by Drew Elyse
Parker, who was our resident expert at tattooing over scars—something that some artists refused to do for a number of reasons—would know. He’d put beautiful work down in places people felt like they needed it the most.
His true expertise in the field meant his comments tended to be more insightful like that compared to my snippy ones. Where I’d loved the art for a long time, he felt more than that. It was his passion.
We both watched in satisfaction as the dick with the bad line work and worse excuses got the ax. As the next episode cued up, I mused, “Someone from the shop should go on the show.”
“Won’t happen,” he shot back, certain.
“Why not?”
“For one thing, if someone was going to represent Sailor’s Grave like that, it should be Carson, who wouldn’t want to come out of retirement for that kind of circus, or Sketch, who wouldn’t leave his family and the club behind for the time it takes to compete. Besides that, the money’s nice, but part of the draw of this kind of shit is the attention it garners. The shop’s already got all the reputation it needs to keep us all swamped. We don’t need anything more. Anyone we’ve got could have gone anywhere. They could’ve done something like this and gotten famous and opened their own place. They could be in shops in big cities anywhere in the country. We’re here because what Carson built is more than notoriety. It’s a respect and celebration of the art. Nothing against the people that go on, but it’s not something any of us need.”
I blinked at him for a long moment. In the time I’d known Park, I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard him say so much at once. But it was also what he was saying, putting into words something that we all knew. Something I’d come to understand the first time I met Carson while I wandered half-naked around a tattoo convention as a model promoting a rockabilly clothing line. Even when I’d started working for him, Carson had made a point that promoting the shop wasn’t about boasting or showboating but giving the artists their due for the work they were creating. Everything, always, came back to the art.
“You’re right.”
He didn’t say anything else as he got up, grabbing both of our nearly drained glasses, and went into the kitchen to refill them, on top of that as he had been all evening. As he did, I couldn’t help but think of how different he was than the rest of the crew even based just on his lack of response there.
Liam or Danny would have taken too much joy in my having to admit they were right. Clara, as she reached the point of delivering that kind of speech, would have kept on going about the power of art or switching over to the lack of respect for it or something similar. Nate was just pompous enough to probably assure me that he was always right. And Sketch, he’d probably stopped the whole conversation at my suggestion that someone be on the show with a simple “not a fucking chance.”
“You want anything to eat? I think Jean grabbed popcorn,” Park called from the kitchen.
He, like anyone at work, knew I was a snacker. There was a whole trove of goodies hidden at my desk at work for me to break into throughout the day—or for other people to raid much to my irritation. Instead of giving him sass for his determination to play host so well, I just gave him my yes. I was always up for popcorn.
With him out of the way, the urge I’d been fighting all day came back with a vengeance. An urge in the form of a business card that Park had set down on the coffee table earlier, wordlessly stating it was mine to do with what I wanted. I’d ignored it then, pretended all day to cast it from my mind entirely, but my eyes had been moving to it of their own accord every few minutes. Funny how that little scrap could hold nearly all the information I’d wanted for months and a way to get the rest, and now I was avoiding it like it might spring fangs and attack.
Refusing to let a card have that kind of power over me any longer, I gingerly leaned forward and snatched it up. It was simple, plain white with a small Hoffman PD logo in one corner. Underneath the official information and phone number, there was another number handwritten in a quick, masculine style. His cell. Direct access to him when he’d been an enigma since we met.
Why now? Just because I’d been attacked? Was that what it took to make me truly interesting? If I made that call now, would he move on again if he was caught?
The beeping of the microwave announced the popcorn was done, and I jumped. I threw the card back down on the coffee table and threw myself back into a lounging position on my end of the couch. The pain that radiated from my ribs at the move stole my breath, and it was an effort to make it even by the time Park came back in with the popcorn and drinks. He handed the bowl right to me, confirming that the popcorn offer had just been for my benefit. It took a while before the pain lessened enough that I could even tackle eating it, and when I did it was mostly for show.
We were more than halfway through another episode before Park spoke again. I hadn’t said anything while I waited for my ribs to stop aching, and I’d known he would notice.
“You want to talk about it?”
“What?”
He jerked his chin toward the coffee table. For the first time since I’d dropped the card there, I looked. In my haste, I’d put it back upside-down.
I sighed. “Not really?”
“You don’t have to,” he assured me. “I’m just here if you need to.”
He was good for that, offering support even when I gave him nothing at all. We hadn’t said a word about what happened to me, and I knew that helping me with my injuries would be the extent of it unless I decided otherwise.
But his offer made me explicitly aware of how much I was holding in. There was too much, a mountain of it, and being buried under all of it was going to suffocate me. The Braden thing was safer. Frustration or embarrassment aside, I could at least manage to talk about it.
So for the next half hour, Park sat there listening intently as I unloaded the whole tale on him without pause. Everything from the reaction I had the first time I saw him right up to him being outside the police station the day before and me running off to get drunk.
“Do you blame him for last night?” he finally asked when I finished.
Did I what?
“What?”
“You saw him yesterday, went out to drink, then came home to what happened. Do you not want to see him because you blame him for his part in that situation?”
I’d not even thought of it that way. Drinking was my choice. What he did was his. I was pissed at Braden, but he hadn’t caused any of it.
“No, I don’t blame him. That wasn’t his fault.”
“Then, for what it’s worth, I think you should talk to him.”
I withheld my instant reaction of being offended that he didn’t blindly defend me like a girlfriend would.
“Why?”
“You’ve got questions only he can answer. Maybe he’s actually the dick you think he might be. Maybe he fucked you over and that’s the whole story, but that doesn’t explain why he’d come here with the intent on seeing you and making sure you’re okay. One way or another, the only way to get an answer is to talk to him.”
He was right, which only served to make me more pissed at Braden. If he’d just kept blowing me off, I’d have had the answers. Sure, I still wouldn’t know his real name, but it didn’t really matter if he was just some dick that played me. But Park was right. If he’d just wanted a quick fuck and to never speak to me again, why show up here at all? Why bother talking to Sketch and saying whatever he had to to get Sketch to give up where I was staying—something that I knew wouldn’t come easy?
Why, after all the bullshit that had been the entirety of our knowing each other, did I still fucking care?
“I don’t know,” I grumbled noncommittally.
Parker didn’t respond to that, he just let me stew in all he’d said until eventually, with the TV and lights still on, I fell asleep there on the couch.
Chapter Twelve
Braden
Two days later, I was parked on the street outside Parker
’s building with a coffee and nothing to do but watch for some asshole I wouldn’t even know on sight. But it was all I could do. I’d worked a shift with Jack the day before, a pretty typical day on patrol. Today, with nothing else going on, I couldn’t just sit around my place alone.
She hadn’t reached out, but I wasn’t sure I expected her to. If she wanted to talk, she could have done it yesterday when I was on the other side of a door. Now, I might be close again, but she didn’t know that. This wasn’t about earning brownie points; it was just what I needed to do for my own peace of mind.
In the time I’d been out there, I’d seen a bike roll by, its ride wearing a Disciples cut, and a patrol car do the same, confirming that no one was ignoring the need to have eyes on the street for this fucker if I couldn’t be there. Still, there was a lot of time between those drive-bys. It was easy to miss someone if they were circling instead of sticking to one spot. I wouldn’t be fooled so easily.
There was another roar of pipes, but this time, I watched the bike approach my car. I recognized Sketch in my rearview mirror before he pulled over behind me. By the time he stopped, I was already out of the car.
“Good to know your guy made me,” I commented.
“Even if he hadn’t, Park is keeping his own eye and let me know you were out here,” he responded.
I didn’t love that the girl I wanted turned to him, but everything else thus far was indicating Park was a solid guy and that it was good she had him right now.
“To what do I owe the visit?”
“We need to have a sit-down.” There was no point in asking about what.
“Now?” I guessed.
He nodded. “Up at the clubhouse.”
The choice of location said a lot. The Disciples weren’t some lowlife gang or distinctly on the other side of the law, but that didn’t mean they’d typically be hosting meets with cops—or anyone—on their private turf that way. My guess was the venue was meant to convey two messages. One, that they were extending a certain level of trust to me even beyond what they had by being informants on Coranco. Two, if that sick fuck did have eyes on Jess and by extension us, he’d see that she didn’t just have Disciples and police protection, but that both were working together to make sure that shield was impenetrable.
Nothing more needed to—or should, to be safe—be said, so I got back in my car and followed the path he cut through town and out to the converted warehouse the club made their home in.
Inside, the place was nearly empty. Only three men were there, seated on couches in the main room. Stone, the club’s president, was a built man with gray creeping into his hair and beard, and an air of authority. Beside him was a guy with a short cropped strip of hair that I’d seen before as a full mohawk. His road name was Jager, something I only knew from the patch on the front of his cut, not because we’d been introduced. Finally, the third man was one I only knew from seeing his work featured around the internet. If it weren’t for the trademark Panama hat and heavily tattooed body that somehow worked for the older man, I might not have recognized Carson Burns.
Introductions, though not necessary since I at least knew of everyone and they all obviously knew me, were given. I shook hands, ending with Carson who I told straight up, “I’m a big fan of your work.”
His eyes moved over my visible tattoos. “You’ve got some good shit already.” His eyes jumped up to Sketch. “Nice work on that compass.”
I was surprised he knew on sight it was one that Sketch had done on me, but Sketch had been his protege.
Carson released my hand, and I went to sit while Sketch revealed, “He came by while I was working on the drawing. He’s not as impressive as he tries to act.” To which Carson just laughed.
“I’m sure we’ve all got shit to do, so let’s get down to it,” Stone started. “We need to be on the same page about what happens with Jess from here.”
I didn’t know enough about the club to know how they were with their women, but that wording prickled me. “Kind of seems like something she should have a say in.”
As much as it irritated me, I didn’t know Jess as well as I’d like, but it was obvious to anyone that knew her that she wasn’t about to let a bunch of men run her life for her. I saw the approval flicker through Carson’s expression.
Stone took no disrespect from my comment, he made that clear when he clarified, “You’re right. Not Jess, just that cunt that attacked her. If anyone here wanted to control that girl, I think we can all agree she wouldn’t be staying where she is now. I trust the kid will look out for her, but we all know we’d rather be keeping a closer eye.”
I wondered at that. It wasn’t a stretch to figure out that she’d obviously gotten close working for Carson and then Sketch. I imagined that the club as a whole was just involved because of Sketch, but now I was questioning that notion.
His words also revealed that however it had spread, my personal involvement here was understood by everyone. I wasn’t present strictly as a representative for the HPD that Sketch invited, I was here as someone with a vested interest in Jess’s safety.
Stone went on, “We’ll do a better job of shielding her and finding this fuck if we work at it together.”
On instinct, my guard went up. I wanted any protection they could offer Jess, was pleased she had that kind of power at her back, but what he was implying was me sharing details of an ongoing investigation. Doing so knowing that the people I was sharing that information were known to dispense vigilante justice.
And yet, some part of me found that idea…appealing.
“We aren’t going to come to an agreement about what should be done with that intel,” Stone pushed forward, knowing the reaction he was likely to get from me. “However, sharing whatever we can get gives everyone a better chance of finding this fuck and doing so quickly.”
He wasn’t wrong. With very little to go on besides the assumption that his obsession would not suddenly disappear after his attack, we were nowhere close to finding the asshole.
“I’ll share that besides having a finger on the pulse of a lot of shit cops have more trouble getting close to, we’ve got more to bring to the table.” Stone looked to Jager but proceeded to explain on his own. “Jess’s apartment has now been outfitted with security and cameras. Jager and another of our brothers did the work themselves. If anyone so much as attempts to breach again, we’ll know. Cameras are also set at the windows to monitor what can be outside. Sketch has already talked to Park about getting a similar set up together at his place.”
Shit, that was a lot. The cost alone on all they were talking about was crazy, let alone the man hours to actually review footage for any reappearing faces outside.
“Sailor’s Grave is already airtight, so we’ve got men reviewing that footage from the last couple weeks, specifically for times when Jess was in, hoping we might be able to find him there.”
“I suspect the officers on the case will be asking after that any time now,” I offered. “There’s no reason to think this was random, so they’ll be looking into her work quickly.”
“I’ll make copies, send them over,” Jager spoke for the first time.
That alone demonstrated that this truly was a matter of giving everyone a shot at solving this. With the crime not actually connected to Sailor’s Grave, they could easily deny the request for security footage from the shop.
“We’re also working on pinpointing times Jess was on any other property where we have cameras. First up is the gym. She takes one of Jager’s women’s kickboxing classes a couple times a week.”
I looked between the bikers seated with me. “You have the manpower to go through all that?”
“Mostly relying on facial recognition,” Jager chimed in again. “Cancelling out people we know aren’t an issue, anyone showing up multiple times gets tagged. Still tedious as fuck when you’ve got people that live and work nearby and shit.”
“We’ve also got prospects who need shit to do,” Sketch added.
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Prospects—guys trying to earn their place in the club—were typically free grunt work. They paid their dues by doing whatever task the club needed from them.
“We’ve already got the story from her,” Stone started again, but I cut in.
“You asked her to go over all that again?”
If they were forcing her to dredge that shit up again, we were going to have some fucking problems.
Carson lifted a hand, a sign to back down. “Liam was in the room with her when she gave her statement to your guy. He relayed everything.”
I released a breath and the tension that had shot through me. I didn’t know Liam but in passing, but I knew he and Jess were close from seeing them at the shop.
“Right.”
There was a new assessing look in Stone’s eyes as he went on, “We’re hoping your boys have any other leads to go on.”
“I hate to say it, but there isn’t much. No sign of forced entry at the scene is the biggest thing. I read through her statement myself, she mentioned struggling with the lock when she got home. Our assumption is he got his hands on a key somehow, came right through the front door. Figuring out how he managed that is where they’re focusing first. Starting out by looking into building management, then going from there.”
Stone looked to Jager, who jerked his chin. If he was running facial recognition, there was no telling what other skills he had to investigate anyone with access.
I went on, “With no other red flags from Jess besides feeling like she was being watched, we’re not even able to get much of an M.O. on this guy. The attack wasn’t planned, so we don’t have the usual escalation that probably would have been seen.”
“Nothing else?” Carson asked, clearly ticked that no one was close to any answers.
“Not yet.”
