Indulge

by C. D. Breadner

  Brady chewed his lip. “And he’s still not mad?”

  Gertie shrugged. “He was so worried about me when they found out I was missing. He knows what happened to me in that clubhouse. I’m not sure how, and I’m not trying to figure that out. I’m just glad I don’t have to explain. So … if I hadn’t been taken he’d likely never forgive me.”

  Brady sighed. “That’s so messed up.”

  Gertie shrugged. “It’s not my world, I don’t completely understand it”

  Brady leaned back across his twin bed sideways, shoulders to the wall under his amazing artwork. “They’re not so bad. It’s an insular existence, I know that. They keep their shit quiet.”

  Gertie frowned. “How close did you ever get to a biker?”

  Brady shrugged. “Close enough to do their ink. But that was in L.A.”

  Brady did tattoos, that was how he made his living. And from what Gertie had seen he was good. It was actually Brady’s intention to set up his own shop in Markham. One, there was an MC in residence so that was a built-in customer base. Two, it was a small town with no heroin to be found, which was Brady’s poison. He was intent on removing himself from the atmosphere and circle of friends that had gotten him into that scene and enabled his addiction. It was an important step, and another consideration for Gertie to worry about.

  Eventually, not today.

  “I peeked,” Brady shared, cocking one eyebrow and smiling at her.

  “What?”

  “I watched out the window for a little bit.”

  Gertie felt her cheeks color. “What? Why?”

  Brady looked at her like she had a brain injury. “Umm, hot biker boyfriend? You said yourself he was gorgeous.”

  Gertie tried to sound like it didn’t matter to her. “And what did you think?”

  Brady fanned himself with one hand. “That is one hot motherfucker, sweetie. I’d bang him like a screen door in a hurricane.”

  Gertie burst out in laughter, dropping to her side and curling up on the mattress. “He is hot, isn’t he?”

  “But more than that.” Brady sat up again and leaned forward, elbows on knees. He was serious now. “The way he looked at you. His body language. He’s not some tough SOB too mean to care about you. He cares, a lot.”

  Gertie nodded, chewing her thumbnail. “I know. And that’s scary.”

  “Yeah, but … being without that sucks. Trust me.”

  “I want him, I do.”

  “Good. When you’re on your own and you feel ready to be with someone, he’ll be there waiting. I know it.” Brady shrugged one shoulder. “Or it won’t be him that you end up popping out babies with.” Gertie snorted at that. “Either way, you’re looking out for you first, honey.”

  Chewing her lip raw, she nodded. Meeting with Buck had been comfortable and pleasant. He hadn’t pushed, insisted that they remain together. It had been exactly what she needed, actually. She was grateful for that.

  “So, fill me in on your idea for my mural.”

  Brady’s tattoo shop wasn’t a pipe dream at all. His boyfriend, Greg, had found a storefront. They took ownership at the beginning of the next month. And Brady wanted Gertie to paint an entire wall of his shop for him.

  Being in here had given her a lot of time to paint, too. She and Brady would stay up far too late either working or arguing about their work. He thought she had talent. She thought he was a genius. And she really really wanted him to give her a tattoo. He insisted he’d do her first one, but not until she was a year sober. And he’d do it free as a celebration.

  Only fifty-one more weeks to go!

  “I’m thinking black and white, realistic, and overtop a bright, vibrant, full-color logo. But I don’t think we should directly go with any biker content, Brady. They might not like it, it might make you a target.”

  “So what would you suggest?”

  Gertie sat up again, crossing her legs as ladylike as she could. “Something ironic. Ironic to us anyway. What about a stylistic still life; overturned booze bottle, shot glass, highball, beer bottle, a still life of our tragic pasts.”

  Brady grinned. “You want your past represented in my shop?”

  Gertie was taken aback. “I want it represented in my work.”

  Brady nodded slowly. “That’s my girl. And actually, since you’re unemployed because you’re a junkie, I think you should come work for me.”

  Now she sat up straighter. “What?”

  “Come work for me. Be my shop manager. Book my appointments, I’ll show you the lay of the land. How to set up a work station. You said yourself, you feel like you’re flourishing being around other artists. You’d be steeped in us, honey.”

  Now she felt the thrill of excitement again, the last time she’d started painting and become excited about it because Buck just looked at one of her works.

  “Okay,” she said carefully, nodding and smiling. “Okay. Let’s do it. You show me to how to work in your shop, and I’ll make you proud.”

  Brady slapped his hands together, excited and grinning. “You already do, Gertie. Let’s celebrate with ice cream.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  “Son of a bitch!”

  The bellow from the board room was loud enough that every Rebel in the clubhouse took note, exchanging glances. When a loud crash accompanied it, they slowly rose to their feet in unison.

  Buck was heading for the door but Fritter got there first. Apparently they were both concerned about their visitor.

  Sharon Downey didn’t even seem frazzled as she opened the door and strode out. She paused, looked at Buck, simply stated “I’m sorry” then continued out the door. She wasn’t in uniform, and in jeans and a tank top you could tell, indeed, she was a fine-looking woman. Everyone in the clubhouse seemed to take note.

  Buck followed Fritter into the board room, leaning on the doorjamb. “Problem, Jayce?”

  Fritter righted the overturned chair Jayce had apparently flipped over in whatever rage he was working though. “The Sheriff trying to sell you raffle tickets or what?”

  “Sheriff department’s been called off the Gypsys,” Jayce spat out, pacing like a caged animal.

  The room fell quiet, downright still as a tomb. Buck struggled to make those words in that particular order make sense. “What?” he finally replied.

  “Downey said her leash has been yanked. They came in, took all the evidence in the shooting, Gertie’s captivity, and told her to stand down on all of it.” Jayce spat out each sentence fragment, breathing hard.

  The guy was under strain. His wife lost their baby, was undergoing a week of surgeries to repair damage done to her muscle tissue, and due to the damage from the shotgun blast they’d had to perform an emergency hysterectomy. Trinny was … well, Trinny wasn’t taking this all very well. She’d asked to be transferred to the hospital in Tacoma, closer to her parents. The kids had gone with her, and she wasn’t really communicating with her husband. He’d gone to visit once so far, but Trinny had refused to let him into her hospital room. At least she hadn’t forbidden the kids from seeing him, thank Christ. But while Trinny was having trouble coping, Jayce was fucking falling apart without her.

  Buck had never seen his Prez so listless, this lost. His temper had always been legendary, but now it was bordering on dangerously irrational. Thank God for Tank, that fucker could always get in Jayce’s ear better than anyone else and talk him down. And yet at some point Buck suspected even the mighty Tank might lose the ability to reason with Jayce.

  “Who?” Fritter asked, his attempt at levity gone. “Who could tell her that?”

  Buck shrugged. “Has to be Federal. But why?”

  “What’s happened?”

  Buck turned to Tank, gesturing him into the room as Fritter filled the big guy in. “We’re wondering who could make that call,” Fritter finished, rubbing the stubble on his chin.

  “Holy shit,” Tank muttered, sinking into a chair. It wasn’t delivered like he was surprised, more like he’d ha
d a revelation.

  “What?” Fritter and Buck asked in unison.

  “You don’t think … nah.”

  “What?” Now the other three were speaking in unison.

  Tank allowed a small smirk, which was weird to see given the circumstances. Until he spoke up, that was. “You don’t suppose the Gypsys had a rat? Informant? Or, God forbid, a turncoat?”

  The room was quiet again, and if brains ran on wheels he would have heard all four sets of gears turning. “Holy shit,” Fritter whispered, sinking into a chair in such a state of shock he didn’t realize he was in his old spot.

  “Why else would a country sheriff be called off something like this?” Tank let that sit in the room for a second. “And who else could even do it?” He directed the final question at Jayce. “What did she say exactly?”

  Buck knew anything he said would likely need to be taken with a grain of salt. Jayce was almost to the point of being irrational when he was worked up.

  “She said she got a call today from her deputy sheriff saying there were some suits in the office, taking their evidence boxes, statements, everything. Even their shit on us, Buck’s arrest for knocking that guy after the shooting. All of it, gone.”

  “What if it was cops from Bakersfield?” Buck asked, playing devil’s advocate. “Taking over a serious investigation locals can’t be trusted with?”

  Tank was shaking his head. “She said suits?” He wanted Jayce to clarify it.

  “The deputy said suits, and when she got there all she saw were vans with tinted windows driving away. They didn’t even wait to explain anything, they just took off. She came here immediately to tell us about it.”

  “Those pricks.” Fritter was surprisingly pissed. “Didn’t even explain it to the fucking sheriff?”

  “That does seem shady,” Tank agreed, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Which makes me think it’s Feds.”

  “Holy shit. The Gypsys have an undercover agent in their ranks?” Buck blinked a couple times, then had to lean against the wall. “Fuck.”

  Jayce finally sat in his spot. “So she can’t go after them. But she never told us not to.”

  Tank had his hand up in a calming gesture but Fritter was already speaking. “Hey, wait a second. If they’ve got a fed inside I have no interest in heading out to meet them and break a few laws to extract a bit of revenge, my friend. They’ve got a fed with them, man. They’re going to get cut off at the knees, and what’s more, that’s going to piss off those cartel fuckers. So anyone not getting locked up is going to disappear, and on the inside they’re going to start showing up chopped into little pieces. That’s how things have to happen. Let the wetbacks sort this shit out.”

  Jayce didn’t even give him shit for telling him what should happen here. He was stewing, supremely pissed. Buck was getting there himself.

  “Nah, I’m with Jayce,” he muttered, bringing the other three heads around to him. “I don’t want cartel assholes making this right. These guys raped my girl. Repeatedly. Kept her from me for an entire fucking week. And they damn near killed Trinny. Jailhouse justice ain’t good enough right now.”

  Tank looked pissed. Fritter did, too. But they weren’t the one with women who were hurting. Of course it would be Tank who was the voice of reason. “Listen, all I ask is that you not do anything stupid on your own. We work this out together, we come up with a plan. It’ll be hard for you both to be there for Trinny and Gertie if you’re in fucking boxes. Or jail.” Tank turned a wary eye to Jayce. “If they’ve got law on the inside, it’s even more reason to be fucking smart with what we do.”

  Buck nodded. “Agreed. But my objection is to sitting around waiting for the feds to make this right. It won’t make anybody feel better.”

  “And the club will look weak, too.” Jayce said it, but it sounded hollow.

  The main focus was setting it right for Trinny and Gertie. That would make all of them look united and whole. Fuck the club looking weak. They provided a service, and as long as they did it well and took care of their own that was all they had to carry on doing.

  This weak talk was enough to make Buck re-evaluate his president. That sounded more like Jayce’s old man, all the disdain for the very term weak. That miserable prick had beaten toughness into his son to keep any and all perceived weakness at bay.

  Jayce was not in a good spot. Which meant his shit with Trinny was worse than anyone knew.

  Buck blew out a slow breath. “See what Spaz can hack into,” he suggested, trying to make it sound like a request. “If this investigation take-over was done in person it won’t help. But there’s gotta be a fucking memo somewhere from someone. I’d like to know which arm of the law we’re dealing with.”

  “If they’ve got an undercover agent, I bet it’s DEA,” Fritter muttered, like he was talking to himself. “They just buy guns. No use grooming a guy and signing him up for years of hanging with a club for the ATF to be interested. It’s gotta be the Sunshine.”

  There was a collective grumble of agreement. They were all done with Sunshine, wanted it well out of Markham. If taking out the Gypsys helped with that, good.

  They were all waiting for their leader to give his directive. Jayce realized it as though he was waking up from a deep sleep. Slowly, he nodded. “Get Spaz on it,” he said to Tank, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Maybe by now someone’s sent something to the Sherriff’s department explaining what the hell is going on and why.”

  Tank rapped his knuckles on the table to indicate he agreed and got to his feet. He was a talker and a thinker but when he had a purpose he was unstoppable. Unless his president called his name again, which Jayce did. Tank turned, chin raised.

  “Find out where Gertie’s old man went.” Now Jayce turned weary eyes to Buck. “Downey said Gertie’s phone had … had a video on it. They sent it to her father the first night they had her, telling him to turn himself in or his daughter was going to live out her days as another club whore.”

  Buck’s hand cranked into fists. “What was the video?”

  Jayce shook his head. “A lot like those photos they sent to your phone. They likely knew videos wouldn’t play on our burners. But her phone could record videos, and they bet her daddy’s phone would play them.”

  His voice was so hoarse he almost didn’t recognize it himself. “Did her dad get the video?”

  Jayce nodded, eyes on his clasped hands.

  “Did he reply?”

  Jayce didn’t move.

  “Did. He. Reply?”

  Jayce shook his head in the negative.

  “Where’s the video? Is it just on her phone? And the feds took it?”

  Jayce sighed, running a hand over his short hair. Now he smiled, but it was a cold smile. “Downey has a copy of everything. She’s bringing it all here.”

  Now Tank was smiling too, the same frightening glint in his eye. “You serious? She made a copy of everything?”

  Jayce nodded, then looked to Buck again. “She said Gertie told her about someone in the club who seemed different from the others. He took care of her. Gave her shit to zone her out when he knew they were going to assault her. Gypsys like to make their women fight, he gave her crank to keep her strong. Other shit to help her sleep. Never laid a hand on her.”

  Now Buck’s anger was joined by a bit of jealousy. “Who the fuck was it?”

  Jayce shrugged. “Downey wouldn’t say. But after hearing Gertie’s account, let’s just say it made Downey a bit suspicious. So she copied everything she had and … Well, she wasn’t exactly surprised when a government agency showed up to take her shit.”

  Buck swallowed down that surge of stupid macho bullshit jealousy. It hurt. “So … this agent risks his neck to keep Gertie from getting hurt worse than she was?”

  Jayce shrugged again. “He helped her escape. Helped her fake this whole scenario where she clobbered him with a bottle of Jack and ran. Gave her keys to a truck.”

  Buck supposed he owed this mys
tery asshole something for that. But he was pissed off on so many accounts from what Downey had to share that it honestly didn’t feel any better that someone had Gertie’s back, sort of.

  Her father did this, then didn’t show up to help get her out of it. Buck had two men he really wanted to get his hands on. “Where’s her dad?” he asked, head cocked.

  Jayce’s smile slid. “He’s vanished.”

  “You’re kidding.” This from Fritter. “They send a video of his daughter getting raped and he runs?”

  “He’s scared of the Italians,” Jayce pointed out. “And he’s a complete fucking coward. So yeah, the prick ran. Left her to them.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Tank spat out.

  Buck was a bit more physical about it. He flipped a chair over, the same one that had suffered under Jayce’s aggression.

  “Helping Trinny was what got her out,” Jayce said calmly while Tank moved closer, hand on Buck’s shoulder. “She heard the plan, her only concern was Trinny and the kids.” Jayce’s lip trembled and he got his feet, approaching Buck and holding out his hand. Buck clasped his palm to his Prez’s. “Gertie’s club,” he assured Buck. “I know we … banished her or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. But not anymore. She’s club. She has our protection whether she’s with you or not.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  “See you in the morning, Gertie. Don’t stay too late, okay?”

  She turned her head to smile over her shoulder at Brady. “Okay. I just want to get this one part done.

  He kissed her temple, eyes shining as he looked up at the back wall of the shop. “I fucking love it, Gertie. It’s brilliant. Grandma would be proud.”

  Gertie beamed at that, turning her critical eye to the wall as well. It was from a photo she took and staged herself. Her idea for a morning-after-a-good-time still life had been abandoned, replaced with the tools of a tattoo artist. Instead of a JD bottle and shot glasses it was pots of ink. No syringes, just a tattoo gun. It was black and white, contrast high like an over-exposed photo. She’d left dead space in the top-left area where Brady’s Ink Junkie logo was going to go. It was a distressed, old-west saloon type font, and she loved it. He’d come up with that part.