by Naomi West
I almost break my phone, I answer it so quickly.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me,” he says, sounding as smug as he always did back in the day when he waged war against the club.
“Where is she?” My voice trembles. It’s not a good idea to show a man like Connor how angry I am, but I can’t help it. I pace up and down the room, from the wrecked armchair to the bathroom. “What the fuck have you done with her?”
“She’s safe,” he says. “For now, anyway. It’s amazing what a few hits of morphine can do to relax a person. She’s sleeping like a little angel, which, I suppose, would make her fit in with your lot, wouldn’t it?”
“Very funny,” I mutter. “What about the kid?”
“Snoozing, both of them are snoozing. I have to tell you, they’re lucky to just be sleeping. They ought to be dead for what that little bitch did to me. Spraying me like that. It was very foolish of her. And you really care about her, don’t you? That’s the most amazing thing to me. You really care about this whore. I had my fun with her—she could be fun, when she tried—but you, you don’t … do you love her?”
I don’t answer. I’m gritting my teeth and clenching my fist and imagining what it’d be like to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until his face goes red and then dead-white. “Let her go,” I say. “Don’t be a fuckin’ coward.”
“There it is!” he cries, sounding gleeful. “It always comes back to that with you biker fucks, doesn’t it? Bravery, honor, toughness, blah, blah, boo. It always comes back to some twisted sense of what makes you a good man, but what you all forget is that you forfeited the right to be a good man a long time ago. Good men don’t kill people. Good men don’t commit crimes. These lines you draw, Xander, between murder and rape, between arson and gun-running. Do you really think they make you better than me?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I do, ’cause we’ve never kidnapped women, children. We’ve never burnt down a bar which had civilians in it as well as outlaws. We’re careful.”
“How fun that sounds,” he mutters. “I get it. Really, I do. She has her grandmother’s egg just waiting to be cracked open and you want a taste of the yolk. I can’t blame you. I’m exactly the same. Once I’ve played my tricks on her for a couple of weeks she’ll marry me without resistance. I know her. I know how I can bend her mind.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him. “To me you just sound like a madman spitting out horseshit.”
“You don’t know about the egg?” I can almost hear him stroking his chin. “How interesting. Perhaps it truly is love. Anyway, let’s forget about that for now. I want you to bring me twenty thousand in cash and an assurance that you will back off, leave me be. I have business in this town and I don’t need you hurting my men. Pay me the cash and back off, and I’ll let her live. Keep on like you are, and I’ll rape and kill her. The only mercy she’ll get is that I might switch the order.”
I press my knuckles against my forehead, trying to get rid of this pounding headache. “What do you want twenty grand for? That’s not exactly a king’s ransom.”
“No, but it’s enough for you to show me that you’re sorry and that you won’t fuck with me again. It’s enough to show me that you won’t overreach again. Because here’s the thing, little guy, you’re not much to me in the grand scheme of things. You’re just a rodent, and all I require from a rodent is a show of submission. Then, maybe, I won’t step on you.”
“Sure.” I bite down on my finger to stop myself from growling at him. Kayla, I remind myself. Cormac. They need me to stay calm. “Where are we meeting?”
“Why don’t you come by the laundromat?” He smiles; there’s no noise but I know he’s smiling. “And Xander, if you bring even one of your biker friends, I kill them both. I want her money but I won’t give away my respect for it. Disrespect me and she dies. Come alone, bring the cash, and then get on with your pathetic, pointless life. See you in half an hour.”
My head is spinning when he hangs up the phone. Grandmother’s egg … that must be an inheritance of some sort, but she can only get it when she’s married. Her grandmother must’ve been the old-fashioned type. But I can’t think about that right now. I rush into the bedroom, under the bed, and take out the duffle bag full of cash.
I take out a few stacks, stuff them in my jacket pockets, and then go down into the street. The sun has fully set now. How many days since I last saw Kayla? Two, three? Time has a funny way of warping when your body is screaming at you to load it full of whisky. I ride toward the laundromat feeling nervous and already defeated, because if Connor has Kayla that means there isn’t much I can do here except give him the cash and regroup. At the very least I can make sure that she’s okay. Perhaps I can wait for an opening; it depends on how cocky Connor gets. But all in all, to call this a less than ideal situation would be one hell of an understatement. I stop outside the laundromat, make sure my guns are ready for a quick draw, and then walk across the street.
The door is locked. I knock on it and wait. After a few moments, the door swings open as though a ghost just nudged it. Nobody is standing behind it, just the deep darkness of the inside. I walk in, looking around me, listening for sounds of life. This is always a bad situation for an outlaw to be in, in a place he hasn’t staked out properly without backup. Anything could happen to me here.
Then Connor steps out behind the desk, most of his body blocked by a large drying machine that wasn’t there earlier today. The only part of him I can properly see is his head and his knee, visible at the side of the machine. Otherwise he is protected.
“Hello,” he says, smiling. “How are you doing this fine evening?”
“Where is she?” I shoot back. “I’ve got the cash and I’ll give you your fuckin’ promise, but if you don’t show me that she’s all right, we ain’t got a deal.”
“I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands, you silly fellow. If you like, I can go to her now, cut her a little, see how her blood tastes. I remember when she danced for me. Once I had her dance for five hours straight. How she moved, Xander, like a real princess …
“Where is she?” I take out my gun and point it at his head.
He grins wider. “You’re not shooting me this evening.”
“No? I guess we’ll see about that. You better start talking. I’m tired of this horseshit.”
“Tired? Yes, me too. I’m so tired I could eat a baby. Oh, wait, I suppose that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
“If you’ve kept an eye on our club, then you know that I’m the best shot in the Angels, which means you know it ain’t a big deal for me to take off your head right now. So I’d suggest that you go and get Kayla and show me that she’s alive, and then we can talk like men. Right now you’re acting like a fuckin’ spider.”
“You have been talking to her.” He drums his fingers against the dryer, an echoing metallic sound. “She called me a spider many times when we argued. It was one of her favorite insults.”
“You don’t have her, do you?” I take out my second gun and aim both of them at his face, stroking the triggers. “You fuckin’ lied to me.”
He shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it? No, tough guy, I don’t have her. I don’t know where the little whore is. As far as I’m concerned, if she’s lying at the bottom of a ditch with her throat slit, it’s a good day.”
“Why am I here, then?”
“I thought it would be good for us to talk,” he says. “I want to make an offer to you, the same offer I gave to your brother before he so unfortunately passed away.”
“You mention my brother again and I’ll paint the wall red with your blood.”
“Fair enough. But let me give you the offer anyway. If you leave the state and go someplace and never bother me again, I’ll let you live. I don’t kill people for the sake of it. I don’t get any special thrill from it. I’m a businessman above anything else. So just leave, cut your
losses, find a new woman. You don’t need to tie yourself to Kayla like she’s got a magic pussy or something. There are plenty of them out there.”
“You’re insane if you ever think I’d agree to that. And you’re a fucking idiot for coming here.”
I’m about to end it, my finger is on the trigger, when a man leaps from the shadows, the size of a vending machine with four bandages for four bullet holes. He knocks me off balance. I squeeze the trigger. It hits the ceiling. The man punches me in the gut but I manage to get another shot off, clipping Connor in the back of the leg as he runs out the back door. He lets out a yelp but then the door slams and it’s just me and the vending-machine fella.
He grabs the guns from my hands and tosses them over the counter, and then starts waling on me. He hits me four or five times in the face before I knee him in the ass, knocking him off me, and then slide over the counter for my guns. He grabs my leg and yanks me back to the floor and goes for the guns himself. I leap at him, punching him several times in the face, headbutting him, biting part of his ear off and spitting the bloody flesh in his eyes. Then I grab my gun and lay it against his temple.
“Stop,” I tell him. “Or die.”
He stops shifting about.
“I’m leaving. Make one move and you’re a fuckin’ dead man.”
He might be as big as a vending machine, but he ain’t as dumb as one. He lets me leave without messing around.
I ride back toward my apartment.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper. “Kayla, where are you?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Kayla
“Oh, poor baby.” I glance in the rear-view as we drive along the highway, wondering what the hell is the matter with me, wondering what strain of madness has possessed me to throw caution down the gutter and risk my son’s life like this. Surely any confrontation with Connor is going to be easier to handle than a sick child without a doctor. Surely any confrontation with Connor will make more sense than putting Cormac’s life at such severe risk. Connor is a monster, but a mother who allows her son to cough himself to death is more of a monster.
I turn on my cellphone, go to my maps application, and find the nearest hospital. Cormac’s coughing has become like the shaky rattling of a pea in a tin can, his chest vibrating, his face twisted in pain. It started only a few miles back and I’m not going to ignore it. My chest feels like it’s been cracked down the middle every time he coughs; his shudders are my shudders.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, turning from the highway toward a town in Utah. I follow the road signs to the hospital, each moment that passes with me stuck in traffic or looking at directions a moment wasted. Finally, the hospital comes into view, a squat gray building pouring yellow light into the dusk’s bruising purple.
I pull into the parking lot, as close to the main entrance as I can get, and then grab Cormac from the back of the car. He feels warm in my arms, sweat beading his skin. I try and keep my composure as I walk toward the hospital—I don’t want to panic and drop him—but then he lets out a cough which is so heart-rending, I just can’t. I sprint for the main entrance, almost leap through the automatic doors, and jog to the front desk. The lady with curly hair and painted nails—each one painted a different color—looks up at me with a bored expression on her face.
“How can I help you?” she asks.
“My baby,” I whisper. I didn’t realize just how badly I was panicking until I heard my own voice. “Please, help him.”
“That cough sounds awful,” the woman says, her voice and face softening. “Let me get you a doctor.”
Luckily this particular town in Utah isn’t as busy as other emergency rooms might be. It’s just me and Cormac, a man with a graze down the left side of his face who blandly watches TV, and an older lady, wearing so much makeup she could be anywhere between fifty or seventy, with her arm in a cast. I sit on the edge of a seat holding Cormac close to me, whispering words that I hope will comfort him. I kiss him on the cheek over and over, hoping to give him some of my strength.
Then the doctor walks out, a Middle Eastern man with a friendly smile and long hair tied back in a bun. He nods to me. “Hello, would you like to come with me?”
The next hour or so is a whirlwind of tests and procedures similar to the ones he underwent before, only a few days ago—has it really just been days?—resulting in the doctor telling me that they’re going to need to keep him under observation for a few hours while they monitor this infection. “But please don’t worry,” he says. “It’s nothing serious. Your previous doctor was right. The infection receded, but now it’s trying to spread again. We’ll give him the medicine required to beat it back for real this time. If you’d like to sit in the waiting room while he gets some rest?”
We’re standing in the monitoring center surrounded by other children. “Is it safe here?” I ask him.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Safe? Well, yes, of course.”
“You have security guards?”
He smiles, nodding. “Of course. And look at this, state of the art.” He points to Cormac’s leg, his foot looped with a piece of what looks like white string. “This is a security device. If this is not properly removed before the child is picked up, an alarm goes off, alerting the hospital. It’s state of the art.”
“Show me,” I say, because maybe this man is one of Connor’s; maybe this is all some elaborate trick.
He hesitates, looks at me for a few moments, and then goes to an empty cot and tugs on the string. All at once an alarm cuts through the hospital, waking several of the children. He quickly replaces it and returns to me. “Do you see? He is safe. I promise you.”
I go into the waiting room and get myself a coffee with the trucker’s money. The last thing I need to do tonight is fall asleep. I watch an episode of Friends and then an episode of The Big Bang Theory with the volume turned down, reading the subtitles. And then I return to Cormac, peering through the glass to make sure he’s okay. Not only do they have the security tag, but they also lock the door.
I go outside with my now-cold cup of coffee and look over the parking lot, the sun long set, moonlight bouncing off the car windows, giving the lot an illusion of a dappled pool of water. And then, shifting through the watery light, a head sitting on a body at least seven feet tall, heading toward Xander’s car. He walks right up to the car and peers into the window, scratches his head, touches his hip—a gun, maybe—and then walks back across the lot to another car. He gets in, sitting behind the wheel, drumming his fingertips on the dashboard. It’s too dark for me to make out any details, but there’s no mistaking it.
Connor’s man has found me.
I return to the waiting room, heart thumping in my chest, and then check my voicemail messages. There are two from Xander. “Come back, Kayla. Goddamn, I’m sorry for being such a jerk. Sometimes a man has a drink and he forgets who he is. Just come back here and I’ll keep you safe.” There’s a beep, and then the next one plays. “I shot that piece of shit in the leg. He’s wounded, but he’s not dead. Wherever you are, it ain’t as safe as with me. Come back, Kayla.”
I also have twenty-nine missed calls from him. I hover over the call back button, indecisive for a moment, but then I press it. There’s no reason for hesitation now. I thought I would be safer alone but clearly that isn’t the case. I need somebody. I need backup. I’m not going to be able to fight that man out there on my own. And where am I going to run to if he found me here? That’s if I even get a chance to run. He’ll just wait out there, watch for me to make a dash for it, and then chase me down. By this time tomorrow I’ll be tied to a chair with Connor holding my baby, taunting me with him.
“Kayla?” His voice is sharp, sober. “Hello?”
“Xander,” I whisper. “Hi. It’s been a little while.”
“A few days,” he agrees. “But we’ve only known each other for two. Crazy what a little fuckin’ can do to time.”
“Wow.” I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
For the first time since I left him. “Is that really how you’d categorize us?”
“No, it’s not. But we can mess around with categories later. Right now I need to know where you are and what your situation is. I’ve been lookin’ all over for you. I found Connor. He said he had you, but the bastard lied. What’re you doin’? What the fuck are you thinkin’?”
“Thinking,” I repeat. “I don’t know anymore. All I know is I want to keep Cormac safe, and right now being out here alone doesn’t seem like the best way to do that.”
I explain to him about the man outside.
“Okay. Shit. Utah? Goddamn. I’m getting on my bike now. Let’s just be glad you made shitty time, Kayla. It’ll take me five or six hours, hard riding, but I’ll be there. In the meantime, don’t go outside for anything. He won’t come inside to get you, unless he’s a fuckin’ idiot. Get yourself a weapon. Get ready to fight if it comes to it. And don’t leave Cormac’s side.”
