by Ivy Black
I nod in agreement because he’s right. You can always tell a lot about a person by what they say and do when the shit hits the fan. Always. Crisis reveals character. I learned that in the Corps. But something else I learned is that a person’s words and actions are always up for interpretation.
“Listen, I’m not saying she’s gonna break out the wedding dress tomorrow or anything like that,” he goes on. “All I’m saying is that she obviously still trusts you. Which means she obviously still cares about you. So maybe that door to getting back together is still cracked open a little bit.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You need to stop being so pessimistic, my friend. Just… don’t shut that door in your own mind. You never know what the future holds,” he pressed.
“I know what the future is going to hold if we don’t finish getting this shit packed up and on the road before the ATF shows up,” I say dryly.
He chuckles. “Copy that.”
We continue to work but a thousand thoughts are firing through my mind all at once. The one thing I keep focusing on though is that I haven’t closed the door on that possibility entirely. That’s been part of my problem all this time—I’ve never been able to completely move on from Hadley.
***
It was about an hour after sunrise—less than an hour after we got the vans loaded and on the road—when four black SUVs that just screamed federal agency roared into the compound. We’d left the gates open as a courtesy to them. The SUVs came to a screeching halt, kicking up gravel and a cloud of dust as they did.
A moment later, the doors all opened up and men in black paramilitary gear came streaming out of the vehicles, weapons at the ready. A group of men in dark slacks and blue windbreakers with the letters “ATF” emblazoned across the back followed them out.
Spyder and I sat on the porch of the clubhouse, leaning back with our boots up on the railing, sipping mugs of coffee. I look over at Spyder.
“Reminds me of a clown car at the circus,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah, but their choreography’s a little tighter.”
A tall man in a natty three-piece suit walks toward us as his shock troops fan out, clearing the area of any armed threats. The man steps up onto the porch where we’re sitting and stares at us. He casually pushes his jacket back and lets his hand hover near the butt of a pistol in a holster on his belt. I chuckle and shake my head then take a drink of my coffee.
“If you’re going for intimidation, you can save it,” I say. “We were both overseas and came face-to-face with guys a hell of a lot scarier than you.”
The man stands there completely motionless for a moment as if taken aback by my statement. After a moment, my message apparently gets across because he drops his hand, letting his jacket fall back into place. The man is a bit under six feet. He has close-cropped dark hair, dark eyes that are currently narrowed as he looks at us, and a square Captain America jawline. He’s trim, fit, and just looks like a Fed.
“Mornin’ fellas,” he says brightly.
“Yep. It’s mornin’,” I reply. “Nothin’ gets by you Feds, does it?”
“It’s why we make the big bucks, gentleman,” he says.
“I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but we ain’t that hospitable,” Spyder adds.
“Don’t worry, I brought my own. I also brought you this,” he replies smoothly as he drops a piece of paper in my lap.
I don’t need to even look at it to know it’s a search warrant. I give him a small grin, knowing all the things he’s searching for are probably already being unloaded somewhere else as we sit here. Blake, Grease, and some of the other guys drove the cargo to a warehouse that’s owned by a shell corporation that’s ours but can’t be traced back to us. Prophet’s accountant set it up a while back just for such contingencies.
“So I’m ATF Agent Christopher Rollins—”
“Don’t care much. Do what you need to do and get on out of here,” I say coldly.
He looks at me, a sneer on his lips. “And you are?”
“Just a man enjoying a cup of coffee and a sunrise,” I reply. “At least, I was until you and your merry band of idiots showed up.”
“Let me have some ID,” he said, his voice tight.
“Am I under arrest?” I ask.
“No.”
“Am I personally listed on your search warrant?”
His face turns an interesting shade of red. “You know you’re not.”
“Am I personally under investigation?”
“Not at this time but—”
“Then go fuck yourself,” I snap and tap the name badge on my kutte. “You can call me Nitro.”
ATF Agent Christopher Rollins looks absolutely apoplectic as he turns his eyes to Spyder, who just grins and shrugs at the man.
“What he said,” Spyder adds.
Rollins turns and looks at the yard as his men are shouting, “Clear!” obviously not finding the armed and menacing men they were probably told to expect. Disappointment flashes across Rollins’ face, but he quickly gathers himself then turns back to me.
“So do you want to make this easy and tell us where the shit is?” he asks. “Or are you going to play the tough guys and make us tear this place apart?”
I look up at him, an expression of feigned innocence on my face. “Where what is? What shit are you talking about?”
He chuckles to himself. “Are you sure this is how you want to play it?”
“We have no idea what you’re talking about,” Spyder says.
I shake my head. “Do what you gotta do,” I tell him “We’ve got nothin’ to hide.”
“Uh-huh. I guess we’ll see about that,” he says. “Now where is Graham Holt—the owner of his property?”
“Do I look like his babysitter?” I ask.
His hand near the butt of his weapon again, Rollins leans down, his face now inches from mine. I think he expected me to flinch and when I don’t, his expression darkens.
“You’ve got a real smart lip on you,” he says.
“Some say I’ve got two,” I reply.
His face turns a shade of purple that makes me laugh. He’s obviously a man used to having his questions answered and his orders followed without question or quip. It’s obvious he doesn’t like me lipping to him the way I am. Like I care. He leans closer, seeming to think physical proximity will intimidate me. He stares into my eyes, his nostrils flaring, his breath washing over me. But I don’t move a centimeter, which seems to piss him off even more.
“Dude,” I say. “Would you like a breath mint?”
Rollins stands up, his face practically turning maroon as he stares at me. Spyder is looking down into his coffee mug, chuckling to himself.
“What is it you’re hopin’ to find here, G-man? We’re just a group of motorcycle enthusiasts,” I say.
“You’re drug-slinging, gun-running scumbags in point of fact,” he replies. “And we’re here to find the evidence that will put you all in prison for decades.”
“Huh,” is all I say before taking a sip of my coffee.
The door to the clubhouse opens and Prophet walks out with a mug of coffee in his hand, his eyes on Rollins, who turns to him. The two men stand facing each other in silence for a long moment, each of them sizing the other up.
“Graham Holt, aka Prophet, this is ATF Agent Christopher Rollins,” I introduce them. “He thinks we’re drug-running, gun-slinging—”
“No, man,” Spyder cuts in. “It was drug-slinging and gun-running.”
“Ahh. You’re right. My bad,” I say. “Agent Rollins here thinks we’re gun-running and drug-slinging scumbags.”
An amused smirk pulls a corner of Prophet’s mouth upward. “Well, we are scumbags. I guess one out of three ain’t bad.”
“A .333 batting average will get you into Cooperstown,” Spyder quips.
“Yeah? I didn’t know that,” Prophet replies.
“Sp
yder here may be a scumbag, but I’m an upstanding member of polite society,” I add. “I’ve been to the theater before and everything.”
Through all our bantering, Rollins stood there silently seething. I think it’s probably because he already knows he’s not going to find anything illicit here. He’d stormed in here all balls and bravado but now looks a lot like a pasty balloon that’s slowly deflating. And I love to see it.
“Yeah, you guys are amusing and all, but I hardly think you’ll be laughing when we find the evidence that will get you all locked up,” Rollins says, trying to muster some of that bravado again.
“And what is it exactly that you think you’re going to find here, Agent Rollins?” Prophet asks.
“It’s all outlined in the search warrant—”
“Unlicensed weapons. Illegally modified automatic weaponry,” I read off the piece of paper he dropped in my lap. “Illicit drugs and any paraphernalia associated with said illicit drugs.”
“Huh. Well, I’m afraid this is the only drug you’re going to find here,” Prophet says, raising the mug of coffee in his hand. “But last I checked, caffeine was still legal. For now, anyway.”
“You guys think you’re smart. You think you’re clever,” Rollins hisses. “But by the end of the day, we’ll see who’s laughing.”
“Good luck,” Prophet says.
As Agent Rollins storms away to join his men, Prophet sits down in the chair next to me. Like us, he puts his boots up on the rail and takes a drink of his coffee before he turns to me.
“You guys made sure to clear out the trap holes, right?” he asks.
I nod. “Every last one of them. We’re good, Prophet,” I say. “Everything that can bust us is gone. He’s got nothing, and I think he already knows it.”
We sit on the porch for hours, watching ATF agents comb through our clubhouse, searching every nook and cranny for something to bust us for. They searched high and low and everywhere in between. And only when Rollins walked over to where we’d posted up that morning, a look of miserable defeat on his face, did I allow myself a small breath of relief. As thorough as his men had been, they’d come up empty—as we knew they would.
Rollins leaned against one of the pillars that held the roof up over the porch. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he looked us up and down as a frown pulled the corners of his mouth downward. In the yard beyond him, the rest of his team was already piling into the SUVs, all of them going home empty-handed.
“How’d you know?” he asks.
“Know what?” Prophet replies.
“How’d you know we were coming? Who tipped you off?”
“What makes you think anybody tipped us off?” Prophet asks, sounding amused as he chuckled.
“Only way you could have known,” he states.
“Or maybe we’re not the kind of scumbags you think we are,” I offer. “Did you ever think about that, Rollins? Did it occur to you that maybe, just maybe, we’re not actually doing the things you seem to think we’re doing?”
“We have a source who has implicated your club in some very serious crimes,” he presses.
“Who?” Prophet asks.
“You know I can’t reveal that information,” Rollins snaps.
“Well, whoever it is, they’re a fuckin’ liar,” Spyder says. “You got some bad intel, chief.”
“No. I don’t think so. I know what you scumbags are into,” he growls.
Prophet gets to his feet and looks Rollins in the eye. Prophet’s teeth are gritted, and he’s got a dark look on his face.
“Then prove it,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “Otherwise, get the fuck off my property.”
Rollins stares back at Prophet, the air crackling with tension amidst the whispered promise of violence. My stomach clenches tight. I really feel like things are about to go off the rails, and we’re about to get caught up in another Ruby Ridge-style shoot-out. But then Rollins gives Prophet a wide smile and takes a step back.
“Don’t worry.” Rollins casts a look over at Spyder and me. “We’ll be around, and we’ll be keeping an eye on you. All of you. We know what you’re doing out here, and we’re going to catch you in the act. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Yeah, good luck with that, chief.” Spyder chuffs.
Rollins gives him the ol’ finger guns, further cementing his status as a grade A douchebag in my book. Only douchebags do that. We watch as ATF Agent Rollins walks off the porch and out to his car. The SUVs all turn around and roar out of the compound in a spray of gravel and dust.
“Well, that was fun,” Prophet says.
“Gonna be hard to do business with them up our asses,” I state.
“Guess we’ll just have to be creative.”
Prophet walks back into the clubhouse, leaving me and Spyder standing there looking at each other.
“Creative,” I echo. “Not sure I like the sound of that.”
“Things are going to get real interesting around here.”
“Not sure I like the sound of that either.”
With a mole inside the club, an ATF Agent crawling up our asses, and cartel sicarios looking to take our heads off, things are a little more than just interesting right now. Things are starting to get downright hairy.
Chapter Ten
Hadley
“Yeah, everything has been great,” I say, adjusting the volume on my Bluetooth earbud.
“Like great, or really great,” Robin says suggestively.
“It’s totally not like that.”
“Babe, it’s always like that.”
I unlock the door and step inside, taking a moment to look at his place. When I got up this morning, I saw that Milo had left me a key and a note telling me I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted to. It made me wonder if he enjoyed having me back as much as I enjoyed being there—which, in turn, made me wonder what it all meant. Yeah, I tend to overthink most things in life, looking for signs and ascribing meaning to every action. It’s not one of my better qualities.
“Anyway, I’m home so—”
“Already referring to it as home, huh? Certainly sounds like you’re getting super comfy there,” Robin says with a laugh.
“I hate you so much right now,” I reply, laughing with her.
“Call me later.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you back.”
I close the door behind me and smile when I see that everything’s pretty much the same as it was when I practically lived here. He’s added a few things, but all the furniture is the same as is the artwork and photos on the walls—even the photos of us are still hanging up. That makes me feel a little less awkward about keeping a picture of us in my place—the picture that had been turned around.
The thought of seeing that picture frame turned around and knowing I hadn’t done it sends a cold ripple up my spine.
“Relax. You’re safe here,” I whisper to myself.
I pull off my heels and carry them as I walk around the house, giving myself a little tour to get reacquainted with the place. In the wake of a breakup, most people I know do something to symbolize the change in their life. They buy new furniture, new artwork for the walls—most, at least, rearrange the rooms.
But Milo’s place is almost like a time capsule. Nothing of any consequence has changed. Milo’s never been big on change. He doesn’t necessarily fear change, but he definitely distrusts it and will do everything in his power to slow-walk a change. That’s just one of those personality quirks of his that’s sometimes frustrating but is ultimately kind of endearing.
My tour finished, I walk into the guest room and drop my shoes next to the bed and my bags on top of it. After leaving Milo’s place this morning, I stopped by my apartment and spent ten minutes outside the door, working up the nerve to go inside. When I finally talked myself into it, I dashed inside and ran straight to the bedroom. I threw a bunch of things into a bag, enough for a fe
w days, and ran right back out, slamming and locking the door behind me.
I knew it was silly. Whoever had broken in last night could have grabbed me then. They were probably long gone by the time I got there, and I doubt they would have waited around all night for me to come home this morning. But just knowing somebody had been in my apartment, looking through and touching my things, terrifies me. It strips me of the sense of security I should be able to enjoy in my own home.
I’m going to have to go home eventually. I can’t stay at Milo’s forever. And I mean, logically, there’s no reason for me to not go home now. Whoever had broken in is long gone and my place is probably safe. But it’s the mere probability that I’m uncomfortable with, that makes me want to avoid my apartment. For now. I’ll go back eventually. Maybe after I talked Milo into checking my apartment out for me. Maybe even install some new locks while he’s there. Milo’s always been handy like that, and I know he won’t mind.
I strip out of my work clothes and hang everything I brought with me in the closet. As I pull on a pair of yoga pants, an oversized sweatshirt, and thick, fuzzy socks, I find myself wondering if deep down, there’s another reason I’m reluctant to go home. A reason I don’t want to admit to myself just yet—one that deals with some unresolved feelings for him.
Being back in his place has triggered a lot of emotions within me, there’s no denying that. And thinking about those emotions and trying to put some sort of order to them all has been a distraction all day long. It’s been so bad, even Brent mentioned it. He said I seemed “off”. I suppose that’s true. All day long, I’ve been debating with myself about whether I should go home or go back to Milo’s place for another night... or so.
That led me to wonder what it meant if I stayed over again and what Milo might be thinking and feeling about it. I wondered what sort of signals I might be sending, how he might be receiving them, and vice versa. Doing what I always do, I started to overanalyze everything Milo said and did last night, as well as everything I said and did.
I drive myself crazy when I overanalyze things, and I have to force myself to stop. It’s not always easy, but eventually, I can make myself chill and accept a situation for what it is. I needed a place to stay last night, and Milo was gracious enough to lend me his guest room. He didn’t have to do it, of course. Given our history, he would have been perfectly justified in telling me to pound sand. But by not turning me away, he showed me—again—what a good man he is.
