by Jc Emery
“He’s never been good enough for you. Always treating you like shit. ’Bout time you finally realized it,” he says. I’m stunned and totally unsure how to respond, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t give me time to respond. He walks off and into the 101 Club. And I’m left there, speechless and barely able to think. It takes me longer than I’d like to get my head right before I can deal with my mother.
I keep my head down as much as I can when I finally make it inside. The 101 Club is owned and operated by Tyler McCovey—an asshole I couldn’t be fonder of—who is fiercely loyal to Forsaken. Tyler and I get along well, but if I can avoid him, we won’t have to get into a conversation about Grady. Or my dad. Or anything, really. Because when Tyler wants to talk to you, he talks. And he only talks to you if he likes you, and he likes me. I like him right back, but I don’t want to talk, and the last few times I saw him, he talked. He’s always been good to me, even keeping peppermint ice cream around for me even though nobody else likes peppermint milkshakes, so when Tyler talks, I listen. He’s a curious sort of man who has a whole mess of ice cream and shit in the kitchen, but he doesn’t put any of it on the menu. “Milkshakes are for family,” he says and won’t serve you one if he doesn’t consider you family. I don’t want to lose my milkshake privileges, so regardless of how painful or difficult it is to listen to Tyler drone on and on about stuff I’d rather not hear, I shut up and listen.
“Over here, baby,” my mother says loudly while wavering an arm in the air. My eyes bug out and my head shoots up as I find her in the crowded space. Just a few tables behind her is Grady sitting with Holly. I guess he just stepped out to talk with his brothers or something. My mother’s loud-ass mouth has them both looking my way.
Jesus Christ, discreet she is not. Lona Phillips is a woman of average height, a little more than average weight, with light golden brown skin, and, despite nearing fifty, few wrinkles. Everything about my mother is average except for two very important things. One, she is insanely beautiful. She has almond eyes and a straight nose, a petite little chin and high cheekbones. Her brown eyes shine even when she’s sad, and her plump lips look heart-shaped when she’s trying not to laugh. She is pure femininity, small and petite even with her rounded middle. I have her straight nose and her high cheekbones, but my father’s influence prevents me from looking delicate or feminine. I don’t think I’m ugly, but standing at nearly six feet with broad shoulders and stupid long legs, I don’t feel particularly womanly or graceful either. At least not the way my mother is womanly. Not the way Holly is feminine. Not the way most men want a woman to be.
I plop down at the square table across from my mom and give her a flat look. She waves me off and, as usual, doesn’t care what kind of mood I’m in. “Nice try sneaking into the place,” she says.
“Nice job blowing that for me,” I mutter and look down at my hands. She pats the table in front of me and laughs lightly.
“Figured you’re trying to avoid Grady and his old lady.”
“Avoiding everybody,” I answer, trying to act as normal as possible.
“Your father liked to lie to me just like that,” she says. “Got tired of fighting and started to pretend I believed him. I won’t do that with you, Elysia.”
“Do me a favor and just tell me what you’re trying to say.” This is supposed to be a good lunch, but it sucks so far.
“I know your father isn’t the only man you’re missing. I didn’t notice it when it was happening, but now that you’re not sleeping together anymore, it’s obvious as can be.”
“Since whatever he and I were is done now, we don’t need to talk about it. He moved on and so have I.”
“He has, but you haven’t.” Her words cut me right to the bone. I try not to let it show, but I fail miserably, I’m sure. I try to say something, but I can’t even get my lips to move. We don’t ever do heart-to-hearts like this. My mother is an understanding woman. She always seems to want to talk with me about what’s going on in my life, but I always shut her down. It’s not that I don’t trust her with things that are personal to me. If I trusted anybody with my feelings, it would be her.
“I won’t push,” she says.
And just like that, we’re done with the uncomfortable topic of me and Grady. I need to talk to him about the current case I’m working, but he’s huddled in a corner with his new piece of ass and I’m not going to approach him with my mother watching. Especially not now with that bombshell she just dropped.
My head starts to turn in Grady’s direction before I stop myself and focus my attention on the table before me. A deep-seated resentment ignites in my gut, and I hate Sterling Walter Grady so much in this moment that if he were to talk to me again, I might end up going to jail for trying to kill him. I never used to feel taken advantage of. Sure, he knew how I felt about him—he had to have known—but I never held that against him. I was nineteen when we started hooking up. Old enough—or so I thought—to make my own decisions. Old enough to know what love is. Old enough to know a good man who cared about me when I saw him.
Until now.
I was an idiot. I wasn’t old enough or mature enough, and he wasn’t a good man, nor did he ever love me. No matter what I tried to convince myself of back then, the reality of it now hits me, and it hits me hard. I was nineteen and stupid as hell. He came on to me but did it so subtly that I thought I was imagining things. I wasn’t. When he finally took me to bed, I wasn’t a virgin, but I hadn’t the years of life experiences to measure up to his. I was a stupid kid who took to heart the words he threw at me so casually.
With every passing moment, I find myself hating him more and more.
My mom and I order Cliff Burgers and Coastal Fries. Tyler brings me a peppermint milkshake without me asking and doesn’t even charge me for it. I’m shit company, and I don’t even try to apologize for it. I just poke at my food, barely eating anything, and I answer as few questions as I can get away with. When the check comes, Mom insists on paying, and I let her. Before she lets me leave, she unloads on me and does it heavy.
“Don’t let him steal your peace, baby. He’s taken enough of you that he didn’t take care of, so don’t you let him have your peace, too.”
“Love you, old lady,” I say and give her a hug. She hugs me tight, so tight, like she’s trying to squish the sad right out of me. She can’t—it goes too deep—but she tries, and I love her for it.
“Love you, Little Bird.” She cups my cheek with one of her hands as she looks up at me with teary eyes. My mood is fucking with hers now and that sucks, but I’m selfish enough to find a sliver of joy in her wounded eyes. My dad loved me. I know he did, but it was different with him. He loved my mom, and Barbara, and maybe he even loved Chel. Charles Phillips loved women, and he didn’t discriminate much. But my mom—she loves me in a way I don’t really understand and never want to. Kids are okay, but they’re just not my thing, so I’m never going to understand the way she looks at me. I just know that the only thing that makes my current job, my current mood, and the current state of my life any better is knowing that I have a mom who loves me. It means things I can’t let myself feel—to know that at least one person on the planet truly loves me.
August 2015
8 months to Mancuso’s downfall
Chapter 1
The most ridiculous things run through my head when I’m actively working on avoiding thinking about unpleasant things. Like how there’s something particularly pathetic about pint-sized tubs of ice cream. Especially the low-fat ones. It’s like Ben & Jerry are mocking single women everywhere. A pint of ice cream would never be enough for a man. No, men don’t have any shame in buying the large tubs of ice cream, and they certainly don’t ever consider buying low-fat ice cream. I don’t think I’ve ever even met a man who’s willingly purchased low-fat anything before. They just don’t think the way women do, so I have to think that pint-sized tubs of low-fat ice cream are made especially for women. Single women at that. A pint-size
d tub just screams “I’m alone and pathetic and have nobody to share this with.” It’s embarrassing to purchase one. I always feel like the cashier knows, and I swear to Christ that they give me this sympathetic look while ringing me up.
That’s why I go for the full-sized tub. I’m also environmentally conscious, which is why I don’t bother with a bowl. As for the rest, I don’t have much of an explanation except to say that I haven’t felt like showering in the last two days, and since I just finished a job and I’m waiting on intel from my current job, there’s really no reason for me to get out of my pajamas.
My current job has been a total nonstarter so far. Amber Wallace, my client and longtime friend, hired me to track down Forsaken’s Detroit charter president—well, he was the president before he’d been outed as a rat for the Italian mafia—who’s on the run. Neither Detroit nor Fort Bragg have any leads on where he’s gone. I have it on good authority he hasn’t made it out of the country yet thanks to a few Canadian clubs who are on agreeable terms with Forsaken. I’ve done everything I can from home since I don’t know where he is.
Rig was in Northern California when he went underground back in April, but he could have headed east to Detroit, or if he’s really stupid, he could have headed south for Mexico. I’ve been working the case for five months now, and while I’m impressed the slick bastard’s been able to stay off the radar this long¸ I’m losing my patience. Every time my phone rings, I jump for it and hope somebody found something on Rig. Four times today my phone’s rang and it’s not been someone with intel but my mother. She doesn’t know I’m investigating Rig, and I don’t dare tell her. She would go straight to the club, and that would bring me trouble I don’t want. It doesn’t matter that Fort Bragg doesn’t have the manpower or resources to hunt Rig and Detroit’s new president has no leads. Club business is club business, which means it’s none of mine.
No, she’s calling because I’m ditching out on my half sister’s, birthday party. I don’t know why she cares if I miss Izzy’s party, but apparently she does. The messages she leaves are just about always the same, and they don’t make me feel any better about not showing up after I said I would. If anything, they just make me feel worse.
You have to go.
She’s your sister.
And my favorite—her father’s dead.
Before that last message, I’d gotten up and was considering getting dressed. I even brushed my hair. I would have even been early if I’d gotten ready and left soon after. But the dead father guilt trip sent me to the freezer for the full-fat cookie dough ice cream in the large tub. I’ve been here ever since. On the couch with a big spoon and a belly full of awesome. And for just a few minutes, everything is right in my world. My dad’s not dead, my nephew hasn’t been kidnapped by a sick, traitorous motherfucker, and my mom isn’t calling me like a pushy bill collector. Sure, my ass is numb and the tub is almost empty, and what’s left is mostly melted, but for just a little bit, the entire world doesn’t suck.
Everything isn’t really right, but maybe if I hide out from the real world for long enough, I can pretend I’m not an overgrown baby who’s making herself sick because her feelings are hurt.
Her father’s dead.
I may be twenty-nine and not eight, but he was my father, too, and it fucking hurts now that he’s gone. He was an asshole who was only ever faithful to Forsaken, but he was my dad and he didn’t deserve to go down the way he did. Grief doesn’t care how old you are. Losing someone you love is painful no matter what. Even if you didn’t really get along with them.
From the other end of the couch, my cell rings. It’s not my mother’s ring tone, which I set specifically for her and coincidentally sounds something like a funeral march. It’s the generic ring tone I have set for everyone else. God, I fucking hope it’s about Rig. It could also be my mother being sneaky and calling from a different number. She does stuff like that, but I have to risk it. Reluctantly, I set aside my ice cream and grab my phone, answering it just before it goes to voice mail. “You got Elle.”
“Fucking finally!” I pull the phone away from my ear, startled by the loud ass on the other end. It’s Amber. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to pick up.”
“Tell me you got something on Rig,” I say, trying not to get too antsy, but this one hits close to home. Way too close to home. But if I dwell on it, I won’t be able to do my job properly. It’s hard not to, though. The asshole who got Rig to rat on the patch is the same asshole who sent the men who killed my father.
“No. I got bigger problems. Your shithead nephew skipped school and has been MIA since this morning. If he doesn’t show up soon, I’m getting in my car with every weapon I can get my pretty hands on and I’m hunting his stupid ass down myself.”
“Track his mobile,” I say. Zander, Amber’s fourteen-year-old son and my pseudo nephew, isn’t exactly a hardcore criminal, though he’s got a juvie rap sheet for a few smalltime offenses. This isn’t the first time the kid’s up and disappeared only to return safe and sound when he damn well pleased.
“Already tried that. There’s no signal, so either the phone ran out of battery or he turned it off. I’m going to kill this fucking kid.” Her voice is steady and her words come out clearly. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve known her for, I’m always taken aback by Amber’s ability to stay calm regardless of what’s going on—with one exception. The only person I’ve ever known to be able to make her lose her shit is Zander’s father. She’s a tough broad—she’s had to be, and I get it—but Zander’s put her through the ringer time and time again. I think I’d have given up on the kid by now, but that’s not Amber’s MO. No, she just gets ice-cold pissed and then lays waste to anything that gets in her way. Like now. At this moment, she’s probably got her entire arsenal cleaned, loaded, and ready to fire in front of her. And I wish I were joking, but scaring the shit out of Zander is the only thing that works. At least for a little while.
“Anything I can do?” My voice is getting soft, showing my vulnerability. I don’t like it, but this is what happens when you care about people. They worm their way past the hard exterior and realize that the hard-ass they always see is only part of who I am. I was just a kid when I met Amber. She was already Wyatt’s old lady and pregnant with Z when they came out to visit from Detroit. She wasn’t much older than me and scared out of her mind. She left California before giving birth and didn’t come back until her dad retired out here. By that time Zander was a toddler, and even though I’m not much for kids, there was just something about him that I liked. And even now, when I’m half ready to beat his ass, there’s still something about him that I like. Like all club kids, he’s got his issues with authority, but underneath all the bullshit, he’s just a teenage boy who wants to be like his dad. And even though he’s never met the man, he’s so much like him, it’s unnerving.
“Nah. The boys know he’s MIA and, if they see him, to return him to me,” she says. Of course Detroit knows Z’s gone AWOL again. No charter would dare ignore the disappearance of Forsaken’s founding president’s great-grandson and the California Nomad charter president’s grandson. Hell, with the way bodies are dropping in Fort Bragg, his dad’s moving that direction quicker than expected. So even if Amber wasn’t born with a dick and therefore isn’t a brother, she’s club royalty and so are her kids. Back when we were younger, a hang-around got shot for looking at her wrong. I can only imagine what kind of hell she’d bring upon anyone who dared ignore her when it comes to the safety of her kids.
A loud and furious banging sounds on my front door, scaring me half to death. I’m totally off my game lately, and I don’t like it.
“Gotta go. You need anything you call me.” I end the call and then toss the phone on the sofa.
It takes me longer than it should to pull out the piece I keep under my center couch cushion and make to the door to put my eye to the peep hole. There’s nothing to see, but someone is certainly on the other side. Whoever the stupid fuck
is has their hand covering the hole. Instinctively, I click off the safety and mentally prepare myself to put a bullet in this asshole. There’s zero reason for anybody to be knocking on my door unless they’re here to take me out or to lecture me, and I’m interested in neither today.
The banging stops. I take a step away from the door and remind myself that California has some seriously sucky laws when it comes to shooting people. I really need to move. Texas maybe. You can shoot people there.
The deadbolt lock flips from one direction to the other, signaling that the door is now unlocked. Inside, I’m panicking a little. But I don’t let that show. I have far too much training and firepower to freak out. So I take a deep breath and take another step back.
“Put down the gun, babe. It’s Diesel.”
My heart beats frantically and my brain goes all fuzzy, making it hard to think. I take too long to react and rush to the door too late to keep him out. He wedges himself into the doorway and leans against the frame. I flick on the safety and set the gun on a nearby table and let out a huff.
Damn it, he looks good. Too good. He’s all tall, dark, lean muscles, gorgeous brown eyes, and a devious smile. Fuck. Every time I see this man he looks more and more attractive, and I’ve been seeing a lot of him the past few months. First time he showed up, telling me he wouldn’t be going away any time soon, I think I hated him a little. Grady had sent him, he said. Grady—who spent the better part of a decade fucking me and forgetting me—sent him to keep an eye on me because he’s worried I’m going to get myself into some trouble. The asshole thinks that just because I have a vagina that I need safe-keeping. Still, I guess it wasn’t the worst thing Grady’s ever done since Diesel makes a good partner, he’s hot as hell, and he doesn’t treat me like I’m a delicate flower. I’ve even started to look forward to his twice-a-week visits. I’ll take my last breath before I tell anyone I like the man’s company, though.
