by Celia Loren
Fuck fuck fuck.
I try to loosen my grip on his waist, to gain some physical distance, but the momentum of the motorcycle makes it impossible. Instead, I draw even closer and close my eyes tight.
Danger. No turning back.
When Dominic pulls the motorcycle to a stop, I am reluctant to open my eyes, reluctant to leave the relative safety of the backseat and have to face him again. The engine dies, and I become aware of a sound I’m not really that used to anymore: silence.
“Well, go ahead and hop off, princess.”
Opening my eyes, I see a pristine avenue lined with tastefully elegant buildings, uniformed doormen, and topiaries. There’s hardly any noise from the street. It filters through my brain and hits me in the solar plexus.
“But this is west Sahara Ave,” I murmur, hopping off the Harley. It looks rather out of place, too bold and rough for this whitewashed Shangri-la. “That’s my building, my apartment. I don’t understand. Why are we here? I thought…”
“You thought what?”
Dominic is standing at the curb, waiting for me. He looks even more incongruous than the Harley in his ripped up jeans, leather jacket, and longish curly hair. Most incongruous of all, though, is the odd soft smile on his face when he looks at me. It sends an odd stabbing pain through my chest.
I take a breath, trying to think of something sensible to say. “I thought we were celebrating.”
“We are celebrating,” Dominic asserts. His dimples are showing now. “Tonight is a huge deal, the moment of truth for the case, and a moment of truth for you and me. You proved to me tonight that you really are helping me, not just taking on Colt but chipping away at the bigger enemy. I’m still not sure why, but I believe that you’ll finish it. An enemy of my enemy is my friend. So you deserve to sleep in your own bed.”
“Dominic, are you saying you trust me?”
Or does he just want to get me out of his hair?
He doesn’t answer for a long moment. “I’m saying, I don’t feel right keeping you prisoner when you’re doing such a good job representing my interests.”
“But this changes the deal.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I thought you said we were going to win no matter what.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Then the deal is still the deal. You’ve still got to win. Think of this as a trial run on your freedom. That’s what you wanted, right: your freedom, your life back?”
That makes me laugh a little, an ironic snort. “My freedom. Right.”
I look around the quiet avenue and feel the crushing weight of wealth, obligation, and materialism all around me—my empty world, settling back into place.
That’s what you wanted Harper, isn’t it? Your freedom? Your ‘normal’ back?
I feel a little hollow.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Dominic says. “Me or Dirty or Charlie are gonna be around at all times, so don’t try to pull anything stupid. You’re still working for the Sons, and you’re still taking what you know to the grave. But, hey, you earned this. Go home, take a shower in your diamond-studded Jacuzzi or whatever the fuck, and, you know, we’ll talk tomorrow morning about what to do next. Besides, I gotta mull over my options. Three hundred million is a little out of my usual pay-grade. You might as well get some good sleep, without River talking your ear off about music theory.”
It strikes me that he’s being generous, that he’s taking a risk. That he’s letting me go. I’m furious that he’s so willing to let me leave, and furious that he holds the power to make me stay if he wanted to. Most of all, I’m terrified to realize that I don’t want to go home. Up in that fancy building live well-meaning people that share my blood, but have never shared my soul. They gave me life, but don’t make me feel alive.
It’s impossible to meet Dominic’s eyes, so I don’t. “I don’t know what to say.”
“How about goodnight?”
His smile is cocky, sweet, and cryptic all at once, and before I can decide how to answer, he’s faded into the night. I’m left standing on the red carpet under the awning of my building, alone, my fingers nervously twisting around my necklace as Dominic’s motorcycle roars away.
Chapter Ten
Dominic
It’s no exaggeration to say that I get zero sleep the first night Harper is gone. My mind can’t seem to stop going in circles, cataloguing all the potential catastrophes that could result from my stupid decision to trust Harper and let her out of my protection.
What if she suddenly disappears? What if something goes wrong—an ambush from Colt, and I’m not there? What if her family finds out what she’s been doing and takes her away, out of reach? What if she has a change of heart and finds a way to turn me in to the authorities?
What if I never see her again?
Shit.
I must have been insane to let her go, to risk losing what little control I have over the situation. Whatever part of me made that brilliant decision sure wasn’t my brain—at least not the one in my head.
Stupid. I can’t believe I let emotions get in the way of my better judgment. I made myself vulnerable again, a tactical error. When was the last time I did that?
Oh, right: ten years ago, same girl.
At least I know that Harper’s being guarded and followed by the best. Dirty and Charlie send me regular txt message updates through the night and morning, and I breathe a sigh of relief when Dirty calls to tell me they made it to her law firm’s fancy office without incident.
I tell myself to snap out of it and stop being such a stress ball.
It’s a torturous morning, and I almost sigh in relief when Harper calls me asking what I want to do about Colt’s settlement offer. Take it, or no?
I try to ignore the instant rush when I hear her voice, and force my voice to be harsh. Can’t have her knowing I’ve been worried.
“I don’t want the money,” I growl. “I want to bury the Depraved Club and destroy their corporate puppet masters for good. If we settle, they’ll just pop up somewhere else. Enough is enough.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Harper says, and I can hear a bright edge of excitement in her voice. “Here’s what I propose for our next step: counter-offer. Ask for an astronomical settlement from Colt and his lawyer in the personal suit, but refuse any deals from Leviathan Corp. We’ll continue to press charges separately. My entire firm is working on it: the case has a life of its own now and nothing can stop it. Colt will be broken and ruined from the settlement, but all criminal charges linked to Leviathan Corp will still be free game. I can’t imagine this not going public. Big media coverage. The end of Leviathan Corp’s black market, maybe the end of Leviathan Corp.”
“Perfect.”
“And Dominic? You’re doing the right thing. I really think so. I want you to know that.”
I can’t think of what to say in response.
She clears her throat nervously. “I mean…I admire you. Stepping out of your comfort zone like this to take out the garbage. I know vigilante justice must seem more appealing, but this is going to work.”
“It better work.”
“It will! At this point, all you have to do is stay safe. The case against Leviathan Corp may not even need you to appear, we’ve dug up so much evidence.”
“It’s hard to believe it’s possible,” I admit. “Taking down Leviathan Corp.”
“Well, believe it. This was a real David and Goliath situation, but now you’ve got the fine legal minds of Katz, Minkoff, Hollis and Combe LLP on your side and we are not backing down.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“It’s more than that, Dominic. This case, your life: you’re taking care of your community, fighting for a better legacy in your neighborhood, in your world. This will ripple out to other communities too, even back home to your reservation. They’ll hear about it and be affected. You’ll give some of those kids hope. You’ll save some lives, too. This is a big deal.”
For some r
eason, this speech of hers makes me tense. My hand tightens around my phone. “Yeah, I’m a real fucking hero. Fuck, no wonder you lawyers get such a reputation for screwing people. Do people pay you by the word for that hot air?”
“You’re not paying me at all, remember?” she snaps. “That was on the house.”
“I don’t need your god damn cheerleading. Stop trying to butter me up and just do your damn job.”
There’s a beat. “Whatever Dominic,” she says, her voice flat and cold. “I gotta go.”
The line goes dead, leaving me somehow feeling even edgier than before. I slam my phone on the desk, cracking the screen.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Way to go, asshole.”
What the fuck is going on with me? I need to do something. Anything. I mosey out to the clubhouse kitchen looking for coffee, because that’s the only thing that I can think of to do.
River is standing by the sink trying to open a beer bottle on the edge of the kitchen counter.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
“Shit, it’s stuck,” she mutters, “I couldn’t find a bottle opener, but it’s probably here somewhere underneath all the dead cockroaches and ladies’ panties and empty tequila bottles. Do the club guys get that wasted every night? That was nuts. I could hear the party all the way from the third floor. Ugh, can you help me with this bottle, Dominic?”
“Glad to,” I grunt. I take the beer from her hands and put it back in the fridge, grabbing a pepsi instead. The tab opens easily and I hand it over to her. “There you go. Quench that ol’ thirst of yours.”
River glares at me exaggeratedly and stomps her foot. Apparently I’ve just stepped into a sit-com.
“Oh man,” she whines. “Come on, Dominic. I’m going stir-crazy here. You haven’t let me out of the clubhouse for days!”
“I told you sixty times, River: all the club’s women and children stay in lockdown until this case is over. I wouldn’t put it past Colt and his kind to make innocents targets. It’s for your protection.”
“Least you can do is let me have some excitement in my young incarcerated life.”
“Damn, woman, give it a rest. You’re not supposed to start nagging until you’re grown all the way up.” Rolling my eyes, I fumble with the coffee machine until it beeps and brews. “I told you, River, the trial is coming up and these will be some tense, dangerous days. It’s easier to protect you and everyone else if you’re inside.”
River hops up to sit on the counter, blocking my way to the cabinet with coffee cups. “Not everyone else,” she accuses.
Ignoring her raised eyebrows, I pick her up and move her out of the way like a doll and go about my business. I find and rinse out a mug that looks like it’s held together with carburetor grease.
“Geez, you’re grumpy today,” River observes, following me like a pesky little sister. “Got anything to do with the fact that a certain brunette was sleeping more than four yards away from you last night for the first time?”
The spoon I am using to stir my coffee slips in my fingers. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I growl.
River’s eyes light up. “You totally can’t stand that she’s not here can you?”
“I’m standing it just fine.”
“I knew it. You like her. You’re illin’ for your fancy-pants lawyer fix and you’re cranky cuz you didn’t get to fight with her this morning, so now all that sexual tension is building up and building up and you got nowhere to put it.”
“River.”
“You want Harper. Admit it.”
“River.”
“You like her and her big words and blue eyes. Aside from it being not fair that you let her go outside and not me, you’re totally bugging out that she’s not here! You want to kiss her, you want to date her, you want to marry her.”
She’s singing and dancing around me. I pause in sipping my coffee long enough to give her a death stare, and am rewarded with giggles. “You’re sixteen,” I remind her, “Not twelve.”
“Dominic and fancy-pants, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-”
“God, River, you’re giving me a fucking headache. Shut up and go practice on my guitar or pierce your nose or something.”
“I can’t really blame you. She’s actually pretty cool for a skinny-ass stuck-up white chick.”
“She’s not skinny.”
“Dude, you’ve got it bad.”
“Shut up.”
River is still laughing and bouncing as I walk towards the office and I’m trying to ignore the gloating teen when I hear Grindhouse Gus’ voice calling me from across the room.
“Yo, Prez,” he shouts. “Hold up, I gotta talk to you.”
He’s running in from outside as the guards lock the clubhouse door behind him, and his tone and face are strained. Frowning, I nod at River and cuff her under the chin.
“You better beat it, kid.”
River gives me a lopsided grin. “Ok chief. Guess I’ll go graffiti the rec-room while you guys talk about important things. Come get me if you decide to open up the gulag!”
I watch her walk away, amused. Gotta hand it her, she really knows deep down how to read a situation when things get serious. She’s a good kid, and I really hope she comes out on the other side of all this shit unscathed, if that’s possible.
Grindhouse has caught up to me and I match his frenetic pace to the office, instinctively locking the door behind us. He’s usually a smooth operator and seeing him stressed like this has my antennae up.
“What’s going on Gus,” I ask, sipping my coffee as I perch on the edge of the desk. “Why the long face?”
He gives me a long look with doleful black eyes and plops a fat manila envelope next to me, scratching his shaved head.
“You better look at that Dominic. An asshole on a Ducati threw it over the front gate tied to a brick.”
“Never a good sign.”
Jaw clenched, I reach for the envelope and slide out a thin stack of papers. They’re photographs, grainy and grey-green, from a security camera most likely. Still, enough detail is clear for me to identify them easily.
It’s snapshots of me and the Sons of Lucifer the night we raided the Depraved Club: first an image of us on our bikes crashing through the gates, then a sequence with our guns and faces visible inside with the crowds scattering.
“Fuck,” I groan.
At the bottom of the pile is a picture of me and Harper leaning against a wall, our profiles clear, with a post-it note stuck on that reads: “Two can play at this game. Drop the case or join me in hell.—C.”
“Holy shit,” I breathe. “Colt. How the fuck did he get these? We disabled the fucking security system! I shot the god damn fuse box myself.”
Grindhouse throws his hands in the air. “Had to have a hidden secondary system run by a generator or something,” he speculates, his forehead so wrinkled with worry that I can barely see his eyebrows. “Outmaneuvered us here. But Prez, if he turns these photos in, and we’re screwed. Jail time.”
I groan in frustration, rubbing my hands over my face and leaping up to pace the room. “Fuck,” I shout. “Fuck! Fuck cock balls. Shit.”
“You’re taking this better than I thought,” Grindhouse says with a mirthless grin.
Staring at the wall, I wonder if this is what an aneurism feels like. Right when we were so close to burying the motherfucker, he pulls an ace out of the hole.
“How the hell did I not see this coming?” I ask. “Colt’s always been a sneaky bastard. Jesus, this is a fucking mess. We were going to take him to fucking trial in two days.”
“What do we do about it?” Grindhouse asks. “He’s got clear shots of at least six of our faces. We might have to make a deal with the cocksucker.”
I groan. “Shit. No way, no how, can I let this stop us from destroying Colt and the whole fucking Depraved Club. No way can I let Leviathan Corp win. I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life in Ely State Prison: these motherfuckers are going
down. He killed Heath Tate, the only man I’ve ever looked up to, and I’m going to paint hell with his blood before I let him weasel out of retribution with a fucking blackmail attempt.”
“Prez, where you going?”
“To exterminate a cockroach.”
Grindhouse raises his eyebrows even higher, somehow, as he steps into the doorway to block my exit. “Boss, before we commit any more felonies why don’t we run this by our lawyer? Can’t hurt, right?”
I glare at him, somehow irked by the ‘our lawyer’ reference. “You mean Harper?” I say, stupidly.
“I mean it’s not like she doesn’t understand the full situation,” Grindhouse reasons. “She was there at the D.C. She might have a few ideas, you know, besides getting ourselves killed in a kamikaze mission to murder Colt just a few days before we could take down the entire syndicate supporting him.”
I kick the door, frustrated. “Yeah but what the hell can she do about it? These photos would tank our case.”
“Maybe she can help,” Grindhouse offers, gently. Now he sounds more like himself: the reasoner, the guy who can grind any argument down to a laugh and a high-five. “I mean she’s done a good job so far right? I think we can trust her.”
He trusts her? What the fuck.
Somehow, this statement makes me want to strangle him, as if he’s not allowed to trust her. Like it’s my solitary right to trust or not trust Harper Sinclair. Like he’s not allowed to think about her.
“You do, huh.” I kick the table. “Fuck. Fine. You’re right, can’t hurt. Might as well ask Harper what she thinks.” Digging in my pocket for my keys, I snatch up the envelope and I’m out the door, aware of Grindhouse’s footsteps behind me.
“Who knows about this so far?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Me and Wheely and Pete,” Grindhouse says.
“Keep it that way,” I order. “No one leaves the clubhouse or so much as makes a fucking phone call to anyone but me til I get back, ok? We can’t afford any more drama.”
“Got it,” he agrees.
“I’ll keep you posted.” We’ve reached our fenced-in parking lot and I wave at Wheely and Pete to unlock the barbed-wire gate. Hopping on my Harley, I clasp arms with Grindhouse. “We’ll figure this out, man. Tate’s gonna get his vengeance.”
