by Hazel Parker
“God. Fucking. Damn,” I said. “You are one piece of work, Trace. She’s right, you know. Paul would be damn ashamed of you.”
I took another deep inhale as if trying to suck in some of the knowledge and wisdom that Paul had espoused in this very room. Of course, that was never going to happen for an idiot like me. I had too many sticks up my ass to know which one to start with.
And it hadn’t helped that I had put one up Jane’s ass in the form of my arrogance and shithead behavior.
A gentle knock came at the door.
“The hall is open for all,” I growled.
Splitter stepped in and shut the door behind him.
“The rest of the crew?”
“I told them to give me five,” he said. “Trace, you don’t have to tell everyone, but you gotta at least tell me. Some of the guys out there think it’s related to Jane, and they’re worried you got in a fight that’ll affect shit later on today. You OK, bro?”
I shook my head.
“I know they know the truth, or at least on principle, they do,” I said. “But what I tell you never leaves this goddamn room. You hear me?”
“Absolutely,” Splitter said, seemingly closer to his more emotional side than the tough-motherfucker side. “Love you, man. Would never spill personal secrets or club secrets.”
“I know,” I said with a puff. “You would be the least likely to ever rat. So. Guess how badly I fucked up?”
Over the course of the next three minutes, I proceeded to lay out everything I had done. I explained how I felt and why I had felt that way, but all that rehashing everything that I had done did was convince myself that, yeah, I had acted like a shithead. Who would better know the dangers of the Savage Saints or MCs in general than the daughter of the dead founder?
And yet I wanted to think I was protecting her. Christ. What a fucking fool I was.
“Trace,” Splitter finally said when I finished. “You were a goddamn fucking fool.”
“Yep,” I said.
“You and I need to have beers so we can get your head straight,” he said. “But for right now, man, the club wants you to buck up. The hall starts in a few to discuss law enforcement’s impending arrival, but—”
“Wait, what?” I said. “I spoke to Wiggins after our party. He said he’d try to keep them off—”
“Not anymore, bro,” Splitter said.
“Fuck!” I shouted, slamming my cigarette on the table, now adding a burn to the broken finger I probably had.
“Bro, I know, I know!” Splitter said, veering dangerously close to overly emotional. “But, listen. Listen, OK?”
I didn’t answer, instead doing my best to calm myself by pulling out a new cigarette.
“I can be the loudmouth in the meeting, play devil’s advocate. I can cover up some. But law enforcement is definitely coming. They’ll be here around four today. We’re not even supposed to know that, but, well, we got friends.”
“That we do,” I said glumly.
We both heard the laughter of Mafia making his way over.
“Help cover for me on this meeting,” I said with a puff. “And I’ll be good.”
Splitter smiled, putting a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Anything for a fellow Saint, brother.”
Chapter 14: Jane
That fucking asshole.
Why?
What the fuck… how did I get played so badly?
I was still in tears two hours later when it came time to call an Uber to get to the hospital. I had no chance of getting all of the red out of my eyes, but I would’ve worn puffy, red eyes for the rest of the year if it would just give me some goddamn clarity on what had happened with Tracy.
Was he actually serious? Did he think he was doing me a favor? Did he not remember who had died that pushed me away in the first place?
I tried so damn hard to believe that he had just had a bad morning or something and that he would come back, groveling and apologizing for how stupidly he had acted. I tried to believe that what he had said wasn’t as sincere as he sounded and that once Splitter or Sensei had knocked some sense into him, he’d get his head out of his ass.
But trying and succeeding were not just worlds apart at this point; they might as well have been on opposite ends of the universe. There was no getting around the serious tone that Tracy had spoken to me with this morning, and there was no denying that…
That he’d used me to get laid.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had ever felt so betrayed, so hurt by someone, but the closest analogy I could come up with was seeing my father die and feeling that the Saints had failed to protect him. The passage of time had allowed me to see that that was not the case, that BK had done all that he could, and the rest of the Saints had shown up as fast as they could, but unlike that time, I couldn’t see a way that time would allow me to see Tracy in any light other than as a manipulator and an asshole.
No matter how much I wanted to believe otherwise.
No matter how much I wanted it to be so otherwise, it wasn’t going to be that way—which sure seemed like a terribly normal way for how life went. I didn’t want my mother to be dead, but there was nothing I could do about it. I didn’t want my father to be murdered in gang warfare, but there was nothing I could do about it. I didn’t want my own securities with relationships to sabotage all of them, and I most especially didn’t want the one guy whom I actually cared about deeply to have ended it before it could even be called a relationship, but…
I hailed the Uber about half an hour before my shift, even though it wasn’t going to take but ten minutes to get to the hospital. While some might have preferred to avoid work in such a spot, I craved it—it was the only thing in my life that I had complete control over and wouldn’t betray me. I could do a surgery, and while the surgery might go wrong, it wasn’t like the surgery would suddenly conspire to hurt me or ruin my day.
I got in the ride with no makeup on, not even the minimal amount I put on for work, knowing it was better to look a little bit plainfaced with puffy red eyes than to look like I belonged to a Marilyn Manson fangirl club. When I hopped in the Uber, I immediately put my headphones on and started listening to John Legend, which seemed about as far away as I could get from the kind of music that the Savage Saints liked—country or heavy metal.
Am I really getting away if I’m picking my music choices based on what they would not like? It’s still what centers around them… Just do your job.
I thanked the Uber driver as he let me out, my only words spoken to him since he started moving forward and did a quick glance at myself in the sliding glass doors. My eyes had come down a bit, although it was apparent to anyone who got close to me that I’d been crying. I decided that today, Dr. Peters was just going to have to be a little bit snappy.
So it came as some surprise to me when the first person I saw walking in was Dr. Burns. Had someone tipped her off that I’d be in this kind of mood? Had Tracy called in to warn her?
I swear to God, if he had…
“Good morning, Jane,” Dr. Burns began. “I wanted… are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” I said curtly, a stern look on my face as I put my hands in my jeans pockets, the better so I wouldn’t be tempted to wipe my eyes.
“Jane,” Dr. Burns said.
It was clear from her tone she didn’t believe me. But I wanted to make clear through mine that even if she knew I was lying, she wasn’t going to get anything out of me.
“I said I’m fine,” I said. “I’m here, and I’m ready to work.”
Dr. Burns’ lips contorted in a grimace, trying to figure out how best to handle me. Simple. Don’t try and handle me. Just let me do my job so I can go home, eat a shitload of ice cream, drink too much wine, and wake up with a clearer answer. There’s nothing to do except my job for the next twelve hours.
“All right, well, Jane, I will just leave it at this; my office is always open for my doctors, whether they need professional or per
sonal advice.”
“Got it,” I said, although I tried to soften my tone as best as I could.
“In any case, Jane, I wanted to come here to let you know we’re going to have some state officials coming through here.”
“OK?” I said. “I always handle myself professionally; I don’t think—”
“No, not medical investigators,” she said. “Police.”
I paused, my doctor’s coat halfway on, staring straight ahead at the white wall. I was pretty sure we hadn’t engaged in any illegal criminal activity, so… what was the issue?
“Why?”
“The police have reason to suspect that the Savage Saints are the cause of a domestic terrorist crime, having blown up a warehouse in Los Angeles. They know that Tracy Cole was a patient of ours a week or so ago and want to talk to anyone and everyone who interacted with him, including you and the nurses.”
“Jesus,” I said, the tone of my voice expressing annoyance at both the situation and at Tracy.
You fucking idiot, really? Blowing up a warehouse? My dad did some stupid things in his day, but pretty sure he never blew up a goddamn warehouse. Way to attract the attention of all of the officials who aren’t in your pocketbook.
“Yeah, it’s a pretty bad crime,” Dr. Burns said. “I don’t think I have to tell you to be fully honest with them.”
“Not at all,” I said, although the way Dr. Burns said it made it tricky for me to tell if she was serious or not.
And then, as if to make a point, she asked me to follow her to her office once I’d finished getting ready. I checked my watch, seeing I still had about eight minutes before my shift started, and hurried over to her place after putting on my scrubs. I shut the door tightly as I could and drew the blinds.
“Jane, what happened?”
“With what?”
The look on her face was like that of a mother who had just heard her daughter stonewall her for the fifth time, even though the evidence was not only everywhere, it was more obvious than the evidence that clouds were in the sky.
“It’s not my place to probe, honey, so I won’t, but whatever happened, promise me it won’t affect your work.”
The heat in my head from the impatience I felt almost made me lash out at my boss, but fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately, depending on how I wanted to view things—my experience with short-lived relationships had given me all too much practice in knowing how to handle overly inquisitive friends.
“I’m here to do surgery and provide medical service as needed, nothing more, and nothing less.”
“Good,” Dr. Burns said, although I could still see she wasn’t convinced. No matter. “As far as the Saints go… Jane, you know how I felt about your father. I know you’re close to some of them.”
I didn’t think she knew how close, but the fact that she might even have had a sixth sense to pick up on my relationship with them was terrifying enough.
“But this isn’t Sheriff Wiggins and the local crew. These are state officials. And frankly, when one agency comes in, the rest have a tendency to follow. So I need to make clear. I’m not sure why you came back here, although I’m happy to see you. But if it has anything, anything, to do with the Savage Saints and any of their activities… you have to be honest with them. OK?”
I had a friend here, not a spy. I had to remind myself of that, even though my friends seemed to be turning out to be a little bit more manipulative than I had anticipated.
“OK,” I said with an appreciative smile.
“Great,” Dr. Burns said. “Go wake up with some coffee and let’s keep up Green Hills General Hospital’s reputation. Oh, and you might wanna get some tissues for your eyes.”
She said it with about the sweetest smile possible, making it quite difficult to be upset at how she had phrased such a thing, although I still didn’t particularly enjoy the reminder that I’d spent the previous two hours engaged in the ugly cry.
* * *
Over the next six hours, nothing of particular notice happened. We had one guy come in for food poisoning, but the poisoning was minor. He worried his appendix might have ruptured, but a quick check confirmed otherwise.
The lack of activity, though, meant that I had a cornucopia of brooding. I just… the cycles from before just replayed themselves over and over again, to the point that I kept cracking to myself that if I liked brooding so much, maybe I should start a fan club about it. Of course, there was not a goddamn funny thing about it.
Around six in the evening, starving for food, I went outside to find my car so I could hit a drive-through. I was going to indulge myself, perhaps with a little bit of In-N-Out or something of similar ilk, anything that wasn’t healthy and had a bit of a pleasurable kick to it.
And that’s when I realized, as I got to my car, that I had left my car keys at my apartment, not thinking to take them on account of having ridden an Uber.
“God fucking damnit,” I muttered. “Of course. Of fucking course.”
There didn’t seem to be any option otherwise, so I hailed an Uber and waited at the pickup spot just by the side of the street. I noticed that my driver only had about three ratings, an unusually small number even for a small town like Green Hills, but I cared much more about getting some crappy, delicious food in my stomach. As soon as the Uber pulled up, I confirmed that it was Marcello from the app driving me and got in the back seat.
Just like last time, I put my headphones in after asking him to drive me through the nearest In-N-Out, about three miles west of where we were. I told him I’d compensate him by buying him whatever he wanted, a move that he didn’t seem that interested in. I passed it off as him being vegan or something and played my music.
Although the music was relaxing, I found myself brooding once more, so pissed at Tracy and the underhanded move that he had pulled. I’d never felt like such a puppet in my life, pulled along by strings I wasn’t aware of and toyed with in such a manner. It felt beyond embarrassing; some guys had turned out not to have been as into relationships as they’d said up front, but I’d never had anyone just suddenly up and change on me after the first night.
Most especially someone I’d known all my life, someone whom I’d always looked up to.
That might have stung the most. Yes, getting used for sex was humiliating. But what was worse was that a sort of idol I’d had as a kid had not only turned out not to be an idol, he’d turned out to be something of an arrogant prick.
Overwhelmed by it all, I closed my eyes, sat back against the seat, and tried to take a nap until we got to food.
At first, it worked. I lost myself in the music, trying to imagine myself at a John Legend concert. I tried to imagine that I was back in New York or D.C., swaying along to the music with some of my girlfriends, far away from the madness of Green Hills and the Savage Saints and Tracy. None of them would ever surprise me in one of those East Coast metropolises, providing me a safe space I craved.
There was just one problem—a good ninety percent of John Legend’s songs dealt with relationships and love. So when songs like “Used To Love You” and “It’s Over,” played, all it did was flash to mind Tracy being on stage, staring at me, mockingly waving at me for God knows what. It was certainly enough to piss me off and ruin the visual I was experiencing.
I opened my eyes.
And saw that I was most definitely not at In-N-Out.
“Excuse me, sir—”
But my voice got cut off by seeing that my driver was not in the front seat.
Instead, I was at some highway, but… no, that wasn’t right. It was some abandoned road, some sort of road that might have led to the highway but mostly just looked empty and barren. There were only a few lighted lampposts along the street, but there were no sidewalks, no houses, no businesses—it was just an empty road.
“Shit,” I said. “Asshole’s getting a one-star review.”
I pulled up my Uber app, saw that the guy had not ended the ride, and ended it myself.
And that’s when I heard the cocking of a gun.
“Out of the car. Put the phone down, now.”
Shit. This day can’t get any worse.
Demonstrating my hands were up, I dropped the phone to the side, getting out of the car to see three men in black masks staring at me, pistols pointed.
“I got eighty bucks in cash,” I said. “I don’t have anything else.”
“We’re not here to get your money,” one of them said.
Oh, fuck. No. I’m about to get raped. No. No!
“What do you want?” I said, my voice weakening.
“Emotional leverage.”
“Hu—”
I felt a hard whack to the back of my head just before I passed out, crumpling to the ground in the process.
* * *
When I came to, I was looking down at bland tiles on the ground, like one might find in a restaurant kitchen. I was lying on a couch, although, surprisingly, I was free to move around. I sat up and looked around.
Ahead of me was a camera.
And around the camera were about six men, wearing the jackets of… certainly not the Savage Saints, for these were not black and gold. Instead, they were more black and red, but the red was more like a blood red instead of a neon red one might see on Target signs.
“Dr. Jane Peters,” a voice with a Mexican accent said. “Daughter of Paul Peters. Lover of Trace Cole. Welcome to the Devil’s Mercenaries.”
“The fuck is going on?” I said.
I didn’t feel hurt aside from the headache in my skull. I didn’t feel like I’d been sexually traumatized in any way. I’d still go and get checked up once—if—I got out of here, but it felt like the Mercs were keeping me whole.
“What do you want?”
The man moved forward, and he looked vaguely familiar. He had a goatee, thick muscles, a tattoo of a cross on both sides of his neck, and hands with more callouses than I could count.
