At some point during my ranting, Ty put Lauryn on speaker. “Evie? Baby? You done?” Lauryn’s calm voice filters from the phone.
“Yes.” I huff before folding my arms across my chest. “Sorry. You know I don’t like it when the two of you talk shit about me.”
“Right, but we’re doing it in front of you. So, technically it’s not behind your back. We want you there for the details. Plus...you know we’re just trying to help you.”
I look up at Ty and shrug before turning and heading back into the kitchen for another bottle of wine. After filling my glass to the rim, I take a sip and head back out on the deck. When I’m back at our table, I set my glass down. “Oh, hey! Good news. I passed my last test.” Ty just looks at me, mouth agape, and L is silent on the other line, but I continue, “Yep. You are now looking at…” I wince when I glance at the phone to where L still is listening, “…and hearing from, the newest soon-to-be official hairstylist. I’m legal, bitches! Passed the Florida Board of Cosmetology Exam today, as a matter of fact. I cut and color hair now—professionally. What’s my name?” I cheers with myself, raising my glass, because Ty’s stopped drinking wine. He’s had one sake; he usually doesn’t drink much. I doubt he’ll keep the midnight oil burning with me and my recent proclivity to drunken melancholy thoughts that probably seemingly border suicidal ideology to outsiders. But they needn’t worry; I’m too scared I’ll fail. Or worse, it’ll hurt. Besides, I’m too chicken shit to kill myself. I don’t want to spend eternity in hell.
“You didn’t even tell us you were taking it—you said you wanted to wait. Finish the ‘season’ at Charlie’s, whatever that means, before you had to put in your two weeks. I didn’t know skanky places like that had ‘peak season’.” He rolls his eyes and motions towards L like she can freaking see him.
Then L squealing on the phone lying on the patio table between us breaks his current, selfish, train of thoughts just before she chastises him. “And who gives a shit, Ty? She passed!”
After my friends cheer, Ty fakes a group hug with Lauryn on speaker phone, and it doesn’t take long and we’re enjoying our weekly Friday date night with the OG’s from the squad. That’s what we call ourselves. And sometimes we include Eden. Well, we include her when she isn’t playing hide and seek...or more like duck and disappear.
We’ve just finished our sushi, and Zach, Lauryn’s husband’s, voice comes on the line. Apparently we’re not the only ones utilizing speaker phone. “Hey, hon. Got Abi down. How much longer do you think y’all will be? I’mma go hop in the shower.” Lauryn mutes the phone and handles her business as Ty and I embark on my different choices of salons he’s seen looking for booth renters.
“What about Miami. Or Orlando? You’d be closer to your mom.” He shrugs as we begin carrying our plates inside.
“My mom needs to be thankful I’m not choking her for not answering my phone calls. I’m gonna fucking kill her when I go over there tomorrow.” I shake my head and grab the two empty wine bottles before briefly leaving the conversation just long enough to step into the kitchen and toss the bottles in the trash. When I’m back out on the porch, I begin picking up condiments, Meanwhile, my mind’s still running a hundred miles an hour. Oh, Ilsa Blakeney has some explaining to do—she just doesn’t know it yet. But she will. I’ve taken the first half of my shift off at Charlie’s tomorrow night, and come hell or high water, she and I are having a very long and very overdue conversation. Not only about her and the decisions she’s made in life, but how those decisions have, and still are, affecting me. And I have every right to know what the fuck is going on.
I don’t know why I always assumed she didn’t know who my father was. She just never mentioned him. And I never asked. So stupid… I’ve been so stupid where my mother and sister are concerned. Why shove my head in the sand?
Because it was easier.
When L’s voice comes back over the line, she pulls me from my thoughts, making her excuses. “Hey, sweetie. Sorry, Abi’s in the bath. I gotta run. Thanks for inviting me tonight!” She giggles and Ty and I chuckle in return.
“Of course. You’re always invited. We’re the squad. Mod squad. Count us, there’s three. Three on the phone, three when you need us. One. Two. Three.” Ty chants like a dork, but I finish our stupid little BFF cheer before saying goodbye.
“There we’ll be! Every time! Three.” Then I get personal with my friend all the way in New York City. “Thanks for listening to me bitch, babe. I love you, hon!” I smack kisses to her over the phone and laugh before handing Ty back his phone.
“I’m gonna go do the dishes. You’ll clean up out here?” I ask.
“Sure, dove. No prob,” he says, before heading back out on the deck with his phone between his ear and his shoulder.
I’m about halfway through the dishes when the first few texts start coming in. First they’re just on my phone, but not long after, they start texting Ty too. Then the calls start. I won’t answer the calls though.
It’s funny how when people want to get a hold of you, it’s usually to deliver terribly horrible news. It’s never good news. It’s never, ‘Hey, you know that lotto you didn’t sign up for? Well, you won it! Sure freaking did.’ No. It’s never like that. It’s always bad. And they will find you too. Even if they have to go through your people to do it. You will be found, if they want to find you and deliver that bad news.
I think the first text was from John, Mom’s current running boyfriend. The second was from some friend of Eden’s from Jersey, named Sara. I’d only spoken to her a handful of times and it was always just chit-chat. And the third was from Steve. Eden’s father.
I’d never even met him before. I didn’t know how to respond to the first few texts, asking if I’d seen his daughter and when the last time I’d spoken to her was. I didn’t know what to tell them. What? How do you tell someone you haven’t actually spoken to your sister in four fucking months? Who lets that long go by? What kinda sister does that?
‘No.’
That was my answer to every text. No need to elaborate. No need for extra details, because there aren’t any.
Their questions ran along the lines of, ‘Have you seen Eden? Spoken to Eden? Been by Eden’s?’ My answer was simple and the same to everyone: No.
“John’s called the police. He hasn’t seen or heard from your mother since yesterday. Said he’s been away for a business meeting that he left town for early in the morning.” He shrugs and I’m trying to watch his mouth as it moves because I can’t hear a fucking thing he’s saying. My mind doesn’t want to register what he’s saying.
“Wait—what? What are you saying? No. She disappears, Ty. You know her. This is just what she does. Why don’t they know that? She disappears. Hell, THEY BOTH DO!” I start cackling. “Then they come home when they need more money. Eden’ll come home. Or go to Mom’s, or her dad’s. She’ll pop up.” I shove him and his hugs and gestures of comfort away, along with my phone. “Get the hell—” I glare at him, daring him to say something and cause these tears to fucking fall. He takes my phone from my hand. “Don’t, Ty. Fucking don’t. Touch. Me.”
I yank my hands from his gentle hold and turn before heading towards my room. And when I get into my bedroom, I slam the door behind me. Once I’ve got the door locked, I decide if he goes through the trouble of going around to the deck, I’ll fold and let him in. I’m not walking all the way over there to lock the double doors beside the bathroom in order to prevent him from something he may do. Instead, I flop onto my bed.
I hear his fists hitting my bedroom door minutes before his lecturing rings out. “Stop it, Eve. Stop. Get your head out of the sand. You can’t run away from the truth. No matter how much easier it is. And not right now, not when your sister may need you. I know you’re pissed, sweetie.” I hear him sigh.
“I’m not pissed. I’m sick and tired of her bullshit! How come she disappears and I’m the one who has to answer for it?” I yell just as my phone starts going off in his ha
nd on the other side of the door. I know this because Pussy Control is my ringtone. Mine and mine alone. It’s fitting, I think. Well, not with my recent whorish activity...
“Dove, it’s her father again. You want me to answer?” I don’t respond on the other side of the door. Let him answer; he likes to tell people my business. Maybe he can elaborate on how shitty of a sister I am better than I can.
I hear him answer my phone before stepping away from the door. And for the hundredth fucking time today, even with all this shit that’s going on with my sister, I pull the folded up grocery list from my blue jeans pocket before unfolding it and grasping my crucifix—his crucifix—then I read his parting words...again in the middle of my double bed. Like a stupid teenage girl, rereading a letter from her first real boyfriend or crush.
I mentally face plant, even at twenty-six, but I’m still gonna read it though—
Vagabond, I shouldn’t have even come here the first time, much less take you, and then return. And honestly, even if I did have an excuse, I doubt I’d tell you. You fuck with my head too much. It’s funny, I think I remember telling you once that I was too scared to touch you. Something along the lines of, touching you too much might drive me crazy...well congrats, Pipsqueak. You’ve straight got me mindfucked. Not that any of it matters anymore, unfortunately.
I’m sorry. I do want you to know that. I wish things were different. I wish, I don’t know—something. I wish it could be easier. I wish I could tell you everything you need to know, everything you want to know. But I can’t, it’s not my battle. Do you understand? It’s not my battle, Vagabond. But there is a battle. And this is your heads up. Now start asking the right questions, and start asking the right people, the one’s a little closer to home, specifically. Not me. Don’t ask me and mine. We can’t help you. Not anymore. Not with Pops gone.
I’m leaving you with my ma’s crucifix, and in case you try to get it twisted, and make it into something it’s not. I’ll stop you with this: It’s not because of any other reason than I feel sorry for you. And I honestly think you need some Jesus in your life. Maybe if you pray...you can hold it then. Hold onto it, Pipsqueak—I have a feeling you’re gonna need it. And I want you to remember something, my Ma once told me—when I was sixteen just before she died. ‘Steady and straight—stay that way. It doesn’t matter what they say, it doesn’t change what’s in your heart. What’s in your blood. You just stay, steady and straight.’
Keep that shit, Eve. Keep it. Like I said, I gotta feeling you’re gonna need it.
—Jacques
I think it’s the part where he says, ‘It’s not for any other reason than I feel sorry for you.’ That’s the part the stings the worst. That’s the part my heart can hardly handle. I’m not sure what all these other riddles mean. Why or how he thinks I’m related to a Renee ‘King’ O’Malley. I know I Googled the scary looking bastard. I know I’ve never been in Louisiana a day in my life, which is where the thuggish looking fella in leather over business suits lives. Any places I remember from my childhood were when we lived in Miami at Grams’. New York; there was an apartment in New York I vaguely remember. And then our little place in Chicago. Never Louisiana. And mother’s never spoken of him. Whoever he is. I looked for any similarities, but in every one of his mugshots online they were a black and white copy of the original. All I saw was a white guy with a darker complexion and a long dark brown beard.
And before you even ask, I Googled his number too. It was also a no go. Apparently he prefers to stay off grid, and keep his phone unlisted. So, no answers there. Not that I’d pull up into his MC parking lot in my little red beep-beep bumping Nicki Minaj. Umm, no. Grammy didn’t halfway raise no fool.
But mother? Oh, I will question the shit out of my mother. Tomorrow.
“Come on.” Ty comes in from the doors open between my room and the deck. And this time when his green eyes hit mine, they aren’t sparkling with mischief and playfulness. They’re dead serious. “Get up. Shoes on. We don’t have much time, if any.”
The letter that was in my lap and the center of my attention before he walked into my room floats to the floor when I stand and jump into action, grabbing my Chucks from my closet. After I shove them on my feet, I grab my purse and hold my hand out for my phone. “What? What happened? Let’s go.” I nod towards the direction of my front door. “You keep talking, though. What’d her dad say?”
“Who are you calling, sister?” he asks as I skim through my contacts.
“Don’t worry about it. What’d her dad say?”
Ty and I make it out the front door before locking up and hopping in his Kia Soul.
“The authorities found a note signed with No Name, No Color at your mother’s yoga class, in the women’s locker room. It left a phone number, with directions to wait until the phone has service connected. They’d…” He shakes his head before glancing at me over the hood of his car and opening his door. He ducks into the driver's seat, leaving me hanging.
“They’d...what? They’d what, Ty?” I scream as I slam his passenger door.
He wouldn’t answer me, though. For someone who knows how much I need answers, he really doesn’t give a shit, because he leaves me high and dry in search of them.
“I don’t—the fucking reception cut out. I missed that part. Come on. Let’s just get to the police station. They’ll answer everything then, dove. It’s gonna be okay,” my friend coolly lies to me.
“Right. Right.” I hit Zach’s number on my contact list. A number I’ve never had to use before. I’ve never really had a reason to, I guess. “It’ll be alright,” I tell my best friend as the phone on the other end begins ringing.
I know whatever it is isn’t good. It can’t be good. It feels too bad. Grams always said some of us Blakeney women have a sixth sense that warns us of something bad coming. And I’ll be damned if I haven’t felt it a hundred times in my life. Hell, it’s even caused me to prematurely bolt. Insert clearing of throat here—bus station decisions. Looking back on it, I remember feeling it the night I was taken from Eden and Mom the first time in Chicago, too. It was always there...I just didn’t know what it was, or if I should acknowledge it.
“Everything’s gonna be okay, dove. I promise. You’ll see. The police will get all this ironed out. I’m sure of it.” My sweet, dear friend lies because he loves me. And for that, I’ll love him too, always.
“I know you’re right, Ty.” After I grab his hand, linking our fingers together, he casts me a sad sideways smile. The phone continues ringing and I wonder if Zach’s purposely not answering as Ty and I both whisper to each other in the stillness of the little cab of his car. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
But we both know it’s not.
And then Zach finally answers the damn phone.
“Umm...hello?”
“Hey, it’s Eve. Lauryn’s friend. I need the closest person’s name and number you’re allowed to give me who’s associated with Jacques Cain. Please. My sister’s life may depend on it, Zach. I’m not kidding, either.”
It takes him a few stuttered moments, but he gives me a number. And he gives me a name.
Jake ‘Clutch’ Smith. Whoever the fuck that is.
After I shot from beneath the pile of brothers and gathered my balance underneath my feet, I started pulling my trigger...and thinking of nothing much else, when most of the other brothers who were surrounding me quickly followed suit. And even though it was us who were supposed to be the ones receiving the element of surprise, whoever the main person was that had a speech prepared before their attack started a little too late. Or he fucking hesitated. Hell if I know, either way—he made a mistake. Because before he could even begin speaking or clear his damn throat I’d plugged the choked up coughing bastard in no colors full of bullet holes.
Now, here’s the extremely fucking unfortunate news...but first, I’ll give you the good: No brother of mine was lost. Jesus. Mary. And Joseph. Thank Christ. I motion the cross over my chest while sittin
g behind my desk.
But besides the guy I’d riddled with holes, the rest of the fucking no color wearing bastards weren’t into position yet, because ole boy hadn’t started talking. Or cleared his throat. So as soon as my shots rang out, I tipped those fuckers off while they were still in flight or fight skittish mode—just before the calm before the storm. That’s where they were. And they all fucking took off. Every last one of them when bullets started whizzing.
So besides the man plugged full of hollow points, and I can guarantee he ain’t fucking talking, we got nothing. No idea who the fuck they were. Again.
The guy who we assume was the one calling the shots, as he was the first into position, had no identifying marks on him or his bike. Not even a fucking tattoo to go off of—which is weird. Don’t you think? There was nothing. Not even a decal on his bike. Who doesn’t have a single tattoo these days? Especially living this lifestyle.
“Clutch found a note, Jacques. Please.” I’m flying from around my desk, reaching around him, trying to grab the fucking piece of paper from Dreads’ hand that he’s holding above his head when he rounds the corner of my office. He keeps raising his hand higher, like I’m not fucking six-foot-six.
“Give it the fuck to me!” I’m pissed already. I’m pissed at myself. I’m pissed at being so damn trigger happy. And when I’m pissed, or emotional, I curse out of sense. “If you don’t give it the fuck to me, I swear to damn shit, Dreads!” I growl.
“Look, I’ll give it to you. I’ll read it with you, aloud while you read it if you want. That’s cool. I just need you to sit down. I have something to tell you first. It wasn’t discussed before all that shit.” He motions to the window, and what I assume occurred within the walls and gates of our club just last night.
If I Should Die: A Kimber S. Dawn MC Novel Page 17
