Without responding, Wrench held out the bag, and Po’Boy took it, staring down into the darkness. Something shiny moved, and he reached in and pulled out what looked like two lengths of pipe. “Fuckin’ pipe bombs?” Wrench made a noise of agreement as he bent his knees and jumped out of the back of the truck, landing softly beside Po’Boy. “What the fuck you think they were planning on blowing up?” He reached into the bag again and came out with a piece of paper. Glancing at the paper, he stopped in his tracks. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Whirling, he lunged towards the back of the truck, pulled to a halt by Wrench’s hand on his arm. He turned in place, jaw clenched as he crowded Wrench against the building. “Did you fuckin’ see this?” Brandishing the paper, he waved it back and forth. “Huh? Did you? Did you fuckin’ see this? It’s a fuckin’ map to my fuckin’ suite. My fuckin’ suite. Did you see this? What these motherfuckers have?”
“I saw it,” Wrench spoke quietly, and his eyes held Po’Boy’s gaze. “It’s just a place in New Orleans.” He shrugged, and Po’Boy saw the lie when he said, “Just any other place. Nothing important.”
Breathing hard through his nose, Po’Boy struggled to hold onto control. “They were gonna blow it up.”
“Just any other place.” Wrench’s voice was still quiet and even, his gaze steady. In a soft whisper, he said, “As far as they know. Don’t fuck it up, Po’Boy.”
Ripping his gaze from Wrench’s, Po’Boy stared down at the paper again. The building circled on the map was his club. Not the MC, but his club, where he’d spent the weekend. Where he spent most weekends. He wrestled with himself for a moment, then dared a glance back up into Wrench’s face. He saw compassion and knowledge there, a softness he didn’t expect. His voice was hoarse when he repeated Wrench’s words. “Just any other place.” He nodded, building steam on this, knowing he’d already burned bridges with this man as with the look on Wrench’s face, he had to know. “Not a fuckin’ thing important about that address. These motherfuckers though—” He turned towards the truck, not able to bear the sympathy in Wrench’s look another single moment. “—got some ‘splainin’ to do.”
Chapter Six
Wrench
Tyler Sawyer stood in an empty parking lot beside the truck of a good man, watching as that man pulled himself back together after losing his shit over a piece of paper. What the hell is it about this dude? Po’Boy had a way of getting under his skin, back from the first time they’d met at a party. One comment too many from the big man and he’d been ready to skin him. Slowly. Bagger, Penny’s uncle, had talked Wrench off the ledge that day. Then the day they’d ridden together to rescue Twisted, Po’Boy’s borderline abusive treatment of Penny had yanked his leash again. He’d gotten his ass handed to him, Po’Boy absently taking him down on his way to get in Penny’s face. It was only later when he’d realized the emotion he’d felt rolling off the man had been terror. Not at what they were riding towards, but that something would happen to Twisted.
Extreme emotion like that couldn’t be faked, and Po’Boy’s distress when Twisted was missing had been real and palpable. Once things were back to a semi-normal state, it had made Wrench look closer than he would have otherwise. That looking? He’d gotten more than he planned on, as some things can’t be unseen, once they’re seen. Like those pictures which need a person to unfocus their eyes in order to see. Or in this case, refocus.
Po’Boy loved Twisted. Not in a “got your back, bro” kind of way, but a soul deep love. They’d been friends since grade school, and Wrench knew it probably had started out as a friendship, but the things they’d been through together since had pulled it sideways into a segment of the relationship diagram he didn’t think Twisted recognized. Penny did. Wrench had seen her watching Po’Boy more than once, pity and regret on her face. And now, Wrench did.
That recognizing had tugged something inside him sideways, too. He’d gone from seeing how Po’Boy loved Twisted, to wondering what it would be like to inspire that kind of love. And then tonight had jumped from that straight to wondering what it would be like to consummate that kind of love. Had looked at Po’Boy sleeping and wanted to have the right to crawl up beside him.
He watched now, as with a grunt, Po’Boy hefted the final guy out of the truck, and tipped his head towards the vehicle. “Get the tailgate on your way past, Wrench?”
He’d felt that same terror as before boiling off Po’Boy a moment ago because of an anonymous address circled on a map. His own distress had been the existence of the explosives, but Po’Boy had glanced at them and known they weren’t armed, something it had taken Wrench longer to suss out. Po’Boy had lost his shit about the address, however, and then pulled things sideways yet again when he got up in Wrench’s face like he did. And I liked it.
He nodded, watching the play of muscles under Po’Boy’s skin. Fuck, no. I’m totally into chicks. Po’Boy bent over slightly as he slung the man to the floor. “And this guy, apparently.” Before Po’Boy could turn around and ask him what the fuck he meant by that, Wrench slammed the tailgate closed, and then stepped into the room, sliding the door into place with a soft click. This was a room without an interior door, the only openings were the one through which they’d entered, and a small window set high in the outside wall. “How you wanna play this, Po’Boy? Your house, your rules.” They were in an Incoherent clubhouse, just outside Mandeville, and Po’Boy was a national officer.
“I’m in a mood,” Po’Boy shared, and Wrench chuckled. “And that mood is both ass-kickin’ some keister—” They both chuckled. “—and getting someone royally jacked up.” Po’Boy straightened and then bent backwards, his deep stretch sweeping the edges of his cut open across his defined chest. Fuck, now I’m noticing this guy’s chest. Wrench reflexively closed his eyes and shook his head in short, sweeping arcs. “Let’s start with the smart one.” Wrench opened his eyes to see Po’Boy stepping towards Keister and tipped his head to the side in question because that man was the opposite of smart. Po’Boy grinned and held a finger to his lips. “The smartest one is more likely to know everything, so we might not even have to kill the other one.”
Royal made a noise and Po’Boy looked over at him. “Hold on. Are you the smart one?” At the rapid headshake, Po’Boy nodded. “Didn’t think so. Course, neither of you assclowns are smart, coming to Twisted’s house like you did. You don’t invade a man’s property. Invasion of the assclowns.” He snorted a laugh. “Might as well make a movie outta it.” Tossing his phone to Wrench, he said, “Keep track ‘o that for me?”
***
Wrench lay in the back of the truck, staring up at the stars. A tinge of light had begun to creep along the eastern edge of the sky as dawn threatened. He smelled bleach, and there was a noise, then the springs of the truck sagged as Po’Boy settled on the tailgate. “You at least get cleaned up before you flopped on my blanket?”
Tilting his head slightly to the side, Wrench squinted until Po’Boy’s profile came into focus against the darkness. Even in this limited light, the fatigue on his face was clear to see. Back bowed, the big man stared down at his hands and Wrench watched as they clenched into fists and tightened until his forearms shook, then released, and then tightened again. The repetitive movement seemed to soothe Po’Boy which was odd because Wrench knew from experience how his hands had to be hurting after the workout he’d had tonight. Po’Boy had insisted on being the main interrogator, which meant he was the one dealing out the pain. Wrench’s role had been delegated to holding the men and securing whichever of the two that wasn’t actively being questioned.
Without thinking he reached out and laid his hand on top of Po’Boy’s fist as it tightened back into a hard ball. The heat coming off the man’s flesh was enough to bake through the chill of the nighttime, and Wrench jerked his hand back abruptly. He’d had a flash, wondering what it would feel like to have Po’Boy touch him, hard and calloused fingers instead of the soft and delicate ones of a woman. Jesus.
“Yeah, I cle
aned up.” He belatedly answered Po’Boy’s question. “Need me to do anything inside?” He’d come out when Po’Boy left the room to get a couple of barrels for disposal, but that had been at least an hour ago. “Need help loading ‘em up?”
“Naw, all covered.” Po’Boy’s voice was hoarse, rasping and low as his exhaustion bled through. “Just gotta throw the barrels into the truck. I’ve already sprayed the room down.” That explained the strong scent of bleach which had followed the man out of the room. “Just needed to sit a spell.”
“Hear ya.” Wrench straightened his neck, staring once more at the ceiling of stars overhead. “Deuces has a backer.” That was the main bit of intelligence they’d garnered from tonight’s work. “That’s big, because whoever this Diego is, he isn’t local, which means somehow Deuces garnered widespread attention. Bombs aren’t this group’s style. You and I both know they’re mostly good old boys, which would mean they’d lean towards shotguns and fists.”
“Diego. What the fuck kind of name is Diego? Is it the city?” Po’Boy yawned loudly. “The artist? Maybe he meant Dingo, because that would make more sense.”
“Why you need to have people’s names make sense?” This was something he’d noticed about Po’Boy, how he dissected people’s names and motives, at times tangling the two into an unrecognizable mess, but other times making so much sense Wrench had wondered how he’d missed the obvious.
“Duh, because names matter. We all get tagged with a bunch of shit until something sticks. Names are deep, and who they come from matter. Take your name, Wrench. It’s deep.” Po’Boy shifted and leaned back on his elbows, then lay flat on his back, his shoulder nearly brushing Wrench’s. “Fuck you taking the whole blanket. This bed is cold and hard, man.”
“Should it be hot and hard?” Wrench squeezed his eyes shut tightly, closing out the stars. He quickly followed with a segue to the topic Po’Boy had been on, trying to make it all casual when it felt anything but. “Wrench isn’t deep. I work on bikes.”
“Who named you?” The question came so quickly he wondered if Po’Boy was avoiding the same topic he was.
“Bagger.” This was a source of pride for Wrench. He had loved the old man like a father. Wrench had grown up around the CoBos like Penny had, and having been part of the club his entire life meant he revered the founders like her uncle, Bagger.
“So a mentor and officer named you. Means it’s deep. How long had you been patched when you got the name?”
Wrench thought back. “It wasn’t right away. Probies aren’t given names. They’re just probe or scrub.”
Po’Boy murmured, “Smart. We should do that. Make it so the failouts don’t become so personal.”
“Yeah, but I think for us it was tied back to ‘Nam. They’d call the first tour guys scrubs or just ‘new guy,’ so it stuck. For me, I think I’d been a member for a year or more before Bagger tagged me. I’d just gotten in off a run nearly gone sideways. Salvageable, but only as long as you worked it. You know how it is.” Po’Boy made a noise Wrench took as agreement. “Rolled in and there’s this party.” Penny had been there, flirting with one of the new prospects. Something she used to do a lot before her shit happened. Something that used to chap his ass, back when he loved her. I still love her, just now I understand she’ll never be mine. “Big fucking party. The whole club was there, standing around, jawing. Old ladies and kids addin’ to the racket. Bagger brought me a beer.” Wrench laughed, the movement accompanying the sound jarring the knobs of his backbone against the metal of the truck bed and making him wince. “Brought me a beer, like it was normal for an officer to schlep for a member.”
“You weren’t just a member, though. Not then, and not now.” Po’Boy’s words made Wrench tense up, waiting. “You were Penny’s best friend, and so in love with his niece, you couldn’t see straight. Plus by the time you patched in, I’d already heard you were the fixer for the CoBos. Man to see if you needed shit straightened.”
“Not sure where you’re going with this, Po’Boy.” He swallowed, aware the sound was audible. “Not sure I like it, either.”
“Truth spoken, though. Cain’t deny it. You were the fixer, the tool pusher for the CoBos’ rig.” Po’Boy sighed. “Wrench. Even before you knew it was your calling, so named by Bagger.” Wrench tilted his head so he could look at Po’Boy, meeting the man’s gaze across the foot separating them. Stunned at the idea, he thought, Jesus, because he’d never put it all together. Po’Boy stared at him, repeating, “Truth.”
“Who named you?” Not something you’d normally ever ask a member of your own club, much less a high-ranking officer in another. Questioning the origin of someone’s name in the life was taboo. Something about tonight, however, seemed to say things previously forbidden were off-limits no longer. “Twisted?”
“Jimbo,” Po’Boy named a former member of Incoherent, a man who was also Twisted’s grandfather. Dead now, killed in an opening salvo to a years-long war between IMC and the VWMC. “Founder of my tribe in more ways than one. All the important ways.”
“Is it deep?” Wrench had a sudden flash back to being in Twisted’s den, not last night, but a year ago, when he had stood beside Penny as she worked to convince this man she knew where to find Twisted and deserved a spot in the line of bikes set to ride to his rescue. “Jimbo was a good man. Bagger was tight with him.”
“Jimbo was the shit,” Po’Boy readily agreed, his voice quiet and low, respect reverberating in his tone. “And yeah, for a nineteen-year-old kid to be named before he even finished his prospect period was deep.” Po’Boy snorted a soft laugh. “Jimbo’d be the first to tell you it was deep shit got me into the position to be so named. I’m always in the shit, man.” He pulled in a hard breath. “Much the same kinda shit I found myself wadin’ in tonight. Thanks for the assist, brother.”
“Anytime, man.” Wrench was intensely aware of how close Po’Boy was to him, felt the heat still rolling off the man, a result of his earlier exertions. “Not just words, either.” He swallowed, trying to clear a knot from the middle of his throat. “I mean that. Call on me anytime, for anything, brother.”
The truck jolted and moved as he pushed up from the bed into a sitting position. Hands on either side of his thighs, he gripped the tailgate hard. Po’Boy moved to sit up beside him, adopting nearly the same position, and the side of his hand brushed Wrench’s. He shivered, muscles twisting fiercely under his skin.
He leaned back, digging in his pocket for the phone. Over the course of the evening, he’d seen several texts pop-up. Some were expected, from Penny, labeled as Yousa, and Twisted. Some had been from names he didn’t know, couldn’t make sense of. And a couple of them had been from what looked like hookups, the labeling so blatantly sexualized it’d made him grin. Po’Boy took the device and thumbed through the list, sucking in air like he’d been hit in the gut. It was his stillness first caught Wrench’s attention, so when Po’Boy asked, “What are you gonna tell Twisted?” he was already on high alert.
His voice had been so guarded Wrench wasn’t sure how to respond, and he turned to look into the man’s face, hoping for a clue. Fear had taken up residence there. He saw a fear and grief so intense it tore at Wrench’s gut. “Tell him? About VWMC?”
“About me.” Those words didn’t have any weight to them. Had no heft that was tangible, but Wrench had an acute feeling a misstep now would topple whatever it was about this fledgling friendship he had with Po’Boy. Fear was the dominant emotion that had clawed its way to the surface in Po’Boy’s features, and his expression told a story of a betrayal which hadn’t yet happened. “About what I am.”
“What are you, brother?” When he said those words, he could nearly hear the gate slamming on Po’Boy’s thoughts, and the shuttered expression on his face now was a disappointment. “I got nothing to tell him, Po’Boy. Who you are is your business.” The address that had flipped him out earlier was something to consider, and he vividly recalled Po’Boy’s vicious reaction when he’
d seen the paper. Just another street to Wrench, but it was something a lot more to Po’Boy. “Where you go, who you call, that’s also your business.” He might have expected relief at his words, but if anything, the angles in Po’Boy’s face got tighter, and Wrench watched as his arms bulged, muscles taut with strain and his knuckles were white where he gripped the tailgate. He tried for reassurance, “We all go where we want, brother. No judgment here.”
“Fuck you.” Po’Boy exploded from the tailgate, stalking towards the building. “Fuck you.” Disappearing into the darkness inside the open door, Po’Boy called out a final response, his last words of the night. “You say anything to Twisted, I’ll fuckin’ kill you dead. Anything at all. I’ll handle it, but he don’t deserve to find out from you.”
Find out what? Wrench wanted to say those words aloud, not just scream them in his head, but the rapid withdrawal executed by Po’Boy had shaken him. Had stung, too, because for a few minutes there he thought they’d been verging on being friends. Maybe something different from friends. Shaking his head, he silently climbed out of the truck and went inside, wordlessly lifting the other end of the first barrel to haul it out to the truck.
Chapter Seven
Crissy
Pulling the last bag of groceries out of her trunk, Crissy tried to get her elbow over the top of the lid, muttering a brusque, “Fuck,” when the bags swung from the handles she had looped over her wrist, getting in the way. She tried a different angle with the same result and then stood there, glaring at the still-open trunk. “Fuck. You.”
Sticking her tongue out at the offending vehicle, she was turning to place the laden bags on the ground when a hand appeared, wrapping familiarly around the curve of the trunk lid. A male voice, raspy and filled with gravel asked, “Need some help?”
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