by Hazel Parker
“I can’t guarantee that, no.”
“Then that’s all I need to hear.”
It was something of an impromptu statement. It wasn’t all I needed to hear. A lot could happen over the next couple of weeks that would change my mind very quickly.
But I was getting swept up in the moment. And besides, I knew Lane treated me with more care and caution than just about anyone else that I knew or any other couple that I saw. If I wasn’t safe with Lane, I wasn’t safe with anyone.
“Lane, I like you because of you, not because of your club or whatever happens around it. If you drag me straight into the violence, then sure, we’d have a problem, but I don’t think that’s going to be an actual issue.”
“Not at all,” he said hurriedly. “I would never want to take you to the violence. I just felt you needed to know what our life looks like before we go on a date so we don’t wind up like Marcel and Christine or Fitz and Amelia.”
“You’re fine,” I said, walking up to him and hugging him.
I rested my head on his chest, listening to his rapidly accelerating heartbeat. I closed my eyes. This was safety right here. Even if the restaurant started to burn down on the spot, I’d still feel safe here.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s not get all the dramatic conversations out of the way today. Let’s save some for Tuesday, huh?”
“Oh, OK, I just—”
“Shush,” I said with a giggle. “I’ve got work to do, anyway. Even if I wanted to keep you around all day, that would be a bit difficult. I can’t stay in New York if this place falters.”
Lane looked at me in surprise, but he didn’t ask any follow-up questions. The restaurant was empty other than Sam, checking his phone behind the counter, which gave me a little more leeway to put my arm around Lane as I escorted him to the front.
“Still good for Tuesday, right?”
“I’m good if you’re good.”
Lane knew the answer to that.
“Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Lane.”
Lane hesitated, as if he wanted to touch me and hold me more, but he nevertheless left. I smiled and watched him go down the sidewalk. By far, the strongest emotion I felt as I watched him leave was pride.
I was proud that Lane was the kind of man who would tell me that beforehand. I was proud that I could get a man so honest, so straightforward. I was proud that this conversation had not only not split us apart, but it had also brought us closer together.
Tuesday was going to be an awful lot of fun.
I went back into the restaurant, smiling ear to ear, and went up to Sam.
“Anything good online?”
“There’s always something good online,” Sam said as if I’d made the dumbest statement ever. “Although there’s a bit here about the attack on Brooklyn Repairs last night.”
I looked at the news article, skimming through it quickly. A couple of sources included women who said they were at the party the night before, but none of the Savage Saints had commented on the record. The article seemed grossly lopsided against the Saints, as it noted other chapters had long histories of violence. As if that somehow makes the current iteration responsible for the violence outside their own front door.
“Interesting,” I said, handing the phone back to Sam.
“A lot of those people have been our customers recently.”
“Yep, and we’re not going to say anything to them about it,” I said. “If they want to talk about it, we’ll be open ears, but otherwise, we’re going to assume that our food for them will be what makes them happy, not conversation. Understood?”
“Got it,” Sam said, giving a thumbs up.
The door to the store swung open. I looked up and smiled as a bald man in a leather jacket walked in.
“Welcome to Southern Comfort.”
The man, thick, stockily built, and with tattoos on his neck, gave off a vibe that did not leave me the least bit comfortable. He seemed to be scoping out the area, but not in a protective way—more like how a predator would. Call it instinct, but something about the way this dude looked did not leave me feeling very good.
“Well, hello, beautiful,” he said when he saw me. “How are you doing this Saturday?”
His tone and his words left me feeling even worse. I stood my ground, bit my lip, and nodded without smiling.
“I am doing well. How can I help you?”
“Not one for small talk, huh?” he said, chuckling. “Funny, seeing as how you made small talk with that Savage back there.”
I didn’t say anything. I had a feeling that the less I said, the better.
“Alright, give me some fried chicken with fries and baked beans.”
“Anything else?”
“Just some advice for you. What’s your name?”
I didn’t feel comfortable in the slightest giving my name out.
“Jean,” I said.
“Jean,” he said as if trying out the word in his mouth. I knew he didn’t believe me, but I didn’t much care. The vibe he gave was basically everything that Lane did not. “My name is Damon. I saw that you were talking to that Savage. You are aware that the Savage Saints are a menace upon society, right? Being with one would just cause you so much trouble and misery.”
Ironic coming from a guy with neck tattoos and a creep level well off the charts.
“I am aware of all customers who walk in here, and I try and be judgment-free. I make my conclusions based on my interactions with them.”
“I’m sure you do,” Damon said condescendingly. “In that case, then, what conclusions are you drawing about me?”
I had to bite my lip to avoid saying anything too harsh.
“That you don’t like the Savage Saints.”
“Hah! So very true,” Damon cackled. “I am in the majority here, just to be clear. Most people, if you asked them without the presence of a motorcycle club, would say such an infestation of gangsters is unhealthy for Brooklyn. A city of this size will always have issues to deal with, but to add a motorcycle club to the mix…that’s just bad news, Miss Jean. To have a group of criminals operating under our nose—”
“I am aware,” I said. “And I have the right to serve whoever I want. Some of those men come in here and eat my food, just as you are about to eat yours. If they act rudely or cause a mess in my restaurant, then I will ban them and will not hesitate to enforce the ban. But when they act courteously, then I will allow them to come in.”
Something across Damon’s face flickered that left me very unsettled. It was the way a predator would look when, upon finally seeing his target, his eyes would light up or his mouth would water. It didn’t help matters that not only did that look cross over Damon’s face, but he didn’t seem wholly concerned with hiding said look.
“Of course,” Damon said. “You are a business owner, and you do have to make profits. I would just encourage you to think long-term instead of short-term. You would never want to be confused with the real criminals on Wall Street, now would you?”
I ignored him. Sam put his finished plate in front of Damon, who looked at the young teenager with disgust. Almost like he thinks he deserves this moment with me.
“Box it up to go,” he ordered.
Sam hurried to do so.
“Let’s get you rung up,” I said, hurrying to get Damon out of here.
“Just remember, people who hang out with criminals like the Saints usually either become criminals themselves or become victims of their enemies,” Damon said.
I paused and cast my eyes upward at him. Damon just smiled wickedly, revealing some teeth that looked like they’d been implanted with gold grills. I visibly shuddered as I took his card, processed the order, and handed it back to him.
“I’m just looking out for the good of the community here, Miss Jean,” he said. “It’s important to make sure that the people who wield the most influence in this town are the ones who have its best interests at heart.”
He didn’t look to Sam aft
er the young boy put the order in front of him, all bagged up.
“You have yourself a delightful evening, Miss Jean. I hope that you consider my words for your own sanity.”
I didn’t feel safe until Damon had left the restaurant completely.
“What a creeper,” Sam said. “Do you want me to tell anyone?”
“No,” I said immediately. “No. You’re absolutely right; he is a creeper. But he’s not going to do anything to you or me during business hours.”
For now, at least. Maybe you should tell Lane. If anyone could protect you, it’s him.
But he’s already going through so much with the attack on the club this weekend…
I decided against telling him anything more. It wasn’t my first time dealing with creepy customers, though it was my first time dealing with someone who just seemed so utterly wicked. Usually, the creepy customers were old men who didn’t know any better. A few had commented on my figure, to which I had had to ask them politely to stop.
But few had given me a general vibe of making me not safe until Damon.
Until that became an issue, though, I wasn’t going to say anything to Lane.
It was hard to ask someone to protect your house when their own had gotten shot up just the day before.
Chapter 7: Niner
That went better than expected.
I walked down the street back to Brooklyn Repairs, feeling good about where Carrie and I were headed. I didn’t have to worry about a Fitz or Marcel situation rearing its ugly head at some point in our relationship. At this point, all of the present-day skeletons were out of the closet. There were still concerns about my past and why I had left the force, but those would reveal themselves in time.
For now, at least, I didn’t have to worry about something in the present coming back to bite me.
Unless, that was, such a thing was the Bloodhounds, whose graffiti and vandalism were still evident when I got back for our emergency meeting of the Savage Saints. I had gotten rid of most of the spray-paint right outside our store, but to clean up the bullet holes on the garage would take forever. To some extent, I almost didn’t think it was worth it. If anything, dents and holes added character, not removed it.
But that was of little concern to me since the shop closed early on Saturday and didn’t open until Monday. We had plenty of time to clean it up. Of far greater concern was what was to be discussed at this club.
When I entered the office for our meeting, for once, I might have been the most upbeat and cheerful of the group—which was true only in the relative sense. I had a slight smile on my face upon entry, but I fell in line with the serious tone that everyone else had adapted. I had to remind myself that I was the only one, save maybe for Marcel, who had seen ugly violence up close like this before. Even Marcel had probably only seen it sporadically.
I saw it with regularity. Gun fire, police assaults…it wasn’t like a daily occurrence. New York City hadn’t just turned into a lawless metropolis. But I’d seen enough in my years to know what they looked like.
I sat down without a word. Marcel immediately began.
“Last night, as you all know, we were attacked by a rival motorcycle club calling themselves the Bloodhounds,” he said. “Although no one was hurt, the attack seemed pretty clear. It was meant to scare us, to make us want to run and hide. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a lot of eyes on the enemy as they ran off.
“Then, this morning, my brother, the snake Kyle, appeared and made remarks about how if we were not more careful about ensuring violence remained away from us, he could use his connections to make sure we were more closely monitored for criminal activity. It should go without saying that such harassment would be used to drive us into the ground, ruin business, and make life hell.
“I find it hard to believe that this attack and Kyle would happen so closely together without there being some connection. For there not to be just reeks of bullshit. Unfortunately, we don’t have any way of proving that, and so long as that remains the case, we have to treat these as separate enemies—the Bloodhounds and Kyle. I believe, as Uncle does, that whatever we do to one will affect the other, but for now, we have to keep them separate.”
Good Lord, I hated Kyle. Kyle reminded me of everything that was wrong with the world—it was being run and decided by men who couldn’t punch a piece of wood without crying that they had broken their wrist. The NYPD was supposed to be the enforcement of the law, and for about ninety percent of its employees, it served just that purpose…but the ones who played politics more than police in there had had a lot to do with my current predicament.
“The good news is that we were able to gather some intel on both groups, intel which we are sharing with all of you here. You all know about Kyle Stone. He is a problem that we will continue to find solutions to, both legitimate and illegitimate. Then we have the Bloodhounds. This is their president.”
Marcel flipped over his iPad. My nostrils flared, and my eyes widened. I knew the face. I knew the name. I knew it all too well.
“Damon Wicker.”
The man who raped and killed the girl that I tried to protect. The man that ultimately led to me leaving the NYPD.
“Right now, we don’t know where Damon is, but we know he’s free despite having a rap sheet that should land most normal people in jail for years on end. Damon is dangerous, cold-blooded, and—”
“Pure evil,” I growled.
Everyone looked at me in surprise. I didn’t need to explain this to them. They knew what I meant.
“Yes,” Marcel said, still somewhat surprised at my sudden words. “We should consider the Bloodhounds a serious threat for the time being. They will not hesitate to use force on us, and we cannot be afraid to use force on them. For now, I am recommending that we carry pistols on us at all times, wherever we go. Yes, I am aware that gun laws in this municipality make such a thing illegal, but I am also aware that Damon and the Bloodhounds will not give two shits about the law. I care much more about protecting you all than on following some silly laws.”
“Are we going to hunt him?”
Marcel again looked at me in surprise. I would have looked at myself in surprise too—it wasn’t every day that I asked a question in a meeting like this.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said, are we going to hunt him?”
Marcel gulped, feeling the intensity from me.
“We don’t know where he is, Niner. Uncle and the prospects are working on finding him—”
“Then find him faster!” I yelled, slamming my fists on the table.
I struggled to control myself as everyone looked at each other in horror, as if confirming they weren’t the only ones surprised to see me act so angrily. They had no idea. They had no fucking idea.
If I were a Savage Saint when I had Damon in my hands, I would have finished the job and killed him. I would have gotten my revenge for the innocent woman that he had raped and killed. I would have made the world a safer place.
Instead, technicalities…
Fucking bullshit. Real fucking bullshit. Absolute, unequivocal, insane bullshit.
“That man,” I said, pointing to the monitor, “will make all of our lives hell until we find a way to kill him. Not kidnap him. Not scare him off. You can’t scare that man. You can capture him, but you won’t change him. That man’s soul is beyond reproach and repair. We have to fucking kill him. Because if we don’t, he will not hesitate to hurt us.”
Marcel nodded.
“You can identify him because he has the devil’s horns tattooed on the side of his neck,” I said. “I know this man’s strategy. To him, everything is all about fear. The more fear that he can generate in a woman, the more pleasure he gets from it. The more fear he generates in his enemies, the more he delights in them. He toyed with the NYPD for ages. With the women that he targeted, he would escalate the tension. He’d approach them in a public place, putting them on edge just enough that they’d walk away. Then he’d keep pop
ping up where they were.”
God, this was fucking painful to think about.
“Eventually, he discovers where they live. And if proper precautions aren’t taken, he will go in, rape them, and then kill them if he feels like it. And there’s no rhyme or reason to him murdering women. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. What you are staring at here is the face of pure evil.”
“Jesus,” Fitz said.
“Jesus is not going to fucking save you here,” I growled. “We cannot be passive about this. We need to start organizing our forces to hunt this asshole down and end his life.”
“But Niner—”
I slammed the table with my fists as I roared “Goddamnit!”
“Marcel, you wanted to own an MC. Congrats, you got the good, the bad, and now the ugly that goes with it. I didn’t think that Damon was into motorcycles, but it doesn’t matter now. He’s the president of that club? So be it. We need to make him the deceased president of the club. I will not fucking stand aside as he kills everyone we love!”
I needed to catch my breath. I didn’t think anyone in that room got it. Even though I had properly put the fear of God into them, they weren’t realizing the extent to which this was an issue.
“Fuck!”
With that, I stood up and headed to the back of the shop.
“Niner!” Biggie yelled as I sprinted toward my bike.
“Open the garage!”
“Niner!” Biggie yelled.
He had to physically restrain me to prevent me from turning the engine on.
“Let me fucking go,” I growled. “I am not going to let him harm another living thing as long as I am alive.”
“At, what, three in the afternoon?” Biggie implored. “Look, we know you’ve dealt with this guy before. I’m not going to pretend to understand him like you do since it sounds like you’ve faced him one on one. But you’re not going to take him out in broad daylight. Even if you find him and shoot him, you’re going to get your ass in jail, and you’re no good to us there. Someone else will rise and take his place.”
Fuck. Fuck!
He was right. I hated that he was right. To some extent, I didn’t even care about being right. I just wanted to be alive with Damon dead. Was it too much to ask to do that? Could I just shoot the motherfucker and deal with the rest of life after that?
