“No worries,” the sheriff said. “I will let you know when I can be discharged and back at work.”
My phone woke me up at 7 a.m. the next morning. It was Sheriff Jones.
“I’ve been given the freedom to leave. Would you like to pick me up so we can discuss strategy?”
That fast? There’s no way. You pulled something, didn’t you?
But what was I going to do, question the sheriff of this town? I was brought in as a consultant, not as someone to take over the department. I saw little that I could do to fight back, and even if I was coming in to assume control, I still needed Sheriff Jones’ knowledge.
“I’ll be there in fifteen,” I wrote back.
I showed up in front of the hospital right on cue. The sheriff, sitting on a bench by the parking circle, limped forward to me with the smile of certainty on his face. While a limp may not have been cause for hospitalization, it certainly raised my suspicion that he was full of it and needed more time.
“Good morning,” he said with a chipper tone in his voice.
“Hi,” I said back. “I take it you recovered?”
“Enough so.”
Yeah, he definitely pulled something off. But, whatever. It’s not my place to question him.
“You want to discuss strategy,” I said. “Let’s do it. I’ll start with saying that I think you need to communicate with them. I don’t necessarily feel comfortable.”
“May I ask why?”
It was an innocent enough question, but I became very conscious about answering it properly. I definitely wasn’t going to say because I’d slept with Parker, no matter how much the sheriff wanted it to happen.
“I think someone that has lived here for a long time and knows them well would do better in speaking to them. I don’t think I’d be as good.”
“Ahh, but on the contrary, I believe a fresh face can generate new ideas and better relationships,” the sheriff said. “I’m an old fart to a lot of those guys. Even their oldest officer is younger than me. I’m almost a literal chip off the old block. You are a young woman that can speak their language.”
I’d heard a lot of stupid things, but “speak their language” was pretty high up there. I was becoming increasingly concerned about if Sheriff Jones was actually in the right frame of mind to help on this.
“Tell you what,” I said. “You start the communication. You have that foot in the door more than me. And then, if things get bad or they treat you like shit, I’ll step in.”
“Hmm.”
Was this really something that needed to be considered? Just go with it, Sheriff!
“OK, sure,” he said as we pulled up to the police station. “I’ll start with Parker. He’s the sergeant in arms there, he’ll want to know our counterstrike plan—”
“Sheriff,” I said, cutting him off. I needed to drop a bombshell.
Just not the bombshell.
“Parker got kicked out of the club.”
The sheriff’s bemused, at ease expression vanished instantly. There was nothing funny anymore.
At least I wouldn’t be getting any more questions or winks about my relationship with Parker.
3
Parker
I was a hot fucking mess.
I went to the counter top. I grabbed a bottle of vodka. I reached for a shot glass, but my stubby, fat fingers knocked the shot glass to the ground, shattering it.
“Fuck!” I roared.
I almost used my shoe to shove the glass away, under the cabinets, but not even pissed off, sullen, and aggrieved Parker was that stupid. I swept up the glass, but I did so angrily, every swipe as if trying to pull the pieces of my life back together but failing to do so.
And those pieces weren’t just pieces on the ground. They were pieces spread out through Romara that I seemingly had no hope, no possibility of getting back.
The first piece was Liza. I would have killed to hold that piece in my arms again, but not as someone that I was going to get a quick bang with. Maybe her dismissal and coldness to me were making me yearn for her more, maybe some sort of bullshit psychology trick was overtaking me right now, but I didn’t give two shits. It felt right to want Liza, and I couldn’t have her.
And I didn’t see how I could get her back. There were no indications, nothing to suggest that I could do anything to get her back. As far as I was concerned, maybe if I killed the Anarchists, I could get her back, but that would take so much time that by the time we finished, she’d probably head back to Los Angeles. I’d have to go back to the Savage Kings with my head held low.
Oh, and speaking of, that was the second piece. The Savage Kings. My brotherhood. My club. The closest thing I had to the Marines. And for what—because I’d tried to be a hero instead of sitting idly by? That shit would have gotten me a medal of commendation in the armed services. You know that’s not true. A soldier who runs in guns blazing like an idiot is going to get censured as much as anyone.
Don’t ruin this, brain. Let me wallow in my pity.
But the only person who had the right to wallow in pity was the sheriff, and that was the third piece. He was the connection to the official authorities that enabled us to function as we wanted in Romara. He may not have been as emotionally meaningful to me as Liza or the Kings, but he was no less important.
At least, by all indications and by the temperament of Liza, the damage wasn’t too bad. Maybe a few days would be needed, but he wouldn’t die.
But those few days…
Fuck, they were going to suck.
No club.
No sheriff.
No girl.
Just me, my vodka, and my fat, sluggish fingers.
This couldn’t be how it was. This was bullshit. I pulled out my phone and sent Liza a text. I didn’t expect her to get back to me, but she sure as hell would not if I didn’t say anything.
My next text, though, I think had a little more potential.
“Brock,” I wrote. “Not sure if you heard, but Sheriff Jones got hurt. He’s fine, but we need to retaliate. I can help. Let me know.”
I put my phone on the table, the better so I wouldn’t be checking it every thirty seconds, trying to see if Brock had responded, but I needn’t have done that. My phone buzzed with Brock’s reply just a few moments later, before I could even get another shot off. I hurried over to the table, but maybe it would have been better had I taken a little bit of time before I checked the phone.
“We have it under control. We’ll bring you back when the week is up.”
Are you fucking kidding me? Are you serious right now? You’re going to let your SOA linger on the side while the Anarchists get their act together and start causing even more trouble than normal?
“Yeah OK, keep it under control while more cops get hurt and die. Idiot.”
I ran my finger over the text a few times, debating whether I wanted to send it or edit it. “Idiot” wasn’t going to do me any favors, and—
I accidentally hit send.
Well, fuck it. At this point, that text was keeping in character for me anyways. It wasn’t like I’d sent a message saying I was in tears in my apartment. Brock needed someone to slap him upside the head every so often. Petey might have been good for moral support, but I was good for ass-kicking support.
“This is why we need you away right now,” Brock replied. “You can’t control yourself or your responses. We’ll be happy to welcome you in at the end.”
Brock couldn’t have known why he was right, but the fact that I had sent that message accidentally weirdly proved his point.
And the more I thought about it, the more I realized there was truth in it.
When I saw something that I wanted, I didn’t control my desire for it, be it a bike upgrade or a new girl. When I got rejected or denied something, I fought even harder for it—as was the case with Liza. When someone told me no, I mocked and insulted them and did everything I could to prove them wrong.
I was doing everything possible,
in short, to prove people right. I was being a fucking idiot. Not Brock. Me.
Ah, well. Might as well have a few drinks if you’re without responsibility, right?
Days passed. I woke up so hungover on the first day that I just didn’t bother to check in on Sheriff Jones. Liza never reached out to me either, proving her unfortunately strong-willed point that she was going to focus on the Anarchists and a response, not me. Brock did the same. At least my time in purgatory was coming to an end.
With the Kings.
But with Liza?
That purgatory was indefinite unless I did something about it.
I headed out to the balcony of my apartment, feeling the beard that I had not trimmed since I had gotten temporarily banned from the Kings. It had certainly grown in scruff, and it was also growing in spots that I typically either kept clean entirely or trimmed regularly. It was a rather fitting symbol of how little I was caring for myself right now.
So was the lack of a shirt, even in the cool weather. So were the pizza boxes in my apartment. So were so many other symbols.
This had to change. I may have been able to walk back into the Kings’ clubhouse without any more than some gentle teasing, but Liza would never take me back like this.
I had to make amends.
And first, I had to practice making amends.
I called Brock first.
“Hey,” he said, his tone neutral.
“Brock, brother,” I said. “I apologize. I apologize for puttin’ myself and the rest of y’all at risk with my strike on the Anarchists. Ya know I wanna see ‘em all dead, but I gotta be smart about it, and I wasn’t, so sorry.”
Brock almost gasped on the phone. Hearing him stammer over his words was a bit of necessary comedic relief.
“Well, thank you, Parker,” he finally said. “Thanks. I know we’re scheduled to bring you back in tomorrow. If an emergency comes up tonight, we’ll call you, but otherwise, just play it low key. OK? I can’t have my SOA coming in hungover.”
“As if I ain’t done that before,” I said with a chuckle.
Even Brock laughed. This was good. This was giving me the confidence to go into the next tough conversation.
I hung up shortly after and immediately called Liza. I hadn’t texted her since the night we’d had sex; I’d hoped that she would come around to me at some point, maybe ask for drinks, but there was nothing. She was inscrutable and not proactive with me.
I guess a part of me, if I thought about it, appreciated that she was a woman of her word, but goddamnit, did she really have to be that way with me?
“Parker?” she said, surprised to hear me when she picked up.
“Hey, Liza,” I said. “Listen, I know ya got lotsa shit to do, so I’ll keep it brief. I just wanna say I’m sorry for what happened a few nights ago. I know—”
“Parker, I appreciate it, but this isn’t really a good time to talk,” she said as it sounded like she got out of the car.
“Are you in danger?”
She sounded a little flustered, a little panicked. This was the last thing I wanted to hear. I suppose it would give me a chance to prove myself, but I didn’t want the risk of losing her just so I could get a few moments of playing Superman.
“No, I’m fine, I just… I’m not in a space to talk, OK?”
Well… fuck. This sucks.
Brock took me back. But Liza?
“Were we ever anything?” I said. “Anything more than sex.”
“Well, sure, yeah, I liked you, but—”
She abruptly cut herself off. I heard other people in the background, but I couldn’t make them out. No one sounded angry or demanding, and my gut said she wasn’t interacting with the Anarchists, but my stomach still flipped a bit.
“I have to go,” she said before hanging up without another word.
The phone dropped in my hand. I stared at the background of my phone, as if doing so would suddenly compel Liza to call me back.
At least she had said she liked me. But… then why did she have to use past tense? Did she just treat us as something that was over and done with, not to be touched again?
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be feeling hope for something more or despair at what could have been. I could only say that what I did feel was a whole lot of confusion.
Just gimme a chance, Liza. That’s all I ask.
4
Liza
I couldn’t hang up the phone soon enough.
I couldn’t think of a more awkward explanation than to tell Parker that the reason I had to go was because Sheriff Jones and I were about to meet, in-person, with all of the Savage Kings at their clubhouse.
Parker didn’t strike me as the kind of person that would turn on his own people, but I knew it wasn’t a good look. Even though this was strictly a professional visit—one that I wasn’t exactly in support of, one that made me want to believe Sheriff Jones was still dealing with a few head problems—I knew that Parker might believe me being here signified something else.
That was just how boys were. When they got desperate and tried to get something back, even something that was slightly out of place was grounds for causing an uproar. Guys often liked to believe that they were the more grounded sex, the one that was more objective and less emotional, but in my experience, there was little that could trigger a guy more than the knowledge that an ex was in the company of his friends.
It was like a trigger that could automatically explode a thousand emotional and mental bombs. And Parker, especially since he had started to reveal how much he liked me, was making me paranoid about setting off that trigger.
It also wasn’t helping that the more time that I spent away from Parker, the less I communicated with him, the more I was starting to come around to his view on if we were a good thing or not.
An older man—older only in the relative sense—greeted us at the door.
“Petey,” Sheriff Jones said. “This is Officer Burton, in case you haven’t met. I’ll introduce her to the officers. Appreciate you giving us the space to communicate.”
“We could thank you as much as anything else,” Petey said after shaking my hand. “We could use the force of the badge behind us. Gives us a little more credibility and makes it a little more risky for the Anarchists to fight back.”
“Very true,” Sheriff Jones said.
For now. Until the Anarchists become unafraid of the consequences and start launching strikes at us. Then we’re in deep trouble.
“Come on in,” Petey said.
I followed Sheriff Jones inside, waiting to see the inevitable onslaught of different vice-based aromas, including sex, cigarettes, weed, drugs, alcohol, and everything in between.
And while there was certainly the smell of alcohol, it was a subdued sort of smell; it wasn’t the kind of smell that suggested a giant booze orgy had taken place in the last twenty-four hours or so. It was like that of a bar.
“A lot nicer than a lot of clubhouses I’ve been to,” I said.
“We try and keep it clean here,” Petey said. “We wouldn’t want to live in filth ourselves. We’re here all the time.”
How refreshingly mature. Come to think of it, Parker’s place was kind of clean. It wasn’t perfectly clean, but compared to some places I’ve been? It was pretty nice.
I followed the sheriff closely as I eyed some of the club members, trying to evaluate the level of safety and security that I felt around them. They had the usual markings of a club member—tattoos, piercings, beards, unkempt hair—but they all had a certain ease and aura to them that made me realize that they were certainly not like some of the clubs that I had encountered in my day.
When we got into the meeting room, I saw the club president, Brock, and a few others. Though none of them introduced themselves to me, that seemed more a function of the fact that the meeting was about to start than a desire to ignore me. It was kind of refreshing to know I wouldn’t have to worry about protecting myself.
“Good eve
ning,” Brock began. “As you all have noticed, we have two guests for our meeting tonight. Sheriff Craig Jones, and Officer Liza Burton. You all know Sheriff Jones. Officer Burton comes from Los Angeles and has experience fighting MCs. She is going to help us fight the Anarchists and defeat them once and for all.”
I scanned the room. One of the guys looked like Brock’s brother, but again, this wasn’t exactly a meeting with an ice breaker where we’d share some facts about each other. The one thing that stood out to me was the empty seat.
“Are we missing someone?”
“Oh, that’s Parker’s seat,” Brock said nonchalantly. “He can’t make it tonight, but we’ll inform him of everything that’s going on.”
I’m sure you will, I thought. But more than that, I noticed something about the club that was not unique to it. Parker’s absence was club business, and thus it wasn’t something that was going to be discussed right now. This may have been one of the better, more well-behaved MCs I had encountered in my years on the force, but that didn’t meant that they were going to be totally transparent and share everything with me.
“Now then, I believe Sheriff Jones will want to share with us his thoughts. After all, he is the one that requested this meeting.”
“Yes, thank you.”
I was coming around to the idea of working with the Savage Kings, but I really hoped that the sheriff had some sort of fall-back measures in place. The last thing I wanted to deal with was some sort of blowback from the Kings, meaning that we would take the blame for something we both had contributed to.
In a weird way, maybe being close to Parker would help me with that. But it sure was a twisted world when sleeping with Parker would have helped the Romara Police Department be less set up for failure. Trying to make sense of that was, well, too mentally taxing to be done in this meeting.
Forbidden Love Page 2
