smoke in silence, thinking about my father.
It's been over a week since Mercy left, and no one's heard a thing.
He's not the only biker who's MIA, either.
"So what are we doing now?" I flick my finished cigarette into the road.
"Well, as soon as I get the call, we're heading to Naugatuck. Gotta remove a pair of siblings." Bowing his head, he shakes it. "This is the part of the job I hate. Think you can handle it?"
"Why do you hate it? Isn't taking kids from shitty parents a good thing?"
He scoffs. "God, you've got a lot to learn."
I think of my first case, the mother who didn't actually deserve to lose her kids—Renee. "I'm guessing Diane didn't fill you in on my first day."
He waves a hand at me. "I prefer to form my own opinion of people. It's also part of the job. Lot of the time, the report says one thing, but the truth is entirely different. Besides," he says, opening the driver's door. He gets in smoothly, not a single sign of osteoarthritis or anything. I wonder if he drinks the blood of infants. "Even the shittiest of parents make for a hard case. Until you watch police take a crying child from their home, you ain't seen nothing."
"I didn't cry." I hop down from the car and get in.
"What's that?" Starting the engine, he pulls the Buick through a U-turn and heads back toward Reidville Drive.
"I was a foster kid."
"Ah." He chuckles. "I get it now."
"Get what?" I frown at him.
"Ex-foster kid, came up in the system, wants to make a difference. That about cover it?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"What's wrong with it is it's a cliché. It's also naive. This is the system. There's no making a difference. There's just checking off boxes and moving through the assembly line."
I cross my arms. "I got my first client to cooperate. Glace said she'd been working on her for months." I sound sullen. I don't have a damn thing to prove to this guy.
"Good for you." He swings the Buick onto a side road, the one that connects to the on ramp for I-84 W. The Buick hits a pothole and the whole thing shudders.
I clench the sides of my seat. "Yeah, good for me. Good for the mom and her kid, too."
"Check in with them sometime. Bet you anything the mom's not cooperating anymore. People will say whatever it takes to keep their kids. Even the shitty parents. They don't want the shame associated with the whole thing. What they do is a completely different story."
"You're just disillusioned because you lived through Nixon and Reagan."
"And you've been coddled because you had Obama holding your hand," he shoots back.
"I'm not an idiot," I tell him. The fact that I even have to say it probably means that I am naive. My lip curls. I need to stop arguing with this guy.
"All's I'm saying," he continues, merging onto 8 S, "is don't get disappointed when shit doesn't go your way with this gig. The only difference you're gonna make is you'll be a friendlier face when you take these kids away."
I roll my eyes, but say nothing. Right now, while I ride around in this musty Buick, Esther is packing to move in with Donny and her sisters. Even if I only manage to make things better here and there, I've still outplayed the system. Everyone wins when people get happy endings.
If only I could have one, too.
Harrison pulls up in front of another complex, this one in Naugatuck. These actually resemble townhouses, rather than the multi-story Gayridge buildings where apartments are crammed in, the price jacked up. These are single story brick duplexes. They're actually kind of cute. If I was going to move in with Cliff, I'd consider renting one.
Cliff.
Lately, he doesn't show up at The Wet Mermaid until after seven. I don't know where he is the rest of the day, and he leaves as soon as we're closed and cleaned up. We've barely even spoken lately.
It's all my fault, technically.
I'm still mad at him, but I miss him. It's sick, really. How can I want to be with him but at the same time, not want to be with him? I know he meant well when he went after Greg. It's probably for the best that we're done. From the beginning, we were born to die.
My parents will be thrilled.
A police car pulls up behind Harrison and me, its lights off.
"Here's our guy
," he says, getting out.
I never understood why DCF needs a police officer to take a child. I didn't cry when they took me from Bree, but that was because I thought I was in trouble. Any time I'd done something wrong, she'd tell me "Don't cry about it, Livvie. Just own up to it."
I didn't know what the hell I was supposed to be owning up to.
I get out and follow Harrison to the police car. Through the windshield, I see the guy's face. My hands go numb.
Finn.
This town is just too damn small.
He climbs out of his car and gives me a nod, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge me. He shakes hands with Harrison.
"I shouldn't even really need you," Harrison tells him. "Just look pretty. Come on, Olivia."
I guess I won't be looking pretty.
Casting another glance at Finn, I follow Harrison to a door adorned with a Christmas wreath. I arch an eyebrow at it.
"Wait 'til you see the inside," he says, and knocks.
Finn stands in the yard with a hand on his hip.
The door opens. A pale, thin face peers out, the eyes surrounded by smudges. The face is all wrong, sunken in odd spots, as if some of the bone disintegrated.
Drugs—heavy ones.
I sigh. It's another Bree.
"Yeah?" the woman asks. She glances behind us, her eyes widening. "Oh, shit." She tries to slam the door in Harrison's face, but he sticks a foot inside.
"Now, now, let's not make this difficult," he says.
The woman disappears into the dark apartment.
Finn steps onto the porch, drawing his gun.
"Put that thing away," Harrison says.
"Ma'am," Finn calls, ignoring him. "Do you have any weapons I should know about?"
"No," she snarls.
I push the door open and peer inside. The sparse light from the window illuminates a figure hunched over a coffee table. She finishes crushing a line of pills. I look away, scanning the room for the kids. A light underlines a door in the hall. Maybe the kids' room.
"Put it away," I tell Finn. "She's more worried about getting high." I step inside, Harrison at my heels. "What are their names?" I ask him.
A Risky Prospect (River Reapers Motorcycle Club Book 2) Page 19
